❥you & bakugo won’t say you’re dating, but there will be signs
BAKUSQUAD CASE FILES — CASE STUDY #1.
observed by — mina ashido
“y/n says she and bakugo aren’t dating. but i swear i caught them playing footsies during study hall.”
⟡
mina assumes it’s a trick of the light.
sero’s stalking hot moms on facebook. denki & kiri are trying to start a fire with a comically large magnifying glass. & when mina sees bakugo tickle your ankle with the toe of his sock, mina’s quick to assume the sight’s caused by the refractive index of light through the magnifying glass or whatever mumbo-jumbo they learned during last tuesday’s physics class.
but it happens again.
and this time you giggle.
and so mina has no choice but to accept magnifying glasses cannot bend sound.
mina puts on sero’s eyeglasses. they’re purely decorative, but she feels more intuitive regardless. she buries her nose between CGP’s A-Level biology guide & pretends she isn’t observing the way your eyes glint anytime you manage to nick katsuki in the shins.
bakugo’s face is stone still.
to the untrained eye, he’s simply solving calculus questions a mile a minute. but then he grunts.
mina doesn’t miss the way he grins when he nabs you in the thigh.
BAKUSQUAD CASE FILES — CASE STUDY #2.
observed by — sero hanta
‘bakugo swears y/n isn’t anyone special to him. so why the hell does he have her contact saved as ‘mine?’
⟡
the first time sero hanta ever decides to show up early, he’s stuck waiting at a theatre with an angry bakugo at his side.
not to say the fiery blond isn’t usually angry. but this time said anger comes with heat: he’s grinding straw between his molars so hard plastic cracks between his teeth. his feet tap like it’ll make time go by sooner. it doesn’t.
“i’m gonna kill that damn shitty hair.”
“we’re the ones who’re thirty minutes early.”
“shut the fuck up.”
dumb dog sero hanta does as he’s told. katsuki stews a little longer, neck rash red, phone clicking locked & unlocked till he decides he’s had enough—or till the anger reaches his bladder. “‘m going to the bathroom, watch my shit.”
katsuki doesn’t bother waiting for a reply. his hands shove in his pockets as he makes his way to the bathroom, phone tucked firm between sero’s palms. sero hanta knows better than to hold it with anything less than an iron grip. but then it buzzes—& almost cartoonishly, the phone hops & skips before settling between his fingers
sero sees the notification before he can pretend otherwise.
mine🫀: mina and i are otw
mine🫀 : hope we’ll make it. this girl can NOT drive.
sero muffles a snort. the text holds truth, mina cannot, in fact drive. he recalls the time she picked him up to go to the beach and—wait.
is that text from y/n?
he’s quick to take a picture, send it to the ‘inBESTigators 🕵️🔍’ GC. before he can even close his phone & resume playing saint, kiri’s response comes in.
ripped riot 🔥: could be a typo
ripped riot 🔥: like ‘mine’ could be short for miner
pikachu ⚡️[replying to ripped riot 🔥] : are we deadass
sero’s about to type a response of his own before the familiar heavy steps of steve maddens sag at his ears. katsuki’s back, jaw tight & angrier than ever.
further investigation will have to wait.
BAKUSQUAD CASE FILES — CASE STUDY #3.
observed by — denki kaminari
‘when the fuck did bakugo get funny?’
⟡
autumn break means thanksgiving shopping & black friday sales that make twelve dollar products drop to eleven ninety-nine. denki’s shopping for snacks, kiri needs energy drinks & you’re here for produce. katsuki is here because you all need his membership to get into costco.
something isn’t right.
& denki’s not talking about how the price of cheetos have somehow gone up. he’s talking about the fact that katsuki stands firm behind you, hands in pockets as you show him fruit. that’s fine—bakugo’s always been able to tell which apples are good & which aren’t.
but no apple evaluation requires katsuki to lean in that close.
and denki’s pretty sure there’s nothing funny about granny smiths either.
so why the fuck are you giggling ?
kaminari’s eyes flit to katsuki’s. if he was any other classmate, he’d say katsuki was bored. lips tight, eyes neutral, jaw slack. but denki’s no other classmate. he recognizes that twitch in his brow. the bob in his jugular.
katsuki is pleased. at least, denki thinks—no, swears he is. but just to be safe, he chooses to call in an actual katsuki expert. kirishima’s fatass is trying yet another free sample. for the sake of peace, denki chooses not to comment & instead goes straight to business.
“yo, kiri—i’m not seeing stuff, right? is bakugo not smirking and making y/n laugh??”
kirishima, in true fatass fashion, responds with a mouth filled with mini tacos. “I down’t see ‘t”
“bro. chew.”
“I don’t see it,” kiri gulps. “don’t you think we should respect their privacy?”
“we’re at a costco??”
but kaminari drops it. if the katsuki expert himself says there’s nothing, there’s obviously nothing.
right ?
BAKUSQUAD CASE FILES — CASE STUDY #4.
observed by — literally everyone
‘katsuki and y/n are definitely dating. oh, and kiri’s getting kicked from the group chat.’
⟡
mina ashido is not playing around.
the rest of the gang isn’t either. kaminari’s flipping through a scrapbook titled ‘PHOTOGRAPHICAL EVIDENCE.’ sero’s screenshotting group chat messages that sound too fond to not be affectionate. kirishima’s got his laptop open, looking over ‘evidence spreadsheets’ he swears aren’t empty.
but they are. and mina, rivaled only by sherlock himself, notices.
“kirishima, cell B-4. what’s written in there ?”
“I—uh, cell? what do you—“
“aha—” mina shuts her book. she’s towering over eijiro now, hands on her hips & glare so sharp it melts kiri like—well, acid.
“you’re not really doing anything.”
sero lifts a brow. kaminari gives the stink-eye.
“matter of fact…” mina continues, “you haven’t done anything. compiling evidence. listening in on on their convos. you haven’t done anything we’ve asked you to.”
“yeah,” sero quips. his phone’s in his lap now. “matter of fact, you always had some excuse about why you couldn’t.”
“matter of fact,” denki joins, “you’re always trying to deny evidence. talking about us ‘being delusional’.”
oh, kirishima’s in trouble now. blood in his jugular. tar in his throat. “I—“
mina can’t make up what happens next.
The door opens. It’s katsuki—not surprising—they’re literally all seated in a circle on the mat in his dorm. plans to hang out & just chill today—the usual. kiri is bakugo’s roommate. getting in isn’t a fuss.
but you’re right beside bakugo.
and your finger’s in his belt loop.
mina blinks. you haven’t noticed them yet. you look all calm and pretty, lashes low, eyes glued to your phone screen. your finger’s looped around the belt-hole like you’ve done it a thousand times before, and—
is that katsuki’s hoodie?
“what the fuck are you losers doing here?”
kiri’s already scrambling to defend the situation—something about she & the others showing up an hour early, he didn’t know, don’t blast us all—but mina’s not listening. she’s wondering if the refractive index of light is so strong it somehow made it look like katsuki gave your hand a light squeeze before tapping your hand off his jeans.
you’re still quiet behind him. hair all cute, jam-pink cheeks, fawn freckled & doe-eyed. kiri and katsuki are going back and forth. sero’s joined in. kaminari’s farted because he thinks no one will notice.
“y/n, is that bakugo’s hoodie?”
you can hear a pin drop. and another fart from kaminari.
“no, it’s—“
“it’s mine.” katsuki steps forward, hands in pockets & posture lazy like he didn’t say something scandalous. “got a problem, pinkie pie?”
“i could never.”
katsuki hums. he tugs you gently by the palm, door clicking shut behind him with the kick of his shin. he trudges toward the group, right hand in his pocket, left in yours—and he murmurs a quiet sit in your ear before doing a once-over.
“what’s all this?”
“evidence.”
“homework.”
“not evidence.”
tongue click. “evidence of ?”
“the refractive index of light.”
“you and y/n dating.”
“not you and y/n dating.”
“uh-huh,” katsuki picks up a photograph. he recognizes the scene: you’re tucked in his side, showing him something on your phone while he leans too close to be considered casual. you’re giggling here. cute.
he pockets it. “you guys are a bunch of fuckin’ idiots. and you—“ he turns to kirishima,
“no, no bro listen,” kirishima’s palm rests on his neck, an apologetic glance in your direction before he answers, “I did try to get them to leave you guys alone. they wouldn’t listen!”
“aha! so you were a traitor!”
bakugo glares. mina shrinks.
a muffled giggle pierces the silence. then a snort. & now you’re full on laughing—
“oh my god,” you sniffle, “you guys know we were literally gonna tell you, right?”
“tell us when?” sero speaks up, long moved away from kaminari. “it seems kiri here already knew about it.”
bakugo grunts. “why do you idiots think you’re here?”
oh.
bakugo takes a seat beside you. sero’s avoiding eye contact. kaminari’s avoiding the cheetos. mina bites her lip. you’re leaning over katsuki’s thigh now, photo evidence flip-book in your hands. you’re pointing out familiar photos while laughing & shaking your head, and bakugo’s looking back with a gaze so soft that mina doesn’t know how she didn’t see it sooner.
“i think we owe you two an apology.”
katsuki’s got his fingers twisting your knuckle. “y’think?”
sero, mina, and denki all look towards each other.
“we’re sorry.”
“for what?”
“for stalking you guys.”
“and not trusting that you’d tell us.”
“and being idiots.”
katsuki hums, satisfied. but he’s not done yet. he leans back on his palms before gently poking your hip. “should we forgive ‘em?”
“maybe. if they can send some of these photos.”
bakugo nods, turns to mina. “you heard the missus.”
“girl, take the whole book. like—seriously. omg.”
you hug it towards your chest, and mina can tell bakugo’s fighting a smile.
“right. and since you guys know now, you can all leave.”
the three protest. kiri interrupts. “i think it’s for the best. it’s been a long day.”
“that includes you, shitty hair.”
“huh—what?! this is my room too!”
“don’t care,” katsuki tugs you up with him, grip gentle, palm flat against your back as he steers you towards his bed.
“and didn’t ask,” he glances over his shoulder, “all of you, out.”
I don't know why did i do this, but here is the code , I stayed up late working on this, so I hope there aren’t any issues.
based on this code that turns the tags into text
and this pretty skin
setup steps:
click the code link above — it’ll open a long block of code. copy all of it (don’t include the title). it’s way easier to do this on desktop since mobile has copy limits
on AO3, go to your username → dashboard → skins → create site skin
give it a unique title, paste the CSS you copied, then scroll down and hit submit
once it’s created, just click “use” to apply the skin ˚ʚ₍ ᐢ. ̫ .ᐢ ₎ɞ˚
I’m not a native English speaker and I’m still figuring out Tumblr, so please excuse any mistakes.
Summary: Don't fall in love with your best friend unless you're ready to have your heart broken.
A/N: Happy Belated Valentine's my babiesss sorry it took so long to post i actually got pretty sick last weekend so i wasnt able to finish the fic on time but i hope you enjoy!
credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider
As a child, Harry had once stumbled across a series of books Dudley had received for his birthday—a gift he’d promptly discarded in a tantrum after declaring he’d wanted a new gaming system instead.
Harry hadn’t exactly known how to read at the time. He’d pieced words together slowly, sounding them out in whispers late at night beneath his cupboard blanket. But somehow, he’d managed to salvage one of the books from the rubbish bin, thankfully not too stained or torn.
That rescued copy had become one of his most prized possessions.
Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief.
He’d read it over and over again until the spine cracked and the pages softened at the edges. He remembered thinking, even at ten years old, how impossibly oblivious Percy was. How could someone be so blind? Annabeth’s feelings were practically written in flashing neon letters. Surely anyone with half a brain—or at the very least, a pulse—could sense what was happening around them.
Harry had thought it ridiculous.
Fate, apparently, had thought it hilarious.
By the time he reached his sixth year at Hogwarts, it seemed the universe had turned around, smacked him square in the face with that old paperback, and laughed.
Because he had somehow managed to fall hopelessly, painfully, irrevocably in love with one of the most emotionally intelligent people he knew—
And you were completely, utterly oblivious.
The irony was cruel.
You, who had noticed Ron’s ears turning red every time Hermione spoke too passionately about something. You, who had quietly pulled Harry aside months before anyone else caught on and said, “Ron’s falling for her, isn’t he?”
You, who had called Seamus out for his embarrassingly obvious crush on Lavender Brown, comparing him to a child tugging at pigtails during playtime just to get a reaction.
You, who could tell Hermione was in a foul mood simply based on the way she tied her hair that morning.
You—who read people like open books.
Couldn’t tell that your best friend was madly in love with you.
And had been for two years.
At first, Harry had thought he was doing a decent job hiding it. He wasn’t exactly known for emotional finesse—Hermione had smacked him upside the head more than once for being clueless—but he figured he could at least manage subtlety.
Apparently not.
Hermione had fixed him with a long, unimpressed stare one afternoon in the common room and said, very slowly, “Harry. You follow every word she says like a lap dog. You are not fooling anyone.”
He’d nearly choked on his tea.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Ron had snorted. Hermione had rolled her eyes.
The worst part?
They were right.
Everyone had noticed.
Everyone—except you.
So Harry tried something different.
He stopped hiding.
He started calling group outings with Ron and Hermione “double dates,” saying it lightly, casually, as if it were a joke—but watching you carefully for any sign of understanding.
There was none.
He’d draped his arm around your shoulders whenever you sat beside him, heart hammering as you leaned into him without hesitation.
You’d only smiled and continued talking, completely unfazed.
Last Valentine’s Day, he’d even gathered the courage to give you a card.
Not anonymous. Not vague.
A proper Valentine.
You’d stared at it for a moment, eyes wide and soft, and then you’d hugged him tightly.
“That’s so sweet of you, Harry,” you’d said. “You didn’t want me to feel left out.”
He’d felt something in his chest cave in so suddenly he’d almost wondered if it would show on his face.
That was the day he’d given up.
You clearly weren’t interested. You clearly didn’t see him that way. Because surely—surely—no one could be that blind. Not you. Not the person who noticed everything.
And yet.
He still didn’t tell you.
He couldn’t.
Because losing you altogether was not an option.
He could survive loving you quietly.
He could survive pretending.
He could survive swallowing it down every time you curled into his side or stole his jumpers or whispered that he was your safe place.
But he could not survive you walking away.
That would undo him in ways even Voldemort never had.
So he chose silence.
He chose the quiet torture of it.
And he told himself that it was enough.
It had to be.
But Merlin—
You made it painfully, excruciatingly difficult.
It was one of those mornings where his uniform just didn’t want to listen. Harry had barely managed to get dressed. His shirt was wrinkled and stubbornly refusing to stay tucked into his pants, and his tie… well, his tie was acting like it had a mind of its own. No matter how many times he twisted and adjusted it, it refused to sit flat.
Part of him wanted to leave it in his dorm and run late, but he’d already lost two points for Gryffindor yesterday—leaving his robes behind because he was far too warm—and he’d be damned if he lost more, not when Slytherin was creeping up.
So instead, he kept undoing and redoing the insipid tie, the knot now looking like a wriggling little snake.
“Oh, this is driving me crazy.” You said, stepping up to him like you did any other day, batting his hands away from the tie.
Before he could respond, you were behind him, hands on his shoulders, fingers brushing the collar of his shirt. He froze.
“Stay still, Haz.” You reached around him, adjusting the knot with the precision of someone who had done it a hundred times before. Your fingers lingered at his throat, and Harry’s stomach decided to stop functioning altogether.
He watched your soft hands, then flicked his gaze to your face, keeping his breath shallow. He dared not move too much; one accidental graze of your hand on his chest and he was certain he would faint.
“There we go,” You said happily, smoothing down his shirt, “Now you won’t lose us points for being a slob.”
There was a moment of quiet after you stepped back. Harry adjusted his glasses nervously, feeling the faint ghost of where your fingers had been. He tried to focus on the tie, but all he could think about was how effortlessly close you’d been, how natural it had felt for you to reach around him, and how his heart was hammering in his chest for no reason he could explain.
Harry wanted to argue that he was not a slob—he was a fool. A fool for you. But all that came out was a breathless, “Thanks.”
You shrugged, smiling faintly. “Anytime.” And with that, you were gone, leaving Harry standing in the common room, sparks crawling down his body from where your hands had pressed against his shoulders.
It started with a bang.
Not a catastrophic one—not the sort that sent stone crumbling or Death Eaters Apparating—but the unmistakable crack of a spell gone wrong, followed by the shrill screech of something that definitely should not have been screeching at two in the morning.
Harry was upright in bed before he was fully conscious.
“What—?” Ron mumbled from across the dormitory, hair sticking up even worse than usual.
The corridor outside erupted into noise. Doors opening. Voices overlapping. Someone shouting, “Seamus, I swear—”
Harry shoved on a pair of joggers and grabbed his glasses just as the portrait hole burst open downstairs and Professor McGonagall’s voice rang up the staircase.
“All students are to gather in the common room immediately!”
Brilliant.
Within minutes, the tower was chaos—students stumbling down in mismatched pajamas, half-awake and grumbling. Ron looked like he might fall asleep standing up. Dean was laughing. Seamus looked guilty.
Harry was scanning the staircase.
Hermione clambered down, hair in messy braids, Crookshanks tucked into her arms.
And then you appeared.
Sleepy. Disoriented. Rubbing at your eyes.
And—
Wearing his Quidditch jersey.
It swallowed you whole.
The hem brushed dangerously high against your thighs, revealing a pair of barely-there shorts beneath. One shoulder of the jersey slipped lower than the other, the collar stretched from wear. Your hair was a mess, curling around your face, and you looked so soft and warm and real that for a second Harry forgot how to breathe.
You padded over to him barefoot, squinting blearily as you offered him a sleepy smile, and he felt butterflies slam their insistent wings against his diaphragm. No one should look this beautiful straight after waking up.
Heat crawled up his neck.
“I—” He cleared his throat, trying very hard not to look at your legs. Or the way the fabric clung to you, “I don’t remember giving you that.”
You blinked at him, still half-asleep.
“Oh. Yeah,” You said casually, glancing down at yourself as though you’d forgotten what you were wearing, “I think I stole it, like… a year ago or something. It’s my favourite sleep shirt.”
You yawned.
Actually yawned.
As if you hadn’t just detonated something inside his ribcage.
Harry wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
But you didn’t notice.
You shuffled closer without thinking—because you always did—and leaned lightly into his side, your head brushing his shoulder as you crossed your arms against the chill of the stone floor.
It was instinctive.
Unthinking.
Comfort.
His entire body went rigid for half a second before he forced himself to relax.
For one reckless, dangerous second, something warm and foolish bloomed in his chest.
You fit far too perfectly there.
It was hard to believe you weren’t meant to be.
His arm twitched at his side, resisting the urge to wrap around you. To make the picture complete.
Instead, he swallowed.
“You could’ve asked.” He muttered.
You smiled without opening your eyes.
“Like you would’ve said no.”
His gaze drifted down before he could stop himself—the oversized jersey, the way it brushed your thighs, the faint outline of his old Quidditch number pressed against your chest.
His.
And yet not.
You tugged absently at the hem, “Don’t worry. I’ll give it back one day.”
He forced a shrug, “Keep it.”
You hummed contentedly and leaned into him more fully, completely unaware of the war waging inside his skull.
McGonagall was still lecturing Seamus about reckless spellwork. Students whispered. The common room buzzed with irritation and half-suppressed laughter.
Eventually, detentions were handed out and it was declared safe to return to bed. One by one, people began climbing the stairs again.
You murmured a sleepy goodnight and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek before heading up.
Harry watched your retreating figure.
And the name stretched across your back.
Potter.
Something in his chest clenched painfully.
This—this was it.
As close as he would ever get.
The only way he would ever see you with his last name.
On the back of an old, worn jersey.
Harry had been wandering the castle corridors with a tray in his hands—two steaming mugs of tea and a small plate of treacle tart he’d grabbed from the kitchens—because honestly, you looked completely drained, buried under a mountain of books in the library, and he couldn’t just leave you like that.
“Here,” He said softly, setting the tray beside you, “Thought you might need… something.”
You looked up from your notes, hair tumbling across your face, eyes half-lidded with focus. “Haz,” You murmured, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips, “You’re a lifesaver.”
Harry felt his chest warm at the soft praise, giving a small, almost embarrassed shrug, “Well… someone had to. You’ve been at this for hours.”
You took a careful sip from your tea, and your eyes flickered up at him, almost surprised. “Exactly how I like it,” You murmured, setting the mug down with a satisfied hum. You leaned back, stretching languidly, hair falling messily over your shoulders, and reached for a tart, “Honestly, you’re amazing, you know that?”
Harry blinked, trying to keep his composure. “The flies are starting to gather here because they think you’re a corpse, you know.” He teased lightly, but the truth was harder to hide. Even like this—bare-faced, hair tousled from running your hands through it constantly, lips soft and slightly bitten—you looked gorgeous. Effortless. Bright. Dangerous in a way that made his chest tighten.
He tried to act casual, sitting on the edge of the table, but his mind refused to cooperate. Every movement you made, every tilt of your head, every lazy stretch—it all pulled his attention like gravity.
Then, as if the universe were deliberately cruel, you looked straight at him. Your eyes softened, warm and unguarded, and you spoke like you weren’t even thinking about the weight of your words.
“You know,” You said casually, almost absentmindedly, “anyone who ends up with you is going to be really lucky.”
Harry froze. His stomach dropped.
“Haz?” You blinked, tilting your head slightly, noticing his silence, “Are you even listening?”
“I… yeah.” He croaked. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to throw the treacle tart at the wall. He wanted—he wanted everything that was impossible.
You smiled softly, leaning back against the table, entirely casual, completely unaware of the storm you’d just unleashed. “You’re such a great friend, you know. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you sometimes.”
Friend.
Harry’s chest tightened painfully, his throat constricting, a lump rising that refused to go down. Of course. Of course that’s how you saw him. All this praise, all this warmth… and none of it was for him in the way he longed for.
You can’t possibly say all this if you don’t have an idea, he thought bitterly. You must know… and you’re saying it anyway.
He remembered all the little ways he had shown he cared—ways no one else would notice. When Hermione had nearly ended up in the hospital wing while cramming for her OWLs, he had stayed behind in the dorm with you, drilling you with flashcards, quizzing you until your eyes drooped. You should have known that this wasn’t ordinary. That this was special treatment.
He swallowed hard, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Right. Yeah. Of course. You’re… right.”
You hummed, picking up your tea again, completely oblivious, eyes returning to your notes, leaving Harry sitting there, trembling slightly, heart racing and shattering all at once.
As soon as February first hit, Valentine’s Day decorations began infecting the castle like a rash—pink banners strung across archways, enchanted cherubs flitting through corridors with tiny golden bows, heart-shaped confetti drifting lazily from the ceiling.
Harry had never thought he’d hate the color red.
But here he was, absolutely detesting the sight of the red paper hearts hanging from every doorframe in Gryffindor Tower.
He should’ve told that blasted Hat to sort him into Slytherin.
At least then the common room wouldn’t look like it had been violently attacked by romance.
He was sitting in an armchair, pretending to read, when Ron dropped heavily into the seat across from him. Seamus sprawled on the sofa, hands tucked behind his head.
“So,” Seamus began casually, like he was commenting on the weather, “Valentine’s Day coming up.”
Harry didn’t look up from his book, “Fascinating.”
Dean snorted, “You finally going to confess your undying love this year, or are we continuing the proud annual tradition of pining in silence?”
Harry’s head snapped up, “Sod off.”
Ron grinned wickedly, “Oh, come on, mate. We’ve got bets going.”
“You have bets?” Harry demanded.
“Yeah,” Dean said, nodding seriously, “Whether you’ll confess, or just stare at her like she’s the last slice of treacle tart on earth.”
Ron shrugged, “My money’s on the staring.”
Harry threw his book down, “I do not—”
“You absolutely do,” Seamus cut in, “Every time she laughs, you look like someone’s cast a Patronus straight into your ribcage.”
Harry opened his mouth to argue.
And then closed it again.
Ron leaned forward, elbows on his knees, “So? You gonna tell her?”
Harry hesitated.
Just for a second.
Because part of him wanted to.
Merlin, he wanted to.
The thought had been clawing at him ever since that afternoon in the library.
He wanted to drop to his knees. To tell you he loved you and always would. That he would do whatever it took to make you feel like the most special girl in the entire world. That he would adore you until the end of time if you let him.
No one else would ever love you the way he was willing to.
With every single fiber of his being.
With a kind of devotion so limitless, so boundless, so unconditional that it scared even him to recognize it. The kind that made him feel like every cell in his body would willingly come apart if you asked him to.
And then—
Dean laughed lightly, “She probably wouldn’t even realize, to be honest.”
That one landed wrong.
A sharp, painful twinge in his chest that seemed to connect to his stomach, to the tips of his fingers, to his jaw.
Ron nodded, “Yeah. You could get down on one knee and she’d just go, ‘Haz, are you feeling alright?’”
The boys burst out laughing.
Harry didn’t.
Because that was the worst part.
They weren’t wrong.
His jaw tightened.
Ron tilted his head, studying him now instead of teasing, “You ever think maybe she doesn’t know because you let her not know?”
Harry’s stomach twisted.
“That doesn’t even make sense.” He muttered.
“It does,” Ron said, quieter now, “You do everything for her. You look at her like she hung the moon. But you never say it. So she doesn’t have to face it.”
Dean leaned back, voice softer than before, “Or maybe she does know. And she’s pretending.”
That one felt like a punch to the ribs.
So hard he felt his breakfast crawl up his throat.
Harry stood abruptly, “You’re all mental.”
“Just saying!” Seamus called as Harry headed toward the stairs, “Valentine’s Day’s a good excuse!”
“Yeah,” Ron added, “Worst she can say is no.”
Harry paused at the bottom step.
He didn’t turn around.
Worst she can say is no.
But that wasn’t what terrified him.
What terrified him was the moment you’d realize how deep his feelings actually ran.
Because you—kindhearted, careful, endlessly thoughtful you—would pull back.
You’d grow cautious.
You’d stop sitting so close. Stop stealing his scarves. Stop crawling into his bed when you couldn’t sleep.
You’d feel guilty for ever letting it look like he had a chance.
And he would lose you.
Not just the possibility of you.
You.
His best friend.
The girl he had loved quietly for longer than he dared admit.
And that—
That was a risk he wasn’t sure he could survive.
The knock on Harry’s dormitory door was soft.
Too soft for this hour.
He looked up from where he was sitting on his bed, glasses slipping halfway down his nose, “Yeah?”
The door creaked open, and you slipped inside, already in your sleep clothes, glancing at him to make sure he was awake. When your eyes met his, your shoulders relaxed, and you stepped fully into the room.
“Hi.” You said quietly.
Harry’s stomach dropped at once, “What happened?”
You sighed, shutting the door behind you. “Ron and Hermione had a row. It started over something stupid and turned into something not stupid. They’re both pacing like caged animals, and I figured…” You shrugged, “They might need space.”
Harry nodded slowly. That made sense.
“And?” He asked gently.
“So I was wondering if… if it’s okay if I sleep here tonight.” It sounded like courtesy more than a real question—you were already walking toward the bed, looking tired and small in a way that made it impossible to say no.
His heart skipped.
“Course,” He said instead, softer now, “You know you don’t have to ask.”
Your shoulders relaxed immediately. “Thanks, Haz.”
You climbed into his bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world, lifting the blankets and sliding beneath them.
The air shifted.
This wasn’t new. You’d done it before—after nightmares, after late-night talks that blurred into sleep, after studying until your eyes burned.
It wasn’t new.
But something about tonight felt different.
Harry swallowed.
For the first time, the thought flickered through his mind before he could stop it—
Why not Ron’s bed?
Why here? Why were you so comfortable beside him that you didn’t even hesitate, didn’t even consider the empty bed across the room that would stay empty all night if history had anything to say about it?
The question burned at the back of his tongue.
But he bit it down, watching as you settled into his pillow, getting comfortable. He lay down more slowly, painfully aware of every inch of space between you, of the warmth your body gave off in the cool room.
The dormitory was quiet except for the distant whisper of wind against the windows.
You turned onto your side, facing him, “Night, Haz.”
“Good night.” He said quickly.
You hummed softly in response, already drifting off.
It took less than five minutes.
Your breathing evened out. Your body went slack with sleep. One of your hands shifted unconsciously, brushing his shirt before coming to rest there.
Like it belonged.
Harry stared up at the ceiling.
Wide awake.
Every nerve in his body felt lit. He could feel the warmth of you beside him, the steady rhythm of your breathing, the faint scent of your shampoo clinging to his pillow.
You were so close.
So close he could have counted your eyelashes if he’d turned his head.
And you slept.
Just like that.
No tension. No hesitation. No awareness of what this might mean.
Because to you, it didn’t mean anything.
That was what hurt.
You could fall asleep beside him without a second thought, while he lay rigid, afraid to breathe too deeply in case he woke you, afraid that if he didn’t move at all he’d never make it through the night.
He wanted to wrap an arm around you.
He wanted to pull you closer.
He wanted to know what it would feel like to hold you properly, to fit against you the way his body seemed to insist it was meant to. To bury his face in your hair. To memorize the shape of you by heart.
He wanted to ask why him.
Why always him.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he stayed perfectly still, staring into the dark, listening to the soft sound of your breathing.
That should have been enough.
But as the minutes dragged on and sleep refused to come, a cruel thought crept in—
If you knew.
If you knew how badly he wanted you…
Would you still sleep this easily?
Would you still crawl into his bed without thinking twice?
His throat tightened.
Beside him, you shifted closer in your sleep, your forehead brushing faintly against his shoulder.
And Harry finally closed his eyes.
Not because he was calm.
But because it was easier than letting himself cry.
Harry didn’t remember falling asleep.
If he had at all.
Grey morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and cold, painting soft lines across the dormitory ceiling. For a few seconds, he didn’t move.
Then he became aware of the weight against his chest.
You.
Your back was pressed to his front, your body curled slightly toward him as if you’d shifted in your sleep without thinking. Your hair brushed his chin with every breath. One of his arms was trapped beneath the pillow; the other had somehow slipped around the dip of your waist, pinning you to him.
He released you at once.
And your hips—Merlin help him—were pressed far too close.
He froze, blood rushing from his face and so far south he felt dizzy as his heart began to pound like he’d just finished a Quidditch match. He stared at the wall, terrified that if he moved even an inch, you’d wake up and realise how close you were.
But you didn’t.
You only shifted, nestling back into him, completely unconcerned.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut.
Of course you don’t notice, he thought bitterly.
Why would you?
A moment later, you stirred properly. You stretched, arms reaching forward, back arching slightly—still pressed against him.
“Mmm… morning.” You murmured.
Harry swallowed, “Morning.”
You didn’t jump away.
You didn’t gasp.
You didn’t even hesitate.
You just rolled onto your back and rubbed your eyes.
“Thanks for letting me sleep here.” You said easily.
He forced a laugh that didn’t sound right even to himself, “Yeah. No problem.”
You propped yourself up on one elbow, perfectly at ease, as though you hadn’t been curled into him moments ago.
It hit him then, sharp and humiliating.
You weren’t embarrassed because, to you, there was nothing to be embarrassed about.
You saw him as safe.
Familiar.
Harmless.
Not someone whose chest was still tight from the way you’d fit against him.
Not someone who’d lain awake for hours listening to you breathe.
Not someone who had imagined—stupidly, foolishly—that maybe this meant something more.
You slid out of bed and tugged on his jumper from where it lay across his trunk, “I’m starving. Want to go down to breakfast?”
“Yeah.” He said automatically.
There it was again.
That warm, affectionate smile.
And then you were gone.
The door clicked shut behind you.
Harry stayed where he was, staring at the empty space you’d left behind. The bed was still warm. Your pillow still indented.
He pressed his palm into the sheets where you’d been.
You could curl into him in the middle of the night and wake up tangled in his arms.
And it still didn’t mean what he wanted it to mean.
He fell back against the mattress and covered his eyes with his arm.
Valentine’s Day was a week away.
And he was running out of ways to survive this.
It started with the heat.
Not the warm kind he’d grown used to. Not the soft, almost pleasant flutter that came when you laughed too hard at something stupid he’d said. Not the quiet nerves that lit up under his skin when you linked your arm through his.
This was different.
This felt like something crawling up his spine and settling at the base of his skull.
You were walking beside him after Charms, talking animatedly about something Flitwick had said. Your hands moved when you spoke, brushing his sleeve, tapping lightly against his arm.
Usually he loved that. Usually he leaned into it.
Today, every touch felt like friction.
He nodded along, not really hearing you. The corridor felt too narrow. Too loud. Too bright.
You bumped his shoulder playfully, “Are you even listening?”
“Yeah.” He muttered.
He wasn’t.
He was watching the way your fingers lingered on his sleeve a second too long before dropping away. Watching the way you smiled up at him without hesitation, without thought.
You didn’t think about it.
You never thought about it.
By lunch, it had gotten worse.
The heat had spread — up his neck, across his cheeks. He could feel it burning there. He kept tugging at the collar of his shirt like he could air himself out.
Across the Great Hall, you were laughing with some boy from Hufflepuff. Leaning toward him. Head tilted.
Harry told himself it didn’t matter.
You laughed like that with everyone.
But something about today — something about the way the morning had felt, about the way you’d curled into him two nights ago and slept like you belonged there — made it twist wrong.
You sat across from him, smiling over your pumpkin juice, “You okay, Haz? You’re quiet.”
“I’m fine.” He said too quickly.
You tilted your head, “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
You didn’t push. You never did.
And that made it worse.
Because you trusted him to be honest. You trusted him to be steady. You trusted him to always be there without ever asking why he was there.
The frog in the pot, he thought bitterly. The water heating so slowly he hadn’t realized he was being boiled alive.
By the time you reached the staircase after classes, his nerves were shot raw.
You bumped his arm playfully, “You’re walking like you’re being marched to your execution.”
“Can you—” He started, then stopped himself, “Never mind.”
You blinked, “What?”
“Nothing.”
He took the stairs two at a time.
You followed.
“Harry.”
He didn’t answer.
“Harry, wait.”
He turned at the landing, irritation flashing in his eyes. “What?”
You stopped short. “What’s wrong with you today?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’ve barely looked at me all day.”
“Maybe I just don’t feel like talking.”
Your face fell slightly. “Did I do something?”
That question hit him like a jab to the ribs.
“No,” he said, harsher than he meant. “It’s not about you.”
“Then what is it about?”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
He walked away.
But you didn’t let him.
You followed him up the staircase, your steps quickening to match his longer strides. He was climbing like something was chasing him — like if he didn’t put enough distance between the two of you, he might actually combust.
By the time he reached his dormitory, his chest was heaving — not from exertion, but from the pressure building behind his ribs. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
You followed.
Now it was just the two of you.
The room felt smaller than usual. The late afternoon light slanted through the windows, dust drifting lazily in the air, completely unaware that something catastrophic was about to happen.
You shut the door gently behind you.
“If there’s something you want to tell me,” You said, trying to steady your voice, “just go ahead and say it, Harry.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
He stared at everything else in the room but you.
At his trunk. At Ron’s unmade bed. At the crack in the stone wall. Anywhere but your face.
He wasn’t sure if he was avoiding your gaze because he couldn’t bear to see the hurt there — the kind that would extinguish the flames raging in his chest.
Or because looking at you would only pour oil over them.
You hesitated.
Then you reached for his hand.
The contact was gentle. Familiar.
It felt like static shock.
Like a spark struck from flint. Like something small and bright landing in a room full of gasoline fumes.
His entire body reacted before his mind did.
He jerked away.
“Just—stop it.”
Your hand froze midair.
“What?”
“Stop touching me like that,” He snapped, “Stop acting like everything’s normal.”
Your brows pulled together, “Harry, I don’t—”
“That’s the problem,” he said, abruptly, raking his hands through his already messy hair, “You don’t.”
You stood too, confused, hurt beginning to bleed into your expression, “Don’t what?”
“You don’t think. You don’t notice. You just… do things. You hold my hand, you take my jumpers, you sleep in my bed like it’s nothing—”
Your breath caught, “We’ve always—”
“Yes,” He said sharply, “Exactly. You’ve always done it. And I’ve always let you.”
“Why are you acting like it’s a bad thing?”
“Because you don’t see how it’s killing me!”
The words ripped out of him before he could stop them.
They echoed in the quiet room.
You stared at him.
“What are you talking about?” You whispered.
He let out a hollow laugh that didn’t hold even a trace of humor, “You really don’t know.”
“Know what?”
He dragged a hand through his hair again, pacing now, restless and unraveling. The heat in his chest felt unbearable — like something burning through muscle and bone.
“I thought I could handle it,” He said, “I thought I could just… be whatever you needed. Your safe place. Your spare bed. Your extra person.”
His voice wavered, but he pushed through.
“I thought I could ignore the heat. The nerves. The way my stomach drops every time you look at someone else. I thought I could handle wanting you when there’s no possible future where you want me back.”
His throat tightened.
“But I was wrong.”
You stepped toward him, instinctively, “Harry—”
“No,” He said softly, “Let me say it.”
And finally — finally — he looked at you.
Really looked at you.
“I love you.”
Silence swallowed the room.
“I’ve been in love with you for so long,” He continued, voice shaking now, “that I can’t remember a time I didn’t feel like this. When I’m around you, I can’t think straight. It’s like everything else blurs out. Like I’ve gone blind to the world except for you.”
His hands trembled at his sides.
“And for a while… that was okay. I didn’t want to see anything else. I was perfectly content only looking at you."
His laugh was brittle.
“But it’s not easy, (Y/N). It’s not easy just hoping. Just waiting. Yearning for every single touch like it’s a gift. Taking whatever scraps of affection you hand me and pretending it’s enough.”
His voice cracked.
“I feel like a stray dog sometimes. Grateful for any little piece of love you throw my way.”
Your eyes filled with something as your throat began to ache.
“And I can’t keep pretending it’s not killing me,” He said, quieter now, but more raw than before, “I can’t keep smiling through it. I can’t keep acting like I’m not falling apart every time you don’t see me the way I see you.”
His eyes locked onto yours.
“You’re my everything,” He whispered, “But I’m just one of your things.”
The words nearly undid him.
“And that’s all I’ll ever be to you.”
The room felt too still.
Too tight.
He stood there, stripped bare, like he’d finally set down something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t know how to stand without it.
The heat in his chest wasn’t a flutter anymore.
It was a burn.
And it hurt.
Harry didn’t raise his voice when he told you to leave.
That might have been easier to bear.
He didn’t shout. Didn’t slam the door. Didn’t say anything cruel.
He just looked at you with that exhausted, hollow expression — like he had finally emptied himself of something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t have the strength to hold anything else.
“I think you should go.” He said quietly.
Not angry.
Not cold.
Just… spent.
For a moment, you stayed where you were. Your body refused to move, as if waiting for him to soften. To sigh and rake a hand through his hair and say he didn’t mean it. To reach for you like he always did when things felt wrong.
He didn’t.
He stepped back instead.
And that — that was what made your chest crack open.
You left without another word.
The corridor outside his dormitory felt longer than usual. The torches along the walls flickered gently, unaware that the world inside you had tilted off its axis. Students passed you on the stairs, laughing, arguing, whispering about homework and Quidditch and weekend plans.
Everything sounded distant. Muffled.
You couldn’t quite feel your feet touching the stone as you walked.
By the time you reached your own dormitory, your hands were trembling.
The room was empty when you entered. The late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, soft and golden, dust drifting lazily in the air.
You shut the door behind you and leaned back against it, staring at the opposite wall.
Your heart was still racing.
Harry’s words hadn’t simply echoed — they had embedded themselves somewhere deep inside you, reverberating in slow, relentless waves. Every time you tried to steady your breathing, to anchor yourself in something solid and familiar, his voice would surface again.
I’m in love with you.
The way it had cracked in the middle. The way it sounded less like a confession and more like a wound finally tearing open.
You could still see him — pacing like a caged animal, hands dragging through his hair, shoulders tight with years of something he’d never let himself say. You had memorized his mannerisms over time. The subtle twitch in his jaw when he was frustrated. The way his fingers flexed when he was holding something back. The restless energy that clung to him whenever he didn’t know what to do with his emotions.
You’d thought you knew him.
But tonight had been different.
Tonight he had looked raw.
You pushed yourself away from the door slowly, your back peeling from the cool wood. Your nose burned from the effort of not crying, and when you blinked, the tears spilled over anyway. You didn’t trust your legs to carry you very far, but somehow you made it to your bed before your composure gave way entirely. You sank down onto the mattress and bent forward, pressing your face into the nearest pillow as though you could smother the sound of your own thoughts.
The confession replayed again.
And again.
And then—
You inhaled.
And froze.
That wasn’t your pillow.
You lifted your head, blinking through the blur, and realized your fingers were fisted in black fabric.
Harry’s jumper.
Slightly oversized on you. Sleeves too long. The collar stretched just enough from where you’d tugged it absently while studying.
You hadn’t meant to keep it.
It had been one of those cold nights in the library when the wind rattled the windows and the castle felt more like stone than shelter. You’d shivered once — just once — and he’d noticed. Of course he had.
He’d shrugged it off his shoulders without hesitation, draping it over yours with that casual sort of gentleness that was so uniquely him.
Keep it as long as you want, he’d said.
You never gave it back.
Your throat tightened painfully.
Would you have to return it now?
The thought felt unbearable.
You sat up slowly, the jumper clutched to your chest, your gaze drifting around your dorm room as if you were seeing it for the first time.
Your eyes landed on your nightstand.
The half-open chocolate orange from Honeydukes — the one he’d brought back after noticing you’d been chewing your quill during exam week. He hadn’t made a big deal of it. Just dropped it beside you and muttered something about you needing proper sugar instead of ink.
Next to it, a folded scrap of parchment in his messy handwriting. Practice questions he’d written out to quiz you before Transfiguration. You’d teased him for highlighting almost every sentence.
A tiny golden snitch keychain rested beside your wand. He’d pressed it into your palm in Hogsmeade last winter, cheeks pink from the cold.
Reminded me of you, he’d said, eyes refusing to meet yours.
You’d laughed.
You hadn’t asked why.
It was everywhere.
He was everywhere.
Not in grand, sweeping gestures.
Not in dramatic declarations.
But in the quiet, steady way he had slipped into the empty spaces of your life and made himself at home there.
Your gaze lifted to the moving photographs above your bed.
There were dozens.
Most of them were group pictures—laughing, chaotic, alive. But your gaze snagged on the one from Christmas morning last year. You were mid-laugh, half-hidden by torn wrapping paper. Harry stood beside you, watching.
Not the gift.
You.
At the time, you had thought his smile was simple excitement, pride in having chosen well. Now, with the knowledge of his confession lodged painfully in your chest, you saw something else layered beneath it—something softer, something unguarded. A kind of careful devotion that made your eyes sting all over again.
Now you could see the way his expression softened at the edges. The way his eyes lingered, unguarded. Earnest.
Longing.
How many times had he looked at you like that while you were too busy looking somewhere else?
Your vision blurred again.
You slid off the bed and crouched by your trunk at the foot of it, fingers trembling as you rummaged through folded clothes and books until you reached the small wooden box at the bottom — the one you kept tucked away for things that felt too important to leave out in the open.
You brought it back to the bed and opened it slowly.
Inside were ticket stubs from Hogsmeade weekends. A pressed flower from the lake shore. A few scraps of parchment with inside jokes scribbled in ink.
And then—
You found it.
A modest piece of white cardstock, slightly bent at the corner.
Your favorite flowers charmed along the edges, frozen mid-bloom.
Be my Valentine?
The memory hit you all at once.
A sob broke free before you could stop it, the sound raw in the quiet room. You pressed your hand to your mouth, but it did little to steady you. You hadn’t meant to hurt him. You hadn’t even realized there was something fragile to protect.
But now that he had spoken the truth aloud, your memories rearranged themselves with startling clarity. The way his jaw would tighten when you laughed too brightly at someone else. The subtle shift in his expression whenever another boy lingered too long in conversation. The way his hugs always lasted a fraction of a second longer than necessary, as if he were memorizing the feeling.
You had seen the signs.
Some quiet part of you had always known.
It’s been like this for years.
Sneaking down to the kitchens together. Late-night study sessions that dissolve into whispered confessions about fears neither of you would tell anyone else. Sitting shoulder to shoulder at Quidditch matches, your knee pressed against his because neither of you ever moves away.
You always thought it was just that.
You and him. Best friends. A matched set.
Your chest tightens painfully.
The realization did not strike like lightning. It did not feel dramatic or explosive. Instead, it settled slowly into place, like something ancient and inevitable finally aligning inside you. You tried, for a moment, to imagine your life without him woven into it so seamlessly—the absence of his steady presence beside you in the Great Hall, the lack of his quiet warmth at your side during long nights, the empty space where his voice should be.
The thought hollowed you out in a way guilt never could.
This wasn’t simply remorse for hurting him.
It was grief at the idea of losing something you hadn’t realized you wanted.
You drew his jumper back into your arms and pressed it against your chest, breathing in the familiar scent as your tears slowed into something softer, more certain.
You loved him.
Somewhere along the way, your heart had chosen him quietly and without ceremony.
And now that you finally understood it, the only thing more terrifying than admitting it was the possibility that you had realized too late.
You hadn’t meant for it to stretch into days.
At first, it was only supposed to be a night. One evening to let the shock settle. To let his words stop echoing quite so violently in your chest. But the more you turned them over in your mind, the more you realized you couldn’t simply run back to him with something half-formed and call it love.
You needed to know.
You needed to be certain that what you were feeling wasn’t guilt twisting itself into something softer. That it wasn’t fear of losing him masquerading as devotion. That you weren’t just trying to patch the wound he’d opened with whatever words would make it stop bleeding.
So you kept your distance.
And it seemed Harry had no problem respecting that unspoken boundary.
He avoided you with a precision that would have been impressive if it hadn’t hurt so much.
He left the Great Hall early. Sat at the opposite end of the Gryffindor table, shoulders angled deliberately away from you. Took longer routes between classes, choosing staircases that added minutes to his walk if it meant not crossing yours. When you entered a room, he found a reason to leave it. When you tried to catch his eye, he found something intensely fascinating to study just over your shoulder.
It wasn’t cruel.
That was the worst part.
He wasn’t punishing you.
He was protecting himself.
Careful not to brush against you in passing. Careful not to linger too close in crowded corridors. Careful with his voice, as though speaking to you too long might crack something open again that he’d only just managed to stitch shut.
You caught him watching you once—only once—during Charms. Professor Flitwick had turned to the board, and for a fleeting second, Harry’s guard slipped. His gaze found you with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.
There was no bitterness there. It wasn’t resentment.
It was restraint.
And that made your chest ache in ways you hadn’t expected.
By the time Valentine’s Day arrived, the castle was absolutely drenched in pink and glitter from the highest spires to the stone floors below. The enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall shimmered a soft rose-gold, petals drifting lazily down from an illusion of endless sky. Pink ribbons curled around every banister. The air smelled overwhelmingly of roses and sugar and something sparklingly artificial.
Harry hated it.
He sat rigidly through breakfast, jaw tight as the owls descended in a flurry of wings and parchment. Bouquets, boxes of chocolates, glittering gift bags—packages thumped down across the tables in rapid succession. Laughter erupted every few seconds as someone unwrapped something elaborate or embarrassing.
It was almost comical that Valentine’s Day had fallen on a Hogsmeade weekend this year.
A miracle.
Or some divine joke at his expense—Harry hadn’t quite decided which.
Dean presented Ginny with her bouquet in person, attempting nonchalance and failing spectacularly. Ron, flustered and pink-eared, kept checking his reflection in the back of a spoon before bolting off to meet Hermione. Even Seamus—Godric, even Seamus—had a date and left with an air of nervous triumph.
One by one, his roommates disappeared, pulled eagerly toward waiting hands and planned afternoons.
Harry remained behind.
He told himself he didn’t care.
He’d endured far worse than a holiday built on pink paper hearts and saccharine declarations.
But something about the exaggerated romance of it all scraped at him today. The floating hearts. The couples walking just a little closer than usual, fingers intertwined as if they were guarding something precious. It pressed against the hollow space in his chest and made it ache more sharply than he’d anticipated.
Stupid, really.
He was the one who had confessed. He was the one who had drawn the line. The one who had told you to leave.
And yet he hadn’t realized just how much it would hurt—not only to spend Valentine’s Day alone—but to spend it carrying the quiet understanding that whatever you had been before could never quite be the same again.
He pushed back from the table abruptly, appetite long gone, and made his way up to Gryffindor Tower. The corridors were noticeably quieter now, most students already filtering toward Hogsmeade or secluded corners of the castle.
The Fat Lady gave him a knowing smile as he muttered the password.
He didn’t return it.
By the time he reached his dormitory, exhaustion weighed heavy behind his eyes. He was fully prepared to throw his bag aside and collapse face-first into his mattress, to sleep the day away and wake up when the castle had returned to normal.
He pushed the door open.
And froze.
The room was dimmer than usual, bathed in the steady glow of candlelight. Flames flickered softly along the mantle and windowsills, casting warm gold across the stone walls. The usual clutter—Quidditch gear, discarded socks, scattered parchment—had been tidied away.
And there you were.
Hands clasped tightly around a small arrangement of flowers, as though you weren’t entirely sure what to do with them. Your shoulders were drawn back in visible determination, but your expression wavered somewhere between courage and terror.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Harry’s first instinct was disbelief.
His second was fear.
“You shouldn’t be here.” He said automatically, though the words lacked any real sharpness.
“I know,” You replied softly, “But I had something important I needed to ask you.”
His gaze flicked around the room again, as if confirming that this wasn’t some elaborate trick of exhaustion. The candles. The cleared space. The deliberate care in every detail.
“What is this?” He asked, his voice quieter now.
You swallowed, then stepped forward carefully—like you were approaching something skittish, something that might bolt at the wrong movement.
“You gave me a Valentine last year,” You said, the slightest tremor betraying you, “I thought I might return the favour.”
For a split second, something flickered in his eyes but it was swallowed almost immediately by something harder.
He let out a short, humorless breath, dragging a hand down his face, “Do you realize how cruel you’re being?”
The words hit you square in the chest.
“Harry, I—” You stopped yourself, forcing in a steadying breath, “I came to a couple of… epiphanies since we last spoke.”
He didn’t respond, but he didn’t interrupt you either.
You took another breath, slower this time, willing your thoughts to line up properly instead of scattering the way they had been all morning. Harry watched you closely, and you could tell he was fighting the instinct to step in, to calm you the way he always did when you spiraled. He knew the signs—the way your fingers twisted together, the way your gaze drifted when you were trying to find the right words.
He let you have the silence.
“I’m sorry.”
The words were small when they finally left you.
And he felt his stomach drop.
There it was, he thought. The careful tone. The softness. The prelude to rejection dressed up as kindness. He’d imagined this exact moment in the worst hours of the night—imagined you standing in front of him with pity in your eyes, explaining gently why you couldn’t give him what he wanted.
His shoulders went rigid without him meaning to. Something inside him began quietly folding in on itself.
“I’m sorry for taking so much time to think about this,” You continued, your voice trembling but determined, “And I’m sorry that you’ve felt this way for—God knows how long—and I was so blind to it. I’m sorry for keeping you at arm’s length and dangling something you wanted in front of you for so long. God, I can’t even imagine how that must have felt, because I’ve only just come to this realization a couple days ago and not being able to be around you has been killing me, and I’m such a terrible—”
“(Y/N), hold on.”
He stepped forward suddenly, closing the space between you before he could think better of it, his hands coming up to gently but firmly wrap around your wrists. Not restraining—just grounding. Anchoring you before you could spiral yourself into something cruel and untrue.
You stopped mid-breath.
Your chest was heaving slightly, eyes bright with unshed tears, and for a second neither of you moved. You had forgotten what it felt like for him to touch you. The warmth of his hands. The steadiness of his grip. A small, frightened part of you had begun to wonder if he ever would again.
Harry swallowed.
He hadn’t expected you to look like this—wrecked and earnest and terrified in equal measure.
You opened your mouth, and he nodded his head faintly, urging you to keep going.
“I—” You drew in a steadier breath this time, “You’re my first thought when something happens. You’re the person I look for in every room. When I’m tired, I want you next to me. When I’m overwhelmed, I look for you without even realizing it. And I kept telling myself that was just friendship. That it was normal.”
Your lips curved faintly, sadly, “But I realized that no matter what label I tried to place on it, what I feel for you, Harry, is not just friendship.”
His grip tightened—barely, but enough that you felt it.
Harry’s breathing had gone noticeably slower. Measured. Like he was forcing himself not to interrupt, not to hope too quickly.
“You’re not just some sort of placeholder,” You continued, your voice steadier now, “Or a spare bed. Or my extra person. Or my safe place because you were convenient.”
The room seemed to still entirely.
The candles crackled softly. Somewhere outside, a burst of cheers rose and fell again, distant and irrelevant to the world shrinking down to just the two of you.
Harry stared at you as though you’d begun speaking in a language he desperately wanted to understand but was afraid to mistranslate.
“If it’s not you,” You said, your voice breaking slightly despite your effort to keep it steady, “then I don’t want anyone else.”
His heart thudded once—hard enough it almost hurt.
“If that’s what love is,” You whispered, blinking away the dampness gathering in your lashes, “then I suppose I’ve been in love with you for a while now.”
For a moment, he didn’t react at all.
It was as though the words had struck him somewhere too deep to process immediately.
You watched it happen—the disbelief first. The instinct to protect himself from false hope. His eyes searched your face desperately for hesitation, for guilt, for anything that might suggest this was born of obligation.
He didn’t find it.
Something in his expression changed then. Not dramatically. Not all at once. But the tightness around his mouth eased. The guarded set of his shoulders softened. His hands, still wrapped around your wrists, shifted—sliding down until he was holding your hands properly now.
Reverently.
“Say that again.” He murmured, his voice rougher than before.
You let out a shaky breath, “I love you.”
The words didn’t tremble this time.
They landed between you solid and undeniable.
Harry’s eyes closed for half a second, like he needed that brief darkness to steady himself. When they opened again, they were shining in a way you’d rarely seen—unguarded, almost overwhelmed.
“You have no idea,” He said quietly, almost helplessly, “how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”
There was no accusation in it. No bitterness.
Just awe.
Blinking quickly to keep your tears from spilling over, you lifted the bouquet again with trembling hands. The gesture felt suddenly very small compared to what had just been said, but it mattered to you.
“Harry,” You asked softly, your voice braver than you felt, “will you be my Valentine?”
For a heartbeat, he simply looked at you.
Like he was memorizing this version of you—the one standing in front of him choosing him openly.
His hands left yours only long enough to take the bouquet, setting it carefully aside on the nearest surface as though it were something fragile and precious.
Then he stepped forward.
Hesitantly.
Cautiously.
As though he were afraid that one wrong movement might shatter the moment entirely.
He lifted his hands and cupped your face, thumbs brushing gently beneath your eyes where tears still clung to your lashes. His heart was pounding so hard he was certain you must feel it. He had imagined touching you like this more times than he could count, never truly believing he would be allowed to. Some part of him still waited for the illusion to break, for him to wake up from this dream all alone.
But you were real.
Warm beneath his palms. Trembling slightly where your bodies hovered just short of touching.
The way you looked at him—earnest, anxious and filled with anticipation—anchored him in the moment more surely than anything else could have. If this was a dream, then he decided he would stay in it. He would cling to it as long as it let him have you.
The restraint he had lived with for years finally gave way.
He pulled you into him, not roughly, but with a fierce, aching tenderness, arms wrapping around you as though he feared you might disappear if he loosened his hold. His forehead brushed yours, breath unsteady, and then he kissed you.
It was soft at first. Almost uncertain.
But when your lips moved against his, fitting together like divine puzzle pieces, the rest of the world seemed to dissolve. The candles, the room, the noise of the castle beyond the walls—none of it mattered.
All that existed was the warmth of his hands, the steady press of his chest against yours, and the quiet realization that you were no longer standing on opposite sides of something unspoken.
You pressed closer to him, and he held you as though he had been waiting his whole life to do exactly that.
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
George finds himself stranded in downtown London and needs the help of a muggle such as yourself. ✩°｡
CW: fluff is all
WC: 1.6k / MASTERLIST
The station smelled strongly of wet concrete and grease from the chips that were sold at just about every corner, including the stalls overhead. George had spent the day with his twin brother venturing the streets of London, begrudgingly bringing Ron along with them.
They had bullied him into eating every strange Muggle food they laid their eyes upon. Hot dogs were shoved down his throat until he physically could not stand any longer. Their parents had only approved the day trip if they brought the burden of their younger brother, who babbled about how unfair it was that they went and not him.
Now they were standing in front of a sprawling Tube map, arguing over coloured lines like they were top-secret battle plans.
"Yellow line, mate. It's obviously the yellow one," Fred insisted, jabbing the glass with a finger.
"It's not yellow, it's the green one. See? It goes to Westminster," Ron countered, arms crossed, nose red from the cold air rushing down the tunnel.
George squinted, mouth twitching. "Both of you are colourblind morons. It's the Jubilee Line, grey, straight to Waterloo. Then we change."
Before either brother could retort, the familiar whoosh of air signalled the train's arrival. The three of them shuffled forward in a small tide of commuters, Fred still muttering something rude about Ron's sense of direction.
The train doors opened with a hiss. People spilled out like coins from an overturned pouch, and George found himself momentarily separated from the other two by a wall of suits and briefcases.
"Oi- Fred- Ron-" he called, trying to elbow through the tide. Fred glanced back, grinning like a loon.
"You're too slow, Georgie!" Fred laughed, tugging Ron into the car.
George lunged just as the warning beep sounded.
"Wait-"
The doors snapped shut with a decisive thunk inches from his nose.
For a heartbeat, he stood there, frozen, staring at Fred's obnoxious grin through the glass as the train pulled away. Ron mouthed something that looked suspiciously like idiot. George raised one middle finger in salute and exhaled a long, dramatic sigh.
"Well. Brilliant."
He looked around helplessly. The train station wasn't quiet, but it wasn't busy enough for anyone to notice his sulking. He didn't know when the next train left, which meant he either had to remain there pouting or- well, there wasn't a plan B.
He's standing in front of the Tube map with the exact expression he made when lost in arithmacy. His brows are knitted together, lips moving faintly as if maybe reading will help the thing make sense.
You yourself were fresh off the train, and you had nearly fallen asleep after a particularly exhausting shift. The tight white blouse still clings stubbornly to your skin despite the damp chill of the platform. Your black skirt brushes mid-thigh, a compromise between work code and comfort, and the strap of your crossbody bag digs into your shoulder.
Red wild hair had caught your eye from the peripheral view. He was tall, broad-shouldered and utterly perplexed at a pamphlet in his hands. You stop in your tracks to examine further. Sure, you were picturing the hot bath waiting for you at home, but you weren't completely jaded from years of serving; you still had kindness in your heart.
"Not to be rude," you say, voice carrying just enough to catch his attention over the clatter of footsteps, "But you might have better luck if you turned that around, babes."
He startles- actually startles, blinking down at the laminated diagram. Then those warm brown eyes swing toward you, wide for a beat before a grin starts tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Ah," he says, tilting the map the right way up with exaggerated care. "See, that's where I've been going wrong all day. I thought London had some very creative geography."
You raise an eyebrow. "Not that creative."
He laughs, it's more of a chuckle; soft as he shakes off embarrassment that was never truly there. "So kind of you to take pity on me. I've been utterly abandoned."
"By your mother?"
"I'm not that baby-faced, am I?"
"A wee bit, babes." You looked at him, eyes raking up and down. He wanted to squirm a little; maybe there was something on his face, or you were looking at his hair, it was usually the first thing people noticed. "You're not from London." This was a statement, not a question.
"Obvious?"
"Painfully."
"In for the weekend. Thought I'd risk the city before it eats me alive."
"It'll eat you anyhow."
"Even if I'm devilishly handsome?"
"Well, look at me. I've been devoured," You say with an almost impish smile. He could think of something he wanted to devour.
"Really? Gosh, I couldn't tell."
You arch a brow, feigning innocence. "Is that your way of saying I look half-chewed?"
He huffs out a laugh, leaning one shoulder against the rattling train wall, inching just slightly closer in the sway of the carriage. "No. That's me saying you look dangerously distracting for someone trying to remember what station to get off at."
"You could always ask for help," you say lightly, turning just enough so that your knees brush. It's casual. Barely. But you feel the spark run up your leg all the same.
"Could," he agrees, voice dropping just a little, it's warm, low, a conspiratorial thing between the two of you now. "But then I'd have to admit I'm lost. And I quite like where I've ended up."
You fight the smile threatening to betray you and fail spectacularly. "Smooth."
"I'm only just getting started," he murmurs, leaning in just a touch, the scent of city rain and something faintly woodsy clinging to him.
"And what exactly is your plan, babes?" you ask, fingers idly tracing the rim of your still-folded umbrella.
He tilts his head, eyes flicking down to your mouth for the briefest moment, quick, but telling. "Honestly? Hoping you'll keep talking to me until my stop."
You hum, pretending to consider it. "And what do I get in return for such a charitable act?"
"That depends," he says, lips curving wickedly now, "on whether you prefer gratitude in the form of compliments or coffee."
"Compliments are cheaper," you point out.
"Coffee is more fun," he counters, without missing a beat.
"Bold to assume I'd get coffee with a man who can't read a map. Where do you go to school anyhow?"
His grin twitches. "It's a private school off in the highlands." This wasn't a complete lie.
"Ah," You nod slowly, like it's all come together. "Well, it's no wonder you don't know the tubes. That's so very posh, must've taught you poetry instead of critical thinking."
George laughs, though it's drowned out by the train rattling past. "I could probably come up with a few verses if I'm sufficiently motivated."
"Motivated how?" you ask, a grin tugging at the corner of your mouth.
His eyes catch yours like a hook. "Give me a reason, and I'll see what I can do."
"Well," Your eyes flicker from his lips to his eyes, "If you'd give me your number, I'm sure we could work something out."
"My number? Funny story, that..." George trails off. As often as George lied and covered for himself and Fred, he couldn't think of a workaround for this. "Yeah, I haven't got one."
"Don't tell me you haven't joined the modern age yet."
"That's exactly what I'm telling you." He rubs the back of my neck. "Well, my school doesn't allow 'em so I've never really had a reason to get one."
"You have a reason now." This seemed to silence him. No one had ever silenced George Weasley, not even his mother, but as of now, he was at a loss. He could flirt with any girl back at Hogwarts with no issue. "Alright, babes. Wanna hand me that map?"
He hands it over with not an ounce of rebellion. He might just cut off his finger if you asked him to.
You smooth the paper out across your knee, balancing as the train rattles through another turn, and fish a pen from your bag. "Where were you going again?"
"Waterloo," he says promptly, too promptly. He's watching you now, not the paper, like he's committing every flick of your wrist to memory.
"Right. Next train's in ten." You press the pen down, scribbling a small, messy route across the tiny print: line changes, platform arrows, a big circle around his destination with a star next to it. You hesitate a moment, then at the bottom, beneath the instructions, you write a string of digits.
You fold the map back up and hand it over to him, gathering up your umbrella, pen shoved back into your bag. "Where are you going?" He asks.
"Home," You quirk a brow, a slight laugh falling from your lips. "You expect me to sit around and wait on you? You haven't even paid for my full tour."
He tips his head, still staring at you with that too-interested look. "I didn't know that was an option."
"For you, yeah." You look down at your watch. "It is a bit late to take up the offer. Cheers, babe, good luck." You leave him with only a light touch on his bicep before you turn and walk away. His eyes drag down your back, namely at the black skirt swaying with your hips. He will surely see that smile in many dreams.
At once, he unfolds the crumpled map. You'd made a mess of it in the best way with arrows, circles, stars, a neat little path through a world he barely understood. He traced it with a fingertip, quietly impressed, then flipped the corner to see if you'd left anything else.
There was a string of digits you scribbled with the same confidence you had used to take the map in the first place. There was no describing the unimaginable joy that overtook him. You had written on the bottom with a little smiley face:
George has liked you for years without realizing that you like him back. When the Yule Ball enters the picture he sees this as an opportunity- though, perhaps not one he will take.
CW: Ravenclaw reader / mutual pining / fluff on fluff / not spell-checked
WC: 5k | MASTERLIST
"Did you see that in class?" George looks to his brother as they follow the swarm of black cloaked students leaving their Charms class. Everyone was rushing to exit what was an unusually boring lecture and set their sights on more interesting things, such as the dance that was encroaching upon them.
"Gideon's new hair? Yeah, mate," Fred nods, weaving through a group of Durmstrang boys. "Bowl cut looks horrendous on him."
"I think one of the house elves cut it," George snickers before regaining himself, backtracking to the point he meant to make. "Wait- no. I mean to say, she was looking at me in class."
Fred had heard of this crush of his day and night, long and often. "Congratulations, so did Flitwick, now you have a pick."
"Listen- I'm not joking. She was looking at me, and I looked back, so she looked away. That means something, right?"
"It means she's scared of you."
"Oh, yeah, terribly funny you are," George says, narrowly escaping a collision in the sea of classmates.
"And you are the last to notice this." Each day Fred thought George was over you was another day he was proven wrong. George had liked you since their third year, when you sat at the table beside him in potions. He could easily talk anyone's ear off, but he hadn't spoken a word to you- he was much too shy, and every time he tried, the words had caught in his throat before they could reach you.
There was a lot that he liked about you; your pragmatic way of speech, how well you suited your house colours of blue and bronze, he thought you gentle when explaining things to your friends, and your laughter light as air. Most of all, he loved the way you smelled- the scent of vanilla body spray, rose water face cream, and some sweet-smelling lip gloss. It had overwhelmed him completely in the process of making Amortenia.
He was haunted by the melody of your voice answering questions in Charms.
His thoughts stop entirely as a scene plays out before him and Fred. A Durmstrang boy, tall and bulky as the minotaur, bends down and places a ginger kiss onto the hand of a Syltherin girl. She brushes a long dark strand of hair behind her ear using her free hand.
"Will you do me the honour of attending the ball with me?" He looks up at her through his brows. Her friends stand behind her, squealing for her to say yes.
"Yes," She nods eagerly, and the boy fights a grin on his face.
"I look forward to it," He plants one more kiss on the back of her hand and leaves with the bow of his hat. His friends follow in tow, smacking him on the shoulder and hyping him up, striding right past the twins.
"Suppose we're meant to be finding a date," George says, watching the girls huddle amongst one another.
"I refuse to get on one knee; this is my last good pair of dress pants."
"You don't own any good pairs of dress pants."
"What are you looking at then?" Fred challenges.
George's eyes rake him up and down, taking in the unruly appearance of his brother, whose uniform was not completely there. "I'm looking at a git with a tear on his knee."
Fred looks down immediately and surely finds a small rip in the black fabric of his leg. He groans, "Great, now I've got to ask mum to mend them."
"What a death sentence." His eyes follow a couple with their hands clasped, laughing amongst themselves. "Who are you taking to the dance?"
"I'll ask Angelina."
"Angelina?-
"And I don't need to ask who you want to take," He winks playfully. "Haven't made a move yet, from what I've heard. Have you spoken to her at all? That's a good place to start."
"We have spoken," George retorts. While it wasn't a lie, it seemed to stretch the truth. He had spoken to you, sure, but the conversation consisted of you asking if he had any spare parchment and George quickly handing it over while a jumble of incoherence fell from his lips.
"Go on and ask her out, then." Fred gestures to the happy syltherin girl before them.
"I can't," He shudders, "Not publicly like that, risk a lifetime of ridicule and a possible head injury.
Fred cast him a sideways look. "And yet, somehow, I think you'd survive. You've been pining for years, Georgie. If embarrassment hasn't killed you yet, rejection won't either."
George groaned, raking a hand through his hair. "I'm not pining."
"You are pining. You, brother, are a pine tree shedding your pinecones all over me.
"Alright, blimy, I get it."
"Then do it!" Fred urges.
George considers the possibilities. You could accept his invitation, and the two of you would have a great night. You might deny him such pleasure and send him into a deep spiralling depression that petrifies him upon the notion of asking another girl out. "How?"
"How?" Fred repeats, sputtering and looking around to be sure George was speaking to him. "How? Well, of course, you are going to keep avoiding her and never speak a word and graduate, then years later hear of someone else marrying her."
George frowns, "I don't like the sound of that."
"Then man up, do something, please." Fred gives his brother a firm slap on the shoulder.
"I'm manly enough as I am." George shrugs Fred's hand off him.
"Only because you look like me, you're sort of piggybacking off my masculinity."
"You're piggybacking off my grades."
"I'm co-opting."
"That's the same thing."
"Not the point," Fred waves him off. "You ought to pluck up some courage and ask her out before someone else does. I will not be sharing my date with you when you wallow."
He turns his head, eyes trailing back down the hall to his charms class. For a moment, he juggles with the potential outcomes and finally draws to one conclusion: "Tomorrow, I'll catch her before we leave class."
જ⁀➴
George had not caught you before he left class. In fact, you had left before it even ended, being tasked with aiding preparations for the Yule Ball. Now he was rushing through his assignment as if it would make the class end faster.
He was still running off an adrenaline high from the fantasies he projected in his mind the night prior to how swave he may be whilst asking to accompany you to the ball. In that head of his, he was a proper gentleman, and you accepted his invitation with eagerness.
"Oi," Fred nudges him, his voice a low whisper, "What are you buzzing for?"
"I'm going to ask her out," He states, quill shaking against parchment.
Fred swivels his head, looking amongst the rows of students stuffed in hardwood chairs. "Mate, she's not even here."
"Well, yes. I know this, but I'm going to go find her."
"Sounds... dangerous on her end," Fred mutters.
"Dangerous?" George furrows his eyebrows down at his ink-soaked sheets of scribbles. "Elaborate."
"You're wound awfully tight, wouldn't want to see you unravel. Are you sure this isn't another one of your delusions?"
"Just yesterday you were in full support of my delusion."
"Who said I was opposed to it?" Fred asks, "I think it's brave of you."
"Alright, taunt me now, but you'll be sorry when I've got the best looking date."
"Right, and are you aware how close that is?"
"You're not helping."
"I'm motivating," Fred corrects, eyes glinting with mischief. "Besides, we both know you'll choke the moment she looks at you. You'll forget your name, or worse, hers."
George drops his quill and stares blankly at the parchment in front of him. "She knows my name."
"Does she?" Fred tilts his head in mock sympathy. "Remind me, which of the Weasley twins do you think she thinks you are?"
"Fred."
"I'm only saying," he shrugs, "if she thinks she's been smiling at me all this time, that's bound to get awkward."
George exhales sharply through his nose, eyes narrowing. "You're insufferable."
Far off, Flitwick babbles of something, all George catches is his sentence, "That concludes the lesson today-
George shut his book closed in an instant, jamming his papers inside, quill and ink tucked into his pocket. He stood fast while Flitwick floundered upon the sight, he had seen George eager to leave class, but never so hungry to cross the threshold of his lesson.
"Mr. Weasley-
Flitwick began, but George was long gone, long legs carrying him fast away from his studies and hopefully to you.
Geore's shoes thumped against marble floors, his bag bouncing against his hip, quill ink bleeding faintly through his pocket. He barely heard Fred's cackling fade behind him before he was halfway down the corridor, heart hammering like a snare drum.
He could still see it all in his mind's eye: your startled but delighted smile when he asked; the way you would maybe laugh softly, say, tell him you would love nothing more. It was all so clear that he nearly crashed straight into a group of Hufflepuffs rounding the corner.
"Sorry! Terribly sorry- coming through, urgent romantic business!" he called over his shoulder, not slowing in the slightest.
A first-year squeaked as he leapt over her dropped quills, narrowly missing a Filch bucket brimming with murky water.
He took the moving staircases two at a time, scanning every landing for a glimpse of blue and bronze. "Where would she be? Decorations... ribbons... sparkly things..." he muttered under his breath, skidding into the next corridor.
"Mr. Weasley!" Professor Sinistra's sharp voice rang out as he burst through the door of the Astronomy Tower classroom. The students turned mid-lesson to watch him freeze in the doorway, panting.
"Er- wrong floor. My mistake. Carry on!"
He gave a half-hearted salute, backing out as Sinistra's eyes narrowed.
"You could knock, you know!" she snapped, but he was already gone again, sprinting down the steps, muttering apologies to anyone he passed. "Ten points from Gryffindor!" She called after him as he took another quick exit. He had lost his house hundreds of points in his years, what was ten more?
He caught sight of Angelina halfway along the corridor and nearly collided with her.
"Oi, have you seen-" he panted, "-you know, Ravenclaw, helps with decorations, bit shorter than me, smells like- er-never mind. The dance committee business, where's that at?"
"Hell would I know?" Angelina frowns at him, dark eyebrows knit.
"Right- thanks," George continues on his pursuit, his pace a rigid strut. George nearly collides with the doorframe as he skids to a stop, chest heaving from the sprint through the castle. The placard beside the door reads Authorized Students Only. He knocks anyway, too impatient to care about protocol.
The door swings open, and there stands Hazel, sleeves rolled to her elbows and a clipboard tucked under her arm. She raises a brow. "Oh, you," she steps partly into the doorway like a guard at a gate. "You're not supposed to be in here. We're very busy."
"I just need a word," George says quickly, his grin lopsided and breathless. "Just a moment, promise. Won't take long."
"We've got enough volunteers-
"Erm, no-" George cranes his neck to peek over her shoulder. "I'm looking for a girl, Ravenclaw, I think she's helping-
Hazel tightens her grip on the clipboard and squares her shoulders, blocking his view. "Everyone in here is helping, Weasley."
"Yes, yes, that's all very noble, but I really must-" He ducks to one side, spotting a flash of familiar hair near the back of the room- you, bent over a table, carefully charming the candle arrangements to float in even lines. His stomach tightens.
"There!" He points, the word bursting out before he can stop it. "That's her! I'll be two ticks, just let me-"
Hazel plants a firm hand on his chest. "Out," she says, in the same tone McGonagall uses when he's crossed the line at last.
"Hazel, please-"
"Rules are rules," she says primly. "Manage your time better, mate."
"But-"
She shuts the door in his face, and George is left to stare at the spruce panel before him. He wanted to bang again, but that wasn't a very good look. What would you think of him then? With his head hung low, all courage vanished, he takes this one as a loss and at a normal pace peruses back down the hall.
Hazel struts back over to your table, continuing on sorting through dozens of ornaments, all golden, white, and silver- seemingly ancient. You thought they must've been used for dances centuries ago with the thick layers of dust on them.
As Hazel settles back into her task, you fight the words to ask, but your nosiness once again gets the best of you, "What did he want?"
She looks up at you, face indifferent, bored even. "He was looking for you, actually."
You froze, the candles you had charmed to levitate dropping and rolling off the table, hitting the ground with a thump. "Me?"
You had long had a crush on George. In your mind, you always assumed George didn't care for you. He and his brother were both impossible, extroverted, and you thought that you kept to yourself a bit too much for his liking.
On the off chance you tried to speak to him, you were either outright ignored or shut down in an instant. You had gushed to your friends about him while they booed and told you to move on, less supportive of this specific endeavour. You knew well the heart wants what it wants and that your crush on George would not be going anywhere, anytime soon.
"Yeah," Hazel says, eyes focusing back onto her mission, "I told him you two can sort it out later."
"You didn't think to tell me?" You press.
Hazel shrugs, "He's just being a bug, he's always going off on some kinda stunt." That's why you liked him, he seemed so easygoing, oddly the calmer of the two Weasley twins, despite all the ruckus he still falls into.
"Well, I care to know," You abandon your candles, wand clutched in hand, you storm across the room. Maybe he was still waiting outside. This was eating you alive.
When you push the door open, there is no tall ginger boy waiting outside for you, only students rushing to make it to their final classes of the day, some stroll leisurely without a care for being late. You take a step out and let the door shut behind you, walking down one length of the corridor before turning and going down the other. You give up hope and slink back to the committee room.
જ⁀➴
The sky above Hogsmeade was a muted grey that brought with it a strange sense of comfort while students and residents bundled up in their warmest clothes to visit the shops. The cold air carried through the scent of cinnamon and firewood. George elbowed Fred, who was cackling already at the string of jokes his brother had spoken. Just when he prepares to make another one, his words falter, stopped in his throat completely as his eyes fixate on one spot.
"Fred."
Fred kept walking, clutching his ribs to aid the pain of laughter as it fizzled out. "What?"
"Fred."
"What?"
George grabbed his sleeve and spun him around so abruptly that a passing third-year nearly dropped their butterbeer. "Look," George hissed, pointing toward the window of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.
You stood in front of a velvet sofa, your friends all fawning at the sight of you, the shopkeeper fussing over the hem of a dress that shimmered like fresh cream under candlelight. It wasn't flashy, no sequins, no sparkles, but it fit you, soft and simple, and when you smiled, twirling slightly to show the movement of the flouncy skirt, George thought he might actually be sick.
"Oh, bloody hell," Fred muttered. "You've got that look."
George didn't even hear him. His expression was all wide eyes and parted lips, "Fred, I might be ill."
"I'm ill, that's certain," He grumbles.
George's smile falters upon the realization that you were trying on a ball gown. "She's trying that on for the ball. She's got a date then, does she? Oh- blimey, Fred, what if someone's asked her out already?"
"Then you missed your million chances to do it yourself."
George groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "I'm doomed." Inside the shop, you twirled once in the mirror, the skirt catching the light. You laughed at something your friend said, speaking animatedly, and George swore his knees went weak. One of your friends, Hazel, follows you into the dressing room to help you take off the intricate garment as Madam Malkin slips away to ring you up.
Fred let out an exaggerated groan that startled nearby birds. "Alright. I've had it. You're pathetic."
George tore his gaze from the shop window. "What?"
"You heard me," Fred said, already marching toward Madam Malkin's. "I'm not spending another afternoon watching you yearn from behind glass like some pervert. You're going in there."
"I most certainly am not!" George protested, tripping after him. "Fred, don't you dare-"
"Oh, I dare," Fred tossed back over his shoulder, pushing open the door with the force of a man on a mission. "You're buying a tie."
"I don't need a tie!" George hissed, trying to plant his feet.
"You do if you're taking someone to the ball," Fred said cheerfully. "Now come on, before you burst into tears."
The shop bell jingled as they entered, warm air wrapping around them, thick with the smell of fabric and lavender polish. Madam Malkin looked up from behind the counter, blinking at them through her half-moon spectacles.
"Back again, Mr. Weasley?" she asked.
Fred grinned. "Ah, you remember me."
"Hard to forget," She shrugs.
George shot his twin a glare. "We're just looking-"
"-for a tie!" Fred interrupted, slapping a hand on George's shoulder. "My brother here's desperate for one. Something elegant, if you will."
Madam Malkin raised a brow. "Colour preference?"
Fred pretended to think, tapping his chin. "Something to match the dress that dress, I reckon." Fred narrows his eyes, pointing past the racks of fine-tailored clothing to where you stood just outside the fitting room, the dress you had on, now folded neatly in your arms.
"Oh! Are you two going together?" Madam Malkin's face softens, her voice drawing your attention. You lift your head up, staring dead at the twins, trying to make sense of the situation
Your gaze had found him- properly found him- and in that moment, every clever, charming word he'd rehearsed in his head for weeks turned to smoke as his body fell rigid.
"Go on, lover boy," Fred whispered through a grin that could rival a Cheshire cat. "Here's your big moment."
George's voice came out an octave too high. "No, no, we're not- I mean- not yet- I mean- not ever- well, possibly- I mean- it depends-"
You blinked. "What?"
Fred slapped a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Madam Malkin, entirely oblivious to the mortal crisis unfolding before her, smiled pleasantly. "Well, she does look lovely in that gown."
George's heart thudded in his throat. "Yes! I mean- she does. You do. Look lovely. In general. Not just- not that you don't always-" He winced, feeling his soul leave his body. "Shit."
You bit your lip to hide a laugh, eyes flicking shyly down. "Thank you," you say, just as nervous as George, only more composed.
Fred was beaming, rocking back on his heels like he was front row at a play. "My brother was actually just saying he's been dying to-"
"Is that the dress?" Hazel peeps up from the couch. "We need to head back soon if we want to meet McGonagall on time."
"Oh- right," You snap out of your George-induced trance, "I suppose it is."
Hazel was on her feet before George could summon another word, snatching your parcel from the counter and thrusting it into your arms with practiced precision. "Perfect! You've tried it, loved it, bought it, and now we've got to fly," she announced, tone brisk and final.
Your other friends gathered their things in a flurry of chatter and wool scarves, all too preoccupied to notice the way you lingered, your eyes darting toward George, who looked about two seconds away from melting into the floorboards.
"Wait- Hazel-" you started, clutching the parcel to your chest, voice small beneath the bustle.
Hazel didn't slow. "Come on, Professor McGonagall will have our heads if we're late." She gave a polite nod to Madam Malkin, ignored Fred's smirk, and began steering you firmly toward the door.
George panicked, his brain short-circuiting as you turned halfway back to him. "I- um!" he blurted, stumbling over his own feet to catch your attention. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"
You stopped for a heartbeat, halfway out the door, your cheeks pink with either embarrassment or the cold. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, a soft smile on your face. "I've actually had something I've been meaning to ask."
It was that smile, your eyes as sharp as knives and your face softer than snow, he would've asked you right then had Hazel not tugged your sleeve sharply. "We're going, now," she hissed under her breath, shooting George a look that could've curdled milk.
And just like that, you were gone, swept into the swirl of chatter and laughter as the door swung shut behind you, the bell chiming its little goodbye.
For a long moment, the only sound was the quiet swish of fabric and the creak of floorboards as George stood frozen, staring after you like someone who'd just witnessed a miracle slip through his fingers.
Fred crossed his arms, a grin spreading wide. "Well," he drawled, "you nearly had her, mate."
George blinked, dazed. "Did I?"
"No."
જ⁀➴
The snow had fallen thick overnight, a new layer of sleet adorning the already frigid castle. The courtyard glimmered beneath the winter sun; it was quiet as everyone trailed down to Hogsmeade aside from two ginger boys, bathing in their muffled laughter.
"Alright, watch it with that bit." George says, shoving Fred's hand away, "Be gentle, it's not Ron." George ordered, holding up the lopsided middle section of their snowman as Fred attempted to balance the top.
"I'm incredibly gentle. Why, I am so gentle I don't even leave footprints in the snow."
"I always knew we had an invisible triplet," George shakes his head at the large tracks they had left in the snow.
"Mum never told you?" Fred teases. "Clearly, she has a favourite."
"And it's Ginny," George answers.
"Maybe you'd be the favourite if you weren't sighing and moaning every five seconds."
"I am not sighing or moaning. I am simply mourning the loss of what could've been the greatest love of my life."
"You are sighing," Fred said. "Loudly. I'm not enjoying this. It's like building a snowman with Snape, and he's long given up on life."
George scowled. "Maybe I have."
Fred stilled, half-smile fading into something quieter. "You really think she's going with someone else?"
George shrugged, reaching for a stick to use as an arm. "She was trying on a dress, Fred. What else would that mean? I took too long. Someone else probably got there first."
Fred leaned on the snowman, arms folded, watching his brother jab twigs into the figure's sides. "You're assuming a lot, you know."
"I'm being realistic."
"You're moping around like you've been dumped and you still haven't even talked to her."
"I'm much too melancholy to; she'll smell the sadness on me and run away."
"I doubt she'll smell it over your natural stench."
They fell quiet for a bit, focusing on the snowman and letting their twin telepathy speak for them. Fred would like to say the snowman was taking shape, but in truth, it wasn't. It was crooked, snow patched on in odd spots to keep its structural integrity.
"Wow," George says, "Looks ghastly."
"And I think he's going to get a date before you."
George opened his mouth to make a retort when a snowball hit him square in the shoulder, and all he said was "Ow!" He froze, turning slowly as a splatter of white slid down his coat. Fred was already laughing before George could say anything.
"Oh, that's stunning," Fred wheezed. "Didn't even see it coming-"
Another snowball sailed through the air and clipped George right in the back of the head, and then one into Fred's chest.
That did it.
"Oh, now it's war," George said, brushing snow out of his hair and scanning the castle's arched windows. His eyes narrowed. "Where'd that come from?"
Fred cupped his hands around his mouth and called out toward the high stone walls. "Show yourself, coward! You've angered a Weasley!"
A third snowball whizzed down and hit Fred in the face, cutting off his laughter with a splutter.
George frowned. "Guess they don't like gingers."
Fred wiped snow off his nose. "Go avenge me."
George was already headed toward the entrance of the castle. He remembered the exact window balcony he was a snowball was propelled from and he was headed right for it. He climbed the steps two at a time, boots squeaking on the stone, and slipped through the heavy oak door into the corridor.
Cold air followed him in, leaving a trail of melting snow behind as he scanned the hallway. The tall windows framed the courtyard below, the perfect vantage point for a snowball ambush. He crept forward, listening for movement. The muffled sound of giggling reached his ears before he saw anyone. Peering around a corner, he caught sight of three girls ducked below the sill, hands full of half-formed snowballs.
You were among them, all laughter and wool sweater. You were covering your mouth to stifle a laugh, cheeks pink from the cold, a stray snowflake still caught in your hair. "Hi." You squeak, smile still wide. George's breath caught in his throat. For a second, he forgot why he was there at all.
George folded his arms, feigning his most serious expression, though not one person believed it. "I'm afraid this is a grave matter," he said solemnly. "You've assaulted a student, defied a prefect in spirit, and damaged a snowman of great national importance."
Your friend snorted, "You built that lumpy thing."
"Watch your tone," George shot back, pointing at her. "Or I'll double your sentence." You were laughing now, trying to hide it behind your scarf, but the slight shake and muffled giggles gave you away. George turned back to you, lowering his voice. "You especially, miss. You're the prime suspect."
"Oh, am I?" you teased, matching his tone, lilt light with laughter.
"'Fraid so," he said, stepping closer. "And I take these things very seriously. So, if you'd come with me, we can discuss your punishment privately."
You stand up, swiping some snow off your trousers and following George, your heartbeat quickening with every step. The hallways fell quiet once you rounded the corner away from all of the chatter. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ignore how loud his heartbeat was in his ears. "I must admit this was mostly for dramatic effect. I'm not going to arrest you."
"What a relief, I don't have a lawyer."
"I do need to ask why you are assaulting me and my well-loved snowman."
"Well, I've heard a rumour," You say, coyly despite all the nerves that stood on end.
"A rumour? Do tell."
"I couldn't; it may shatter you."
"Then you must tell me. What?"
You bite your lip for a moment, grinning, "That you really, desperately want to ask me out."
George froze. For once, his mouth, usually so quick and full of quips, betrayed him entirely. His freckles stood out stark against the pink rapidly creeping up his face. "I- er- well, that's a bold rumour," he managed, his voice cracking halfway through.
You laughed softly, tilting your head. "No denial?"
He blinked at you, caught between a smirk and panic. "Well, I'd hate to spread misinformation. Doesn't follow my family values." You grinned, and the sight of it seemed to knock what little sense he had left right out of his head. "Alright," he started, rubbing the back of his neck again, "maybe there's... a bit of truth to that rumour. A small bit. A rather enormous bit, if I'm honest."
You took a step closer, close enough that he caught the faint scent of snow and something warm- like cinnamon and parchment. "I really thought I would have to suffocate you with snowballs to get a confession."
"Please don't," he said quickly, though he was smiling now, lopsided and flustered. "I'm trying very hard to be suave right now."
"Suave?" you teased. "You just threatened me."
"Ah, yes, part of my charm. I'm going for intimidating yet approachable."
You laughed again, soft and airy. The flakes of snow rested gently on your head, and it made him all the more sure of his decision that he had made years ago. He liked you, terribly, desperately, hungrily. He couldn't dare ask another to the dance because he knew there would be no replacement for you.
"Alright, then," he said, quieter this time. "Since we're on the topic of confessions, and I've already humiliated myself thoroughly, would you... Want to go to the ball with me?"
You pretended to think for half a second, tapping your chin. "Hmm. I'll have to consult the lawyer I don’t have."
"Very funny."
"I mean," you added, letting your grin soften, "if you're asking nicely..."
He straightened, mock formality returning for a moment. "Miss," he said with an exaggerated bow, "would you do me the great honour of accompanying me to the Yule Ball?"
You dipped in a tiny, teasing curtsey. "I'd love to."
He blinked, then lit up like the castle itself had turned on all its candles at once. "You- really?"
"Really," You confirm.
"You're joking," He says, dumbfounded.
"I never joke," You shake your head.
"So, honestly, you'll go with me?" His tone is earnest, eyes widened in disbelief.
"Are you high?" You laugh, furrowing your eyebrows.
Premise: When you hit a messy breakup and Fred is desperate to grab the attention of his current infatuation, you write up a contract and indulge in the filthiest fake relationship though it doesn’t come without its consequences.
CW: fake dating, fluff, frenemies to lovers,
WC: 8K | MASTERLIST
The air was warm in the library, even warmer as Fred entered with a wide smile. It had been empty in there, only a handful of students who had already begun filing out in small groups to head toward far more interesting things than their textbooks. The moon had already taken its place, strung high up in the inky blue sky, and you were only kept awake by the lantern flickering low before you. You hadn't left with your friends; you had urgent business to discuss with the ginger who was making a steady beeline to your table.
"Hello, my love," He grins, and to most it might seem genuine; the way his eyes peer into your eyes as he pulls out a chair beside you and leans in. "How are you, darling?" Fred places one hand between your shoulder blades and presses a gentle kiss to your temple. His touch is light and tender, the warmth felt through your button-up.
"God, get off me," You wrinkle your nose, palm planting on his cheek to push him away. He resists as you do so. The moment you remove contact, Fred leans in again.
"What's the matter?" He tilts his head.
"Don't even," You say, pointedly, "You are taking the piss already."
"I'm your boyfriend."
"Only in public."
Fred looks around at the wide space as if you were unaware of the space you resided in for the past three hours. "Seems pretty public."
"Fred, it's empty."
"My girlfriend would call me 'Freddie'," he says, crossing his arms with a slight pout.
"Would she? You should go find her then, and she can baby you." It may not have been the greatest decision to fall on the agreement that you had with Fred, but it was certainly a means to an end.
Conall Echlin was an irritating boyfriend and served as an even more unbearable ex-boyfriend. When you decided to sever the ties with him on behalf of his incredibly irritating nature, you thought the strife had ended, then came the great desert storm of gossip and pandering. He pushed to get back together, endlessly, and you almost drove yourself off a cliff to avoid it forevermore. One must understand your mindset when Fred approached you with a bargain of sorts.
He said something conceited along the lines of Conall leaving you alone when you had a tall, bulky boyfriend. The spiel consisted largely of him showering himself in half-cut praise. You informed him he was neither tall nor bulky, and the two of you argued until dinner was served in the great hall and you were forced to shut your mouths by stuffing them with food. What beautiful camaraderie.
"Alright, you are in an abnormally bad mood today," His face dropped as she sank further into his chair, "I'm your friend and I feel that is enough to warrant some kindness."
"Right, well, I was expecting you a half hour ago."
"I had Quidditch practice, which you did not turn up to, may I add." This made sense. His hair was windswept, cheeks flush from the harsh air that stung any bare flesh it came in contact with
"I can tell, you reek." You scoot your chair away from him. The sound echoes across the vastness of the library. "And we need to discuss that-"
"What about that?"
"Writing it out of the contract," You say, hands clasped tight in your lap. "It's so boring, and honestly, I haven't got the time unless it's an actual game."
"What?" He is taken aback by this, "No, madness, you've already said no to PDA, even hand holding. They're going to think we're on the verge of breaking up."
"Well, are we? How is it going with Angelina?" This was his sole motive. Fred was convinced she was more interested in his brother and thought that sparking some jealousy would turn her around. You thought it preposterous when he suggested the notion of fake-dating. The two of you bickered so much, people barely believed you were friends.
When it had been announced to the general public that you were dating, it was met with hesitancy and weak congratulations. A small handful had placed a bet on how long it would be until you slaughtered one another. Lee said one week. At least you surpassed his expectations.
"She cares, trust me." Fred reaches for your quill, brushing the soft feather against the back of his other hand, "She's trying to play it off, but Katie said she's talked about us a good bit, said it was so out of character for me."
"Great, then we should break up, and you can go after her."
"No," he points the soft end of the quill at you, "We can milk this a bit more and what about Conall?"
"He's just about fucked off, I think we can call it."
"It's our three-month anniversary in a week!"
"And Fred, I am so grateful for the worst three months of my life," You say tenderly.
"No, we haven't even sold it. George raises an eyebrow when I talk about you."
"Well, what do you say?" You ask this with earnest, for Fred was one to often spoke his mind with little fear of consequence. You could imagine that after an evening of arguing, he might return to his dorm and cuss you out.
"That I hate my girlfriend, and I want to strangle her-
"Fred."
"I'm joking, I just waffle on about your hair and smile, I dunno that kind of stuff." He tosses the quill by accident in his animated movements it slips casually from his fingers.
"Incredibly vague."
"It's the things guys like about girls." Fred shrugs, then his voice lowers as he corrects himself, "Amongst the things guys like about girls."
"I am sickened."
"Listen, so am I, but we have to get down to business.
"Define business." You cross your arms, sharp eyes peering into his drowsy skull.
"Making this relationship realistic." He snatches the quill back and yanks the parchment before you into his reach. "So let's rewrite the rules."
You lunge forward and seize your stationery from his grasp, the way a wolf would rip food from another's jaw. "Let me write it; your writing is barely legible."
"Alright," He clears his throat. Brown eyes watch your careful hands as you submerge the end of the quill into the ink pot, letting the excess drip off before holding it at the ready on the page. You straighten it, then look to him to speak, "We have to do PDA."
"No."
"At least let me hold your hand." This string of words comes out of his mouth like a whiny plea, even his hands clasped together like you were the marble statue he prayed to. You shake your head, and his shoulders slump in an instant, hands dropping to his side. "Bloody hell, do you hate me?"
"At the moment? Yes, I do." Your stiff posture stood juxtaposed to his hunched figure.
"Please?" He asks, that hopeful spark relit in his eyes, "I will do whatever you ask of me."
"You should already be doing that."
"Yes, of course, anything, just please do this for me."
You are about to say no one more time when you weigh the possibilities. There are many worse positions to be in than being stuck holding one calloused hand for a few minutes here and there. Where the real issue lay was your general lack of affection for everyone around you; it was just how you were raised.
People like Fred were raised in a home where warmth was a priority and children did not fall asleep until they hugged their mothers goodnight. People like you were brought up by parents who acted more like roommates than parental figures. You could not recall the last time you hugged your mother or casually mentioned to your father that you loved him. It was a cold upbringing, but not a bad one in your eyes; you were perfectly comfortable keeping a distance from intimacy.
This remained the primary reason why your relationship with Conall had suffered so greatly. He showered you with cards, love letters, gifts, words of affirmation, and you failed to return a hug, which sent his sensitive self spiralling. You could offer no words of consolation; all you did was ask if he wanted a glass of water.
"Alright," You say at last, "But I will not be going to your Quidditch practice anymore. There's a million things I would rather do than watch you run laps and mouth off to Oliver."
He looks up to the ceiling like he is thanking some all-knowing force above. He always had the demeanour as if he was about to pump his fist. "Sounds great, write it down. But you have to go to my games."
"I already go to the games."
"But you have to come for me," He adds, "Y'know, wear my number, cheer for me, that kind of stuff."
You scribble the first half down: Hand-holding is allowed around friends. It seemed senseless to add anything more about the Quidditch practice; you were already working on making the dull show a forgotten memory. "So when are you going to cheer for me?"
"Just as a general," He states, "Talk you up, be all boyfriend-ish."
"Um, alright," you eye him from the corner of your eye. "And what about dates?"
"Four a week."
"No."
"Why?"
"I refuse to spend more of my evenings with you than with myself."
"Cruel woman." Fred shakes his head, yanking the sleeves of his jumper up to expose his sinewy forearm. "Three?"
"Two, if you're lucky."
"I'll take it," He says, a slight sigh to the lilt of his voice. "And hugs?"
"No, we just got to hand-holding, don't push it."
"Okay." He raises his hands in defence. "Not pushing it."
"Appreciated."
"But you'll go to parties with me?"
"Sure."
"Great, I think that settles it," He has something of a smug smile across his face. Y,lou don't think he intended it to be that way. He always just seemed to be a tad bit smug to you.
"No, it doesn't." You snap your head to look at him. "When are we breaking up?"
"Preemptively planning our break-up?"
"Preemptively is a big word for you."
"Thank you, kindly, I stole it from you."
"I know." And this was the truth: Fred's vocabulary had expanded since embarking on this trifling adventure with you. "But we need to plan a breakup and make it seem reasonable. Some weeks before we call it, we should act like we're struggling."
"So when?"
"In a month or two?"
"Not before Valentine's Day."
"Alright, not before Valentine's Day."
"March?"
"April," Fred confirms, his voice is stern, and this seems to be the one thing. "After my birthday."
Your mouth curves into a sneer with zero intention of doing so. Three more months of putting this show on seemed like hell on earth. You might strangle Fred before it reaches its final conclusion. You would argue if you didn't truthfully believe it would end before the agreed date. As the bell of your hunger hymns low and the night wears you out, you'd decide to agree. "April is fine."
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
Class was let out late when Snape decided to give the class an abrupt lecture over a single mermaid scale that had gone missing from his shelves. He warned of dire consequences that followed such an act, but you, along with the rest of the class, could not bring yourself to care. You already had a sneaking suspicion of who had stolen it.
That suspect was waiting outside the class for you. His face brightened upon seeing you. He pushed himself off the wall, shoving whatever wrapper he was fiddling with into his pocket. The smile across his face is likened to that of a dog who sees its owner walk through the door after a long day.
"Hi, Fred," You give him a little wave.
"Oh? Someone's in a better mood today," He waves back despite you already walking past him, he ushers to catch up.
"I'm usually in a good mood," You retort, textbook clutched close to your chest, "You know-
"How evil you get when you're tired, yes, I do."
"Evil is a stretch." You furrow your eyebrows, "And very rude, may I add."
"Forgive me?"
"No," You say, face dripping, "I'm in a bad mood again."
"How long did that take?" The two of you dodge a gaggle of young students running from some unknown danger, and everyone makes an effort to avoid their clumsy bodies.
You choose to go non-verbal, ignoring your apparent boyfriend as you walk to your next class. Footsteps quickened with each heartbeat that strummed through you with a newfound irritation. When you were in crowded places, you made a deal not to slag off to one another or talk about the structure of your phony relationship.
Fred reaches down, grabbing your spare hand and clutching it snug in his. How you wished you did not agree on handholding. You had a very stern rubric when it came to PDA, even with Conall- if it was something that would make you squirm if another couple did it, you wanted no part. Hand holding was fine, but the line was drawn when one of them brought their mangled fingers together to their lips to plant a kiss. The notion alone made you gag.
"I'm sorry?" Fred musters up as much sincerity as he has inside of him.
"It's fine."
"Doesn't sound fine," He says as you move quickly up the moving staircases. It was always a gamble on them, whether or ot you would make it to your text class on time or be stuck on an odd landing until they came back.
"You are being a complete arse," You say, simply. Even when you and Fred had only been friends, you had a tendency to speak your mind. The pair of you were still friends, only with another complicated step in between.
"Hey," His voice drops to a whisper, "We can't talk about that stuff here." The staircase shifts, sliding slowly, and the younger students at the bottom hold on for dear life, eyes wide, looking at the steep fall before them.
"Because a couple of kids will care what I call you?"
"Because you promised to do this for me."
"I think you're benefiting a whole lot more from this than I am." The marble below you clicks into place, and you drop Fred's hand to make the move uphill.
"And I am so grateful for that, but-
The words are stopped in his throat as he looks past you and sees Conall there. He frowns at you, then opens his mouth to say something, only he closes it before any coherent sentence can come out. Fred steps beside you, snaking one arm around your waist, pulling you close to him. You hadn't expected it and snapped to look at him with furrowed eyebrows, ready to chew him out, until you remembered your ex was staring you down.
Conall's eyes shift to Fred, and he nods his head in some odd recognition that makes you want to strangle him. "Fred."
He returns the nod, "Conall."
Conall presses his lips into a thin line, keeping his head down as he scurries past you. The very moment he is out of sight, you jerk Fred off you, slapping him hard in the shoulder.
"Ow!"
"What the hell was that, white knight?"
"Uh, I was helping you," He says, this if it was an obvious answer.
"Oh, thanks, that was dire, had a knife pulled on me and everything."
"Well, you certainly seemed uncomfortable."
"And it is so great you think you know me so well-
"Excuse me?" A voice squeaks. It's a young blonde boy; he seems to be chosen as the representative for his friends. "Do you think you could move?"
"Right, yup." You squash yourself to the railing, gesturing for the boys to hurry. Fred does the same, though his eyes stay fixated on you. "Don't be late for class." You add.
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
You didn't really get Fred's friends or their humour. You hadn't spent much time with any of them until Fred dragged you along and introduced you as his girlfriend, to which you had to bite the inside of your cheek until the saccharine flavour of iron filled your mouth. What you did understand clearly was the way he looked at Angelina.
It was the same way Conall would look at you, starry-eyed from across the table of a crowded pub. Dozens of people sat, spoke, laughed with all their tiny might, but none as interesting as the girl across from him. You sat next to Fred, nodding along to some story his brother was telling you, though your attention was elsewhere. You missed your friends. A chunk of people with whom you shared the most cherished memories sided with Conall, and through this act, it shifted the way you regarded them.
You didn't have any left to cling to, but that didn't matter, today was promised to Fred. His friends weren't bad, just different. Their humour was less dry, and their tittering more lively. It was something of a howl, really. They were kind to you; you were kind in turn, though through pressed smiles, you could tell your humour did not click. Fred didn't speak up; you weren't sure he noticed you. Too enraptured by Angelina to dote on his fake girlfriend. Though you did not command attention, you let him have the moment you had once possessed.
Unwavering loyalty through the gaze of his eyes. Even if he did not remember verbatim what she said, he would remember the passion with which she spoke it.
"Odd it hasn't snowed yet," Katie was ever focused on the street view from the window beside her. She had dressed for snow, a scarf wrapped tight around her neck, face nuzzled into it.
"Yeah, better for Quidditch, though," George raises his mug to his lips and sips his butterbeer.
"I suppose," Katie says through a wistful sigh. She was on the team that winter didn't feel like winter without snowfall.
"Do you play much?" George asks, looking at you from across the table.
This calls your attention back to those around you. "Pardon?"
"Quidditch," he says, "Do you play?"
"Oh no, I've never," You shake your head, "Haven't done as much as touched a broom since first year."
"What?" George almost laughs with disbelief. "Freddie, you've got to get her on the pitch sometime." He looks to his brother, in another world entirely. "Fred?"
Fred doesn't pick up on this. He murmurs something to Angelina just low enough so you couldn't hear. You look at Fred, unimpressed with something inside you beginning to simmer with a quiet humiliation. George raises an eyebrow to his brother's ignorance, his lips still moving and from them falls a string of words that makes Angelina giggle. George crumples up his napkin until his a compact small ball and hurls it at his brother's head. It lands with a soft smack.
He coils back, eyes tracking the culprit, "Hey-
"Oi, I said you should get your girlfriend on the pitch." He nods to you from the other side of the table.
"She hates Quidditch," He scoffs.
"Who said I hated it?" You wrinkle your nose, turning to him.
Fred blinks at you like the words spoken into the air fell alien to his ears. "You did. You said you hated Quidditch."
"Well, no- I've only said it's boring to watch you practice for hours."
Something in his face tells you that he doesn't believe this. "Name one Quidditch team."
You knew exactly what would rile him up. Someone as passionate as himself would only grow furious at your answer."Gryffindor."
"Oh my-" His shoulders tensed, neck straining with an off-putting rigidness before he catches himself. "You know what? I'm going to get another drink. Do you want one?"
"Yes, I do," You say, though your face doesn't read as compliant.
"Great, go on then." Fred gingerly grabs your hand, grip as gentle as a summer's breeze. You don't fight this, mostly because you are too preoccupied planning all of the awful things you are going to call him in only a few moments.
The two of you perch at the bar, Fred abruptly dropping your hand. You look down at it, watch it dangle, empty until you curl it into a fist and shove it into your pocket. It wasn't often you made Fred Weasley mad; it tended to be the other way around with you glaring into his drowsy head while that cacophony of obnoxious laughter chaffed against your ears. Now you dangled the bait in front of him.
"What are you being a cunt for?" He wasted no time in expressing himself.
"Cunt?" Your eyebrows furrow, "You absolute gobshite, like you weren't climbing over Angelina."
"That's kind of the point of all this, in case you've forgotten. You're not actually my girlfriend. Why are you mad I'm talking to Angelina when the plan is working?"
"Because you're embarrassing me, you haven't spoken a word since we sat down. You think it's funny that my boyfriend is all curled up in another girl's lap, just like a cat lapping up her milk."
He wrinkles his nose in disgust at the image, "Ew, don't say that."
You raise an eyebrow in challenge and draw out the words, "Milk, milk, milk."
"Stop acting daft." This isn't what you expected from him; then again, he always got defensive when it came to Angelina. "You know what this is. Sorry, I like Angie, didn't realize that this was suddenly gutwrenching for you."
"I don't care who you flirt with or who you shag, but I will never let you make a fool out of me."
"You're doing that well enough on your own."
"Right," You nod slowly, eyes narrowing. "You seem awfully mature falling over a girl who doesn't even like you."
"She likes me-
"Fred," You interrupt, "You wouldn't be with me if she liked you."
"Well, no one likes you, so there's that." He regretted the words the moment they fell from his mouth. He saw the change on your face, the tension welled up i your forehead, dropped for only a moment just to scrunch it back up.
Your eyebrows raise, "Oh, wow, thanks for the reminder."
"I didn't mean it," He shakes his head, having caught himself only when it was far too late. "I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry too." You turned to leave, the inside of your cheek bit rough and raw from every second you sat there trying to bite your tongue. A man places his glass back on the counter, and against better judgment, you reach for it before he raises it back to his lips.
It seemed almost practiced when you threw the drink at Fred. How swiftly you turned, and it splashed him down his face, dribbling to his chest. He was drenched, using his dry-ish sleeve to wipe whatever the drink of choice was from his face. It stung his eyes, something spiced for sure, and he couldn't say that it wasn't deserved.
The silence that blanketed the pub lasted for only a moment before the whispers and chatter began once more. Folks are asking their friends what happened, what they missed while in the restroom. The shame of it all surely burned within you. It felt foolish what you had done, and it was in part. How senseless the act, yet what satisfaction was felt in tarnishing his worn-down clothing.
As you left, eyes burning into the exit, you knew his friends were looking at you, talking about you and this cruel act.
You wanted desperately to act like that little spat hadn't made you feel like a spectacle, one of those gorillas trapped in a pit while those who loom above laugh at you and your futile attempts at escape. There was no escape, not within a relationship or a fake one, not in the busiest dining hall or the loneliest bedroom, because no matter where you went, there you were again.
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
You didn't plan on going to the Quidditch game. Everyone was going, and you knew well that you would spend the night in your dorm room, seething at the thought of Fred winning his match. The notion of him losing made you equally as rage-filled, since you would be forced to carry pity for him, of which you could not afford to spare.
It had been days since you tried to drown Fred. In the cold depths of the common room, you mulled the situation over and over again until it had turned to rubble in your mind. A handful of people had asked you in passing if you had broken up with Fred, to which you begrudgingly said no. The formulated breakup seemed to be looming overhead faster than what was arranged. As Fred had apologized numerous times and came around to squashing you with hugs in public, you couldn't dare look him in the eyes.
Those words rang in your head and continued to do so as the sole cause of your strife ran out on the pitch, smile wide, one arm aloft in the air, waving to all those in the stands. George was alongside him, and the two of them lapped up cheers like a dog to a dish.
The pitch shone beneath the pale winter sun, the first soft drifts of snow had landed and made each step of theirs a trail like foxes through sleet. The Ravenclaw team followed with an equal amount of applause. You cheered for them the loudest.
Not that it mattered to Fred, who howled for him or threw dirt on his name. It was all the same to him; he could poke at them and laugh it off, and that made you sick.
Madam Hooch blows the whistle, and in an instant, everyone is up in the air. He loops his broom in a flashy arc, hand raised, hair whipped back by the wind. His grin is obnoxiously wide, radiant, stupidly confident, the kind of smile your mom would want to take a picture of. That makes Angelina punch his shoulder and laugh. You're seconds away from throwing yourself off the bleachers.
The ball is released into the air, and the players shoot up in the air. Sometimes you would think they seemed more at home in the sky than they did on the ground. Streaks of scarlet and blue whirl around the pitch, but it all turns into a blur. The only clear thing in sight is Fred, and he is happier than ever. You want him dead.
A bludger heads straight for Alicia, though Fred is quick to knock it away, just inches before it collides with her skull. This earns him another round of hollars.
How easily everyone loves him.
From behind you, there is a voice so loud that it nearly ruptures your eardrums. You recoil, turning just enough to catch your eyes on a girl wearing twin braids and whooping. One glimpse of her sweater and you turn all the way to stare.
The number five is sewn to the front of her sweater. It's shoddy, but that does not take away the prominence of the number. "Oi, where'd you get that jumper, love?"
"Hmm?" She turns to you and looks down at the sweater like she had forgotten she was wearing it. "I made it, do you like it?"
You completely ignore her question and pose one of your own. "You wearing that for a player?"
"Yeah," She smiles, cheeks reddening as heat rushes to her pale face. She looks bashful, though the act of wearing that sweater is a rather bold one.
"Fred?"
"Mhm," The girl nods, pulling her scarf up to shield her rosy cheeks.
"He's got a girlfriend, y'know?"
"Does he?" Her eyebrows furrow, face pale like he has shot a man. "I thought they broke up."
"Well, we haven't, ya' cute hoor," You say, "That's just plain rude, that is. Ya' don't even know if we've broken up, and you're already wearing his number."
"I'm sorry, I-
"You should be." Your eyebrows stay furrowed with a fury that didn't really exist. You didn't care who wore his number, not really; still, you pushed. Maybe it was because you had already started and didn't know how to stop.
"I swear on my life, my friend told me you broke up."
"You believe everything ya' hear?" You can't stop this accusatory tone of yours, your pointed, hostile posture. "Hey, someone spelled gullible on the ceiling." She looks up to the grey sky, much to your surprise. It takes you aback for a moment, and just for that second, your guard drops. "Oh lord."
"I will never do anything like this again!" She fumbles with the scarf, the sweater, her fingers clumsy with cold and embarrassment. The roar of the crowd surges as Fred smashes another bludger, the showboating git, while the girl wriggles out of the jumper like she's peeling off her own skin. She has a pink long-sleeve shirt beneath, but it's still far too thin for the weather.
"Aye, don't be thick, you'll freeze." You put one hand out as a gesture to stop.
The girl tries to yank it off, though her head has gotten stuck in the rigid, tight neckline, and she fights with that beast of a sweater. "I didn't mean it, I'm serious!" She leans over in an attempt to pry the yarn from her and, in this act, frightens those around her to back up in fear of being wacked in her frenzy. With a final pull, it comes off, smacking someone in the face in the process. She holds it out to you, hair now a shaggy flock. "Take it."
"No, are you daft? It's snowing."
"Please, I couldn't," She looks away, like the sight of it alone sickens her.
"Just wear it."
"It's wrong!"
"Good lord," You murmur, snatching the jumper from her grip. She sits down, arms hugging herself tight to gather in some warmth caught in cold air. She shivers, though tries to play it off, biting her bottom lip to prevent her teeth from chattering.
You can't go back to watching the game, not with the rattling of her jaw being louder than Lee's hollering. You're doing just fine in your white cashmere sweater; you should be with the price it fetched you and the weight of the thick material piled high upon your shoulders. It was a birthday gift from your parents, one you hadn't wanted and didn't entirely know what to wear it to. Still, it was soft and plush; the long neck helped to hide the hickies you collected on your throat that summer.
Your sweater came off with far less struggle than the girl behind you. Even with great effort, you can't bring yourself to look back at her as you hold it out. She looks down at it, then the goosebumps gather on her arms before the plush fabric falls from your grip and into hers. As your fingers sink into the knit and tug, you find why she has struggled so much initially to take it off.
It was ghastly in truth. You didn't even want it, and now it lies not only within your possession but atop your body. Those around you focus on the game, pretending not to have been an onlooker of this situation. While wrapped up in yourself, the game continued on whether you had been watching or not, as did Fred.
He stops before the set of bleachers where you had perched to wack away another bludger heading across the pitch aimlessly without a body to land on. Fred didn't save anyone or score anything, but there is still a cheer for him. This is what he feeds off of, you can tell. The way he tilts his head back slightly, like the applause, is the sunlight he needs to live, and he is there before you, drinking it in. The laziness of his eyelids, the upturn of his lips- you want to kill him.
This lasts for only a moment that stretches into eternity in the archives of your mind. He turns his attention to the stands, eyes scanning souls until they fall on you. The solitary being who does not hollar and cheer, not for him. Face bone-chillingly cold, posture rigid with arms held tight to your body to keep the warmth in.
There's no mistaking the moment he spots your sweater. The crinkling of his eyes is a telltale sign of fruition etched into his crowsfeet. Fred looks at you once more, all windswept and red- still, the exertion gave him a certain glow he didn't normally have. He smiles, not for the sake of a potential win or those who scream his name; this smile is yours to keep. It makes your stomach churn.
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
"Do you ever feel alive?" Fred asks through a mouthful of chocolates, plucked from a frilly pink box he had gotten for you, only to make a show of it to his friends. Now you sit facing the courtyard as birds find their footing and scamper across the sleet.
"I am alive." Your cheeks had long passed stung from the cold air and fallen numb completely. The soft drifting snow barely missed the pair of you, piling on the cold stone flooring just feet away. The intricate masonry of the loggia kept you safe from the gentle flakes cascading from the grey sky.
The box of chocolates Fred had given you had somehow shifted back into his possession. Not that you gave it great thought, the odd flavours were not suitable to your taste, though Fred didn't mind as long as it was chocolate-covered. He kept diligent to the guide that was stuck to the lid with saccharine sugars.
Fred swallows the sweet harshly, clearing his throat before speaking again. "But do you feel it?"
"Do you?" You ask, fingers grazing his wrist to land beneath his thumb. There, you feel his pulse drum against his flesh; the rhythm is steady as a beat, it doesn't quicken or slow, it stays even. He doesn't even bat an eye at the scraping or skin upon skin. It's normal to him, even if your hands are ot familiar, he does ot shudder at the warmth.
"Yeah, I suppose," He shrugs, free hand stuffing another chocolate into his mouth. When you release his wrist from your clement prod, he reaches for the li on his lap and inspects the flavour against his touch after stuffing it into his mouth. "Peppered pear? Huh."
"Minging." You wrinkle your nose in disgust.
"No, it's good." Fred held the chocolate out to you, the green filling slowly dribbling to the opening of the sweet. This didn't make it seem any more appealing. Fred knows well you would not delve into it and bring it back to his own mouth without a verbal answer from you; your glare was telling enough.
"Why are you asking this?" Your thoughts drift back to his initial question, oddly existential for the guy who had dared himself to eat the dried maggots in potions only an hour beforehand.
"Just am," He shrugs.
"No, tell me."
"It's silly," he shakes his head, "You just seem so... calm? sometimes, I don't even know if that's the word I want."
"I'm seldom calm."
"Right, but I don't wanna say-
"Standoffish?"
"Sure."
"Rude."
"No, no, I mean it's nice-
"Nice that I'm standoffish?"
"Nice that you're so okay with it."
There's a silence that settles between you. Fred takes his focus to the rest of the chocolates, but he can't help but follow your gaze as you shift awkwardly beneath your warm layers. The courtyard is full of couples, real ones who let their love pour from their hands as they stroke their partner's face or through a handcrafted card made perfectly to their liking. You feel like a fraud.
You had no love to pour; it wasn't overflowing through overzealous speech or a tender kiss pressed to the muzzle of a dog you would ever see again. It seems to hide from you. Maybe it had never existed at all. Could you even name a time when you felt you were sparking some sort of mythical chemistry with another soul? You had never offered someone your unwavering support, but no one had offered you theirs, and here lies your rebuttal: "I'm not okay with it."
"Really?" He seems earnestly surprised by this, looking at your side profile for just a moment before looking back to the courtyard. "Yeah, no one's okay with that, I guess."
Fred thinks he might be okay with it, though. Should the moment fall upon him that his loud mouth tape itself shut, so he may fall into aloofness, this seems enough. If he could not laugh with every person and strike up a conversation as he pleased- impossible, you were the only one he could not draw a laugh from, not even a smile. This notion made him drop his.
A couple in the courtyard stands, hands clasped, the girl pushes herself on her toes to kiss his cheek, and he smiles like a fool drunk beneath moonlight. She pretends to be shy, burying her face into the collar of her jacket, and you know she is only acting, forcing that guileless demeanour. You were an actor too for a time, award-winning even, and you could play any character they wanted.
Now it seems a strange thing to be so removed from it. You flaunted a fake relationship where every sweet story, kind word, and the grace of a tender touch; it was all false and still felt in your soul to be more real than moaning into a kiss, eyes wide open and staring into his lids, which fluttered shut upon collision. It seemed like a game for the last few months. How long could you stare at your boyfriend with that hauteur before he opened his eyes again, and yours would clamp shut like a child wishing away monsters. That if you could not see him, he could not see you.
Had you always been so afraid, or was there a certain freedom that lay in that brief moment of disdain? You knew you had the leg up for that second; you knew you were winning by being so separated from yourself and from his touch. So repulsed by such his affection.
"Um, I did get you something." Fred's thick accent pulls you from that tunnel vision stare.
"I know-
He holds out a card. It's cut into a lopsided heart shape, one half far larger than the other, a lace trim just barely holding on and in the centre of the red heart, there lies the message 'if kisses were snowflakes, I'd send you a blizzard'. It's Fred's writing unmistakably, the big, loopy cursive, the same font in which you had seen countless lines scribble across pages as punishment.
"That's pretty romantic."
"You are my girlfriend."
"I didn't get you anything," You say out of an odd kind of guilt.
"I know."
"So you should keep it."
"You don't want it?"
"I do, I just didn't get you anything."
"So keep it," He gestures to the card, cheeks tinged pink in sheepishness over his craftsmanship. "I've been cruel."
"You have been cruel." It's not something you deny, for you have felt the full weight of his brashness as it pressed upon your shoulders and bound you to your bed for one entire day, all you had done was stare at the ceiling. It felt like annotating a passage of yourself, one in-depth description you pined over, scribbles of ink, trying to figure out why you do what you do, from a brief excerpt. "I have been cruel too."
Fred would rush to correct you, but it was the truth that your harsh words had slowly corroded a marble stone of his ego, which he didn't know stood until it was eaten to pure decay and insecurity. While your many remarks made for great entertainment, it was not to say it did not take a toll on his pride. In habitual tongue, hurt his feelings, a blow he would not admit, swept him to his knees, tottering to stand once more.
"I don't want to be cruel." He said simply, forcing the words from a mouth parched by cocoa.
There's a beat where you sit with the weight of his words, the extent he considered cruel, then your own wicked manners, which took no thought to deem unjust. "Me neither."
He extends one hand with a tiny heart-shaped chocolate in the centre of his calloused palm. "To ending cruelties?"
You take the chocolate, and while afraid for what flavour may hide inside and emerge to nip at the buds of your tongue, you study the drizzle of toffee atop the silky cream and affirm "To ending cruelties."
Summary: Waking up and finding Ginny's bed empty was always strange but finding her diary open under the covers meant something was very wrong.
Previous chapter: Chapter 3) Secrets In Ink. – @fictionalthooughts0 on Tumblr
Morning arrived slowly at Hogwarts during the winter months. The sunlight rarely burst through the tall windows the way it did during the autumn. Instead, it crept into the dormitory in pale grey slivers, sliding between the heavy curtains and stretching across the wooden floorboards like thin sheets of frost.
You woke to that soft grey light and the muffled sound of wind brushing against the tower windows. For a moment you remained still beneath the blankets, listening to the quiet breathing of the other girls in the dormitory. Someone shifted in their sleep across the room. Another muttered something unintelligible before settling again.
It was peaceful...too peaceful.
You blinked slowly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as the familiar shape of the dormitory ceiling came into focus above you. Your mind drifted lazily for a moment, floating somewhere between sleep and waking. Then a thought surfaced.
Ginny.
Your gaze shifted instinctively toward the bed beside yours, and you froze. The blankets were empty. At first, the sight didn't seem unusual-Ginny woke early sometimes. She had done it before—especially on mornings when she felt anxious about classes or wanted to finish homework before breakfast.
But something about the way the bed looked now made a strange tightness form in your chest. The blankets weren't simply pushed aside, they were tangled, half hanging off the mattress- as though someone had left in a hurry.
You pushed yourself upright slowly, your eyes still fixed on the empty bed, "Ginny?" you murmured quietly.
No answer.
Across the room, another girl stirred but didn't wake. You swung your legs over the side of the bed, the cold stone floor sending a chill up through your bare feet. "Ginny?" you called again, a little louder. Still nothing.
Your brow furrowed slightly, maybe she had already gone down to breakfast? It wouldn't be the first time she had wandered down early to escape the noise of the dormitory. But something still felt... wrong.
Your eyes moved slowly across the room-her school bag sat near the foot of the bed. Her robes were still folded neatly on the chair beside it. Even her shoes remained tucked beneath the bed frame. Which meant-
Your stomach dropped slightly- she hadn't gone to class.
You stood slowly, walking toward her bed. The dormitory was still dim and quiet, the pale morning light casting long shadows across the floorboards as you reached the mattress-you pushed the tangled blankets aside. The pillow rolled over-something fell softly onto the mattress beside it.
A small black book, your breath caught in your throat.
The diary.
You stared at it for a long moment, Ginny never left the diary behind, not once since she'd begun carrying it everywhere. She slept with it beneath her pillow. Wrote in it every evening, sometimes even during breakfast. And now it lay alone in the center of the mattress.
Your hand moved almost instinctively, picking it up. The cover felt cold as you flipped it open. The pages were filled with Ginny's small, careful handwriting- lines of ink stretching across nearly every page.
But the last page— You frowned.
It was blank.
Not simply unwritten- but blank. As if the ink had been wiped away entirely. A strange unease curled in your chest, you closed the diary slowly. Something wasn't right, Ginny wouldn't leave without her bag, or her robes, or— your breath caught. Without telling you.
A cold realization began to creep into your thoughts- what if she hadn't left? What if—
Before the thought could fully form, the dormitory door burst open, one of the younger Gryffindor girls rushed inside, her face pale, "Have you heard?" she gasped.
Several girls sat up immediately, "heard what?" someone asked sleepily.
The girl looked around the room, her voice trembling, "they found another one."
Your stomach tightened, "Another what?" you asked-her eyes landed on you-"A student."
Your chest went cold, "Petrified," she whispered. The room erupted into noise.
"What?"
"Where?"
"Who?"
Your heart began to pound, "Who was it?" you asked quickly.
The girl hesitated- "I don't know," she said. "They just said it was a Gryffindor."
The words struck like ice water; your gaze flicked instantly back to Ginny's empty bed. No bag. No robes. No shoes. And the diary left behind.
A sudden horrible thought forced its way into your mind-you grabbed your robes from the end of your bed.
"I need to go," you said quickly.
"Where?" someone asked.
But you were already pulling the robes over your nightclothes, your hands moving too fast to bother with buttons. Your thoughts raced- Ginny would have told you if she was leaving early. She would have woken you; she always woke you. Unless—you shoved your feet into your shoes and grabbed the diary from the bed. Unless she hadn't had the chance.
The spiral staircase blurred beneath your feet as you rushed down it- your heart hammered painfully in your chest. The common room was nearly empty-a few early students sat near the fireplace whispering anxiously, eyes dancing around. None of them were Ginny. You ran for the portrait hole. The Fat Lady barely had time to complain before you climbed through it.
The corridor outside was already crowded with students. Clusters of people stood whispering in nervous groups. You pushed through them quickly.
"Excuse me."
"Sorry."
"Move."
Your eyes scanned every face you passed, looking for bright red hair. Looking for Ginny. But she wasn't there. The crowd thickened near the end of the corridor, several professors stood nearby, speaking urgently with one another. Students were being pushed back. You slowed slightly. A horrible sinking feeling began to settle deep in your stomach-then you heard the whisper.
"She's been taken."
Your head snapped up. Taken. The word echoed through the corridor like a crack of thunder. "Taken into the Chamber," someone whispered.
Your heart nearly stopped. No.
Your feet began moving before your mind could catch up, you pushed through the crowd desperately now "Move!"
Someone grabbed your sleeve-"Hey—"
But you tore free "Let me through!"
A voice called your name, you ignored it. You reached the front of the crowd just as one of the professors turned toward the students. And then you saw it- the message. Painted across the stone wall in dripping red letters-
Her skeleton will lie in the chamber forever.
The words swam in front of your eyes- your breath stopped. And then someone spoke behind you-a voice you recognized instantly-"...Ginny" you turned slowly.
Fred stood several feet away- George beside him. Ron just behind them.
Their faces were completely white, and suddenly the entire corridor felt like it was spinning. Because in that moment—you knew. Ginny hadn't left early. She hadn't gone to breakfast. She hadn't forgotten her diary. Ginny was gone.
And somewhere deep beneath Hogwarts—She was alone.
For several long seconds no one moved. The corridor seemed suspended in a strange, suffocating silence, broken only by the quiet whispering of students somewhere behind you. Your eyes remained locked on the message carved across the stone wall-the red letters seemed darker the longer you stared at them- wet.
Almost as if they had only just been written.
The words blurred slightly as your vision began to swim -your heart thudded violently against your ribs. Her. Not a student. Not someone. Her.
Your grip tightened around the small black diary in your hand-behind you, someone whispered in a terrified voice "They mean Ginny... don't they?"
Another voice responded shakily-"She's the only girl missing."
The world tilted, your stomach lurched violently as the reality of it began to sink in. Ginny. Your best friend. The girl who had fallen asleep beside you only hours earlier. The girl who had laughed with you by the lake- Who had promised she would never abandon you in the castle the way others had. Gone. Taken.
Your fingers trembled around the diary-this wasn't real. It couldn't be real.
Fred's voice broke the silence-"...Ginny."
It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. But the quiet disbelief in it made your chest tighten painfully-You turned slowly, Fred stood several feet away- his usual careless confidence had vanished entirely. He looked... stunned.
George stood beside him, equally pale. Ron looked as though someone had punched the air from his lungs- none of them were speaking - none of them were moving. They were simply staring at the message, and for the first time since you had met them— Fred and George looked completely helpless.
Your breath caught, you opened your mouth, but before any words could form— a sharp voice cut through the corridor, "Everyone step back."
The crowd shifted immediately- students began shuffling away from the wall as a tall figure pushed forward. Minerva McGonagall moved through the students with swift, controlled strides, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her eyes flicked over the message once. Only once.
Then they moved to the crowd- "Return to your common rooms," she said firmly. No one moved.
Fear hung in the air like smoke- another voice joined hers, "Now." Severus Snape stepped forward from the side corridor, his dark robes sweeping across the stone floor. The crowd began to break apart quickly after that.
Students scattered down the corridor in uneasy groups, whispering frantically-but you didn't move. You couldn't.
Your feet felt rooted to the floor. Ginny. Your mind repeated the name again and again, as though saying it might somehow change what had happened-McGonagall's sharp eyes landed on you.
Then they flicked briefly to the diary clutched in your hand, her expression changed immediately, "You," she said-your head lifted slightly.
"Yes... Professor?"
"Come with me." The words sent a chill down your spine, "But—"
"Now. "Her tone allowed no argument; your gaze flicked helplessly toward the twins- Fred was staring directly at you now. Not accusing. Not angry. Just searching. As though he was trying desperately to find answers in your expression-you wished you had some.
George placed a hand on Fred's shoulder quietly-Ron looked completely lost. Your chest tightened painfully, "I—" your voice faltered. "I didn't know—"
Fred shook his head slightly, it was a small movement, but it stopped the words in your throat. For once, Fred Weasley had nothing to say-neither of the twins did.
McGonagall gestured toward the corridor, "Miss, please. "Your feet finally began moving- you followed her down the hall on trembling legs, the noise of the crowd fading behind you. The further you walked, the quieter the castle seemed to become.
Your thoughts raced uncontrollably. Ginny. The diary. Her strange moods lately. The way she had seemed distracted. Nervous. The way she sometimes disappeared for hours. Your stomach twisted painfully. Had you missed something? Should you have noticed sooner? McGonagall stopped abruptly outside a small classroom.
She opened the door.
Inside, two figures were already waiting-one sat calmly behind the desk, long silver hair-half-moon spectacles. Albus Dumbledore.
The other stood beside the window, arms folded across dark robes. Snape had arrived before you. Your throat tightened. McGonagall closed the door behind you= "Sit down," she instructed gently.
You obeyed automatically, the chair felt cold beneath you, Dumbledore regarded you quietly for several moments. His eyes were kind but intensely focused. "You were Miss Weasley's closest companion this year," he said calmly.
Your fingers tightened around the diary, "Yes."
"Then I'm afraid we must ask you a few questions."
Your stomach dropped and McGonagall stepped forward, "Did you see Miss Weasley after dinner last night?"
"Yes," you replied immediately, looking up to the stern woman, "We went to bed together."
The words sounded strange the moment they left your mouth, your cheeks flushed slightly, "I mean—we went back to the dormitory," you corrected quickly. Snape's lips twitched faintly-but Dumbledore merely nodded, "Did anything unusual happen?"
You hesitated. The memory of the previous evening surfaced slowly. Ginny writing in the diary the way she had looked tired. A little distant, "She was writing again," you said quietly-
McGonagall's eyes flicked toward the book in your hands-"That diary?"
You nodded slowly, "She's been writing in it constantly."
Snape's voice slid through the room, "Did she ever tell you what she was writing?"
You shook your head, "No" you replied meekly.
"Did she hide it?" he insisted.
"...Sometimes."
The professors exchanged glances- Dumbledore leaned forward slightly. "May we see it?"
Your grip tightened instinctively-for a moment you hesitated. It felt strange handing over something so personal-but this wasn't about privacy anymore. You placed the diary carefully on the desk, Dumbledore opened it slowly.
His eyes scanned the pages- then his brow furrowed slightly. "The ink..." he murmured.
Snape stepped closer-"Interesting."
You leaned forward anxiously, "What?"
Dumbledore turned the diary slightly so the others could see. The pages were blank. Completely blank. Your stomach dropped. "That's not possible," you said quickly, "I read it this morning."
McGonagall looked at you sharply, "You read it?"
"Just a little," you said nervously, "There were pages filled with writing."
Snape's eyes narrowed slightly-"And now?" You looked again. Nothing. Every page was empty. Your heart began racing again. "I swear it wasn't like that before."
Dumbledore closed the diary slowly "I believe you." The words surprised you- he folded his hands together, "Tell us everything you noticed about Miss Weasley recently."
And so you did. You told them about the diary. About the long nights writing. About the way Ginny sometimes seemed distant. How she occasionally disappeared between classes. Your voice shook several times. The more you spoke, the worse the guilt felt. Had she been in trouble this entire time? And you hadn't seen it? McGonagall listened carefully. Snape watched you like a hawk. Dumbledore simply nodded thoughtfully.
Finally, he spoke again. "You are not responsible for what has happened."
The words hit harder than you expected, because part of you feared the opposite might be true, "I should have noticed something," you whispered distraughtly.
McGonagall's expression softened, "You are her friend," she said gently, "Not her keeper."
Still... the guilt remained, Dumbledore stood slowly, "We will handle the matter from here."
Your heart skipped, "Will you find her?"
He held your gaze steadily, "We will try."
It wasn't the certainty you wanted, but it was all anyone could offer. McGonagall opened the door-"You should return to Gryffindor Tower."
Your legs felt unsteady as you stood. The hallway outside was almost empty now. Students had been sent away. The castle felt quieter than you had ever known it. And colder. As you began walking back toward the common room, your thoughts kept returning to one thing. Ginny. Alone. Somewhere beneath the castle. And as the weight of the morning finally settled into your chest—you realized something else.
The twins were still waiting for answers- and you were the only one who had any. The walk back to Gryffindor Tower felt longer than usual. The castle corridors, normally filled with noise and movement between classes, were nearly silent now. Only a few scattered students passed through the halls, whispering in tight clusters before quickly disappearing around corners.
Everyone knew. Everyone had heard the message on the wall. Your footsteps echoed softly against the stone as you climbed the final staircase toward the portrait entrance. Your chest felt tight. Heavy. You hadn't cried yet. The shock still sat too firmly in your bones for tears to form. But beneath the numbness something darker stirred—an uncomfortable weight that had begun settling deeper in your stomach with every step you took. Guilt.
You stopped in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady. She was unusually quiet this morning. Her painted expression looked worried, "Password?" she asked gently. Your voice came out barely above a whisper.
"Fortuna Major." The portrait swung open slowly warm light from the common room spilled out into the hallway- you stepped inside. And immediately realized you weren't the only one who had returned. Nearly half of Gryffindor House had gathered inside the common room. Students sat scattered across chairs and couches in tense groups, their voices low and uneasy. But the moment you entered—several heads turned. The whispers changed. Because everyone knew you had been Ginny's closest friend.
Your stomach twisted. You avoided their eyes and started across the room. Then you saw them. Near the fireplace. Three tall figures stood close together. Bright red hair. Your breath caught. Ron noticed you first, he looked as though he hadn't slept.
His face was pale and drawn, his hands shoved tightly into the pockets of his robes, the moment he spotted you, he straightened slightly. Then Fred turned- and the air seemed to shift.
Fred Weasley rarely looked serious. In fact, before this morning you weren't sure you had ever seen him without some trace of mischief hiding in his expression. But now— There was nothing playful about him. His eyes were sharp. Focused. Searching.
George stood beside him, arms crossed, his usual relaxed posture replaced by quiet tension, you slowed as you approached- Suddenly unsure what you were supposed to say. Fred spoke first-"Professor McGonagall took you." His voice wasn't accusing. Just direct.
You nodded, "Yes."
George leaned forward slightly-"What did they want?"
"They asked about Ginny."
Ron stepped closer, "Did they say where she is?" The question hung painfully in the air-you swallowed, "No."
Ron's shoulders sagged slightly, George exhaled quietly through his nose. Fred didn't move. His gaze remained fixed on you, "What did you tell them?"
Your fingers tightened around the sleeves of your robes. "The truth," you said softly.
Fred's brow furrowed, "Which is?"
You hesitated- then the words came slowly "I told them about the diary." That got their attention immediately- George's head tilted slightly-"Diary?"
Ron frowned, "Ginny had a diary?"
Fred's eyes sharpened, George exchanged a quick glance with Fred, "That sounds like Ginny," he said quietly, Ron ran a hand through his hair.
"But why would the professors care about a diary?"
You took a breath, "They asked if she ever acted strange."
Fred leaned forward slightly "And?"
Your stomach twisted painfully- "I told them she'd been... distracted lately."
The silence that followed felt heavy. Fred studied your face carefully. "How distracted?" You looked down at your hands- pondering "She disappeared sometimes between classes."
George spoke more gently than usual- "Did she seem upset?" You thought about it- Ginny sitting beside you at night. Writing furiously in the diary. Sometimes looking relieved afterward, sometimes looking worse, "Yes," you admitted softly.
Fred's jaw tightened, "Why didn't she tell us?" The question wasn't directed at you- But it still landed heavily in your chest.
"I don't know." You forced yourself to meet his eyes, "But I think she was scared."
No one spoke after that; the truth was sitting in the air around all of you. Fred suddenly turned away from the group, he paced a few steps toward the fireplace, then back again. His movements were restless-sharp.
George watched him carefully, "You're going to wear a hole in the floor," George muttered quietly.
Fred ignored him. Your eyes followed his pacing. Something about his expression made your stomach tighten again. It wasn't anger. It was something worse. Helplessness. Finally, Fred stopped. He turned back toward you. "You were with her last night."
You nodded slowly, "Yes."
"What happened?" he asked.
You replayed the memory carefully, "We talked before bed."
"About what?"
"Classes mostly," Fred waited, your voice softened, "She was writing again."
Fred rubbed the back of his neck- "That's strange."
You looked up, "What is?"
"She never wrote like that before school started," he said quietly. George nodded. "She got the diary over the summer."
Your head tilted slightly, "From who?"
Fred shrugged, "Don't know."
George frowned thoughtfully, "Mum said someone slipped it into her cauldron at the bookshop."
A strange chill ran through you; the memory of the blank pages flashed in your mind. Fred noticed your expression immediately. "What?"
You hesitated, "The diary... was empty when the professors looked at it."
Ron blinked.
"Empty?"
"It was full of writing this morning," you said quickly.
Fred's brow furrowed deeply, "That doesn't make any sense."
George crossed his arms again, "Nothing about this makes sense."
The fire crackled softly behind them. The common room felt unusually quiet now-many of the other students had drifted away to classes. But none of you had moved.
Fred's gaze returned to you again, "You said she was scared."
You nodded slowly, meeting his tensed expression-his voice softened slightly, "Of what?"
You thought about Ginny's nervous glances lately, her sudden silences. The way she sometimes seemed almost... guilty, "I think she felt like something was wrong," you said quietly.
Ron sank into one of the armchairs nearby, his face had gone pale again.
Fred didn't sit, he remained standing in front of the fire. Your eyes met his again, and for the first time since you'd known him— Fred didn't look like someone who had the answers. He looked like someone who desperately needed them.
Your chest tightened, "I'm sorry," you said suddenly.
Fred blinked slightly, "For what?"
"I should have noticed something sooner."
George shook his head immediately, "Don't start that."
Fred spoke more quietly, "You couldn't have known."
"But I was with her every day," you insisted.
Fred held your gaze. "And we're her brothers."
The words landed heavily. A quiet understanding passed between you. None of you had seen it coming. The fire crackled again. George finally broke the silence. "They'll find her."
Ron nodded weakly. "They have to."
Fred didn't say anything. But his eyes moved slowly back toward the flames. And you had the strange feeling that something inside him had shifted. Not broken. Not yet. But changed.
***
The common room slowly emptied as the day dragged on. Classes had continued, though few students paid attention to them. Word about Ginny spread through the castle quickly, carried by whispers in corridors and hushed conversations in classrooms. By evening the entire school knew.
And the castle felt different. Quieter. Heavier.
The fire in the Gryffindor common room burned low as night settled over Hogwarts. Outside the tall windows, the sky had darkened into deep shades of blue and black, the wind rattling faintly against the glass. You sat curled into one of the worn armchairs near the fireplace, staring into the flames. You had barely moved since returning from lunch. At some point someone had placed a cup of tea beside you, but it had long since gone cold.
Your thoughts kept circling the same memories. Ginny laughing beside you in the dormitory. Ginny complaining about Charms homework. Ginny nervously scribbling in the diary late at night. Had there been something else? Something you had missed. You replayed every conversation you'd had with her over the past few weeks.
Every moment. Every strange pause. Every distracted glance. But the more you thought about it, the worse the knot in your stomach became. Because the truth was simple. You hadn't known. And now Ginny was gone. Footsteps creaked softly across the wooden floor. You didn't look up at first. Students had been coming and going for hours. But the steps slowed when they reached the fireplace. Then stopped beside your chair. You glanced up. Fred.
Fred Weasley stood there, his tall frame half-shadowed by the flickering light of the fire. His hair looked messier than usual, as though he had run his hands through it repeatedly throughout the day. He looked tired. Not the exaggerated dramatic tired he sometimes joked about after long classes. Real tired. His eyes met yours- "You're still here."
Your voice felt small, "So are you."
Fred let out a quiet breath and sank into the chair across from you-for a few moments neither of you spoke. The fire crackled softly between you, the silence wasn't uncomfortable exactly. Just heavy. Eventually Fred leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared into the flames.
"George finally went to bed," he spoke,
"And Ron?"
Fred gave a small shrug, "Somewhere upstairs, I think."
You nodded, then the silence returned. Your gaze drifted back to the fire- "I keep thinking about the diary," you murmured.
Fred glanced at you, "What about it?"
"It was full of writing this morning."
"And then it wasn't," he responded quietly.
You nodded, "Do you think it means something?"
Fred hesitated-"I don't know."
His voice carried the frustration of someone used to figuring things out quickly. Fred and George were problem solvers. Prank inventors. Strategists. But this— this was something they couldn't fix with cleverness. Fred leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face with both hands. "I hate this."
Your eyes lifted, "Hate what?"
"The waiting." He gestured vaguely toward the castle around them.
"Everyone whispering. Everyone pretending the professors know what they're doing." He paused. "But they don't."
The blunt honesty of the statement surprised you. Fred rarely sounded so certain about something so grim. Your chest tightened. "They'll find her," you said softly.
Fred didn't respond right away. Instead, he stared at the fire again. When he finally spoke, his voice had changed slightly. "Ginny's always been the smallest of us."
You listened quietly, "She's tough," he continued "Mum says she's got more stubbornness than all of us put together. "A faint ghost of a smile touched his face- "But she's still eleven."
The reminder sent a chill through you. Fred swallowed. "She shouldn't have to deal with something like this." The vulnerability in his voice made something ache in your chest. This wasn't the confident boy who teased students in the corridors. This was Ginny's brother. A brother who couldn't reach her. Your fingers tightened slightly around the edge of your sleeve.
"She's not alone," you said quietly.
Fred looked at you "You don't know that."
"No," you admitted softly "But I know Ginny."
The words surprised you slightly as you said them, but they were true. "She's brave," you continued "She pretends she isn't sometimes, but she is."
Fred watched you carefully, "You really believe that."
"Yes." You spoke before adding quietly, "She helped me when I first got here."
Fred's brow furrowed slightly, "How?" scanning your features with furrowed brows.
You looked down at your hands, "I didn't know anyone- the castle was overwhelming." you paused, "I thought everyone else had already figured out how everything worked."
Fred huffed quietly, "No one knows how anything works here."
You smiled faintly, "That's not how it felt at the time." you spoke as your voice softened, "But Ginny sat with me the first night back in the dormitory." Y
You could almost see the memory again. Ginny sitting cross-legged on her bed, talking nervously but determinedly, "She made it feel less scary."
Fred's expression shifted slightly, he leaned back again, studying you more carefully now. "You're important to her."
Your throat tightened-the fire popped softly. Fred stared into the flames again. For a moment he didn't speak, then his voice dropped slightly, "She's always wanted a friend like you."
Your head tilted slightly, "What do you mean?"
Fred gave a small shrug, "Someone who doesn't get distracted by the rest of us."
"The rest of you?"
Fred gestured vaguely, "Big loud brothers."
You huffed quietly- your eyes scrunching "That's one way to describe you."
Fred smirked faintly, "Accurate though."
You studied him for a moment, shaking your head slightly, "I'm not distracted by you."
Fred's eyebrow lifted, "No?"
"No," You leaned back slightly in your chair, "You're just loud."
Fred laughed quietly for the first time that day. The sound felt strange in the heavy room, "Fair." The laughter faded quickly though, your gaze softened again.
"We're going to find her."
Fred looked at you. "You sound very sure."
"I have to be."
The honesty in your voice surprised both of you. Fred studied you for a moment. Then something in his expression softened slightly- just ever so.
"You're not giving up on her?" The question wasn't mocking. Just... curious.
You shook your head immediately, "Never."
Fred nodded slowly. The firelight flickered across his face. For a moment he seemed to be thinking carefully about something. Then he leaned forward slightly again, "Good."
Your brows furrowed, "Why?"
Fred's eyes met yours, "Because neither am I."
The words carried quiet determination. A promise. Something about that made warmth stir faintly in your chest despite the fear still sitting there.
You hesitated, then spoke softly, "Fred?"
"Yeah?"
"If something happens—" Your voice faltered.
Fred straightened immediately, "Nothing's happening."
"But if it does," you pressed quietly.
Fred watched you carefully-"Then what?"
You took a breath, "Then we'll fix it."
Fred's lips twitched slightly "You make that sound easy."
"It isn't," You leaned forward slightly, "But she deserves people who won't stop trying."
Fred's eyes held yours for a long moment, then he nodded slowly. "Alright."
You tilted your head slightly, "Alright?"
"Alright," he repeated. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, "We'll fix it."
For the first time all day, the tightness in your chest loosened slightly.
The fire crackled warmly between you. Outside, the wind continued rattling the castle windows. But sitting there beside Fred— you felt something steady settle between you. Not laughter. Not teasing.
Something quieter, stronger-a shared promise. Neither of you would stop looking for Ginny.
Rated : Mature
Word Count: 6.8k
Summary: As your relationship with Ginny develops- you notice her attention drifting to an inconspicuous source.
Previous Chapter: Chapter 2) The promise. – @fictionalthooughts0 on Tumblr
By the time winter settled over Hogwarts, the castle felt entirely different from the place you had first stepped into at the beginning of the year.
Snow clung to the tall windows of the corridors in thick white drifts, frosting the glass so heavily that the world beyond looked soft and distant. The grounds were blanketed in white, the lake dark and unmoving beneath a thin layer of ice, and the sky above the towers remained a pale grey for most of the day. The cold seeped into the castle stones, creeping along the floors and up the staircases so that even the roaring fireplaces struggled to push it away completely.
And yet somehow, despite the cold, Hogwarts had begun to feel warmer. Or perhaps that warmth had less to do with the castle itself and more to do with the girl walking beside you.
Ginny Weasley had a way of filling empty space with conversation. At the beginning of the year she had been shy in a quiet, nervous sort of way. But as the months passed, that shyness had gradually worn away, replaced by something far brighter. Now she talked almost constantly when the two of you walked together. Which was often. Very often.
"—and then she said we had to redo the entire charm because apparently mine looked 'aggressive'," Ginny finished dramatically, throwing her hands into the air aggressively.
You laughed softly beside her as the two of you made your way down one of the long corridors that overlooked the snowy grounds. "I didn't even know charms could look aggressive," you replied.
"They can if Professor Flitwick decides they can," Ginny muttered.
Her boots scuffed lightly across the stone floor as she walked, the sound echoing softly through the mostly empty corridor. Most students were either in the Great Hall finishing breakfast or already making their way toward their first classes of the day. You and Ginny, however, had developed a habit of leaving early.
Not because you were particularly eager to get to class. But because it gave the two of you time to talk.
"And then Colin Creevey dropped his wand," Ginny continued, barely pausing for breath, "which wouldn't have been a problem except he knocked over three other desks trying to pick it up and somehow managed to set Seamus's parchment on fire."
You blinked. "How did he manage that?"
Ginny shrugged helplessly. "I honestly have no idea," she paused, glancing sideways at you "But it was impressive."
You laughed again, shaking your head. "I feel like that sort of chaos only happens when I'm not around." you joked.
"That's because you're responsible," Ginny said matter-of-factly.
"I am not responsible" you quipped.
She lightly laughed, shaking her head "You absolutely are."
"I'm just cautious."
"Responsible," she repeated firmly.
You rolled your eyes slightly, though you couldn't help smiling. The two of you turned the corner of the corridor, the staircase ahead shifting slightly as it slowly rotated into its next position. Ginny grabbed your sleeve automatically as it moved.
You had noticed she still did that sometimes. At the beginning of the year she had clung to you every time the staircases moved. Now she mostly pretended not to notice them. But occasionally the old habit returned.
"You know," she said thoughtfully as you both stepped onto the staircase, "I think the castle does that on purpose."
"What?" you questioned, glancing back at her.
"The moving stairs."
You raised an eyebrow "What about them?"
"I think they wait until someone's almost comfortable with them," she explained seriously, "and then they shift just to scare them." her eyes nervously scanning the moving floorboards, scanning ahead to the next hallway.
You were about to reply when Ginny suddenly stopped talking mid-sentence. Which, in itself, was unusual. You turned slightly, following her gaze down the corridor. Standing near the far end of the hallway were three familiar figures.
One of them had messy black hair that seemed determined to stick up in every possible direction. The other two had bright red hair and identical grins. Ginny froze beside you. Completely froze. You watched her shoulders stiffen as her eyes locked on the small group across the corridor.
"Ginny?" you murmured concerned, your eyes darting between Ginny and the small crowd of familiar faces up head.
She made a small, strangled sound, her mouth barely parting wide enough for her voice to carry "Oh no"
"What?" you asked, firmer and more intensely now.
"Don't look," she yelled in a whisper, her body fully stiffened and eyes extremely wide.
You blinked "Why?"
"Because if you look," she whispered urgently, "they'll notice us."
You paused. "...I already looked"
Ginny groaned quietly. Across the corridor, the group had indeed noticed you. Or more specifically— Fred and George had noticed you. Both twins straightened almost immediately when they spotted the two of you standing halfway down the hall. Their expressions shifted in perfect synchronization. First surprise. Then recognition. And finally—Mischief.
"Oh brilliant," Ginny muttered under her breath, the terror in her eyes deepening.
"Morning!" George called cheerfully. His voice echoed loudly through the corridor as he waved in your direction. Beside him, Fred nudged the boy with messy black hair. "Look who it is." The boy glanced over his shoulder. For a moment you met the unmistakable green eyes of Harry Potter.
Ginny immediately looked like she might collapse into the floor. "Oh no," she whispered again.
You frowned slightly "What's wrong?"
"Everything," she muttered.
The group began walking toward you. Ginny grabbed your sleeve again "I'm leaving." she spoke rapidly.
"You can't leave." you argued, attempting to pull her back from her immediate evacuation.
"Watch me."
"You'll look suspicious." you argued.
"I don't care."
Unfortunately for Ginny, the twins were already halfway down the corridor. There was no escape now. Fred reached you first. "Well look at that," he said casually, leaning one shoulder against the stone wall beside you.
"Little Ginny and her loyal companion."
George appeared on your other side moments later, "You're up early," he added.
Ginny was staring very intently at the floor, "Morning," she mumbled- not meeting the eyes of a single person in the corridor, her gaze firmly planted at her pointed inward shows and fidgeting hands.
Fred leaned slightly sideways, trying to catch her eye, "You alright there?" he jested, a sly smirk written on his face as he leaned towards his petrified sister.
"Yes." she replied sheepishly, her brows furrowing at the pestering.
"You look like someone just told you exams were tomorrow." Fred continued-that same smile on his face as he glanced between his sister and you-utterly amused. You wondered if you should speak up, make up a ruse so you and Ginny could escape the situation-but there was no way to get away discreetly with Fred and George around.
"I'm fine."
George snorted, "Are you sure?" Ginny glared at him, her eyes finally leaving the cobbled floor to meet her brothers' amused eyes. "Perfectly."
Behind the twins, Harry shifted awkwardly. "Er—hi," he said.
Ginny turned bright red "Hi" she spoke in a mere whisper, her eyes bulging by this point. The word came out so quietly it was barely audible. You watched the entire exchange with mild fascination and partial pity.
Over the past few months, you had begun to notice something strange whenever Harry Potter Pooter happened to be nearby. Ginny transformed. Normally she was talkative, confident, and occasionally sarcastic. But the moment Harry entered the room—Well, she forgot how to function.
"Ginny was just telling me about her Charms class," you said conversationally, glancing at Fred.
"Oh really?" Fred said, his eyes falling back on you, his eyes keening in curiosity of whatever you were obviously trying to pull.
"Thrilling subject," Fred spoke, George nodded solemnly-"Riveting."
Ginny elbowed him angrily "You've never even taken Charms-"
"True," George admitted "But I'm sure it's fascinating." You watched the pair exchange looks-the tension could have been cut by a knife.
Fred's attention shifted back toward you "How are you surviving second year?"
"Barely," you replied with a curt smile, your eyebrow raised. The four of you were in an unspoken game with each other, dancing around the elephant in the room- Harry Potter and Ginny's obvious crush as the boy who lived stood by absent mindedly.
"Excellent."
"We do enjoy watching students suffer," George added in a hopeful tone, a plastered smile etched into his expression.
"That's comforting."
Harry laughed quietly at that. The sound seemed to make Ginny even more nervous. She shifted her weight awkwardly. "Well," she said quickly, "we should probably go."
Fred raised an eyebrow "You just got here." - he wasn't letting her off easy.
"We have class."
"So do we," The twins replied simultaneously.
"Yes, but ours is... earlier."
George glanced at the clock down the hall "Ginny, it's eight thirty."
"Exactly" she hummed.
"That's not early," Fred intervened.
Ginny grabbed your arm suddenly, her grasp firm and mighty for her small size. "We're leaving. "And with that, she began dragging you down the corridor. Behind you, Fred's voice echoed after you. "See you later!"
George added something about "running away from famous people," but Ginny was walking too quickly for you to catch the rest. You barely made it around the corner before she stopped. The moment you were out of sight, she pressed her back against the wall and groaned loudly. "Oh Merlin."
You crossed your arms "Care to explain that?" you asked with a sarcastic pleasure. Surely you already knew the answer-it was just fun to watch Ginny squirm a little. Ginny covered her face with both hands "I hate them." she groaned.
"Your brothers?" you questioned, leaning back on a neighboring wall, the cool stone chilling your back, you head resting easily.
"No." she responded quickly. She paused."...Well yes. But that's not the point."
You tilted your head slightly "The point being exactly?"
Ginny slid her hands down her face slowly "Harry..." she admitted in a whispered sheepish tone. You tried very hard not to smile. "Ah"you hummed knowingly.
"Don't say it like that!" she groaned, releasing her face from the palm of her hands to glare upwards at your badly hidden smirk.
"Like what?" you attempted to ask innocently. It was hard to hold your tone.
"Like you know exactly what's happening," she accused, her finger pointed strongly towards your relaxed from You shrugged lightly, " I mean..." you paused "I might."
Ginny stared at you "You do not."
"You turn into a statue whenever he walks into the room" you pressed, crossing your arms as you looked at her hunched state-her face nearly as read as her hair. "I do not!"
"You absolutely do."
"That's ridiculous."
"You just forgot how to say the word hi," You emphasized, raising your brow with an interrogative stare. Ginny groaned again "I said hi!"
"You whispered-" you pointed out, the grin on your face widening as she desperately tried to justify her abomination of an interaction. "It counts!"
You laughed softly. Ginny pointed a finger at you. "You are not allowed to enjoy this."
"I'm not enjoying it." you laughed, raising your hands free of any suspicion.
"You're smiling" she groaned.
"I smile all the time."
"Not like that."
You opened your mouth to reply— But Ginny suddenly went very still "What?" you asked, your eyes scrunching suspiciously.
She shook her head. "Nothing."
"Ginny-" you pressed.
"It's nothing."
But her gaze had drifted down the corridor behind you. You turned slightly. The hallway was empty. When you looked back at her, she had already forced a smile. "Come on," she said quickly, "We're going to be late." You hesitated for a moment. Something about her expression felt... strange. But before you could question it further, she had already started walking again.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of lessons, corridors, and the constant hum of student conversation that filled every corner of the castle. By the time evening arrived, the two of you were once again seated together in the Gryffindor common room.
A fire crackled loudly in the large stone fireplace, filling the room with warm golden light. Outside the tall windows, snow continued to fall in soft silent flakes. Ginny sat cross-legged on the rug beside the sofa, several pieces of parchment scattered around her. Charms work you reckoned.
You sat above her, leaning against the arm of the couch with a book open in your lap. "You're doing that wrong," Ginny said suddenly- piercing the silence you two comfortably sat in. You glanced down, brows furrowed-"I'm reading."
"You're rereading the same paragraph.
You blinked, "...I am?" you spoke confused, your eyes clarifying on the elaborately written text. The large calligraphy twisting your focus.
"Yes,"
"For how long?" you asked confused.
"Three minutes."
You sighed, closing the book- there was little point in just staring at the words. "Brilliant." Ginny grinned slightly "Distracted?" she asked, turning from her elaborate pile of papers to meet your eyes.
"Maybe."
"Thinking about my brothers?"
You snorted "Hardly,"
Ginny laughed softly. For a moment the two of you simply sat there listening to the fire crackle. Then Ginny reached into her bag. You barely noticed the movement at first. But something about the way she pulled the object out caught your attention. It was a small book. Old-looking. The cover was plain black. Ginny opened it carefully, flipping through a few pages before pulling out a quill.
"What's that?" you asked leaning over the couch to peer over her shoulder dramatically-not hiding your nosy tendency.
She glanced up quickly, "Oh—just a diary."
"A diary?" you mused, your head propping itself on her shoulder.
She shrugged. "Sometimes it helps to write things down."
You nodded slowly, "That makes sense."
Ginny smiled faintly before lowering her gaze back to the page. The scratching sound of her quill filled the quiet space between you. For a while, you returned to your book-trying not to lose focus on the pretty letter an occasional pictures. But after a few minutes, curiosity got the better of you.
"What do you write about?" you called in the silence.
Ginny didn't look up- "Things," she replied curtly, her eyes never leaving her scribbled page.
"That's vague" you spoke, a curious frown planted on your face.
She shrugged again. "Just... thoughts."
You tilted your head slightly, watching the careful movement of her quill across the page. Something about the way she wrote looked oddly focused. Almost intense. But after a moment she closed the diary again and slid it back into her bag. "Done," she said lightly.
"That was quick?"
"I already knew what I wanted to write." You studied her face for a moment. She looked normal. Relaxed. But something about the moment lingered in your mind long after the conversation moved on.
***
Later that night, as you climbed the spiral staircase toward the girls' dormitory, you glanced back over your shoulder. Ginny was walking just behind you, humming quietly to herself. To anyone else, she would have looked perfectly fine. But you couldn't quite shake the strange feeling that something was weighing on her. Not something obvious. Just something... quiet. Something hidden.
And as the two of you stepped into the warm glow of the dormitory and began preparing for bed, a single thought lingered at the back of your mind. Ginny had always been open with you. Almost completely open. Except— Apparently— For whatever she was writing in that diary.
Winter deepened around the castle in quiet, creeping ways.
The snow along the grounds thickened until the pathways between the greenhouses and the castle had to be shoveled each morning by irritated house-elves. Frost climbed the edges of the tall windows in delicate silver patterns, and the lake below the cliffs grew darker each day, its surface stiff beneath the cold.
Inside the castle, however, the atmosphere had begun to change in ways that had nothing to do with the weather. At first, the shift was subtle. You noticed it in the quiet spaces between conversations.
Students speaking in low voices that stopped abruptly whenever a professor passed by. Groups huddled together at the ends of corridors, whispering about something you couldn't quite hear until you stepped closer. It always came back to the same thing.
The writing on the wall. The attack. The Chamber.
By the end of the week, nearly every conversation seemed to circle back to the story of Mrs. Norris. Filch's cat had become something of a legend overnight. Everyone had a slightly different version of what had happened.
"She was stiff as stone," you'd hear muttered.
"My brother said her eyes were glowing" another would say.
"My cousin says the Chamber of Secrets is actually beneath the dungeons."
The whispers followed you everywhere. Down staircases. Through the Great Hall. Even into the Gryffindor common room. One evening you and Ginny sat curled into opposite corners of one of the large red armchairs near the fireplace. The flames crackled loudly in the hearth, casting warm golden light across the room.
Outside, snow drifted steadily against the tall windows. Inside, several second-year students were arguing loudly about the rumors.
"I'm telling you it's a Basilisk," one boy insisted eagerly, perching his evidence to fellow students.
"That's ridiculous."
"It's not ridiculous! My uncle works at the Ministry!"
"That doesn't mean he knows anything about monsters."
You watched the debate unfold over the top of your book. Ginny, however, was not paying attention to the argument at all. She sat curled sideways in the armchair beside you, her knees drawn up beneath her chin, a quill moving steadily across the pages of the small black diary resting on her lap.
The scratching sound was soft. Rhythmic. You had begun to recognize it easily now. Ginny wrote in that diary almost every day. Sometimes in the common room. Sometimes before bed. Once or twice you had even seen her slip away between classes with it tucked carefully beneath her arm.
At first you hadn't thought much of it. People kept journals. That wasn't unusual. But over time you noticed something strange.
Ginny didn't just write in it when she was bored. She wrote in it when something was bothering her. When she looked anxious. Or distracted. Or tired. You glanced over the top of your book again. Tonight, she had already filled nearly an entire page.
"What are you writing about now?" you called.
Ginny jumped slightly.
The quill paused mid-sentence, "Oh—nothing," she said quickly.
You lowered your book "You always say that." She gave you a small, slightly sheepish smile "Because it's usually true."
"That seems unlikely"
Ginny tapped the end of her quill lightly against the page. "It just helps me think sometimes," she justified.
You tilted your head slightly. "Think about what?"
She hesitated. Then she shrugged. "Everything."
The answer felt vague. But before you could question it further, the conversation across the room suddenly grew louder-more intense "I'm telling you it's real!"
"It's a myth!"
"Then how do you explain the message on the wall?"
That caught Ginny's attention immediately. Her quill stilled again. The group near the fireplace leaned closer together. "The writing said the Chamber had been opened again," a boy whispered dramatically.
"Opened again?" someone repeated.
"That means it's happened before."
"Yeah," another student said darkly. "And last time a student died."
The room went quiet. Even the fire seemed to crackle more softly. Ginny's hand tightened slightly around her quill. You noticed immediately. "
Don't listen to them," you said gently.
Ginny forced a small laugh. "I'm not,"- an obvious lie anyone with a train eye could catch. But her gaze had drifted toward the group across the room. "They don't know what they're talking about," you continued.
"They might."
You frowned-"Ginny." you began.
She looked back at you quickly, "I just mean—Hogwarts is old," she said hurriedly." Things happen here."
"That doesn't mean there's a monster lurking in the walls." you argued, sitting up while pushing your goliath of a book to the side.
"Maybe not." But her voice had grown quieter. Thoughtful.
You leaned forward slightly. "Are you scared?"
Ginny hesitated. Then she shook her head. "Not really."
"Not really?" you pressed.
"Well... maybe a little."
"That's reasonable," you said. "I'm slightly concerned about the possibility of a giant monster." you spoke jokingly, sending her a reassuring smile.
Ginny smiled faintly at that. "Good."
"Why?"
"Because if you weren't worried at all," she said, "I'd think you were mad."
"That's fair," you laughed.
For a moment the two of you sat quietly again. Then the group across the room began arguing once more, their voices rising as new theories were thrown into the conversation. Eventually Ginny sighed and closed the diary.
"You know what I hate about rumors?" she spoke.
"What?"
"They never stop." She slid the small book back into her bag with care- "No matter how ridiculous they are."
You nodded slowly, "That's true."
Ginny leaned back into the armchair, staring thoughtfully into the fire. The orange glow reflected faintly in her eyes. "Do you think it could actually be real?" she asked suddenly.
"What?"
"The Chamber."
You considered the question carefully- it'd be a disservice to ignore the possibility-the blaring signs that lingered throughout the castle walls. "I think Hogwarts has enough secrets already without adding monsters," you said finally.
"That's not exactly an answer," she spoke with a subtle frown, as if she was pushing for some response to steer her thoughts.
"It's the best one I have," you replied plainly.
Ginny exhaled slowly, and irritated distaste in her eyes "I just wish everyone would stop talking about it."
You glanced at her, "Because it's scary?"
"Because it's exhausting."
She rubbed one hand across her face tiredly, "It feels like the whole castle is holding its breath."
You couldn't argue with that. The tension had seeped into everything. Even the teachers seemed more alert lately, professors lingered longer in the corridors between classes, prefects patrolled the halls more frequently. And every now and then you caught the uneasy glance of a ghost drifting past the windows, as if even they were listening for something "You'll be fine," you said gently.
Ginny smiled slightly, "I know." But the smile didn't quite reach her eyes-
Later that night, the two of you climbed the spiral staircase toward the girls' dormitory together. The common room had grown quiet as most students drifted off to bed. The castle beyond the portrait hole was silent. Your footsteps echoed softly as you crossed the dormitory floor.
Ginny pulled on a loose nightshirt and climbed into bed quickly, tucking the blankets around herself with a small sigh. You changed more slowly, folding your robes neatly over the end of your bed. For a few minutes the room was silent except for the rustling of blankets. Then Ginny spoke.
"Do you ever miss home?"
The question caught you off guard. "Sometimes," you admitted, "Do you?"
Ginny stared at the ceiling above her bed, "A little."
"Your family writes to you all the time," you spoke, sitting on your bed-the old banister creaking with your weight.
"I know." She smiled faintly, "Mum writes enough for all of them."
"Then what do you miss?" you asked, leaned forward from the side of your mattress.
Ginny thought about it for a moment. "Being the only person in the room," she said eventually.
You blinked, "That's a strange thing to miss" you replied in a slight joking tone. She laughed softly. "I know."
But her voice sounded tired again. You climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up around your shoulders. "Goodnight, Ginny, " you called tiredly, taking a last concerned look towards your friend.
"Goodnight." The candles in the dormitory flickered gently in the still air. One by one, the girls around the room drifted into sleep. Eventually the quiet breathing of your dormmates filled the space. You were just beginning to drift toward sleep when you heard it.
A faint rustling sound- your eyes opened slowly- unfocused and tired. Across the room, Ginny was sitting upright in bed. The small black diary rested in her lap again. The moonlight from the tall window cast pale silver light across the page as she wrote. The scratching sound of the quill was soft. Steady. Focused. You watched for a moment, half-awake. Ginny didn't seem to notice. She wrote quickly. Almost urgently. As if the words were spilling out faster than she could keep up with them.
Eventually she paused. Staring down at the page. Then, slowly, she closed the diary. For a moment she simply held it in her hands. Then she slid it beneath her pillow and lay back down. Within minutes her breathing softened into sleep. You stared at the ceiling for a long time after that.
Something about the moment lingered in your mind. Not alarming exactly.
Just... strange. Ginny had always been open with you. Almost completely open. Except when it came to that diary. And for reasons you couldn't quite explain— That small black book was beginning to worry you.
***
The whispers around Hogwarts did not fade. If anything, they grew louder.
What had begun as uneasy rumors about Mrs. Noris slowly turned into something heavier—something that settled into the castle like a lingering fog. Every corridor conversation seemed to end the same way: hushed voices, nervous glances, and the same forbidden name spoken carefully beneath breaths. The Chamber of secrets.
Students speculated endlessly. Some insisted the Chamber had never existed at all, nothing more than a ghost story older students used to frighten first years. Others were convinced that something terrible had awakened beneath the castle walls. You tried not to listen.
But it was difficult to ignore when the entire school seemed to talk of nothing else. Even in the Great Hall, where the enchanted ceiling glowed pale winter blue above your heads and the long tables were filled with warm food and louder conversation, the unease lingered like a shadow.
"You'd think people had never heard a ghost story before," you muttered one morning. Ginny sat beside you, absently pushing a piece of toast around her plate. Her hair fell loosely around her shoulders, slightly tangled from sleep.
"You know how people are," she said quietly. "They like being scared."
"That's ridiculous."
"Not really." She shrugged. "It makes things exciting."
You frowned slightly, "Monsters in the walls are not my idea of exciting.," Ginny gave a faint smile.
"Fair point." But she still looked distracted. Lately she always looked distracted.
Her diary had become a constant presence. The small black book seemed to appear whenever she had a spare moment—during breakfast, in the common room, sometimes even tucked against her knees while she sat beside the fire late at night.
At first, you had assumed she was simply writing down thoughts. Now you weren't so sure.
"What class do we have after Transfiguration?" you asked.
"History of Magic."
You groaned "Brilliant." you replied agitated.
Ginny laughed softly, "You could try staying awake this time."
"That seems unlikely," you hummed through bites of your food.
"You slept through half the lecture yesterday," she laughed, giving you a scolding nudge as you rolled your eyes- "Professor Binns makes it sound like a lullaby."
"That's because he died during one of his lessons," Ginny said jokingly.
"Exactly my point."
Ginny opened her mouth to reply— and then suddenly froze. You knew that freeze by now-that horrified-petrified expression equivalent to no other. It could only mean one possible thing. You followed her gaze automatically. Across the hall, near the Gryffindor table, stood a familiar figure with messy black hair and round glasses.
Harry Potter was speaking quietly with Ron and Hermione. Ginny immediately turned bright red. Her toast slipped from her fingers back onto the plate.
"Oh no," she whispered.
You blinked, "Ginny-" you replied, almost comically this time.
"What?"
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?" she asked in her shaky whispered tone-
"Freezing."
"I am not freezing."
"You absolutely are!"
She grabbed her goblet and took a very large sip of pumpkin juice, hiding behind the large cup-as if that could possibly work. Across the hall, Ron had apparently noticed the two of you staring. His eyes lit up instantly. Which was unfortunate. Because the moment Ron noticed you— So did his brothers.
Both Fred and George turned around in perfect synchronization- as they frequently did. Their identical grins spread immediately. "Oh no," Ginny repeated weakly.
Fred nudged George. George nudged Ron. Harry looked confused. And then— The twins began walking toward your table.
"You could run," you suggested, giving Ginny an urgent look. Ginny stared at you in horror. "I cannot run from my own brothers."
"You've done it before-" you reasoned.
"Not in the Great Hall."
Fred slid onto the bench across from you moments later, George followed.
"Well look at this," Fred said cheerfully. "Little Ginny having breakfast."
Ginny groaned, "I have breakfast every day."
George leaned forward dramatically. "Yes, but usually without staring across the room like you've seen a ghost."
Ginny choked on her juice, "I was not staring."
Fred tilted his head toward the far end of the hall, "Interesting, because Harry Potter is sitting exactly where you were looking."
Ginny turned scarlet and you covered your mouth to hide a smile. George leaned closer, "Ginny's got a crush," he announced loudly.
"I do not!"
Several nearby students looked over curiously, and Fred rested his chin on his hand thoughtfully, "Pretty sure she does."
Ron appeared beside them suddenly, "Who does?"
Ginny dropped her head onto the table with a loud thunk, you couldn't help laughing- trying to bite back your amusement.
Fred gestured dramatically toward his sister, "Our dear Ginny."
Ron blinked- then his eyes widened in sudden understanding, "Oh."
Ginny groaned into the table, "You're all terrible."
George patted her shoulder sympathetically "Don't worry, Ginny,"- Fred nodded, "We fully support your tragic romantic endeavors."
"I hate you," she muttered from her slumped position.
"You love us."
Ginny lifted her head just long enough to glare at them and the Fred turned his attention toward you then.
"So."
You raised an eyebrow, "So?" you replied.
"You've been spending quite a lot of time with our sister," George nodded approvingly- "She talks about you constantly."
Ginny immediately tried to kick him under the table-initially missing, "Stop."
Fred ignored her, "Which means we've come to a very important conclusion."
"Oh?" you asked, leaning back from the bench.
"You're trustworthy."
"That's flattering" you replied happily-not the type of praise you expected to get from the most brutal tricksters in the entire school.
George leaned back on the bench, "Anyone who willingly listens to Ginny ramble about Quidditch strategies for three hours deserves respect."
Ginny threw a napkin at him, hitting him with a notable slapping sound- he faked a winced.
You laughed again. Despite the chaos, something about these interactions had become strangely normal over the past few months. The twins appeared frequently—sometimes in the common room, sometimes in the corridors, occasionally during meals. Always teasing. Always loud- But never notably unkind. And more often than not, they ended up dragging you into their ridiculous conversations.
"You're quiet today," Fred observed suddenly.
You blinked, "I'm always quiet." you replied, taking a sip from your goblet.
"Not this quiet."
George narrowed his eyes slightly, "You look like you're thinking about something-"
Ginny lifted her head again, "She does that."
"That's concerning," George said gravely.
Fred watched you carefully for a moment- then he said casually, "Something wrong?" You hesitated. Originally you hadn't planned on mentioning anything. But the question felt genuine- a rarity from the Weasley twins. And lately the concern about Ginny had grown harder to ignore.
"She's been tired," you said, Ginny looked up sharply- her glare prominent. You prepared to get nudged or kicked yourself.
"I have not-" she replied flatly.
Fred raised an eyebrow, George looked between the two of you, "Ginny," he said slowly, "you fell asleep during breakfast yesterday."
"That was one time-" she responded immediately.
"You fell asleep on your homework last night," you added- Ginny turned red again-"That does not count."
Fred's expression had grown more thoughtful now-"You feeling alright?"
"Yes," Ginny insisted "Perfectly fine."
George leaned closer to her- his eyes carefully studying her expression "You look a bit pale."
"I am not pale!" She insisted, sitting up now properly, probably realizing her slumped state was not helping her win the argument. "You are slightly pale."
"I'm just tired."
Fred crossed his arms. "You're not staying up too late, are you?"
Ginny hesitated-only for a second, but the pause didn't go unnoticed, "Ginny," George said carefully.
"I'm fine," she repeated quickly.
Fred glanced at you. Then back at his sister.
"Well," he said slowly, "if you say so."
Ginny grabbed her bag and stood abruptly "I have class-" she snapped.
George checked the time-"You have twenty minutes."
"I like being early."
She turned toward you instead- her expression obviously annoyed but still insistent you follow, "Are you coming?"
You stood quickly fearful any lingering would result in more pushback than you were already likely to be about to get "Yes,"
As the two of you walked away from the table, you could feel the twins' eyes following you. Once you were out in the corridor, Ginny exhaled loudly, "They're impossible."
"You handled it well."
"I nearly died," she sighed, rubbing her eyes again from exhaust.
"You survived."
She pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Then her expression softened slightly, "You didn't have to say anything about me being tired."
"I was worried." Ginny looked at you for a moment. Then she smiled faintly.
"I'm alright."
"You're sure?" you pressed, crossing your arms in a manner to tell her you were weary of her response.
"Yes."
But later that evening, when the common room had grown quiet and most students had gone to bed— You noticed Ginny sitting by the fire again. The small black diary rested open in her lap. Her quill moved quickly across the page. Almost desperately now. And for the first time since the rumors had begun spreading through the castle— A quiet unease settled deep in your chest.
Something was wrong. You could feel it. Even if you didn't yet understand why. Winter evenings at Hogwarts had a strange sort of quiet to them.
Not true silence—Hogwarts was rarely silent—but something softer. The long corridors dimmed earlier in the evenings as the enchanted torches burned lower, and the cold outside pressed against the thick stone walls like a distant reminder of the world beyond the castle.
Inside Gryffindor Tower, however, warmth gathered around the fireplace like a small sanctuary. The common room glowed golden that night, the fire crackling softly while snow drifted lazily beyond the tall windows. Most of the students had already gone upstairs to bed, leaving only a few scattered figures quietly finishing homework or reading.
You and Ginny had claimed your usual place on the rug near the fire.
Ginny lay sprawled on her stomach, parchment spread around her as she worked through a new assignment. Her long red hair had fallen over one shoulder, partially hiding her face as she scribbled furiously across the page. You sat beside her with your back against the couch, knees pulled toward your chest as you read.
For a while the two of you worked in comfortable silence. Then Ginny groaned. Loudly.
You lowered your book slightly. "Let me guess," you said "Charms?"
Ginny dropped her quill dramatically, "How did you know?"
"A wild guess."
She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling with exaggerated despair, "I don't understand why Professor Flitwick insists on so much practice," she groaned, scanning the paper with a silently declared loathing.
"Because that's how you improve," you responded causally, sprawled comfortably across your claimed carpet, your head resting on your forearms.
"That sounds suspiciously like something a professor would say-" she hummed-you snorted quietly.
Ginny turned her head toward you, studying your face for a moment, then she smiled. "What?"
"You're smiling."
"You've said that before-" you responded quickly, your eyes shifting from your book.
"Yes but this time you look particularly pleased with yourself."
"I'm reading," you shrugged, hiding a suppressed smile particularly badly. "That does not explain the smirk," she replied, pausing her work.
You closed your book slowly, "Fine."
"Fine what?"
"I may have just read the most ridiculous line in this entire textbook," you spoke.
Ginny sat up immediately, "Read it."
You cleared your throat dramatically. "Proper wand movement is essential when attempting advanced charm work. Incorrect wrist rotation may result in unpredictable magical discharge."
Ginny blinked, "That sounds normal..."
You flipped the page around so she could see the illustration beside the text. Ginny stared. Then burst out laughing. The diagram showed a wizard whose wand had apparently exploded backwards, launching him several feet into the air.
"That's amazing," she wheezed, a giggle leaving her lips.
"Exactly"
She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "You know," she said between breaths, "Fred and George would absolutely try that on purpose."
You shook your head, "That thought concerns me deeply"
"They'd call it experimental research."
"That is not research."
Ginny laughed again. Then her expression softened. For a moment she simply watched the fire. The flames reflected in her eyes, flickering gently. "You get along with them now," she said suddenly.
"With who?"
"My brothers."
You shrugged slightly, "They're... entertaining."
"That's the word everyone uses-" she spoke flatly, "Well," you paused, giving her a knowing look, " it's accurate."
Ginny rested her chin on her hands, "They like you."
You blinked, "That's alarming..."
"No... really."
"They tease everyone," you replied, waving here off nonchalantly.
"Not like they tease you."
You frowned slightly, "What does that mean...should I be scared?"
Ginny hesitated, then she shrugged, "They're careful with people they don't trust."
You thought about that for a moment, "Your brothers don't strike me as particularly cautious."
"They are, "Ginny's voice had grown quieter, "They just hide it well."
You studied her face for a moment,"...Are you alright?"
She smiled quickly, "Of course-" she paused, "You've asked me that question three times today."
"Have I?" you questioned tiredly- watching the slowly dying embers of the Gryffindor common rooms fireplace crackle and burn out.
"Yes."
Ginny reached for her bag and pulled out the small black diary. You watched the familiar movement with quiet curiosity. She opened the book carefully, flipping past several filled pages before resting her quill against the parchment. For a moment she didn't write. She simply stared at the page.
"What do you usually write about?" you asked gently- pressing the question that had been on your mind all semester farther. Ginny hesitated- Then she smiled faintly. "Everything."
"That's still vague," your groaned.
"I like vague."
You leaned forward slightly, "Do you write about your crush...?"
Ginny nearly dropped the quill "I do not!"
"You absolutely do," you spoke, rolling your eyes-turning of your side.
Her cheeks flushed bright pink, "I do not write about Harry Potter in my diary." You raised an eyebrow, a smile finding its way to your face, "I didn't say his name." Ginny groaned and buried her face in her hands-"You're the worst!"
"You brought it up earlier..." you teased, watching as her face exploded with color and her movements became increasingly flustered, "No, I didn't!" she insisted.
"You stared at him across the Great Hall."
"That was one time."
"That was this morning-"
Ginny laughed helplessly,"Alright fine." She peeked at you through her fingers-"Maybe I think about him a little."
"A little?" you questioned. "A moderate amount-" she clarified.
You grinned, "Ginny."
"What?"
"You nearly stopped breathing when he said hello."
"That was nerves!" She exclaimed, laughing through her ridiculous justifications. Ginny finally gave up and leaned back against the couch beside you. "Okay," she admitted. "Maybe I panic slightly when he's nearby."
"Slightly?" you spoke with a raised brow.
"Moderately-"
You laughed. Ginny nudged your shoulder lightly- "It's embarrassing."
"It's... kind of adorable," you laughed. Ginny sighed dramatically, "You're supposed to be supportive."
"I am supportive."
"You're laughing at me."
"That's part of my support system."
She rolled her eyes, "You're impossible." she spoke, adverting her eyes from you.
"Your brothers say the same thing."
Ginny smiled faintly. Then the smile faded slightly. "Sometimes I think they're right though."
"About what?"
"Being impossible."
You tilted your head, "You're not impossible."
"I freeze whenever Harry walks into the room."
"That's nerves."
"My brothers tease me constantly." She pointed out.
"That's their job."
"I ramble when I'm nervous."
"That's charming."
Ginny looked unconvinced, "You're biased."
"Of course, I am."
"Why?" she asked, brows scrunched.
"Because you're my best friend."
The words settled gently into the quiet space between you. Ginny blinked. Then her expression softened in a way you hadn't seen before, "Best friend?" she repeated.
"You didn't know?"
"I hoped."
She smiled slowly. "I'm glad."
You nudged her shoulder lightly, "Good."
For a moment the two of you simply sat together in comfortable silence again, then Ginny glanced down at the diary still resting in her lap. Her fingers brushed lightly over the edge of the page, "You know," she said quietly-
"What?"
"I'm really glad you're here."
You smiled faintly, "So am I,"
She hesitated. Then added softly-
"This year would have been a lot harder without you." You didn't know how to respond to that so you simply nudged her shoulder again. She laughed quietly, her eyes dancing back to her plethora of papers.
Eventually the fire burned lower and the common room grew quieter still. One by one the remaining students drifted upstairs. Eventually it was just the two of you "Come on," you said finally, standing and stretching from the fur rug, your muscles aching from the hard floor, "Before we fall asleep down here."
Ginny closed the diary and tucked it carefully back into her bag. The two of you climbed the spiral staircase together, your footsteps echoing softly against the stone walls. The dormitory was dark when you entered, lit only by the faint silver glow of moonlight through the tall windows. You changed quietly and climbed into bed.
For a while neither of you spoke. Then Ginny murmured softly across the room.
"Hey."
"Yes?"
"Promise me something."
You smiled faintly in the darkness. You couldn't make out every detail, but you could make out the dreadful expression plaguing her face-that pail look to her face that arrived only when she was considering something deeply, "What now?"
"Just promise."
"I can't promise something if I don't know what it is." you replied tiredly, watching her from your side. Ginny hesitated, then she said quietly- "Promise we'll always be friends."
You blinked in the dim light-"That's easy."
"Even when things get weird?" she pressed, her eyes lowering.
"They're already weird," you joked, staring back at her bashful expression. Ginny laughed softly, "fair point." You settled deeper into your blankets, "I promise."
A moment passed, then Ginny whispered back
"Good."
Eventually the quiet breathing of the dormitory filled the room again. The castle slept. Outside, snow continued to fall silently over the dark grounds.
And somewhere in the quiet stillness of the night, Ginny reached beneath her pillow. The small black diary appeared once more in her hands. She opened it slowly. Her quill moved across the page. The scratching sound was soft. Careful. Desperate. Across the room, you slept peacefully, unaware. Unaware of the secrets being written only a few feet away. Unaware of the shadows slowly gathering within the castle walls. Unaware that soon—everything was about to change.
Next chapter: Chapter 4) Taken. – @fictionalthooughts0 on Tumblr
Rated: mature
Word Count: 5.5K
Summary: As your relationship with Ginny Weasley begin to develop your encountered with perhaps her most chaotic feature-her brothers.
Previous chapter: Chapter 1) A little less Lonely. – @fictionalthooughts0 on Tumblr
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of corridors, parchment, and whispered explanations.
Charms had proven far less terrifying than Ginny initially feared, though that did little to stop her from whispering nervous commentary throughout the entire lesson. You found yourself suppressing laughter more than once as Professor Flitwick attempted to explain the proper wand movement for a levitation charm while Ginny leaned toward you every few minutes to murmur questions or comments.
"Is my swish too aggressive?" she whispered at one point, flailing her wand in aggressive swishing movements as though she was attempting to cast something far away.
You glanced at her wand movement, brows furrowing in amused confusion.
"Yes."
"I knew it."
Still, the class itself went well enough. When Ginny successfully levitated a feather several inches above the desk, her expression shifted into pure disbelief—as though she hadn't expected it to work at all. You couldn't help smiling at that. It reminded you painfully of your own first year. That strange mixture of wonder and disbelief every time something actually worked the way it was supposed to.
Walking out of the classroom afterward, Ginny looked almost dazed. "I did magic," she said quietly, staring down at her wand as though it might suddenly vanish or implode.
"You've been doing magic all morning." you commented with a laugh.
"No, but that was proper magic."
You snorted a laugh, shaking your head as she nudged your shoulder again as the two of you merged into the stream of students moving through the corridors.
The castle felt busier now. Voices echoed from every direction as students hurried between lessons. A group of Ravenclaws passed by arguing loudly about some homework assignment, while a pair of Hufflepuffs attempted to carry a stack of books so tall they could barely see over it. You dodged the walking train wreck, grabbing ahold of Ginny to not lose her behind the moving mountain.
Ginny watched everything with wide eyes.
"You weren't joking about the stairs," she said suddenly. You followed her gaze just in time to see one of the moving staircases slowly shift position, rotating with a low grinding noise. First years all stood around with calculated stares of confusion, attempting to decode the peculiar movements.
"I warned you." you snickered, watching her shared disbelief with the fellow first years.
"That's horrible."
"You'll get used to it."
"I hope so," she muttered.
Despite her complaints, there was something almost delighted about the way she looked around the castle. Like every strange detail fascinated her rather than frightened her. You envied that a little. Your own first year had been so tangled up in uncertainty that you hadn't always allowed yourself to simply enjoy the wonder of the place.
The two of you spent the next hour navigating your way toward Transfiguration. Ginny stayed close beside you the entire time, occasionally grabbing your sleeve whenever a moving staircase or talking portrait startled her. The ghosts were a whole other story to explain.
By the time you reached the classroom, she seemed both exhausted and exhilarated.
"Hogwarts is ridiculous," she announced, slamming her books down on the wooden desks with a bang, an exhausted expression lingering on her face.
You smiled faintly, "Yes."
***
The rest of the day unfolded gradually.
Classes. Lunch. More wandering corridors and navigating around herds of students flocking together.
Somewhere along the way, the quiet companionship between you and Ginny began to feel natural. The conversation flowed easily—sometimes filled with laughter, sometimes drifting into thoughtful silences that didn't feel uncomfortable.
She told you stories about growing up with six brothers. You listened with growing fascination.
Apparently the Weasley household had once experienced a backyard explosion involving enchanted fireworks, a broomstick race through the orchard, and something Ginny referred to only as "the unfortunate gnome incident."
"I was six," she explained solemnly, dipping her quill in ink carefully, her handwriting nearly perfectly precise.
"That doesn't explain anything." you commented, facing the board where a levitating piece of chalk scratched out the days lesson plan with screeching quickness.
"It explains plenty," she spoke.
You shook your head.
"You're all completely mad."
"That's what Mum says."
Despite the chaos she described, there was obvious fondness in her voice whenever she talked about them. Even when she complained about her brothers—and she did complain often—it was clear she loved them fiercely. Still, you noticed something else too.
Whenever the conversation drifted toward Fred and George specifically, Ginny's tone shifted slightly. Less amused. More... complicated. You didn't press the matter. Not yet. But the question lingered and your curiosity was spiked.
By the time evening approached, the two of you found yourselves returning toward the Great Hall for dinner. The sky beyond the enchanted ceiling had darkened into deep violet streaked with fading gold. Candles floated gently above the tables, casting warm light across the room.
Ginny slowed slightly as you stepped inside. You noticed immediately-you turned, "What is it?" you asked.
She hesitated. "My brothers are probably here."
You glanced toward the Gryffindor table. Sure enough, several familiar flashes of red hair were already visible near the center of the table.
Ginny exhaled, a nervous expression suppressed under a poorly made mask of ease on her face. You wondered why she was so nervous to see her family if they were all so fond of one another, surely the fear of embarrassment couldn't have been to the body halting extreme.
"Ready?" you asked lightly.
She squared her shoulders, toughening her exterior "Ready,". Together you walked forward. For a moment it felt oddly like approaching a storm.
The closer you got to the table, the louder the voices became. Laughter. Arguments. Someone dropping a fork. And in the middle of it all— Two identical redheads leaning back in their chairs with matching grins and contagious laughter.
Fred and George Weasley.
Even before Ginny said anything, you could tell exactly which ones they were. There was something unmistakably chaotic about the pair of them. The kind of energy that seemed permanently one step away from causing trouble.
Ginny stopped beside them. Neither twin noticed at first.
"...I'm telling you," one of them was saying, "if Lee had just held the jar properly—"
"Fred," Ginny said, interrupting the pair with a firm call. Both heads turned simultaneously. Their expressions shifted instantly. "Ginny!"
One of them grinned. The other leaned forward.
"Well look at that," he said. "Our little sister survived her first day."
Ginny rolled her eyes. "I've been here for several hours." she quipped, crossing her arms passively, her foot tapping against the ground.
"Still counts," they spoke simultaneously.
Then their attention shifted. Directly to you. Oh no, that couldn't be good you thought quickly, the instinct to retract yourself growing stronger by every millisecond their eyes focused on you. Two identical pairs of brown eyes studied you with unmistakable curiosity.
"And who," said one twin slowly, "is this?"
Ginny straightened slightly, sending you a weariful expression, one of mutual fear and perhaps a nonverbal apology in advance.
"This is my friend." she spoke, clearing her throat.
The word felt strangely significant.
"(Y/N)," she added, motioning to you by her side.
You gave a polite nod, unsure of how to introduce yourself to two of the most well known trickster in the school.
The twins exchanged a glance. Then they both smiled in exactly the same mischievous way. That certainly didn't ease the uncomfortable feeling you had under their shared gaze. "Oh this should be fun," one of them murmured.
The other leaned forward slightly. "Let's see..." He tapped his chin thoughtfully.
"Half-blood."
You blinked- surprised. Out of everything to two known troublemakers could have said to you, 'half-blood' certainly was not what you expected.
"Excuse me?"
"Half-blood," he repeated cheerfully as though it was self-explanatory. Your eyes narrowed, what were they getting at here exactly? "You've got the look."
You frowned. "What look?"
Fred—at least you assumed it was Fred—gestured vaguely. "The confused one." George nodded in unison, the two-exchanging knowing looks. "Definitely confused."
Ginny groaned, her hand clasping at the bridge of her nose, rubbing it as though to release some building pressure. "Don't start." she spoke.
But the twins looked delighted. That was dangerous you reckoned. "So," Fred continued casually, "which parent is magical?"
You crossed your arms, your brows furrowing, "My father."
George snapped his fingers. "Called it."
Fred looked pleased, leaning towards you with what you could only call misplaced confidence. "Muggle mother then?" You nodded slowly, your eyes jumping between the two smug twins and Ginny. How were those two possibly related to the polite Ginny that had trailed you all day. "And how exactly did you figure that out?" you inquired.
The twins exchanged another identical grin, "Observation." one commented, "Experience." the other spoke."Also, the fact that you stared at the floating candles earlier like they might explode."
Ginny snorted, her hand coming to her mouth, her brows melting in a manner that said I'm sorry. You felt heat rise in your face. "Well forgive me for appreciating the scenery." you defended.
Fred looked amused. "Oh, we like this one." he spoke smoothly. George nodded. "Much better than the last friend Ron brought home."
Ginny nudged your arm quietly. "See?" she whispered. "Told you they were awful." But there was a hint of laughter in her voice- behind all the annoyance was minor bemusement. And despite yourself— you were beginning to see why people found the twins entertaining.
Fred and George both watched you with identical expressions of curiosity, as though waiting to see how you would react. It felt less like being questioned and more like being studied—two identical scientists observing an unfamiliar specimen. Ginny, meanwhile, looked utterly unbothered, sliding herself on the bench next to the pair- She had already begun piling potatoes onto her plate with the comfortable efficiency of someone who had spent her entire life sitting at tables like this.
"Ignore them," she muttered toward you without looking up. "They think they're hilarious."
"We are hilarious," one of the twins corrected. The other nodded gravely. "Objectively speaking."
You glanced between the two of them again.
Up close, they were even more difficult to tell apart. Same bright red hair, same height, same freckled faces and identical expressions of barely contained mischief. If it weren't for the slightly different way they held themselves—one leaning lazily back in his chair while the other sat a little more forward—you weren't sure you'd be able to tell them apart at all.
"So," the forward-leaning one said suddenly, resting his elbows on the table.
"You're a half-blood."
You blinked slowly, "Yes", you'd thought they'd already established this. He tilted his head thoughtfully. "Interesting."
"Why?" you asked, sitting next to Ginny who indulged herself in the Hogwarts feast as though she was famished from the day. You watched as her eyes carefully glanced between you and her brothers-monitoring for out of hand conversations, her body acting as a physical barrier between you and them. A wanted one.
"Well," he said, gesturing vaguely toward you with his fork, "you look like someone who owns a toaster."
Ginny choked on her pumpkin juice, her eyes buldging as she snapped her head torwards her brother- a stern exspression on her face, telling him not to cross any lines silently.
You stared at him. "A... toaster?"
"Very suspicious appliance," the other twin added solemnly.
You narrowed your eyes. "I don't see what my breakfast equipment has to do with anything."
Fred—or possibly George—leaned forward slightly, clearly entertained now. "Oh it has everything to do with it."
You fought back the desire to roll your eyes, leaning forward you enaged him "How?"
"Well for one thing," he said thoughtfully, "pure-blood households rarely trust objects that heat bread using electricity."
"That sounds like a very specific problem." you responded sarcastically, unsure of why any of this conversation held substance.
"It's a growing concern," the other twin agreed.
Ginny sighed loudly. She knew where this was going. "Please stop interrogating my friend about toast." she spoke exasterbrated.
But you were already beginning to feel a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
"You're both ridiculous," you said, shaking your heading as you properly slid into the bench to match Ginny, facing away from the pair now.
"True," one of them admitted easily"But you didn't deny the toaster."
You sighed, your eyes preoccupied by getting your own dinner now, "Yes. I have seen a toaster." You sent Ginny a look, one of understanding now. You understood why she said these two were a handful- you could see this getting easily exhausted.
Both twins leaned back in their chairs at the same time, exchanging a dramatic look of triumph. "Knew it," Fred said with a satisfied look on his face. "Called it immediately," George added. Gosh they were synchronized in their own sarcastic manner.
You shook your head, reaching for a piece of bread from the table. "I'm beginning to understand why Ginny called you the worst." Ginny raised her cup toward you in silent agreement. "See?" she said "She gets it" she spoke, sending you a mutual smile, nudging your leg from beneath the table.
Fred placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. "The worst?"
George gasped quietly "Ginny Weasley, how could you."
"You once replaced my quill with a feather that squawked every time I wrote," Ginny replied flatly.
"Creative experimentation." one of them responded, shrugging with playful indifference.
"You also dyed Ron's hair green."
George shrugged. "It improved his dreadful look."
You watched the exchange with growing amusement. There was something almost theatrical about the way the twins interacted with the world—like everything they said was delivered with just a hint of performance. And yet none of it felt mean-spirited. Just... chaotic. Still, unfortunately, the attention had shifted back to you again.
Fred tilted his head slightly. "So," he said, "tell us something about the Muggle world."
You paused mid-bite, turning your head toward the fourth-year boy, "Why?" you asked with cautious suspicion, your movements paused.
"Research."
"What kind of research?" you spoke, narrowing your eyes, your head resting in the palm of your hand as you stared back at them.
"The interesting kind," George said. Fred leaned closer across the table.
"Is it true you lot use boxes that show moving pictures?"
You frowned, your face scrunching, "...televisions?"
"Yes!" he replied, "Those." George looked fascinated. "And the people inside them don't notice you watching?"
You stared at him, "No." you replied slowly- trying to gauge whether these questions were a ruse to embarrass you or outwit you, so far-you couldn't tell.
"How rude of them" Fred spoke, "So how does it work?"
You thought for a moment, not wanting to explain how Tv's worked because truthfully you didn't really understand the technology of one either, "How does magic work?" you countered.
Both twins blinked, then they grinned. "Oh, she's clever," George murmured. Fred pointed at you approvingly. "That's not a bad comeback." They mused, a almost witty competitiveness comprised in the conversation.
You shrugged slightly, your eyes peeling away from the twins and back to you much coveted food, "You asked a ridiculous question."
"And yet you answered it." Fred replied, watching you closely.
"Barely." You murmured, focusing your attention back on the food carefully. Ginny nudged your shoulder. "Careful," she whispered. "They like a challenge." You glanced at her, giving her a sorrowful smile, "Good."
Fred leaned back again, clearly enjoying himself now. "I like this one," he announced.
George nodded thoughtfully. "Definitely more entertaining than Ron."
Ginny rolled her eyes, shaking her head at her twin brothers with disapproval, "That's not difficult."
For a few moments the conversation shifted toward food again. You filled your plate quietly, listening as the twins argued about something involving enchanted sweets and a failed experiment involving exploding fudge. It was difficult not to be drawn into their energy-or perhaps the erratic conversation and quiet schemes that weren't so quiet.
They spoke quickly, bouncing ideas off each other in a way that made it seem like they shared the same brain. And yet every now and then, you caught one of them glancing in your direction. Studying. Assessing. It was oddly intimidating. Eventually Fred turned toward you again.
"So," he said casually. "What year are you?"
"Second." you replied quickly,
He nodded slowly. "Ginny mentioned that."
you turned your head, peering up at him "Did she?"
"Yes." He gestured vaguely toward his sister, scanning how she leaned further towards you than anyone else at the table. "She seems to have adopted you." he spoke with a smirk.
Ginny immediately kicked him under the table; an irate expression etched into her brows and frown. "Shut up."
Fred winced dramatically. "Violence."
George shook his head disapprovingly. "Terrible behavior." in agreement with his twin.
Ginny ignored them. "You don't mind walking with me to classes, do you?" she asked suddenly, turning toward you. The question seemed almost casual—but there was something underneath it. Something slightly uncertain.
You didn't hesitate. "Of course not."
Her shoulders relaxed almost immediately. Fred noticed. You saw it in the quick flicker of understanding that passed across his face. But he said nothing. Instead, he simply smirked slightly. "Look at that," he murmured.
"What?" Ginny asked in an annoyed tone, stalling her fork from her mouth.
"Ginny made a friend" Fred spoke. George gasped dramatically "A historic moment."
Ginny threw a napkin at him. "Both of you stop."
You couldn't help laughing. For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts that year, the Great Hall didn't feel quite so overwhelming. It felt loud. Chaotic. But not lonely. Not anymore.
Dinner eventually stretched longer than you expected. Fred and George seemed determined to keep the conversation alive for as long as possible, asking increasingly ridiculous questions about Muggle inventions.
"Are microwaves actually magical?" George asked at one point, an unnecessary smile planted on his face. That seemed to be the pair mutual forever etched expression-an amused smirk and pleasing smile.
"No."
"Suspicious."
"And what about telephones?" Fred asked, adding on to the ridiculous list of questions you were sure the pair truly did not care about.
"They let people talk across distances."
Fred leaned back thoughtfully "So like a Floo Network." he asked
"Yes."
"But without fire."
"Correct."
"Very disappointing."
Ginny watched the exchange with a mixture of amusement and mild embarrassment. "You two are unbelievable."
Fred looked innocent. "We're expanding our education." George nodded. "Hogwarts encourages curiosity". Even you knew from the last 20 minutes of being around the pair that that was a particularly weak argument and definitely not a compelling one.
"You're not curious," Ginny said. "You're nosy."
Fred grinned. "Same thing."
Eventually the conversation drifted again. Students began leaving the hall in small groups as dinner ended, the noise of the room slowly fading. Ginny finished the last of her pumpkin juice and stood. "We should go," she said.
"You still have homework," Fred reminded her, a pointed finger directed at his sister.
She groaned. "Don't remind me."
George stood as well, stretching slightly. "We'll walk you."
Ginny looked suspiciously at the pair, her eyes nervously shifting to you "You're planning something" she spoke, crossing her arms across her chest, giving the boys an unamused stare.
Fred placed a hand over his heart. "I'm wounded." George nodded solemnly. "Deeply wounded."
You raised an eyebrow. "They're definitely planning something." you responded, giving Ginny a look.
Ginny sighed. The four of you left the Great Hall together- not to Ginny's liking. The corridors outside were quieter now, lit by flickering torches along the stone walls. For a while you walked in comfortable silence. Ginny beside you. The twins slightly ahead.
Every now and then Fred glanced back toward you with a faintly amused expression—as though still deciding what to make of you. It made your nerves crawl every time. You couldn't tell what he was thinking, and that uncertainty was mildly driving you properly mad.
Finally he spoke again. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "you handled yourself well earlier."
"With the toaster?" you asked confused, your eyes looking back to Ginny for help. She shrugged, shaking her head. Clearly she was out of ideas.
George snorted. "Yes."
Fred nodded approvingly. "Most people either get offended or try too hard."
"And I didn't?" you questioned.
"No" You shrugged. "You two aren't very intimidating". That was a lie, and you knew it. There chaotic nature and never-ending stream of mischief definitely intimidated you, especially when it seemed calculated-no, directed towards you.
George gasped. Fred stopped walking. He turned slowly. "Not intimidating?"
"Not particularly." you commented, raising a brow.
Ginny snickered, nudging you again in a manner of thankfulness that you'd temporarily shut the up. She was overly amused.
Fred looked scandalized. "We have a reputation!" he remarked
"You have a reputation for trouble," you corrected- "That's different."
George leaned toward Fred "I told you we should start wearing darker robes," Fred considered this, "More mysterious."
You shook your head, "They're both impossible" you commented to Ginny, giving her a fake surprised expression. She smiled, rolling her eyes as she nodded by your side.
Fred grinned, "And yet you're still talking to us." he interrupted.
You opened your mouth to respond—Then paused. Because he was right. Despite their relentless teasing, you weren't annoyed. In fact—You were enjoying yourself. You weren't sure when that had happened. Maybe somewhere between the toaster jokes and the absurd conversation about microwaves. Maybe earlier when Ginny had introduced you as her friend. Whatever the reason, something about the interaction felt... easy. Fred seemed to notice the pause. His grin widened slightly. "See?"
You rolled your eyes, looking to Ginny as she slipped her arm through yours as the group continued walking, overtaking the boys towards the common room- her cheeks flushed red from mild embarrassment and most likely exhaust from there antics.
"Ignore them," she murmured. You smiled faintly at her "I am."
But you couldn't quite ignore the sound of Fred chuckling behind you. Or the strange feeling that this was only the beginning of something. Something loud. Something chaotic. Something you definitely hadn't expected when you arrived back at Hogwarts this year.
***
Later that night, the dormitory was quieter than it had been the night before. Most of the girls had already gone to bed. The room glowed softly with candlelight as Ginny sat cross-legged on her bed across from you, brushing out her long red hair.
For a while neither of you spoke. The silence felt peaceful after the chaos of the evening, and you felt a content feeling with your day that would've been rare the year prior.
Finally, Ginny sighed, "My brothers like you." she called in a whisper in the near silent dorm room-so quiet you barely heard in your own corner of the room. You looked up from the book in your lap-early textbook readings on your herbology class the following day. You didn't want any funny surprises.
"That sounds dangerous." you responded, closing the book on your lap.
Ginny laughed quietly. "You have no idea." She set the brush aside, a distant look in her eyes as she did so. "They usually scare people off." she added.
"I noticed."
"But you didn't seem bothered." she responded, looking up at you with a slightly confused expression, as though digging to know why.
You shrugged slightly. "They're..." you fought to find the right words "Entertaining."
Ginny smiled faintly. "Yes- I suppose they are"
Then her expression shifted. Something quieter. More thoughtful. You noticed immediately.
"What is it?" you asked, putting your book fully to the side.
She hesitated. And for the first time since you'd met her, Ginny looked uncertain. Uncertain if she should speak or elaborate.
"I just..." she began slowly. Then stopped. You waited. Eventually she looked up again. And there was something vulnerable in her eyes. Something that hadn't been there before.
"I'm glad you're here," she said softly.
You felt that same warm feeling from the night before return. "Me too."
Neither of you spoke for a moment. Outside the tall windows, the night stretched quietly across the grounds. Ginny hugged her knees slightly moving in her creaky bed. Then she glanced at you again-uncertain.
"There's something I wanted to ask you."
You tilted your head "What?"
She hesitated again. And suddenly you had the strange feeling that whatever she was about to say was far more important than the casual tone she was trying to maintain. Ginny hugged her knees slightly, the loose sleeves of her nightshirt falling over her hands as she drew them closer to her chest. "There's something I wanted to ask you."
Her voice was softer now. Quieter than it had been all evening. The candles scattered around the dormitory had burned low, their small flames flickering lazily in the still air. Shadows stretched along the wooden bedposts and across the floorboards, giving the room a warm but sleepy glow.
Most of the other girls were already asleep. The soft rustle of blankets and the occasional quiet breath were the only reminders that you and Ginny weren't entirely alone. You turned to fully face her, your feet dangling off your bed. "What is it?"
Ginny didn't answer immediately. Instead, she reached up and absently twisted a strand of her long red hair between her fingers—a nervous habit you had already begun to recognize. It made your chest tighten slightly. You had only known her for a day, and yet you could already tell when something was weighing on her mind.
"You don't have to ask if it's uncomfortable," you intervened.
Ginny shook her head quickly "No—no it's not that."
She glanced down at the blankets gathered around her legs, smoothing them flat with careful movements that felt more like an attempt to stall than anything else. "I just... wanted to say something before things get... weird."
You blinked, confused by the implication "Weird?"
Her lips twitched slightly "They always do."
You tilted your head, watching her carefully. Something about the way she said it made it sound less like a joke and more like a warning. You met her eyes; your brows scrunched in confusion.
"Okay. I'm just going to say it." she spoke. She lifted her head, meeting your eyes directly."You're going to end up liking my brothers."
You blinked again, perhaps slower that time. You didn't mean to. That hadn't been what you expected "I—what?"
Ginny groaned, dropping her forehead briefly against her knees. "See? It already sounds ridiculous."
You waited patiently while she collected herself. After a moment she lifted her head again, her expression a little embarrassed but still determined. "I mean it though," she continued. "It happens all the time."
"What does?"
"People meeting my brothers and deciding they're the most interesting people in the world."
You frowned slightly. "They're... entertaining."
Ginny gave you a look. "Exactly."
She shifted slightly on the bed, her voice lowering again. "They don't even try," she continued. "They just walk into a room and suddenly everyone's laughing and talking to them. "Her tone wasn't bitter exactly. But there was something underneath it. Something quieter.
"And you think that's a bad thing?" you questioned.
Ginny hesitated. "No," she admitted slowly. "Not really." She leaned back against the headboard of her bed, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling "It's just... complicated sometimes. You stayed quiet, sensing she wasn't finished yet.
"They're not bad brothers," she added quickly. "Fred and George are actually really good to me" she paused "They've always looked after me," she said. "Even when they're being idiots."
You snorted quietly "That seems to be their natural state."
Ginny laughed softly. "True."
For a moment the conversation drifted into comfortable silence again. But you could still see the thoughtful crease between her brows. Eventually she spoke again "When I was younger," she said slowly, "I used to think that when I got to Hogwarts things would be different."
You tilted your head. "How?"
"Well..." she hesitated. "My brothers wouldn't be the center of everything anymore."
That made you pause "You mean because you'd be in school with them?"
She nodded. "They've been here for years already. Everyone knows them."
You thought back to dinner. The way students across the hall had greeted them. The loud laughter. The constant attention. Yes. It made sense.
"I figured I'd finally get to be my own person," Ginny continued quietly. She gave a small shrug. "But then today happened."
"Today?"
She glanced at you. "You met them."
You frowned slightly. "And?"
Ginny gave a small, slightly self-conscious smile. "And you thought they were funny." You couldn't help it—you laughed. "Well, they are."
Ginny groaned again, rubbing her hand against her forehead which must've been pounding with thoughts, "See?"
"Ginny."
She looked at you.
"You're my friend," you said simply.
Her expression softened slightly. "I know," she replied. "But that's the thing." She pulled her knees closer again, resting her chin on them, "They do this thing where people meet them and suddenly, they're more interesting than everyone else in the room."
You thought about that. It wasn't entirely wrong. Fred and George had a kind of energy that pulled attention toward them whether they intended it or not. But that didn't mean—
"You think I'm going to stop being your friend because of them?"
Ginny's gaze flickered away for a moment. "...Maybe not stop."
"But?"
"But maybe you'll start liking them more."
The quiet honesty in her voice made your chest ache slightly. "You really think that?" you questioned, your expression furrowed. She shrugged again, though the motion felt smaller this time. "It's happened before."
The words hung in the air between you. You thought about the entire day—the wandering corridors, the nervous laughter in class, the way Ginny had grabbed your sleeve when the staircase moved. You thought about the relief on her face when you'd agreed to walk with her. And the way she'd introduced you earlier. My friend.
You leaned forward slightly on your bed. "Ginny."
She looked up again. "You helped me carry your trunk yesterday," you continued.
Her brow furrowed slightly. "Yes?"
"You asked if Hogwarts was difficult."
"...Right." she replied, a confused expression on her face, her eyes meeting yours.
"And then this morning you made me promise to walk with you to class."
Ginny smiled faintly. "You say that like I forced you."
"You kind of did" you spoke jokingly.
She laughed quietly. "Sorry."
"But here's the thing," you continued. You paused, choosing your words carefully. "Before yesterday, I spent most of my first year feeling like I didn't belong here."
Ginny's expression shifted immediately.
"What?"
You shrugged slightly. "It's not exactly easy being half-Muggle."
"I didn't think—" she began.
"No one does," you said gently. You leaned back slightly, resting against the bedpost behind you. "I always felt like everyone else already knew how everything worked." The moving staircases. The spells. The strange traditions and expectations. Ginny listened carefully.
"I didn't grow up hearing stories about Hogwarts," you continued. "I didn't know what I was supposed to expect."
"And that made things harder?" She asked, tilting her head.
You nodded. "Most of the time I just felt... out of place." The confession felt strangely easy to say out loud. Ginny's expression softened.
"I'm sorry."
"It's alright." You gave her a small smile. "Because yesterday you walked into the dorm looking exactly the way I felt last year."
She groaned quietly. "I wasn't that obvious."
"You were."
Ginny buried her face in her hands. "Brilliant."
You laughed softly. "But that's why I helped you." She lowered her hands slightly. "Because you looked like you needed someone." Ginny stared at you for a moment. Then she said something very quietly. "I did." The room fell silent again. Outside the tall windows, the night stretched across the grounds of Hogwarts in dark blue shadows. Somewhere far below, an owl hooted softly.
Finally, Ginny spoke again. "So... about the thing I wanted to ask."
You nodded.
"Go on."
She hesitated one last time. Then she said it. "Just promise me you won't start liking my brothers more than me." The words came out in a rush, like she'd been holding them back for a long time. For a moment you simply stared at her. Then you laughed. Not cruelly. Just in genuine disbelief. "Ginny."
She looked immediately embarrassed. "I know it sounds stupid—"
"It doesn't sound stupid," you interrupted gently. "But it does sound unnecessary."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not going to fall for your brothers."
Ginny blinked. "Fall for them?"
"Yes." You shrugged. "Isn't that what you're worried about?"
Her cheeks turned pink. "Well—maybe a little."
You shook your head.
"Ginny, I barely know them."
"But they're charming!"
"Annoying."
"Funny."
"Ridiculous."
She smiled slightly. "See? You already like them." she spoke. You sighed dramatically. "Fine. They're entertaining.
"That's how it starts." she quipped, pointing a comically stern finger as though giving instructions. You rolled your eyes.
"Ginny." She looked at you expectantly.
You held up your hand solemnly "I promise" Her eyebrows lifted slightly, "I promise that I will never fall for Fred or George Weasley."
Ginny stared at you for a moment. Then she burst out laughing. "You sound like you're making some kind of magical oath."
"Well, you were being very serious about it" you exclaimed in a loud whisper.
"I was!"
She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "You really promise?"
You nodded. "Absolutely." The tension in her shoulders melted away almost instantly. "Good," she said, "Because that would be incredibly awkward."
"I can imagine." Ginny leaned back against the headboard again, looking far more relaxed now. Thank you," she added quietly.
You shrugged. "It wasn't a difficult promise."
At the time, it truly didn't feel like one. Fred and George were loud. Chaotic. Entertaining. But falling for them? That seemed ridiculous. You reached for your blanket, pulling it up around your shoulders as the candles continued to flicker softly in the quiet dormitory. Across the room Ginny was already settling down into her own bed. For a while neither of your spoke. Eventually she murmured sleepily into the dim light. "I'm really glad you're here."
You smiled faintly in the darkness. "Me too."
The last candle flickered once more before finally burning out, leaving the room bathed only in moonlight. And somewhere in the quiet stillness of the night, a promise had been made.One that neither of you realized would become far more complicated in the years to come.
Next chapter: Chapter 3) Secrets In Ink. – @fictionalthooughts0 on Tumblr
Rated: Mature
Work count:4.5k
Summary: When you arrived at Hogwarts for your second year you anticipated that it would be just like your first- lonely and boring. Upon meeting Ginny Weasley-that impression changed.
The start of your second year at Hogwarts felt different.
The first year had been overwhelming—new classes, new friends, and the constant feeling that you didn't quite belong yet. Now, sitting on the creaking benches of the grand hall, you realized you knew exactly where you were and what was to come. And yet, a larger pit of dread sat central in your gut compared to the previous year, a nauseating feeling of worry riveting through your entire body.
Growing up, your father would always mention Hogwarts as a wonderful place of magic and wonder. Your muggle mother would sit silently through the description, brows always furrowed by the tales and you would listen elated.
You liked your muggle life. Your primary school years were filled with stereotypical upbringings-friends, family, playgrounds and radio songs. But watching your father wave his wand and make things levitate or transform always captivated the forefront of your attention.
Last year, when you finally reached the age to attend, you embarked from your home with grandiose expectations of your future schooling years. You thought of all the friendships you'd make, all the boys you'd fancy, all the spells you'd learn and creatures you'd meet. It was an exciting time that you'd been anticipating all your life.
Although, upon settling in you realized something still felt eschewed. You made friends...kind of. You were always in a group- though you felt very wearily connected to the others, never truly wizard enough to relate to their upbringings but not muggle enough to be outcasted. You were okay at magic, but just okay-not the legendary wizard you'd always hoped you'd be. And most of all, you missed your family.
You missed seeing your mother after school every day or spending time with friends at the park. It felt as though your life at Hogwarts was only half complete and you felt unsure of how to fit in.
When the school year finally ended, you felt relieved to be returning home. You left feeling no real connection, no real interest, outcasted and unrelatable to your confident Gryffindor peers. You were confused- discontent. All your life your father had made Hogwarts out to be your future home, and yet, you never felt a place of belonging.
To your dismay, by the time you arrived home, everyone else had moved on too. Your previous friends had moved up to their secondary schools, making new friends and finding new interests. It became apparent that life had never waited up for you while gone-though that would have been a useful spell to learn.
And now after your particularly lonesome summer, you sat amongst your fellow Gryffindor peers in a group of girls you'd met the year prior. Conversation came incredibly easy to them. They could joke and relate to each other in a way you struggled to. You watched with the group each time a new first year would be called upon the stage and announced to their new house. They looked jittery, panicked even. It was amusing you thought to yourself- scraping your fork silently across your plate in boredom.
Then, from the corner of your vision- a burnt orange caught your eye. "Another Weasley," one of the girls around you hummed, your peers nodding and snickering amongst themselves at their own calculated observation. Your eyes watched as the young girl with flaming hair bobbed her way through the tables to the stage. She had freckled face and petrified expression as she hopped upon the stool, her hand gripping the rim of the chair so tightly you could notice from your far back position.
"I bet she'll be another Gryffindor," a girl to your side hummed.
"She better," remarked another, "She'd be the only one left out of the house in her family," You stopped chewing, resting your head upon your palm. You'd felt that fear before-the fear planted all over the girls face. Silently, you rooted for her.
"Gryffindor!" the hat roared through the hushed room. Your table erupted into a roar of applause, the large Weasley family piercing the applause with their own wails of joy. Your eyes fell downward; a small smirk planted on your face. It was remarkable. You'd never seen a group of only five people make so much noise at once.
"I should have placed a bet on that," a girl across from you commented.
Your eyes rose from your plate, gazing as the young redheaded girl bursts towards her brothers with a wide-open grin- nearly skipping her way down the aisles. What a relief she must have felt.
The rest of the ceremony proceeded as typical. Speeches from the professors, the new introduction of the defense against the dark arts teacher, a prolonged grand meal and the occasional flying ghost boasting through the air talking about morbid concepts. At least they had a sense of humor.
You were exhausted by the end of the ceremony and clambered back to your dormitory as quickly as you could. It was loud, bustling with girls and their trunks. Demanding conversations consumed the room as you pushed you way through the crowds. The dormitory was louder than you remembered.
Trunks thudded against the floorboards, drawers slammed open and shut, and several girls spoke at once as they unpacked their things. The room smelled faintly of dust and fresh parchment.
Quietly, you slipped to your bed, avoiding any conversation with the other girls in effort to just get your things put away and go to bed. Your attention faded in and out from what the others were saying. Some spoke of the summer, the sorting ceremony, and others simply complained about the starting of courses again. All trivial matters.
Then, you heard the door open with a high-pitched creak. You paid it no mind initially, presuming it to be another girl you had dormed with the year prior getting back late, but when no new voice rang through the room and none of the other girls acknowledged the person in the dorm, you turned your head slyly towards the figure in a manner you thought was discreet.
The Weasley girl from the sorting ceremony stood in the doorway hesitantly, her flaming hair unmistakable even in the dim candlelight. She dragged a large trunk behind her that looked far heavier than she was prepared to handle.
She paused just inside the doorway, clearly unsure where to go. So immersed in conversation none of the other girls in the room noticed her or even spared her a glance, leaving the girl in an awkward stance to decide to stay or go. Eventually though, she seemed to make up her mind, stepping further in the room and making her way to the bed directly next to yours. She was courageous-you gave her that, as a first year you never would have had the confidence to walk into the lion den that was an unfamiliar dorm room.
You watched from the corner of your eye as she tried to navigate herself to a bed. She attempted to lift the trunk onto the end of the nearest bed. It barely budged. It was a pitiful sight.
"Here," You spoke stepping forward, being the first to acknowledge her presence " Let me help,"
The girl jumped slightly, startled, obviously she hadn't anticipated anyone in the room to acknowledge her, let alone help her lift her bag. Still, she moved aside, allowing you to grab one corner of the trunk and she the other. You both heaved the trunk on the bed with a huff. God she'd packed heavy- a chronic trait amongst the first years.
"Thanks," she said quickly, brushing a few loose strands of red hair from her face. Her cheeks were still slightly pink from the excitement of the ceremony. Up close you stared; she looked even younger than she had from across the hall.
"I'm Ginny," she added after a moment, looking at you with some plain admiration for helping her.
"I'm (y/n)," you spoke pausing "It's nice to meet you Ginny, welcome to Hogwarts."
Her eyes brightened with relief, obviously comforted by the introduction and acknowledgement in the strange and foreign place. Her cheeks still practically glowing a faint pink, her grin almost comically awkward-like one of the cartoons you'd watch back home.
"You're a second year then?" she asked cautiously, looking over your uniform. You nodded, returning to the unhatched trunk on your bed, sorting through the numerous clothing and hygiene items you had stuffed inside. You hadn't put much thought to organize your things when packing, looking at the mess inside you now had to decipher.
"Is it terribly difficult?" she continued nervously. "Everyone keeps telling me different things."
You gazed up, "The classes?" you asked confused, watching as her fingers fidgeted together in a nervous manner.
"Well yes, but I mean... living at the castle-making friends- getting the hang of things?" she asked, opening her trunk, nearly mirroring the actions you took to unload your things. Her things looked a lot more pristinely packed, as though plenty of thought had gone into her selections and organization.
You thought for a moment, your hands rummaging through the bag, your mind scattered for an answer. Honestly, for you it had been-often you still felt like you hadn't quite gotten the hang of things. But who would want that sour realization on their first day?"Not terribly," you said after a moment. "Just... different at first."
Ginny laughed quietly. "That's what Mum said."
She continued, unpacking a few things from her trunk, placing them carefully along the edge of her bed. "My brothers say it's the best place in the world," she added.
You raised an eyebrow slightly. "You have brothers here?"
Of course you knew she had brothers. Her red hair and flock of boys cheering for her at the sorting ceremony gave it away instantly. Still, it felt appropriate to ask.
Ginny groaned immediately. "Too many." You laughed softly for the first time that evening. Clearly, she wasn't thrilled by it.
"Ron-my brother, he's in your year." She spoke and you nodded.
"I heard plenty about him last year," You spoke, "I don't think there was a week that passed where I wasn't hearing something about the trouble he was getting into."
Ginny smiled, "That sounds like him." She paused, "And Fred and George are fourth years. They're the worst, honestly."
You thought back briefly to the group of loud redheads who had nearly shaken the hall with their cheering earlier. "I've heard of them," you began "They seem... enthusiastic."
Ginny snorted. "That's one word for it." She paused for a moment before glancing toward you again. "Then there's Percy, we don't get along much,"
"No?" you questioned, "Whys that?"
She rolled her eyes, an annoyed expression etched into her face "He's just a prick, he thinks he's better than everyone else, especially sense he's a prefect this year,"
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head- "One of those huh?" you spoke, watching as she gave a annoyed nod, as though the thought of her brother was one of distaste.
You gave her a gentle smile," Don't worry much about him, so long as you stay out of trouble the prefects don't bother with us much- there more concerned with the...enthusiastic types."
She smiled, sitting on her bed with contentedness, her hand smoothing over the sheets and her eyes dazzled by the elaborate banisters. "Were you nervous your first year?" she asked.
You closed your trunk, emptying it completely before sliding it smoothly beneath your bed. It was easier this year to do that. You thought for a moment, not giving a rushed response. Admittedly, you were still nervous. Nervous of what was to come, nervous if you'd always feel outcasted- nervous for all of it. To say the nerves had rubbed off with time would be a disservice.
You hesitated. Then you nodded. "Terrified." You spoke. And though it was a past tense question, 'terrified' still was incredibly true to how you still felt.
Ginny looked strangely relieved, as though she had gotten some validation or confirmation that what she was feeling was not as scary or intense as she thought. "I thought I was the only one"
You smiled slightly, letting out a sigh."No one here looks nervous," you said, glancing around the room where the other girls continued chatting easily. "But most of them probably were too. "Ginny followed your gaze, watching as the other girl chatted and laughed with each other with some unnerved ease, their interactions nearly flawless.
She smiled at you, leaning towards your bed where you sat. "I'm glad you're here."The words caught you slightly off guard. Something about her honesty felt warm and sincere- a feeling you'd yet to captivate at Hogwarts. For the first time since arriving back at Hogwarts, the tight knot in your chest loosened slightly and the pit in your stomach lessened in depth. "Me too," you admitted.
***
The next morning arrived far earlier than you would have liked. Sunlight spilled through the tall dormitory windows, illuminating the room in a warm golden glow that felt entirely too cheerful for how tired you still were. It had been a long night trying to settle while the room buzzed and everyone seemed to stir around you.
You buried your face in your pillow, the subtle smell of feathers lingered. First day back. Already.
Around you the dormitory slowly began to stir with movement as the other girls woke and began preparing for classes. Someone yawned loudly-obnoxiously. Another complained about the early hour.
You rolled onto your back, staring at the canopy above your bed while the familiar weight of school settled slowly back onto your shoulders.
Classes. Homework. Endless corridors.
You sighed quietly into your arm which rested above your eyes, blocking the unwanted sunlight from view. Hopefully this year would be easier-better. You didn't want to spend week after week writing home to your mum pleading to return or receiving various letters from your father preaching how you'd eventually find your footing. Would you?
Across the room Ginny sat up suddenly in her bed, hair sticking out in every possible direction. For a moment she looked completely disoriented. You peered over, watching her erected position and her comical shock.
Then she noticed you watching and gave a sheepish smile-as though she'd been caught.
"Morning."
"Morning." you replied with a smirk. She looked a proper mess but the nights fearful glances you'd exchanged seemed to be far from her mind as she rubbed her eyes repeatedly.
She stretched dramatically.
"I forgot how early they make us wake up here." she spoke in a tired tone, kicking her feet in attempt to stretch, the wooden bed creaking with her movements.
"That's because you weren't here last year." you commented, sitting up properly.
"Good point."
She climbed out of bed and began digging through her trunk for her uniform robes. You watched quietly for a moment. It was strange. Rather, you felt strange. Normally mornings in the dormitory felt awkward and distant, everyone moving around each other with the polite indifference of people who happened to share a space but not much else.
But this morning felt... easier. Perhaps you felt easier. Like you didn't have to shuffle or hide in your own space. Perhaps it was because you were acknowledged for the first time straight away so it didn't feel like you had to make your presence sparce.
Perhaps because Ginny didn't seem to expect anything from you.
She talked the same way she had the night before—comfortably, without the careful politeness that most people used when speaking to someone they didn't know very well. You felt known or perhaps at the very least liked. The sensation was light-hopeful, and momentarily you sat pondering on that hopefulness.
"Do you know where the classrooms are?" she asked suddenly.
The question removed you from your introspection, watching as she pulled her white button up on, the shirt perfectly pressed. It was a subtle detail but at least you could tell she came prepared.
"Some of them." you replied with a slight smile, watching she struggled to pull the grey vest over her long sleeve, carefully inspecting which way to slide on the top.
"That's reassuring." She quipped back sarcastically, fumbling with her robes.
"You'll learn quickly."
Ginny groaned. "I hope so, if I get lost I'll never hear the end of it from Fred and George." She pulled on her robes and turned toward you, as though asking for your approval of how she dressed- you gave a careful look before returning a tired nod. She'd past her quality check, that was essentially the first important step of a first day.
"You'll walk with me, right?" she asked causally, turned around busy in her trunk trying to find a hairbrush.
You blinked.
"You want me to?" you asked surprised. No one had ever really walked with you to class, nor had you ever been asked. The question caught you off guard.
"Of course." she responded casually. Her answer was immediate. It took her no time to consider or ponder her decision. "You're the only person I know here besides my brothers." she added, ripping her brush through her frizzed hair into so sort of sense.
It was a strange realization. Ginny had arrived at Hogwarts with an entire family already established within the castle, yet somehow, she still looked just as uncertain as you had felt the year before. Maybe even more so.
Despite that it was gratifying and somewhat relieving to know someone wanted you by their side. The weight on your heart and pounding in your chest slowed know for at least for the day you'd have the coveted companionship you searched for endlessly last year.
"Alright," you said finally. "I'll walk with you."
Her grin appeared instantly, an expression of relief etched into her features. "Brilliant," she said, tying her hair back quickly with a worn ribbon she had pulled from the bottom of her trunk. "I was half convinced I'd wander into a dungeon and never be seen again."
"That's not entirely impossible," you replied lightly, slipping your shoes on. "The staircases move." you spoke jokingly, stretching your back as you stood, the morning light warming you from behind.
Ginny froze, an expression of terror plaguing her features, "They move?" she questioned horrified, her body stiff.
You paused "...Occasionally."
Her eyes widened dramatically "You're joking?"
Surprised she didn't already know from her herd of brothers, you shrugged attempting to downplay the castles confusing nature as much as possible. "You'll find out."
Ginny groaned, pressing the heels of her hands briefly into her eyes. She was nervous, you could tell-and if you'd heard moving staircases on your first day you would've been a nervous wreck too.
"I knew my brothers were leaving out important details." she scolded, crossing her arms with distaste. You laughed, standing from your bed and straightening the wrinkles from your robes. The sound surprised you a little. It had been a while since laughter came that easily.
Together the two of you made your way down the winding spiral staircase, the wooden steps creaking faintly beneath your feet, her hesitance that every staircase would move showing as you jokingly explained the common room stairs wouldn't be shifting on her.
The Gryffindor common room looked calmer than it had the night before. A few students lounged near the fireplace finishing homework they had clearly neglected during the feast, while others filtered in and out toward the portrait hole on their way to breakfast
Ginny slowed slightly as you stepped into the Common room. You noticed it immediately. Her eyes flicked quickly across the faces scattered around the room, as though checking for something—or someone. It was subtle, but the tension in her shoulders gave it away. Her nerves were showing.
You remembered that feeling. That quiet moment of entering a room full of strangers and wondering where exactly you were meant to belong within it.
"Come on," you said gently, nodding toward the portrait hole.
Ginny followed quickly, her attention resuming on you as she followed your heel as though scared to fall behind.
The corridor outside buzzed with early morning movement. Students hurried along the stone passageways, robes swishing and bags slung over their shoulders. Ginny walked beside you, her gaze constantly shifting as she took in every detail of the castle. The towering ceilings. The moving portraits. The distant echoes of voices bouncing along the walls.
You explained the password system to get into the common room over and over on your walk, taking time to point out landmarks around the castle you'd used the year prior to get you way around, smiling as Ginny's faced scrunched trying to concentrate on absorbing all the information you'd given her.
It's... bigger than I imagined," she admitted after a moment once noticing you were watching her.
You smiled faintly. "That feeling never really goes away."
She glanced sideways at you. "Did you get lost a lot last year?" she asked hesitantly.
"Constantly." That seemed to comfort her, her smile returning.
By the time you reached the Great Hall, the warm scent of breakfast had already filled the air. Plates clattered and students talked loudly across the long wooden tables beneath the enchanted ceiling. Ginny paused just inside the doorway, nearly as frozen as a plank.
Her shoulders tensed again. You followed her gaze.
Several of her brothers already sat at the Gryffindor table, talking animatedly among themselves. Ginny hesitated. It was the smallest pause—barely noticeable—but you saw it.
"Do you... want to sit somewhere else?" you asked quietly once noticing her hesitation.
Ginny blinked, then shook her head quickly. "No—no it's fine." But her voice sounded slightly smaller than it had moments ago.
You didn't question it further. Instead, you guided the two of you toward a quieter stretch of the table a few seats away from the group of redheads where you religiously sat.
Ginny seemed grateful for the distance, giving you a knowing smile as you sat, sliding in by your side. She poured herself some pumpkin juice, staring down into the cup for a moment, watching the swirl of the liquid before speaking again, "It's strange," she said quietly.
"What is?" you asked mildly preoccupied, shoveling food onto your plate.
"Being here." You waited for elaboration, presuming it was coming. Ginny traced the rim of her cup with her finger.
"I've heard about Hogwarts my entire life," she continued. "My brothers talked about it constantly. Every summer."
You could picture it easily. A house full of loud voices, stories spilling over one another. Rowdy boys running around causing a familia chaos while Ginny waited for her chance of understanding.
"They made it sound... incredible."
She glanced up at the towering ceiling, watching as ghost floated about the big wide space, talking amongst themselves in a fantastical nature. "And it is," she added quickly.
"But?" you questioned, knowing one was coming.
Ginny hesitated, her mind wandering over the words she was trying to find, "But it's different when you're actually here."
You nodded slowly. "Yes," you said quietly. "It is."
For a moment neither of your spoke. Students around you continued laughing and talking, but the conversation at your small corner of the table felt oddly separate from the noise.
Ginny broke the silence first. "Did you ever feel like everyone else already knew what they were doing?" she questioned.
You gave a quiet laugh. "All the time."
She smiled slightly.
"I thought it was just me." she spoke in your quiet corner of the table, her smile almost sheepishly small.
You shook your head. "No one really knows what they're doing their first year." you spoke with hopeful reply. You certainly had zero clue what you were doing your first year- you were hopeful you'd learn this year, but there was not guarantee,
Ginny leaned back a little in her seat. "That's reassuring."
You watched as the tension slowly drained from her posture again. It struck you then that Ginny carried herself with a strange mixture of confidence and nervousness. At first glance she seemed bold—walking straight into the dormitory the night before without hesitation. But beneath that confidence sat something quieter. Something careful. Like someone trying very hard not to make a mistake.
You understood that feeling better than most.
Breakfast passed quickly after that.
Ginny asked endless questions about classes, teachers, and the strange quirks of the castle. You answered what you could, occasionally admitting when you weren't entirely sure yourself. More than once she laughed—an easy, bright sound that seemed to lift some of the weight you'd been carrying since returning to school.
By the time the two of you finished eating, the hall had begun to empty as students rushed off toward their first lessons. Ginny stood, adjusting the strap of her bag nervously. "So," she said. "Where to first?"
You glanced toward the doors, thinking for a moment yourself, "Charms."
Her expression brightened slightly.
"That doesn't sound too terrifying."
"Give it time." you snorted, standing to your feet, clasping the strap of your own bag which had worn down from the year prior. It didn't feel as heavy though- in fact, your whole body felt far less heavy than it had the night-no, the whole summer prior.
Together you stepped back into the corridor, joining the stream of students flowing through the castle's winding hallways. There were endless head bobbing around you, but it felt seamlessly easy to keep track of Ginny.
As you walked, Ginny grew quieter for a moment.
Then she spoke again.
"Thank you," She spoke in something slightly louder than a mere mutter.
You looked over, "For what?"
"For... yesterday." She gestured vaguely to her bag and then to you once more, "The trunk. Talking to me. Walking with me today."
You shrugged slightly. "It wasn't a big deal" you spoke.
"It was to me." she interrupted. Her honesty caught you off guard again. Ginny glanced ahead down the corridor, her voice softer now. "I was really nervous last night."
"I know." you breathed, laughing slightly.
She looked surprised, mildly exposed, her hand clutching her bag harder and tighter, "You do?"
You nodded, smiling briefly to yourself "You had the same look I did last year." you revealed, your gaze casted downwards at the sheepish memory.
"What look?" she demanded.
"The one where you're trying very hard not to look scared."
Ginny laughed quietly at your statement, giving a small nod that seemed directed towards just herself. "I wasn't very good at hiding it, was I?" she asked shyly,
"You did alright."
She smiled.
The two of you reached a fork in the corridor where groups of students began splitting toward different classrooms. Ginny slowed slightly. Then she nudged your shoulder with hers. "Well," she said. "At least I won't be completely lost now."
You smiled. "No. Just mostly lost." you pointed out earning yourself another friendly nudge into the center of the hallway.
She grinned. "That's manageable."
For a moment the two of you stood there together, watching students disappear down various hallways. It occurred to you then that something had shifted. Yesterday you had returned to Hogwarts feeling more alone than ever before. But now—
Standing beside Ginny in the middle of a crowded corridor—you didn't feel quite as invisible, quite as alone- not so out of place. Not entirely.
Ginny adjusted her bag again before glancing back at you. "Ready?" She questioned with a Jittery nervousness masked by that awkward grin she gave.
You nodded.
"Ready."
Together, the two of you stepped deeper into the castle. For the first time since arriving back at Hogwarts, the place felt just a little less unfamiliar. A little less lonely. And though neither of you said it out loud—Something that felt suspiciously like the beginning of a friendship had quietly settled between you.
Next Chapter: Chapter 2) The promise. – @fictionalthooughts0 on Tumblr
You’d always admired Fred Weasley from afar. His laugh, his mischief, the way he ruled the Quidditch pitch with those unfairly perfect arms…Crushing on him was easy. Keeping it a secret? Not so much. When Fred overhears you gushing to your friends about just how “unreal” he is, you’re mortified. Until you realise he’s just as interested in you.
Warnings: making out, biting
———————————————————————
The sky above the Quidditch pitch stretched endless and pale blue, streaked with wisps of clouds. The air was sharp with autumn chill, but the stands were thrumming with warmth and noise. Chants of “GRYFF-IN-DOR! GRYFF-IN-DOR!” echoed from every corner except green and silver. You pulled your scarf tighter and tried to pretend that your stomach’s fluttering was because of the match itself even when it wasn’t.
Your eyes followed him like a Seeker to a Snitch. Fred Weasley cut through the air on his broom as if he owned the sky, ginger hair catching sunlight so brightly it made him easy to spot. He wasn’t even straining. He was laughing, calling things out to his brother, moving with this careless grace that made it seem as though Quidditch was less a sport and more a practice session between the two of them.
Fred raised his Beater’s bat, swung with easy power, and crack! The Bludger went flying, whistling past the Slytherin team’s Seeker. The crowd roared. Fred pumped his fist and shot George a smug grin, and you nearly melted into your seat.
Merlin, those arms.
The way his sleeve strained against his biceps when he swung, the line of muscle carved into shape by hours of training…it was unfair. Absolutely unfair. And then he had the audacity to laugh, bright and full-throated, as if he didn’t know he was driving you insane. Which, to be fair, he logically didn’t.
Beside you, your friends clapped and cheered, but you couldn’t move. You could only imagine what it would be like to sit in the common room with him, to be on the receiving end of that grin, to hear his laugh up close instead of carried by the wind.
You didn’t even realise you were sighing dreamily until one of your friends nudged you with her elbow. “You’re staring again.”
Heat climbed up your neck. “I am not.”
“You are,” she said, smirking. “It’s fine. Honestly, I don’t blame you. He’s fit. And those arms—”
“Don’t.” Your voice came out desperate, and your other friend snorted with laughter. “Please don’t get me started.”
By the time the match ended with Gryffindor’s win, you were in a daze. You drifted with the tide of students pouring out of the stands, your friends trailing on either side.
And maybe it was the post-match adrenaline, maybe it was because you thought he’d be long gone by now, but your tongue loosened as you broke from the crowd and headed up to the castle.
“Honestly,” you blurted, words spilling faster than you could stop them, “he’s just…ugh, Fred Weasley is unreal. His biceps looked…Merlin, they looked like they could crush me. Honestly, they should be illegal. Did you see the way he swung that bat? The muscle? Oh my days! He’s so funny, and he’s so bloody cute. I swear I could just—” You cut yourself off, cheeks burning, but your friends only giggled, egging you on. “I swear, I’d—”
“—let him ravish you?” one of your friends teased.
You groaned, face in your hands. “Don’t say it like that.”
“You practically said it yourself!” She defended.
Your laughter burst out helplessly, nervous and giddy, echoing down the corridor as the crowd thinned. That was when you heard a deliberate throat-clear that stopped your heart. Every drop of blood drained from your face as you turned.
Fred Weasley leaned against the wall on the far side of the corridor, still in his Quidditch gear, hair mussed and cheeks flushed from wind. His bat was slung casually over one shoulder, his grin as slow and lazy as ever. His eyes were so bright and glinting with mischief, and they were fixed on you.
“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” he said, voice carrying that gorgeously playful lilt. “I was rather enjoying the review.”
Your stomach plummeted. “You…you heard—”
“All of it,” he said cheerfully. “Unreal, crushing biceps, funny, cute...Can’t say I disagree.”
Your friends were no help. They were doubled over with laughter, whispering “Good luck” before fleeing down the corridor and leaving you stranded with him.
Fred pushed off the wall and strolled closer, every inch of him relaxed confidence. You couldn’t breathe. You wanted the floor to swallow you whole.
“Well,” he said, stopping just in front of you. His voice dropped lower, playful, daring. “Go on, then. What was it you would you let me do with these arms of mine?”
Your heart pounded so loudly you swore he must have heard it. Fred’s grin only deepened as he leaned down, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on your flushed face like you were the most amusing thing he’d seen all day.
“I-I wasn’t…” you stammered, at a complete loss of words or even coherent thought. “You didn’t—”
“Oh, I definitely did,” he interrupted smoothly, that maddening glint in his eye. “Every word. Didn’t know I had such a devoted admirer.”
You wanted to melt straight into the flagstone floor. “I didn’t mean it like…”
“Like what?” he prodded, taking a lazy half-step closer. You backed into the wall without even realising it. “Didn’t mean that my arms should be illegal?” He flexed, just slightly, the fabric of his sleeve tightening over his bicep as though to taunt you. “Or that I could, what was it? Ah yes, ravish you?”
You squeezed your eyes shut, mortified. “Please stop.”
“Stop?” His laugh was low, delighted. “Why would I stop? This is the best thing I’ve heard all week. I’ll have to tell George.”
“No!” Your eyes flew open, panic sparking. “Don’t you dare!”
Fred tilted his head, feigning thought. “You’re right. Wouldn’t be fair. Can’t wound his ego too much. Best keep this little…confession, all to myself.” He let the word confession hang in the air, savoring your helpless squirm.
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I’m never going to live this down.”
“Oh, come on, love,” he said, gently prying one hand away from your face. His thumb brushed against your knuckles. “You make it sound like a tragedy. If anything, I’m flattered. I’ve been told I’m charming, but this is the first time I’ve been accused of being unreal.”
“You’re enjoying this far too much,” you muttered.
“And you’re adorable when you blush like that.” He grinned, clearly enjoying every second.
You couldn’t look at him, but he didn’t let the silence linger. “Tell you what,” he said after a beat, leaning one shoulder against the wall beside you, close enough that his sleeve brushed yours. “If you’re so taken with me, maybe we ought to spend a little time together. Let you admire the arms up close, yeah?”
Your mouth went dry. “You want to…what?”
“Hang out,” he clarified, like it was obvious. “Properly. Not just you staring at me from the stands, although don’t get me wrong, I quite like that too.” His grin softened just slightly, like he was letting you in on something real beneath the bravado. “I think you’re cute, you know.”
The world tilted. Fred Weasley thought you were cute?
You stared, utterly useless, until he added, teasing again, “Merlin, you’re going to faint on me, aren’t you?”
“I am not going to faint,” you blurted, though your knees were dangerously close to buckling.
“Good.” He leaned just a little closer, voice dropping so that his words curled warmly against your ear. “Then it’s settled. Tomorrow evening, by the library, seven o’clock. Just you and me, what do you say?”
You blinked, struggling to string together words. “I guess…”
“Not good enough.” He straightened, pretending to frown. “Is that a yes, or do I have to get on that pitch again to convince you?”
Your laugh slipped out before you could stop it, nervous and incredulous. “It’s a yes!”
Fred’s grin turned triumphant. “Fantastic.” He stepped back at last, giving you a little space, though his eyes lingered on your face like he was memorising your blush. “See you tomorrow, sweetheart.”
He winked and then sauntered down the corridor, leaving you pressed against the wall with your heart trying to beat its way out of your chest.
———————————————————————
The next day dragged like treacle. You couldn’t focus on a single lecture. Not on McGonagall’s diagrams of transfigured matchsticks, not on Snape’s disdainful sneer, not even on the endless chattering in the Great Hall at lunch. Everything came back to one impossible thought. You had a date with Fred Weasley.
By the time evening approached, your dormitory was a storm of nerves. You paced the floor, books and scarves discarded across your bed as though clothing might somehow save you from disaster.
“I can’t do this,” you groaned, sinking dramatically onto the mattress.
“You can and you will,” one of your friends said firmly, tugging a jumper out of your hands. “Honestly, you’d think he asked you to duel him, not meet him by the library.”
“It feels like a duel!” you wailed, muffled into your pillow. “I’ll trip over my words, or I’ll say something stupid, or…Merlin forbid, I’ll stare at his arms again and he’ll notice.”
Both your friends dissolved into laughter. “He already knows you stare at his arms,” one reminded you, gleeful.
You groaned louder, grabbing a pillow and smacking her with it. “Don’t remind me!”
“Don’t act like it isn’t working in your favor,” the other chimed in, perched on the edge of the bed. “He likes it. You should’ve seen his face when he walked up to you yesterday. He looked like the cat that got the cream.”
Your stomach flipped. He liked it. The thought was dizzying.
“Exactly,” your first friend said, tossing the jumper back at you. “So stop panicking and pick something to wear. Something casual. You don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard.”
You sat up, clutching the jumper to your chest. “But I am trying too hard.”
“That’s the point!” she exclaimed, exasperated but fond.
The dormitory filled with rustling fabric and your anxious chatter as they helped you choose. They insisted the perfect outfit would be something warm enough for the corridors but flattering, something that didn’t scream ‘date outfit’ but still made you feel like you could stand within ten feet of Fred Weasley without combusting. You landed in a pair of jeans and sneakers with a tight fitting top layered over a lace camisole.
Finally dressed, you stood before the mirror, twisting your hands. “I look ridiculous.”
“You look fine,” one friend said.
“You look adorable,” the other corrected. “He’s going to melt.”
You bit your lip, trying to quiet the wild storm in your chest. “What if he doesn’t show?”
Both girls threw cushions at you at once. “He will.”
A sharp chime from the clock made your stomach lurch. Six forty-five. Fifteen minutes until you were supposed to meet him.
You exhaled shakily. “Merlin, I’m going to die.”
“No, you’re going to snog Fred Weasley,” one friend said, smirking as she shoved you toward the door. “Now go. And if you do faint, at least fall into his arms so he can flex while catching you.”
Your face went scarlet as they all but pushed you out of the dormitory. The corridors were quiet in the evening light, lanterns casting long shadows across the stone. Every step toward the library made your pulse race faster. By the time you rounded the corner and spotted him leaning casually against the wall, hands in his pockets and that infamous grin already spreading when he saw you, your breath caught entirely.
Fred Weasley was waiting. For you.
“Well, well,” he said, straightening as his eyes lit up. “I was starting to worry you’d stood me up, love.”
You hugged your books tighter to your chest, trying not to combust under his gaze. “I’m not late.”
He tilted his head, smirking. “Didn’t say you were. Just…cruel, keeping me waiting with only my devastating good looks for company.”
Your cheeks burned. “You’re too confident for your own good.”
“Mm, but I thought you liked that,” he countered, and then he pushed the doors open with a flourish and gestured you inside.
The library was quiet at this hour, golden lantern light spilling across rows of shelves. Madam Pince narrowed her eyes in warning as you both entered, though Fred only gave her a cheeky smile and led you toward a tucked-away table in the corner.
“So,” he said as you sat, spreading your books before you in an attempt to steady yourself, “what’s on the curriculum tonight? Admiring my arms again, or are we actually studying?”
You groaned, burying your face in your notes. “Please stop bringing that up.”
“Never,” he said cheerfully, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed (and deliberately tensed). “I quite liked the review. You’ve got a way with words, sweetheart. Unreal, wasn’t it? I’ll be putting that on my Quidditch résumé.”
You peeked at him from behind your parchment. “You’re having far too much fun with me.”
“Of course I am,” he said easily. “How often does a bloke overhear the prettiest girl in school confessing she’s been lusting after his arms?”
Your quill slipped from your hand. “I…Fred!”
“Oh, don’t look so scandalised.” He leaned forward suddenly, elbows on the table, gaze catching yours. His voice dropped low enough that you felt it all the way to your toes. “You don’t think I’d ask you here if I didn’t like you back, do you?”
Your breath caught. “You…like me?”
Fred smiled, slow and dangerous, the kind of grin that promised trouble. “Ia that so hard to believe?”
Heat flared across your face, and you scrambled for your notes, desperate to redirect. “We should study. Potions, maybe?”
“Fine,” he said with mock solemnity, dragging one of your textbooks closer. He flipped it open at random and pretended to squint at the page. “Let’s see…‘properties of doxy eggs.’ Fascinating. Very romantic.”
You snorted and were immediately mortified by the sound, your eyes going wide as you covered your mouth.
“Ah, there it is.” He pointed at you, victorious. “Your laugh. Been trying to drag that out of you for weeks.”
You blinked. “Weeks?”
“Of course.” He leaned closer, until you could see the freckles dusted across his nose. “What, you think I only just noticed you drooling over me from the stands?”
Your mouth dropped open in horror. “I was not—”
“Relax,” he chuckled. “I liked it. Found it bloody adorable, actually. Thought to myself, ‘there’s a girl worth chasing.’”
Your heart lurched violently. “You’ve been chasing?”
“Mm,” he hummed, pretending to study the page again. “Subtly. Thought you’d catch on sooner. Guess I’ll just have to be obvious now.”
“Obvious how?” you whispered before you could stop yourself.
That grin curved his mouth again, wicked and warm. “Like this.”
He pushed your books aside with one sweep of his hand, stood, and offered you his palm. “Come on. We’re not fooling anyone with this doxy egg business.”
“Fred, we can’t!” You glanced nervously toward Madam Pince’s desk.
“Don’t worry.” He tugged you up, his fingers threading through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I know a place.”
And before you could argue, he led you out of the library and down a quiet corridor, ducking into an empty classroom with the ease of someone who’d snuck into dozens before. The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the world outside.
Fred wasted no time. He pressed you gently against the wall, bracing one arm beside your head, his body close but not trapping. His grin softened into something more intent, more heated. “I’ve been dying to do this since yesterday,” he murmured, and then his mouth was on yours.
The kiss was everything. Hot, hungry, and unrelenting. You gasped, and he took the chance to deepen it, his tongue brushing yours, his hand sliding into your hair. Your fingers fumbled against his shoulders, desperate to hold onto something solid as the world tilted.
Fred kissed like he flew. It was reckless, confident, and thrilling. He nipped at your bottom lip, pulled you closer with a hand on your waist, made you forget how to breathe.
You almost whined in protest when he pulled away from your mouth only to make you gasp in satisfactions when he shifted his attention to your neck. He peppered open-mouthed kisses all along your flushed skin as you tilted your head back to grant him access. Your insides were on fire.
When his arm shifted higher against the wall, the muscle in his sleeve bunched, flexed. You couldn’t stop your eyes flicking down. The sight made your pulse race so wildly you acted before you thought, leaning down and sinking your teeth lightly into the curve of his bicep.
Fred froze, then groaned, low and rough, laughter tangled in the sound. He pulled back just enough to look at you, flushed and grinning. “Bloody hell.”
Mortification crashed over you. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I did that.”
“Don’t you dare apologise.” His grin turned devilish, eyes bright with heat. “Sweetheart, that was the hottest thing anyone’s ever done to me.”
You squeaked, hiding your face against his shoulder, but he only laughed and kissed your temple, murmuring against your skin, “Merlin, I like you.”
And then he claimed your mouth again, harder, leaving no room for doubt. It was all teeth and heat and laughter tangled together. His hand slid from your hair down to your waist, gripping firmly, anchoring you against him as if he was afraid you might vanish. Every time he shifted, you caught the faint creak of the old wooden floor beneath your shoes, the muffled thud of your back against the wall.
Your hands fumbled desperately. First at his shoulders, then his chest, then finally curling up around his neck, clinging as he deepened the kiss again. He tasted like sugar and adrenaline, and every brush of his tongue against yours sent shivers racing down your spine.
When you broke for air, you were breathless, lips tingling, but Fred only leaned in to press feather-light kisses along your jaw. “You’ve got no idea,” he murmured between kisses, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
Your heart flipped. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
He chuckled against your skin, his voice low and wicked. “Believe it, love. Now…” His lips found the hollow of your throat, making you gasp, “You’ve got all of me.”
Heat flared through you at his words. You tilted your head back against the wall, giving him more space, and his grin curved against your pulse before he kissed there, slow and purposeful.
Your fingers slid down his arms, feeling the hard line of muscle beneath his sleeves, the tension and strength coiled there. Fred made a pleased noise at the touch, glancing up at you with a grin so wolfish it sent sparks down your spine.
“You’re obsessed, aren’t you?” he teased, flexing deliberately under your palms.
Your breath caught. “Maybe.”
That grin widened. “Merlin, you’re going to kill me.” He leaned in, voice husky against your ear. “Bite me again.”
Your eyes widened. “What?”
He smirked, eyes burning as he flexed his arm just beside your head. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t be shy now. I liked it.”
Embarrassment and heat warred inside you, but your body moved before your mind could argue. You leaned down, lips brushing his sleeve before sinking your teeth gently into the firm curve of his bicep again.
Fred groaned, a deep, guttural sound that made your knees buckle. His free hand caught your hip, pulling you flush against him as his head tipped back with a laugh that was half-growl. “Bloody hell.”
When you looked up, startled, his gaze caught yours, bright and molten hazel with intent. His lips found yours again, harder than before, urgency pouring into every kiss. His hands roamed now, one tangled in your hair, the other sliding dangerously close to the hem of your jumper as though he couldn’t decide where he wanted you most.
You gasped into his mouth, breathless with the dizzying rush of it all.
Fred pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you panting, lips swollen and faces flushed. “You realise,” he said between breaths, “I’m never letting you live this down. You’re mine now.”
Your laugh came out shaky, your hands still clinging to his shoulders. “Yours?”
“Mm.” He brushed his nose against yours, grin softening into something almost tender beneath the mischief. “My girl.”
And before you could protest or admit that you wanted nothing more, he kissed you again, sealing it like a promise.
Being best friends with Ginny Weasley was the easiest thing in the world. Or, at least, it had been at the start. The two of you had three simple rules.
#3. Always save each other a seat.
#2. Never lie to one another.
#1. Ginny’s brothers were off-limits.
It was rule #1 that you found yourself currently in contempt of. But how were you meant to know when you’d made that promise that a few years down the track everything would change?
———————————————————————
You had been best friends with Ginny Weasley for as long as you could remember.
It had started sometime in first year, when you found her crying in the girls’ bathroom after throwing a book at moaning Myrtle. You didn’t ask questions. You just sat next to her, pulled a Chocolate Frog from your bag, and said, “You don’t have to tell me. But if you want to, I’m here.” That was the moment it began. Since then, your friendship had become a constant in both of your lives. Like the hum of the Hogwarts Express, or the steady whistle of the wind through the trees by the Black Lake.
And there were rules. Unspoken at first, but eventually written down during a sleepover at the Burrow in a notebook charmed to sparkle and float around Ginny’s room. The most sacred of them all: “Don’t fall for one of my brothers. Ever.”
You remembered the moment it was written with almost photographic clarity. Ginny had been sitting cross-legged at the foot of her bed, face twisted with frustration as she doodled angry lightning bolts in the margins.
“Honestly, it’s like every girl who’s ever spoken to me suddenly wants to be my best mate the second they lay eyes on one of them,” Ginny muttered bitterly, tossing her quill down. “Lavender started cozying up to me last year and I thought maybe she actually wanted to be friends. But no. She just wanted to ask if Ron was ‘as tall in person as he looked from across the Great Hall.’ Gross.”
You laughed back then, genuinely amused and a little horrified. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I were,” Ginny huffed, brushing her hair back with a quick, irritated flick. “Then there was Marietta. She was practically joined at my hip during dinner and the whole time she was working up the courage to ask if I’d introduce her to George. George!”
“She didn’t even pretend to care about you, did she?”
“Not for a second,” Ginny snapped. Then her expression softened as she looked at you. “That’s why I like you. You’re not here for any of that rubbish.”
Back then you had smiled and laced your pinky through hers, swearing on it.
Now, whenever it was even remotely brought up - like when Angelina tried to hangout with the two of you to get a date with Fred - you had to force yourself to smile. Even as your heart twisted.
You hadn’t intended to fall for one of Ginny’s brothers, but sometime in the past four years, you had. Something about Fred’s clever jokes, his chaotic grin, and the way he always found time to check in on you had chipped away at your resolve. You had fallen slowly, helplessly, painfully. And you had said nothing. Because of the rule.
Because you loved Ginny.
You remembered her smile that night, soft and genuine.
“If I ever find out someone’s only here to get to one of them,” she said. “I’ll never forgive them. Promise me you’ll never do that.”
“Of course,” you had sworn.
You meant it, back then. You couldn’t have predicted you would genuinely fall for one of them. And you still meant it now, in your own twisted way. You had no intention of doing anything about your feelings. Loving Fred from a distance didn’t count. Did it?
But lately it had become harder to look away. He was noticing you. Not the way he noticed everyone else. Not with the performative charm or cheeky quips he tossed around like fireworks. No, he was watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. Catching your eye across the dinner table. Sitting closer than he used to, finding reasons to touch your arm when he laughed. Or maybe you were imagining it.
But you and Ginny had rules.
And you were already breaking rule #1.
———————————————————————
The Burrow was chaos, as usual.
The second you stepped through the crooked front door with Ginny, the scent of fresh bread and stewed onions wrapped around you like a warm blanket. The air was humid with the smell of summer earth and something sugary baking in the oven. A breeze drifted in from the open kitchen window, carrying laughter from the garden and the sounds of someone - probably Ron - grunting as he lugged trunks upstairs.
“Welcome home!” Molly was fussing as she grabbed each one of them by the face and planted a big kiss on their cheeks.
“Gross, mum!” The boys groaned and wiped their faces with their sleeves as they came into the house.
“My darling girls!” Molly greeted the two of you, pulling both you and Ginny into a tight hug.
“Hey, Mrs Weasley,” you greeted with a warm smile. You’d spend so much time here that the Burrow had come to feel like your second home, and the Weasleys like a second pair of parents.
“Oh, how you’ve grown up since the last time I saw you!” The stout woman patted your check affectionately, then stepped back to gesture to the already set table.
“Lunch, everyone! On the table, NOW!” Molly Weasley’s voice thundered through the house with such maternal command it could’ve made a mountain walk.
You hadn’t even had time to protest when Arthur took your trunk before you were swept up in the current of Weasley children charging into the kitchen like a herd of hippogriffs. Chairs scraped. Plates clattered. Elbows jabbed for better positioning. It was always a game of survival when it came to getting a good seat at the Burrow’s table.
Fred emerged from seemingly nowhere at your side, grinning like he’d just won something. “Well, well,” he said in that voice of his - low and amused, with just enough of a lilt to make your stomach flip. “Guess this seat’s mine, yeah?”
He reached for the chair to your left, the one you’d secretly been hoping he’d take, and yet, also dreading he would. It was instinct. Panic. Self-preservation.
You placed your hand firmly on the back of the chair before he could pull it out. “That one’s taken,” you blurted out a little too quickly.
Fred raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes. “By who?”
And before your mouth could catch up with your thoughts - before you could invent some excuse or redirect him to the other side of the table - Ginny shoved past Fred, bumping him with her hip.
“By me, you great big git. Rule #3, remember? Now move!” she snapped cheerfully, shooting you a triumphant smile as she slid into the seat beside you.
Fred snorted, placing a dramatic hand over his heart like he’d been wounded. “Betrayed. By my own blood.”
He dragged himself to the far end of the table with a theatrical sigh, collapsing into a chair beside George. You watched him from the corner of your eye as he stole a bread roll before the basket had even hit the table, catching you looking just in time to shoot you a wink.
You felt heat rise to your cheeks.
Ginny leaned over, scooping potatoes onto your plate. “Honestly, you’d think they’d learn by now that we always sit next to each other. I think he did it on purpose just to mess with us.”
You forced a laugh, stabbing at a carrot with more force than necessary. “He’s insufferable,” you said weakly.
But your heart was thudding too loudly in your chest to believe it. You had wanted him to sit next to you. Just a little.
You could still feel the ghost of where his arm would’ve brushed against yours. How his knee might’ve bumped yours under the table. You could imagine it far too easily. Close enough to smell the spice and smoke of his cologne, to hear every stupid joke murmured just for you.
But then you looked at Ginny, happily chatting to her mum about the drive there, glowing with sun and freckles and trust. And the guilt returned with full force, crashing like a wave over your ribs.
You weren’t going to mess this up. Not this.
You promised yourself right then and there: You would stay away from Fred this summer. No matter how many times he winked at you. No matter how charming his smile was. No matter how much your hands itched to reach for his under the table.
He was Ginny’s brother. And you were Ginny’s best friend. And those two things could never, ever mix.
———————————————————————
Your first few days at the burrow passed without a problem. Ron kept to himself mostly, sending letters back and forth to Hermione and Harry in between practicing quidditch with the twins. When the twins weren’t out in the field zipping about on their broomsticks, they were locked in their room. No one quite knew what they were up to in there, except for the intermittent explosion that shook the house and earned a few lectures from Molly. Percy was off on some sort of internship at the Ministry of Magic. Which of course left you and Ginny to your own devices.
Your plan of avoiding Fred had been going splendidly. The only times you would see him were during meals, and with the buffer of the whole family present there were no issues that had arisen. He’d not tried again to steal Ginny’s chair by your side. You’d worked to memorise his and George’s schedule, knowing what times to avoid the bathroom or the kitchen for snack break. You’d even taken to using the bathroom at the latest possible time, once the house had gone uncharacteristically quiet and you knew everyone else was in bed.
Hence why you were there now. The bathroom mirror was fogged with steam from the shower someone had taken earlier - probably Ron, based on the trail of damp footprints leading down the hall to his bedroom. You stood at the sink in your pyjamas, brushing your teeth, the tap running low to mask the silence.
You leaned closer to the mirror and wiped a clean patch of glass to check your reflection. Your hair was a bit of a mess from a full day of hanging about the garden. Your skin a little tinged by the sun. The dim golden light from the hallway behind you spilled in from the half-cracked door, soft and flickering like candlelight.
The door creaked further open. You flinched, mid-brush. And then you nearly choked on your toothpaste.
Fred stood in the doorway, shirtless, rubbing a towel over his wild and wet hair, a pair of well-worn pyjama bottoms slung low on his hips. Water glistened on his shoulders. His freckles were more pronounced under the soft bathroom light, and his grin was…absolutely illegal.
You turned back to the sink immediately, hoping the toothpaste foam in your mouth would distract from the fact your pulse had just shot up like a firework.
“Evenin’,” he said casually, like this was completely normal.
You didn’t answer - mostly because you couldn’t speak with a mouth full of mint and panic.
Fred moved behind you, stepping inside without hesitation and reaching for a comb that sat on the bench. You could feel his presence, radiating a warmth that pulsed just inches away from your spine. The tension twisted tighter with each breath. You were practically vibrating.
“You always brush your teeth this dramatically?” he asked, his voice low and amused. “Looks intense.”
You spat your toothpaste into the sink and grabbed your cup to rinse. “Just thorough,” you muttered, praying your voice didn’t sound like it was shaking.
Fred leaned on the counter beside you, one arm braced as he turned his body toward you. “Right. Very serious business, dental hygiene. Sexy stuff.”
You gave a tight, nervous laugh and tried not to look at his collarbone, or his chest, or the single drip of water trailing down his sternum. You tried. But Merlin, you were failing.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” you asked, drying your hands quickly, your eyes fixed anywhere but on him.
“I was,” Fred said, tilting his head. “But then I remembered the bathroom gets much more interesting around midnight.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
He smiled, cocking a brow. “You’ve been sneaking in here late every night like you’re hiding something. Thought I’d investigate.”
“I’m brushing my teeth, Fred. Hardly a great mystery of the universe.”
He leaned a little closer, and your breath hitched before you could stop it. His voice dropped an octave, teasing but edged with something heavier. “Well, maybe I’m the one with secrets.”
You hated that your stomach flipped. That your legs felt suddenly unsteady. That this was exactly the kind of moment you’d dreamed about for years, and yet now it was the last thing you could afford.
You cleared your throat, stepping back. “You’re ridiculous, you know.”
“And yet here you are,” he said. “Cornered. In a bathroom. With me.”
He was still smiling. But his eyes - those hazel eyes - searched yours with something more than just mischief. There was a weight in them. A question. A hope.
“Oh for Merlin’s sake, Fred, put a bloody shirt on!” The moment shattered like glass.
Ginny appeared in the doorway, her eyes narrowing immediately as she took in the scene. Fred shirtless and grinning, you red-faced and stiff near the sink.
Fred didn’t move. He just glanced at Ginny over his shoulder, as if annoyed to be interrupted.
“What?” he asked, unbothered.
“You’re disgusting,” she snapped, elbowing past him. “You can’t just wander around half-naked like some trollop!”
Fred looked delighted by that. “Trollop? Really, Ginny? You wound me.”
She made a face. “Honestly, you’re like a feral cat.” Then, without hesitation, she wedged herself firmly between you and Fred, standing like a barrier. Completely oblivious to the electric tension that had just been vibrating in the room.
Fred smirked at you over her shoulder, lips twitching, like he knew exactly what he’d done.
Ginny turned to you, unaware. “Ready for bed?”
You nodded mutely. Behind her, Fred gave you a lazy wink and finally retreated, tossing his towel over his shoulder as he strolled out of the room like he hadn’t just flipped your entire emotional state upside down.
Ginny looked at you and scrunched her nose. “Honestly. He’s so weird sometimes. Sorry you had to see that.”
You managed a smile, small and tight. “It’s fine. I’ve seen worse.”
But as you followed her down the hall toward the room you were sharing, your heart was still racing. Your skin still buzzed from his nearness. Your mind - traitorous thing - kept replaying that moment when he’d leaned in, eyes soft, voice low.
And you knew then, with a certainty that made your stomach sink, that this summer was going to be really, really difficult.
———————————————————————-
It had been five days since The Bathroom Incident - a title you’d privately christened it with during your increasingly dramatic internal monologues.
And for five blissful, tormenting, nerve-fraying days, Fred had been…good.
No more shirtless intrusions. No surprise appearances when you were alone. No wandering conversations with too much eye contact and not enough space between your bodies.
Just casual, everyday Fred Weasley. Joking with his siblings, tinkering with George, throwing fruit across the kitchen, absolutely no more cornering you against a sink like he wanted to eat you alive.
You’d convinced yourself it was over. That he’d gotten bored of teasing you and moved on. That maybe you were in the clear.
Until this morning.
You’d just woken up, sunlight stretching warm fingers across your face through the open window, when you heard it.
“We’re going into town for the Sunday market!” George’s voice rang out through the hallway. “Come on, grab your shoes!”
You sat up, blinking sleep from your eyes as Ginny barged into the room already half-dressed, tying her hair up with a ribbon. “You’re coming too,” she declared, tossing your shoes toward the bed. “It’ll be us and the twins.”
Your stomach turned. Just the four of you. On a sunny day. Walking into town. All together. You, Ginny, George - and Fred.
Before you could argue, Ginny had already bolted back out of the room, mumbling something about losing her favourite jacket.
You took less than five minutes to pull on a cute outfit and brush your teeth before you waked into the hallway, trying not to look like you were internally screaming. At the bottom of the stairs, Fred was waiting.
He leaned lazily against the railing, arms crossed over his chest, dressed in a sweater rolled at the sleeves and worn jeans. Casual. Comfortable. Dangerous.
The second he saw you, a slow grin unfurled across his face like a cat who’d spotted a cornered mouse.
“Well, well,” he said, voice soft enough that it felt like it was just for you. “Didn’t think I’d be lucky enough to get you all day.”
You blinked. “What?”
He pushed off the railing and took a step closer. Close enough that you caught the familiar scent of spearmint and gunpowder. “I mean, I’ve barely seen you all summer. I was starting to worry I’d developed a contagious rash.”
You folded your arms. “Maybe you have. Have you checked?”
“Oh, thoroughly. I’m in top condition.” He winked, words dripping with innuendo.
You rolled your eyes, but your lips betrayed you with a small smile. He saw it - of course he saw it - and leaned in just a little more.
“You know,” he murmured, “I’d accuse you of hiding from me if I didn’t already know you were.”
Your heart thudded too loudly in your chest. Before you could deliver a scathing comeback - or worse, blush - Ginny’s footsteps thundered down the stairs.
Fred stepped away with impeccable timing, shoving his hands into his pockets and grinning innocently as Ginny reappeared with a cropped jacket and her hair now tied in a messy ponytail.
“All right,” she said, tossing her eyes toward Fred. “You better not make me carry everything again.”
“No promises,” he said, already leading the way out the door.
The walk into town was bright and breezy, the gravel path crunching beneath your shoes. Fields blurred gold and green beside you, and wildflowers nodded gently in the tall grass. Ginny was by your side for the most part, until she got into a long conversation with George about quidditch and the two walked ahead, occasionally darting into little bursts of sibling bickering. It left you and Fred side by side more than once, though you always kept just enough space to pretend it wasn’t wanted.
The Sunday market stretched along the village square in a mismatched quilt of tents and booths. The air was thick with the scent of fresh bread, honeycomb, spiced nuts, and something fried you didn’t dare question. Laughter floated above the hum of shoppers and merchants calling out their deals.
You kept close to Ginny, using her as a human shield against Fred’s increasingly amused glances. The two of you stopped at a table of handmade jewellery, and your fingers drifted toward a delicate pair of crystal earrings shaped like intricate flower clusters. They caught the sunlight just right. Clean, simple, quietly beautiful.
You picked one up, turned the tag over. Too much. Not outrageous, but more than you could justify. You set them down gently.
“Cute,” Ginny said, glancing over your shoulder. “But you’d probably lose them in, like, three days.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Ginny laughed and moved to the next booth, where a ridiculous plaid hat caught her eye. George followed, already pretending to model one for her.
And suddenly, it was just you and Fred again. You glanced up. He was already there, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on yours. He nodded toward the earrings. “Those were nice on you.”
You blinked. “I didn’t try them on.”
“I imagined them on you,” he said easily, his voice low and teasing. “I have an excellent imagination. In fact, I can picture anyone, anywhere in just about any position.”
You rolled your eyes. “You really never turn it off, do you?”
He stepped closer, the crowd bustling around you like a river splitting. “You’re one to talk. You’ve been flirting with me all morning.”
You snorted. “I have not.”
Fred tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “Okay. Not flirting. Actively ignoring me. Which is basically the same thing, just in reverse. It has the same effect.”
You laughed despite yourself, cheeks warm. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet you’re still here talking to me.” He leaned in, voice dropping, “What does that say about you?”
You opened your mouth to retort, but then Ginny reappeared, holding up a hat so absurdly shaped it looked like a squashed owl. “Do I look insane or fabulous?”
“Both,” George said immediately.
“Perfect,” she grinned.
Fred stepped back again, and just like that, the moment dissolved.
The walk home was slower, the sun dipping lower in the sky. You carried a small paper bag of sweets Ginny had insisted on buying, and Fred whistled absently as he kicked pebbles down the lane. You didn’t speak again. Not really. But you felt his presence the entire way.
Back at the Burrow, the house had returned to its gentle, midday hum. You’d taken a shower first, and Ginny had waited until she heard the water stop before swapping places.
By the time you stepped out, dried off, and slipped back into your clothes, it was nearly time for afternoon tea.
You returned to Ginny’s room, searching for a brush to untangle your wet hair. And there, sitting neatly on Ginny’s bed, right where your pillow had been, was a small white box tied with a black ribbon.
Your heart stopped.
You looked around like someone might leap out from the closet yelling “Gotcha!”
But no one did.
You approached slowly, eyes wide, and lifted the box. Inside - tucked in soft tissue paper - were the earrings from the market. Delicate. Dazzling.
With them was a folded note in crooked handwriting: Couldn’t let them get away. Thought you might wear them next time you’re trying so desperately not to look at me. - F.
You clutched the box like it might combust in your hands. Footsteps creaked from the hallway. Ginny.
You moved fast - heart hammering - shoving the box into your trunk, the tissue and ribbon crumpled in your fist. You nearly tripped getting the top shut before the door opened.
Ginny strolled in, towel around her hair. “Whatever you do, don’t touch the blue shampoo bottle. I think one of the boys messed with it.”
As she unwound the towel, her usually ginger locks dropped around her shoulders in a curtain of green. You forced a smile, heart still galloping, hands still tingling.
“Oh Gin,” you said, covering your mouth, every nerve in your body on high alert. “Let’s get that fixed up. I’m sure your mum will have something to help.”
You took her by the shoulders and led her out of the room, mind still stuck on what you were leaving behind.
The earrings were hidden. The note, too. Your secret was safe. Though now, you were technically at risk of breaking another rule.
#2. Never lie to one another.
———————————————————————
The kitchen of the Burrow smelled like butter, thyme, and the kind of warmth only a Weasley home could conjure. The windows were fogged slightly from the heat of the cooking. You stood at the counter beside Ginny, a cutting board in front of you and a particularly potent batch of onions halfway sliced beneath your trembling hands. Your eyes stung fiercely.
“I swear, I think I’m going blind,” you sniffled, blinking rapidly as tears dripped down your cheeks.
Ginny laughed, pointing her wooden spoon at you. “Oh come on, don’t be dramatic. It’s just an onion!”
“I’m not being dramatic, my eyeballs are melting—” You let out a soft, strangled laugh, wiping at your face with your sleeve and slicing again.
The two of you had been helping Molly for the past hour, peeling vegetables, shelling peas, and listening to Celestina Warbeck crooning softly from the wireless. The afternoon sun cast long strips of light across the warped wooden table, and despite the heat and chaos of the kitchen, it was cozy. Familiar. Safe.
Or at least, it had been, until the back door suddenly burst open with a crash.
“—AND HE SCORES! WHAT A MOVE FROM THE LEGENDARY BEATER!”
“OH, SHUT IT, YOU OVERGROWN GNOME—”
Fred and George exploded into the kitchen like a pair of firecrackers, both sweaty and flushed, yelling in Quidditch commentator voices as they barrelled through the doorway. George had a quaffle tucked under one arm. Fred was lunging for it like a seeker gone mad.
Molly spun around from the stove. “Boys! Absolutely not! Not in my kitchen!”
But it was too late. Fred dodged Ginny, slipped on the corner rug, and stumbled directly into you. You barely had time to gasp before the impact jolted your arm. The knife in your hand slipped.
“OW! bloody hell!” You recoiled instinctively, dropping the knife and clutching your hand. Blood was already rising fast to the surface of your finger, running in a hot, red line down your palm and onto the floor.
“WHAT did I just say?!” Molly’s voice could’ve curdled milk.
“Fred!” Ginny shouted furiously. “You idiot!”
“Oh, shit, you’re crying!” Fred’s eyes widened as he saw your tear-streaked cheeks and the blood on your hand.
You glared at him, though your vision was blurry. “It’s the onions, you twat!”
But your voice trembled. From the pain. From the sheer overwhelming chaos of it all. And - fine - maybe from Fred being way too close again.
Fred looked properly horrified now. “Merlin, I didn’t mean to. I was just…George was…right, c’mere. I’ve got something that’ll help. C’mon.”
Before you could protest, he was already gently but insistently guiding you toward the stairs, his hand warm on your back. You wrapped a kitchen towel around your bleeding finger, trying to keep the pressure steady as you glanced back at Ginny.
“Go, go,” she called, exasperated. “Before you bleed into the mashed potatoes.”
George had dropped the quaffle and was already picking up the knife from the floor, apologizing to Molly in the most unconvincing tone possible.
You followed Fred up the stairs, your heart pounding harder with every creak of the steps. You told yourself it was just because of the injury. The adrenaline. The pain. Not because you were heading into Fred Weasley’s bedroom for the first time.
The door clicked open, and he stepped aside to let you in.
His room smelled faintly of parchment, broom polish, and something warm and boyish and entirely him. It was surprisingly neat for a Weasley. Trunks were stacked in a corner, shelves cluttered with joke prototypes, and Quidditch posters pinned crookedly across the walls. There was a pair of socks hanging off the end of his bedpost. A sweater crumpled on the floor. But it felt lived in, personal. Like stepping into a corner of his world you were never supposed to see.
You froze awkwardly in the doorway.
“You can sit,” Fred said, waving a hand at the bed. “I promise my mattress doesn’t bite.”
You managed a weak laugh and perched on the edge, careful to keep your hands to yourself.
He crouched in front of a trunk and rummaged around. “Right, here. We just finished a batch of this last week. Might sting, but it works miracles.” He pulled out a small tin with a garish orange and purple sticker slapped across it.
You squinted at the label. “WWW? What’s that stand for? ‘Weasley’s Weakest Work’?”
Fred grinned, tossing a towel over his shoulder. “Close. Thirty-three percent correct, actually. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. George and I, we’re starting a joke shop. After Hogwarts.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “Wait, seriously?”
He nodded, pride sneaking into his voice. “We’ve been designing products for years. We’ve got a whole trunk full of prototypes. Salves, candies, decoy spell crap. You’d love it. You’re basically our ideal test subject - easily injured and highly opinionated.”
“Charming,” You snorted. “So is that what the hexed shampoo fiasco was all about? Ginny was furious. Her hair was green for days.”
“No, that one was just for fun,” Fred sat beside you now, close enough that you could feel the heat of his arm. He gently peeled the blood-soaked towel from your hand, and you hissed.
“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice suddenly soft. He dipped his fingers into the tin and dabbed the salve onto your cut.
It was cool and tingly and smelt like peppermint. Within seconds, the pain dulled, and you watched in shock as the raw skin knitted itself closed.
Your mouth fell open. “That’s…actually brilliant.”
“I know,” he said smugly, wrapping a thin bandage around your finger. “And, don’t worry. It won’t scar. Just reapply twice a day.”
“How are you not rolling in money already?”
He laughed and you smiled, until you realised you were still holding hands. Neither of you moved. And the silence that settled between you wasn’t casual anymore. It buzzed. Tense and breathless.
Fred’s eyes lifted to meet yours, his thumb unconsciously brushing over the inside of your wrist. “Why’ve you been avoiding me?”
You blinked. “I haven’t.”
He tilted his head. “You have. You’ve been dodging me like I’ve got dragon pox. Why?”
You tried to smile. To brush it off. “Maybe I just don’t like you, Fred.”
He leaned in, his voice low and serious now. “Or maybe it’s the opposite.”
Your breath hitched. He was so close you could see the golden flecks in his eyes. Count each of the freckles dusting the bridge of his nose
Before you could answer - before you even knew how to answer - the door burst open.
George stood there, eyebrows raised. “Alright, you two, break it up. Dinner’s ready. And Mum’s not in the mood to wait.”
You yanked your hand back, your face going hot.
Fred sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Cheers, George. Great timing.”
George grinned knowingly and stepped aside. You stood quickly, muttering a thanks under your breath and rushing out the door, heart hammering, head spinning.
This summer was going to ruin you. And you finding it a lot harder to mind at all.
———————————————————————
The attic smelled like dust and old wood, warmed faintly by the day’s leftover sun and lit only by a string of enchanted fairy lights that twinkled like stars overhead. The ghoul in the corner moaned softly to itself, chewing on what remained of Fred and George’s bribe - a sticky handful of Drooble’s gum and a crumpled chocolate frog box. For now, it was satisfied. Mostly.
When you climbed through the attic hatch behind Ginny, the stale air hit your face like a wave. Ron, Fred, and George were already sprawled across the mismatched rugs and floor cushions in a circle, a deck of enchanted cards floating lazily in the center.
“There you are,” Fred said as you and Ginny slid the hatch shut behind you. His eyes flicked to yours briefly and he smirked like he had been waiting specifically for you.
You tried not to react, though your stomach was already betraying you with its little flip. He looked far too smug for someone sitting crisscross in moth-eaten socks and a Quidditch tee.
“About time,” George chimed.
“Don’t push it,” Ginny said, elbowing her brother before tossing a pillow to the ground and flopping down.
You settled in beside her, your knees brushing the woven edge of the rug, directly across from Fred. Unfortunately, he was watching you. Still. And you knew he hadn’t stopped.
The bottle of firewhisky came out shortly after. Fred uncorked it with a flourish, holding it up like it was some ancient treasure.
“Compliments of the cabinet behind Dad’s broom collection,” he announced.
Ginny laughed. “Mum’s going to have your head if she finds out.”
“She won’t,” George assured her, “unless someone blabs.”
“Ron,” said everyone at once, and Ron flushed beet red.
The bottle made its way around the circle, and eventually it landed in your hands. You hesitated only a moment before lifting it to your lips. The whisky burned hot, sharp, and smoky as it slid down your throat. You exhaled, eyes watering slightly.
“Easy,” Fred said from across the circle. “Don’t want to fall asleep before the game starts.”
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, cheeks flushed, and passed the bottle back, straight to Fred. His hand brushed yours as he took the bottle from your grip. But instead of drinking right away, he rotated it slowly and deliberately in his hand, fingers lingering around the mouth of the bottle. Then he placed his mouth right over the spot your lips had touched and drank without breaking eye contact.
The burn in your throat came back tenfold, but for a completely different reason.
He licked a drop from his bottom lip and grinned. “Tastes better this way.”
Your breath caught. Ginny, completely oblivious, was already giggling at something George said. The cards were floating again, but your world had narrowed to that lazy, firewhisky-laced smirk and the way Fred’s eyes lingered just a beat too long.
Goosebumps erupted down your arms.
The moment passed too quickly. You tried to pretend it hadn’t affected you, that you weren’t wondering what it would feel like to close the distance between you, to feel that heat not through shared glass, but skin.
The shuffled deck split evenly amongst them and a chaotic, barely-rule-following game of Exploding Snap ensued. There were chips of lightning, minor burns, and raucous laughter as the ghoul muttered irritably in its corner. A slightly scorched card flew past Ginny’s head and she ducked with a cackle.
Eventually, the ghoul grew bored. With a loud metallic CLANG, it started knocking on the pipes behind it, clearly unhappy that its stash of goodies had run out.
“Right, time to clear out,” George said, already grabbing the cards and stuffing them into the pocket of his pajama bottoms.
“I’ll bring more sweets tomorrow,” Fred muttered toward the ghoul, who let out a pitiful moan in reply.
George and Ginny were the first down the hatch. You were about to follow when Ron knocked over an old crate, sending it crashing into a pile of dusty cauldrons.
“Shit,” Fred hissed. You all froze.
Footsteps echoed below. Heavy ones. Then the creak of a bedroom door.
“Mum,” George whispered, eyes wide. “And Dad.”
There was no time to think. There was only enough time for Ron to jump down before George scrambled to shut the attic hatch. Ginny looked back at you from below.
“We’ll come get you when it’s safe,” she whispered, and then, click. The hatch was sealed.
You and Fred were completely alone.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the soft flickers of the fairy lights and the distant, irritable tapping of the ghoul’s fingernails on wood.
Fred let out a breath. “Well, I guess we’re trapped.”
You tried to laugh, but it came out more like a nervous exhale. He held up the bottle of firewhisky. “Still got this. Want to play truth or dare while we wait?”
You tilted your head. “Really? That’s what we’re doing?”
“We’ve got time. And no escape.” He patted the floor beside him.
Despite your instincts yelling at you not to agree, you sat. Not too close, but close enough to catch the cinnamon-heat smell of him, firewhisky and warmth.
“Fine. But I go first,” you said. “Truth or dare?”
He leaned in, elbow resting on one knee, still holding the bottle between two fingers. “Dare,” he replied, too fast.
You rolled your eyes. “Predictable.”
Fred raised a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” you said, drawing your knees up, “you’re always the first to take risks. Always the showman. But when it comes to being genuine? You flinch.”
A beat of silence. Fred’s smile dropped an inch. Not gone, just softened. “You think I can’t be genuine?”
You shrugged, heart hammering. “Prove me wrong, then. Pick truth.”
“Fine,” he said. “Ask me a truth.”
You studied him. The freckles, the messy hair, the too-confident posture covering something far more careful underneath. “Why haven’t you told anyone about the joke shop?”
That made him pause. The flicker in his eyes changed, turning sharper. More focused.
Finally, Fred sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Because Mum thinks it’s a waste of time. Childish. She wants us to join the Ministry. Be ‘respectable’ like dad. But I don’t want that. George doesn’t either. This—” He held up the firewhisky like it was part of the dream. “—this is the only thing I’ve ever felt is really mine.”
Your chest swelled at the honesty. “I think it’s brilliant,” you said quietly.
He looked at you, something unreadable softening his features. Then he smirked again. “My turn. Truth or dare?”
You panicked. “Truth.”
“Do you like anyone?”
Your mouth went dry. “Yes.”
His eyes glittered. “Who?”
“That wasn’t your question,” you shot back quickly, hiding your fluster behind a smirk of your own.
Fred chuckled. “Alright. Touché.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Truth or dare.”
He yawned dramatically. “Truth. And see, I didn’t even flinch.”
“Are the rumors true about you and Angelina Johnson?” you asked, voice just slightly sharper than intended.
Fred let out a bark of laughter. “What? No. That wasn’t me.”
You raised a skeptical brow.
“It was George,” he said, dead serious. “They got caught snogging in the common room, and everyone assumed it was me since I took her to the Yule Ball.”
You blinked in surprise. “Wait, really?”
“Yep. She’s more into sensative gits than charming ones, apparently.” The air between them grew charged. Thicker. He sat up straighter. “Truth or dare?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then answered, “Truth.”
He leaned closer. “Who do you fancy?”
Your stomach twisted, pulse thudding loud in your ears. “I change my mind,” you blurted. “Dare.”
He grinned like he’d won. “Thought you might. In that case…I dare you to kiss me.”
The world stopped.
“I’ll take a drink instead.” You offered, reaching for the bottle.
Fred turned the firewhisky upside down and a single drop ran from the lip of the bottle.“We’re out.” He clicked his tongue in mock sympathy. “What a shame.”
You were frozen in place, mind trying to come up with a fourth option that didn’t seem to exist.
Then, slowly - so slowly - he leaned forward. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it easy for you.”
You couldn’t breathe. His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair gently behind your ear. His fingers lingered, tracing the edge of your earring - the ones he had bought you from the market. You watched him realise it, watched his lips twitch upward.
“These suit you,” he murmured.
You swallowed hard. He was so close now. Close enough that you could see the flecks of amber in his eyes, the faint red in his lashes, the faint smell of firewhisky and citrus and boyish heat.
Your cheeks burned. The world felt like it was tilting slightly sideways.
Fred said softly. “All you have to do is give in.”
You wanted to. Oh Merlin, you wanted to. Your lips parted. Your eyes flicked to his. But then the attic hatch creaked open.
“Oi,” George called, voice echoing. “Coast is clear.”
You jumped apart like lightning had struck. Your skin still buzzed where his hand had touched you.
Fred stood slowly, offering you a hand. You took it before you could think better of it.
Nothing had happened. But it had almost happened. And you didn’t think you’d ever stop thinking about that almost.
Neither of you said a word on the way down the ladder. But your ears were still ringing, and yu couldn’t shake the ghost of his voice murmuring, ‘All you have to do is give in.’
———————————————————————
You never usually woke up this early, but sleep had been impossible after last night.
The attic. The firewhisky. His voice, low and teasing, asking if you fancied someone. The way he dared you to kiss him, and the way your body had wanted to obey more than it ever had anyone. You’d never felt anything like that before. That tightrope between longing and fear, between want and wariness. Between what you craved and what you shouldn’t want.
You’d almost done it. Almost leaned in. Almost let yourself fall.
The early morning air was soft against your skin as you walked through the garden behind the Burrow. The grass was cool and damp with dew, the sky still tinted with pale grey and lavender. There was a hush to the world here, like it was holding its breath, just like you were.
You moved slowly between the rows of wildflowers and gnarled trees, trying to clear your head. But all you could think about was him - the fire in his eyes, the way his gaze flicked to your mouth, the smell of firewhisky.
You shook your head, willing the memory away, when a low voice broke through the quiet. “What are you thinking about?”
You nearly leapt out of your skin. “Bloody hell—” you gasped, spinning around. But before you could scream, a hand clamped over your mouth, warm and strong. His hand.
“Shhh! It’s just me,” Fred said, his voice low and urgent as he pulled you further into the field.
You struggled instinctively, swatting at his arm until you were both well out of view of the house. He released you the second you were far enough away, and you whipped around, shoving his chest hard.
“What on earth is wrong with you?” you hissed, your heart thundering in your chest.
He raised his hands in mock surrender, but there was tension under the smirk. “I needed to talk to you. Alone. And you’re a lot harder to pin down these days.”
You crossed your arms. “So you thought sneaking up on me and dragging me into a field was the best option?”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
You glared, but the corner of your mouth twitches before you catch yourself. “What do you want, Fred?”
He exhaled, the teasing edge dropping as he takes a step closer. “Last night. Why didn’t you kiss me?”
Your throat went dry. “We’re not playing truth or dare anymore. I don’t have to answer that.”
“I’m not playing either,” he said. His voice was low now, and earnest. And he was closer. You could smell him again - cinnamon and something warm and boyish, still clinging to his skin.
He stepped forward again and gently took your arm, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist. It sent a flicker of heat up your spine.
“I wanted you to kiss me,” he confessed. “So why didn’t you?”
You swallowed thickly, knowing this was a dangerous game. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“Maybe not. But I think I deserve one.”
You stayed silent, your heart in your throat, body humming like live wire. His fingers tightened ever so slightly on your wrist.
“You want to know what I think?” he asked, and you looked up at him, caught in that impossible gaze. “I think you’re just as interested in me as I am in you. Tell me if I’m wrong.”
You opened your mouth, but your voice barely came out. “You’re wrong.”
It was shaky. Unconvincing. Pathetic.
Fred lifted a brow, unimpressed. He leaned in until you could feel his breath brush your cheek. “No, I’m not.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. You couldn’t. Your whole body was screaming to close the distance, to surrender.
“Why won’t you just say it?” he whispered. “I’m standing right here, telling you that I…” His voice faltered for the first time, softens. Vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache.“I care about you. I want you. I have for a while now.”
It hit you like a punch to the ribs. The tenderness, the honesty in his voice. Your chest tightened. “I do too,” you admitted, your voice betraying you. “But I shouldn’t.”
Fred frowned, still not understanding what was holding you back. “Why not?”
“Because of Ginny,” you said, the words ripping from your mouth. “Because she’s my best friend. Because I made a promise. Rule number one. Her brothers are off-limits.”
Fred blinked, then let out a sharp breath and laughed under it, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you kidding? That’s what’s stopping you?”
“It matters.”
“Not to me,” he said, stepping closer, impossibly close now. “And Ginny doesn’t have to know.”
Your breath stilled. “Fred…”
“All you have to do,” he murmured, brushing your hair back from your face, his fingers grazing the earring he gave you, “is give in.”
You shivered as his thumb traced the shell of your ear. His touch was so soft, so gentle, it was almost unbearable. You should have pulled away. You knew that.
But you didn’t. Instead, you leaned in. Just the smallest tilt of your chin. Just enough. But that’s all he needed.
Fred cupped your face in both hands and kissed you. It was everything you imagined and more. It was hungry and hesitant all at once. Warm and desperate, like you’d both been waiting too long. His lips melded into yours like he’d somehow already memorised the shape, and you melted into him without thinking.
The world fell away. There was only the sun-drenched field, the soft birdsong in the trees, and his hands anchoring you like he never wanted to let go.
And for a single, breathless moment, you didn’t want him to.
———————————————————————
The grass was still wet with dew as you and Fred made your way back to the Burrow, your fingers entwined with his, warm and certain despite the slight chill in the air. The morning was quiet. Hushed and golden in a way that made it feel like the world had agreed to keep your secret, if only for a little while.
You couldn’t stop smiling. Neither could he.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” you murmured, voice still breathless from the high of it - of him.
Fred glanced sideways at you, that lopsided grin tugging at his lips, his eyes still lazy with affection. “I can,” he said simply. “Been a long time coming, don’t you think?”
Your heart fluttered helplessly. “Have you really felt like this for that long?”
Fred nodded, squeezing your hand. “Since you called me insufferable for making that potion explode in the common room. You had ink on your cheek and told me I was going to fail out of Hogwarts.”
You laughed, a quiet sound that felt like summer. “That was third year.”
“Exactly,” he said. “I didn’t stand a chance.”
You bit your lip, glancing down at the way your hands fit together so naturally, like they’d always belonged there. “I wish it didn’t feel so complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he said gently.
You didn’t respond right away. You just walked with him, each step soft and heavy all at once, and the closer you got to the crooked silhouette of the Burrow, the heavier your chest became.
As the back door came into view, you felt Fred’s fingers twitch against yours. You both knew what had to happen. You dropped his hand, carefully, reluctantly. Like letting go of a lifeline.
You reached the back door first and stepped inside.
Ginny was at the kitchen table, flipping through the Prophet, but her eyes flicked up the moment she heard the creak of the floorboards. They landed on you. Then on Fred. Then back to you.
She looked suspicious. “Where were you two?” she asked, casual, but not really.
You didn’t miss the way her eyes lingered too long on the space between your hands. Your stomach twisted.
“I, uh…I couldn’t sleep,” you said quickly. “Went for a walk.” You shrugged as if it meant nothing. “Fred must’ve had the same idea.”
There was a beat of silence. The paper in Ginny’s hands crackled as she slowly turned the page. Her gaze didn’t waver.
“Uh huh,” she said, noncommittal. Then she looked back down at the paper.
You forced a laugh and stepped past her into the kitchen, your heart thudding wildly as Fred moved behind you without a word. You felt his eyes on you, heavy with unspoken questions. Ones you didn’t want to answer.
Because now it wasn’t just Rule #1 you’d broken. You’d lied to her face.
Rule #2. Never lie to one another.
You told yourself it was just a little white lie. A protective one. A harmless one. But it didn’t feel harmless. It felt like the beginning of something you couldn’t take back.
———————————————————————
You’d spent the whole day glued to Ginny’s side. It wasn’t like she noticed. She just thought you were in a good mood, maybe a little extra chatty, a little too agreeable. But every time she laughed, or looped her arm through yours, or offered you a bite of the plum she was eating on the porch swing, your stomach twisted tighter and tighter.
Because she didn’t know. She didn’t know what you’d done that morning. That you’d walked into the garden one person and come out another. That Fred had kissed you like he meant it. And worse, that you had kissed him back.
Worse still: you had liked it. You had wanted it.
And now, you couldn’t look Ginny in the eye without feeling like your whole skin was buzzing with guilt.
So you stuck close. You did the dishes with her. Helped her weed the vegetable patch. Laughed too hard when she told you that joke about Seamus Finnigan and the exploding butterbeer. You didn’t so much as glance in Fred’s direction during dinner, even though you could feel him looking.
It was late now. Everyone had gone to bed. You were brushing your teeth with heavy limbs and hollow thoughts, the kind that came from trying too hard to act normal. Your eyes were tired. Your mouth still ached faintly from the press of his.
You reached for the towel when suddenly a strong hand clamped over your mouth. You gasped, but before you could scream, you were pulled backwards, into the tiny shower room, the door snapping shut behind you with a soft click as it locked.
You shoved at the hand, heart racing, until it dropped away. You spun around, your back to the wall, and saw him.
Fred. He was slightly out of breath from the effort, hair mussed, eyes bright.
You glared at him, even as your pulse stuttered. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
He grinned like he’d been waiting all day to see you. “I missed you today,” he said simply.
And then he kissed you. There wasn’t any teasing this time. No playful smirk. Just heat. Sharp and overwhelming. His hands framed your face, and yours found his shirt and fisted there, like maybe you could anchor yourself to him and forget what you’d done.
You kissed him back like you hadn’t been thinking about anything else since sunrise. And for a moment, there was only him.
But then, your hand slid up and brushed against the chain around his neck and your chest cinched tight.
You broke the kiss, breathless. “Fred—”
He looked at you with dazed affection, lips parted. “What?”
“I can’t,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I feel so guilty about Ginny.”
His brows drew together slightly, but he didn’t let go of your waist. “I really don’t think she’d be upset.”
You shook your head. “You don’t know that.”
“I know she loves you,” he said. “And I know if she thought we made each other happy, she’d be glad for it. I think we should tell her.”
You felt the words land inside you like tiny, cruel promises. “No! We can’t tell her,” you said, voice firmer now. “We can’t tell anyone.”
Fred’s hands loosened. “No one?”
You nodded. “Promise me, Fred. Please. You can’t say anything.”
He looked reluctant. “Even George?”
You hesitated, because of course George already knew. He probably knew before either of you did. “Even him,” you said anyway. “If he knows anything already, then you need to make him promise not to say a word.”
Fred exhaled, then nodded. “Alright. I promise.”
You stared at him, heart thudding against your ribs. He reached up, brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, and smiled gently.
You kissed him one more time. Slow and lingering and filled with the quiet ache of knowing this wasn’t going to get any easier.
And so it began. The start of something you couldn’t name yet. A kiss in the garden. A locked door. A promise made in whispers. The beginning of a secret.
———————————————————————
You’d gotten so used to hiding it, you almost started believing you could keep it hidden forever.
It became a rhythm. A dance you and Fred had perfected over the past few weeks. A series of glances and touches and moments stolen between the cracks of your everyday life. You lived for the quiet thrill of it. The way your heart leapt when he leaned in just a little too close in the hallway, or the way your pulse skittered when he brushed your pinky with his under the table at dinner.
Sometimes, he’d manage to sit beside you, his thigh pressed against yours beneath the tablecloth, warm and steady like a secret only you were allowed to keep. His hand would rest casually on his knee until it inched over to yours, fingers tapping, tracing lines across your skin no one else could see.
And when he couldn’t sit beside you, he’d claim the seat directly across, his foot nudging yours under the table until it became a full-on game of footsie that had you biting your lip and looking anywhere but at him. Every time your eyes accidentally met, he’d grin like he was proud of himself. Like he was daring you to keep playing.
You were hopelessly smitten. And for the first time in a long time, really happy.
Fred made you laugh when things felt heavy. He kissed you like he meant it, even in the briefest snatched moments. He told you you were brilliant, and brave, and beautiful in all the ways no one ever had before. And you believed him.
It was dangerous, yes. But it was yours. Until the day it wasn’t.
It was late afternoon, the sky hanging heavy with sun and heat, and most of the Weasleys were outside flying or napping or doing chores. Ginny had been reading on the porch when you told her you needed to grab something you’d forgotten in the backyard.
That was a lie. Fred had told you to meet him in the broom shed.
You slipped away quietly, past the rose bushes and around the back of the house where the old wooden shed waited beneath the trees. The door creaked as you opened it and there he was, leaning against the wall, arms folded, eyes lighting up the moment he saw you.
You didn’t even make it two steps before he pulled you in.
His kiss was warm, familiar, and tasted like the honey biscuits Molly had made for tea. You melted into it, hands sliding into his hair, your body fitting against his like it belonged there.
“I’ve been waiting to do this all day,” he murmured against your mouth.
You smiled into the kiss. “What if someone finds us?”
“They won’t.” He pressed a kiss to your jaw. “George is on Ginny duty. We’ve got time.”
You were about to respond - about to tell him you’d missed him too - when the shed door flew open.
You jolted back like you’d been burned. Ginny stood in the doorway, eyes blazing, lips parted in silent disbelief. Behind her, George winced and muttered, “Shite.”
“I knew it,” Ginny said, her voice low and trembling. “I bloody knew it.”
You stared at her, frozen. Every part of you was suddenly cold.
“Ginny—” Fred started, stepping forward.
She didn’t even look at him. Her eyes were locked on yours, betrayal carved into every inch of her expression. “How long?” she demanded. “How long has this been going on behind my back?”
You opened your mouth but nothing came out.
George stepped forward. “Sorry mate, I tried to stop her—”
“You knew?!” she rounded on George like a storm, her fists balled at her sides. “You knew and didn’t say a word?!”
“I only found out recently,” he said, holding up his hands. “And it’s not my business—”
“Not your business?!” she shouted. “She’s my best friend, Fred is my brother, and you’re my other brother! How is this not our business?!”
“Ginny, please,” you finally managed to say, your voice soft, cracking. “I wanted to tell you. I swear I did.”
“But you didn’t!” she shouted. “You lied to my face. Every single day. Do you think I’m stupid? Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
“No, Gin, I never—” You stepped toward her but she stepped back.
Her face was red with fury, her eyes glassy with tears she refused to let fall. “I trusted you. I trusted you more than anyone.”
Fred reached for her, voice low. “She didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Don’t.” Her voice was sharp enough to cut. “Don’t defend her. Don’t pretend this was nothing.” She looked at you again, and it nearly broke you. “You broke our rules.”
And then she turned on her heel and stormed out of the shed. George gave Fred a grim look, then jogged after her.
And just like that…it was over.
The warmth, the secrecy, the giddy, fluttering joy that had filled you so completely. It all shattered in the space of ten seconds.
Fred turned to you, hands raking through his hair. “Bloody hell.”
You were shaking. “I didn’t know what to say. I froze.”
He pulled you into his arms, held you like it might fix things. “She just needs time.”
You nodded against his chest, but your heart wasn’t so sure. Because you hadn’t just broken the rules. You’d broken Ginny’s heart.
———————————————————————
You tried for days. Tried to talk to her, to explain, to say something, but every time you got close, Ginny slipped away like smoke.
You followed her into the garden the next morning, calling her name as she picked harshly at the overgrown mint leaves along the back fence. She didn’t turn around. When you got close enough to speak, she stood up and walked inside without a word.
Later, you found her in the kitchen, arms folded tight, back resting against the counter as Molly spoke to her in a low voice. You hovered in the doorway, unsure, heart thudding against your ribs. Ginny met your eyes for a second - just one second - and then looked away like it hurt.
You tried again on the stairs, whispering her name as she passed. She didn’t even glance at you.
You hated this. You hated how silent everything felt. How your chest ached with things unsaid.
By the time the sun dipped beneath the hills on the third day and the Burrow settled into its evening hush, you were exhausted from trying. And Ginny still hadn’t said a single word.
You crept up to your shared bedroom slowly, quietly, like maybe she’d be soft again if you just approached the right way. You reached for the doorknob, turned it gently.
Locked.
You knocked. “Ginny?”
Silence.
You knocked again, a little louder this time. “Ginny, please. Can we just…can we talk? Please?”
Nothing. Not even a shuffle from the other side. You pressed your forehead to the wood, eyes stinging.
After a long minute, you sighed and padded back down the stairs. The Burrow was quiet now. Most of the lights were off, save for the soft, golden glow from the living room. You curled up on the couch, wrapping yourself in one of the worn knitted blankets, tucking your knees to your chest. This was where you’d been spending your nights lately, not wanting to bother Molly or Arthur about other sleeping arrangements.
The silence felt louder than Ginny’s anger. It echoed. You must have sat there for almost half an hour before you heard soft steps on the stairs.
Fred. His hair was a mess, like he’d been lying in bed unable to sleep too, and his eyes found yours with immediate concern.
“You okay?” he asked gently, already knowing the answer.
“She locked me out again,” you murmured. “She won’t even look at me.”
Fred’s brow furrowed as he sat beside you, draping his arm over your shoulders and tugging you closer. “I’m sorry.”
You let your head fall onto his shoulder. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve never seen her this mad. She’s not even yelling anymore. She just…won’t see me.”
Fred let out a breath, warm against your temple. “She’ll come around. Ginny’s stubborn, but she’s not heartless. She just needs space.”
You nodded, letting the quiet settle between you again. It wasn’t the happy silence from the shed, or the secretive warmth you were used to with him. It was heavier. But his presence still helped. Still steadied you.
He rubbed circles into your arm, resting his chin lightly against your hair. “We’ll figure this out.”
You closed your eyes. “I hope so.”
And then the bottom step squeaked. You both turned.
Ginny stood in at the bottom of the staircase, holding an empty glass. Her eyes landed on you curled beside Fred. You saw the moment it hit her. The twist of disgust, the flick of her lip curling as she scoffed softly.
She didn’t say anything. Just rolled her eyes, and turned on her heel.
You threw the blanket off and jumped up. “Ginny, wait!”
She was already halfway up the stairs, empty glass still in her hand.
“Please, can we talk?” you called, following her up.
She didn’t even pause.
“Ginny—”
She reached the bedroom door, yanked it open, stepped inside. You made it just in time to catch the door slamming in your face. The sound echoed through the Burrow like a curse.
You stood there for a moment, fingers resting on the closed door, throat tight, heart cracking a little more. You didn’t even knock this time. You just turned and walked back downstairs.
Fred was waiting. His expression softened as he saw your face. “She slammed it again?”
You nodded. You didn’t trust your voice not to break.
He opened his arms. You walked straight into them. And for the rest of the night, the two of you stayed curled up on the couch. Not saying much. Just holding on.
———————————————————————
The next morning was unbearable. You sat between Fred and George at the breakfast table, the tension thick enough to slice with a wand. Ginny was across from you, lips pressed into a thin line, her toast untouched. She didn’t look at you. Not once. She didn’t even speak. Not to Fred. Not to George. Not even to Molly when she asked if she wanted more pumpkin juice.
Fred’s knee bumped against yours under the table. You didn’t move. But you didn’t lean into him either. You were ashamed. It hurt, having Ginny’s silence weigh this heavy on your chest.
After breakfast, Ginny stood without a word and disappeared up the stairs, her braid swinging sharply behind her. The door to her room slammed moments later.
You didn’t follow this time. You knew better now.
Fred glanced at you, eyes soft. “Come on,” he said. “Walk with me.”
You let him lead you outside into the warm morning light, the sun stretching long and lazy over the Burrow’s messy backyard. The garden was overgrown in the loveliest way. Wildflowers sprawling into vegetable patches, vines curling along the fenceposts. Fred brushed his fingers against yours as you walked, and when he caught your eye, his smile was crooked and bright like he was trying to make things better without saying it out loud.
You stopped in front of Arthur’s old work shed.
Fred pushed the door open and gestured inside with a dramatic bow. “Milady.”
You rolled your eyes. “What exactly am I meant to be admiring in here? The rusted rake or the giant spider in the corner?”
He grinned. “Neither. Just trust me.”
You stepped inside cautiously, brushing past hanging tools and stacks of flower pots, turning just in time to see him still grinning at the threshold.
“Fred?”
“Sorry,” he said in a singsong voice, and with a swift flick and a slam, the door shut. The lock turned with a click.
“FRED!” You pounded your hand on the wood. “This is not funny!”
But footsteps were already retreating. You waited - furious - for him to open it again. But the minutes passed. The shed was warm and full of the smell of soil and sun-dried wood, and you were trying to decide whether you were more angry or confused when the door creaked again.
You stood quickly, hope flickering. “Finally.”
But it wasn’t Fred. It was Ginny. She stepped in with a suspicious scowl, looking over her shoulder. “What—?”
Before she could finish the thought, slam. Click.
You both lunged for the door.
“FRED!” Ginny shrieked. “GEORGE!”
“LET US OUT!” you yelled right behind her, slamming your fists against the wood.
But their voices were muffled and maddening on the other side.
Fred called, “Not until you talk!”
George chimed in, “Properly! No hexes, no storming off!”
“Absolutely mental,” Ginny muttered, crossing her arms as she turned her back to you and marched to the far end of the shed. She plopped down on an overturned bucket, staring hard at the dirt wall.
You stayed near the door, arms folded just as tightly, silence stretching between you like a curse.
It must’ve been hours.
The heat in the shed grew heavier, sun filtering through the tiny window above. Your legs began to ache from standing, but sitting felt too vulnerable.
And then, finally, Ginny broke it. “If you wanted to snog my brother that badly, you could’ve at least warned me,” she said coolly, not looking at you.
You bristled. “It’s not just snogging.”
“Oh, please.” She barked a laugh. “You’ve been sneaking around like a pair of teenagers and I found you in a bloody broom cupboard. What else is it supposed to be?”
“It’s real, Ginny.” You stepped closer. “We actually care about each other. It’s not some fling, this means something.”
She turned sharply, fire in her eyes. “And that’s supposed to make it better?”
You blinked. “What?”
“It’s worse,” she hissed. “It’s worse because you didn’t just hook up with him. You fell for him. And then you hid it from me. Lied to me. Every single time I asked where you were or what you were doing—”
“Okay, did lie,” you interrupted, chest tightening. “I did…and I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you. I just didn’t know how.”
“You knew exactly what you were doing,” Ginny snapped. “You just didn’t want to deal with the fallout.”
“And I was right, wasn’t I?” your voice rose. “Look at how you’re reacting! You won’t even listen—”
“Because you went behind my back!” she shouted. “I told you everything. Every crush, every stupid thought I had about Harry or Michael, or whoever, and you were pining over my brother the whole time!”
You stared at her, stunned by how deep her voice cut.
“I just…I thought…” Her voice cracked. “I thought we were friends.”
That one hurt the most. “We are,” you said, stepping forward. “Ginny, I love you. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to lose that. I didn’t want to risk you thinking this was some betrayal. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“But you did.”
“I know,” you said quietly. “I know I did. I just…I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want to fall for him. It just happened. And for years I kept it a secret because I refused to act on it so what was the point? And then it just got worse. And I hate that I made you feel like this. I never meant to. You mean too much to me.”
She looked at you for a long time. Then she sighed, sitting down heavily on a crate. “So…how long has it been happening?”
You hung your head low. “Since last week.”
She raised a brow. “Seriously? That’s…actually not as bad as I was expecting.”
You nodded. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, but he was so persistent, and…I gave in. And it’s been…honestly, it’s been amazing.”
Ginny pursed her lips. “And he’s serious?”
“Completely,” you said. “He treats me like I’m the most interesting, maddening person he’s ever met. He actually listens. And he makes me feel—” you paused, blushing a little, “—happy. Really happy.”
She let that hang in the air. Then she exhaled. “Okay.”
You blinked. “Okay?”
“I mean,” she shrugged, “I still think you’re an idiot. But I can live with it.”
You smiled, hesitantly at first, and then fully when Ginny rolled her eyes and opened her arms. You nearly knocked her over hugging her.
“I’m still mad,” she warned into your shoulder.
“I deserve that,” you admitted. “Completely.”
You stayed like that for a long moment. Then Fred’s voice piped up from outside, smug and singsong: “So! All good now?”
Ginny shouted, “If you ever lock me in a shed again, I swear I’ll turn your ears into flobberworms.”
George snorted. “We’ll take that as a yes.”
The door clicked open. You and Ginny stepped out, blinking in the afternoon light, shoulder to shoulder again.
Fred looked at you like he’d been holding his breath the whole time. You gave him a small smile and nodded.
All was not perfect, but it was healing. And that was enough for now.
———————————————————————
Dinner at the Burrow felt normal again.
The clinking of cutlery, the smell of roasted vegetables and gravy, the soft hum of conversation. It was like everything had fallen back into place. You sat beside Ginny again, your shoulders occasionally brushing. She’d even nudged your arm when you reached for the salt before her, and when you made a joke about Ron’s plate being stacked like a tower, she actually laughed.
It was subtle. Soft. But genuine.
From your other side, Fred was watching you with that familiar twinkle in his eye. His foot tapped yours beneath the table like it couldn’t stand not touching you, and when you glanced at him, he gave you a slow, knowing smile.
Molly glanced between you and Ginny, her eyebrows lifting ever so slightly as she set down a fresh loaf of bread. “Well,” she said, voice light, “I must say it’s nice to see you two getting along again.”
Arthur looked up from his stew and nodded. “Things were a bit frosty there for a while.”
Ginny gave a dramatic eye roll and stabbed a potato. “Yeah, well…I got over it,” she muttered, shooting you a sideways smirk.
Ron frowned and pointed his fork between the two of you. “Wait. What were you even fighting about in the first place? You’ve been whispering to each other all evening. Did I miss something?”
Fred, sitting beside you, let out a soft breath - part exasperation, part amusement. Then, without warning, he reached beneath the table and gently laced his fingers through yours. His palm was warm, calloused and familiar. It made your chest tighten, just a little.
And then, just as Ron took another bite of chicken, Fred lifted your joined hands into the air. Like some kind of victory signal.
Everyone froze. Ron choked. Ginny groaned. Molly gasped, then squealed so loudly that even the ghoul in the attic probably heard her.
“Oh! Oh, I knew it! I just knew it!” she cried, practically launching herself out of her seat. Her chair scraped back as she rushed around the table, arms outstretched like she might hug the both of you into oblivion. “You’re together?! You’re really…! Oh I’m just so happy!”
“Mum,” Fred muttered, ducking his head as you laughed and tried to brace yourself for impact. “Breathe, yeah?”
She didn’t listen. Her arms were around your shoulders in a second, pulling you into a tight, motherly hug that somehow managed to be both suffocating and comforting.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said to you, eyes misty as she cupped your cheek. “I always hoped it would be you.”
Your throat tightened. You hadn’t realized how badly you’d wanted her approval until that very moment.
Across the table, Ron raised his eyebrows at Fred and gave him a slow, impressed nod. “Well, you actually pulled it off,” he said, clearly trying not to smirk. “Didn’t think you had it in you, mate.”
“I aim to surprise,” Fred said, squeezing your hand gently under the table again.
You leaned into his side, heart fluttering. Ginny rolled her eyes again, but this time…she smiled.
“To make myself clear, rules two and three are still applicable,” She pointed between the two of you with a warning glare that held to real heat behind it.
“And rule number one?” You clarified.
“To hell with rule number one. It was stupid anyway,” she shrugged, and you beamed.
———————————————————————
Tag list: @vivianette @ellouisa17 @wisp1q @divineani @cattleray @billieeilishkisser @lupinsweater
a/n: I'm sorry to the ten peter pettigrew stans out there, he's a bit of an ass in this story ;) also posted on ao3, but nowhere else. please don't steal my work. fuck jkr!!
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Music blasts from the turntables in the corner of the common room as you stand diagonal, at the edge of the crowd of people. Those in the middle, in the space the sofas usually are, seem to be having the time of their lives, jumping up and down and grinding to their hearts content. Usually, at a party, you would be with them. But there's something…off about tonight. You're not quite feeling it.
And it's not like you can sit down, because the sofas are mostly occupied with couples either cuddling, making out, or both. You try not to look too closely in case you spot something you don't want to see. No one needs to see that. You take a sip of your drink instead, contemplating leaving already, even if you'd only gotten there with Elise fifteen minutes ago. But before you can swallow, Regulus is by your side with a look on his face that makes you think someone threw up on his shoes. You look down, they're fine.
Well, odd as shit, and pointy, but not covered I'm vomit.
“What are you doing? Does that have alcohol in it?”
It takes you a few seconds to realise, but as soon as you do, you're spitting the liquid back into your cup. “Shit! I mean– I'm not– So it doesn't matter. It was a false positive. But I might just go and get a new drink anyway…”
When you saw Regulus again after Saturday evening, you told him that you'd taken more tests, and they came back negative, like you both had thought the first one did. He did not believe you. To be fair, you are lying.
You pop to the drinks table and quickly return with something fizzy but not alcoholic, much to your dismay. “So hey!” You say when you rejoin him. “I was half expecting you not to come. I'm glad we convinced you. What the hell are you wearing?”
He looks down at his clothes with a frown. “What's wrong with it?”
“Is that a cape?”
He scoffs. “No. Of course not.”
“It looks like a cape.”
“It's a poncho, I'll have you know.”
“Ah, a poncho.” You thought those were just for when it rains at theme parks. He's definitely wearing a cape. “And do you find that you can't enter a room without someone inviting you in?”
“How's your pregnancy going? Okay?”
You can't help the laugh that escapes you. “Shut up.”
“You started it.”
“Ooh, I like this song. See you.”
“You can't avoid it forever.” His eyes stay on you as you shuffle away in time with the music. You feel like an idiot, but an idiot that's started something she can't stop.
“Watch me,” you whisper, finally turning around and disappearing into the crowd of sweaty, drunk students. You weren't lying, you actually do like this song. Fleetwood Mac's ‘Don't Stop.’ You have the whole album on record, it's one of your favourites. So, you dance for a little while. Normally, when you do this, you're at least a little bit drunk, and at first it's a bit daunting to be completely sober. Sort of like ‘what the fuck am I doing in front of so many people’ type of daunting. But soon enough, you realise that no one's looking at you. Not one single person in this crowd is paying attention to you. After the second song finishes, you bump into Elise in the crowd, dancing with her girlfriend, Marlene. You join them, giddy once you realise their dancing is just as dorky as your own.
And that makes you realise that everyone is dancing as dorky as you, if they're dancing at all. Lots of people are just grinding on each other or jumping up and down and doing something with their arms. It's freeing, until you feel hands on your waist. You turn, ready to clock whoever it is right in the nose. But you're greeted with a soft smile, and beautiful green eyes.
“Hey.”
You turn fully to face him, and his hands fall from your side. You're breathing heavily as you look at him, dancing completely forgotten.
“Not today, babe,” you say after staring at his face for definitely too long. He's just so pretty. You can't help it.
He nods, but doesn't make any moves to leave. “Saw you with Reg earlier. He doesn't normally come to this type of thing. You have something to do with it?”
You bite the inside of your lips, nodding.
“Didn't know you were friends?” he continues.
You shrug. “We're in some of the same classes.”
“Ah.”
“Jealous?”
“Absolutely.”
That catches you off guard, and you furrow your brow. Sirius was the one to break your arrangement off. “You have no right or reason to be.”
“And yet.”
You roll your eyes. You're the only still people on this dance floor, everyone around you becoming a blur of bad dance moves. “What do you want from me, Black?”
“Let's go somewhere quieter.”
“I already told you I'm not fucking you.”
“Not to shag. To talk.”
“I have nothing to say to you.” Well, that wasn't quite true. But you figure it's probably best to tell the father of your baby that hes the father of your baby once you have more things figured out. Also once you've stopped denying said baby's existence. Because you're not pregnant.
Before Sirius has a chance to reply, a boy in glasses appears behind him, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. His grip pulls it up slightly, revealing the bottom of Sirius's stomach. You try not to stare.
“Mate! I left you alone for five minutes. This has got to be worth, like, a hundred push ups. Just wait til Remus hears.”
And, before you know quite what's happening, Sirius is gone, pulled away by James Potter, who you know mostly from watching quidditch matches over the years. Despite going to school together for almost seven years now, you've never had a direct conversation with the guy. Never really wanted or had a reason to.
Sirius's other friends, Remus and Peter, you knew a bit better. You always nod at Remus when you're both in the library at the same time, one time he saw you struggling to reach a book on the top shelf, and got it down for you. Since then, you've noticed him always doing little things like that for people. Of course there's his mysterious scars, also, that half your year are curious about. You, personally, don't see what all the fuss is about. Most people have scars. Remus just has the misfortune of having his in very obvious places, and people are nosy cunts who don't know how to mind their business.
Like James, you also haven't spoken to Peter very much, although you were partnered for a project together in third year. But Peter, at least to you, is a lot easier to figure out than Potter. He could hardly meet your eyes during the project, stuttering over his words–and that was when he decided he would speak to you, opting to nod or shrug in place of words most of the time. Peter struggled to see women as people, equal to men, and while he on the surface came off as simply nervous, he certainly wasn't as quiet when talking with his mates. He also took whatever James Potter said as gospel, following the boy everywhere. It almost made you feel bad, how little backbone he clearly had.
The day before you were supposed to hand in your project, you overheard him talking with the others, complaining. About you. The girl he'd spoken about three words to. He'd called you annoying, saying how pissed he was that the professor hadn't let him switch partners like he'd asked. He also added, and now you remember this part vividly, that he didn't like how short your skirt was, and he thought it was inappropriate for the classroom that you could see your bra through your shirt.
If someone said that about you now, you'd empty your water bottle onto them. Back then, little fourteen-year-old-you was simply disgusted with the realisation that boys were now looking there. Why was he noticing the length of your skirt? Who cared if you could see your bra? At least you couldn't see your tits. And it wasn't your fault the uniform shirts were practically sheer. Merlin forbid a girl wants to be joyful and wear a pink bra once in a while. From then on, you wore shorts under your school skirt, and saved the fun bras for weekends, when you weren't wearing a uniform.
You also tried to keep your head down and be more careful with how you spoke to your guy classmates, but at the end of the day, you were still yourself. Peter had only enlightened you to the type of men out there, he hasn't stripped you completely of your personality. Thank Merlin, because sometimes it's rather fun to be you.
Once Sirius is gone, you have no idea where, you weave your way out of the crowd, grab another drink, and leave the common room for some fresh air. You make it about fifty metres before your feet and ankles scream at you to sit down, and end up taking a breather in the middle of the corridor on the cold ground. The coolness is lovely on your skin, sinking in like a calm ocean's tide. You feel yourself relax, like a weight taken off your bones. Your bones have been feeling so heavy recently. For a while, you just sit there. Staring and sipping your lemonade, wishing it wasn't lemonade, bopping your head along occasionally to a song you like. Someone should probably warn them that the music is loud enough to hear from outside, that you're not being as sneaky as you all think and a teacher could come and shut this down at any minute. That person won't be you, though.
You watch as people stumble out of the common room, some alone, some with another person attached to their face, most of them drunk. No one notices you.
After so long, your bum starts to get numb and you decide to go back in, if only to scout everything out and realise it's time to go home. You might be able to help a drunk person get home. But that plan goes out the window when you spot a boy dressed like a vampire squashed between couples making out on the couches. You frown, going up to him.
“Have you just been sitting here all night?”
“You're the only person I know here, and you left me.”
Your frown deepens. “You've been going to school with these people for seven years.”
“So? I don't talk to them.”
“Ugh, you're impossible.” You stretch your arms out, making a ‘come here’ motion with your hands. “Up.”
He follows you until he realises where you're taking him. “Oh…absolutely not. I don't dance.”
“You do tonight, baby. Come on, loosen up a little. Maybe even crack a smile!” You shout over the music.
“I don't do that, either.”
“Look, I'm not gonna drag you. But you came tonight for a reason. What did you think people did at parties? Read? No. You're not that socially inept.”
“You flatter me, truly.”
The song ends, and when the next one starts you almost jump with excitement, talking with more urgency than before. “Come on, man! It's ABBA! Anyone can dance to ABBA.”
You're already swaying your hips a little as you move further into the crowd, with Regulus following shortly behind you. You think you hear him apologising to someone for bumping into them. It makes you smile. When it gets to the first chorus, you sing along as you jump about, not minding that no one else is. Regulus is staring at you as if you're insane. Maybe you are, a little bit, but at least you're having fun. You grab him by his bony shoulders and shake, screaming the words in his face. It finally gets him to crack, the corners of his lips tugging up in what is obviously a very reluctant smile.
“You're the only person singing along,” he shouts over the music, and even then you have to read his lips to figure out what he said.
“So sing with me then.”
“I don't know the words!”
But by the end of the song, almost the entire party is singing along. Regulus picks up the lyrics, it isn't hard, they repeat every minute or so. You spot some familiar faces in the crowd; people you talk to at parties like this, sometimes in the corridor at school, but it's never anything with meaning. Still, it's nice sometimes to be greeted with an, “it's you!” and pulled into their circle to do shots. Nice to be reminded that you aren't always completely invisible in this place. And in that moment, when you're singing along to ABBA with about a hundred other kids, you've never felt more on top of the world. You didn't need alcohol tonight, you just needed this.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
After the party on Wednesday, you're exhausted. You're not used to being this tired after doing normal things. On Thursday morning you'd dragged yourself out of bed to go to classes, but skipped lunch for a nap back in your warm, soft bed. You only just woke up in time for dinner. Today, Friday, you hadn't gone to any classes. You made it down for breakfast but ran out in a hurry for the nearest toilet. This bug was really starting to piss you off, it's impossible to keep track of all the things that set you off. You can hardly stop going to the dining hall, you still have to eat. But how can you eat when being surrounded by so many different flavours and smells all of a sudden makes you throw up? There's no winning.
“Knock knock,” comes a voice from outside your bed. It's late Friday evening, and you're writing in your journal before bed. “Can I open the curtains?” asks Elise.
You place the ribbon bookmark between the pages to keep your place, and close the notebook. “Of course. What's up?”
The curtains around your bed pull back, and Elise stands at the end of your bed, fiddling with her fingers. “How are you feeling? Any better?”
“I'm okay.” You nod, hoping she didn't come over here just for that. “How are you?”
She ignores your question, climbing on top of your duvet until she's kneeling on your bed. She seems nervous, she won't meet your eyes. “So, I was thinking. And if you're scared to go to the infirmary because you don't want to go alone, I'll come with you. I should've offered before, I don't know why I didn't, I just felt a bit weird about it. You know? Like, I know we're roommates, but we're not super close. I didn't want to overstep or anything, and this is obviously super personal and private. But then I spoke about it with Marles, and she told me I should just put the offer out there, whether you accept it or not. So, no pressure at all. But I'm offering.”
“You told Marlene I'm pregnant?”
Her eyes widen. “I only told her because I wanted her advice on what I should do! I swear. And she's not going to tell anyone. Sorry. Merlin, I never think. I just say. I'm so sorry. Are you mad at me?”
Well how can you be mad at her when she acts like that? It's unfair. “No, I'm not mad.” You are a little bit. “But I'm not even pregnant, so.”
All the worry drains from her face, replaced with a sterner expression you don't recognise on her features. “Y/n. Come on now.”
“I'm serious, the test was negative when me and Regulus did it.”
“Okay, let's say you're not.” Bless Elise and her aversion to conflict. “You are still definitely some sort of sick, and it's not getting any better. So, my offer stands.”
“Thank you, I appreciate it.”
“So what are your plans for tomorrow?” She jumps into the subject change surprisingly cheerfully, settling down on your bed and crossing her legs. You sit up more to look at her properly, taking the crossed legs as an indicator that she's staying for a short while.
“Um, if I feel well enough, I need to do some shopping. Just boring stuff. Bras and underwear and that.” All of your bras have been fitting extra tight recently. It must be a second growth spurt, or something. You read somewhere that that happens around your twenties, maybe yours is just a couple years early.
“Oh!” Did she just squeal? “Can I join you?”
“Sure. You wanna get something for Marlene?” You ask, grinning when her cheeks go pink.
“Maybe something like that, yeah,” she says, voice soft with shyness. It's really cute how much she and Marlene like each other. They've been together since just before the Chridtmas holidays, so going on nearly three months now. Still in the honeymoon phase, you guess. Not that you would know anything about relationships.
“Cool, sounds like a plan. Girls trip.”
“Yes, girls trip!” She starts to retreat off the bed, going back to her own, you hope, and must realise that she's acting very hyper. “Um, if you feel up to it, of course,” she adds, voice calm but lips still pulled wide in a genuine smile. “No pressure. We can always rain check.”
“Great. Sleep well, Elise.” You lean forward to tug the curtains back into place.
“Goodnight, Y/n!”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
You have fun with Elise the next day, even if you had to leave early and go back home. You got what you needed, helped Elise find something, and even had a quick browse in the book shop before your legs started getting heavy and your head foggy. Overall, it was a successful day, Elise didn't mention the P word, and you felt a lot better after a nap. But it's been four days since then, and you don't think you can ignore it any longer. You also don't think you take much longer of being sick like this. How can you do your exams if you have to throw up half way through? How are you even going to be able to pass if you keep missing school?
So, you give in. You don't tell anyone, don't take Elise up on her very kind offer to come with you, and make your way to the hospital wing. When you get there, despite having had weeks to prepare on what you're going to say, you go blank. You humiliate yourself horribly.
“What brings you here, sweetheart?” Madam Pomfrey asks.
“Uh…” Just say it. Just spit it out. You won't be the first pregnant student in all of Hogwarts's history. This is embarrassing. She's staring at us. This was a bad idea. Why did we come here? “Um…”
“Is something actually the matter? I'm very busy, I don't have time to be messed about, young lady.”
“No!” Great, now she hates us. Well done. “I– I'm not.” Just say it. “Um, can you promise not to judge me?”
“Simply tell me why you're here, or get out of my ward.”
“I keep throwing up,” you blurt, panicking when she told you to get out. “Um, and I'm really tired like all of the time. And none of my bras fit anymore, I had to get new ones. Also I'm pretty sure I missed my period, I'm not sure, I don't track them. I know I should, I'm sorry, but I don't, and now I have no idea when my last one was.” You want to melt into the floor. Out of all the ways you could've picked to tell her, that had to have been the most chaotic, unorganised ramble of them all. You just hope she won't make you repeat any of it.
Thankfully, she doesn't. Her sharp look from when she thought you were mucking her about is gone, replaced with a focused frown, and she ushers you to sit on one of the hospital beds. “Have you taken a test, dear?”
“Yes. I took it, but it was negative, and then it was positive. I don't think I did it right.”
She laughs quietly and you relax slightly, letting your shoulders slump. “Yes, I don't trust those box tests, and the instructions can be confusing.” You're sure she's only saying this to make you feel better. The instructions were very simple: piss on the stick and wait to see if a second line appears. “Much more accurate the old fashioned way, I say. Let's have a look, shall we?”
She instructs you to lift up your shirt and lie back as she tells you she'll be right back. When she returns, it's with some sort of machine with a screen on wheels. A cool, gel-like substance is spread across your tummy.
“Okay…” Now she brings over a stick, attached to the machine she walked in with by a cable. She brushes one end of the stick over your abdomen, sliding it across the gel she'd put on earlier. It's impossible for you to look away, mesmerised by the things the nurse is doing. “Oh, there it is,” Madam Pomfrey whispers. You look up to see what she means, but she isn't looking at you anymore, she's got her attention wholly on the screen of the machine. Displayed on the screen is an extremely grainy black and grey image, only it's shifting slightly every few seconds.
It's not a very interesting movie, you think.
“Yup,” she continues, finally looking back at you. She's smiling. “It's a bit difficult to make out on the screen, but that there is a baby. Congratulations, sweetheart.”
You're speechless for a moment, eyes welling. “Are you sure?” you whisper; it's all your throat will let you.
“I'm sure.” Her voice is soothing, and you're grateful for it. You'd been worried she'd get mad, and tell you off for being so irresponsible. Her calm, even happy, reaction–though extremely unexpected–is the only thing keeping you calm at the moment, too.
“Are you really sure?”
She takes a paper towel from the drawers next to the bed, wiping down the stick and placing it into a hold on the machine. She passes you a handful, too, for your stomach.
“Why don't I print out a picture for us to look at, and we can talk through some things. Does that sound okay?” She sees your tears and passes another handful of paper towels over without blinking. “It's all going to be fine, I promise. I'll just be two minutes, give me a second.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
You stare down at the still taken from the ‘ultrasound’ as madam pomfrey had called it. This thing is inside of you, it's growing right now inside of you and it's only going to keep growing, keep getting bigger. At the time she'd pointed out which grain was the baby, but as you look at it now, you can't for the life of you remember or make it out on your own. You just know it's there somewhere. Maybe that's enough for you.
“Hi.”
You jump, hugging the paper close to your chest to hide the photo.
“Why did I even stop wearing eyeliner if people still get scared of me?”
“You used to wear eyeliner? Why would you stop?! You should definitely bring that back.”
Regulus sits down on the bench next to you, ignoring what you said. “What have you got there?” he nods towards your chest.
“...My boobs?”
“No.” He exhales loudly, lets out half of a laugh, and rubs his forehead, exasperated. “The super secret piece of paper that you don't want me to see.”
“Oh.” You look down, staring into it as you debate whether to tell him or not. He basically already knows, so there can't be any harm in confirming his suspicions. “You promise not to tell anyone?”
“Who would I tell?”
“Oh, right, I forgot you're as pathetic as me.”
“Don't bring me down to your level, I'm not that bad.”
“Yet. Keep hanging around me and we'll get you there, babe.”
“I promise not to tell anyone. Now show me.”
Wordlessly, you uncover the picture and lean it towards him, but keep your hands on it. You haven't let it go since Madam Pomfrey gave it to you yesterday. “It's…What is it?”
“A baby. Well, I'm only eight weeks, so I guess it's just a bunch of cells right now. But a bunch of cells that will grow into a baby. Isn't that crazy? Kind of freaky, too.”
“You finally went to the infirmary? And they confirmed it? Show me the baby again, I want to see.” You smile slightly and he looks more intently at the paper like he's trying to figure it out. “Aw,” he says, deadpan. “I'm sure it'll be…really small.”
“Thanks, Reg.”
The next few days are uneventful. You may even go so far as to say they're good. You and Regulus spend more time together–without getting your hopes up, you think you're becoming friends–and he's only asked who the father is seven times. He and Elise teamed up sometimes; you'd told her you went to Madam Pomfrey mostly just to get her to stop worrying, and it backfired majorly.
“Why won't you tell us?” Elise’s voice dropped to whisper. “Do you not know who he is?”
“Of course I do, how little do you think of me?”
“Not little at all!” Elise.
“I don't think you want me to answer that.” Regulus. You scowled at him. He ignored you, turning his attention to Elise instead. “Has she ever had a boyfriend?”
She thought about it for a second. “Yes, but a couple years ago now. And he doesn't go to this school. Unless they got together over the holidays when she went back home!”
“Did that happen?” Regulus asked you.
“No! Stop talking about my love life right in front of me like I'm not here.”
“Not your love life, your sex life.”
“Sweet fuck, save me from this conversation.”
They continued for another ten minutes. Thankfully, neither of them came even close. It's lucky you and Sirius were so careful during your…arrangement, you never brought him to your dorm. It wasn't that it was a secret, it's just that people are so annoying. Anyway, you were going to tell Sirius. Eventually. Soon, even. Soon is probably more morally correct. But Eventually is so much more enticing. Eventually gives you time.
On Saturday morning, your streak of good days ends. It's after breakfast, and still unable to handle the dining hall without vomiting, you ate your breakfast in the courtyard. On her way back from breakfast, before leaving for a date with Marlene, Elise found you, dropping an envelope into your lap.
“This came for you at breakfast,” she says.
You look up. “Oh, thanks babe. Have a good day.”
“Are you sure you don't want to join us later? We're hanging at the three broomsticks, you won't be a third wheel or anything, most of Marl's friends are coming, too. I know you can't drink, but it will still be fun. It's always fun when Potter and Black have too much to drink. They're really funny!”
That could be a good opportunity to talk to Sirius privately without having to go up to him out of nowhere. The chances of him running away from you before you even say anything are much lower. So you actually mean it when you say, “Oh, maybe. Yeah, I'll think about it.”
She skips away, and your attention turns to the envelope she gave you. Immediately, you recognise the handwriting, and you have a fucking heart attack. Clearly, your brain doesn't know the difference between running up the steepest mountain in the world, and getting a letter from your parents.
You already know it's bad before you open it. The bad vibes waft off the paper in waves, warning anyone who tries to read the contents. Well, lucky for you, you don't have a choice. You close your eyes, forcing yourself to take three deep breaths to try and calm down, and rip off the bandaid. At first, there are two of each word, and they all move about the paper like tadpoles in a big ocean. You inhale deeply one more time, and compel yourself to read.
Y/n,
Your school contacted us recently and informed us of your recent ailment. I must say, y/n, I expected better from you.
While at first we were hurt, and disappointed not to have heard about it from you personally, I have decided to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you've already taken care of it, hence you didn't feel a need to bother us about it. If that is the case, which I sincerely hope it is, then good, you are welcome to stay at the house over summer until you're able to find a permanent place to live, as you are graduating in July and won't be returning to school in September.
If that is not the case, then I urge you to do the right thing before it is too late. It would be a horrible shame to see you throw your life away, not to mention how disrespectful it would be to everything we have sacrificed for you and your sister over the years. Suffice it to say, at least, that if you display such ungratefulness, there is no home for you here. I know you will understand, and choose the right thing.
Do not feel a need to write back, I will know your decision if I see you in the summer. I wish you well and good luck on your exams next month.
sincere regards,
John y/l/n and Josephine y/l/n
thank you for reading! don't forget to like/reblog/comment if you liked it <3
content warnings: lots of vomiting mentions, implied sex
wc: 3.5k
a/n: this is my first fic on here!! Part one of a series, next parts should be up soon. I'm new to posting on tumblr so if I get anything wrong please have patience. This is also posted on ao3 under the same name, but those are my only platforms. Please don't steal/post my work anywhere else. fuck jkr!!
series masterlist
“y/n? Are you nearly done?”
You lift your head up, out of the toilet bowl. “Think so,” you call back.
You can practically see Magnolia sighing and rolling her eyes on the other side of the door.
“Okay,” she says, clipped. “It's just that this is a communal bathroom, you know, we all have to use it too. And you've been sick for, like, a month now. It's getting ridiculous.”
It had been a week since you were first forced out of bed at an ungodly hour with a need to vomit, and it had been the same ever since. You think it's getting better now, though. At least you plan on going to your classes today.
You're not worried about missing learning, you have the textbooks, you can just teach yourself.
But what if you have a question? What if the teacher gives out some of the best wisdom, knowledge that you only get from experience, and you miss it?
With only two months left before your first exam, you need all the class time you can get.
Hopefully this bug will go away soon.
“I- I'm really sorry, Magnolia.” What else is there to say? “Five minutes and I'll be out, I promise.”
“Hmph.” Magnolia's heals clack against the floorboards as she walks away, probably to recheck she's packed all her books for that day, fix her hair so that it's just right.
There is only so much she could do when all she needs to finish getting ready is to brush her teeth, and you're the one hogging the bathroom. You really do feel bad, but your head and stomach outweigh your guilt, and before you know it, you're gagging into the toilet bowl for the millionth time that week.
Twenty minutes later, you're hurrying down the corridor and tying your tie as you try not to trip or be late for the first class you're going to in three days.
Thankfully, you get there at the same time as your very clever, very prompt housemate.
“Regulus!” You run to catch up with him, and you walk through the doors together. He frowns at the sight of you–gee, that's reassuring–but doesn't argue when you sit in the seat next to him. “I'm so happy to see you.”
“Why is that?” He doesn't look at you as he neatly places his books on the desk and reaches into his pocket for a pencil.
“I need to ask you a major favour.”
“Does it have something to do with the fact you haven't been in classes recently?”
“Yes. I have some bug or something, I can't stop throwing up. And even when I'm not throwing up, I'm just exhausted, you have no idea-”
“And I'd like to keep it that way. So can you skip to the part where I come into this?”
You smile despite his words, and continue. “Anyway. I'm still sick, but I decided I couldn't miss any more school. But I could really use your help catching up with the classes I did miss. Please?”
If you're being honest with yourself–which you are not–you don't have many friends. Or, any friends, to be frank. But Regulus was always kind. Never nice, you'd think a boy from a family like the Blacks would have better manners. But he's always been kind to you, since you were just baby-faced first years. And while you're not friends, you like to think you are familiar.
If he had a cup of water and you were on fire, you like to think he'd at least try to put you out before drinking the rest of it. You try not to think about how pathetic it is that the person closest to you in this school may or may not save your life, even if they barely had to lift a finger.
Then again, the person closest to you may be someone else. Regulus’s own brother. He has seen you naked, of course, while only one other person has since you were a baby. But you and Sirius aren't friends anymore. You never really were…friends. You did have some nice conversations. The type you think about while you lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling. Some nice sex, too. And Sirius would probably put you out if you were on fire.
But maybe he'd accidentally use tequila instead of water.
“You're still sick?”
You snap back to reality, looking at the brother of the man you were thinking about. He's looking at you with unfiltered disgust, leaning heavily against the wall.
Your smile widens. “Wow, I didn't know you were a germaphobe.”
“I am not a germaphobe, forgive me if I just don't want to spend the next week in bed.”
“Oh man I wish I could've gotten away from the toilet long enough to get in bed.”
The chair screeches loudly when he stands, picking up his book with a distinct frown and crease between his eyebrows. A couple people around you look over to see what all the commotion's about.
“Relax,” you say, holding up a hand to stop him from leaving. “I'm just teasing you. I don't think it's contagious, I probably just ate something bad. None of my roommates have it, and we share a bathroom.”
A fact they keep reminding you. Well, not Elise. Not sweet Elise who brought you soup from the kitchens when you were too sick to move.
Still obviously sceptical, Regulus settles back into his seat, tucking himself back under the desk primly. “How long did you say you've been sick?” he asks, looking about ready to pull out a surgical mask and hand sanitiser from his book bag.
You sigh, remembering. “A week.”
“And it's not getting any better?”
Your arm comes round to hug your stomach almost automatically, offering a small piece of comfort to keep yourself calm in a public space. It has been a shitty week. So shitty. But you don't want to dump all of it onto Regulus. “Not really.”
Suddenly, he smirks. “You're not pregnant, are you?”
“Oh. Can you imagine?” Your first instinct is to laugh. He does, too. It was a joke. But then you think about it for more than five seconds, and the panic starts to set in. Your stomach drops for a whole different reason than it has been recently.
Regulus must see it on your face. “Merlin's tits.” he sits forward. “Are you?”
“Of course not!” you whisper-shout, not wanting the entirety of seventh year to know your business. “No. There's no way.”
“I know that's a saying, but is there actually no way? Like absolutely, zero percent, chance?”
“Yes.” The lie flies out of your mouth and you're grateful for it. “It would be impossible.”
He sighs as if it's his womb. his uterus. his life changed forever. his vagina changed forever. At least he's completely forgotten to be scared of contracting your disease now.
Because you can't catch pregnancy.
But you're not pregnant! You're not. You curse it out of your mind.
“You should probably still go see madam Pomfrey, though. Even if she doesn't know what it is, she'll be able to help. Give you an anti-nausea potion or something.”
“Oh, great,” You reply genuinely. You hadn't thought to go to the nurse for something like that, probably because muggles usually just had to wait an illness like this out. But of course wizards have options for these things. “Thank you, Regulus."
The professor finally enters, apologising about being late and instructing everyone to turn to page 116 of the textbook.
“And yes, I'll help you catch up. Just try not to miss any more school. You free on Saturday?”
You don't look at each other as you talk, typing not to get caught out by the teacher so early in the day. “Yeah. I'm free.” You're always free, you don't have a life.
“Cool. Library, after lunch.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
As the day continues on, you go from lesson to lesson, eating lunch outside in the courtyard despite the weather only just beginning to show signs of spring, but you can't stop thinking about what Regulus said.
What he joked about. Because, scarily, you know that it's a real possibility. Your memories of that night may have been clouded due to about five too many drinks, but you do remember the important part. There was a moment, however quick, where you both had forgotten yourselves.
But you remembered five…thirty seconds into it, and he continued with protection on until it was over. And you definitely remembered taking a plan B the next day…and then being hungover as shit and throwing up in a bin. Bollocks.
Could one night of stupidity really alter the course of your life forever?
Sirius would be fine. He's a man, no one expects him to stay. But you…
No! This is ridiculous! You don't even know for sure yet. It's highly unlikely, and there's no use getting worked up over societal expectations and inequalities when it could all be for nothing.
You decide to give yourself a day. A day of peace and quiet before your life changes forever, possibly. If you wake up on Friday, tomorrow morning, and your sickness still hasn't gotten any better, then you will buy a test at the weekend. A test from a shop in hogsmede, you won't be going to Madam Pomfrey just yet.
Despite the deal with yourself, you don't get much sleep that night. It's half because you still aren't feeling well, and half because you're scared of the reason why.
When you're inevitably pulled out of bed at four in the morning, slogging your way to the toilet in the dark like a zombie being led by a siren, you want to kill Sirius Black.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
“I bought a test.” You sit down opposite Regulus at the table in the library he'd chosen for your study session.
“A practice test?” he asks.
“A pregnancy test.”
His eyes widen almost comically as he slides his paper to the side to give you his whole attention. “I thought you said it was impossible.”
“I lied a little bit.”
“...Yeah. Clearly.” He nods, eyebrows raised, as he looks at you expectantly. “And? What did it say? What were the results?”
“I haven't taken it yet.” It was a struggle for you getting ready this morning. You've stopped using the dorm bathroom and instead were forced into the toilets closest to the slytherin common room, feeling bad for your dorm mates.
Thankfully no one used those toilets that early in the morning on a Saturday.
Anyway, by the time you'd bought the thing, you were already nearly late. You didn't want to be rude when Regulus was doing something like this for you, at least that was the plan. By blurting it out immediately, you sent that plan down the drain.
“So you're telling me because you knew I'd force you to take it and you're too chicken?”
“What? No. Hey where are you going, I can still study!”
He turns to look at you impatiently. “We can do this later.” When you still don't move, he walks back and grabs your arm, dragging you with him out the library.
“Well that's rude,” you say. “Where are we going?”
“Will anyone be in your dorm?”
You think about what your roommates were talking about last night. Elise is spending the day with her girlfriend. Magnolia is finishing a divination project, and Sadie went home to see her parents. “No. But I don't know if this is a good idea–”
“We'll only be quick. How long do those things take, like five minutes?”
“Um, a little longer, I think. I don't know, I didn't read the box, I didn't want anyone to see me.”
Twenty minutes later, you and Regulus perch on the edge of the bathtub, waiting for the results. The stick burns in your hand as your patience slowly runs out.
“When was your last menstruation?” he asks, catching you off guard.
“I don't think we're at that point in our friendship yet,” you reply without missing a beat. You're too anxious about the magical stick in your hands to worry about bring weirded out.
He nods apologetically. “Felt wrong as soon as I said it.”
“How long is left?”
Regulus pulls up his sleeve, revealing a sleek wrist watch. “About thirty seconds.”
The wait is torture. Your foot bounces on the floor, switching from heel to toe to heel to toe and again. Your heart syncs with the tick of his watch, beating loud and hard with each passing second.
Merlin, you feel like passing out.
“Okay, that's time.” He jumps up, moving to stand in front of you while you remain sat on the tub. Pins and needles shoot up your leg, pulsing like fireworks. Definitely not a good idea for you to stand right now. “Hurry up, what does it say?”
You shove the stick in his face. “I can't look, you do it.”
Without hesitation, he takes it from you and stares intently. “One line. What does that mean?”
Paper crinkles as he hurriedly unfolds the information sheet that came in the box. You wait on the edge of your seat. The tub is digging into you rather uncomfortably, actually, but you don't care, you lean forward over Regulus’s shoulder, making it even worse.
“Well?”
“Negative!” he cries, spinning to look at you. You really are in this together at this point, he's invested. “y/n, it's negative. You're not pregnant!”
“Shut up!”
“I will not.”
“Give it to me."
One line, like he said. Wow. This is…
“Wait, this is good. It's good, you're not pregnant, why are you crying?”
You shake your head, dipping it and touching your chin to your chest to try for some form of privacy in such close quarters.
Just when you lift your head again, about to say something, the world slips out from underneath you.
Before anything else registers, you feel the bathmat scratching at your cheek and the threads slowly falling apart under your hands, and a dull but very present pain in your side. You're not sitting on the edge of the tub anymore, that much is clear.
“Are you seriously laughing at me right now?” You ask, voice still thick with the emotion from only moments ago, once you get your eyes open. The little bastard is laughing at you.
“Stop, this moment isn't about me.” He almost has you, but then he goes and loses his composure again. “I'm sorry, the way you just went down! It was like– szhuum–and then you were just on the floor. You fell off a bathtub.” He's cackling again, high pitched and completely un-regulus-like, but you don't quite mind it.
You do mind, though, that you're the one he's laughing at.
“It's not funny, you twat.”
He ignores you, but eventually stops laughing and sits down on the floor with you. You both sit with your backs against the bath, staring at the underside of the sink and cracking paint, in silence for a while.
“It is good,” you say finally. “It's very good. If I made a pros and cons list of not being pregnant, there would be, like, so many more pros than cons.”
“Great. So can we go back to the library now?”
You forgot that was the reason you're hanging out in the first place. That you still don't have any friends, and Regulus is only still here because he promised to help you out.
You shake off whatever you're feeling about the pregnancy test, because that's way too complicated, and head back down to go study with him. As planned.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
It's dinner time by the time you guys have finished your little study session, so you decide to walk together to the great hall. You get talking about random things that have nothing to do with school—it's new territory for both of you. Once the food comes, though, you naturally fall into silence.
You can't stop thinking about the test this afternoon as you pile your plate with mashed potatoes. The results were good, of course they were. You grabbed sausages now. Logically, in every way, if you were to have a baby at your age, that would be a recipe for disaster.
Right? Babies are expensive, you don't have a job. They're hard work, messy, loud, gross, needy. You cram a few vegetables onto the space left on your plate, topping it all off with a nice pour of gravy.
Merlin, you could cry, it smells delicious.
But babies are also cute. They have those really small shoes for their really small feet. And you've always known you wanted to be a mum. To have a family of your own. You would do it right. Your kids would know that they're loved and you'd never let them forget it.
But you have time to do all of that! Just because it's not happening now, doesn't mean it never will. The timing just isn't right at the moment. That's perfectly okay.
“Hey.” You're brought out of your head by a figure joining the seat next to yours. It's Elise. You smile at her. “Hey, you're finally eating! That's so great, are you feeling better?”
“Only a little. I just can't resist bangers and mash.”
“Oh, of course.” She giggles. “I should've known. Well, it's still good.” Her plate fills with food before she continues. “So, anyway. If you're up for it, which I sincerely hope you are, there's a party in Hufflepuff next Wednesday. Anyone who hears about it is invited.”
“Oh, that sounds like fun actually.”
“Yeah?” Elise says enthusiastically. “That's great! I'm so excited, it feels like we haven't had a proper party around here in ages.” Then she leans over you to look at Regulus. “You should come too, Reg. Some fun'll do you good, I think.”
“I'm perfectly happy being boring. Who has a party on a school night anyway?”
“Ah, come on.” Your hands grab his shoulders, squeezing. “Come with us. I can drink! We should celebrate that. And you have to go to a Hogwarts party before you leave, and I'm willing to bet you wouldn't dare risk being hungover for an exam. Please? Do it for yourself! Live a little before your real life starts!”
He seems to ponder it for a minute, bringing a stem of broccoli to his mouth to buy him time. You and Elise share amused looks and wait for his answer.
“Okay, fine. But I'm not getting drunk, or–”
“y/n!” You feel a shove against your back, and swivel around to see the culprit. You roll your eyes when you see that it's only Magnolia.
“What?”
The girl slowly peers over your shoulder at your dinner plate, taking her time with it, smirking as if she's the queen of fucking England. “This explains so much. Who's the unlucky guy?”
Panic shoots through your veins as you notice, only then, that she's holding something behind her back. You stand, straightening your posture like that'll protect you from whatever she's about to say. “What are you talking about?”
You step over the bench, forcing her to take a step back herself. Her smirk grows, if that's possible.
“Oh, my bad, is it a secret?”
“Is what a secret, Magnolia?” You just want her to say it. You need her to say it.
“Well if you didn't want me to know maybe you shouldn't have left a positive pregnancy test in the bathroom that we share.”
“A what?” You're causing a scene now, you can tell. The people sat closest to you at the table started paying attention as soon as Magnolia came over, and their staring has only invited more people to look at you. You just hope they can't hear you. “Did you say positive?”
Finally, her face falls a little bit. She's no longer smirking.
Her hands disappear from behind her back, practically shoving the stick you'd peed on a few hours earlier into your chest. You grab it immediately, and she let's go without a fight. She seems as confused as you are.
“It's not yours? But it makes sense. You've been sick, moody as hell. I mean, look at your dinner plate, it looks like you're eating for five.”
“Get the fuck out of my face.” You don't apologise when your shoulder accidentally brushes against hers on your way out. You don't look back at Regulus, or Elise, who surely heard your conversation, even if nobody else who watched did.
Merlin you hope nobody else did.
Your footsteps echo in the quiet halls. You're not sure where you're even going until you find yourself sitting down with a view of the stars.
The astronomy tower, of course. You were just glad not to run into anyone hooking up, knowing this was a fairly popular spot. But tonight it's quiet. Still.
The stars shine bright in the sky, reminding you that you're not completely alone. You let the quiet wash over you, breathing deeply until your racing heart calmed down.
Then, on Saturday night in the astronomy tower, you turned over your hand with the test in it, squinting in the moonlight to make out the result.
Unlike earlier this afternoon, but very much like Magnolia had screamed about five minutes ago, there were two lines.
pixelskylines
areudirty
tangentwithtanner
kaledo-art
