synopsis | in which you, an english teacher, can't seem to find time to spend with your equally busy lawyer boyfriend, hiromi higuruma. and the stress and distance almost breaks you both.
content | MDNI. fem!reader. lawyer!higuruma x english teacher!reader. established relationship. porn with SO much plot like wow why'd i write so much. slight angst. dry humping. fingering. (brief) praise AND degradation because mommy marce likes to write both. masturbation (m!receiving). pinv. lots of fluff as well, my babies.
word count | 10.6k (because i fucking love hiromi higurma)
It's not often that you go toe-to-toe with the criminal defense attorney Hiromi Higuruma—in fact, it's so rare it might be considered unfeasible, an anomaly of sorts.
Not because you can't. Rest assured, Higuruma's profession had nothing on your natural ability to convince and persuade. You were one of those kids who were considered "beyond their years," an "old soul”. Many times, you had been told you should be a lawyer, which was just a kinder way of calling a child a 'bitch' before the child actually knew what that word meant. You had a fierce stubbornness that had yet to be shaken. But it wasn't like that with Higuruma. You seldom argued because you never really had to. Things fell into place with a man like him, you both worked in tandem, like two slightly differing dances moving around each other with a musical kind of ease and care. Dancing, and dancing, and dancing in spinning circles that sometimes gave you whiplash. And it's anything but argumentative.
Truthfully, the two of you might be too like-minded to argue. Nothing is ever morally confusing between you, all of your ideas about the universe make perfect sense to the other. Your few objections were over the best Christopher Nolan film and the best band from childhood, but nothing intense, nothing ridiculous that made you want to rip your hair out of your head. Things were right and well, and if they weren't, it was nothing a few deep breaths couldn't fix.
And perhaps you're both just too busy to disagree with each other. You were an English teacher, constantly grading and revising papers, tutoring after school, hosting office hours before school, receiving emails at godforsaken hours of the night, and responding to them, because you're awake, too, putting in scores and notes until the sun comes up. And of course, Higuruma can't help but pick up the hardest cases known to man, for his own peace of mind. He puts his entire soul into his work, slaving away over files, pictures, anecdotes, and charges, hoping to save as many people as he can. His head is always buried in some textbook, as if he'd need to fact-check anything—things like fairness and honor come to him with ease, like it flows through his veins.
You're a Hiro, you'll sometimes joke with him, at night when nothing's actually as fun as it would be otherwise. And he says that you are too, and you believe it, sometimes, in your own roundabout sort of way. A defense lawyer and an AP literature teacher, saving the day, one crumbled-up paper at a time.
And given that you've been together for almost a year now, there really hasn't been any time to argue immensely.
Until the other day.
You'd both made lots of time.
Often, when things as rare as this happen, people are quick to say they don't know how it got to that point exactly. Not you though. You can picture it very quickly in your mind, just last Sunday, the slow start of something terrible, brewing.
You'd both had something stuck up your asses all week, notable in every call and text, stressed and stretched out beyond comprehension, and you both were handling it, individually, in your own sense of the word and as best you could. You'd meant to have dinner Friday, like you usually did, but you'd had so many meetings about essay revisions and had to get them done before the weekend started, lest you put them off too long. So, you postponed to Saturday, you got all prettied-up early that morning, the eagerness seeping over from the night before. Dinner was exactly what you needed after such a horrifyingly long week, and then all of sudden, Higuruma's asking to reschedule, too, caught up researching this new case he'd just planned to pick up, an emergency of sorts. That phone call had ended very quickly, the man rushing off while he was still in his office, and you, on the other line, in his favorite dress, with your hair done up and mascara smudging at your waterline. But it wasn't anything to cry about. You'd rescheduled too, and you were busy people, it was a busy week for you both. Your tears were only so readily exposed because, usually, when a week had been especially hard, Higuruma had a way of making it all better.
But no matter, Sunday might've been good for you both.
Until it wasn't—Higuruma had yet to call since Saturday, yet to respond to your texts, and Sunday went by painfully slow, just as the rest of the weekend did. Still, there was no time to pout about it, you had classes to teach, kids to tend too, and you were sure once he explained the case the next time you both saw each other, there'd be thousands of details to pour over. That would hold you over until Monday. Until he finally texted back, you were starting to itch at the thought of him never texting back, though that had never quite been an issue before. You're rushing back home after work, caving before he can.
you: I know you're busy with the new case, but I would really like to revisit our date plans soon! Hope work is going well!
It's simple, you think, and true, give or take a few words that would make it sound just as urgent as the situation did in your head. The days were starting to blur together, and your desire for his company was growing stronger by the second.
hiro <3 : So sorry I've been MIA! Still busy with case, can't wait to tell you all about it
You're quick to snatch your phone up, quick like a school girl when you hear that ping. You smile at his name on the screen, shoveling sad leftovers into your mouth. You'd just gotten off of your period, and the after effects were still tumbling over—you could eat a horse, amongst other things.
hiro <3 : Will definitely revisit date soon. Will call later.
You sigh at the message, scrolling through the rest of your texts with him to fill the slowly growing hole in your heart. You think you might be going insane, hanging out with a bunch of high schoolers during your lunch breaks. You miss him in ways that are potentially unspeakable, and it irritates you the way hunger does. You remind yourself that you're a grown woman, seeing a grown man. You both have responsibilities, hobbies, things that you have to do with your time other than see each other. You take this thought with you to bed and hope it soothes you the way his hands do under the covers when it gets cold.
Your date plans are finally revisited on Wednesday. The dinner has been rescheduled to Sunday—his place, he cooks the main course, you both help with dessert, and you're in bed at a reasonable hour to get ready together for work the next morning. It's your dream night, really, and you would be absolutely jumping for joy if it weren't going to take so fucking long.
But you're patient, and people need you, and all you have to do is wait a few more days before you can fall into the arms of the love of your life, and weep, if necessary, into his collarbone. Just a few more days of 'hope your day has been good' and 'can't wait to see you,' it's a little grotesque how quick the back-and-forths are, but you suppose you'll manage. Classes will still go as planned, and you're on the brink of having a panic attack from the way this month has basically kicked your ass while you're already down, but never mind that! Sunday is around the corner, creeping closer tauntingly, and the dress you'd worn last Saturday is laid out so particularly by your vanity, it's almost provocative. The waiting is almost unbearable.
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Sunday is here.
You've taken your own car like you always do, blasting all sorts of 2000s dad rock to keep you awake and hype you up even a little for the nerves that are speedily coursing through your veins every five seconds. Your fingers drum against the steering wheel, steering into his driveway by memory alone. This is the very moment where things start to blur for you. Higuruma lets you in, leads you to the dining table. He usually looks you over like you're a piece of meat, but tonight, your eyes both bore into each other, tired, restless, and not thinking about a whole lot else other than sleep. His kiss to your temple is tender but quick as he seats you both, pours your glasses of wine, and the conversation is simple, unimpressive as you both try not to nod off and roll your eyes as you recount the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad week you've both seemingly had.
You're quite sure you started the argument. Maybe those adults should've called you at least something a little closer to a bitch in childhood, would've knocked that stubborn tone out of your mouth—but here you are, and the stubborn tone is here, potentially unappeasable. You make an off-handed comment about his refusal to see the world around him outside of his work. It was meant to be quick, witty, and instead came out as some snide remark that you'd been biting back for a week and a half now. Higuruma makes a rebuttal about his work being important, as if you wouldn't understand what important work really means. More words—no longer mumbles, you would say—about differing schedules, the intensity of work, and suddenly, you don't know what it means to be busy, or what it means to have such intense, soul-sucking responsibilities.
Suddenly, you start to remember all the guys you'd dated before Higuruma, and that feeling of deja vu makes you kind of sick. They're always the same, they always say the same thing.
Those who can, do. Those who can't...
Teach.
Now, Higuruma doesn't say it outwardly (he would never, lest he see that terrible pout your lips make when someone tells you the education system is in ruins), but as he's washing the dishes and you're drying them, putting them away, he says something about your high school days, how you'd once mentioned wanting to be a pediatrician when you were sixteen before landing on the teaching route. He notes that you said you wanted to be a professor once, too, and the sharpness in his voice says that either of those paths would've been even slightly more respectable than what you're doing now.
It is so hurtful, the concept of being silently demeaned by someone with a quote-unquote "more sophisticated" profession than you.
So, after a not-so-thoughtful pause, you say: "At least teachers are able to understand people. Lawyers, on the other hand...Maybe if you understood people better, you'd actually be able to defend them."
God, the fucking horror.
As soon as you say it, you regret it—Higuruma is a wonderful defense attorney, the best you'd ever seen, and all he ever did was save people, and save people, and save people, in the most passionate way possible.
This is when the yelling match begins. You remember it, crystal clearly, but this is also the part you'd been trying to block out.
"You think you understand the world around you more than me—you're surrounded by the dumbest adolescents in the entire country, every fucking weekday—"
"And your clients are all guilty—you just love to defend the absolute worst human beings on the planet, solely on the basis of playing devil's advocate, it's useless work!"
"Really? You wanna talk about useless work?"
"Don't."
"No, no, we don't even have to talk about the pay—which should be a tell-tale sign that whatever the education system is doing is not really people's top priority right now—"
"I make enough."
"Yeah, enough to hold you over until they finally come to the life-altering conclusion that maybe, just maybe, we don't actually need the teachers who went through their secondary education major with a ring by spring and a shotgun wedding—"
"I have an English degree just like you do, Higuruma, don't you ever pretend that I'm some sort of fucking bird-brained idiot—"
"And maybe you should've had your little shotgun wedding, because when they do fire all the teachers, you'll need someone with a job to pay those bills of yours—a fallback marriage for your fallback job!"
"And for you, sir, a loveless marriage given your profession of choice."
Ah, you've won here. It's not satisfying like it usually is, but you've won. And you're about to really give the final blow:
"To marry you...with a temper like that...and words like yours...while you hide behind your work of justice, and integrity, and grit. My profession can absolutely be fuckall useless. So long as you admit that you and yours are soulless."
Absolutely brutal, you two.
He's got this shot-dog look on his face as he stares at you from the other side of the kitchen. He's in the same predicament you were in just before, remembering all the exes, all the dates, and the horrifying feuds that left him sitting alone at his dining table. Wondering if maybe his job really had kept him from all the "important" things in life. You'd never made him feel that way, not in the entire time you'd known him. And the thought of you leaving him at that dining table alone again was making him feel like he was going to puke.
"You don't mean that," he whispered, hand running through his hair as a nervous tick.
You stand firm, pretending you're not secretly faltering. "You do."
"No—"
"You're not obligated to like my job, Higuruma, but it is my job." You grab your purse and your coat, heels clacking against his frigidly cold floor. "Which I have to go to tomorrow, so...I'll see you later this week."
Higuruma lunges forward before his words do, grabbing your wrist before you can pass him completely. "No, it's way too late—or- dark, it's pitch black out, and we've both had enough wine to be inebriated." His thumb rolls along your wrist bone, tugging you away from the entry, taking your coat from your arm despite your protest. "Let's just...let's just go to bed like normal, and we can..."
You stare at each other for a moment before he takes your purse too, leaving briefly to set your things on the kitchen island. You let out a heavy sigh through your nose, looking between the hall and the door. You could just leave, you're not that drunk. And you think maybe a car crash might actually be better than sleeping in this house with Higuruma, with all the aggravation that's stuffing up the place. If you told your girlfriends about any of this, they'd probably throw real life tomatoes at you for staying, but...
Higuruma steps back into the hallway, hands on his hips. "Please..." he sighs, motioning to the other side of his house where his room awaits you both.
You slip your shoes off at the door, shuffling past him to the bedroom. You stay.
The night is so dully unimportant, it's not even worth talking about. You both shower, separately, given the still festering tension. He gives you some pajamas of yours that you'd left sometime before, during some other, much better sleepover (the shirt is his, and he apologizes for it very quickly before his face contorts as if he doesn't really know why he'd apologize for you wearing his clothes, especially when he liked it so much, every single time you did it). There are very few words exchanged as you both get into bed, and when he turns his bedside lamp off, you can feel him staring at your back, your back which faces him and will face him the entire night to save you from showing off the tears brimming your eyes (God, you really had been waiting to cry all week and this was kind of the perfect moment for it). You hear him sigh from behind you as he lifts the covers, adjusts them over you just slightly. His fingers brush down your spine before they fall to his side again. And he turns too.
Neither of you gets much sleep that night, and for all the wrong reasons.
You wake up inexplicably early, at least two hours before you and Higuruma usually do. His arm is draped across your mid-section, finding itself in its rightful place sometime during the four or five hours of sleep you both had actually gotten. You watch him for a moment next to you. He is so peaceful like this, calmer than usual, if it were at all possible. His eyes are able to rest, and he allows his brows to drop and relax. The muscles of his back aren't so tense as they are in his dress shirt and coat. He breathes through his perfect nose, face half-stuffed in his pillow. You lean over to kiss his temple out of habit, freezing when you think it might've woken him. He stays sleeping, still snoring lightly. You carefully slide out of his hold, fingers grazing his own against the sheets. Despite the words you'd both thoughtlessly shared with each other just hours ago, you're still...very much in love with him.
You gather your things and leave silently, texting a quick goodbye. Better to get ready at your own place, you think to yourself. Tensions might still be high, and you hate greeting your students with the attitude of the night before.
On the drive home and while you get ready for work, you check your phone maybe a dozen times, just in case he wakes up and wants to speak. The reality is, there's really no time to speak about the night before. If anything, a conversation might be had this Friday or next Sunday, when you're able to see each other again, and by then, you would hope this had all blown over. You really did pray it would all blow over. You hadn't meant a word of what you said to him last night. And maybe he had, but...well, that tight feeling in your chest lingered, made you seasick, and you kind of wished you'd never gone to dinner in the first place.
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"Miss L/N, do we really have to read this chapter, or can I look it up on SparkNotes for the test?"
"Miss L/N, I can't read what's on the board, can you write it bigger?"
"Miss L/N, I finally turned my homework in—yes, it's two weeks late, but I told you, my dog lowkenuinely ate that shit—THING, he ate that thing!"
"Can I go to the bathroom, Miss L/N? No, my boyfriend's not in the hall, I literally swear on my dead grandma, I swear."
"Miss L/N can I show you a TikTok edit? Do you know Zuko from Avatar? No, not the one with the blue people."
"I literally love you, Miss L/N—how is that inappropriate? I genuinely love you bro—Miss, I meant Miss, I literally said Miss."
The day had been dragging on for what seemed like centuries, and despite having felt like you'd lived a hundred lives since you'd gotten to work, it was only midday, just after lunch, kids filing in and already asking questions before the bell had even rung. You were rewriting the agenda on the board (a little large this time, so it could be clearer for people in the back), and two of your students, girls who were always in your office during lunch, were sitting at your desk, messing with your little photos and trinkets, asking if you'd ever wanna hang out socially. A few other boys tried joking with them on the other side of the desk, asking them about plans for this weekend and having conversations that you'd have to shut down in about .3 seconds.
"Girls, please go to your seats, and take your friends with you," you say, shooing them off as you readjust your belongings. You shake your head at the boy walking up to your desk now that it's free. "No, Yuji, you can not grab snacks from my office again."
"But- but- but, Miss L/N!" The pink-haired boy has got a big pout on his lips, hands clasped together to beg. "I won't even take a lot, I promise!"
"Last time you said that, you brought six other friends from other classes—students I don't even have." There are a couple of students in the back of class asking you to repeat the number you just said, and you wave them off, shooing Yuji away too. "Maybe some other time, kid."
"If you do, I can get you a date with my uncle, Miss L/N, he's super cool!"
"Miss L/N doesn't need a date. I hear he's got a pretty boyfriend."
Your brow cocks as you look to the rest of the class, many of them gossiping and giggling about your personal and romantic affairs. The kids are staring fondly, waiting eagerly, whispering in each other's ears about what they think your pretty boyfriend looks like and if he might be better than Yuji's uncle. "I do not," you deny hesitantly, printing out some extra papers and handouts for the class. You’re really not supposed to talk about your personal affairs with your students, and while you’d love to shout about your love for Hiromi from the rooftops, but there’s a certain level of workplace privacy you have to uphold. “And you guys shouldn't be talking about it if I did have one either."
"Then who's the guy that brings you lunch on the first Wednesday of the month?"
"The one who usually drops you off on Mondays."
"And picks you up on Fridays every now and then."
"And he calls during your lunch break sometimes—we can tell because you smile at your phone really big and blush a little."
You scoff, hands on your hips as you properly assess the class. All eyes are on you and your shocked expression now, waiting for your prompt answer that they know you're not allowed to give. "You guys are ridiculous—I do not blush, first of all, and that...man is—"
"Is he the guy that's standing at the door right now?"
You all but freeze in your spot, blank-faced as you turn to the open classroom door. Higuruma is stood, perhaps just as frozen, if not more, in the doorway, taking up an unnecessary amount of space with his height and stature. Holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers, and two little lunch bags—one, which he carries every single day without fail, and the other, which he bought for you to keep at his place, since you were always forgetting yours at home. His eyes were wide (as much as they could be, those droopy, Eeyore eyes he always wore, that stared lasers into your fast-beating heart). His eyes dart between you and your students, nodding carefully to greet a silent hello.
"Hiro," you breathe, setting your markers down carefully. You clear your throat, fingers tapping against your pants, thinking of literally any words, but they're just not coming to you. You turn on your heel quickly to face the class, putting on a bright, happy face. "Class," you clasp your hands together as you take small steps towards the man. "This! Is my good friend, Mr. Higuruma—let's all say hi to Mr. Higuruma, yeah?" You glance at him briefly, his eyes only meeting yours for a second as he greets the buzzing class and their bright hellos. You place your hand on his coated chest, patting softly to soothe. "Um, Mr. Higuruma is here...because..."
He brings his voice down to a whisper, shaking his head apologetically. "I thought you had lunch—I totally fucked up the times—"
"You can't say 'fucked up' in my classroom—" You turn back to the class, speaking at your normal volume again, “Mr. Higuruma is just here to bring me a little late lunch—"
"Are you a math teacher, Mr. Higuruma?"
He looks at you with furrowed brows before turning back to the students, stuttering a little as you take the flowers from him, your body trying to shuffle further in the entry. "Uh, no. No, I'm not, I'm—I was actually an English major, in college, like your teacher...here, that's how...Miss L/N and I met." You remember it clearly, the two of you in undergrad, the only English majors in your friend group, never really that close until after graduation, when your group had met up and the secretly charming Higuruma had gotten even more charming. He thanked you for essentially helping him pass Modern Philosophy and asked if he could repay you sometime. Over dinner. The rest is a blur, the rest of your lives up until this moment. The students whisper amongst each other some more, nodding and debating what questions to ask next. You hope maybe they'll be bored by his overall drab tone of voice, but even you were watching him with sparkly eyes.
To be fair, you were always watching him like that.
"But, um...Miss L/N was always much better at reading and writing than me—she's still revising my papers for work, it's a gift I think." He peeks over at you for a second, straightening his posture to instill a bit more confidence in both of you. "She's... your teacher is a real gem at that kind of stuff—you guys are really lucky. To have her." Oh, your heart practically flutters at his words, and now you're shifting in your stance, trying to stay calm and collected. But of course, it's near impossible for the both of you. He clears his throat after a few more too-personal questions. "What are you guys learning about?" You look at him with wide eyes, and he shrugs, unsure of what to say otherwise.
"We're reading All-American Boys."
"And writing papers about social injustices—Miss L/N says one of her, like, best friends is a lawyer, so we're working on, like, injustice, and our rights and stuff."
Higuruma looks at you for a long while, rendered speechless. There's a soft silence between you two as you wait for him to frown, or smile, or nod, or blink—literally anything other than this staring contest you both are having in front of your impatient and keen class.
"Miss L/N says it's been her favorite unit so far."
You smile softly, shyly—and would you look at that, Higuruma does the same, nodding at the students and their words! His hand drifts to your shoulder, gently rubbing the bone of it with his thumb.
"Don't you have to go get those papers you printed, Miss?"
You turn back to the class, slightly unsettled by their mischievous, plotting faces. They were giggling again, staring at the increasingly intimate scene before them. Somehow, you and Higuruma had drawn even closer to one another, his hand on your back, your hand on his shoulder, and you could probably hear his breath next to you if you were quiet enough. And surely, your face was glowing with some sickly sweet sort of joy, because that's how you always looked when Higuruma was around, you couldn't see to help making a fool of yourself.
And now, your students were giving you a way out.
You glance at the man next to you briefly before turning your sweet gaze back to the class. "Yes! Yes, actually, I...I do—and I want to catch up with Mr. Higuruma here, in my office, so. So...alright—I shouldn't be long, guys, I'll have the agenda—"
"Yes, Miss L/N, we follow the agenda on the board until you get back."
"And we'll save our questions that we have until you get back."
"And I'll make sure everyone behaves until you get back."
Oh, God bless the higher powers that gave you this absolutely angelic group of kids.
You try your best to hide your smile as your students band together, getting into groups, arguing about who gets to use their computer, setting up spaces for the peer-reviews that need to be done, and you’re slowly pulling yourself and Higuruma out of the room before this wonderful dream is cut short by a question about the agenda or someone asking to use the bathroom. You’re both smiling giddily like the school children you teach, sneaking him into his office. You both take a long, deep breath, standing before each other. Alone now. That giddy feeling wears off a little and the sickly taste in your mouth that you’d been having since you woke up this morning resumed, inflaming every good thought you’d just procured in your mind.
This is the man that you are in love with. This is also the man who said your job, which he is standing in, was useless work. This is the man whom you practically berated for half an hour in his own kitchen. This is the man who brought you flowers the next day to make up for it. This is the man that you really want to apologize to, if you could release that stubborn personality of yours.
"I'm sorry."
You both stare blankly at each other, surprised at the sound of your voices in unison. You're both opening and closing your mouths like fish, waiting for someone to make the first dominating move. You look around your office for help with conversation, your eyes landing on the things he brought. Your brows furrow, and all of a sudden, your apologies have to wait for just a second.
“Higuruma, why are you at my job?”
He stills, clammy hands wiping themselves along his suit. He stares between you and the lunch boxes you’ve now set on your office desk. “Lunch,” he says simply.
“Right.” You nod, leaning against the desk, arms crossed in hopes that he’ll continue to explain himself further, but he doesn’t. For the first time in Higuruma’s whole life, he seemingly can’t plead his case. You smile at the thought, looking down at the floor to focus on something other than that lost, puppy look on his face. “Usually you text…when you’re coming by, no?”
“On a whim.”
“You packed me a lunch on a whim?”
“I have been thinking about you every second since I woke up this morning, and you weren’t next to me." Higuruma has now flipped dynamics, or at the very least shared his with you. You straighten up a bit, lips in a flat, nervous line. You hadn't expected him to say that. “I…couldn't pay attention, I couldn't get ready—I managed to put on the same exact suit I wore Friday, and just my luck, someone in the office actually noticed—”
“Shimizu?”
“Yes, Shimizu—“
“She’s a really sweet girl, she probably didn't mean anything by it.”
“I could not function, baby, are you hearing me?” He steps forward, kneeling down before you—actually kneeling like some sort of rabid man, like an actual dog. His hands reach up to rub at your clothed legs, his voice faltering beneath you. “I couldn’t think about my case for even a millisecond without thinking about you, I have been beyond stressed out thinking about you, and us not going to work together, and so I left work—!”
“You did what?” A rarity for Higuruma, he is never eager to leave an ongoing case in the middle of the day, not even for holidays, not even for bereavement, even you know that.
“I just fucking walked right out.”
“Keep your voice down,” you fuss, quickly parting from him to rush and lock the door. Still kneeling, he pulls you back over to him, holding onto your calves with a firm grip. The sight might be considered pathetic if you weren't so disgustingly enamored with him. Still, your eyes travel quickly across his face, searching for corruption. “Are you sick?” You lean down with him, the back of your hand on his forehead and cheeks, watching him lean into your soft touch. “Do you have a fever or something—"
"Did you really mean it when you said you'd never marry someone like me?"
You hold onto his arms with both hands, guiding him back into a standing position with you. Your eyes dart again, squinting aggressively.
You were absolutely positive you hadn't said that.
"I've been thinking about it all fucking day—in fact, I think, I maybe even dreamt about you saying it, over, and over, and over again, it's been stuck in my head like some really horrible song on the radio—"
"Higuruma!" You shake your head at his frantic state, holding his face in your hands to calm him down. "I never said that—I can say with absolute certainty that I never said that." He relaxes in your touch just slightly, leaning into the warmth of your palms as his mind recalls your tormenting argument. You tilt your head at him, face scrunching. "Is that all you've been thinking about? You're not...angry?"
"Of course I'm fucking angry," he scoffs, hands sliding to your hips to pull you a little closer despite his words. "I'd been waiting to see you for days, and then the moment I do, we get into some petty argument about the exact thing that's been keeping us apart—I'm absolutely livid, sweetheart, I've been fuming ever since you left this morning. Without a word, I might add, so I can assume you're angry, too, no?"
"I'm angry about the same thing you're angry about—I don't know why I even mentioned your workload during dinner, it ruined the whole thing!" You laugh into the sudden kiss that he gives you, trying to swat him away as his lips move across your cheek, and jaw, and temple. "It's my godforsaken attitude, I ruined a perfectly good dinner."
He shakes his head quickly, speaking in between kisses. "No. I ruined it. You tried to make a joke, and I'm...really unfunny, that's on me. It got out of hand from there—you know how much I support the education system, I'm such an idiot for pretending I don't, because you know how many cases I take for teachers, too. And for saying your kids were dumb, obviously they're goddamn prodigies if you're teaching them—"
"And I don't actually think your clients are guilty, sometimes I think more of your clients are innocent than you do."
"And that was rude of me, the assumption about education majors, and the whole stereotypical bullshit—I sounded like such a guy, I really can't believe myself." His hands are all over you now, still leaving open-mouth kisses across the bare skin that he has access to, gripping at your hips to keep him from wanting more.
"Anyone would be lucky to marry you, Hiro."
He stops, tilting his head back to look at you fully again. He stares as your lips curve into a soft smile.
"I'm so sorry for making you think otherwise," you admit, sighing slowly. "I was being a brat. Because I had a bad week. And I missed you, and I took it out on you and your job. But really, I think your job is what allows you to express how passionate you are. You know, because you understand people so well, what they're going through. And I think how passionate you are is...maybe one of my favorite things about you." You lean up to give a quick peck on his warm, slightly swollen lips. "Definitely husband material, would hate to lose something like that."
Higuruma steps back to lean against your desk, slowly pulling you closer between his legs. He makes an almost-pout with his lips, hands caressing your forearms, your wrists. "Remember when I was the worst person ever and...basically disparaged your job, all for your students to tell me that I'm your best friend?" You nod carefully, biting back a smile as he groans, head tilted back in agony. You place a soft kiss where his veins sort of protrude at the jugular, and his shifts almost imperceptibly. Almost. "I've never felt so horrible in my life—Miss L/N says it's been her favorite unit so far—I think I died, right then, just died and disintegrated."
"Karma is so sweet when you don't have to do it yourself," you shrug, massaging at his tense shoulders, feeling his hands grip at your hips and waist. “And I got some pretty nice apology flowers out of it. You sure do know how to woo a girl.” He lifts his head to look at you again, watching as your eyes try to avoid his piercing, languid gaze. "Speaking of my students...I kind of have to get back to work, I've been gone way too long." He sighs again, rolls his eyes like a teenager just to hear you laugh. "And you shouldn't have left the office either, not in the middle of a case. You're gonna be really upset with yourself later."
You kiss him one last time before parting from the warmth of his body, backstepping towards the door. Higuruma reluctantly follows, sluggishly standing and grabbing his lunch bag, heavy feet making slow motions towards the doorway. He stops you before you open it completely.
"I think you forgot something at my place," he whispers, kissing your temple. "Maybe you could...come over tonight, I could give it back to you?"
Your eyes shoot him a blank, warning look. Your Teacher Face, he calls it.
"I'll take that as a yes. Miss L/N."
｡𖦹°‧
You're standing at Higuruma's door, foot tapping nervously at the pavement, fixing small pieces of your clothing to keep your mind occupied with other things. Still, all you can think about is how you might possibly fuck up this dinner just as you did the last one. There's really nothing to be completely afraid of. You'd both taken back what you'd said, cleared up what you hadn't, and there's a very real possibility that this is you guys going back to normal, just as you'd hoped. And yet, you're reluctant to knock your knuckle against the door, shivering in your coat and gripping your workbag like it might fly away, and you with it. One could dream.
Higuruma opens the door violently, steps his disheveled figure back as soon as he sees your polite smile, welcoming you in. His hair is even messier than before, his button-up is untucked and rolled up at his forearms, and he's loosening his tie as you walk in, trying to breath properly despite the choking at his neck.
You slowly walk through the house, setting your things down on the kitchen island like you usually do, already placing stray things back where they belong as he follow in, stuffs his hands in his pockets.
"You don't have to do that," he smiles, hesitantly creeping up next to you to stop your movements. "I went home after I came by your school, and..." He scratches at the back of his neck, looking about the kitchen. "I meant to clean after my lunch, and...after I started working...in the kitchen, but—"
"It's okay, Hiro."
He lets out a deep breath, nodding assuredly. His eyes gloss over you carefully and you're nervous all over again from the way he's examining you. His fists tighten in his pants pockets, shifting from one foot to the other, and soon enough, you're doing the same, filling in the silence with just your breathing and the occasional apology when you both accidentally bump into each other with your swaying. You are both too petrified to ask about work. But given that most of your life is your work, if the conversation is to progress any further, someone has to ask. One of you has to jump the hurdle. You're almost too anxious to do so—you and Higuruma have never argued like that, you couldn't bring yourself to potentially cause it again—but you're both adults, proper adults too, and someone has to make the next move.
"How's the case moving along?" you try breathily, leaning against the kitchen counter to broaden your space amongst each other, maybe make room for less tense discussion.
He laughs a little under his breath, one hand leaving his pocket to touch the fabric of your shirt, relaxing him enough to speak too. "Uh, yeah, it's...it's going. Maybe too early to know but...I have a feeling about this guy—I know I say that every time, but...I mean, he's young, and he's been so patient with us so far, and...things aren't adding up the way they usually do for the other side, so. So, I think we're gonna be able to help him."
You can't help but smile at the way he describes his work, even if it makes him nervous, makes him blush. It's cute, you think, the way he'll get so serious about it, the way he'll mull it over in his mind right in front of you, as if you're part of the case too. He'll use terms you don't quite recognize, and names you've never heard of, but he always ends with how well he thinks it'll go. And you're always so happy to hear when he thinks he might be able to be a hero again.
"I know you'll be able to help him," you assure with a sleepy nod, smiling a little further when his hand moves up, cups one side of your face.
He tilts his head to pout at you, thumb stroking over your cheek bone. "You know...the more I think about it...you were right to make that comment at dinner." He continues before you can argue, shaking his head softly. "I think I'd been babbling on about my new case the whole night, and...I left no time to talk about your week." His thumb moves to rub over your eyebags, growing just slightly, though you hadn't really had to the time to notice. "You were right. I don't pay attention to the world around me. My tired girl."
"No, I’d actually rather not talk about my shitty week. And last night doesn't count," you refute. "You're very attentive, you know that. And I'm not usually so cranky."
He hums as he lets both hands rest against your shoulders, rubbing softly. "Still cranky?" He nods as you relax your shoulders in his touch, turning you around to lead you to his couch, still massaging as he sits you down together. He places light, feathery kisses against your back, calloused hands squeezing. "Those kids, always overworking my woman. Sending her home exhausted, poor baby." His teases rumble against the nape of your neck and you're forced to roll your eyes playfully, swatting your hand at him. "You should just quit. Quit that stupid job. And I'll take care of you—you'd never have to work a day in your life with me."
You turn quickly, shoving at his chest with a grin on your face. "Stupid job? Seriously?" You push until he's lying on his back on the couch, watching as he pulls you by your forearms, up and over his lap to straddle him. Your hands sit firm against his chest, your eyes squinting over him. He's smiling at you, eyes dark and low, hands wrapped around your wrists for control. "You really think quitting is an option after yesterday?"
"No, I actually think we have to stay on these career paths for the rest of our lives," he smirks, eyes still searching yours. "To prove each other wrong."
You nod in bubbly agreement, watching him lick his lips beneath you, his fingers sliding away to tug at his tie again. You lean up against his lap, watching him slowly slip off the thin fabric, dropping it on the floor.
"Was getting uncomfortable," he gave an excuse, hands wrapping around your thighs.
"Your shirt too?"
Higuruma smiles as you start to unbutton his loose and wrinkly dress shirt, slipping it away from his chest to expose his milky soft skin. You kiss his collarbone gently, delicately, and you hear him shiver a little, his breath shaky as it leaves his parted lips. When you sit up again, you watch his muscles flex as your fingers patter against his torso, his hips twitching just slightly. You take your time in admiring him, despite knowing how self-conscious he gets under your careful, probing stare. Still, Higuruma is one of the most beautiful people you've ever been blessed to see, to touch. He doesn’t look so muscular from the outside, when you’re both having dinner or grabbing a quick breakfast, when you’d taken him home to meet family and friends. His clothes cover him very well, that sickening, gorgeous physique he selfishly hides. A part of you wishes people knew about how lovely he looked, but you suppose it is better that everything underneath his work attire is meant for you and your eyes only.
"Same outfit, huh?" you ask, recalling the frenzied account of his morning that he gave in your office. "You've done that before, haven't you? You've really gotta start taking care of yourself better, sir." You smile when he mumbles what sounds like a 'yes ma'am', though it's only a shaky whisper as you continue to tenderly rake your nails down his chest and abs, tracing the definition, the grooves. You love when he calls you ma’am, and you hope to every higher power that he can’t feel how wet you are through your layers. "I think we're both a little too accustomed to putting our needs and feelings aside for our work. At least...well, for me, I have a pretty long lunch period to cry during. You, on the other hand...all that pent-up anger and irritation. It's going to get to you one day."
He shakes his head, pressing your hips into his own, grip tight through the fabric of your pants as his own creates a bulge up under you. "Not if you're here to help me...release some of the tension."
"Oh, is that what I'm here for, Mr. Higuruma? Your human stress toy?"
He blinks up at you, and it's almost erotic the way it makes every particle in your body flutter. "Is that what you wanna be?"
Your breath hitches but you recover quickly, pretending to think. "What kind of perks does it come with?"
"For you, Miss L/N? Thousands—all sorts of insurance and benefits, deductibles.” His hands travel up to push your own dress shirt sleeves up your forearms, fingertips grazing the goosebumps against your skin. He takes a moment to revere the smoothness of your arms, the plushness of your thighs. “And I know a pretty good lawyer friend, in case you get screwed over."
"Ah, but I thought your friend only did criminal defense?"
"He makes exceptions, I think." Higuruma's thumb pulls at your bottom lip, tugging you down closer to him. "When the crimes are against someone so goddamn extraordinary."
"And this is where I come in?"
"Yes, honey, that’s where you come in."
"You think I'm extraordinary?"
He looks at you like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like he’s told you a million times before, and he has, a million times and more. His fingers find their way to the back of your head, slipping into your hair, and he finally slots lips with yours, leaning up just slightly to deepen the kiss. He groans into your mouth, simply nodding at your question, not very interested in complete reassurance now that he can taste you—he hasn’t tasted you in a millennia, that’s what it feels like. “You’re a gem, sweetheart,” he mumbles into you, licking at your bottom lip for more, more, and more. “My little gem—my little English prodigy.” He smiles against your lips, kissing down your jaw and neck to tease and tamper. “You’re my smart girl, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”
You whisper out what might be a yes, hands against his chest as he kisses down your shirt, unbuttoning slowly and then slower.
“Don’t ever let me forget it, yeah? You have no idea…how horrible it was. Going into work without seeing your pretty face, my pretty woman’s face. I feel like we should make it up to each other, it’s only fair.” His fingers hook along the opening of your top, sliding it off of your shoulders in a glacial pace, a painful sort of motion for you both. But he’s loving the way you’re squirming above him, right down on his crotch that he’s trying so desperately not to push back up into you. “What do you want from me?” he asks sweetly, his pointer fingers tucking themselves into the waistband on your work pants, tugging you back and forth, and back and forth along his growing erection, watching your polite, civil face start to falter on top of him. He smiles at the simple scrunch of your brows, the almost-pout in your bottom lip as he all but glorifies you. “What do you want me to do to you, baby?”
You continue to grind yourself against him, feeling his own hips shift underneath you to meet you halfway. He nods at the motion of your answer, hands flush against your hips and fingers digging into fabric as he guides you with him at the same rhythm, still following your lead. You can see an erratic nature creep up in his facial expression, his knuckles going white with how he’s pulling at your waistband, never quite ripping the pants off, but holding on just in case he has to. His bulge rubs up against your clothes cunt, the soak seeping through your underwear—he’s eyeing the space between you so carefully, imagining what that damp spot looks like on your panties, what it would taste like on his tongue. He humps up into your pussy a little quicker now, watching as you bounce up and down, shirt slipping further off, and tits threatening to pour out of your bra. He unclips the garment, tosses it off to the floor somewhere to free those beauties, immediately leaning up to suck on one as his hand makes its way to the other. He moans around your hardened nipple, still looking up at your whiny face. He sucks relentlessly and licks in swirls around both mounds before leaning back, hands returning to your hips. He watches your tits carefully as you move, feeling the tightness of his pants become almost unbearable. His brows furrow at the sight of you, letting pleasure take over as he stares, admires, nearly folds under the pressure.
“Can’t- fuck- can’t cum like this. I would, definitely could but. Too soon, don’t wanna cum too soon,” he notes, watching you slow to a stop while he’s still jerking up into you.
You laugh at the state of him, pressing your hands against his hips to offer aid, and even then he’s involuntarily trying to press closer, chase his high. You’ve stopped, but he can’t, not while you’re looking at him like that. “I’m not edging you, Mr. Higuruma. Take me how you want me.” You feel his warm knuckles glide along the skin of your waist, still pulling lightly at the fabric. Either he’s teasing or resisting, and neither will do. “You know, unless you’d like to get back to your work, I know how much you value it.”
“Oh, so that’s how it is!” he laughs, and it startles you a little, lights a fire up through your now exposed spine. He lifts you up then, flings you right over his shoulder like a bag of hay, like you weigh absolutely nothing, hoisting you both down the hall to his bedroom. “You’re gonna be in so much trouble, Miss L/N, I can’t believe you.”
“What, defense attorneys do arrests now?”
He places you on the large bed, hovering over your body to cage you in while he nods. “You’re a delinquent,” he mumbles, lips dragging down your abdomen, careful to place soft, wet kisses along every inch of shivering skin. His hands find purchase on the back of your knees, lifting to fold you just slightly. He has this look about him, something not quite brooding, bordering on the line of lustful, and it's so intimate it almost scares you. It is adoration, it is ardor. “Hanging out with those teenagers too much. They’re corrupting you.”
You laugh, shoving at his head a little, breath faltering when you feel his chuckle against your pants that he’s practically ripping off. “Oh, yeah? What are your clients doing to you then?”
“Corrupting me.”
Higuruma hums as he lifts your legs with one hand, tugging your pants off with the other. He tosses them to the floor (the crime scene is scattered everywhere), immediately kneeling to reach for your lace panties that he’s been thinking about all night, all week, every day since he last saw you. “This is where you want me?” he smiles, finger grazing over the wet fabric, pushing it to side to slide one finger against the slick. “She’s all ready for me, too, so well-behaved. Been staring at papers all week, almost forgot how easy she is for me—“
“Fuck you,” you groan, encasing your bottom lip in your teeth as his finger runs dangerously close to your entrance.
“Oh, I want you to, truly. Thought it be nice to be a gentleman, though—ladies first, right? Lift your hips for me.” You oblige, propping yourself up on your forearms to see him clearly as he tugs the lace down and off your legs. He holds them up to his nose while he watches you squirm, takes a deep inhale that almost makes him rolls his eyes all the way to the back of his head. He hadn’t gotten to smell you like this is days, it might’ve been considered cruel and unusual punishment. His free hand parts the lips of your cunt so he can examine, and he moans, letting your panties hang in his mouth by his teeth. "Fuck, it's been too long. A week is way too fucking long to be missing this.”
You’re whining, "Hiro, please,” as he insists on teasing you, stuffing your panties into his mouth as his own personal gag, a little treat while he takes care of the real thing. Your hips press up into his hand and he laughs around the fabric on his tongue, sucks at the slick with a near pornographic groan.
His two fingers slide in easily, palming himself through his dress pants with his other hand at the mere sight. He nods with you as his thick fingers push forward, the gummy walls of your pussy tensely squeezing him around him. He shushes at the pretty noises you’re making, curling his finger further. Higuruma is absolutely filthy like this, not so poised as he usually is when he’s near cumming in his pants just from watching you moan into the open air of his room, the noise filling his ears like sweet infestation. But he simply can’t help himself.
Can’t help himself from talking dirty either. “Missed this pretty pussy,” he mumbles, ripping the fabric out of his mouth to breathe properly. He licks another long stripe on the panties in his hands, trying not to grope himself with it. "Had to- fuck, look at you- needed you so bad last week when you rescheduled. Had to handle it myself with the last pair you left me, can you believe it?" His knee spreads your legs that are threatening to close, nodding at the familiar clench of your pussy around his fingers, the growing squelch of wet surrounding the point of connection. His voice grows husky as he watches you arch your back. "Imagined you just like this, letting go for me. Can you believe it, love? How desperate I was, and now I get to see you like this?" He smiles as he picks up the pace of his pistoning fingers, watching your eyes glaze over as you practically convulse. "You're so good to me, making my dreams come true."
And suddenly, it's all you can think about. Higuruma, in the shower, jerking his long and throbbing boner in the shower with one of your lacey panties you always seemed to forget at his place. His head tilted back against the shower tile, picturing you and only you while his rough hands tug and tug. Finally falling off the edge when he pictures your sweet orgasm, when he can practically taste it in his mouth. And his thick white cum is shooting against the shower wall, your name falling from his lips in breathy whines, over and over like aching prayers.
Your moans are as lewd as ever as you release around his fingers, sitting up to watch with him, the way everything spills out around his calloused hands. He never once lets your mess drip onto the sheets, what a waste that would be. You slump back into the bed, hands over your face as you try to catch your breath. He's speaking to you, asking you something so gently, but you can barely hear him, much too buzzed and deluded to come up with coherent thoughts and sentences. His hands glides up the warm flesh of your stomach and you feel his freed dick gliding against your thigh, a slightly cold contrast to the way your body is burning all over. His leaking tip trails along your skin as he hovers over you, letting his erection slide through your folds once, twice.
"You still want me inside of you?" he asks, lips against your ribcage. "Or did your hard work tire you out before I could get to you?"
His mocking tone vibrates against your skin, but you're pushing yourself up in spite of it. He laughs lowly, just under his breath, at your delirious, cock-drunk state before sinking into you, moaning when he feels you clamp around him. He works slowly and carefully to bottom out, making use of the already slick and slippery state of your pussy before he's kissing your cervix with his tip. He folds one of your legs over to give himself more space, allow for a better angle, and then he's letting you suck him in, reeling his hips back and forth to hear the way you moan, hear the way you haul him back in.
He moves your hands from tired face, watching the furrow of your brows, nodding with a cooed "I knooow, love, I know" as he watches you, picks up his pace.
His dick pulsates inside of you as he kisses up your chest, sharing that same fucked out look that you had. “Remember when I said you’d always be my smart girl?" he begins, grip on your hips growing tighter just slightly. "I’m starting to think I like fucking you stupid.”
But his words are a little unfair, a little hypocritical when you think about it. Because Higuruma, perhaps the smartest and most driven man you know, is babbling like a lovesick imbecile every time he's this deep inside you. When he's not huffing with every drag of his thick cock, he's a muttering mess, voice against your neck and in your ear, saying things that would usually make you both blush. But he's drunk off the way you're garnering him in, how messy it is, and whatever comes out of his mouth is essentially your fault, he thoughtfully concludes. It's all your doing, the reason he acts this way, and looks this way, and fucks you just right this way. Maybe if you weren't so perfect for him, neither of you would be in this predicament. You can feel the pressure all throughout your body like military explosives, leaning into the wet and sloppy kisses he leaves, just where your neck and shoulder join. His fingers digs into your sides and hips, and he gasps in between smooches and moans, losing himself in the way he's whispering to you like a frenzied idiot.
'You take me so well, my good girl.'
'Let me fill you up, just this once.'
'That's why you were so mean on Sunday, huh baby? Saying all that stuff about- oh fuck yeah baby, i've got you. Saying that stuff about my job. You just wanted me to fuck you like this, wanted my attention.'
'You're gonna take every last drop of me, aren't you?'
'Can't get enough of you—I've never loved anyone like I love you, I swear.'
The last one catches you off guard just slightly, not the content of his praise, but the way his own breath hitches when he admits it like all the times he's told you before simply weren't enough. You wrap your legs around him to keep your brain steady, but his pace is already faltering, and you're growing closer to your own orgasm again, quicker than the last time. And louder too. The slap of wet skin echoes throughout the room like music to your ears, and you're begging him to cum inside you before you can even really think about it. Your arms wrap around his neck to pull him closer, and you press your lips against his cheek when you ask, voice soft and smooth like honey in his ears. His voice is strangled as he nods against the crook of your neck, kissing the skin quickly and fervently as his thrusts turn sloppy, veins still dragging against your walls and tip still pressing up against that sweet spot of your cervix as he moans into you, holds onto you for balance.
He chases his own high, gasping for air when he finally spills into you. The feeling alone has you following close behind, your nails clawing into his shoulder as you continue to milk him dry for everything he has. His hips keep a slow routine, stuffing the hot ropes of cum further into you, really letting it stick. He huffs above you, holding himself up by his forearms as he kisses around your face, moaning into the kiss on your lips like the soft feeling might make him cum all over again. His lazily peppered kisses slow to a halt and he leans his forehead against yours, eye searching your own.
"Wanna marry you...Miss L/N," he whispers suddenly, kissing you before you can even looked shocked. "You know I do. You know how much I love you, how much I mean it." He watches you nod slowly beneath him, trying to keep your eyes from widening so much. "Gonna marry you. Would quit my job to marry you—"
"Hiro—"
"If it got in the way of us even once...I'd find a way to make it work."
You shake your head and he almost freezes at the sight. "Our work means way too much to us, Hiromi. So there'll be no quitting." You thumbs glide against his cheeks gently and he leans into your touch. "Because we're not quitters. We're problem solvers, yeah? So...we'll just have to be ready to solve some problems. Come what may."
Higuruma smiles, sitting up and dragging you with him, right into his lap. He stares at you carefully, holding you close to him, chest to chest. "And you'd wanna do that? Work, and...problem solve?" No one had ever been willing to do that for him, with him. Not until you.
You nod like it's the most obvious thing in the world, the most sure idea you've had since you decided your calling was to teach. "I'm your smart girl, remember?" you tease, kissing his temple as he relaxes. "We're always gonna figure it out."
And this is enough to reassure him. He absentmindedly takes your hands in his town, thumb rolling over your left hand's ring finger.
He'd been uses to losing cases, it came with the trade. But losing you was not an option, not in the slightest.
Because he means it when he says he wants you in his life forever.
He laughs to himself, rolling his eyes playfully. “I was so sad we didn’t watch Real Housewives last night…”
You scoff at the confession. Your little Sunday night routine that he claimed to hate (too dramatic, those women). And here he was, missing it. Missing you.
“Hiro…you are so fucking weird.”
guess who's back! and feeling much better than i did last week.
i am a higuruma truther, he fills my nanami-filled heart, i can't even lie. so, hope you guys enjoy this and my future jjk stuff that's coming up (#can't stop thinking about season 3). let me know what else you guys would like to read and PLEASE give recs for jjk stuff bc i'm in a bit of a drought.
Someone else - wearing Tom’s face - had dared to kiss you. The anger he’d felt before dims in comparison to the flames of heat coursing through his veins, like he’d been hit with a curse. ⟢ 2.7k words ⟢ jealous!tom
⟢ Chaos Magic Pt.2
He had longed for your touch. Your scent. You. He needed you like he needed air. Like he needed his magic. It was dizzying. It was horrifying. Tom wanted this feeling to leave his mind but never stop all at once. ⟢ 3.2k words ⟢ jealous!tom
⟢ A Little Death
Whenever you are around, it is like he surrenders himself to whatever affections you are willing to spare him. And he takes every touch with a greediness he only has felt for knowledge. For power. It is an all consuming feeling he cannot fathom. ⟢ 18+ ⟢ 6.9k words ⟢ touch starved!tom
⟢ Love Bug
On a quest, you are bitten by a creature known as the love bug. Tom is forced to confront the feelings he’s had for you when you’re suddenly all over him, acting in ways he’s only dreamed of. ⟢ 18+ ⟢ 5.8k words ⟢ submissive!tom
⟢ A Little Death Pt.2
There is something so painfully familiar about you, that it drives Tom into a state of obsession. He cannot let it go until it comes to him in the middle of your living, after having broken in to confront you; you’d obliviated yourself from his mind. And he was going to find out why. ⟢ touch starved!tom ⟢ 18+ ⟢ 9.2k words
⟢ Black out Days
After you are expelled from Hogwarts, you take up a job at Borgin and Burkes as a cursed objects hunter. Tom is always mesmerized when you breeze in to sell whatever it is you’ve found out in the field. Lines are crossed. Bonds are made. But it isn’t until you’re hurt, and stay with Tom, that he realizes how much you meant to him. ⟢ 18+ ⟢ 9.7k words
⟢ Keep on Loving You
You are the minister of magics daughter. Tom gets close to you in the pursuit of power, but he finds solace in the strange energy of your presence, and your unbearable love for muggle artifacts, ⟢ 18+ ⟢ 8.8k words
⟢ Flawless
It is no secret you had admirers at Hogwarts. The list was long and ever growing, but you'd never shown an interest in anyone, and Tom found comfort in that. It is not until someone catches your attention, and you confide in Tom that you had never kissed someone. He takes this opportunity to show you how to kiss, despite having never kissed anyone himself. Your first kiss belonged to him, along with your virginity. He would do anything for it. ⟢ 18+ ⟢ 8.7k
⟢ A Little Death Pt.3
Tom has read about love countless times. He never understood it; it sounded terrible. Maybe the worst sin of them all. Tom has always hated human behaviors, their desires, never giving into lust, or greed, or love. But with you, he gave into them all, selfishly. Happily. Wanting more and more. How easily he caved. How easily he gave into his human desires, something he thought he long ago burned out of himself. ⟢ 18+ ⟢ 10k words
⟢ Wicked Game
Tom did despise you. He despised you in the way that you did not look at him how he looked at you. He despised that you did not feel the same. He’d only come to realize his feelings only yesterday, but he burned for you the same he has always done. He just had a name to it, now. ⟢ academic rivals!au ⟢ 18+ ⟢ 5.5k words
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Coming soon
All I Did was Dream of You
⟢ Ever since Tom was a child, he has been dreaming of you. You were his only friend, the only thing he ever cared about, so much so that the waking world no longer interested him. He wants to be with you, permanently, but a secret of yours rocks the delicate balance of your relationship.
Post Sex Clarity
⟢ With girls throwing themselves at his feet, Tom thinks, why not? He indulges in sex, no strings attached, but it never quite satisfies him. Not until he meets you, and he realizes just how much a person can feel for someone else. 18+
⟢ untitled
You cared for Tom, maybe too much, and he was choking. He doesn't realize how badly he had needed your watchful eye checking on him until you're suddenly not there to remind him to eat, drink water, relax, and it drives him nearly to the edge.
Summary: Tom did despise you. He despised you in the way that you did not look at him how he looked at you. He despised that you did not feel the same. He’d only come to realize his feelings only yesterday, but he burned for you the same he has always done. He just had a name to it, now.
Pairing: tom riddle x fem!reader
Words: 5.5k
Warnings: vague mentions of child abuse if u squint, academic rivalry!au, kissing, handjob
Authors note: this was requested by @roughlypinkfalcon ! got so inspired at 3am, i stayed up till 7am writing this lol. if anyone has any requests, i feel like writing so shoot me an ask or a message and i'll do my best! i haven't been writing much but i've been in the mood for it again yayy. i might do a pt. 2 if anyone is interested so lmk :D
In the darkness of the forest, Tom finds you. Neither of you were supposed to be out outside of the castle this late, especially in the forbidden forest. He had snuck out to retrieve an item of great importance to him, but had come back empty handed. He had deemed the night a complete loss, until he had stumbled upon you by the lake. It was exactly what he’d been needing. Blackmail, to keep you at bay. You had become an annoying thorn in his academic life.
Tom has always been smart, top of the class, but there was also you - someone dangerously on his heels, and sometimes getting the upper hand, burning Tom one too many times in your rivalry against one another. He hated admitting defeat. His hatred - at least, he thought it was hatred, he didn’t know what else to name it - for you simmered hotter and hotter with every passing year, every class you had together, racing to be the first to finish tests, answer questions first, get the better grade.
You breaking curfew was exactly what he needed to get you in trouble, not permanently, but it brings a sickening smile to his face at the thought of you losing house points, and receiving detention. It was the last thing you wanted, so he could use this to his advantage.
“A little late for an evening stroll, don’t you think?” Tom calls out from the trees.
Your figure whips around, but you do not raise your wand. Your arms remain wrapped around your middle.
Tom’s shit-eating grin falters when he catches the traces of tear marks glinting on your cheeks. He has never seen you cry before. You’ve never shown weakness. The only two emotions he ever saw from you was your smugness at besting him, and anger for losing to him.
Feeling like he’d walked in on something he shouldn’t have, Tom takes a step back, suddenly uncomfortable at catching you in such a vulnerable moment.
“Tom Riddle?” you call out, squinting in the darkness.
He could just leave. Pretend like he hadn’t seen you breaking down alone, in the middle of the forest, late at night. You were a private person, and this felt like the worst moment anyone, especially Tom Riddle, considering your history, could interrupt.
But apart of himself doesn’t want to leave, maybe curious to know what had brought down his mightiest rival.
“I know it is you,” you say hotly, that trademark tone you’d use on Tom bleeding back into the softness of your voice. “Come out.”
He does not come out because you had told him to, but rather for himself.
The night was especially chilly tonight, a layer of fog creeping along the forest floor so thick that it does not even part for Tom as he makes his way to your side. You were not dressed for the weather, apparent by the way you were shaking slightly. Unless you were just that upset. It was probably both. You were in nothing but your nightgown, and it looks like you have been crying for some time.
“Getting sick will earn you no pity points from me,” he tells you.
“I am not trying to get sick.”
“Then, where is your sweater?” he asks, and nearly grimaces at how it had come out. He was not worried for you. He didn’t care that you were out here alone in nothing but a thin cotton gown.
“I did not realize you were concerned about my health.”
Tom narrows his eyes. “I am not.”
The silence that followers has Tom scanning the area. You were the last person he expected to see out here. He hadn’t expected to see anyone, but you would have been the last on his list. You were always careful. Never stepped out of line in fears of getting in trouble. You played by the rules, studied hard, and being caught out here would most definitely land you in trouble.
“What are you doing out here, this late at night?” Tom asks.
Before you can answer, you let out a sneeze that echos deep within the landscape of the forest. He glances around, almost like he was waiting for something to leap out and attack. When nothing happens, he zeros in on you with a hard stare before he begrudgingly shucks off his jacket.
“Take this before you freeze to death,” he says with clenched teeth.
You look at the jacket he’s holding out for you for a moment, mouth parting in surprise, but ultimately take it without saying anything. He watches as you slip it on, the materials setting nicely upon your shivering frame. You’re quiet for a moment as you fiddle with the buttons.
“I couldn’t take the pressure,” you answer truthfully. Your voice is like gravel, maybe experiencing some level of pain at admitting anything to your rival. “I have been studying for hours. I… I felt suffocated in the dorms. I needed air.”
Tom knows well of the expectations your family held for you. A pureblood line, family running back to the families of old. It is why you tried so hard. It is why you wanted to be the best. You had family expectations to up hold, while Tom was trying to prove himself to the world. He didn’t need to be the best; but you did.
Of course, Tom held some respect for you and your family’s name. If only you weren’t his biggest opponent, he would recruit you into his mission. He’s thought about it countless times. You’d make a good ally. With your combined smarts and magic, it would give him an unfair advantage above those lower than him. Your magic was strong, like his. Your pureblood magic was to thank for that.
He did not have the same family as you did, not the same weight on his shoulders, but he understood to a certain degree. He himself had his own expectations. He had plans. Dreams. Things he wanted to achieve - no, needed to achieve, otherwise he was as good as nothing. He’s never given much thought to how you felt in all of this. He’s never seen this… human side of you. It felt too intimate considering the nature of your relationship.
And he had given you his jacket.
Tom did not like others touching his things. But this was someone he held in esteem, reluctantly. He wished he could hate you, truly hate you, but there was always some form of excitement when you were neck and neck, fighting to come out on top.
“Studying for hours? There are no tests tomorrow, and the homework was nothing out of the ordinary. Trying to one up me again?” he throws out, in his weird attempt at trying to lighten the sullen mood.
The setting was only adding to the mystery that was dripping from your form. He could see the marks of exhaustion and defeat in the eyebags carved into your smooth skin.
“I am falling behind,” you say, bottom lip trembling. “My family will kill me.”
Tom does not know if you’re exaggerating, but he doesn’t think you were lying for sympathy.
“You got higher marks than me on our last test. You are not falling behind, sadly.”
Trust Tom to know when he’s lost to you.
You bring a hand up to wipe at the tears that have just begun to fall, a forced laugh escaping your lips. “Because I have been killing myself studying. I can hardly eat, sleep, without worrying that… if I do not come out on top, my parents, they will -” your hand finds its way to your throat, where it rubs absently into the skin.
“It is not like you’re failing. You score perfect on nearly every exam,” he says in somewhat annoyance.
“It is not enough,” you say quietly. “If I am not the best, I am losing in their eyes.”
“Why are you telling me all of this?” Tom asks then, uneasy, not know what to even say to what you had admitted. He wasn’t good at consoling people. No one has ever even cried to him, and for you to be the first one, well. He just wishes he knew what to do. He feels like he is doing a poor job at trying to consol you. If that was even Tom trying to consol you.
“I don’t know,” you say, shrinking further into his jacket that he was beginning to regret giving away. It was freezing. “You are quite possibly the worst person I could talk to about this.”
Toms lip quirks up in amusement, his sentiments exactly, but he hides it. “I agree.”
“What are you doing out here, anyways?”
“Business.”
“Business? What business does a Hogwarts student have at this hour?”
“Nothing of your concern,” he tells you snippily.
“I could report you for being out past curfew, you know.”
“I am the Prefect here. Who do you think they’ll believe?”
You give a shrug, defeated.
Tom feels a chill go up his spine. He was tired. The night was a complete loss - except for this odd encounter.
“And don’t expect me to go easy on you because of this,” Tom says.
For the first time since he’s known you, you give a small laugh. A real laugh, not the bouts of laughter brought out from your own arrogance or anger. It rings like bells in his head, and pulls an involuntary feeling in his stomach that has always taunted him. That same feeling he always gets with you. Not hatred, but… something else.
“I didn’t expect anything of the sort. And we should be heading back, it’s late.”
The walk back to the castle is quiet, but it is no longer awkward. He throws you a few looks, confused on how to feel about the situation, just wanting to make sure you were really still there. He didn’t know what to make of it. You’ve never spoken anything more than heated words between wins and losses, gloating or making promises that you would win next time.
Tonight you were honest with him. You were real.
It was the most human connection Tom has ever had, and it has an odd feeling swirling in his chest. Ever since you’d laughed. You’d smiled at him. You’ve smiled at him before, but the self-satisfied kind for one upping him. This smile was genuine.
And you give him that same smile when you stop to part ways, both not knowing what to say. Neither of you were worried about getting caught. It was a regular occurrence for the both of you to slip out past curfew, it seemed.
“Thanks for… listening to me,” you mumble, hands still playing with the jacket.
“I did not have much of a choice.”
Your eyes roll. “You’re acting like you couldn’t have just walked away.”
“I wouldn’t leave you there like that,” Tom says. You had been a pitiful mess when he’d seen you. He had thought about leaving - but he knew he wouldn’t really. Any thoughts of reporting you are also forgotten.
“Why? I thought you hated me.”
Tom chokes up for a second, almost feeling like he was caught. With what - caring for you? He does not care. He regains his composure. “There would be no one left to challenge me, if anything happened to you,” he says dismissively. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” you echo, turning and leaving him standing alone in the hallway.
He does not even think of his missing jacket until he gets to his room. He finds himself not minding. He trusted you to look after it. You knew how to take care of things; you were probably one of the only competent students in the school.
The next day, when he sees you, the usual crackling of tension just… isn’t there. Not until a week later, when a test is announced, one that is worth a good chunk of your grade, and the odd truce you two had unanimously agreed upon goes up in smoke.
He catches you in the hallway after class, slinking up to where you’re already furiously scribbling away in a notebook.
“You should know,” Tom tells you, and you glance up with a scowl. “That I am extremely well versed in the exams topic.”
“You should know that so am I.”
“Then why do you look so worried?”
Your expression falters for a moment, your fear showing through the mask of anger you’d been wearing, and Tom’s delight dissolves into a heavy sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t carry on walking with you after that. He lags behind, watching as you dart for the library to study.
Your words from the lake play in his mind. Your family wanted you to be the best, and if you weren’t the best, then… he wonders, briefly, what they do when they’re unhappy with you. You seemed scared. He does not know if its because you simply do not like being talked down to, or if they hurt you in other ways. Some pureblood families were extreme. On the outside, your family was regal, pristine, but he doesn’t know what goes on behind closed doors.
The test was in a week from the day it was announced, and Tom does not see you much, like usual, before a big test. He of course spots you in the library, but you never see him. You never do notice when he’d watch you from between the books, even before you’d talked. He had an odd fascination with you, and how your mind worked. He’s always wanted a glimpse inside; but now that he has, he almost regrets it.
He thinks back to when you’d met.
Your rivalry had started from the very first class you’d had together.
Tom has always been smarter than anyone he’s ever met, so when he learned that he did not score the highest on a test, he’d immediately looked into you. He was pleased that you were a pureblooded wizard, and even more so from such a prestigious family. He’d thought about recruiting you, but then he’d notice that you fought to answer questions faster than he could in classes, and how you were always fighting for the number one spot he usually always claimed. It felt like you’d started a war with him.
He’d hated you at first, thinking of all the ways he’d get rid of you, having you expelled, but over the years, he’d grown used to it. He had started looking forward to the push and pull of your relationship. Who would win and who would lose. Tom loved to gloat in your face and make you mad, but that was before he’d learned about just why you tried so hard. It felt different, now. He’d seen how worried you’d been at the lake. And now, he just sees that same girl from that night standing at the waters end, crying, at your wits end.
When the test starts, Tom is almost nervous to begin. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, but you’re as composed as ever.
Maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe you had exaggerated.
The test isn’t easy, but it isn’t the hardest test he’s ever taken, either. He finishes it in record time, and sets down his quill with a sense of accomplishment when he notices that he’s completed it before you did. Only by a few minutes, as you are second to finish. Your eyes meet his, and he raises the corner of his lip into a sharp half grin. I win, it says.
“A little slow today?” he asks you once class is over, and students filter out of the room. He can’t help it, so used to poking fun at you anytime he had the advantage. You always did the same. It was just as annoying as it probably was for both of you.
“I was merely checking my work,” you snap at him, but you’re soon wearing a smug grin of your own. “Are you so obsessed with me that you noticed I finished three minutes after you did?”
Tom tilts his head down closer to you, amused. “I never said it was three minutes.”
Your eyes widen, mouth opening with something to say. “I - I was guessing.”
“Oddly specific for a guess.”
That is the end of that, you decide, because you simply walk away. Tom doesn’t stop you. He carries on to his next classes, the test forgotten, until you’re given them back a few days later. He’s received top marks, 100%, to his satisfaction. He immediately looks to you, ready to rub it in your face, until he sees the unmistakable quiver of your bottom lip. Your expression was wrecked, unable to conceal your horror, only schooling your features when you finally look up to see Tom staring.
For the remainder of the class, Tom keeps his eyes on you. And you do not look his way once.
He’s never seen you react like that to any test.
When class ends, you tear out of the room, with Tom hot on your heels. He knew you’d make a quick escape so he’d planned ahead to be ready once dismissed. He does not run, but he keeps a brisk pace to keep track of where you were darting off to. He loses you around a corner, and he stands there, lost, until he hears the unmistakable sound of someone crying.
Up a flight of stairs and into a concealed room, Tom finds you curled up by a window sobbing into your knees.
“That bad?” Tom asks.
You startle again, jerking your head up to see who had dared follow you. He almost thought you’d be happy to see him, maybe, but your reaction is one of disgust.
“Chased after me just to see me cry again, Riddle?” you snarl, angrily wiping your tears. “Do you like seeing me upset?”
No, actually. Not like this. Not when you were actually upset. He loved to rile you up, but not to the point of tears. This is only the second time he’s seen you cry, and it is just as uncomfortable as the first time. He doesn’t know why, but it brings a sickening kind of churning in his stomach when seeing you like this; truly upset.
“No, I don’t,” he says, matter of fact.
“Then why are you here? Did you really come to see if I was ok?”
You’re saying it like you’re saying something unbelievable, because it was. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t care. And he doesn’t.
At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself.
But seeing you crying, miserable, doesn’t bring him the pleasure he thought seeing his rival like that would bring him.
“What was your score?” Tom asks instead of answering your question.
You huff, reaching into your pocket to pull out a crumbled piece of paper and throw it in his direction. He catches it with ease, and smoothes out the paper. You’d gotten 15 points off a 30 point test. You’d failed it.
“I don’t understand…” Tom frowns at you as he brings the paper down from view. “How is this possible? I saw you studying all week.”
“I couldn’t remember anything,” you say lowly. Your head hangs between your shoulders in defeat. “I… I’ve been having trouble sleeping. I visit the lake every night to think.”
Tom bristles. “What?”
Not sleeping, and going into the forest, alone? You had a death wish.
“It is the only place I can go to be alone. Truly alone. Not surrounded by people who know me, and my parents.”
“You’re making yourself sick going out in the cold.”
You tuck a stand of hair behind your ear, looking almost sheepish. “Actually… I wear your jacket to keep me warm. I still have it, you know. I can, um. Give it back.”
Tom inhales a breath at that, surprised. He knew you had his jacket, but he hadn’t actually thought about what you were doing with it. You had plenty of your own clothes. Coming from a wealthy pureblooded family, you had whatever you wanted at your disposal. He was surprised you found something from him, a poor orphan, appealing. Comforting.
“Keep it,” Tom says.
You glance up at him, calmer now. “Why?”
“If it provides you even the smallest bit of comfort, then it’s yours.”
Your eyes are red from crying, but it seems that you’ve regained your composure. You even offer a small smile. “It really shouldn’t, but it smells like you, and, well…”
Tom’s heart unexpectedly kicks in his chest at your confession. He didn’t know he meant that much, if anything, to you. Being comforted by his smell alone made Tom feel… confused, more than ever.
“I - I mean, it’s just - it’s comfortable too,” you’re quick to tack on, like that’ll make Tom forget what you had just said.
“Of course,” Tom says stiffly.
Neither of you say anything for a moment, both struck by what you had admitted, before you give a sigh.
“My parents are going to kill me,” you tell him. You’re no longer upset, but seem to be in a state of acceptance. There’s a faraway look that enters your eyes when you glance up at him. “You’ll get your jacket back soon enough, when I am gone.”
Tom balls his fists. “You don’t mean that.”
You drop your gaze to peer out the window. “I do. You don’t know my family. I have never gotten such a low score in all of my years at Hogwarts. I fear they will pull me from the school, saying they’re not teaching me anything, and have me home schooled.”
There’s a second where Tom pictures it; you, gone, no longer the first person he looked at in class - the first person he looked for, period, at the beginning of the day, and at the end of the day. No one else could keep up with him. No one else excited him to even a fraction of how you made him feel.
“I won’t let that happen,” Tom swears. “Leave it to me.”
“What? Tom!” you call out, but he swoops out of the room with a swish of his robes.
He scales down the stairs quicker than you can scramble to chase after him, and makes a beeline back to the classroom, where he finds the teacher. He’s preparing for the next class, and greets Tom, his favorite student, with a proud smile. Unbeknownst to the teacher, Tom locks the door behind himself, effectively keeping you out when you tug on the doorknob.
Minutes pass in which you are outside of the classroom, nervously biting at your fingernails, when the door pops open with a click and Tom comes breezing out into the hallway.
“What did you do?” you ask, trying to peer around him into the classroom, but he guides you away from the room with a hand to the small of your back.
It’s the first time Tom has ever touched you, and you’re both a little jittery from the contact. He leads you around a corner and stops you once you’re out of earshot from other students.
“You need not worry about the grade you got on the test,” Tom says quietly.
You blink up at him, stunned, not knowing what to say. You manage to splutter out, “what does that mean? What did you do?”
“I fixed the problem. You’re safe from your parents, and more importantly, you will stay here, at Hogwarts,” Tom says with finality.
A silent “with me” lingers in the air.
You search his eyes, but he’s as firm as ever, not even an ounce of hesitation or fear in his expression.
For the first time, someone has solved your problems. Your parents never offered their aid. They expected you to figure everything out on your own, using that smart brain of yours, and acted upset when you were less than perfect.
You sigh out, relieved, so relieved. You trust him when he said he’d fixed it. You didn’t know what he did, you’d find out soon enough, but he had helped you. You, his rival. His sworn enemy.
“Thank you, Tom” you say. To his shock, you grab hold of his tie, and pull him down to plant a kiss upon his cheekbone. “I owe you one.”
Toms mouth hangs open as you walk off, his hand absently coming up to touch at the warmed spot where your lips had been. He hadn’t expected any kind of reward from what he had done, you staying here was enough. But that kiss has his heart racing, breaths slow and almost labored, from a mere kiss to his cheek. He was reacting in such a way that when a boy receives a kiss from someone he liked.
But Tom did not like you.
He loathed you.
But he hated the idea more at you not being at Hogwarts anymore. He couldn’t imagine how dreadfully boring school would become. It’s such a stark contrast to how he first felt about you, wishing you’d get expelled, no longer there to bother him. Funny how feelings evolve. He never thought himself as one to get attached to, well, anything. Whether it be other humans or objects. But he can say with certainty if anything happened to you - if an outside force, other than himself of course, got you upset, he wouldn’t stand for it. He loved those moments where your eyes were alight with fire. He loved when you spoke cruelly towards him, and only him.
He… loved you.
Somewhere in the battle, he’d unknowingly given apart of himself to you. You were his equal. You were his best match.
He thought you were his enemy, but you were something to be valued, not discarded.
It’s a hard thing to come to terms with, especially after all the years of what he thought was hatred, but was really the love he’s tried masking.
Tom Riddle didn’t love. Not like a normal person would, anyways. His version of love was twisted. Warped by his upbringing and just how his mind worked. He wouldn’t settle for just anyone; and you were better than anyone he has ever met. By brains, magic, and status alone. He cared little for looks, but the slope of your nose, down to the shape of your hair, just made sense.
And physical contact was not something he went looking for. There were students who made passes at him, hinting that they would love to date, kiss, do anything with him, but he’s never been interested.
Never interested till now.
Till you’d kissed him, kissed his cheek, and now he is being consumed by thoughts he has never had for another before. He knows how to focus on his school work. He is a master at self control, but even you have him skirting the edges of those restraints.
The day after he’d helped you, after you’d kissed him, he watches you like a hawk. He spots you from the moment you enter the dining hall for breakfast, and throughout classes. He does not think he’ll speak with you that day, until it is after the class you’d failed the test in. You’re there before him, so he assumes you’d talked to the teacher before class started. Your expression is blank throughout the entirety of the class. Eyes forward and focused, like you didn’t dare miss anything.
Afterwards, though, you level Tom with a look and nod for him to follow after you. And he does, he listens, following you through the halls until you lead him to the stairway, and up to the small room with a window.
“You used a memory charm?” you ask him, incredulous. “Do you know how dangerous that is?”
“You dare doubt my ability to perform a memory charm? I have been using more advanced spells since I was in my first year.”
“What if he remembers? What if he - what if he tells Dumbledore?”
Tom scoffs. “He will not remember. You should be grateful.”
“I am, Tom, it’s just… I don’t understand why you would put everything at risk over me. I thought you despised me.”
He did despise you. He despised you in the way that you did not look at him how he looked at you. He despised that you did not feel the same. He’d only come to realize his feelings only yesterday, but he burned for you the same he has always done. He just had a name to it, now. It is why he had protected you. It is why he has risked his own expulsion so you could stay at Hogwarts with him.
“The only thing I despise, is you not being by my side,” Tom admits lowly.
Your eyes widen. You’re at a loss for words, Tom can see, but there is no disgust in your expression. It is hard to tell what you’re thinking, until your eyes drop to his lips, the surprise melting into something that has Tom’s stomach rolling over in his abdomen.
Like when you had kissed his cheek, you are first to initiate.
Tom allows you to grab hold of his tie again, and bring him down, closer, his eyes slipping shut at the first brush of your lips against his. He sighs out through his nose, allowing everything to happen slowly, so slowly, so he doesn’t lose control. He’s trembling where he stands as he fights to have some composure, but when your lips press firmly into his, he lets out a soft groan that was hiding at the back of his throat.
All those years of watching, fighting, rivalry, hatred that turned into something closer to admiration, bleed into the desperation of the kiss.
You’re just as frantic, soft hands leaving trails of fire up his arms and scorching burn marks into his cheek and chest where they come to rest.
It is you telling Tom that, just as he has watched you, you have watched him. You have noticed him in those quiet moments where he thought no one was looking at him. You’ve seen how hard he worked. You’ve seen how dedicated he was. It inspired you, just as you inspired him. You pushed each other to be better. Work harder.
Tom bites at the plushness of your bottom lip, and your mouth opens up to let out a gasp, but in doing so you’ve only allowed Tom in. He kisses you hungrily, deeper, both of you fighting each other to be the dominant tongue. Like everything, you’re at war. You’re just as skilled, just as angry, as Tom was.
At some point he’s backed you into the wall, and really, you should have just given in to losing this round. He can feel himself pulling ahead. His hands drop to your breasts, where he pinches and squeezes along your skin. With every pleased noise you make, Tom earns another point in his head.
His concentration is shattered when you unexpectedly press your hand into his cock, jolting him in place. His eyes snap open only for them to screw shut when you beginning rubbing into his pants, the hands he’d been using to fondle you with twitching to a stop. He has to bring them up to plant on either sides of your head, nearly losing his footing as you use your nimble fingers to make him dizzy.
Tom can’t hold the kiss any longer, breaking it to rest his head against yours, breathing heavily as he struggles to stay upright. He’s losing himself of the feeling of your hand petting him through his pants, maybe thankful for the barrier there, but it was like you’d heard his thoughts, and unbuckle his belt. He tries to muffle the noise he makes when you make contact with his bare skin, but it slips out between clenched teeth.
“Still think you’re winning, Tom?” comes your silky voice.
He was losing, badly, but the feeling of you stroking him has him not caring about that. Only for that moment. Only until you make him orgasm seamlessly, and he comes down from his high. He hadn’t lasted long at all. It was probably the most embarrassed Tom has ever felt. And for it to have been him who deepened things, started touching you, only for this to be the outcome? Embarrassing. He’d lost at his own game.
To make things worse, you’re grinning madly, watching as he hurriedly cleans himself up with a spell and quickly buckles his pants.
“You had an unfair advantage,” Tom gives as an excuse.
“And what was that?”
You were, well, you. That put you at an advantage no one else had.
Instead of telling you that, because that would surely inflate your ego even more, Tom levels you with a look he attempts to make fierce, but there is no anger to fuel it. He just stares at you for a moment, maybe in awe, before he says, “meet me in the library after class. We’ll study together, from now on. I cannot fix your problems every time you fail a test.”
“Wha - that was one time, Tom!” you shout after him, as he trots down the stairs.
SUMMARY — ✨ A brilliant girl. A dangerous boy. When Y/n falls for Tom Riddle, love becomes a battle between light and darkness. How do you save someone who doesn't want to be saved?
WORD COUNT — 2,5k
WARNINGS — destiny, Tom being Tom, possible grammar and spelling mistakes and A LOT OF ANGST, no smut, reader-insert
NOTE — english isn’t my first language, so if anything sounds off, it might be a translation mistake 😅 (also, pls tell me if something sounds weird!).
"If I’m forgotten, then I must forget as well—for love is like a mirror: it needs reflection." —Pablo Neruda
From the moment Y/n laid eyes on Tom Riddle, she knew he was different. There was something in his presence — a nearly tangible aura of power, a sharp intelligence, and an ambition that revealed itself in every gesture, every word. She saw him for the first time on the Hogwarts Express, during their first year. He sat alone, immersed in the pages of a thick, ancient book, his brow furrowed in utter concentration.
Something about Tom drew her in — an irresistible curiosity. She approached him shyly and asked about the book. He looked up, offering a cryptic smile, and a conversation began. That first encounter marked the beginning of a friendship that would deepen over time.
Being sorted into the same house—Slytherin—brought them closer still. Tom was different with Y/n: more open, more genuine. With her, he didn't have to pretend. While others saw only his charm and poise, Y/n saw the doubts, fears, and ambition he hid so carefully.
Y/n admired him deeply. He was brilliant, talented, destined for greatness. For a long time, the feeling she harbored was fraternal—a fierce desire to protect him, to support him. But after their sixth year, everything shifted. A lingering glance, an accidental touch, a laugh shared at just the right moment… Small things that once meant nothing now made her heart race.
Yet, in the following months, Tom began to change again. He grew distant. His once vivid eyes turned cold, unreadable. Y/n knew he was walking a dark path—one that might lead to his ruin.
They shared a passion for Potions, often spending hours in the library studying obscure ingredients and testing complex formulas. They also delved into non-verbal magic together, practicing silent spells and challenging the limits of their minds.
Y/n had always been drawn to Tom. He was the riddle everyone wanted to solve, Hogwarts’ golden boy, with a razor-sharp intellect, breathtaking looks, and that veil of mystery that captivated her. She remembered how he could make her laugh with dry wit, how intently he listened when she confided her fears and dreams. But now he had grown distant. And she missed him.
Tom had always been fascinated by pushing limits, by seeking knowledge beyond what was taught. Y/n knew of his interest in forbidden magic, in dangerous artifacts, in ancient secrets. At first, she thought it a phase — a natural curiosity in a gifted and ambitious mind. She never imagined it would become something so sinister.
She began noticing changes: his isolation, his ever-watchful gaze, his growing contempt for Muggle-borns. Whispers swirled through the castle. And deep down, Y/n knew: Tom was losing himself. But she couldn’t let go. She believed there was still light in him. That he could still be saved.
__________
"Time makes us forget. Some people forget quickly. Others simply pretend they no longer remember." —Erico Veríssimo
Y/n twirled across the dance floor, Tom’s hand steady at her waist. Slughorn’s party was in full swing, students from every house mingling in an atmosphere of luxury and laughter. She smiled, trying to lose herself in the magic of the moment, but unease clung to her like a shadow.
Earlier, she had seen Tom in a quiet conversation with Professor Slughorn. She hadn’t heard much, but one word had etched itself into her mind: horcrux. It sounded like a curse, an omen.
“Tom,” she began, as the music slowed to a soft, swaying rhythm. “About your conversation with Professor Slughorn…”
Tom turned to her, his black eyes locking onto hers. “What about it, my love?” he asked gently, though a glint of caution flickered beneath his calm tone.
Y/n shivered at the term of endearment. They’d never spoken to each other like that. It felt too intimate. She hesitated.
“You mentioned horcruxes. What are they?”
A muscle tensed in his jaw, but his smile didn’t waver. “Nothing you need to worry about. Just theories. Old magic.”
But Y/n knew Tom. He didn’t chase theories. If he was studying horcruxes, it was for a reason.
Before she could press further, he changed tactics.
“You look stunning tonight.” His eyes roamed her face. “I don’t say it often, but you matter to me.”
She flushed. She had always suspected Tom held her in some regard, but to hear him admit it? For a moment, she forgot all about horcruxes.
The music picked up again, and they continued to dance. Y/n let herself drift, even though something deep down told her something was wrong. Surrounded by envious glances and flickering lights, a dark presence loomed.
Still, she chose to ignore it. Just for one night.
__________
“It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.” —Dumbledore
Golden sunlight spilled through the windows of the Potions classroom, warming rows of jars and cauldrons. Tom and Y/n worked side by side, arranging ingredients in companionable silence.
“I’ve imagined teaching here,” Tom said, carefully measuring drops of belladonna. “Passing on knowledge. Shaping young minds. It sounds… fulfilling.”
Y/n smiled. “You’d be a wonderful professor. Intelligent, driven. Your students would be lucky to have you.”
Tom met her eyes. “And you, Y/n? What are your plans?”
She hesitated. “I’ve always wanted to be an Auror. To fight darkness. To protect the innocent.”
He raised an eyebrow, amused. “An Auror? With your talent? Surely there are better uses for your magic.”
A tightness bloomed in her chest. She knew Tom’s fascination with darker arts, but she hadn’t expected him to scoff at her dream.
“I just want to do what’s right. To protect people who can’t protect themselves.”
Tom sighed. “You’re too idealistic. Aurors are pawns of the Ministry, bound by rules that aren’t always just. The world isn’t black and white, my dear. There are places the law cannot reach.”
She studied him. “What are you trying to say?”
He stepped closer. “That sometimes, justice isn’t enough. Sometimes, we must take matters into our own hands.”
A shiver ran down her spine. His words were dangerous—enticing. But part of her agreed.
She had heard of innocents sent to Azkaban. Of corrupt Aurors. Maybe Tom wasn’t entirely wrong.
“Maybe you’re right.”
Tom wrapped his arms around her.
And for a moment, she believed.
He kissed her—a silent pact.
She kissed him back, their world melting away.
When they broke apart, she whispered, “That was…”
“Incredible,” he finished with a smirk. “Just like you.”
She smiled, blissful. For now, the shadows were forgotten.
_________
The months following the Chamber of Secrets’ opening blurred into a haze of fear and uncertainty. Every corridor in Hogwarts seemed to hide a threat. And Tom, once again, vanished into mystery.
Y/n missed the quiet moments, the stolen glances, the tender words. Now, he was barely present.
On a cold winter afternoon, wandering through empty corridors, her steps led her to the library. There he was—alone, hunched over an ancient tome. But something in his face had changed: a deeper shadow now clouded his expression.
She hesitated, then stepped forward.
“Tom.”
He looked up, startled. “Y/n.”
They locked eyes for a long, heavy moment.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing important. Just... complicated things.”
She reached out. “You can talk to me.”
He pulled away. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Then he stood and left, not looking back.
Y/n remained, heart aching. And she knew—she was losing the boy she once knew.
____________
“How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d”
― Alexander Pope, Eloisa to Abelard
The wind howled like a wounded creature, lashing against the castle windows and sweeping into the owlery. Y/n stood there, stroking her owl, which had just returned from home with a letter from her parents. Her gaze was lost in the distance.
Tom Riddle watched her in silence, noting the faraway look in her eyes.
The attacks had claimed a life. Hogwarts was closed, yet Y/n couldn’t accept that a student had been murdered in what was supposed to be the safest place in the wizarding world.
“Y/n?” he called, his voice soft as silk.
She turned, a flicker of surprise in her eyes.
“Tom,” she replied, forcing a smile. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to check on you,” he said, sitting beside her. “You seem distant. Is something bothering you?”
Y/n hesitated, her words catching in her throat. “I… I can’t stop thinking about Myrtle’s death,” she finally said, her voice thick with emotion. “I don’t believe Hagrid is responsible.”
Tom’s brow furrowed, a shadow of irritation crossing his face. “Why doubt it? The evidence points to him.”
“I know, but… something doesn’t add up,” Y/n insisted, her brow creased in thought. “Hagrid loves magical creatures. He’d never hurt anyone.”
Tom folded his arms, his stance defensive. “You’re defending a half-giant? The one who opened the Chamber of Secrets?”
Y/n noticed the shift in his tone, the tension in his posture. She narrowed her eyes, suspicion beginning to rise. “Why are you so defensive, Tom? Do you know something I don’t?”
Tom stood, his expression hardening. “I don’t know anything, Y/n. I’m being realistic. The evidence is clear, and you’re being sentimental.”
Y/n rose too, facing him squarely. “I’m not being sentimental. I’m being fair.”
“Someone’s trying to frame Hagrid. And I can’t shake the feeling that you know who it is.”
Tom’s black eyes glinted dangerously. “And why would I? What would I gain from that?”
Y/n stepped closer, scanning his face for any trace of a lie. “You’ve shown a lot of interest in this case. And you always seem to know more than you say.”
Tom took a step back, the mask of indifference starting to crack. “I just care about Hogwarts’ safety. If Hagrid is guilty, he must be punished.”
Y/n shivered, but didn’t retreat. “Why do you care so little about Muggle-borns, Tom? Don’t you see the danger in thinking they’re beneath us?”
“Why waste your time defending them?” he shot back. “That girl who died—she wasn’t important.”
Tears welled in Y/n’s eyes. “You talk as if… as if she wasn’t human. As if her life had no value.”
“She didn’t have our value, Y/n. The value of those with true magical blood.”
She stepped away, horror dawning in her eyes. “Tom… did you have something to do with this?” she whispered.
He held her gaze, dark eyes gleaming. “And if I did, Y/n? What would you do?”
She searched his face. “I… I don’t know. But I can’t ignore the truth. No matter how much it hurts.”
Tom’s composure began to slip. “The truth is you’re naive. You believe in fairy tales, in heroes and villains. But life isn’t that simple. Sometimes, the ones you think are good are the real danger.”
“Then what are you, Tom?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. “Are you the danger?”
His answer came after a pause, ragged with conflict. “Maybe, Y/n. Maybe I’m the greatest danger of all.”
He stepped closer, eyes locked on hers. “But you don’t need to be afraid of me. I’d never hurt you. You’re… special to me.”
Y/n’s heart cracked like glass struck by stone. Every word splintered her further. The boy she loved—idealized—was a murderer. A monster cloaked in brilliance and charm.
Anger and grief collided inside her. How could she have been so blind?
“Tom… how could you?” she whispered. “You killed an innocent girl.”
“A worthless Mudblood,” he replied, voice like ice. “A necessary sacrifice.”
She recoiled in horror. “A sacrifice? You call murder a sacrifice? That’s… monstrous.”
Tom smiled—cold, cruel. “Monstrous? Maybe. But necessary. The wizarding world must be purified. Freed from those unworthy of power.”
“Because of her blood?” Y/n demanded.
“Because of the future,” he countered, lifting her chin with a finger. “We’re the same, you and I. Intelligent. Ambitious. Destined for greatness. Together, we could rule a world where pure magic reigns supreme.”
He traced a vision in the air with his wand. “Imagine it, Y/n. A world where our lineage is revered. You don’t need to hide in the shadows. You could shine—beside me.”
He took her hand. “Let go of justice. Let go of mercy. They’re chains. Come with me. We can reshape everything.”
She shook her head, tears streaking her cheeks. “I could never be part of a world built on suffering and blood. You’ve become… a monster.”
The word hit him like a slap. Monster. He saw fear in her eyes—and for a fleeting moment, doubt flickered inside him.
But it faded.
He stood straighter, colder. “I became what I had to be. And you can join me.”
Y/n stepped back, anger overtaking fear. “I will never join you, Tom. You’re a murderer.”
He met her gaze, eyes burning. “Then you’re against me.”
She turned and walked away.
Down the owlery steps. Into the cold, white night.
Tom didn’t stop her.
She knew he wouldn’t dare kill her — not now, not so close to his plans being fulfilled. A murder in Hogwarts would jeopardize everything.
Snow blanketed the courtyard like innocence, masking the storm in her chest.
Each step pulled her further from him.
He watched her go, her cloak whipping like broken wings.
And for the first time, Tom Riddle felt the ache of loss.
She had been the one person who saw beyond his masks.
Now she was gone.
____________
Years passed since that night in the owlery. Y/n graduated with honors and became a respected Auror—brave, brilliant, unyielding in the face of darkness.
But no title, no triumph, could silence the ghost of Tom Riddle.
She had tried to move on. Tried to bury the memories. But they haunted her—in dreams, in shadows, in silence.
One gray afternoon in London, a stranger handed her a pamphlet. “Come and forget,” it read.
At first, she dismissed it.
But days later, she found it again—creased and worn—in the bottom of her Ministry satchel. And she wondered: what if it was possible? What if forgetting could free her?
After a sleepless night, Y/n made a choice. She followed the pamphlet’s instructions.
Through winding alleys and forgotten streets, she found a door hidden beneath moss and stone.
She hesitated.
Then entered.
The room smelled of herbs and dust. Relics lined the shelves. And in the center, an old man waited.
“You’ve come to forget,” he said, as if reading her mind. “But forgetting comes at a price. Will you pay it?”
Y/n swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“Then close your eyes. Let the magic work.”
He raised his wand.
Pointed it at her temple.
“Obliviate.”
____________
Let me know what you thought in the comments, your feedback means the world. Who knows… PERHAPS this story isn’t over just yet.
SUMMARY: Christmas break leaves Hogwarts quieter than ever, until Theodore Nott follows you home to Sicily — where soft kisses, warm kitchens, loud family dinners, and moonlit confessions begin to heal parts of him he thought were ruined forever.
A/N: Characters aged up!! 18+ content ahead.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
The castle had grown quieter overnight. Christmas holidays had officially begun the day before, and most students had already left for home.
Draco and Mattheo had gone to Malfoy Manor, Pansy and Daphne had departed for their respective families, and now Enzo and Blaise were standing in the Slytherin common room with their trunks, saying their goodbyes.
“Try not to burn the castle down while we’re gone,” Blaise smirked, pulling you into a quick hug.
Enzo grinned as he clapped Theo on the back.
“And don’t do anything we wouldn’t do.”
Theo raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t leave much.”
You laughed softly, waving as the two boys finally headed toward the carriages.
Once they were gone, the common room felt strangely empty. Only you and Theo remained. He turned to you, sliding his hand into yours.
“Come with me.”
You followed him to his dorm. With the others gone, the room was completely silent — just the faint crackle of the fireplace and the sound of your footsteps.
Theo closed the door behind you, then pulled you gently toward him.
For a while, you simply stood there, kissing him. His hands rested on your waist, thumbs brushing under the hem of your sweater. The kiss deepened gradually, growing heavier.
Theo walked you backward until your legs hit the edge of his bed, then lowered you onto it with careful control. He hovered over you, grey-blue eyes dark with want.
Theo’s fingers hooked gently into the waistband of your underwear before he paused, looking up at you through messy brown hair.
“You sure?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, pulling him down by his shirt.
“Yes.”
Clothes came off piece by piece.
Theo took his time, kissing down your neck, your collarbone, your breasts, until you were squirming beneath him.
When he finally pushed inside you, you gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders.
“Fuck… you feel so good,” he breathed against your neck.
He started slow, rolling his hips in a steady rhythm that made your toes curl. But as your moans grew louder, his pace quickened, turning rougher, more desperate.
One hand gripped your thigh, the other braced beside your head.
“Così stretta per me,” (So tight for me.) he groaned, voice low and rough.
You moaned at his words.
He kept going, switching between deep, slow strokes and sharper thrusts that had you crying out his name.
The sound of skin against skin filled the room along with your mixed moans and Italian curses slipping from his lips.
When you came, clenching hard around him, Theo followed shortly after, burying himself deep with a low groan and a few breathy words you barely caught.
Afterward, he didn’t pull away immediately.
He stayed inside you for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.
Then he gently pulled out, got up, and returned with a warm, damp towel.
He cleaned you up carefully, wiping between your legs with slow, tender strokes, pressing soft kisses to your stomach and thighs the whole time.
“Come here,” he murmured, pulling you into his arms once you were both clean.
A few hours later, you were both in bed again.
Theo wore only black shorts, and you were half on top of him, head resting on his bare chest while he played with your hair.
You were talking quietly about nothing important when a loud thud made you both jump.
An owl had slammed against the window.
Theo got up, opened the window, and took the letter.
He scanned it quickly, then let out a slow breath.
“He said yes,” he told you, voice steady but clearly relieved. “I can stay with you for the holidays.”
You smiled brightly and pulled him back into bed, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.
“Good. Because I wasn’t planning on leaving without you.”
The next day, you took the Hogwarts Express back to London, then apparated with Theo to your family home in Sicily.
Your family lived in a beautiful villa overlooking the sea. As soon as you stepped inside, warmth and the smell of fresh food greeted you.
“Tesoro!” your mother, Giulia, called out, pulling you into a tight hug.
She was elegant, with warm brown eyes and dark hair pinned neatly.
She turned to Theo with a kind smile.
“You must be Theodore. We’ve heard so much about you.”
Theo gave a small, respectful nod.
“Thank you for having me, signora.”
Your nonna, Rosa, appeared next, wiping her hands on her apron.
She took one look at Theo and immediately cupped his face.
“Che bel ragazzo! Handsome!” (What a nice boy!)
Your eight-year-old little sister, Sofia, peeked out from behind your nonna’s skirt, then grinned shyly.
“You’re tall,” she declared.
Theo’s lips twitched.
“And you’re very observant.”
Sofia decided right then that she liked him.
Dinner was an absolute feast — homemade pasta al pomodoro, fresh seafood, eggplant parmigiana, and warm bread with herbs.
Theo ate quietly at first, but you noticed the way his expression softened with every bite. The flavors reminded him so strongly of his mother’s cooking that his eyes grew distant for a moment.
“This is… really good,” he said quietly to your mother. “Thank you.”
Giulia smiled warmly.
“Eat as much as you want. You’re family now.”
The days that followed were peaceful and full.
In the evenings, you played board games together. Sofia constantly tried to cheat and giggled wildly whenever Theo caught her. He pretended to be stern but always let her win in the end.
During the afternoons, the three of you explored Sicily. You took Sofia to the beach, where she dragged Theo into the water and made him build sandcastles with her.
You watched them from the shore, heart swelling as Theo patiently explained to your sister how to make the towers stronger.
One evening, after Sofia had gone to bed, you and Theo sat on the terrace overlooking the sea.
He was unusually quiet.
“What are you thinking about?” you asked, leaning against him.
He stared at the water for a long moment before answering.
“I’ve been watching you with Sofia,” he said softly. “The way you take care of her… It made me think… what it would be like to have that with you someday. A family.”
You turned to look at him, surprised.
Theo rarely spoke about the future.
He continued, voice low.
“I don’t know if I’d be any good at it. But for you… I’d try. I’d try to be better than what I had.”
You cupped his face and kissed him gently.
“You already are better, Theo. You’re nothing like him.”
He pulled you closer, resting his chin on top of your head as the Sicilian breeze washed over you both.
For the first time in years, Theodore Nott felt something dangerously close to hope.
This took way longer to post than it should've argh
Y/N is still laughing softly as Mattheo cuddles into her side while Tom refuses to loosen his grip on her for even a second. Now both of them are attached to her.
Tom sighs dramatically into her shoulder. “This is unbelievable.”
Mattheo smiles sleepily. “Goodnight, Daddy.”
Tom stared at the ceiling for a long moment before exhaling quietly. “…I appear to have lost control of this situation entirely.”
pairing: ex!tomriddle x yn. slytherin!friendgroup x yn
summary: In their final year at Hogwarts, a tightly bound Slytherin circle navigates loyalty, power, and unravelling emotions. YN tries her best to push away any memory of Tom Riddle and their fractured past, but he refuses to let it stay buried. Between sharp wit and lingering obsession, some bonds prove impossible to break…
warnings: characters from loads of eras/fanfics, ex-boyfriend trope, bit of angst, bit of fluff, flashbacks, yn reader, fighting, possessive tom, jealous tom, slowww burn, yn lowkey hates mattheo ahhahaha
author's note: i've had the first 3 parts of this series in the drafts for a whileeee now. flashbacks are in italics
word count: 2.2k
Link to part two here
The library at Nott Manor did not feel like a place meant for seventeen-year-olds.
It felt ancient and full of secrets. Like every book lining the dark walnut shelves had chosen to be there, to consume the centuries of family affairs. Tall windows stretched toward the ceiling, letting in molten Italian sunlight that painted everything gold. YN could see dust mites drifting lazily in the heat and smell the faint gleam of polished wood.
And at the centre of it all, inevitably, was them.
YN sat at the piano near the far wall, her fingers ghosting over the keys, not quite playing a song, just testing notes as if the instrument were a thought she hadn’t decided to finish. Her hair fell over one shoulder, catching the light like something deliberately designed to be looked at. Her expression, however, gave nothing away. To the untrained eyes, she appeared calm, distant, and almost bored.
Theodore Nott occupied the chair beside her, long legs stretched out, a book resting open in his lap, though he hadn’t turned the page in several minutes.
“Everyone is being unusually quiet,” Blaise Zabini remarked from the chaise near the window, one brow raised as he inspected the room as if it owed him something. “It’s unsettling.”
“That’s because you haven’t started talking yet,” Draco Malfoy drawled from the floor, leaning back against the couch with a glass dangling loosely from his fingers. “Give it time.”
“I have been talking.”
“No,” Pansy Parkinson said, not looking up from her nails, “you’ve been narrating your own existence. It’s different.”
Lorenzo Berkshire snorted from where he was sprawled upside-down on an armchair. “I like it. It adds ambience.”
“It doesn’t,” Mattheo Riddle muttered, flicking ash from the cigarette between his fingers toward an already overfilled tray. “It just makes his voice louder.”
Theodore exhaled quietly through his nose. YN’s lips twitched just barely.
Across the room, Tom Riddle sat at a small table near the shelves, a chessboard laid out before him. He wasn’t playing anyone. He never needed to. One hand hovered over a piece, long fingers precise, deliberate. Calculating.
“I received a letter this morning,” Draco said, turning his head slightly, “Greengrass.”
Pansy’s head snapped up instantly. “Oh, do tell.”
“Not quite sure that's any of your business, Parkinson,” Draco replied smoothly. “I just wanted to let these other gits know that I'm in high demand this year... unlike them.”
“Give it a rest,” Pansy said, ignoring him entirely, eyes gleaming. “I heard that she spent most of her summer with Bewley.”
“Who?” Blaise added lazily.
"He finished Hogwarts last year, works for some fancy department in the Ministry. He was Slytherin, pure-blood, I believe." YN hummed absently, still plucking away at the ivory keys.
“Well, anyway, the interesting part is that earlier this month, they had a huge fight outside Toloman's Trinkets, that new shop in Hogsmeade, and she hexed him. I reckon he deserved it.”
“Most men do,” YN murmured.
Mattheo grinned. “See, that’s why she’s my favourite. So fiesty.”
“You say that to everyone,” Theodore said quietly.
“Yeah, but I mean it when I say it to her.”
YN tilted her head, looking at him with slight disgust. “How flattering.”
Tom moved a piece. The soft click echoed louder than it should have.
“Greengrass is a smart girl,” he said, voice smooth, almost absent. “Too smart for you, Draco. She knows how to control men, how to keep them wrapped around her finger, and more importantly, when to throw them away.”
Before she could stop her mind from wandering, the memories flashed before her eyes like a strike of lightning. Just for a second. But long enough for her heart to skip a beat—
“You don’t get to decide when you’re done,” Tom’s voice had been low, dangerous. It was calm, almost, in a way that caused fear to course through her soul.
Her wrist was still in his grip. Not tight enough to hurt, but enough to remind her it could.
“I already have,” YN snapped, trying to pull back, chin tilted in defiance that didn’t quite mask the flicker of something else. “You don’t own—”
“Don’t,” he cut in, quieter now. Worse. His fingers tightened just slightly. “Don’t say things you don’t understand.”
“I understand perfectly,” she said, though her voice betrayed her just a fraction. “You don’t control me.”
Tom’s jaw clenched. His eyes dark and unreadable flicked over her face like he was memorizing it.
“Everything I do is about control. I get the final say, YN, when will you understand that?” he said. “No one walks away from me until I decide I'm done with them. Including you.”
Her fingers faltered, and a loud, dull note sliced through her memory.
Theodore noticed how she stilled. Seemingly unprompted.
He knew her better than anyone... he liked to believe he knew her better than Tom did. He saw the blank look in her eyes, the way her fingers trembled ever so slightly.
He didn’t look at her immediately. That would’ve been too obvious. Instead, he shifted slightly in his chair, voice low enough that only she could hear.
“You alright?” he murmured.
Her eyes flicked to his briefly. Offering a soft but absent smile as she stayed silent.
“You’re not answering me.”
YN let out a soft breath, a mask of indifference finding its way back home as she began to play a soft melody again. “I’m fine.”
Theodore studied her for a moment longer, then nodded once, accepting it, but not believing it.
Across the room, Tom’s hand stilled on the chess piece.
His gaze had shifted, sharp enough to cut.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, fingers curling slightly against the wood of the table. There was something dark in the way he watched them, something restrained.
Possessive.
Annoyed.
As if Theodore’s quiet concern was an intrusion.
As if it wasn’t his place.
As if... as if she was still his.
The thought slid through his mind as naturally as breath. Not in the way others might think. Not soft. Not sentimental.
Ownership wasn’t affection. It was a fact. And facts didn’t change just because people pretended they had.
By the time evening settled over the manor, the air had shifted.
The heat hadn’t faded, but something else had crept in, something restless. Anticipatory.
The pool glowed under soft lights, water shimmering like glass. Bottles littered the edges as laughter echoed louder.
YN sat cross-legged on the stone edge, shoes long abandoned, a drink dangling loosely from her fingers. Pansy lounged beside her, half-drunk already and entirely unbothered.
“I’m just saying,” YN insisted, gesturing wildly, “you think we're dumb... but we're not. You two are absolutely sleeping together.”
“We are not,” Mattheo snapped from across the pool.
“Ooh, so defensive,” Blaise noted.
Lorenzo nearly fell into the water laughing.
Theodore leaned back on his hands, watching it all with quiet amusement, the kind that never quite reached his eyes unless this group was involved.
“Pansy,” YN called lazily, tilting her head, “if you were going to have a secret affair, at least choose someone less obvious.”
“Oh, so now you’re judging my standards?”
“I’m judging your taste in men.” She grinned sharply.
“Shut it, YLN,” Mattheo growled.
“Who asked you to talk.”
"You did love, I know you adore me."
She did not. She might even go so far as to say 90% of the time, she despised him. She thought he was immature and careless. She thought he had no drive or ambition, and quite frankly, no place in this group. As far as she was concerned, he is the complete wrong fit for Pansy. "Please, Mattheo, your voice is giving me a headache, as it does most days."
“And the others?”
“I tolerate you.”
“That’s basically devotion.”
YN laughed softly... Ok, careless? yes. Funny? also, yes.
For a moment, everything felt easy.
Mattheo stood suddenly, grabbing her hand. “Dance with me.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Come on. It's our last night of summer!”
He yanked her up anyway, ignoring her protest as music played faintly from somewhere. It was messy, ridiculous, spinning her badly, nearly slipping on the wet stone. Pansy and Blaise joined in, throwing their arms around as if they had no care in the world.
She laughed harder, trying to shove him away, but to no avail.
Mattheo liked to make the most of her friendliness when she was drinking. On any normal day, she would have hexed him the second he tried to touch her.
“You’re insufferable.”
Across the pool, Tom watched. Silent. Still.
His expression gave nothing away, but his grip on his glass tightened just slightly.
The way she laughed. The way she let herself be pulled into something chaotic, something careless.
Something that wasn’t him, but rather his arrogant little brother.
It shouldn’t have mattered. Yet his red-hot gaze bore into the side of Mattheo's head as if willing him to burst into flames.
King’s Cross was loud. Too loud.
Steam, chatter, movement, it all blurred together as they stepped onto Platform 9¾, their group cutting through the noise like something sharper, more deliberate.
They filled a compartment easily.
Draco and Blaise immediately took over one side, Pansy draped dramatically across the seats. Lorenzo pressed his face to the window in an attempt to catch a glance of the new 1st years. Mattheo sprawled wherever he pleased.
YN slid into the corner seat, Theodore beside her as always.
Tom sat across. 'Of course he did', she thought, 'Merlin forbid I get some bit of space from him after spending all summer together'.
The train lurched forward, and conversations all around the train picked up again.
The Great Hall was exactly as she remembered.
Candles floating. Ceiling enchanted. A lingering smell of something warm, sandalwood or cinnamon perhaps. Everything impossibly large except for the first years lined up, small and nervous.
She had stood there once.
Smaller. More uncertain.
Watching as names were called, heart pounding just a little too fast.
“Riddle, Tom.”
He had walked forward like he already belonged.
Like the world had been waiting for him.
The hat barely touched his head.
“SLYTHERIN!”
Applause. Whispers.
She didn’t know why, but she couldn't take her eyes off him. She felt something bubble in her stomach.
It wasn't nervous anticipation waiting to find out what house she would be sorted into.
It was excitement. Something about the pale, dark-haired boy made her feel excited.
YN found herself hoping even more to be in Slytherin.
“YLN, YN.”
Taking a deep breath, hearing the words of her mother in her head "always present yourself with grace... don't you dare bring down the YLN name", she straightened her back, walking with pride up to the stool where the mangy hat waited for her.
And then, the words she had been waiting for—
“SLYTHERIN!”
She bounced down the stairs, excited to join her lifelong friends under the green banner. Draco and Pansy had their arms wide open, waiting to welcome her. Theodore grinned and cheered the loudest while Blaise and Enzo clapped and whistled.
As the sorting ceremony went on, she turned to look at the Riddle boy in the eyes. "Hi, I'm YN YLN," her kind smile lighting up her face. He reached out his hand, his cold finger grasping onto hers, "Tom. Tom Riddle"
Warmth lingered in her chest as she blinked back to the present.
She couldn't help the way her heart fluttered, despite the unwelcome, persistent memoreis.
“You’re smiling,” Theodore murmured beside her.
“Am I? Don’t get used to it.”
“I won’t,” he chuckled.
They turned back to the conversation at hand as the feast appeared. YN wasn't one for unnecessary noise. She grew up as an only child in a house that had no love. She learned to find a lifeline in the silence.
But her only exception to that was the Hogwarts Great Hall.
Her heart felt full as she looked around. Children of all ages from the four different houses laughing and shouting in glee. She looked to her friends. From the outside, people perceived their lives as perfect, but no one knew the truth.
It was cold and filled with expectations yet never being allowed to make their own choices. But here, in Hogwarts, they were free. They were happy.
“You realise,” Draco said, cutting into his food, “this is our final year.”
“Don’t ruin it,” Pansy snapped.
“I’m adding drama.”
“You add nothing of value.”
“Debatable.”
Mattheo raised his glass. “To our last year of freedom.”
“To us,” Lorenzo added.
YN hesitated for half a second, then lifted hers too. “To us.”
Across the table, Tom's eyes met hers with determination. He lifted his glass, tilting it toward YN. "To us"
Just for a moment something unspoken passed between them.
Vendors arguing over tomatoes in crowded piazzas, witches leaning out of apartment windows to gossip three floors down, enchanted laundry dancing between buildings while church bells rang loud enough to shake birds from rooftops.
You woke up to all of it every morning.
And you loved it.
“Tesoro!” your mother shouted from the kitchen. “You are late again!”
“I am always late!” you yelled back while pulling on your shoes.
“That is not charming!”
“It is a little charming!”
Your father snorted into his espresso as you rushed into the kitchen and stole a piece of focaccia directly off the cutting board.
“Animal,” he sighed.
“But happy animal.”
“You say this every morning.”
“And every morning I am correct.”
Your mother kissed your forehead despite herself. “Vai. Your professor already threatened expulsion twice.”
“Only twice? He’s getting soft.”
Then you were out the door.
Out into sunlight.
Into Rome.
Accademia delle Stelle wasn’t hidden behind walls or tucked away in some isolated castle.
Italy itself was the campus.
Lessons changed locations constantly depending on the subject, the weather, or whatever dramatic idea professors had that week.
History of Magic inside ancient ruins while illusionary battles replayed around students.
Astronomy on enchanted rooftops in Venice.
Herbology in magical vineyard terraces outside Florence.
Students traveled in groups through Floo stations disguised as cafés and bookstores, laughing loudly while juggling books and pastries at the same time.
And nobody sat quietly.
Ever.
Potions classes smelled like herbs and citrus instead of damp stone. Windows stayed open. Students argued over techniques while professors shouted back across classrooms.
At lunch breaks, everybody gathered in crowded magical courtyards.
Someone always cooked.
Always.
Wands stirred espresso.
Wands flipped vegetables in pans.
One boy from Napoli used his wand as a whisk while passionately insulting another student’s risotto.
“You murdered the garlic!”
“It is lightly burned!”
“It is devastated!”
Students burst into laughter around them.
You leaned against a fountain eating warm pizza while debating defensive spells with your professor loud enough for three nearby tables to join in.
“No, because fear-based magic collapses too quickly under pressure,” you argued, waving your hands dramatically.
“Incorrect,” your professor countered immediately.
“It literally happened during the Venetian dueling riots of 1892.”
“That source is biased.”
“That source is me getting full marks on my essay.”
The professor pointed at you accusingly. “Arrogant.”
“Intelligent.”
“Annoying.”
“Beautiful.”
The entire courtyard erupted.
That was school.
Noise.
Warmth.
Life.
And at the end of the day, everyone simply went home.
No dormitories.
No castle walls.
You returned to your family apartment every evening where your mother cooked while singing softly and your father pretended not to steal ingredients before dinner.
Home felt warm.
Messy.
Loved.
So when your parents sat you down one evening and carefully explained your mother had accepted a Ministry position in England, panic didn’t hit immediately.
You blinked once.
“England?”
Your mother nodded cautiously.
You thought about it seriously.
Then “What’s the food like?”
Both your parents stared at you.
“That,” your father said slowly, “is your first concern?”
“Well I assume school is still school.”
Your parents exchanged a look filled with such deep pity it should’ve warned you.
It did not
—
The apartment in London was quieter than any place you had ever lived.
Not bad.
Just…
Still.
People didn’t yell through windows.
Neighbours barely spoke.
Even magical London felt strangely rushed and restrained.
You tried not to think too hard about it.
Instead you unpacked spices into the kitchen while your parents used magic to hang paintings and accidentally argued over furniture placement for forty minutes.
That helped.
The first night, you cooked.
The smell of garlic and basil filled the apartment instantly, rich and warm and alive enough that your mother nearly sagged against the counter in relief.
“There,” you declared proudly while stirring sauce with your wand. “England improves already.”
Your father tasted it and looked emotional.
“You saved this country.”
—
Hogwarts looked like a fairytale.
You smiled immediately when you saw it across the lake.
“Oh, this is beautiful.”
And it was.
Huge towers disappearing into clouds, floating candles, endless staircases.
Beautiful.
Cold, too.
You noticed it first in the silence.
Students spoke quietly.
Nobody interrupted each other.
Nobody argued across boats.
Everything felt oddly careful.
Still, you smiled brightly when the Sorting Hat shouted “HUFFLEPUFF!”
The table erupted into applause as you sat down enthusiastically beside a few nervous-looking students.
“Hi!” you greeted immediately. “I’m from Rome. Is the pudding supposed to look this yellow?”
Several students blinked at you.
One laughed awkwardly.
Across the hall, at the Slytherin table, a dark-haired boy looked up briefly from his goblet.
Just for a second.
Then back down.
You didn’t notice him.
Theo Nott noticed you immediately.
Mostly because you sounded like somebody had dropped sunlight into the Great Hall.
Your first class the next morning was Potions.
That should’ve been comforting.
Potions classrooms smelled the same everywhere:
herbs, smoke, parchment.
You walked in smiling.
“Buongiorno!”
Silence.
Professor Snape turned slowly from the front of the classroom.
Oh.
One of those professors.
You knew this type perfectly.
Every school had one.
The severe academic who secretly enjoyed clever students but needed conversational effort first.
“My name is Y/N,” you continued brightly while sitting down. “I transferred from Italy and honestly your dungeon is very dramatic, I like it.”
Several students looked horrified.
From the back corner, Theo looked up from his book.
Snape looked unimpressed.
“Take your seat, Miss Y/N.”
You nodded seriously.
“Okay, so you are the strict kind. Understood.”
A faint noise escaped someone nearby that sounded suspiciously like a suppressed laugh.
Theo quickly hid it with a cough.
Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“We will begin brewing the Cure for Boils potion. If anyone feels inclined to chatter instead of listening, they may leave.”
Interesting.
Very strict.
You lasted eleven minutes.
“In my old school,” you interrupted automatically, “we lowered the flame before adding horned slugs because the consistency becomes smoother.”
Silence crashed into the room.
Theo looked up again.
Snape stared at you like he regretted the invention of speech.
“You will follow instructions exactly as given.”
“Oh,” you said, blinking. “I thought maybe discussion was encouraged.”
“It is not.”
That landed strangely.
Not harshly.
Just…
Wrong.
Like stepping down and missing a stair.
You nodded anyway.
“Okay.”
Theo watched the confusion flicker across your face before you looked back down at your potion.
And for some reason, he remembered it.
After that, he started noticing you everywhere.
At first because it was impossible not to.
You talked with your hands so aggressively you nearly smacked a Ravenclaw with your wand in Charms.
You enchanted extra garlic into your dinner because “this soup tastes emotionally unavailable.”
You kissed a Hufflepuff girl hello on the cheek and nearly gave her heart failure.
You interrupted teachers constantly because you genuinely believed discussion meant engagement.
And every single time, the room reacted like you’d broken some invisible rule.
Theo noticed the exact moment you started understanding that.
It happened slowly.
You began apologizing before speaking.
Started raising your hand less.
Started laughing quieter.
And Hogwarts liked you better that way.
That was the part Theo hated.
Because he remembered the girl from the Great Hall.
The one who walked in talking like she belonged everywhere.
Then one evening he found you alone in the kitchens.
House-elves bustled around while you stood stirring sauce absentmindedly, quieter than usual.
“You cut basil incorrectly,” you muttered to yourself tiredly.
Theo leaned against the doorway.
“You insult vegetables often?”
You jumped slightly, then relaxed.
“Oh. You are the quiet Slytherin.”
“Theo.”
“Y/N.”
“You’re making sauce at midnight,” he observed.
“You’re lurking in kitchens at midnight.”
“…Fair.”
You snorted softly.
Theo watched you stir the sauce for another moment.
“You miss home.”
You immediately shook your head.
“No.”
Theo raised an eyebrow.
“You argued with a carrot five seconds ago.”
“That proves nothing.”
“It proves emotional instability.”
You laughed quietly despite yourself.
And Theo realized, very suddenly, that he liked making you laugh.
After that, he kept showing up.
Not intrusively.
Just… Near.
Sitting beside you in the library.
Watching you cook in the kitchens.
Listening while you complained about British tomatoes like they’d personally offended your bloodline.
And slowly he noticed something else.
You talked less now.
One evening in the library he finally said it aloud.
“You stopped arguing with professors.”
You looked down at your parchment.
“…People here don’t really like it.”
Theo frowned.
“I liked it.”
You looked genuinely surprised.
“You did?”
“You sounded alive.”
The words escaped before he could stop them.
Your expression softened painfully.
“In Italy everybody talks,” you admitted quietly. “Teachers argue back. Students interrupt. Nobody cares if you are loud.”
Theo looked at you carefully.
“And here?”
You smiled weakly.
“Here I think maybe I am too much.”
Theo’s jaw tightened instantly.
“No,” he said quietly. “I think everyone here is too little.”
You stared at him.
Really stared.
—
Then came winter.
Cold crept into everything.
You missed home so badly some nights it physically hurt.
Theo noticed that too.
Which was how you ended up walking into an empty classroom one snowy evening only to find absolute disaster spread across a table.
Burned bread.
Crooked pasta.
Sauce that looked medically concerning.
And Theo standing beside it covered in flour.
You stared.
“Theo.”
“I made dinner.”
“…Did dinner survive?”
“I followed instructions exactly.”
“Well there is your problem.”
Theo rolled his eyes slightly. “You mentioned missing Italian food.”
You tasted the sauce carefully.
Then immediately coughed.
“Oh mio Dio.”
“It cannot be that bad.”
“In Rome this gets you arrested.”
Theo finally laughed.
A real laugh.
Warm and low and unexpectedly pretty.
And suddenly you were laughing too, harder and harder until your stomach hurt and tears blurred your vision.
Theo watched you the entire time.
Softly.
Like hearing you loud again fixed something inside him too.
“There you are,” he murmured quietly. Theo watched in deep suspicion as you rolled up your sleeves.
“No,” he said immediately. “Absolutely not. You are not allowed to insult it further.”
You dipped the spoon into the sauce again, visibly fighting laughter.
“Theo, amore, this is not sauce. This is a hostage situation.”
“It smelled decent.”
“It smells aggressive.”
Theo folded his arms while you reached for the scattered ingredients around the table.
A little more garlic.
Fresh basil.
A tiny bit of butter.
You stirred gently with your wand, the sauce immediately softening into something warmer, smoother, richer.
Theo stared.
“…How did you do that?”
You looked genuinely confused.
“I cooked.”
“No, you performed ancient magic.”
You grinned and tore off a piece of bread, dipping it into the fixed sauce before holding it out toward him.
Theo hesitated before taking the bite.
Then blinked.
“That’s…” He looked offended. “That’s actually good.”
“Obviously.”
“You changed three things.”
“Yes.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense. You cooked with instructions.” You tapped his chest lightly with the spoon. “You must cook with feeling.”
Theo snorted softly. “You sound insane.”
“And yet I am correct.”
You both smiled.
The kitchen suddenly felt very small.
Very warm.
Theo was still looking at you strangely.
Softly.
Like he couldn’t quite figure out what to do with how much he liked you.
Your chest squeezed a little at the sight.
So before you could overthink it, you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
“Grazie,” you murmured.
Theo froze.
Actually froze.
You pulled back innocently, reaching for the bread again.
Then “…Does that mean thank you,” Theo asked carefully, “or does that mean you’re mine now?”
You nearly choked laughing.
“Theo!”
“I’m serious,” he said, still staring at you. “You’re very affectionate. I need cultural clarification.”
You laughed harder, covering your face.
“In Italy cheek kisses are normal!”
Theo touched the spot on his cheek slowly, eyes still fixed on you.
summary: after years of being in love with your best friend you look back at the moments together that left their mark on you, and wonder if it's time to let him go.
content: she fell first but he fell harder; slow burn; fluff; angst
notes: Hufflepuff reader, no use of y/n, why do I feel like I could make this a "choose your own path" fic, the way I put all my favorite boys in it
wc: 17k (I'm sorry)
You can still remember the day you had met Oliver Wood. It had been early in your first year when the cold air of spring was still crisp, leaving you with no choice but to wear a scarf tightly around your neck. Or maybe you hadn’t, you weren’t sure. But Oliver had, that you can remember. It had been resting lazily over his sholders, loopsided after running down the hallway only to speak to you.
“Quingly!”
You hadn’t been thrilled about it, not at all. He had been part of a pletora of students that had approached you to tell you how much they liked your father. Most of them were obviously trying to get something out of telling you this, you thought, seeing their eyes gleam when they mentioned how they had tried to get an autograph from a professional player for years. Your polite smile had been stretching so thin at that point that you thought it might snap. That had been the last time for a long time that you would be anything but elated at the sight of Oliver before you.
“Quingly, right? Oliver Wood”
He had stretched out his hand to you, and despite finding the formality odd, you had reciprocated it nonetheless. It was cold to the touch and slightly rough. His hair was a tad bit too short you though, his features soft and eyes big and warm with a gleam behind them that you could only describe as presumptously confident.
“Gryffindor team?” you had asked, eyes on his scarlet and gold scarf that was on its way to the floor.
“Not yet, I’m preparing for the upcoming try-outs”
He hadn’t mentioned your father once during the conversation that had turned so long, he had to sit down in one of the stone benches with you following suit. The only time he had brought him up was when he had asked if your father was hard on you about the sport, which you had reasured him wasn’t the case. Then someone had called for him and he ran down the corridor to his next class, waving at you with a "see you later!" After that you had started looking for him during meals and in the hallways, but even when you did find him, you hadn’t dared to actually go and greet him, or even wave your hand. One time he had locked eyes with your at lunch before you had looked away, going completely red in the face and accidentally dropping your goblet of pumpkin juice.
You did however go to the Gryffindor Quidditch try-outs and sat on the section of the bleachers closest to the rings. When Oliver stood in front of them, a serious look on his face, you couldn’t help but think that he looked beyond cool, even if you had always found the Keeper head gear to look funny. He didn’t look at you, matter of fact, there didn’t seem to be anything that demanded his attention more than the quafle on the aspiring Chaser’s hands. You could still remember how many shots he stopped and how many he missed -seven and one- and that had only been because his broom had lagged slightly. You recognized the model, a Comet 260 that while well regarded had a tendency to lose it’s touch with time, and it looked like Oliver had been using his for a lifetime. When the trainning had been over you had walked down the stairs of the bleachers and towards the exit, where you heard someone call your name followed by:
“Came to watch?”
Oliver stood in front of you, his hair sticking to his forehead and still catching his breath. He was beaming.
“Yeah! You did really well”
“I don’t know, I failed the last shot”
“That was only one!”
“Every point counts on the pitch”
You had wanted to laugh at his seriousness, but he would have probably not taken it well. And you wanted him to like you.
“I’m sure you will get the position” you finally said, and it felt like the words were leaving your mouth in slow motion “They’d be mad to pass on you”
Oliver laughed and lightly tapped your shoulder. The adrenaline was still running through him, and something told you he wouldn’t have a wink of sleep before they announced the results in a few days.
You remember how heavy your eyelids had been feeling by the time Madame Pomfrey carefully shoke your shoulder.
“You ought to go, child. It’s late now”
You had stired on the chair you had been sitting on for a few hours, Oliver still unconscious in bed. The strange goo that Madame Pomfrey had put on his temple to treat the gash on it was still there, and yet you thought that he looked peaceful. The bludger had hit him barely twenty minutes into the game, and you had been running down the bleachers faster than they had picked him up.
“Go, don’t make me call a prefect”
Madame Pomfrey practically lifted you up from the chair and walked you to the doors of the Hospital Wing before closing them in your face. For days you would visit him in the morning before class, and bring your homework and reading to the Hospital Wing in the afternoon until dinner. The more days that passed, the more you couldn’t shake the worry that built up in your chest. Madame Pomfrey had started leaving the chair next to his bed, no longer bothering on putting it back on its place. Then on Saturday you had walked in to visit him and found that he wasn’t there anymore. You never told him you had been keeping him company, and if he had heard he hadn’t commented on it.
Of course the word “love” was far away from your vocabulary at the time, and you would only become aware of its meaning when it had started to eat you from the inside out. Oliver’s indifference while not on pourpose had started on your second year after you had made the Hufflepuff team. While the year before - and during the summer - you had spent almost every free second talking Quidditch, loyalty to his team was something he took very seriously. As such, mending with someone from the opposing team meant Quidditch talk was way more scarce, and Oliver did not have many other conversation topics. Despite that, your friendship remained, your footsteps following him with animated chatter and casual study session on subjects both of you were awful at. After all, Quiddicth was the only particular thing you excelled at, aside from Charms and Transfiguration, which was the cause of many long evenings helping him out of his barely passable grades.
But there was no other memory as pivotal to your feelings for Oliver, so bright that would find you on your darkest times, than your first Quidditch game. You had played Gryffindor, and despite putting up a decent fight your team had been defeated by fifty points by the time the snitch had been caught, Charlie Weasley waving it in the air victoriously. Shoulders slopped and surrounded by the deafening cheers of the Gryffindor side of the bleachers you hadn’t heard Oliver call your name. You remember trying to take off your gloves, pushing the thick taste of defeat down your throat when his hands had grabbed your face with a bit of force, making you look at him. Sweat shinning on his forehead like dew on an early morning under the bright sun, a halo forming around his head.
“That was brilliant!”
You could remember the hot and damp touch of his fingers, the scent of leather as he held you in place. How you had notcied in that moment he seemed to have grown a few inches taller as his big glistening eyes, only narrowed by the weight fo his smile, looked down upon you with something close to admiration. His breath smelled strangely sweet, hitting your face as he panted in front of you.
“You won, though” you managed to mutter, feeling your legs start to quiver.
“No” he had said “Not to you”
And that right there had been the moment, the first time your child mind and young heart had felt the sharp sting of love. It had been things like these that had been seeding inside of you, blooming with every passing spring, not even the cold of winter able to make your feelings wither. It pained you however how casually his hands had found and held you close like that, as if it was nothing, as if you could just do that back without setting your heart aflame. Oliver Wood was for all intents and purposes, a dense idiot; and you had just fallen in love with him.
It had been your third year that had set the tone for the inevitable situation you would find youself in eventually; Oliver and you passing each other by like strangers, stolen glances all you had left. Fred and George Weasley while annoyingly good at Quidditch were not particularly good with subtlety, and they would never know how influential they had been at accelering the process of your eventual heartbreak. You had to admit you refused to like them because as they played opposite to you, you found yourself envying their technique and how in sinc they were during plays, shooting yours down every time. That’s why it was easy to get mad at them instead of Oliver, or even yourself, when Fred had asked:
“Won’t you introduce us to your girlfriend?”
You had approached the Gryffindors as all the teams waited on the pitch for one of Madame Hooch’s official meetings that took place once a month. There was a History of Magic exam comming up, and while you knew you wouldn’t pass, pretending to study for it would be better with Oliver keeping you company.
“Not my girlfriend”
Maybe if the twins hadn’t been such a constant headache, as he had expressed uncountable times to you, his tone would had been less harsh.
“But--”
Despite Fred’s teasing tune he had actually meant it, completely under the impression that Oliver was just acting tough whenever you talked to him in front of them. Especially ever since their first game against Hufflepuff.
“Merlin, her arms will break” George had joked to Fred once they were in the air, having stood in front of you as the teams greeted each other.
However there hadn’t been much laughter on their way back to the locker room after the game, Oliver in an espacially foul mood.
“Weren’t you listening yesterday during practice?”
Fred and George had been, in fact, not listening. As a result, despite Gryffindor winning the game, they saw themselves floored and unprepared for both Cedric’s agility and the reckless yet effective way you’d directed your bladgers at the Gryffindor players to keep them out of his way.
“Thought she’d be nicer” said George when they had walked into the cluttered dark room.
“Why?” Fred made a face “She doesn’t even look nice”
“You could learn a thing or two” the twins winced at Oliver’s stern voice behind them. While happy that they had won, he was beyond satisfied “She’s an Under19 contender you know? I told you to watch out for her, flew Alicia out her bloody broom twice”
Alicia Spinnet had been busy trying to apply a reparation charm she was reading from a book on her shattered broom.
“Under19?” George looked betrayed “Why didn’t you say?”
“I did! Don’t you read Monthly Snitches anyway?”
“Do they look like they read?” had asked Angelina, looking at the twins. Fred found that particularly funny.
“You should have seen how bummed out he was when she was sorted in Hufflepuff” Charlie, who was carefully taking off his gear, chimed in “You could tell he had planned the program for the next six years in his head the moment he heard her last name”
Oliver had too much respect for Charlie to talk back to him, so he just scoffed and took off his head gear with a bit too much force.
“Whatever, would you really like us to play like that?” asked Fred, making a face “Because I think she ought to be re-sorted into Slytherin. She was all over the place!”
“You get to be reckless when you are that good” he muttered, not bothering to look up.
“Seems like someone has a crush” Katie hummed from beind Oliver, her eyes locking with Angelina who giggled behind the twins.
“Shut up” was all Oliver had said, and so Fred had been under the impression that there was obviously something between the both of you.
But it was only after George had elbowed him, signaling towards you, that he saw that he had made a mistake. Your smile was frozen in place in an almost unnatural way and your body had turned stiff. He could swear you had stopped breathing as well.
“You planning for next year?” Oliver had asked you, completely ignorant to what had just transpired “That captain spot is looking really easy”
“Oh” something heavy was finding it’s way to the pit of your stomach, dense and suffocating “Yeah”
“You need to start planning ahead, much to do with your lot”
“Yeah, right. See you later”
Fred and George watched as you walked back to your team, Fred earning another elbow to the side that he didn’t bother to complain about. Oliver also found himself staring at you as Cedric Diggory leaned over to whisper what seemed to be a joke in your ear. A very funny one it seemed, as you playfully slapped his arm. He had made a fuss about Diggory the moment he had seen him at the Hufflepuff try-outs, almost earning you a scolding from Ms. Pince a few weeks later.
“There’s only one reason why he’d want to be seeker” he had whispered indignantly, gripping his quill so hard it almost broke the parchment “He wants to stand out”
Sitting opposite of him on the table you had abandoned your Potions book, no longer interested in pretending that your attention wasn’t somewhere else. Oliver’s hands holding the quill in a peculiar way between his surprisingly slender fingers, the apple of his neck bobbing up and down occasionally, and in this case the way his accent thickened when he got upset.
“What are you talking about?” you had asked, almost absent minded, bitting the end of your own quill like an idiot.
Oliver looked up from his paper and stared hard at you, his eyes momentarily looking down before shooting right up again, then away from you.
“Seekers have to be light, and fast. He just wants to be the center of attention by going against that”
“He is fast, though”
“Pretty boy, that’s what he is” he muttered as he went back to his paper.
You hummed in response, his stubborness making you swing your feet under the table at how endearing you found it.
“What” Oliver had risen his head in a swift motion, staring at you as if you had just said something awful “Don’t tell me you agree”
His tone had rose significantly, a few heads turning towards in your direction. Dunking your head out of abashment you shot him a confused look.
“What?”
“Diggory. You think he’s cute” he said the last word with almost repungance.
“I mean...” you had not expected that, the brief pause seeming to agitate him even further, his head shaking as if to hurry the answer out of you “He’s also very nice, and people like him a lot”
Oliver shook his head, ink splattering everywhere when he sunk his quill on the bottle. A few droplets fell on your book, darkenning the word “hence” and swallowing it whole, making it disappear.
“It’s all Angelina and Alicia bloody talk about. Diggory this, Diggory that”
Oh how much you had wished you could have told him that he was all you could think about too, your borderline pathetic adoration way beyond anything Angelina and Alicia could ever feel. You fantasized sometimes about telling him that sort of stuff, imagined his cheeks flushing pink and his eyes going wide, a stutter falling from his parted plush lips.
“I still prefer you”
You bit your tongue, knuckles white as you grabbed the edge of your skirt underneath the table. Oliver simply scoffed, eyes never leaving his paper.
“Thank you very much” he said drily, a hint of sarcasm laced in his words.
Despite what one might think, that didn’t bring you down. After all, it had been a while since you had come to terms with the fact that Oliver either wasn’t aware of your feelings or pretended not to be. You found yourself missing the days where he’d beam at your compliments, but ever since becoming captain no praise was good enough for him. Similarly, praise didn’t come your way anymore if it wasn’t wrapped in some kind of critique about your technique. Oliver jotted down the last line he had written with a groan and leaned back on his chair, eyes closed and his hands behind his head. He had written the same sentence twice. You tried not to pry at how the uniform shirt stretched around his biceps, or how his loose tie rested over his chest that rose and fell with a tired sigh. You stood up from the chair, attempting to make as little noise as possible, not wanting to exacerbate the students looking your way any further. You had stood next to him, his tired brown eyes fell from the ceilling to you.
“I’m going for dinner” you whispered.
“I have to finish this”
You had nodded, smiling at him as a silent goodbye. You hadn’t started to walk away when he said:
"Wait, I’m coming with you”
If there was something you couldn’t remember was how many times you had fantasized about your first Hogsmade visit. The image of Oliver and you walking side by side, arms and hands brushing against each other in search of warmth and the smell of sweets in the ir. Reality hadn’t started far away from that image. A blush had crept up from your chest up to your cheeks when Oliver had found you among the aglomeration of students waiting at the entrance of the castle. He had made his way to you, hands in the pockets of his courdoroy jacket, his thin black turtleneck underneath hugging his athletic figure in a way that made you dizzy. You had asked him to hang out with you, something that had felt more nerve-wrecking than it should have been for just a friend. The carriage had seemed spacious to you, but only once Oliver had sat down did the difference in size register properly in your head. His legs seemed to take most of the space on the seat, his knees bumped and rested against your thinly covered ones, the rough fabric of his jeans causing you to squirm and shift on your seat. It always had killed you knowing that he was always oblivious to the effect he had on you, how he could touch you so carelessly and with ease; how he wouldn’t have cared if you had moved your leg away. The seats in front of you were taken by two Gryffindor girls that had stolen a few glances at you both before bursting into poorly covered giggles.
“Hey” they had said.
“Hey” Oliver said back, it was obvious they knew each other.
You noticed how Oliver’s knees would slightly touch those of the girl in front of him whenver there was a small bump on the road, and wondered if he ever noticed things like that. If anyone’s touch could make him feel the way he did to you. The thought made you want to vomit.
“You are going to love Spintwitches” Oliver had said, excited.
“What’s that?”
“Quiddicth store” you rolled your eyes “What?”
“You said you’d give me a full tour... You better not just drag me there for the whole trip”
“I won’t!”
The girls suppressed dainty laughs behind their scarfs.
“You could try Madam Puddifoot” said one of them, her voice sweet and teasing.
“No way” had said Oliver immediately, as if the mere mention of that place had burnt him “Is not like that anyway”
“Oh” said the girl, and they didn’t say anything else during the rest of the trip.
You hadn’t understood what that exchange had meant until you’d been in front of the building yourself. You had wanted to come in before you had read the name, understandind what Oliver had meant, that bitter taste you were so familiar with bubbling up your throat. The whole walk through High Street had been a blur, your mind playing the image of that Gryffindor girl holding onto Oliver’s shoulder to get down from the carriage over and over again, how she had turned to thank him as she pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The facade was of a powder pink, the paint slightly chipped from the passage of time, colorful sweets catching your attention through the wide windows displays. Dozens of couples smiled at each other inside, hands being held and smiles reciprocated, the feeling so foreign to you it made the world feel a bit colder. It really wasn’t like that, you already knew that.
“Dreadful” Oliver found his place next to you.
Your hands closed onto fists and you bit your lip.
“I think it’s cute”
“It’s a trap. I’ve seen friends get dragged in by girls, never to be seen again” he joked and you couldn’t stop your brows from furrowing, eyes fixed on the way some guy you recognized from Potions class played with his girlfriend’s fingers.
“Well, I am a girl, and all the boys in there look very happy to me” your turned around, glaring at him out of the corner of your eye “Not like you would get it”
“What?” he followed after you “I’m not clueless you know” he sounded quite offended “I just don’t get it”
“Lucky you” you mumbled, not sure if he had heard you.
Oliver stopped walking and you turned around to face him with a huff. He lifted his hands in the air, a mix of annoyance and confusion in his face. The same face he made when Gryffindor would get penalized during a game
“Like, you want to go in? We can go in if you bloody want!”
It was as if your face had burst into flames. What was he saying?
“Why are you mad at me?” you asked, voice rising comically as you looked anywhere but him. People were definitely starng now.
“You are the one getting mad!”
“I am not!”
“Yes you are!”
“Where is that bloody Quidditch store!”
Oliver huffed and closed the distance between you both, took a deep breath as he scanned your features, an obvious mix of embarrassment and evident anger in them as you looked away.
“Come on” is all he had said, giving a short tug at your scarf and walking ahead of you down the street.
You walked there with a strange feeling looming over your heads that immediately disipated the moment you entered the place. Oliver’s face changed to that of a child at a candy store, immediately walking along the corridors decorated with Quidditch equipement. Is not like you hadn’t wanted to go there, after all, Christmas was approaching. Last year you had gifted Oliver a small chest, which he hald held and turned around in confusion.
“It’s for all the letters I send you, I know they are a lot” you had scratched the back of your head, and in a sad attempt to sound casual you added “I mean, if you still have them”
“Of course I have them”
There had been reassurance and mild offense in the look he had given you. Then his eyes had widened as if he had just remembered something. Something awful.
“Yeah, wait here. I’ll bring yours”
He stormed off from the Great Hall and didn't come back until the teachers were hurrying all of you to leave for the train, running down the stairs and stopping in front of you, panting.
“For you”
He held something in his hands, black and shapeless. When you took it from him, you realized it was a scarf: his scarf. The one you’d seen him wear multiple times. The one you had been wearing at that exact moment, especially selected for your first trip to Hogsmade with him. He didn’t comment on it.
You had looked around the store, a few items catching you attention. He was standig by the shelves, heavy book open in his hands. Your feet stopped in front of his, some strands of your hair failling onto the pages as you lowered your head to read it too. He put them aside like a curtain, holding them onto place as his eyes went over the same parragraph a few times.
“You know” he started, his lips pressed together as if winning time “If you want to go there, I’ll go with you”
He propably heard the breath catching in your throat, close as you both were. The weird tension had dissipated and had been replaced by something else, something that felt terribly bittersweet.
“Where?” you feigned.
Oliver drew in a sharp breath, eyes never leaving the book.
“Bloody pink house of horrors”
It was strange, how unhappy that sentence had made you. Your heart, far from accelerating fell all the way through to your stomach. You forced a smile and a playful tone out of you.
“Are you mad? What would people think” You weren’t preocupied with how shaky the laugh that had crept out of your throat had been, but about how pathetic it was that deep down you had wanted him to retort that, to insist in going with you. “Also I’d like to go with someone who wants to take me there”
Too occupied looking elsewhere but him, you missed the way his jaw tensed before he swallowed.
“Yeah, right” he closed the book, a thin smile not reaching is eyes “You’ll have to find yourself a nice boyfriend then”
You reciprocated a similar fake smile.
“Guess so”
You couldn’t remember what you had given him that Christmas, nor what he had given you, that day at Hogsmade overshadowing most of your memories of that year. As such, most of what you remember happened in your fourth.
It had been the first meeting of the season and the sky seemed to protest at all of you being forced out of bed at 7am on a Saturday. The gray opaque clouds kept any sight of the sun hidden behind them, and as if they were sympathetic to you they protested with a low thunder. Hufflepuff had been walking alongside the Ravenclaw team who greeted you lazily at the Great Hall. Gryffindor as expected had been at the Pitch ahead of time, and you assumed Slythering couldn’t be too far behind you. As usual your eyes scanned the Gryffindor team in search of Oliver, however it had been for a complete different reason this time. You found him talking to George, and you immediatelly blended between your teammates to stop him from looking your way. You hadn’t told him yet what you were sure Ms. Hooch would announe briefly. And so she did after a particularly long chat.
“Finally, I want to congratulate Cedric Diggory on becoming the youngest captain of the last fifthy years”
Your teammates celebrated the announcement, playfully pushing Cedric around, his cheeks slightly rosy. Some Ravenclaw and Gryffindor players had joined with scattered cheers, even a few Slytherins clapped once or twice. Then a question cut through the air.
“What?”
While Oliver’s voice hadn’t been that loud, it had been enough to make the cheering cease almost immediately. Everybody had turned to look at him, but his eyes were focused on you, burning a hole through Preece’s wide frame that you were still hidden behind of.
“Is there a problem, Wood?” Ms. Hooch’s voice broke the silence with authority and mild confusion, but Oliver said nothing. “Right, meeting is over. Off you go”
One by one you could hear footsteps starting to walk away from where you stood, bottom lip between your teeth holding your breath as if expecting for a kick to the stomach. It really felt that way, if you were being honest. It had been bad enough having to break the news to Oliver that despite his expectations, when the time had come for you to be offered the captain badge you had decided to turn it down. It had downed on you through the summer that it wasn’t the role of captain you had been lookiing forward to, but the look on Oliver’s face when you told him about it. Maybe the scarce praise he had been giving you through the last few years would come more often, and the look in his eyes as he greeted you as equals on the pitch similar to the one he had given you after your first game. The look he had been giving you as everybody was walking away wasn’t anywhere close to that.
“You alright?”
Despite the question being quiet, you found yourself startling at Cedric’s voice. He had looked down at you, eyes briefly looking to the side as if being able to see Oliver walking towards you out of the back of his head.
“Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll catch up with you guys”
Cedric hesitated but just nodded, lips pressed together. He had started walking away just in time you thought, as Oliver was getting close enough to see the lines on his forehead where his brows met.
“Oi” Oliver had called after Cedric, who simply kept walking away without giving him a spare glance “Oi! I’m talking to you!”
“Oliver!” you pleaded, standing in front of him with your hands up in the air.
“That prick? Captain?” he spat, incredulous “Has Hufflepuff lost their minds?”
You couldn’t really blame him, after all this had been your fault. If only you had told him from the get go, faced the way you feared he would have looked at you, the way he was looking at you now, this wouldn’t have happened. “I’ll tell him tomorrow” you had told yourself every day, finding any excuse good enough not to do so, and so all the days had slipped away.
“Oliver...”
“It’s a sport not a popularity contest!” he made sure to emphasize these last words loud enough for Cedric to hear, his figure barely visible behind the thin curtain of rain that had started to fall.
“Oliver!” the sharp edge to your voice had managed to catch his attention, angry eyes setting on you and making you shudder “I got the spot offered to me. I turned it down”
You blurted it out quickly, scared that you would stop yourself in cowardice once again. There was a brief pause, gears turning on Oliver’s head.
“What do you mean?”
You swallowed.
“I... I didn’t want it”
“What are you talking about?” his voice cracked in disbelief “We’ve been talking about you becoming Captain for years”
It was somewhat true, you thought. Oliver had got it in his head that you should become captain the moment you joined the team, being the only one who in his eyes deserved to lead it. You had never corrected him on it, too drunk on the way he seemed to beam at the idea of you becoming captain.
“Cedric will do well”
Bitterness casted itself like a shadow over Oliver’s features, always finding it unpleasant when Cedric’s name came from your lips.
“You’d do better! He barely has a brain to use!”
“You don’t know that Oliver...” you retorted, eyes fixed on the grass. When had it started to rain? “You don’t know him either”
“Well, I know you!”
“Do you?” the question hung in the air louder than you had spoken it. Oliver’s shoulders came up and then down one more time, lips parted but saying nothing. When it had become too much to bear and before he had time to ask what you had meant ,you added “I wasn’t ready, that’s all. Okay?”
Something had flashed behind Oliver’s eyes, soft and vulnerable, then immediately hardening into the stubborness you knew all too well.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
You pursed your lips together, feeling the overwhelming weight of a cry creep up your throat. All you could o was shrug.
“Because you really wanted me to be captain? I don't know. I didn’t want to...” disappoint you, is what you wanted to say “Bum you out”
“I just wanted--”
“Well I don’t”
Oliver’s body stiffened at the crack in your voice, louder and more upset than he had ever heard it. Only then did he feel the damp coldness of the rain, clothes sticking to his body and falling down on your face as you nonchalantly lifted your arm to rub your eyes against your sleeve. It occured to him that you had refused to look at him through the entire conversation, and realized he didn’t like it. It was strange and unnatural for him to not be able to stare back at you, your eyes always wide and glistening with something only your eyes seemed to hold. He bit his bottom lip, hand aching to--
“Are you crying?” he had asked, blunt in his surprise.
The question had felt mocking in your ears, making the sour feeling in your chest more painful than it already was.
“No” you lied, and he knew it “It’s just rainning”
You had braced youself for more harsh and stubborn remarks, sporadic fights no matter how rare always ending with Oliver having the last word. Instead however, you felt the light, almost ghostly touch of his fingers brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face. You felt your body stiffen as it tended to do whenever Oliver touched you no matter how briefly, eyes fluttering for a moment as he abruptly retracted his hand.
“We should get back” he had said, clearing his throat.
You nodded, a strange smile on your lips as you walked in front of him with quick steps. That had been the first time since Oliver could remember that you didn’t wait for him to catch up to you.
It must have been the second or third match of the season, you could’t remember which exactly, that brought what would go down in history as one of the most dignified defeats your house would ever suffer. It had also been one of the worst days in Oliver’s life.
“Hufflepuff needs to counter if they want to catch up!” Lee Jordan’s voice had barely registered on any of the player’s ears at that point, but it resonated loudly through the pitch.
“They need a bloody miracle that’s what they need” had said Oliver through gritted teeth.
Oliver eyes followed your figure as it flew through the pitch, they always did as he was of the opinion you were the only player worh keeping an eye on. These days however that was more difficult than he liked to admit, given your new strategy of orbiting around Cedric the moment he caught sight of the snitch, getting rid of any bludgers that flew his way. Oliver hadn’t agreed with you completely out of pride when you had pesented the idea, but he hadn’t spoken against it either. He’d die before admiting Diggory was any good, and would quit Quidditch before agreeing to the idea of you rubbing elbows with him.
“Can’t that pretty boy accelerate? Oi! Get a new broom!”
“That’s way harsh!” protested Angelina, that sat next to him.
She had to force him to sit down again, Oliver having stood up from his seat, hand cupping around his mouth as if that’d make Cedric able to hear him any better. It was no use however, as both seekers shot up on their brooms towards the cloudy sky, disappearing behind them with you following suit. Cedric’s broom was indeed just a tad bit slower than the snitch, nothing could be done about that, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a way to make it faster. You saw the yellow and green clocks dive down, and tipping the front of your own broom you took in a sharp breath before putting your plan in motion. Cedric hadn’t noticed when you had shown up next to him, his extended arm barely an inch away from the snitch, the Slytherin seeker not any closer. Cedric barely registered the nod you had given him, agreeing to whatever you had asked him to trust you for with a brief glance. You swerved and positioned your broom parallel to Cedric, and in one swift motion you recklessly grabed onto him, frocing you both to spiral on your way down. All the audience saw was a blurry mist of yellow plumenting on its way to the ground, everyone letting out a gasp before Cedric and you separated, crashing at different points of the pitch.
“Cedric Diggory has caught the snitch! The game is over with Slytherin ahead by a hundred points! Slytherin wins” he had said the last part in a lazy manner, which didn’t stop Slytherin from cheering loudly.
However their victory was drowned by the roaring applause coming from every other house, that last play overshadowing the Slytherin win in the eyes of the school. Even Marcus Flinch would compliment you on it a few days later, the interaction the first and last you’d ever have with him. Cedric had managed to stand up, not without tripping over his own feet, his hand aching from the strength he was holding onto the snitch with. He was swallowed in gold and black, his hair getting rubbed violently in a way that could have made him think you guys had won. It also made him slightly nauseous, his world still spinning as wildly as yours.
Oliver’s knuckles had turned white gripping the rails, eyes open wide as if he was trying to burn that memory in his brain, as if blinking would make the details of the play go away. He had risen to his feet the moment he had seen you dive down, heart racing in a mix of excitement and worry. His eyes were still fixed on you, having witnessed the way you had unceremoniously crashed on the sand, a sigh of relief escaping his lips as he saw you stand up and walk to your team. Then he saw Cedric scoop you up, lifting you off the ground with little effort like he had done it a thousand times before. Your arms loosely wrapped around his neck, matted wind blown hair catching the light and a wide smile on your face. He didn’t miss the way the female voices in the crowd had cheered a little louder when he had lifted you in his arms.
“What a play!” had said Angelina, shaking Oliver by the shoulders as she cheered alongside the rest of the Gryffindor house to the honorary winners of the game.
The noise from his own house spiked again but Oliver could barely hear it. He was annoyed at the way Diggory seemed to love showing off. Is not like that play had been his idea, he thought, it had obviously been yours. You were probably embarrassed, upset about him taking the credit. You probably hated it. Didn’t you?
“Prick”
Valentine's Day that year had been the first one you had been brave enough to not send Oliver an anonymous gift like you had done for the past four years. You were aware that anyone would have guessed it was you by now, Oliver's friends and anyone who knew him had relaized the first time. Maybe he did know, and that’s why he always reacted so unenthusiastically to them, his subtle way of rejecting you without having to go through the uncomfortable act of doing so. You had approached the Gryffindor table with your mind set on bringing up the secret admirer you knew hadn’t sent anything this time, pathetically hoping he’d sulk even just a bit. He sat there, eyes fixed over pages of strategies that seemed to work only in his head. The sleeves of his sweater had been rised to his elbows, the usual brushes from practice spread across his arms in kisses of red an purple. His hair was a mess from all the times you could guess he had ran his hand through it already. He looked devilish handsome and a total mess, and it was only breakfast.
“Want me to bring you anything from Hogsmade?”
Oliver had been skipping the last visits to Hogsmade, insisting he had to use his free time on planning for the next game against Slytherin. The last few months had also been strange. There was an eerie sense of normalcy whenever you’d talk, something unspoken hanging in the air by a very thin thread that you both pretended not to notice. His head had quickly perked up at the sound of your voice, looking at you for a moment before forcing himself to go back to his notes.
“I’m going, actually”
“Oh, really?” you tried to sound casual “Fancy hanging out a bit later then?”
“I can’t” he replied rather quickly in a strangely proud tone. However as he looked at you out of the corner of his eye he hesitated “I’m going with a girl from class, she sent me a Valentine’s gift asking me to go with her. Veronica Mulnich, you met her”
You had needed a second to process that whole sentence, not only because of what he had said, but because of how quickly he had said it.
“Did I?”
“Hogsmade, last year. Rode the carriage with us”
Oh. So this had been what they called woman’s intuition. An unpleasant feeling like a cold sweat in the back of your neck.
“Which one?”
You had begged for him to not say “the pretty one”, repeating it like a mantra what seemed an impossible amount of times in the very few seconds it took him to answer.
“Curly hair”
“Oh, yeah”
“I guess after years of anonymous stuff she just decided to ask me out”
There was a thin sharp noise as if cracking glass, and you wondered if anyone had heard it coming from your ribcage. Oliver rearanged his notes in no partiuclar order.
“Oh!” your voice was cheerful, almost as painful to hear as it had been for you say “So, is a date then?” Oliver lightly tapped the papers on the table to align them properly “You are going on a date”
He tried to give you a casual look only to look away immediately, as if annoyed. His lips pressed into a thin smile and he nodded.
“Actually I should go, I’m a bit late”
“Right, okay” you had stood up from your seat before he did, nausea bubbling up in your stomach and making the walls of the Great Hall spin. With what little courage you had left you patted Oliver in the shoulder, your touch seeming to burn him, but you didn’t notice “Good luck. See you later”
Your friends had had to drag you to Hogsmade that day, somewheat oblivious to the long shadows cast on your face, the sickened color of your skin and glassy twinkle in your eyes. It hadn’t taken long for your heavy steps to drag you to the back of the group and eventually away from them, too far behind to bother catching up. There was a jolt that ran through you, making you stop and look; call it woman’s intuition. Across the windows of the pink building you still hadn’t had the chance to step into, there sat Oliver with Veronica Mulnich, his body slightly turned away from you. She was talking to him, hand underneath her chin and head titled to the side, a genuine sweet smile on her face. He had said something you obviously couldn’t hear and she laughed wholeheartedly the same way you always did, but it seemed different when she did it. The strain on your jaw as you tried to stop yourself from crying started to hurt too much to keep it up. In a fit of something you couldn’t quite understand you tugged at the scarf on your neck, Oliver’s scarf, and yanked it with so much strength you hurt yourself. Franctic as you had been to run away you bumped head first onto someone, a surprised gasp coming from them.
“Wow, are we in a hurry?”
It was a Weasley twin, you didn’t need to look up to know that, height and voice telling you enough. Even if you had tried to find out if it was Fred or George it would have been futile, the world engulfed in a damp mirage as warm tears fell from your eyes. You had muttered a shaky “sorry” and moved past him, or them, with as much grace and dignity as you had left, throwing Oliver’s scarf in the nearest bin without a second glance.
By the time Oliver and Veronica had left Madam Puddifoot he had ran out of things to say, but thankfully to him she seemed fine carrying the conversation by herself. She had tangled their arms together, slightly leaning onto him for warmth as they had started their walk through Hogsmade, the closeness making their walking a bit awkward, but she didn’t seem to care. Oliver’s eyes were eyeing every store and every group of people, seemingly absent from his own conversation.
“I’m sure town must be gorgeous during Christmas. Do you know if you’ll leave for the holidays?”
She had looked up and was met with his profile, jawline defined and muscles underneath tense. She gave his arm a squeeze.
“What?” he turned to her “Oh, I don’t know yet”
But he had known, he would go home and regret not being able to practice outside, probably write to you. Something made him stop in the middle of the street, Veronica looking up at him in cofusion. From in between the aglomeration of people there were two flashes of bright orange hair, impossible to miss. The Weasley twins were casually standing by one of the narrow streets, which usually would mean nothing good was about to go down. However that hadn’t been what had made him stop. One of the twins had been leaning over to speak to someone, faces too close for comfort, or maybe he just thought that because it had been you George was talking to. Whether Victoria was still holding onto him as he walked in between a group of people who gave him a strage look he wasn’t sure, and he couldn’t be arsed about it.
“Why are you laughing?” had asked George, hands on his knees so his face would be at your level, turning your sobs into a chuckle “Isn’t this better for you?”
“We adapt to short people's needs. Tell your friends"
The Weasley twins weren’t very tactful, but if there was something they had learned from their older brothers was that you should never make a woman cry, and if you ever saw one doing so, you had to fix it. They had dragged you into the more quiet street by softly placing their hands on your shoulders, the surprised cry making them apologize profusely. While not the most careful, Fred and George were nothing short of sharp, a simple look inside Madame Puddifoot enough for them to share a knowing look before they had turned around looking for you.
“Are you trying to catch a cold?” George had taken out his scarf and had placed it around your neck “There are better ways to get to skip class you know?”
“Yeah, we can hook you up” Fred said from where he was standing next to you “Is still a prototype so you might burp bubbles or something, though”
That had made you laugh, distracting you enough to not notice Fred moving beside you.
“Nothing to see here”
You had looked up to see him hands ups in the air, only partially seeing Oliver’s face behind him as he shifted enough to block his path.
“What’s going on?” Oliver asked, almost demanding.
“Street is closed due to damages”
Oliver tried to edge past Fred, his eyes never leaving George’s hands nuzzling the scarf around your neck, his hands surely grazing the skin of your neck. That wasn’t your scarf, he thought. That wasn’t the scarf he had given you, the one you had worn for the last two years. He called your name once, maybe twice as Fred kept walking in front of him, until you finally dared to look up. Your eyes were red and slightly puffy, tears catching the sunlight in a way that made them sparkle like glass under the winter sun. For a second he had the selfish thought that they looked beautiful. Then the glance was gone.
“Gotta go back to your date, mate?” asked Fred, looking over Oliver’s shoulder at Victoria, who was standing there waiting for him. Something in the way Fred had said it made Oliver flinch, earning him a hard look from him, but Fred didn't budge.
The twins swept you away swiftly with a barricade of jokes , leaving him behind in the middle of the street watching you walk away without as much as a glance as he felt an arm wrap around his again.
Dinner that night had barely saciated Oliver, busy as he had been dunking the fork repeatedly into his plate without ever really bringing the food to his mouth. His eyes were set on where you sat at the Hufflepuff table, your friends sitting closer to you than usual, almost as if they were shielding you from something. His knee was shaking underneath the table, nervously waitng for you to look up towards him. You always did, after all. He could always find you in a crowd, already looking at him and a smile ready at our lips for when he finally found you. You hadn’t looked his way once since he had sat down, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was on purpose. When he saw you get up his knee hit the table so hard it made a few people jump on their seats. He immediately stood up under the annoyed looks of the people arround him and matched your step towards the entrance of the Great Hall, where he managed to catch you before you walked towards the door that lead to the kitchen.
“Oi! What happened there?”
“Oh, hey, sorry” you retracted your hand slowly from where he had held it to stop you “It’s nothing, I just fought with my friend. We made up so it’s alright.
He knew you were lying, but there wasn’t anything he could have said to prove it.
“...okay”
“How was your date?”
That took him by surprise, the sudden question making him take an unconscious step back, hands burying in his pockets.
“It was... alright. I’m not sure there’ll be another one”
“You spoke too much about Quidditch?”
He knew he could never tell you about what had transpired after he had seen you disappear between the crowd, the image of George Weasley’s hand around your shoulders buried in his memory. There’s no way he could tell you how Victoria had insisted on entering a small shop on the corner of the street, gushing about the cluttered charming decor of the store.
“Smell this!” She had held the bottle below his nose, the strange smell reaching Oliver and making him wince “What does it smell like?”
“You tell me!” he said, a bit annoyed “It smells awful”
“Does it?” she asked, quite shocked “It smells like leather and incense to me”
“What? No it doesn’t” Oliver made a face and leaned forward to smell the contents again. This time it didn’t seem that strong, the distinct scents breaking apart from one another more distinctively “Grass... sweat” Veronica’s face panicked, and she discretely turned his head to sniff over her shoulder “Something else, perfume? What even is this?”
“Amortentia” she had said.
“Oh”
It made sense that Veronica had smelt the distinc leathery scent that always seemed to trail after Oliver, even during Divination: the incense infused class they’ve sat together at for three years. For Oliver however, it seemed to make sense it had been Quidditch. Veronica had laughed drily at that, like he had said it as a joke.
“Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t smell a sport”
Oliver wasn’t stupid, no matter how hard he seemed to try to seem like it at times. He was aware of how familiar the smell was, yet couldn’t really pinpoint it. It was driving him crazy.
“How do you know?” he asked, coming back to you.
“You don’t have many conversation topics”
“I do! We talk about things other than quidditch”
“Do we, though?” you smiled at him, but there was a bitternes behind your words.
“Yeah, well..." You missed the way Oliver stepped forward again, getting a bit closer than he had before, taking a deep breath as he got close to you. You also missed the way he frowned as he realized there was no such scent. He would spend the rest of the school year thinking about it. "She wasn’t the one who sent me the Valentine’s the previous years, by the way”
“Oh” you prayed he hadn’t seen the way you swallowed, your mouth and lips feeling dry “The mystery continues then”
“Yeah I guess” something flickered in his eyes as he stared at you with something that you didn’t quite get “Maybe she moved on from me” he joked, but he didn’t laugh.
Your hands balled into fists, your nails digging into your palm and you managed a small shrug. If only he knew how much you wished you had the ability to do so.
“Maybe”
The walk to the locker room had been slow that afternoon, the sound of brooms dragging against the stone steps the only thing interrumpting the silence that had fallen upon your team the moment the game had ended. That, and the cheers that could still be heard from the Gryffindor house back at the pitch. Your uniform was spottless after you took it off, not a wrinkle had had the time to appear since it had been ironed that same morning. Cedric cleared his throat as he stood in the middle of the room, hands on his waist and uniform still on. You all turned to him, your eyes falling to the floor just like his was. He didn’t say a single word until one of your teammates patted him in the back.
“It’s alright Ced”
He gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before walking out of the room in silence, your teammates following suit with similar comforting remarks. And then it was just the two of you. There was a prolongued silence after the door closed with a loud screech and footsteps disappeared in the distance. Cedric ripped the goggles from his head and threw them against the ground with a crash that echoed on the walls. It made you wince, but you had been expecting it.
“Is not your fault” you murmured.
“And whose is it then?”
You couldn’t deny you were angry, frustrated tears picking at the corners of you eyes the moment you had heard the whistle barely five minutes into the game. How Harry Potter had caught the snitch so quickly was beyond you, but more importantly at the moment was that Cedric was beyond himself.
“I still have my grades” he chuckled bitterly “That’s something, isn’t it”
“I’m sure your parents won’t say anything Ced”
Frustration and embarrassment showed on his face in the form of flushed cheeks. He kneeled down to pick up his goggles and when his eyes caught the light through one of the craks on the door, you realized he was about to cry too.
“You are right, they won’t. It’s all in the eyes, you know”
You had been about to say something when the voices of the Gryffindor players caught your attention, and you found yourself reaching for the door as they tried to open it. Katie was only able to open the door a few inches before you stopped it with your hands.
“We are not done” you said, your small frame attampting to shield Cedric from the team.
“...okay?”
The Gryffindor players stopped behind Katie, Fred and George Weasley rubbing Harry Potter’s head. None of them had broken a sweat either, you noticed. Oliver came in last, asking what was holding everyone up, broom held behind his back like the world belonged to him. When he saw you, the slightly cocky smile he had had on faltered a bit.
“It’s alright” said Cedric, opening the door completely behind you.
“Oh?” said Fred “Hope we didn’t interrupt anything”
Oliver’s eyes darted from you, to Cedric, then back to you and then to the side.
“No, sorry. We were just leaving” you said
Cedric and you got out of the locker room and started to walk away when someone spoke behind your back between forced coughs:
“Nice game”
There was some snickering behind you, catching a glimpse of Oliver reprimanding his team albeit with a smile on his face that quickly fell when his eyes met yours.
That had marked the last Hufflepuff game of your fourth year, and as such there wouldn’t be much opportunity to see Oliver, not that you had been particularlly thrilled to do so. For the first time in your life you had made the effort to not find him between classes nor meals, not because you didn’t want to see him, but because you knew nothing good would happen if you did. That’s why you were shocked when despite what you had thought, Oliver keep spawning around every corner. On Wednesday he had stood in front of the Hufflepuff common room for so long that even your friends started to take pitty on him, but you didn’t budge, only going in after he had left for dinner. It was making you miserable, the lengths you had to go simlply to delay the inevitable fight that would break between you two. That’s why when you ran onto him after Herbology that Friday you had decided to give up and try to be civil.
He was leaning again the stone wall, hands in his pockets and wrinkled sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It was time for him to get a haircut too, his unruly hair spiking out at different angles. You couldn’t count how many times a day you longued to just reach your hand and just--
“Didn’t take you for a sore loser” he said, voice getting lost among the animated chatter of your classmates.
You inhaled sharply, the grip on your books tightening.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Oliver tilted his head to the side. taking a moment to take you in before looking away with a shrug. The sunlight that had been comming from the window behind him gave him a natural halo, and if you hadn’t been so upset the sight would have been enough to remind you why you were in love with him.
“Are you going to keep avoiding me?” he asked, his tone dry yet poignant.
“I am not avoiding you”
“Oh” he sneered “So you are going to start lying to me too? Cool”
“Have you been following me?”
His smile disappeared in an instant, tonge pocking at the side of his cheek.
“I was just trying to talk to you”
“About what”
You would be lying if you said you hadn’t meant to sound so cold, but you had. Oliver turned to you again, but the way he looked at you was harsh. He observed the way you were standing defiantly in front of him, an expression on your face that he had never seen on you, or at least never directed towards him. And all because of that guy.
“Forget about it” he scoffed.
Oliver peeld himself from the wall, not getting too far before you had grabbed his hand and started to pull with, you were surprised to find out, not much resistance. Not a single words was exchanged until you had taken him behind the greenhouse and saw two of your classmates snogging between the vines that crawled up the windows.
“Piss off!” you had said, both running away completely red on the face.
Oliver had to press his lips on a thin line to stop himself from laughing at the scene, his stubborness never allowing him to back down now. You turned back to look at him, a few strands of hair falling in front of your already flushed face, ready for it.
“What” you nudged “Come on, say it”
“Say what”
“Whatever it is you got to say about Hufflepuff, or Cedric for that matter. I’m assuming that’s what you’ve been meaning to tell me about”
Oliver really didn’t like to admit that you were right, being read like an open book was not a favorite of his. When it came to you however he knew he couldn’t escape it, denying it would have been futile. He knew that you knew. Knew what he would say, every word of every sentence, in what order and what tone. And yet you refused to see eye to eye with him.
“I just wanted to see if you were okay”
“Of course I’m not!”
“Then why can’t you agree?”
“On what!”
Oliver finally looked at you with vivid eyes, arms crossed in front of him and brows furrowed so close together they seemed to reach his long eyelashes.
“That you should be the captain!”
“Oh my-- not again Oliver” you had said in exasperation “I told you, I didn’t want it!”
“Bullshit”
It caught you off guard, the way he had said it, perfectly calm and almost calculated.
“I don’t want to lead, I just want to play”
“You just want to lose, you mean?” his smile crooked with spite “Well, does it feel good?”
“No, it doesn’t. But do you know what would feel good?” you had taken a step forward, breath catching in his throat and chest expanding as if preparing for whatever you were about to throw at him “The Head of my house bending the rules in favour of our team so we can have some damn bloody first year prodigy play with us”
To that he had nothing to say, and he hated it. He had kept Harry’s excellence a secret before the season started from everyone but his own team, and also you. Oliver Wood who prided himself in having Quidditch as a first priority had slipped and told you about it, too excited not to. He had expected you to share his excitement, and while you had tried to he had noticed there was a sour twist to the way you had smiled at him at the time.
“Even with Harry you could take us. If only you--”
“If only I did what! What about me? Why do you keep putting all this weight on me like I could fix the team by myself?”
Oliver ran a hand over his face with a groan, arms breaking free and gesturing wildly at you.
“Because you could! Don’t you see how you are the only one in the team who is worth a damn? You have the smarts and you have the technique--”
“I am not you, Oliver! I can’t lead, I’m not a captain!”
“And Diggory is?”
“Yeah, actually! Cedric’s a good leader!”
Oliver flinched at the way his name left your lips, you could see his body stiffen and the muscles tensing underneath his jaw. For a moment he just stared, brows drawing tight in disbelief. When had he found his way into your life the way he had? What had he missed?
“You can’t be seriously defending him right now”
“He’s got charisma and he’s got leadership, he’s got--”
“Beaten in five minutes by an eleven year old? Yeah, that was pretty class”
That shut you up, and for a very brief second he savoured the way you ran out of things to say. Then something shifted in the air and he got scared. But he would never admit it.
“That’s my friend, you know?”
Oliver looked away with a bitter and humorless chuckle, shaking his head before he asked:
“That’s what they are calling it nowdays?”
There was a small pause, you didn’t notice the way he held his breath.
“And what do you care”
“I don’t”
“I know” he didn’t move or say anything right away, fists flexing at his sides and eyes searching yours for something that wasn’t there anymore “Are we done?”
“Yeah”
That summer Oliver had found himself laying in bed, window open trying to escape the suffocating heat between dozens of Quidditch books and magazines. There was a particular volume that had been thrown into a corner of the room the moment he returned home that year, and still lied there when the orange hue of the late July evening casted its light over it. Hidden in one of the pages there had been an article about your Under19 debut that he had memorized by now, having thought about framing it and gift it to you for Christmas at some point. He had stared at it as he lied in bed, short sleeve t-shirt sticking to his back, the room feeling way too hot out of nowhere. It had been like this whenever he was alone with the thought of you, or more like you in the company of Diggory during summer break.
After that fight neither of you had made a single effort to go back to normalcy, and so you hadn’t talked ever since. It had been weird, losing the cup to Ravenclaw, mind already racing about all the things he wanted to go over with you before realizing he couldn’t do that anymore. You had started sitting with your back facing the Gryffindor table too, something you had never done. Because of this hostile situation he had found himself hidding behind a statue in one of the hallways as he saw you approaching with your friends, the topic of conversation almost making him rip the pages out of the book he was holding. The Diggorys had invited you to spend the summer with them, convinced that your little stunt with Cedric during the Slytherin game deserved proper trainning.
“We need to be more in sync” you had said and his stomach had turned, especially at the way your friends had giggled at that, even if you had told them to “shut up!” embarrassedly right after.
No matter how many books he read the image of you kept popping in his head, hair blowing in the summer breeze with Cedric next to you, sweat clinging to your clothes as you laughed at something he had said. Having breakfast together in the early morning and passing the brick of milk to each other with lazy, sleepy morning grins. Him with an arm around your shoulders as you had a stroll with his parents through London.
Oliver stood from his bed, shaking his head so violently his room started spinning. A few books he had on his bed had fallen with loud tuds, and he left a small groan before bending down to pick them up. He retracted one of them form underneath the bed, his hand gracing something that made him still. He dragged the small silver box from under the bed and stared at it for a few seconds, realizing he hadn’t seen it in almost a year. Had it been any other summer he would have seen it every week, but he couldn’t remember the last time he had used it. The lid opened with the soft click he was so familiar with, and the moment he had fully opened it time seemed to stand still. His body reacted half a heartbeat before he understood, the hairs in his arm standing up with a subtle chill that crawled down his back. There were dozens of pieces of parchment, letters you had sent, pilled inside as carefully as he had been able to keep them. He had lifted one of the letters with a trembling hand and brought it close to his nose, scared to confirm what he deep down already knew.
Grass, from the way it always crunched softly under your feet whenever you had agreed to practice with him during his second year, no one on the team having wanted to use their free time helping him.
Sweat, from the first time he had seen you cry after Hufflepuff lost the chance to the Cup after you joined the team. He had hugged you awkwardly, not really sure on what to do or how to hold you, his nose burying itself lightly on your damp hair that smelled like effort and regret.
And flowers, the scent that had been imprinted in every single letter you had sent him for the last five years, each one making the scent a tad bit stronger, seeping into his life almost impercetibly.
The trip to Hogwarts had been peaceful for the most part, your friends and you deciding to sit towards the end of the train to avoid the loud first years that tended to sit at the front. It was around the thrid hour of the trip that you had admitted to yourself that despite having just had breakfast you were still hungry, leaving the compartment filled with animated chatter to go find the Honeydukes cart. You found it after a few minutes, not really mentally prepared for the sight in front of you. Oliver was standing by the cart, more inconvenienced by not being able to pass by than interested in buying anything. He rarely enjoyed candy, the few times you had seen him buy any was to give it to you back on your second year when he had been able to go to Hogsmade while you had to stay at the castle. He noticed you before you had time to pretend you hadn’t.
“Hey” you had said when you finally joined everyone else at the cart, a sad attempt to be matture about it.
“Hey”
His voice was flat and casual, the kind of casual that takes actual effort.
“How was your summer?”
“Good”
Oliver’s eyes didn’t spare you a single glance, instead darting around the cart as if he had actually planned to buy something.
“Cedric and I got a lot of plays in mind for this year” you said, immaturity and his indifference getting the better of you “We planned them over the summer”
That got him, eyes narrowing ever so sligtly.
“Really?” he said, not even attempting to hide his annoyance at the statement. What would have been the point, though.
“Yeah, I stayed with his family for a few weeks in July. They got lots of space, we practiced a lot”
Oliver inhaled through his nose, slow, like he was trying to keep his heartbeat steady.
“Oh, I bet you did” he grumbled.
There had been the fantiest twitch at the corner of his mouth, more of a half scowl than a smile.
“Are you kids going to buy anything?” asked the old lady, small beady eyes looking at you both impatiently.
You took in a deep breath, his eyes stared at you in anticipation.
“I’m going to beat you this year” you said defiantly, and for a second before you turned around you could have sworn you saw the ghost of a smile on his lips.
But whether your startegies would have been Quidditch Cup worthy or not you wouldn’t have the chance to find out. The incidents surroundind the re-opening of the Chamber of Secrets had gotten Quidditch cancelled and the whole school in a constant state of nervousism.
Everybody was trying to find a way to take their mind off things, and you hadn’t even wanted to think about how Oliver was handling the No Quidditch policy. You had, against what you have told yourself, tried to check on him. Your eyes had met awkwardly across the Great Hall during meals, looking away right away like you were eleven again and still figuring out why you couldn’t stop looking for him in every room. He didn’t look away from you however, not like you’d ever find out, eyes glued to your food that wasn’t appetizing at all. Hogsmade trips had stayed in place, and that had been when you had ran into Oliver, way too drunk to have had just butterbeer, laughing and walking with some difficulty with his equally inhebriated friends. They were singing happy birthday way too loudly, Oliver not really joining but marching slightly behind, an amused smile on his face that had disappeared the moment he saw you. You weren’t sure of what you had expected, but it definitely wasn’t him simply walking throught the inches of snow towards you and away from his friends.
“You are not off age yet” you said as he stood next to you “You turned seventeen barely three months ago”
“And you didn’t wish me a happy birthday” he replied in a childishly manner.
“I was under the impression that you didn’t want to talk to me?”
“I don’t” he said way to quickly. It was very obvious how drunk he was, the thickness of the alcohol stretching and making the words stick to one another. There was also a sulkiness to his demeanor, softening his usual stubbornness “You spend all your words talking to Diggory anyway”
“Why do you dislike him so much?” you sighed “Why do you have to bring him up every time you talk to me?”
“Because he’s a prick” he muttered matter of factly, a slight pout on his lips as he swerved in place “Is he in love with you?”
“What?”
“Is he?”
“He’s just my friend! You used to be too!” you straightened in place, measuring your words “Or I thought you were”
Oliver blinked at you, slowly, waiting or all these words to register properly. The concious part of him focused on the pinkish hue your lips turned when you were cold.
“What youmean?”
You kicked a bit of snow, wondering if you should even bring it up.
“Was I ever your friend?”
He frowned, as if he was trying hard to concentrate.
“I don’t understand”
“Do you remember why we became friends?”
Oliver took his time, thinking really hard about what you were asking. After a while he could only come up to one conclusion, announcing it with a shrug.
“Dunno. You’ve always been 'round me”
You scoffed and looked away, your stomach feeling strangely hollow.
“Yeah. Sorry about that, I guess”
“What’re youon about?
“Why’d you never ask me to get lost if I bothered you so much?”
“Wh--”
“You talked to me because of who my father is, and if I had told you I don’t play Quidditch you wouldn’t have talked to me again at all”
“I guess?” Oliver shook his head “But you did, so what does that matter? You were my firend and you took care of me when I got hurt and I thought you were cool--”
“Wait, what do you mean took care of you?”
Oliver paused, looking at you like you were the drunk one.
“When I got hit in the head. Whole week”
It had been the first time since your fist year that he had ever mentioned having any knowledge about that incident.
“How’d you know about that?”
“Madame Pomfrey said, when I woke up”
“Why did you never say anything?”
Oliver shrugged as he swerved from side to side, the pink in his cheeks more noticeable now.
“...shy” he finally said “Why didn’t you say anything about it”
Your feet dragged through the snow as you stepped back.
“Forget about it”
You had meant to turn and walk away immediately, a thousand thoughts going through your mind. So he had known, confirmation of what you had suspected all these years hitting you like a Weasley driven bludger. So he had known all along, deciding not to tell you out of something. Pity? Embarrassment?
“Oi!” Oliver walked in front of you “Is he in love with you, yes or no?”
“He-!” you bit your lip and looked away. There had been something you hadn't even dared to mention to your friends. Something you had promised to not tell alyone. But you didn't want to lie to Oliver, not even when things were like this “He did confess to me, back in the summer” you looked up to him for a second before adding "He kissed me"
Oliver’s face softened and his voice shook when he spoke again, low and crestfallen.
“Took your first kiss, he did?” he asked, but it sounded like he was trying to explain it to his own drunk self.
"I turned him down, I don’t see him in that way”
Oliver tilted his head to the side.
“You don’t like pretty boys?”
You finally took a proper look at him, not having to look away and not having to pretend you didn’t want to. His hair was shorter now but still messy, strands of hair framing his flushed cheeks that matched his pinkish nose. His lips were a bit swollen from drinking and they parted slightly whenever he spoke.
“I do”
You saw the way the words seemed to ripple through him, brows furrowing ever so slightly and for a moment it seemed like he had sobered up. The space between you felt so fragile that you both stayed still, as if a simple shaky breath could break the spell. There was a something in the way you had looked at him in that moment, it had been the closest to how you had used to look at him for so long, and it made his fingertips ache with longing and the aching need to touch you. You had tried so hard not to look at him like that anymore, to not give it away so easily. And yet you were the same lovesick idiot you used to be.
“Right” you said, more to yourself than him to “See you later”
Before he could stop you again, before you fell onto the trap that were his pleading brown eyes you turned and walked away. You didn’t look back, not even when you heard his voice behind you.
“What’s that smell in your letters?”
You had been asleep for who knows how long when the hand shook you awake.
“Class is over” your friend said to you, the faint rustling of your classmates picking up their belongings bringing you back to reality.
You stretched softly, a sharp pain on your neck from the way you had been leaning against the wall for the last hour. Ms. Sinistra was giving you a nasty look that you pretended not to see, picking up your things and walking out with your classmates, hoping she would lose you among the small crowd and forget to scold you.
Your group's steps were followed by soft murmurs, an usually futil attempt to not wake up any of the paintings that adorned the walls on your way back to your Common Rooms. It was commonplace to study Astronomy late at night, when the sky was proper dark and stars shone brighter in contrast to the inky sky, but doing so at one in the morning was torture. The Gryffindor students that shared the class with you stopped in front of the portrait of The Fat Lady, quiet goodbyes being exchanged as Hufflepuff continued on their descent through the castle. As you approached the next flight of stairs, having fallen behind, you noticed how your classmates made way for someone coming up in the opposite direction: Oliver.
A few students turned arond and eyed him curiously as he stopped halfway through, stopping as he had the moment he had seen you. You hadn't spoken in maybe just three days, but it seemed that an eternity had passed and ran its course through him. Deep, dark circles adorned his brown eyes, his usually unkempt uniform adding to his restless image before you. Once your classmates had turned the corner it was just the two of you, the orange hue of the lit candles and a silence that stretched thin between you. That was until you took one step down, stopping in front of him.
“Where are you going this late?” you asked in a whisper.
“Detention” his voice was hoarse and it cracked a bit “Astronomy?”
“Yeah... what did you do to get detention for?”
“I was at the pitch after crufew. Didn't realize how late it was”
“That’s weird, but I wouldn’t put it pass you to write Quidditch plans even in the dark”
“I wasn’t writting just... thinking”
“Quidditch” you said matter of factly, almost teasing.
Oliver simply stared, letting his gaze linger for a heartbeat too long. His eyes dragged from your eyes, down to your lips, the way the orange light of the candelit hallway reflected on your features, then back to your lips.
“Among other things”
“You look like a mess” maybe you had spoken out of fear that he might have heard your loud heartbeat in the empty silence. He chuckled, looking down and passing a hand through his hair, messing it up even more “Don’t do that...”
You reached for his hair, threading your fingers through the stubborn strands before you had time to think about what you were doing. The moment your fingertips had ran through the base of his scalp he stilled, a shiver running down his back. Then ever so slightly he leaned forward, allowing you better acces to his hair, face falling dangerously close to yours.
“Better?” he asked, the question almost a shaky breath.
You had been close to look down, his plush lips that always were a bit chapped too close not to--.
“Ms. Quingly!” you heard Ms. Sinistra whisper sharply from the end of the stairs.
You both straighten up immediately, faces almost bumping into one another. Your face felt hot, and despite the very little light in the hallway you could see Oliver's face must have felt the same, red as it was.
“I should go”
“Yeah”
You walked down a few steps, not wanting to look at the disapproving look Ms. Sinistra was throwing Oliver and you. You mentally shook your head, deciding to turn around.
“Oliver” you called for him, louder than you had wanted. A painting close by hushed you “It wasn’t fair, what I said to you. You were my friend”
Oliver's grip on the banister tightened.
“I can still be, if you’d like that” there was hope in the way he had said it, bare and soft.
You wanted to tell him, just as much as you had ever wanted to. Wanted him to know how hard that was for you.
"I.. I don't know..."
“Ms. Quingly!” Ms. Sinistra got sushed by a few other paintings, upsetting her even further “I’ll have you in detention!”
Ms. Sinistra's footsteps climbed up the stairs in your direction, then Oliver’s words cut through the air.
“I missed you”
A painting grumbled at him to shut up, but Oliver ignored it, eyes never leaving you. His words had been firm and determined, as if a last plea. His way of saying sorry to all the things that had gone wrong, too many to name. Ms. Sinistra's bony hand wrapped arround your forearm.
“Ms. Quingly, let’s go!”
She started dragging you down the stairs, forcing you to look away from Oliver who remained still waiting for an answer that he knew now might never come. There was no easy way to explain how difficult it'd be to remain by his side like nothing happened. How difficult it had been been to pretend you didn’t want to see him. How hard it had been to not look for him in every room you walked in. How hard it was to not run towards him when you finally found him. All the letters you wrote to him and never sent, buried at the bottom of your suitcase. How hard it was to have him so close and not be able to tell him--
“I’m in in love with you!”
Your words hung in the air, bouncing off the stone walls with such force you were sure even the Slytherins down in the dungeons must have heard you too. You felt Ms. Sinistra’s hold on your arm loosen in shock, startled by your sudden outburst, giving you the chance to look back at Oliver. He was there, still and silent as the paintings that had become too, a faint giggle coming from one of them the only thing breaking the sudden silence
“Well, that’s enough!” Ms. Sinistra protested, evidentlly flustered as she successfully made you go down the steps "That'll be fifty points from Hufflepuff"
Oliver didn't sleep at all that night, having spend all of it lying face up in his bed trying to replay your voice as accurately as possible over and over again. As soon as students were allowed to get up he ran out of the Common Room and down the stairs, ignoring the portraits taunting him with “good mornign Mr. Wood” among giggles and whispers. He ran to the Great Hall and to the Hufflepuff table where he spotted Diggory and a few of your friends, asking out of breath where he could find you. Your female friends seemed aprehensive and just shrugged, a few of them turning around without as much of a shake of their heads. It had been Cedric who after inspecting Oliver briefly and hesitating for a moment told him that you might be running at the pitch, like every Saturday.
“Thank you” Oliver said to Cedric who gave him a nod, and it feelt like a years long fight had been settled just like that.
He ran towards the exit as you completed your tenth lap acorss the pitch, hoping the accelerated pulsing at your temple and aching on your legs would make you forget about the previous night. You shook your head and screamed at the memory of Oliver’s face staring at you in the dead silence of the night, unreadable. The faint sound of footsteps made you look up, unaware as you had been of Oliver approaching you until he had grabbed your face, lips crashing against yours without a second for any of you to think twice about it. His nose bumped into yours, faces flushed together to the point it made your lips hurt, your hands grabbing onto his wrists with a loud sigh. He parted from you, forehead resting over yours and panting breath fanning over your face with each word.
“Did you mean it?”
Your fingers curled around his hands that still held your face. You licked your lips, chest raising up and down, the way you could still taste him making you dizzy. All you could do is nod, nose brushing his as you did. Oliver pressed his lips against yours again, shorter, and let go with a loud sound.
“Say it again?”
It was hard to see his face when he was this close, vision blurring a bit until his pleading eyes came into focus. You bit your lip, suddenly shy and you were convinced he could feel the heat creeping up your cheeks beneath his fingertips where he was still holding you in place. You looked down with a nervous scoff and he followed your gaze, his head lowering so he could still look at you.
“Please” he said “Just once more?”
“And you?”
You lifted your head ever so slightly, your breaths catching onto each others, the proximity making the grip on your face shake and he brought one of his hands to your waist.
“I’m not good with words”
“I know” you nudged at his nose playfull, the grip on your waist tightened “Try?”
“I can’t go on like this” he confessed, voice a bit more casual “Don’t want to. It’s bloody awful. It’s drivng me mad” His words got a giggle from you, getting on your tip toes to kiss him again when he leaned back just enough to say something else “And for the record, I’ve always wanted to take you to that awful tea place”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah”
Your hands met at the back of his neck, lips pressed against each other in a softer but deeper kiss. It drew a long, heavy sigh of relief from Oliver, who simply held you tight against him, nails digging at your side. You couldn’t help but to leave short, wet kisses over his already swollen lips, hand scratching his scalp and your hands tangling between his hair. Oliver shuddered and a moan died on your lips, arms behind your lower back and neck trying to hold you impossibly close. Your faces were fully flushed against each other and they started to ache.
”You love me” you said, ragged breath against the side of his face.
Oliver nodded, drawing his nose around your cheek as he left small kisses.
“Yes”
“More than Quidditch?” you teased and he chuckled against your skin.
“Oi!”
“No?”
You pretended to push him away and he pulled you into him again, face crashing against his chest in a sea of laughter.
“Don’t make me say it out loud” he begged, burying his face in you hair, leaving a chaste kiss at the top of it “I have a reputation to mantain”
things I won’t let ai take away from human writers
em dash
“not x, not y, but z”
short sentence stacking as a stylistic choice
none of these belong to ai. these are all what human writers have been writing since day one, way before ai was invented. ai was trained to mimic how human writers write — so em dash, not x not y but z and short sentence stacking would never have been used by ai at all if ai hadn’t learned and mimicked them from human writers.
no, you are not “fighting against ai” by accusing every work that has em dash, not x not y but z or short sentence stacking in it as ai-generated, you are helping ai harm the writing community by engaging in witch hunt and scaring human writers away from creating/sharing their works for fear of being wrongly accused of using ai.
speculations, accusations and ai witch hunt harm the writing community as much as ai does, if not more.
A/N: Fred Weasley has always always ALWAYS been my fav and I love reading fics like this but I decided to add extra gooey lore and molly angst bc bae went thru a lot
Warning(s): Fred being protective, Arthur basically being scared of his wife, mentions of death and loss. Reader is a pureblood from a rich family, distant relative to the blacks and distant cousin of draco (all purebloods are related somehow)
Word Count: 3.3K
Credit to @diviniyae for the dividers!! <3
“Baby, c’mon.”
Fred had been pleading with you for weeks now to spend your summer vacations at the burrow. Ever since the two of you started dating in your fourth year, you’d grown impossibly close to all his siblings, even Percy, for Godric’s sake. That’s how perfect you were for him.
He was known for being reckless, impulsive, and uncontrollable. He still was, but his storm had mellowed ever since he’d been with you. Pranks made to entertain instead of embarrass, jokes without singling out. He was still the same flashy, charismatic showman; now he was more mature, more reasonable. Loud as ever, no doubt of it, but he’d finally been balanced.
You were like wind to his fire; you might amp it down or fuel it, but you were always there. Your snarky remarks and witty comebacks offered him the perfect challenge; he’d hit the jackpot. You two could joke and laugh without offence or insecurity, without late nights wondering if a joke had a hidden meaning behind it because you read each other effortlessly. He never thought he’d fall for a Slytherin, especially not one with a family like yours.
You were part of the sacred twenty-eight and additionally were a very distant relative of Bellatrix Lestrange, Narcissa Malfoy, and Andromeda Tonks. They were your second or third aunts. Purebloods always married within their circle; people had complex relative histories. It even technically made you Draco’s distant cousin. The thought alone should’ve driven him away, but he wasn’t like that. Even if you were Bellatrix’s own daughter, he’d go up to you, because that’s how he is; what he does. He was fearless in a way that made one question whether it was rooted in stupidity, naivety, or maybe possible genius.
“Freddie,” you breathed, eyes soft with guilt. “I’m not sure I should, you know, your parents aren’t very fond of me,” you said softly.
It hurt you immensely that his parents had a distaste for you despite your best efforts. You saw it in the way Fred never showed you any letters his mother sent him unless he was sure you weren’t mentioned once in them. His mother wasn’t exactly subtle.
You couldn’t blame them for it, though a part of you was still bitter. Your family name was loud, your parents were sharp-tongued and prejudiced against anything that wasn’t a rich pureblood elitist. People heard your name and already drew conclusions that lingered; impressions of a cold-hearted, calculating, ruthless heir without empathy or tolerance.
Because of these assumptions, no one bothered to disprove them, opting to avoid you instead. Everyone but Fred. People called it stupidity, a death wish. But all those whispers and anticipation of a hex hitting his chest were eliminated after you threw your head back in a cackle, not even ten minutes after he came up to you.
The image was broken as soon as your laughter was heard; saccharine and normal like any other girl in the castle. And just like that, people came up to you more, returned smiles in the hallways, and didn’t stiffen when you walked past. Hogwarts turned comforting, more like home than your own. Fred stuck to you through it all, and you slowly won over each and every one of his siblings over the past seven years. You won over Charlie before he graduated when you were in your third year, and Percy warmed up to you when he caught you tutoring the twins in your second year. Ron was the toughest to break, but you finally got him when he was in his second year and you in your fourth, right after you and Fred began to date. He had passed the courtyard on his way between classes and saw you and Fred sitting out there, together. You were going on a tangent, hands on your hips as you scolded him for something he didn’t hear, but what really did it was how Fred reacted.
Fred Weasley, his big brother, was affected by nothing, brushing off punishments and detentions like dust on a coat, was pouting, head hanging as he stared at the floor, hands behind his back in compliance as you chided him. Ron decided something that day; if Fred let someone do that to him, he was exactly where he wanted to be. Ginny was by far the easiest to connect with. The poor girl screamed and nearly cried when she saw you, yelping about finally having another sister. You didn’t dare correct her. You even charmed Bill when you met him at the 1994 Quidditch World Cup Finals between Bulgaria and Finland.
You hadn’t realised Mr and Mrs Weasley themselves would be the toughest nuts to crack; they were stereotypical. It’s unsurprising given their age, but their persistence was staggering. Firmly written opinions sent to all their children about you, and long, long lectures Fred had to sit through about deceit and how people are images of their parents. It didn’t matter how much Fred defended you, how much his siblings vouched for your character; Molly was clear, and Arthur never opposed his wife.
“My love, light of my life, honeybear,” Fred continued, his hands travelling further up your arm as he pulled you closer to him. You let him with a lingering pout. “My parents can bugger off for all I care; they can’t do or say anything if I’m there. Trust me on that,” he continued, his eyes wide and pleading. He didn’t play with you; you were the most important thing in his life, and he made sure you were treated like such.
You went silent, thinking about it, but you were weak; you knew that. Fred Weasley, knowingly or not, was your weakness. You weren’t smiley, friendly, or easy; with him, you turned impossibly soft. It was almost a sickness; he calmed your rage within seconds, and you shut down his life-threatening pranks with a single look. “Okay,” you relented. He lit up completely with a gasp, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug, face in your hair.
“Ginny might cry when I tell her.” He said with a breathy laugh, making your heart swell. God, you loved that girl. “I’ll tell her myself.” You mumbled back, turning your head to kiss his neck before pulling back.
You were a bundle of nerves the entire train ride to the Burrow, everyone noticed. Ginny offered up her skincare, Ron passed you extra chicken from the lunch he packed from Hogwarts, even George didn’t try to slip you a nosebleed nougat; he had more sense than that.
Fred kept you close the entire time, tucked into his side. You saw the tension in the hard set of his jaw as he looked out the window. His hands flexed from where they were on your waist, squeezing the soft flesh every once in a while merely to assure himself of your presence.
When you reached, one thing became abundantly clear: Molly and Arthur had certainly not been told of your visit. You saw it in the way her beaming smile harshly fell from her face once she spotted you next to Fred. She grabbed him, pulling him away.
You felt nauseous, smiling politely at Arthur as he gave you a forced smile in turn, his hesitance to shake your hand only added to the twist in your stomach. Ron took your suitcase, and Ginny took your hand, squeezing it in support as she tugged you to the car.
You turned your head to see Fred now proper scowling at his mother before he simply turned and walked off in the middle of her rant, face changing when he saw you look over, giving you as soft a smile as he could manage.
It didn’t get better at the burrow. Molly never looked directly at you, spoke to you through her children. ‘Ginny, she’ll sleep in your room.’ ‘Is she going to eat, Fred?’ ‘Ron, will she need her very own sheets?’ You saw the way Arthur winced, but said nothing. He himself was incredibly awkward near you.
You didn’t like it, Fred absolutely didn’t. Glaring and hissing a sharp “why don’t you ask her herself?” that Molly always promptly ignored. It went on for two weeks; Molly stopped laughing when you entered a room, and Arthur found excuses to leave. Whenever you were with their kids, something always came up. You and Ginny giggling and eating ice cream in bed? Molly needed her help sewing. You and Percy discussing the NEWTS? Arthur needed him to proofread something.
Fred was the main victim. Suddenly, he was needed all around the house as soon as the two of you were able to be together. The dishes, setting the table, helping with lunch, and helping load the laundry. It was so targeted and so obvious.
It all shattered during dinner one night. Fred and George decided this was the perfect time to talk about the fact that they’d be dropping out to open their own joke shop. Everyone knew Molly wouldn’t support it; she’d faced poverty. The thought of her sons not completing their education to start a shop made her all kinds of angry.
So, on went the screaming. Arguing at the table as George and Fred quite literally fought for their business with their mother, while Molly kept screaming about homelessness and how they’d never succeed.
It reached a point where she looked at you for the first time since the railway station and growled a low “You.”
You stiffened; everyone did. “You did this, didn’t you? Think it’s amusing, girl, making these two believe they can make it? Without suppliers? Investors? Nothing? You’re ruining my son's life!” She hissed, screaming the last part. You flinched, eyes widening.
“M-Misses Weasley, I don’t– I just want him to be happy-” You choked, but she slammed her hand on the table with a scoff of outrage.
“You don’t understand anything. People like you, sheltered, protected–you’ve never had to work for anything a day in your life, never struggled. ” She continued, the rage in her voice something no one at the table had ever heard before. “Rich, pompous, overconfident people like you are exactly the folk we don’t want to get mixed with—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, shut up!”
Everyone whipped their heads around to Fred, the usually cheeky and unserious boy, now straight scowling. “George and I are doing this with or without your approval, Mum. I truly don’t care about what you say in accordance with the business, nor about your hopes for our success, but you will watch it when you talk to her.” He hissed, pushing back his chair with a harsh screech before throwing his napkin on the table, grabbing your hand to pull you up as well.
Molly was mortified, and Arthur looked like he’d been spat on. “Frederick Gideon Weasley, you will sit–”
“Mum, please!” Ginny huffed, making your heart clench. The poor girl looked close to tears. She sniffled, turning to hug George’s arm. Molly’s scowl broke at the sight of her only daughter in such peril.
Fred dragged you up the stairs to his room. He’d gotten his own ever since Charlie moved into his own cottage somewhere in Scotland, closer to the dragons had been his only justification before taking off.
Your eyes were wide, heart pounding horrifically loud in your chest. You looked at the back of his head the entire walk to his room until he finally slammed the door.
“Fred!” You whisper-hissed, hands trembling with adrenaline. He dragged a hand down his face as he turned to you, the other wrapping around the small of your back. “This doesn’t help my whole image with your mother, Freddie, she’s gonna think I’m manipulating you against her or something—”
“She’s not that manic.” He mumbled, ducking his head into your neck before taking a deep inhale. “Hopefully.”
He hugged you around your waist, tugging you into him as he leaned into you. You could feel he was doing this more to calm himself than offer any comfort, but you didn’t mind much, dragging a hand through his hair. You felt the breath leaving him.
You could hear the thud of footsteps climbing up to his room, and feel the way his shoulders tightened. He nudged you behind him as he turned to the door, half expecting his mother to come bursting in, but all he heard was three soft knocks.
“Fred?” Came a soft, older tone. His father, Arthur.
He didn’t hesitate opening it, letting the lesser of two evils in. Arthur looks guilty, almost hesitant, when he steps in, mouth open, before he shuts it. “Fred, my boy, your mother— but of us, we want the best for you. The shop, I-I’m not saying you shouldn’t follow your dreams, but you can’t expect her to be okay with it.”
“That’s not why I stormed out of there, Dad.” Fred huffed in turn, narrowing his eyes as he grabbed your waist, pulling you to stand next to him. “You know that.”
His father clasped his hands together, glancing towards you for a moment. It was clear he was choosing his words as carefully as he could. “Freddie, she– she’s not what we had in mind for you.” He said delicately, you could see Fred’s shoulders tighten.
“Her family, people like her, haven’t been good to people like us.” He continued, you took Fred’s hand as a reminder to keep himself regulated. It was odd, having to regulate his anger instead of him regulating yours. “Do her parents even know about you?”
That made you stiffen, hanging your head. You hadn’t told your parents, certain they’d forbid you from seeing it. You’d talked to Fred. He understood. Still, admitting he was a secret boyfriend was degrading.
“It doesn’t matter whether she’s told her parents. I trust her, that’s my choice. She’s brilliant, dad, you and mum would know if you gave her a singular chance.” Fred muttered, venom dripping from each syllable. Arthur felt the bitter truth in his words, nodding solemnly.
“No, you’re.. You’re right. I know.” He relented, looking at you apologetically. “I’m sorry, dear.” He all but breathed. You just offered a soft smile, nodding.
“It’s– We have lived through a lot, Fred.” Now it was Fred’s turn to stiffen. “Your mother lost Fabian and Gideon in the war. To people from families like.. Well, hers.”
Fred sighed, squeezing your hand. “I know about them. She’s told us. But, Dad, things are changing. Times are changing. She can’t be bitter forever. Your mother was Cedrella Black! Does that mean she hates that part of you?!”
Arthur stammered. That was enough. “Why is it different for y/n, huh? Haven’t you been cruel enough? I’d like you two grown adults to realise you’ve been harassing a girl who’s nearly three times younger than you!” Fred continued, finishing with a scoff. He knew he was loud—knew the whole damn house probably heard. He couldn’t find it in him to care; he almost hoped his mother heard.
Arthur just nodded, unable to gather the words to continue the conversation, exiting the room.
You shuddered, Fred pulled you in.
Safe to say, no one minded if you spent the night in Fred’s room that night.
Morning rolled around, the tension still present like a living, breathing presence. Fred didn’t leave you for a single second, and no one tried. Neither Arthur nor Molly pretended he was needed anywhere; they knew Fred wouldn’t entertain it.
To his credit, Arthur really did seem like he was trying. Wished you good morning, offered you tea when he was making any, even went as far as to ask for your future job plans. Fred was already grateful, smiling whenever he heard it. He eased up on his father, let himself relax around you when his father was near.
But Molly was a woman on a mission. She made sure it was known that Arthur was alone in his acceptance. She let you serve yourself during meals, dramatically moved away from you like you had Spattergoit. You chose to ignore it, a smaller, pettier part of you made you extra nice to her in turn.
All of the Weaslings (apart from Bill and Charlie) were around the coffee table, playing exploding snap. The air was filled with hysterical giggles and pure orange-haired competitiveness. Arthur was off at work, and Molly was serving snacks, very pointedly placing the plates as far from you as she could.
You shot her a smile dipped in honey. “Oh, thank you, Miss Weasley! You’re so good to me. I couldn’t be more grateful.” You cooed, making Fred stifle a snort. His mother looked appalled, muttering a quick ‘no matter’ before rushing back to the kitchen.
You’d come to accept it, almost took it as a sad fact of life. Ready to fight Molly Weasley for the rest of your life.
Then came that fated night.
You couldn’t sleep. George thought it was genius to watch some low-budget horror movie. You crept down the stairs of the burrow to the kitchen to take a glass of water and, potentially, a cookie Molly made.
You filled the glass before the light flicked on from behind you, startling you. Damn you, George.
“Oh.” Molly mumbled when she saw it was you, hesitantly walking into her kitchen to grab something from the fridge. It was rather early, four am. You didn’t think she’d be up so early.
There was a horribly awkward moment where neither spoke; you simply drank your water at the counter. Then, the silence was shattered.
“I had brothers, you know.” She mumbled; you immediately knew where this was going. You looked over at her; her expression was something you couldn’t pick apart.
You nodded, she continued.
“They joined the order. First Wizarding War. I’m sure you’ve met Harry. They met his parents there. Young, stupid and ready to fight.”
Her voice thickened, your heart sank.
“Twins. Like my Fred and George. Good people, amazing to me.” She kept going, unwrapping dough she got from the freezer. “Died when I was pregnant with Percy.” Her voice broke around the word died and you suddenly felt like a monster.
“Took five deatheaters to kill them. Antonin Volohov was the only one who was named in the report, the rest having taken their own lives once captured.” It was unsettling, the things this woman had gone through. It made your heart ache for her.
“Volohov worked closely with Bellatrix. I guess I just… can’t accept that a trace of what killed my brothers lives in you.”
You felt your throat tighten, tears stinging your eyes as the woman placed the small balls of frozen dough on a baking tray.
You cleared your throat, moving to wash your hands, drying them, then wordlessly assisting her.
“My mum once killed my pet mouse because attachment was a weakness to her.” You mumbled, and she shifted to make room for you. Not to get away, but to make space. You noticed.
“I cried to my father, but he offered no solace. He said nothing should be important enough to bring me to tears.” You rolled the dough into a ball, passing it to her. “Met Bellatrix once. I was.. Maybe seven. She threw her shoes at me when I touched her wand, grabbed me by the hair and presented me to my parents like a fox she killed.”
Molly hummed in acknowledgement, but there was something softer. A sympathy.
“I may not hate her as much as you do, I may never will, but I truly despise and loathe her very being. She’s hurt you much more than she hurt me, but her cruelty to more and more people gives me more and more reason to be as different from her as I can.”
The room settled into comfortable silence after that. She put the cookies in the oven, and you washed your hands.
As soon as you turned to leave, she took your hand. It was gentle, not like she was trying to restrain you. You turned, and she placed a kiss to your forehead before walking away. “Goodnight, dearie.”
You bit back the smile growing on your face, sheer joy filling your chest.
Viktor Krum is such a hilarious character to me because his sole purpose is making Ron jealous. The poor man doesn’t have an ounce of depth and he so doesn’t deserve that.
When they had to pick a person for him to save for the second task of the Tournament and they landed on Hermione, I laughed so hard it nearly killed me because what do you mean there was no one else in the entire fucking world he cared about? Like, they hauled Fleur’s sister over from fucking France but Viktor had no one from his entire fucking school that he was attending for 7 years for whom he could give a single flying fuck? Man’s so one dimensional he barely feels like a person to me but I’m totally here for it.
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germansingergirl
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