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.
ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ 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.
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
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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 ♡
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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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hey you! want to get tagged in my work when it comes out? click here! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧
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.
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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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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
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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.”
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hey you! want to get tagged in my work when it comes out? click here! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧
⭑ 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?"
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?
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.
time for 🍯 anon to humbly offer you a fic request 🙌🙌 could we pls get a fic with honestly any of the marauders where the reader is ‘like family, or a sister to them’ until their like oh shit, im not being protective and concerned, im getting possessive 🥴 this may be so stupid, but what can i say i like em a bit jealous lmao
So, um, I really really really leaned into building the "like family". I have no regrets. ❤︎ I am 100% posting this after I should be asleep but I got to the point were I was so close to finishing this that I said I had to push through.
I really, really hope y'all enjoy ❤︎
'Don't worry about me'
James Potter x fem!reader
20.2k words
cw: fluff, pining, Y/N, slow burn (its 20K, what did you expect), mentions of sexual favors/activites
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky as Madam Weekes walked down the middle of two rows of first years. Voices repeated the command “Up!” Your broom had instantly risen to your hand. Your wide grin showed only a fraction of how you felt. Many of your friends frowned as their brooms remained stationary on the ground; a few of the brooms rolled around, but none were rising like yours had.
“Command your broom. An even, steady voice does it. All together now, up.”
Around you, some brooms rose half up before falling again. You just held onto your broom with pride blooming in your chest as how naturally your broom rose and how right it felt in your hand. Once everyone had their brooms in hand, Madam Weekes explained the next step: kicking up to hover for a few seconds and then landing. It was so simple. Too simple.
Four boys walked on the path towards the castle. Sirius nudged James and pointed to the open area where your flying lesson was taking place.
“I think they’re ‘bout to take flight. Shall we watch? See how many fall off?”
“Remus, Peter, wait. Some firsties are trying out brooms.”
Remus and Peter stopped walking, turning back to the two darker haired boys. Then their attention was directed to the field. You, along with a handful of other students, easily pushed off the ground, hovered and touched back down as instructed. Madam Weekes walked to the other end of the group. Some students needed additional instructions.
“Who dares me to fly a loop around the field?” you asked your friends.
They exchanged wary glances.
“Madam Weekes hasn’t given us permission to fly again,” one of your friends, Natalie, said.
“It’s called a dare, Nat,” you said dryly. “Well, I dare myself and I can’t turn down a dare.”
Smirking, you remount your broom and kick off, rising higher than any of your classmates had. You leaned forward and sped off. It took you hardly any time to complete the lap. Madam Weekes looked furious as you made your descent.
“Miss L/N!” she hollered. She had to keep an external image of anger at your brazen disobedience, no matter how impressive your lap was being that you are a first year on a wimpy school broom.
“I know, I know,” you said dismissively. “Detention. But, be honest, how was I?”
Madam Weekes’ frown deepened. “Tomorrow night with Professor McGonagall.” A pause. “You need to adjust your grip. Allows for better steering. You looked a little shaky. That’ll get better with getting to know a specific broom.”
“Girl’s got nerve,” Sirius muttered with his arms crossed.
“Not bad though. You know those brooms are rubbish,” James said. “Bet she’ll be on the quidditch team within a few years.”
“Come on!” Remus said with some urgency. “Flitwick is going to have our heads.”
The boys headed inside to the lesson they were now very late for.
Madam Weekes kept a closer eye on you for the rest of the lesson, although you found that pointless. You weren’t an idiot. You weren’t going to just take off again. Despite that, you talked to her after the lesson was over about the grip adjustments she mentioned earlier.
A few days later, there was a notice on the bulletin board for quidditch tryouts, all positions. None of your friends wanted to try out with you so you went alone. You walked with a handful of older students down the pitch.
The captain instructed everyone to stand in lines for each position, from oldest to youngest. That put James standing right in front of you in the Chaser line. He hadn’t thought about you since that flying lesson, not that he knew you were the one who took the unauthorized lap being how far away he was and the fact that he can’t tell first year from first year.
“I’m James Potter,” he said, extending a hand to you. “You’re a first year?”
“Yup. Y/N L/N.”
“You know first years never make the team, right?”
“I know.” You shifted your school broom from one shoulder to the other. “I want to get on the captain’s radar for next year.”
“Good luck then.”
“Thanks. You too.”
The captain started tryouts. The older student directed drill after drill, observing everyone’s flying abilities and reflexes. Surprising everyone but yourself, you held your own among the older students. The captain noticed how you didn’t seem intimidated at all.
He approached you after he dismissed everyone. He had his clipboard tucked under his arm. You were putting the school broom away.
“I’m glad you tried,” he said, leaning against the lockers. “You’re good. But, you have to understand, I can’t put a first year on the team.”
You nodded. “I know. Next year.” You smiled at him.
“Let me tell you something though. If something unexpected happens and we need another player midseason, you’re the first o ne I’m talking to.”
Your face lit up. “Serious?”
“I said you were good. You’re damn good. I’ll see you here next year.”
You couldn’t wipe the smile from your face. It was a success. You were beaming the entire way back to Gryffindor Tower. Your friends thought you had made the team with how happy you are.
“So you’re not on the team?” Eleanor asked.
“No. First years don’t make the team.”
“Then why… all this?”
“Because Sean, the captain, basically said I’m on the team next year.”
“Right, okay,” Natalie laughed.
Later in the week, Sean posted the team’s roster. James and Marlene made the team as chasers. James acted like it was the obvious choice to put him on the team; it kind of was but he didn’t need to act that way.
You don’t interact much with James, not really. You would see him in the common room, messy hair and filthy glasses, always surrounded by friends. You would see him at quidditch practices. You watched every one, morning or evening, rain or shine. You were there, observing and mentally taking notes. The most you talked to him was mornings before quidditch matches. You’d wish him good luck at breakfast and he’d say thanks. But you and James don’t talk. You’re just always there, waiting for your turn on the team.
You still fly though. You checked out a school broom from time to time and flew laps around the pitch. You practiced drills by yourself. Being in the air helped clear your brain when school got to be too much.
James saw you a few times. Sometimes you’d be on a broom before or after his practice. Sometimes you’d already be at the pitch when he was going to do the same thing: go for a fly to clear his head. Great minds think alike, he’d think before going to fly elsewhere around the castle.
---
Coming back to Hogwarts for your second year, you first saw James at the Gryffindor table during the Welcome feast. You waved to him, not knowing if he’d remember you from the times you wished him good luck. He gave you a brief wave.
“Who you wavin’ to?” Peter asked, leaning forward over his plate and looking down the table.
“I think her name is… nope. I don’t remember,” James said. “She’s the one who told me good luck before every match last year. Think she’s first year who tried out for the team.”
“You don’t know your fan’s name?” Remus asked with eyebrows raised.
“I think she’s a fan of quidditch, not me.”
“Sure, mate,” Peter said.
Like all of last year, you don’t interact with James unless it’s quidditch related. Which means you don’t talk to him until quidditch tryouts two weeks into the school year. Sean had everyone line up by position in descending age out, just like last year. You stood behind James with your new personal broom in hand. It wasn’t top of the line, but it was decent. You had begged your parents all summer for one – really, you had been asking for one since last year’s tryouts.
“You know no spots opened up, right?” James asked with a certain degree of condescension to his voice.
James, Marlene and the now seventh year who were the chasers last year were all in line again.
“Scared I’m going to replace you?” you asked, cocking an eyebrow. You exuded confidence.
“As if,” he scoffed before turning back around.
James knew you were pretty good. He remembered how last year you watched every practice and flew around the pitch in your free time. He just completely believed that he was better. Plus, James had one thing over: he was on the team last year.
A loud whistle got everyone’s attention. Sean stood in the middle of the pitch.
“Give it your all. Show me you want to be on this team. It doesn’t matter if you made the team last year. It’s a new year. Impress me.”
You swore you saw him look your way and nod. No one’s spot was guaranteed. That meant any chaser spot was yours for the taking.
Sean ran the same drills as last year, ones you could run in your sleep. He marked down notes on every player. Somehow he would have to decide who made the squad and who would be in the stands. You were determined to not be in the stands this year.
Leaving the pitch after tryouts, you felt good. You didn’t drop the quaffle once and you had a decent time trial. Agility could use some work as well as bludger awareness. All you could do now was wait.
A few days later, Sean posted the team roster on the common room bulletin board.
“You’re kidding me!” Marlene yelled, frustration ringing in her voice.
It drew a few eyes. James peered over her shoulder at the pinned paper.
Chaser #1: Leo Stringer
Chaser #2: James Potter
Chaser #3: Y/N L/N
…
Reserve: Marlene McKinnon
“I’m reserve?”
“Better than not at all, right?” James said in an attempt to cheer her up.
He glanced toward where you were sitting with your friends at a table on the other side of the common room. You didn’t need to see the roster. You knew. You knew you made the team and Marlene’s reaction only confirmed it.
James wouldn’t admit it, but he was intrigued by you. ‘Scared I’m going to replace you?’ you had asked. He hadn’t thought you’d actually take a spot on the team that wasn’t reserve.
At the first team practice, you found Marlene before taking the field. “Hey, no hard feelings, right?”
Marlene had calmed down a bit since, but she still had to bite the inside of her cheek to not spew venom at you.
“Yeah. We’re good.” She stood up and slung an arm over your shoulder as she walked out of the locker room with you. “If you ever get too stressed or whatever, don’t feel bad about tapping out for a match. It’s what I’m here for.”
You had no intention whatsoever of tapping out. Although any adult would disagree with you, you believed you were a quidditch player first, then a student. Now that you’ve made the team, they’d have to take you kicking and screaming.
When you were in class, working on assignments or out on the pitch for practice, you were reading a quidditch-related book. Your friends joked that you took better notes on those books than for any of your classes. You rolled your eyes but you knew it was true.
James started noticing you more off of the pitch. You usually sat around the same spot in the Great Hall, always with your roommates. More often than not, you were finishing an assignment as you ate. In the common room, you liked putting a throw pillow behind your back as you sat on the floor reading. When you sat with your friends in the common room, it was at a table. Your friends were often playing some game like Exploding Snap or Wizards’ Chess; he never saw you playing yourself.
Then, there was you on the pitch. From the moment you kicked off the ground, you were focused and determined. You listened to Sean and Leo like a soldier receiving commands from a superior officer. He could tell that flying was an instinct for you. Your broom was another extremity of your body, much like it was for him.
“Good practice,” he said, putting away his broom after practice.
“Thanks. You too.”
James paused his movements as he watched you finish putting away your things. You still had a rather intense expression on your face, taking off your gloves and pads. Once you were done, James hurriedly did the same so that he could walk back to the tower with you.
“Feeling ready for the match this weekend?” he asked, hands shoved into his pockets.
It would be your first match. The first match of the season had already passed, Slytherin versus Hufflepuff. You’d be playing Ravenclaw.
“They don’t stand a chance against us,” you said easily.
He chuckled. “I know that. I was asking about you.”
You looked at him just in time to see him adjust his glasses and then run a hand through his hair in one fluid movement. You raised your eyebrows.
“I’ll be fine. Will you?” You asked it like it was a challenge.
He laughed again. “I’ll be good. Don’t you worry about me.”
You smirked and he smiled back at you. You weren’t going to worry about him. He had been on the team last year and you were confident in your abilities. Neither of you said anything more. Sean and the other beater were walking ahead of you and you tried to listen in on their conversation, but they weren’t discussing quidditch and you really didn’t care about their N.E.W.T. level Charms essay that was due tomorrow morning.
As you neared the portrait of the Fat Lady, James said, “Make sure you eat well. You’ll need your energy.”
His voice was even, steady and his words normal, but what he was telling you felt odd.
“I was planning on it,” you said flatly.
Sean had held open the portrait for you and James. You thanked Sean and gave James a tight-lipped smile before heading up the girls’ staircase towards your dorm.
“How was practice?” Veronica asked, barely looking up from her History of Magic textbook.
You sighed as you laid down on your bed without showering. “I’m so ready for an actual match. I’m almost tired of drills.”
“You’re tired of something related to quidditch?” Natalie gasped.
“I said almost.”
Your first official quidditch match as a part of the Gryffindor team was an easy win. You, Leo and James scored point after point. Sean and the other beater did their job of protecting you and the keeper managed to deflect a few of Ravenclaw’s shots. Even though it wasn’t your job, you found yourself scanning for the snitch. You couldn’t catch it yourself but maybe you could prevent the other seeker from getting to it first. It turned out that you didn’t need to worry. The Gryffindor seeker was more than capable, getting to the snitch and catching before the Ravenclaw seeker even caught a glimpse of it.
You found yourself sitting in a circle of second and third years at the party after the win. Everyone had a bottle of butterbeer or pumpkin juice. The common room was alive. Music was playing from somewhere. Older students were dancing and drinking something stronger than butterbeer. There were multiple games of Exploding Snap and candy poker happening around the room.
The circle you were sitting in? Truth or dare.
“Nat, truth or dare,” Peter asked.
“Truth.”
“Boring!” Marlene said from between Sirius and Lily.
“Shut up,” Veronica snapped.
“Um, what’s the longest you’ve gone without brushing your teeth?”
Marlene threw her head back with a groan, earning a light smack on her arm by Lily.
“Probably… like three or four days?” Natalie said. “My family went to a cabin in the middle of nowhere. There was no running water.”
“Four days?” you asked with a laugh. “Must’ve had some bad breath.”
“You don’t want to know,” she said.
“Alright, Y/N, truth or date?” Sirius asked.
“Dare.” Your usual smirk was already plastered on your face.
“Bark like a dog until your next turn.”
You crossed your arms. Your face said it was too easy.
“Woof.”
Veronica was next and the game continued. As dares were completed and truths told, someone always ended up looking at you and asked something. You never slipped up.
“Woof,” you said. “Bark.”
Sirius got asked what was the stupidest reason he’s gotten detention. Marlene licked some firewood. Veronica got asked the color of her bedsheets at home and Peter the color of his underwear. Lucas, a boy from your year, had just refilled his butterbeer when Lily dared him to chug it. Eleanor had to let the person of her choosing, you, poke her face with their foot.
You were all giggles. The whole group was. After a few more rounds, it was James’ turn and you were asking.
“You know the drill, Potter.”
“Dare,” he said too-casually as he ruffled his own hair.
“Ask your crush on a date.”
The group went “Oooooh!” in unison.
It was juicy, essentially a two-in-one since you not only got to know who James’ crush was but he had to do something about it. You expected him to turn to Marlene, or maybe one of the older girls. Instead, he looked at Lily.
“Evans, what do you say? You, me butterbeers in Hogsmeade next weekend?”
She rolled her eyes. “You wish,” she said, colder than you expected from her.
She had always been so warm, bubbly and kind. The coldness didn’t seem to fit her, but given the expression on her face, she did not want to go on a date with James.
Remus clapped a hand on James’ shoulder.
“Better luck next time, mate,” he laughed.
And the game continued. No one lingered on your dare. No one brought up James being straight up rejected. No one rubbed it in his face. The group slowly dwindled as people finished their drinks and went to bed.
Between your dare and Remus saying “next time,” something awoke within James. That quidditch party was only the first time he asked Lily if she wanted to go out with him. You heard that he asked her in between classes a week or so later. You were there when he asked her during lunch some time after that, and in the common room even later.
She always said no. It didn’t stop him from trying.
A few weeks later, you noticed a change in James. You didn’t think it was from Lily rejecting him every time he asked her out. It wasn’t a confidence issue and that was coming from you. No. There was something else bothering him.
You saw it in the way he walked. The way he sat at the table during meals. The way he zoned out of conversations quicker. And in the way he flew. The most obvious proof that something was bugging him? James was distracted during quidditch practices. He missed passes thrown directly at him, dropped the quaffle multiple times and needed simple drills explained twice. He wasn’t in it.
You were at your locker after practice when Sean broke the news to James.
“Potter, hold up.”
You slowed your moving of your pads. You were nosy, but also worried that something was really wrong with James.
“Are you feeling alright? Stressed or something?” Sean asked.
“I…” James cleared his throat. “I’m good, Captain.”
“Right, then I hate to do this, but I’m taking you out of next match.”
“What?” James gasped in disbelief.
You felt that in your chest. You willed yourself to keep your gaze straight ahead.
“I’m sorry, but you’ve not been looking good during practice. You’re better than what you’ve been bringing to the pitch this week.” Sean sighed. “You’ll sit out one match.”
He patted James’ shoulder with a grim look and then left. Once Sean was far enough away, James swore and punched his locker. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t know if you should, not that you had any idea what to say. You understood where Sean was coming from, but you also knew that there was something else going on. You just didn’t know what.
You stood there a little bit longer before leaving. Any other practice you might’ve seen how close James was to being ready to head back so you could walk together. You had the feeling that James wouldn’t want any company today.
On Saturday, James couldn’t bring himself to sit in the stands for the match. He could spot Peter, Remus and Sirius in the stands as they cheered on the Gryffindor team. He was still watching the game himself, but he stood on the ground, just outside the pitch barrier. He cheered quietly every time you, Marlene or Leo scored. The three of you were doing amazing, moving in formation and passing flawlessly.
He was glad the game was going well; he wished it was him in the sky. He’s frustrated that he got himself grounded for a match, but how else was he supposed to react to finding out his roommate is a werewolf? That was quite a big reveal. It wasn’t like he could tell that to Sean to explain why he was out of it. He couldn’t tell anyone. So, yeah. He’s frustrated, but if sitting out one game is what it takes to keep Remus’ secret, he’d do it a million times over.
Throughout the match, you had scanned the stands for James. You knew he was upset about being benched, but you didn’t believe that he could actually miss a game. Then you spotted him on the ground. You figured that James would feel too weird being in the stands when Gryffindor was playing. When Gryffindor wins, you saw that James was still standing at the edge of the field. He wasn’t coming to join the on-field celebration. Sure, he hadn’t been a part of the win, but you thought he’d still celebrate with everyone. A Gryffindor win was a win for every Gryffindor.
The team hurried into the locker room with the promise of a party in the common room whenever they got up there. You put your broom away and took everything off. You stepped outside the locker room and saw James leaning against the wall. You stopped.
“James!”
“Hi,” he said monotonously.
“You waiting for someone?” Marlene had already left and it was only the keeper, Louis, left in the locker room.
He shook his head.
“Then you heading up to the common room?”
“Not yet.”
You stepped in front of James so that you weren’t blocking the door for Louis.
“Are you okay?” you asked.
He gave you a half-smile and lightly hit your shoulder with his knuckles, a barely-there playful jab. “Thought I told you you didn’t have to worry about me, Squirt.”
You crossed your arms and raised your eyebrows. “Squirt?”
“I’m good, really. Just going to run those agility drills Capt’ had us doing last practice. I’ll be up before you know it.”
You paused for a moment. You almost nodded and left him alone. Something kept you there.
“Do you want me to stay? I can do those with you, and then we could do some passing drills too?”
“Go enjoy the party,” James said with a more full smile. “You deserve it. You were good up there today.”
“Alright.”
James did show up at the party eventually. It was in full swing. He didn’t stay for long. It wasn’t like he did anything to help with the win. He wasn’t in the mood to party, although flying after the match did help his overall mood. You waved to him when he entered the common room and when he went up to his dorm. He waved back.
Slowly, James appeared to go back to normal. His normal arrogance radiating off of him and his prideful walk. His laugh carrying down corridors like he had never stopped laughing. And at practice, he flew like it was all he knew how to do. James Potter was back.
Soon enough, it was time to go home for the winter holiday. You rode with Natalie, Veronica, Lucas and Marvin. Eleanor stayed back at the castle. Natalie and Veronica were laughing about how James had asked Lily out one last time before getting on the train; Lily said no. Even though you knew it was ridiculous of James to keep asking her, you couldn’t bring yourself to laugh at his expense.
You saw him on the platform with his parents; even from a distance, you could see how much James looked like his father. Your parents stood not far beyond them.
“Happy Christmas, James,” you said briefly, giving him a smile as you passed by.
Fleamont watched you as you hugged your parents.
“New friend?” he asked his son.
James nodded. “Y/N, new teammate. I think I mentioned her in my letters? She’s the one who kicked Marlene to reserve this year.”
Fleamont and Euphemia exchanged a knowing glance, but didn’t say anything more. They remembered how James described you in those early fall letters.
“Ready for practice?” you asked James on the way down to the pitch for the first time since getting back from break.
“You don’t even know," he said, stretching his arms. “Mum won’t let me fly in the garden in the winter.”
“Why?”
“I think she just likes to kill my fun, Squirt.”
You raised your eyebrows at him like you didn’t believe him.
“And she says Christmas is family time and since she won’t get on a broom, no flying.”
You laughed. “Would your dad fly with you? He’s family too.”
“He prefers his feet on the ground. Says he’s too old.”
“Like you you can ever be too old.”
“Exactly, Squirt. You understand.”
Besides at practice and games, you don’t talk with James all that much. You’re friendly with each other, but you’re still more teammates than friends.
“James, James, James,” you called as you sprinted down the length of the Gryffindor table at breakfast.
All of his friends looked up as you skidded to a halt and slammed the latest edition of Top Quidditch in front of him.
“Do you see that broom?” you asked breathlessly.
“You ran to show him a broom?” Remus asked.
“Yes.”
“Holy… shit…” James murmured, looking at the broom. “Is that real?”
“It’s on the page, isn’t it?”
“But that can’t be real?”
“It is.”
“Care to share with the group?” Sirius asked, leaning forward to look at the magazine.
“Squirt, can I keep this? I’ll give it back later.”
“Yeah, yeah. Keep it. You know where to find me.” You headed back down the table to where you were sitting with your friends.
“So, what’s special about the broom?” Remus asked.
“Upgrades to the hardware and enchantments. The speed increase is what you’d expect,” James said, his eyes scanning the page with interest. “The steering capabilities and steadiness are wicked. And, it’s bloody sexy.”
As much as you would’ve liked to be undefeated for your first quidditch season, you ended up losing once to Slytherin and once to Ravenclaw when you played them again. You end up playing Ravenclaw for a third time in the Quidditch Cup final and you lose. You would’ve really liked to have won, but their seeker caught the snitch. There was only so much you could do.
---
In late August, your parents took you to Diagon Alley to get your school supplies. The first stop was Gringotts. You waited outside while they went to their vault. You sat on the warm marble steps, enjoying the sun. The streets were bustling with families. You recognized a few students, but none that you knew well enough to say hi, or you didn’t know them well enough to warrant you getting off the steps.
Your parents took into a few shops for themselves before finding all the shops that you needed for school supplies. Your mother insisted that the first stop for you be getting new robes.
“You don’t want to be sized when you’re sweaty and tired,” she said.
Walking out of Flourish and Blotts, you spotted a mess of black hair and glasses, accompanied by two boys with lighter-colored hair. James, Peter and Remus. The three boys were with five adults, two of which you recognized as James’ parents.
“Oi! Potter!” you yelled, waving your arm.
He looked around him until he spotted you. He smiled and waved back.
“A friend of yours?” your mother asked as you started walking towards the boys.
“James and I play quidditch together,” you told her. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Shopping for school?” your father asked, more to the parents than the boys.
“Yeah,” James answered. “Siriius came with his parents like the day after letters arrived. Bummer, really.”
“You do look a bit strange with only three of you… Would you care if I tagged along with you?” you asked.
James ruffled your hair. “O’ course I don’t mind. Remus? Peter?”
Neither boy minded. You weren’t the same as Sirius, but from what they experienced of you last year, you weren’t too bad. The parents introduced themselves as the group started to walk to the closest apothecary for potions ingredients. You learned that both of Remus’ parents were there and the extra man was Peter’s father.
You nudged James when you were approaching Quality Quidditch Supplies. He grinned wildly. The two of you barely spared your parents a glance before darting into the store.
“Didn’t think there was anyone as obsessed with quidditch like our James,” Fleamont said with a hearty laugh.
“I hear you there,” your father said.
“Most girls grow up dreaming about unicorns and love potions. Not Y/N. She’s been asking for a broom since she saw her uncle arrive on one when she was two. We’ve never known peace,” your mother sighed.
It didn’t take much longer before Remus and Peter decided to join you and James inside. They found the parents’ discussion boring. You and James were meandering around the shop, picking up different broom polishes and reading their ingredients. Peter and Remus walked up to you.
“Your parents are sharing baby stories,” Peter said.
You and James immediately looked up from the stand of tail-twig replacements you had started looking through. Both of your cheeks turned pink.
“They’re doing what?” James breathed.
“Apparently, Y/N didn’t dream about unicorns enough growing up.”
You just shrugged, your embarrassment fading as you realized your parents were commiserating about your love for quidditch.
“Right, well, I’m going to get that practice quaffle. I’ll be back.” You headed to a stand that was stacked with different versions of quaffles – some regulation, some heavier, some lighter, some smaller. You grabbed one of the smaller ones and disappeared to purchase it.
Some time later, your group split up. You and your parents were going to head home while the boys had a little more shopping to finish up.
As you walked toward a communal floo network fireplace, your mother asked, “How close are you with those boys? They seem like good kids.”
“I only really know James. Remus and Peter are in Gryffindor too, but they’re all a year older.”
A few days later, you were heading back to school. You told your friends about your run-in with James and his friends in Diagon Alley.
“Ugh, you should have told us what day you were going! We could’ve met up then,” Natalie said.
“I didn’t know what day we were going until my parents told me to grab the list.”
You passed by James at Hogsmeade Station and gave him a wave, which he returned. You didn’t exchange anything more than “Hi” until quidditch tryouts. Louis, the keeper, was now captain and there would have to be new players on the team now that Sean and a few others graduated. To no one’s surprise, you, James and Marlene were the chasers. You were confident that this was going to be a good year.
Between quidditch and being in the common room a lot, you and James got a good comradery going. You have inside jokes with just him and with him and Marlene. If you needed help with homework, James was the first person you went to. When you told him about getting an O on a Transfiguration essay, he tossed you a chocolate frog. You had delved into being friends rather than just teammates.
About halfway through the fall term, you walked into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom with your friends. ‘Boggarts’ was written across the blackboard at the front of the room. There were whispers around the room. People were speculating what theirs would be if they ever had to come face-to-face with one.
“Spiders. No doubt there,” Veronica said with a shiver. “Too many legs, they move too fast. Merlin, have you seen the furry ones? Ugh.”
She shivered violently again. You, Natalie, Lucas, Eleanor and Marvin laughed; all of you had been asked to kill a spider for her before.
“What if it’s a concept rather than a thing?” Marvin asked as you all found your seats.
“What d’you mean?” you asked.
“Heights, man. Like being on a broom first year wasn’t bad. Weekes didn’t let us go too high. But like small ledges? When you know you’re going to fall because there’s nothing to hold onto?”
“Don’t know. I bet Professor Loust knows,” Eleanor said.
As if summoned by her name, the professor walked out of her office and began the lesson. She introduced the topic of boggarts. She said that knowledge of the creature would help defeat one, as you would do at the end of the week. Then she went into a full blown lecture about their amortality and shape-shifting abilities.
Later in the week, fear built up in the class. The anticipation about seeing your worst fear and everyone else’s was thick in the air. You knew that facing a boggart in a group would make it easier to take on, but that didn’t make you feel much better. You did what you did best: put on a brave face. You strutted into the classroom the same confidence you had every other day.
“You ready for today?” Marvin asked, rocking his chair onto his back legs.
“It’s just a boggart. Can’t hurt us. It’ll be fun,” you said.
Maybe if you said it out loud, it would come true.
It started out okay. Everything that appeared was to be expected. A few spiders, a dragon, dead parents, a nurse with a massive needle, a large snake, an essay with a T on it. “Riddikulus” was cast successfully by your classmates. Then it was your turn. Someone pushed you forward and you locked eyes with the bear in a top hat before it shifted.
The next thing you could remember was waking up on the floor when everyone standing around you and Professor Loust kneeing next to you.
“Are you alright?” she asked you, helping you sit up.
“Wha-?”
“You fainted,” Barty Crouch Jr. laughed somewhere further back in the class.
“Mr. Whittle, can you take Ms. L/N to the hospital wing. Have Madam Pomfrey give her some calming draught,” Professor Loust said.
She helped you up and held you steady until Lucas made it over to you. With his support, you were able to walk out of the classroom. You couldn’t even remember what you saw, and for some reason, that bugged you more than the fact that you fainted.
“What was that?” Lucas asked as you hobbled along with him.
You opened your mouth to say ‘I don’t know,’ but no noise came out. So you shook your head.
“Bloody terrifying,” he said.
If only you knew if he was being polite so you didn’t feel bad about fainting, or if whatever the boggart turned into was actually scary.
He didn’t say anything more for the rest of the walk to the Hospital Wing.
“What’s wrong with ‘er?” Madam Pomfrey asked the moment you walked through the large, metal doors. She had barely spared you a glance but pointed to an open bed.
“Working with boggarts today, ma’am,” Lucas said. “Y/N fainted.”
The nurse nodded and appeared at your side with a calming draught. “Usually at least one every year. Nothing to worry about, dear.”
You drank the blue liquid and frowned. Then you curled in on yourself. Lucas gave Madam Pomfrey a concerned look that you couldn’t see, and she watched you with careful eyes.
“Results should be instantaneous… Dear, how do you feel?”
You shook your head. It’s all you could do. The creature the boggart turned into was all you could see now. Lucas wasn’t kidding – it was terrifying. The calming draught had cleared your mind, but it cleared your mind of the fog that was blocking out what you had seen and now you were worse.
“Mr. Whittle, you can go back to class. Ms. L/N will stay here until these side effects wane.”
Side effects, she called them. Really, she didn’t know what to do besides wait until she could safely give you another dose of calming draught and hope for the best. So you sat, hugging your knees in the bed and shaking. It would take three more doses of draught before Madam Pomfrey cleared you to go back to Gryffindor Tower. In addition to the calm draughts, she also gave you a sandwich since you missed dinner.
You took the walk back to the common room slowly. You jumped at the creaking of a suit of armor. Whispering portraits had you on edge. Every stair had you worried that you were going to slip and fall to your death. You wished that someone had been sent for to walk back with you.
James jumped up from an armchair when he saw you enter the common room.
“Hey, where you been? You missed practice?” he asked, walking over to you. Then he saw your still-pale face. “Squirt, what’s… are you okay?”
Without thinking, you threw your arms around James and buried your face in his chest. His arms wrapped around you protectively as you started sobbing.
“Shit, Squirt… what’s wrong?”
You shook your head. You were simply unable to talk and right now, James felt safe. He was older, sturdy and could fight a stupid boggart.
“You’re okay. I got you…” he murmured. “Come on, let’s sit down, okay? That’s it. Couch is just a few more steps…”
He led you to the couch and offered you a blanket once you were sat down.
“Oi, Evans!” he called to the ginger across the room.
Lily looked up with a disgruntled expression, expecting James to be asking her out again.
“Can you get a tea for Squirt here?”
Her expression softened immediately, and she nodded, standing up to get a communal kettle from the shelf. Marvin leaned over the back of the couch you were sitting on.
“Damn, she still out of it?” he asked, shocked.
James looked up from you. “What happened?”
“Boggarts today. She fainted.”
James frowned. He sat next to you until the kettle started whistling. He waved off Lily as he went to make your cup. He knew how you took your tea from sitting next to you at breakfast before early morning practices. Then he was at your side on the couch all evening. Remus brought him some homework he needed to get done, but James wasn’t going to get up to get it.
He only left you when your stomach started growling. He remembered that he hadn’t seen you at dinner.
“Have you eaten?” he asked quietly.
“Small sandwich.”
“Right, I’ll be back.”
You watched James disappear out of the common room door, despite it being after curfew. He’s gone for around fifteen minutes. When he returned, he had a small plate of food for you to snack. Everything on the plate were things he’d seen you grab before.
“Thanks,” you whispered as you took the plate from him.
He sat down next to you again. Neither of you said anything while you ate. When you were done, you thanked him again and got up to go to bed. James stood by the bottom of the girls’ staircase until he heard your dorm’s door close. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, and went to bed himself.
Just like how your dare sparked a habit of James asking Lily out, your fainting revealed a protective side of James. He made sure you were eating enough, especially in the week immediately after the boggart incident. If anyone mentioned your boggart, James found them. He exchanged charged words with them, just enough to get them to shut up about it. If he happened to be in the library when you were and you couldn’t reach the book you needed, he was getting it down for you. He found himself in the library more often as he was also making sure you were having no issues getting your homework done. James even grabbed your broom for you while you put on your pads.
“I can grab my own broom, Potter,” you said dryly the first time he did it.
“But now you don’t need to.”
“Are you grabbing Marlene’s too?”
“Ah, she’s a big girl; she can grab her own.”
“So I’m not a big girl?” you asked.
“I… didn’t say that.”
“You did. You grabbed my broom for me.”
“Squirt,” he said with a warning tone. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”
You gave his shoulder a shove. “Yeah, I do.”
James let out a boyish laugh as you walked toward the pitch. He thought you really were something. You knew yourself well and he liked that about you.
The rest of your third year breezed by. Once again, Gryffindor made it to the Quidditch Cup finals, only to be beaten this time by Slytherin. Another season ending in defeat. You tried not to feel too downtrodden about it, at least you felt confident in your finals.
“Don’t worry about the cup,” James muttered to you late at night in the common room.
“Have I lost it?” I asked, disbelief dripping from your voice. “James Potter is telling me not to worry about quidditch?”
“Two losses isn’t great. And we can do better. But that’s the point.”
You looked at James with an expression that said ‘Get to the point.’
“We got it next year. Trust me. We got it in the bag.”
“Pretty confident…”
“Squirt, you just got to trust me.”
You rolled your eyes, but you stopped worrying about the cup. You couldn’t go back in time to fix anything. Some games just didn’t go in your favor.
Over the summer, your parents surprised you with tickets to see the Falmouth Falcons. You were ecstatic. It would be the first professional quidditch game you’d get to see in person. You wanted someone to share in your excitement. None of your friends would care much. But James? He’d be excited for you.
You wrote a short letter to James. It was nothing much. You asked how his summer was going so far and said yours was going well and about to turn much better. You wrote that you had the tickets and you couldn’t wait. You signed it “See you in the fall, Squirt”.
His response told you his summer was also good. Sirius, Remus and Peter had all been over to visit his family’s property and would be back again in August. He said that he was jealous about you going to see a professional match. His parents took him twice before to see the Appleby Arrows and the Tutshill Tornados. Sighed, “See you on the pitch, James”.
---
Fourth year started off in the same way as third, with you waving to James and him returning it. He walked next to you on the way back to the common room after the feast.
“How was the Falcons match?”
“Amazing! Fantastic! Absolutely brilliant!” you exclaimed, eyes shining. “As soon as I can afford season tickets, I’m getting them. I don’t even care which team they’re for.”
James smiled that cock grin of his. “It’ll be for whichever team I’m on, I’m sure.”
“That your plan for after Hogwarts? Going pro?” You’re more teasing than genuinely asking.
“You know it. Why? Don’t think I have it?”
You took a second to give James a once over. When did he get so attractive? Nope, that wasn’t the question he asked.
“You’ve got potential. But the percentage of people who actually go pro? You won’t like the odds.” You laughed. “See you later, Potter.”
You hurried to join Natalie and Eleanor at the bottom of the girls’ stairs. James chucked to himself and turned to sit by the fire until his friends all made it to the common room. Remus had said something about raiding the kitchens already for midnight snacks.
A few days later, James burst into the common room after classes. He was bounding with energy to the point where he was vibrating.
“SQUIRT!” he yelled.
You were sitting at a table, attempting to work on a Charms essay. You looked up at him with raised eyebrows. ‘This ought to be good,’ you thought.
“You know how you said I got potential?”
“Vaguely, yes,” you said, tilting your head. It had only been a few days, how could you have forgotten?
“Well, you better up how much potential you see because you’re looking at this year’s captain!”
You sputtered before actually being able to form words. “You’re captain? Shit, we’re actually going to win the cup!”
You jumped up to hug him. In his excitement, he picked you and spun you around. You were laughing by the time he set you down.
“Lily will have to say yes to a date now!” he said before turning to find others to tell.
From what you could tell, you were the first person he told. Maybe it was because he ran into you in the common room, but surely, he could’ve said nothing and ran up to his to tell Sirius or Remus or Peter.
Over the next few weeks, you realized that you’re spending more time with James than you previously. He’s always reliable for a good laugh and cheeky banter, but he also listens to you and makes you feel important. He makes every bad thing feel miniscule and every good thing like the best thing to ever happen. Being around James was… nice.
Part of your spending more time with him was due to quidditch. As captain, he was almost ruthless. Not quiet, but almost. Practices were more intense than the past two years. Marlene swore him out after an annoyingly tedious practice in the rain. You thought everyone on the team shared her sentiment; she was just the one with the balls to say it.
But it paid off. Your first match, against Slytherin no less, was a blow out. Everyone was on top of their game. It was a great way to start the season.
The party following the game was eardrum-bursting loud. Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws were let into the common room without question. You don’t think you’ve ever seen the common room quite so full. Veronica was practically sitting on your lap in an armchair.
On the other side of the room, James was making out with some Hufflepuff. It made your stomach clench, but you don’t want to think about it. If you did, things might change and you don’t want that. You remind yourself that he just won his first match as captain. He has every right to make out with whomever he feels like.
During the next week, James asked out Lily and, not surprisingly, she said no. It was the eighth time this year.
James sat down next to you at lunch and dramatically threw himself over you.
“Why won’t my love go on a date with me, Squirt?”
You ignored the way your heart sped up. “Maybe she saw you swap spit with that Hufflepuff on Saturday?”
Peter and Remus choked back laughter as James slightly up-draped himself from you.
“What do you mean?”
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t be dense. You know you can’t snog a girl at a party and then ask someone else out. It’s rude.”
“More than rude, if you ask me,” Remus said with a smirk.
James sighed, sitting up. He knew that you were right, but, in his defense, Lily had been saying no to him before he made out with the Hufflepuff. Godric forbid he wanted to celebrate the quidditch win.
Later that evening, you were working on assignments in the common room with Natalie, Veronica and Eleanor. James and his friends were seated by the fire, doing who knows what. James groaned, standing up and stretching. His friends didn’t look up. Neither did you. He disappeared to his dorm briefly before coming back down and dropping a package of fudge flies on your book.
You stared at it for a moment and then at James as he sat back down on the couch.
“Where’s my snack?” Sirius whined after noticing you open the package.
“You’re not hard at work,” James said casually.
“Neither are you!”
“I got up to get my snack, so I get a snack. And you don’t.”
You stifled a laugh. Somehow, you ranked above Sirius, James’ absolute best friend.
“James, where’re you going?” Sirius asked after dinner later in the week as James turned down a corridor that did not lead to Gryffindor Tower.
“I got detention with Sluggy, remember?”
“Oh, right.” Sirius swore. “That means I have detention with Sprout. Guess we’ll see you two later.”
Remus and Peter continued to the tower as Sirius and James went to their detentions. That wasn’t the only time James found himself in detention. In previous years, he’d gotten detention for a miscellaneous prank or a bad-landing joke so it wasn’t like he was a stranger to detention. But, he was getting it more often. He still got detention for pranks with Sirius, Remus and Peter, but now he seemed to be crossing lines when he talked back to professors and forgetting homework.
It was a Hogsmeade weekend and when you woke up, none of your roommates were around. You got up, did your usual morning thing and hoped to find them in the common room or at breakfast. You really didn’t want to walk to Hogsmeade by yourself.
You didn’t see them in the common room nor at breakfast so you decided to grab a book and wait for them in the common room. They’d have to come back eventually. You got comfortable on the couch with your legs tucked underneath you and opened your book. You had barely read a page when James and his friends noisily stormed down the stairs from their dorm. They headed to the portrait hole before James paused and backtracked to stand over you.
“Squirt,” he said firmly with his arms crossed.
“James.”
“You’re on the couch.”
You hummed. “Observant. Sure you need those glasses?”
You flipped the page of your book with as much noise as you could manage. James huffed a laugh and pushed said glasses up his nose.
“Why aren’t you on your way to Hogsmeade? It’s a perfectly good weekend.”
“Dunno where my friends are and I’m not walking by myself. That’s just sad.”
“We’re your friends,” he said, gesturing to the boys waiting for him by the door. “So, up you get. We’re going to Zonko’s.”
James held out his hand to you with a look of determination on his face. He wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer. You clicked your tongue, set your book off to the side and took his hand. With a grunt, he pulled you up.
“Damn, Prongs, all those detentions wearing on you?” Peter laughed.
“Ha, ha,” James said sarcastically.
“Alright, so Y/N’s coming with?” Sirius asked, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “Then let’s go. I need dung bombs to fling at Snivy.”
With Remus now leading the way, you and the boys left Gryffindor Tower and the Hogwarts grounds. It was probably the most entertaining walk to Hogsmeade you had ever been on. There was just something about James and his friends. They were loud and always armed with either a joke or insult with a cloud of laughter that surrounded them.
As Sirius and James had declared in the common room, Zonko’s was the first stop. You followed the boys around, not really looking at what the shop had to offer. You felt like a lost puppy with how you were following James around, but you knew he probably expected it. He tried to explain how he could use a combination of tripwire and stink pellets to give them a few extra hours to turn in an Astronomy assignment. You weren’t really listening. You were more of just watching him talk.
Throughout the day, you stopped in just about every stop. Zonko’s took the longest to go through, followed closest by Honeydukes. The boys had a strange method of going through the shop, which you couldn’t comprehend so you wandered by yourself. When you met up with the boys at the till, you all had armfuls of sweets. Remus reminded everyone to replenish your stationary supplies, which was good because you were actually running low on ink and would’ve gone back to the castle without any.
The last stop of the day, as completely expected, was the Three Broomsticks. Nothing topped off a rather fun day better than a foamy mug of butterbeer. You sat down at the table between James and Remus. Some time after the first round of drinks, Marlene stopped by the table and leaned over the back of your chair.
“How did you get wrapped into drinking with these idiots?” she asked. “Me, Lils, Mary and a few others are just over there.” She jerked her thumb toward a table of all girls.
James absentmindedly put his arm around the back of your chair.
“Ah, I’ve spent all day with ‘em. I’ll survive another hour or so.” You smiled at her. “Thank you though.”
After Marlene walked away, Peter said, “Aw, lads, I think she likes us.”
“Eh, you lot are alright,” you said with a shrug.
And just like the rest of the day, you’re laughing with the boys. James’ arm remained around your chair. His fingers occasionally brushed your arm and his hand sometimes moved to your shoulder if he laughed too hard. Your breath hitched when you felt your hair move before realizing it was just James. You hoped he didn’t notice.
He didn’t.
When it came time to pay, the boys started pooling their galleons. You reached for your coin purse, but James slapped your hand away.
“I need to get my money out, Potter.”
“I invited you out, Squirt. You’re covered.”
You glared at him playfully. “I can afford my butterbeer.”
“Don’t care. You’re covered.”
You sighed defeatedly but smiled. Today had been a good day. Sirius and Remus led the group back to school with Peter close behind. James walked with you, his hands shoved in his pockets. You shivered. James noticed and put an arm around you, pulling you close to him.
“Better?”
“You’re a bloody furnace.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” James said with a smile since you didn’t pull away.
Neither of you said anything more for the rest of the walk. It was comfortable. Peter, Remus and Sirius’ laughter carried back to you. When you got back to the common room, the other three went in but you paused.
“Hey, um, James,” you started to say.
“Yeah?” He looked down at you with a soft smile.
“Thanks for today.”
He gave your shoulder a squeeze and held the portrait open for you.
“Any time, Squirt.”
Back in your dorm, Natalie, Eleanor and Veronica were all sitting around.
“Look who it is!” Natalie said as you closed the door. “Heard you were off with some boys today?”
“Just James and his friends.”
“Just James, she says,” Veronica laughed. “Been spending a lot of time with him lately. Forgotten about us?”
You rolled your eyes. “Not my fault I didn’t know where you were.”
“The library? Got that massive essay for Transfiguration?” Natalie said incredulously.
“Shit. Welp, I guess that’s a tomorrow problem for me.”
After struggling with the essay all morning, you looked for James at lunch. You’d ask him for help. He was always ready to help you.
Except you couldn’t find him. You asked his friends if they had seen him.
“He went to the pitch earlier and haven’t seen him since,” Peter said.
“Shit… I was going to ask him to help me with this damned essay.”
“I can help you. What subject?” Remus asked.
“Transfiguration,” you said. “You don’t have to though. I can struggle through it until he shows up.”
“Hey, like James said, we’re your friends. Who knows when he’ll show his ugly mug?”
You laughed and worked with Remus when you went back to the library.
James had gone to the pitch that morning to do some flying. He was walking back late morning when he overheard some Slytherins in the corridor he was approaching.
“Did you hear that Potter paid for L/N’s butterbeer yesterday? What do you think she did to deserve that?”
“Think she sucked him off?”
“Probably all four. They’re a package deal.”
“You think that’s the going rate for her services? One butterbeer for-”
The Slytherin didn’t get to finish their sentence. James’ fist cut them off. And once he started, he couldn’t stop. The other Slytherin ran off to get a professor, who pulled James off of the first Slytherin. The professor then brought James to Professor McGonagall’s office and told her what he saw.
Professor McGonagall summoned some ice for James’ hand and stared at him firmly with pursed lips for a moment.
“Mr. Potter, you know that we do not tolerate fighting. And I expected better of you.”
“Professor, you didn’t hear what they were saying!”
She sighed. “I’ve heard you say some things. You’ll need to tell-”
“It was about Y/N,” James said, shaking his head.
“You’ll have to tell me.”
“They… they said that she was exchanging… favors for butterbeers. Wondering if that’s her ‘going rate for services.’” James shook his head again. “Professor, she’s basically my sister. I couldn’t… I couldn’t let them…”
She sighed again and folded her hands on her desk. “I understand that you are close with Miss L/N and their comments are inappropriate. However, you are not in a position to hand out punishments. Recently, you’ve gotten into the habit of receiving them.” She paused. “You’ll have detention for a week with Filtch.”
“Professor!”
“Mr. Potter. I am concerned for you. The talking back, the missing assignments, and now fighting? You are better than this. You need to be.”
James didn’t say anything. He sunk deeper in his seat. McGonagall flipped through some papers on her desk and sighed again. James thought she was doing that a lot.
“While I have you here… shall we discuss your plans for the future?”
James didn’t leave her office until dinner. Between discussing his desire to be a professional quidditch player, possible back-up plans and how he needed to get his act together, they had a lot to talk about. He left just a little bit before dinner. He put up a notice for the quidditch team that practices for the week were moved to mornings, and then he booked it to the Great Hall since he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
“Where the hell have you been?” Sirius asked.
“Nowhere.”
“Nowhere?” he repeated. “All goddamn day?”
James nodded and started filling his plate.
You and Remus walked into the Great Hall; the two of you had dropped your things off in the common room before coming. You spotted James and ran up to him.
“Potter! What is that notice in the common room?”
He gave you a weak smile. “Morning practices."
“Yeah, why?” You were frowning as you sat down next to him.
“I… got detention all week” he muttered before stuffing his face.
“Detention? All goddamn week?”
He nodded.
“What’d you do?” Peter asked.
“Punched a Slytherin…”
“Oh, then they probably deserved it,” Peter mused.
“They did,” James stated with more conviction in his voice than you’ve ever heard.
“They better if it’s changing my sleep schedule for the next five days…” you grumbled.
Every morning that week, you rolled out of bed and stumbled down to the pitch at the break of dawn, cursing under your breath. You weren’t the only one upset with the time change. The whole team was disgruntled, being that you were used to two morning practices a week max. But when Saturday came, you felt well rested as you got up at your usual weekend time. The team played as well as you felt. It was an easy win against Ravenclaw.
To your secret delight, James didn’t snog anyone at the party afterwards. He asked Lily out with a cheeky grin, but she replied with her usual answer: no. You danced with your friends at the party. Sometimes you glanced over at James and you swore you saw him already looking at you.
For the rest of fall term, James still got a handful of detentions, but not as many as he had been getting. He cleaned up his attitude a bit, which helped immensely. Not being tied up in detention, James helped you with any homework you needed and insisted that he study with you. Sometimes it meant his assignments didn’t get done, but ce la vie. He brought you candy and other snacks from his stash, earning complaints from his friends because apparently the treats were only for you and him.
Quidditch practice went back to its normal times and you won against Hufflepuff, the last match before Christmas break. James asked Lily out a few more times, but it still went nowhere.
Nothing exciting happened over Christmas break nor during most of the spring term. Gryffindor continued to win matches, but James didn’t snog anyone. He’d ask Lily out, get turned down and go back to whatever conversation his friends were having. He still studied with you and gave you candy. Once in a while he ruffled your hair, earning a groan and a swat from you.
It ended up being Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw for the Quidditch Cup. James had never been confident for a win. His pre-game speech hyped up the team and you walked out of the locker room determined and confident. And the game was easily going in your favor with you, James and Marlene flying circles around the Ravenclaws. Until the eagles started to play dirty. There were a few near-misses that should’ve been called fouls, and then a Ravenclaw beater hit a bludger directly at your seeker. You watched, unable to do anything, as your seeker fell from his broom and landed with a sickening crunch. There was nothing you could do besides score more points. It seemed like James and Marlene had the same thought. Score enough points before the Ravenclaw seeker catches the snitch.
You did your best. You really did. You were only five points away. You threw the quaffle to James who passed to Marlene. It was back to you and then back to Marlene.
And the roar of the crowd. Ravenclaw caught the snitch and it was over. You lost the Quidditch Cup again.
James didn’t talk to anyone after the match. The whole team wallowed silently and you all took turns sitting with your seeker in the hospital wing.
---
You didn’t expect to hear from James over the summer. You certainly didn’t expect him to invite you to a summer party he was hosting. You would’ve gone or gone down begging, if only your parents hadn’t planned a family visit to some relatives you rarely saw. You knew you’d be bored out of your mind and would much rather be at James’ party, but you also knew that you had less than zero chance of getting out of it. You told James as much. He wrote backing saying it was a bummer you couldn’t come and he’d see you at school.
Once again, start of the school year, you waved and he waved back. You sat with your friends and caught up on what you all did over the summer. You complained about your family visit. Loudly. James looked down the table at you with a smirk. He ran a hand through his hair, staring at you for a few seconds before zoning back into his friends’ conversation.
A few days later, Professor McGonagall called you into her office. You were terrified. Your hands shook as you turned the knob. It had only been a few days and you were never one to cause too much trouble. How had you gotten into trouble already?
“Miss L/N, wonderful. Come in.”
At least McGongall didn’t sound upset? You took a seat.
“Did I do something wrong?” you asked, voice shaking.
She raised her eyebrows. “No. I’ve selected you to be quidditch captain this year.”
Fear morphed into shock.
“What?” you gasped. “What about James?”
She clicked her tongue and folded her hands on her desk.
“Mr. Potter found himself in detention far too many times last year for my liking. The role of captain is an honor, a privilege. I do not currently deem him worthy of such.”
You nodded. “Okay. Thank you, professor. I won’t let you down.”
She smiled ever so slightly and said, “I know you won’t.”
You spent at least half an hour talking with her about responsibilities and perks of being captain. She had some base rules you needed to follow that she personally set, meaning the other three captains weren’t required to follow them.
After leaving McGonagall’s office, you took the long route back to the Gryffindor Common Room. You had a good feeling that James didn’t know he had been demoted. And you couldn’t help but feel giddy at the fact that you were captain. You probably had to be the one to break the news to James that he was not going to be captain this year.
As soon as you stepped through the portrait hole, James stood up from the game of wizards’ chess he was in the middle of. He practically ran toward you and put his hands on your shoulder.
“What was it? What did you do?”
“Um, don’t shoot the messenger… but you’re not quidditch captain this year.”
“What?” he asked, taking a step back and letting his hands fall from your shoulders. He was visibly confused.
“I-I am.”
“Wait, what?” It was a complete 180. He sounded thrilled, like this was the best news he had heard all year. “Squirt! That’s amazing!” He picked you up in a hug and spun you around. “You’re captain? This season is going to be brilliant!”
Building the team was fairly easy. It was almost identical to last year. You varied some of the drills and plays that James favored with ones that you devised. You thought the team was shaping up pretty good and if you ever had any doubts, you could just ask James.
It was the night before your first match as captain and for the first time, you felt nervous about a quidditch match. You felt that if Gryffindor lost tomorrow, it would be all your fault. It would be because you put together a bad team. Or you had a good team with no control over it. Or you had a great team and managed to ruin them with poor practicing. To put it shortly, you couldn’t sleep so you were sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fire in the common room.
“Squirt, that you?” a sleepy voice asked from behind you.
James.
You mumbled something incoherent. You’re not even sure what you were trying to say. He plopped down next to you, also cross-legged.
“Our mighty captain needs her sleep before her big game.”
You groaned. “Don’t mention the game.”
“That why you’re down here?” he asked, bumping your shoulder gently.
“What if we lose?” you whispered.
“What if we win?”
“I don’t care if we win. I care if we lose.”
“I mean, you should care if we win. Proof of how amazing of a captain you are. Which you are, by the way.”
You didn’t say anything.
“The team is prepared. You’ve prepared us. We are going to be brilliant tomorrow.” he nudged your shoulder again. “If you get some sleep. Can’t you falling asleep in the air.”
“What if we lose?” you whispered again.
“Then we have something to work for. Our season isn’t decided in one game. Especially not the first one.” Then he chuckled. “Maybe it’d be good to lose the first match. Last season we won the first match and we lost the Cup. Year before, same thing. And year before.”
You chuckled at that. Maybe James was right.
“So you’ll go to bed?” he asked, slight grin on his face.
“Would be more impressive if I won while half-asleep,” you said dryly.
James bumped your shoulder again and you groaned.
“Fine,” you sighed.
James stood up and held his hand out for you. He pulled you up and walked you over to the girls’ staircase. Like after the boggart, he waited for your door to close before he headed up to his dorm.
You looked a little more confident in the morning. A little tired from tossing and turning, but more rested than you would’ve been if you had stayed up all night by the fire. You took a few deep breaths in the locker room before giving your pre-game speech. You knew it wasn’t as good as James’, but it was something.
And it turned out to be good enough. The Gryffindor team easily out-scored Slytherin to the point where if your seeker hadn’t caught the snitch, you still would’ve won. James pulled you into a hug the moment your feet touched the ground.
“I told you, Squirt,” he laughed.
It took so much of your willpower to not kiss him right then and there. Because friends don’t kiss and that’s all you are to James. A friend. The rest of the team and tons of Gryffindors congratulated you after James let go of you.
As always, a party ensued. You saw James talking to a group of his friends, but more of note, he was standing next to Lily and looking at her with a glint of awe in his eyes every time she laughed. He’d probably ask her out by the end of the night, hoping for a different answer than the one she’s given him too many times to count.
You were sitting in one of the arm chairs, slouched with one leg hanging over the arm rest. It was unbelievably comfortable. Natalie was retelling something that happened in her Divination class. You were only half listening, but you laughed when everyone else did.
“Y/N, dance?” Eleanor asked a few minutes later.
You nodded and got up. You had discovered pretty quickly that you loved dancing at parties. After a song or two, more of your friends joined you in dancing. And then after more songs, the music switched to something slower. You were about to go sit down when Marvin grabbed your hand.
“Could I, um, get a dance with the captain?”
You felt your face burn as you nodded. You let him hold you close and you swayed with the music. It was nothing dramatic or overly romantic. Just two friends dancing. He probably just wanted the winning captain to not be sitting down when she could be dancing.
As soon as the song ended, you moved apart from him and headed for the drinks. Eleanor was at your side within seconds of you taking a sip of butterbeer.
“Marvin asking you to dance, huh?”
You gave her an unimpressed look. “He just wanted to dance with the captain of the winning team.”
“Because she’s you.”
You snorted a laugh and shook your head.
“Why do you think I got you on the dancefloor to begin with?”
“Because you wanted to dance and you know I like dancing?”
“Because he wanted you already up and dancing when he asked you to dance.”
You give her a patronizing smile and pat her arm. You took a long sip of your butterbeer before returning to your armchair, where you’d remain until you went to bed. You could feel Marvin’s eyes watching you. You really hoped that Eleanor was wrong. That it was just a dance between friends and not him wanting more. You didn’t like him like that.
You expected some teasing from your female friends, the ones who lived in the same dorm as you. You never shared who you had a crush on. You gave them nothing. They had their suspicions, but no one was going to ask.
You didn’t, however, expect James to appear next to you as you walked to the library to work on assignments.
You didn’t expect him to ask, “So… you and whatshisname… Melvis?”
“Marvin?” you scoffed. “What about him?”
“You and Marvin,” he corrected himself. “Is that something?”
You gave him the same unimpressed look you gave Eleanor.
“What?” he asked, confused.
“A friend asked me to dance and I said yes. It was one dance. That’s all.”
“A slow dance, Squirt,” James said, bumping into you.
“Okay, and?”
“You slow danced with a boy.”
“Alert the presses?”
James sighed dramatically. “I should’ve known you’d be a little heartbreaker.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Pretty thing like you? No way this Marvin doesn’t fancy you. And you danced with him, got his hopes up. And by the sounds of it, you’re going to crush him.”
Pretty. That’s about all you heard. Or processed really.
Because did you get enough to say, “He’ll get over me.”
James didn’t follow you into the library. You’re glad he didn’t. You needed to calm your heart down; he only called you pretty. It wasn’t something to get so worked up about, but James had called you pretty. And a heartbreaker. You let yourself feel a little bit of hope.
Your confidence as quidditch captain quickly grew after having a win under your belt. You felt more at ease yelling commands during practices. Your pre-game speeches got better. Your second match was against Hufflepuff and that was an easy win too. As was the match against Ravenclaw. You were 3-0 going into winter break.
Oh, and your studies were good too. They just didn’t feel as important to you.
You were eating breakfast at home on Christmas morning when an owl tapped on the window. Your mother let it in to remove the small package from its leg.
“Y/N, who’s J.P.?”
You froze mid-bite. J.P. James? Potter?
Your chair scraped against the floor loudly as you stood up and crossed the kitchen within steps to rip the package from her hands.
Messy handwriting wrote,
Happy Christmas to Gryffindor’s mighty captain! - JP
You’re not sure what surprised you more: that he sent you something or that he didn’t call you Squirt. He wrote “captain.”
“J.P.?” your mother repeated. “Is that that boy we met in Diagon Alley a while back? The Potters, right?”
“Yeah,” you said quietly.
You slowly walked back to the breakfast table and sat down. You budged your breakfast off to the side. The wrapping crinkled under your fingers as you lifted the taped edges. It was a plain box. Your eyes went wide when you saw what was inside.
“Holy… shit…”
“Y/N! Language!” your father chided you before taking a sip of his coffee. Then he added, “What’d the boy get you?”
“Nogard gloves. The leather ones with cross-stitching and slim padding.”
Your father lowered his mug. “Those cost a fortune.”
“I know, dad. That’s why I didn’t ask for them.” You turned the gloves over in your hands. “He must’ve heard me talking about them with Marlene…”
You didn’t know James was getting you a present. You hadn’t gotten him anything.
Your mother made a noise from where she was still standing near the window. “James must really like you.”
A heat crept up your neck. You gently placed the gloves back in the back and tucked James' short note on top of them before putting the lid on.
“What’d you get him?” she asked.
“Um, nothing… I didn’t know he was getting me anything.”
“Oh.”
Yup, thanks Mum. That’s reassuring. You took the box and disappeared into your room to figure out what to write to James. He had not only surprised you with a gift but one so expensive you hadn’t bothered hinting to your parents that you’d like it.
You stared at empty parchment for what felt like two hours.
Happy Christmas James! Thank you so much - you have no idea how much I wanted these. I feel horrible that I didn’t get you anything… I didn’t know we were doing gifts. -Squirt
That would have to do. You tied it to your owl’s leg and sent her off to the Potter residence. Before the end of the day, James wrote back.
You deserve those gloves. And you know what I always say to you? Don’t worry about me. -JP
You tucked that note in the box with the gloves as well.
You still felt like you had to prove that you “deserved” the gloves as James had said. You put even more of yourself into the sport. But you allowed yourself to relax a bit when the other teams were playing. Neither of your friend groups were surprised when you and James stood next to each other at the front of the stands for the Ravenclaw versus Slytherin game.
After the match, James told everyone he was going to grab snacks from the kitchens before going back to the common room. He noted a few requests from his friends; he didn’t need to ask you what you wanted since he already knew that. You went with a herd of Gryffindors back to the tower as James descended stairs toward the kitchens.
He was about to tickle the pear from the fruit painting.
“Did you hear that Potter got L/N Nogard gloves?”
“They’re fucking, right? They have to be.”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t he ask that Lily Evans out like twice a week?”
“He can ask her out and still be shagging L/N on the side.” There was laughter. “Think that’s where she got her nickname from? Squirt?”
“You think he makes her squirt? Gross.”
James wasn’t exactly sure what happened next. He vaguely remembered the feeling of warm blood on his hands, which now pulsed with pain. He could hear the echo of bone breaking. And someone shrieking.
Somehow he ended up in McGonagall’s office. She looked pissed.
“Fighting, Potter? Again?”
“I… I-I…”
She sighed heavily and shook her head. “Please tell me you at least had a reason.”
James was staring at his hands.
“They…” He shook his head, swallowing hard. “About Y/N. Horrible things.”
“Did they hurt her?”
He shook his head again.
“They said things? Like last year?”
“Worse than last year.”
She nodded. “That’d explain why you disfigured two Hufflepuffs.” A heavier sigh. “I understand you care for Miss L/N a lot-”
“She’s like my sister, professor.”
“Yes. You’ve said. But, I still cannot condone fighting. Detention. Two weeks.”
James nodded grimly. He’d had to miss practices because you certainly wouldn’t move practices to mornings for two weeks for him.
“You may go. And… consider if this is familial love you’re feeling.”
Odd things to say, James thought as he headed to Gryffindor Tower sans snacks.
He didn’t say anything when he entered the common room, despite calls from his friends and you. Most were questions about the food. He just headed up to his dorm. Before Remus or Sirius or Peter could even think of standing up to follow him, you were on your feet and moving up the stairs.
You did have the good sense to knock before barging into his dorm.
“Got distracted. No snacks. Sorry.” Irritation laced every word.
“James? You okay?”
“Squirt. Yeah, I’m fine,” he said in a kinder voice.
“Can I come in?”
“Uh, one second.” You heard some movement. “Okay, yeah.”
You opened the door and James adjusted his glasses. He had hit them when he put his shirt back on.
“You went for snacks and came back like Mr. Grumpypants had the worst day of his life. What’s wrong?” You crossed your arms and leaned against the doorframe.
James sat on his bed, running a hand through his hair.
“I may or may not have gotten detention for two weeks.”
You gasped and crossed the room to stand right in front of James. You smacked his head.
“Two weeks? I am not moving our practices to the morning for two weeks.”
“Yeah, I know.”
At least he sounded remorseful.
“What did you do? How did you get detention for two weeks?”
“Got into a fight…” he mumbled. You could barely hear him.
You sat down on the bed next to him.
“A fight? With who? About what? Fuck, two weeks?”
“Some Hufflepuffs…”
“By the kitchens. Makes sense.”
“Erm, they were saying-” He clicked his tongue. “-crude things about you.” He left out the part about you and him.
You pressed your lips together and looked away from James so he couldn’t see the faint dusting of pink on your cheeks. He got in a fight for you?
You waited a few seconds before clearing your throat and asking, “You can still play in the match in two weeks?”
“As long as I don’t get in any more trouble.”
“Good. And don’t. I’d rather have you on my team than benched for playing knight in shining armor.”
He chuckled dryly. “You got it, captain.”
“That’s Captain Squirt to you.”
“Captain Squirt.” He saluted you.
You stood up and ruffled his hair, like it wasn’t messy enough. Then you left the dorm and rejoined your friends in the common room. You told them James got distracted by something too embarrassing to share. That got James’ friends curious, but you wouldn’t budge. They could ask him about it later.
The two weeks passed quickly. You beat the Ravenclaw team. The party was nothing special. No slow dances, no kissing. Just drinking butterbeer and playing games.
Another week passed and James asked Lily to Hogsmeade while they were standing in the Transfiguration courtyard, enjoying a bit of sun. Lily sighed dramatically. At first, James thought she was going to curse him out or hex him at the very least. He felt that he had actually pissed her off this time.
“Potter,” she started with a dangerous tone, “do you remember the first time you asked me out?”
He nodded, a little confused. “Third year, yeah. Squirt dared me to ask out my crush.”
Lily gave him a soft smile and reached out to squeeze his arm. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you’ve been asking out the wrong girl. Then and now.”
The redhead walked away, leaving James in a stupor. Was she implying that he should be asking you out? Was that McGonagall was implying?
But you’re like family, a sister to him. He couldn’t ask you out. That would be incest.
The thought slipped from his head relatively quickly. He tried to focus on school and quidditch, with the occasional prank. It really wasn’t an obvious change in him. It was nothing that his friends noticed.
More than a week later, James overheard Marvin talking to Lucas.
“I mean, she’s bloody fit,” Marvin said. “The things I would let Y/N do to me…”
James sped up and grabbed Marvin, pushing him against the wall. Lucas just stood off to the side. He watched with wide eyes. James had pulled his wand and pressed it against Marvin’s throat.
“Do not. Talk about. Y/N. Like. That,” James growled.
Marvin made a pathetic whimpering noise.
“Am I understood?”
“Yes.”
James let Marvin go, taking a step back.
“Get out of my sight,” James said.
The two boys ran down the corridor and turned the first corner they found. James pocketed his wand and kept going. You deserved respect. James would be damned if he let some idiotic boys get away with that.
James sat across from you in the common room that evening as you worked on homework. He could see the stress of fifth year O.W.L.s beginning to weigh on you. It was a tough year. He knew that.
He got up and went to his dorm briefly. When he returned, he slid a pumpkin pasty in front of you.
“‘M not hungry.”
“Eat it.”
You looked up from your assignment to glare at James.
“You’ve been studying for how long? You need to keep your energy up.”
You narrowed your eyes but unwrapped the treat. A triumphant smile spread across James’ face. He ruffled his hair and returned his own assignment that he was at least attempting to finish.
Over the next few weeks, James made it his personal mission to ensure that you were taking care of yourself. You needed adequate sleep and food. He noticed that your schedule was essentially school, study, sleep, quidditch, school, study, sleep, school, quidditch, study, sleep, repeat. He just hoped that you wouldn’t fall victim to burnout.
Besides making sure that you were okay, he found himself listening for your name in other people’s conversations. Like with Marvin, if anyone called you hot or fit or whatever, James took care of them. He managed to not actually fight any of them, thus not getting detention, but he definitely frightened some of the boys in your year. In his head, he was ensuring that people gave you your due respect and that you had no unnecessary distractions right now.
“Alright, this is it. This is our now-or-never moment. It’s just Slytherin. We’ve beaten them before and we can do it again. Placker, Miller, for the love of everything, make sure that Williams stays safe. I do not want her in the hospital wing after this match. Not like last year,” you said before the Quidditch Cup. You had lost to Slytherin earlier this term, but you were otherwise undefeated. “This is just like practice. We are the better team. We have the skills. The determination. The grit. And the drive. And a damned need to party like there’s no tomorrow when we walk away today. As winners.” You gave a confident scan of your team. “Let’s go murder some snakes.”
The team was ready. James and Marlene followed right behind you like your entourage. James clapped a hand on your shoulder moments before you were ready to take off into the air.
“Let’s kill ‘em, Captain Squirt.”
You flashed him a smile. Then it was game time. As soon as Madam Weekes blew the whistle, you were off. You were soaring through the air with the rush wind and cheer of the crowd roaring in your ears. Slytherin got the quaffle right off the bat. They didn’t have it for long as Marlene intercepted their pass. She sped to the other side of the pitch and threw it through one of the hoops. Your beaters were doing their job, not only making sure your seeker was protected but the rest of the team as well. It felt like for every goal Slytherin scores, Gryffindor scores three. You were unstoppable. Your passing was perfect. James and Marlene moved with you in formations you had practiced all year.
Then Williams caught the snitch.
You couldn’t believe it. Gryffindor actually won the Quidditch Cup under your captainship. It didn’t feel real. You landed and James landed right next to you. He pulled you into a hug just like after the first match of the season, and he kept his arm around you as the whole team gathered to cheer together. Everything felt surreal.
There was a short ceremony. Professor McGonagall was smiling, actually smiling. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen her smile like that. Professor Dumbledore presented you with the trophy. You lifted it above your head with a wide grin on your face.
The party in the common room felt more wild than usual. You went up to your dorm quickly to change into something more fashionable than the sweats you had worn before the match. When you came back down, someone handed you a drink. You took a sip. Then you stared at the cup, giving it a swirl.
“That’s not butterbeer.”
Apparently, the seventh years had a secret stash of drinks in their dorms that they usually kept for themselves, but with the win, they decided to be generous and share, with the sixth years and you, the fifth year captain. One of your friends pulled you onto the dance floor. You did your best to not spill your drink, but it was more difficult than you expected. The Gryffindors were going harder than any previous party.
James was watching you, dancing and laughing with your friends. He had seen a seventh year hand you a cup and refill it for you when it ran low, and James was fairly certain you didn’t know your tolerance. So, he made sure that you were okay from a distance. If you needed him, he could be at your side within seconds.
James saw a different seventh year watching you dance. The expression on his face made James’ blood boil. When the seventh year started walking toward you, James quickly moved to intercept him. He wasn’t going to let this boy take advantage of you.
“Get your hand off me, Potter.”
“Just turn around, Quincey.”
“I’m going to ask a girl to dance. That a problem with you?”
“Because it’s looking like that girl is Y/N, yeah, it is.”
“You together or something?”
“No.”
“Then, there’s no problem.”
“You’re fucking graduating in a few days. I call that a problem.”
The seventh year yanked his arm out of James’ grip and looked at where you were dancing. Then he felt the tip of a wand in his side.
“I told you to turn around,” James growled.
“Get a hold of your temper, mate. Merlin’s beard…”
But the seventh year went back to his friends with an annoyed look on his face. James counted that as a success and retreated back to his friends.
“What’d you have to say to Quincey?” Marlene asked.
“He wanted to change the music. Told ‘im it’s the team’s picks tonight.”
Sirius and Remus exchanged a glance. They were pretty sure that Quincey didn’t care about the music. Not with the way James’ eyes kept finding you across the room.
Even though the O.W.L.s were hell to take, you didn’t really want the school year to end. Not this school year. It had made you feel like you were on top of the world. And you told your parents as much when you found them at King’s Cross Station.
Your parents patiently listened to you recount every game in remarkable detail. You told them how you were basically a hermit for the last month of school, studying and practicing and that was it.
“What was that?” you asked.
Your parents had shared a look when you mentioned that James brought you studying snacks.
“What was what, sweetie?” your mother asked, busying herself with something else.
“What you and dad just did. That look.”
“Just… noting how… nice James is to you,” your father said, smiling.
You shrugged. “I mean, he’s my friend.”
“A very good friend from the sounds of it,” your mother said.
You gave them a weird look before leaving the kitchen. Yeah, James was your friend. Probably more of your best friend than Natalie was at the moment, but that was because you played quidditch and she didn’t and James did. And he stayed up to study with you while she turned in early. And you sat on the edge of your friend group at meals so you could also be at the edge of his friend group.
Like last summer, James’ owl came with an invite to a summer party. He asked if you had another family trip planned or if you’d possibly be able to come. You wrote back that you’d ask but you’d need a fair amount of details to convince your parents. When he responded, he had everything you’d possibly need to know. His address, who was all invited, confirmation that his parents would be around, what food they planned on having, that there was enough room for everyone invited and boys and girls would be sleeping in different rooms. And that it actually was more of a party weekend than an afternoon.
You sat with your parents at the kitchen table as they read over James’ second letter with all the details. You waited nervously for their answer, fingers drumming on your knee.
“I suppose you know all these people?” your mother asked, pointing to the list of invitees.
“Most. I don’t know Emmeline or Dorcas. Figure they’re Hogwarts too, but James’ year.”
She hummed and looked at your father. She gave him a subtle nod.
“We’ll owl his parents. I want it in their handwriting that they’ll be around,” he said.
“So I can go?”
“If! If his parents are there all weekend,” your father clarified.
You jumped out of your chair and hugged them. Then you sprinted to your room to tell James. You were 90% sure that James was telling the truth when he wrote that his parents would be there.
Your parents went with to drop you off at the Potters’ for the party weekend. They said they just wanted to say hi to the Potters in person. You knew that they wanted to see them in person to be 100% sure that there would be responsible adults in the vicinity, rather than a house of teenagers.
The moment James opened the front door, he pulled you into a hug and said, “Squirt! You made it!”
Your father cleared his throat when James lingered a second too long.
“Mr. L/N, Mrs. L/N! My parents are just in the kitchen if you’d like to say hello,” James said, pulling back from you and giving them his usual blinding smile. Then back to you, “Lily and Marlene are here already. Lemme show you to the girls’ room.”
He took your hand and brought you inside. With his other hand, he gestured to the kitchen for your parents. You were in awe of how large James’ house was; at least his ability to afford your Christmas gift made more sense now. It appeared the Potters were loaded.
“Y/N! Why am I not surprised?” Marlene laughed when James knocked and opened the bedroom door.
“Did James not tell you I was invited?” you asked, walking into the room and setting your bag on one of the unclaimed beds.
“I just figured it was the usual group,” she said.
You almost said that you were invited last year so you should’ve been considered part of the usual group, but you didn’t. You sat down next to Marlene on her bed and looked at Lily. Someone had called James’ name from elsewhere in the house and he disappeared.
“Lily took less convincing to come this year. Last year, she put up quite the fight. What did I bribe you with? D’you remember?”
“Um, I think you said you’d cover my Broomsticks’ bill for three visits?” Lily said with a laugh. It had the kind of brightness that you associated with Lily. It fit her.
“What changed with this year?” you asked.
“Remus and I have a bet going. I’m here to make sure he doesn’t intervene.”
You leaned forward. “A bet?”
“Yes. He thinks something is going to happen before school starts and I’m positive that it won’t.”
“And that thing is…” Marlene asked.
“Can’t say. That’s part of the bet. Minimal meddling from us can happen. No direct mentions of it. It needs to happen… organically.”
“McKinnon! Where the hell are you?” a female voice yelled from what you assumed was the front door.
“Bedroom!” Marlene yelled back with no concern for your hearing.
Footsteps. Then the door banged open and a girl you only sort of recognized was revealed.
“Dorcas, you know Y/N, right?” Lily asked.
“Um, no?” she said, throwing her bag on the one next to Marlene’s. She gave you a once over. “Oh, no. I do know you. Potter’s designated snack recipient. Yeah, Sirius has complained about you.”
She laughed when worry flashed across your face.
“Let me rephrase. He has complained about James giving all his snacks to you rather than Sirius. Poor bloke’s been starving.”
After some talking with the girls and getting used to how they joked, it seemed like everyone had arrived. Remus was sent to gather the girls and tell you that you’d be eating outside because Fleamont was using a muggle grill.
“Oh, this’ll be good,” Lily laughed, following Remus out the door.
You tried to not be glued to Marlene’s side, but she was your teammate. You knew her. You had some interactions with Lily and Mary, but not too much, and you hadn’t even known who Dorcas or Emmeline were until now. Once outside, it was better. You could sit with James or Remus or Peter or Sirius. You didn’t know Benjy or Edgar, the other two boys who had been invited.
James liked that you were here. At his house. With his friends. Looking like you were having a good time. You were sitting with Sirius and Peter, laughing at something they said. He wished you had been able to come last year too, but he understood why you couldn’t. He just liked having you around. Your presence made things brighter somehow.
When Fleamont started serving up dinner, you sat down next to James with your plate.
“I’m glad you came,” James said in a low voice.
You gave him a curious look as you ate a chip. “I’ve barely talked to you since I got here.”
“Yeah, true, but you’re here all weekend. Plenty of time to hang out.”
“And for me to meet some of your other friends. Crazy to think you talk to people other than Sirius, Remus and Peter. And Lily and Marlene.”
“Hey! I talk to plenty of people!”
“Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that.”
Too soon, everyone’s eaten and just lounging about outside. Crickets started to fill the quiet as the sky darkened. Euphemia called out the back door, telling everyone it was time to come in and get ready for bed. It was funny being told to go to bed at this age. But someone said that she was right since it was around 10:30. James had said there were enough beds for everyone. He did not say that there were enough bathrooms.
The next day started off slow. People got up at their leisure, because they’d be damned if they didn’t get to sleep in during summer break. That meant there was space in the kitchen for everyone to eat. After eating, everyone dispersed to different areas of the house or outside. You chose to sit on the back steps with a tea, looking out at the property.
James joined you.
“I think I know why your mum doesn’t want you flying in the winter,” you said quietly.
He hummed.
“You’d get lost! I’m imagining this all covered in snow. I bet if you went beyond those trees, you wouldn’t be able to tell up from down.”
James laughed. “I’m sure we can arrange a winter visit for you. You’ll see just how wrong you are.”
You lifted your cup in an attempt to hide your face. You knew your cheeks turned pink. A winter visit? As of right now, the only time when it was winter that you could come back would be around Christmas and you know Euphemia calls that family time. Meaning for family only. You weren’t family. You had just gotten the summer invite.
You ended up playing cards for a while in the morning. Benjy was winning almost every hand and you were getting frustrated by it. You were almost about to challenge him to a broom race. You figured he didn’t play quidditch so you could win at that.
“Oi, James, we’re going to the creek, yeah?” Dorcas yelled across the room. She was sitting with Marlene and Peter.
James looked up from his cards and then out the window. “I mean, we got all day still. We can head down whenever you lot want.”
That must’ve been why James said you might want to bring a swimsuit. You assumed they went to this creek last year while you were sitting in a stuffy house eating cold soup and being told the goblin rebellions were actually quite interesting. They weren’t. Your uncle was delusional.
Emmeline took the cards from your hand and put them in the discard.
“Hey!”
“We’re changing. Come on,” she said, grabbing your arm and yanking you up.
Right. Changing into swimsuits for the creek. You followed the girls up the stairs to your room. You didn’t see how James’ eyes followed you up.
“James.”
“Huh?”
“Your turn.”
“Right.”
Fifteen minutes later, the group was walking through trees to the creek near the edge of the Potters’ land. James and Sirius were the first to take off their shirts and run into the creek. You were a little more timid with it. You waited until some of the girls started taking off their clothes. You carefully folded your shirt and shorts on top of your shoes so they wouldn’t get dirty on the ground.
“Y/N! Are you coming?” Marlene yelled. Then she screamed as Dorcas pulled her under the water. “MEADOWES, YOU ARE DEAD!”
You walked to the edge of the creek and then deep enough so the water came up to your ankles. It was cold. Very, very cold. Marlene’s scream was warranted.
“It’s better once you get used to it,” James said from where he stood waist-deep in the water.
You’d seen him shirtless before when he changed after quidditch, but this felt different. You tried not to stare. You could look at his face. Yes, his face was safe.
“You’re not going to get used to it if you just stand there,” James said, now closer to you.
“Don’t know ‘bout that, James. I think the water is plenty fine right here.”
He was now standing right next to you.
“You know how to swim, right?”
You nodded, but you immediately wished you hadn’t. He grabbed your waist, picking you up and falling sideways into the water. You screamed just like Marlene had. If you weren’t shocked by the chilly water, you might’ve focused on the feeling of James’ hands on your bare waist. He’d picked you up before in hugs, but you were always wearing clothes. This was skin-on-skin. This was new.
When you surfaced, he was laughing.
“You’re an arse,” you said with no bite as you splashed him.
Remus gave Lily a “I’m right” look. She shook her head.
Most of the afternoon was spent by the creek. There was splashing, games of chicken, laying out towels and relaxing in the sun that came through the trees. Everyone was just messing around and talking. You really liked James’ friends. They were easy to get along with and they didn’t seem to care that you were younger than them.
You got into a debate with Edgar about how dangerous sphinxes were. James couldn’t take his eyes off you as you argued. Sirius nudged him.
“You’re staring.”
James snapped his head to look at Sirius. “At what?”
“At what?” Sirius repeated mockingly.
“Shut up.”
Sirius laughed and clapped James on the shoulder. Sirius knew about Remus and Lily’s bet and he was on Lily’s side. James wasn’t admitting it to himself yet. Nothing was going to happen until after school started. Or if it ever did.
You headed back to the house around dinner time. Everyone had dried off before you even left the creek, but even if you hadn’t, you would’ve been dry by the time you got back. You and the girls went to change; the boys put their shirts back on. Euphemia made dinner, which meant it was more delicious than Fleamont’s grilling.
After dinner, Sirius and Peter went out back to start a fire. You helped move some chairs so everyone could sit around it. Once the fire got going, someone suggested a game, two truths and a lie. You weren’t too good at it since you were still getting to know half the group and they all knew each other since first year. Then someone said you should play Never Have I Ever.
“You need drinks for that though,” Dorcas pointed out.
“We can make some. Moons, come on. Help me,” James said, standing up.
Remus followed him inside and went to grab cups.
“So…” Remus said, his voice trailing off. He wasn’t sure if this counted as meddling, but he was going to ask.
“So?” James repeated confused.
When are you going to kiss her?”
“Kiss who?” Still confused.
“Y/N? Who else would I be talking about?”
James choked on air. “Y/N? Moony, I’ve told you, she’s like my little sister. I’m not kissing my sister.”
Remus made a noise that said he didn’t believe James, but he didn’t push it further. They made drinks in silence. They put them on trays to bring out to the group. You ended up learning a lot about the group during that game, especially as people drank more.
The next day, you took the Floo Network home. Your parents asked if you had fun. You did. But all you wanted to do now was sleep. You needed to recharge your battery.
---
When you see James at Hogsmeade Station, you run up to him for a hug. But before you wrapped your arms around him, you spotted something shiny on his chest. You froze with wide eyes.
“Head Boy? You’re Head Boy?” you gasped.
“Yeah,” James said, looking down at the badge.
“Bit unexpected.”
“Hey!”
That’s when you hugged James. “Not my fault you weren’t made prefect.”
James laughed and gave you a squeeze. He had duties to do before he went to the Great Hall so you went with your friends to the carriages. You looked back over your shoulder and smiled. It was almost bizarre to see James so serious about something as he directed students to the carriages and the first years to where they would board the boats.
At dinner a few days later, Remus sat across from you and said, “James got called into McGonagall’s office.”
“Shit, did he let power go to his head already?” you asked, genuinely concerned. Not about the power, but rather that he had already gotten into trouble that he probably thought he could get away with because he was Head Boy.
Remus shrugged. Great. You were concerned for the first few minutes of dinner, eyes flicking toward the door every few minutes. When he came through the doors, he was beaming. You waited until he was closer before readying yourself to ask what he did.
Except he spoke first. “I’m captain again!”
“What?”
“McGonagall said she’s giving me a chance to take after you. I’m captain!”
You stood up and hugged James tighter than you ever had.
“I’m so happy for you!” you said into his shoulder.
You held onto each other longer than what you considered necessary, but he didn’t seem to be letting go so you didn’t either. Your face was beet red when you did pull away and sit back down.
“Where’s my hug, Prongs?” Peter asked when the boys got back to their dorm.
“Why you want a hug?”
“Squirt got quite the hug. And since you’re, you know, friends, I should get the same treatment.”
James sent an unamused look in Peter’s direction.
“Oh, same with the snacks! I want study snacks!” Sirius added.
“That means you have to study, Pads,” James said before looking back at Peter. “What are you saying? Do I not hug you enough?”
“I’m saying that you and Y/N are looking like more than friends.”
“I’ve told you before, and I will tell you again, since it hasn’t gotten through your thick skull. Y/N and I are friends. She’s like family to me. Basically my little sister.”
Sirius, Remus and Peter aren’t the only ones James found himself having to tell that to. Benjy asked him a week later what was going on between you and him. A girl asked him too after that. James always repeated the same thing to anyone and everyone who asked. You’re family. You’re his little sister.
A few weeks into the school year, someone set their books down across from you in the library. You expected it would be James plopping down into the chair and proceeding to distract you.
“Mind if I sit here?”
That voice wasn’t James. You looked up to see Martin Reyes, a Slytherin in your year.
“Oh, um, sure. Go ahead.” You gave him a polite smile.
You worked in silence for a little bit. You weren’t close with Martin, but you liked him better than some of his housemates. He cleared his throat, getting your attention again.
“How come you’re not captain again this year?”
You breathed a soft laugh. “James said Professor McGonagall was giving him a chance to follow in my footsteps.”
“Shame, really. Didn’t he… lose the quidditch cup when he was captain? You won it.”
“That’s the, um, giving him a second chance thing.”
“Yeah, but you’re a wicked player. I think you should’ve kept the title.”
“Thanks?”
“I mean, it’s not just me. I heard Regulus saying so too. Although, he might just be anti-Potter.”
“Really? Even after we beat you guys for the Cup last year? Regulus would rather have me as captain?”
“I think any bloke would rather shake your hand before a match than Potter’s.”
“Oooh, shaking hands. So scary.”
“I’m not talking about scary.”
“No?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.
“I’m talking about being close to you.”
“Oh.” Your voice was suddenly small.
Martin didn’t say anything more. He smiled at you and then started working on his homework again. Silence fell between you. You worked for a while.
“Um, I’ll see you later, Martin,” you said after you cleaned up your space.
Martin held you to that. He started saying hi to you in the corridors. If he struck up a conversation with you walking to class, he’d linger by your desk before finding his own. If he spotted you in the library, he’d sit across from you. And when he talked to you, it always had a flirty comment here and there, sprinkled into the conversations like cinnamon.
You didn’t mind him.
“Martin swing by her station in Herbology again?” Eleanor asked Natalie at dinner. You hadn’t arrived yet.
“Swing by? El, he walked in with her. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked her out yet,” Natalie said with a laugh. “Ah, woman of the hour! How’s your boy?”
You sat down next to Natalie and rolled your eyes. “He’s not my boy.”
“Flirting like he wants to be,” Eleanor said.
“Who’s flirting with you?” James asked, leaning over to join the conversation he was eavesdropping on.
“No one,” you said quickly.
“Martin Reyes,” Eleanor said. “Just sat down next to Regulus.”
James looked over his shoulder to see the boy at the Slytherin table. There was a strange twinge in his stomach. A Slytherin was flirting with you and possibly going to ask you out? A Slytherin? James didn’t think that was your type. You could do better. Immediately, James decided he wasn’t okay with it. As your honorary older brother, boys should have to get his permission to ask you out.
James didn’t do anything about it though. It was just flirting. You could flirt. It wasn’t like you were doing anything.
Then he saw it. You were leaning against the wall next to the locker room door, twirling some of your hair around your finger, as you talked with Martin. James didn’t like how close Martin was standing to you.
That’s my Squirt.
That thought was not a familial protective feeling. It was… possessive. You were his Squirt. His quidditch obsessed friend. His. Not Martin’s.
James did not want to linger on that thought.
When he passed by you and Martin, he said, “Let’s go. I’m starting practice.”
You rolled your eyes. “He’s not even changed yet. But, you know, he’s captain. I’ll see you later, Martin.”
Some time later, you were sitting on the couch in the common room, legs curled underneath you as you attempted to study from your Potions book. James collapsed next to you, handing you a chocolate frog.
“Study fuel?” you asked as you took it.
“Or a snack for my favorite.”
You hummed. You ate the chocolate in silence. Then you remembered a thought that occurred to you a few nights ago.
“Have you asked Lily out recently? Head Boy and Quidditch Captain really ups your appeal.”
“No. I don’t think I fancy her anymore.”
“Huh. Moved on, have you?”
“I’m… figuring stuff out.”
Martin asked you out a few days later. You told Natalie, Eleanor and Veronica about it at dinner. You were excited. This was going to be your first date. Eleanor and Veronica turned around at the same time to look at Martin. He saw them and gave them a small wave. They burst into giggles, turning back around.
“Guys,” you said, “be nice!”
James decided in that moment he would be at the Three Broomsticks when you had your date with Martin. If anyone asked, he was just keeping an eye on Martin. He would say that something didn’t feel right about you going on a date with a Slytherin. It was a safety precaution. Even though he had a feeling in his stomach that it wasn’t.
When he told the boys he’d be supervising your date, they insisted on going with him.
“She only needs one chaperone,” James said.
“Oh, we know,” Peter said. “We’re coming to chaperone you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re fine now. We’ll see how you do,” Remus said.
On Saturday, the boys picked a table as far from your table as they could. James still had a decent enough view of you. But he couldn’t hear anything you were saying. It wasn’t close enough in his opinion.
“Prongs, you good?” Sirius asked with an amused lilt to his voice.
“What?” James snapped, tearing his eyes away from you. You had dressed up so nicely for your date.
“You bent the fork.”
He looked down at his hands, clenched around a now very curved fork. He dropped it with a clatter.
“I’m fine.”
He was not, in fact, fine. He was jealous. Very jealous that a fucking Slytherin had you out on a date and you looked happy to be there. You were laughing and smiling. But at least Martin was keeping his hands to himself. James wasn’t sure if he’d be able to control himself if he saw the boy touch you.
By Wednesday, James had come to terms that every time he said you were a sister to him, he had been lying. He understood what Lily meant when she said he was asking out the wrong girl. He understood what McGonagall meant when she told him to consider if it was familial love. He understood every comment his friends had made. It seemed like everyone saw it before he did.
“Hey, Squirt, can you stay for a few minutes?” he called across the pitch as he landed after practice.
“Yeah!” you yelled back.
You thought that maybe he wanted to run a few more chaser drills, but he didn’t ask Marlene to stay. The rest of the team disappeared into the locker room. You waited for James to walk over to you.
“So, what’s up, Potter?” Your arms were crossed over your chest. “Relinquishing captain duties to me?” you asked with a smirk.
He moved to stand right in front of you. He was close enough that you actually had to tilt your head up to see his face.
“Remember when you asked if I had moved on from Evans?”
“Yeah. Did you finally figure your stuff out?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s the lucky lady? She in my year? Need me to be your wingwoman?”
You were more teasing, but James spoke with a seriousness to his voice.
“She is in your year,” he said, running a hand through his hair. Because that was easier than directly saying it’s you. Then he asked, “How was your date with Reyes?”
“It was good? I think he had a good time too.” You tilted your head. “You looking for a double date type thing? Reyes, me, you and your girl?”
James, more unsure of himself than he’d been in his entire life, reached for your hand. You let him take it. Your other arm still hugged your chest.
“I was more hoping for just you and me.”
Your breath felt like it was knocked out of you. Your voice stuck in your throat. You didn’t say anything, but you also didn’t move. You stood there with James holding your hand and you staring at his face.
After a few painfully silent seconds of James trying to read your face, you said, “My date was good.”
“You said that. I’m not deaf. And I know-” He sighed heavily. “-my timing isn’t great.”
“Isn’t great? James, I just went on my first date.”
“I know,” he breathed. “I guess, I was hoping to be your second.”
James,” you said exasperated. You turned away from him, still not pulling your hand away from him. If you started at him for too long, you feared that everything you felt building over years would bubble up at once and overwhelm you.
“Y/N, please.”
He said your name. Not Squirt. Your name.
Then he gently turned your face back towards him, his other hand guiding your chin. He leaned down to kiss you. You didn't stop him. You weren’t sure if you could; you had fought the urge to kiss him so many times in the past year. His lips were soft against yours, moving in the gentlest fashion. His thumb grazed over your cheek.
When he pulled back, your mouth was slightly parted. You couldn’t think of anything say as all of those feelings you felt for James but didn’t want to think about washed over you and you felt like you were drowned.
“Can I do that again?” James asked, still holding both your face and your hand.
You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest like it wanted to escape.
This time when he kissed you, James let go of your hand and grabbed your waist to pull closer to him. You kissed him back. The feeling of his lips against yours was everything you had ever dreamed of and not told anyone. It was every time you blushed simply because you were near James. It was him saying he’d find a way for you to see his home at Christmas, during what he told you his mother called family time. It was him asking if you and Marvin were a thing last year and asking who was flirting with you this year.
This time, it was you pulling back. That had James fearing he had actually ruined your friendship, despite the fact that you were pulling out of his hands away from him.
“I’ll tell Martin it’s not going to work out,” you said.
James let out a strangled-sounding laugh as he rested his forehead against yours.
“Sorry it took me seeing you on a date with someone else to realize that I wanted to be one with that privilege.”
“I have a feeling you’ll make it up to me.”
Lily would find out in the morning that she had won her bet with Remus.
Summary: He smells like trouble — and you’re violently allergic.
A/N: Just a cute lil drabble for us girlies with rhinitis lmfao
credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider!
Your friends and family could definitely attest to the fact that you weren’t a morning person. They knew just how much effort it took for you to drag yourself out of your comfortable bed and get ready for a day of classes.
In fact, you loved sleep so much that you often skipped breakfast just to stay in bed a little longer. But on days like today, even that luxury had to be sacrificed. You had a double Potions lesson on these unfortunate mornings, and you knew that if Snape heard your stomach growl in the middle of class, he’d turn his greasy gaze on you in an instant. You didn’t need that kind of humiliation before 8 a.m.
So, just for those insipid Thursdays that cursed you with a front-row seat to Snape’s scowl, you forced yourself to have a full breakfast.
You were halfway through your meal when someone slid in beside you, your thigh pressing up against theirs due to the crowded table—but you paid it no mind. You were still drowsily chewing your croissant and washing it down with sips of coffee, half-awake and wholly uninterested in morning socialization.
But as it turned out, you didn’t even need to look up to recognize who had sat beside you. His scent drifted over immediately, invading all your senses.
Smoke. Menthol. Grass.
The offensive combination was a direct attack on your sinuses—an allergy trigger—and you sniffled, trying your hardest to suppress the inevitable.
"Achoo—!"
You barely managed to grab a tissue in time before a sneezing fit hit you, harsh and rapid, making your head pound and clogging your ears. It was like a full-body betrayal.
Finally, you lifted your head, eyes watery, and glared at Mattheo, who was watching your misery with far too much amusement.
“It’s six o’clock in the bloody morning. Why do you already smell like an ashtray?”
He chuckled, low and raspy—his signature brand of self-destruction. The sound made your stomach flip unpleasantly, “How else am I meant to survive double Potions this early?”
“Salazar, I’m about to sneeze up my lungs. You need to get away from me.” You groaned, digging through your bag with one hand while clutching a tissue to your nose with the other. You finally found your allergy potion, added a few drops to your water, and knocked it back like a shot. The relief was still a few minutes away, but your sinuses were already starting to throb.
“Aw, don’t be like that, darling.” Mattheo teased, leaning in closer with that infuriating smirk.
You had no idea how it was physically possible to trigger another sneezing fit when you couldn’t smell a damn thing—but somehow, he managed.
He winced this time, genuinely, and passed you another tissue as your nose turned an alarming shade of red and your chest began to burn from the exertion.
"You think this is funny?" You rasped, your voice nasally and sharp as you blew your nose yet again. Your eyes were watery and puffy now, and your headache was blooming behind them like an angry sun.
He shrugged and leaned in just a little closer, the glint of mischief in his eyes glimmering brighter when you instinctively leaned away to escape his scent, “You’re cute when you’re dying.”
You gave him a deadpan stare, unimpressed, “You think this is flirting?”
“Is it not working?”
You sneezed again in response, grabbing another tissue as your shoulders sagged from the force of it, “I hate you.”
Mattheo chuckled, clearly not offended in the slightest, “I’m growing on you.”
“Like mold.” you muttered, blowing your nose again.
The dungeons were even colder than usual.
You sat stiffly at your table, arms folded and a tissue still clutched in your sleeve just in case, glaring daggers at Mattheo, who had somehow managed to plant himself at the same workstation as you—again. He was leaning back in his chair, the picture of smug satisfaction, while you were trying to remember if it was possible to drown someone in a cauldron without magic.
Snape stood at the front, his voice as dry and lifeless as ever, “Today we will be brewing Amortentia—the most powerful love potion in existence. I’m aware that most of you have heard of it.” His eyes swept the class lazily, lingering on a few particularly chatty Hufflepuffs until they fell silent, “I do not need to warn you not to drink it. If you are foolish enough to do so, I suggest you be prepared to serve detention for the rest of the year.”
That certainly wiped the grins off a few faces.
Snape gestured toward a swirling silver potion that sat in the center of the classroom, steam curling up from its surface like silk threads, “Amortentia has a distinctive smell for each individual. It reflects what attracts you—your deepest desires.”
You already knew what was coming next.
Snape gave an exhausted sigh, “Yes, I will allow you to approach and smell it. No, I will not tolerate dramatics or extended monologues. State three scents. Then return to your seat.”
Of course, the class erupted into excited whispers, and students immediately began lining up like it was a trip to Honeydukes, a buzz of excitement threading through the usual tension. You ended up somewhere near the back of the line, still sniffling lightly but feeling mostly human again.
Mattheo turned toward you with a grin, “Wanna guess what I’ll smell?”
"I couldn't care less." You muttered, rubbing your nose.
One by one, your classmates stepped up and murmured their answers:
“Fresh parchment… ink… cedarwood.”
“Rain on concrete… treacle tart… and, um, lavender?”
When it was Mattheo’s turn, he moved to the front casually, hands in his pockets, and leaned over the potion with a laziness that was either theatrical or just him being annoying. Probably both. You saw his expression shift slightly—his mouth twitching, a flicker of surprise in his eyes—and then he smirked, catching your eye.
“Cinnamon,” He murmured, almost lazily, “Smoke… and something sweet. Like a cherry lip balm.”
You blinked. Your lip balm was cherry. But before you could even begin to convince yourself there was absolutely no way he was talking about you, it was your turn.
You stepped forward cautiously and leaned over the cauldron, letting the shimmering steam curl toward your face.
The scent hit you all at once.
Warm coffee in the morning. The crackling scent of firewood. The sharp sting of winter air. And—
that godawful combination of cigarette smoke, grass, warm leather, and that absolutely striking menthol that jabbed you right in the back of your head.
Your entire body rejected the information at once.
"Achoo—!!"
It was so loud it echoed. Your eyes flew open, already brimming with tears as another round of sneezing overtook you—loud, rapid, unstoppable.
You barely managed to reach for your tissue as your chest tightened painfully, the sneezing fit threatening to overwhelm you.
Snape’s expression didn’t soften, but his voice dropped just enough to be heard only by you, “You are excused. Go to the bathroom and handle this... nuisance.”
You nodded gratefully, gathering your things in a flurry and stumbling out of the dungeon. At this rate, you wouldn’t be surprised if you had to stop by the hospital wing or take a stronger dose of your allergy potion.
Mattheo bloody Riddle.
Well, this was just great.
Later that afternoon, you found a quiet spot just outside the castle, where the sun filtered softly through the leaves and the cool breeze carried scents that—thankfully—didn’t assault your sinuses. You sank down onto the warm stone steps, closing your eyes and taking deep, deliberate breaths, willing your throat and chest to stop burning.
You barely had a moment to relax before you heard a familiar voice—smooth, teasing, and annoyingly persistent.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my biggest admirer.”
You opened your eyes to find Mattheo leaning casually against the wall nearby, arms crossed, a smug grin playing on his lips. His dark eyes gleamed with mischief.
“Don’t let it get to your head, Riddle. I’m literally allergic to you. Now, if you could kindly leave, I just managed to get over the allergic reaction. I don’t need you triggering another one.”
But, of course, he didn’t listen as usual. Instead, he sat down beside you again. But instead of being suffocated by his usual scent, you were welcomed by the smell of fabric softener and soap. You sighed in relief, glad you weren’t about to send yourself into your third allergic fit of the day.
“I showered and put on clean clothes,” He explained, nudging your shoulder with his, “Didn’t want the girl I fancy to have a near-death experience every time I’m around her.”
You breathed in deeply and exhaled, “So, I suppose the cherry lip balm you smelled was mine.”
He nodded. “And your shampoo. And,” he laughed at this, “your allergy potion.”
Your eyes snapped open, “So you’re saying the scent you associate me with is the bloody allergy potion?”
Mattheo smirked, clearly enjoying your shocked expression, “Well, it’s... memorable. Besides, it reminds me that I’m capable of stealing your breath away.”
You raised an eyebrow, “That’s supposed to be romantic?”
Mattheo’s grin widened, eyes sparkling with mischief, “Maybe not traditionally romantic, but definitely effective.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile, “You’re impossible.”
Mattheo’s smirk softened into something almost sincere as he shifted closer, eyes locked on yours, “So… how about this? Let me take you out sometime. A proper date.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity. Your heart did a little skip.
“Okay,” you said easily, without hesitation.
Mattheo blinked, caught off guard. “Okay? Just like that? No lecture? No conditions?”
You grinned. “Nope. I’m just going to wear the strongest, most suffocating perfume I own and cuddle up to you all day. Then you’ll know what I’ve been living through every time you light a cigarette.”
He laughed, the sound low and warm. “If you’re cuddled up to me, I think I’d die happy—no matter how sneezy and snotty I get.”
You couldn’t help but smile, cheeks warming as you looked at him. “Guess we’ll test that theory soon.”
Mattheo reached out, brushing a stray hair from your face with an unexpected tenderness, “Looking forward to it.”
The sun dipped a little lower, casting a golden glow over the two of you—and suddenly, the world felt a lot brighter.
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
You didn’t hate parties. You just… didn’t thrive in them.
Too much noise. Too many people. Too many boys with collars popped like they invented being insufferable. And somewhere inside, probably holding court in the center of it all, was Mattheo Riddle, smirking, tipsy, radiant in that disheveled, reckless way that only he could pull off.
You lasted twenty-three minutes.
And then you slipped out the back, heels clacking softly against old stone as you made your way to the tiny balcony off the third-floor hallway. The night air was cool and quiet and still. It smelled faintly of your expensive perfume and a little like freedom.
You leaned against the railing, exhaled, and let the music dull behind you.
And then, almost immediately...
The door creaked open.
“Should’ve known,” came a familiar voice. “You’d be out here while the rest of us rot in eternal social hell.”
You turned.
Mattheo Riddle stood in the doorway, a little flushed, curls slightly messier than usual. His tie was loosened. His shirt had one too many buttons undone, his cheeks held a tinge of red.
He looked like trouble, personified.
“You’re drunk,” you said lightly.
He blinked, clearly weighing that. “Not drunk. Just… vibing.”
You raised a brow, mouth twitching into a faint smile at the muggle vocab he had undoubtedly caught from you. “Vibing?”
“Is that not the youth term?” he asked, stepping closer, boots thudding softly against the floor.
You shrugged, trying to look casual even as your heart pulled a little tight. “Wasn’t expecting you to leave your kingdom in there.”
He came to stand beside you, leaning on the balcony railing, gaze sweeping across the moonlit courtyard like he was sober enough to remember any of it the next day.
Then, softer than before:
“Wasn’t fun without you.”
You turned your head. He was already watching you.
“What, no fan club to entertain you?” you teased. “No admirers to fawn over your curls and devastating charm?”
He huffed a laugh. “There were. One of them spilled wine on my shoes. I considered faking my own death to escape them.”
You snorted.
He tilted his head, still watching you. “You’re a hard girl to impress.”
“That’s because you usually open with insults and chaos.”
Mattheo smirked. “It’s part of my appeal.”
You rolled your eyes, but your voice was gentler now, serious. “You didn’t have to follow me out here.”
“I know,” he said, eyes flicking to your face. “I just… wanted to.”
You blinked. There was something about the way he said it, no bravado, no smirk. Just quiet honesty, tinged with firewhiskey and warmth.
He nudged your arm. “Besides. If you’re not having fun, I’m not having fun.”
Your heart did a very dumb thing.
You tried to deflect. “You’re really bad at pretending you don’t like me.”
“Mm,” he hummed, still smiling. “I was worse at pretending you weren’t the only person I wanted to talk to tonight.”
You looked away. Not because you didn’t believe him, but because you did, and that was somehow worse. Mattheo stepped closer, just slightly, shoulder brushing yours. “So. If I’m out here, and you’re out here… this is the party now, yeah?”
You bit your lip to keep from smiling too wide. “Guess so.”
“Brilliant,” he said, pulling a tiny flask out of his jacket like he’d planned this all along. “Because I brought provisions.”
You laughed. “Is that your secret to surviving social events? Bribery and liquor?”
“Only when the person I actually want to spend time with escapes to the balcony like a mysterious, radiant little stormcloud.”
You rolled your eyes, but your heart was already fluttering like a moth to a very unpredictable flame.
And when he offered you the flask with a lopsided grin and his fingertips brushed yours just a second too long, you knew This wasn’t just about escaping the party.
This was about finding each other in the quiet that came after.
Summary: You’ve hated James Potter for as long as you could remember. However, entering your last year as Head Girl and James as Head Boy, you’re forced to interact with the man you want nothing to do with. What are you supposed to do when you realise he’s not the egotistical jerk you made him out to be?
T/W: None
A/N: It's been way too long!! I've been more into writing poems lately, so I haven't had time for my lovely fan fictions. However, I sat in a forest and listened to the birds sing for a while today and finally gained enough inspiration to finish writing this fic I started a little while ago (this is also my longest fic yet, so go me). I hope everyone's doing well!!
Masterlist James Potter Masterlist
You absolutely hated James Potter. His egotistical smile grated at your nerves like no other, an unhappy frown pulling at your lips every time he was around. Paired with his unserious personality and sickly handsome face, you wanted nothing to do with the man.
However, fate - or Hogwarts for that matter- had other ideas, and both you and James Potter became Head Boy and Head girl during your last year.
James Potter barely knew anything about you. He vaguely remembers you during third year, the meek, quiet girl that accidentally fell victim to one of the Maruader’s prank’s, leaving you with half of your hair coloured pink. The half-assed apology you received was nothing compared to the judgmental and amused looks you received in the month it took for your hair to return to normal.
The ever-loved James had planned to mention this story to break the ice between you both. He was so used to being loved by everyone that he couldn’t hide the disappointment on his face when you merely smiled at his story and kept walking.
He was not one to give up. “You really did suit the pink,” He jokes, bright, eager eyes looking at you in hopes of seeing just a smidge of a smile. All he got was a fake laugh in return.
You didn’t hold a grudge against him for the prank he did years ago, but still couldn’t get over the mere audacity this man possessed with each step he took and flirty comment he made. You look over at him from where he walks beside you, head down, hands in his robe pockets. Perhaps you were being too hard on the boy. He’s Head Boy, so he can’t be that bad- “You always take things so seriously, don’t you? It’s no surprise that you’re only friends with boring nerds.” He laughs, nudging your shoulder playfully.
Ouch. Hurt stings your heart, and you attempt to shake it off. Your steps falter for a short moment, but long enough for James to notice. He frowns, worried that he’s hurt you. Before he can backtrack or apologise, you’re already ahead, speaking your first words of the night to a third-year roaming the corridors and ordering them to go back to their dorm. They roll their eyes but comply, and James feels it too late to apologise.
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“Don’t make me go,” You plead like a four-year-old, wrapping your arms around Dorcas’ right arm. She looks up from the book in her hands and attempts to shake you off, her voice laced with amusement. “You’re the one who wanted to be Head Girl. So go and fulfill your duties and patrol with the infamous James Potter.”
“He’s horrible, Dorcas,” You whine, falling down to the floor when she manages to shake you off, a low groan escaping your lips when you hit your head particularly hard. You know you’re being pathetic, but you’re allowed to be when you’re stuck walking with an egotistical teenage boy three nights a week.
“He’s the golden boy with a six-pack and a cute smile. Stop complaining and flirt!” A pillow is thrown at you to emphasise her words, and you groan once again. With a glare sent her way and a huff, you stand up from your spot on the carpeted floor, still staring at her as you dramatically open the door.
“Don’t have too much fun!” You scoff, turning around to leave and running into the one person you really didn’t want to see.
James Potter leans against the wall beside the door, a playful smirk playing on his stupidly handsome face. “Not too much fun, hey?” You resist the urge to pull his glasses off of his face and throw them to the floor.
You hate that you can feel your cheeks start to heat, growing shy at the realisation that he heard what Dorcas said. Avoiding his eyes, you close the door behind you and rush down the steps, trying not to focus on the steps sounding behind you.
It’s only when you exit the common room that he speaks again. “How are you?” He questions, ensuring his steps match with yours. “Fine.” You bluntly respond. At the awkward silence and the fact you can’t stand being impolite, you coldly ask, “How are you?”
He visibly perks up at your question, raising his head to look at you with his golden brown eyes and million-dollar smile. “I’m good! I’ve been practicing for the Quidditch match this weekend. Are you going to come?”
“No.” You state, folding your arms against your chest and looking ahead. Your shoes clatter against the stone steps, the cool night air hugging your skin.
“You don’t have to feel bad about going alone. It will still be fun!” He smiles goofily, revealing more of his throat as he looks up at the stars. Your admiration is cut short when you process what he said. “Um…what?”
The way James’s eyes widened would have been almost comical if you weren’t so offended. “That sounds bad. You can bring people, obviously, but I just figured you’d go alone-“
“Do you think I have no friends or something?” You've stopped in the middle of the field, eyes narrowed in accusation. You dig your nails into your arm, focusing on the pain it creates instead of the pain his words inflict.
“No! I mean - you're just always…y’know…by yourself.” He stumbles, hands raising in defence. Your tongue rolls against the inside of your cheek. “So now I’m a loner?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. “No. No. Merlin, can you just listen to me?” At your silence, he continues, “I shouldn’t have assumed that you'd go alone, but can you blame me? You never go out, and I just figured that if you were to go out, you'd be by yourself.”
The sound of crickets is the only thing that can be heard, an uncomfortable silence thick between you. You take a deep breath and turn your back to him, beginning to walk back to the castle. “I saw a movement in one of the potions classrooms, I’m going to check it out.”
“I’m sorry-“
“Don’t, James. Just don’t.”
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James Potter’s eyes bore into yours from across the Great Hall, and you’ve never been so grateful for Miss McGonagall as she leads you around the room, pointing at areas in the room. “This year's theme for the yule ball is going to be Winter Wonderland. You and James have two months to decorate this entire hall. I want you two working together on making a wonderfully decorated ball…”
Her words are quickly drowned out by the discomfort bubbling in your stomach. James walks away from where he is, looking around to listen in to what Miss McGonagall is saying. It’s only when she walks away that you finally process your surroundings. “Looks like we’re going to have to spend a lot of time together.” He laughs uncomfortably.
You guys haven’t spoken since that awkward night two days ago, and he’s unsure how to act around you. “I guess we will.” You lean against the wall behind you, sliding down and sitting on the cool floor with crossed legs. Taking out a pad of paper and some charcoal from your bag, you begin a quick sketch of the room.
You’re surprised when James sits beside you, stomach fluttering with anxious butterflies. “What…are you doing?”
He turns to look at you, dimples staring right at you. “You heard her, we’re doing this together.” He’s careful to keep a good distance, and you keep your head down, eyes on the paper in front of you. “I’m just doing a quick sketch.”
He taps the paper gently. “It’s very good. Do you draw often?” You ignore his attempts at making conversation and instead begin a hopefully short conversation about the decorations. “I was thinking we could have white roses in the middle of each table and maybe this tree archway.”
He sighs at the change of conversation. “Listen, about the other day-”
“James, we really don’t need to talk about it. I don’t like you, but I can remain professional, and that’s all that matters.” At the defeated, almost frustrated look in his eyes, you can’t help but scoff. “What? Can’t you handle the thought that someone doesn’t like you? As much as people say you are, you’re not all that.” You abruptly stand up and begin walking out the hall, poison lacing your voice, “I’ll send you the list of ideas I have for the ball, and you do the same. We can talk about it more next time you’re free.”
You’re already out of the room before he can utter a word.
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Despite the cruel words you uttered the last time you saw each other, James Potter shows up to your library get-together with a bright smile on his face. “Hello, love. I brought you a cupcake. Red velvet.” He places it on the table in front of you, and you shift your attention from your book to the small, delicious treat.
“You’re late,” You mutter grumbly. Despite your angry mood, you still slowly grab the cupcake, immediately bringing it to your mouth, unable to resist taking a bite. “I’m sorry. I’m a busy man, y’know?”
“I’m busy, too, James. We only have ten minutes to go over everything before I have to help this group of first-year students with Potions.” You scowl, rolling your eyes and continuing to eat the cupcake.
He ignores your words and instead grabs the book you were reading in front of you. “This is a muggle book, is it not? I’ve seen my friend Remus reading this.” You yank the book back and carefully put it into your bag. “Yes, he’s the one who recommended it to me.”
In hopes of reducing personal conversation, you jump straight into talking about the ball. “Now, about the ball. I’ve given the list of things we need to Miss McGonagall. The stuff should arrive next week Monday. We need to figure out what days we’re free to decorate.” You fiddle with the cupcake wrapper, looking down at his ruffled robes rather than his eyes.
“I’m busy on Saturdays for Quiddich practice, and I’m going to a party on Friday.” He smiles, unbothered by your quiet, grumpy mood.
“Okay, we can do Sundays and Tuesdays after school. Now, because you showed up so damn late I have to go and we’re going to have to meet again so let me know when you’re free.” He follows you when you stand up, gently grabbing hold of your arm before you can leave.
He forces you to stare into his eyes, and you’re surprised at the pure sincerity in them. “I’m sorry for being late. It won’t happen again.”
You take a deep breath, overwhelmed with confusion at the fact he apologised. “Okay. I forgive you. Don’t let it happen again, please.”
“Of course.” He doesn’t let go of your arm like you expected, instead, he holds it tighter. “Are you free Friday night? Come to the party with me.”
“I’m not free Friday. I have a date.”
“A date?” His voice is deep, unfamiliar. You nod awkwardly and pull your arm from his grip. “Yeah, I’m not actually a loner, James.” You laugh awkwardly before walking away.
You leave him standing there, gaping at your retreating figure.
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You can hear James before you can see him. His loud, heavy footsteps, matched with his obnoxious laugh, is enough to warn you about his presence.
You keep your focus on the task at hand, moving your wand up as you attach decor to the roof. He’s unfazed by your cool attitude, playfully nudging your shoulder.
“So…” his voice grates at your nerves more than usual, “how’d your date go?”
Right. The date. The reason for your extra pissy mood this morning. “It was fine.” You hoped he would get the hint that you didn’t want to talk about it, but James couldn’t take a sign if it smacked him in the face.
“Just fine? Tell me about it,” he pestered, gently poking your side, the hand holding your wand falters, the decoration almost falling to the floor. You give up on your task, glaring and beginning to walk away.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Cmonnnn,” his voice raises a pitch and you scowl, “tell me how it went.” He goes to grab your arm, and you move back. You scoff. “I don't want to talk about it.”
His brown, usually playful eyes turn serious in an instant. A crease formed between his brows, and a frown that didn’t suit his usually happy face painted his lips. “Did he do something?”
At the concern and genuine curiosity in his voice, you can’t help but let your shoulders fall, keeping your head down as you whisper, “he didn’t even show.”
“Oh.” Pink tints your cheeks, and shame curls your spine. “Wel,l it’s his loss. I’m sure he would have had a blast if he went”
You clear your throat and begin sorting through boxes, trying to ignore the lump in your chest. “Yeah, I guess.” He moves to stand next to you, shoulders almost brushing while he sorts things next to you.
“I mean it.” He turns his head to look at you, and you look back, captured by those swirling brown eyes. “Any guy would be lucky to go on a date with you.”
A shaky breath leaves your parted lips, and you're unsure why his words have such an impact on you. Maybe it’s the way his eyes never broke eye contact. Maybe it’s because he’s standing right under a lamp, and his hair looks golden brown. Or maybe it’s because his words only held sincerity- even longing, if you felt like being delusional.
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James Potter was pointing a wand at your face.
He was all arrogance as he crept closer towards you, a stupid smirk on his stupid face, his stupid eyes alight with mischief.
You raise your own wand, the wood cool and familiar in your hands, gripping it tightly. You watch his movements- the way his shoulders tense slightly and his eyes squint a smidge. “Expelliarmus.” His voice rings out, sure and loud. Expecting his attack, you're quick to block the spell.
You address the crowd without taking your eyes off of the boy in front of you. “When sparring, you want to study the person. Learn their tells.” The group of students nod in acknowledgment, much more interested in seeing who will win instead of learning.
The Defence against the Dark Arts teacher wanted you and James to come in and give a visual demonstration of sparring for some of the younger students. You were happy to agree, having only dreamed of a moment like this.
James was making it easy to spar with him: with his cocky comments about how he was going to win and the flirty winks he keeps shooting your way, you were more than happy to get him on his knees.
“Stupefy,” you mutter, scowling when he shouts a defence spell. “You're doing well,” he smiles encouragingly, “I’m pretty good at sparring and most people would have been on their ass by now.”
It’s the fact that he seems genuinely surprised at your doing well that sends annoyance travelling up your spine. His ego is bigger than Snapes, Merlin could he be anymore of an ass?
“Do you want me to go easy on you-“
“-langlock.” He’s quiet in an instant, unable to speak with his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. Eyes widened in shock, the hand that holds his wand falters, and you don’t hesitate to yell, “Levicorpus.”
The forgotten crowd behind you laughs as an imaginary force holds James in the air by his ankle. “I saw you use this on someone just the other day. How does it feel to be on the receiving end?” Despite the obvious annoyance swirling in his eyes, a glint lightens the caramel brown.
“It feels rather sickening, I’d admit,” he groans, his head getting redder by the second. You smile at his obvious discomfort. “Do you want me to go easy on you?” You mock, voice lowering in a feeble attempt to match his voice.
Despite his complicated position, he smiles brightly at your teasing. “If you wouldn’t mind, love.” You point your wand and smile innocently. “Okay.” The loud thud of him falling to the ground is enough to make you smile.
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“She beat me at a duel. Me, James Potter.” His voice was especially loud as he walked around aisles in the library, an amusing look of shock on his face. Remus snorts from beside him, walking towards a particular genre of books.
“Believe it or not, James, you’re not always going to win. And she’s one of the best students in the school.” Despite James’ whiny tone, his heart was filled with pride. He knew you were a good witch, and he was finally glad to witness first-hand what you were made of.
“Now,” James catches himself before he completely stumbles into Remus, shooting the scarred man a sheepish smile. “This is the book you wanted, right?” Despite himself, James feels the apple of his cheeks turn red at the familiar book cover in Remus’s hands.
Merlin, what he’s doing is so dorky and pathetic. But he didn’t like the idea that he knew nothing about your hobby of reading - a hobby you waste most of your days doing. So he forced Remus to come to the library with him, under the guise of wanting to pick up a new hobby. He managed to remember the name of the book you were reading and asked Remus to find it for him.
Grabbing the book from Remus’s hands, he began walking towards the counter, hoping Remus would return to studying and leave it at that. His hopes were not answered. “I’m surprised you’re getting into reading. It’s never been your thing.”
Recognising the suspicion in his voice, James walks faster. “Just wanted to try something new.”
“Well, it’s funny you picked that book; you know this is a certain Head Girl’s favorite book?”
He doesn’t look back. “Really? I didn’t even know she could…read.” At his mix-up, he comes to a complete halt, shoulders slumping in defeat. He keeps his head down as he mutters, “Fine, I chose this book because she read it.”
“Really? I thought she couldn’t read.” At James’ glare, Remus’ amused expression turns into one of pity. “James Potter is reading for a girl. A girl that beat him in a duel, nonetheless. Do you have a crush?” James scowls despite his pinking cheeks, and Remus laughs gently in response.
“I do not have a crush. I just think I should be getting to know her more since she’s Head Girl and she doesn’t like me much.” James finally reaches the counter, chucking the dastard book on the counter much too harshly for the librarian's liking, earning a scathing glare that he ignores.
Remus doesn’t continue the conversation any longer, but the silence does nothing to calm the fast beating of his heart as his thoughts spiral and his breathing becomes uneven. James might just have a crush on you.
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It was becoming harder and harder to dislike James. In fact, you weren’t sure why you were ever angry at him. Sure, he’s arrogant and immature, but right now, all you can think about is the way he’s comforting a crying first-year in the hall, genuine worry coating his actions as he pulls the little boy in for a hug.
You’re not sure what to do, standing there awkwardly in the hall and shuffling on your feet. You can’t look away; the kind look in James’ eyes is too sincere, his smile is too perfect, and his words are too warm. You’re scared you’re going to melt.
“It’s okay, bud. They’re mean and cruel, but you’re strong. You stood up for yourself, and that’s pretty great.” You can’t take this side of James. His caring, nurturing side.
So you turn around and smile awkwardly at one of the moving paintings. Behind you, you can faintly hear James mutter the words, “You’re going to be a great seeker one day,” then some shuffling before a gentle hand is placed on your shoulder.
You jump and turn to meet James’s amused eyes. “What are you doing staring at the wall, love?” Your eyebrows raise, and your eyes widen, mind whirring to come up with an answer besides the truth. “I just realised I’ve never actually stopped to appreciate the stone walls.”
“You’re an interesting one,” He claims with no real malice. You just laugh awkwardly and keep walking. “Is that first year okay?”
His smile dims at the thought of the young boy. “He’s alright. I promised to take him to Quiddich training one day; he wants to be a seeker.”
“That’s awfully thoughtful of you.” You smile, raising your eyes to look into his for barely a minute before looking away. If you had looked long enough, you would have noticed the pink that travelled up his neck and painted his cheeks, mouth open like a blubbering fish.
In hopes of looking calm and casual, he strugs off your compliment with an awkward, “U-u,h it was nothing, really.” You’re not ready to let the conversation end. “No, it was really sweet-”
“I’m reading a book!”
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. James Potter was a stupid, awkward young man - or at least he thought so. You didn’t mind the abrupt change in topic, especially if it was about a book.
Your face visibly lit up, the warm spark in your eyes growing tenfold. “Yeah? What book?”
The casual name drop of your favorite book coming from James’ deep voice has a bright smile taking over your gleeful face. James was too happy to be blinded by such a light.
“Really?” At his nod, you grip his arm and jump like a crazed woman. “I love that book!” You stop jumping and stare hopefully, wanting to know his every thought about the book you’ve read more times than you could count.
“Really? I had no idea,” He laughs awkwardly. “The main character is probably my favorite.” It’s only when he starts walking do you remember that you’re still holding onto his arm, awkwardly dropping it at your side.
“The main character?” He nods. You move your hand to fiddle with your hair. “I…She always reminded me of me. She’s always underestimated because she’s quiet, which I understand, and some of the things she’s gone through reminds me of my own memories- not that I’m saying you like her because she reminds you of me or anything.”
At your anxious ramblings, James stops, a gentle smile pulling at his plush lips. He moves so his eyes meet yours, and you’re too captivated to look away. “No, that’s exactly why she’s my favorite. She reminds me of you.”
Your stunned silence doesn’t bother him, and he moves closer, the soles of his shoes touching yours. A large hand moves to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, and you’re sure that you’re dreaming things when he mutters, “And that guy she’s dating? The captain of the football team? He reminds me of me. Different sport and all, but desperate for the attention of the girl.”
The whispers of his words graze your cheek, and you’re glad he had pulled away quickly before you did something stupid like kiss him.
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You stared at the hall like an artist would stare at their paintings. Everything had come out better than you expected, and you were in awe of the glowing lights that shimmered in the eyes of the happy students as they danced and laughed.
Your eyes shimmered, but you were void of laughter and dance. No one had asked you to the Yule Ball, and you had no desire to ask anyone yourself. You didn’t mind being alone, you just didn’t like the pitying looks being thrown your way. Dorcas was already lost on the dance floor, and you didn’t want to ruin her night.
So you stood in the corner, smiling at the buzz of happiness that floated across the room. You weren’t alone for long. “Would you care for a dance?” James Potter was clad in a suit, standing in front of you with a playful smirk and outstretched hand.
A laugh of absurdity broke free from your coloured lips. “Ginny has been looking at you ever since you entered the hall. Go dance with her.” Despite your words, you wanted him to stay. His presence was comforting.
“Ginny and I didn’t work hard for months decorating this hall. Now,” He shakes his outstretched hand impatiently, “let’s dance.”
You wouldn’t be surprised if the punch was spiked because you lost your inhibitions too quickly for your liking, grasping his warm hand and letting him drag you onto the dance floor.
With his hand on your waist and the other holding yours, you’re forced to distract yourself from his touch by the band that plays at the front, the slow, deep voice of the singer enough to make you want to fall asleep.
You rest your cheek on his shoulder and close your eyes.
“Tired?” The kiss he places on your neck is enough to make you wide awake again, but you still nod.
“I bet you are. You’ve been working so hard lately with the ball and with the test you had today. How did that go, by the way? I’m sure you did great-”
“What are you doing?” You tense under his touch, his words, his hands, all becoming too much. As if sensing your discomfort, he pulls away. “What do you mean?”
You stare at him for a short moment before your gaze falls to your fiddling hands. “You’re being…kind. I don’t know what to do.”
“Be kind back, maybe?” He attempts to joke but falls short. “I don’t know why you have such a hard time being kind to me, but if I’ve done something wrong, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, and I really do like you.”
Your silence is enough to make him pull away; you grow cold without his touch.
“I’m sorry.” He stops his quick actions of leaving. “I’m not…I’ve been cold, and I’m sorry. You’re just so…scary. Merlin, the only interaction we had before we became Head Boy and Head Girl was when you turned my hair pink.”
He takes a step closer, and you take a step back, guilt spilling out of you in the form of words.
“It’s just…I judged you wrongly, and I’m sorry. I really am. You’re not an egotistical and mean person. You’re actually really sweet, and it’s playing with my heart. I’m torn between caring for you like I haven’t cared for anyone before and thinking of you the way I always thought of you.
He reaches for your hands, cradling them gently. “I understand. I’ve only really shown you the arrogant side of myself, and it’s not wrong for you to assume I am otherwise. It’s just much easier to talk to a pretty lady when I feel like I can make her mine.”
“You could have any girl in the school, and you know that.” He shakes his head at your words, the sound of laughter fading behind you as he leads you away from the hall, down corridors and through doors until you’re both outside, the moonlit glow hugging you like a baby’s blanket.
He tightens his grip on your hands and utters with a small smile, “I couldn’t have the only one that really matters because I messed it up when I dyed half her hair pink.”
You scoff and avoid his eyes. “You could have me.”
“Yeah?”
You nod. “Just don’t break my heart.”
“To break your heart would be to break my own. Why would I want to break something that I care for so deeply? That is worth the gold of millions of men?” He falls to his knees in front of you, hands gently gripping the fabric of your dress, looking up at you with eyes filled with more passion than a writer writing a romance.
You let yourself breathe in the cool night air, the cold spreading against your flushed skin. “I’m scared. You’re too good for me, James. Too good for me.” Despite yourself, your shaking hand moves to cup his cheek. He places a long kiss on your palm, never breaking contact with your misty eyes.
“Why would you say that, my love? You have so much courage. So much power and kindness.” At your silence, he slowly raises, never wanting to be separated from your touch as his hands move to your hips and his head falls to the crook of your neck.
Your hands fall to his head, playing with his soft curls. You look up at the ceiling and sniff as a lone tear falls down your cheek. “I’m sorry for being so rude when we first met.”
“And I’m sorry for turning your hair pink.” His breath tickles your neck.
“You’re forgiven.”
You can barely get the words out before his lips are against yours, gentle and warm and right where you want them to be.
summary: you and james can't help but bother each other whenever you sit together in class
me: this was so sweet and fun to write i love having someone to annoy in classes <3 it's also 2:30am rn so if anything doesn't make sense its coz im delirious!
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“shut up!” you hissed, a laugh threatening to spill out of you. james shook his head with a devious grin.
“am i not entertaining you?” he pretended to be hurt, pulling puppy dog eyes as he leant closer.
“you,” you pushed his face away with your hand, “are impeding on my education. i would like to listen to mcgonagall, thank you.” you really did try to focus on what your professor was saying, but james was making it exceedingly difficult.
james was twirling his wand between the fingers of his non-dominant hand, a habit you both found entrancing and incessantly annoying. you loved watching the muscles and ligaments stretching and transforming, james’ hands were endlessly interesting to you. however, it was really impacting your ability to focus on transfiguration.
“five galleons for you to flick it on the floor,” you whispered, shifting even closer so only james would hear it. he looked over at you, momentarily surprised by the lack of space between your faces, then straightened himself out, pulling on his signature mischief-making smile.
“you really should know better than to make a bet with me, love,” he chided playfully.
then you were watching it happen. the wand running smoothly between james’ long fingers before flinging through the air, halfway across the classroom. because james potter never did anything by half, the wand gained impressive velocity, flying over the head of marlene mckinnon and lily evans who sat in front of her, clattering loudly on the floor by lily’s feet.
mcgonagall paused her lecture, eyes zeroing in on the wand. before she could ask any questions, james was up like a rocket, apologising loudly and dramatically to the whole class as you slapped a hand over your mouth to stop any mortified giggles seeping out.
“mister potter, may i suggest keeping your wand out of your hands when not casting spells?”
“of course, professor. honestly, i don’t know what came over me — some sort of seizure, perhaps?” james was far too coy to be genuine, and everyone knew it. still, mcgonagall only gave him a long stare, then resumed her lecture as james made the humiliating walk of shame back to his seat.
“pay up,” james whispered, nudging you enthusiastically. you sighed, dramatising your upset. you drudged around in your robe pockets for a few coins, putting them silently in james’ outstretched hand.
you quickly redirected your focus to the lecture unfolding before you, naively believing james was done with your attention.
“do you think if we asked really nicely, minnie would let us hex all the slytherins so their skin’s green for a week?” he asked in what was definitely too loud for the circumstances, affirmed by mcgonagall reprimanding him.
“mister potter, i hope this is not you trying to interrupt my class.” she stared him down as you covered your face with your hands beside him. “if you were creating distractions after your… medical episode, i would suggest that you were perhaps ill? perhaps unable to attend quidditch training this afternoon?”
that certainly got james’ attention and he shook his head vehemently, falling dead silent for the remainder of the lesson.
whilst you were safe for the remainder of transfiguration, in potions he was back in full force.
“why do you do this to me?” you sighed good-naturedly as james slipped into the bench next to you. “what if i was saving that seat for someone?”
“you don’t have any other friends. it’s not kind to lie, love.” james’ eyes twinkled in a way that distracted you for a moment before you came to your senses and huffed.
“i have friends, idiot. you just keep taking up all my time so i can’t ever hang out with them.”
“you love me,” james sang, throwing an arm around your shoulder. you shrugged it off, trying your best to look annoyed.
“i tolerate you, and even that’s being kind.” you pushed him away as slughorn approached the front of the classroom to start his spiel.
you barely got through the first five minutes before james was getting restless, straying from class notes to writing dumb jokes and poking you until you caved and read them.
a particularly dirty one had you snorting down at your desk and praying no one would notice. james delighted in your breaking, grasping your arm and shaking you around as he laughed until you had to hit him.
“you’re so annoying,” you hissed, your tone unfortunately lacking any bite.
you reached your quill over to james’ paper, scratching out a childish james potter is a huge idiot!
james’ mouth dropped open in faux despair, screwing his features and thinking up a reply.
you’re an idiot he replied.
so creative
shut up. you’re annoying
“are we having issues over here? does anybody need another piece of parchment?” slughorn surprised you both. you didn’t realise you’d been so distracted writing stupid messages over james’ notes you hadn’t even heard him approach.
“no!” you jumped away from james, inches between you. “i just wanted, uh, clarification on the, uh, application. sorry.” james did nothing to help you, just nodding serenely and relying on the charm of his smile.
“alright,” slughorn nodded as if he didn’t believe a word you said, “if you need any help you’re more than welcome to schedule a meeting with me after class.”
“of course, thanks, professor.” you smiled meekly, embarrassment clear on your features.
as soon as slughorn’s back was turned, you were hitting james in the bicep repeatedly, punishment for humiliating you. unfortunately, he took it in stride, easily overpowering you and manhandling you so you were facing back towards your paper.
“you heard him,” james teased, “and if you have to stay back after class you’ll lose all that precious time to hang out with your alleged other friends.”
“i literally hate you.”
sirius and remus sat behind you both, observing the class with identical disbelieving looks.
“there is no way they don’t realise,” sirius said, eyes wide and eyebrows raised.
“i really don’t think they do.” remus shook his head, scribbling down the instructions slughorn was listing from his desk.
ellievsbear
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titsay
janainaart
2087
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turnnoffyourmind
