Feb 27
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Palazzo Colonna, Rome, Italy,
The great hall was completed in 1700 to celebrate the victory of the Christian fleet over the Turks at the Battle of Lepanto in 1571.
Share by Michael The Canadian
Better Than You
-Summary: When your boyfriend and Fred Weasley clash, one bold line, “I am better than you” changes everything, revealing who truly sees and values you.
-Word Count: 999
-Pairing: Reader x Fred Weasley
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You’d always known that Fred Weasley had a way of drawing attention.
It wasn’t just his laugh, though, that alone could make half the Great Hall turn. It wasn’t just his mischief, or his confidence, or the way he carried himself like the whole world was in on a joke only he understood.
No, what made Fred impossible to ignore was how he looked at people.
Like he actually saw them.
And that was exactly the problem.
Because lately, you’d caught him looking at you.
Not in the casual, playful way he looked at everyone else, but in a quiet, focused way that made you feel seen down to the bone. And every time it happened, your chest tightened with something you couldn’t name.
But you had a boyfriend.
And Fred Weasley wasn’t yours to think about.
The argument started on a Friday afternoon, the kind of day where classes blurred together, and tempers ran short. You were walking through the courtyard, your boyfriend’s arm slung lazily over your shoulders. He was talking about Quidditch practice, or himself, or both; you weren’t sure. You were too busy pretending to listen when Fred appeared ahead, his grin wide and effortless as ever.
“Afternoon, love,” he called.
Your boyfriend stiffened immediately. “Don’t call her that,” he said.
Fred raised an eyebrow, but the grin didn’t waver. “It’s a word, mate. Not a marriage proposal.”
“Still,” your boyfriend said sharply. “She’s with me.”
“Right,” Fred said, crossing his arms. “And she’s also capable of speaking for herself, I assume?”
You opened your mouth to diffuse, to joke, to something — but your boyfriend stepped forward before you could.
“Go fuck yourself, man,” he spat. “You think you’re better than me, don’t you?”
The courtyard went silent.
Fred didn’t flinch. His grin faded, replaced by something colder, not cruel, but measured. His eyes, usually full of laughter, sharpened with a kind of quiet fury.
“I am better than you,” Fred said, voice calm, steady. “Because I’d never talk to her the way you do.”
Your stomach dropped. “Fred-”
But he wasn’t finished.
“You treat her like she’s a trophy you get to hold up,” he said, each word deliberate. “Like she’s something you get points for keeping. But she’s not something to keep. She’s someone to see. And you don’t.”
Your boyfriend’s face turned scarlet. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Fred’s voice softened, but somehow, that only made it hit harder. “I know enough.”
He looked at you, then really looked, and in his eyes, there wasn’t smugness or victory. Just quiet honesty. The kind that leaves nowhere to hide.
Then he turned, walked away, and didn’t look back.
That night, you couldn’t sleep.
You replayed the moment again and again, your boyfriend’s anger, Fred’s voice, the way your heart had twisted when he said I am better than you.
Because it wasn’t arrogance. It was conviction.
And the truth you didn’t want to admit?
You’d believed him.
When you broke things off with your boyfriend later that evening, it wasn’t dramatic. No shouting, no tears, just quiet realization. You were tired of feeling small next to someone who never tried to understand you.
You didn’t go looking for Fred. But somehow, your feet led you toward him anyway.
You found him in the back room of the twins’ workshop, half-finished prototypes scattered across the table, the faint scent of smoke and sugar in the air. He was hunched over a glowing vial, muttering to himself.
He didn’t look up when you entered. “If this one explodes, you’re cleaning the ceiling.”
You smiled softly. “You always assume the worst.”
Fred froze. His head snapped up, and the teasing comment died on his lips. “You came.”
You shrugged, trying to sound casual even as your heart thudded in your chest. “You said enough for both of us earlier.”
He set the vial down. “I didn’t mean to start a fight.”
“Yes, you did,” you said quietly. “You just didn’t mean to be right.”
He blinked, taken aback. “You-what?”
“I ended things,” you said simply.
Fred stared, and for once, he had no quick remark, no witty comeback. Just silence.
Then, slowly, he asked, “Because of what I said?”
“Because of what you made me see,” you corrected. “You were right. He didn’t see me. Not really.”
Fred exhaled a shaky sound that almost made you laugh. “I didn’t say it to get you to leave him.”
“I know.” You took a step closer. “You said it because you meant it.”
For a moment, all you heard was the faint ticking of some enchanted contraption behind him. The room smelled like fireworks and dust and everything that was distinctly Fred.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “You know, for someone who runs a shop full of pranks, I’m not very good at being serious.”
“You were serious enough today,” you said.
He looked at you then, that half-smile returning softer, this time. “I didn’t like seeing someone treat you like that.”
You tilted your head. “And how would you treat me, Fred Weasley?”
His grin returned in full, though it didn’t hide the sincerity in his eyes. “Like you’re the best kind of chaos I’ve ever met.”
You laughed quietly, but it filled the room all the same.
He took a step closer, then another, until there was barely a breath between you. “Can I tell you something?” he murmured.
You nodded.
“I never thought I’d like someone who could outsmart me,” he said, “but I do.”
Your pulse skipped. “And what makes you think you’ve managed to impress me, Weasley?”
He leaned in, voice low, teasing. “Because you’re still here.”
You smiled the kind of smile that came from your chest instead of your lips and whispered, “Maybe I like the competition.”
Fred grinned. “Good. Because I plan on winning.”
And when he kissed you, soft, tentative, and real, it didn’t feel like a victory.
It felt like finally being seen.
eavesdrop @drarrymicrofic [596 words]
“Pansy Parkinson is a bitch.” Harry says one day in the Great Hall. Their Eighth Year, in Ron’s opinion, has been great. Except for one tiny detail: Harry no longer has to worry about a constantly looming threat to his life. This is great and all, but it’s resulted in Harry deciding to now put that energy into never shutting the fuck up about Malfoy.
“And why’s that?”
“Why’s she always sitting so close to Malfoy? What are they doing?”
“I think they’re just sitting there, mate,” Ron says. Even though the Slytherin and Gryffindor tables were on the opposite ends of the Great Hall, there was an unspoken rule that no one sat in the eyeline directly between Harry and Malfoy (to avoid their death glaring), giving Ron the same view Harry had- which was of Parkinson leaning on Malfoy while they talked to Zabini and Nott.
“I think… I think they’re plotting something.” Harry proclaims, glaring at the Slytherins casually eating breakfast. Ron looks around for any support because it is far too early in the morning to deal with this alone. Not a single person is even remotely fazed by Harry’s claim, except for Dean, who raises his eyebrows and gives him a ‘well, he’s your best friend’ look.
Ron runs a hand over his face. Every. Fucking. Day. It’s either ‘He’s so posh and annoying. He’s definitely doing it to piss me off. Right, Ron?’ or ‘I think he’s looking at me. You think he’s looking at me?’ and Ron is moments away from losing it.
Ron knows that he might have the emotional intelligence of a fish, but even he knows what’s happening. He’s fairly sure the entirety of Gryffindor knows, judging by how no one gives a shit anymore. Even Malfoy has stopped caring, but Ron swears he likes the attention.
“They might be dating, Harry,” Hermione says, idly.
“Dating? Dating? They’re not dating.” Harry says, quickly and confidently. Ron is trying very hard not to laugh while Hermione just looks at Harry pitifully.
“Really?” Hermione asks.
“Why would they be dating? She’s not even his type!” Harry says, hitting the table with his hand, some cutlery loudly clattering. Neville shoots them a concerned look, but Ron mutters ‘Malfoy’ to him under his breath, and he nods understandingly.
“Harry, mate, you’re scaring the First Years.”
“She’s feeding him the pears! He hates pears! I can’t believe it! What do you think he’s up to, Ron? Ron?” Harry says, his arm dramatically pointing at Malfoy and Parkinson. Ron considers banging his head into the table, but decides against it.
Ron then gets a terrifying vision. This continuing after Hogwarts. Both of them in Auror training, and Harry skipping classes to stalk Malfoy. Having to stare at Malfoy in the Ministry cafeteria. Being forced to eavesdrop on his conversations. Ron could see it now, forced to spend years of his life enduring this.
“She’s touching his hair! Do you see that, Ron? Do you see that?” Harry says, nearly jumping up and out of his chair. Ron is about to tell him the shut the fuck up before he throws something at him, but Dean comes to his rescue.
“Can you both just snog each other already? We all know you want to.” He says, loud enough that some people from the other House tables hear. Ron can’t help but grin into his food, knowing it was only a matter of time before it got to Malfoy, and Harry, for once, didn’t comment on the smirk on Malfoy’s face when it did.
part 2
ao3 collection
The Fireplace, 1994
Redundant as eyelids in absence of light. Translator’s Endnotes
A lecture by Studio for Propositional Cinema delivered by Sam Spruell at the University of Reading on November 15, 2018
Photos via Tanya Leighton and NOVEL
Prompt 1 - Great Hall
@wolfstarmicrofic September 1, word count 465
His dad had told him what would happen on his first trip to Hogwarts. He’d start at the train station in London and board the Hogwarts Express. He’d travel on the train up to Scotland and arrive in Hogsmeade, the wizarding village just outside the school, and then he would be taken by Hagrid, along with the other first years, to the shore of the lake. He would then travel via boat to a dock beneath the castle. From there, he would be led to the Great Hall by Professor McGonagall, the deputy headmistress. She would line them all up and call their names alphabetically so they could sit on the three-legged stool and have the sorting hat placed on their head, and it would tell them which house they would be in for the next seven years. There would then be a welcoming feast before they would be taken to their new dormitory, where he would sleep until the morning, and his lessons would begin.
His dad had repeated this over and over again, so Remus would know exactly what would happen. He would go to his lessons for the rest of the week, and then on Sunday evening, he would go down to the hospital wing where the matron, Madam Pomfrey, would take him to the place that had been set up for him to transform. Remus knew all this off by heart. What his dad had failed to prepare him for were his dorm mates. James Potter, Peter Pettigrew and Sirius Black.
He tried to keep to himself, but they just kept pushing. They wanted to be friends, but Remus had no idea how to do that. He had to keep his secret safe at all costs. If anyone found out, he’d be expelled for sure.
Sunday night came far quicker than he’d expected. At the time he’d been told to go to the hospital wing, he got off of his bed, put his homework away and told his roommates that he didn’t feel well and was going to the hospital wing.
“What’s wrong with you?” Sirius asked. Remus felt his cheeks heat; he hadn’t expected anyone to ask him that.
“Erm, stomach ache,” he spluttered, blurting out the first thing that came to his head.
“I’ll walk you down,” Sirius said, putting his own homework away.
“No, it’s fine, I can walk myself,” Remus protested, but Sirius was determined.
He grabbed Remus’s hand and led him all the way to the hospital wing.
“I’ll see you back at the dorm,” Sirius grinned, waving at him merrily, and for the first time in his life, Remus felt what it was like to have a friend, something his dad had never prepared him for. It was the most magical thing in the world.