Summary: During the Battle of Hogwarts, Fred dies. The Order falls. There is no spell to bring back the dead; every witch and wizard knows that. But you’re desperate and determined enough to defy one of the most intrinsic laws of magic to bring the man you love back…or stop him from dying in the first place.
Word count: 2.4k
Tags: Time travel fix-it, grief/shock, angst with a happy ending
Guys I swear I have the requested george fic and part 2 of midnight sweetheart coming but this possessed me and I had to get it out :/
“You’re joking, Perce!”
Fred’s glee was mean and more than a little manic. The Death Eater collapsed in agony and he marveled, “You actually are joking, Perce… I don’t think I’ve heard you joke since you were—”
The air exploded.
You had been grouped together with Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, and Percy; two Death Eaters at your feet, one Stunned and the other slowly turning into a sea urchin, and in an instant the world was rent apart.
You flew through the air, and your right eye burned with what felt like Fiendfyre, and something hot and sticky ran down your cheek. The corridor’s stone floor stopped your trajectory and punched all the air from your lungs, but a cold wind raised the hair on your arms and you choked down a lungful. The side of the castle had been blown away.
Someone screamed and the sound was barely human, wrenched out by a pain that not even the Cruciatus curse could rival, and a terrible fear clenched your stomach like an iron fist.
“No—no—no! No! Fred! No!”
Percy was shaking his brother, and Ron was kneeling beside them, and Fred’s eyes stared without seeing, the ghost of his last laugh still etched upon his face.
The war was lost in the forest, not that anyone knew it at the time.
The same explosion that killed Fred gouged out your eye, so in the Hospital Wing next to a crowd of sobbing Weasleys, Madam Pomfrey, without the time or resources to grow it back, numbed the bloody socket. She did her job too well. The searing pain in your face disappeared. So did the agony in your heart and mind.
You didn’t cry. There was no point. Anyway, it would just dehydrate you. So you just sat next to the body and its grieving family and fiddled with the chain around your neck. It laced through two simple silver rings. They jingled against each other merrily with every movement, perfect fits for your ring finger and that of the corpse next to you.
Stupid, stupid promise, made just this morning. “If we make it out of this alive,” he’d said earnestly, “I’m going to marry you, you clever, clever witch.”
The words were tempting Fate; he’d practically killed himself.
When Voldemort arrived with his Death Eaters, you joined those who could in greeting him on the front steps. Hagrid clutched Harry’s body: dead, just like Fred was dead, like so many people were dead, dead, dead, dead—
There was no spell powerful enough to bring back the dead.
If there was, you would cast it. No matter the cost. No matter the sacrifice. But bodies could return as Inferi or zombies and souls could return as ghosts. They couldn’t return together.
As Voldemort set the Sorting Hat and Neville ablaze, you wondered how many new ghosts would walk Hogwarts’s halls tomorrow.
Then the creatures of the Forbidden Forest and the house-elves attacked and the battle resumed. Curses shot wildly, striking friend and foe alike. The air burned. The ground cracked. And no matter how many you killed, because any could have been the one to demolish the wall, any could have been the person to steal your past and your future, to snatch away someone that had spent his entire life making people laugh instead of killing or torturing them based on something stupid like blood which ran red no matter who you cut open, pure- or half-blood—the Order began to lose.
It took five Death Eaters to bring down Hermione. Ron died with her name on his lips. Molly killed Bellatrix, but not before the insane witch struck down Luna, and was repaid with a Killing Curse from Voldemort. You aimed at his exposed back, certain that it would not work but knowing that you wouldn’t survive the day anyway. He deflected your curse without looking, sent it straight into the eyes of one of his giants. It bellowed with pain and stumbled, crushing half the house-elf army with one step.
A Death Eater—Rookwood—stepped in your way, and him you could kill. Or he would kill you, and maybe by some miracle someone would put your body next to Fred’s in the Hospital Wing. He needed someone to keep him company. He kept either you or George at his side at all times; he needed people in a way you didn’t quite understand, but he was alone now and that wasn’t right.
Your anger won. Rookwood fell and beneath the thud of his solid body hitting the ground was a delicate metal jingle. Your first thought was that the chain around your neck snapped and cast the rings to the ground, but the metal was still there.
Then you saw the glint. Barely out of his pocket was a golden hourglass attached to a long thin chain.
You knew what it was. Rookwood, despite his prejudice and many other flaws, had been an Unspeakable. He had been brilliant. And he had brought a Time-Turner to the Battle for Hogwarts.
There was no spell powerful enough to bring back the dead.
But there were other, more creative options.
Damaged from falling out of Rookwood’s pocket and surely by several errant spells, the Time-Turner shattered in your hands three and a half turns in. Glass cut your palm and sand ground into the cuts when you clenched your fist around the golden chain that was all that remained of the priceless artefact.
Nothing happened.
No.
Pomfrey’s spell wore off your heart. The pain hit you like a physical blow. You fell to your knees at the weight of it.
It was a good thing you would die today. You preferred that to the thought of spending the rest of your life with this weeping, gaping hole where your heart burst out of the ribcage meant to protect it and laid itself to rest next to the only person you had. Best friend, lover, confidant, rival… too many roles he’d played, too many to count. And, briefly, for an hour, maybe two, he had also been your fiancé.
Voldemort’s slitted red eyes narrowed as he sneered at you. He raised his wand but you didn’t do the same. This was a favor. How often did Lord Voldemort show mercy?
Everything disappeared.
Death had a very specific taste only noticeable by its sudden absence.
The school no longer lay in pieces; dust, sweat, and blood no longer curdled in the air, cloying and sour. The air was fresh and sweet. It stunk of foolish schoolchildrens’ hope.
At the other side of the Great Hall, which was still filled with four House tables, a familiar scruffy-haired boy talked to Professor McGonagall. Alive, and terrified, and filled with righteous determination.
If Harry was still alive, so was Fred.
You didn’t think about how ghastly you must look until Lavender Brown, arms laden with crystal balls, shrieked at the sight of you and dropped every one. Sooty from trying to beat out the fire that consumed Neville, eye socket gaping, clothes singed and bloodstained… She didn’t even recognize you.
There was no good explanation, so you didn’t try to make one up. Her jaw dropped when you turned away and tapped your wand on the top of your head, feeling the Disillusionment run over your body, then continued on your way to the Room of Requirement where people that would be dead at the end of the day gathered.
The chain already hung around your past self’s neck. You wanted to slap the smile off her face. Didn’t she feel the doom? Death, the vulture, circling lower and lower over the boy at her side?
Breathing. Blinking. Fred was terribly, painfully alive.
He tousled his hair carelessly and slung that arm over her shoulders. The movement was so practiced she didn’t even notice. How dare she not? Couldn’t she tell that every second was precious?
She headed to guard the secret passageway immediately, but Fred lagged behind. He looked around, an odd expression on his face. You held your breath. Could he sense you watching? You’d always felt a tug in your chest when he was near.
Fred shook his head and called, “Oi, you tosser, don’t leave me behind!” He hurried to catch up to your past self, unaware that he would be the one leaving her behind in… how long did you have? An hour? Two?
Percy deflected one of Thicknesse’s curses directly at you and even Disillusionment couldn’t hide the obvious movement when the jet of colored light changed directions midair. Still, that wasn’t as eye-catching as the two curses you shot at the Death Eaters battling a group of schoolchildren or young adults very nearly the same. They fell silently.
Reflexes honed by battle and unwilling to take chances, six curses followed from those around you. Your past self’s wand jerked during the casting and hexed the ceiling. You dodged three and shielded yourself against the other, but Hermione’s follow-up “Revelio!” was too quick.
Instead of generic robes that could be interchangeable, you’d put on your lucky jumper and practical slacks that morning and even blackened, bloody, and torn, it was obviously the same outfit your past self wore.
She could have caught flies in her mouth. Fred’s head bobbled between the two of you.
One of the most important rules of time travel was to never, ever let your past self see you.
But that was only if the time traveler wanted to live.
“Leave.” Your throat butchered the word, because you hadn’t spoken since this moment the first time you lived it.
“Wha…” Ron started.
“If you need it again, it’s in Rookwood’s pocket,” you told Hermione. Her eyes widened with understanding. “Now get as far away from this corridor as you can. And… and take care of each other.” That was addressed to your past self, who would leave with two eyes and a troublemaker at her elbow. You would cease to exist. Or maybe Fate would strike again, taking your eye and your fiancé some other way. But Hermione knew about the Time-Turner now, so with any luck you wouldn’t be locked in an infinite paradoxical cycle of loss and pain and terror, trying over and over to save him.
It was as much as you could do.
When the air rent apart, it took you with it, and Death extended a dark, long-fingered hand that burned yours.
“That was… That was you!”
“Yes, she was,” you said shortly. Ron had repeated that at least five times now, as if your answer would change if he asked enough.
“What happened to her?” murmured Fred, stopping again to stare at the corridor where they’d left your future self. He’d done that as many times as Ron repeated the inane.
“War, I assume,” was your answer, but you probed the skin beneath your right eye, just checking that it was still there.
Boom.
The corridor they’d left her in crumbled. Hermione let out a little shriek. Harry, who had always been too… good for his own good, pressed his lips together with sympathy. Fred jumped half a foot in the air and turned to go back.
You dragged him away. “Leave it, Fred. She’s already dead.”
“How can you not care about your future self dying?” demanded Ron.
”She knew what she was doing.” The look on her face was the same one you wore this morning in the mirror before Fred came up behind you and kissed your shoulder, albeit hidden behind several layers of blood and grime and with only one eye.
Besides, she wasn’t you anymore. Whatever happened to her that had been so terrible she traveled back in time would hopefully never come to pass now.
By the way she looked at Fred, you had an inkling of what it might be, but the thought was so terrible that your mind shied around it, hardly able to bear its full weight.
“You really are heartless,” Ron marveled.
Fred rounded on him. “Oi! Don’t talk to her that way!”
“It’s fine.” You touched his arm. Ron was only half-right. You did have a heart, but it didn’t beat in your chest. Fred carried it for you. He always had, even before you knew it.
“My clever, practical witch,” he said fondly, pulling you to his side. “So ruthless.”
True. To achieve your goals, you would do anything. You would kill. You would lie. You would die.
In fact, you’d already done all three.
The war was won in the forest, not that anyone knew it at the time.
Narcissa Malloy made a different choice. The body Hagrid carried back still lived. Neville wrenched the burning hat off his head in time, pulled Gryffindor’s sword from its depths, and lopped off the snake’s head. Hagrid’s brother Grawp and the Hogwarts hippogriffs drove away Voldemort’s giants before they could stomp the house-elves to death, so half of the Death Eaters collapsed with stabbed shins or sliced Achilles tendons. Hermione, Ginny, and Luna battled Bellatrix until Mrs. Weasley stepped in and killed her; McGonagall, Kingsley, and Slughorn did the same with Voldemort until Harry replaced them.
Voldemort toppled.
Harry stood between the columns of light the shattered windows let in, surrounded by dust swirling through the air.
A cheer shook the castle, but you didn’t join in. For some reason, you felt the urge to mourn.
“You all right, love?” Fred murmured into your ear.
You lifted the chain from around your neck. “What was it you said this morning?”
A grin played around the corners of his lips. “You clever, clever witch,” he repeated, “if we make it out of this alive…” The rings tumbled off the chain into your waiting palm. You picked up the larger one. Fred picked the smaller. “I’m going to marry you.”
Mrs. Weasley saw you slide the rings on each other’s fingers and burst into tears.
Sometimes you woke up with your right eye burning. Sometimes Fred looked like he was caught mid-laugh in his unmoving sleep.
Fred pointed out, rightfully, that Mrs. Weasley would murder him if you two eloped. You said she could take it up with you.
Summary: you and Fred have spent years at each other's throats, trading insults and glares across the pitch and in every corridor of Hogwarts. But when a careless moment in Potions earns you two a detention that threatens your places in the upcoming quidditch match, you're forced to do the one thing you've always avoided: work together.
inspired by the song: bad thing (bunny hop) by Ariana Grande. “have you been this fine? the whole damn time. this is a bad thing.”
Warnings/content: enemies to lovers, anyhouse!reader works (hufflepuff for this story), injured!reader, detention together, quidditch player!reader, protective!fred, he bandages your injury, fighting, physical fights, teasing, common room party, mentions of alcohol, slowburn, angst (ish), fluff, late night library sessions, kissing, bullying (not you), banter, tension, professor snape being harsh, crying, fred is actually a sweetie, arguments, mentions of blood (injury)
Wordcount: 13.5k
———
Dewdrops from this morning's rain clung to the glistening quidditch pitch under the late afternoon sun. You had sprinted across the castle grounds, robes billowing behind you like a golden banner, your broom clutched tightly in your hand.
Practice was supposed to have started ten minutes ago, and you were never late, never. The one time you had allowed yourself to linger in the library, pouring over Advanced Potion-Making for an upcoming examination, and now you were paying for it with the frantic heartbeat against your ribs.
But as you rounded the final corner, breathless and flushed, your steps faltered. The pitch was empty of yellow and black. Instead, a sea of crimson and gold dominated the field, players already mid-drill, their brooms cutting through the air with practiced precision.
You recognised Oliver Wood's commanding voice echoing across the pitch above, barking instructions to his teammates like a general rallying his troops.
Your furrowed your brows, confused as to why you heard his voice instead of your own captain's.
Cedric Diggory, ever the picture of composure, stood at the bottom of the pitch with the rest of your team, their brooms beside them, expressions ranging from mild annoyance to resigned acceptance. Susan Bones caught sight of you first, her face softening with sympathy as she waved you over.
"What happened? Where is everyone?" you asked, still catching your breath, your eyes darting between your teammates and the Gryffindors occupying the field with infuriating nonchalance. "Practice isn't cancelled, is it? We were meant to be here, I know we were—"
"Gryffindor booked the pitch," Cedric explained, his tone gentle, as if he were delivering news of a minor inconvenience rather than a complete upheaval of your carefully planned schedule. "Professor McGonagall approved it this morning, I think Wood wanted to urgently test a new formation before the match next week, extra training or something."
"Extra training?" you repeated, your voice climbing an octave. "But we were here first, we've had this slot reserved for weeks. They can't just—"
"Apparently, they can," Hannah Abbott interjected with a shrug, though her eyes flickered with the same frustration you felt. "Cedric already spoke to Professor Sprout about it, we've got the pitch tomorrow instead though."
You opened your mouth to protest further, every argument you could conjure dying on your tongue as the Gryffindor team began their descent from the sky.
Broom after broom touched down with practiced ease and you watched as they dismounted, their laughter and chatter carrying across the grass like taunts wrapped in merriment. Oliver Wood approached first, his expression apologetic as he addressed Cedric.
"Diggory, I really am sorry about this," Wood said, running a hand through his already windswept hair. "McGonagall approved it at the last minute. We wouldn't have—"
"Don't worry about it, Wood," Cedric replied with practiced diplomacy, extending a hand that the Gryffindor captain shook firmly. "We'll take tomorrow. Gives us a chance to study their weaknesses anyway."
A ripple of laughter passed between both teams, the shared camaraderie of players who understood the sacred rituals of the game.
You watched the exchange with growing irritation, not at Cedric, you could never truly be angry at Cedric, whose patience seemed as infinite as the castle's library—but at the sheer injustice of it all.
You had woken early for this, had forgone breakfast to ensure you arrived on time and had spent the entire morning mentally preparing your plays.
"Don't worry, Y/N, we've got tomorrow," Ernie Macmillan offered, clapping you on the shoulder with perhaps more enthusiasm than the situation warranted. "Besides, think of all the extra practice time you'll have to work on that new maneuver you've been perfecting."
"Right," you muttered, though your tone lacked conviction. "Extra practice time, wonderful."
It was then, that you saw a familiar figure.
Fred Weasley was sauntering past your group, beater's bat swung carelessly over one shoulder, and his broom in the other hand, his red hair catching the sunlight like a flame.
He walked with a particular confidence that seemed to come as naturally to him as breathing, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth that you had grown to despise over the years. But it was the way he looked at you, that infuriating glint in his warm hazel eyes that told you he knew precisely what you were thinking.
"Lovely weather for a fly, isn't it?" he remarked, stopping just beside you, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of broom polish and his natural scent, though you'd sooner die than admit you had catalogued such details. "Shame you won't be enjoying it, then again, I suppose tomorrow will have to do. Though I hear the weather's supposed to be dreadful. Fog, rain, maybe a bit of hail if we're lucky."
"Your concern for my practice schedule is touching, Weasley," you replied, your voice dripping with saccharine sweetness that fooled no one. "But I'll manage. We Hufflepuffs are remarkably resilient, it takes more than a stolen practice slot and some bad weather to rattle us."
"Stolen?" Fred pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense, though his eyes danced with amusement. "I'd hardly call it stolen. We simply... appropriated. There's a difference, Wood asked and McGonagall approved. The rest, as they say, is history."
"Convenient history," you shot back, stepping closer to him without quite meaning to. The move was instinctive, a gravitational pull toward conflict that had become second nature between you. "You obviously had something to do with this. Probably bribed McGonagall with some of those ghastly prank products you and Georgie are always peddling."
Fred's grin widened, an expression that made you want to simultaneously hex him and—no. You stopped that thought before it could fully form. There was no and, there was only irritation, frustration, and the satisfying fantasy of watching him get drenched by a particularly well-aimed water-making spell.
"I don't know what you're implying, Y/N," he said, drawing out your name in a way that made it sound like an inside joke you weren't privy to. "But if you're suggesting I would abuse my privileged access to the Hogwarts administration for personal gain, well, you know me so well."
"Ugh.", the sound escaped you before you could stop it, a guttural expression of pure exasperation. "Sometimes, Weasley, I want to—"
"Strangle that smug face?" he supplied helpfully, "Yes, I believe you've mentioned that before. Multiple times, in fact...you're remarkably consistent in your threats."
"Consistency is a virtue," you retorted, crossing your arms. "Though I suppose you wouldn't know much about that, given your attention span seems to rival that of a particularly distracted flobberworm."
He opened his mouth to reply but George appeared at his brother's side, clapping a hand on Fred's shoulder with enough force to make him stumble slightly, "Alright you two, as entertaining as this is, the rest of us would like to get back to the common room before dinner. We're starving, and I'm fairly certain Ron has already eaten half the snacks in our dorm."
"This isn't over Fred." you said, fixing Fred with what you hoped was a sufficiently intimidating glare.
"It's never over between us, is it?" he replied, his voice softer now, though the teasing glint remained in his eyes. "Wouldn't have it any other way, it would be terribly boring if it were."
"Sorry 'bout that Y/N, just ignore him, all the best for practice tomorrow." George, ever the mediator, attempted to defuse this conversation.
"Don't worry about it George, thanks anyhow." The corner of your lips curled up into a smile.
You watched him walk away, his laughter echoing across the pitch as George said something that made him throw his head back. The sound was surprisingly melodic, you realised, the kind of laugh that made people want to join in regardless of whether they knew what was funny.
Stop it, you told yourself firmly. You hate him, you've always disliked him.
Ever since that one quidditch match that started it all back in third year, two years had passed your feelings were still mutual. You've been at odds ever since that match, and you might just have to always be.
Back in third year, the quidditch pitch bathed in the honeyed glow of a summer afternoon, and you had been so singularly focused on the quaffle soaring toward the hoops that you hadn't registered the whistle of the bludger until Fred Weasley's broom collided with yours in a sickening crunch of wood and fabric, sending you both spiralling toward the ground in a tangle of flailing limbs and sharp curses.
You hit the ground with a jarring thud, the wind knocked clean from your lungs, and when you opened your eyes, you found yourself sprawled across Fred's chest, his face inches from yours, his hazel eyes wide with shock and close to amusement despite the obvious pain contorting his features.
For one suspended, breathless moment, you both simply stared at each other, your bodies pressed together in a way that was entirely too intimate, his hands having instinctively found your waist to steady you even as you pushed yourself off him with more force than necessary, scrambling to your feet and ignoring the way your cheeks had flushed a furious pink.
"I almost had that!" Fred huffed, scrambling upright and brushing grass from his robes with an air of exasperation that bordered on petulance.
You folded your arms across your chest, your jaw dropping in disbelief, he had just collided with you, sent you tumbling from the sky and he couldn't even be bothered to ask if you were alright?
"Excuse me?" you shot back.
"Well, if you weren't in the way, I would've hit the bludger!" he retorted, gesturing wildly at the sky as if the evidence of his near-triumph still hung in the air.
"In the way?" you repeated, "I was trying to catch the quaffle, you came out of nowhere!"
"I was looking out for the bludger, which is my job, in case you've forgotten how quidditch works! And by the way, I almost saved you from one!" Fred snapped, stepping closer, his chest nearly brushing yours as he squared up to you.
"Your job is to not crash into other players, Weasley!" you shot back, "Maybe you should try actually looking where you're going!"
"Maybe you should try staying out of the way of people who actually know what they're doing!" he countered, his voice rising to match yours, and you opened your mouth to deliver a scathing retort when Cedric and Oliver descended upon you both, their brooms kicking up clouds of grass as they landed between you like exasperated parents separating squabbling children.
The captains' voices overlapped in a symphony of stern reprimands about teamwork, discipline, and the importance of not killing each other during the match, but you barely heard them, too focused on the way Fred's jaw was clenched and the way his eyes never quite left yours even as he nodded along to Oliver's lecture.
"Well, if you could stay out of my way, that would be great, Fred," you finally snapped, your voice cutting through the captains' scolding like a blade, and the way his name fell from your lips felt sharper than any hex you could have thrown.
He smiled then, a tight, forced expression that didn't quite reach his eyes, almost like satisfaction, like he'd been waiting for you to say something, anything, that would keep this fire burning between you.
"And I will happily do that," he shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he leaned in just slightly, just enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, "Wouldn't want to be anywhere near you."
Since then, you had somehow managed to get along with everyone, except him.
As your friends gathered around you, their voices a comforting hum of reassurances and plans for tomorrow, you found your gaze drifting back to the retreating figure of Fred Weasley.
He had his arm slung around George's shoulders, and they were laughing at something, their heads close together in that way twins had of communicating without words.
He looked back.
Just this once, just for a moment, his eyes met yours across the distance.
George tugged him forward, and the moment was gone, leaving you with nothing but the echo of his gaze and an uncomfortable flutter in your chest that you refused to acknowledge. It was probably from all that running earlier.
___
Timeskip:
Hogwarts' corridors' were blessedly quiet the next morning after your Hufflepuff quidditch training, most students either still in the Great Hall finishing breakfast or already in their classes.
You had chosen to walk a more circuitous route to potions, partly to enjoy the solitude and partly because you had heard that the bullies who occasionally lurked near the Charms corridor had been particularly active lately, and you wanted to stop them.
Three fifth-year slytherins, their robes pristine and their expressions cruel, had cornered a small first-year slytherin against the stone wall near the staircase to the dungeons.
The slytherin girl was clutching a battered copy of A History of Magic to her chest like a shield, her eyes wide with unshed tears as the tallest of the boys snatched her wand from her trembling fingers.
"Let her go," you said, your voice sharp enough to cut through the corridor's silence. The three boys turned, their sneers faltering as they recognised you.
You weren't particularly intimidating, your hufflepuff badge seemed to negate any reputation for toughness before you could even establish one, but there was something in your voice that made them pause.
"This doesn't concern you," the tallest one said, his lip curling. He was broad-shouldered and clearly used to getting his way through brute force. "Run along to your little badger friends, why don't you?"
"I said let her go." You stepped forward, placing yourself between the bullies and the first-year. "Now."
"Or what?" the second boy sneered, crossing his arms. "You'll tell a professor? We'll just deny it, whose word do you think they'll believe, ours, or some first-year's?"
"Funny," you said, your voice calm but your eyes blazing. "I was just thinking the same thing. Except I was wondering whose word they'd believe, three known troublemakers with disciplinary records a mile long, or two students, one of whom has a perfect academic record and enough prefect friends to make your lives thoroughly miserable." You paused, letting the threat sink in. "The answer seems fairly obvious to me. Now give her back her wand and we'll pretend this never happened."
The boys exchanged glances, clearly weighing their options. The tallest one's jaw tightened, and for a moment you thought he might try to push past you. But then he huffed, tossed the wand at the first-year's feet, and stalked off with his friends in tow.
"You're lucky," he muttered as he passed you. "Next time, your little friend won't have you around as bodyguard."
"Luck had nothing to do with it," you called after him, your voice steady. "And if I catch you bothering anyone else, there won't be a 'next time.' I promise you that."
When they were gone, you turned to the first-year, whose trembling had subsided to a mere shake. Her eyes were still shiny, but the tears had begun to recede, replaced by a tentative relief. You crouched down to her level, retrieving her wand from the floor and pressing it gently into her hands.
"They're just jealous, you know," you said, your voice warm and steady. "When people pick on you for no reason, it's because they feel small inside. They see something in you that they lack, bravery, perhaps, or kindness, or intelligence. And rather than working to build those qualities in themselves, they try to tear you down instead."
The girl blinked at you. "Really? But I'm just...I'm nobody. I'm not brave, I'm not smart, I'm not—"
"You are brave," you interrupted, not unkindly. "You attempted to stand up to them, didn't you? It takes courage to face people like that, even when you're scared. And you're kind, I can see that. You didn't fight back or try to hurt them, even though you could have. And I'd bet you're smarter than you give yourself credit for." You gestured to the book she was clutching. "You're already reading ahead. That's not something a 'nobody' does."
The girl's cheeks flushed with color, but there was a small smile tugging at her lips now. "You really think so?"
"I know so," you said firmly, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Now, off you go. I think you've got a Charms class to get to, don't you?"
The girl nodded, clutching her wand and book to her chest. She hesitated for just a moment, then threw her arms around you in a quick, fierce hug before darting away down the corridor.
You watched her go, a warm feeling spreading through your chest. It was a small thing, helping her, but small things had a way of adding up.
Someone had done the same for you once, back when you were a first-year, new to Hogwarts and terrified of everything. You still remembered her face, the way she had smiled and said, "Don't worry, it gets easier." Her name was—
"Aw, look at that. The great Y/N Y/L/N, terror of the quidditch pitch, reduced to a puddle of maternal feelings."
The voice came from behind you, and you felt your body tense involuntarily before you even turned around. Of course, of course it was him.
Fred stood leaning against the wall, his arms crossed and that infuriating smirk firmly in place. He must have come from the corridor behind you, which meant he'd been watching the entire exchange.
"What did you tell her?" he asked, pushing off from the wall and strolling toward you. "Some snide remark to scare her away from you? Did you threaten to hex her if she didn't start doing your homework?"
"I told her that Fred Weasley is an arse," you replied without missing a beat, turning to face him fully. "I thought it was best she learned the truth early, so she'd know who to avoid."
Fred's eyebrows shot up, and then he laughed. It was the same laugh you'd heard on the pitch, the one that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest and make you want to join in despite every logical reason not to.
"Ouch," he said, pressing a hand to his chest. "And after I was just starting to think you might actually have a heart under all that quidditch-obsessed exterior. I saw you with that first-year, you know. The whole 'you're brave and kind and smart' speech, very touching, almost made me tear up."
"Don't you have somewhere to be, Weasley?" you asked, your voice flat even as your cheeks flushed slightly. "Class, perhaps? Or are you planning to spend the whole morning lurking in corridors, eavesdropping on private conversations?"
"Lurking is such a grotesque word," Fred said, falling into step beside you as you began walking toward the Potions classroom. "I prefer 'strategically positioned observation.', it sounds more professional."
"You're irritating."
"Irritating?" He considered this. "I've been called worse. Usually by you, actually. 'Insufferable,' 'infuriating,' 'the most annoying person I've ever met', those are favourites of yours, if I recall correctly."
"Only because they're accurate."
"See, this is what I love about our conversations," Fred continued, seemingly unbothered by your hostility. "You never hold back, it's refreshing, really. Most people just agree with me because they're intimidated by my charm."
Your steps faltered. "Intimidated? By you? Weasley, the only thing about you that's intimidating is your inability to stop talking."
"Ah, but you always listen, don't you?" He grinned, and it was such an infuriatingly confident expression that you had to actively resist the urge to hex him. "You could have walked away at any point but you're still here, having this conversation with me. Fascinating, isn't it?"
You opened your mouth to retort, then closed it again. Because he was right. You hadn't walked away, though you could have, should have, but instead you were walking side by side with Fred toward a classroom you both had to be in, exchanging insults like they were part of some elaborate dance.
"I'm only still here because we have the same class," you said finally, your voice clipped. "It has nothing to do with you or your supposed charm."
"Whatever you say, Y/N." His voice was light, almost teasing. "Whatever you say."
When you reached the Potions classroom, Fred swept ahead of you and held the door open with an elaborate flourish. "Ladies first," he said, his tone dripping with exaggerated gallantry.
"After you," you replied, your smile just as fake as his. "I wouldn't want you to miss a single moment of Snape's delightful lecture."
"I insist." He gestured you forward, his eyes dancing with mirth. "I was raised to be a gentleman, after all. My mother would never forgive me if I let a lady walk into the metaphorical lion's den without me."
You stepped past him, your shoulder brushing against his chest in a way that was probably accidental but felt strangely intentional. The contact lasted only a moment, but you felt the warmth of him even through the thick fabric of your robes.
"Thank you," you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them. It was a reflex, the ingrained politeness your mother had drilled into you since childhood. And yet, as you took your seat at the potions table, you found that you meant it.
Fred slid into his seat across from you, "Anytime," he said, voice softer.
George dropped into the seat beside his brother, followed by Lee Jordan at another table, and the moment was gone.
"For today's lesson," Professor Snape announced, his voice cutting through the room like a blade, "we will be examining the properties of the Draught of Living Death. Can anyone tell me the primary ingredient?"
Katie's hand shot up immediately, but Snape's gaze swept past her, as she had been answering all the questions lately. "Anyone who is not Miss Bell?"
Fred's hand went up. You blinked, genuinely surprised. Fred Weasley, volunteering to answer a question in Potions? It seemed as unlikely as a Malfoy being nice to a Weasley.
"Yes, Mr. Weasley?" Snape's tone was skeptical.
"Powdered root of asphodel," Fred replied confidently. "The trick is the sequence of the stirring, counter-clockwise for the first six minutes, then clockwise for two, then the root has to be added at exactly the right moment or the whole thing turns into a mess."
He paused, a grin spreading across his face. "It's a bit like Quidditch, actually. You have to time everything perfectly. One wrong move and—"
"Indeed," Snape cut him off, his expression souring at the mention of the sport. "While Mr. Weasley's analogy is... creative, I would remind you all that Potions is a precise art, not a children's game played on brooms."
The class erupted into whispers and snickers. George and Lee were leaning forward, already building on Fred's comparison with wild gestures and suppressed laughter. "See, the stirring is like the seekers," George was saying, "always circling, waiting for the right moment. And the cauldron—"
"Is the quaffle," Lee added, slapping the table in glee. "Because it's round and your success depends on—"
"Alright, that's enough." Snape's voice thundered over them, and the laughter died instantly. "If you have quite finished, perhaps we can return to the matter at hand. The Draught of Living Death is not a game, it is a notoriously difficult potion that requires patience, precision, and an understanding of magical properties, qualities that are clearly in short supply in this room."
You watched the exchange with a mixture of exasperation and reluctant amusement. The Weasley twins had a talent for turning even the most serious lessons into spectacles, and Snape's obvious irritation only seemed to fuel their enthusiasm.
It was impossible not to be drawn into their orbit, even when you wanted nothing more than to focus on the lesson.
A crumpled piece of parchment then landed on your desk.
You glanced up sharply, Fred was looking at Snape with an expression of exaggerated attention, but you caught the subtle wiggle of his eyebrows, the barely suppressed grin. You glared at him, then looked down at the note.
"Spoiler alert: Gryffindor wins the match next week. ;)"
The note was written in a looping, messy hand that you'd seen on too many prank products to mistake. You felt a flush of irritation, or something like irritation, creep up your neck. He had no right to be this confident, especially not after what had happened at practice two days ago. Your hand moved automatically, writing a response before your brain could catch up.
"You wish. ;)"
The note sailed back across the table, landing neatly in front of Fred just as Snape turned to write instructions on the blackboard. You saw Fred glance down, read the message, and produce a grin so wide it seemed to split his face. Then he was scribbling again, and another piece of parchment was making its way toward you.
"You know, people might start to think you enjoy this. All this note-passing, very romantic."
Your eyes widened. Romantic? You nearly crumpled the note on the spot, but something stopped you. Something about the way the words seemed to shimmer with teasing energy, the way you could practically hear his voice in your head. Instead, you uncapped your quill and wrote: "In your dreams, Weasley. I'd rather date a Bludger."
"That can be arranged, I know a few that would be very interested."
"I'm sure you do, you seem to have a talent for attracting things that hit you in the head."
"Mr. Weasley. Miss Y/L/N."
Snape's voice cut through the classroom like a whip, and your blood went cold. The entire class seemed to turn in unison, all eyes fixed on you and Fred. You could feel the heat rising up your neck, staining your cheeks with an unmistakable blush.
"Yes, Professor?" Fred asked, his voice perfectly innocent.
"I asked you to identify the next step in the creation of the Draught of Living Death," Snape said, his tone dangerously quiet. "I assume you were too occupied with your...correspondence...to pay attention."
Snape swooped down on your table in a swish of black robes, and before either of you could react, he had snatched the parchment note from your desk. His eyes scanned it rapidly, and his expression grew even more forbidding.
"How delightful," he hissed. "Sending love letters around my classroom, are we? I suppose I should be flattered that you find my lessons so romantically inspiring."
The class snickered. Someone, you suspected Lee Jordan, let out a low whistle. You and Fred both opened your mouths to protest simultaneously.
"It's not like that, Professor!" you said, your voice a little too high. "It's just—"
"We weren't—" Fred started.
"Silence!" Snape's voice cracked through the air. "I have heard enough. You will both stay after class."
"But Professor—" you began.
"After class, Miss Y/L/N," Snape repeated, his tone brooking no argument. "Unless you would prefer to see your Head of House."
You closed your mouth, swallowing the protest that was already forming on your tongue. The last thing you wanted was to disappoint Professor Sprout, who had been nothing but supportive of your studies and your Quidditch ambitions. You glared at Fred across the table, silently blaming him for the entire situation.
He had the audacity to shrug, his expression an infuriating mix of apology and amusement.
When the rest of the class had filed out—Gabriella, one of your ravenclaw friends, shooting you a sympathetic look as she passed, George winking at his brother with obvious curiosity. You and Fred stood before Snape's desk like miscreants awaiting judgment.
"You find this amusing, Mr. Weasley?" Snape asked, his gaze fixed on Fred's still-smirking face.
"Not at all, Professor," Fred replied, though the grin hadn't quite left his eyes. "I assure you, this is a grave situation."
Snape's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Indeed. The two of you appear to have forgotten that Hogwarts is an institution of learning, not a...a courtship display. And now I find myself in the position of having to decide how to handle your enthusiasm."
"We weren't—" you started, but Snape raised a hand, cutting you off.
"I have a solution," he continued, his voice clipped. "You are both due to play in the upcoming Quidditch match, I believe?"
Your heart sank, you knew where this was going. "Professor, please—"
"I will give you a choice," Snape said, his eyes glinting with a mixture of malice and satisfaction. "You may either forfeit your place in the match, or you may write a ten-thousand-word essay on the history and importance of Potions in magical theory. That will be due by the day of the match."
"You can't do that!" The words burst out of you before you could stop them. "The match, we've been training for weeks, the whole team is counting on—"
"Then I suggest you choose wisely, Miss Y/L/N." Snape's tone was utterly unsympathetic. "A forfeit, or an essay. Those are your options."
Fred opened his mouth, and you could see the arguments forming on his tongue. But then he looked at you and closed his mouth again.
"We'll take the essay," you said, surprising yourself as much as anyone else. "The ten-thousand-word one."
Snape's eyebrows rose. "An unexpected choice, I had assumed you both would opt out of writing an essay."
"We don't want to let our teammates down," you said quietly. "If I can't play, that's one thing, but I won't be the reason the Hufflepuff team is short a player."
Beside you, Fred nodded slowly. "Same for me. The essay's not ideal, but at least George and the others can still play."
Snape surveyed the two of you with an unreadable expression. "Very well, the essay is due by next Friday. And if either of you attempts to pass off work that is anything less than thorough, I will know."
"Yes professor," you and Fred said in unison.
The moment you stepped out of the classroom, you rounded on him. "This is your fault, Weasley, you and your stupid notes."
"My stupid notes?" Fred turned to you, "You were the one who kept responding, you could have just ignored me."
"Like I could ignore a bludger to the head," you shot back. "Your notes are about as subtle as one."
"You seemed to enjoy it well enough." He fell into step beside you as you marched through the corridor, his long legs easily matching your pace. "You certainly wrote back quickly, I thought you hated me."
"I do hate you." The words came out automatically, but there was something hollow in them, something that didn't quite ring true. "I hate you and your jokes and your stupid notes that are going to take me the rest of the week to write."
Fred grinned. "We could write them together, you know. Two heads are better than one, as they say. Imagine the time we'd save."
"I'd rather write the whole thing myself than have you ruining my work with your opinions."
"You underestimate me." But he was still smiling. "Although...speaking of opinions, I should probably get started on that essay. If I'm going to have to actually write something educational, I might need to borrow some books from the library." He paused, tilting his head at you. "Unless you want to join me?"
For a moment, you considered it. The thought of spending more time in Fred Weasley's company was equal parts appealing and terrifying, a combination you couldn't quite make sense of.
But you had your own essay to write, and the idea of having someone to work with, even someone as irritating as Fred, was strangely appealing.
"Maybe...I'll think about it," you said finally. "But you better not send any more notes."
"Wouldn't dream of it." His grin was impossible to trust.
---
The next week passed in a blur of late nights in the library and increasingly desperate attempts to research the history of potions.
You had taken Fred up on his offer to work together, though you'd insisted on meeting in the library rather than the Gryffindor common room. The library had rules, silence and a complete lack of Fred's brothers, all of which seemed conducive to actually getting work done.
But the library was also crowded, and finding a quiet corner was nearly impossible. And so, three days before the essay was due, you found yourself sitting at a table in the library's back corner, surrounded by stacks of books and parchment, while Fred sat opposite you in a similarly disheveled state.
It was late, well past midnight, and the library was empty except for the two of you and Madam Pince, who had given up on shooing you out hours ago. The candles flickered low, casting shadows across the pages of the books you'd been staring at for what felt like years.
You'd barely written three thousand words.
"Why did we agree to this again?" you muttered, your head dropping to the table with a soft thunk. "Snape is a monster, a brilliant, terrifying, essay-demanding monster."
Fred's laughter was low and tired, "You really want to know? Because I could have sworn you'd say 'I told you so' if I tried to suggest we avoid it."
"Always," you said into the table. "I would absolutely say I told you so. Because I did tell you so, I told you so many times."
"And yet, here you are," Fred said, and when you lifted your head, he was looking at you with something that might have been fondness in his eyes. "Having a tea break with your sworn enemy."
"Not my sworn enemy," you corrected automatically. "Just...the person I dislike most at this school."
"I'm touched." He rolled his eyes. "To be your least favourite person in a school full of people is quite an honour."
"I'm glad you appreciate it," you said dryly, sitting up straight and stretching your arms over your head. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to find a book on the history of potion-making. I can't keep citing the same three sources over and over again."
You pushed back from the table and made your way to the stacks, your footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. The library had always been your sanctuary, a place where you could escape from the pressures of school and the chaos of the common room.
Tonight, though, it felt different and restless, especially with the essay due soon.
You found the book you were looking for on the top shelf, far out of reach. You stretched, but your fingers barely grazed the spine. For a moment, you considered using a Summoning Charm, but you'd had a long day and your concentration was shot. You could barely manage a simple Levitation Charm right now.
"Need a hand?" Fred's voice came from behind you, and you jumped, nearly knocking over a stack of books. He was standing much closer than you'd expected, his tall frame blocking the dim light from the corridor.
"I can manage," you said, but even as the words left your mouth, you knew they weren't true. The book was stubbornly out of reach, and every time you stretched for it, your muscles screamed in protest.
Fred smiled, then reached up and pulled the book down with ease. He was so close that you could feel the warmth radiating from him.
"Here," he said softly, placing the book in your hands. "Is there anything else you need given your lack of height?"
You scoffed then looked up at him, your eyes meeting his. He was so close, close enough that you could see the flecks of green in his hazel eyes, the faint stubble along his jaw.
You had hated him for so long, had convinced yourself that he was everything you despised, arrogant, loud, infuriating. But right now, in the soft candlelight of the library, with his hand barely brushing yours, he didn't seem like any of those things.
He seemed like someone entirely different, someone you hadn't let yourself see before.
"Thank you, Fred," you said softly, and the words felt different on your tongue.
His eyes widened slightly at your tone, head tilting, awaiting another jab or retort from you, but nothing came. Then he stepped back, and the moment was over, but you couldn't shake the feeling that there had been a shift in the space between you.
By the time you returned to the table, your hands were trembling slightly, and you couldn't meet his eyes. You sat down opposite him, the book in your lap, and tried to focus on the words.
Ten minutes passed.
Then twenty.
You were so tired that your thoughts were becoming hazy, and you felt your eyelids drooping. The words on the page blurred together, and you caught yourself nodding off more than once. Beside you, Fred was similarly exhausted, his head bobbing as he tried to stay awake.
"Maybe we should call it a night," he said finally, his voice slurred with sleep. "We won't be much good to anyone if we can't keep our eyes open."
"Just a few more minutes," you said, but even as you spoke, your head was already dropping toward the table.
When you next opened your eyes, it was to the soft sound of someone breathing deeply beside you. The library was dark, the candles had burned low, leaving only the faint glow of the moonlight filtering through the windows, and Fred was asleep.
He was hunched over the table, his face half-hidden in the crook of his elbow. His hair was mussed, his robes rumpled, and there was a smudge of ink on his cheek.
He looked younger somehow, less like the arrogant prankster you'd always despised and more like a tired student trying to get through a difficult week.
Your chest softened, your lips subconsiously curving up into a smile.
You had a blanket in your bag, you'd brought it on a whim, knowing the library could get cold at night. Without thinking, you draped it gently over his shoulders, careful not to wake him. He stirred slightly, murmuring something unintelligible, then settled back into sleep.
"Sleep tight, Fred," you whispered, and the words came out softer than you'd intended.
It was only when you turned to gather your own things that you realised you'd made it halfway through the book without even reading a word.
You'd been too focused on him, on the way his chest rose and fell with each breath, on the way his eyelashes cast shadows across his cheeks.
This was a problem, you weren't supposed to notice things like that or even pay attention to him.
As you slipped out of the library, leaving Fred to his dreams and your blanket draped over his shoulders, you felt an energy change between the two of you.
___
You found him the next afternoon in the corridor outside the Great Hall, and for the first time, he didn't immediately launch into a joke or a sly remark. Instead, he grinned, free of mockery, and fell into step beside you.
"I wanted to thank you," he said, his voice oddly sincere. "For the blanket. It was surprisingly...thoughtful of you. I didn't realise you had enough kindness left for me."
"I don't," you said quickly, trying to brush it off. "It was just...you looked cold. It was an impulse."
"Impulsive kindness?" He raised an eyebrow, and there was a hint of his usual teasing in the gesture. "That sounds like something a hufflepuff would say."
"You say that like it's an insult."
"Not at all." He was smiling again, the expression surprisingly warm. "I was just wondering...I mean, I know you've got the team to consider, and I know we're supposed to be rivals... but I was thinking, since we're almost done, maybe we could properly finish the essay together. After class, we could meet in the Gryffindor common room, if you wanted. There's plenty of space, and we'd be able to concentrate better than in the library."
You hesitated, the Gryffindor common room, with Fred. It was one thing to work together in a neutral space like the library, it was quite another to go into his territory, surrounded by his friends and the echoes of his laughter.
But you were tired, and the essay was due soon, and you figured that two heads of ideas were better than one.
"Fine," you said. "But I'm bringing my own quill, I don't trust anything you've touched."
Fred chuckled, "Whatever floats your boat."
___
You'd expected the gryffindor common room to be crowded, the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open to reveal a warm, bustling space filled with plush armchairs and roaring fires.
You hadn't anticipated the sheer volume of people who seemed to fill every available inch of floor space. Students were sprawled across sofas, lounging on cushions, and perched on tables, their voices rising in a cacophony of laughter and arguments.
And then they saw you.
"Y/N?" George's voice cut through the noise, his expression one of pure shock. "What are you doing here?"
"Don't sound so surprised," Fred said, stepping past you with an air of deliberate casualness. "She's here for the essay, we're working on it together."
"You're...you're actually working together?" Ron, who had been sitting in one of the armchairs with Harry, nearly dropped the chocolate frog he was holding. "Since when?"
"Since we realised it would be faster if we collaborated on this detention task," you said, your voice steady even as every eye in the room seemed to fix on you. "We're both capable of putting aside our differences for the sake of not failing Potions."
Ron and George exchanged a look that was far too knowing for your comfort. "Differences," George repeated slowly, a grin spreading across his face. "Is that what you call it?"
"Shut it, George," Fred said, but there was no heat in his voice. "Y/N's our guest, try to behave like civilised human beings for once."
"Civilised?" Harry's eyebrows shot up. "We're talking about you, Fred."
"Not in front of the guest, please." Fred put a hand over his heart in mock offense. "I have a reputation to maintain."
The room dissolved into laughter, and you found yourself smiling despite everything. It was impossible not to, surrounded by the easy warmth of the Gryffindors.
Hermione, who had been curled up in a chair by the fire, waved you over with a welcoming smile and Ginny moved to make space for you on the sofa.
"You'll have to excuse them," Ginny said, rolling her eyes in the direction of her brothers. "They've never quite learned how to behave around new people."
"We're not new," you pointed out. "I've known them for years."
"Ah, but you've never been a guest before." Ginny's grin was knowing. "There's a difference, and I think that's what's making them all a bit... confused."
"Confused?" You couldn't help but ask.
"They can't figure out if they're supposed to be teasing you or welcoming you," Ginny explained. "Normally they'd just tease you, but since Fred brought you here, it's changed the dynamic."
You felt your cheeks flush at the implication. "It's just for the essay," you said quickly. "Fred and I are still..."
"Sworn enemies?" Ginny finished, her expression unreadable. "Sure, that's why you're sitting here, in our common room, surrounded by gryffindors, talking to me about your mysterious rivalry."
"I'm not—" you started, but Ginny cut you off with a wave of her hand.
"Relax," she said. "I'm just teasing, it's nice to see you two not at each other's throats for once. Honestly, it was exhausting watching the two of you bicker all the time."
"You're not the only one," you muttered, but there was no real heat in it. "It's always been that way, though. Since that quidditch match."
"Ah, the infamous quidditch match." Ginny leaned forward, a glint in her eyes. "You know, Fred never told me exactly what happened. Just that you accused each other and it escalated from there."
"It wasn't exactly a proud moment," you admitted. "We clashed at wrong times, and I guess...both too proud to admit our faults." Now realising how petty this whole thing sounded, and how easily it could have been avoided.
Ginny's eyebrows rose, trying to hold back laughter. "That's it? That's the whole reason you've been at war with each other for years?"
"It's not the whole reason," you said, though you weren't quite sure what else there was. "It's just...we got used to hating each other, it became a habit."
"Interesting." Ginny's expression shifted, becoming thoughtful. "You know, I've never heard Fred talk about anyone as much as he talks about you. Always complaining about how annoying you are, how you never back down, how you're too stubborn for your own good... but he never stops talking about you."
You blinked. "That's...that's not exactly a compliment."
"Maybe not the way you're hearing it," Ginny said. "But trust me, for Fred? It is."
___
The next few hours passed quickly, buried in research and writing. Though the common room was chaotic, you and Fred somehow managed to carve out a corner of the space for yourselves, spreading books and parchment across a low table near the fire. The others respected your need for quiet, mostly, though you caught more than a few curious glances in your direction.
"We should work on the section about the importance of potions in magical history," Fred said, his quill scratching across the parchment. "I found a reference to a hundred-year-old potion that was essential to the defense of some magical community in the sixteenth century, it might give us a good foundation."
You glanced up from your own research, surprised. "That's actually a good idea, I was going to focus on the evolution of potion-making techniques, but I hadn't thought of connecting it to historical examples."
Fred grinned. "See? Two heads are better than one, I told you we'd be a good team."
"Don't get too comfortable," you warned, but your voice was softer than you'd intended. "We still have another two thousand words to go, and I'm not carrying you through the whole thing."
"Right, cause I'll be carrying you through it instead," Fred teased, and his eyes met yours across the table. In the flickering firelight, his expression seemed less adverse.
George appeared, snapping you out of your gaze, dropping a plate of sandwiches onto the table with a loud clatter. "Figured you two might be hungry," he said, his grin far too knowing. "Can't write an essay on an empty stomach, right?"
"Thanks, George," you said, tearing your gaze away from Fred. "That's very thoughtful."
"Of course it is." George winked. "I'm always thoughtful, especially when my brother seems to have finally found someone who can match his level of stubbornness."
"We're not—" you started.
"It's just for the essay," Fred finished, his voice slightly strained. "We're not anything."
"Of course you're not." George's grin widened, before remaining neutral. "Not anything at all, that's why you've been staring at each other for the last five minutes without saying a word."
"We weren't!"
"Staring?" George repeated. "No, of course not, you were just looking intently at each other, in a completely platonic way."
"George, I swear to Merlin—"
"Fine, fine." George held up his hands in surrender, but he was still grinning. "I'll leave you two to your 'completely platonic' essay-writing. Just don't forget that the common room has eyes, and ears, and a very healthy appetite for gossip."
When he had retreated to the other side of the room, you and Fred exchanged a glance that was equal parts embarrassment and reluctant amusement.
"Your brother is entertaining," you said.
"He really is," Fred agreed. "But he also usually has the tendency to be right, about...about a lot of things." Fred trailed off, not wanting to imply anything.
You felt your cheeks flush again. "Right about what, exactly?"
Fred hesitated, his eyes searching yours. "I don't know," he said slowly. "You'll have to ask him.
___
After what felt like eons, you and Fred walked side by side toward Snape's office the day of the quidditch match, the completed essay clutched in your hands like a trophy, your steps light with the giddiness of having finally conquered the impossible.
"I can't believe we actually did it," you said, your voice tinged with disbelief and no small amount of pride, "Ten thousand words, ten thousand words about potions."
"I still can't believe I managed to write ten thousand words about anything that wasn't a prank," Fred grinned, nudging your shoulder with his, "My mother would be so proud, or horrified, probably both."
You laughed, the sound bright and easy, and for a moment you allowed yourself to forget about the match, about the rivalry, about everything except the simple pleasure of having finished something monumental together.
Neither of you noticed the small first-year boy who scurried past, his wand pointed downward, his lips moving in a whispered incantation he'd found in a dusty book somewhere. His aim was far less precise than his enthusiasm, and his spell bounced onto the corner of your essays, a faint shimmer of light that faded almost instantly, leaving no trace behind.
You kept walking, your conversation flowing as naturally as the breeze through the open window, the parchment still clutched in your hands, still proudly clutched, still, except the ink had begun to dissolve, the words bleeding away like watercolours in rain, vanishing into the fibers of the paper as if they'd never been written at all.
The boy disappeared around a corner, already forgotten, and you and Fred strolled on, utterly unaware that the essay you were so proud of had become nothing more than blank parchment, the evidence of your hard work erased in a single careless moment.
"I think Snape might actually be impressed," Fred mused, his voice warm with optimism, "I know, I know, it's a long shot. But we actually put effort into this."
"Let's just get this over with before he changes his mind and makes us write another one." Fred knocked with exaggerated confidence, his grin wide as Snape's voice called for entry, and when you stepped inside the dim, potion-scented office, you couldn't help but feel a surge of triumph, this was it, the moment you'd been working toward all week.
"Professor Snape," you announced, holding out the essay with both hands like an offering, "We've completed the essay, ten thousand words, as requested."
Snape took the parchment from you with a curt nod, his eyes scanning you two.
"Well done," he said, his voice flat and unimpressed.
"Thank you." you and Fred exchanged a look of barely contained glee, he'd said well done, well done, the words that meant you were free, that you'd actually managed to impress the most unimpressible professor in Hogwarts.
"Thank you, Professor," you said, already turning to leave, already planning how you'd celebrate, how you'd finally get to play in the match after all this—
"Wait." Snape's voice cut through the air and you froze mid-step, your heart lurching as you turned back to face him, "What is the meaning of this, Weasley? Y/L/N? Some kind of joke?"
"I'm sorry, Professor?" you said, your voice suddenly small, confusion knitting your brow as you watched him hold up the blank parchments, his expression dark with barely contained fury. "Where is the real essay?" he demanded, his voice rising, and he turned the paper around to face you, blank, utterly blank, the parchment as empty as the day you'd first pulled it from the shelf.
"That's...that's impossible," you stammered, stepping forward, your hands trembling as you reached for the paper, "We wrote it, we spent all week on it, I swear, Professor, it was there—"
"You expect me to believe that?" Snape's voice was cold, dismissive, his eyes boring into you with the kind of contempt that made your stomach drop, "You think you can waltz in here with a blank piece of parchment and claim it was a ten-thousand-word essay?"
"But it was," Fred interjected, his voice tight with frustration, "We spent hours on it, we researched, we wrote, we—"
"I know what a completed essay looks like, Weasley," Snape interrupted, his voice dripping with disdain, "And this is not it."
"This is a pathetic attempt at avoiding the consequences of your actions." He continued.
You stared at the blank parchment, your mind racing, and then it hit you, the first-year, the boy who had scurried past with his wand, the murmured incantation you'd barely registered in your excitement!
"Wait- er, there was a student," you said, your voice gaining urgency, "A first-year, he was casting something, some kind of spell, he must have hit our essay—"
"A first-year," Snape repeated flatly, and you could hear the disbelief in his voice, the utter dismissal of what you were saying, "You expect me to believe that a first-year managed to cast a spell powerful enough to erase an entire essay without you noticing?"
"He was trying to do a dissipation charm," Fred said, his voice desperate now, "I heard him, he was practicing, he must have gotten the incantation right somehow."
"Enough." Snape's voice cut through the air like a whip, and you flinched, your heart sinking as he fixed you both with a look of pure disappointment, "I expected better from you, Miss Y/L/N. I know Weasley is not academically...reliable, that's hardly new, but you? You have always been a diligent student. And yet here you are, standing before me with a blank piece of parchment, concocting stories about first-years and accidental spells."
"Please, Professor," you said, your voice cracking slightly, the tears you'd been fighting pricking at the corners of your eyes, "We're telling the truth."
"I'm sorry," Snape said, and his voice was almost gentle now, which somehow made it worse, "But without the essay, there's no proof that you completed the assignment."
"And without the assignment..." He paused, letting the words hang in the air, "I'm afraid it'll have to be no Quidditch for either of you."
"What?" The word burst out of you two, desperate, "No, Professor, please, the match is in a few hours—"
"I'm sorry," Snape repeated, and this time there was no gentleness in his voice, only finality, "You may leave."
You walked out of Snape's office in a daze, the blank parchment still clutched in your hands like a death sentence, and you didn't realise you were crying until Fred's hand found your shoulder, comforting you in a gesture that felt more like an anchor than anything else.
"It's not fair," you whispered, your voice breaking, "We did the work. We did everything right."
"I know," Fred said, and his voice was tight with barely suppressed anger, "I know. But there's nothing we can do now. He's made up his mind."
"But the match—"
"I know." He then squeezed your hand, and you felt the warmth of him through the fog of your despair, "We'll just have to watch from the sidelines, like we planned, missing one game won't be the end of the world."
"It feels like it is," you said, and Fred pulled you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you with a gentleness that surprised you, and you buried your face in his chest, letting yourself be held. You didn't even care that he was hugging you, it barely registered, you were too focused on your current disaster.
"At least we went down together," he murmured into your hair, his voice barely a whisper, "That's got to count for something."
___
You stood in the Gryffindor tent with Fred, watching the game unfold through the canvas flaps. The sky was clear, sun warm on your skin, but you couldn't feel any of it. All you could think about was the essay, the blank pages, the lost words, the chance that had been taken from you.
"We should be out there," you said, your voice hollow. "We should be playing."
"I know." Fred's voice was equally subdued. "But at least we get to watch."
"It's not the same," you said, and you hated the bitterness in your voice. "We trained for weeks, we worked so hard and now..."
"But that doesn't mean we can't still enjoy it. Right?" Fred softly comforted, "Chocolate frog?" He offered, taking one out of his bag. "Ron bought heaps."
"No thanks, maybe next time." You managed a smile, looking at him.
He was trying so hard to be positive, to make the best of a bad situation. And despite everything, you found yourself grinning.
"You're right Fred," you said. "I'm glad we could at least be here to support your friends." just then, his chocolate frog jumped on you and you laughed.
"Hey, I think he likes you." Fred complimented, holding the box in his hands still.
"Would be hard not to." You teased, grabbing the chocolate frog off your shoulder and onto your hands.
___
The match ended in a tie. The golden snitch had escaped capture all afternoon, and when the sun began to set, and the players were too exhausted to continue, the captains called a draw.
It was the best possible outcome.
Both teams decided that a celebration was due, taking place in the Hufflepuff common room later this evening, where there was more space and easier access to the kitchens.
A pile of discarded robes scattered across your bed like fallen leaves. You held up a deep burgundy dress robe, then discarded it in favour of a soft cream-colored tunic with delicate embroidery along the sleeves, then immediately second-guessed that choice and reached for the first one again, your reflection staring back at you with an expression of pure frustration.
"You've been standing there for twenty minutes," Hannah observed from her perch on the edge of your bed, her voice laced with barely concealed amusement as she watched you hold the burgundy dress up to your chin for the fourth time, "The party's in an hour, and you've got certain look on your face that screams you have someone in mind to impress."
"I do not have a look," you protested, but you caught your own reflection again and had to admit—yes, the slight furrow between your brows, the anxious bite to your lower lip, the way you kept smoothing down the front of your robes as if you were preparing for something far more significant than a common room party, "I'm just trying to figure out what to wear. Is that a crime?"
"It's not a crime," Angelina said from where she'd claimed the window seat, her voice lilting with a knowing edge that made your stomach flip, "But it does raise certain questions."
"Like what?" You kept your voice carefully neutral.
"Like what kind of party this is," Gabriella chimed in, her dark eyes glinting with mischief as she leaned forward from her spot on the floor, "Because usually, when someone's trying to decide between three different outfits for a casual common room party, it means there's someone they're trying to impress."
"I'm not trying to impress anyone," you said quickly, maybe too quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush that made Hannah raise an eyebrow, "I just...I want to look nice. Is that so terrible?"
"For you?" Angelina said, her grin widening, "You, who usually wears whatever's at the top of your trunk without a second glance? Who once showed up to breakfast with your robes inside out and didn't notice until third period? Yes. That's absolutely suspicious."
You opened your mouth to defend yourself, but no words came, because she was right, you'd never cared about what you wore before and yet here you were, agonising over a simple tunic.
"I just—" you started, then stopped, the burgundy robe hanging limply from your fingers as you stared at your reflection, "I don't know. I guess I just want to feel...different tonight."
"Orrr," Hannah said slowly, drawing out the word with deliberate emphasis, "You want to look good for a certain redheaded gryffindor who spent the entire quidditch match in a tent with you, looking like he was having the time of his life despite not playing."
You felt the heat crawl up your neck, staining your cheeks a shade that matched the robe you were still holding, and you hastily dropped it onto the bed as if it had burned you. "I don't know what you're talking about," you said, but your voice came out smaller than you'd intended, less certain, "Fred and I were just…we were just working things out. We had to write the essay together, and we got to know each other, and—"
"And you seemed pretty cozy with him in that tent," Gabriella interrupted, her voice sing-song with teasing, "We saw you, you know. Through the flap, you were sitting so close to each other, and he was laughing at something you said, and you had this look on your face like—"
"Like what?" you demanded.
"Like you enjoyed being there with him," Angelina said softly, and there was no mockery in her voice now, only genuine curiosity, "Like you didn't mind that you weren't playing, like being in that tent with him was better than being on the pitch."
You opened your mouth to deny it, to insist that you'd been furious about missing the match, that you'd only tolerated Fred because you'd had no choice, but the words wouldn't come, because she was right, wasn't she?
You had enjoyed it, the quiet moments in the tent with Fred, his voice warm and teasing, his shoulder brushing against yours, the way he'd made you laugh even when everything felt hopeless. "He caused me to not be able to play," you said finally, though even as the words left your mouth, they felt hollow, insufficient, "Well…we both did, really, it was both our faults. We both let Snape catch us."
"But it was alright in the end, wasn't it?" Hannah pressed, her voice gentle, "You and him. All those years of hating each other, and it just was alright."
"So," Gabriella said, bouncing to her feet and grabbing the cream tunic from your hands, holding it up to you with an approving nod, "Wear this, and wear that necklace you got for your birthday, the one with the little charm. It brings out your eyes."
"I'm not trying to impress him," you insisted, but you were already reaching for the tunic, already running your fingers over the soft fabric with a fondness that surprised you.
"Of course you're not," Angelina said, her grin wide and knowing, "And the fact that you keep saying that absolutely proves it." You groaned, burying your face in your hands, but you were laughing too, the sound bubbling up from somewhere inside you—because they weren't wrong, were they?
___
Students from both teams mixed together, and the tension that had been building for weeks finally dissipated. Cedric Diggory and Oliver Wood were laughing together now, and even the slytherins and ravenclaws seemed to be enjoying themselves.
Warm golden light from the enchanted candles casted dancing shadows across the walls as music swelled through the crowded space, and you found yourself lost in the rhythm of the music your body moving to the beat as Angelina spun you around with a laugh echoing over the chatter.
Katie had joined you and Angelina, her grin wide as she pulled Hannah and Gabriella into the circle, and for a few blissful moments, you forgot about everything - the essay, the match, the chaos of the week and simply let yourself be carried away by the joy of the celebration.
"I can't believe the match ended in a tie," Katie shouted over the music, her eyes bright with amusement, "Wood was absolutely livid, I thought he was going to hex the Snitch for not cooperating."
"Cedric wasn't much better," you laughed, shaking your head at the memory of your captain's frustrated pacing, "He kept muttering about 'next time' and 'strategic adjustments' like he was planning a military campaign."
Angelina leaned in, "At least the party's good. I heard someone smuggled in firewhisky from somewhere, like, a significant amount."
"Who?" Gabriella asked, her eyes widening with a mixture of horror and delight.
"Don't ask, don't tell, but maybe we could sneak some, if we're lucky." Hannah said with a wink, and you all dissolved into laughter, the sound mingling with the music in a way that felt like pure freedom.
The common room was growing increasingly crowded, bodies pressing together as more students poured in from the other houses, and the music seemed to get louder with each passing moment.
"I'm parched," you announced, your throat dry from laughing and shouting over the noise, "I'm going to get some punch. Anyone want anything?"
Gabriella started to move with you, her hand reaching for your arm, "I'll come with—"
"No, no, it's okay," you said, waving her off with a smile, "I'll be right back. Save my spot."
You wove through the crowd, your steps light as you made your way toward the refreshment table at the far end of the room, and despite yourself, your eyes began to scan the crowd, looking for a flash of red hair, a familiar grin, the tall frame of the boy who had occupied your thoughts all week.
There was no sign of him yet, and you felt slightly disappointed, but you quickly pushed that aside, telling yourself it didn't matter, that you were here to have fun with your friends, not to pine over Fred like some lovesick schoolgirl.
You reached the punch bowl, the sweet scent of fruit and juice wafting up from the deep ceramic bowl, and you were just reaching for a cup when a figure appeared at your side, tall, lanky, with the distinctive blue-and-bronze robes of a ravenclaw.
"Well, well," the voice drawled, and you turned to find Jack leaning against the table, his eyes glassy and unfocused, a half-empty cup dangling from his fingers, "If it isn't the girl who got kicked off the team today."
You stiffened, your hand pausing mid-reach for the cup as you forced a polite smile onto your face, "Kicked off? No, it was just temporary. I'm not off the Hufflepuff team. It was just—"
"Oh yeah?" Jack interrupted, his voice dripping with mockery, "Well, you're better off standing in the stands anyway. A pretty face like yours shouldn't be getting all sweaty and bruised on a quidditch pitch. You should let the real players handle it."
Your smile faltered, a flicker of anger sparking in your chest, "I'm sorry, what did you just say?"
"I'm just saying," Jack continued, leaning closer, his breath sour with firewhisky, "You're too pretty for Quidditch, you should be cheering from the sidelines, wearing something nice, letting the men do the heavy lifting. That's where girls like you belong."
"Girls like me?" you repeated, your voice dangerously quiet, your hands clenching at your sides.
"Yeah, you know." He gestured vaguely at you with his cup, sloshing some of the contents onto the floor, "The kind of girl who's better off being looked at than actually doing anything."
You opened your mouth to deliver a scathing retort, something about misogyny and outdated thinking and how he was clearly compensating for something, but you stopped yourself, remembering that he was drunk, that arguing with him would only make things worse, that the best thing you could do was walk away.
"Excuse me," you said, your voice tight but polite, "I think I should get back to my friends."
You turned to leave, but Jack's hand shot out, grabbing your wrist with surprising strength, "Hey, I wasn't done talking to you. Where are you going?"
"Let go of me," you said, your voice firm as you tried to pull away, "Now."
"Oh, come on, don't be like that," Jack slurred, his grip tightening, "I was just trying to give you a compliment. You hufflepuffs are so sensitive—"
The glass flew from his other hand, propelled by a careless gesture as he tried to keep you from leaving, and you saw it arc through the air in slow motion, saw the way the light caught the edges, the way it spun toward you, the way you couldn't move fast enough to avoid it.
Shattering against the edge of the table, you felt the sharp sting of shards slicing across your arm, the pain blooming bright and hot as blood welled up from the gash, dripping onto the stone floor in dark crimson droplets.
You yelped, clutching your arm to your chest, your breath coming in sharp gasps as the pain registered, as the shock of it settled over you like a cold blanket.
"What the hell—" you started, but the words died in your throat as a blur of red hair and fury pushed through the crowd, and before you could fully process what was happening.
Fred was there, his eyes blazing as he shoved Jack backward with enough force to send him stumbling into the table.
"Oi! Shove off, Jack!" Fred's voice was a low snarl, his body positioned between you and the ravenclaw like a shield, "What the hell is your problem?!"
Jack recovered his balance, his face contorting with drunken anger as he shoved back, "Try controlling this girl's mouth, that's the problem! She's your girlfriend now, or what? Got you wrapped around her little finger like a good little—"
"Stay away from her." Fred's voice was ice, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, and you could see the barely contained rage in every line of his body, "I'm warning you, Jack. Don't come near her again."
"Or what?" Jack sneered, taking a stumbling step forward, "You'll fight me? You think you can take me, Weasley?"
The first punch was thrown before anyone could intervene, Jack's fist swinging wildly, catching Fred across the jaw with a sickening crack.
You heard yourself scream as Fred retaliated, his own punch landing squarely in Jack's stomach, and then they were both on the ground, rolling and grappling in a blur of fists and anger.
"Stop it!" you cried, trying to pull them apart, but your injured hand was throbbing, and you couldn't get a grip on either of them.
"Fred! Jack! Blood hell, stop this!" George appeared seemingly out of nowhere, his strong arms wrapping around his brother and hauling him backward, and Harry was there too, pulling Jack off the ground with more strength than his slender frame suggested.
Cedric materialised between them, his voice cutting through the chaos with captain's authority, "That's enough! Both of you, stand down!" Jack was still struggling, his face flushed and ugly with anger, but Harry's grip held firm, and after a moment, he sagged, his fight draining out of him.
Fred was breathing hard, his lip split and bleeding, his knuckles raw, but his eyes were fixed on you, on your hand, on the blood that was still seeping through your fingers. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice rough, and you nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, the adrenaline still surging through your veins.
"Get him out of here," Cedric ordered, and Harry and George dragged Jack away, his protests fading into the noise of the party, which had barely paused in its revelry.
You realised you were shaking, your whole body trembling as the shock began to wear off and the pain in your hand grew sharper, more insistent. "I need…I need to go," you said, your voice unsteady, "I'll be back in a bit. Just- I need space."
Angelina reached for you, her face creased with concern, "Let me come with—"
"No, it's fine," you said, pulling away, "I'll be fine, I just need a moment. I'll come find you guys later." You pushed through the crowd, your vision swimming, and you knew exactly where you were going, the spare room off the main corridor, the one with the bed and the medical supplies, the one that had become your sanctuary during the chaos of the week.
The room was quiet, the door muffling the music and chatter from the common room, and you sank onto the edge of the bed, grabbing a tissue from the nearby desk and pressing it to your wound, trying to stop the bleeding.
Your hand was still shaking, the tissue quickly turning crimson and you bit your lip to keep from crying, from letting the exhaustion and pain and frustration overwhelm you.
A slow creak from the door, snapped you from your thoughts and you looked up to see Fred standing in the doorway, his expression soft with concern, a bruise already forming on his jaw and a thin line of blood still trickling from his split lip.
"Hey," he said gently, stepping inside and closing the door behind him, the latch clicking softly into place, "Hey, you okay?"
"I'm fine," you said automatically, but your voice wavered, and your hand was still shaking, and the tissue was soaked through with blood that just kept coming. "It's nothing."
Fred's eyes darted to your hand, and his expression shifted, all the softness replaced by focused urgency, "Shit. Your hand- that's not nothing, Y/N. Let me see."
"Fred, it's fine," you protested, but he was already crossing the room, already kneeling in front of you, his hands gentle as he reached for yours.
"You're bleeding," he said, his voice soft but firm, "It's not nothing, please let me help."
You hesitated, your chest ached at the way he said it, at the concern in his eyes, and slowly, reluctantly, you let him take your hand.
"I've had my fair share of injuries," Fred murmured, his eyes focused on your wound as he reached for the medical kit he'd spotted on the shelf, "Ginny's always getting banged up during practice, and George and I have patched each other up more times than I can count. You learn to be quick about it."
He worked with practiced efficiency, cleaning the wound with a gentle touch that belied his usual chaotic energy, his fingers careful and precise as they applied antiseptic and wrapped bandages around your palm.
You watched the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his tongue poked out slightly when he was focused, the way his lashes cast shadows across his cheeks in the dim lamplight.
Have you been this fine? The whole damn time?
The thought came unbidden. You watched him and you noticed things you'd never allowed yourself to notice before, the freckles scattered across his nose like constellations, the way his jaw was stronger than you'd realised, the softness in his eyes when he thought no one was looking at him.
His hair was a mess from the fight, a bruise darkening along his jaw, a small cut on his lip that he'd barely seemed to notice, and yet all of his attention was on you, on your wound, on making sure you were okay.
"All done," he said softly, his thumb brushing over the bandage with a tenderness that made your breath catch, "There, good as new."
"Thank you, Fred." The words came out softer than you'd intended, your voice barely above a whisper, and you looked up at him, your eyes meeting his.
His gaze was warm, searching, and you felt yourself leaning toward him without quite meaning to. "And I'm sorry," you added, the apology slipping out before you could stop it.
"For what?" He tilted his head, genuinely confused, "The fight wasn't your fault, Y/N. Jack's an idiot, he's always been an idiot."
"No," you said, shaking your head, "Not that...for everything. Through the years." You paused, gathering your thoughts, your fingers twisting in your lap, "I should never have...I was so angry at you, and I didn't even know why. I just assumed the worst, and I let that assumption color everything. I thought you were arrogant and careless and—"
"Y/N, stop."
Fred's voice was gentle, his hand reaching out to cover yours, "I was an arse too. The match back then, third year- it was my fault. I was showing off, trying to prove something and I crashed into you because I wasn't paying attention and instead of apologising, I blamed you. I've been blaming you ever since because I was too proud to admit I was wrong."
"No, it was my fault too," you insisted, shaking your head, "I was so focused on the quaffle, I didn't even see you coming when I should have—"
"We were both idiots, me a little bit more though," Fred interrupted, a rueful smile tugging at his lips, "We were both too stubborn to admit we might have been wrong and we wasted years hating each other because of one stupid accident."
"Years," you repeated, the word feeling strange, "All that time, and we could have just…talked, like this."
"Like this," he agreed, his thumb still resting over your knuckles, warm and steady, "I think we were both too scared to talk or to admit that maybe—"
"Maybe what?" you breathed, slowly blinking.
"Maybe it was never really hate," Fred said softly, his eyes searching yours, "Maybe it was… something else."
You could feel the heat radiating from him and the way his eyes flickered down to your lips and back up, you could feel the pull of him like a magnet drawing you closer. "I don't want to be your 'enemy' anymore, Fred," you whispered, your voice barely audible above the muffled music from the common room.
"Me too," he confessed, "I want to be—" He didn't finish the sentence.
Instead, he leaned in, and you met him halfway, your lips brushing against his in a kiss that was soft and tentative at first, a question more than an answer.
His hand came up to cup your cheek, and you melted into him, all the years of hatred and rivalry dissolving like morning mist, leaving behind only warmth, only possibility, only him. He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours, and you could see the smile spreading across his face.
"I think I've been waiting to do that for a very long time," he murmured, his voice husky with emotion, "I just didn't know it."
"Me too," you admitted, your fingers finding his, intertwining, "I didn't know it either but I think- I think I'm glad we finally figured it out."
"Glad is an understatement," Fred said, and he kissed you again, longer this time, and when you pulled apart, you were both breathless and laughing, the joy of it bubbling up from deep inside you.
"I suppose this means I have to tell my friends you're not my 'sworn enemy' anymore," you said, your voice teasing, "They're going to be so disappointed, Gabriella had a whole betting pool going about when we'd finally get along."
"A betting pool?" Fred's eyebrows shot up, "How much did she win?"
"I'm not telling you that," you said primly, but you were grinning, "You'll get a big head."
"My head is already appropriately sized, thank you very much," he shot back, and you chuckled.
"Is it a bad thing," you asked softly, suddenly serious, "Falling in love with your once-enemy? I mean, everyone always says-"
"I don't think it is," Fred interrupted, his voice firm and sure, "I think it's the best thing that could have happened. I think we were always meant to end up here, we just took the long way around."
"The very, very long way," you agreed, and he kissed you again. You let yourself be carried away by it, the warmth of his lips, the steadiness of his hands around you, ever so hopeful of everything that was yet to come.
Outside, the party raged on, the music thrumming through the walls, but in that small, quiet room, you and Fred had found something far more precious than any celebration, you had found each other.
can you please write about a bimbo reader being all obsessed with her simon?
they’ll be just doing the simplest things, going to the store for example, and all this girl can think about is her bae making sweet sweet love to her in the aisle! like girl, all he’s doing is checking out the different spices for dinner!
they get home and when it’s time for dinner, she INSISTS on sitting on his lap and feeding him. she can never get enough of her simon!
giving himself to you uncensored
pairing: simon "ghost" riley x bimbo!reader
summary: you're so in love with your boyfriend
masterlist!
a/n: love, love, loveeee this request, anon!! i hope yall enjoy and requests are open in my ask box!! :)))))
simon riley was the best thing that could’ve ever happened to you.
you first noticed the muscular giant during one of your gym sessions, practically drooling at the sight of his tatted biceps. during his bench press, his veins bulged each time they flexed, the repeated up and down motion hypnotizing. just how much can he lift? you’d think to yourself, biting your lip while watching his sets.
he wore a black balaclava too, a skull design on the front— something that only added to your attraction towards the mystery man.
and when you saw him doing his hip thrusts, imagining him hip thrusting into you… that’s when you knew you had to introduce yourself.
“hi! i’m y/n,” you cheerfully started when he was finishing up his last set— it’s not like you counted! eyeing the metal bar rested across his meaty thighs, you couldn’t help but to acknowledge his strength. “i calculated around 580,” you pointed towards the weights, “so that definitely means you can handle me.” “‘s tha right, sweet'eart?” his deep voice responded, and you felt your thighs clench together. god, even his voice is fucking hot.
standing from the bench, he racked the weights and bar, walking over to you after. a smirk formed under his balaclava when he got a good look at you— a pretty bonnie with the confidence of a lieutenant like himself.
he liked that.
so when he reached you with an extended hand, "they call m' ghost," departed him too.
the contrast of his rough, gruff hand against your soft, smooth one sent shivers down your spine, wondering, how would his hands feel touching other places?
you were right, of course. the brute could, in fact, handle you, proving his worth in the year and a half you’ve been dating.
when he confessed his birth name, simon riley, around three months into your relationship, all the precious praises from his sweet girlfriend came out. "simon! what a lovely name. it's perfect for you!" you littered kisses across his face— even if they were always blocked by his balaclava. "thank you for trusting me with this, si." he smiled at the nickname.
he had already gotten this far, taking a leap a faith, "one more thing i need to tell you, hon'," he began reaching towards his balaclava, the ends crinkling in his hands, "or i guess, show ya."
when he removed the face covering, everything went silent.
it may as well been a staring match between the couple— no one moved, talked, or even blinked. you were just taking him in, taking your time taking him in, and simon knew that.
he watched your doe eyes analyze his face, scanning every scar, thinking, she's probably wonderin' how m' got em'.
"you're so beautiful, simon," rang through the air, your hands clutching either side of your boyfriend's face. gasping at the sensation, the feel of his flesh against yours heavenly.
you've wanted to see your boyfriend so badly, show him affection the way he does to you, but you were aware of his boundaries and the time he would need to cross those boundaries, so you never pried. but now that he was giving himself to you uncensored, you needed more.
using your grip, you pulled his face to yours, kissing the brit. he instantly responded, turning the gentle kiss into a heated makeout. he forced his tongue into your mouth when a small moan escaped you, caused by him grabbing a handful of your ass. "luvie'," he said, in between kisses, "yer fuckin' perfect."
now you take any chance you get to stare at simon.
he doesn't wear the balaclava ever around you anymore, and you still cannot get enough of it.
your boyfriend could be doing the most mundane tasks— reading a book in his favorite arm rest chair? large legs propped on the ottoman? oh, you were salivating, wanting him to flip you like he flips the pages to his book.
or when he'd be cleaning, the loud groans and grunts rumbling from his chest when he'd bend over, paired with the cracks of his bones, had you reeling. i need to hear him up close, biting the inside of your cheek, when you heard him again, i need him so bad, you thought, shifting on each foot.
when you're shopping together— someone needs to come sedate you.
your boyfriend always pushes the grocery cart, meaning you can hold onto his beefy bicep as he leads you both around the store. you loved how simon's muscle was too large for your hand to fully grasp, often bringing your other to finish the job. you would occasionally squeeze his muscle too, imagining the feeling of his biceps encircling your torso.
you'd whine when he tried to loosen his grip, "jus' needa grab 'tis for us, yeah?" leaning down to place a kiss on the crown of your head when he saw you nod, "good girl. m' not goin' nowhere."
he turned to the shelves with the spices, raising his arms to grab the ones you both would need to cook dinner tonight. for some reason they were all on the very top shelf— good thing simon's huge!
his shirt lifted with his arms, revealing a couple of his structured abs and his sexy v-line, which was peeking through the band of his pants. was he doing this on purpose? being hot at all times to get you bothered? he had to be.
you felt your core throb, a low heat slowly rising. what would i have to do for him to take me right now in this aisle? you asked anything that would listen.
when it was time to eat dinner, "why 's there only one chair?" "hmmm?" "where did all tha otha' chairs go?" "what other chairs?" "luv'."
but simon couldn't care enough, and you really didn't know where the chairs went, so, inevitably, you got your way as always.
simon sat in the free chair, your body perched comfortably on his.
he had his hands on both sides of your hips, gently kneading the flesh. you took turns feeding yourself and your boyfriend, claiming, "you already bought and cooked everything! at least let me feed you. i want to take care of you too!"
besides, his hands were already occupied with touching your body! he couldn't feed himself anyways!
you even wiped away any excess food on his lips with your thumb, bringing it to your mouth for a taste.
simon adored the sight of his sweet girlfriend cleaning him up, licking up his mess. choosing to tighten his grip on your hips, soft moans escaped when you felt his fingertips digging into your skin.
he'd pull you closer to him, your back somehow pushed further into his chest. leaning down to your ear, he'd coo, "such an amazin' girl," pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, "always so perfect for m', baby."
sometimes, sleeping over at inexperienced!simon's place means waking up in the middle of the night with sticky upper thighs and a shiny cock head slicking itself between your legs. tiny grunts sound out in the dark behind where you lie, naked and half-awake, while simon's thrusts are wet with noisy squelches that resonate with his spontaneous, dead-of-night need.
you croak out a sleepy groan, unknowingly squirming your legs in a way that squeezes the thick of him just right. the man whines a pitiful sound, hips grinding until he's pushing up against your ass. an arm wraps around your front to yank you even closer.
“s-saw this on a video once,” he tells you. “didn’t think it would feel good as’is.”
"mm, si... wha–"
simon's only responses are quiet whines, balls sagging against his own thigh as he keeps fucking himself closer to his edge between yours.
you're much too warm for him to last much longer, and he doesn't–seeping out the first ropes of a thick load, only to use the mess to keep fucking himself brainless until he can't anymore.
there aren't any complaints from you when he rolls you over nice and soft, still pulsing as he kisses down your back, past your ass. gentle licks of a tongue along your inner thighs and big hands palming your ass lull your eyes back shut. simon, only after lapping you as clean as he can, dozes off with his face pressed into your right ass cheek.
💌Severus Snape x Herbology Professor(or intern/new professor)!Reader
💭SFW: Fluff, kind of slowburn ish, Snape falling in love for you, Snape asks you out at the end, reader being kind of oblivious to Snape’s feelings, McGonagall not so secretly rooting for you
A/N: This was a request I got a long while ago that I forgot to publish and then I accidentally deleted my entire inbox ago like a week and a half ago… oops. Still working on that Harry smut, energy has been finicky and I’m also running out of title names so…enjoy! Also I kind of made up herbs here so....I can't remember if everything mentioned is genuinely in Harry Potter. I got lazy, ok?
—
The last rays of sun filtered in through the greenhouse glass, casting long amber streaks across the rows of plants. The warmth of the day still clung to the air, mingling with the earthy scent of damp soil and fresh herbs. You were bent over a tray of dittany, carefully snipping the mature stems, fingertips smudged green and brown.
A faint click of the door opening broke the quiet.
“I assumed this time of day would afford me some peace,” came the familiar drawl, dry as ever.
You didn’t look up right away, too focused on trimming the final sprig just so. “It usually does. But Pomona let me stay late—she’s already gone for the evening.”
You turned then, wiping your hands on the edge of your robe. “If you’re here for your asphodel, I set aside a few roots. The good ones.”
Snape paused, half-shadowed in the doorway, robes billowing slightly with the breeze that followed him in. “You’ve taken to preparing them for me now, have you?”
You shrugged, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Well, you don’t like when the third-years mangle it. Figured I’d save us both the trouble.”
He stepped forward slowly, eyeing the basket of sorted roots with a furrowed brow that wasn’t quite irritation. You knew that look by now—it was his version of…appreciation, maybe.
“You’re far too accommodating,” he muttered, reaching for the basket.
You tilted your head. “You say that like it’s a flaw.”
There was a beat of silence. He didn’t respond, not directly. Instead, he took the basket and turned away, muttering something that might have been “Hmph. At least someone here is competent.”
As he pushed the door open, you called gently after him, “You’re welcome, Severus.”
He paused again. Just briefly. Didn’t turn back. But the door closed a little more gently than usual behind him.
—
The last of the students had filed out in a flurry of parchment and scuffed shoes, leaving behind the usual aftermath—dried potions clinging to cauldrons, the faint scent of burnt lavender, and his patience hanging by a thread. Snape waved his wand with a practiced flick, vanishing the worst of the mess, but left the benches and shelves untouched.
He glanced at the time.
You were usually in the dungeons by now, carrying that blasted basket of herbs and trimmed ingredients like it was second nature. No fanfare. No knock. Just a soft rustle of robes and the gentle thud of the basket placed near his desk.
But the hallway outside was silent.
He paced once behind his desk, then again. Sat. Stood up. Adjusted the jars along the side shelf with more force than needed.
Ridiculous.
He had no use for distractions. Least of all ones that came in the shape of a professor too kind for your own good—offering him perfect snips of monkshood and bundles of fresh lavender, leaving little parchment notes in neat handwriting:
“Figured you’d want this batch—fresh from greenhouse three. ”
He still had yesterday’s note tucked under a stack of unused parchment, though he told himself it was only because he might need to reference it later.
Another glance at the time.
Then, as if summoned—soft footsteps echoed down the hall. A pause. The faint creak of the classroom door, opening just a bit.
Your voice, a quiet breath of warmth in the gloom:
“Sorry I’m late. I got caught up de-thorning the wandwood. Nasty thing today.”
Snape didn’t move at first. He just blinked at you from behind his desk, caught somewhere between relief and something far more irritating.
You stepped fully inside, brushing a stray leaf from your sleeve as you set the basket down. “I brought extra. Pomona said the next few weeks might be rough with the way the fluxweed’s reacting to the moon cycle.”
Still, he said nothing. Just looked at you. A little too long.
“…Is everything alright?” you asked finally, uncertain.
Snape cleared his throat. “Perfectly fine,” he said, voice clipped. “You’re late.”
You raised an eyebrow, more amused than offended. “Didn’t know you timed my deliveries.”
“I don’t.”
You only smiled, starting to turn to go. “Alright, then. I’ll be out of your way.”
But this time, he spoke before you reached the door.
“…I expect the same quality tomorrow,” he said, low and almost gruff. “If you’re planning to make a habit of it.”
You turned back, eyes bright with just the hint of a knowing smile. “Of course, Professor.”
And then you left. And he stood there for a moment longer than he meant to, listening to the echo of your footsteps as they faded down the corridor.
The kettle was whistling gently in the corner as you poured yourself a cup of tea, the clink of ceramic and quiet shuffle of parchment the only sounds in the room. A rare moment of peace between classes.
“Ah, there you are,” came McGonagall’s voice, crisp and familiar, as she stepped inside with a small stack of essays in hand. “I thought I saw you duck in.”
You smiled over your shoulder. “Just grabbing a quick cup. The third-years nearly destroyed my entire bench this morning trying to identify waterweed.”
She tsked sympathetically, setting her papers down and conjuring a second cup for herself. “Better yours than mine,” she murmured, then took a sip. “Though I must say—Herbology seems to be agreeing with more than just your students lately.”
You blinked, turning slightly. “…Pardon?”
McGonagall’s expression didn’t change much, but there was an unmistakable gleam in her eyes. “Severus has been… unusually tolerable these past few weeks.”
Your brows lifted. “Tolerable?”
“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” she said, waving a hand. “I’m quite fond of the man in my own way, but I’ve known Severus for decades. He doesn’t do pleasant unless something’s caused it—or someone.”
Heat began creeping up your neck, but you busied yourself with stirring your tea. “Maybe he’s just been getting more sleep.”
“I highly doubt that,” McGonagall quipped, then added more softly, “He’s been speaking quite highly of the new monkshood you brought in. Very precise. And I’ve heard him recommend your tincture preservation methods to Slughorn.”
You blinked. “He… recommended me?”
“Mmhmm.” She glanced at you over her glasses. “So whatever it is you’ve been bringing down to those dungeons—it’s working.”
You chuckled nervously, pressing the rim of your cup to your lips to hide your smile. “It’s just plants, Minerva.”
“Yes,” she said, tone far too knowing, “and perhaps something a bit more human than that.”
And with that, she turned back to her papers, utterly serene, like she hadn’t just thrown your morning into a tailspin.
Your knuckles tapped gently against the heavy door of his office. It was half open—rare. Even rarer that the flickering firelight within actually gave the place a warm glow.
“Come in,” came that familiar, velvet-dry voice.
You stepped inside, arms cradling the satchel of fresh-cut lovage and yarrow. “Brought your request, Professor.”
“Must you always call me that?” he asked, barely glancing up from his parchment. “We’re both professors.”
You smiled faintly as you walked closer, noting the way his hand had paused mid-sentence. “Habit, I guess.”
Snape looked up then—really looked—and his expression softened almost imperceptibly. You didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered. You never did.
“I harvested the yarrow early this morning,” you added, laying the bundle gently across a cleared space on his desk. “Before the sun fully crested. It’s more potent that way.”
He nodded, fingertips brushing the stalks like they were something rare. “Of course you’d know that.”
There was something in his tone. Not sarcasm, not dismissive. Just… low, quiet appreciation. It made your chest tighten.
“You always bring exactly what I need,” he said after a beat, voice even softer now. “Even before I realize I’ve run out.”
You shrugged gently, watching him with careful eyes. “That’s what colleagues are for.”
But he didn’t answer.
Instead, he stood.
He didn’t loom the way others claimed he did—no, this was different. Hesitant. Like he was standing on the edge of something he hadn’t allowed himself to want in years. Maybe ever.
“I’m not…” he started, then stopped. Frowned. Tried again. “I don’t do this.”
You tilted your head. “Do what?”
He stepped closer. “This. Whatever this is between us.”
Your breath hitched.
“I’ve watched you flit about this castle with a smile that could undo the very seams of a man’s restraint,” he said, voice low. “And yet, you never seem to notice the effect you have. On me.”
A silence stretched. You felt it crackling between you like static.
And then, almost shyly—almost—he reached out, fingers brushing yours. Testing.
“If I were to ask if I might… take you to Hogsmeade. Not as a colleague. Not as a favor.” His eyes held yours. “But as a man very foolishly falling for you.”
Your heart soared.
You stepped closer, letting your fingers slip fully into his hand.
“I’d say yes,” you murmured. “Even if you are a little foolish.”
His mouth quirked upward. Just slightly. Just enough.
And in the quiet of his dungeon office, for the first time in far too long, Severus Snape let himself feel hope.
Dad!Snape with a daughter who’s gotten into biting him
“{+}, she’s doing it again!” Severus called out in desperation from the kitchen as he did dishes “Amelia stop biting me.”
“Mmrrgghhhh.”
Going into the kitchen you see your one year old daughter who just learned how to strong grip things sitting on the floor, little arms wrapped around her father’s right leg and trying toclose her little mouth around the man’s clothed leg. Saliva seeping through it.
“Amelia, no, sweetheart.” You go to pick her up but she whines “We don’t bite daddy, my heart.” You pull her gently away from his leg, but the girl started crying her lungs out
“Waaaahhhh!”
“Oh for Christ’s sake.” The man sighs “She’s grown attatched to my leg. She loves biting me.” He closed his eyes
You smile, unable to hide it. Amelia tried to push herself out of your arms and try to get on the floor
“Don’t do that, Amelia, you’ll hurt yourself!”
“Leg! Dada! Leg!” She cried, ignoring you “Dadaaa!” Extending her arms to her father, who didn’t hesitate to take her from yours
“Amelia you can’t keep biting me.”
She sniffs, heavy breathing in short breaths and a deep pout “Leg.” She says lowly “Leg, dada.” He holds eye contact intensily for long seconds with his daughter, then sighs
“You’re too adorable, ugh my heart is melting, fine you can keep going.” He gently sets her down, her arms once again wrapping around his leg “The things I do for this family.” The girl giggled and hugged his leg tight, pressing her cheek to it before starting to, once again, try to bite him
“Mmrrghhhh mgh mgh.”
“I’m never getting the sense of peace ever again.”
“No, you’re not.” He looks at you, tired. “I’m pregnant.”
summary: Merlin knows that he didn't even have to lift a finger because Y/N Black would always choose Severus Snape in a heartbeat
words: 11.3k
────────── ♱ · 𓆩🤍𓆪 · ♱ ─
Severus Snape sat in the stands, his black eyes fixed on the emerald blur darting across the sky. Y/N Black, his best friend, was captaining the Slytherin Quidditch team for the second year in a row, and as their Seeker, she was ruthless—fast, strategic, and relentless.
He knew her well enough to see past the composed mask she always wore. The way she clenched the handle of her broom just a little tighter and the sharpness in her turns. She wanted to win and she wanted it badly.
Sirius Black, her older brother and his tormentor, was in the Gryffindor stands, shouting her name in a mix of taunts and encouragement.
The contrast between them was stark.
While Sirius played for Gryffindor’s team with reckless, cocky confidence, Y/N’s approach was different. She was focused, calculating, and played to win rather than to show off.
Snape wasn’t usually one for Quidditch, but he had never missed a match she played in. He would never admit it, but watching her chase the Snitch, defying gravity with a smirk on her lips, was one of the few things that made Hogwarts bearable.
A flash of gold appeared near the Gryffindor goalposts, and without hesitation, Y/N shot forward, her broom slicing through the air. Snape leaned forward instinctively, heart pounding despite himself.
“Come on, Black,” he muttered under his breath, gripping the fabric of his robes as she closed in on the Snitch.
The Gryffindor Seeker, a wiry seventh-year, was just a few feet behind her, pushing his broom to its limit. But Y/N was faster. Snape had seen her fly countless times, had even watched her practice in secret when she thought no one was looking.
He knew her style. She didn’t lunge blindly for the Snitch. She was patient, calculated.
And then, just when it seemed like the Gryffindor Seeker might overtake her, she swerved at the last second, forcing him to adjust. That split-second hesitation was all she needed.
With a sharp dive, she stretched out her gloved hand, her fingers closing around the Snitch.
The stadium erupted into noise, but Snape barely heard any of it. His eyes were locked on Y/N as she straightened up, wind whipping through her hair, her triumphant smirk unmistakable even from a distance. She held the Snitch high as the Slytherin stands exploded in cheers.
Across the pitch, Sirius Black groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “Bloody hell, Y/N! You’re supposed to be a Gryffindor at heart!” he yelled, though there was a grudging sort of pride in his voice.
Y/N turned her broom sharply toward the Gryffindor stands and, without missing a beat, flipped her older brother off.
Severus let out a rare chuckle, shaking his head.
That was Y/N Black. She was unapologetic, sharp-tongued, and effortlessly brilliant.
He found himself smirking as she landed, her teammates swarming her in celebration.
Part of him wanted to go down there, to congratulate her before the rest of Slytherin stole her attention. But instead, he simply watched from his spot in the stands, arms crossed, as she basked in her victory. She didn’t need his words to know he was proud. She would just know.
As Y/N landed, her teammates swarmed her, shouting, clapping her on the back, and ruffling her hair. She barely acknowledged them, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd instead.
Then, without a word, she pushed past them.
“Oi, where’s she going?” one of the Chasers muttered.
“She’s probably off to rub it in her brother’s face,” another laughed.
But they were wrong.
Y/N wasn’t heading for Sirius. She wasn’t even acknowledging the rest of Slytherin’s celebration.
She was walking straight toward the stands, straight toward him.
Severus Snape sat frozen for a moment, his arms still crossed, before hurriedly schooling his expression back into indifference. His heartbeat, however, betrayed him.
Y/N reached him, standing just in front of where he sat, her broom still clutched in one hand, the Snitch resting in the other. She tilted her head at him, her smirk sharp and teasing.
“You gonna congratulate me, or are you too busy sulking about whatever it is that you sulk about?” she taunted, breathless from the match.
Snape rolled his eyes. “As if I care about Quidditch.”
Y/N scoffed. “Oh, please. I saw you watching me.”
She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “You always do.”
Severus’s grip on his robes tightened, but he didn’t deny it. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “You fly like an idiot. One wrong move, and you could’ve broken your neck.”
“Ah, so you were worried,” she teased, grinning.
“Hardly,” he muttered, but there was no venom behind it.
Y/N studied him for a moment before extending her hand, the one holding the Snitch. His brow furrowed in confusion as she placed it in his palm.
“A souvenir,” she said, shrugging. “For sitting through an entire match just for me.”
Severus stared at the Snitch in his hand, then back at her. His fingers curled around the cool metal, and for once, he didn’t have a sharp remark ready.
Y/N grinned, clearly pleased with herself. “Come on, Snape. Walk with me before the team kidnaps me for some over-the-top victory party.”
And just like that, she turned, expecting him to follow.
With a sigh, one that was far too fond for his liking, Severus tucked the Snitch into his pocket and stood, trailing after her.
As they walked away from the roaring Slytherin crowd, Severus fell into step beside her, hands shoved into his robes. The Snitch sat in his pocket, its tiny wings twitching now and then, but he ignored it.
Y/N strode forward with that effortless confidence of hers, broom over one shoulder, head held high like she owned the castle. And in some ways, she did.
She was a Black, a Slytherin, a bloody brilliant Seeker. Everyone either admired her, feared her, or wanted to be her.
And yet, here she was. Choosing to spend her post-victory moment with him.
They reached a quieter corridor, the distant cheers fading behind them. Y/N finally exhaled, tilting her head back against the cool stone wall. “Merlin, I thought that match would never end.”
“You made quick work of it,” Severus muttered, leaning beside her. “Wasn’t even a challenge, was it?”
She smirked, eyes glinting. “Not even close.” Then, nudging him with her elbow, she added, “You enjoyed it, admit it.”
He scoffed. “I tolerated it.”
Y/N rolled her eyes but let it slide. Instead, she turned to him fully, studying him with an unreadable expression.
“You know,” she mused, “you’re the only one I actually wanted to talk to after that match.”
Severus swallowed, caught off guard. “Why?”
“Because you don’t treat me like I’m some bloody trophy,” she said simply.
“Everyone else is off celebrating me—but you just… I don’t know.” She paused, as if searching for the right words. “You see me. Not just the captain, or the Seeker, or ‘Sirius Black’s little sister.’ Just me.”
Severus felt his throat go dry. He looked away, unsure what to say to that.
Y/N didn’t push him for an answer. Instead, she grinned, leaning closer. “So, since you’re such a dedicated fan now, you coming to my next match?”
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If I must.”
She laughed. It was bright, unapologetic, and it was the kind of laugh that made even his cold, guarded heart warm just a little.
“You must.”
Y/N pushed open the door to an empty classroom, stepping inside like she owned the place. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows against the stone walls, the only sound the faint echo of the ongoing celebration down in the dungeons.
Severus followed, closing the door behind them. “Skipping the victory party entirely, then?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Y/N tossed her broom onto an abandoned desk and hopped up onto another, swinging her legs.
“Please. If I stay any longer, they’ll shove Firewhisky down my throat and make me listen to Mulciber’s tragic attempts at flirting.” She smirked. “I’d rather be here.”
Severus leaned against the opposite desk, arms crossed. “With me?”
“With you.” Her voice was softer now, less teasing.
He didn’t know what to say to that, so he looked down, pulling the Snitch from his pocket and watching it twitch in his palm.
Y/N’s eyes flicked to it. “Like it?”
Severus huffed. “You forced it on me.”
She tilted her head. “But you haven’t given it back.”
He hesitated, fingers tightening around the Snitch. The truth was, he liked having it. A reminder that, out of everyone in that bloody Quidditch pitch, she had chosen him to share her moment with.
Y/N grinned, clearly pleased with his silence. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Rolling his eyes, Severus flicked his wand at the candles, dimming them slightly. The atmosphere shifted into a quieter and more intimate setting. The usual playful edge between them softened, replaced with something unspoken but heavy in the air.
She watched him carefully, then sighed, leaning back on her hands.
“You know, for someone who ‘doesn’t care about Quidditch,’ you sure looked invested today.”
Severus exhaled sharply.
“I wasn’t invested—”
“You were leaning forward in the stands.”
“I was watching.”
“You muttered something under your breath when I went for the Snitch.”
“That doesn’t—”
“You were worried about me.” Her voice was light, teasing, but there was something searching in her gaze.
Severus clenched his jaw. “…You could have broken your neck.”
Y/N’s smirk faltered just slightly. “But I didn’t.”
“That’s not the point.”
She studied him for a long moment, then hopped down from the desk, stepping closer.
“Sev.” Her voice was softer now, almost careful. “You do care.”
He swallowed hard. It was infuriating, the way she could see right through him.
“…You’re so annoying,” he muttered.
She grinned. “And you love it.”
Severus refused to dignify that with a response, but he didn’t move away when she plucked the Snitch from his hand, rolling it between her fingers before throwing it back at him. Severus put it back in his pocket.
Silence settled between them, warm and heavy.
After a moment, Y/N smirked. “So, since we’re skipping the party, what do you suggest we do?”
Severus glanced at her, at the flickering candlelight dancing in her eyes.
“…Stay here,” he said finally. “Talk. Until they give up looking for you.”
Y/N hummed in approval. “Sounds perfect.”
And so they stayed.
Severus sat on the edge of the desk, arms crossed as he fixed Y/N with a sharp look. “Have you even read the new Advanced Potions textbook yet?”
Y/N, who had settled comfortably into the chair beside him, legs draped lazily over one armrest, snorted.
“No, Severus, I thought I’d just wing it on my N.E.W.T.s.”
He sighed dramatically, pulling the book from his bag and flipping through the pages with an irritated sort of reverence. “Then you haven’t noticed the absurd number of errors in it.”
Y/N quirked an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Errors? In the Slughorn-approved textbook?”
Severus scoffed. “Slughorn wouldn’t notice an error if it exploded in his face. Which, frankly, some of these might.”
He jabbed at a particular page with his finger. “Here. Draught of Living Death. Ridiculous instructions. If you follow them as written, the potion will be unstable and potentially lethal.”
Y/N leaned forward, peering at the text. “It says to stir counterclockwise seven times.”
“Exactly.” He flipped a few more pages aggressively. “And this one—Babbling Beverage? Why in Merlin’s name would they suggest stewing the rat spleens first? That ruins the consistency completely.”
Y/N grinned, resting her chin on her hand. “You really love this stuff, don’t you?”
Severus paused, caught off guard. His fingers, which had been poised to flip to yet another grievous offense, hesitated over the pages.
“…It’s logical,” he said finally, shrugging as if it didn’t matter. “Precise. Potions do what they’re supposed to if you follow the right process.”
Y/N studied him, something unreadable in her gaze. Then, she reached out and plucked the book from his hands.
“Oi—”
“Relax, Sev,” she drawled, skimming through the pages. “If you hate this version so much, why don’t you just rewrite it yourself?”
He blinked. “What?”
“You already know what’s wrong with it. Fix it. Make notes, change the instructions, do whatever you do with your creepy little personal experiments.” She smirked.
“Merlin knows you’d probably make a better textbook than this rubbish.”
Severus stared at her, lips parting slightly in surprise.
“…You might actually be onto something,” he admitted.
Y/N laughed, tossing the book back at him. “A rare moment of brilliance, I know.”
He rolled his eyes but tucked the idea away, running his fingers over the cover thoughtfully.
Maybe she was right.
Y/N smirked as she watched Severus flip furiously through the pages of the textbook, muttering to himself.
“This is completely wrong,” he grumbled, tapping the page with the tip of his wand. “They’re telling students to add crushed asphodel before the infusion of wormwood. That completely alters the reaction time. If anything, it weakens the potion instead of enhancing it.”
Y/N continued to rest her chin in her palm, watching him with amusement. “And what would you do instead, Professor Snape?”
Severus shot her a glare, but his irritation was undercut by the slight twitch at the corner of his lips. “I’d start with finely ground asphodel. Not crushed, because consistency matters. Then, let it steep after the wormwood infusion. That way, the properties mix properly instead of counteracting each other like whatever idiot wrote this thinks they should.”
Y/N whistled. “You really do think this book is a personal insult, don’t you?”
“It is an insult,” he snapped, flipping to another page.
“This is supposed to be advanced potion-making, not first-year-level incompetence. Look at this. Elixir to Induce Euphoria. The instructions say to stir clockwise the entire time. That’s idiotic. You need to alternate clockwise and counterclockwise to balance the infusion properly, or it’ll be too volatile.”
Y/N couldn’t help but grin.
There was something fascinating about the way he spoke when he got like this. It was sharp, passionate, as if the entire world should care about potion-making as much as he did.
“I have to say, this is the most passionate I’ve ever seen you about anything that isn’t glaring at my brother.”
Severus sighed dramatically. “If I didn’t have to waste my time dealing with him, I could actually focus on things that matter.”
Y/N chuckled. “So potions matter to you, then?”
He hesitated. “…Obviously.”
She tilted her head, watching him thoughtfully. “Then why don’t you make your own notes? Your own version of the textbook? You know more than half the idiots who’ll be using this, anyway.”
Severus was silent for a moment, his fingers tapping lightly against the cover. Then, slowly, he reached into his bag and pulled out a battered old notebook, its pages filled with scribbles, corrections, and improvements in his precise, slanted handwriting.
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “You’ve already started, haven’t you?”
Severus cleared his throat, flipping through the notebook as if he hadn’t just been caught red-handed. “I just thought it would be useful to have the right information written down. For myself.”
Y/N smirked. “And for anyone smart enough to steal your book.”
He scoffed. “As if I’d let anyone get their hands on it.”
She grinned. “You’re a genius, Sev. You know that, right?”
He faltered for just a second, gripping the book a little tighter. “…Hardly.”
But Y/N just shook her head, leaning back. “Well, I think so.”
Severus didn’t respond, but he didn’t argue, either.
Instead, he went right back to ranting about the next mistake in the textbook. This time, something about a disastrous bezoar dosage and Y/N just listened, secretly enjoying every second of it.
Severus was mid-rant about improper bezoar usage when he noticed Y/N staring at him, a slow grin tugging at her lips. Her head still rested on her palm, her elbow propped lazily on the desk, eyes bright with amusement.
He faltered. “What?”
Y/N’s grin widened. “Nothing. Just enjoying the show.”
His brows furrowed. “I’m not performing.”
“You are,” she teased, tapping her fingers against her cheek.
“A very passionate, very angry performance about the dangers of incompetent potion-making. Quite riveting, actually.”
Severus rolled his eyes, closing the textbook with a sharp thud.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here you are, ranting to me instead of to your cauldron in the dungeons,” she pointed out.
He exhaled sharply, leaning back against the desk. “Because you actually listen.”
Y/N’s expression softened slightly. “Of course, I do.”
A beat of silence passed between them. Severus shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, not used to being looked at like that. Like he was worth listening to.
“…You’re staring,” he muttered.
“Observing,” she corrected.
He scoffed. “And what, exactly, are you observing?”
She tilted her head, studying him like he was a particularly interesting puzzle. “Just that you get this look when you talk about potions.”
He narrowed his eyes. “A look?”
“Mhm,” she hummed, lips curling. “Like the rest of the world disappears, and it’s just you and whatever ridiculous mistake you’re trying to fix.”
Severus hesitated, unsure how to respond to that. He’d never thought about it before. But the way she said it made his chest feel strangely tight.
Y/N smirked at his silence. “It’s kind of nice, you know. Seeing you actually care about something.”
He huffed, looking away. “You make it sound as if I don’t care about anything.”
“Well,” she mused, “besides potions, glaring at Gryffindors, and being thoroughly unimpressed with everyone else…”
She tapped her chin. “No, can’t say I’ve seen you care about much else.”
He shot her a flat look. “Hilarious.”
She grinned. “I try.”
Another pause. The candles flickered, casting soft shadows across the old classroom.
Then, Y/N’s voice was quieter, more thoughtful. “I like when you talk about potions.”
Severus glanced at her, caught off guard by the sincerity in her tone.
Y/N shrugged, still watching him. “It’s nice hearing you talk about something that makes you happy.”
He opened his mouth, but no words came. Because no one had ever said that to him before.
After a moment, he cleared his throat, looking back down at his notebook.
“…It’s not happiness,” he muttered. “It’s just—logic.”
Y/N just smiled knowingly. “If you say so, Sev.”
And despite himself, Severus didn’t argue.
Severus sat back against the desk, his fingers drumming lightly against the cover of his notebook.
After a moment, he sighed and said, almost begrudgingly, “You played well today.”
Y/N blinked, then grinned. “Was that a compliment from Severus Snape? Merlin, I must be dreaming.”
He rolled his eyes, but there was the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Oh, I definitely will,” she teased, leaning back in her chair. “Go on, say it again. Just so I know I didn’t hallucinate it.”
Severus huffed, crossing his arms. “I’m not repeating myself.”
“Pity,” she sighed dramatically. “Would’ve been nice to have it burned into my memory forever.”
He shook his head, but his gaze lingered on her, something softer in his usually sharp eyes.
“You were impressive,” he admitted after a moment. “Even Slughorn wouldn’t stop talking about how Slytherin finally has a proper Seeker.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Slughorn, huh? What about you? Were you impressed?”
Severus scoffed. “I’m always impressed by competency. And considering the rest of the team is mediocre at best, it’s fortunate you know what you’re doing.”
Y/N laughed. “High praise, coming from you.”
He glanced away, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “It was… entertaining. Watching you completely humiliate Gryffindor.”
Y/N smirked. “So that’s what you enjoyed.”
“Obviously.”
She chuckled, shaking her head. “Well, I am the best.”
Severus rolled his eyes. “Now you’re pushing it.”
Y/N only grinned, nudging his knee with her foot. “Admit it, Sev. You liked watching me play.”
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If I admit it, will you finally stop pestering me?”
“Maybe,” she teased.
Severus exhaled, looking at her for a long moment before shaking his head. “…You were good.”
Y/N’s grin widened. “Knew it.”
He shook his head again, but despite his best efforts, he couldn’t quite hide the small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips.
Severus pulled his hand from his robe pocket, the small golden Snitch resting in his palm. The tiny wings fluttered weakly against his fingers, as if reluctant to leave his grasp.
“I believe this belongs to you,” he said, holding it out to Y/N.
She looked at it, then at him, and instead of taking it, she just smirked and leaned back in her chair. “Keep it.”
Severus frowned. “What?”
“Keep it,” she repeated, her voice softer this time. “So you’ll always remember me.”
His fingers curled slightly around the Snitch as he processed her words, his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable. “…Why would I need something to remember you by?”
Y/N grinned. “Because, Sev, someday I’ll be famous. Hogwarts’ best Seeker, a legend in the making. And when that happens, you’ll want to say you knew me first.”
He scoffed, but there was no real bite to it.
Severus looked down at the Snitch in his palm, the tiny wings brushing against his skin. He could have argued. He could have insisted she take it back. But instead, he closed his fingers around it and slipped it back into his pocket, letting the weight of it settle against him.
“…Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll keep it.”
Y/N smiled. “Good.”
And for the first time that night, Severus didn’t have a single complaint.
The next morning, the Great Hall buzzed with the usual morning chatter, but Severus barely paid it any mind. He sat at the Slytherin table, absently picking at his breakfast, still adjusting to the idea of carrying a Snitch in his pocket. Her Snitch.
And then, like clockwork, Y/N slid into the seat beside him, nudging his shoulder with hers. “Morning, Sev.”
He huffed, not looking up from his plate. “You’re awfully cheerful.”
“I did win a match yesterday,” she reminded him smugly, grabbing a piece of toast. “And, you know, got a very rare compliment from a certain grumpy Potions prodigy.”
Severus rolled his eyes. “I’m beginning to regret it.”
“Oh, don’t be like that.” She smirked, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “Did you sleep well? You and your new prized possession, I mean.”
He stiffened slightly, but kept his expression neutral. “It’s just a Snitch.”
“My Snitch,” she corrected, taking a bite of her toast. “Did you put it somewhere safe?”
Severus exhaled through his nose, reaching into his pocket and subtly showing her the small golden sphere resting in his palm before tucking it away again. “Satisfied?”
Y/N grinned. “Very.”
He shook his head, turning his attention back to his breakfast, but he didn’t push her away when she leaned comfortably against him.
Narcissa Black sat gracefully across from them, her sharp blue eyes scanning Y/N with mild curiosity as she stirred her tea.
“You weren’t at the victory party last night.” It wasn’t a question. It was an observation, one laced with subtle judgment.
Y/N smirked, casually buttering her toast. “Oh, you noticed?”
“Of course, I noticed,” Narcissa replied, arching a perfectly shaped brow.
“You were the star of the match, and yet, no celebratory gloating? No basking in the glory of your own success?”
She tilted her head slightly. “Very unlike you, cousin.”
Severus huffed quietly, hiding his amusement behind his goblet of pumpkin juice.
Y/N shrugged. “Didn’t feel like it.”
Narcissa’s eyes flickered between the two of them before landing back on Y/N. “You did disappear rather quickly after the match…”
Y/N smirked. “What can I say? Had better company.” She nudged Severus with her knee under the table, earning an unimpressed glance from him.
Narcissa’s gaze sharpened, her lips curving slightly.
“I see.” She rested her chin on her hand, watching Y/N with something between amusement and suspicion.
“So, instead of celebrating with your adoring fans, you spent your evening somewhere, locked away with Severus.”
Y/N gave an exaggerated sigh, placing a hand on her chest. “Oh, forgive me, dear cousin, for prioritizing meaningful conversation over drunken debauchery.”
Narcissa rolled her eyes. “Please, you love the attention.”
“True,” Y/N admitted easily. “But I love annoying Sev more.”
Severus scoffed, not looking up from his plate. “How fortunate for me.”
Narcissa observed the two of them for a moment, then smirked. “Well, I do hope he made it worth your while.”
Y/N’s grin was immediate. “Oh, he did.”
Severus stiffened, glaring at her. “Don’t say it like that.”
Narcissa chuckled, sipping her tea. “Interesting choice of company, Y/N.”
Y/N just leaned back, perfectly unbothered. “Best choice, actually.”
Severus didn’t say anything but under the table, his fingers curled around the Snitch in his pocket.
“Anyways…Sirius came looking for you yesterday. Something about introducing you to his best mate, Potter. I think he fancies you,” Narcissa said, her tone light, but her gaze sharp as she watched Y/N’s reaction.
Y/N snorted, tearing off another bite of toast.
“James Potter? Fancies me? Please, Cissy, don’t insult my intelligence.”
“I’m serious,” Narcissa pressed, twirling a strand of blonde hair between her fingers.
“Sirius wouldn’t shut up about it. He kept saying how he thinks you and Potter would ‘get on brilliantly.’”
Severus, who had been silent up until now, suddenly gripped his fork a little too tightly. His jaw tensed, but he said nothing, staring at his plate as if it personally offended him.
Y/N sighed dramatically.
“And yet, somehow, I doubt James Potter would be terribly interested in me, given the way he practically worships Evans.”
Narcissa waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, well, maybe he’s expanding his options. You are the Black everyone actually likes, after all.”
Severus scoffed, finally breaking his silence. “Potter is an arrogant, brainless git. You’d sooner find a Kneazle getting along with a Manticore than have an intelligent conversation with him.”
Y/N smirked at his tone. “Aw, Sev, that almost sounded jealous.”
His scowl deepened. “I don’t get jealous.”
Narcissa raised an eyebrow at him, her lips curling into a knowing smirk. “Right. And yet, you look like you’re about to hex your plate into oblivion.”
Severus set his fork down with deliberate care, clearly restraining himself. “I simply find it unbelievable that anyone would subject themselves to Potter’s presence willingly.”
Y/N chuckled, nudging him with her elbow.
“Don’t worry, Sev. If I ever lose all sense of self-respect and go anywhere near James Potter, you’ll be the first to know.”
His expression didn’t soften, but the tight grip on his robes loosened ever so slightly.
“See that you don’t,” he muttered.
Narcissa just smiled behind her teacup, watching them both with interest.
“As if Potter has a chance…” Y/N scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Did he really think I’d choose him over Severus? He’s literally a bully, just like that Gryffindor of a brother of mine.”
Severus, who had been gripping his goblet a little too tightly, stilled at her words. His dark eyes flickered to her face, searching for any sign that she was joking. But she wasn’t. She had said it so casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Narcissa, however, only hummed, looking thoroughly entertained. “Oh? So you are choosing Severus, then?”
Y/N smirked.
“Obviously.”
She leaned into Severus slightly, her shoulder pressing against his. “Why would I waste my time with a Potter when I already have the best company?”
Severus swallowed hard, his face carefully blank but his fingers twitched slightly against the table. He knew better than to read into her words, but for the first time that morning, the tension in his shoulders eased just a little.
Narcissa’s smirk widened. “Interesting,” she mused, tilting her head.
“You’re lucky, Severus.”
Severus huffed, finally recovering enough to roll his eyes. “If that’s what you want to call it.”
Y/N grinned, resting her chin on her palm. “It is.”
And despite himself, Severus didn’t argue.
Narcissa took a slow sip of her tea, her smirk never wavering.
“Well, that settles it, then. I suppose I’ll have to break the tragic news to Potter—he never stood a chance.”
Y/N chuckled. “Oh, please do. And be sure to tell Sirius that I’d rather hex myself than date his insufferable best mate.”
Severus let out a quiet breath, his fingers still curled around his goblet.
“Speaking of your Gryffindor brother,” Narcissa continued, setting her cup down with a soft clink, “he was in quite the mood when I saw him last night. Apparently, he’s rather upset that you’re still spending all your time with Severus instead of ‘better company.’”
Y/N rolled her eyes, stealing a piece of fruit from Severus’ plate.
“Right, because his definition of ‘better company’ consists of Potter and Lupin and that other friend of theirs. No, thanks.”
Severus sneered at the mention of them, his grip on his goblet tightening again. “Black should concern himself with his own miserable existence and stay out of yours.”
Y/N smirked, popping the fruit into her mouth. “Agreed.”
She turned to Severus, nudging him with her knee. “But if he ever tries to drag me to the Gryffindor common room, do me a favor and curse me unconscious, yeah?”
Severus gave her a flat look. “I’d do it regardless.”
Y/N laughed, completely unbothered, while Narcissa shook her head in amusement. “You two are ridiculous.”
“And yet,” Y/N said, resting her head on Severus’ shoulder, “you’re still sitting with us.”
Narcissa merely smirked, watching the way Severus stiffened at the sudden contact, his ears just barely tinged red. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
Once Narcissa had finished her tea and had her fun at their expense, she stood gracefully, smoothing out her robes. “Well, I’ll leave you two to… whatever this is.” She shot Y/N a knowing look before glancing at Severus with the same amused expression. “Try not to let her get you into too much trouble, Severus.”
Severus merely scowled, but Y/N grinned. “No promises.”
With a quiet chuckle, Narcissa turned and left the Great Hall, her blonde hair swaying as she went.
The moment she was out of earshot, Severus finally spoke, his voice quieter than before.
“You didn’t have to say that.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Say what?”
Severus shifted slightly, his fingers brushing over his pocket where the Snitch still rested.
“That you’d choose me over Potter,” he muttered, almost like he didn’t believe it.
Y/N rolled her eyes, propping her elbow on the table and resting her chin on her palm. “But I would.”
He frowned, clearly skeptical. “It’s not a competition.”
“Well, if it were, you’d win.”
Severus looked at her then, really looked at her, as if trying to find the punchline in her words.
But there wasn’t one.
Y/N was being completely serious.
“…Why?” he asked after a beat.
Y/N tilted her head, her gaze softening just a fraction.
“Because I actually like spending time with you, Sev.” She nudged his knee under the table, smirking. “And because you’re my favorite.”
Severus swallowed, looking away as a faint redness dusted his pale cheeks. He wasn’t used to being anyone’s favorite.
“…Idiot,” he muttered, but there was no venom in his voice.
Y/N grinned. “That’s me.”
And for the first time that morning, Severus let himself relax, the weight of the Snitch in his pocket grounding him as he sat beside the only person who had ever truly chosen him.
After finishing breakfast, Y/N and Severus stood from the Slytherin table, grabbing their books and making their way toward the dungeons for Potions class.
Severus walked beside her, his usual scowl in place, but Y/N could tell he wasn’t actually annoyed. If anything, he seemed more thoughtful than usual, his fingers idly drumming against the spine of his Potions textbook.
Y/N bumped her shoulder against his. “What’s with the brooding? Thinking of new ways to make Potter’s life miserable?”
Severus scoffed. “I don’t need to think of new ways. He’s miserable enough just existing.”
Y/N laughed. “That’s fair.”
They arrived at the dimly lit Potions classroom, where students were already filing in. Slughorn, ever the enthusiastic professor, was scribbling today’s instructions on the blackboard.
Y/N and Severus slid into their usual seats at the back, setting their books down.
“Another partnered assignment today,” Y/N observed, glancing at the board. “Think Slughorn will have the audacity to separate us?”
Severus smirked slightly, his dark eyes flickering toward the front of the room. “He wouldn’t dare.”
And, as if proving his point, when Slughorn finally addressed the class, he didn’t even bother reassigning partners.
“Excellent, excellent! You may stay with your current partners,” Slughorn announced. “Today, we’ll be brewing a Draught of Peace! A rather delicate potion. One mistake and it won’t work at all.”
Severus rolled his eyes as Slughorn droned on about the potion’s properties. Y/N, meanwhile, leaned toward him, grinning. “Bet I’ll finish mine before you.”
Severus raised an eyebrow. “You can’t even cut ingredients properly.”
“That’s slander.”
“That’s fact.”
Y/N huffed but still smirked as she flipped open her textbook.
“Fine, Professor Snape, you do all the chopping, and I’ll handle the brewing.”
Severus sighed as if this was the greatest burden in the world, but he didn’t argue. He never did when it came to her.
And so, as the rest of the class struggled, Y/N and Severus worked seamlessly, the usual banter filling the space between them as they brewed yet another flawless potion—together.
As usual, working with Severus was effortless. While other students fumbled with their ingredients, misread instructions, or hesitated over their cauldrons, Y/N and Severus moved like a well-oiled machine.
Severus meticulously chopped the ingredients, his precise, practiced movements ensuring uniform slices. Y/N, despite her usual teasing, took the brewing process seriously, stirring at the exact pace and adding the ingredients only when Severus nodded in approval.
“Steady,” he murmured as she carefully poured in the powdered moonstone.
Y/N smirked. “You act like I’m about to botch the whole thing.”
“Because you would,” he replied dryly.
Y/N gasped in mock offense. “Rude.”
Severus merely shook his head, a rare, almost amused look flickering across his features. “Just keep stirring.”
They continued working, the soft bubbling of their potion filling the space between them. Around them, students groaned in frustration as some had cauldrons emitting faint purple smoke, while others had turned a worrying shade of green.
Slughorn made his way around the room, peering into cauldrons and offering words of encouragement (or, in some cases, looks of deep disappointment). When he reached their station, he beamed.
“Ah, exquisite work, as always!” he declared, clapping his hands together. “Perfect color, perfect consistency. Well done, well done!”
Severus merely inclined his head, while Y/N grinned. “Naturally.”
Slughorn chuckled. “I daresay, the two of you make quite the brilliant team. Perhaps I should have you brewing for me.”
Severus scoffed, but his lips twitched slightly. “I am brilliant. You’re just lucky you sit next to me.”
Slughorn let out a hearty laugh. “Oh, you remind me of myself in my youth, Severus! Such confidence, such talent! If you ever have any interest in pursuing Potions beyond Hogwarts, I would be more than happy to offer guidance.”
Severus gave a polite nod. “Thank you, sir.”
Slughorn turned to Y/N. “And you, Miss Black. Remarkable work as well! Though I must say, I’m quite surprised you didn’t celebrate your Quidditch victory last night.”
Y/N shrugged, glancing at Severus briefly. “Didn’t feel like it.”
Slughorn raised an eyebrow.
“Ah, well. More dedicated to your studies, I see! Excellent priorities, my dear.”
He gave them both a final pleased nod before moving on to the next station.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Y/N turned to Severus. “See? Brilliant team.”
Severus exhaled, shaking his head as he began cleaning up their workspace. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
“Too late.”
And for the rest of the class, while their classmates struggled, Y/N and Severus sat back, their potion already perfected—just as always.
Severus sat with his quill resting idly between his fingers, his gaze flickering between his parchment and Y/N as she leaned over to copy his notes.
She didn’t even bother asking anymore. She just slid his notebook closer, turned her own to a blank page, and began copying down his meticulous handwriting with lazy, fluid strokes.
Severus should have been irritated. Should have snapped at her to take her own notes, to pay attention instead of relying on him.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he watched as she absentmindedly chewed the end of her quill, her brows furrowing slightly in concentration. A few strands of her dark hair fell forward, brushing against the parchment, and every so often, she tapped her fingers against the desk in an offbeat rhythm.
She had done this a hundred times before. Stealing his notes, ignoring her own half-written ones, leaning just a little too close without realizing it. But for some reason, today, Severus couldn’t look away.
“Sev,” Y/N suddenly said, not looking up, still writing.
He blinked, straightening slightly. “What?”
“You’re staring.”
His grip on his quill tightened. “No, I’m not.”
Y/N smirked, finally glancing at him from beneath her lashes. “You are.”
Severus scoffed, shifting in his seat, his expression settling back into its usual scowl. “You’re copying my notes. I’m simply making sure you don’t ruin them with your atrocious handwriting.”
Y/N gasped in mock offense, pressing a dramatic hand to her chest.
“Atrocious? Excuse me, I happen to have flawless handwriting.”
Severus snatched his notebook back, flipping it shut.
“It’s a disgrace.”
Y/N laughed, resting her chin on her palm as she gazed at him, entirely unbothered. “Then I guess you’ll just have to keep taking notes for me forever.”
Severus rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched slightly. It was just enough for Y/N to catch.
─ ♱ · 𓆩🤍𓆪 · ♱ ──────────
The Slytherin common room was quiet that night, the usual chatter of students fading as most had either gone to bed or were off doing Merlin-knows-what in the castle. The fire crackled softly in the dimly lit space, casting long shadows across the stone walls.
Severus and Y/N sat side by side on the emerald-green sofa closest to the fireplace, books open on their laps.
Well, Severus was reading. Y/N was halfheartedly flipping through her textbook, occasionally tapping her fingers against the spine, clearly bored.
After a few minutes of silence, she let out a dramatic sigh, tilting her head to look at him.
“Sev.”
He didn’t look up from his book. “What?”
“I’m bored.”
Severus exhaled sharply, still not looking at her.
“Then go to bed.”
Y/N ignored that completely and shifted to rest her head against his shoulder.
“Nah. This is fine.”
Severus stiffened for half a second before forcing himself to relax. It wasn’t the first time she’d done this, leaning against him like it was the most natural thing in the world, but it always caught him off guard.
“You’re distracting,” he muttered, eyes still on his book.
“I’m existing,” she corrected, smirking against his shoulder.
“Exactly.”
Y/N chuckled, and the sound was warm, familiar. She didn’t move away, though, and after a moment, Severus found himself leaning into it.
They sat like that for a while, the only sounds being the flickering of the fire and the occasional turn of a page.
“I’m stealing your notes again tomorrow.”
Severus sighed, closing his book. “Of course you are.”
And when she smiled, drowsy and content, Severus simply shook his head.
The common room grew quieter as the fire burned lower, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Severus had long since stopped reading, though his book remained open in his lap.
Y/N had gone still beside him, her head slipping from his shoulder. He glanced down just in time to see her shift, curling up slightly as her head now resting against his lap.
Severus tensed.
His breath hitched, his entire body going rigid as if moving even an inch would somehow wake her. But Y/N didn’t stir. She simply exhaled softly, her face peaceful, her arms tucked beneath her head as she settled deeper against him.
For a long moment, Severus just stared.
Her hair spilled over his robes, the firelight casting a warm glow on her features.
She looked… comfortable. Completely at ease.
He should wake her up. Tell her to go to bed.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he swallowed hard and carefully set his book aside. His fingers twitched as if debating whether or not to move, to touch her, but he quickly clenched them into fists, keeping them at his sides.
Merlin, she was infuriating.
Did she even realize what she did to him? How she invaded his space so easily, so effortlessly, like she belonged there?
Severus exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to lean back against the sofa. He couldn’t (wouldn’t) wake her.
Not when she looked like that.
So, instead, he sat there, unmoving, his heartbeat entirely too loud in his ears. And as the fire crackled beside him, Severus Snape did something he never allowed himself to do.
He let himself enjoy the moment.
Severus hesitated. His fingers hovered just above Y/N’s hair, as if touching her would shatter the quiet, fragile peace of the moment.
But she was there, asleep on his lap, her breathing slow and even. The firelight cast soft golden hues across her skin, making her seem almost unreal like something delicate and untouchable.
Severus exhaled, then, before he could think better of it, finally let his fingers brush against her hair.
It was soft. Softer than he expected. His movements were tentative at first, barely there, but when she didn’t stir but simply nestled deeper against him, he let himself continue.
He didn’t know why he did it. He had never been one for tenderness, never the type to comfort or soothe. But with Y/N, it felt natural.
His fingers threaded through her hair again, and his breath caught when she shifted slightly, a faint hum escaping her lips.
Severus stilled, his heart hammering against his ribs. But Y/N only sighed in her sleep, her body relaxing further against him.
His hand lingered for just a moment longer before he withdrew it, resting it tensely on the armrest.
This was dangerous.
She was dangerous.
Because if she kept doing this, kept looking at him like that, touching him like it meant something, falling asleep on him like he was someone safe, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could pretend he didn’t want her.
And that terrified him more than anything.
────────── ♱ · 𓆩🤍𓆪 · ♱ ─
The wind was crisp as Y/N and Severus made their way down the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade, the chatter of students filling the air.
It had been a few weeks since that night in the common room—since Y/N had unknowingly ruined Severus with her presence, her warmth, the feeling of her hair slipping through his fingers.
And now, here they were, walking side by side, the snow crunching beneath their feet as Y/N tugged on his sleeve.
“Come on, Sev,” she said, linking her arm through his as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “You walk so slowly.”
Severus stiffened at the contact, his breath catching for just a fraction of a second.
She was touching him again.
And not just touching but rather clinging. As if she belonged there. As if she didn’t even have to think about it.
Y/N didn’t seem to notice his internal crisis, though. She simply grinned, leaning slightly into his side as they made their way toward Honeydukes.
“I don’t know why you even agreed to come,” she teased, nudging him with her shoulder. “You hate sweets.”
“I don’t hate them,” Severus muttered, keeping his gaze firmly ahead, pretending that the warmth of her arm against his wasn’t distracting him.
“I just don’t see the point in wasting my money on sugar when I could buy something useful.”
Because Y/N was still holding onto him, and Merlin help him, he liked it.
The second they stepped inside Honeydukes, Y/N all but dragged Severus through the shop, pointing at various sweets with an excited grin.
“Oh, you have to try these,” she said, grabbing a handful of Chocolate Frogs.
“And these—” She tossed a few Sugar Quills into her basket.
“Oh! And definitely these.”
Severus sighed, crossing his arms as she piled more and more sweets into her basket.
“You do realize I never asked for any of this.”
Y/N grinned, completely unfazed. “That’s the best part. You don’t have to ask. I just know what you need.”
Severus scoffed. “And what exactly do I need?”
“Sugar.”
Severus rolled his eyes. “I—”
Before he could finish, Y/N grabbed a small chocolate and unwrapped it. Then, before he could protest, she held it up to his lips.
“Open,” she ordered.
Severus stared at her, unimpressed. “You cannot be serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious.” She wiggled the chocolate in front of his face. “Come on, Sev. Humor me.”
Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. This was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
And yet…
He begrudgingly parted his lips just enough for her to pop the chocolate into his mouth.
Y/N beamed.
“See? Not so bad, right?” she teased, watching him closely.
Severus chewed, his expression unreadable. Then, after a long pause, he muttered, “It’s fine.”
Y/N gasped. “Fine? This is premium chocolate, Severus. Premium.”
Severus just shook his head, swallowing the chocolate. “Idiot.”
Severus sighed, already regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment. But when Y/N lifted the next treat to his lips, he didn’t resist.
By the time they left Honeydukes, Y/N had practically stuffed half a dozen different sweets into Severus’ mouth. Each time grinning triumphantly whenever he reluctantly accepted them.
Now, as they strolled back through Hogsmeade, Y/N happily munching on a Sugar Quill, Severus still tasted the remnants of chocolate and caramel on his tongue.
“I don’t know why you’re acting like you hated it,” Y/N teased, bumping her shoulder against his. “You ate everything I gave you.”
Severus shot her a flat look.
“You shoved it in my mouth. What was I supposed to do? Spit it out?”
Y/N smirked. “You could’ve said no.”
Severus scoffed. “Like you’d listen.”
She grinned. “Exactly.”
They walked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the cold winter air crisp against their skin.
Then, suddenly, Y/N stopped in front of a small tea shop, peering through the frosted windows. “Oh, let’s go in here for a bit. It’s freezing.”
Severus followed her gaze, immediately recognizing the shop. Madam Puddifoot’s.
His face twisted in disgust. “Absolutely not.”
Y/N turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“Because,” Severus muttered, glaring at the couples visible through the window, “this is practically a breeding ground for lovesick imbeciles.”
Y/N burst out laughing. “You would say that.”
Severus crossed his arms. “I refuse to set foot in there.”
Y/N, still grinning, hummed thoughtfully. “Alright. How about The Three Broomsticks instead?”
Severus hesitated, eyeing her warily. “And what’s the catch?”
Y/N linked her arm through his again, smirking. “No catch. Just butterbeer. And maybe, maybe, I’ll stop feeding you sweets for the day.”
Severus exhaled through his nose, pretending to be completely unaffected by the way she clung to him so easily.
“…Fine.”
Y/N beamed. “Good choice, Sev.”
And just like that, she pulled him along once more, her arm still wrapped around his.
The Three Broomsticks was warm and bustling with students escaping the cold. As soon as they stepped inside, Y/N led Severus toward a small table near the corner, away from the loudest groups.
She let go of his arm (much to his dismay, though he’d never admit it) and slid into her seat.
“I’ll order for us,” she declared before he could argue, already making her way to the counter.
Severus sighed, rubbing his temples. He should’ve known letting her drag him here would mean losing every battle.
A few minutes later, Y/N returned with two steaming mugs of butterbeer, setting one in front of him.
“There,” she said proudly, sliding into her seat. “A drink and a break from my relentless generosity. You should be thanking me.”
Severus rolled his eyes but accepted the mug anyway. “I didn’t ask for your generosity in the first place.”
Y/N smirked. “Quit your whining, Snape.”
Severus huffed but took a sip of his butterbeer. It was warm, sweet, and undeniably comforting, not that he’d ever say that out loud.
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the warmth of the tavern settling over them. Every now and then, Severus found himself watching her like how her fingers curled around her mug, how she tapped her nails idly against the wood, how her lips pursed slightly as she took a sip.
It was maddening.
She was maddening.
Y/N suddenly looked up, catching him mid-stare.
Severus immediately looked away, clearing his throat.
“What?” he muttered.
Y/N tilted her head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You were staring.”
Severus scoffed. “I was not.”
“Liar.” She grinned, leaning forward slightly. “See something you like, Sev?”
Severus choked on his butterbeer.
Y/N burst into laughter, her eyes shining with amusement as he coughed into his sleeve.
Severus opened his mouth but before he could, a familiar voice interrupted them.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”
Y/N turned in her seat, her smile vanishing as she spotted the person standing beside their table.
Sirius Black.
And behind him—Potter, Lupin, and Pettigrew.
Severus clenched his jaw, already bracing himself.
“Didn’t expect to see you here, little sister,” Sirius drawled, his lips curled in amusement. “And with him, no less.”
Potter elbowed him. “Guess she has questionable taste.”
Severus scowled, but before he could snap back, Y/N spoke first.
“If you came all this way just to be annoying, then congratulations, you’ve succeeded,” she said flatly, leaning back in her chair.
Sirius chuckled. “Oh, come on, Y/N. You could be sitting with anyone—and yet, here you are, stuck with old Snivellus.”
Severus’ fists clenched under the table, his face carefully blank.
Y/N, however, just laughed.
“You’re so predictable, Sirius,” she said, shaking her head.
“You think I care what you lot think?” She gestured between them lazily.
“If I wanted to sit with idiots, I’d let you all join us. But I’d rather not lose brain cells, thanks.”
Sirius raised his brows, clearly surprised by her sharpness.
Lupin sighed, giving her a wary look. “Y/N, you really don’t—”
“I do,” she interrupted, her tone unwavering. “Now, if you don’t mind, we were in the middle of something.”
Sirius scoffed, but Potter pulled at his sleeve. “Leave it, mate. Let her sit with her pet snake if she wants.”
Y/N’s eyes flashed dangerously. “At least he’s not an arrogant, self-obsessed git,” she shot back.
Potter’s smug expression faltered.
Sirius let out a low whistle. “Damn. Didn’t realize you hated us that much.”
Y/N crossed her arms. “I don’t. But I hate this. The way you always think you can tell me what to do. Who to be around.”
“Sirius… I’m not you,” she murmured. “I never was.”
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Fine. Whatever.” He turned to leave, pausing only once. “Don’t come crying to me when he betrays you.”
With that, he walked away, the others trailing behind him.
A heavy silence hung in the air.
Y/N sighed, rubbing her temples. “Merlin.”
Severus, who had been deadly quiet through the entire exchange, finally spoke.
“…Why did you do that?”
Y/N looked at him, confused. “Do what?”
“Defend me,” he muttered, his voice oddly unreadable. “Against them.”
Y/N frowned. “Severus, I’d defend you against anyone.”
The words were so simple, so obvious to her. But to him…
Severus stared at her, something unreadable flickering behind his dark eyes.
And then, slowly he reached for his mug again, taking a long sip of butterbeer to cover the unbearable warmth spreading through his chest.
“…You’re an idiot,” he muttered.
Y/N grinned. “Maybe. But I’m your idiot.”
Severus scoffed, rolling his eyes.
But he didn’t argue.
Severus watched as Y/N slumped back in her chair, exhaling a tired sigh.
He frowned. “What’s wrong?”
Y/N twirled the handle of her butterbeer mug between her fingers, her gaze distant.
“I was just thinking…” She hesitated, then let out a humorless chuckle. “I wonder how long I have before my father pushes me to some pureblood boy.”
Severus stiffened.
Her words settled between them, heavy and unspoken.
It wasn’t surprising, really. It was expected for someone like Y/N, from a prestigious family like the Blacks. Arranged marriages, strategic unions, keeping the bloodline pure.
But no lie, the thought of Y/N being forced into a life she didn’t want, with someone she didn’t choose made his stomach twist uncomfortably.
He swallowed, his voice carefully neutral. “…Do you have anyone in mind?”
Y/N scoffed. “As if it’ll matter. It’s not like I’ll get a choice.”
She tapped her nails against the table, sighing again. “I’m sure my father already has someone lined up. Probably some arrogant pureblood twat who thinks he owns the world.”
Severus’ grip on his mug tightened. Of course he does.
“You don’t have to do it,” he said quietly.
Y/N gave him a knowing look. “You know that’s not how it works, Sev.”
He clenched his jaw. Of course it isn’t.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, with a wry smile, Y/N nudged his foot under the table.
“Unless you want to marry me, Snape.”
Severus nearly choked on air.
Y/N burst out laughing at his reaction, but there was something in her expression like she was only half joking.
Severus forced himself to breathe.
“You really need to stop saying things like that.”
“Why?” she teased. “Does it make you nervous?”
Severus huffed. “It’s infuriating.”
Y/N grinned. “Good.”
But as she took another sip of her butterbeer, Severus noticed how her fingers curled slightly tighter around the mug. How her smile, bright and teasing as always, didn’t quite reach her eyes.
And he hated that.
Hated that she felt trapped.
Hated that, no matter what she wanted, the world would still try to dictate her fate.
Without thinking, he muttered, “I’d rather it be me than one of them.”
Y/N stilled.
Slowly, she set her mug down, her eyes meeting his.
“What did you just say?”
Severus hesitated. He hadn’t meant to say it. Hadn’t even realized he’d said it aloud.
But now that he had…He didn’t take it back.
Y/N blinked at him, and for the first time, there was no teasing, no laughter.
Severus exhaled sharply and looked away.
“Forget it.”
Y/N, however, did not forget it.
Instead, she just kept staring at him, something unreadable in her gaze.
Something dangerously close to hope.
Severus’ breath caught in his throat.
He turned to look at her, but Y/N was already staring at him with her eyes unwavering.
“No,” she said, voice quiet but firm.
“Tell me, Severus. Because I swear… if I heard whatever it is that I think I heard, then…”
She swallowed, her fingers curling against the table.
“I’d give it all up.”
Severus’ heart stopped.
For a moment, all he could hear was the low hum of The Three Broomsticks around them—the chatter of students, the clinking of glasses, the distant sound of rain beginning to drizzle outside.
But right now, none of it mattered.
Not when she was looking at him like that.
Like he was something worth choosing.
Severus exhaled sharply, forcing himself to speak.
“Y/N… don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?” she challenged, leaning closer.
“Because it’s impossible? Because you think I wouldn’t do it?” Her voice softened, gaze searching his.
“Because you don’t want me to?”
Severus clenched his jaw, his hands tightening into fists beneath the table.
Of course he wanted her to.
But she was a Black. She had a future already planned—one that had nothing to do with him.
But then, she was here.
Offering, choosing him, despite it all.
“Y/N… if you say something like that, you can’t take it back.”
Y/N gave him a small, lopsided smile. “Good. Because I wouldn’t want to.”
Severus hated how much that affected him.
Because the truth was—if things were different, if the world wasn’t what it was…
He’d choose her, too.
Slowly, cautiously, he reached across the table, his fingers barely brushing against hers.
“Y/N…” His voice was quiet, unsteady.
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
But she only turned her hand over, letting her fingers lace through his.
“Sev,” she murmured, “I do.”
Severus stared at their intertwined fingers, his breath unsteady.
She wasn’t letting go.
Did she understand what she was saying? What she was offering?
Giving up her family’s expectations—for him? Throwing away a life of power, wealth, and status because of a quiet, half-spoken confession he hadn’t even meant to say?
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
His grip tightened slightly around her hand, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You’d really do that?”
Y/N exhaled, something relieved in her expression.
“I’d do it in a heartbeat.”
Severus felt something in his chest ache.
“I don’t want you to regret it,” he murmured.
“I won’t,” she said immediately. “But you have to tell me, Sev… if I gave it all up—my family’s expectations, the stupid arranged marriage—if I walked away from all of it…”
She hesitated, then asked, softer, “Would you want me?”
Severus inhaled sharply.
The answer was yes. Of course it was yes.
But admitting it and saying it aloud would make it real.
And if he let himself have this, let himself believe that someone like her could choose someone like him…
“I—” His voice faltered, thick with something he couldn’t name. “Y/N, this isn’t fair to you.”
Y/N let out a soft, exasperated laugh. “Severus, I’m the one making this choice. And I’d choose you. Every time.”
Severus felt his world tilt.
Every time.
He looked at her then and for the first time in his life, he let himself want.
Slowly, hesitantly, he raised their joined hands, pressing his lips lightly against the back of hers.
It was the smallest, softest thing.
But Y/N inhaled sharply, eyes widening because she knew. She knew what it meant.
Severus pulled away just slightly, his lips barely brushing against her skin as he whispered, “Then I’d choose you, too.”
Y/N’s breath hitched.
He held her gaze, his fingers still curled gently around hers, his lips still tingling from where they had touched her skin.
Y/N swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Say it again.”
Severus exhaled shakily. He didn’t need to ask what she meant.
“I’d choose you,” he murmured.
Her grip on his hand tightened, like she was trying to ground herself. And then, without thinking, Y/N surged forward, wrapping her arms around him.
Severus stiffened but only for a second. Because as soon as he processed what was happening, he melted into it.
His arms hesitated before slowly wrapping around her, his hand coming up to rest on the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair.
She smelled like fresh strawberry milk and ink and something inherently her, something warm and safe and entirely forbidden.
“I meant it, Sev,” she whispered against his shoulder.
“I don’t care about any of it. I just—” She pulled back slightly, her hands gripping the front of his robes.
“I want you.”
“Y/N…”
She shook her head.
“No, don’t try to push me away again. You want me too, I know you do. So tell me, Severus Snape—do you want me enough to fight for this?”
He would burn the entire world if it meant keeping her.
His grip on her waist tightened as he exhaled, slow and deliberate.
“Yes,” he murmured. “I’ll fight for it.”
Y/N’s lips parted slightly, eyes searching his. “You mean it?”
Instead of answering, Severus did the one thing he’d never allowed himself to do.
He leaned in, slowly and carefully, giving her a chance to pull away.
She didn’t.
And when their lips finally met, it was soft and tentative, like the two of them were still learning how to have this, how to believe in it.
But then Y/N sighed against his mouth, her hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer and suddenly, there was nothing hesitant about it.
Severus kissed her like he’d been waiting for this moment his entire life and didn’t know if he’d ever get it again.
Because maybe he wouldn’t.
Maybe the world would take this from him.
But not today. And maybe not ever.
Today, she was his. Tomorrow, she’ll be his.
Severus tightened his grip on her waist, searching her face as if trying to make sense of her words.
“You know you’ll get disowned for being with a half-blood,” he muttered.
But Y/N only laughed. A soft, amused sound, like the thought of it didn’t bother her in the slightest.
“At least my mother would have the pleasure of blasting my face off that stupid family tree,” she said, rolling her eyes. “She’s been dying to do it for years, anyway.”
Severus frowned. “Y/N—”
“No, Sev.” She reached up, brushing a strand of his dark hair away from his face.
“I mean it. My family doesn’t control me. Not my mother, not my father, not Sirius—no one.” Her voice softened as she cupped his cheek.
“I choose you.”
Severus inhaled sharply.
He had spent his whole life being a second choice. An afterthought. Someone people tolerated but never chose.
But Y/N… she wasn’t hesitating.
“Do you know what you’re saying?” he whispered, barely trusting his voice.
Y/N smiled. Smirked, actually. “I do.”
She leaned closer, eyes flickering between his lips and his gaze.
“Now, are you going to keep questioning my life choices, or are you going to kiss me again?”
Severus let out something between a sigh and a laugh before giving in.
He kissed her.
And this time, there was no hesitation, no second-guessing.
Because, for once in his life, someone had chosen him.
As if she hadn’t just turned his world upside down, Y/N pulled away, settled comfortably beside him, and asked,
“So, tell me about that new potion you were working on.”
Severus blinked. “What?”
She smirked. “You were ranting about it last week, remember? Something about stabilizing the Wolfsbane formula? I was listening, you know.”
Severus stared at her, still reeling from everything that had just happened. The kiss, the way she had chosen him so effortlessly. And now, she was acting like it was just another normal afternoon between them.
But that was Y/N Black. She had always been like this. Unshaken. Unbothered. Acting like she hadn’t just kissed him like she meant it.
And Merlin help him, but Severus loved that about her.
He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
Y/N just grinned.
Severus rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide the faint smirk tugging at his lips.
“Fine. If you must know…” He turned slightly, getting into his usual lecture mode. “The problem with the Wolfsbane Potion is its volatility when stored improperly. The key is stabilizing the aconite concentration without diminishing its effects—”
And just like always, Y/N listened.
She leaned her head against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded in quiet interest, and let him speak.
And for the first time in his life, Severus felt like someone truly wanted to hear what he had to say.
They had been deep in conversation—Severus explaining the intricacies of potion stabilization, his voice passionate, his hands gesturing slightly as he spoke.
And then, out of nowhere, he said—
“And did you know, for the longest time, I have had my eyes on you and you don’t even realize that I’m so in love with you.”
Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.
She turned to him, eyes wide, searching his face for any hint that he was joking. But Severus was dead serious.
His dark eyes held hers, unwavering, like he had needed to say it. Like it had been clawing at him for years. And for once, he didn’t look like he regretted speaking.
Y/N opened her mouth, then closed it again, completely caught off guard.
“You—” She let out a breathless laugh.
“You just say things like that in the middle of a potions discussion?”
Severus smirked slightly, but his voice was softer when he said, “I suppose I do.”
Y/N shook her head in disbelief, a grin tugging at her lips. “Sev—”
“I mean it.” His fingers twitched where they rested against the table.
“I have for a long time.”
Y/N’s chest ached.
Slowly, she reached over, threading her fingers through his.
“Then it’s a good thing I’m so in love with you, too.”
Something in Severus’ expression softened.
He squeezed her hand.
“Good,” he murmured.
Severus furrowed his brows as Y/N suddenly pulled away, tilting her head at him with a knowing smirk.
“Where’s my Snitch, Sev?” she asked.
Severus hesitated for a moment before reaching into the pocket of his robes, fingers brushing against the small, familiar golden ball. He had carried it with him every day since she gave it to him, unwilling to part with something so hers.
Wordlessly, he handed it back.
Y/N took it with a quiet hum, running her fingers over the cool metal before pressing it open with ease.
Severus watched as the delicate wings fluttered, revealing a small folded note inside. His stomach tightened—he had never opened it before. He hadn’t even realized there was something inside.
Y/N didn’t say anything. She simply pulled out the note, unfolded it, and turned it around for him to see.
Severus’ breath hitched.
There, in her familiar handwriting, were three simple words:
“I choose you, Severus Snape.”
His heart stopped.
And then it raced.
His lips parted slightly as he stared at her, eyes searching hers for any sign of hesitation.
But she only smiled, pressing the Snitch back into his palm.
“Keep it for me, won’t you?” she murmured.
Severus swallowed hard, fingers curling tightly around the Snitch, holding onto it like a lifeline.
He had never been given something so precious before.
Summary: Kinktober 2025, Day 5 - Husband/Wife kink
Pairings: Severus Snape x f!reader
Warnings/tags: EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, MINORS DNI - Soft Severus, thoughts of marriage, Severus gets hot and bothered by someone calling you his wife
A/N: I struggled with naming this one, but overall I’m happy with how it turned out. I had a dream about Severus being married and just couldn’t shake it out, so consider this the result of that. Can either be viewed before or after the war :)
Masterlist
The streets of Hogsmeade were busier than usual for a chill autumn evening. All around you were students with their Hogwarts cloaks, darting from store to store, villagers idly chatting along the sidewalks, and leaves leisurely floating through the gentle breeze. You had convinced Severus to slip away with you, to have an afternoon just to yourselves and away from all the papers that needed grading over the weekend.
It had been a little over three years since you started this relationship with Hogwarts’ great potions master, and while the question of marriage had never been brought up, you’d be lying if you said you haven’t thought about it. The thought of Severus as your husband never failed to make you feel giddy with excitement. You wouldn’t dare push Severus towards the thought, though, knowing he’d bring it up whenever he was ready.
You linked your arm with his as you both wandered into The Three Broomsticks, seeking refuge from the chill autumn wind. His black cloak billowed dramatically behind him, as it usually does, before finally resting along his figure once he was out of the cool breeze. Madam Rosmerta acknowledged you both with her usual warm smile. “Ah, Professor Snape! And your lovely wife as well. Welcome back!” she greeted you as she wiped down the bar. “The usual table by the fire?”
Your steps faltered. Wife? You never told her that you were married before. Severus stiffened beside you, his grip on your arm tightening ever so slightly. You glanced up at him, expecting a sharp correction like he would carry out to his students, but he merely nodded curtly. “Yes, that will do.”
Rosmerta hurried off, oblivious, while you slid into your seat at the table across from the brooding professor. As you admired the warmth of the fire, you couldn’t help but notice Severus’s expression. His brows were furrowed, his dark eyes distant in thought.
“Wife?” you teased softly after the inn keeper had delivered you both a drink, nudging his knee under the table. “I’m surprised you didn’t correct her.”
He took a slow sip of his firewhiskey. “It seemed unnecessary. The woman prattles enough without encouragement.”
But there was something in his voice, a warmth beneath the drawl, that made your heart skip a few beats. You studied him, the way the firelight softened the sharp lines of his face, highlighting the stray silver strands in his black hair. “It didn’t bother you?”
He set his glass down with an audible clink. “Should it have?” he asked slowly, his gaze meeting yours. “We’ve been together long enough that assumptions are… inevitable.”
“I suppose you’re right,” you replied, finally taking a sip of your own drink.
—
Severus barely closed the door of chambers before his lips were on yours, his kiss hungry and fierce. His hands pulled you closer, pressing you against him as he mapped the curve of your waist, the lines of your shoulders. In his mind, though, he thought about what it would be like to be married to you. To wake up to you each morning in his bed, to have your laughter echoing through these cold stone walls, a ring shining on your finger as a declaration of his devotion. The thought made him deepen the kiss, a low groan escaping him.
You smiled against his lips, your own hands reaching up to undo the ungodly amount of buttons he had along his robes. “You’re imagining it, aren’t you?” you asked, your fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw. “Tell me, my love, what would it be like if we were married?”
He exhaled sharply, his dark eyes meeting your own as he busied himself with the fastenings of your own robes. “You’d be insufferable,” he said, but his tone was fond and tender. “You’d fill my shelves with unnecessary knick-knacks, beg that I leave my papers to come read with you only to wind up talking about my day instead, and overall, you’d be like an annoying bug that wouldn’t leave my office even if the door was left open.”
You laughed softly as he slid your robes off of you. “You’d love every second of it, though.”
He didn’t deny it, instead, he finished undoing the rest of the buttons of his own robes, letting them meet with yours on the stone below. He kissed you again, slower this time, savoring your taste, savoring the way your body arched into his.
You guided him back, pressing him down onto the satin sheets of his bed, and he let you. He let your hands slide down his body and settle on his waist. He let you crawl your way over top of him and straddle his hips. He let you tease him by rubbing the fat head of his cock against your clit. And finally, he let you toy with his chest as you sunk down onto him, taking him inch by inch into your wet heat. His hands gripped your hips, gently guiding you as you rode him.
“You’d make such a good husband,” you gasped out, nails clawing for purchase against his skin as he buried himself to the hilt.
He groaned, low and deep in his throat, as his cock throbbed deep inside you. His own nails dug into the flesh of your hips, leaving small crescent marks in their wake.
You teased him by sliding up, stilling when it was just his tip left inside you, before circling your hips down with a breathy moan. “Such a good husband,” you repeated, continuing your teasing. “Letting me have you like this, letting me take care of you like a good little wife.”
A breathless whimper escaped his lips as his hips bucked up to meet your own, hands guiding you to go faster. A loud moan slipped past your lips as he angled himself to go deeper, to press against the bundle of nerves that rested inside you with each desperate thrust. “That’s it,” he cooed, fucking up into you with a precision that left you breathless. “My beautiful wife, taking my cock like you were made for it.”
You swore your heart stopped when he finally called you his wife, heat gathering quickly in your core. You leaned down, bringing him into a sloppy kiss, his tongue clashing with your own. The sounds of your wetness filled the room with each thrust, only adding more fuel to the fire in your belly. “Severus,” you gasped against his lips, hands tangling into his hair and gripping desperately at his shoulder.
“Yes, wife?” he hummed, his lips grazing your ear as he spoke, as if he knew the effect that one word had on you. Turns out, he did, for in the next moment he guided your hips as you came around him with a cry of his name. “That’s it, good girl,” he coaxed, gently guiding you through your orgasm as he picked up the pace, now chasing his own high as his thrusts grew sloppy. “You’re going to be a good little wife and let me fill you, yes?” he asked, titling your head up to meet his gaze, his aching cock throbbing against your pulsating walls.
You nodded, too blissed out to respond, but that was all he needed. He spilled into you, burying himself as deep as he could possibly go, a strained whine escaping from his lips. For a moment, you both stayed like that, joined together and breathless, basking in the afterglow. His hands rubbed soothing circles into your hips, before he pulled you up for another kiss, slow, sensual, but just as passionate.
“You did so good,” he praised, rubbing your cheek with his thumb. Gently, he slipped out of you, maneuvering you to rest beside him on the sheets. As if on instinct, you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into your chest. Your fingers ran through his hair, which was now tangled as well as greasy, but you didn’t mind in the slightest.
“You treat me so well, my dear, my sweet husband” you hummed contentedly, smiling down at him as you pulled him in closer. Severus sighed, relaxing into you and your touch. Perhaps the idea of marriage would be coming sooner than he had thought, because for once in his life, he finally felt cared for, loved, and, dare he say it, happy.
Summary: A one-shot of Severus Snape being an absolute yearner for you
~2k words
Cold. Intimidating. Surly.
Those were the words commonly used to describe Severus Snape.
So imagine one’s surprise when it was found out he was married.
“What?”
“You’re barkin’…”
“There’s no way anyone would marry that git.’
How could anyone marry, let alone tolerate someone with his personality? Could such a person really exist?
Well…yes.
You, his former classmate and someone he hadn’t reconnected with until ten years after graduation, had managed it. His friend, one of the few classmates at Hogwarts he tolerated, who had been there for his trials and triumphs, who still made time for him despite their nearly opposite schedules, managed to chip away at the ice and severity he projected towards those he was wary of. His mask. His protection.
And beneath it, he was a certified yearner.
It felt like an invisible, aching pull toward you when you were in the room that made his hands clench and unclench in desperation. And it drove him mad.
His eyes would lock onto you like you were a crystal ball that could tell him all the secrets of the universe. They’d trace your face, your fingers, the curve of your clothed back, memorizing every inch of your being. The things he wanted to touch. Hold. Kiss.
But he never allowed himself the luxury so easily. That is to say, he never initiated.
If you had ever come up behind him and wrapped your arms around him or placed a kiss on his cheek while he was making tea, then by all means, he would return it tenfold. But taking the initial step to begin with was something he never did.
Severus had the lesson beaten, quite literally, into his head that men who showed vulnerability and a need for the softer things made them weak. Made them pathetic. That it didn’t make him a man. It was a different story with sex. Society perpetuated that demanding and taking it, as dubious as that was, attributed masculine value to him. Of course, he never exercised such brutish behavior, nor agreed with it.
When it came to wanting your affections in general, however, the shame he had learned from a young age had always overpowered his want for it. He often suffered in silence, vibrating with the desire to swaddle you in his cloak-clad arms and litter your face and neck with kisses. So when you’d floo into his office to stay with him in the evenings and on the weekends, he felt he was forced to stand there and wait for you to give him that lovely smile, set your things down, and draw him into a hug and a kiss rather than approach you himself.
Then, it happened.
A business excursion.
You weren’t originally meant to go, but someone had fallen ill, and you were their substitute. You’d be gone for a week in Italy. Italy. A country where men were raised to be very demonstrative with their affections. Where you could, quite possibly, be stolen away from him by someone with well-groomed hair and sinful compliments. But there was nothing he could do about it. All he could do was see you off and murmur words of encouragement to you before he would be officially deprived of your presence for seven gruelling days.
***
The shift was immediate.
Severus was more curt to his colleagues and harsher in his classes, his frustration mounting with every day that passed. Dumbledore had assumed something had happened between the two of you, a disagreement or fight of some kind that left him more brooding than usual. When Severus was questioned on it and answered that you were to be away in a different country for a week, the two older staff members shared a knowing look of amusement. The man was merely missing you.
Every evening, by himself, he spent in front of the fireplace, a book he would attempt to read discarded in his lap, and his head propped up on his fist, staring into the flames. You being gone forced him to think about how many moments in the span of your relationship he had wasted when he could’ve pressed his lips to yours or when you had finished organizing a cabinet, and he could’ve turned you around and slipped his arms between yours and held you close. He would never tell you this, but he missed you so badly that by day two, he had enlarged a pillow to be your size, wrapped it with one of your cloaks you had left behind that smelled strongly of you, and spooned it at night during the entirety of your absence.
On the last day of your planned trip, he had spent the entire evening after his final class pacing about his office, unnecessarily rearranging books and decorations for the millionth time, anything to keep his mind off the impatience that ate at him like termites on wood. He was acting ridiculously, and he knew it. Surely, he was not this needy, that he wasn’t creating indents in the stone floors from how intensely agitated his footfalls were. But he was at his breaking point.
Damn propriety. He needed you.
When his floo crackled with green sparks, his head snapped toward the childed masonry. There were a few more firm pops, and suddenly, WHOOSH! Green fire erupted upwards for just a second before vanishing, and in its place stood you.
It took him no longer than two seconds to cross the room.
You stepped out of the floo, hardly having a moment to set your suitcase down and look for your partner, before you were wrapped in warm black cloth and a pair of lips pressed firmly against yours.
You gasped against the kiss, taken aback by the abruptness of it until you realized it was Severus, but then your brain short-circuited further, that this was also Severus initiating. You had never minded that he didn’t, as he was always receptive to you, and his nature with most other people was more reserved, but this was still a pleasant surprise.
His mouth moved against yours passionately, his movements desperate, yet devastatingly precise in how his lips molded against yours. His arms wrapped around you tightly, one hand pressing your back and the other threading in your hair, keeping you right where he wanted for now. You melted cooperatively against him, a fact that greatly relieved Severus as you matched his mouth with pleasurable hums, arms looping around his neck.
After a good minute or two, you just barely managed to separate from him to get a few gulps of much-needed air, pink-faced and panting the first syllable of his name before his mouth was back on yours, unwilling to separate for longer than even a moment. This time, while keeping his lips on you, his hands grabbed your waist and guided you hurriedly to the couch, where he hit the edge of the cushion and plopped down, dragging you with him, and manhandling your body to straddle his lap with your torso, pressing against his.
You were stunned by this sudden bout of forwardness from him and subtly wondered if this would turn sexual at all, but his hands travelled no lower than your waist, and to your relief, as you were a bit tired and just wanted to relax despite missing him.
You did your best to keep up with the way his mouth worked against yours, intoxicated by this desperate version of him that sought you without hesitation. You had noticed in the past the way he always seemed to wait for you to hug or kiss him, and not always easily; sometimes with great, visible restraint; his hands flexing at his sides were always the sign that he was trying very hard to contain the yearner in him he tried to hide deep down. But he wasn’t hiding it now.
The next time you separated, it was he who eased you back by your shoulders. Both of you were practically heaving, pink in the face as you attempted to catch your breath.
“That was a nice welcome home,” you chuckled breathlessly, cupping his face. It was an innocent statement, and really, just slipped out. Using humor to break the tension was always your go-to. However, it had the opposite effect.
Severus made an expression you could only label as him “clamming up.” His breath stilled, jaw tightening, and his eyes flicked down and away at some unknown point. It was the face he made when he was confronted over something he knew was his fault when the two of you argued. His throat bobbed a little, and his hands jumped from your shoulders to your waist with, you assumed, the intention of moving you off him.
Well, you weren’t going to have that.
Before he could apply any pressure, you caught him off guard and surged forward, pressing your body fully to his, your weight making him sink deeper back against the couch cushions as you tucked your head into the crook of his neck.
He froze.
“I missed you,” you had decidedly murmured into his ear, one arm resting on his shoulder, the other looping up so your fingers travelled up the base of his skull and scratched soothingly on his scalp, a move that never failed to make him relax.
The tension in his body from his own self-doubt began to ease somewhat, his arms coming to hesitantly wrap around you once more.
“I thought about you every day,” you continued. “And uhm…I’m sorry if you missed any of your cloaks for the week.”
Severus found his voice again. “My cloaks?”
“Yes. I…I took one from your wardrobe before I left. Just to have at night.” You blushed furiously and added far more quietly. “It was awful not being able to feel you in the bed.”
Inside, he melted at the fact that you had missed him to such a degree. That the pull toward one another was very much reciprocated. He buried his nose into your hair, sighing and tightening his hold on you.
“I missed you as well. Your absence at night was…similarly torturous.”
“Oh? Did you do anything similar to what I did?” you asked jokingly. And yet, you had felt him flinch. It was subtle, but there. Enough to tell you the truth in place of his lack of response.
You began to lean back up. “Severus, if I go to your bedroom, will I find—” Your face met his shoulder again as your head was pressed unceremoniously back into place.
“Don’t,” Severus grunted, and you could feel the heat that blazed up his neck against your forehead. He was embarrassed enough as it is. “You already know. Just…stay here,” he beseeched quietly. “Please…”
“Of course,” you whispered, with a slight laugh. “At least until my knees go numb.”
You had meant it as a joke, but Severus took such things very seriously, especially if he intended to keep you pressed against him for as long as he could. He encouraged you to sit back a little before helping you move into a more comfortable position with you sitting sideways in his lap with your head still coming to rest in the crook of his neck. Your fingers played with his hand, bringing it up to your mouth and kissing his knuckles individually.
“I know it was torturous for you,” you said quietly. “I know you have these…reservations when you want to love up on me physically. That you feel the need to wait until I do it to you.” You kissed the back of his palm and let his hand come to rest in your grasp. “And that’s alright, if it’s nerves…or you’re just self-conscious. I get it. I still love you all the same. As long as I never make you uncomfortable with my spontaneity—”
“You don’t,” Severus muttered against your hair, placing a soft kiss on your head. “You never do. Don’t ever stop. Otherwise…”
Retired!Severus having a small potion store in Diagon Alley while he spends his time with his wife living on the Muggle World in peace. Retired!Severus who receives a call from Johnny, the 25 year old boy who just got married and is in charge of the store when Snape isn’t there, while you’re doing stuff away in the kitchen, his voice faintly in the backround.
He comes down the hallway as the call comes to an end to hang up and lay the phone on the countertop
“So? What did he tell you?”
“I couldn’t understand a thing he said, he was too busy trying to hold back the sounds from his wife blowing him while he spoke to me.”
“Oh…interesting.”
“I would be grossed out if it wasn’t for the fact that we also did that.”
“No one ever heard me.”
“That’s what we believe.”
“They’re just married, they probably get a kick out of it.”
“So did we.” His arms wrapped around your waist from behind
“You seem focused to compare them to us.”
“No,” he smiles against your hair “Nobody ever heard us.”
pregnant reader who is upset her husband left without saying I love you
The moment he arrived home, he began to look for you - his wife. His whole world, his everything only to come face to face with said woman who refused to look at him.
"Please just tell me what is wrong."
"You've stopped loving me!" You wailed.
"And how did you come to that conclusion?"
"You didn't say goodbye, give me a kiss or anything when you left this morning!"
"You were asleep, I couldn't wake you up - not when you lay awake for more than half the night." He smiled softly, relieved that - that was the issue. He was afraid he had messed up somehow without knowing or meaning to. He sighed with his smile still evident. "I don't even think it's possible for me to stop loving you."
You sniffling was muffled as he held you firmly against his chest, refusing to let you go.
"My sweet girl, why would you ever doubt my love for you? Do I not give you every second of my being - devoting it to you solely?" He continued as you just silently began thinking it over, sniffling every once in awhile.
"You're making me feel foolish." You admitted.
"You are not foolish, you have every right to be upset - I should have spoken to you before I left in the morning. And for that, I apologize. Will you forgive me?"
"Only if you say the words you did not say this morning."
He chuckled. "As you wish, love. I love you." He paused, placing a kiss on your cheek."I love you-" Kiss "I love you." Kiss "I love you." Kiss "I love you." His smile only deepened as you let out a stream of giggles, a wide smile now replacing your frown.
"Is that enough for you, my love?" He questioned, holding your face in his hands.
"Maybe once or twice more." You falsely looked as if you were truly debating it.
He attacked your face with kisses before uttering one last, "I love you."
Sure, it was foolish to get upset over trivial things as such but he would never deny you anything. He would be certain to say what he feels for you to ensure your happiness. A very simple girl with a very in love man doesn't seem so bad at the end of the day.
"I suppose I love you too even after the stunt you pulled this morning."
𓆩♡𓆪 synopsis: young Severus Snape doesn't understand how the popular slytherin girl could be interested in a nerdy loser like him. PT1
⌓ young!severus snape x F!famous reader
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
𓅓 Content warning : Insults, SA'd from James to Severus, 2nd POV, harassment, smut, slow burn, obsession, wandless magic (reader),toxicity (Severus), jealousy,animagus reader (artic fox) lack of self-confidence, f!reader, virigins. MDNI
✦ PS: Its my first FF for a while, welcome back to me ig (?). English isnt my first language. Sorry for the mistakes tho, i broke my space bar too I want to apologize if this feels a bit rushed; I just wanted to cover the basics. I promise the popularity and the relationship will improve in Part 2!
Ah, Hogwarts. What a magnificent school, right? At least, that's what everyone thinks until they start having problems. Having to pass your O.W.L.s was already an important step for your future, but even from the first year, you could already understand just how important learning was. Surviving the Sorting Hat was another thing entirely. Why did a talking hat get to decide where you belonged? Yes, all the Houses were good, but everyone knew the worst one was Hufflepuff. That was your first thought when you arrived. Which House would you be placed in? What if the Sorting Hat didn't accept you? Maybe you could just leave the way you came.
Your thoughts could have gone on for much longer if McGonagall hadn't called your name, forcing you to walk to the stool in front of everyone and embarrass yourself or not. Yes, Hogwarts was perfect. But it was too late to turn back now, wasn't it? After a small sigh, you started walking toward the stool before sitting down, only to feel something touch your hair and then hear a man's voice.
"Ah, a young girl full of ideas, aren't you? Afraid of the future? A brave girl like you in Gryffindor? You could do great things, perhaps even become an Auror? However, you have quite the pride, and you like to take charge, don't you? SLYTHERIN!"
Applause immediately filled the Great Hall as McGonagall removed the hat from your head and looked toward the Slytherin table, indicating that you could go sit with them. You focused on dinner, trying to ignore the stress that had been building up throughout the entire ceremony. You hadn't even managed to answer the Sorting Hat. Dinner continued in a lively atmosphere, but you remained relatively quiet, still too preoccupied with everything that had just happened. Between the Sorting Hat, your new House, and all those unfamiliar faces, you were having a hard time realizing that you were actually at Hogwarts.
The following days eventually turned into weeks. Little by little, you grew used to life in the castle. Classes, homework, meals in the Great Hall, and the endless staircases gradually became part of your routine. You learned to recognize the corridors, find your way around the dungeons, and, most importantly, somehow fit in among the other Slytherins. Autumn gave way to winter, and then the Christmas holidays arrived before you even really had time to realize how quickly the months had passed.
That was when you finally had some time to practice in peace. Most of the third-years and older students had gone to Hogsmeade, while the younger students were either in their dormitories or had gone home for the holidays. But that wasn't really what interested you. You finally had time to get ahead of your classmates. Why waste your time focusing on Quidditch when you could improve your magic instead? Wasn't that precisely what this school was for? And so, that was how you found yourself in the dueling room first thing in the morning, with a book placed on the floor in front of you.
You had decided to attempt something that very few students your age would probably have dared to try. Wandless magic. Some schools in Africa didn't use wands, so why couldn't you? You sat in the middle of the room, staring at the book in front of you with intense concentration. You had no idea how difficult it would be, but you were determined to succeed.
You stared at the book for several seconds before extending your hand toward it. You knew how to cast spells with a wand, but wandless magic was an entirely different matter. You closed your eyes and tried to concentrate, imagining the book moving. Nothing. You opened your eyes again, letting out a small sigh before trying once more. Again and again.
After several minutes, you began to understand that simply wanting the book to move wasn't enough. With a wand, you had always had the impression that magic flowed through it, as though it acted as a channel. But without one, you had to find that connection directly within yourself.
You closed your eyes again and took a deep breath. You stopped thinking about the book and instead focused on that strange sensation you felt just before casting a spell. That almost imperceptible warmth that seemed to travel through your fingers whenever you called upon your magic. You tried to hold onto it, concentrating it at the tips of your fingers.
Then, suddenly, one of the pages of the book moved.
Your eyes immediately opened. You remained completely still for a few seconds, staring at the page that had just trembled.
"...Again."
You tried once more. This time, several pages lifted slightly before falling back down. A smile appeared on your face. It was almost nothing, but it was proof that it worked. Hours passed without you even realizing it. One page became two, then the entire book began to tremble. After countless attempts, you finally managed to make it slide a few centimeters across the floor.
But you wanted to go further.
You took another deep breath and focused all your attention on the book. You felt that same warmth return, stronger this time. The book trembled before slowly lifting off the ground. Only a few centimeters. It stayed in the air for two seconds before falling heavily back onto the floor. You remained silent, your breathing slightly uneven and your hands trembling faintly. Then a satisfied smile appeared on your face. You had just managed to use wandless magic. For the first time.
"Congratulations, young lady. Brilliant!"
When you looked up, the first thing you saw was an old, bearded man with a completely white beard. How could you not recognize him? The real question was, how long had he even been standing there?
"Thank you very much, Professor Dumbledore. Do you have any advice?"
"Practice would be my best advice, but I have a feeling you will continue doing so regardless. So, perhaps some other advice? Do you know how to feel your magic? Without casting a spell, simply feeling it. Start by developing some techniques. Play around with small candle flames; it will stimulate both you and your magic."
After a few hours of training under Dumbledore's guidance, you were finally free to go about your business, your hands aching from all the practice. But it was for a good cause, right? By the end of the year, you could perhaps cast an Expelliarmus or a Protego without a wand! However, maybe revising your other subjects so you could rest your magic would help. Potions, History of Magic, Herbology... After one last sigh, your legs carried you back to the dormitories, where you took a shower before collapsing onto a sofa with a History of Magic book resting on your lap.
Why the hell had Muggles and those fucking goblins caused so much trouble?! Didn't they realize that you were going to have to learn all of this for your end-of-year exams? No, of course they hadn't.
The first step was learning about the first Goblin Rebellion of 1612. One chapter a week should be enough, right? After a few hours of knowing roughly everything you needed to know, you finally stood up from the sofa, only to find two heads staring at you. A blond boy and a black-haired boy. Was staring silently at people apparently some kind of required skill to get into Hogwarts?
"Huh? Who are you?"
"Hello, I'm Lucius Malfoy, a pure-blood. This is Severus Snape. He isn't, but he makes up for it."
Ah, the Malfoy and Black families. Yes, you had heard about them. They were practically like cats and dogs because of their egos. But Snape? You had already seen him in Potions class, though you had never really paid much attention to him. You knew practically nothing about him. You had never seen him practice magic outside of class, nor had you actually spoken to him. And now, the two of them were standing in front of you as if they had a specific reason for coming over to talk to you.
Over the following days, you started spending a little more time with Lucius and Severus. Nothing particularly serious; you weren't inseparable or anything. You would simply run into each other after class, study together, or talk whenever your paths crossed. With time, their presence became almost routine. You now knew a little more about their personalities, habits, and quirks, even though everyone still kept their distance. Then the weeks continued to pass, and without really noticing it, you had started considering them classmates you enjoyed spending time with. Not friends, though. Lucius had an ego the size of Hogwarts, and Severus? Well, talking to a wall was probably more productive.
Why were the Blacks such assholes? Well, Sirius was an asshole. Regulus, though? He was actually pretty cool. More expressive than Severus and less arrogant than Lucius, he was a pretty good 50/50. Over the years, you started hanging out with Regulus more and more, mainly because you were both in Slytherin and shared some classes. He wasn't necessarily the kind of person you needed to talk to for hours. You could easily sit together in the library without saying a single word for an entire hour, each of you focused on your own work, before leaving as if nothing had happened. It was actually quite nice.
It was also thanks to him that you started talking to Remus. You obviously knew who he was. After all, he hung around with Potter, Black, and Pettigrew, but you had never really had a reason to speak to him. You couldn't exactly say that you hated Remus, unlike the other three, but you didn't see any reason to go out of your way to talk to him either. Remus was the calmest of them and the one who respected Severus the most. Well, he was passive about it. It was only after a duel between the two of you that you finally started talking, discovering that he was against their behavior. However, being a werewolf himself, he still stayed with them after they had accepted him.
You were so focused on your conversation that you failed to notice a certain boy watching the scene with his fist clenched. You were definitely fucked.
Your conversations with your "group" well, your three idiots weren't the same anymore. There was a certain tension now. Coming from Severus, that wasn't exactly surprising, but the strange thing was that the tension only appeared when you were around. You didn't really know why. Whenever you approached him, he would avoid you.
Maybe you had said something against Potions? Maybe you should clear things up. After all, you sat next to him in Potions class. Maybe he would actually answer you there?
Then the sound of paper tearing made you turn your head, only to see Severus tearing it apart and setting it on fire before leaving as soon as the lesson ended, once again going back to avoiding you. Why did he keep doing this over and over? What was he talking about when he mentioned friends? Aside from him, Regulus, and maybe Lucius, the rest of the school had started talking to you because they wanted to learn wandless magic. Was he jealous of all the attention you were getting? Coming from Severus, that was strange, wasn't it? Maybe you should run after him and ask him what was wrong? You were just about to do so when Lucius grabbed you by the shoulder and shook his head, silently telling you not to. After all, he was a guy, wasn't he? Surely he understood Severus better than you did. You frowned, but eventually let your shoulders drop before turning back toward Regulus.
"Ah, miss. Don't you know what my stupid brother is planning?"
"I didn't know I was hanging around with Black 2.0 to know what he's doing."
"Very funny. Anyway, he's trying to become an Animagus with his two idiot friends."
"Good for him. You don't want to become one?"
"No. Do you want to become one? I know how."
Did you actually want to become an Animagus? You could escape from people much faster that way... and investigate why Severus kept avoiding you, couldn't you? Why not, after all?
"I suppose I don't mind."
And that was how your training to become an Animagus began. Between classes, the countless dueling club matches you had to endure, and all the work required to become an Animagus, the year passed much more slowly than you had expected. Maybe you would collapse from exhaustion before managing to accomplish even one of the three things. However, once the school year finally came to an end and the summer holidays began, you were finally free. After months of hard work during the summer with Regulus, you were finally ready to test your Animagus form.
It took an entire hour before a magnificent arctic fox finally appeared in front of the young Black. His first instinct was to pet you, only for you to bite his hand and remind him that you were still you, first and foremost. After complaining about the pain shooting through his hand, you returned to your human form, letting out a little whimper of pain and hoping that it was only going to hurt this much the first time.
After that achievement, you took full advantage of the holidays with Lucius, enjoying your newfound freedom while Severus remained completely silent and never answered any of your letters.
It was only the beginning of fifth year, and the teachers were already starting to put more pressure on everyone when it came to studying for their O.W.L.s, offering extra classes for those who were struggling the most. Thankfully, you weren't one of them. Not for now, at least. After being appointed as a prefect for Slytherin while Remus was over in Gryffindor, your relationship with Severus had only gotten worse. After a few weeks of trying to figure out what was going on while he kept running away from you over and over again, you eventually decided to stop trying, asking Remus to keep his friends in check so they would leave Severus alone. It worked for a few weeks. However, once classes resumed, things were even worse than before. The only time you had decided to follow Severus in your Animagus form was when you saw him being harassed beneath the Whomping Willow by the Marauders. You barely had time to understand what was happening before you saw them stripping him and humiliating him in front of everyone. You didn't even realize that you had shifted back into your human form before you cast a Flipendo at the group, sending Severus crashing back onto the ground before raising your wand toward Sirius and James and firing a Diffindo in their direction.
"Is this still funny, huh? Very brave, ganging up on one poor guy four against one."
Before you could cast anything else, you suddenly felt your wand being ripped from your hand. You turned around to see Severus looking terrified. Remus would have to deal with Dumbledore. After crouching down in front of Severus without touching him, you were caught completely off guard when he suddenly grabbed onto your jacket, clinging to it like some helpless child. Which, at that moment, was exactly what he was. While the group of Marauders was escorted to the hospital wing, you stayed with Severus, giving him all the time he needed to cry against you. Maybe he would hate you after this, but none of that mattered right now, did it? After missing the entire afternoon of classes, Severus was finally ready to return to the dormitories. Not wanting to leave him alone, you decided to transform into your Animagus form so you could sneak into his dormitory with him. Severus didn't say anything. He simply let you sit down on his bed before coming over and lying against your thigh, completely exhausted. And for once, you didn't try to ask him why he kept avoiding you. You simply stayed there.
You had no idea how long the two of you had been like that. Maybe a few minutes, maybe an hour. You honestly had no idea. You simply didn't dare move, your eyes fixed on the ceiling while Severus remained against you, his fingers gripping the fabric of your jacket as if he were afraid that you would leave if he let go. For once, he wasn't telling you to leave, he wasn't running away from you, and most importantly, he wasn't trying to understand why you had done all of this. He was simply there, and strangely enough, that was enough for you. You didn't even know what to do with your hands, so you simply left them resting on your lap, trying not to make any sudden movements that might make him pull away. After a long while, his voice finally broke the silence, so quiet that you almost struggled to hear him.
"Why?"
You lowered your eyes toward him, frowning slightly. Why did you have to put up with his riddles? Was that really the only question he had? Not even an apology for avoiding you either?
"Why what?"
He remained silent for a few seconds before speaking again, still not really looking at you, yet you could feel his fingers gripping your dress a little tighter, as if he were afraid you might leave while he was talking.
"Why did you come?"
You shrugged slightly, not really understanding what he was getting at.
"Because I saw you getting attacked."
"You knew they were there."
"No."
"You were following me."
You let out a small laugh, humming as you nodded. He was far too clever for you to lie to him, and why would you anyway? He finally raised his head toward you, his eyes still red and his face marked with tears. You sighed softly before looking away.
"I just wanted to know why you were still avoiding me. I missed having you around."
His gaze immediately shifted away, and you understood that you probably weren't going to get an answer. Yet after a few seconds, he murmured something that made you freeze.
"I don't feel ready to talk about it."
So he was open to talking about it later? That was already a good start, wasn't it? You hummed again before absentmindedly running your fingers through his hair. He immediately tensed against you, making you pull your hand away and raise it with a small cough, trying to change the awkward atmosphere. When you looked at him again, his eyes were already fixed on yours. You barely had time to frown before a strange sensation suddenly went through your mind, as if something had forced its way through a door you had never intended to open. Your memories with Remus came rushing back all at once. Every time you had defended Severus, every time you and Remus had laughed together, then the time you had held his hand to see the damage caused by his transformation, before everything suddenly snapped back to the present. Your breath caught and you immediately pulled back, bringing a hand to your temple as your eyes locked onto Severus.
"Did you just use Legilimens on me, Severus?"
"Yes."
Your expression changed instantly. Whatever softness you had shown only moments ago disappeared, replaced by obvious suspicion. Why did he have to be such a jerk?
"Why are you doing this? You really just went through my mind without asking me after I literally just saved you from those assholes, and you couldn't even do anything better than this without so much as an apology?! I let you stay here because I thought you needed someone, not so you could start digging through my memories. I've been worrying about you for an entire year while you've been avoiding me like I had the plague. You're such an asshole! Did you at least find what you were looking for?"
Severus looked away slightly, unable to meet your eyes out of shame. His jealousy had been eating away at him. He had spent an entire year fighting against the urge to do something like this, and yet whenever you were around him, he couldn't seem to stop himself. He couldn't even get rid of the thought that you might eventually become one of the Marauders.
"I thought you were friends with the Marauders."
You let out a humorless laugh. He didn't answer. You stared at him for a few seconds, still on guard, before crossing your arms. The poor boy was probably paranoid, but one thing was certain: he was definitely not mentally stable right now.
"Why didn't you just ask me?"
"Would you have answered?"
The question made you hesitate, but you didn't lower your guard. He finally looked back at you, and you noticed that he almost seemed to regret what he'd done, but you refused to let yourself soften that easily. You had just spent hours staying by his side while he was at his lowest, and the moment he finally started trusting you enough to talk, he had crossed a boundary you had never given him permission to cross.
"Yes, I would've answered you, Severus. You're such an asshole. If you ever do that again without warning me, I swear I'll make you regret learning that spell."
You tried to keep your voice serious, your eyes firmly locked onto his. Severus remained silent for a moment before timidly nodding as you rested your head gently on top of his. It wasn't pity. It was more understanding than anything else. One of the few people he considered a friend could have ended up standing beside the very people who tormented him, and you could understand why that thought had frightened him.
"Go to sleep and shut up, Sev."
"Yes, ma'am."
A few minutes later, you heard his breathing gradually calm down as you sighed, gently stroking the back of his head. This was only the beginning, but you fully intended to deal with whatever problems he had. Just later, when he was more stable mentally. At least, more stable than he was right now.
"Your wife sings? I thought she would be...I don't know...like you?"
"I would watch really closely the next words that leave your mouth, Lockhart." Of course it would be Lockhart. It's always, Lockhart with the stupid comments. "My wife is a really honorable and respectful woman."
"Oh, I don't doubt that, dear Severus. I just can't see your wife being nothing but as stuck up and bitter as you are, Severus." The man smiled to Snape
"On the contrary, she is everything but bitter." He said lowly, not amused but also not bothered by the conclusion. Many believed his wife was like him. But the fact that she wasn't at all like him, is what made him fall for her. "She is sweet. And kind, and caring. She's soft spoken, but she also has a mouth on her and will not hesitate to put you where you belong."
"You're overexplaining, Severus, you never do that."
"She's my favorite topic." He didn't even blink as those words left his mouth
Severus Snape is the type of man to internally panic whenever his sweetheart of a wife decides to model a sundress.
And its not any sundress either- no, none of that tight muggle fashion made with toxic polyester- it was the one she had acquired in Diagon Alley while shopping with her cousin.
It flowed with her, not hugging at her curves but somehow enhancing them with every tug and spin she offered. It was enough to drive him mad.
The soft, organic fabric complimented her in such a way, it pulled at him. “Severus?”
“Hm?”
That was unlike him, the way his eyes widened at her call told her that he wasn’t paying attention to a single word she had spoken a few seconds ago.
“Do you think I should return it? …I didn’t try it on at the store, thought I might test my luck.”
The dress was a pretty one indeed, but his lack of response made her consider that maybe it didn’t flatter her as well as she thought it might. It wasn’t an expensive dress, not at all. It was meant to stroll down markets and strut around parks.
A simple, casual dress.
But to him?
It might as well be the finest piece of design to have ever crossed his path.
“Do you think the color washes me out?” His wife kept mumbling, partly to herself as well.
“No.” He swallowed, hard.
She took notice if this, mistaking his nerves for disturbance. “Are you alright? I assure you, it wasn’t that costly.”
His head shook slightly, his feet not having moved from his stance at the entrance of the room. Its as if he was stuck in time. Oh, and how he wished it were so. To forever paint his wife’s figure standing in front of their framed mirror while wearing that… dress.
Its length almost swept the floors, coming up gracefully to cover her legs. The waist was tied neatly to show her figure. And his eyes trailed up to where the fabric delicately covered her chest to finally tie around her neck. The back was as open figure. One she would most likely cover up with a shawl.
If he could just reach for her spine and allow his fingers to linger down- no. How can such a modest dress unravel him so?
“Its…. lovely.”
Lovely. He thought it to be exquisite.
“Oh, well I guess its nice.” Her face fell slightly. Her attention still turned to her own figure in the mirror while swaying from side to side to examine every angle.
This made him approach her from behind and tried to reassure her. “Very much so.”
She was satisfied with that answer, knowing she wouldn’t get much verbally from her husband. It was nothing extravagant so why should she expect anything more?
“Could you help me untie it?” She requested innocently.
It didn’t help him that she even gathered her hair to the side, giving him, what he could describe as, a pang in his chest.
He froze.
“Sev?” She looked behind her to meet his eyes and he instantly melted.
Closing the gap between them, he pressed into her. It was like satisfying the impossible pull he felt since witnessing her in that dress. His hand, finally, found the soft skin of her back while the other circled her into him.
“Oh! What’s gotten into you, my love?” She gasped, unable to contain her smile.
“No.” His lips pressed to her cheek once. Then, he trailed down her jaw.
“No?”
Now she grew concerned. She was used to him not offering many words or long dialects, other than the rare occasions he did allow himself the pleasure. Severus was a listener and a writer. One of his best qualities was how eloquent he could present himself, no matter the circumstance. So for him to not make much sense at the moment was alarming.
“Are you feeling alright?” She managed to get out between his affections.
Sensing her worry, he slowed. His actions didn’t stop completely but it allowed him to pull up from her neck and speak into her hair. “No, im not helping you out of the dress.”
Her confusion only grew. Before she could protest, he continued.
“I don’t want you to take it off.”
Then, it clicked.
It was as if a light had flickered in her head. He was smitten with the dress. Or rather, her in the dress.
She moved to face him, still trapped in his arms. “You like my dress, Severus?”
His face grew a few shades darker as she reached over his shoulders to play with the soft ends of his black hair. She smiled up at his nervous expression and that was his end.
He closed the gap between them lovingly, quickly finding out that it had nothing to do with the dress.
✧･ﾟ:dean finds it, less than hidden in your bedside drawers. He turns it in his hands a few times, at first offended. You don’t need a damn toy when you’ve got a perfectly good boyfriend right here. He’s made you cum with just his mouth countless times, his cock so much he worries you’re going to break it, that one time with the single finger, and the other time with just his voice. If he needs to step it up to a damn object, he’s gonna be pissed.
✧･ﾟ:but then he remembers.
✧･ﾟ:you’re just so fun to play with.
When you get home, you don’t stand a chance. He’s sitting on the bed with his legs spread and the vibrator in his hands, a cocky smirk on his handsome face.
“Right here, sweetheart.” He beckons you with two fingers, and you swallow. You can’t help but obey. Dean’s got a hold on you that he still doesn’t fully understand, and if he told you to fall to your knees, you press your cheek against his thick thigh and beg him to put himself in your mouth.
Instead, tonight, he holds you right above him, one massive hand on your waist and the other pressing the head of the vibrator between your thighs. You tremble, clinging to broad, thick shoulders, panting his name as the pleasurable sensation becomes too much to bear. Dean smirks, dragging the toy back and forth, drawing slow, grounding circles on your hip with his thumb.
“That’s it, baby girl,” he coos, watching your every nervous reaction, drinking up your every moan with a smug grin. “Feels so good, doesn’t it? Makes you just wanna fall apart, get really messy, standing up and beggin’ for some more.”
You moan, face burning and body alight with need. Dean drags your panties to the side, pressing the vibrator against your bare clit. You almost jump, but he tugs you right up to his chest, splaying his free hand on your lower back. The feeling is almost too much to bear. You can’t speak, can’t move, can’t do anything but stare at Dean with teary eyes and try not to let your knees give out.
“You’re gettin’ close,” he grunts, because he always knows. “You gonna cum for me, baby?”
You whimper and pull at his hair. He grunts, pressing his face into your neck, and sucks and kisses his way over the soft skin. Up your throat, along your jaw, right to your ear. He nips softly, and whispers in a low, rough voice.
“Let go, pretty girl. Cum all over my fuckin’ hand.”
The orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and wet. You pussy gushes, your eyes roll, and your legs finally give, sending you right into Dean’s lap. He catches you easily, keeping the vibrator pressed against your overstimulated cunt. You writhe and push at his chest, almost unable to take another second, but still grinding down into the overwhelming pleasure. Dean kisses you, deep and bruising, and finally pulls the vibrator away.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, leaving light kisses all over your face. “Never gonna get enough of watchin’ you fall apart, baby. Fuckin’ never.”
✦Dean Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦
✦Author's Note: this one is very specfically self-indulgant i fear but i hope you enjoyed it as well
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