synopsis: your boyfriend has a problem. he cant stop clinging to you, finding every excuse to cuddle right up next to you, sometimes even on you. but you want to show him you love him too, so you do what you do best.
word count: 836
“draco. youre acting like an actual pest—,” you say, trying to push his head away from where it rests on your chest. he resists, burying his face further into your pyjamas.
“draco.”
“yes, love?” he says, muffled through your clothes. he shifts, peering up at you with those mist-covered grey eyes you can never seem to resist.
“nothing.” you huff, threading your fingers through his hair, shifting his head back again so his face is pressed against your front.
“i can feel your stupid smirk.”
he laughs, palms cool by your waist, riding your shirt up a bit, making you gasp. “youre like a corpse. pale as one too,” you huff, bending your head down to kiss his hair.
he chuckles again, squeezing your waist. “yeah?”
you hum, slightly drifting off to sleep in your now basically shared bed in the single-bed dorm room you requested. “this defeats the purpose of having a single-person bedroom.” you say through a yawn.
“we know damn well you want me to be here.” he says with a half-smug smile. he shifts, starting to lightly kiss your neck, feeling your breathing grow more relaxed.
“good night, draco.”
“night,” he mumbles against your jaw.
“love.” you stir, draco’s gruff morning voice waking you up. “hm? i was asleep,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes once you noticed he wasn’t laying on you anymore.
“i saw that.” he chuckled, pushing your hair out of your face. “i love you,” he says. you blink.
“well? something to say to me after that?”
“huh? oh. i love you, too.” draco rolls his eyes,
“yet you needed to be reminded to say it back?”
you knew he was just joking, but your stomach made that weird feeling—the bad, guilty kind. “just woke up, baby. sorry,” you mumble, squeezing his wrist.
he grins, “i know. im kidding,” he stands up, “gonna shower. in my own bathroom, ive pestered you enough.” he chuckles at his own joke, unlocking and locking the door behind him.
you lean back, mind rushing. what could you do to make it up to him? these past couple of days, he’s been remarkably sweet and clingy with you, both emotionally and especially physically.
you sighed, reaching for your wand on your bedside drawer, blinking when you grasp your quill instead. you blink again, a slow realization coming in.
a couple hours and lessons later, around nine pm, you hear three familiar knocks on your bedroom door. you smile, getting the long, folded piece of parchment from your bedside table drawer and putting it inside your robes’ pocket before opening the door.
“you havent changed yet?” draco frowns. “mm, just put my robes back on. was cold,” he raises a brow, taking the robe off of your shoulders, actions smooth.
the letter falls to the ground, he picks it up. “a love letter, hm?” he fails to bite back a smile as you hang your robes, revealing your short pyjama shorts and his shirt underneath.
“read it, come on.”
he does, opening the parchment, guiding you onto his lap once he sits down on the edge of your bed, eyes traveling and stopping on the page.
dear draco,
i love you, you know that, right? in case you don’t, i’m writing this letter to remind you. i love it when you smirk after making me flustered. i love it when you bite your lip whilst concentrating in potions. i love it when your chuckle turns raspy for no reason.
i love it when you’re tired sometimes, not because i like seeing you suffer but because of the way your breath feels on my skin, like im all you need to feel better. i love it when you whisper praises in my ear at night, i love it when you kiss the one part of my neck that makes me squirm.
i love it when you pretend you can’t find something just so you can ask me for help, and shrug when i complain once finding it in plain sight. i love it when your eyes look like they physically soften when you’re around me or looking at me.
i love it when your hair turns fluffy and soft after a good quiddditch practice. i love it when you enthusiastically talk about quidditch with me, even if i don’t understand half the terms you’re using. i love it when you explain things to me for the umpteenth time and never get bored or annoyed with it.
i love it when you can practically sense when somethings wrong, even if I dont say it outright or even show it. i love it when you sigh while im playing and fidgeting around with your hair. i love it when you say you love me out loud. i love it when you listen to my talks about utter nonsense.
i love it. i love you; always, in all ways.
he finally looks at you, folding the paper with care. he kisses you fervently, pulling away only when your eyes start to flutter.
you catch your breath, arms wrapping around his neck as he kisses you all over.
💭MDNI: Sleepy grinding/dry humping smut, clingy!Fred, playful and needy vibes
—
Morning at the Burrow never comes quietly, but today it’s muffled — distant clatter from the kitchen, someone laughing downstairs, the faint smell of toast drifting up through the crooked house.
Fred doesn’t move.
He’s wrapped around you like he fell asleep mid-cuddle and never bothered to let go, one arm heavy across your waist, face tucked into the crook of your neck. His hair is a mess against your cheek, warm breath ghosting over your skin.
You shift slightly, testing the stiffness in your shoulder.
His grip tightens instantly.
“M’not awake,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “Go back to sleep.”
“You’re crushing me.”
“Worth it.”
You huff a quiet laugh, but you settle again, sinking back into the mattress. He makes a satisfied little sound, something soft and pleased, and noses closer like you’re the pillow he actually wanted all along.
There’s a pause.
Then you feel it — the slow, absentminded way his hips shift forward, pressing closer, like he’s chasing warmth without even realizing it. Not purposeful. Not calculated. Just sleepy instinct.
“Fred,” you whisper.
“Mmm?”
“You’re doing that thing again.”
He goes very still for half a second.
Then, instead of moving away, he drags you closer, leg hooking over yours to keep you pinned there, a lazy grin audible in his voice even with his face still buried in your neck.
“Not awake,” he repeats.
“You are absolutely awake.”
His nose brushes your jaw, lips ghosting the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. “Don’t sound very upset about it.”
You’re not. Not when his hands are wandering now, slow and warm, tracing the line of your waist under the blankets, pulling you flush against him like he can’t stand even an inch of space.
It’s unhurried. Uncoordinated. Soft in that way that only happens when neither of you has fully woken up yet.
Fred hums quietly, pressing a drowsy kiss to your shoulder.
“Missed you,” he murmurs, like he only just realized it.
You turn your head, catching his mouth in a sleepy kiss — slow, messy, all soft lips and warm breath. He smiles into it, hand sliding up your back to hold you there.
“Five more minutes,” he whispers against your lips.
He absolutely does not mean sleep.
Fred’s grin is pure mischief, even half-hidden in your neck.
“What?” he murmurs, feeling the look you're absolutely giving him, and his hips give another slow roll that makes your breath catch. “We’re just … cuddling.”
The lie is so lazy it almost counts as honesty.
You feel him—the unmistakable press of him, hot and insistent through thin sleep-shorts—rocking right against the damp heat of your core. Each lazy rut is unhurried, like he’s savoring every inch of friction, like he’s determined to stay in that hazy place between dream and waking where everything feels too good to stop.
Your fingers find his hair, carding through the soft red mess. “Fred.”
He answers with a drowsy hum, feigning innocence while his palm slides up, warm and sure, under your shirt. He cups your breast, thumb brushing over a sensitive peak, and the sleepy smirk against your throat widens when you gasp.
“Still not doing anything,” he mutters, mouth dragging along your pulse point. The words vibrate over your skin; the next roll of his hips is slower, deeper, dragging a low whine from your chest.
“Liar.”
“Mm-hmm.” He pinches lightly, lips curving when you arch into his hand. “Shouldn’t start name-calling this early, love. Bad manners.”
You try to shift—either away from the teasing or closer to the heat, you’re not sure—but the leg he’s hitched between yours holds you in place, forcing every subtle move to translate into more friction. His next thrust is a little harder, still measured, but need is bleeding through the syrupy pace.
“Fred—”
“Just helping us wake up.” Another lazy rut that makes your thighs tremble. “Feels nice, yeah?”
It does. Too nice. The room is still dim, quilts twisted around your bodies, and each grind lights sparks low in your belly. He cups you more firmly, thumb circling, hips finding an easy rhythm that turns the world into slow, warm pulses of want.
“You gonna let me?” he whispers, finally lifting his head—sleep-ruffled hair, half-lidded eyes, that crooked morning grin. “Let me start your day off right?”
You nod, already breathless.
“Good girl.” His praise is soft, reverent—and the next roll of his hips makes it impossible to keep quiet. Your hand fists in the back of his shirt; his answering groan is pure satisfaction.
He keeps it gentle but relentless: palm kneading your breast, mouth scattering open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, hips rocking until you’re melting against him, every sleepy thrust dragging you closer to the edge. Outside the room, the Burrow creaks awake, but in Fred’s bed the morning belongs only to the two of you—warm fists of sheet, tangled legs, and the steady, needy push of his body into yours like he never plans to let you leave.
Breakfast can wait.
His hand leaves your chest only long enough to tug your sleep–shorts aside—just enough for skin to meet slick heat. The sound he makes is half-groan, half-laugh, all morning-drunk greed.
“Merlin, you’re warm,” he murmurs, rocking forward again so bare, silky friction glides exactly where you both need it. Nothing rushed—just that steady, delicious slide that turns every breath into a shaky little gasp.
You clutch the back of his neck, nails grazing sleep-warm skin. “Fred…”
“I know.” He noses along your cheek, lips brushing your ear. “Feels good, yeah? Give me a minute.” A lazy thrust punctuates the promise, dragging a moan from both of you. “Maybe two.”
A shiver ripples through you when his fingers find your nipple again, rolling gently while his hips keep that slow, rolling push-pull. Each grind sends sparks spiraling low in your belly; each pass of his thumb steals a sharper sound from your throat. Fred laps it up, humming pleased approval, mouth curving against your skin.
“That’s it, sweetheart—there you go.” The praise is husky, slurred with sleep and need. “Knew you’d be this soft for me.”
Your hips answer on instinct, meeting the next rut. The heat coils tight, and Fred’s rhythm falters—just a stutter—before he catches it and groans, forehead pressing to yours.
“Gonna make me embarrass myself,” he breathes, grinning even as his eyes flutter shut. “Can’t be blamed, though… look at you.”
He shifts, hiking your leg higher over his thigh; the angle hits perfectly—pressure sharp, perfect, again, again. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, a soft cry spilled against his mouth. Fred’s breath hitches, the smirk wiped clean by raw need.
“Come for me,” he whispers, voice frayed. “C’mon, let me feel you.”
Two more rolls of his hips, thumb brushing that aching spot just right, and heat snaps—white, sweet, slow-building pleasure washing through you in waves. You clutch him tight as tremors ripple, breath catching on his name. Fred’s curse is a broken rasp; he grinds through your aftershocks, hips stuttering until he follows you over the edge, burying a groan in your shoulder as he shakes apart.
Silence settles—only the soft crackle of the Burrow’s pipes and both your uneven breaths.
Fred noses your temple, lips ghosting a smile. “Best alarm clock I’ve ever had.”
You huff a laugh, boneless and warm, letting him pull you deeper beneath the covers. His arms band around you, greedy even sated.
“Five more minutes?” you mumble.
His chuckle rumbles against your chest. “We’ll make it ten. Mum can live without us a little longer.”
Outside, the day begins, but inside the tangle of quilts and freckled arms, it’s all slow heartbeat, shared heat, and the lazy promise of whatever mischief Fred dreams up next.
"Jesus swwetheart" harry mutterd fingers digging into your hips as you sat on his lap placing sweet kisses down his jawline.
harry hadn't seen you all summer. and when he realized for the first time, that you had surprisingly gotten a compartment on the train all to yourselves, he quickly pulled you onto his lap kissing you harshly.
you loved kissing harry. the soft giggles inbetween, the quick pauses so he can fix his glasses, you loved it all.
a soft groan left Harry's mouth as you tugged on his hair pulling him deeper into the kiss.
you would have been lying if you said you didn't miss harry, because you did lots. and you hated that you were stuck working in some muggle coffee shop with rude people all summer.
this time, it was harry who broke the kiss planting rather harsh kisses onto your jawline and neck, and you let out a gasp of shock "Merlin harry."
harry looked up at you with that stupid grin rubbing his thumb over the newly placed mark on your neck.
Summary: Don't fall in love with your best friend unless you're ready to have your heart broken.
A/N: Happy Belated Valentine's my babiesss sorry it took so long to post i actually got pretty sick last weekend so i wasnt able to finish the fic on time but i hope you enjoy!
credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider
As a child, Harry had once stumbled across a series of books Dudley had received for his birthday—a gift he’d promptly discarded in a tantrum after declaring he’d wanted a new gaming system instead.
Harry hadn’t exactly known how to read at the time. He’d pieced words together slowly, sounding them out in whispers late at night beneath his cupboard blanket. But somehow, he’d managed to salvage one of the books from the rubbish bin, thankfully not too stained or torn.
That rescued copy had become one of his most prized possessions.
Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief.
He’d read it over and over again until the spine cracked and the pages softened at the edges. He remembered thinking, even at ten years old, how impossibly oblivious Percy was. How could someone be so blind? Annabeth’s feelings were practically written in flashing neon letters. Surely anyone with half a brain—or at the very least, a pulse—could sense what was happening around them.
Harry had thought it ridiculous.
Fate, apparently, had thought it hilarious.
By the time he reached his sixth year at Hogwarts, it seemed the universe had turned around, smacked him square in the face with that old paperback, and laughed.
Because he had somehow managed to fall hopelessly, painfully, irrevocably in love with one of the most emotionally intelligent people he knew—
And you were completely, utterly oblivious.
The irony was cruel.
You, who had noticed Ron’s ears turning red every time Hermione spoke too passionately about something. You, who had quietly pulled Harry aside months before anyone else caught on and said, “Ron’s falling for her, isn’t he?”
You, who had called Seamus out for his embarrassingly obvious crush on Lavender Brown, comparing him to a child tugging at pigtails during playtime just to get a reaction.
You, who could tell Hermione was in a foul mood simply based on the way she tied her hair that morning.
You—who read people like open books.
Couldn’t tell that your best friend was madly in love with you.
And had been for two years.
At first, Harry had thought he was doing a decent job hiding it. He wasn’t exactly known for emotional finesse—Hermione had smacked him upside the head more than once for being clueless—but he figured he could at least manage subtlety.
Apparently not.
Hermione had fixed him with a long, unimpressed stare one afternoon in the common room and said, very slowly, “Harry. You follow every word she says like a lap dog. You are not fooling anyone.”
He’d nearly choked on his tea.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Ron had snorted. Hermione had rolled her eyes.
The worst part?
They were right.
Everyone had noticed.
Everyone—except you.
So Harry tried something different.
He stopped hiding.
He started calling group outings with Ron and Hermione “double dates,” saying it lightly, casually, as if it were a joke—but watching you carefully for any sign of understanding.
There was none.
He’d draped his arm around your shoulders whenever you sat beside him, heart hammering as you leaned into him without hesitation.
You’d only smiled and continued talking, completely unfazed.
Last Valentine’s Day, he’d even gathered the courage to give you a card.
Not anonymous. Not vague.
A proper Valentine.
You’d stared at it for a moment, eyes wide and soft, and then you’d hugged him tightly.
“That’s so sweet of you, Harry,” you’d said. “You didn’t want me to feel left out.”
He’d felt something in his chest cave in so suddenly he’d almost wondered if it would show on his face.
That was the day he’d given up.
You clearly weren’t interested. You clearly didn’t see him that way. Because surely—surely—no one could be that blind. Not you. Not the person who noticed everything.
And yet.
He still didn’t tell you.
He couldn’t.
Because losing you altogether was not an option.
He could survive loving you quietly.
He could survive pretending.
He could survive swallowing it down every time you curled into his side or stole his jumpers or whispered that he was your safe place.
But he could not survive you walking away.
That would undo him in ways even Voldemort never had.
So he chose silence.
He chose the quiet torture of it.
And he told himself that it was enough.
It had to be.
But Merlin—
You made it painfully, excruciatingly difficult.
It was one of those mornings where his uniform just didn’t want to listen. Harry had barely managed to get dressed. His shirt was wrinkled and stubbornly refusing to stay tucked into his pants, and his tie… well, his tie was acting like it had a mind of its own. No matter how many times he twisted and adjusted it, it refused to sit flat.
Part of him wanted to leave it in his dorm and run late, but he’d already lost two points for Gryffindor yesterday—leaving his robes behind because he was far too warm—and he’d be damned if he lost more, not when Slytherin was creeping up.
So instead, he kept undoing and redoing the insipid tie, the knot now looking like a wriggling little snake.
“Oh, this is driving me crazy.” You said, stepping up to him like you did any other day, batting his hands away from the tie.
Before he could respond, you were behind him, hands on his shoulders, fingers brushing the collar of his shirt. He froze.
“Stay still, Haz.” You reached around him, adjusting the knot with the precision of someone who had done it a hundred times before. Your fingers lingered at his throat, and Harry’s stomach decided to stop functioning altogether.
He watched your soft hands, then flicked his gaze to your face, keeping his breath shallow. He dared not move too much; one accidental graze of your hand on his chest and he was certain he would faint.
“There we go,” You said happily, smoothing down his shirt, “Now you won’t lose us points for being a slob.”
There was a moment of quiet after you stepped back. Harry adjusted his glasses nervously, feeling the faint ghost of where your fingers had been. He tried to focus on the tie, but all he could think about was how effortlessly close you’d been, how natural it had felt for you to reach around him, and how his heart was hammering in his chest for no reason he could explain.
Harry wanted to argue that he was not a slob—he was a fool. A fool for you. But all that came out was a breathless, “Thanks.”
You shrugged, smiling faintly. “Anytime.” And with that, you were gone, leaving Harry standing in the common room, sparks crawling down his body from where your hands had pressed against his shoulders.
It started with a bang.
Not a catastrophic one—not the sort that sent stone crumbling or Death Eaters Apparating—but the unmistakable crack of a spell gone wrong, followed by the shrill screech of something that definitely should not have been screeching at two in the morning.
Harry was upright in bed before he was fully conscious.
“What—?” Ron mumbled from across the dormitory, hair sticking up even worse than usual.
The corridor outside erupted into noise. Doors opening. Voices overlapping. Someone shouting, “Seamus, I swear—”
Harry shoved on a pair of joggers and grabbed his glasses just as the portrait hole burst open downstairs and Professor McGonagall’s voice rang up the staircase.
“All students are to gather in the common room immediately!”
Brilliant.
Within minutes, the tower was chaos—students stumbling down in mismatched pajamas, half-awake and grumbling. Ron looked like he might fall asleep standing up. Dean was laughing. Seamus looked guilty.
Harry was scanning the staircase.
Hermione clambered down, hair in messy braids, Crookshanks tucked into her arms.
And then you appeared.
Sleepy. Disoriented. Rubbing at your eyes.
And—
Wearing his Quidditch jersey.
It swallowed you whole.
The hem brushed dangerously high against your thighs, revealing a pair of barely-there shorts beneath. One shoulder of the jersey slipped lower than the other, the collar stretched from wear. Your hair was a mess, curling around your face, and you looked so soft and warm and real that for a second Harry forgot how to breathe.
You padded over to him barefoot, squinting blearily as you offered him a sleepy smile, and he felt butterflies slam their insistent wings against his diaphragm. No one should look this beautiful straight after waking up.
Heat crawled up his neck.
“I—” He cleared his throat, trying very hard not to look at your legs. Or the way the fabric clung to you, “I don’t remember giving you that.”
You blinked at him, still half-asleep.
“Oh. Yeah,” You said casually, glancing down at yourself as though you’d forgotten what you were wearing, “I think I stole it, like… a year ago or something. It’s my favourite sleep shirt.”
You yawned.
Actually yawned.
As if you hadn’t just detonated something inside his ribcage.
Harry wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
But you didn’t notice.
You shuffled closer without thinking—because you always did—and leaned lightly into his side, your head brushing his shoulder as you crossed your arms against the chill of the stone floor.
It was instinctive.
Unthinking.
Comfort.
His entire body went rigid for half a second before he forced himself to relax.
For one reckless, dangerous second, something warm and foolish bloomed in his chest.
You fit far too perfectly there.
It was hard to believe you weren’t meant to be.
His arm twitched at his side, resisting the urge to wrap around you. To make the picture complete.
Instead, he swallowed.
“You could’ve asked.” He muttered.
You smiled without opening your eyes.
“Like you would’ve said no.”
His gaze drifted down before he could stop himself—the oversized jersey, the way it brushed your thighs, the faint outline of his old Quidditch number pressed against your chest.
His.
And yet not.
You tugged absently at the hem, “Don’t worry. I’ll give it back one day.”
He forced a shrug, “Keep it.”
You hummed contentedly and leaned into him more fully, completely unaware of the war waging inside his skull.
McGonagall was still lecturing Seamus about reckless spellwork. Students whispered. The common room buzzed with irritation and half-suppressed laughter.
Eventually, detentions were handed out and it was declared safe to return to bed. One by one, people began climbing the stairs again.
You murmured a sleepy goodnight and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek before heading up.
Harry watched your retreating figure.
And the name stretched across your back.
Potter.
Something in his chest clenched painfully.
This—this was it.
As close as he would ever get.
The only way he would ever see you with his last name.
On the back of an old, worn jersey.
Harry had been wandering the castle corridors with a tray in his hands—two steaming mugs of tea and a small plate of treacle tart he’d grabbed from the kitchens—because honestly, you looked completely drained, buried under a mountain of books in the library, and he couldn’t just leave you like that.
“Here,” He said softly, setting the tray beside you, “Thought you might need… something.”
You looked up from your notes, hair tumbling across your face, eyes half-lidded with focus. “Haz,” You murmured, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips, “You’re a lifesaver.”
Harry felt his chest warm at the soft praise, giving a small, almost embarrassed shrug, “Well… someone had to. You’ve been at this for hours.”
You took a careful sip from your tea, and your eyes flickered up at him, almost surprised. “Exactly how I like it,” You murmured, setting the mug down with a satisfied hum. You leaned back, stretching languidly, hair falling messily over your shoulders, and reached for a tart, “Honestly, you’re amazing, you know that?”
Harry blinked, trying to keep his composure. “The flies are starting to gather here because they think you’re a corpse, you know.” He teased lightly, but the truth was harder to hide. Even like this—bare-faced, hair tousled from running your hands through it constantly, lips soft and slightly bitten—you looked gorgeous. Effortless. Bright. Dangerous in a way that made his chest tighten.
He tried to act casual, sitting on the edge of the table, but his mind refused to cooperate. Every movement you made, every tilt of your head, every lazy stretch—it all pulled his attention like gravity.
Then, as if the universe were deliberately cruel, you looked straight at him. Your eyes softened, warm and unguarded, and you spoke like you weren’t even thinking about the weight of your words.
“You know,” You said casually, almost absentmindedly, “anyone who ends up with you is going to be really lucky.”
Harry froze. His stomach dropped.
“Haz?” You blinked, tilting your head slightly, noticing his silence, “Are you even listening?”
“I… yeah.” He croaked. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to throw the treacle tart at the wall. He wanted—he wanted everything that was impossible.
You smiled softly, leaning back against the table, entirely casual, completely unaware of the storm you’d just unleashed. “You’re such a great friend, you know. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you sometimes.”
Friend.
Harry’s chest tightened painfully, his throat constricting, a lump rising that refused to go down. Of course. Of course that’s how you saw him. All this praise, all this warmth… and none of it was for him in the way he longed for.
You can’t possibly say all this if you don’t have an idea, he thought bitterly. You must know… and you’re saying it anyway.
He remembered all the little ways he had shown he cared—ways no one else would notice. When Hermione had nearly ended up in the hospital wing while cramming for her OWLs, he had stayed behind in the dorm with you, drilling you with flashcards, quizzing you until your eyes drooped. You should have known that this wasn’t ordinary. That this was special treatment.
He swallowed hard, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Right. Yeah. Of course. You’re… right.”
You hummed, picking up your tea again, completely oblivious, eyes returning to your notes, leaving Harry sitting there, trembling slightly, heart racing and shattering all at once.
As soon as February first hit, Valentine’s Day decorations began infecting the castle like a rash—pink banners strung across archways, enchanted cherubs flitting through corridors with tiny golden bows, heart-shaped confetti drifting lazily from the ceiling.
Harry had never thought he’d hate the color red.
But here he was, absolutely detesting the sight of the red paper hearts hanging from every doorframe in Gryffindor Tower.
He should’ve told that blasted Hat to sort him into Slytherin.
At least then the common room wouldn’t look like it had been violently attacked by romance.
He was sitting in an armchair, pretending to read, when Ron dropped heavily into the seat across from him. Seamus sprawled on the sofa, hands tucked behind his head.
“So,” Seamus began casually, like he was commenting on the weather, “Valentine’s Day coming up.”
Harry didn’t look up from his book, “Fascinating.”
Dean snorted, “You finally going to confess your undying love this year, or are we continuing the proud annual tradition of pining in silence?”
Harry’s head snapped up, “Sod off.”
Ron grinned wickedly, “Oh, come on, mate. We’ve got bets going.”
“You have bets?” Harry demanded.
“Yeah,” Dean said, nodding seriously, “Whether you’ll confess, or just stare at her like she’s the last slice of treacle tart on earth.”
Ron shrugged, “My money’s on the staring.”
Harry threw his book down, “I do not—”
“You absolutely do,” Seamus cut in, “Every time she laughs, you look like someone’s cast a Patronus straight into your ribcage.”
Harry opened his mouth to argue.
And then closed it again.
Ron leaned forward, elbows on his knees, “So? You gonna tell her?”
Harry hesitated.
Just for a second.
Because part of him wanted to.
Merlin, he wanted to.
The thought had been clawing at him ever since that afternoon in the library.
He wanted to drop to his knees. To tell you he loved you and always would. That he would do whatever it took to make you feel like the most special girl in the entire world. That he would adore you until the end of time if you let him.
No one else would ever love you the way he was willing to.
With every single fiber of his being.
With a kind of devotion so limitless, so boundless, so unconditional that it scared even him to recognize it. The kind that made him feel like every cell in his body would willingly come apart if you asked him to.
And then—
Dean laughed lightly, “She probably wouldn’t even realize, to be honest.”
That one landed wrong.
A sharp, painful twinge in his chest that seemed to connect to his stomach, to the tips of his fingers, to his jaw.
Ron nodded, “Yeah. You could get down on one knee and she’d just go, ‘Haz, are you feeling alright?’”
The boys burst out laughing.
Harry didn’t.
Because that was the worst part.
They weren’t wrong.
His jaw tightened.
Ron tilted his head, studying him now instead of teasing, “You ever think maybe she doesn’t know because you let her not know?”
Harry’s stomach twisted.
“That doesn’t even make sense.” He muttered.
“It does,” Ron said, quieter now, “You do everything for her. You look at her like she hung the moon. But you never say it. So she doesn’t have to face it.”
Dean leaned back, voice softer than before, “Or maybe she does know. And she’s pretending.”
That one felt like a punch to the ribs.
So hard he felt his breakfast crawl up his throat.
Harry stood abruptly, “You’re all mental.”
“Just saying!” Seamus called as Harry headed toward the stairs, “Valentine’s Day’s a good excuse!”
“Yeah,” Ron added, “Worst she can say is no.”
Harry paused at the bottom step.
He didn’t turn around.
Worst she can say is no.
But that wasn’t what terrified him.
What terrified him was the moment you’d realize how deep his feelings actually ran.
Because you—kindhearted, careful, endlessly thoughtful you—would pull back.
You’d grow cautious.
You’d stop sitting so close. Stop stealing his scarves. Stop crawling into his bed when you couldn’t sleep.
You’d feel guilty for ever letting it look like he had a chance.
And he would lose you.
Not just the possibility of you.
You.
His best friend.
The girl he had loved quietly for longer than he dared admit.
And that—
That was a risk he wasn’t sure he could survive.
The knock on Harry’s dormitory door was soft.
Too soft for this hour.
He looked up from where he was sitting on his bed, glasses slipping halfway down his nose, “Yeah?”
The door creaked open, and you slipped inside, already in your sleep clothes, glancing at him to make sure he was awake. When your eyes met his, your shoulders relaxed, and you stepped fully into the room.
“Hi.” You said quietly.
Harry’s stomach dropped at once, “What happened?”
You sighed, shutting the door behind you. “Ron and Hermione had a row. It started over something stupid and turned into something not stupid. They’re both pacing like caged animals, and I figured…” You shrugged, “They might need space.”
Harry nodded slowly. That made sense.
“And?” He asked gently.
“So I was wondering if… if it’s okay if I sleep here tonight.” It sounded like courtesy more than a real question—you were already walking toward the bed, looking tired and small in a way that made it impossible to say no.
His heart skipped.
“Course,” He said instead, softer now, “You know you don’t have to ask.”
Your shoulders relaxed immediately. “Thanks, Haz.”
You climbed into his bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world, lifting the blankets and sliding beneath them.
The air shifted.
This wasn’t new. You’d done it before—after nightmares, after late-night talks that blurred into sleep, after studying until your eyes burned.
It wasn’t new.
But something about tonight felt different.
Harry swallowed.
For the first time, the thought flickered through his mind before he could stop it—
Why not Ron’s bed?
Why here? Why were you so comfortable beside him that you didn’t even hesitate, didn’t even consider the empty bed across the room that would stay empty all night if history had anything to say about it?
The question burned at the back of his tongue.
But he bit it down, watching as you settled into his pillow, getting comfortable. He lay down more slowly, painfully aware of every inch of space between you, of the warmth your body gave off in the cool room.
The dormitory was quiet except for the distant whisper of wind against the windows.
You turned onto your side, facing him, “Night, Haz.”
“Good night.” He said quickly.
You hummed softly in response, already drifting off.
It took less than five minutes.
Your breathing evened out. Your body went slack with sleep. One of your hands shifted unconsciously, brushing his shirt before coming to rest there.
Like it belonged.
Harry stared up at the ceiling.
Wide awake.
Every nerve in his body felt lit. He could feel the warmth of you beside him, the steady rhythm of your breathing, the faint scent of your shampoo clinging to his pillow.
You were so close.
So close he could have counted your eyelashes if he’d turned his head.
And you slept.
Just like that.
No tension. No hesitation. No awareness of what this might mean.
Because to you, it didn’t mean anything.
That was what hurt.
You could fall asleep beside him without a second thought, while he lay rigid, afraid to breathe too deeply in case he woke you, afraid that if he didn’t move at all he’d never make it through the night.
He wanted to wrap an arm around you.
He wanted to pull you closer.
He wanted to know what it would feel like to hold you properly, to fit against you the way his body seemed to insist it was meant to. To bury his face in your hair. To memorize the shape of you by heart.
He wanted to ask why him.
Why always him.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he stayed perfectly still, staring into the dark, listening to the soft sound of your breathing.
That should have been enough.
But as the minutes dragged on and sleep refused to come, a cruel thought crept in—
If you knew.
If you knew how badly he wanted you…
Would you still sleep this easily?
Would you still crawl into his bed without thinking twice?
His throat tightened.
Beside him, you shifted closer in your sleep, your forehead brushing faintly against his shoulder.
And Harry finally closed his eyes.
Not because he was calm.
But because it was easier than letting himself cry.
Harry didn’t remember falling asleep.
If he had at all.
Grey morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and cold, painting soft lines across the dormitory ceiling. For a few seconds, he didn’t move.
Then he became aware of the weight against his chest.
You.
Your back was pressed to his front, your body curled slightly toward him as if you’d shifted in your sleep without thinking. Your hair brushed his chin with every breath. One of his arms was trapped beneath the pillow; the other had somehow slipped around the dip of your waist, pinning you to him.
He released you at once.
And your hips—Merlin help him—were pressed far too close.
He froze, blood rushing from his face and so far south he felt dizzy as his heart began to pound like he’d just finished a Quidditch match. He stared at the wall, terrified that if he moved even an inch, you’d wake up and realise how close you were.
But you didn’t.
You only shifted, nestling back into him, completely unconcerned.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut.
Of course you don’t notice, he thought bitterly.
Why would you?
A moment later, you stirred properly. You stretched, arms reaching forward, back arching slightly—still pressed against him.
“Mmm… morning.” You murmured.
Harry swallowed, “Morning.”
You didn’t jump away.
You didn’t gasp.
You didn’t even hesitate.
You just rolled onto your back and rubbed your eyes.
“Thanks for letting me sleep here.” You said easily.
He forced a laugh that didn’t sound right even to himself, “Yeah. No problem.”
You propped yourself up on one elbow, perfectly at ease, as though you hadn’t been curled into him moments ago.
It hit him then, sharp and humiliating.
You weren’t embarrassed because, to you, there was nothing to be embarrassed about.
You saw him as safe.
Familiar.
Harmless.
Not someone whose chest was still tight from the way you’d fit against him.
Not someone who’d lain awake for hours listening to you breathe.
Not someone who had imagined—stupidly, foolishly—that maybe this meant something more.
You slid out of bed and tugged on his jumper from where it lay across his trunk, “I’m starving. Want to go down to breakfast?”
“Yeah.” He said automatically.
There it was again.
That warm, affectionate smile.
And then you were gone.
The door clicked shut behind you.
Harry stayed where he was, staring at the empty space you’d left behind. The bed was still warm. Your pillow still indented.
He pressed his palm into the sheets where you’d been.
You could curl into him in the middle of the night and wake up tangled in his arms.
And it still didn’t mean what he wanted it to mean.
He fell back against the mattress and covered his eyes with his arm.
Valentine’s Day was a week away.
And he was running out of ways to survive this.
It started with the heat.
Not the warm kind he’d grown used to. Not the soft, almost pleasant flutter that came when you laughed too hard at something stupid he’d said. Not the quiet nerves that lit up under his skin when you linked your arm through his.
This was different.
This felt like something crawling up his spine and settling at the base of his skull.
You were walking beside him after Charms, talking animatedly about something Flitwick had said. Your hands moved when you spoke, brushing his sleeve, tapping lightly against his arm.
Usually he loved that. Usually he leaned into it.
Today, every touch felt like friction.
He nodded along, not really hearing you. The corridor felt too narrow. Too loud. Too bright.
You bumped his shoulder playfully, “Are you even listening?”
“Yeah.” He muttered.
He wasn’t.
He was watching the way your fingers lingered on his sleeve a second too long before dropping away. Watching the way you smiled up at him without hesitation, without thought.
You didn’t think about it.
You never thought about it.
By lunch, it had gotten worse.
The heat had spread — up his neck, across his cheeks. He could feel it burning there. He kept tugging at the collar of his shirt like he could air himself out.
Across the Great Hall, you were laughing with some boy from Hufflepuff. Leaning toward him. Head tilted.
Harry told himself it didn’t matter.
You laughed like that with everyone.
But something about today — something about the way the morning had felt, about the way you’d curled into him two nights ago and slept like you belonged there — made it twist wrong.
You sat across from him, smiling over your pumpkin juice, “You okay, Haz? You’re quiet.”
“I’m fine.” He said too quickly.
You tilted your head, “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
You didn’t push. You never did.
And that made it worse.
Because you trusted him to be honest. You trusted him to be steady. You trusted him to always be there without ever asking why he was there.
The frog in the pot, he thought bitterly. The water heating so slowly he hadn’t realized he was being boiled alive.
By the time you reached the staircase after classes, his nerves were shot raw.
You bumped his arm playfully, “You’re walking like you’re being marched to your execution.”
“Can you—” He started, then stopped himself, “Never mind.”
You blinked, “What?”
“Nothing.”
He took the stairs two at a time.
You followed.
“Harry.”
He didn’t answer.
“Harry, wait.”
He turned at the landing, irritation flashing in his eyes. “What?”
You stopped short. “What’s wrong with you today?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’ve barely looked at me all day.”
“Maybe I just don’t feel like talking.”
Your face fell slightly. “Did I do something?”
That question hit him like a jab to the ribs.
“No,” he said, harsher than he meant. “It’s not about you.”
“Then what is it about?”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
He walked away.
But you didn’t let him.
You followed him up the staircase, your steps quickening to match his longer strides. He was climbing like something was chasing him — like if he didn’t put enough distance between the two of you, he might actually combust.
By the time he reached his dormitory, his chest was heaving — not from exertion, but from the pressure building behind his ribs. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
You followed.
Now it was just the two of you.
The room felt smaller than usual. The late afternoon light slanted through the windows, dust drifting lazily in the air, completely unaware that something catastrophic was about to happen.
You shut the door gently behind you.
“If there’s something you want to tell me,” You said, trying to steady your voice, “just go ahead and say it, Harry.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
He stared at everything else in the room but you.
At his trunk. At Ron’s unmade bed. At the crack in the stone wall. Anywhere but your face.
He wasn’t sure if he was avoiding your gaze because he couldn’t bear to see the hurt there — the kind that would extinguish the flames raging in his chest.
Or because looking at you would only pour oil over them.
You hesitated.
Then you reached for his hand.
The contact was gentle. Familiar.
It felt like static shock.
Like a spark struck from flint. Like something small and bright landing in a room full of gasoline fumes.
His entire body reacted before his mind did.
He jerked away.
“Just—stop it.”
Your hand froze midair.
“What?”
“Stop touching me like that,” He snapped, “Stop acting like everything’s normal.”
Your brows pulled together, “Harry, I don’t—”
“That’s the problem,” he said, abruptly, raking his hands through his already messy hair, “You don’t.”
You stood too, confused, hurt beginning to bleed into your expression, “Don’t what?”
“You don’t think. You don’t notice. You just… do things. You hold my hand, you take my jumpers, you sleep in my bed like it’s nothing—”
Your breath caught, “We’ve always—”
“Yes,” He said sharply, “Exactly. You’ve always done it. And I’ve always let you.”
“Why are you acting like it’s a bad thing?”
“Because you don’t see how it’s killing me!”
The words ripped out of him before he could stop them.
They echoed in the quiet room.
You stared at him.
“What are you talking about?” You whispered.
He let out a hollow laugh that didn’t hold even a trace of humor, “You really don’t know.”
“Know what?”
He dragged a hand through his hair again, pacing now, restless and unraveling. The heat in his chest felt unbearable — like something burning through muscle and bone.
“I thought I could handle it,” He said, “I thought I could just… be whatever you needed. Your safe place. Your spare bed. Your extra person.”
His voice wavered, but he pushed through.
“I thought I could ignore the heat. The nerves. The way my stomach drops every time you look at someone else. I thought I could handle wanting you when there’s no possible future where you want me back.”
His throat tightened.
“But I was wrong.”
You stepped toward him, instinctively, “Harry—”
“No,” He said softly, “Let me say it.”
And finally — finally — he looked at you.
Really looked at you.
“I love you.”
Silence swallowed the room.
“I’ve been in love with you for so long,” He continued, voice shaking now, “that I can’t remember a time I didn’t feel like this. When I’m around you, I can’t think straight. It’s like everything else blurs out. Like I’ve gone blind to the world except for you.”
His hands trembled at his sides.
“And for a while… that was okay. I didn’t want to see anything else. I was perfectly content only looking at you."
His laugh was brittle.
“But it’s not easy, (Y/N). It’s not easy just hoping. Just waiting. Yearning for every single touch like it’s a gift. Taking whatever scraps of affection you hand me and pretending it’s enough.”
His voice cracked.
“I feel like a stray dog sometimes. Grateful for any little piece of love you throw my way.”
Your eyes filled with something as your throat began to ache.
“And I can’t keep pretending it’s not killing me,” He said, quieter now, but more raw than before, “I can’t keep smiling through it. I can’t keep acting like I’m not falling apart every time you don’t see me the way I see you.”
His eyes locked onto yours.
“You’re my everything,” He whispered, “But I’m just one of your things.”
The words nearly undid him.
“And that’s all I’ll ever be to you.”
The room felt too still.
Too tight.
He stood there, stripped bare, like he’d finally set down something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t know how to stand without it.
The heat in his chest wasn’t a flutter anymore.
It was a burn.
And it hurt.
Harry didn’t raise his voice when he told you to leave.
That might have been easier to bear.
He didn’t shout. Didn’t slam the door. Didn’t say anything cruel.
He just looked at you with that exhausted, hollow expression — like he had finally emptied himself of something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t have the strength to hold anything else.
“I think you should go.” He said quietly.
Not angry.
Not cold.
Just… spent.
For a moment, you stayed where you were. Your body refused to move, as if waiting for him to soften. To sigh and rake a hand through his hair and say he didn’t mean it. To reach for you like he always did when things felt wrong.
He didn’t.
He stepped back instead.
And that — that was what made your chest crack open.
You left without another word.
The corridor outside his dormitory felt longer than usual. The torches along the walls flickered gently, unaware that the world inside you had tilted off its axis. Students passed you on the stairs, laughing, arguing, whispering about homework and Quidditch and weekend plans.
Everything sounded distant. Muffled.
You couldn’t quite feel your feet touching the stone as you walked.
By the time you reached your own dormitory, your hands were trembling.
The room was empty when you entered. The late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, soft and golden, dust drifting lazily in the air.
You shut the door behind you and leaned back against it, staring at the opposite wall.
Your heart was still racing.
Harry’s words hadn’t simply echoed — they had embedded themselves somewhere deep inside you, reverberating in slow, relentless waves. Every time you tried to steady your breathing, to anchor yourself in something solid and familiar, his voice would surface again.
I’m in love with you.
The way it had cracked in the middle. The way it sounded less like a confession and more like a wound finally tearing open.
You could still see him — pacing like a caged animal, hands dragging through his hair, shoulders tight with years of something he’d never let himself say. You had memorized his mannerisms over time. The subtle twitch in his jaw when he was frustrated. The way his fingers flexed when he was holding something back. The restless energy that clung to him whenever he didn’t know what to do with his emotions.
You’d thought you knew him.
But tonight had been different.
Tonight he had looked raw.
You pushed yourself away from the door slowly, your back peeling from the cool wood. Your nose burned from the effort of not crying, and when you blinked, the tears spilled over anyway. You didn’t trust your legs to carry you very far, but somehow you made it to your bed before your composure gave way entirely. You sank down onto the mattress and bent forward, pressing your face into the nearest pillow as though you could smother the sound of your own thoughts.
The confession replayed again.
And again.
And then—
You inhaled.
And froze.
That wasn’t your pillow.
You lifted your head, blinking through the blur, and realized your fingers were fisted in black fabric.
Harry’s jumper.
Slightly oversized on you. Sleeves too long. The collar stretched just enough from where you’d tugged it absently while studying.
You hadn’t meant to keep it.
It had been one of those cold nights in the library when the wind rattled the windows and the castle felt more like stone than shelter. You’d shivered once — just once — and he’d noticed. Of course he had.
He’d shrugged it off his shoulders without hesitation, draping it over yours with that casual sort of gentleness that was so uniquely him.
Keep it as long as you want, he’d said.
You never gave it back.
Your throat tightened painfully.
Would you have to return it now?
The thought felt unbearable.
You sat up slowly, the jumper clutched to your chest, your gaze drifting around your dorm room as if you were seeing it for the first time.
Your eyes landed on your nightstand.
The half-open chocolate orange from Honeydukes — the one he’d brought back after noticing you’d been chewing your quill during exam week. He hadn’t made a big deal of it. Just dropped it beside you and muttered something about you needing proper sugar instead of ink.
Next to it, a folded scrap of parchment in his messy handwriting. Practice questions he’d written out to quiz you before Transfiguration. You’d teased him for highlighting almost every sentence.
A tiny golden snitch keychain rested beside your wand. He’d pressed it into your palm in Hogsmeade last winter, cheeks pink from the cold.
Reminded me of you, he’d said, eyes refusing to meet yours.
You’d laughed.
You hadn’t asked why.
It was everywhere.
He was everywhere.
Not in grand, sweeping gestures.
Not in dramatic declarations.
But in the quiet, steady way he had slipped into the empty spaces of your life and made himself at home there.
Your gaze lifted to the moving photographs above your bed.
There were dozens.
Most of them were group pictures—laughing, chaotic, alive. But your gaze snagged on the one from Christmas morning last year. You were mid-laugh, half-hidden by torn wrapping paper. Harry stood beside you, watching.
Not the gift.
You.
At the time, you had thought his smile was simple excitement, pride in having chosen well. Now, with the knowledge of his confession lodged painfully in your chest, you saw something else layered beneath it—something softer, something unguarded. A kind of careful devotion that made your eyes sting all over again.
Now you could see the way his expression softened at the edges. The way his eyes lingered, unguarded. Earnest.
Longing.
How many times had he looked at you like that while you were too busy looking somewhere else?
Your vision blurred again.
You slid off the bed and crouched by your trunk at the foot of it, fingers trembling as you rummaged through folded clothes and books until you reached the small wooden box at the bottom — the one you kept tucked away for things that felt too important to leave out in the open.
You brought it back to the bed and opened it slowly.
Inside were ticket stubs from Hogsmeade weekends. A pressed flower from the lake shore. A few scraps of parchment with inside jokes scribbled in ink.
And then—
You found it.
A modest piece of white cardstock, slightly bent at the corner.
Your favorite flowers charmed along the edges, frozen mid-bloom.
Be my Valentine?
The memory hit you all at once.
A sob broke free before you could stop it, the sound raw in the quiet room. You pressed your hand to your mouth, but it did little to steady you. You hadn’t meant to hurt him. You hadn’t even realized there was something fragile to protect.
But now that he had spoken the truth aloud, your memories rearranged themselves with startling clarity. The way his jaw would tighten when you laughed too brightly at someone else. The subtle shift in his expression whenever another boy lingered too long in conversation. The way his hugs always lasted a fraction of a second longer than necessary, as if he were memorizing the feeling.
You had seen the signs.
Some quiet part of you had always known.
It’s been like this for years.
Sneaking down to the kitchens together. Late-night study sessions that dissolve into whispered confessions about fears neither of you would tell anyone else. Sitting shoulder to shoulder at Quidditch matches, your knee pressed against his because neither of you ever moves away.
You always thought it was just that.
You and him. Best friends. A matched set.
Your chest tightens painfully.
The realization did not strike like lightning. It did not feel dramatic or explosive. Instead, it settled slowly into place, like something ancient and inevitable finally aligning inside you. You tried, for a moment, to imagine your life without him woven into it so seamlessly—the absence of his steady presence beside you in the Great Hall, the lack of his quiet warmth at your side during long nights, the empty space where his voice should be.
The thought hollowed you out in a way guilt never could.
This wasn’t simply remorse for hurting him.
It was grief at the idea of losing something you hadn’t realized you wanted.
You drew his jumper back into your arms and pressed it against your chest, breathing in the familiar scent as your tears slowed into something softer, more certain.
You loved him.
Somewhere along the way, your heart had chosen him quietly and without ceremony.
And now that you finally understood it, the only thing more terrifying than admitting it was the possibility that you had realized too late.
You hadn’t meant for it to stretch into days.
At first, it was only supposed to be a night. One evening to let the shock settle. To let his words stop echoing quite so violently in your chest. But the more you turned them over in your mind, the more you realized you couldn’t simply run back to him with something half-formed and call it love.
You needed to know.
You needed to be certain that what you were feeling wasn’t guilt twisting itself into something softer. That it wasn’t fear of losing him masquerading as devotion. That you weren’t just trying to patch the wound he’d opened with whatever words would make it stop bleeding.
So you kept your distance.
And it seemed Harry had no problem respecting that unspoken boundary.
He avoided you with a precision that would have been impressive if it hadn’t hurt so much.
He left the Great Hall early. Sat at the opposite end of the Gryffindor table, shoulders angled deliberately away from you. Took longer routes between classes, choosing staircases that added minutes to his walk if it meant not crossing yours. When you entered a room, he found a reason to leave it. When you tried to catch his eye, he found something intensely fascinating to study just over your shoulder.
It wasn’t cruel.
That was the worst part.
He wasn’t punishing you.
He was protecting himself.
Careful not to brush against you in passing. Careful not to linger too close in crowded corridors. Careful with his voice, as though speaking to you too long might crack something open again that he’d only just managed to stitch shut.
You caught him watching you once—only once—during Charms. Professor Flitwick had turned to the board, and for a fleeting second, Harry’s guard slipped. His gaze found you with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.
There was no bitterness there. It wasn’t resentment.
It was restraint.
And that made your chest ache in ways you hadn’t expected.
By the time Valentine’s Day arrived, the castle was absolutely drenched in pink and glitter from the highest spires to the stone floors below. The enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall shimmered a soft rose-gold, petals drifting lazily down from an illusion of endless sky. Pink ribbons curled around every banister. The air smelled overwhelmingly of roses and sugar and something sparklingly artificial.
Harry hated it.
He sat rigidly through breakfast, jaw tight as the owls descended in a flurry of wings and parchment. Bouquets, boxes of chocolates, glittering gift bags—packages thumped down across the tables in rapid succession. Laughter erupted every few seconds as someone unwrapped something elaborate or embarrassing.
It was almost comical that Valentine’s Day had fallen on a Hogsmeade weekend this year.
A miracle.
Or some divine joke at his expense—Harry hadn’t quite decided which.
Dean presented Ginny with her bouquet in person, attempting nonchalance and failing spectacularly. Ron, flustered and pink-eared, kept checking his reflection in the back of a spoon before bolting off to meet Hermione. Even Seamus—Godric, even Seamus—had a date and left with an air of nervous triumph.
One by one, his roommates disappeared, pulled eagerly toward waiting hands and planned afternoons.
Harry remained behind.
He told himself he didn’t care.
He’d endured far worse than a holiday built on pink paper hearts and saccharine declarations.
But something about the exaggerated romance of it all scraped at him today. The floating hearts. The couples walking just a little closer than usual, fingers intertwined as if they were guarding something precious. It pressed against the hollow space in his chest and made it ache more sharply than he’d anticipated.
Stupid, really.
He was the one who had confessed. He was the one who had drawn the line. The one who had told you to leave.
And yet he hadn’t realized just how much it would hurt—not only to spend Valentine’s Day alone—but to spend it carrying the quiet understanding that whatever you had been before could never quite be the same again.
He pushed back from the table abruptly, appetite long gone, and made his way up to Gryffindor Tower. The corridors were noticeably quieter now, most students already filtering toward Hogsmeade or secluded corners of the castle.
The Fat Lady gave him a knowing smile as he muttered the password.
He didn’t return it.
By the time he reached his dormitory, exhaustion weighed heavy behind his eyes. He was fully prepared to throw his bag aside and collapse face-first into his mattress, to sleep the day away and wake up when the castle had returned to normal.
He pushed the door open.
And froze.
The room was dimmer than usual, bathed in the steady glow of candlelight. Flames flickered softly along the mantle and windowsills, casting warm gold across the stone walls. The usual clutter—Quidditch gear, discarded socks, scattered parchment—had been tidied away.
And there you were.
Hands clasped tightly around a small arrangement of flowers, as though you weren’t entirely sure what to do with them. Your shoulders were drawn back in visible determination, but your expression wavered somewhere between courage and terror.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Harry’s first instinct was disbelief.
His second was fear.
“You shouldn’t be here.” He said automatically, though the words lacked any real sharpness.
“I know,” You replied softly, “But I had something important I needed to ask you.”
His gaze flicked around the room again, as if confirming that this wasn’t some elaborate trick of exhaustion. The candles. The cleared space. The deliberate care in every detail.
“What is this?” He asked, his voice quieter now.
You swallowed, then stepped forward carefully—like you were approaching something skittish, something that might bolt at the wrong movement.
“You gave me a Valentine last year,” You said, the slightest tremor betraying you, “I thought I might return the favour.”
For a split second, something flickered in his eyes but it was swallowed almost immediately by something harder.
He let out a short, humorless breath, dragging a hand down his face, “Do you realize how cruel you’re being?”
The words hit you square in the chest.
“Harry, I—” You stopped yourself, forcing in a steadying breath, “I came to a couple of… epiphanies since we last spoke.”
He didn’t respond, but he didn’t interrupt you either.
You took another breath, slower this time, willing your thoughts to line up properly instead of scattering the way they had been all morning. Harry watched you closely, and you could tell he was fighting the instinct to step in, to calm you the way he always did when you spiraled. He knew the signs—the way your fingers twisted together, the way your gaze drifted when you were trying to find the right words.
He let you have the silence.
“I’m sorry.”
The words were small when they finally left you.
And he felt his stomach drop.
There it was, he thought. The careful tone. The softness. The prelude to rejection dressed up as kindness. He’d imagined this exact moment in the worst hours of the night—imagined you standing in front of him with pity in your eyes, explaining gently why you couldn’t give him what he wanted.
His shoulders went rigid without him meaning to. Something inside him began quietly folding in on itself.
“I’m sorry for taking so much time to think about this,” You continued, your voice trembling but determined, “And I’m sorry that you’ve felt this way for—God knows how long—and I was so blind to it. I’m sorry for keeping you at arm’s length and dangling something you wanted in front of you for so long. God, I can’t even imagine how that must have felt, because I’ve only just come to this realization a couple days ago and not being able to be around you has been killing me, and I’m such a terrible—”
“(Y/N), hold on.”
He stepped forward suddenly, closing the space between you before he could think better of it, his hands coming up to gently but firmly wrap around your wrists. Not restraining—just grounding. Anchoring you before you could spiral yourself into something cruel and untrue.
You stopped mid-breath.
Your chest was heaving slightly, eyes bright with unshed tears, and for a second neither of you moved. You had forgotten what it felt like for him to touch you. The warmth of his hands. The steadiness of his grip. A small, frightened part of you had begun to wonder if he ever would again.
Harry swallowed.
He hadn’t expected you to look like this—wrecked and earnest and terrified in equal measure.
You opened your mouth, and he nodded his head faintly, urging you to keep going.
“I—” You drew in a steadier breath this time, “You’re my first thought when something happens. You’re the person I look for in every room. When I’m tired, I want you next to me. When I’m overwhelmed, I look for you without even realizing it. And I kept telling myself that was just friendship. That it was normal.”
Your lips curved faintly, sadly, “But I realized that no matter what label I tried to place on it, what I feel for you, Harry, is not just friendship.”
His grip tightened—barely, but enough that you felt it.
Harry’s breathing had gone noticeably slower. Measured. Like he was forcing himself not to interrupt, not to hope too quickly.
“You’re not just some sort of placeholder,” You continued, your voice steadier now, “Or a spare bed. Or my extra person. Or my safe place because you were convenient.”
The room seemed to still entirely.
The candles crackled softly. Somewhere outside, a burst of cheers rose and fell again, distant and irrelevant to the world shrinking down to just the two of you.
Harry stared at you as though you’d begun speaking in a language he desperately wanted to understand but was afraid to mistranslate.
“If it’s not you,” You said, your voice breaking slightly despite your effort to keep it steady, “then I don’t want anyone else.”
His heart thudded once—hard enough it almost hurt.
“If that’s what love is,” You whispered, blinking away the dampness gathering in your lashes, “then I suppose I’ve been in love with you for a while now.”
For a moment, he didn’t react at all.
It was as though the words had struck him somewhere too deep to process immediately.
You watched it happen—the disbelief first. The instinct to protect himself from false hope. His eyes searched your face desperately for hesitation, for guilt, for anything that might suggest this was born of obligation.
He didn’t find it.
Something in his expression changed then. Not dramatically. Not all at once. But the tightness around his mouth eased. The guarded set of his shoulders softened. His hands, still wrapped around your wrists, shifted—sliding down until he was holding your hands properly now.
Reverently.
“Say that again.” He murmured, his voice rougher than before.
You let out a shaky breath, “I love you.”
The words didn’t tremble this time.
They landed between you solid and undeniable.
Harry’s eyes closed for half a second, like he needed that brief darkness to steady himself. When they opened again, they were shining in a way you’d rarely seen—unguarded, almost overwhelmed.
“You have no idea,” He said quietly, almost helplessly, “how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”
There was no accusation in it. No bitterness.
Just awe.
Blinking quickly to keep your tears from spilling over, you lifted the bouquet again with trembling hands. The gesture felt suddenly very small compared to what had just been said, but it mattered to you.
“Harry,” You asked softly, your voice braver than you felt, “will you be my Valentine?”
For a heartbeat, he simply looked at you.
Like he was memorizing this version of you—the one standing in front of him choosing him openly.
His hands left yours only long enough to take the bouquet, setting it carefully aside on the nearest surface as though it were something fragile and precious.
Then he stepped forward.
Hesitantly.
Cautiously.
As though he were afraid that one wrong movement might shatter the moment entirely.
He lifted his hands and cupped your face, thumbs brushing gently beneath your eyes where tears still clung to your lashes. His heart was pounding so hard he was certain you must feel it. He had imagined touching you like this more times than he could count, never truly believing he would be allowed to. Some part of him still waited for the illusion to break, for him to wake up from this dream all alone.
But you were real.
Warm beneath his palms. Trembling slightly where your bodies hovered just short of touching.
The way you looked at him—earnest, anxious and filled with anticipation—anchored him in the moment more surely than anything else could have. If this was a dream, then he decided he would stay in it. He would cling to it as long as it let him have you.
The restraint he had lived with for years finally gave way.
He pulled you into him, not roughly, but with a fierce, aching tenderness, arms wrapping around you as though he feared you might disappear if he loosened his hold. His forehead brushed yours, breath unsteady, and then he kissed you.
It was soft at first. Almost uncertain.
But when your lips moved against his, fitting together like divine puzzle pieces, the rest of the world seemed to dissolve. The candles, the room, the noise of the castle beyond the walls—none of it mattered.
All that existed was the warmth of his hands, the steady press of his chest against yours, and the quiet realization that you were no longer standing on opposite sides of something unspoken.
You pressed closer to him, and he held you as though he had been waiting his whole life to do exactly that.
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synopsis: making tom do your homework is an easy feat that shows the rest of slytherin house just how whipped he is for you. | wc: 1.2k+
fem!reader (she/her pronouns), fluff, established relationship, reader is a muggleborn yet you always get your way with him (no specific house), knights of walpurgis cameos, their gossip and reactions are funny (to me), riddle era. | lordlist
Most students keep their distance from Tom Riddle — head boy, the prodigy with something dark lurking underneath that they don’t want to be caught up in. Most students anyway.
You, however, are currently sprawled across the green velvet cushions in the Slytherin common rooms beside him, dramatically slamming your potions textbook shut with a groan — making the students (largely consisting of some of Tom’s weird friends) to flinch for their lives at the abrupt noise disrupting the peaceful quiet.
“Slughorn is trying to kill me,” you whine loudly, earning you a few looks. You fail to notice them however — your eyes shut, tipping your head to rest it against your boyfriend’s shoulder.
Tom doesn’t even spare you a glance from his own work, quill gliding across parchment with infuriating ease. You peek a single eye open to watch his reaction, but all you see him do is scribble in ink. It really isn’t fair. No normal guy should have hands as attractive as that — veiny, big, powerful.
“You said the same thing last week. And the week before.”
“‘Cause it’s still true,” you pout.
“Or,” he says pointedly, dipping his quill into the pot of ink besides him, “you’re simply hopeless at brewing anything more complex than tea.”
You sit up straight, head leaving his shoulder which makes Tom shift a little at the lack of your warmth, gasping with furrowed brows at the jab. He doesn’t care to look your way. You stare harder. Nothing. So, you decide to pinch his arm.
Tom barely reacts, of course, finally glancing sideways at you — giving you a blank stare in return and an unamused arch of the brow at your childish behavior.
Suddenly, an idea pops in your head — one of great brilliance.
“Tom,” you coo, dragging your words. He hums, no longer paying you any mind and busying himself with his own work again — but you know he’s paying attention from his peripheral. You bat your lashes once, then twice, eyes wide and pleading. Your voice drips in innocence. “Will you do it for me?”
The response comes immediately.
“No.”
You huff, vexed. “Why not?”
“Unlike you, I have self respect,” he answers coolly.
You narrow your eyes, roll them, before smiling as if he made a funny joke. “I’ll give you a kiss!”
Tom scoffs. “I’m not that easily bought.”
You lean in closer, eyes glittering, soft lips ghosting near his ear. He intakes a sharp breath when they brush his lobe. “Two kisses. Pretty please?”
His quill pauses. Some of the other students peak over at the both of you at the sudden silence, having been nosy and overhearing the conversation the whole time.
“I’m not doing your entire assignment.”
“So… half?”
“Assisting,” he reiterates, albeit, still giving in to your demands. For all that Tom is, he appreciated the value of hard work and looked down on cheating… but for you, he’ll let it slide just this once (it does not end up being just once).
“Fine. Assist me then while I lie here and do absolutely nothing,” you hum in delight, patting a cushion and making yourself comfortable.
Tom exhales sharply — a mix between an exasperated sigh from how much you test his patience and a suppressed huff of laughter.
“You are completely unbearable.”
“And yet, you adore me.”
Unfortunately, he did.
Because Tom Riddle is the boy who could bend minds with a smile, and yet, for you — he is currently scribbling out your entire potions essay and rewriting it while you sit back and relax as if you hadn’t just gotten the most feared Slytherin at Hogwarts to do your homework on your command.
Across the room, several members of his inner circle — the so called Knights of Walpurgis — were watching the whole thing in disbelief.
“She didn’t even have to try,” one whispers.
“He just… did it.”
Another scowls. “She’s a mud—”
“Shut up,” a new voice hisses. “He likes her. I heard he hexed Rosier last week for making a joke about it.”
“…”
“Maybe if we get on her good side—”
“Enough.” Tom’s voice cuts through the air like a knife.
The gossipy murmurs stop immediately. The group clears their throats, looking anywhere else except at the both of you in a very obvious, idiotic fashion. None of them dared to meet Tom’s gaze… except you.
You lean over and kiss his cheek sweetly, smug and triumphant and ever so oblivious. “Well, I’ll be back later. I’ll give you the other kiss once you’re done as a reward — promise.”
You stand, dusting off your robes, already moving towards the stairs to leave the common room when he speaks out again, low but heard by all.
“Don’t stay out too long.”
You pause in your tracks, turning to face him with a tilt of your head.
“Why? Gonna miss me?”
Tom doesn’t answer your tease with what he wants to, not in front of the blithering idiots — but he doesn’t have to. The look in his eyes says ‘yes, I’ll burn this world down if it ever takes you from me’ . . . but instead, all that leaves his mouth is:
“Because your friends are irritating, and I prefer when you’re where I can see you.”
‘Sure, it’s only that,’ the students in the common room all thought collectively.
extra:
Later that night, when the common room had emptied, the Knights of Walpurgis gathered near the fireplace, voices hushed but urgent.
“I still can’t believe it,” Malfoy mutters, poking at the embers with his wand. “He ended up doing the whole bloody essay.”
“He didn’t have to,” Lestrange points out gruffly. “He chose to. Like… a domesticated pet.”
A few of them snort at that.
Rosier leans in, whispering like he’s sharing top secret intel. “I swear on Salazar’s beard I saw him almost smile when she came back down and gave him three kisses ‘stead of one like she said. He’s whipped.”
“Three?” Mulciber repeats, incredulous. “Yeah, one for each cheek, and then on the lips,” Rosier confirms, puckering his own and making kissy sounds. “Like a proper fairytale ending — if the fairytale involved a future dark lord doing someone’s potions homework.”
There is a long pause as they all try to picture it.
Avery finally exhales a laugh, making them all turn their heads his way. “He’s gone mad.”
“Mad?” Nott repeats, smirking into his goblet of wine. “Yes, mad with love.~”
That earns a few cackles and smoochy sounds — the kind that immediately dies the second a shadow falls across their little group. They slowly and carefully turn their heads to look back.
Tom stands right behind them with his arms crossed, expression unreadable, sleeves rolled up to his elbows neatly, the faintest trace of ink still on his fingertips. His gaze sweeps over each of them, cold and sharp enough to make them shudder and bow their heads in submission.
“Something amusing?” he asks softly, tone dangerous.
“No, Riddle,” they chorus at once, faces pale.
He regards them for a moment too long to make them squirm, then turns away in finality, the hem of his cloak brushing against the rug as he makes his way up towards the dorms.
But just before he disappears down the corridor, they all swear they see it — the slight pep in his step and the smallest curve at the corner of his mouth.
⟢ pairing. draco malfoy x fem!gryffindor reader. ⟢ summary. draco realizes that he may or may not have feelings for you, and that scared the hell out of him. ⟢ enemies to lovers. he fell first, he fell harder. draco being in denial. ⟢ wc. 2,8k ⟢ masterlist!
you and draco had been sworn enemies ever since you stepped foot into hogwarts. it all started when draco decided it’d be an entertainment to make fun of you very first friend—ron. of course, you stood up for him. sharp words. sharper glare. you made a few snarky comments about draco, and that pissed him off, really pissed him off. because not only was he embarrassed by anyone, no, but rather a girl. sure, he’s met loads of people who are brave enough to stand up for themselves, but never did he ever meet a girl bite him back. you really got under his skin.
you felt bad enough soon afterwards, so you decided to apologize to draco, maybe it was just a bad start, and you could become friends, you thought. wrong. instead, when you approached him that day to apologize, he and his friends greggory goyle and crabbe decided to play a little ‘harmless’ prank on you. you spotted him in the great hall during lunch, lounging at the slytherin table with goyle and crabbe. you took a deep breath, mustered your courage and walked over, ignoring the ugly stares around you.
“draco, i just wanted to—”
before you could finish, he cut you off. “oh, look! she’s in love with me,” he drawled, loud enough for not the entire table to hear, but rather the entire hall. he and his friends burst into laughter, but that wasn’t enough for them. you tried to hide your face in pure embarrassment. but as you stood there, he flicked his wand under the table, and suddenly your shoes stuck fast to the floor, as if someone had put a magic superglue on them. you tried to move, but your feet wouldn’t budge. at this point, everyone was laughing at you, and it made your cheeks burn from embarrassment, well except for your friends hermione, harry, and ron.
and with another flick of his wand, your bag flew open, its contents scattered all over the floor. your books, quills, ink, parchment, and at last, a photo of you and ron. “hey, look! looks like little y/n has a boyfriend!” he flew his arms up in the air, photo in his arms so that everyone could see. everyone burst into laughter, snickers echoing through the hall, and all you wanted was the world to swallow you whole. you tried your best to contain the tears threatening to spill, but you knew it wouldn’t last long. you could feel both sadness and anger bubbling up in your chest. oh you were so going to get him back.
and that’s what basically started your little rivalry with draco.
the rest of the years, you two just continued on with this silent hatred towards each other. endless arguments in the corridors. snickering remarks passed in classes. glares exchanged across the great hall. It became a sort of a game neither of you would admit you were playing, but neither of you would back down from. you knew it was childish and pathetic, you tried—tried to stop this childish nonsense by ignoring him but he just wouldn’t stop either. if he didn’t stop, why would you? you never wanted to back down from a malfoy, and you never wanted to let him walk over you like you were some sort of dirt.
── .✦
you were bolting across the castle corridors with books clutched tightly to your chest. oh you were so dead. you had already been late to professor’s snape class twice this week, and there was no way he’d let you off a third time. your shoes skidded slightly on the stone floor as you rounded a sharp corner, and slammed straight into something solid. books went flying as you stumbled backward, barely managing to keep yourself upright. you winced in pain, rubbing your forehead. “sorry i didn’t mean—”
“watch where you’re going!” an unfamiliar voice spoke up, cutting off your sentence. you looked up slowly, only to see crabbe and goyle towering over you, smug expressions plastered across their faces. without a word, you kneeled down, gathering the books scattered everywhere. you knew better not to stir things up, you honestly just wanted out. but then goyle took a slow step forward. and then another. until the thick sole of his boot landed squarely on the cover of your defense against the dark arts book. he shifted his weight onto it, grinding it slightly. “going anywhere, sweetheart?” you let out a slow, controlled breath, calming yourself down.
“aw, is she going to cry?” crabbe mocked, his voice thick with fake concern. goyle laughed, still grinding his boot into your book. hearing this, something in you snapped. you stood up, fists clenched at your sides. “you—”
“back off.”
you froze—everyone did. goyle turned his head slowly, his smug expression faltering. there, stood none other than draco, just a few steps behind them. “seriously? picking fights in a hallway with someone who’s not even trying to fight back? pathetic.” crabbe opened his mouth to argue before shutting up upon seeing draco’s deathly glare.
crabbe and goyle exchanged a look, clearly unsure whether to stay or follow his silent command. sure enough they got their answer once draco sent them another death glare, sending them goosebumps. the two lumbered off, still grumbling to each other as they disappeared around the corner.
you just stood there, eyebrows raised, your expression that in a mixture of confusion and disbelief as you stared at him. “what are you looking at?” he asked, his tone sharp. you scoffed, still wearing a confused-disbelief-weirded out face. “i had it under control, by the way.” you kneeled down once again to gather the books and papers scattered across the cold stone floor. now it was his turn to scoff. “yeah right you did.” he inched closer, kneeling down across from your figure as he reached for a few books near your hand. you simply shot him a look. “i didn’t ask for your help.”
“i was expecting more of a ‘thank you’ rather than endless chattering.” he replied coldly, causing you to roll your eyes. soon enough, you’d gathered the last of your books, hugging them tightly to your chest as you stood up, draco following shortly after. “here’s your.. stuff.” he muttered, tossing a few of your books at you without a care as you caught them just in time, almost dropping your potions book.
“thanks? i guess.” you muttered, catching his gaze one last time before hurrying past him, almost forgetting about professor snape’s class. oh you were so getting detention.
he let his gaze linger on your figure as you slowly disappeared into the castle corridors. “did i really just help that pathetic girl?” he scoffed at himself, clearly confused and annoyed at his obnoxious actions earlier. he brushed it off soon enough—dismissed it as nothing more than a moment of temporary insanity. “whatever,” he muttered under his breath, tugging his robes tighter around him as he made his way through the castle corridor.
meanwhile, you crept silently down the hallway once you got near enough, clutching your books like they might somehow make you invisible. with every step toward the potions classroom, you prayed snape would be too deep in his lecture to notice the door creak open. unfortunately, luck wasn’t on your side this time.
the second your hand touched the handle and you slipped through the barely opened door, all eyes turned—well except for one. he didn’t even have to look up to know it’s you, of course it was you, who else would it be? “ah… miss y/l/n,” snape drawled, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as they flicked up from the papers on his desk. “how generous of you to grace us with your presence. tell me, did you spend the last fifteen minutes perfecting your dramatic entrance, or are you simply incapable of reading a clock?” you let out an awkward chuckle, eyes darting from here to there out of nervousness.
“i can explain, see—”
“five points are deducted from gryffindor,” he interrupted flatly, his voice cold. “for your inability to arrive on time,” his gaze flicked to you now, slow and deliberate. “and another five for believing your excuses are worth wasting class time.” you froze, lips parted, but he wasn’t done. “detention. this evening. you’ll report to the hospital wing, madam pomfrey is in need of assistance.”
you only nodded, sighing in defeat. quiet whispers and sucked breathes could be heard around you, causing your ears to burn in embarrassment. well, you did see it coming, just didn’t thought you’d end up with madam pomfrey. honestly, you were just grateful you didn’t have to scrub the toilets.
── .✦
inevitably, you being you, you snuck out of detention. it was pretty easy actually, all you did was slip out the back quietly when madam pomfrey got distracted with a student coughing up slugs. you could have stayed—should have. but it was the quidditch finale! there was no way you were missing this.
so now, here you were, standing at the edge of the stands with hermione and ron by your side.
“do you think they’re going to make it?” hermione asked, her expression was filled with worry, not taking her eyes off of harry. “don’t worry,” you said softly, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “you know they always do.” she nodded slightly, but her gaze didn’t waver. the roar of the crowd echoed in the distance, today was the quidditch finale, after all. everything was riding on this match. victory or defeat, it would be remembered.
your gaze was fixed on harry, watching his every move as he soared through the sky with focused determination. that was, until he knocked malfoy clean off his broom. you winced as you watched him tumble toward the ground. “bloody hell, that must’ve hurt!” ron too, winced watching the scene play out. and of course, being the crybaby he is, he whined and cried out in pain, causing you to erupt into laughter. “what a crybaby,” you snorted, nudging hermione and signaling her to look down.
she too, laughed, watching the scene unfold. “i mean honestly, can he be more pathetic?” you giggled, watching his body got dragged away before averting your attention back to the game. however, your stolen moment of freedom didn’t last so long. because just as you were starting to relax, a chillingly familiar voice spoke from behind.
“enjoying the game, are we miss y/l/n?”
you froze, already knowing who’s voice that belonged to. slowly turning around, you came face to face with the one and only: professor snape himself. damn it, just when things were starting to get fun. “abandoning your assigned detention to sneak into a quidditch match,” he said coldly. “how very brave of you.”
he was expecting you to come up with thousands of excuses, but no, this time, you kept your head low, not daring to make a sound as you accepted your ‘defeat.’
“since madam pomfrey has apparently been relieved of your assistance, i’ll see to it that your punishment continues under my supervision. expect extended hours, and fewer excuses.”
and just like that, your fun came to a very swift, painful end. but fairly speaking, it was worth it. you didn’t regret sneaking out on detention, not even a little.
you pushed open the doors to the hospital wing, trying your best to act casual, like you hadn’t just snuck out of detention. “well, well. look who decided to show up.” madam pomfey looked up from her cabinet with a raised a brow. you gave her a sheepish smile, rubbing the nape of your neck. “sorry, got.. held up?” you muttered, giving her an awkward-apologetic look. “mhm,” she obviously didn’t buy your excuse, but thankfully she didn’t press it.
“you can start by helping me here, basic salve application, wound cleansing, the usual.” you listened intently at her orders, nodding in response as you let your eyes wander around the room. your eyes then landed on a certain blonde whom you’d recognize, sitting on one of the beds with a scowl and a rather dramatic ice pack pressed to his forehead.
you replayed the moment where he had fallen oh so dramatically and whined like a baby, and you couldn’t help but let out a snort—unfortunately enough, loud enough for him to hear. his head snapped toward your direction almost immediately. “what are you laughing at?” his tone was cold, firm, as he was trying to act as cool and intimidating as possible. but then again, that never worked on you.
“nothing.” you shrugged, averting your attention back to madam pomfrey, who’s now explaining how to treat minor surface wounds. on the other hand, draco scoffed at you, clearly annoyed and irritated. “now, you’ll be helping malfoy with his wounds.” you blinked, still not able to process what she had just said. “wait, what? can’t i help neville? or seamus?” you practically begged her not to put you with draco.
“no buts. malfoy’s wounds are all but minor ones.” before you could negotiate or even complain, she immediately gave you a tray full of supplies before promptly walking away, leaving you alone.
you dramatically sighed, rolling your eyes as you made your way toward draco, who didn’t look much pleasant either. “you look thrilled to see me,” you muttered dryly, setting the tray beside him. “i’m overjoyed,” he deadpanned. “can’t you tell?” you ignored him, grabbing the cloth. you fought back the urge to just choke him right here, right this moment.
“shut up and hold still,” you murmured, bringing a cloth to his cheek. he winced as you gently dabbed the cut on his left cheek. you rolled your eyes, still not looking at him. “your wound is as small as a goblin’s nail, you’ll live.” now it was his turn to roll his eyes. your presence alone infuriated something inside him.
eventually, the two of you fell into a quiet silence. you were too focused on cleaning his wound, and as for him, well, he was too busy fighting himself from looking at you. he couldn’t help but steal few glances, his eyes drifting toward your face every now and then. not that he’d admit it. he’d constantly lean back once you got too close, way too close.
he didn’t understand it. didn’t want to understand it.
his heartbeat had picked up without warning, thudding awkwardly in his chest. and the worst part? you were just there, close, calm, completely unaware that you were quietly driving him insane. and that unsettled him more than anything else. he looked away, jaw clenched, silently begging himself to get a grip. this was you who he was talking about, you! the person he has hated from the very beginning, the very person who infuriated him more than anyone. so why, why was his heart racing—beating so loudly for you? he gulped once your face inched closer, looking away almost instantly.
snap out of it, draco.
“done,” you said finally, stepping back and setting the supplies aside. just as you were checking if you’d missed any wounds, you noticed the faintest shade of pink dusting the tip his ears. “you good?” you asked, concern lacing your voice. “i’m fine,” his tone was sharp and defensive. “haven’t you got somewhere else to be?”
you blinked. okay. rude.
your brows lifted slightly, folding your arms. “as a matter of fact i do.” with that, you made your way across the room to madam pomfrey, not giving him another glance. “all done,” you said, trying to keep your voice neutral. “he’s not bleeding out or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
she glanced over her shoulder with a nod, clearly picking up on your tone but not commenting on it. “good. i need you to stay and help with the other students. and once you’re done, tidy up the room, will you?” you gave a quick nod, already moving to the next patient, someone from hufflepuff with a nasty bruise forming on their temple.
that night, draco couldn’t sleep at all. who else would he be thinking about if not you? you had invaded his mind that it made him go insane. no matter how many times he turned over in bed, no matter how tightly he shut his eyes, it was always you he saw. it was maddening, really. he groaned and threw his pillow over his face. “this is ridiculous,” he muttered into the fabric. “completely mental.”
he hated to admit it, but if he were to say he just now thought you’d grown up to become rather attractive—he’d be lying. truth was, he’d known for years. he just never let himself acknowledge it.
he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes and let out a frustrated sigh. “no. absolutely not. this is not happening.”
ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ: Harry Potter boys struggling to ask you out.ᐟ
ꜰᴇᴀᴛᴜʀɪɴɢ: Cedric Diggory, Harry Potter, Fred Weasley, George Weasley, Draco Malfoy.ᐟ
ᝰ ᴄᴇᴅʀɪᴄ ᴅɪɢɢᴏʀʏ.ᐟ
You're reading that same old book with torn edges, that looks as old as time. You've come to love it. What you didn't know, was that the boy infront also knows that. He wants to speak. But he can't. Though, you can feel his gaze on you all the time as he's sat across you at your desk in the library. You'd come here to read, not to have a Diggory staring at you! From the corner of your eye, you're noticing how he's sneaking glances at you. It's distracting. But he knows you're looking at him through your peripheral vision. So you finally look up.
"You're staring."
"So are you."
"I'm studying!"
"So am I."
You couldn't help but roll your eyes and smile, despite yourself. He smiles back. Though, now, his confidence really is slipping through his fingers like sand.
He doesn't know what to say, and he knows you're noticing it. He's waiting for you to flip to a certain page and— There! A dried red rose placed neatly between the pages. You were pleasantly surprised, to say the least. "Oh, I wonder who could have placed that..." You said with a pretense obliviousness. "Me....I did." He chirped up a second after, which earned him a chuckle from you. "Thank you, Cedric." He smiled in response. Now is the time, he thought.
“Right. So, I was thinking—hypothetically—if someone were to ask you to Hogsmeade, say, next weekend…”
"Hypothetically?"
"Yes. Hypothetically."
You smiled, shaking your head at how silly it all sounded. "Depends. What's in it for me?"; "Butterbeer? Honeydukes fudge...and uh—my company? The hypothetical someone's company, I mean." And you grinned. "That's a great deal. I like the sound of that. Except, I don't want the hypothetical someone's company." You got up from your seat with your things and His head snapped towards you, just then; "Cedric Diggory's would do." you leaned down to where he was sitting, planted a kiss on his cheek and walked away. "Oh." And he sat there, dumbfounded, in a pleasant—giddy way.
ᝰ ʜᴀʀʀʏ ᴘᴏᴛᴛᴇʀ .ᐟ
He's nervous. Very. He's been standing infront of the bathroom mirror for long that he feels his reflection would reach out and choke the words out of him. He's been practicing for so long that he has to remind himself every once in a while that his agenda is to ask you out, not to sell an insurance plan. Why can't he just do that? It can't be that hard.
Except it is, for him.
"Fancy seeing you here." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That was—awful." he thought to himself, but he was soon pulled out of his thoughts when he heard a knock at the bathroom door. "You're gonna be late for potions, Harry!" your voice rang. “Y–yeah! Be right there!” You squint at him as soon as he steps out of the bathroom.
"You look tense, what took you so long in there?"
"Mental practice."
"Mental practice?"
"Y'know, visualizing success."
You passed a grin, shaking your head. He seemed suspicious. You were not gonna use the bathroom now.
His tongue gave up entirely as soon as you followed up with a question. "What kind of success?"
His words falling out before he can stop them. "Uh..the kind where I ask you to Madam Puddifoot's tea shop and you say yes?" You stared at him in surprise, lips parted in shock before you laughed, "That's your idea of success?" Oh how embarrassed he felt! He could feel heat rising up to his cheeks like some stupid Shoujo. "Well, it is now!" He said, his voice an octave higher as he fixed his glasses. You tilted your head, pretending to consider it. "You're really bad at this.";
"It was supposed to be charming."
"It was. Accidentally."
His head snapped towards you at once in surprise. "I'll go with you, Harry. Tea shop, tomorrow." And with a grin, you turned and walked away to your class. Him? He stood there, frozen, grinning silly.
ᝰ ꜰʀᴇᴅ ᴡᴇᴀꜱʟᴇʏ.ᐟ
He's many things. Funny, confident, charming (self proclaimed), and apparently, very incapable of asking you out like a normal person. Because the moment he sees you sitting there in the library, his brain goes static.
He grabs a book without even seeing what it is about, pulls a chair across from you and sits, propping his chin on his elbow as he grins. "What'cha readin' love? You look rather focused." You click your tongue, raising an eyebrow at him. "Studying for a test of course, not everybody is as free as you are."; "Ouch?"
He starts reading out loud to prove you wrong, except, he isn't really reading.
"And then he asks the girl sitting across from him, 'Would you like to go to Brews and Stews Cafe with me?'." You deadpanned, raising your head to stare at him. He continued, his eyes fixed on the book.
"And shockingly, or not so shockingly for the handsome lad, she sai—"
"Stop projecting your fantasies on that book, Fred."
Now that perked his ears, even though it was stupidly obvious what he was doing, he wanted to know what gave it away.
"What?"
"You're not even trying.""What do you mean by that, love?"
"No such lines exist in that book. You're holding an encyclopedia, y'know. Upside down."
"Oh.."
He was mentally face palming. You on the other hand, pack your stuff up with a hint of a smirk, before you ruffle his hair and lean down. "She said yes for 6 p.m., by the way." which earned you a sheepish smile by him. "And she also said that the 'handsome lad' should step up his game." With that, you walked away. He didn't know whether to feel offended or giddy—but oh well, mission successful!
ᝰ ɢᴇᴏʀɢᴇ ᴡᴇᴀꜱʟᴇʏ.ᐟ
He's been roaming around in the lawn for a long while, holding a bunch of crumpled paper cranes that he's been making absentmindedly, wondering how he'd ask you out. You liked this stuff. Maybe that's why, since this morning he's been trying to do make something nice, in hopes you'd notice that he's been trying to make a move. He's been wanting to do it for a good while. He's surprised he's even so nervous, but he can't really bring himself to be confident like usual either. How is he even really gonna— "Ouch!!"
A smack lands across his back, from you, of course. "Now, what was that for?!"; "Nothing." You said with a grin and he shook his head, now stuffing the cranes in his cloak's pocket. "What are those?" You asked him before he took them out, and held them out to you. Origami? Since when was he interested in this? "It's a little disoriented." You murmured, holding his hand and guiding him with the folds and he can't help but smile at how concentrated you are. "Now that, looks nice." He grinned. "Since when were you into all of this?" You asked, strolling beside him.
"Since this morning, if it guaranteed your attention." You blinked, "What?"
"Nothing!" He's grinning now, but his ears are red. "I said nothing."
He hands you the paper cranes, signaling you to unfold one. There's a little scribble inside. "20% off at the tea shop on Saturday. Trip?" You can tell he tried to draw a flower next to it but erased it out of embarrassment. "A trip? With Fred?" it didn't take him even a second to cut you off. "Without him." You smiled, raising an eyebrow.
"Is that your way of asking me out, Weasley?"
"Depends. Was it good enough?""It was terrible."
"Aww man."
"You're such a sap, George." Though, you folded the piece of paper and placed it in your pocket with a faint smile. "So that's a yes.";
"You're awfully overconfident." you rolled your eyes. "Wrong?"; "Not really."
ᝰ ᴅʀᴀᴄᴏ ᴍᴀʟꜰᴏʏ.ᐟ
This is the perfect time to ask you out. But he still just can't. You're sitting right by him in the common room. He wants to ask you out. But at the same time, he doesn't. His ego won't let him. He's surely gonna get teased and never hear the end of it.
He's sat too close to you for his own comfort. Though, he kind of likes it, it's a—nice kind of discomfort.
He'd never admit that he likes to hear you yap, and he thinks that he does a phenomenal job at making it seem like you irritate him. But he doesn't. His faint smile gives it away. Though, today, he seems a little distant, fingers fiddling with crumpled pieces of paper. He tried—tried to make it less awkward by thinking he'd write you a letter. But quickly decided against it. Though, to his surprise, you already knew how he was struggling to ask you out. For the past whole week. It didn't take a genius to figure out with his Oh-so-obvious hints and his terrible attempts to back out.
"Fancy you studying beside me today."
"Fancy you noticing where I study."
"Wow, being sarcastic now? I'm sure you weren't even listening what I said."
"I don't need to be." A beat. "And I did listen."
He regretted saying that. You didn't need to know that. But now you did. To change the topic, or perhaps to hide his embarrassment, he decides to say something even more embarrassing, (for him), "Oh, you know..I'm potentially available this Sunday." He said, looking away as if that statement was self explanatory. "Oh. That's nice." You hummed. He frowned. Then decided that his next statement might do it. "Andd...I'm thinking about going to Hogsmeade." You grinned. "That's great. It's a nice place." He was on the verge of giving up now. "You're impossible, (Y/N)." And you almost felt sorry for the poor guy. But, you, being the stubborn you, wanted HIM to make the move. "You know, Draco, there's a phrase more impossible than I am." That got his attention quickly. "What?"; "Repeat after me."
"Would you,"
"Would you,"
"Like to,"
"Like to,"
"Come to,"
"Come to,"
"Hogsmeade with me?"
"Hogsmeade with me?"
"Yes I would, Draco!"
"oh....Oh!"
He realised a beat too late but, atleast he earned himself a date, at the cost of his dignity, smiling despite himself.
First time writing for HP characters! Hope it's not ooc.
Reblogs and Likes would be highly appreciated! 🎀
summary: Your coworker Arthur Weasley is sick and tired of slipping his sons' names into conversation in an attempt to grasp your interest in them, so he pulls out photos of them and forms a plan to turn his work daughter into a daughter in law
wc: 2.3k+
a/n: thank you to whoever requested this one, i had so much fun writing it! was very much thinking about ted danson in 'a man on the inside' while writing arthur!
The instant Mr. Weasley pulls out his wallet, you know it’s over for you. The clasp is barely holding the wallet shut, printed images stuffed between its leather flaps. You know what’s coming next. Somehow, every time you find yourself working closely Arthur, he manages to slip his children into conversation, particularly the oldest ones. You bet that if you ever meet them in real life, you’d instantly know which is which purely based on their father’s description of them.
“You should come by to dinner one night and meet the family. You’re part of my family now, so it’s only fair that the others get to meet you.” You laugh softly, shifting your weight from foot to foot as Arthur puts his glasses on, pulling the images out of his wallet. All you had done was drop off an artefact found at a crime scene involving both wizards and muggles, but of course a five minute trip would turn into twenty five minute conversation. You've barely even closed the case file and he's already started talking.
“This is a photo from our spring dinner. Bill and Charlie weren’t there, but those are the kids, you know their names.” You purse your lips to hide your amusement at the way Arthur instantly dismisses his younger children, then pulls out a photo of him and another redhead side by side. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, moving the photo closer to you so you can see the details of his son’s skin tight shirt. “That’s Charlie, he works at a dragon sanctuary. Strongest one in the pack.”
You nod slowly, smiling at Arthur. He’s very aware that you know of his intentions, but he keeps his eyes on you as he turns to the next image. “This is Bill, he’s the head of the curse breaking department at a bank in egypt, but he recently got a job at Gringotts, so he’s finally coming home.” You flicker your eyes down to the image and hate yourself for the way your eyes instantly widen in pleasant surprise at the sight of the handsome man in the image. He stands with an arm around his younger sister, both of them carrying brooms in hand and looking sweaty and joyful after what looks like a family game of quidditch. “Well, it’s good to see that they all get along well, right?”
Arthur takes off his glasses, hooking them into the collar of his shirt, and shrugs. “Well, it depends on the day. Bill gets along with all of them, of course. Everyone loves Bill - very sociable guy.” You smile at Arthur, nodding at him. “Don’t worry Arthur, I believe you. Look, I was told to go inspect some artefacts from a new scene down in the lab, but I’ll join you for lunch, okay?”
Arthur spends all his time until lunch thinking about the reaction you had at the sight of Bill. Of course, it helps that he chose the best photo of his son; happy, caring, sweaty, playful. He had a feeling you’d like Bill over Charlie — he assumed you liked taller and older men. Not like Charlie who’s shorter than most of his siblings and a couple of months younger than you. Arthur may be a friendly old man, but he’s not by any means clueless. He knows you keep declining his family dinner invitations because you think it would be awkward or weird, and not because you’ve already made plans in advance. There’s no way you have the energy for your social life to keep you busy every single friday night for the past year. But he’ll find a way. Actually, he has found a way, he just needs to put his plan into action.
He picks a night he knows you’re in the office late, on a day where you’re wearing your nicest outfit. He doesn’t just want you to be impressed by Bill, but he wants you to impress Bill too. It’ll be effortless from your part, of course, because you won’t even know what’s happening. Arthur will say goodbye to you as he walks out of the bullpen and you’ll wave him off before turning back to your work. He knows your workload is heavier than his, and he really shouldn’t be complicating things for you but this is for the greater good, he tells himself. Arthur continues his own night as per usual. He heads home, has dinner with Molly and the kids, and just before dessert, he stages a workplace emergency.
Without telling his family, he pretends to have a personal epiphany, then begins sending a patronus message to his boss. “Sir, I just remembered I’m supposed to submit some signed documents by tonight, but David never sent them my way. I’m not exactly sure what the documents entail and it it’s just my signatures needed - how do you want me to proceed?” When Molly asks what’s wrong and if he needs to return to work, Arthur shakes his head in reassurance, telling her someone will sort things out.
Within ten minutes you’ll be here, Arthur knows that much for sure. This past week you’ve been working on a case that needed Arthur’s help in regards to the muggle artefacts, so whatever he needs, it will have your signature on it too.
You’re glad for the excuse to stretch your legs when you’re called into Richard’s office. He gives you a large file that David forgot to hand you, and tells you to drop it off at Arthur’s once you’ve finished signing in all the right places. It takes you a moment to sign everything, and you decide that the universe sent this to you as a sign to cut your night short after giving Arthur the documents. So you pack your things quickly and make your way to the apparation station at the ground floor. Arthur loves his family dinners, so you don’t think he’s going to be too thrilled about you interrupting with work, but he’s a sweet man. He’s not going to turn you away.
Your sleepiness affects your apparition skills, and you end up at the end of the Weasleys’s driveway instead of at their front door. You can hear joyful laughs coming from behind the house, warm lighting peeking through the open windows. You’ve been here once, but it was during term time with none of the kids at home. Now, the atmosphere is completely transformed. It must be amazing to have a group of friends right there whenever you come home. Family that you can play messy games of quidditch with, and annoy each other even after the lights have come off.
You knock on the front door three times, and instantly, the noise all around you dims. You hear someone call out “Was that the front door?” It takes about five seconds for the front door to swing open, and you instantly rethink the entire situation when Bill Weasley is the one stood facing you. He smiles at you, the slightest confusion hidden behind his irises, and when he finally speaks, you feel your chest grow heavy.
“Hi, Bill Weasley.”
“Hi, uh, I have some documents for your dad?”
Bill doesn’t get the chance to respond before Arthur is calling your name and entering the frame. “Come inside, dear, come in! What a pleasant surprise, I thought Richard would be sending David or some other unpleasant company.” You laugh softly at Arthur’s words, offering him the thick file. Bill moves out of the way when his dad puts a hand on your shoulder, guiding you into the house, and he takes a moment to fully take you in.
He should have known.
His dad has never been slick with his moves, but Bill thought that since you work with him so closely, the mentions of your name weren’t slipped in conversation for Bill’s sake. As Arthur walks to the spotless dining table, he says “We work together! Albeit she works as an agent for inter-magiciary crimes and has a much more important job than I do.”
“Oh come on, half my cases I couldn’t solve without you, Arthur. You’re my forensic expert, as the muggles say.” Bill sees the way his dad’s eyes completely light up at your words, and despite not knowing what the meaning of your words are, he chuckles quietly. “Wouldn’t have taken you for an agent.” He says, eyeing your cinching button up and the patterned skirt you’re wearing. He likes your boots and jewellery too — they’re cool for such an intimidating job.
“I know,” Arthur begins as he flips open the file, “Too stylish for an agent, especially if you take a look at everyone else we were with.” You turn to Bill, smiling softly at him. “Arthur tells me you’re a curse breaker. Gringotts is a difficult place to get a position in, you know? Congratulations on that.”
Bill laughs nervous, bringing a hand up to rub his forehead. “Oh he told you about that? It’s not even finalised yet, but thank you.”
“Oh, he’s just thrilled to have you back home. Counts down the days at work every morning.”
“It’s true! What’s wrong in wanting to have my family reunited again?” You and Bill both laugh softly at Arthur’s words, and Bill rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, one might think you’re one of his kids with the way he speaks about you too.”
You smile widely, nudging Arthur softly and teasing “Oh Arthur you softie, do you really?”
Fully serious, Arthur straightens up and nods. “Yes, I worry about you sometimes. You never mention your family to me and I don’t want you to be lonely and sad all on your own.” Your expression softens at your coworker’s words and you tilt your head to the side, telling him “Hey, don’t you worry about me, I’ve got plenty of friends.”
“Friends that will bring you soup when you’re ill?” He questions, and you freeze, tilting your head even further as you think his question through. “Good question, I haven’t been ill recently enough to test that.”
“You have a healthy lifestyle, don’t you? Bill, she plays quidditch! A fan of the Chudley Canons too.” Bill smiles, placing his hands on his hips. “Ron would be thrilled to hear that. What position do you play?” He asks, and you shrug, “I’ve played as chaser and seeker for the team at hogwarts, but whenever I play now I just play chaser. What about you?”
“I’m a keeper. You played at hogwarts, you say? What house?” At his question, you turn to Arthur protection, but only find slight panic in his eyes. He instantly turns away from you, flipping to another page and quickly scribbling his signature, and you hear Bill’s teasing “Oh no.”
“Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it?” You joke, pulling your hair out of your face. Bill carefully takes in the newly exposed slivers of your face, eyeing the earrings that decorate your ears. “It’s been just about centuries since I’ve graduated, so I guess not.”
A flick of paper as Arthur shuts the file averts your attention from Bill, and you reach over to take the files from him. He shakes his head, saying “I’ll owl it back, don’t you worry.” You raise an eyebrow at the older man, clarifying “You’re going to owl classified documents?” Arthur nods — a response that tells you he’ll drop it off early in the morning tomorrow. “Come on, Weasley, give me the file or I’ll tell your wife.”
Bill cackles loudly at your friendly threat. Never in a million years would he have imagined a woman even younger than him to call his dad ‘Weasley’ in friendly banter. He finds it endearing that you’re both so comfortable with each other despite the obvious age gap between you. “But look at you, you’re all ready to go home.” Arthur complains, huffing as snatch the files from him again.
“It’s not like there’s anyone waiting for me other than a cat who’s probably already asleep. Enjoy your night with your family, Arthur.”
“That upsets me.” The man says as you begin walking away, and you look back to shoot him an amused smile as you leave. Bill follows you to the front door, and you both linger there, waiting for the other to say something. “What year did you graduate?” He asks, and you hug the file to your chest as you say “1990.”
“Oh, you probably shared classes with my brother.” His eyebrows furrow as he thinks deeply, adding “We probably played quidditch games against each other.”
“Did you play that game where that slytherin girl got hit with a bludger by someone from her own team and she fell out of the sky and people said that she did it purposefully to skip Snape’s classes?”
Bill laughs with a nod of his head, leaning against the doorway. “Yeah, yeah I remember that. Charlie was the one who told me about that rumour.” You open your arms to gesture to yourself, announcing “The one and only.” Bill’s eyes widen, his jaw going slack. “You’re fucking with me.”
“No, and I can also confirm that the rumours were true. I hadn’t done any of my potions essays and didn’t fancy a detention that week.”
You and Bill both go silent, and you keep your eyes on the tall man in front of you despite noticing the way his dad lingers in the living room behind him. “We should definitely have a drink and discuss all of these crossovers. I can’t believe my dad’s coworker went to school with me.”
You shrug your shoulders, arguing “Well technically we don’t even work in the same departments, so… Yeah, send me an owl and we’ll sort something. Bye Arthur!”
From the living room, Arthur makes a surprised noise, shy to have been caught spying on you. He wishes you farewell as you leave, keeping his eyes on Bill as his oldest son shuts the door. As Bill spins around slowly, he mumbles “I hate to say this, but you’re actually onto something.”
