[souslarose]

reminder: nothing i write should be taken seriously; it's all for funsies. some of the works here are old and from accounts i no longer use but will still be listed below. please don't translate anything without my permission or repost (aka steal) my works on other sites.

fyi: ☑️ - finished ❌ - hiatus

hp universe

bill weasley

mine ☑️ gen pronouns, under 1k, harry potter: hogwarts mystery era, implied possessive bill

charlie weasley

amortentia ☑️ gen pronouns, 1.2k, harry potter: hogwarts mystery era, amortentia au

girls just want to have fun ☑️ female pronouns, under 1k, harry potter: hogwarts mystery era, ginny & reader friendship-centric

teddy ☑️ female pronouns, under 1k, oneshot, harry potter: hogwarts mystery era, tonks & reader friendship-centric

draco malfoy

i dreamt of you all summer long ❌ female pronouns, 1.4k, series, non-magical au, love triangle

felix rosier

a new beginning ☑️ gen pronouns, 1.3k, harry potter: hogwarts mystery era, age difference

harry j potter

bland goodbye ☑️ gen pronouns, under 1k, angst, unhappy ending

quiet embrace ☑️ gen pronouns, under 1k, post-war

james potter

one single thread of gold tied me to you ☑️ female pronouns, 30k, series, exes to lovers, ficmas 2024

mattheo riddle

i dreamt of you all summer long ❌ female pronouns, 1.4k, series non-magical au, love triangle

marvel

peter parker

homecoming ❌ female oc, 43k, series, collaborative project, homecoming rewrite

i love you ☑️ gen pronouns, 1.1k, oneshot, valentine's day au

it's you ☑️ gen pronouns, 1.1k, oneshot, soulmate au, major character death

kiss you goodnight ☑️ female pronouns, under 1k, oneshot, caretaking

something's gotta give ☑️ gen pronouns, 2.1k, series, miscommunication

divider credits [x]

[roze-latte-zz]

Terms and Conditions

𝕽𝖊𝖌𝖚𝖑𝖚𝖘 𝕭𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖐 𝖝 𝕽𝖆𝖛𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖜!𝖕𝖚𝖗𝖊𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉!𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗 Summary : You, cornered by family expectations and Hogwarts gossip, agree to stage a relationship with Regulus Black. The motive is practical—shield yourself from pressure, control the narrative, and keep things strictly on your terms. Tags : Fake Dating , Suggestive Content , mention about sex , manipulative , miscommunication (later on) , angst , hurt/comfort author' note : Hello guys, so this idea has been on my mind for quite some time and I am so happy to finally start writing this, I promise part 2 will come soon cause I already have it planned. Enjoy!!

The Black family’s drawing room was a place designed to intimidate. Heavy velvet curtains blocked out the summer light, casting the chamber in a muted gloom. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and smoke from the ever-burning hearth, though the fire was unnecessary in the warmth of the season. Portraits of stern ancestors lined the walls, their painted eyes following every movement with silent judgment.

Regulus sat rigidly in the high-backed chair, posture perfect, hands folded neatly in his lap. He had learned long ago that any sign of restlessness was met with sharp rebuke. His parents—Orion and Walburga—occupied the seats opposite him, their presence commanding, their voices weaving through the silence with the weight of centuries of expectation.

The conversation had begun with pleasantries, the kind of brittle exchanges that masked deeper currents. But inevitably, it drifted toward the subject that always lingered beneath the surface: the family fortune. The Black legacy. The inheritance that had once been Sirius’s birthright, now stripped from him the moment he turned his back on their name.

Regulus listened as his mother spoke of investments, of properties, of the preservation of wealth that had been carefully guarded for generations. Her tone was sharp, precise, every word carrying the authority of someone who believed herself the keeper of tradition. Orion’s voice followed, lower and steadier, but no less commanding. He spoke of responsibility, of duty, of the necessity of maintaining the Black name untarnished.

And Regulus—silent, composed—sat as the heir. The weight of it pressed against his chest, heavier than the ornate rings that gleamed on his parents’ fingers. He was the one expected to carry the fortune forward, to embody the ideals Sirius had rejected. Every glance from Walburga reminded him of that truth. Every pause in Orion’s speech seemed to demand his agreement, his compliance.

Walburga’s voice was the first to cut through the heavy silence, sharp as the edge of a blade. She spoke of lineage, of the Black name, of the fortune that had been preserved through centuries of careful alliances. Her words carried the weight of tradition, each syllable dripping with expectation.

Orion leaned forward, his tone lower, deliberate, as though every phrase was carved into stone. He reminded Regulus of his position—not just as heir to the wealth Sirius had abandoned, but as the one who must ensure the family’s survival in the eyes of the pure-blood elite.

The conversation wound its way, slowly but inevitably, toward the heart of the matter. Walburga’s gaze fixed on her son, unyielding. “The fortune is secure,” she said, “but the name must be upheld.”

Orion’s words followed, steady and cold. “A suitable partner. From a pure-blooded family. That is the expectation.”

The implication hung heavy in the air. Regulus was to court, to present the image of stability and tradition, to prove that the Black legacy was unbroken. The partner was not meant to be cherished, not meant to be loved—merely a formality, a symbol.

Walburga’s lips curled faintly, almost satisfied. “You may discard her once the inheritance is sealed. What matters is appearances. The family name must remain untarnished.”

The fire crackled in the hearth, the only sound in the pause that followed. Regulus sat perfectly still, the words sinking into him like iron chains. He was expected to find a mistress to court, a pure-blooded woman to stand at his side until the fortune was his. Afterward, she could be cast aside.

Your presence in Ravenclaw was always marked by a certain sharpness—an intellect that cut through the noise of Hogwarts like a blade. You weren’t just another pure-blood girl with wealth and a respectable family name; you were known for the way you wielded your mind, for the way professors leaned forward when you spoke, for the way even the most confident students hesitated before challenging you in class.

Among the pure-blood circles, your family’s reputation was untouchable. Old money, old traditions, the kind of lineage that made the Blacks and Rosiers nod in acknowledgment. But unlike them, you refused to bow to the suffocating beliefs that had poisoned generations. You had no patience for the rhetoric that half-bloods and Muggle-borns were lesser, no tolerance for the whispers of superiority that echoed in Slytherin corridors.

That was why you kept your distance from the so-called Slytherin Skittles—Evan Rosier with his smug grin, Barty Crouch Jr. with his sharp tongue, Regulus Black with his quiet intensity, Dorcas Meadows with her sharp wit, and Pandora Rosier with her enigmatic charm. They thrived in their own insular world, bound by ambition and bloodline, while you carved your own path, refusing to be defined by the same narrow ideals.

Still, your name carried weight. In the library, in the classroom, even in the Great Hall, you were recognized. You gave Remus Lupin a run for his money in debates, matched Lily Evans in brilliance, and on occasion, even Regulus himself found his carefully constructed composure tested when you outmaneuvered him in Arithmancy or Charms. You were a Ravenclaw through and through—sharp, strategic, and unafraid to challenge anyone who underestimated you.

It was this reputation, this undeniable presence, that made you both admired and untouchable. You were respected among the pure-blood elite, yet you stood apart from their suffocating beliefs. And in the quiet corners of Hogwarts, whispers followed you: the girl who could rival the brightest minds, the one who might one day dismantle the very traditions she was born into.

The library was hushed, sunlight filtering through tall windows and pooling across the long oak tables where you and your friends had gathered. Sylvia leaned close, her elbow nudging yours, her whisper sharp with disbelief: “He’s coming this way.”

You didn’t even glance up at first. Lizzy was flipping through a Charms textbook, Heather scribbling notes, Mary half-buried in a stack of parchment. You scoffed under your breath, brushing Sylvia off. The Slytherins knew better than to tangle with you—it was an unspoken rule, a mutual understanding. You were Ravenclaw, sharp-tongued, untouchable, and they were the Skittles, a cluster of pure-blood ambition and arrogance.

But then the footsteps stopped at your table. The infamous Regulus Black, heir of the Black fortune, slid into the empty seat across from you. His movements were deliberate, precise, as though he had rehearsed this intrusion. He sat facing you directly, posture immaculate, and when his gaze lifted, it locked onto yours without hesitation.

The chatter of your friends faltered. Lizzy’s quill stilled, Heather’s notes forgotten, Mary’s eyes widened. Sylvia’s whisper turned into a sharp intake of breath. Yet Regulus didn’t spare them a glance. His attention was fixed entirely on you, as though the rest of the library had ceased to exist.

The moment unfolded with a strange inevitability. Regulus’s voice, calm but commanding, cut through the library’s quiet: “May I borrow your friend for a few moments?” His gaze never wavered from you, pinning you in place even as your friends exchanged startled glances.

Sylvia’s nudge turned into a hurried nod, Lizzy and Heather murmured agreement, and Mary shifted awkwardly, all of them conforming far too quickly for your liking. You blinked, confused, caught between scoffing at the absurdity and wondering what game he was playing. The Slytherins didn’t cross into your territory—not like this.

But Regulus didn’t wait for your protest. He rose smoothly, every movement deliberate, and you found yourself following as he led you out of the library. His stride was measured, his silence heavy, until the two of you slipped into a secluded corridor where the shadows stretched long and no curious eyes could follow.

The air felt different here—quieter, charged. The walls muffled the distant hum of Hogwarts life, leaving only the sound of your footsteps and the faint rustle of his robes. He stopped, turning to face you fully, the intensity of his stare sharper now without the buffer of your friends.

You stood there, irritation simmering, arms crossed as you demanded, “Alright, Black. What do you want dragging me out here?”

Regulus’s composure didn’t falter, though his voice carried a quiet tension. “Everything,” he said simply. “My parents have made it clear—the Black fortune, the legacy, it all depends on appearances. They want me to find someone. A partner. Pure-blooded, respectable, untouchable. Someone who can stand beside me until the inheritance is secured.”

Your brows shot up, disbelief sharp in your tone. “You’re telling me this like I should care? Sounds like your problem, not mine.”

You scoffed, incredulous. “So you want me to fake-date you? Pretend to be your partner so you can inherit your fortune, while I get dragged into your family’s mess?”

Regulus’s jaw tightened, but his voice didn’t waver. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m asking. Not because I want to, but because I have no choice. And you’re the only one who could make it work.”

The silence stretched, heavy, pressing against the stone walls. His confession hung between you, audacious and desperate all at once.

You couldn’t help it—the laugh burst out before you could stop yourself, sharp and incredulous, echoing in the empty corridor. The look on his face only made it worse.

“Regulus Black,” you said, shaking your head, amusement curling at the edges of your voice, “you actually think I’d want to be seen with you?”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt. He just stood there, gaze steady, as if waiting for you to soften.

But you didn’t. You straightened, the laughter fading into something colder. “No. Whatever scheme you’re plotting, whatever neat little arrangement you think I’d agree to—it’s not happening. I don’t care about your fortune, your family name, or their ridiculous demands. I won’t play along.”

You turned on your heel, the sound of your footsteps echoing against the stone floor as you strode away. The rejection had been sharp, final, and you didn’t bother to look back.

But you felt it—the weight of his gaze, dark and unyielding, following you down the corridor. Regulus didn’t call after you, didn’t try to stop you. He simply stood where you had left him, silent, his eyes fixed on your retreating figure.

There was something in that stare, something that lingered even as you disappeared around the corner. It wasn’t just annoyance or wounded pride—it was calculation, quiet intensity, the kind of gaze that promised this wasn’t the end.

Dinner in the Great Hall was its usual blur of chatter and clinking cutlery, the long tables buzzing with energy. You sat beside Everett Vale—Evei, as most people called him—half-listening to his easy banter while your mind still lingered on the strange encounter earlier.

The scrape of a bench pulled your attention, and Sylvia slid into the seat beside you. Her expression was sharp, eyes gleaming with curiosity. She didn’t waste time with pleasantries. One word, low and insistent: “Spill.”

Your stomach tightened. This was the first time you’d seen her since Regulus Black had cornered you in the library, and the memory of his dark gaze still clung to you. Your brain raced, flipping through excuses, searching for something that would sound believable without giving away the truth.

Finally, you settled on one. You leaned back, forcing a casual tone. “It wasn’t anything dramatic. He wanted to ask about the Arithmancy assignment—something about the formula Professor Vector gave us. I told him to figure it out himself.”

Sylvia narrowed her eyes, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t press—at least not yet. The excuse hung between you, flimsy but serviceable, a shield against the truth you weren’t ready to share.

The corridors of Hogwarts were quiet after dinner, the hum of voices fading as students drifted back to their common rooms. You walked alone, the path toward Ravenclaw Tower familiar, your mind still half on Sylvia’s probing questions and the flimsy excuse you’d given her.

Then, suddenly, a hand seized your arm. Before you could react, you were shoved through the door of the Potions classroom, the heavy wood slamming shut behind you. The lock clicked, sealing you inside.

Your protest rose sharp and immediate, but it died on your lips when you saw him. Regulus Black. His expression unreadable, his movements deliberate. He advanced without hesitation, wand raised, the tip pressing lightly under your chin. The cold touch forced your head up, your back hitting the edge of the table behind you.

The room was dim, shadows stretching across shelves lined with jars and vials. Regulus leaned forward, lowering the wand but not the intensity of his stare. His hands gripped the table on either side of you, caging you in, the closeness suffocating.

Your breath caught, irritation and confusion colliding with the undeniable weight of his presence. He didn’t speak yet—just stared, dark eyes fixed on yours, as though daring you to laugh again, daring you to dismiss him.

Regulus’s voice was low, steady, but there was a sharp edge to it as he leaned closer, wand no longer pressing but his presence still suffocating.

“You think this is about me needing you to go forward with my plans?,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “It’s not. It’s about what happens if you don’t play along. You know how these families work—your family included. They’ll push you toward alliances whether you want them or not. They’ll try to tie you to someone worse, someone who won’t give you a choice.”

His grip on the table tightened. “Being linked to me—even if it’s fake—keeps them off your back. It makes you untouchable. No one questions the Black heir’s partner. No one dares interfere. You get the freedom to breathe, to keep control, without committing to anything real.”

He paused, letting the words sink in, his tone quieter now. “I’m not asking you to believe in their traditions. I know you don’t. I’m asking you to use me as a shield. A buffer. Temporary. Nothing more.”

“You’re starting to see it, aren’t you?” Regulus murmured, voice smooth, almost smug. “I’m not saying you want this. But think about it—linked to me, you’re untouchable. No family breathing down your neck, no worse matches forced on you. I’m a buffer. Temporary. Clean. Easy.”

You narrowed your eyes, refusing to let him think he’d won. “That doesn’t mean I’m convinced.”

His smirk deepened, the arrogance sliding into something more teasing. “Oh, come on. I can’t be that bad. Better than half the dreary options your family would throw at you. At least I’m not boring.” He leaned closer, voice dropping. “And I promise, I’d keep you entertained—in more ways than one.”

You scoffed, heat rising despite yourself. “You’re insufferable.”

Regulus chuckled, his tone dipping into suggestive territory. “Maybe. But admit it—you’d rather spar with me than be shackled to some dull pure-blood who thinks a good time is reciting family trees. At least with me, you’d never be bored. And who knows…” His gaze flicked down, deliberately slow, “…you might even enjoy yourself.”

You rolled your eyes, but he pressed on, relentless. “Besides, think about it. You get freedom, I get my parents off my back. Win-win. And if anyone asks, well…” His smirk sharpened. “You can say you settled for the best of bad options. I’ll even let you insult me while you’re at it.”

Your lips parted, half-annoyed, half-amused. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously better than the rest,” he countered smoothly, leaning just close enough that his breath brushed your cheek. “And if you’re worried about appearances, don’t. I look good on your arm. You’d look even better on mine.”

The banter hung heavy, sharp and charged, his arrogance daring you to push back, your irritation tangled with the faintest flicker of intrigue.

The tension in the Potions room was thick, his smug grin still lingering as you finally exhaled, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

“Fine,” you said, voice sharp but steady. “I’ll agree.”

Regulus’s eyes lit with triumph, but before he could move, you pressed a hand against his chest, forcing space between you. “But don’t get ahead of yourself, Black. There are terms and conditions.”

His brow arched, amusement flickering. “Terms and conditions? You make it sound like a contract.”

You held his gaze, unyielding. “It is a contract. If we’re doing this, it’s on my rules. First—kissing only in public. That’s it. No private theatrics, no blurred lines. Second—you don’t get to parade me around like a trophy. We decide together when and where we’re seen. Third—this stays temporary. When your family’s satisfied, it’s over.”

Regulus leaned closer again, hands gripping the table, his smirk deepening. “Kissing only in public? That’s cruel. What if I want to practice?” His tone dipped, teasing, suggestive. “You wouldn’t want me to embarrass you with sloppy technique, would you?”

You rolled your eyes, but the heat in the air was undeniable. “Don’t push your luck.”

He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Luck has nothing to do with it, and if you’re setting conditions…” His voice dipped, teasing. “…I’ll enjoy breaking them one by one.”

The heat in the air was undeniable, your irritation tangled with something sharper, something you refused to name.

You lay sprawled on your bed, staring at the ceiling, the weight of it all pressing down on you. Regulus Black. Of all people. A pure-blood supremacist, whispered about in corridors as a future Death Eater. You groaned, burying your face in your pillow—oh my god, it couldn’t get any worse.

But then the thought hit you, sharp and electric. If you’re going to do this—if you’re going to fake-date him—you might as well have your fun. You’re not just going to play along. You’re going to dig. You’re going to peel back every layer of his carefully constructed mask.

Every secret he’s hiding. Every weakness he doesn’t want anyone to see. You’ll find them. You’ll use this arrangement not just to shield yourself from your family’s pressure, but to unravel Regulus Black himself.

And suddenly, the situation didn’t feel quite so suffocating. It felt like a game. Dangerous, yes—but thrilling.

The morning was ordinary enough—you were bent over your Transfiguration homework with Peter and Remus, the three of you muttering about wand movements and formula corrections. Peter was scribbling furiously, Remus calmly pointing out where he’d gone wrong, and you were mid-sentence when warmth brushed your shoulder.

An arm draped gently around you, steady but not forceful. Then—soft, deliberate—a kiss pressed to your cheek.

You froze, quill hovering above parchment, as Peter nearly dropped his notes. “Wait—did he just—?” His voice cracked in disbelief.

Remus’s brow arched, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp, flicking between you and the boy behind you.

Regulus Black stood there, calm and composed, his touch light, not controlling—just enough to make his presence known. His voice was gentle, teasing, but not mocking. “Morning,” he said, lips curving into a faint smile. “Thought I’d remind you I exist.”

The heat rose in your cheeks, not from embarrassment alone but from the sheer audacity of it. He wasn’t smug in that moment—he was careful, almost tender, though the timing was deliberate enough to leave Peter gaping and Remus quietly studying you both.

By the time the bell rang for the end of third period, Hogwarts was practically vibrating with whispers. It was everywhere—echoing in corridors, spilling across staircases, even drifting through the Great Hall.

Students swarmed around you and Regulus, eyes wide, voices hushed but eager. Some were bold enough to ask outright, “Is it true? Are you two really together?” Others just stared, giggling behind their hands, nudging their friends as if they’d spotted the scandal of the year.

Everywhere you went, heads turned. The rumor had already twisted itself into certainty: you and Regulus Black were dating. And Hogwarts wasn’t just gossiping—they were shipping you two. Hard.

Girls in the common room were already debating your “ship name.” Boys in the courtyard were joking about how Regulus had finally been tamed. Even professors seemed to raise their brows when you passed, though they said nothing.

Regulus, of course, handled it with maddening calm. He didn’t smirk or flaunt it—he simply stayed close, his presence quiet but undeniable. That gentleness only made the whispers louder, the story sweeter in everyone else’s eyes.

Regulus had barely sunk into the green leather armchair in the Slytherin common room when Evan and Barty swooped in, grins sharp and voices loud enough to draw attention.

“Oi, Black,” Evan started, smirking as he sprawled across the couch. “So it’s true then? You and [name] ? Damn, finally. Half the castle’s been waiting for this.”

Barty leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You should’ve seen the way people were talking at lunch. Shipping you two like it’s the next great romance. Honestly, I’m impressed—you managed to break Hogwarts without even trying.”

Regulus tried for calm, his usual mask of indifference, but the firelight betrayed him—just the faintest flicker of warmth in his expression. He didn’t snap back, didn’t deny it. He only let their teasing wash over him, quiet, thoughtful.

Because the truth was, they weren’t wrong. He had been harboring feelings since fifth year. Watching her from a distance, keeping it buried beneath duty and expectation, never daring to let it surface. And now, with the rumor blazing through the castle, it felt like the world had caught up to what he’d been hiding all along.

Evan nudged him again, laughing. “You’re not even denying it. Merlin, Reg, you’re gone for her.”

[ivarasite]

FUCK YOU to everyone who's posted memes under the harry potter x reader tag. all there is in the top section of the tag are memes. bitch fuck outta my face i wanna read fanfic not your horrible attempt at being funny🫩

[roze-latte-zz]

Somewhere Only We Know - Harry Potter

3k + Summary: you think the hideout is yours, until you find harry potter already there. sharing it was supposed to be simple—homework, quiet, almost-friendship—until one accidental kiss ruins everything. now you’re avoiding him, avoiding you, until he corners you in the library and asks the one thing you’re terrified to answer: “please, stop avoiding us.”

Warnings: fluff, teen-level angst, accidental kiss drama, miscommunication, lots of soft pining, two idiots in love energy.

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You'd found the room by accident.

A half-dangling tapestry near the Charms corridor had looked suspicious enough to tug aside one afternoon, and behind it—a door. Not locked, not even warded. Just… forgotten. When the door creaked open, you’d expected dust and cobwebs, maybe even Filch’s mop bucket. Instead, you’d discovered an empty classroom.

The desks had long been pushed to the walls. A faint layer of dust coated the floor, though the footprints you left became part of the place, familiar little marks you’d grow used to seeing. The shelves sagged with abandoned parchment and cracked ink bottles, and the window—oh, the window.

It stretched nearly floor to ceiling, glass cracked in a jagged line through the center. Sunlight spilled through it during the day, warm on your face when you sat in the far corner. At night, the moonlight painted silver lines across the floor. It was quiet, still, a bubble separate from the chaos of Hogwarts.

And so it became your refuge.

Sometimes you’d sneak here with a book, escaping the chatter of the common room. Sometimes you’d collapse against the wall after a long day, eyes shut, letting silence steady you. Sometimes you did your homework, parchment scattered in messy circles. Nobody knew about it. Nobody needed to. This room was yours.

Or so you thought.

—

Harry Potter found it weeks later.

It was after a particularly brutal Quidditch practice. His arms ached, his glasses were fogged with sweat, and Wood had shouted himself hoarse about “seeking faster, sharper, better.” Harry couldn’t bear the common room that night—the way everyone’s eyes tracked him, the way whispers followed him wherever he walked. He needed space, air, quiet.

The tapestry caught his attention as if it had been waiting for him. He slipped behind it, pushed open the creaking door, and froze.

Empty.

The relief was so sharp it nearly brought tears to his eyes. He dropped his broom against the wall and slid down to the floor, back pressed to the cool stone. For the first time in days, his chest loosened.

He didn’t tell Ron. Didn’t tell Hermione. Didn’t tell anyone. This room wasn’t for them. It was for him—the boy who carried too much and needed somewhere to set it down.

For a while, it worked.

You came on Tuesday afternoons, slipping in with your Charms textbook. Harry came on Wednesday nights after practice. Sometimes you lingered Saturday mornings; sometimes he arrived Sunday evenings, broom in hand. You never crossed paths. Not once.

But the room had grown used to holding two secrets, two sets of footsteps.

Your quills scratched late at night, leaving tiny ink stains on the wooden desk you claimed. His broom bristles brushed the same wall you leaned against. Your handwriting curled across parchment left forgotten overnight, and the next day Harry’s messy scrawl joined it in the dust on the floor.

The room belonged to both of you—only neither of you knew it.

—

It was a Tuesday evening when the balance broke.

You’d had a long day—Snape’s snide remarks, Transfiguration homework piling up, the endless hum of laughter in the common room that made your head ache. So you slipped away, ducked behind the tapestry, and breathed easier the moment the classroom door closed behind you.

Sprawling on the floor, you set your bag beside you, pulled out parchment, and muttered, “Finally.” The quiet felt like a balm.

You didn’t notice the footsteps approaching until the door creaked open.

You looked up—your heart jolting—just as Harry Potter stepped inside. His hand froze on the handle. His green eyes widened behind crooked glasses.

“Oh,” he blurted, just as startled as you.

The silence was sharp, almost painful. You scrambled to sit straighter, hugging your parchment as though it might shield you.

“What are you doing here?” you demanded, more defensive than you intended.

Harry’s brows furrowed. “I could ask you the same.”

“This is my spot.”

His mouth opened, then snapped shut. Finally, he gestured around the room, incredulous. “Your spot? I’ve been coming here for weeks!”

You blinked, heat rising in your cheeks. “So have I.”

The room, which had always felt like a sanctuary, now thrummed with tension. Two secrets colliding, neither willing to step aside.

And neither of you ready to admit the truth: that maybe, just maybe, it was big enough for two.

The silence stretched, heavy enough to press down on your chest. Harry was still in the doorway, his bag slung over one shoulder, his eyes darting between you and the familiar room like he couldn’t decide which surprised him more: that you were there, or that you belonged there.

You crossed your arms. “Well? Don’t just stand there glaring at me.”

“I’m not glaring,” Harry shot back, frowning.

“Yes, you are. You’re doing that thing with your eyebrows.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “My eyebrows?”

“Exactly.” You jabbed your quill toward him like it proved your point.

Harry’s jaw tightened, but his ears burned faintly pink. “Look, I don’t know what you’re doing here, but this is where I come to be alone. So if you wouldn’t mind—” He gestured toward the door.

Your mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

He had the decency to look guilty, but only for a second. “I was here first.”

“No, you weren’t,” you said firmly, scrambling to your feet. “I found this place last month. Behind the tapestry by Charms. It’s mine.”

“Funny,” Harry muttered, “that’s exactly how I discovered it too.”

Something about his stubbornness sparked your own. The room, normally calm, suddenly felt too small, the walls closing in with every retort.

“Well, I don’t see your name on it,” you snapped.

Harry arched a brow. “And I don’t see yours either.”

For a moment, you just glared at each other, two stubborn Gryffindors refusing to back down. His green eyes, usually so quiet and tired-looking from afar, blazed with determination up close. You hated how sharp the sight made your stomach twist.

Finally, you huffed, dropping your parchment onto the nearest desk. “Fine. If you’re so desperate for it, then keep it.” You shoved your quill back into your bag with more force than necessary. “I’ll find somewhere else.”

You stalked toward the door, brushing past him. But before you could grip the handle, his voice—low and frustrated—stopped you.

“Wait.”

You turned, raising your chin. “What?”

Harry hesitated. His shoulders slumped, his irritation draining into something that looked far more human—far more tired. “I… I don’t want you to leave.”

The words caught you off guard. “What?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze darting toward the cracked window. “It’s just… this place helps. When everything feels too much. And if you’ve been using it too…” His lips pressed together. “I guess you need it as much as I do.”

Something in your chest softened despite yourself. The defensiveness wavered.

“So what,” you asked quietly, “you want to… share it?”

His eyes flicked back to you, uncertain. “Would that be so bad?”

You studied him—really studied him. The exhaustion shadowing his face, the weariness in his shoulders, the way his glasses slipped slightly down his nose. For all his stubbornness, Harry Potter didn’t look like someone trying to win. He looked like someone just trying to hold on.

You sighed, sinking back against the wall. “I suppose it’s big enough for two.”

The relief that flickered across his face was almost comical. “Really?”

“Don’t push it,” you muttered, though your lips twitched into the beginnings of a smile.

Harry chuckled under his breath and stepped fully inside, letting the door close behind him. The sound echoed, sealing the decision. He dropped his bag against the opposite wall, mirroring your position.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You pretended to focus on your parchment, but your quill scratched slower than usual, distracted by the fact that Harry was right there, close enough that you could hear the soft tap of his quill as he pulled out his homework.

It was strange—comforting, in an unfamiliar way.

Finally, Harry broke the silence. “So… ground rules?”

You raised a brow. “Ground rules?”

“Yeah,” he said, half-smiling. “Like… no taking up the whole floor. No loud humming.”

You scoffed. “You hum?”

His ears turned pink again. “Sometimes.”

“Fine. Then no snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

“You definitely snore.”

He shook his head, but his grin grew wider. And though you rolled your eyes, you felt something shift. The room didn’t just belong to you anymore. It belonged to both of you—clashing, stubborn, maybe even mismatched.

But somehow, it worked.

--

Sharing the room turned out to be less of a disaster than you expected.

At first, it was awkward—sitting across from Harry in near-silence, pretending not to notice the way his quill tapped or how he shifted whenever your eyes lingered too long. But as the days slipped into weeks, the tension eased. A rhythm formed.

You’d arrive to find him already sprawled on the floor, hair sticking out in every direction as he scowled at his Potions essay. He’d look up, mutter, “Hey,” and shuffle his things aside to make room for you. Other times, you’d get there first, parchment spread across your lap, only to hear the door creak and see Harry pause in the frame like he was checking if it was okay to intrude.

It was always okay.

Little by little, the silence turned into something else.

“You’re chewing on your quill again,” you teased one evening, nudging him with your foot.

Harry pulled the feather from his mouth, glaring half-heartedly. “Force of habit.”

“It’s disgusting.”

He smirked. “Noted.”

Another day, he leaned over your shoulder to peek at your Transfiguration notes. “How do you make them look so neat?”

“Because I don’t chew mine,” you replied sweetly, and he shoved your arm just enough to make your ink blot the parchment.

The arguments never lasted long. They always dissolved into laughter, quiet enough not to disturb the soft safety of the room.

—

One evening, as the sky outside turned lavender and gold, you both sat hunched over the same desk. The window spilled the last of the sunset across Harry’s face, catching in his hair like firelight.

You tried not to notice.

“Your handwriting is impossible,” you said, frowning at the page he’d just handed you.

“It’s legible,” Harry argued.

“Barely. If this were Potions, Snape would throw it back in your face.”

“He throws everything back in my face,” Harry muttered darkly.

You stifled a laugh and leaned closer, your quill scratching across the parchment as you rewrote a particularly messy line. Harry watched you, chin resting in his palm. The quiet stretched, warm and steady.

You didn’t realize how close you’d leaned until you both reached for the same ink bottle.

Your hands brushed.

You froze. So did he.

And then, in the clumsiest, most unplanned way possible, you both shifted at the same time—your head turning, his hand lifting—and your lips collided.

It was the briefest touch. Just the faint press of his mouth against yours, startled and accidental. But it was enough. Enough to send a jolt down your spine, enough to make Harry’s eyes widen in shock, enough to make your heart stutter painfully against your ribs.

You pulled back immediately, heat flooding your face. “I—sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“No, it was—” Harry’s voice cracked. He coughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “My fault. I should’ve—uh—”

The silence that followed was nothing like the comfortable quiet you’d grown used to. It was sharp, stinging, full of words neither of you could form.

You stared down at the parchment, pretending to study the smeared ink. Harry fiddled with his quill, jaw clenched, ears red to the tips.

Every second stretched unbearably.

Finally, Harry shoved his books into his bag. “I should—uh—I should go. Ron’s waiting.”

“Right,” you said quickly, though your chest ached in protest. “Of course.”

He nodded once, not quite meeting your eyes, and slipped out the door.

The moment it clicked shut, the room felt colder.

You pressed your fingertips to your lips, still tingling from the brief contact. It hadn’t been intentional. It hadn’t been planned. But it hadn’t felt wrong either.

And maybe that was the problem.

—

The days after were strange. You told yourself you wouldn’t think about it, wouldn’t replay the accidental brush of his lips, wouldn’t imagine what it might have been like if either of you had leaned in on purpose.

But you couldn’t go back to the hideout, not with the memory so raw. The thought of sitting across from him, pretending nothing happened—it was unbearable.

So you stayed away.

And though you didn’t know it, Harry stayed away too.

The classroom, once full of laughter and warmth, returned to silence. Empty.

As though neither of you had ever been there at all.

The next few days dragged.

You told yourself you were fine. That avoiding the hideout wasn’t a big deal. It was just a dusty old classroom, after all. You could do your homework in the library, or curl up in a corner of the common room. You didn’t need that space.

Except… it wasn’t just the space you missed.

It was the way Harry would groan at his essays like they were personally plotting against him. The way he chewed his quill until you threatened to hex him. The way his laugh—quiet and rare—seemed to fill the walls and soften the edges of the world.

You caught yourself glancing at the tapestry in the Charms corridor more than once, fingers twitching to pull it aside. But every time, your chest tightened. What if he was there? What if the air between you turned heavy again, full of that unspoken almost?

So you walked on. Every time.

—

Harry wasn’t doing much better.

Ron noticed first. “You’ve been acting weird,” he said one evening in the common room, tossing a Chocolate Frog at Harry. “More weird than usual.”

“I’m fine,” Harry muttered, barely lifting his head from his textbook.

“You’re sulking,” Ron pressed.

“I’m not.”

Hermione, without looking up from her notes, added, “You definitely are.”

Harry scowled, but said nothing. Because how could he explain? How could he tell them that the one place in Hogwarts that felt like his had been ruined—not by danger or enemies, but by the brush of someone’s lips?

He hadn’t meant for it to happen. It was an accident. But the memory clung to him like smoke. The surprise in your eyes, the warmth of your skin, the way you’d pulled back so quickly—as though it burned.

The thought that you regretted it made something inside him twist painfully.

So he didn’t go back either.

—

The room itself felt the absence. Dust settled heavier across the abandoned desks. The window, once spilling light onto parchment and laughter, only illuminated empty air. Silence returned, but it was no longer peaceful. It was hollow.

—

You and Harry still crossed paths in the castle, of course. In class, in hallways, at meals. But every time your eyes met, you both looked away too fast. Conversations were clipped, voices too tight.

“Can you hand me that book?” you asked in the library one afternoon, keeping your tone carefully neutral.

Harry slid it across the table without looking at you. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

“Mm.”

It was unbearable.

—

That night, you lay awake in bed, staring at the hangings above you. The memory of the hideout kept replaying in your head: the soft scrape of quills, the quiet banter, the warmth of sitting close enough to bump knees.

And, unavoidably, the kiss.

Accidental. Brief. Nothing, really.

So why couldn’t you stop thinking about it?

Why did it feel like everything had changed?

--

Harry asked himself the same questions as he sat by the dying embers in the common room. He pressed a hand to his chest, frustrated at the way it ached.

It would be easier if you hated him. If you’d snapped at him or cursed him or even told him to stay away. But the look in your eyes hadn’t been anger. It had been fear. Confusion.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because Harry wasn’t sure how to fix something that fragile.

So he didn’t try.

And the distance grew.

The library was nearly empty that evening. Only the scratch of quills and the faint rustle of pages broke the hush. You tucked yourself into a corner table, head bent over your parchment, pretending you were perfectly fine.

You weren’t.

Every word blurred. Every ink blot stretched into shapes that reminded you of his messy handwriting. You’d been trying—Merlin, you had been trying—to push the memory away. To convince yourself that the kiss had been meaningless, a slip of chance, nothing more.

But your chest wouldn’t listen.

You were so lost in thought that you didn’t hear the footsteps until someone slid into the chair across from you.

Your head jerked up. Harry.

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach. “What are you—”

“Stop avoiding me,” he said. No hesitation, no greeting. Just straight to the point, his voice low but firm.

You blinked. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” His eyes, bright and fierce even in the dim light, locked onto yours. “You haven’t been to the room. You won’t even look at me in class. You barely speak unless you have to. Just—stop. Please.”

Your throat tightened. “Harry…”

He leaned forward, words tumbling out like he’d been holding them back for too long. “I don’t care about the kiss, alright? If it was a mistake, then fine. But don’t—don’t pretend like none of it happened. Don’t throw away everything else we had just because of that.”

The raw hurt in his voice struck you harder than any hex.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to look at him. “It was a mistake.”

The words left your lips before you could stop them. And immediately, you wished you could take them back.

Harry froze. For a heartbeat, his face was unreadable. Then his expression shuttered, something fragile snapping behind his eyes. “Right,” he said softly. He sat back in his chair, crossing his arms like he was bracing himself. “A mistake.”

Guilt clawed at your chest. You hadn’t meant it—not like that. But saying anything else would make you vulnerable, and vulnerability terrified you more than silence ever had.

“I didn’t mean—” you started, but Harry cut you off, his voice sharper than before.

“No, you did. It’s fine. You don’t have to explain. I should’ve known better.”

“Known better than what?” you demanded, heat rising to your cheeks.

“Than to think—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. His fists clenched against the table. “Than to think you might actually want me there.”

The words hit you square in the chest.

“I did want you there,” you whispered, the crack in your voice betraying you.

“Did,” Harry repeated, bitter. “Past tense.”

The hurt in his tone was unbearable. You reached across the table without thinking, your fingers brushing his sleeve. “Harry, no. I didn’t mean it like that.”

He finally looked at you, eyes flashing. “Then how did you mean it?”

You froze.

How could you explain? How could you admit that the kiss hadn’t felt like a mistake at all—that it had scared you because it had felt right? That the reason you’d been avoiding him wasn’t regret, but fear?

Your silence was answer enough. Harry shook his head, pushing back his chair.

“I can’t—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again, quieter this time. “I can’t keep doing this. Either it meant nothing, or…”

“Or?” Your chest was pounding.

He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping. “Or it meant something. And if it did, then you can’t keep pretending it didn’t.”

The truth hung heavy in the air, fragile as glass.

For the first time in weeks, you didn’t look away.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and aching. For a moment, you thought Harry might just walk away—that he’d leave you sitting there with your half-finished parchment and your half-spoken feelings.

But then you stood. “Harry, wait.”

He froze, his back rigid. He didn’t turn, not right away. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides.

You stepped closer, voice breaking. “I was scared, alright? That’s why I said it was a mistake. Not because it was—but because it wasn’t.”

His head turned sharply. His eyes, wide and searching, caught yours in the dim library light.

You swallowed hard, forcing the words out before you could lose your courage. “It felt too real. And I didn’t know what to do with that. So I pushed you away. But that doesn’t mean I wanted to.”

For a long moment, Harry just stared at you. His chest rose and fell like he’d just run a mile.

“Too real?” he asked softly.

You nodded. “I can’t stop thinking about it. About you. About us.”

His lips parted, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Then, slowly, he took a step toward you.

“You mean it?” His voice was careful, almost fragile.

You nodded again, this time firmer. “Yes. I’m sorry, Harry. I should’ve said it before. I should’ve—”

You didn’t finish, because Harry closed the space between you and kissed you.

It wasn’t clumsy or rushed like before. This kiss was deliberate, soft, certain. His hand cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek as though you were something precious. Your own hands found his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat under your palms.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was uneven, his voice hoarse. “Don’t call it a mistake again. Please.”

“I won’t,” you whispered, your chest aching with relief.

For the first time in weeks, his lips curved into a small, crooked smile. It was so unbearably Harry that you laughed through the sting of tears.

“Come on,” he said quietly, his hand brushing against yours in a tentative ask. “Let’s go back.”

You didn’t need to ask where.

Hand in hand, you slipped out of the library and down the familiar path to the old secret hideout. The room welcomed you like it had been waiting—warm, quiet, safe. You both settled onto the floor cushions by the window, the night spilling stars above you.

For a while, you just sat there, your hands still twined together.

“You know,” Harry said after a pause, his voice soft but lighter than before, “I thought you hated me.”

You turned to him, shocked. “Hated you? Harry, I—no. I never could.”

He smiled faintly, shaking his head. “Good. Because I don’t think I could’ve handled that.”

Your chest tightened at the vulnerability in his tone. Without thinking, you leaned against his shoulder. He let out a quiet breath, his head tilting to rest against yours.

The world outside might’ve been filled with homework, House rivalries, and the constant chaos of Hogwarts, but here—just here—it was only the two of you.

And as the night deepened, you both knew this wasn’t the end of something fragile. It was the beginning of something steady, something true.

Neither of you spoke the word together, but it lingered between your heartbeats all the same.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and aching. For a moment, you thought Harry might just walk away—that he’d leave you sitting there with your half-finished parchment and your half-spoken feelings.

But then you stood. “Harry, wait.”

He froze, his back rigid. He didn’t turn, not right away. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides.

You stepped closer, voice breaking. “I was scared, alright? That’s why I said it was a mistake. Not because it was—but because it wasn’t.”

His head turned sharply. His eyes, wide and searching, caught yours in the dim library light.

You swallowed hard, forcing the words out before you could lose your courage. “It felt too real. And I didn’t know what to do with that. So I pushed you away. But that doesn’t mean I wanted to.”

For a long moment, Harry just stared at you. His chest rose and fell like he’d just run a mile.

“Too real?” he asked softly.

You nodded. “I can’t stop thinking about it. About you. About us.”

His lips parted, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Then, slowly, he took a step toward you.

“You mean it?” His voice was careful, almost fragile.

You nodded again, this time firmer. “Yes. I’m sorry, Harry. I should’ve said it before. I should’ve—”

You didn’t finish, because Harry closed the space between you and kissed you.

It wasn’t clumsy or rushed like before. This kiss was deliberate, soft, certain. His hand cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek as though you were something precious. Your own hands found his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat under your palms.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was uneven, his voice hoarse. “Don’t call it a mistake again. Please.”

“I won’t,” you whispered, your chest aching with relief.

For the first time in weeks, his lips curved into a small, crooked smile. It was so unbearably Harry that you laughed through the sting of tears.

“Come on,” he said quietly, his hand brushing against yours in a tentative ask. “Let’s go back.”

You didn’t need to ask where.

Hand in hand, you slipped out of the library and down the familiar path to the old secret hideout. The room welcomed you like it had been waiting—warm, quiet, safe. You both settled onto the floor cushions by the window, the night spilling stars above you.

For a while, you just sat there, your hands still twined together.

“You know,” Harry said after a pause, his voice soft but lighter than before, “I thought you hated me.”

You turned to him, shocked. “Hated you? Harry, I—no. I never could.”

He smiled faintly, shaking his head. “Good. Because I don’t think I could’ve handled that.”

Your chest tightened at the vulnerability in his tone. Without thinking, you leaned against his shoulder. He let out a quiet breath, his head tilting to rest against yours.

The world outside might’ve been filled with homework, House rivalries, and the constant chaos of Hogwarts, but here—just here—it was only the two of you.

And as the night deepened, you both knew this wasn’t the end of something fragile. It was the beginning of something steady, something true.

Neither of you spoke the word together, but it lingered between your heartbeats all the same.

[g1rld1ary]

when the world watches - footballer!james potter x fem!sports journalist!reader

wc: 12,815

cw: swearing, kissing, fade to black but suggestive moments, minor violence and injury, secret relationship, some hurt/comfort

info: r and james are 24ish but not specified and not super important, unfortunately this is lowkey england propaganda, unrealistic world cup depiction (england doing way too well), some inaccurate football terminology and realism for plot reasons, modern non magic AU

me: this is so close to my heart i hope u guys all enjoy!!!!!

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Your social media feed has already shown you thirty videos of the England team grinning and waving as they board a private jet to get to America. Your heart and legs both wish you were on it too, stretching as best you can in the middle seat of an economy row, bullied in by two men double your size. They’re polite, but can’t help needing more than a seat each.

Instead of thinking about how sore your body is, your delve into your work, hunched over your laptop propped up on the tray table, blue light disintegrating your irises in the otherwise dark of the plane. There is oodles of work to be done before you touch down in Texas. From beside the keyboard, your phone illuminates. Thank god the man beside you has an eye mask on.

Can’t believe you didn’t come with me James’ text reads, three bubbles sitting underneath. The WAGs would love you

James. is all you reply. This conversation happens around every game, and never goes anywhere. As a sports reporter, your relationship with James Potter is unorthodox, unethical, and definitely not public. If your viewers, or god forbid your haters, knew you were dating England’s new star player, there would be no way you could retain your airtime. Rumours of favouritism, inside information, and plain misogyny would ruin your career, and it simply isn’t worth the risk of everyone knowing.

I know, I know his reply comes after hesitation, and you know exactly what he’s thinking. It hurts both of you not to be able to share your relationship, but until either one of you can find a career that isn’t in conflict, a secret it is, as much as it sucks. I’ll see you in a few hours, right? I love you.

I love you too.

You switch your phone onto Do Not Disturb, quickly glancing sideways to see if either of your seat mates caught the text exchange. Man number 1 still has the eye mask on, and man number 2 is so deep asleep drool is catching at the corner of his lips. Gross, but lucky for you.

Most of your flight is spent awake, frantically finishing player profiles and question prompts for you to finalise when the World Cup actually starts. It’s a huge workload, but could truly take your career to the next level. Being one of four reporters from your station sent is a huge deal, and you’re well aware of the responsibility placed on your shoulders.

By the time you touch down in Texas, your legs are sore, your eye bags are more tote than purse, and you kind of just want a hug from your boyfriend. Still, there’s no rest for the wicked, and as your conscience keeps reminding you, what you’re doing with James is wicked.

From the Fort Worth Airport is a long cab ride to your hotel, to stop for an hour before heading straight to the smaller stadium where England will train and prepare before their first game against Croatia in a few days.

You take the opportunity for a twenty minute nap, a hot shower, and a much-needed change of clothes. Pulling on a crisp white blouse, the plane already feels far behind, and the sliver of Dallas you can see from through the half-closed curtains is sunny and promising. In the back of your head, you wish you could be here under different circumstances; a holiday with James, maybe, but the World Cup is a close second.

The stadium, you’ve heard, is supposedly an unimpressive one to Americans, especially compared to the one England will be playing in for the match, but you at least think it’s quite nice. The women’s bathroom is clean, which is more than you can say for some of the stadiums in the UK that you’ve worked in.

It doesn’t take long to find the players out on the field, already warming up for training even though they’ve only just touched down. Your job is tough, and often entails long hours and ridiculous overtime, but at least you’re not a footballer. If someone tried to make you run after touching down from a ten hour flight, you’d probably commit a crime. James couldn’t look happier though, which is one of the things about him you’re so fond of.

You linger in the walkway into the pitch, watching as your boyfriend darts across the grass, full of smiles even as his captain and coach bark orders his way. You know how much the opportunity means to him, and it’s nice to see that the pressure hasn’t bowled him over. Yet, anyway.

James spots you as he’s running with high knees, a thin sheen of perspirant just starting to gather at the high points of his face. His grin widens impossibly and he winks. Torture, you think, that you can’t just run up and kiss him now. Instead you only smile back, hoping he knows that it’s special just for him.

Carefully, you alert all the necessary people of your arrival. The coach and a few people from the England team, mostly their internal publicists. Your other coworkers are headed to different cities first, covering the opening ceremonies happening in Los Angeles, Toronto, and Mexico City. Thankfully, you’re England’s unassigned-assigned reporter, following them to most of their games. As one of the most prolific Premier League reporters on the scene at the moment, the England players mostly know and like you, so the stories come easier.

You sit in the stands for their two hour training, hardly looking up as the men run wild below you. You have stories to finish and send off before the Cup actually starts, plus questions to prepare for every match. Not to mention the behind the scenes interviews you’re supposed to get with the England players.

It’s just hitting dusk as the players are released, swarming towards their water bottles with speed which hadn’t shown on the pitch just thirty seconds earlier. You take the moment, climbing down the stands to meet with them.

“Hey, boys,” You greet with a smile, phone already on record. Nobody speaks for a moment as they guzzle electrolytes, but you do eventually get a kind reply. “How are we feeling after the first training session?” You hold the voice memo out so they know they’re on the record.

“Feeling great,” Amos Diggory says, “Ready to win.” You laugh a little at the media-trained answer, though you don’t expect any different.

“I, for one, am fucking exhausted.” Sirius Black is the only one who can get away with being so crass, and only really because you like him and edit out most of the things that would send the public into a tizzy.

“Shall I go ahead and take out the profanity?” You tease, greeting him with a warm smile.

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Mm, but who would terrorise my post-match interviews if I didn’t have to look out for you and your language?” The boys laugh at the banter, most of them used to it by now. You all move in the same circles, around each other at games during the season, and occasionally professional events. Not so much social, though you can’t blame them for not trusting that you’d keep your mouth closed.

You only ask a few more easy questions before letting them go, knowing the jet-lag is probably hitting them just as hard, and you have more than enough to bullshit a quick piece about England’s pre-game feelings. Readers hardly care about the deep stuff anyhow, they just want content, preferably about their favourite hot guy.

Your own favourite hot guy catches you in the hall, grabbing you by the wrist to pull you into a strong kiss. He steals the breath from your lungs like he does every time, and you both smile into it before it can get any heavier. James rests his forehead against yours, and you can feel the droplets.

“You’re sweaty.” You grin.

“I missed you,” He disregards the jab with a smile, bending to press three more quick pecks on your lips.

“Alright, alright,” You laugh, pulling yourself out of his hold, “You’re going to get us caught.” James groans, his least favourite reminder.

“Will you come over tonight?”

“Will you be awake?” You tease, taking in his tired eyes. You’re sure you look the same, though you don’t have much sympathy given you were the one fighting for your life in economy seating.

“Seven-fifty,” Is all he says, squeezing your hand one more time before turning back to his team.

You’re knocking on the door only a few short hours later, praying one of his teammates doesn’t decide to go on a night walk before James lets you in. You’re lucky this time, and his grin is so bright that you forget what you were worried about.

“Are you here to proposition me?” He waggles his eyebrows in the way you can when you know you’re already hot, and you don’t dignify him with an answer, ducking under his arm where it’s stretched across the doorframe.

“For an exclusive scoop, please.” You bat your lashes, skipping over to the great big bed. James is laughing as he follows, darting forward to grab your waist and pull you flying down to the mattress with him.

“How was the flight?” He murmurs into your neck, arms tightening around your middle.

“As good as you’d expect,” You stare up at the ceiling, “I was sitting between two Americans, so they didn’t recognise me, at least.”

“Mm,” James tuts, “You’re not as famous as me.”

“Thank god.” Your tone is light but it’s the complete truth — fame was never the goal of being a reporter, “Imagine if I couldn’t go to Pret anymore.”

“I still go to Pret, love.”

“Not without getting at least two numbers.” James laughs, especially loud in the stillness of the huge hotel room.

“Yeah, but I don’t want anyone else’s number.” You kiss James for his flattery, and he’s quick to take more, kissing you sweetly in the yellow hotel light.

A knock at the door has you both springing apart, panic mirrored on both your expressions.

“Fuck,” James hisses, glancing around the room for somewhere to stow you momentarily. You take the initiative, rolling off the bed on the far side of the room, sliding as far under it as your body will go.

Reluctantly, James cracks the door open, suspicious even without seeing who’s there.

Sirius barges in without being invited, going on about something Remus said on their last call. It’s ridiculous, really, something silly about Wales versus England, even though Wales didn’t even qualify for the World Cup.

“I mean, really, it’s like he’s doing this on purpose — hi, love,” He barely takes a breath between addressing you and continuing on his story, and you sit up with a huff.

“How’d you know I was here?” You brush yourself off, sitting cross legged on James’ bed.

“Your perfume, obviously, Prongs would never have anything rose scented in his hotel room. As I was saying…” You and James share a pointed look, what are you gonna do?

At least it was just Sirius, who’d been in on your little secret since almost the start, after an unfortunate barging in when you weren’t as decent as you are now.

Sirius talks for three minutes about the silly fight he’s having with Remus cross-continentally, you and James gradually inching towards each other until you’re leaning against his chest at the headboard.

“Sirius?” He stops for a moment, looking at you. “I hate to say it, but have you ever considered that Remus might be picking a fight because he misses you and wants to have phone sex?” James’ fingers caress your midriff under your comfy pyjama top.

Sirius’ eyes bore into your soul. Then, slowly, he grins.

“I’m, uh, I’m gonna go.” He leaves without another word, already fishing his phone out of his back pocket.

“Smart girl,” James laughs, eyes bright as he pulls your legs across his lap.

“Yeah, well, needed my man to all myself.” You both realise the implication at the same time, “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” He sighs, “I just hate having to hide you.”

“I know, I know. Trust me, I wish I didn’t have to compete with all your fangirls. But I’d be fired, blacklisted, probably. It’s not fair.”

A heavy silence settles across the both of you. James shrinks beneath you, head settling on your shoulder as you consider the situation.

“C’mon,” You try to draw him from any upset, especially this week, “Do you wanna watch the rerun of the Barcelona GP?” James nods silently so you reach for the tv remote.

At least the F1 makes you both perk up, distracted for a while from your ongoing tension. Later, when James has passed out from a tough training, your eyes glaze over alongside the murmur of the tv crowd. Your brain is stuck on an unfortunate loop: it’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair. Not fair that you and James could be a perfect couple, if one of you had only chosen a different career. Not fair that everyone else on the team gets to show off their partners proudly, kiss them on television when a match is won, walk down the street hand in hand.

“Fuck, Jamie,” You mumble, moving a piece of hair out of his face as he sleeps, “Things would be so much easier if I didn’t love you.”

A few days later is the England — Croatia game.

The energy is overwhelming, people rushing and yelling everywhere you turn. Thank god you’re in the press box, anywhere else and you’d probably have a panic attack.

Have so much fun!!!! I love you xxxxx You send to James, plus a more polite good luck to Sirius.

When the game starts you can barely think, eyes darting across the pitch as the ball flies from corner to corner, men running all over. The game goes to England, luckily, so the boys are all happy to talk to you afterwards.

“Congratulations!” You pull the captain, Frank Longbottom, aside as the team celebrates on the pitch. You’re almost as breathless as each other, though Frank has done significantly more physical exertion than you. “How does it feel to win your first match in the group stage?”

“I mean, it’s bloody amazing, obviously, but we’re all keeping in mind that this is only one game. We haven’t won the cup yet.” You both laugh, letting the camera in on your friendliness.

“Spoken like a true captain.” The rest of your thought is interrupted by two strong arms snaking around your middle, swinging you around, mic and all. A giddy laugh leaves your lips without your permission, and you don’t need to look up to know it’s James.

“James Potter.” He pecks you on the cheek so sloppy you squeal in the way any reporter does when they don’t quite know how to handle a situation. Luckily, Sirius sees the two of you and races over, placing another kiss on your other cheek, rendering it all platonic. “Sirius Black, our two youngest players. How are we feeling post game one?”

Sirius takes the mic, talking very much to the camera and not to you. You don’t mind, too busy shooting James a warning look as he retreats, throwing his arm instead around Frank’s shoulders.

“So, boys, how do you think you’ll be celebrating tonight? Or will it be straight back to training?”

“Well, you know recovery is just as important as training hard, so personally tonight I will be finding my gorgeous wife Alice, and a huge meal, and having a quiet night in.” You have to consciously control every muscle in your face so it doesn’t fall, a reminder that you can’t be like that with James, though you suspect your night may go somewhat the same.

“And Sirius? I suspect your night may not go quite the same.” Not only because Remus couldn’t get the time off work, but Sirius’ idea of relaxation is often closer to your idea of a wild night out.

The interviews pass in a blur of white and red, and you find yourself back in your hotel room, James due any second after a team dinner. The glow of the laptop is stark compared to the warm light of the room, but you have to get an article about the match out before the deadline and public interest passes.

He enters just as you’re finishing up, sending it off to the editor back in London to go out in an hour or so.

“I hope you’re not too critical of my game,” He says, coming up from behind to press a kiss to your hair, “I know I missed an easy goal.”

“I’m only fair, you know that. Besides, Weasley played a way worse game than you.” James laughs loudly, offering a hand so you’ll follow him to bed. It doesn’t take much convincing.

A few celebratory rounds later, the bedsheets pool around both your waists as James scooches up to lean against the headboard.

“James,” You say softly, hating the conversation before it even happens. He looks at you, adoration flooding his doe eyes, making it ever harder to broach the subject. “You have to be more careful about us. It was lucky that Sirius was there.”

James’ face falls and you want to forget the whole ordeal, if it wouldn’t mean certain termination.

“I’m sorry,” He groans, hands running down his face, “I just — what am I supposed to do? You’re right there and we won, and it’s not fair that everyone else gets to kiss their girlfriends without worrying who’s watching.”

“I know.” Your eyes a hot and itchy, tears building up despite the fact that you’re not fighting. “I’m sorry Jamie, but we’ll both get in trouble. I’ll lose my job, and —”

“I know, lovely, I don’t want you to lose your dream job. I know how hard you worked for it. It’s just frustrating, that neither of us can do anything about it.”

You let him curl up against you, fingering through his curls as your breathing fell into sync. It’s a useless conundrum, neither of you willing or able to move jobs at a whim just so you can be together.

The next morning, you wake up to both of your names trending. Not necessarily together, thank god, but it’s frightening all the same. The Americans as a general body have never tuned into the Premier League before, so most of the England players are brand new to them. Including, apparently, their faithful post-match reporter.

You open your social media apps, James next to you, met with a fan edit of you. Slowed down clips of your interview with the boys all put to intense music. James is thoroughly amused, slinging an arm around you as leverage to kiss your cheek from behind on the mattress.

Scrolling quickly, the next one is of James and it’s your turn to laugh. Clips of him kicking what you know is the goal he missed, sweat flicking from his hair, shirt pulling up just enough to show a peek of his abs. You check the comments because you know you’ll enjoy them, full of teenagers discovering English footballers for the first time, letting all hell break loose as James gives them their sexual awakening.

James reaches over you to scroll before you can read every comment left, and you’re both faced with a woman probably about your age, holding a comically tiny microphone as she sits in a gorgeous apartment.

“Now, I don’t know if y’all are tuning into the World Cup or just me…” She starts, and James clearly loses interest already, turning his attention to the crook of your neck which is apparently begging for his gentle kisses and nibbles. You keep watching, worried by both of your names being the tags.

“But I noticed instant chemistry between one of the England players and the reporter.”

A clip plays of James twirling and kissing you from last night’s game.

“So I started looking into it because y’all know I love a Heated Rivalry, Off Campus sports romance, and apparently these two have been friends for years. Like, I went down a full rabbit hole. The first interview between them I can find is, like, four years ago, and apparently she’s been to almost every one of his games. There’s so much content of them and they have fucking great chemistry so I thought there’d be more of a fanbase, but there’s not a single compilation or anything. Like, British girlies, come on what are you doing? Anyway, for all my US girls who haven’t heard of them before, I’d say it’s similar to Mariska Hargitay and Jalen Brunson, or that baseball player and the reporter who went viral a few years ago. Just super a sweet friendship with great chemistry.”

James laughs against your neck, biting until you yelp with a laugh, swatting him away before he can leave a hickey.

“Don’t open the comments,” He says, taking your phone before you can do it anyway. He’s right, of course, but you’re desperate to know what people are saying — if they suspect anything.

It’s a travel day for both of you, with the England team headed to Boston before their match against Ghana, and you to Atlanta for the Czechia v South Africa match. You hold James tight before he leaves, listening to his heartbeat before you go another few days relying on good morning texts and ten minute phone calls.

It’s easier in some ways to be covering the other matches. Though you love interviewing James post-match, and of course being there in person to see him play, you know you’re being watched now. The internet has fixated on you as the people’s princess — a pretty, young, female reporter in a male dominated industry. It’s flattering in a way, knowing you’re introducing a whole new generation of girls to the sport, but scary at the same time. Especially when James is around.

The Premier League viewers are somehow more forgiving, not necessarily of your gender, but definitely of your connection with James under the guise of classic British banter. They want personal connections to get the best interviews out of the players, and you give them that. Now the whole world is watching, and if teenage girls latch onto the promise of romance between you and James, there’s no chance you won’t be found out.

Six days later, you’re in Boston for the next England game. You’re already beginning to get sick of travelling, and there’s a long road ahead of you yet. Still, you get to see James tonight, so it’s not all bad.

The camera follows you as you cross the pitch post-match, quickly recounting the key details of the game. You stop for a moment on the journey to interview one of the Ghanian players, professional tone smoothing out your words. This is what you love about your job, talking to players who truly live for the game, letting everyone in on the glory of the sport, even from a thousand miles away.

Finally you reach the England players, and they welcome you with open arms, high off a good game. James isn’t jumping all over you, so you think you’ve given him enough time for the adrenaline to start dropping.

You’re polite, if a little distant, with James. Probably nothing perceptible to the untrained eye, but a few TikToks have scared you out of casual physical touch, fingers gripping the mic like it’s a tether to your professionalism.

“So, James, how does it feel to be the internet’s favourite football player right now?”

James looks down from where he towers above you, eyes giving away any attempts at establishing platonic boundaries.

“Can’t say no to positive attention, can I?”

“Especially not, and I quote, ‘the best thing England has ever produced’.” James tips his head back laughing, clutching his abdomen.

“I don’t know about that, but I’ll let other people say it.” You look at him for just a moment, watching his eyes crinkle as they meet yours.

“You heard it here, James loves being thirsted over.”

Content of the both of you still comes from the game, but it’s not as bad as the first time. You’re not sure how you feel, being a niche internet figure now. Lily, your coworker who’s covering the other American games, tells you to get online and profit off the opportunity, but you think you’d rather stay as anonymous as possible. Content creation isn’t your passion, sport is.

This virality isn’t without consequence, either, and you’re not sure you like the newfound attention. People ask for pictures with you at matches, which is unexpected and doesn’t quite make sense. You don’t do anything. You talk about what other people did.

Players from other countries know who you are now, and are more willing to be interviewed. That’s a plus, at least, though sometimes they’re a little too friendly.

England is playing France, and you’ve been at the stadium for what feels like all day. Alongside the pre- and post-match interviews, you’re expected to be writing twice as many articles as usual to capitalise on the world’s public interest in the Cup. Today’s is about pre-match rituals and superstition (seriously), so you’re buzzing around the stadium trying to find convenient moments to pull players and coaches aside.

You got James’ answer this morning — though you could have written it without any input from him you’ve spent so many game mornings with him — and cornered Sirius as he walked through the doors so he didn’t get distracted with performing his own rituals.

You’re just finishing up the interview with captain Frank when one of the French players rounds the corner. Evan Rosier, you recognise him. He played for Liverpool in the last season, but was bought for a summer transfer into Manchester City for the next. You know you’ve interviewed him before after matches, but nothing spectacular sticks about the exchanges. He, however, is looking at you rather like you’re prey.

“Morning!” Your smile is bright despite it all, “Have time for a quick talk?” You hold your recorder up with a cute shake, enticing him to sit down with you. He shrugs, eyes not leaving you as he sits in one of the stadium’s hallway seats.

“Thanks for speaking to me, Evan, this should be super quick. I’m doing a piece on pre- and post-match rituals and superstitions. Do you have any to share?”

Evan makes a noncommittal noise at first, thinking. Then his mouth curls into a wicked smile, eyes narrowing to snake-like slits before you.

“Well,” He says, “I like to start the day with a little exercise, to get my blood pumping.”

“Good idea,” You agree, “Did you hit the hotel gym this morning?”

“That is… not the exercise I meant.” Evan’s french lilt makes it sound even more scandalous, and your eyes widen as you realise what he’s saying. You stutter out something that sounds like a response, glad you’ll be able to edit it out in your own piece.

“Um, you’re not publicly tied to anyone at the moment,” You redirect, deciding at least to be a kind journalist, “Are you sure you want that shared?”

Evan doesn’t look away once and you’re sure he can read your soul. “I am not privately tied to anyone, either. How’s that?” He hardly waits for a response, “It is important to feel important before playing a big game, get your blood flowing.”

“And, um, is it Americans who are helping you get into the match headspace? Or, or someone else.” You have no idea what you’re doing or saying; this is terrible journalism and you know it.

“I have no preference,” He shrugs, leaning in so you’re only inches apart. “I like Americans, I like Brits… Tell me, have you ever been loved by a Champions League winner?”

Your mouth goes dry, like Evan already knows the answer, though he couldn’t possibly. He’s just being an arsehole, trying to flirt or mess with you, and you can’t let it work.

Before you have to come up with your answer, James rounds the corner with a sharp “Hey!” Evan looks up, unperturbed by James’ presence. “She’s doing her job, Rosier. Don’t be an dick and hit on her while she’s on duty.”

Evan leans back slowly, like he’s not in trouble at all. “Forgive me for noticing the beauty surrounding our sport.” When he sees how rigid you’ve gone, unable to look at either man, Evan stands, hands out by his sides in gentle surrender.

“You know where to find me if you want to know how a real winner fucks.” The word sounds especially vulgar in his mouth, and you don’t say anything as he and James trade glares until he’s finally out of sight.

James pulls in close, a hand on either arm as he inspects you, like the interaction had a physical effect on you.

“Are you alright, lovely?” You smile up at him, lost momentarily in the depth of his honey-brown eyes.

“Yeah, ‘course,” It comes out before you can be sure you mean it, “Just a bit unnerved.”

“He’s an arse, just using you to fuel his own ego,” James reassures you, thumb caressing your skin gently.

“I know.” It’s more of a grimace than a smile, but it’s not a frown, which James takes as a good sign.

“What about you just hang by our team until the game? I don’t want him or anyone else making you uncomfortable just so you can get an interview.” You nod again, tucking yourself in under his arm as he leads you through the halls.

Before you can rejoin the rest of the England team, James pulls you in for a searing kiss, your legs turning to jelly in an instant.

“Nobody gets to treat my girl like that,” He mumbles against your temple as he presses a kiss there too, before reluctantly letting you go and gesturing for you to walk through the door ahead of him.

You sit with the WAGs at the game, cheering alongside them all. The game itself is pretty unimpressive. To be honest, you don’t think either team is playing their best, and you’re not one to lie. Still, it’s fun to play fan when you’re so often with other reporters, jumping around when the ball comes close to the goal.

After the first twenty minutes, you notice it getting aggressive, though you’re not sure why. The tackles are increasing in frequency and ferocity, and you’re getting the feeling that it’s personal.

You think at first it might just be because the players all know each other, almost all of them playing the last Premier League season, and often in the Champions too. That starts to make less sense as the game progresses. Men who you know are typically friendly aren’t sparing each other a glance, and you watch Sirius shoulder-check a French player he’s friends with on the way off the pitch for the hydration break.

It finally makes sense near the end of the first half. With minutes left on the clock, James tackles Evan hard. They both go down in a tumble of limbs, and you’re sure you see a punch thrown in under the guise of him trying to steady himself.

The instant replay on the huge screen shows James’ boots swinging straight into Evan’s shin, taking them both down as they kick and tumble. The entire stadium hushes, and your hand finds your mouth to mirror the people around you. After what feels like an age, they stand without any sportsmanship. The corner of the camera just catches James spitting something in Evan’s direction, though you can’t lip read what it is.

James gets a yellow card, and he’s lucky it’s just that. If you were the referee, you have no doubt you’d give him a red for excessive force and endangering Evan’s safety. He doesn’t have to go off, thankfully, but you already know he won’t come back on for the second half, if the slight limp he develops is anything to go by.

Before the game resumes, James spares a lingering glance up to where you and the girls are sat. It’s subtle, and probably doesn’t mean anything to anyone else, but it’s the last piece in your puzzle. James is still mad about earlier.

In the back of your mind you’re touched and flattered that your boyfriend truly cares about you, and gets mad when people wrong you, but most of your head is filled with frustration that James could sacrifice the game to get petty justice over something you’re used to.

Alice looks over in your direction, and you’re sure she’s going to say something. Frank has been playing professionally, and for England, since before you broke into your industry, and you’re pretty sure they’ve been together for years before that. She was one of the first people who was kind to you at games, and you wouldn’t mind grabbing a coffee with her sometime, strictly off the record. But she doesn’t know about you and James, or isn’t supposed to. If she knows then Frank knows, and if Frank knows then he can tank James’ career.

She clearly thinks twice, and focuses back on the game. Your shoulders relax for a second, before shooting back up to your head as the players rip across the pitch, all motivated by the constructed feud.

It’s half time and you’re close to an aneurysm, overwhelmed by the noises and the people and the knowledge that James might risk his next few games for you. Sparing a half smile to the ladies around you, you tear through the stadium, flashing your press pass to get into the rooms you need to.

When you make it to the change rooms, the assistant coach thinks about stopping you, but steps out of your way when you flash him a look and an assurance that you’re here strictly off the record.

The coach is drawing his talk to a close when you hover by the door, and it’s not long before everyone is staring at you.

“Don’t sacrifice this game for petty revenge,” You say carefully, “I appreciate that after all these years you’ve got my back, but I’d rather you win and knock them out instead.” You shoot a tight lipped smile to the coach as an apology, looking at James in a way that says follow me.

Outside of the change room, it’s strangely quiet. For all the noise and chaos of the game, you’re completely alone, for the time being anyway.

“What the hell was that?” You whisper, mindful that you may not be as alone as you seem.

“I know,” James groans, hand running down his face. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand that you should have gotten a red card,” You argue back, arms crossed over your chest.

“He was saying shit about you!” James’ voice raised a few decibels, sounding like a yell when it bounced off the walls of the corridor. “I told him to knock it off and have a bit of decency and he doubled down. Then Frank got involved, and the French captain didn’t even have the decency to act like Evan had done anything wrong! It’s not fair.”

“I know.” Your anger had fizzled out, hand coming up to cup his face softly. “I don’t want you to bring that into the game. I’m used to this, Jamie, people underestimate me all the time, but it doesn’t mean I can’t handle it. I would never forgive myself if you got a suspension or the team lost a player because of a silly non-issue.”

“It’s not silly.” James didn’t miss a beat, letting himself take a step toward you.

“It’s not,” You agree, “But I can handle it. I don’t need you to fight this battle for me, especially not at your detriment. ‘Kay?”

James nods, leaning further into your hand and twisting to kiss your wrist.

“I’ll see you tonight.” You pop up to kiss him, breaking into a giggle when he trails after you, begging it not to end.

You return to the stands calmer than before, able to actually reply to Amos’ girlfriend’s sweet greeting this time.

The game continues cleaner. You can still tell the players are mad, but at least now they’re channelling it into playing a better game of football rather than pushing each other over like schoolboys.

On the pitch after the match, things are still tense. You hold your mic with a smile, focusing on being professional to the camera instead of the drama behind you. Your intro is going well when someone comes up behind you, slightly too close for comfort. It’s Evan, looming over you without a care in the world.

“Sorry about the loss,” You say politely, “That was a great effort.”

“It is okay,” He says in his accent, like he hasn’t a care in the world, “Will you help me to get over my loss?”

“I, um, I,” You drown in your words, suddenly unsure of how to handle the situation. It’s unlike you, which makes it all the worse. You’re trained to deal with anything and everything without breaking a sweat, yet here you are, falling apart over a few unwanted advances.

“Actually, I’ve already promised her an exclusive post-match interview. Sorry, mate.” You’re saved by the bell in the form of Sirius, stepping protectively between the two of you.

Evan sends you a lingering look, and you can’t tell what feeling is behind it. Luckily, Sirius takes over before anything else can take shape, and the interview that unfolds feels easy, rehearsed.

You get back to your room hours later, after briefly joining some of the celebrations around the stadium and the city, plus an hour or so of writing in the hotel lobby.

James is already inside when you swipe your access card, lounging shirtless on your bed as if he doesn’t have the presence and stature of a god. He straightens up when he sees you, nervous energy thick in the air.

“I’m sorry,” He starts, and your resolve crumbles into dust, “I know it was stupid, but I just wanted to show him that he can’t get away with treating women like that, especially not you.”

“James, I appreciate it, I do, but it’s not worth it. I get hit on all the time when I’m working. It’s not worth risking these games. If you get knocked out because of me, neither of us would be able to handle it.”

“You don’t get it, honey, I care about you more than I care about any of this. I can play football anywhere, you’re the only one I’ve ever felt this much for.”

Tears are already putting pressure behind your eyes, and you aren’t even arguing. It’s just not fair. You’re falling into James’ arms without hesitation, hardly waiting to kick off your shoes.

“I don’t want you to have to move for me, I’d feel like such a burden. Your family is in Britain, your friends are in Britain, you don’t want to leave your parents, I know that. Besides, it’d be so unlikely I could get a job wherever you move, so we’d either be long distance or in the same situation we are now. Just stay here for as long as they want you.”

James slumps into you, the situation hopeless.

“We’ll figure it out,” He says eventually, “Either I’ll get transferred to another team, or you can get another job, or you don’t even have to work! You know I can support us both.” This earns him a pointed look. You don’t want to be a stay at home girlfriend, or else this issue would have been solved years ago. Being a sports journalist is your dream, just as football is James’. Neither of you should have to give that up to be together.

“I know.” The tears have started falling, and you know it’s ridiculous. It’s just overwhelming, knowing that everything could fall apart in a moment. James is quick to notice, as always, hands finding their way to your face, wiping the tears away gently as they fall.

“One day it’ll be all fine, my girl,” He soothes, hand running through your hair as you cry into him. “One day we’ll be married, and live in a nice house, and laugh at the fact that we were ever worried about all this. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” You sniffle pathetically, glad that James has never minded.

The silence gets a bit deafening between you, and James turns on the F1 for something you’ll both enjoy. It finally feels temporarily normal as the race plays, both of you bickering and cheering for your drivers. James is partial to Lando, while you prefer Oscar Piastri. For almost two hours, you can forget about everything except being here with James.

Just as you’re both drifting off to sleep, you glance up at him.

“No one’s ever tackled a man for me before,” You hum happily, delighted when James’ arms tighten around you.

“’d do anything for you,” He slurs, eyes still closed. At least amongst everything that you’re worried about all the time, you’ve never doubted how much James loves you.

You wake the next morning wrapped in James’ arms, which is blissful until you check your phone. It’s busier than normal, and sitting at the top of your notifications is a text from Lily: Check your phone.

Dread drops into your stomach as you unlock the phone, seeing your social media notifications blowing up. Shit. More clips are circulating from last night, you and a myriad of footballers. The biggest by far is the clip of your interview with Evan, people analysing and commenting on your body language and his predatory advances.

It’s worse for him than you, twitter taking an adversarial stance against him, only heightened by the fact that France has lost and is knocked out. You wouldn’t want to be him right now. You’re not sure you want to be yourself, either, though.

There’s pity for you, the start of a conversation about how female reporters are treated — but only on the internet surface level. Most of the clips about you, though, are really about James. Whilst you were oblivious for reason of trying to handle Evan, a tense conversation played out on camera behind you: James and Sirius in stern conversation, gesturing and looking your way which removed any uncertainty on the matter.

James looks mad in the clip, so unlike his usual sunny disposition. Even when he loses games, James is happy, pleased just to have played. Instead, his brows are cemented into a furrow, rage sparking in his usual honeyed eyes. He watches intently as Sirius approaches you, breaking up the unwanted moment between you and Evan.

You think that’s not so bad, if you had to do damage control it would be easy to write it off as a character reference for James, he’s always been a good guy and this is just him being decent. That is, at least, until clips of the games are watched more closely, and start getting connected to the ongoing undercurrent of tension between the teams.

Anonymous users online are finally beginning to draw the conclusions you hoped would never come, that there’s something going on between you and James. You hold your breath without realising as you scroll, falling deeper into a rabbit hole.

Thankfully, no one you’ve seen is accusing you of anything serious. Yet. You must be better at your job than you think, because all the emotional heat is on James. Accusations of him having a crush on the pretty young reporter fly, his name trending on every app you have.

It’s kind of funny, you think once you know nothing is awful. People making edits of you and your boyfriend, not even knowing that you’re together. Fans have fallen in love with your interviews together, the same clips of him looking down at you adoringly, or staring down Evan used in almost every video you see. You think it’s especially funny when they play the clip of him kissing your cheek, intentionally cropping out where Sirius does it a second later to create a narrative they don’t even know is correct.

James wakes slowly, and you relish his sleepy whimpers.

“People are saying you have a little crush on me,” You whisper, despite being the only people in the room. James groans, burying further into your neck, pressing a single open mouthed kiss there just to make you shudder.

“Yeah?” His voice reverberates against your skin, “They’re right.”

You giggle as James puts the moves on you, manoeuvring your bodies until he’s on top, pressing wet kisses up the column of your throat until he makes it up to your mouth.

You’re just getting lost in the pleasure, James’ hand sneaking down under your sleep shorts, when his phone rings. You both groan, the moment ruined. He can’t afford to not check it in case it’s his coach, captain, or similarly important training information. It’s Frank, and James reluctantly picks up.

“Hey, mate,” He says, glancing back at you with a smile. You sit, kissing the back of his shoulder before leaning your head on it, feeling the blood pumping beneath his skin.

You can vaguely hear Frank through the receiver, talking about the videos. You giggle silently, shoulders jumping as James tries to brush it off, assuring him there are worse accusations than having a crush. He could be Evan, for example.

“Do you?” Frank asks, and you feel James’ breath falter rather than hear it, “Have a crush, I mean.”

James takes a minute before replying, surely thinking through how badly this could go.

“Yeah,” He mutters, “Something like that.” You can barely contain your laughter, but it’s honestly not a bad move from James. It gives a simple explanation to the team, at least, and will probably reassure your worries if it’s all positioned as one-sided.

James gets Frank off the phone soon after, convincing him that he’s not worried by the attention, refusing to look at you as you laugh.

“Someone’s got a crush,” You sing lightly, not anxious for the first time in weeks.

“Shut up,” James says, flipping you onto your back in an instant, “Now, where were we?”

It’s only much later, when James is at training, that your worries return. You feel guilty not telling James first, but you call Lily for help.

It’s your turn to be guilty and tense when James walks in later that evening.

“I have to tell you something.” James face drops, though he tries not to let it show. He tries to never worry you, knowing you do enough of it for you both.

“Alright,” He says carefully, perching on the edge of the bed.

“I’m swapping some games with Lily.”

“Thank god.” James goes through a million feelings at once. “I thought you were breaking up with me. Why?”

“I just think it might be good to have a bit of distance for a bit. Not us, I mean, there’s not trouble with us. This social media stuff is overwhelming, though, and risky. It might be good just to have a few games apart to let things calm down a bit.”

“Oh.” Your heart breaks all over again, and you almost call the whole thing off. “That makes sense, I suppose. Probably for the best. Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”

“I promise, Jamie. We are perfect. It’s everyone else who’re the problem.”

With gentle reassurance, James perks up a bit. You take his break from training and team activities to establish a schedule for communication. Call in the morning, call before a match, call every evening. Send each other photos. It should be fine.

A few short weeks without James is torture. You’re not utterly miserable, you’re still having one of the most amazing experiences of your career, but you miss him, plainly. The worst part is, you can’t talk to anyone about it.

Sirius needs to focus on the world cup, Remus is on another continent, and hardly any of your own friends know about it, for fear of their blabbermouths. That leaves you with your parents, go figure.

“I just don’t understand, darling,” Your mother says over the phone, “You never have to work another day in your life with the way James’ career is going — why not just enjoy that?”

“It’s not what I want, Mum,” You groan, making faces because she can’t see them, “I like my job, I love being a journalist. I don’t want to lose it all for a man.”

“Why don’t you just apply somewhere else?” You dad says from somewhere in the background; you didn’t realise he was there. “Football’s not the only sport you love, and it’s not like you’re not already a bit long distance with you both travelling so much.”

You think about what he said. It’s true, mostly. Both your jobs require travel, and you often spend days and weeks away from each other at a time. It’s not usually so bad when you’re not under pressure like the World Cup. Plus, football isn’t your only love. You keep up with at least three other sports over the year, and occasionally cover them when there’s no football for you to write about. It’s not a bad idea.

At the next game you cover, the Australia — Egypt match, you meet a reporter from the Australian ABC, who invites you to watch England’s next match in a bar down the street from the stadium. She’s sweet, and you both watch with bated breath as the game commences, both teams attacking with ferocity.

You finally feel anonymous in the bar, free to cheer as loud as you want for your boyfriend in real time. Nobody cares about you and it feels amazing. Or it was amazing, until James is injured.

It’s nobody’s fault, a good faith tackle, but the slow motion replay show’s the other player’s boot jamming into James’ knee in painful clarity. You gasp, as do many crowded around the screen, but you’re sure you’re feeling more anguish when the tears involuntarily spring to James’ eyes.

You know immediately that it’s serious when he doesn’t pop up like usual. He’s the youngest on the team alongside Sirius, and recovers quicker than most of his teammates. The fact that he’s still lying on the grass, covering his face from the cameras, means something is really wrong.

Your hand stays at your mouth, blinking rapidly as you try not to cry in front of the bar and your new friend. She glances over for a moment too long, and you think she must know. Has to be aware of what you and James have going on. Yet, she doesn’t say anything, rubbing your arm gently and turning back to the screen.

James limps off, accompanied by two physios, and you have to take a minute. In the girls bathroom, you heave over the basin, bile thick in your throat.

This is all too much, and you don’t know how much more you can handle. Trying to keep your relationship a secret from the whole world is overwhelming your nerves, adrenaline always at a peak, and you know if you’re not careful you’ll burn out in everything else. Lying to everyone isn’t natural, and somehow you’re ostracised from everyone on earth because of it. You didn’t know that was possible before now.

What is it all for? All this lying and hiding, and you can’t even be there for your boyfriend when something happens. You’re across the country, watching alongside a hundred random people as he may be taken out of the tournament altogether, unable to do anything for him.

With shaking hands, you pull your phone from your pocket. He won’t pick up a call right now, but you can’t let there be nothing from you when he’s allowed to check.

Are you okay?????

That was so scary

I love you so much I’m sorry I’m not there right now

Call me when you can

I’m sorry

It’s not your finest work, desperate and afraid when he probably needs you to be confident, but you can’t manage much else.

It’s a few minutes later when you return, eyes probably puffy, but nobody says anything. Your new friend assures you that things look okay for James, but he might miss the next game. Nothing looks broken, at least, which is a huge relief.

You go home that night, tired and a bit drunk, and open your laptop. Something has to change, soon, and you can’t wait around for much longer.

James’ injury turns out to be better than you expected. It’s a light strain, but the additional hit into the knee made him react bigger. He takes a game off, but is back for the semi-final.

You fly back as soon as you can, spending a few days between matches with him. You go out one night with Sirius so the three of you can play mini golf at midnight, and it’s maybe the best moment of the entire Cup.

The semi final approaches, and neither you nor James bring up any discussion of what will happen with your relationship. You live in the joy of the final week, English people all over the country hoping for something that hasn’t happened since 1966.

You’re kept busy, anyway, a historic event garners more than a handful of articles, and there’s much to write about.

The world can hardly believe it when England wins the semi final. It’s ridiculous, honestly. They’ve never been very good, and it’s the first World Cup for half the squad. Youth seems to be on their side, though, and for once you have players springing across the pitch without exhaustion.

“The last time England made it to the semifinals it was 2018, and we finished fourth in that cup after losing to Belgium. This squad, though, seem determined to go all the way, with the players giving their all every single game. Here comes captain Frank Longbottom now — Frank, how are you feeling?”

“On top of the world.” Frank lays an arm around your shoulder, leaning in as you extend the mic, “I’m so proud of the boys, everyone’s really giving one-hundred-and-ten percent every single game, and this year it’s really paying off which is incredible.”

“It really is, it’s so great to see you all — ah! Hi, James.” James approaches your other side, caging you in between the two huge athletes.

“Hello, love.” He beams, “Enjoy the game?”

“How could I not?” You laugh, launching into technical questions so you don’t fall into banter with him. You try to keep it even, turning between James and Frank so you don’t appear like you have favourites. You can feel Frank looking between you like you’re all in school again and crushes are the end of the world, but you pretend you don’t notice it.

“It was so great to talk to you both, congratulations again, and hopefully the next time I talk to you, you’ll be World Cup winners.” Frank gives you a quick, friendly hug before leaving, and James dares to press a quick kiss to your cheek — squeezing your side privately — before racing off across the pitch to his team. You smile to yourself as you see Frank hyping up, no doubt believing that he needs the confidence.

You send the camera off quickly, relieved to no longer have those viewers watching, though you still have to make it out of the stadium to be safe.

It’s an hour later when you make it back to the hotel you’re staying in, falling onto the mattress in exhaustion. You only get five minutes of silence before your phone is ringing again, disrespectfully loud to your fatigue.

“Hello?” You pick up without looking, hoping you can get rid of whoever’s calling quickly.

“Hey gorgeous, you asleep yet?” James’ voice is deep and honey-smooth, and it brings a smile to your lips.

“Almost,” You groan for good measure. “Why?”

“The team and partners are going out for celebratory drinks, d’you wanna come?”

“Can I?” The rest of the sentence hangs in the air — you’re not a partner, publicly.

“Don’t even worry about it, lovely. Now they think I have a crush on you, the boys are so on board it’s a bit laughable.”

A half hour later you’re freshened up and ready to go. The team and their partners all greet you kindly, though you’re aware they must be bewildered at your presence. Sirius is finding the whole thing excessively entertaining, and is doing a very poor job of hiding it.

Later, when everyone’s a bit drunk and more than a bit merry, Alice pulls you over with a laugh. She and Frank have taken over a little standing table in the function room that someone has rented for the team and staff.

“Hey!” You grin, placing your glass carefully on the table, “Thanks for letting me come, this has been so lovely.”

“Of course, we’re glad to see you off the record,” Frank jokes and you all laugh, the energy in the room bright and easy.

“You know, we heard something interesting,” Alice leans forward conspiratorially, and you mirror her as if you don’t know what’s coming. Someone should put you in a movie, or something. “A little birdie told me James Potter has a crush on you.”

“What?” You gasp in faux-surprise, and as far as you can tell, they can’t tell the difference. “That’s crazy.”

“To be honest, I’m not surprised. You two have always gotten along far better than the rest of the team — not that anybody dislikes you, of course. I thought you’d have gotten together already, if I’m speaking candidly.”

“Alice!” Frank chides, and his wife doesn’t look a bit ashamed.

“Oops, too candid?” She asks coyly, the two of you sharing a giggle.

“Anyway,” Frank looks at you, “How does that make you feel?” It all feels very adolescent, though you don’t mind at all. You know it’s just because they still see James as a bit of a kid, though they’ve known each other for a few years. He got on the scene early and excelled quick, and Frank has been his mentor for most of it, it makes sense that they’re protective.

“He’s such a sweetheart,” You give a non-answer, and the couple pick it up right away.

“Spoken like someone well-media trained.” There’s no malice or frustration in his voice, just enjoyment.

You only wink, bringing your glass back up to your lips.

“Well, guess I’d better go find the reason I’m invited then.” You excuse yourself finally, approaching the bar where Sirius and James are in a very solemn conversation about something no doubt ridiculous.

“Hi boys,” You sing, arm just brushing against James’. James breaks out into a huge grin, whatever they were bickering about long forgotten.

“Baby!” He leans his head on your bicep, staring up at you with doe eyes. It’s this kind of face that always makes you want to kiss him, though you know that’s not appropriate here.

“What’ve you guys been doing?” The question is more directed at Sirius, who seems to be in better shape.

“Well, we were talking shop, but it quickly devolved into how amazing you are, love.” Sirius’ eyebrows waggle like he’s the one singing your praises which makes you laugh.

“How much has he had?”

“Enough to be like this, hopefully not so much he’ll be hungover tomorrow.”

You let yourself enjoy the night, for once not worried about how other people perceived you. You dance, you drink, you sing along to songs without a care in the world. Somehow, you manage to not make any moves on your boyfriend.

At the end of the night, you wander home arm in arm with James, still miraculously not kissing. You talk nonsense to each other as Sirius leads you back to the hotel, somehow the most sober of the night.

The door closes behind you, and you both burst out into laughter, all over each other. You press kisses to his lips, dragging James by the collar toward the bed with you.

“Mm, kinda fun pretending in front on your friends.” You straddle him, tossing your hair to one side so you can kiss down his throat. James’ eyes roll back immediately, his hands flying to your hips.

“Yeah fun for you,” He all but moans, gently untucking your blouse from your shirt, “Everyone thinks I’m just yearning and pining for you.”

“Aren’t you?” You tease, pulling his t-shirt over his head and reconnecting your lips. He laughs against yours, getting impatient and moving you up toward the pillows.

“Obsessed with you.” It comes out mumbled as James busies himself with the rest of you, undressing you with quick precision.

The morning of the World Cup final, you and James wake up together. It’s risky, you know, to be in his room when so many people will be calling after him soon, but this is the biggest day of his life thus far. He wants you here, and you’ll be damned if you don’t oblige.

“You’ll be great today,” You say from the basin as James takes a shower, “Just take it slow.”

“Easy for you to say.” It’s somewhere between joking and sincere as he rubs soap over his chest.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re the celebrity, I get it.” You pass him the razor through the shower curtain. James huffs a laugh, and you’re glad you can at least distract him a little from what you imagine must be impending doom.

James kisses you sweetly on the way out, and you wait another fifteen minutes before leaving his room.

The energy in the stadium is fucking electric. You’ve been at Premier League finals, Champions League finals, even an NBA final a few years ago. Nothing compares. There are people from every country in the world buzzing with excitement, packing the stands with life and colour.

Despite the fact that you’ve spent a total of four or five hours at the stadium today alone, it feels like only minutes have passed. You watch the game from the press box, eyes glued to the players below. Every person in there, regardless of affiliation, cheers and grimaces and lives for the match playing out in front of you. It’s the most tense and most fun game you’ve ever been to.

James is a star. They all are, really, but James is playing the best you’ve ever seen him. He finds every space, and is always where he needs to be for an intercept or pass or shot at goal. You’re so proud you could burst into tears. A few fall when James scores his first goal, then his second.

The game passes in a flash, and the only reason you can take any of it in is because you keep pinching yourself, a reminder that you’re still on the clock and do need to know what’s going on.

The clock ticks down and it’s still a draw. You might pass out. The people on either side of you look exactly the same. It’s down to the wire.

When it gets to the five minutes of overtime, you’re white-knuckling the railing in front of you. It sails up England’s end after a well-timed kick from Amos, and everything spurs into action at once.

The boys are beautiful in play, passing and wordlessly communicating as people do after spending months and years working together. You don’t think you’ve breathed in the last three minutes. Finally, it looks like there’s a real shot at goal in the last minute of the game, Frank dribbling cleverly past the opposing defenders, flushed red with effort. He’s an experienced captain and a great shooter, and you really think he’ll go all the way and score. Then he passes.

To James.

In the fraction of a second where the ball sails through the air, you worry he’ll choke. It’s unlike him, but the pressure he must be feeling is unreal, and you couldn’t be surprised at anything that happened. Or, you think that until James acts without hesitation, springing into the air to scissor-kick it. He looks so beautiful that your heart physically aches, but you don’t have long to ruminate on it. The ball soars into the goal, breezing past the keeper’s extended fingers.

Holy fuck.

England won the World Cup. James won the World Cup. In a buzzer-beater, legendary goal that gave him a hat-trick.

The tears pour from your eyes before you can even think about it, and they’re still streaming down your cheeks as you’re ushered down to the field to get on camera.

“Um, England hasn’t won the World Cup since 1966, so you can imagine the atmosphere in the stadium tonight. And, I imagine, every pub in England.” You can’t even pretend to be using your reporter voice right now, overwhelmed with euphoria. “Forgive me for crying, but I never thought I’d see a result like this in my lifetime, and I’m one of thousands sharing the same feeling tonight.”

You turn to watch where you’re walking, the camera following to your side, and your gaze sets on James just as he looks over. The world slows down around you as James starts running, disregarding the seemingly hundreds of people trying to get his attention.

You’re in the air before you know it, James’ strong arms spinning you in circles as his grins threatens to split the skin of his cheeks. He hardly lets you get your footing on the pitch before he acts without thinking, dipping you low and kissing you hard.

It’s overwhelming, his huge arms wrapped around you, lips slightly chapped against your own. The smell of his sweat fills your senses, and you can taste a hint of its salt on his upper lip as you move against each other.

You pull away after far too long and the reality of the situation crashes down all at once. The camera is still live and pointed at you, there are still eighty thousand people staring at you, and you’re still in James’ arms.

His eyes fill with fear, but you can’t bring yourself to feel anything similar. Slowly, you bring the mic back up to your lips.

“I hope you’ll all forgive me for perhaps taking attention off a once in a lifetime event, but this may be a good time to announce that after the World Cup, I’ll be moving away from football into covering mainly Formula One. And that I’m hopelessly, utterly in love with James Potter, and have been for some time.”

“Are you serious?” James doesn’t bother to speak into the mic, zeroing in on you, “Since when?”

“Like, two days ago.” Your grin is huge, all your teeth showing as James’ mouth drops open. He doesn’t wait before kissing you again, this time pulling you in so you’re chest to chest.

When you watch the scene later as it goes viral on every platform, you’ll see the reactions of his team behind you, cheering and jumping on each other in disbelief. You’ll see Sirius trying not to cry, covering it up by hugging his teammates.

And when you both pull away, faces wet with tears and both beaming like little kids, you hear the screams of thousands of people, celebrating you and their country and the most wonderful sport in the world.

“So,” You recover, despite James and your cameraman both being in a bit of a daze, “How does it feel to have won the game and a hat trick in your first ever World Cup?”

The consequences of James’ little stunt are immediate. You’re both flooded by people, for a multitude of reasons. James must be the most congratulated person in the world right now, you think, as people talk about the win, his goals, and you.

You’re of course invited to the team’s official celebration, but you have time before it and take the streets, looking for material for a brilliant final football piece.

Whilst you expect all the joy and excitement surrounding the English team, you don’t foresee the positive reception you receive. People cheer and clap as you pass, and even ask for photos with you, which has never happened before these last few weeks.

A little girl, maybe ten, approaches you with her dad. Apparently it’s her mother you’re interviewing, decked out in red and white and gushing over how much it means to her to see England win the Cup.

“I want to be just like you when I grow up,” The little girl says, a tiny English flag painted on her cheek.

“Yeah?” You ask, getting down so you’re level with her, “You want to write about sports?”

“Yep,” She says proudly, hands on her hips, “And I want to marry James Potter.”

You burst out into laughter. “Never ever give up on your dreams.”

You take a picture with her on her parents request, then figure it’s probably time to freshen up before heading out to party.

James hardly lets go of you all night. Even then, it’s only reluctantly when Frank calls for a toast to the youngest player on the team who won them the World Cup. You cheer louder than them all, jumping for your favourite boy on earth.

Later, when you’re all severely drunk, Sirius finally gets close. Coming from behind, he lays an arm over both your shoulders.

“You know I love you guys?” He lays his head on James’ shoulder, eyes glazed over, “I’m so happy you guys are together.”

“Thanks, buddy,” James laughs, exchanging entertained looks with you.

“Yeah, maybe we can go for a real double date when we get back home.”

Alice approaches you in the girls bathroom with similar sentiments.

“I cannot believe you managed to keep this a secret for so long,” She laughs, fixing her makeup in the mirror, “How long has this been going on?”

“Well,” You think back, trying to remember exactly how long you’ve been going out, “A little over three years?”

“You’re terrible!” She cries without any malice. “When we go home you and I are having a long chat over some drinks.” You laugh, squeezing her hand, and the plans are made concrete.

The video is everywhere. When you and James get back the hotel, stumbling and drunk, it’s already playing on the television, news reporters giving their two cents. Not to mention the internet, but that goes without saying. It’s mostly positive, but neither of you are without haters, and you receive a very conflicted text from your boss.

You giggle together over the videos that come onto your feed, particularly when you see the American woman from all those weeks ago, decked out in red and white.

“Don’t mind the fact that I’m rooting for the coloniser, this was solely for the romance that y’all motherfuckers should have told me about! This is the most romantic thing I’ver ever seen in my whole life, and I need six books and a movie adaptation like right fucking now. I read on Instagram that she’s moving to the F1 so they can be together publicly, but honestly I’m so sad that we’re not gonna get more post-match interview content from them as a couple.”

The video goes on for longer, with the woman analysing your interactions over the last month, but you don’t stay until the end, your eyes starting to close on their own after such a huge day.

James joins you in bed, the picture of comfort in his patterned pyjama pants. You’d bought him pink and purple checkered ones a year ago so you could match, and James constantly surprises you by wearing them more often than not.

“Hey,” He says, soft and uncharacteristically quiet, “Are you happy?”

“Yeah, ‘course I am. How could I not be?” You swipe a thumb gently across his cheek.

“I just mean… This is a lot all at once. A new job, the whole world knowing we’re together. Are you going to be happy when you’re not working in football anymore? Will you resent me for it in a few years?”

Your heart breaks more and more as he speaks. This is probably the best day of James’ entire life, and he’s bringing it down by worrying about you.

“James,” You say slowly, “This is all I’ve ever wanted. I want to be with you above all else. Covering the F1 is a great opportunity, even outside of everything else going on, and I’ll have a ball, I’m sure. And I love football, true, but I can love it just as much as a spectator. I can’t love you from afar.”

James studies you for a minute, trying to decipher whether you’re only appeasing him. He’s comforted as you stand strong, eye contact unbroken.

“Okay,” He says finally, “As long as you don’t go falling for Piastri.” You break into giggle, shuffling in so your bodies are pressed together. Oscar may be your favourite driver, but he doesn’t compare to James Potter.

You snuggle in together, James’ arms around you.

After a long few minutes, just as you’re dozing off, James speaks again.

“Fuck,” He says, voice croaky with exhaustion, “I just won the World Cup.”

“I know.” You reach up to kiss his mouth three times, “My magic boy.”

[megwritesriddles]

Like a heatwave, burning in my heart ༊*·˚

18+ MDNI !!!

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Fem! Reader / You

Summary: After graduating, Riddle has kept to himself, but during a heatwave, he is lured back into the pureblood sphere and confronted with you once more. Your relationship never was simple. And why do pureblood events always seem to lead to discussions of marriage?

Tags: Blowjob, P in V, Unprotected sex, Light Dom/Sub, Dom!Riddle, Good girl, Princess, Brat taming, Sort of established relationship (it's complicated), FWBs, Arranged marriage, Pureblood culture, Pureblood!Reader, Mild angst/arguments, Riddle in love as much as he is capable of, Mentions of alcohol, Dialogue-heavy.

Word count: 6k

all fandom masterlist | hp masterlist | read it on ao3

Authors note: I wrote this like maybe two months ago and have been waiting to post it during a heat wave for maximum immersion but the heat hasn't quite reached my country until now so... this fic went a completely different direction than I was planning it to originally... Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

The summer sun beat down in a way scarcely anyone alive could remember it doing before. Humidity made the air wobble in the distance, a thin film of moisture clinging to every surface the outdoor air could reach, Tom Riddle's skin included. He would really rather be anywhere else than here, sitting in the unforgiving heat and forced to listen to the sounds of the wizarding world's most eligible bachelors and bachelorettes in their sun-soaked mania, shouting, laughing, jumping into the pool in the hopes of impressing the opposite sex. Since graduating from Hogwarts, Riddle had experienced almost an entire blissful year without the heirs to various pureblood fortunes bugging him. For appearances' sake, he had hung around the rich, pompous assholes his whole school career, trying his best to fit in and tolerate their raucous behaviour for the sake of farming crucial career connections. Moving to Knockturn Alley, away from the wizarding world's high society, had been a reprieve. Yet, when Evan Rosier invites you somewhere, you are a fool to turn him down, especially when you might need his wealth and connections in the near future. And even the great imperturbable Tom Riddle cannot resist the siren song of pool access, free food and drink, and a place to stay that isn't his cramped, overheated Knockturn Alley flat during the hottest days of the year. Riddle figured he should actually be rather relieved he was invited, given his recent disappearance from the pureblood scene, without any real family connections to keep him invited to any events that may have taken place over the last year. It meant that he was not yet forgotten, which would be useful when the time came. Just another reason that he had forced himself here against his better judgement. He wished more and more that he hadn't, with each cannonball another guest did into the pool, leading droplets of chlorinated water to fly over onto Riddle, where he sat on a sunlounger, even though he had picked this one specifically for being the furthest from the pool. The book he had brought with him to read was ruined. Rosier had drunkenly promised to replace it, but Riddle highly doubted it was a vow that would be remembered enough to be honoured once the alcohol wore off. If only this had been an intimate affair, rather than seemingly every young pureblood from age eighteen to twenty-five having been invited. However, Riddle had to admit to himself that had the occasion been more intimate, his invitation likely would have never come. He needed this, at least to remind these young, undeservedly powerful people that he existed.

A voice cuts through his agitated thoughts. He's been blocking out the sounds of shrieking and laughter for the past hour, so the fact that a voice has been able to pass through his mental barriers is abnormal. Even more so as it isn't a shout, a shriek or a holler, but rather a calm sound. Something in his body recognises the tone before his brain fully can. Squinting against the sun, Riddle's eyes slide from their focus on the leaves of a nearby tree to the edge of the pool in front of him. There you are, your arms crossed and resting against the warm stone at the edge of the pool, your lower body still submerged in the cool water, your wet hair clinging to your shoulders and back. Though you are also squinting from the harsh light, Riddle spies a familiar playful smile on your face.

"The life of the party, like always, Riddle," you tease, tilting your head away from the sun to better observe him. He's tense, more tense than anyone else here, no doubt. Sober then, you presume. His shoulders are squared, even as he attempts to sit back against the lounger in a relaxed manner, his hands half-fisted at his sides. A white linen short-sleeve covers his upper body, clinging to his skin in places where the sweat is just too much, the top few buttons popped in a look that is nothing like Riddle. An unavoidable evil given the weather. Still, he is much more covered than any of the other men around. His hair is wavier than usual from the humidity, yet still perfect as ever, only sticking to his skin slightly at his temples. A sheen of sweat glistens on every part of exposed skin he has. When he first arrived, he had been wiping it away in an attempt to look unaffected by the heat, but the action had eventually proved itself pointless, though under your gaze, he felt the urge to reach for his handkerchief once again. He nods calmly in acknowledgement of you, hating the fact he's actively having to fight down a smile in return. "Surprised you're here," you muse. You hadn't seen him since the party Nott hosted the week of graduation.

"I'm surprised myself," he grumbles quietly, watching as Lawrence Avery runs up to the other end of the pool and dives in without any regard for the splash he makes. People around him laugh and cheer; Riddle merely wrinkles his nose in a subtle sneer, quickly fixing his expression when he hears you giggle at his disdain. You always used to taunt him, tell him he looked like a disgruntled kitten when he scrunched his nose like that. He's glad you abstain from mentioning it now, his temper is already fragile from the heat. As you lift yourself out of the pool, his eyes cannot help but stray to your body, the way your swimming costume clings, the droplets that tumble their way down your smooth skin. He reaches for his iced lemon water, which is no longer home to any ice, and takes a sip to hide the quirk of his lip as you saunter over and seat yourself on the sun lounger beside his like you own it. You might as well. He watches you stretch out, wringing out your hair onto the warm stone below. In this heat, the wet patch will evaporate in a matter of minutes. Once he sets his drink back down on the glass table between your sun loungers, you reach for it and help yourself to a sip without his permission. You are the only person in the world he would allow to do such a thing unhexed, and by the look on your face, he understands that this is exactly why you have done it. A test. He's passed.

"The things you do for appearances," you tut, shaking your head. "Am I to understand you haven't been for a dip?"

"And torture myself further? I would only contemplate swimming if there were about three dozen fewer people wasting space in the pool," he scoffs, eyes skimming the large crowd in the pool before returning to you as you stir his drink by the straw. "At least I have the appearances justification, what is your excuse for being here?" he challenges, reaching for his drink, which you hand to him, maintaining fierce eye contact as he takes a sip.

"Believe it or not, I'm still expected to maintain appearances even with the family connections… and anyway, all my friends are here," you nod toward a group of girls in the pool. He remembers well that you used to hang around with those same girls at Hogwarts. He hums in understanding; he supposes you were right, and either way, you did not really need an excuse to be here. The two of you had just always liked looking down on the rest of the pureblood troop, so much so that he sometimes forgot you were actually one of them. At least by blood. The air between you goes quiet, both of you watching the debauchery taking place in the pool for a moment. Riddle's shoulders are still squared, and you can't help but wonder what has him so on edge. You know better than to ask directly. "So… what have you been up to since Hogwarts? I haven't seen your mugshot in the Prophet yet, so it can't be anything too exciting," you joke, smiling triumphantly when his lip quirks in amusement.

"Perhaps I am just good at avoiding the Aurors," he suggests, keeping his tone neutral.

"I don't doubt it," you chuckle, settling back in your lounger and closing your eyes to block out the sun that is still unreasonably harsh, especially for the late hour. With your eyes now closed, Riddle allows himself to observe you, his eyes gliding down your body and back to your face. Your hair is already drying slightly. He's unsure how he's managed to go so long without looking at you.

"I've merely been focusing on my internship at Borgin and Burkes, how about you?" he clarifies, not sure why he's concerned about you getting the wrong idea. You heave a dramatic sigh, which has him arching a brow.

"My parents are trying to marry me off, of course," you huff. Riddle's arched brow transformed into a deep scowl. He knew arranged marriages were a large part of pureblood culture, but once again, he had forgotten that it would therefore affect you. To him, you had always been above it all, everything.

"Marrying you off would be… such a waste," he bemoaned, unable to mask his disapproval, his eyes straying to the pool once more, observing your selection of suitors. All idiots, none deserving of somebody like you. No doubt you would throw yourself from a window if you were stuck married to somebody like Avery or Rosier, he knew you that well. What a waste of a talented mind. And a pretty face. And a great body. "Tell your parents you refuse," he demands, leaning closer, straightening himself up so he can look down at your sun-flushed face. You smile and shake your head lightly.

"You're preaching to the choir here, but it doesn't work like that. I cannot simply refuse to marry," you wipe some sweat from your brow. Riddle scoffs.

"Of course you can, simply say you won't, threaten them if you must." This statement has your eyes snapping open, finding his. The frustration is clear on his face, but so is the conviction.

"Threaten them? Riddle, they're my parents!" you protest, sitting up to stare straight at him now. "And anyway, I've been waiting for a specific proposal before trying to outright refuse," you trail off, adjusting the strap of your swimming costume at your shoulder. "I suppose that has been in vain."

Riddle catches your implication immediately, even though the idea takes him by surprise. Had you been waiting for him to make an offer to your parents? It was not something the two of you had ever discussed, yet you said you'd been waiting for it, not merely hoping. Going through his memories of your various conversations over the years, he tries to recall something he might have said that would have given you this impression. He comes up empty. Sure, the two of you had… something going on, it was plain to see, and had he been a regular pureblood heir, it may have made a lot of sense to anticipate a proposal, but he wasn't, and you of all people knew that well. Frankly, even if he had wanted to offer marriage, he had completely forgotten that it was a pureblood custom currently taking place. Certainly, he'd rather you be with him than with someone like Carrow, who was currently downing an alcoholic beverage while in the pool without a care for whether it all got into his mouth, but marriage? No. Never. Well, not on such short notice anyway.

"Of course you can threaten them." His voice is tight, his eyes glued on the house elf scrambling to make everybody's drinks. He can feel your face fall further. Even without exact words, you both know he has just rejected you. For a weak moment, he wants to take it back. He fortifies once more at your voice.

"You don't have parents, Riddle, you do not understand the duty a pureblood has for their family," you spit. He had anticipated you going low, but the statement still stung. You knew his family history; you were one of the only people who truly did. You knew how badly he wished he was like everyone else here, even if he tried to act above it all. The two of you go quiet for a long moment. Riddle does not wish to apologise for rejecting you, but he knows you won't apologise either. He rolls his shoulders, trying fruitlessly to release some tension from his body. The weight of your gaze presses into the nape of his neck until he's forced to speak from the sheer pressure. No one else had this effect on him.

"Even if you married somebody more… intelligent, the expectation would still be that you stayed at home and popped out heirs, which is a waste of your skills, you know that," he tried to placate you without apologising, but he could already hear you rolling your eyes.

"I have no choice, the only agency I have is to request somebody I tolerate, which was a waste of time, evidently," you grumble and rub your face in frustration. What had you been thinking? That Riddle would reveal he was planning a romantic proposal and had been saving for your dowry. You knew him better than that, but perhaps you'd hoped that he liked you enough to save you from your misery. Of course, he wouldn't; it would require a sacrifice from him. He sacrificed nothing for anybody but himself. You close your eyes and take a few deep breaths. It's not his fault. If you had the choice not to get married, you would take it, and he has even less desire for romance than you do. He has big plans, you know that. You hated it when you were reminded of the fact that deep down, you were a romantic, an optimist. Even more so when you remembered who exactly it was that this optimism had senselessly latched itself onto. Foolish girl, Riddle had used to tease you when you'd leave your essays for the last minute. He was right. "I can't believe that I missed you."

"Missed me? You didn't even write me," he counters, finally turning to look at you once more, eyes still thin from the sun.

"Neither did you," you counter, running your fingers through your damp hair, shaking it out in his direction, not caring if droplets splashed onto him. In fact, at this moment you would rather relish it.

"Well, I never claimed to miss you," he smirks, earning a glare from you, which he accepts greedily, knowing that if you were truly angry, hexes would be flying. He leans closer, reaching out to gently cup your jaw, pleased when, despite the venomous look, you let his thumb caress your cheek. "I did miss you, princess," he whispers, placating you, but unable to stop himself from using the nickname you so hated just to make sure he wasn't being too vulnerable. "You know you're my favourite," he punctuates his words with a gentle squeeze before withdrawing his hand. Your gaze turns back to the pool, but you hate to admit that you do feel a little better for Riddle having said that. Grumbling, you help yourself to his lemon water again. The silence stretches on and on. Oppressive. Unhappy. Eventually, Rosier announces that the house elves have finished preparing dinner and for everyone to come help themselves. A table has been laid out a little way away from the pool, full of salads, grilled meats and vegetables. People begin to pull themselves out of the pool and migrate toward the table and the surrounding seating. Despite his hunger, Riddle doesn't yet move, wanting to avoid the worst of the crowd. You rise to stand as your friends climb the pool steps, intending to join them to eat. "Darling," you stop at the sound of his voice. "Don't be a stranger," he murmurs smoothly. "You are the only tolerable thing in this manor." His words give you pause. You want to be angry, but on the other hand, you know you've been naive. You stand there motionless, watching as your friends pause at the edge of the crowd and look around for you, chewing your lip.

"What room are you staying in?" you finally ask, your voice quiet. You can hear the smirk in his tone as he responds.

"Room seven, second floor, east wing. I'll be expecting you," he reaches out, squeezing your wrist in- what only in Riddle's world could count as- an affectionate gesture.

You amble off, reuniting with your friends, who, of course, have many questions about your discussion with Riddle. Purposely avoiding revealing that you'd discussed marriage with him, you herd your friends toward the food table. The hour is already late, but hardly anyone notices as the sun is still bright and eager. The atmosphere has mellowed slightly, but drinks still flow freely, and exaggerated laughter fills the air. Sitting at a table with your friends, you feel eyes on you. You know it's Riddle without having to look; he's always had a particular weight about his gaze, one you've grown rather familiar with. Really, he would be an awful husband. He was doing you a favour in his own way.

Your evening is spent watching the other pureblood boys, trying to deduce who would be the lesser of a dozen or so evils. A few had already presented themselves hopefully to your parents, but you weren't convinced by any of them as of yet. At a snail's pace, the sun began to set, though the temperature did not seem to want to abate. You indulged in a few drinks, enjoying the puddings that the house elves had slowly brought out as the main course dwindled. Riddle's gaze had ceased a little while ago, and you hadn't seen any sign of him since. Perhaps he had already retired to bed; he certainly gave the impression at no point today that he was enjoying any of the festivities. If he was trying to sleep, you weren't sure if you should bother him; the few times you had happened to wake him over the years, he had always been rather cranky. Though in this heat, you could not imagine anybody sleeping, let alone Riddle, who presumably was partially cold-blooded by virtue of his Slytherin heritage.

You allowed another hour to pass, perhaps longer; it wasn't like you were monitoring a clock while chatting with friends and watching the boys show off. Unbeknownst to you, Riddle was growing impatient in his room. He could hear cheering and laughter from his cracked-open window, but could not see the goings on in the back garden. As ridiculous as he knew it was, he couldn't help conjuring up images of you lip-locked with one of those rich imbeciles. Before he'd left, he had seen you, observing them, assessing those men the way he might assess an artefact that came through Borgin and Burkes. Calculating and impersonal. Perhaps you had made your choice and were getting it over and done with. The thought made him deeply uneasy, more so than he would have expected.

A telltale feeling of prodding at the corners of your mind alerts you to Riddle's impatience. You know he isn't actually trying to read your mind; he knows you have well-manned mental defences, he's merely begging for your attention in his usual arrogant way. As much as you want to make him wait, suffer for a moment, you are growing bored with the peacocking display in front of you. Excusing yourself for bed, you head inside. The respite from the heat is only mild and rather temporary as you head further into the manor. House elves skitter out of your way as you look for an indication as to which way is east. Riddle's prodding returns like a persistent headache, and you wish you could tell him to shut up. You fortify your defences, hoping he gets the hint. Clearly, he takes this as you ignoring him, because the prodding only intensifies. He could be such a drama queen.

Once you've found your way to the east wing and climbed the stairs to the second floor, the prodding stops abruptly. A door down the corridor swings open; he'd only stopped pestering you because he'd heard you coming. He greets you at the door with a measured expression that has you rolling your eyes.

"You know, for someone who doesn't want to marry me, you're rather clingy," you tease, letting yourself in and lying on his bed. He watches you keenly.

"Clingy? How so?" he inquires with deceptive calm. In response, you merely prod at his mind like he had been doing to you a few times until it shows on his face that he gets your point. "I simply wanted to remind you that you were expected here."

"I might have been getting it on with my future husband," you taunt, watching his shoulders square and his jaw tick. It's deeply satisfying, but it also stirs in your lower belly.

"That's what I was worried about," he hisses quietly, approaching you so smoothly it's as if he's floating. You wouldn't be surprised if he'd taught himself to do so. It was probably only a matter of months.

"Worried? Why? You have no claim over me," you retaliate, unable to keep the pleased smirk from your face. You loved it when he got jealous. Which was surprisingly often considering the air of casualness he always tried his best to inject into your interactions. He fixes you with a withering look that only widens your smile.

"I know you are upset, but do not act like you weren't holding out for my proposal a mere few hours ago." He climbs onto the bed, positioning himself over you. "We are special to each other," he husks, his eyes boring into yours with an intensity that is unfamiliar to you, despite the intensity Riddle had already shown you over the years. His head drops to your throat, peppering a few kisses, not caring about the sheen of sweat on your skin, biting and sucking the skin into his mouth, set on leaving a mark. You try to ignore the way your pulse jumps as his teeth sink softly into your skin, irritated that he no doubt can feel as much as his lips skim the hollow of your throat now. He knows exactly which bits to bite and which ones to kiss. He's had plenty of practice with you, as much as the two of you don't ever discuss it. You're able to wriggle your arms out from under him, pushing him onto the other side of the bed, coming up to hover over him. He sighs, knowing you're actually annoyed and not just teasing. His hands move up, cupping your shoulders, then trailing up your neck to your jaw. "You can't marry anyone else; you'd be miserable and I— I… would be miserable," he begins, rubbing his thumbs against your flushed cheeks. Heat? Arousal? Anger? Probably a little bit of all three.

"I told you, I have no choice about this," you spit. "I would love to simply decide not to like you can."

"Darling… you sprung this all on me—"

"Well, excuse me for thinking you might have thought about it, considering it's all I've heard about the past year!" you burst out, cutting him off. Riddle's jaw ticks in frustration, one hand moving from your jaw to cover your mouth.

"Listen to me," he growls. "You sprung this on me, but—" he emphasises as he feels your mouth trying to move beneath his palm, tightening his grip on you in a warning to stay quiet and listen. Be a good girl, he'd sometimes tease, now he seemed to mean it. "I have given it some thought, considered what it would be like to attend your wedding to somebody else and… I have concluded that my only option is to marry you."

"How romantic," you grumble, your voice heavily muffled against his hand. He can still make out your words, rolling his eyes. A deep breath, he tries to steady himself to say something he never thought he would.

"It's my only choice because you belong to me." his eyes stray to the window, unable to meet yours. "Because I love you, in my own way," he coughs, as if the words almost made him gag. He said them anyway, hoping you realise he means it, because he isn't sure he will ever be able to say it again. Silence. It stretches on and on as you stare down at him, bewildered. Love? Even when you had been expecting a proposal, you had not been expecting love, merely a practical agreement for both of you. A gentle bite to his palm lets him know to move his hand. He still cannot look at you. You open your mouth to speak, but words fail you. He's done to you what you did to him earlier, sprung this on you. Whether you love him in return or not doesn't matter; you had not been prepared for this conversation and find yourself unable to say it back, even as the feeling begins to bloom in your chest. The years of sitting in the corner together, sharing a secret world, above all the rest. The occasional hookup that was never discussed because it didn't have to be. Being the only one allowed to know him. You cannot speak, and Riddle cannot look at you. What a mess.

Without other solutions, you elect to speak one of the secret languages you and Riddle have. Shifting downward, your lips connect with the now mostly dry material of his linen shirt. Just a peck, but it's enough for Riddle's body to react, jolting slightly in surprise. Still, he is too unsure to look at you, trying to relax his body as you begin trailing gentle kisses down his chest, toward his abdomen. The first kiss that hits bare skin, where his shirt has ridden up slightly, causes another jolt that Riddle tries his best to tamp down. Your hand slides up to find the button of his dark linen shorts, toying with it a little and waiting to see if he has anything to say, looking up at his handsome face through your lashes. Riddle remains quiet, though there is an obvious tension to him, his eyes glued on the ornate ceiling as if the mouldings are more interesting than what you're up to. The shyness isn't like him, you know he just needs a moment. The Riddle you know when you're alone together isn't shy; he's all-consuming, but you can't help but feel a little honoured to see him like this. He's calculated about his veneer, few people alive could likely attest to seeing Tom Riddle unsure. Slowly, you slip the button from its hole and work the trousers down enough to reveal his boxers. He's not hard yet, but he is clearly stirring awake, so you continue the kisses at the waistband of his boxers, warming him up. It works a charm, likely the anticipation more than anything else, as he hardens and swells before your eyes. Little by little, you move down the waistband of his underwear, continuing to pepper kisses just above it. You feel him against your jaw, warm and insistent. As you move to press kisses to his length through his boxers, Riddle finally finds his voice.

"Must you tease me?" he grumbles, finally looking down to meet your eyeline, trying to hide how affected he is by the way you're looking up at him. "This is the worst possible time you could choose to be a brat."

"Be careful what you say, or I'll really start being a brat," you counter, gently biting the skin below his belly button.

"Then you'll get what's coming to you," he promises, and you can't help the smile that breaks out against his skin. He looks away, but can't fully hide that he, too, is smiling. You decide to play nice, for now, and resume what you were doing. Your hand finds him through his underwear, applying a gentle pressure as you continue your teasing kisses. He can't help but sigh, his hips shifting slightly against your hand. He'd missed you terribly. Why hadn't he written to you over the last year? Just to maintain some flimsy act that he didn't care for you? No matter what happened now, he wouldn't make that mistake again. He'd write to you until you got a restraining order. Until you had him imprisoned. Then he'd write from prison too.

He feels himself twitch as you finally free him from the confines of his boxers, and then his brain goes blissfully blank. All he can focus on is the wet warmth of your mouth as it wraps around him. Only his tip at first, but it's enough to draw a deep groan from him. Your tongue laves over him with precision, swirling and flicking, tasting the slight saltiness of his pre-cum as it arrives. Riddle's body vibrates with deep grunts of pleasure, only growing louder as you relax your jaw and accept him in a little deeper. His hand threads gently into your hair, pulling slightly as he knows you like it. The hum of approval you let out only serves to heighten his pleasure, the vibration very pleasant.

"What a good girl for me," he groans as your hand, which had merely been holding the base of him until now, begins to move up and down his length as your head bobs over him. You take him as deep as you can with each descent, using your hand to attend to the rest, eyes meeting his as he looked down to watch you. Keeping your eyes on his, you flutter your lashes, pulling off of him for a moment to lewdly lick at him like an ice cream for just a moment before resuming your previous actions, reminding yourself to breathe through your nose. The display, though only brief, clearly affected him very much, making him twitch and groan. You felt his grip on your hair tighten slightly as you took him even deeper this time, causing yourself to gag slightly. He did not push you further down, just pulled you up a bit, helping guide you into a depth and rhythm that worked, his eyes threatening to slip shut from the pleasure. He fought the urge, wanting to take you in. "You look so gorgeous like that, princess," he husks, not noticing the nickname had slipped out. He makes a noise of disapproval as you pull off, your hand stilling at the same time, looking up at him with dark thunderstorm eyes. He grumbles. "What?"

"Princess," you repeat with annoyance, pushing yourself up to sit back on your haunches. Riddle groans.

"Don't be a brat, you know I mean it affectionately." He sits up, grabbing your upper arm and dragging you toward him. He presses his forehead to yours. "It just slipped out."

"And you just slipped out of my mouth," you counter. Riddle twitches at the memory of the sensation.

"You're such a little brat," he hisses. "I'm giving you one chance to go back to what you were doing like a good girl," he says, studying your expression as you shake your head in defiance. "I warned you, princess," he purrs, quickly rolling the two of you over so he's above you. "I'm going to have to punish you, princess. I wonder if that's exactly what you wanted," he smirks, his hands moving to peel you out of your long-dry swimming costume. He spreads your legs roughly, smirking at the sight of your glistening folds. "Turned on from sucking my cock, huh? You are a good girl, even though you try to pretend not to be." He holds you down by your arms, although your protests are hardly real, slight wriggling in an act of trying to escape, when really you're spreading your legs wider for him. He ruts against you once. Twice. Before he angles himself to catch on your entrance. He wants to push right in, but he hasn't been with you for a while, so he forces himself to slide in a little slower. The whine you let out rewards his decision greatly. Even though you've taken him a few times before, there is a noticeable stretch. Your back arches off the bed for a moment as he fills you up, settling snugly inside of you. He continues to hold you down, his hips beginning to roll, withdrawing from you halfway and thrusting back inside harshly, dragging purposely against your walls. He revels in your needy whining, concluding that this is what you were really hoping for when you went down on him. As much as he liked your mouth around his cock, this was better by far. He keeps up his harsh pace, one hand slipping between the two of you to find your clit and rub at it with conviction to ease the feeling of his rough thrusts. Your eyes are scrunched shut, head thrown back against the pillows, and your moans are rapidly increasing in volume as he grows rougher and rougher with you. How had he ever given this up? "Good girl, taking me so well, where's that smart mouth now, huh?" he taunts between groans of his own, offering you a particularly deep stroke when you open your mouth to retort in order to shut you up. You whine, but don't bother trying to talk again, the sensations clouding your mind. He was always so good at this, made to fit inside you, made to please you. He felt the same about you, all his, made for his pleasure. "Tell me, princess, that you belong to me," he growls. You resist, keeping your mouth shut for a while, but with each subsequent thrust, each circle against your clit, you find yourself more willing to answer. "Who does this greedy little cunt belong to?" he asks again, his own voice faltering, but you can barely notice over the sound of your own moans and the slap of wet skin against skin.

"You," you whimper after a few more futile moments of resistance. "I belong to you." Riddle's lips crash to yours; the kiss is all tongue and teeth, harsh and uncoordinated, but filled with unbridled passion. A few more frenzied thrusts and you're falling apart, shouting out your pleasure for anybody to hear, unable to care in the throes of passion. Your back arches, your cunt pulsing, milking Riddle for all that he has. He grunts loudly against your lips, holding you down on the bed as his orgasm overtakes him, emptying thick ropes of cum deep inside of you, like it's his birthright to do so. You're hardly complaining, chest heaving with the aftershocks, burying your face into Riddle's neck.

The two of you had slept together before, but it had never been so intense. Both trembling with aftershocks long after the movement had ceased. Riddle lies on top of you, catching his breath, feeling almost dizzy. He knows it's more than the physical act this time, although that had been amazing by itself. He shifts slightly off you, accepting you into his arms as you settle as if to sleep. Despite the heat in the room, you're both pressed as close together as possible, his cock still inside of you, not able to fully soften. His thoughts are elsewhere, however, as he remembers his earlier confession and your lack of response. Hesitating, but looking down to see you resting like a pleased housecat against his chest, he decides to take your actions as affirmation of similar feelings. You want to marry him after all. He would have to rethink his future a little, but he found himself willing to, for you and only you. Leaning over you carefully, he dug around his bag by the bedside until his hand brushed against something radiating dark magic. His hand closed around exactly what he'd been looking for, Marvolo Gaunt's ring. Something told him it would fit you perfectly, and, somehow, it did.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

hey you! want to get tagged in my work when it comes out? click here! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

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Taglist:

@souslarose @isaadarling @princesspeach0-0 @fluorjscent @cb97s-babyygirl @raysmayhem-72 @chicarandom11 @aureliariddlehargreeves @applelvr23 @diejager @thepurplelovewitch @jaggedlegacywerewolf @undertheastronomytower @idiothaz05 @plush-be-nice @lunxrstellx @remuslupinsbiwifey @vigil-mort @deadgirlsrunning @boozehound000 @courier-jackalope @lara1girl @ssnoodles @immortalblazethief @elvislover1967 @tiredddd23 @snkportor @imgonnashartmyself @ellefanningsbaby @monstereater5875

love y'all so much <3 thanks for the support

[colouredbyd]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐀: series masterlist

knight!james potter x princess!reader

synopsis: James Potter, a soldier of the royal guard, is assigned to protect the princess at all costs. His new duty proves far harder than he imagined, for the princess has a habit of doing exactly what she’s not supposed to, and hiding a secret no one must uncover.

tags: princess x bodyguard, forbidden love, royal fantasy world, violence, graphic scenes, slow burn.

current word count: 84.2k

character introduction map playlist moodboard

chapters:

✴︎ beginning of the end

✴︎ a caged bird

✴︎ of magic and secrets

✴︎ flower of fate

✴︎ breaking the cage

✴︎ the parade

✴︎ the last evening

✴︎ there's escape in escaping

✴︎ leap of faith

taglist: open

series inspired by: tangled, eldia by yagamidiary on wattpad (omg she’s so talented, check her work), brave, and game of thrones

[jennieloversclub]

✧HARRY POTTER FIC REC✧

including : Harry,Ron,Fred&George,Oliver,Hermione,Cedric,Ginny,Luna and seamus.

Harry Potter

what was left unsaid @roze-latte-zz

At a glittering gala designed by meddling parents and scheming friends, you’ve sworn to avoid Harry Potter at all costs. But fate — and James Potter’s terrible idea of “Phase Four” — has other plans. When a jammed conservatory door traps the two of you together, old wounds, buried feelings, and sharp words resurface.

Invisible @theprenderelliepalace

You're somebody Harry's never noticed before, between dragons and dark magic and Quidditch, he simply hasn't had the teenage brain power. But, when you move to number 6 Privet Drive during your 6th year summer, Harry has little choice but to notice you...

word count : 1.8k

that hot guy you met on vacation @roze-latte-zz

You tag along with your dads, Barty and Evan, when Regulus takes you to Grimmauld Place, where you unexpectedly meet Sirius and his godson Harry. What starts as awkward tension turns into a day of banter, stolen glances, and quiet curiosity between you and Harry.

Harry potter x rozekiller's daughter

personal fav !

Picnics and presents @hjparisian

harry spends his birthday in the presence of the one he loves the most

harry potter x fem!reader

good catch @theprenderelliepalace

Harry's your best friend in all the world, but he's also the love of your life and the one person you've been trying to avoid more than anything. Except now that everyone has gone home for the holidays, who do you happen to run into but, the boy you can never have?

Harry James Potter x bsf!reader

merry walks and U-turns @mysticalx

Spur-of-the moment decisions involving one's crush are often a recipe for disaster—but every once in a while, they might just lead to something oddly perfect.

harry james potter x fem! reader

word count : 0.5k

Mr mixed signals @wowbyselene

Harry's not the brightest crayon in the pack. In many ways, actually. Love is one of those ways.

word count : 1.1k

personal fav!

4 Times You Kissed Harry Potter by ‘Mistake’ (and the 1 Time You Ment It) @roze-latte-zz

You and Harry Potter were never meant to get along. Everyone knew it — you were rivals in every sense of the word. From Quidditch matches that ended in shouting matches, to class debates that turned into full-blown arguments, you’d built a reputation for being the one person who could get under the Chosen One’s skin.

Personal fav!

time travelling to Harry @lidiasloca

you use a malfunctioning time-turner that takes you to Harry Potter’s fifth year, and you find it very difficult to not fall in love with the Hogwarts’ legend.

bland goodbye @souslarose

you sit in silence, the ache settling deep within you, knowing that this is how it ends: quietly, painfully, and without a fight.

word count : 788

raindrops & reckless hearts @hermioneslovely

The sky above Hogwarts was painted in shades of gray, heavy raindrops splattering against the stone pathways. Most students had rushed inside the moment the storm began, but not Y/N.

And, of course, not Harry.

harry james potter x fem!reader

sleepless @asleepynotebook

your having yet another night with your boyfriend in his dorm where the both of you can’t fall asleep

sanctimonia Vincet semper @wowbyselene

It all crumbled down. Tradition, beliefs, reputation, family. Nothing got spared. It all crumbled down, because of one, fateful moment. The Sorting. Gryffindor. Chaos.

word count : 1.2k

stolen kisses between classes @hermioneslovely

harry james potter x fem!reader

personal fav!

injured @hollowdeath

as hermione's new friend, you and harry are constantly bugging each other any time you're together. however, one day, during training for dumbledore's army, you get injured, causing harry to lash out before promptly carrying you to the infirmary.

word count : 2k

Personal fav!

________

Ron Weasley

the Rolling Stones @holysmokesblog

When the Stones' music becomes the center of a funny interrogation, Ron Weasley has to give it his all.

word count : 1.4k

I think I’ve seen this film before @yasministration

when sirius found out that bellatrix lestrange was having a daughter, he did everything in his power to protect her. he never met her until one day she showed up at his doorstep the same way he had at the potters.

word count : 1.3k

personal fav ! the prophecy @llovelygood

Y/n believes that Ron would never notice her and begins a relationship with Lee Jordan. Ron thinks the best option for Lee and Y/n to break up is to make Y/n jealous. His biggest mistake was picking Lavender out of all the girls to make Y/n jealous.

the chosen one @yasministration

harry may be the chosen one, but he wasn't the one you chose. word count : 1.3k

centre of attention @angelphie

ron weasley was never the center of attention, so it was unusual for him to experience all the love & attention that you gave him

ron weasley x fem!ravenclaw!reader

word count : 0.5k

Dating Ron Weasley headcanons @mlfyhwng

some thoughts about what dating ron is like

what are you , her boyfriend? @yasministration

cormac mclaggen doesn't know how to take no for an answer, so your best friend steps in - as your boyfriend

Ron Weasley and his 5 attempts to ask you out @lumosflairr

Ron keeps trying to ask you out, fails every time—until he finally kisses you in the Gryffindor common room.

Word count : 1.3k

sideway anger @eleonoraalbright

You're trying to finish an essay when Ron comes in and bugs you.

tutoring @heliads

where reader (ravenclaw) happens to be in most of his classes and even while quiet and seemingly not listening always gets good grades so Ron asks them for some tutoring

sewing kit @yasministration

The instant Ron came to you asking for help sewing a rip in his t-shirt, Molly knew you were the woman he was going to marry.

word count : 0.6k

________

Fred and George weasley

FRED admiring from afar @marshallowpuff

When you thought your longtime crush, Fred, had feelings for another girl, but all along the girl was you

Fred Weasley x hufflepuff!reader

Word count : 3k

A trace in you @maeverrrb

Fred W. x Slytherin!Reader

word count : 3.3k

A dose of truth @oc3anlvsu

George and Lee thought it would be funny to slip some truth serum into Fred’s butterbeer how could an innocent joke turn into such chaos

mdni

Rule #1 @maria021015

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?

personal fav!

she said no @binchidavinci

When a guy at the Three Broomsticks won’t take the hint, Fred makes sure to clarify that you’re not available. Of course, this is done with fists.

accident @traumadumpwriter

Fred finds out that the sneaking suspicions he had about you are true.

word count : 1.7k

Yours @fangiechipsz

You're sure Fred only sees you as one of the many other girls he is probably seeing.

word count : 2.8k

Fred and the healer @maria021015

In the aftermath of George losing his ear, the Order sends a healer to the Burrow to monitor his condition. She is brilliant, blunt, and far too easy for Fred Weasley to fall for. But just as he begins to think she might feel the same, she is called away to help someone else and neither of them says what matters most.

Fred Weasley x FemHealerReader

Medically necessary @romanczukowsky

Fred and George Weasley need one final volunteer to help perfect their newest Skiving Snackbox invention.

Unfortunately for you, Fred takes his role as your “personal healer” far too seriously.

Especially when the antidote runs out.

mdni

like him @weezyweasleys-fg

The war ended five years ago. Why do you stare at your son like you'd seen a ghost?

word count : 4.6k

temporary @romanczukowsky

Breakups with Fred Weasley had always been temporary.

A slammed door. A bruised ego. A few days of silence before one of you inevitably came back.

So when you tell Fred you’ve started seeing someone else, he laughs.

Right up until he realizes you’re serious.

Fred Weasley x fem!reader

—

GEORGE

good luck ! @hunnyisland

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.

word count : 5k

Feminine intuition @nekomazy

your long-term crush, george weasley, asks you to the yule ball and suddenly every daydream you’ve ever had is finally a reality.

george weasley x shy! reader

word count : 1.5k

personal fav !

I heard a rumour @ivyhrt

where a split-second lie in a crowded pub convinces half the school that [reader] is dating george weasley, forcing the two into a fake relationship that becomes increasingly difficult to separate from reality.where a split-second lie in a crowded pub convinces half the school that [reader] is dating george weasley, forcing the two into a fake relationship that becomes increasingly difficult to separate from reality.

When did you get hot ? @xsnowmanrkive

After a whole summer away, you see your best friend George and... he's different.

George Weasley x fem!Reader.

Waiting on you @girlfrmforks

GEORGE!WEASLEY X GRYFFINDOR!READER

always second choice @marshallowpuff

You're just trying to help your best friend get the boy she likes, but George Weasley keeps looking at you instead. Turns out the only person who doesn't know she's the one worth looking at is, is looking at her.

George Weasley x hufflepuff!reader

Word count : 3k

seriously, Weasley? @kttyruby

George Weasley completely fails in Transfiguration and is about to never play Quidditch again. Fortunately (or not) for him, McGonagall makes you help him.

word count : 3k

shut up , Weasley @marshallowpuff

You and George Weasley start off as rivals who constantly clash at Hogwarts. Over time, the rivalry slowly turns into something more.

George Weasley x hufflepuff!reader

Word count : 4k

you’re my favorite kind you morning @marshallowpuff

A quiet Sunday morning in the Weasley house turns into gentle chaos filled with laughter, breakfast, and family love. Between your daughter, your pregnancy, and George’s endless teasing, you realise how perfect your life is.

George Weasley x wife!reader

Word count : 2k

________

Oliver wood

the alchemy @irreizponsibl3

Forget the trophy, he runs for you instead.

Oliver Wood x Hufflepuff!reader

warm winters and empty rooms @lncantatem

ever since your first year at Hogwarts you've spent every Christmas break at the castle, and also reluctanctly throwing quaffles at Oliver Wood so he can practice. You don't even like Quidditch, and you don't like each other much either, but it somehow feels like you can't stay away from each other even after spring comes

word count : 16k

the alchemy @dreaming-of-epiphanies

What feels like the entirety of Hogwarts ships you and Oliver Wood. How would they react if they knew you were actually dating? 

you do realize she's a snake ? @moonandink0398

A lion and a snake an odd combination for others to witness, yet it could never have been a better fit for you.

Oliver Wood x fem. Slytherin Reader

oliver's in his feelings, and he can't get out of them! @undresseddreams

oliver's got a massive crush on you, and he doesn't know what to do about it. actually, he doesn't do anything about it!

word count : 0.3k

personal fav !

run your mouth @irreizponsibl3

You love it when he talks, that damn Scottish Accent that ties your stomach to knots.

what a crush is @drowsyhope

The whole Gryffindor team thinks you, one of their friends, is a good luck charm. Why? Cause everytime you come to games, Gryffindor always win. Meanwhile, Oliver Wood is spiraling with thoughts of you.

word count : 1.2k

run to you @lncantatem

after years of being in love with your best friend you look back at the moments together that left their mark on you, and wonder if it's time to let him go.

word count : 17k

thyme after thyme @l-lenny

Professor Sprout’s favorite menace grows plants in her greenhouse, sweet-talks professors for fun, and somehow convinces Oliver Wood to move six heavy pots for one kiss.

for luck @dreaming-of-epiphanies

After you agree to a dare that you’ll kiss your longtime crush Oliver Wood if he’s ever nervous before a game, you don’t expect that day to finally arrive… or that he might want to kiss you too. 

________

Hermione Granger

lion's den @nickeverdeen

While hanging out in the common room with your girlfriend and friend Harry finds out that you don’t only carry books and studied in your school bag, yet Hermione is kidna used to it

Hermione Granger x Hufflepuff fem!reader

sugar and cinnamon kisses@vainful-vanity

A simple trip through Hogsmeade turns into a soft afternoon full of teasing smiles, stolen kisses, and Hermione Granger pretending she’s unaffected by her very affectionate girlfriend.

personal fav !

text with hermione @honeybeekissed

A compilation of text conversations between you and Hermione

smau

yule ball @binchidavinci

When Hermione hears you're without date for the Yule Ball, she plucks up the courage asks you herself. Albeit in her own, Granger way.'

WLW!Hermione x fem!reader

sofia @fleurilyy

Hermione never thought too much into what she felt for you. Yes, it was different than how she felt for Harry and Ron, but you were best friends. Right?

word count : 1.9k

defying fate @tortillamastersblog

Your whole life changes when your parents decide to return to Britain to rejoin the Order of the Phoenix…

jealousy,jelousy! @binchidavinci

‘Hermione is sick of seeing the way you laugh with Ron— she wishes she could make you laugh like that. So, she pulls you aside and tells you the truth.’

WLW!Hermione x reader

A+ @kittyminion

you and hermione are academic rivals

super graphic ultra modern girl @fleurilyy

You never thought your soulmate would be a girl, let alone Hermione Granger. You're complete opposites.

Hermione Granger x Boy Crazy!Fem!Reader

word count : 3.7k

personal fav !

sixth year ; first kiss @binchidavinci

You hadn't suspected that Hermione was into girls, even after years of close friendship; you definitely hadn't suspected that she was into you, specifically

just relax @honeybeekissed

There are very few things that Hermione struggles to learn, and it turns out dancing is one of them. Luckily for her though, you can teach just as well as you can dance!

word count : 1k

good luck babe!@dianedelrey

Hermione was asked out by the one and only Viktor Krum, yet little did she know one of her closest friends was yearning for her.

wlw! Hermione x wlw FEM! Reader

________

Cedric Diggory

looking into you @maeverrrb

Cedric D. x Hufflepuff!Reader

word count : 5.8k

poor timing @cipheress-to-k-pop

How is Cedric meant to ask you out on a date when he keeps getting interrupted by your tornado of siblings?

word count : 14k

personal fav !

always for him @slugg-ish

The second task has come around, Cedric’s life is at its peak. The Triwizard Tournament and you. You take the role of his damsel in distress in the 2nd task, making him more distressed than you.  

Cedric Diggory x Gryffindor Reader

word count : 5.1k

sweetheart!reader x cedric diggory headcanon @pinkvelvetdiary

fem!reader x cedric diggory

________

Ginny Weasley

our secret @nickeverdeen

Ginny never had a problem with it when you asked her to keep your relationship quiet until you’re ready to come out on your own, but unfortunately Hermione has caught you two by an accident.

sunlight and sweat @hexmebaby

word count : 348

dear fred @accioaparecium

Ginny struggles to come to terms with her brother’s death. You help her get the closure she needs.

word count : 1.1k

separated in the night @thewidowsghost

Ginny Weasley x Potter!Reader

a love tested by war @thewidowsghost

Ginny Weasley x Fem!Potter!Reader

word count : ~10k

________

Luna Lovegood

sweet on you @ladyhelona

slytherin reader who’s rough and tough around others, but the complete opposite when it comes to luna

the girl who sees @rottenherbs

When you start noticing Luna Lovegood, the girl everyone else overlooks, you don’t expect her to notice you back. But between quiet walks, late-night stars, and the kind of understanding that feels like magic, you realize seeing her might change everything

word count : 2.1k

love's good @thimbleandakiss

Luna Lovegood reassures you when you have anxiety about being the only Slytherin member of Dumbledore's Army

Luna Lovegood x Any!Slytherin!Reader

secrets in the sunlight @xluvablz

amid hogwarts' courtyards, you and luna share heartfelt confessions, leading to the discovery of mutual love sealed with a tender kiss.

luna lovegood x f!ravenclaw!reader.

word count : 1.2k

personal fav !

________

Seamus Finnigan

new and improved seat @ravenclaws-stuff

oh what a curse it is a lover girl ! @s4turns-st4rs

seamus finnigan headcannons

personal fav !

bad blood @nickeverdeen

Seamus Finnigan x female!Slytherin!reader

safe in his arms @yasministration

tipsy @yasministration

the reader gets tipsy after winning the quidditch cup.

flower @ravenclaws-stuff

Seamus Finnigan x Potter!reader

________

[cherryslyce]

Second Son Navigation | A Regulus Black Series

Synopsis: Forbidden from contacting Harry over the summer, you opt to explore the eerie halls of Grimmauld Place where you stumble upon a lonely portrait of the House's second son.

Warnings: Story is not canon compliant. Includes time jumps. Magic lore is altered/not compliant with canon HP series.

Status: Completed (03.14.23 - 04.24.23)

Main Masterlist

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX (Epilogue)

[jaylalolz]

⌗ ┆𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹𝑬 𝑴𝒀 𝑯𝑶𝑴𝑬 .ᐟ . . . garrett graham

all i know since yesterday

Is everything has changed

ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ PAIRING. garrett graham x childhood bsf! reader

SYNOPSIS. garrett finally confesses he’s been in love with his childhood bestfriend for years.

⤷ ˎˊ˗ authors note. childhood bestfriends are one of my fav tropes. i hope you guys enjoy!

Garrett Graham had spent most of his life loving her quietly.

Not in the dramatic, instant way people talked about in movies. It was slower than that. Softer. Built over years of bike rides at sunset, scraped knees, shared secrets, and knowing each other so completely that sometimes words weren’t even necessary anymore.

She had been seven years old the first time they met, standing on his porch with tangled curls from the humidity and glitter sneakers lighting up every time she moved.

“You live here?” she’d asked, clutching a soccer ball against her hip while squinting up at him suspiciously.

“Obviously,” Garrett had replied, rolling his eyes even though his mouth twitched like he was already trying not to laugh.

She narrowed her eyes before kicking the soccer ball directly at his chest.

Garrett stumbled backward with a loud grunt, staring at her in disbelief while she burst into laughter right there on his porch.

And somehow, that was it.

From then on, they belonged in each other’s lives.

By thirteen, she was stealing his hoodies without asking.

By Sixteen, Garrett was driving her home after every choir rehearsal because he “didn’t trust other drivers,” even though he barely trusted himself behind the wheel.

By seventeen, everyone assumed they were dating. But they never were.

They existed in this strange, fragile in-between.

Too close to be ordinary friends.

Too scared to become something more.

Because what if they ruined it?

What if one kiss destroyed the only constant thing either of them had ever known?

So Garrett stayed quiet.

Even when she looked breathtaking at prom.

Even when she fell asleep on his shoulder during late-night movie marathons. He stayed quiet because losing her would destroy him.

And she stayed quiet too.

College only made everything worse. Or maybe better. Garrett couldn’t tell anymore.

Because now she goes to the same college as him, which meant she was everywhere. In his dorm. At hockey games. In the library stealing bites of his food while pretending she didn’t want her own.

And Garrett noticed everything.

He noticed how her laugh changed depending on who she was with.

How she tucked her hands into the sleeves of his hoodies when she was tired.

How she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention.

It drove him insane.

One night, she sat on Garrett’s dorm floor surrounded by textbooks while rain hammered against the windows outside. The room smelled faintly like coffee and laundry detergent, and Garrett kept catching himself staring at her instead of studying.

“You’ve read the same sentence four times,” she said softly, not looking up from her notebook while she twirled a pen between her fingers.

Garrett blinked. “What?”

“That paragraph.” She pointed lazily toward his laptop before finally glancing up at him. “You’re not even pretending to focus anymore.”

He leaned back in his chair slowly, eyes fixed on her face. “Maybe you’re distracting.”

A smile tugged at her lips instantly, but she ducked her head like she was trying to hide it.

“That’s not my fault.”

Garrett watched her for another second too long.

And she felt it.

He knew she did because her movements slowed slightly, and suddenly the air in the room felt heavier.

More aware. Neither of them said anything after that.

But Garrett barely slept that night.

The breaking point came at a hockey party a month later.

The house was packed wall-to-wall with people, music blasting so loudly the floor vibrated beneath their shoes. Garrett was halfway through a conversation with Dean when he spotted her across the room.

And immediately forgot everything Dean was saying.

She stood near the kitchen counter talking to some guy Garrett had never seen before. Tall. Dark hair. One hand braced against the wall behind her while he leaned in too close.

Garrett’s jaw clenched instantly.

“She’s literally just talking,” Dean muttered beside him after following Garrett’s line of sight.

Garrett grabbed his drink harder. “I know.”

Dean snorted. “You look like you’re about to commit a felony.”

Garrett ignored him because she laughed softly at something the guy said.

Not a real laugh.

Garrett knew the difference.

This one was polite.

And then she started twisting the rings on her fingers.

Nervous habit. Garrett was moving before he even realized it.

He crossed the room quickly, weaving through people until he reached her side.

“There you are,” Garrett said, his voice low and tight while his hand instinctively brushed against the small of her back.

She looked up immediately, surprise flashing across her face. “Garrett?”

“We’re leaving.”

The guy frowned. “Uh, we were talking.”

Garrett finally looked at him, expression unreadable. “Not anymore.”

Her eyes widened slightly. She knew that tone.

It was the one Garrett used during hockey games right before fights.

“Garrett,” she said carefully, grabbing his wrist before things escalated. “Can we go outside?”

He nodded once.

Too angry to trust himself speaking.

Cold air hit them the second they stepped outside.

She crossed her arms over herself immediately. “What was that about?”

Garrett shoved his hands into his pockets roughly, pacing once across the porch before turning back toward her. “That guy was flirting with you.”

“And?”

“And I didn’t like it,” he admitted, frustration bleeding into his voice while he ran a hand through his hair.

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “You didn’t like it?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Garrett opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

Because suddenly every excuse sounded pathetic.

She stared at him quietly, her breath visible in the cold air while snowflakes settled into her hair.

Then she spoke again, softer this time.

“Garrett…” She stepped closer slowly, searching his face. “What’s really going on with you lately?”

His chest tightened painfully at the question.

Because he knew exactly what was going on.

He was in love with her.

Had been for years.

And he was exhausted from pretending otherwise.

“You really wanna know?” Garrett asked quietly, his voice rougher now while his eyes locked onto hers.

“Yes,” she whispered immediately.

Garrett looked away for a second, jaw flexing like he was physically fighting himself.

Then he laughed softly under his breath, but there was no humor in it.

“I think I’ve loved you for so long that I don’t even remember what it feels like not to.”

The words hung between them.

Her breath caught instantly.

Garrett looked back at her slowly, vulnerability written all over his face now.

“I tried so hard not to,” he admitted, shaking his head slightly while emotion thickened his voice. “Because you’re my best friend. You’re… you’re the most important person in my life.”

She stared at him silently, eyes already beginning to shine.

“And I kept thinking maybe it’d go away,” Garrett continued, his voice quieter now. “Like maybe one day I’d wake up and you’d just be my friend again.”

“But then you’d smile at me…” He swallowed hard before meeting her eyes again. “Or you’d fall asleep on my shoulder, or call me when something good happened because I’m the first person you wanted to tell, and suddenly I was fourteen again feeling sick over you in math class.”

A tear slipped down her cheek.

Garrett noticed immediately.

His expression softened.

“I remember every version of you,” he whispered. “I remember your braces phase when you cried because you thought you looked ugly, and I wanted to punch every kid who made you feel that way.” He smiled faintly through the emotion. “I remember teaching you how to drive even though you almost crashed my car into a mailbox.”

She laughed shakily through tears, covering her mouth.

“And every single important moment in my life…” Garrett’s voice cracked slightly. “You were there. Every one.”

The silence afterward felt enormous.

Garrett looked at her like she held his entire heart in her hands.

“I think somewhere along the way,” he said quietly, “you stopped feeling like just part of my life.” His eyes glistened now too. “You became the person I wanted every part of my life with.”

Her face crumpled completely after that.

“Oh my God,” she whispered tearfully.

Garrett’s breathing turned uneven immediately. “I’m sorry. I know this is a lot, I just—I couldn’t keep pretending—”

“No.” She grabbed his jacket quickly, shaking her head while tears streamed down her cheeks. “No, Garrett, don’t apologize.”

He froze.

Because she was smiling through the tears.

“I’ve loved you too,” she admitted shakily, her voice trembling while she looked up at him like she couldn’t believe she was finally saying it. “For years.”

Garrett stared at her like the world had stopped spinning.

“What?”

“I tried not to,” she laughed weakly through tears. “God, I tried so hard because I didn’t wanna ruin us either.”

His eyes shut briefly like he physically felt the words.

“You’re my home,” she whispered. “You always have been.”

Garrett looked wrecked after that.

Completely wrecked.

She reached up slowly, touching his face carefully like she was afraid he’d disappear.

“I think I fell in love with you little by little,” she admitted softly. “And then all at once.”

Garrett let out the smallest broken laugh before pulling her against him instantly.

She wrapped her arms around his neck while he held her like he’d waited his entire life to finally do it.

And maybe he had.

When he kissed her, it wasn’t rushed.

It was emotional.

Deep.

Years worth of longing poured into one moment.

His hand trembled slightly against her cheek while she melted into him completely, and Garrett swore he had never felt anything more right in his entire life.

When they finally pulled apart, both breathing hard, Garrett rested his forehead against hers while snow fell around them quietly.

“You know what kills me?” he murmured softly, thumb brushing beneath her eye to wipe away a tear.

“What?” she whispered.

“We could’ve had this years ago.”

She smiled through watery eyes, fingers intertwining with his.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “But maybe we needed all those years to realize this wasn’t just a crush.”

Garrett looked at her for a long moment before smiling in that soft, genuine way only she ever got to see.

[megwritesriddles]

Way to Your Heart ༊*·˚

18+ MDNI !!!

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Fem! Reader / You

Summary: Riddle has had his sights set on Reader as his perfect high society wife for well over a year, but you are proving rather difficult to woo. He finds himself in your room one evening, not sure what drew him in, yet you seem to know exactly why he's there.

Tags: Oral (f receiving), Sub! Tom Riddle, Light dom/sub, Kneeling, Praise, Courting, Riddle is smitten, Probably a bit out of character, Pureblood culture, Mild fluff, Reader has she/her pronouns.

Word count: 3.3k

all fandom masterlist | hp masterlist | read it on ao3

Authors note: This is basically just Riddle being a secret munch and Reader not bothering to beat around the bush cos she's a baddie. It's been a while and I can't really promise anything but pls know I am always thinking about fanfic ideas. This wasn't really proofread... Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Tom Riddle had done the impossible, if he did say so himself. Born loveless, raised in an orphanage, he had clawed his way up the social ranks at Hogwarts to where he was today. It had taken precise layers of charm and deceit, convincing those around him that he was worthy of more than the cards he had been dealt. It hadn’t hurt that the one blessing his parentage had offered him was his looks, which made convincing certain people of his worth much simpler, but ultimately, he would be nowhere without his perseverance. He had done it, built himself from nothing, and nobody could take that from him. Here he was now, almost at the very top of the social hierarchy at Hogwarts, elected Head Boy, coveted by every witch at the school. There was only one step left between him and the legitimacy he craved: a wealthy pureblood wife. If he were to access the jobs he was after, the power he desired, he needed proximity to a good family. Most of his peers were simply born with this privilege, and while he had been invited to many high society balls over the years, he knew he had no family who would vouch for him when it came to getting a good job. At the moment, he was an impressive oddity to be admired. How strange, this handsome, intelligent man with a name we do not recognise, hasn’t he done well for himself? But the novelty would fade once his pureblood peers were getting their undeserved positions in the ministry, and Riddle was left behind to take the apprentice route like everybody else. 

You were the ideal candidate to be his wife. In fact, Riddle has had his sights set on you for quite a while now. Your family was perhaps the wealthiest and best-regarded of all the pureblood families. Your father wasn’t the Minister of Magic, but the power he held in his position meant he may as well have been. If the wizarding world had royalty, it would be your family. That was exactly the kind of connection he needed to get where he was going. You and Riddle were to be wed; the only problem being that you were difficult. Very difficult. It was a large part of why he’d set his sights on you in particular. Despite your wealth, status and beauty, your dismissive and abrasive attitude to male suitors meant that not many men had dared to seek your hand. Less competition, Riddle had thought perhaps a little naively. He didn’t mind a challenge: he could charm almost anyone. Almost.

His attempts to woo you had begun last year, starting simple with approaching you in the hall and telling you that you looked lovely. Without fail, you would brush him off, your face set in a seemingly permanent scowl. Riddle persisted. He left gifts at your desk, fancy chocolates, ribbons for your hair, luxurious hand creams in scents that reminded him of your perfume. Each gift was accepted, but you never looked that enthusiastic, offering the chocolates around to your friends, using the ribbons to tie your textbooks rather than your hair. However, the fact that you hadn’t thrown them back in his face was a win in Riddle’s book, as he had witnessed you do a few years ago when being pursued by an older student. He continued his efforts, approaching you in the library in the hopes of speaking with you at least once a week. His charm was always fully switched on, a handsome smile on his face, his voice soft and full of compliments. Still, you were unfazed. If he was lucky, the two of you would exchange a few sentences before you told him you wished to be alone; most days, he would get nothing from you at all. Your lack of other suitors kept him going, because at least he knew your aloof attitude wasn’t related to being promised to somebody else.

After over a year of this behaviour, you had begrudgingly grown used to it. On days he was sick or busy with Head Boy duties, it would be odd not to receive a little gift or be showered with compliments before class. You didn’t miss it as such; it was merely the change in your routine that bothered you. You were always a little more friendly with him the next day, without strictly meaning to be. Riddle basked in his success each time, the fact that you would actually speak with him a little. You were intelligent, funny, perfect. Each little bit that you let him in only strengthened his resolve to marry you. The two of you would be the perfect couple; everybody would admire you both, be sick with envy. You would give him that last step up he needed toward the future he deserved. The thought was what kept him going on days you were particularly challenging. 

Although Riddle was not much of a partier himself, he knew appearances were of the essence in building up his image and maintaining the position he had worked so hard for. So despite having no interest in such mindless frivolities, he had dragged himself to the party in the Slytherin common room this evening and made his rounds, making sure people took note of his presence. He had hoped he would catch a chance to speak with you at this party, but as he approached your group of friends, he immediately noticed a distinct lack of you. As casually as he could, he inquired about your whereabouts, secretly a little sick at the thought that you might have found a quiet corner with some boy. 

“She’s in her dorm, said this party was a trivial affair and that she wanted to enjoy her time alone,” your friend Agnes quotes you, rolling her eyes. Riddle couldn’t help but smile. It sounded like you. It sounded like him. He wasn’t sure why you couldn’t seem to see that the two of you were a good match. After a little more polite conversation, he deems it acceptable for him to excuse himself. Making his way up the stairs toward the toilets for a moment alone, he hesitates at the landing, his eyes drawn down the corridor toward the seventh-year girls' dorms. Toward where you were. He could see some light peeking out from under one of the doors, presumably yours. After checking he was alone on the staircase, his legs carried him down the corridor toward you. He knew it was improper, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He reaches the door, seeing your nameplate, which confirmed you were inside. He could hear soft, melodic humming from inside, your voice. He had never heard you so carefree and takes a moment just to listen. The tune is vaguely familiar, but he can’t quite place it. With a deep breath, he places his hand on the doorknob and lets himself inside.

You were sitting at your vanity, curling your hair and humming to yourself, enjoying being alone. With your dormmates away, you had been taking some time to indulge in yourself, experimenting with a new hairstyle without anybody telling you to hurry up so they could use the vanity and allowing your mind to wander to things you couldn’t think about with others around, fantasising. You caught sight of Riddle in the doorway through your vanity mirror, your eyes meeting for a moment before you turned in your seat to face him. 

“Oh, you,” you look him up and down, unimpressed. Riddle gives his best charming smile, which almost makes you roll your eyes. 

“Just came to check on you, shouldn’t you be socialising with your housemates?” He steps inside, shutting your door behind him, shutting you in together.

“I tried to avoid it, but you give me no choice, as usual,” you huff, turning back toward the mirror and examining your freshly curled hair. Riddle takes a few slow, measured steps until he stands behind your chair, watching you admire yourself in the mirror. He spots a facial moisturiser that he had gifted you a few weeks ago, open on your vanity, clearly used. It makes him smile. “Well, since you’re here,” you begin, meeting his eye in the mirror once more, arranging your hair. “What do you think of the curls?”

“Beautiful,” he answers simply, reaching out to gently trace a finger along a strand of your hair, twisting it around his finger and letting it go. He’s surprised that you don’t object, but you seem preoccupied with scrutinising your hair.

“Well, do you think a tighter or looser curl would be better?" you urge. He chuckles because he hardly knows a thing about this, lucky that his hair waves attractively on its own.

“I am sure any type of curl would suit you,” he murmurs, leaning his forearms on the back of your chair, his head now close to yours. You roll your eyes.

“You’re useless, you would say I looked beautiful no matter what I did,”

“It’s not my fault that you’re so gorgeous,” he hums, catching your glare through the mirror, laced with a blatant affection he isn’t used to seeing from you. You seem much more relaxed than usual. Considering he’d barged in here without warning, it’s a little odd. “You don’t seem that bothered about me being in your room,” he comments, his eyes straying toward what you’re wearing. A simple white nightdress and a silky robe wrapped around you. The fact that you aren’t trying to cover up is also strange, but he isn’t complaining. 

“I figured you were here to offer to eat me out or something,” you shrug. Riddle freezes, pulling back a bit so he can look at your face rather than simply your reflection. He’s sure he hasn’t heard you correctly, or if he has, that he does not understand the implication correctly.

“Eat… you?” he asks slowly, studying your expression. 

“You know, go down on me,” you clarify. If Riddle wasn’t so baffled by your words, he would have been embarrassed by the flush of pink that dusts his ears and cheeks. He has never heard you talk this way.

“I… what?” he blinks, trying to come up with what else you might possibly be referring to. You can’t possibly be casually suggesting he came here to… His eyes dart up as you stand from your chair, turning toward him. He hesitates, looking up at you for a moment before straightening up.

“I know what you want from me, and you’re running out of time, I mean, we graduate in two months… I figured perhaps you were here to resort to drastic measures to earn my affections,” you explain, watching in amusement as the composed, brilliant Tom Riddle practically stutters before you. He swallows, trying his best to get back in control of himself.

“Would it work?” he asks quietly, watching as you twirl your hair. He’d never expected you to be so direct, but he cannot deny the hardening of his cock, he likes it. You shrug with a smirk, unsure why you’re being so brazen. It was his fault for walking in on your fantasising time. You were already a little aroused when he walked in; you could hardly even admit to yourself that he’d been on your mind even before he entered. He takes a moment to consider the risks of what he’s about to do. If you’re simply messing with him, this could completely squander his chances with you. Yet the glint in your eye as you look him up and down is new. And strong. Whatever has gotten into you is something he hopes never leaves. “Then yes, you caught me,” he swallows, slowly moving to kneel before you. “I came here in the hopes of kissing your cunt,” 

“Riddle!” you giggle at his lewd language, shocked and excited, a jolt of arousal going through your body. He smiles up at you, almost sheepishly, moving your vanity chair out of the way so that you can lean back against the vanity and he can move in between your legs. His whole body trembles as he leans in and presses his lips to your skin just below the hem of your nightdress, leaning his forehead to your thigh and closing his eyes. This was not where he had been expecting this evening to go: he took several deep breaths to calm himself down. His hands slowly slide up the outside of your thighs, lifting the hem of your nightdress. His lips followed suit, tracing their way up the plush skin of your thighs with little kisses. Your eyes met as he looked up at you, making sure that you weren’t about to kick him off of you. You merely watch him like you are curious, like you could not believe he was doing this, he could hardly believe it himself. The fact that you were allowing him to do this was a great shock to him, but if this was what would finally win you over, he would do it for hours, until his jaw locked. He bunched your nightdress around your waist, taking a moment to admire your underwear, pink and satiny. Seeing the wet spot already there, he could not resist, leaning forward and pressing his nose to you, taking a deep, blissful breath. Vaguely, he registers you giggling in surprise once more, but all he can focus on is the smell of you, the drool pooling under his tongue at the idea of tasting you. He cannot compare your scent to anything he has smelled before, and yet somehow his body already knows you are delicious. First, he presses a light kiss to you through the fabric, then another, then another. His tongue presses against your core through the thin fabric, and you moan in shock, his tongue running back and forth over the fabric until it is wet and he can properly feel you through it. The wet fabric slides against you as he attempts to get as close as possible to you, forcing your legs to spread further to accommodate him. The hints of your taste he gets through the fabric drive him wild; he wants more. Pulling back just a little, he opens his eyes to look up at you, grabbing at your underwear.

“May I take these off?” he breathes. He feels like a dog at its master's feet, begging, but he finds that when you look down at him like that, cheeks flushed and pupils blown, he really doesn’t mind. With a nod, he is working the fabric down your legs with abandon, slowing down to manoeuvre the fabric over your feet, placing gentle kisses just above your white cotton socks as he frees you of the garment and tosses it away into the room. As he wedges his way back between your legs to return to his work, he sees you, bare and dripping with the nectar of the gods. He shivers, taking a moment to kiss your thighs and just above the patch of hair protecting you so he could properly fill his lungs. He feels your eyes on him, and he relishes in it. After one last deep breath, he dives in. His hands grip your hips as his tongue slides through your wet folds, taking in every drop of you that you can spare. You’re both moaning, his vibrations feeling excruciatingly good as his tongue finds its way to circling your clit. One of your legs drapes over his shoulder to give him better access to you, pushing himself as close as he possibly can get in order to lap at you properly. His tongue flicks over your clit more often as he swirls his tongue, testing your reactions, listening for your noises and paying attention to the twitches of your body. Your mind is swimming with pleasure, hand threading into Riddle’s hair, which he only takes as a sign to pick up his pace, his whole mouth working to bring you over the edge. He mumbles something against your clit, something about your taste that you cannot make out, but his sheer enthusiasm tells you it must be something good. You feel the cool glass of the vanity mirror against your back. Riddle’s hands gripping your rear are the only thing protecting you from the edge of the table. Your body thrashes as his lips close around your clit, suckling and flicking his tongue just right. 

“Riddle– ah! Tom–” You whine and whimper, your grip on his hair growing tighter, nails digging into his scalp, not that he seems to mind. Your cry of his name spurs him on; he’s determined to prove himself, continuing to alternate between sucks and licks. He feels your whole body tensing up, knowing you’re nearly there, he makes sure to keep doing exactly what he’s doing, burying his face against you. Your body goes stiff as you explode, a prolonged whine leaving your lips, hips thrashing against Riddle’s face. You struggle for breath, your vision going white behind your eyelids, and warmth spreads through your entire body. Still, Riddle keeps going, working you through the waves of pleasure as they crash over you and basking in the taste of your release melting on his tongue. You twitch weakly as Riddle soothes his tongue over your pulsing core until you have finally ridden out your full climax. He sits back and looks up at you, licking his lips and letting go of your nightdress. It falls back down past your hips, though now it is all wrinkled. You stare at each other, both panting with exertion.

The reality of what has just transpired begins to set in. Neither of you is sure what to say or do now. Riddle remains knelt at your feet, ignoring his raging arousal, waiting for you to say something. The silence stretches on so long that he almost hopes you tell him to leave and never come back, so at least he might have some clarity. He swallows, still waiting. Never in his life has he felt so unsure, so out of control. How had he ended up here? And if this was possible, why had he not been devouring you every night for the past year? He stares up at you, cogs turning in his mind. 

“You can stand,” you finally say, voice a little hoarse. 

“Oh, right,” he clears his throat and stands. It’s almost a little strange to look down at you again. He quite enjoyed looking up at you. From his standing position, his lingering arousal is much more obvious. You chuckle, smiling at him. “It’s a pretty natural reaction to doing something like that,” he defends himself quietly. You nod. Another silence stretches between you. “So… have I won your affections yet?” he asks as casually as he can muster. You think on his words and realise, yes, he has. In fact, he had quite a while ago, you had just enjoyed his chasing you.

“Yes,” you smile. He raises a brow, thinking for a moment that you’re messing with him until you step forward and embrace him. Although it’s a little unnatural and stilted, especially as he has to angle his hips away from you, he embraces you in return. He isn’t used to affection, or the idea that his pursuit of you might have finally paid off. 

“I sort of thought I would have to chase you forever,” he chuckled against your hair, which had lost a lot of its curliness from the exertion. You chuckle in return.

“Oh, yes, you do, don’t get complacent on me now, Riddle,” you tease. “I still expect presents and compliments and… your oral talents that you so generously demonstrated this evening,”

“I would not dream of getting complacent, you minx,” he purrs. “I will happily show you my talents each and every day. And anyway, I thought you were calling me Tom now,” he pulls back to look down at you. You roll your eyes, blushing a little. Yes, that had slipped out, hadn’t it?

“I will hold you to that… Tom,”

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[megwritesriddles]

Spoiled Rotten ༊*·˚

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Fem! Reader / You

Summary: Something super sweet and indulgent about being pampered and treated like a princess by Riddle (who can't quite admit he's in love but completely is) for Valentine's.

Tags: Fluff, Princess treatment, Gift giving, Acts of service, Pampering, Riddle can't admit he's in love, Referenced sex throughout, Brief implied murder (he's still evil), Slightly complicated established relationship, Set after graduation, He's trying so hard not to seem in love.

Word count: 1.5k

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Authors note: This isn't set on Valentine's but it's fluffy romantic stuff for Valentine's, you get me? Riddle may be a smidge OOC in this bc I made him not be super toxic but I tried to make it realistic in a universe where he could actually fall in love with someone fr! Hope you like it mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

Happy Valentine's day lovelies <3

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Tom Riddle was absolutely besotted with you. It was a depth of feeling no one had thought him capable of. He, himself, had always believed a feeling like this was not destined for him. Even in childhood, he had been sure he would never be weak enough for such frivolous emotions, that he would never notice the fairer sex the way some of his older peers did. But on that Hogsmeade trip in third year, with you in that lovely dress, he had noticed you. Not only noticed you, but felt you deep in his chest, where he’d never felt anything, as you had playfully reminded him that you’d bested him in the recent charms exam. He had wanted to find you annoying, but all he could do was feel almost dizzy. Nothing had been the same since.

These feelings were something you had never been privy to. You had long thought you meant fairly little to him. Sure, the two of you had slept together a few times throughout sixth and seventh year, but it had never been obvious to you how serious it was. You assumed he had been sleeping with other girls at the same time, or at the very least that you were only a means to an end to him. A stress relief to allow him to focus on his studies more completely, a little fun between his endless Head Boy patrols. He had never said he loved you, never taken you on a date, you’d be forgiven for not knowing what he’d been feeling all along. 

After graduation, he felt your absence like a black hole. He had managed to keep his dalliances with you at Hogwarts to a minimum, in an attempt to prevent exactly this. The endless ache for your presence. He had only managed this by constantly staring at you, fantasising, reminiscing. But now you weren’t there and he was beginning to forget the details of your face, the routine of your sex. Yet he had a reputation to upkeep, a strength and lack of indulgence he was known for. He was disciplined, above the needs of the heart or the flesh. The moment he came up with an excuse to send for you, he did.

Him and his Knights had now moved into a large manor, taken over by disposing of the old muggle man who used to call the place home. Riddle had never grown up in decadence. The large master suite he had to himself, the house elves at his disposal, it was all odd. Intoxicating.  In the spirit of ruthlessly taking whatever he wanted, he had sent for you. As far as his Knights knew, he merely wanted you there to be at his ‘disposal’, a plaything. They seemed amused by the idea, thinking how in his position they would do the same. He resented some of their comments, but played along, unwilling to reveal the excitement gathering in his chest at the thought of seeing you once more.

Although the invite was a little odd, you packed up your things and moved into the manor. Riddle set you up in the room beside his, having an adjoining door quickly installed for ease of access. He seemed very pleased to have you there, but tried his best to seem aloof. Each evening after he finished his various strategising tasks, hearing the progress his Knights had made in recruitment, he would rush to his room to have you. Often you would let yourself into his room, laying on his bed in a little negligee set he had gotten for you to wait for him. He wasn’t able to hide the adoration in his eyes when he would find you there. 

Now with access to the means, Riddle took pleasure in offering you the finer things in life. Pretty things like clothes or jewellery. Perhaps perfume, books or whatever else you fancied. Whenever you commented that you wanted something, he would roll his eyes, saying you were greedy, spoiled, that you ought to be grateful for what you had. Yet the next day, you would find a box wrapped in a ribbon at the end of your bed without fail. The label would always read ‘for the princess, TMR’. You knew he was trying to sound mocking, but it never landed when he gave in to your every whim. You always thanked him of course (mostly with your mouth), very grateful to be kept in the manner you were. 

At first, you had assumed you would be kept like a glorified house pet. This was alright with you, you likely wouldn’t be any better off in an arranged marriage, which would be expected of you otherwise. Yet life with Riddle was far freer than you expected. He gave you free run of the manor, authority over the house elves and even some of his Knights. Anyone who dared insult you was made an example of swiftly, so you were begrudgingly respected wherever you went. You had access to his library, to all his notes on his plans, access which was granted to no one else. He encouraged you to read and pursue your interests, saying it was much more interesting to converse with you each evening when you actually had something of substance to tell him, but really he just admired your drive. It was what he had always liked, what had drawn him in, that thirst for knowledge. Many times he’d even consulted you on his next best course of action, sometimes blatantly ignoring his other followers in favour of trying whatever you suggested. Most importantly, you were free to leave. He had presented you with a bag of galleons and the keys to the main gate on the day of your arrival, telling you to hide them somewhere only you knew. They were for if you ever needed to leave, he explained. At first, this gesture had confused you, but you soon realised that by offering you simple means to leave, it was more meaningful each time he woke up to you still beside him. Especially when he’d been a little difficult the previous night, which he could quite often be. You were making the choice to be there with him, which is what he wanted more than he could possibly admit to anyone. 

Though it was impossible to hide his obvious affection for you, he still tried. He told his followers that he was merely indulging in you, and that you had some good ideas from time to time. Everyone in the manor knew he was soft on you, but didn’t dare to say anything, as he was not soft on anything else. His affections were an open secret.

Even alone with you, Riddle was still trying to cling to a pointless air of indifference. After sleeping together, he would usually roll over and begin to read, pretending to ignore you. You knew the truth. In his en suite was a warm bath emitting your favourite scents, a few candles nearby ever since you’d mentioned you liked the ambience. Perched nearby was a platter of your favourite fruits, the pieces cut into fancy shapes by the house elves, mostly hearts. Riddle would say this was unintentional, that he would tell the elves to stop doing the hearts, but they were always there. Once you had soaked in the bath for a little while, Riddle would enter, pretending to be merely there to wash his hands. It was a silly pretense, you weren’t sure why he still bothered with it. It was oddly endearing, this little routine he put on. He would sit by you while you bathed, having some fruit and feeding you a few pieces too. You’d learned fast not to mention it. Wrapped in your plush monogrammed robe that always hung in his en suite, you would come out to find a pyjama set laid out for you. Usually something silky and attractive, a little nightgown or a short set, whatever he was in the mood to see you in that day. Changing into them often led to a little show, which he appreciated, watching you with blatant tenderness. 

Finally, you would crawl into his bed beside him and he would ‘begrudgingly’ allow it, making a show of grumbling and rolling his eyes, mentioning that you had your own room. Yet in moments, his arms would be around you, rubbing your back or stroking your hair as you discuss your days, him taking note of anything you mention wanting, even in passing. It was addicting to him to be able to offer you whatever you wanted, considering the way he had grown up, and in many ways he was perhaps overcompensating, but you hardly minded. If you were peckish, he would send for the finest foods for you, steak, caviar, whatever you craved. He watched keenly as you enjoyed your meal, allowing you to feed him a few bites if he was in a good mood. He would kiss drops of sauce off of your lips, tutting at you for being a messy eater, yet having a hint of a smile. Despite never hearing the words, you would feel in that moment the depth of feeling you had missed for all those years. And you loved him too.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

hey you! want to get tagged in my work when it comes out? click here! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

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Taglist:

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love y'all so much <3 thanks for the support

[megwritesriddles]

If You Were Human (If You Were Who I Assumed You Were) ༊*·˚

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Fem! Reader / You

Summary: The NEWT-examinations are finally over and a party rages for the seventh years, as is tradition. Reader ends up an unwilling participant in a seven minutes in heaven style party game, paired with Head Boy Tom Riddle, of all people. She assumes that he too is an unwilling participant in all of this. She assumes wrong.

Tags: Seven minutes in heaven, First kiss, Graduation party, Manipulative/Obsessive Tom Riddle, Implied throughout that Riddle is planning something sinister, Unanswered questions, Ambiguous/Open ending, Alcohol mentions, Reader is explicitly referred to as a girl, Too much backstory, Dialogue HEAVY.

Word count: 3.2k

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Authors note: I can't believe it's not smut! is this my first proper tumblr fic without smut? I don't remember. This was originally supposed to just be a fun seven minutes fic but Riddle became a little sinister (because he is), it's up to you to interpret what exactly he's planning (i have my own theories heh) Hope you like it mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

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It was customary, for obvious reasons, for a huge celebration to be thrown the day after N.E.W.T. examinations concluded. The location of this celebration would differ from year to year, depending on who was designated as the party planner. Generally, though, a common room would be taken over for the night, and everybody in the year group was expected to attend, at least for a little bit. It had become an unofficial tradition, to the point where even the strictest professors would turn a blind eye to these parties over time, allowing them to proceed as long as nothing too illegal occurred. 

Now it was your turn. Your N.E.W.T. examinations had been a gruelling ordeal, but with them behind you and nothing to be done but wait for your results, you could finally relax somewhat for the first time in months. After the party, that was. This year, it was the Slytherin common room that had been swallowed up by the mass of banners, decorations and drinks that would never otherwise be allowed on Hogwarts grounds. The atmosphere was overwhelming and yet invigorating all at once, full of anxious yet hopeful young adults looking to celebrate with their friends at Hogwarts one last time. You very slowly sip at the concoction in your hands, which you were sure was bordering on toxic at this point, standing in one corner of the common room. You get the odd feeling of being watched.

“How can they even allow this stuff?” your friend, Jeanine, questions indignantly, spitting back out the sip she’d taken of her own drink. “This is foul! And coming from me, that’s quite an indictment,” You just shrug and chuckle.

“I guess the professors can remember what it’s like to be young somewhere in the back of their heads,” you set down your drink on a nearby table, having been put off by Jeanine’s display. “Besides, by about midday tomorrow, we are no longer their responsibility, and never will be again.” 

“I suppose,” Jeanine concedes. “But still, if someone is too hungover to get on the train, is that not still sort of their problem? Don’t the professors live here all year?” She tilts her head, eyes scanning the room, you’re not sure what for. 

“Not all of them,” what Jeanine had been searching for becomes quickly apparent as her boyfriend and a few of his friends crowd over, buzzing loudly. Really, you should have guessed. Jeanine and Declan exchange a quick kiss before one of his friends interrupts, his voice far too loud.

“We’re gathering as many people as possible for a game, you girls in?” the friend grins overzealously. You don’t even remember his name after all these years. Before you can even consider it, Jeanine volunteers the two of you.

“Don’t make me play alone,” she pouts as she notices the obvious distaste in your expression. 

“You have Declan,” you counter, but you’re already following her toward the centre of the common room. You know there is no point in saying no, at the end-of-year party, everybody is expected to take part, regardless of how they usually went about life. You’d heard many a story of people discovering the wild sides of their quiet classmates, or conversely, the sensitive sides of the class clowns at these parties. It was such a shame to finally know someone and then never see them again. 

“Sure, but I will see him plenty after tomorrow, I don’t know when I’ll next see you,” she smiles, nudging you. The circle of students in the centre of the room is still growing as you, Jeanine, Declan, and his friends join it. The air is humming with excited chatter and thick with the scent of alcohol. You’d never seen your whole year group gathered like this in one place before, all houses, all friendship groups. There were actually quite a lot of you, all things considered. Catching the eye of another friend of yours across the circle, you send a wave, which she sends back. You’re tempted to walk over to join her, especially as the wet smacks of Jeanine and Declan kissing can be heard from beside you, but you’re stopped as you take your first step. Walter Morris, the host of tonight’s party, steps into the middle of the circle and whistles for everyone’s attention. There’s a pair of eyes on you this time for definite, you can feel it, but in the crowd you cannot seem to manage to pick out the source of that prickly feeling on the back of your neck. You figure it is someone zoned out, trying to ignore your unease.

“Is everybody actually here?” Morris asks with a large grin, quickly spinning around and pretending to count everyone up impossibly fast. “1- 12- 28- eh, give or take a few, we’re all here, I’d say,” he straightens up and clears his throat. “How many of you here are in a relationship?” he asks, and a pit settles in your stomach. You already don’t like where this is going, you’d heard all the rumours about previous year groups' post-N.E.W.T.s parties. A fair few hands shoot up, some embarrassingly hesitant, embarrassed even more so when the person beside them does not raise theirs. It’s sickening to watch it all play out, zeroing in on various people and pairs. Maybe it’s just whatever was in that drink earlier. You’re glad you had no more than three little sips. Your hand stays at your side, but you lift your chin, not wanting to let anybody have the impression you are in some way upset about it. You aren’t, you’re perfectly happy as you are, but there is a certain expectation that you should be terribly sad to be alone. Walter’s eyes sweep the circle. “It’s a tragedy, so many pretty ladies all alone,” he shakes his head, glancing at you and winking. You roll your eyes. Walter was such a showman, everybody knew that he was quite happily taken, yet he insisted on his womaniser act. You feel the strange prickle at the back of your neck again. “Let’s try and change that, shall we?” he claps his hand, a puff of blue smoke appearing in front of him, from which materialised an ornate bottle. It was an impressive piece of magic for such a stupid cause. 

What you had originally assumed would be a game of spin the bottle turned out to be a game of Walter’s own invention, though in a similar vein. You spun the bottle to choose your partner, and were then sent away with them to an empty dorm, which the younger years had left a few weeks ago to allow for N.E.W.T. examination proceedings. Locked then in the dorm, neither of you could leave until you had either ‘had a good French’ (Walter’s words) or each shared one true embarrassing secret. Those already in relationships were ushered elsewhere to play some sort of truth-telling game, without the French kissing. How you wished you had just lied and raised your hand. There were all sorts of complex detection spells cast to facilitate this asinine party game, with the help of Walter’s Ravenclaw girlfriend, Silvia. You felt it was a waste of her intelligence, and yet, silently admired the commitment and skill. Still, it all seemed rather pointless. As the game had been explained, several people, yourself included, had tried to back out, but were rather bumped up to be some of the first to go in classic Walter Morris cruelty. You racked your brain as the few people went before you for a secret you might be able to share, Merlin knew you would not be having a ‘good French’ with anyone. Your mind is unfortunately elsewhere as you’re called up to spin the bottle, and you almost forget to look at who it lands on as you’re still trying to come up with a secret worth sharing. You certainly miss the faint green glow which surrounds the bottle for a split second before it comes to its unnatural halt.

You follow the neck of the bottle, your gaze coming up to meet Tom Riddle’s dark eyes, trained back on you. Riddle. It surprises you that he’s even here, as head boy, and a more aloof head boy than most at that. He seems disinterested in everything and everyone in every moment, and you cannot imagine what he might have been doing at the start of his party. Your brain couldn’t even conjure the image of him dancing if you tried. As you’re led along to one of the empty dorms, you try to recall a time you’ve ever seen him smile anything more than a polite smile during head boy speeches or when answering a professor. Once more, your mind fails to conjure any image. 

The door glows a deep blue behind you once you’re both in the dorm, and your brain finally catches up to the reality of the situation. For however long it takes to coax a secret out of Riddle, you are stuck with him in this dorm room. You weren’t sure the last time the two of you had spoken. He had never been rude to you, but he had also never been all that warm, often merely inquiring about your academics rather than anything personal. His eyes, even more dark and intense than usual, are trained on you as you stand wordlessly by the door. You stare behind him out of the dorm window, watching some fish swim by in the murky green water of the Black Lake, lit by this point with only the light of the moon. What an unsettling thought to have to sleep with these hideous fish passing by. You feel thankful for not being in Slytherin. Finally, your eyes return to Riddle’s. He is still staring with that unsettling intensity, leaning against one of the bedposts. Taking a deep breath, you offer him a polite smile, and he offers one back. It is uncomfortably silent for another moment. 

“Did you try the… ‘cocktails’?” he asks with dry humour, and you’re a little surprised to hear him speak so casually. 

“Yes, frightful things they were,” you puff out, watching the corner of his mouth curl up ever so slightly.

“Quite,” he slowly crosses his arms over his chest, eyes finally straying from yours, only to linger around the features of your face. “I assume you were smart enough to limit your intake,”

“Only a few sips,” you nod and he chuckles, low and smooth, but quiet. The sound almost gives you goosebumps.

“You always do prove yourself to be a very smart girl, especially in Charms if I remember correctly,” he smirks, but speaks once more before you can open your mouth to question his tone. “Are you going to stay so far away?” This question makes you blink in confusion.

“You walked over there, you could have stayed by the door with me if you so wanted.”

“What would the point in that have been? By the door, we would have felt uncomfortable and on edge, looking for escape,” his eyes meet yours again. “Come here, I only want you to feel relaxed, I’m nothing to be afraid of,” 

“You sound like a creep,” you huff, though you do pad your way over, sitting down on the edge of the perfectly made bed. His eyes follow you intently, turning his body to face you as you sit down, though still leaning against the post. He gives a small, quiet, but seemingly earnest laugh at your comment.

“I suppose a girl like you deals with many a lecherous man?” he almost teases you. You don’t really know how to read this interaction at all. He very nearly seems friendly, it's different from the Riddle you’ve known all these years. Barely known, you remind yourself. Leaning back against your hands, you stubbornly meet his eye as he refuses to look away.

“I suspect every woman does,” you counter, flicking your eyes about his face. Other than a few errant strands of hair at his forehead, he is still as perfectly put together as when he delivers his head boy speeches. It’s a contrast to most everyone else at this party. You hear raucous laughter from the common room outside and conclude that he is certainly out of place at this event. Oddly, he seems much more at home here, in a dark, murky room, alone with you. 

“So I hear,” he hums, eyes still on you. Shuffling back until your back hits the pillows, you try to relax a little, his gaze putting you on edge. It’s challenging you, but to do what you’re not sure. It seems like he steps forward to follow you ever so subtly, but paces himself. 

“Why are you at this party?” you ask him, for lack of anything else to discuss. Your apprehension to ask him questions is only mitigated by reminding yourself that you are required to learn some secret about him in order to leave this oppressive and ever-shrinking room. He’s surprised he hasn’t asked for yours yet, you were surprised by how unhurried he seemed about getting out of here.

“Why are you?” he seems almost amused by your question, much less uninterested than usual. You seem to interest him, perhaps it is the drink provided that has him so… unlike himself. You can’t be sure.

“Everyone is expected to be here,” you mumble. He nods.

“There is your answer then.” This time, when he steps closer, he makes sure you notice it. His arms remain crossed across his chest, fingers tapping against his own arm. “As head boy, my absence would be noted much more significantly than yours, so I’m sure you know why I am here, you just want something to fill the quiet,” he teases. You frown and open your mouth to protest, but he reaches out and taps his finger under your chin, half-teasing,  half-tender. “I am only joking, a pretty girl like you at a party like this, where the main aim is as much debauchery as possible, your absence would be noted far before mine, whether you realise it or not,” he smiles, but it is smug and disconcerting. You look up at him in annoyance, tilting your chin away from his touch. He senses your displeasure with his statement. “Oh, come on, darling,” he hums. “Don’t be annoyed with me, I am only the messenger, surely you know the aim of these sorts of party games.”

“I am not stupid by any means,” you scoff.

“I know that well, which is why I said you must know what this is all about.” He tilts his head, his gaze finally leaving your face, only to briefly sweep your body and return. You nod and look away toward the window again. The fish are gone. “I suppose there is no point beating around the bush any further, do you wish to kiss me or not?” he asks, his expression far too neutral for the topic in question, but the intensity in his eyes betrays him. You blink in surprise, not at all having expected him to actually want to kiss you. He scans your face, waiting.

“I would have assumed that you would have found this whole party game to be beneath you, head boy,” you comment, avoiding his question. He chuckles quietly.

“The sole thing I hope to find beneath me tonight, darling, is you,” he husks, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside you. The words send a jolt of electricity through you, and you cannot help but blush, despite wanting to appear unaffected. The air in the room shifts notably.

“You don’t mean that,” you mumble, sounding insecure rather than mocking and assertive of his aloofness like you had hoped. He smiles and shakes his head.

“Morris is not the only wizard around here skilled at wandless magic. If you think for a moment that your bottle spin could have landed on anybody but me, you are sorely mistaken,” he cups your chin, stroking your jaw with his thumb. “I have had my eye on you for quite a while… should have acted upon you sooner but I guess I have been… shy,” he smirks. You lean into his touch without strictly meaning to. 

“You? Shy?” you scoff. His eyes sparkle with amusement.

“Perhaps not shy… prideful, I suppose, is the better word. I was hoping you would eventually approach me, but it turned out you were the shy one,” he teases. His hand trails up the side of your face, gently pushing your hair back. “Why? I don’t know. You are very beautiful, nothing at all to be timid about,” he leans in, his lips pressing to your jaw in an experiment. He glances up for your reaction, and when you merely swallow, your breathing picking up, he leans in to press another kiss. And then another. His lips trace a warm path to yours, hovering a millimetre away. When he doesn’t lean in, you flutter open your eyes in confusion, barely having registered you’d closed them. There’s an intensity in his gaze that makes you uneasy, your stomach twisting.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” you breathe into the darkness, searching his eyes. In the back of your mind, you begin to wonder if he had been playing a cruel joke on you. Still, he doesn’t move, merely thinking something over in his mind. The tension in the air nearly makes you squirm, from the smile that curls his lip at the sight, you wonder if that was the intention.

“I did so have higher hopes for the circumstances of our first kiss than some foolish party game,” he hums, eyes flicking about your face for what felt like the millionth time that night. It’s odd to you to hear that he’s had hopes for this, yet the declaration does not feel romantic.

“Like what? A candlelit dinner? I didn’t take you for the type,” you lean back apprehensively, but his deceptively gentle touch, now at the nape of your neck, keeps you in place. Riddle chuckles and shakes his head as if the very notion is ridiculous. You feel goosebumps rising once more.

“Tsk, something far better than vapid gestures,” his eyes gleam with something dangerous, and you struggle to conjure up the faintest idea of what he’s referring to. You open your mouth to ask, but his voice echoes in the small room instead. “No use dwelling, I’m sure we will get there… some day,” he smirks, his voice full of dark promise. There is still no indication of what he means, but you are quickly distracted by his touch on your neck urges you closer, his lips hovering over yours once more. Lashes flutter as you look down to each other's lips. “Just know that I have big plans for you, my darling,” 

Before you can ask, before you can even form the question, his lips are on yours, warm, insistent, passionate. Your mind blanks, as if by magic, your arms finding their way obediently around his shoulders. Riddle pushes you back into the pillows, his lips never leaving yours, never allowing you to catch your breath, your train of thought. You feel like you keep sinking down into the pillows forever. He husks against your lips, hands finding your shoulders to keep you pressed down.

“You’ll see,”

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[megwritesriddles]

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[megwritesriddles]

Staking Claim ༊*·˚

18+ MDNI !!!

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Fem! Reader / You

Summary: Kinktober 2025 Day 6 - Mind Games. Riddle is only attached to one person, even if he wishes it were none. He realises he will soon lose access to her once they graduate, and he really can't have that...

Tags: Toxic behaviour, Manipulation, Fingering, Multiple orgasms, Horcruxes, Being under the influence of a horcrux, Mildly dubious consent, Mentions of murder, Obsessive/Possessive!TomRiddle, Sex magic/Vibration spell, Use your words, Good girl.

Word count: 3.7k

all fandom masterlist | hp masterlist | read it on ao3

Authors note: Riddle in this is really toxic and not a good guy!! I wanted to go heavier on the whole mind games thing but I just kept feeling like it was too much like my one Snape fic... Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED!!!

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Riddle had formed an attachment to you by pure accident. He hadn’t even looked your way once when, in the fifth year, the two of you were paired up for prefect patrols. He peripherally registered that you were beautiful, but he didn’t spend much time with thoughts like these generally, just kept them in mind. Beautiful girls could have a lot of influence without realising it, he’d found, so he maintained polite relationships with a few, just in case he should need them for something. It started that way with you, too; he had been polite so that your patrols together could be tolerable, and if he sorely needed a favour from you some day, you may be suggestible to it. Yet, you had surprised him. Initially having dismissed you as nothing but a pretty face, he’d been incredibly surprised to learn you were an excellent healer, talented far beyond your years. The two of you had come across a few second years at the edge of the forbidden forest, one of whom had been badly injured by some vicious magical plant he hadn’t seen in the dark of the night. You had been able to cast some healing charms and use some nearby magical plants to keep the boy stable until Riddle could fetch the matron from the hospital wing to take over. The matron had complimented you profusely, implying that your ability with the spells had saved the boy's life. Riddle’s opinion of you shifted immediately; you were a valuable person to know if he ever found himself in trouble. As the two of you continued your patrol, he subtly questioned you about the display he had just seen. You explained that you were fascinated with all types of healing magic, teaching yourself in your free time and researching ferociously. 

From that day onward, Riddle formed an odd fascination with you. Despite him seeing healing magic as a soft subject, he couldn’t deny that no one in Hogwarts, other than himself, was able to teach themself such high-level magic. You were clearly dedicated, and unfortunately, healing was incredibly necessary in his future plans. As the years passed and his ambitions formed, he increasingly pictured you there by his side, healing him as he explored the darkest magic, perhaps providing your services to his Knights, but primarily for him. After that day, the two of you had begun discussing magic and potions during your patrols, building a camaraderie that Riddle had with no one else. You would even listen to his discoveries regarding dark magic, though he posed it as wondering how you might heal someone from such spells. He didn’t know if you were oblivious or just willing to turn a blind eye, but you were always willing to indulge these discussions, often returning to him with research on the topic you’d done in your own time, fascinated by the challenge of healing people from such obscure dark magic. 

Although he resented the word, the two of you were undoubtedly friends. He had started to realise his attachment to you had grown out of hand, frequently finding himself distracted by the flush of your cheeks or the curve of your lips as the two of you spoke. He was not easily distracted. Graduation was rapidly approaching, meaning his access to you would likely end. He was sure you would write to him, sentimental as you were, but he needed more than that. You were the only person he trusted to heal him if anything were to go wrong with his plans. Yet, he knew he could not simply come out and ask you to come live with him after graduation. The two of you were not that close; he had seen to that himself, hoping the hold you had over him would disappear with a little distance. It had not, in fact, the longer he was apart from you, the more irritable he felt. 

So, slowly, he began spending more time with you. Finding you in the library and sitting down beside you without a word, drawing you away from your friends on Hogsmeade trips with the promise of interesting books to show you, then plying you with coffee and cake to stay with him rather than return to your friends. As exams approach, he invites you to study with him in his dorm for some peace and quiet, as the library is getting busier each passing day. His single dorm, courtesy of his role as Head Boy, gives him a great opportunity to get you accustomed to his presence in close quarters. You spread out to study on his bed, surrounded by his scent as he sits at the desk, smug, because lately you’ve been asking him if you can come here, rather than him inviting you. He would subtly suggest that he’d heard your friends making cruel remarks about you on occasion, thrilled when it worked as planned, and you withdrew from them, coming to spend even more time with him.

The creation of his first Horcrux had been an accident. He had planned to start the process after graduation, intending to seek out his Muggle father and grandparents. But fate had different plans. Every few weeks, he went to check on the Basilisk that resided in the Chamber of Secrets under the school, keeping her fed and loyal until he intended to utilise her sometime after graduation. One evening, upon returning from the Chamber, he noticed that he had himself a witness, Myrtle Warren, who immediately began shrieking. He hadn’t even meant to do it, panicking and speaking parseltongue, unleashing the basilisk onto the girl, who quickly went quiet. He only realised what had happened when he saw a part of his soul split from his body, looking for an object in which to settle. He scrambled; he hadn’t intended for this to happen so early, but he had to make sure he didn’t damage his soul by leaving it without a vessel for too long. He had very little with him, but in his bag, he found a necklace he had been planning to gift to you as a birthday present. He’d been carrying it around since he bought it so that you wouldn’t find it prematurely. Running out of time, he directed the shard of his soul into the necklace. 

Only that night, safely hidden now in his room, did he consider what gifting you this necklace might mean. He found he liked the idea of you carrying around a piece of him a little too much, like he was staking a claim. His soul’s constant presence was likely to make you feel even more connected to him, and him to you. The gift of a necklace from Riddle surprised you, but you were drawn to it, admiring it and quickly putting it on, him moving your hair aside and clasping it around your neck for you. He’d told you it looked beautiful on you and you had blushed deeply.

The necklace had unexpected effects on you, the dark magic radiating from it affecting you, making you irritable with others and causing you to want to withdraw socially, amplifying some of your worst impulses. Riddle didn’t mind so much; it was achieving many of his plans for him. The fear caused by the death at Hogwarts, along with the influence of the Horcrux at your neck, had you gravitating toward Riddle more and more to feel safe and calm, convinced nothing bad could happen to you with him there to protect you. Riddle accepts your presence with open arms, glad to get to keep a close eye on both you and the necklace. He has impressed upon you many times to never take off the necklace and to keep it safe, and you had kept your word so far, but he preferred to keep an eye just in case. He subtly reinforced your feelings, telling you that you would always be safe with him, and that you couldn’t trust anybody else, as no one knew how Myrtle had died. 

Finally, with the perfect storm of his manipulation, the effect of the Horcrux and the fear he had inadvertently awakened throughout the school, he was able to convince you to stay the night with him in his room. He may have had one of his Knight’s frighten you on your walk back from his room last night, but no matter what he’d done to get here, he finally had you where he wanted you, wanting to spend all your time, even your most vulnerable, with him. 

You’d brought a small overnight bag on patrol with you, clinging to Riddle’s arm as the two of you did your rounds, afraid. Riddle almost felt bad for you, but mostly, he just felt a dark satisfaction creeping through him at your reliance on him for a sense of safety. He knew you were in no real danger; he was the threat, and he would never harm you… not physically anyway. He only wanted what was best for you, and by the time his plans came to fruition, the safest place for you would undoubtedly be under his protection. Not to mention how much your presence could benefit his cause and how much he needed to have you close by so he could watch over you and his soul that you took such good care of. He felt a sense of warmth each time you fiddled with the necklace at your neck, as if you were touching his soul. If it had been anyone else, the feeling would have undoubtedly been invasive, repulsive even, but as it was you, he merely felt a little aroused.

As soon as the two of you could feasibly be considered done with your patrol, you dashed off to his Head Boy dorm, making sure not to be caught. Once inside, Riddle wanted to pounce on you, your constant fiddling with the necklace having filled him with need, but he knew he had to wait, taking a calming breath. He couldn’t afford to scare you off, not yet, while you still had places to run and people to seek comfort in. He had to be gentle, romantic even, and you were the only person in the world for whom he was willing to pretend. Besides, he had a plan for tonight that he couldn’t ruin by acting too early. He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, looking down at you.

“The door is locked, darling, no one can get in, we are safe, get yourself ready for bed,” he murmurs in his best attempt at reassurance. His hand trails featherlight to the necklace at your neck, then withdraws. He’d been touchier these last few weeks, getting you gradually used to him, so you don’t flinch despite the intimate touch, merely nodding nervously and heading into the attached toilet. You unpack your small bag, brushing your teeth, washing your face and securing your hair before changing into your nightgown. You blush as you look at yourself in the mirror. You had intentionally packed your shortest nightgown, but now that you were actually here with Riddle, your confidence was faltering. Still, you had nothing else with you, so you crept out into his room and slid into the bed shyly. Riddle’s eyes fix on you curiously, the necklace around your neck running hot as he looks at you. Still trying not to frighten you, he slowly heads into the bathroom, getting himself ready for bed. As he brushes his teeth, he hears distant thunder, smirking to himself. He knew you were quite jumpy, especially lately, so this would give him the perfect opportunity to make you feel safe and secure. 

Once he joins you in the bed once more, you’re already trembling nervously, jumping at each thunder clap, convinced it was someone trying to break down the door, despite knowing better. He laughs at you, softly, the mocking not detectable over your intense nerves, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close, pleased when you immediately curl into his chest. 

“I’m scared,” you squeak, balling your hands into the soft material of his night shirt. He tuts gently.

“I see that, darling, you’re shaking like a little leaf,” he says, rubbing your back slightly. “But I won’t let any harm come to you, ever,” he assures, a dark current running through his voice. You whimper as thunder booms once more, hiding your face in his shoulder. Riddle feels his patience thinning slightly. You were a highly intelligent witch, yet you were so afraid of thunder, even when he had sworn to you that you’d be safe. “Do you hear me?” he asks slowly, trying not to let his annoyance show. He grabs your chin, tilting your head so you’re forced to meet his eye. “No harm will come to you so long as you’re with me, I swear to you, you have no reason to fear, do you hear me?” You nod nervously. Riddle huffs. “Words.”

“Yes… I hear you,” you stammer, clinging to him. His hand drops from your chin, fiddling with your necklace. It’s strange that he cannot feel his own touch on it, yet he is still drawn to the object all the time. “But what about–” you begin.

“No, you are safe with me,” he whispers through his teeth. “Now stop trembling, it’s ridiculous,” Riddle spots from the drop in your expression that he wasn’t meant to say that. He takes a deep breath; he isn’t well practised in this compassion thing, but he’s performing it the best he can. “I just mean that I don’t want you to feel frightened, darling,” he says as softly as he can, pressing a kiss to your hair. This seems to placate you a little. He rubs your side gently, feeling the shape of your body beneath his hand. The feeling of arousal from earlier wakes up within him as he touches your body freely for the first time. And you aren’t stopping him, just looking up at him as he touches you, your trembling subsiding and changing shape into excitement. He can sense it too, and he figures it's time for him to act. “Let me relax you, show you there’s nothing to worry about when I’m around,” he husks, pressing his lips to your temple, just needing to feel your bare flesh beneath his lips somehow. His hand sneaks down to your thigh, settling below the hem of your nightgown. “Would you like that?” When you nod, he huffs. “Words,” he repeats, his voice tight. 

“Yes,” you whisper, shy and apologetic, trying to focus on his hand caressing your thigh rather than the sound of thunder. 

“Was that so hard?” he tuts, pushing up the hem of your nightgown, his other arm still wrapped firmly around your waist. His hand seeks out the warmth between your legs, pressing against you through the fabric of your underwear. You jolt, not having expected things to escalate so quickly “Focus on me,” he reminds you harshly as your eyes flick to the window at a flash of lightning, rubbing against you forcefully, making you whimper. Your head spins at how fast this has escalated. Riddle’s hand spreads your thighs forcefully, then returns to rubbing at you over your underwear, his fingers swirling over the spot that makes your whole body twitch. You look up at him, not wanting him to tell you off again. His eyes are dark as he looks down at you, full of something you can’t place. As he removes your underwear, you try to lean up and kiss him, but he pulls away, shaking his head. “Not yet, darling,” he chastises, pushing your underwear down to pool at your ankles and returning his hand between your legs, rubbing at your now bare skin. He can feel the sticky arousal pooling as he rubs at your clit roughly yet pleasurably. You whimper softly at the feeling, embarrassment decorating your cheeks, yet you don’t want him to stop. Your necklace feels hot against your skin, your head spinning as Riddle begins to speak once more. “Doesn’t that feel nice? Your body certainly likes it… Only I can make you feel this way,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear, breath washing over the side of your neck.

“It feels nice,” you choke out in response, squirming a little, unable to believe how quickly you allowed him to do this. Sure, you’d been attracted to him a long time, but you had been so scared just earlier, and now your body was begging for him, like you were under the influence of something, something deeply desperate. 

“That’s a good girl,” he hums, immensely pleased with your compliance. He withdraws his hand for a moment, making you whine, looking up at him in confusion. Riddle grabs his wand from the nightstand, mumbling a few quiet words. You only get a split-second to wonder what he’s cast when you feel a soft buzzing against your clit. Your body jolts in surprise, but the feeling simply follows, making you gasp for breath. Riddle pulls down your squirming hips harshly, holding you in place as his other hand returns between your legs, two of his fingers beginning to ease inside of you without much warning. You gasp, your hips trying to thrash but being unable, the vibrating not faltering for a second. “That’s it, doesn’t that feel good?” he coos, watching his fingers disappear within you with a dark satisfaction. You are most certainly his now. You can’t respond with anything but a breathless whine, the onslaught of sensations barely letting you breathe. You feel your brain turning to mush, no longer able to form cohesive thoughts beyond his fingers pumping in and out of you and the ceaseless vibration on your most sensitive spot. Trying to ground yourself, your nails dig into his arm, a drawn-out moan of his name leaving your lips, legs closing around his arm as his fingers begin to pump faster. 

You feel yourself teetering on the precipice, not having the presence of mind to let Riddle know. Your eyes roll back, your toes curling, and your lips parting in a silent shout as the waves of pleasure go through you. You feel dizzy, your hips trying once more to withdraw from the sensations, yet being physically unable. Riddle's lips brush your ear. 

“Shhh, shhh, you’re a strong girl, I know you can handle it,” he comforts mockingly, continuing to work you through the waves of pleasure, yet not stopping even as they subside. Your whole body shakes, unable to handle the sensations, even as a warm, syrupy feeling lingers in the pit of your stomach. His fingers press against a soft spot deep within you, making you jolt. You hadn’t realised the sensations could get even more intense. You want to tell him to slow down, but something keeps you quiet, makes you lean into him instead of away and makes you feel warm when he bites your neck to leave a mark. Your mind is hazy from the vibrations, and he knows it. “You’re safe with me,” he whispers in your ear, his voice rough. “You can’t trust anyone but me. I’m all you need,” he grunts, curling his fingers against that spongy spot once more. “You don’t need anyone else, you belong with me and me alone,” he hisses, biting your neck once more. “Say it, you belong to me,” he urges, growling in annoyance when you only whimper. “Say. It.” he demands harshly, his hand on your hips slipping up into your hair, pulling it so you’re forced to look up at him. 

“I belong to you,” you choke out, squirming, too hazy to register his words properly, but vulnerable enough to digest them, just as he wants you. 

“That you do, good girl,” he growls, rewarding you for your declaration by finally pressing his lips to yours, measuredly gentle amid the onslaught of sensation between your legs. You try to follow him as he pulls away, and he tuts at you. “Only if you say it again,”

“I belong to you,” you moan, desperate for his gentleness, needing him as close as possible. He smirks, pleased that he’s got you. He grants you another gentle kiss, and another and another as you repeat your words over and over. He doesn’t tire of hearing it, especially with that desperation in your voice. His kisses, soft yet burning hot, push you to the edge once more, your hand balling into his pyjama shirt in an attempt to ground yourself again, but it’s no use. The pleasure makes you dizzy all over again, pleading with him against his lips. Your body collapses against the bed heavily; you hadn’t even realised that you’d tensed yourself off of it chasing Riddle’s lips, breathless and oversensitive. Riddle reaches for his wand, ending the vibrating spell, satisfied that you’ve been subjected to his charms enough for the night. You lay there beside him, still clearly out of sorts. He smirks down at you, rubbing your thigh as if to comfort you. 

“Alright, my darling?” he asks, knowing that he had just completely overwhelmed you. That had been his intention, and it seemed to have worked like he’d hoped, as you curl into him once more, seeking safety and comfort. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close and letting you feel protected. He was sure he would only have to do this a few more times until you would be ready to hear about his plans for you in the future. You might even be ready now, but it was better to be safe than sorry, and anyway, next time he was going to fuck you properly, have his way with you like he really wants. For that, you had to be ready. He feels you touch your necklace, and it sends a pleasant jolt through him. “What’s got you fiddling?” he asks gently.

“Just felt compelled to touch it,” you shrug, your voice hoarse and weak. He presses a kiss to your forehead. He feels the gentle, warm caresses deep in his soul.

“Touch it all you like, darling, it’s yours after all.”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

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[megwritesriddles]

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[sinrosed]

dirty little secrets — part one [t.r]

⭑ summary: You spent six years at Hogwarts perfecting the art of invisibility. No friends. No enemies. No one ever looked close enough to notice you, to question you. To see you. You learned to embrace the arms of loneliness in the hallways of Hogwarts, and now, in your final year, you thought it would be no different. You would focus on your studies, drown in your quietness, and make it out of the hellhole you called home. Get a job as a healer apprentice. Get a place of your own. You had it all planned out. But once you catch the eyes of the infamous Tom Riddle, everything changes. Catching the eyes of the devil leaves you tangled in webs of dirty little secrets, ambition, and now that you've unlocked the monster's cage, he won't stop until he's corrupted you. Now it's only a matter of time before you'll give in to the darkness or let it swallow you to your destruction. MINORS DNI PLEASE. please remember to reblog and leave a comment if you can, it helps a lot. thank you ♡

⭑ pairing: tom riddle x reader

⭑ genre: series, eventual smut, angst, dark, 18+

⭑ warnings: ominous tom riddle, reader is a loner and some dark shenanigans, but nothing much.

⭑ word count: 13k

⭑ links: series masterlist 𝜗ৎ my masterlist 𝜗ৎ inbox

⭑ author's note: it has been years since i wrote anything, so i'm quite nervous pushing this baby out. but here it is! this fic will be quite lengthy and if you would like to recieve formal updates, i have it cross-posted on wattpad and ao3 ♡

The room was dark. Morbidly silent. It belonged to the void, and you were cursed to live inside these lifeless walls.

Days bled as you counted the hours until you could finally leave. You muttered "Lumus" so quietly, not even the wind barging in through your window could catch your words. Your wand lightened up, and you glanced at the clock beside you for what felt like the one thousandth time.

It probably was.

2:57 am.

Eight hours and three minutes until you could finally breathe freely again, much to your aunt's dismay.

You sighed and turned once more on your already scrambled sheets. The only sound you could hear was the wind whispering through the night.

You were jealous of it. The way it weaved through the skies was so free.

You turned once more, your eyes awake, counting the minutes, seconds until you would finally hear the sound of whispers and talk of magic everywhere. You could almost hear it: the leather seats, the taste of magic jelly beans—

"What the fuck are you still doing awake, girl?! Bloody hell, it's three in the morning!"

Your aunt's voice tore through the quiet, sharp enough to make you jolt. You snapped your wrist, whispering, "Nox." The light vanished instantly, leaving only the black.

"Don't you dare use that freakish magic inside my bloody home, you wench!" she snarled from the other side of the door. Her words dripped with that same venom she'd been feeding you for years.

You didn't answer. You'd learned long ago that replying only prolonged the attack. Silence was your only defence. You only turned the other way, waiting for her to get tired and slither away. A pause claimed the room. You could hear her breathing — quick, irritated. Then the slow retreat of her footsteps down the hall.

"Be awake at six," she called over her shoulder. "One minute late and you'll miss that freak train of yours. I wouldn't mind keeping you here for chores."

The house swallowed the sound of her voice, leaving you with the whispering wind once more.

You turned back onto your side, pulling the blanket tighter, pretending it was something warmer, safer.

Eight hours and three minutes.

The thought looped in your head like an incantation, steady and stubborn, keeping you anchored. Because no matter how long the night felt, morning would come. And with it, the train. The scarlet steam, the gleam of brass, the smell of sugar and coal, and the voices of those like you—gifted in magic—filling your ears.

You closed your eyes and clung to that image until sleep finally claimed you.

The first light of the month consumed the attic as you zipped your suitcase. The warm September breeze slithered into your room—it was finally that time of year again, to head back to classes. To remind yourself, life isn't limited to monotone wooden walls and the annoying screams of your aunt.

You grab your suitcase and carefully help yourself down the stairs. Truly, your aunt's 'no magic' ban made life so hard for no reason. You could easily float your suitcase with a wandless charm instead of struggling with its weight down the delicate wooden stairs. Your aunt was already in the kitchen, arms crossed, a chipped mug of camomille tea steaming in her grip. Her brown eyes flicked to the suitcase, then to you, her mouth curling into something that wasn't quite a smile.

It never was.

"Don't scratch the banister," she muttered through her mug, and sipped her tea monotonously. Just like everything inside this house.

The kitchen smelled faintly of burnt toast and yesterday's fried onions. You slipped past her, heading for the front door. The sooner you were outside, the sooner you could finally breathe fresh air instead of the poisonous smoke you had to live with all summer long.

"You've got money for the train, I hope," she called after you. "Not that I'm giving you a knut. And don't come back early — I'm not feeding you extra this year."

"It's not like I want to head back early." You murmur, and your aunt sighs. You were used to it, the breaths of disappointment. Dread. The flicker in her eyes whenever you were near—fear, disdain, regret. You were a reminder of everything wrong in her world.

"You should be grateful. I feed you, let you live here for free." Your aunt clicks her tongue, "Ungrateful, wench. Get the bloody hell out of here before I kick you out myself."

With that, your aunt slithered out of the room, taking the air pollution with her. You sighed in relief, and when you opened the door, your lips formed a small smile, one you were sure your lips had forgotten how to do.

The morning air wrapped around you like a balm — cool, clean, alive. It chased away the stagnant scent of the kitchen and the stale summer you'd been drowning in.

London was stirring awake — the groans of buses, the hiss of opening shop shutters, the faint chatter of your neighbours doing their chores. None of them looked at you, of course, they wouldn't. You were Mrs Halloway's strange niece. The quiet void no one dared look, or talk to. People feared the unknown, and nothing was quite as strange as a woman who kept to herself.

Your journey to King's Cross was a blur of grey streets and impatient traffic lights. You kept your head down, hair shielding your face as always. You never were one to gather attention. Not that you liked it.

Life was... comfortable in the shadows.

By the time you stepped inside the station, the chaos hit you all at once — the echo of train whistles, the shouts of platform announcements, the blur of Muggle travellers rushing in every direction.

You marched through the crowd, and your eyes twinkled as you found platform nine. You grabbed your suitcase tighter, and walked through the brick barrier, the sound of muggles fading away as the image morphed into one you'd awaited for weeks—platform nine and three-quarters.

You breathed in deeply. Ah, fresh air. All summer, you've craved it—the smoke in your lungs to finally be healed.

No one glanced at you. Every young witch and wizard was either saying their farewell to their beloved families or happily entering the train, anxious to find a cabin with their established friend groups.

You watched for a second longer than normal, those who were lucky enough to earn hugs from their loved ones, to receive eyes twinkling in affection and care. Your eyes narrowed in anger, in envy—why did they all have what you couldn't? Why were you just...never worthy?

Before you could open the door to more suffocating thoughts, the train announced that it was almost time to depart. You quickly picked up the pace, shrugging those words away to the depths of your head.

You walked through the cabins, the sound of chatter and laughter thickening the air. You reached the far end of the train, where seats were scattered through the room. You've become accustomed to this quiet part of the train, where introverts thrived and silence prevailed as everyone stuck to their little worlds.

You sat in your usual seat, in the far end corner, and picked up your beaten-up book inside your backpack to ease your boredom throughout the train.

The train swayed gently as it pulled away from the station, the rhythmic clatter of wheels on tracks filling the silence around you. You let yourself sink into the book, its pages a shield between you and the world beyond.

But then—movement.

A flicker in your peripheral vision that made your eyes shift from the world of Dostoyevsky's 'Crime and Punishment.' Two tables ahead, on the same side of the carriage, sat a student. Not just any student, though.

Tom Riddle.

Even without the neat emerald-trimmed robes or the badge glinting on his chest, you would have known him. Everyone knew him. The Head Boy. The model Slytherin.

It was unusual, seeing him alone, without his pure-blooded friends surrounding his figure, or any other ass-kissing student hoping to get something out of him. Whether it was help with a certain spell or a date to Hogsmeade.

Girls whispered his name in giggles and blushes, professors referred to him with awe, boys looked at him in admiration—yet there was one emotion that bound them all. Envy.

Envy of the way he travelled through the halls with practiced ease, shoulders poised to perfection, and hair styled to the last strand. The way magic came to him so easily, some classes were like child's play. Of how he seemed to have anyone and everyone hanging onto his last word, hypnotized by his charming smile.

You observed him sometimes, on the back of classes, through the peripheral vision of your book during break times. On the other side of the lunch table, where most Slytherins sat and competed to get into.

He always made the hairs on your body turn upright, not through shivers of pleasure, but of unease. No one could be that perfectly poised. His words were almost so rightly said, perfectly timed, it seemed calculated. Scripted somewhere.

No one was that perfect with nothing to hide. And observing long enough, you could see flickers of a void when he thought no one was watching. Of a blankness so sinister it made crows flee in fright.

He sat with the poise of someone who knew they were being watched. And he was. He was Tom Riddle, after all.

A book lay open in front of him, its spine perfectly aligned with the edge of the table, his slender fingers resting lightly against the page. There was nothing casual about it. Every page turn was deliberate, like each word demanded his full, surgical attention.

You told yourself to look away.

Not that you would ever catch his attention. But the mere thought of it sent shivers down your spine. But curiosity was damning, and yours had always been sharper than it should be.

His head lifted slightly, as if he'd felt the weight of your gaze.

And then his eyes found yours.

Dark, steady, unreadable.

The noise of the train seemed to fade, replaced by the soft, unbearable hum of awareness. You'd expected that, perhaps, he would look away—polite, disinterested, dismissive.

He didn't.

Instead, he held your gaze, not with hostility, but with something colder. Calculating. As though he were sifting through your skin, your bones, peeling back the layers to see what was underneath. And they flickered with something dangerous. Something you never expected to see.

Recognition.

Your grip on your book tightened. It wasn't possible. You never uttered a word to him. Never let your gaze fall to him long enough for him to feel its heaviness. You navigated lightly when it came to observing him, and never let it go deep enough that he could find you through the crowds.

No one ever noticed you. Not even the damn professors knew your name. Professor Slughorm, for instance, referred to you only once, as the 'girl in the back' to grab a potion beside you. To your peers, you were another ghost that roamed around the hallways. And yet, the way he looked at you now, it wasn't the idle glance of a passing curiosity.

It was deliberate.

Like he knew you.

Your heartbeat thudded in your ears, each pulse counting out the seconds you should have looked away. But you couldn't. There was a gravity in his gaze — not pulling you closer, but pinning you exactly where you were. Holding you prisoner like a suffocating insect beneath glass. Captured.

The corner of his mouth shifted, but not into a smile. It was subtler, stranger — as though some private thought had amused him. Then, just as sharply as it began, his eyes fell back to the page before him, leaving you to wonder if that fleeting moment was a fragment of your insanity.

Tom Riddle's attention was hazardous, and you could hope to avoid getting poisoned.

The sounds of clapping filled your side of the great hall as the last child came out of the sorting hat a Slytherin. The other houses rolled their eyes or scrunched their faces in utter disgust as the child giggled innocently and fled to the green table.

Headmaster Dippet went on to his usual first speech of the new semester, going through the rules for first years and latest announcements, nothing that you ever really paid any attention to. However, one part in particular caught your ear. "As you all might know, Grindelwald is still on the loose, spreading darkness wherever he goes. The ministry speculates that his next target might be Hogwarts, and so new regulations have been implemented. Dementors will now be roaming around Hogwarts skies, and some places shall no longer be available for the time being. Those include the Forbidden Forest, the Owlery tower after sundown, the Astronomy Tower outside of class hours, and the far eastern courtyard leading toward the old greenhouses. In addition, the lower dungeons beneath the Slytherin common room are now strictly off-limits to all students."

A ripple of murmurs moved through the tables. Students glanced at each other with mixed reactions, some shocked, some afraid, some smirking with plots of mischief—yet one remained impassive. His face was set to stone as he heard every word coming out of the headmaster.

Tom's facial expressions were limited, never showing more than what he wanted to. Sometimes, a charming smirk adorned his face; other times, a cold look of concentration whenever he was focusing on classes. Most times, though, his face held an impassive, cold look, as if every detail of the world bored him to pieces.

You shifted your eyes away from his, your spine shivering in fear of the thought of him holding your gaze again. It was odd, and it haunted you all day. All you could think about was the way his eyes kept you pinned and how he smirked knowingly.

Strange, strange guy, he was.

The feast began in its usual grand fashion—golden plates gleaming, goblets refilling with every sip, and platters of roasted meats appearing suddenly. The scent of warm bread and spices curled up toward the enchanted ceiling, where a thousand floating candles swayed against the illusion of a star-streaked night sky.

You ate alone, as always, and revelled in the peace of knowing no one would bother you—

"Hello."

The word was soft enough that for a moment, you weren't even sure it was meant for you. You looked up from your plate, half-expecting to find someone leaning past you to greet someone else. Instead, a girl stood there—pale skin catching the flicker of candlelight, dark hair falling in a silky wave over one shoulder. Green eyes looked at you, not past you like they usually did.

You recognized her instantly—Ophelia Lestrange. Cousin to one of Tom Riddle's infamous gang members, Lestrange, who murmured curses toward Muggle-born students when they passed him in the hallway. He always seemed to have a smidge of hatred in his eyes, anticipating something. Unlike him, Ophelia kept to herself. She didn't swagger through the corridors or spit poison in the way the others did so outwardly. In fact, you'd never heard her raise her voice, besides the backhanded jab towards Muggle-borns here and there.

She was, however, revered for her intelligence, beauty and was especially admired for being the only woman inside Slughorn's little secret club. The professor thought all students remained oblivious to it, but walls could talk. Nothing ever really stays a secret within Hogwarts' walls.

The club was rumoured to gather only the smartest and most gifted students in potions through years five to seven, and have secret gatherings and parties in the students' honour, to add a spark of exclusivity to Slughorn's best students. Everyone wanted in, of course, and the secrecy of it all added a sense of achievement to whoever got in.

She glanced at the big gap beside you on the bench, then back to your face. "May I?"

You nodded, unsure why she'd want to sit here when there were plenty of open seats closer to the center of the table, nearest to Tom Riddle and his friends.

"I couldn't face sitting near Lestrange and his lot tonight," she said matter-of-factly as she set down her plate. "They're already making bets on which new first-year will be the first to fall victim to one of their childish pranks. It's... exhausting."

You blinked, surprised by the blunt honesty. "You could've sat anywhere else."

"I could have," she agreed, delicately cutting into her roast beef. "But I've seen you around. You're...quiet." A small, almost conspiratorial smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "That's rare here. And something I'd rather have tonight."

For a moment, you weren't sure how to respond. It wasn't a compliment exactly, but it wasn't an insult either.

What caught your attention was the fact that she knew you. That meant she was looking in the shadows. You didn't know how or why—and yet she sat here, plainly separating her meal, as if you'd known each other since the first year.

"I suppose not," you murmured.

"Good," she said simply, as if that settled it, and turned her attention to her meal.

It was strange—she didn't press for conversation, didn't probe with idle questions the way others did when curiosity struck. She simply ate in comfortable silence, a quiet presence beside you in the otherwise chattering hall. No one had ever noticed you—save for that strange interaction with Tom Riddle hours before.

Had the water been hexed this year? It was your last, and you were certain it would be just like the others, yet... the atmosphere was thicker than usual; eyes were starting to notice you...

Perhaps the seventh year would be a change in your mundane days.

A change you didn't know was good or bad.

Your eyes flickered toward jet-black curls on the far corner of the long wooden table again. Tom was slowly and quietly eating his meal, a stark contrast to the noise of his friends around him, either gossiping or cursing another Muggle-born student in the other houses.

"Tom Riddle, huh?" A soft voice took you out of your thoughts: "Wouldn't be the first to have a crush on him."

Your cheeks flushed hot, a faint crimson creeping up your neck. You stared at her, wide-eyed. "I don't have a crush on him."

Ophelia's smile was slight, almost knowing. "I didn't say you did. But you looked at him like you were... curious." She speared a piece of potato with her fork.

"I was just—" You paused, searching for a word that didn't sound like a confession. "observing."

She hummed quietly, eyes flicking once toward Tom before returning to her plate. "He's quite a catch, honestly. Too bad he's never given any girl a chance." Ophelia continues, her eyes focused on splattering butter on her bread. "Word is Darya Vasilieva is thinking of asking him out. Honestly, it would make sense, in a way. Both are pure-blooded, ambitious, cold, and whatnot. Though if you ask me, she's a bit of a stuck-up." Ophelia shrugged, "She acts as if she's better than everyone, even the other sacred pure-blooded families. She's a prissy bitch, honestly." Ophelia snorted, "Tom would never like her, though he probably should, right?"

Ophelia tore a piece of bread, her movements neat and deliberate, before adding with a shrug, "My cousin tells me he thinks Tom doesn't have any romantic interest at all. Not in girls, not in boys. Just... nothing. Creepy if you ask me."

You swallowed, unsure if the warmth in your cheeks was from embarrassment or the way her words made a chill creep up your spine. "Maybe he just hasn't met the right person," you offered, though your voice lacked conviction.

Ophelia snorted, "Please. Honestly, it makes sense. I think you'd have to be either a stone or a masochist to handle someone like him. I mean, can you imagine him ever giving a woman some flowers?" Ophelia chuckled lowly as she continued to conspire with you. "It's devastating how handsome he is, though, isn't it?"

You narrowed your eyes. "Didn't you say you wanted quiet?"

Ophelia's lips curved faintly. "I did. But sitting in silence doesn't mean I have to turn my brain off. Besides..." She leaned in just slightly, lowering her voice. "Quiet people are the best at noticing things. You should know that."

You tilted your head, unimpressed. "Noticing and gossiping are different."

Her smirk widened, though her eyes stayed cool. "Really? I mean, you hear everything and eavesdrop on every conversation. I notice things, you know. Even you. The only difference is that you have no one to tell what you know. But it's still gossiping, in a way." Your eyes went slightly wide before you could stop yourself, and Ophelia caught it immediately. She chuckled under her breath, the sound low and knowing.

Ophelia sighed and got up from her seat. "Well, this has been fun, but I fear I must retire for the night. I'm happy we became friends...." She raises an eyebrow, expecting to hear your name, which you murmur.

"Who said anything about us being friends?" You verbalized your thoughts before you could catch them, and Ophelia smirked.

"I did." And just like that, she walked away with ease, leaving you dazed and confused about the whole interaction.

The space beside you now felt colder, the conversation still echoing in your ears like a broken record.

You stared at the empty spot on the bench, trying to piece it together. Why now? Why you? For seven years, she'd been just another Slytherin ignorant of your presence, and suddenly she'd decided to talk like you were intimate enough to gossip.

She said she noticed you, but that wasn't possible. Your presence was weightless, unlike Tom Riddle, who thickened the atmosphere when he entered the room, leaving no space for any other thought. Were you not as invisible as you thought you were?

Or perhaps Ophelia wanted something, though you couldn't figure out what or why. A loveless life with a smidge of traumatic events was all you had to offer, really.

The hall around you blurred into a dull hum. Lestrange's laughter cut through the noise like a knife, a burst of sound from further down the table, followed by the cruel snicker of someone else you didn't care to identify. It only made Ophelia's earlier words press harder in your mind.

Time bled out, and finally, it was time to head to the dorms. The remaining Slytherins on the table gathered and walked in sync towards the dungeons, and as usual, you kept your head low at the far corner. Tom Riddle led the crowd as the head boy, barking rules to the wide-eyed first years.

His friend group stayed just a bit further, murmuring to themselves before swiftly changing their course, so smoothly that no one seemed to notice. But you did.

You noticed it instantly—that deliberate shift in their route. It wasn't random. The way Mulciber glanced over his shoulder, the way Rosier's smirk twitched, and the way Lestrange fell a step behind to shield their little detour from prying eyes.

You slowed your pace, pretending to fuss with the strap of your bag, letting the crowd move ahead. Riddle continued walking, and that made your confusion all the greater. Why were they taking a detour without the main member of their group? Something didn't seem right, yet you picked up your pace; you didn't want to feed your curiosity tonight and instead followed your gut.

By the time you reached the common room, students were laughing by the fireplace, the air thick with the warmth of the flames. You slipped past them, heading straight for the staircase that led to the girls' dormitories.

The room was still empty as your roommates caught up with each other downstairs.

You changed into your nightwear and dropped your bag by your bed. You lay awake, reading a copy of your book as you used your wand as a flashlight. The quiet was heavy—the kind of silence that feels almost staged. Your eyes tried to follow each word and make sense of every sentence, yet your thoughts screamed louder this time.

Why did Ophelia talk to me? Why did Tom Riddle smirk at me on the train? What the hell is going on today?

Then, suddenly, you heard faint bursts of laughter drifting up the stairwell, muffled by the thick stone walls.

Within minutes, the door opened and your roommates filed in, the energy of the common room clinging to them. You didn't look up, but you didn't need to—you could feel their presence and their sheer unawareness of you without a single word spoken. The rustle of robes, the clink of hairpins on the nightstand, the quiet thunk of a trunk lid.

"...did you hear?" One voice whispered, barely muffled by the sound of a wardrobe opening. "Darya Vasilieva's going to ask Tom out. Tomorrow."

Another sweeter and high-pitched voice chirped out, "Gosh, the fact that he'll probably say yes makes me want to fucking strangle her. It's not fair!"

"Life isn't fair, love. Who told you to be born in a half-blood family, eh?" the first one giggled. "But honestly, she's perfect for him. Russian pure-blood, rich family, top marks in everything—"

"And creepy as fuck," the other cut in. "I saw her torturing a mouse the other day by hexing it. Talk about psychopathy."

A third voice joined in, soft but venomous. "You know her family keeps those creepy cages in the basement? My cousin swears they're for torture, since, you know, her family is rumored to have joined Grindelwald."

The laughter that followed was muffled by blankets and pillows, but it still prickled your skin. You didn't move, pretending to be absorbed in your book, though you'd been stuck on the same paragraph for five minutes.

The truth was, their words wormed into you. You knew Darya, or well, knew her from a distance. She had pale, porcelain skin and sharp eyes as blue as the ocean, and similar to Tom, her eyes held a shivering coldness too. Yet, the whispers couldn't be more wrong; they weren't so similar. Tom calculated every move, every smile, every step he took down the hallway, whereas Darya didn't have such motivation. She was ice-cold, yes, but her movements weren't scripted to the whim, and her reactions were always genuine, if there ever was one.

You thought of him again, the depths inside those chocolate eyes. It was easy to get lost in the riddle of his stare, trying to puzzle out the pieces of his being and every movement he made. He had a motivation behind everything he did; you could see it, but you could never decipher what it was. A more realistic outcome would be that he wanted to become a minister one day, perhaps a powerful Auror. But his gaze—it held something far darker than any other average ambition.

You snapped your book shut, the sound making one of the girls glance over before quickly looking away. You waited. You always waited.

And just like every other night, they eventually settled, their voices trailing off into yawns and mumbled goodnights. The dormitory shifted into that in-between quiet, where you could hear the soft rise and fall of sleeping breaths.

You sighed and shook off the thoughts of a certain dark-haired boy before drifting into a dreamless sleep.

For once, normalcy plagued your day.

You'd woken before most of your roommates, save for a couple of early risers who were already gossiping in hushed tones by their wardrobes. You strolled through the common room like a ghost, ignored and greeted with silence like every other day for the last seven years.

You hummed to yourself, familiarity splattering through your veins as you walked down the hallway towards your breakfast. You sat at the far end of the Slytherin table, where the chatter was quieter, and began serving yourself the same balanced breakfast you had every morning at Hogwarts: pancakes with a drizzle of honey and dark, decaf coffee. You found comfort in the mundane and were glad that things were finally going back to your sense of normal.

Your eyes wandered for a moment, catching the regular suspects in their usual places, but your eyes didn't linger long enough to decipher the emotion, or lack thereof, of his handsome face. You told yourself you would avoid looking at him at all costs and find another interesting figure to observe and piece out. Tom Riddle was...too much of a threat to your plans.

Classes went in their familiar order.

Transfiguration was first, with Professor Dumbledore. He was wise beyond his years and sometimes talked in what seemed like sophisticated riddles, but you were quite fond of him. It was a shame he never noticed you, though, but it did make sense. The only ones worthy enough to gain his favor were Tom Riddle, Darya Vasilieva, and Ophelia Lestrange. Their magic was of such excellence that it even succeeded his expectations, as he once said before, though his eyes always did linger on Tom's figure longer than most.

Dumbledore's voice carried that gentle authority that seemed to gather everyone's gaze. You followed his instructions, and after a few tries, transfigured your brass button into a beetle, then back again, with practiced precision. The insect twitched in your palm before reforming into a dull, round button, and you placed it on the desk without fanfare. Dumbledore barely glanced your way—his attention drawn, as always, to the select few.

"Ah, Mr. Riddle, a first try, as always. Well done." Tom Riddle only nodded at the praise, his face impassive as he transformed the beetle back with an almost sinister ease. He wasn't fazed by the praise, of course not. He received the same compliments every hour of the day, whether it be from professors themselves or through loud whispers and giggles in the hallways.

"Miss Lestrange," he added next, his tone warm but slightly amused, "excellent, though your beetle seems determined to glare at me." Ophelia's soft chuckle answered him, a sound like a secret being shared.

Your gaze shifted to Ophelia, a glimmer of something stirring inside you. Would she notice you again? Perhaps start a conversation once more, take you away from the arms of silence, and slice the monotony out of your day? You were relieved with the ignorance of other students, sure, yet when Ophelia said she noticed you, hell, even said you were friends... You couldn't help but feel something close to warm. Something you only ever felt when near a fire during London's harsh, cold nights.

But her eyes never landed on you; instead, she went to the Ravenclaw student beside her, her eyes flashing with a glimmer you couldn't decipher yet.

"Miss Vasilieva, a clean execution as always," Dumbledore commended, and you didn't need to look to know she was smiling in that poised, distant way that made her seem carved from ice.

Darya smirked and thanked the professor. The glow in Ophelia's eyes when she looked at Darya was intriguing, something more than jealousy, deeper than envy...but it was still an enigma to you. Maybe you could observe their interactions for longer and pick apart every word exchanged between them to come to a suitable conclusion.

Or maybe you could mind your own business, and it would get you out of the clutches of Ophelia Lestrange's attention. It was for the best, staying invisible to her peripheral vision, avoiding the threat of letting more people become aware of your presence. Being quaint and invisible was a superpower, one that came with its price, of course. But still a superpower, nonetheless.

The rest of the classes passed without incident, though you caught yourself glancing more than once at the empty seat beside yours, wondering if—by some strange alignment of fate—Ophelia would slip into it. She didn't.

Dinner finally arrived and came in, and the Great Hall was its usual noises of endless chatter, and you sat with your plate, the voices around you fading into static.

A flicker of movement drew your attention—Ophelia passing behind you on her way to the prefects' table. She didn't say anything this time, brushed through you like she would a piece of furniture, and plastered a fake smile when sitting next to Tom and his usual gang.

What was it about yesterday that made her want to talk to you? By the way things were going, it was a piece of anomaly never to be repeated. But why?

Unsatisfied with unanswered thoughts, you walked toward your dorm, the paintings going about their business and ignoring you, even ghosts passed through you without trying for conversation or tease. You grumbled as you shivered and went about the same path you did every night, when, suddenly, a movement of a dark cloak made you stop in your tracks.

This wasn't a path to any dorm room, and by now, most students should be retiring to their respective rooms. The torchlight ahead flickered, and the corner where you'd seen the cloak's movement was now still, empty... but the air felt heavier.

You told yourself to keep walking.

And yet, your feet betrayed you, pulling you closer. Maybe it was morbid curiosity, maybe it was the fact that a part of you — the same part that lingered on Tom Riddle in clandestine glances — wanted to know who was out here.

When you reached the bend in the corridor, there was nothing. No one. Just the whisper of the draught sliding along the stone. But the air was thick, threatening to cut the oxygen from your lungs. Your spine shivered, and you turned around, but again, nothing.

You exhaled slowly. "Fuck."

You cursed yourself—you should have walked by it, and you would have been in the dungeons by now. The you from the past years would have walked right through it, seeking the safety of your thin blankets and the stretch of your imagination. Why were you now looking out for something to burst the walls of predictability you built? It didn't make sense.

Again, you liked the mundane. You wanted the silence and the comfort in knowing every day would be the same as before. Following a plan laid out in your mind ever since you were a first-year student.

Stay silent. Stay invisible. Graduate. Find an apprenticeship. Become a healer by twenty-six.

One glance into dark pupils, and he made you question your own goddamn timeline. But no more!

You shook your head and followed the path to your dorm room. No more goddamn distractions.

You couldn't sleep. It was hours past curfew, and every roommate of yours was sleeping soundly, reaching the peak of their sleep. But you lay awake like an owl, eyes wide and no sign of sleepiness threatening to come.

You turned onto your side. The mattress creaked, a small, accusing sound. Sleep still didn't come. Not even close.

You tried everything.

Getting lost in Dostoyevsky's words, trying to figure out what Raskolinikov would do next. But not even your book could take you away from your rushing thoughts.

You then tried deep breathing, counting numbers to see if your body would surrender to slumber, but all you did was get lost in your counting as the voice inside your head morphed into the same buzzing thoughts of before.

Then you just closed your eyes, your worst trial yet, and to no surprise, it failed. Miserably.

Your eyes flicked to the gap in your curtains. The faintest sliver of greenish torchlight from the dungeon corridor seeped through, and if you listened closely enough, you swore you could hear footsteps, distant but deliberate. And some sort of slithering movements, too.

You pressed your lips together. This was stupid. You had no reason to get up, no business wandering after curfew. But, fuck, your brain was buzzing with energy, and your eyes weren't closing any time soon.

And so, you got up with delicate movements, trying not to wake your roommates as you made your way out of your dorm.

You just needed some movement to finally sleep, you told yourself as you walked out of the Slytherin common room. No one would even notice you, like always. Only this time, it would be under the night sky.

Your slippers brushed the cold flagstones as you made your way down the empty hall. Shadows moved with the black lake's sway from the tinted windows, and you shivered as you watched them. They looked like monsters dancing under the moon.

You told yourself you'd only walk for a bit. Just enough to tire yourself out. But the further you went, the more that restless itch under your skin grew.

Then you heard it again.

Footsteps. Slow. Unhurried. Deliberate.

You froze. The sound didn't come from behind you — it came from ahead, somewhere in the deeper stretch of the corridor. And beneath it, the faint scrape... no, not scrape... that slither again.

"You shouldn't be here."

Your blood chilled.

You knew that deep voice.

He never spoke too many words, but it was hard to forget such velvet wrapped in a unique timbre.

It was him.

Tom Riddle.

You swallowed thickly, nerves shivering as Tom stepped out of the darkness, like a shadow coming to life. His face held that same coldness it always did, but his eyes—they glimmered. Was it amusement? Curiosity? Or was perhaps your brain trying to find something that was not there once again?

"Excuse me?" You shrieked out; your voice sounded much steadier in your head.

"You are not supposed to be here." He takes a step forward, his fingers caressing his wand slowly. "You cannot wander off in castle grounds past curfew. And Hogwarts is full of mysteries—you never know what you might find at night..." His voice was deep; it carried a tone so eerie that shadows fled from the darkness. Your spine shivered, and you hesitantly took a step back.

Your breath hitched. "What the hell do you mean?"

His head tilted slightly, eyes never leaving yours. "It means," he said, each word a precise cut of a knife, "you're straying into places you don't belong."

The silence that followed was toxic—it was ashes to your lungs. Tom then took another step forward, thickening the air like carbon monoxide.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, struggling to catch any breath as your eyes never left his figure. He circled you like a snake would its prey, eyes glistening as if he held a knowledge only found in the deepest trenches of the forbidden library.

"I should deduct points from you for wandering past curfew. Notice the professors and give you the detention you deserve." His words painted the air green, each syllable a cursed magic to the walls, which seemed to shake in his wake. Your feet felt the trembling ground and twitched for freedom, to leave before your lungs collapsed.

"I should," he repeated, tilting his head just slightly. His fingers reached the tip of his hand as he narrowed his eyes. "But I won't. This time. But let this be a warning." He spits your name out, and you gasp. It sounds so illicit coming from his lips. Like a dark spell created just so your ears could bleed.

He knows your name. How? After all these years of passing by unnoticed to him, was his ignorance an illusion? Did he always know you existed? Purposefully ignored you? But you were certain you never uttered your name next to him, nor did any other professor. Never your name.

The promise of a threat hung in the air around you, the unspoken words in the air tightening your throat in a cruel grip. You waited for a hex, an announcement of detention, but he only looked at you. His gaze burned like acid on your skin. Laced inside his pupils was a promise written in spilled blood.

"Go," he murmured. He didn't need to raise his voice to demand obedience. His presence commanded the air, mastered the atmosphere with one simple, heavy clack of his boot. "Stay out of the corridors after hours," Tom's face returned to his neutral, impassive mask as he strolled the hallways with, "Or next time, I won't be the one who finds you."

Before you could even dissect what his words could mean, Riddle turned on his heel, the smoke of shadows leaving with him, releasing the taut grip it had on the air.

You let out a gasp—you could finally breathe. The ground stood static under your feet, the air finally returning to its peaceful nature.

Nevertheless, inside you, peace was a ghost long gone. A seed of unease seemed to have been planted in its place by the monster Fear and its ominous hands.

You hesitated for a second before walking away, your steps painted with dread and utter confusion of the scene that had played out moments before. You didn't pay attention to where you were going, your mind replaying the threat inside those dark eyes of his while your feet worked alone to drag your body to your dorm.

You realized your nails were digging into your palms as you entered the room. Slowly, you unfurled your fists, forcing the tremor to leave your fingers. The air was quieter now; the only sound was the soft breathing of your roommates as they dreamt, while you curled on your bed, heart hammering inside your tortured inside from the nightmare you had just witnessed.

You pushed your book aside to make room for your body on your scrambled sheets. The pillow was the same as every other day, the blankets were the ones you slept with for the last seven years, but today they felt stiff. Like a rock under you, poking your flesh every time you tried to close your eyes.

You attempted one more time to ignore the discomfort, but it only seemed to scream louder when you did so.

Sleep was never your friend, more like an acquaintance that sometimes greeted you with a soft, hesitant wave. But tonight, it seemed to grow into a monstrous foe.

Thoughts were a plague that swallowed you that whole night, binding you to the prison of a certain Riddle you could never solve.

This year wasn't going to be like the others, was it?

Your face stung from the slap. You couldn't move, your body pinned in place by some invisible force. You wanted to scream, to flee, but it seemed you had no mouth. Or better yet, it seemed your body chose to stay in its prison.

A shadow appeared behind you, its slender fingers caressing your shoulder. It appeared to be soft, but its touch was...empty. "So weak. So pathetic." A voice echoed in your ear. "You cannot run away, can you?"

Another slap to your face, shouts from the other side of the room. You know that wretched voice; you know its venom from a mile away. You've felt it every day for your whole life, swallowed it down until it corroded your soul.

"Stupid fucking wench! Damn my fucking sister for leaving me with you. Not even she wanted you." Your aunt chuckled bitterly. The shadow behind you chuckled, its touch cold and lingering on your shoulder as its ominous voice reached your ear again.

"Ahh, I see why you don't want to leave." It squeezed your shoulder, and you whimpered, "She's the only family you have, hm? Don't want her to leave you, too?"

You tried to retaliate, to scream, to attack. But you stayed frozen, lonely tears spilling down your cheeks, and the shadow seemed to revel in your misery. Observe it.

The shadow whispered, "Pathetic little mouse."

You woke with a gasp, your face sweating as you grabbed the sheets beside you. It had been a while since you had nightmares. They didn't usually taunt you on castle grounds; they preferred to cage you when you were in that dirty attic, sleeping on a rough mattress during summer nights with closed hands.

But that shadow—that was new. It seemed too real to be a part of your imagination. Your body recoiled at the thought—you could still feel its freezing touch lingering on your shoulder. You could still feel the emptiness that possessed you when its fingers grazed your skin.

You groan and stand up from your scrambled sheets. You only got two hours of sleep, and none of it was successful in leading you to that vibration of peace. Your thoughts fogged you all night long—of those dark green robes and words dripping with threat.

And when you did sleep, shadows decided to corrode your mind and trap you in a nightmare.

Your eyes refocused and scanned the room, and you gasped when you saw none of your roommates on their beds. You always woke up before them to avoid any stares or the awkwardness of getting ready together when you had no affinity.

"Shit." You cursed and quickly grabbed your wand to float your clothes toward you. After putting them on with frantic movements, you seized your bag and hurried down the stairs, your steps bordering on sprinting and utter desperation.

"Shit, shit, shit." You could only hope your first class hadn't started yet, and you only missed breakfast. Your stomach could deal with one less meal for a day, but you just maybe couldn't survive the acid if you arrived late to class. Eyes would be upon you, scanning you like they would prey, and you would become visible for the first time in seven years. You couldn't possibly afford that.

It was already enough that a certain Riddle had picked you apart from the crowd you so thoroughly blended in—you couldn't have the same knowledge bleeding into Hogwarts' whispers and gazes. And so, you always arrived on time to avoid this very scenario.

The staircase to the Great Hall came into view, and you pushed yourself to sprint faster, harder, your lungs aching to keep you from collapsing. Maybe you could slip in unnoticed as you always did, grab a crust of bread, and make it to class without drawing attention.

But when you passed under the archway and into the hall, the tables were nearly empty, the clatter of cutlery replaced by the murmurs of lingering students finishing their meals.

"Goddamnit." You sigh and turn away, running through the empty halls to your first class—herbology.

It was one of, if not your favourite, classes. Not because you were particularly skilled at it—though you held your own—but because there was something undeniably grounding about it.

Herbology didn't demand the sharp, cold precision of Potions or the focus on mastering your wand in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Instead, it was alive. The plants didn't care who you were or if you spoke too little. They didn't ignore you. They simply grew. If you tended them well, they thrived; if you neglected them, they withered. It was a relationship you understood.

It was also the class you needed the most to become the healer you wanted, along with potions, of course. Though Slughorn's class was one that never adhered to your skills, never bent the way plants did. Slughorn, for his part, tended to show blatant favoritism, like Dumbledore.

However, under his chirpy mood lay a strictness that demanded more focus, and his instructions could be quite... nonsensical most times. It didn't make sense how students like Riddle just knew what ingredients to use, its metrics precisely, to make potions sometimes even better than Slughorn himself. It earned him the title of teacher's pet, though Tom made no effort to earn the professor's favor.

You gulped thickly as you reached the wooden door. It made a creaking sound, and once you opened it, the scene was one straight out of your nightmares.

Every eye was on you.

This never happened—you never caught any attention, and you did everything so meticulously that no one would. Why were you becoming so careless? It didn't make sense; you still craved the quietness. The invisibility. It was all part of the plan that was written on the stars the first time you entered the wizarding world.

The students' eyes weighed down on you as you quietly walked to the only seat available, on the back, next to...You turned beside you, and it was Ophelia Lestrange.

Her eyes were on you again, noticing you just like that one time during dinner. She smirked and whispered, "Late, are we?"

You didn't answer, and instead, opened your herbology book quietly with slightly trembling hands as Professor Sprout continued the lesson. The eyes of students finally shifted toward something more interesting than an unknown girl arriving late in class.

Your quill scratched lightly against the page as you tried to keep your head down, copying the diagram Professor Sprout had charmed onto the board. The earthy smell of damp soil and crushed leaves filled the greenhouse, usually a comfort to you, but today it only made the air feel heavier.

You could feel a pair of green eyes on you, and you looked at the culprit. "What?"

Ophelia Lestrange's smirk widened. Her chin propped lazily on one hand as she sighed, "Oh, nothing," she said, voice dripping with mock innocence. "Just curious. You don't usually make an entrance."

"Not that it's any of your business," You tightened your grip on the quill, eyes flicking back to your parchment, "but I overslept."

Ophelia hummed, "Well, it's a good thing you're next to me in this class. I could use some quiet. I was getting tired of Arthur's constant attempt to charm me. It's cute that he thinks he has a chance with me." Ophelia huffs as if it were the most preposterous thing in the world.

Ophelia was a beautiful, cunning woman, and everyone knew that—especially the boys. Most either crushed on her or Darya, and Arthur Greene, the Gryffindor keeper, was no exception. He was an American exchange student from Ilvermorny, and like many guys in Hogwarts, looked at Ophelia with rose coloured glasses.

Ophelia, though, never really paid any mind to the love letters on her desk or the roses each man wanted to give her. She never gave any boy the attention they craved, and that made them want to take the challenge even more.

You couldn't understand it; their fascination with trying to claim her. She showed them she was interested, and that only motivated them to try harder. The same was for Darya. However, Ophelia was notorious for blatantly ignoring advances; Darya, to her end, was known to coldly reject and humiliate anyone who tried.

Professor Sprout's voice cut through the earthy hush of the greenhouse.

"All right, everyone—pair up. We're working with Venomous Tentacula today, and I expect you to keep all your fingers intact by the end of class."

You kept your gaze low, avoiding saying anything, hoping Ophelia would just ignore you, like she did the day before. But to your dismay, you heard her voice again, "Guess we're together. I should tell you, I'm quite bad at herbology. Honestly, I don't even know why it's a discipline. It's so...useless, really." Ophelia sighed and dragged her seat to be nearer to you. "It doesn't deserve my expertise."

"It's not useless." You simply said, and she huffed in reply. "And it certainly requires a level of attention—every sten, every petal, every root, is precious to its own life. You need to tend it with caution and—"

"Gosh, didn't know you were such a bore. Keep talking like that, and I might prefer Arthur's boring American stories to dealing with you nerding out about plants." Ophelia said mockingly, and you could only roll your eyes. You kept your mouth shut; you didn't have the patience or energy to form a reply, though all you did was beg Merlin to stop this torture. So much for being 'friends'.

Your fault for ever believing, for even a second, such a blatant lie.

Her green eyes then shifted, and she chuckled bitterly, "Ah, of course Darya's already claiming her place at Tom Riddle's side." Ophelia rolled her eyes, "She said she was going to ask him out yesterday, but I guess she chickened out. Pathetic, honestly."

Your eyes moved to that familiar jet black hair, and his face was the same as it always was—cold and impassive. Observing him long enough, you could gather that his face could never hold any emotion for long.

Darya shifted her seat closer to him as she babbled about something Tom was not paying attention to. His eyes were distant, his thoughts elsewhere, but it seemed Darya didn't watch him like you did and stayed oblivious.

Your eyes lingered on Tom for a fraction too long—long enough for Ophelia to notice.

"Staring at Tom again, are we?" she said, a sly grin curling her lips. "You should give up already, honestly. He never looks at anyone—he'd never look at you."

You sighed in annoyance, "I don't want him to." You stopped taking notes of the diagram and slid your book inside your bag. "Honestly, do you always talk this much?"

Ophelia narrowed her eyes, "Do you always talk this little?"

"Yes. I do." You muttered under your breath as you prepared the table for the spiky, hungry plant that was about to come. "Now, do you know how to tend to a Venomous Tentacula?"

"What do you think I am? A moron? I am not Stephen Longbottom, as you can clearly see." Ophelia scoffed and narrowed her eyes, "You should know I'm one of the best students in this damn school—"

"One of." You reply without taking your eyes off the table you cleaned, "Not the." Your eyes flicker toward Tom's back and Darya beside him, who still didn't stop talking. Truly, you never saw her talk this much—she usually had either her signature cold smirk or was out and about cursing Muggle-borns with her friend group.

Ophelia's eye twitched, "You insolent little–"

"Now, students, each of you shall grab a Venomous Tentacula," Professor Sprout announced, clapping her hands to pull attention back to the front. The large wooden crates beside her creaked as the lids slid open, revealing the writhing vines that didn't waste any time and immediately lashed outward, hungry for a target.

The classroom filled with a chorus of nervous shuffling, a few gasps. A loud yelp when a vine nearly snagged Stephen Longbottom's sleeve, the first victim of the plant's aching teeth. Ophelia's lips curved into a cruel smirk as the class filled with laughter, "See? You truly think I have that level of idiocy? Even the plants can—"

You ignored Ophelia's nonsensical babbling and walked toward the end of the classroom where each tantactula writhed slowly, their vines moving with precision, waiting for a vulnerable prey to satiate their hunger.

"Careful, they can sense fear," Professor Sprout warned, wand raised to keep the Tentacula at bay. "Remember what we learned in class, everyone. You all need to learn about these beauties for your N.E.W.T.S, and what better practice than learning hands-on?!"

A few hesitant students hissed as the plants aggressively thrashed towards them, confusing them for easy prey, and the sound of wood scraping against stone filled the greenhouse. You tightened your grip on your wand and swallowed the tension rising in your chest.

Ophelia strutted after you and, with far more confidence than reason, her long hair swinging as she snatched her gloves and tugged them on with a flourish. "Oh, didn't you say you were the herbology master, darling? " she smirked with the cockiness of a master.

Professor Sprout's voice rang clear above the chaos, "Firm hands, calm movements! They respond poorly to hesitation!"

"Hear that?" She whispered, and her smirk widened as she shoved you backward, "Watch and learn why I'm one of Hogwarts' best students."

She grabbed her vine with gloved hands, forcing it down against the table. She chuckled in confidence, but something about it was fake, and the plant could sense it, too—her stiff shoulders, the tremble on her breath she desperately tried to hide, and the way her chuckle bordered on something else.

In a sudden lash, its vine coiled around her wrist and yanked. Ophelia shrieked, stumbling forward as the teeth on its stem snapped dangerously close to her face. "Ah, ah, fuck! Get this nasty thing off of me!"

"Ophelia!" Professor Sprout cried, raising her wand, but you were faster. You didn't think; you only raised the wand in your hand in a swift movement. For the first time in forever, you didn't think of the repercussions of your actions, of the weight of eyes on your figure. You acted on instinct and whispered an incantation under your breath so fast, no student even flinched. The vine recoiled, smoking slightly where the magic seared its bark. Ophelia tumbled backward onto the floor, pale and breathless, her eyes wide with shock.

Students gasped; nothing of the sort had ever happened to the Ophelia Lestrange. She was a statue of reverence, of posture and confidence; girls envied and boys sought her for dates. She didn't miscalculate, nor did things not usually go the way she so intended. Nor did unknown girls like you ever save her.

Reality washed over you like a bucket of ice-cold water, and you instantly looked at the scene before you. Attention was all over your stubbed figure. Oxygen slipped out of your lungs, and their weight gripped your tongue so tight all you could do was stare, unmoving, at your own nightmare.

You searched for that ominous shadow again, to ground you into knowing this was only a part of a reality inside your mind. That none of this was flesh and bone. But no avail.

This was real, and you could feel bile ruining your throat.

You could hear the faint sound of murmurs, widened eyes, and ripples of gasps, but two figures were unmoving. Unflinching.

Darya stared at Ophelia with a malicious smirk on her face, her eyes looking down at the Slytherin with a mockery laced with a deep meaning. As if she won a silent battle.

Your eyes then found his familiar dark ones, those that haunted her thoughts—those that were the reason for her mind's unwillingness to shut down. For once, no one paid attention to Tom, and he knew it. His lips curled into a menacing smirk, one only meant for your eyes. His deep chocolate eyes glinted with a darkness that made your spine tremble.

Within all pairs of eyes on you, his was the heaviest. The darkest. The darkest diamond in a sea of only gold.

You couldn't understand why his orbs found you only now, why they seemed to burn through the fog of faces, and find your unknown one. You couldn't decipher why they lingered.

You could never be of use to him—you were a silent breeze that had steps as light as a feather, wandering unnoticed through marble floors. You were a body in the background of those who held importance, like Riddle did. You were certainly not a part of the sacred, pure-blooded families that Tom seemed to save his interactions for.

The memory of the night before crept back unbidden, tightening around your chest.

This time, it wasn't a flicker that made you question if it was real or not. This time, he grabbed the advantage as no one seemed to pay attention to him, for once.

So he stared. Entirely. The way one studies an unsolvable enigma. The way you look at him under the fig tree during break times.

But the moment was gone within a second, as one student took the courage to break the thick silence. "Happens to the best of us. Welcome to the club." Stephen Longbottom reached out his hand toward Ophelia, and she growled in response and stood up by herself, leaving an embarrassed, red-cheeked Longbottom to retreat his friendly arm.

Ophelia's cheeks were blotched crimson, her breath still uneven as she straightened her robes with a furious snap of her wrists. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, eyes blazing like twin emerald fires as she hissed, "I don't need your stupid help, I can fend for myself—"

"Clearly," Darya muttered through a false cough, and you could see Ophelia's ears turning red, while students held their breath at their comment. Tension corrupted the air as the two women glared at each other, before Professor Sprout cleared her throat.

"Enough chatter! This is precisely why we practice, Miss Lestrange. Even skill means nothing without humility." The professor cleared her throat, "Thank you for your fast thinking, Ms...."

"Hawking." You murmured through a nervous breath, and for once in your life, a professor's eyes lingered on you, glinting with satisfaction.

The students scrambled to their respective seats, each one dealing with the plants with caution, taking Ophelia's incident as a lesson. You leaned in and grabbed one of the plants, trying to ignore the light twitches in your hand and the heavy gaze on your shoulders.

Your gloved fingers brushed over the slick, pulsating vine, and you forced your breathing to steady. Though they sometimes could evoke fear, plants were easy to understand—even aggressive ones like the one before you. They weren't like that by will, but by the circumstances of their environment and hunger for survival.

A twitch of nervousness was all it took to mistake you for prey, and so, you gripped the pot with a firmness you didn't know you had and led it to yours and Ophelia's table.

Ophelia, for once, stood in silence on her chair, her eyes fixed on the table. You cleared your throat and placed the tentacula in front of you both. Ophelia's gaze fixed sharply onto you, and she growled out, "Don't you ever do that shit again, you hear me?"

You blinked, pulse still hammering from before, "I merely helped you, Ophelia. If I didn't do anything, the tentacula was going to rip your face off." You crossed your arms, "You should know by now arrogance will get you nowhere."

Ophelia's pupils were so sharp, one movement, you were sure they would cut you like a knife. "I don't need help, I can do it myself." She snarled and stood up, "You do that shit again? You can expect to be promoted from friends to enemies."

You sighed, but kept your mouth shut. You didn't need a smart response to lead you to become a target to Ophelia—some people couldn't see past the fog of their own ego, and you didn't waste energy trying to force clarity in their minds.

And, of course, were you to try, you would become a target of her bitterness; it would certainly make you more visible than you already were after the tentacula incident moments ago.

Ophelia tossed her hair over her shoulder and flipped a switch inside her mind, her voice conspiratorial once more, filling your ears with nonsensical blabber. "Anyway," she chirped, "did you notice how Longbottom nearly tripped over his own feet trying to be chivalrous? Disgusting. Touching his slimy hand would certainly give me boogers."

You ignored her as she kept on ranting your ears off, and focused on tending to the tentacula before you. Every stem, every root, crippled with life and movement. The wild plant soothed under your firm touch, allowing you to wrap it up in dirt and water it after.

The lesson went on smoothly, yet whispers lingered around the room—of Ophelia's incident, of Longbottom's pathetic attempt at being a saviour, and how Darya and Riddle seemed to work on the tentacula in an uneasily smooth together. It was like the tentacula was a slave and they were their master; however, you knew whose doing it was, and it certainly wasn't Darya. She didn't have his commanding presence, an aura that demanded attention and obedience. Though everyone seemed to think it was a shared effort, Tom didn't seem to bother to correct them and solely continued to tend the plant with an eerie calmness.

Thankfully, talk of you vanished faster than a blow of a candle, and you were grateful for it. Better to be blown off than burn to your end under their judgmental whispers.

After such a storm of events, classes, luckily, unfolded seamlessly until finally, the last subject of the day came. Potions.

This time, there was no green-eyed Slytherin gossiping beside you. She, of course, avoided you for the rest of the day, blending into the crowd, and like everyone else, ignored your presence. As if your existence didn't exist in her life.

You were relieved, of course, after the horror in herbology, of that daytime nightmare of having people's attention on you, people asking themselves who you were, you couldn't afford her weighing presence next to you. Whispers would fly faster than an owl, questions about who you were and what you were doing with Ophelia would spark.

One spark was enough for a fire to spread.

A torment would then ensue. The dark shadows of your dreams would come alive to haunt you in reality, and not be stuck inside your mind anymore.

You would lose the power of observation, of slipping under everyone else's radar. And you couldn't have that. It would disrupt the vines you so carefully constructed around you—dismantle the plans you so carefully created for your future.

Slughorn was going on his usual lecture on how potions were a mastery selected for a few, but then one part caught your attention, "And by next week, we will have a test on your potion skills. It will be a one-hour evaluation of every ingredient we learned this year, and of course, one extra unknown one. If any of you get it right, then, well, you will get my personal congratulations."

The room erupted in the usual groans and sighs. Some students scribbled furiously in their notes, others slumped back in defeat at the very thought of another test for another lesson, and in the worst subject of all—potions. However, most students' eyes glinted in ambition at the thought of perhaps becoming a member of the elusive slug club, which only existed through whispers in the school's hallways and after-hours gossiping sessions in the common rooms.

Being a member meant being the best, and everyone wanted to shine the brightest.

You, however, only groaned internally at the thought of an evaluation. You already had N.E.W.T.S. coming at the end of the school year, the one evaluation that would set you on toward your planned future—you didn't need Slughorn's crazy tests to add to the mixture.

Slughorn chuckled and tapped his cane twice against the flagstones. "Don't fret! The goal is not perfection. Potions are a form of art, a way to express yourself and create something extraordinary out of the ordinary. I want to see your instincts—your creativity—how you think when you don't have all the answers." Slughorn grinned and, finally, started the lesson.

Slughorn's voice boomed again, this time, holding a small green transparent glass in his hand. "Now, does anyone know what I am holding here?"

Some students raised their hands, and Slughorn pointed toward Ophelia, "Veritaserum, sir."

Slughorn smiled and walked toward Ophelia's desk, "Ah, well done, Ms Lestrange. 5 points to Slytherin!"

Ophelia let out a smug grin, and Darya stared at her with clear, burning envy. It was known that Darya had never entered the Slug Club, the only female member being Ophelia. No one understood why—both women had similar outstanding skills, and every professor seemed to shower both with the same amount of praise. Except Slughorn.

"This is Veritaserum — a Truth Potion so powerful that three drops would have you spilling your innermost secrets for this entire class to hear." The professor went to the other side of the class, eyeing each student with a twinkle in his eye. "Unfortunately, none of you shall see use for the fruits of your labour today, as this potion is strictly controlled by the Ministry. However, you do need to know its ingredients precisely for your N.E.W.T.S. And, of course, your evaluation next week." Slughorn chuckled. "Now, turn your books to page 51, and start!"

Students scurried away from their seats in order to try and gather the necessary ingredients. The cupboards groaned as jars of roots, powders, and dried herbs were pulled down in a frenzy, each person grabbing the needed ingredients as said in the book.

You moved slowly, careful not to be swept into the current of scrambling classmates. Keeping to the edges, you searched the shelves with steady hands, preferring to observe which jars were taken too quickly and which ones remained untouched. The potion demanded an art of observation even you hadn't mastered yet.

From the corner of your eye, you caught his figure again. It seemed to pull you in, no matter what he did. He stood apart from the chaos, unaffected by the rush of bodies around him. What caught your eye, though, was how he was gathering different ingredients than everyone else, meticulously picking them apart and carrying them in his hands.

You narrowed your eyes—Tom Riddle never went against instructions, against the rules so meticulously ingrained within Hogwarts' walls. Or perhaps, your art of observation was not as advanced as you thought it was.

But that couldn't be possible—your watching skills were up to par with the hands of DaVinci when he painted. You had the eyes of an astronomer charting each star in the night sky. You noticed patterns. You lived off of details. And Tom's movements didn't fit the pattern.

You grabbed the ingredients the book so clearly said, and strolled quietly toward your seat at the back. You had no wit to diverge from the book's clear rules like Tom had—not that you knew how to, anyway—but your gaze never left a certain Slytherin's back. Normally, you would go for flickers at a time, a soft kind of watching, so no one would feel that eerie sense that someone was watching them. But this time, you were like a hawk behind him, not paying enough attention to how heavy your gaze could be.

You followed the book's instructions step by step, though it was nearly impossible to catch some ingredients. The rose thorns poked the sensitive skin of your fingertips, the peppermint made your, and many other students', noses itch, and the rose petals Slughorn had provided looked faint, almost begging for their death.

You stirred your potion with caution, but it didn't turn transparent like it needed to. Instead, a purple hue glanced at you mockingly. How could your potions never turn out like—

"Tom, m'boy!" Everyone looked up at Slughorn's voice, who walked toward a still Tom Riddle with his signature impassive face and hands behind his back.

"Merlin's Beard, it is perfect!" Slughorn leaned over the cauldron with unrestrained awe, "I have never had a student able to brew Veritaserum this flawlessly—it's up to par with the Ministry itself!". Slughorn clapped his hands, "15 points to Slytherin."

A wave of whispers overflowed through the room. Eyes swiveled, some gleaming with envy, others with admiration, and most Slytherins had a competitive grin on their face. You, however, stood with your lips parted, your mind's signals stopping their function. You couldn't fathom how he knew what ingredients to deviate, how to use them with such precision that it was as easy as breathing.

Slughorn, then, continued making comments and checking each student's potion, and of course, none up to par with Tom's brewing. Slughorn gave a few points here and there, post notably to Ophelia and not Darya, whose potion had a tad of colour, according to the Professor.

Darya kept her composure, of course, replying that she would become better, though Slughord nodded awkwardly. You, though, could see the twitch in her hands, the subtle, yet poisoned, gaze at the green-eyed Slytherin beside her.

Class ended, and Tom quickly closed a black book he held in his hands and put it inside his bag. Your eyes furrowed—wasn't that one of Slughorn's class books? Why was he carrying one with him? You were supposed to hand it over after class, just like every other student. And he always did so, faster than others—he never stole school property.

His case was a mystery set for decades, and you were transforming into an obsessed detective. But you knew such curiosity could lead to your demise—an obsession with Tom could lead to vines spreading to each witch or wizard's ears, whispering your name.

Not to mention, you didn't want a repeat of the night before. You couldn't have his somber eyes on you again, gripping the air you breathed with one single look. His and his clique's attention was a death you were certainly hoping to avoid. Metaphorically, of course.

And so, you headed to the great hall with curiosity, punching inside the prison you forced it into, trying to bleed inside your body like a virus.

After lunch in familiar loneliness, you headed to the library, an hour or so before curfew. You needed to study for Slughorn's exam next week—you knew if you didn't, your grades would wither away and you would then only have scrambled flowers for the graveyard of your dreams.

The library was a cathedral of silence at this hour, the perfect place for a soul like yours. Most students were either in the common room socializing with their established friends, and first-years were taking tours of castle grounds with that glimmer of innocent awe in their faces. It was rare to find feet roaming the library so early into the year—it was only the second day, and no normal student with a social life would even dare to enter the library at this point.

Only those peculiar odd like you stepped inside the library with eager feet. The library was the only one that welcomed those with a shade of grey in their eyes with open arms.

Here, they existed.

The librarian's sharp gaze lifted from her desk as you entered. Her name was Madam Irma Pince—she was known to be strict, a no-nonsense kind of woman. And was particularly guarded of the restricted section.

She was one of the few people, if not the only one before this year, who picked you out in the shadows. To her, your face wasn't a blur in the background. And it was comforting to be known without malice in another's eyes, have an attention that didn't send shivers of terror through your spine.

The librarian nodded as you entered, but she did not smile. She didn't need to. The look of recognition was more of a conversation than any words could make.

You slipped into the stacks, the air cooler here, perfumed with ink and the faint musk of leather binding. Your fingers brushed across rows of titles, your mind busy reciting them all inside your head—Potions Compendium for the Practicing Alchemist, Advanced Elixirs of the 19th Century, Theories of Metamorphic Mixtures.

"These are too advanced for you."

You knew that deep, baritone voice anywhere. You heard it in your dreams, in your daytime nightmares, and whenever curiosity tried to spark a fire inside you enough to follow it. But now, well, it seemed his deep chocolate eyes were the ones following you.

Your lips turned dry within the second you lifted your head to meet his eyes, a ghost of grey flashing through his pupils. His face was as impassive as always, but this time it wasn't an act, a mask for people's eyes that always seemed to find him through the crowd.

"Excuse me?" You huffed as your fingers left the books, your attention fixing on his demanding figure.

Tom didn't flinch, "I said, those are too advanced for you."

You narrowed your eyes. Your body screamed for you to find an excuse to flee, avoid the cherry wave of attention. An earthquake like Tom Riddle would swallow you, but you couldn't ignore the diesel inside your stomach, rumbling. Aching to let curiosity spark a fire.

And with the next words, you sealed your fate, "And what do you mean by that?"

[wintrsoul]

TWO OF A KIND

a parent trap inspired au

Summary: Who would have thought that sending your son to a summer camp would lead to an unexpected reunion with someone you had sworn you don’t want to see anymore?

Pairings: James Potter x reader

chapters:

chapter i

chapter ii

chapter iii

chapter iv

chapter v

chapter vi

chapter vii

chapter viii

chapter ix

chapter x

chapter xi

chapter xii

chapter xiii

end

in case u want to be tagged

[ro-rosie]

【Ｔｈｅ　Ｂｅｓｔ　Ｙｅａｒｓ】

𝖥𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗑 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝖩𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖯𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗌: 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗌, 𝗋𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖫𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗌; 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌; 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖲𝗅𝗒𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗉𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾-𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖩𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗄𝖾𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝗈𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝖽-𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗍-𝖻𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌. 𝖨𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝖾 (𝖩𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 → 𝖸𝗈𝗎): 𝖫𝗂𝗅𝗒’𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽. 𝖲𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗍. 𝖤𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝖠𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗒. 𝖯𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗌 𝖨’𝗆 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽. 𝖠𝖼𝖼𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 — 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝖾.

james potter x fem!reader | series masterlist

a/n | this is my first time ever writing and posting so please go easy on me

⸻

Fall term

⸻

Mid-September. Pre-season chatter is rabid; Gryffindor and Slytherin both return stacked. Dorian Flint (fifth-year loudmouth; walks like fouls don’t apply to him) is holding court by the Transfiguration classroom, pontificating about “how to crack Gryffindor’s air game,” misquoting stats so badly the gargoyle looks offended.

You round the corner carrying three books and a roll of parchment. Flint finishes a flourish: “…and if their Chasers keep telegraphing cross-pitch reversals like last year—”

You cut in without stopping. “Gryffindor cross reversals only telegraphed in matches with crosswind above eleven knots; when wind dropped, conversion jumped nine percent and your Keeper still ate grass. Maybe check wind flags before you brag.”

Flint sputters. “Who asked—?”

“You’re citing an inverted spread from the Prophet junior column; their reporter tracked Snitch time, not ring pressure. Useless metric for Chaser lines.” You shift your grip on the books, glance past him, and — only then — see James leaning in the doorway, frozen halfway through a hair rake, grinning like he’s been clubbed in the head.

You tilt your chin in greeting. “Potter.”

“Hi,” he says far too late.

You disappear down the stairs.

Sirius arrives at his shoulder. “You alright, Prongs?”

James: “She…knows wind percentages.”

“Right. And?”

“I think I need to re-evaluate my entire life.”

⸻

The Gryffindor common room after midnight is a different country. Banners droop; sparks settle; the roaring House becomes a breathing one. You come down for the Arithmancy text you left by the hearth and find James still awake, sock-footed, sprawled sideways in an armchair that’s losing stuffing.

He startles. “Merlin’s—! Thought you were McGonagall.”

“You’d be in detention already,” you say, rescuing your book from beneath abandoned Chocolate Frog wrappers. “Why are you still up?”

He scrubs a hand through already chaotic hair. “Can’t sleep. Playbook in my head keeps running loops.” His eyes flick to your book spine. “Nonlinear dimensional collapse? Light reading.”

“Helps me sleep.”

He tips forward, elbows to knees. “You knew Flint misread ring pressure.”

“He was loud and wrong.”

“You track stats?”

“I glance,” you lie.

“Don’t lie,” he counters with a knowing smirk. “You track numbers, don’t you? Wind. Conversion. Keeper save ratios.”

You hold his gaze. “Why do you care?”

“Because no one outside the team speaks that language.” A pause, softer: “Because you saw something I didn’t.”

You should leave. Instead you sit on the hearth rug, back to warm stone, and open your book. After thirty seconds, James tips his chair forward so he can read over your shoulder.

“Are those matrix proofs?”

“Yes.”

“Are you enjoying that?”

“Yes.”

“Terrifying,” he murmurs.

“Live with it.”

A beat. “Hey.”

You sigh. “Yes, Potter?”

“Thanks for not telling me to shove off.”

You allow a ghost of a smile he somehow catches. “Read quietly.”

He tries.

⸻

Next morning, Lily corners you at the breakfast table.

“James says you destroyed Flint with wind data.”

“I corrected him,” you say.

“Same thing.” Lily lowers her voice. “You like James?”

“I like the data. He’s sloppy off the left loop.”

She blinks. “You watch that closely?”

“Of course I watch that closely.” You stab a sausage. “He’s the only Chaser who attempts a three-pass spiral in crosswind. It’s foolish and brilliant.”

Lily’s grin virus-spreads. “You like James.”

You roll your eyes. “He’s… a handful.” A pause. “But a talented handful.”

“In third year, he wrote your name in three different stairwells,” you remind her. “That’s not exactly ancient history.”

“People still bring it up?” Lily asks, amused.

“Sometimes.”

She leans back, unconcerned. “Then they’ll learn new songs.” She bumps your shoulder. “If you want them to.”

⸻

James invites “anyone bored” to open practice three days later, but you know he means you. Sleet ticks off brooms; wind lashes sideways; the stands are a graveyard of wrapped scarves. You go anyway, tucked under the awning with Lily, quill hidden in your mitten, sketching passing lanes on scrap parchment every time he cycles left.

James flies harder when he knows you’re watching; you can see it in the precision of his feints, in the way he checks flags before committing to a drive. He still overcorrects in heavy crosswind — too wide a compensatory arc; leaves the far hoop exposed to block-cuts — but he adjusts faster than last season. He shouts something at Sirius mid-run and nails a blind backhand to McKinnon at center ring. Beautiful.

When break blows, he dives to your rail, mud-speckled and grinning.

“Verdict?” he calls.

“Crosswind too wide,” you reply. “But your blind backhand was decent. Who set that drill?”

“Me,” he says, beaming.

“Get wind under twelve knots and try again,” you add, and hold up your parchment sketch. “Your lane collapses here.”

He stares at the diagram like it’s parchment gold. “You’re coming to strategy tonight.”

“I have Arithmancy homework.”

“Bring it. We’ll convert the pitch grid to data frames.”

“Potter, are you flirting via quantified lane pressure?”

“Yes,” he says. “Is it working?”

Lily chuckles into her scarf.

⸻

Two nights later James returns the Arithmancy text he borrowed. A folded scrap slips free and drifts to the floor. He reaches; you reach faster — but not before he sees the column headings in your cramped hand:

Match | Wind (kts) | Potter Loop Drift (m) | Ring Conv% | Assist Chain | Notes.

Three seasons. Every game.

You snatch it. “Private.”

He’s speechless. Then: “You’ve been tracking me since — third year?”

“Second,” you admit, mortified. “I like numbers.”

He looks like you handed him the Quidditch Cup. “You cared when I was rubbish.”

“You were never rubbish,” you say. “Undisciplined. Loud. But not rubbish.”

He brushes a thumb over where you’d written good rescue / brave pass.

“That’s what you noticed?”

“It was worth noticing,” you say.

His grin is quick and bright. “Guess I’ll have to give you more to write down.”

You fold the scrap away. “Try not to get sloppy doing it.”

⸻

That night you come down for water and find James asleep in the same armchair, parchment spread across his chest: Gryff Chaser Passing — wind cross adjustments. 

Your margin note — stop overcorrecting — is underlined three times.

You tuck a blanket over him and leave.

Sometime before dawn, half-asleep, he catches the blanket edge and pulls it up under his chin.

⸻

END CHAPTER ONE