#hogsmeade

[vanishonichka]

Sebastian Sallow

[chwlips]

Had a really funny idea and needed to draw it😼

[letraspal]

A study on the effects of muggle clothing.

[nov1ans-p4ws]

An experience that confirmed shifting was real to me

I always believed in shifting, obviously. But there were certain doubts in my head, which is normal. I was a bit scared that I couldn't do it, and maybe it wasn't real.

I thought this occasionally for a while until I used this subliminal to help me lucid dream because I wanted more vivid dreams and such. I used it for 2 nights, and then I had a lucid dream. It started off as a nightmare. Me and my friend got kidnapped by little kids (it's funny now that I look back at it), and we were running from them. We hid in a bathtub, and my friend was like, "What's wrong with your hands?"

Now, here's where I got confused. I said, "What are you talking about?" And she responded with "look down."

I had 6 fingers. And they kept increasing when I looked back down at them. That's when I realized I was in a dream.

I remembered that I could try shifting through the lucid dream method, so I tried going to hogwarts. I kid you tf not, my entire surroundings started changing. I got dizzy, and I was standing in the middle of hogsmeade at night. As my vision was starting to clear again, I thought, "No, I don't want to shift here anymore," and woke up. Now I fucked up there, I should've kept going. But that was a huge win for me! It felt like the realest thing ever. Realer than real.

At first, I thought maybe I was delusional, but then I came across a tiktok where people were in the town square of hogsmeade at Universal, and I saw the exact same shops when I attempted to shift.

That blew my mind because when I was shifting, I didn't remember what hogsmeade looked like. I just wanted to be somewhere in the hogwarts world.

I say that to say.. yes, I still doubt my ability to shift sometimes. But then I think back on that, and I feel better because I know I can do it. Having that mind-blowing experience is all I need to charge me back up.

Everyone has had their moments of doubt, but trust, it'll get better. We'll all make it home. Happy shifting!

[leiaweasly]

—⊹₊⟡⋆ LETS GET PHYSICAL :: george weasley

warning: baby harry-potter fan , might be some errors in the timeline / ooc charcaters

notes: this takes place in a wizarding world were the charcaters greatest threat is flunking out of school. no war. no voldemart shenanigans. everyone lives. + featuring gryffindor [Y/n] with a best friend in hufflepuff.

summary: george weasley looooooves physical touch.

George Weasley loves physical touch.

He loves it casually, instinctively—like it’s second nature.

He especially loves when you wear short shirts, baby-doll tees, anything that leaves your skin within easy reach. It gives him excuses to poke, pinch, or brush his fingers against your side as he passes. Always playful. Always teasing. Always pretending it’s accidental when it very clearly isn’t.

***

George Weasley loves physical touch.

The two of you hug all the time, but there’s one hug that stays with him more than the rest.

It happened during a Halloween party.

Someone had brought up Spin the Bottle—a Muggle game—and soon it escalated into Seven Minutes in Heaven. When your names were called, the room erupted into cheers.

Two people, one closet, seven minutes.

Nothing actually happened. At least, nothing you’d admit to. But the two of you decided to make it interesting. You both banged on the door, whispered loudly, and made exaggerated noises until everyone outside was convinced that the two of you were partaking in scandalous activities.

Seven minutes, however, was a long time.

Eventually, the performance dissolved into laughter. Quiet at first, then uncontrollable, until you were both pressed against the door, shoulders shaking, trying not to give yourselves away.

When it was finally time to come out, you rose onto your heels and swept your hands over George’s shoulders, fingers brushing his neck.

“Well?” you asked lightly. “Will you be my Prince Charming and carry me out?”

Your fingers grazed the nape of his neck, slipping into his hair.

George swore his brain stopped working.

He wrapped his arms around you without hesitation, hands settling at the small of your back. Your costume made it far too easy for his palms to rest against bare skin. He hugged like a bear—leaning his entire weight into you—and you shivered, stumbling back and knocking something over behind you.

He leaned into the crook of your neck and whispered, voice low and mischievous,

“Let’s give them a show, yeah?”

Your face burned, but the closet was dark enough that you hoped he couldn’t see it. If he did, he would never let you forget this. Never.

When the door finally opened, George swept you up in a dramatic princess carry. You clung to his neck, raising one arm triumphantly.

“I heard you all making bets that we wouldn’t last,” you called. “Pay up.”

“What’s to say you two actually did anything?” a Slytherin boy asked skeptically.

George smirked. “What’s to say we didn’t?”

***

Fred and George were always surprising you, so one day, you decided to return the favor.

You crossed the courtyard quietly, heart racing, and slipped up behind them, covering both their eyes with your hands.

Leaning in, you whispered, “Guess who.”

“Well, it’s obviously [Y/N],” Fred said easily. “You’re the only one who laughs before you even finish the sentence.”

He pulled your hand down to look at you.

George didn’t.

He stayed perfectly still, caught on the feeling of your hands over his eyes—the softness, the warmth against his lashes and cheeks. He lifted one hand and held yours there, not ready to let go.

“Yeah,” he agreed quietly. “I could tell by your voice.”

Then, softer, almost to himself: “And your hands are really soft.”

You sighed and dropped down to sit between them like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You would have to one up them another time.

***

You once managed to bring a Muggle handheld game to Hogwarts.

After that, George was always pressed against you.

Shoulder to shoulder. Thigh to thigh. Close enough that there was no space at all. He claimed it was so he could see the screen better, but you knew better as you tapped away at the buttons, determined to beat the level.

Whenever you messed up, he’d ask to switch—learning the controls frighteningly fast. Somehow, he figured out how to glitch the game entirely, giving you two hundred extra hearts instead of the usual three.

He grinned at you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

***

George Weasley loves physical touch.

And on cold days at Hogwarts, he’s especially attentive to you.

You forget your cloak more often than you’d like to admit, and George notices every time. Sometimes he wordlessly slips his own cloak around your shoulders, the fabric far too big for you and smelling faintly like smoke and peppermint. Other times, he presses something warm into your palm—a sneaky little heat charm that spreads through your fingers and seeps into your bones within seconds.

But his favorite move?

Coming up behind you and wrapping himself around you completely.

The day was bitterly cold. The kind that seeped through stone walls and settled deep in your chest. You’re standing in the courtyard, arms folded tight around yourself, standing with Leia as you waited for one of your friends. The three of you were going to go to Hogsmeade—after making a stop at gryffindor to collect the coat you forgot.

You shiver.

“[Y/n], just how forgetful are you? There’s literal snow on the ground and yet you still walked out here in just a cardigan?” Leia scolded you, putting on her yellow mittens.

Before you can complain, warmth surrounds you.

George steps in behind you, arms sliding around your shoulders as he pulled you flush against him. It’s immediate—the heat, the weight, and the way he fits around you like he was built for this. He’s solid and warm, all Quidditch-hardened muscle and comfort, and he easily dwarfs you, making you feel small (and warm) in the safest way.

“She’s right, you’re freezing,” he murmurs near your ear, more fond than scolding.

You relax without thinking, sinking back into his chest. His cloak falls around both of you, and his arms tighten just enough to keep the cold out.

“We were going to head back to my dorm to get my coat anyways.” You murmured, taking in his warmth and steady breaths.

He was like a bear. Warm and protective.

Your friend watched the two of you, raising an eyebrow at you. You already knew she was going to tease you for this later.

Your fingers curl into George’s sleeves as you tuck your face into his cloak, hiding away from the cold wind.

“Where are you guys off too?” George asks.

“Hogsmeade,” you say quietly. “A little girls trip.”

George rests his chin on the top of your head, swaying slightly. “Sounds like fun,” he said.

Leia grins. “It will be fun.”

Just then, the friend you were waiting for steps out, apologizing for being late. That’s when George’s presence leaves you, as he pats your head. “Well, Fred and I have detention—a failed experiment damaged school property. See you soon [Y/n].”

You waved goodbye to him as he trudged away in the snow.

“So, you want to tell me why the two of you were cuddling out in public?” Leia asked, you turn away from her.

“That wasn’t cuddling.” You mumble, your face heating up.

“Right… just like that isn’t snow on the ground.” She retorts.

What the two of you shared couldn’t be described as a normal friendship. Especially when it so casually floated across the line of boundaries most people had.

[dara-art]

[binchidavinci]

Hiyaa can I request a Fred/George/Oliver(wood) fic with promts 3,4,9? Any of them the three would be okay, thank you!

Muddy

(Oliver Wood x Gryffindor!Reader)

'When you fall off your broom into the lake, Quidditch Captain Oliver Wood lends you his jumper.'

The first thing you learn as a member of the Gryffindor Quidditch team — aside from the fact that Slytherins play dirty — is that Oliver Wood takes training very, very seriously. Lightning, gale, or pouring rain, it doesn’t matter; if you can fly, you will.

Today, unfortunately, it’s all three: a storm is brewing, according to Professor Trelawney (who conveniently made this 'prediction' just as the wind started rattling the windows of her classroom).

“Well done, everyone, keep moving!” Oliver shouts over the wind, hair plastered to his forehead as he squints through the wind with a hand shielding his eyes from any flying mud or debris, of which there is plenty. His eyes are bright despite their dark-brown colouring; even from across the pitch, you can tell that he's one-hundred percent determined to get a good session out of you all this afternoon.

“Again!” he commands, voice barely carrying on the wind.

You barely have time to roll your eyes before a gust encourages your broom upward, allowing you to kick off of the muddy ground and start to chase the Quaffle through the sheets of cold rain. Your fingers are numb and your robes cling to you. Worst of all, visibility is dreadful: you could fly into anyone at any minute.

As you reach a height of around fifty feet, a gust of wind slams into you sideways; your broom jerks, sending you spinning round and round until you lose your balance; you're no longer sure which way you're flying but, judging by your speed and lack of control, you guess it's straight down.

There’s a split second of weightlessness as you come off your broom, a flash of realisation that you’re free-falling, and then an all-consuming cold as you're submerged in the Black Lake.

When you finally break the surface, what feels like minutes later, spluttering and gasping for breath, you're grateful to find that you landed somewhere other than bone-breakingly solid ground: nobody wants their bones regrown by Madam Pomfrey.

As you try to catch a breath through the paralysing cold, you hear a voice cry out from the bank of the Lake.

“Y/N!”

Oliver’s unmistakeable Scottish accent carries across the pitch, but is dampened by the thundering of rain against the Lake’s surface. When you've blinked enough water out of your eyes, you see him come into view: from the shore, Oliver is half-running, half-yanking off his robes, diving in (still mostly clothed) and swimming toward you — with haste.

As he closes the distance to where you're treading water a few metres from the bank, you realise that he looks uncharacteristically panicked.

“Are you alright? Merlin, that was quite the fall. Hold on—” He doesn’t wait for you to reply before wrapping an arm around your waist and hauling you — rather impressively — back toward land.

Swimming with one arm and holding you with the other, he continues, “are you ok? Did you hit anything?”

“I’m f-f-fine,” you manage, teeth chattering. “Just bloody c-c-cold”.

“No surprise,” he huffs with effort and relief. "Don’t worry, we'll be dry in a minute."

He briefly releases his grip from around your waist as he pulls himself over the Lake’s bank before kneeling down and effortlessly pulling you up, too. As you stand, gripping has forearm so as not to slip back in, Oliver gives you a precursory pat-down, as if to check you're not missing any limbs. Satisfied, he scoops up his dry clothes and hands you his knit jumper.

“You’ll f-f-freeze!” You begin to protest.

“I’ll be fine; you, however, could go into shock, and I can't have you dying before this weekend's match. Put it on, Y/N.” He uses the same voice that he reserves for the pitch.

You don't have any fight left in you, so you purse your lips regretfully as you pull your sopping robes off, and replace them with the enormous jumper. It’s far too big: the sleeves swallow your hands, the hem nearly reaches your thighs, and across the back, bold and unmistakable, is:

1 WOOD

As you raise your eyes to Oliver's, you catch a glimpse of his pleased expression as he stares down at you: quickly, he brings his eyes up to yours and, with a reassuring smile, puts his arm back around your waist to steer you toward the school grounds. His grip is steady, bordering on protective: you find yourself grateful for the warmth and security of his side.

“I should’ve called it— we couldn’t see properly. I’m sorry, you know how I get when there's a match coming up..."

“‘S-s ok—” your teeth were chattering too much to finish the sentence, but you gave his arm a reassuring squeeze and a nod as you traversed the muddy pitch.

By the time you arrived to your team, your shivering had lessened to a light tremble. The rest of the team hovered awkwardly nearby, unsure whether to comment on your fall.

"Are you ok, Y/N?" Katie Bell breaks the silence, glancing you up and down. “That was some stunt," she laughs.

You meekly laugh back and give her a thumbs-up to avoid having to chatter through another sentence — you've done enough to embarrass yourself for one session, you think.

“Training’s over, team. We'll be late for dinner,” Oliver announces. “Well done, everyone. See you tomorrow”.

No one — even the twins, who are usually rife with quips — comments on the abrupt end to training, worried that Oliver will change his mind and get them back on the sodden pitch. The team huff out a collective “thanks”, and “bye”, before retreating to the castle's main entrance. Oliver stays behind to collect up the equipment, leaving you to re-join the team with a quick glance over your shoulder.

You trudge into the castle, saying goodbye to your teammates as you head to the girls' showers, painfully aware of your dripping lake water across the floors: Filch is not going to be pleased. You close your eyes briefly, embarrassed to have made such a scene in front of your teammates and — worst of all — Oliver Wood, the best Keeper Hogwarts has seen in years, and your regretful crush for years, now. You tried to keep it under wraps, convinced it was a Stockholm Syndrome situation because of the sheer amount of time you spent with him, but the crush had grown into something more than adoration and respect, recently.

You sigh, but your shame-spiral is interrupted by a sudden shout.

“Hey — Y/N, hang on!”

You turn to see Oliver jogging up behind you, pushing the chestnut hair that's plastered to his forehead out of his almond eyes. He gives you a boyish grin that send your stomach flipping. You brace yourself for him to demand his jumper back.

"Hey, Oliver," you smile and feign surprise, "oh— sorry, I totally forgot!" You start to pull the jumper back over your head before he stops you.

"No!" he shouts abruptly, a look of worry and disappointment etched onto his face. He pauses, catches himself, and adjusts his position to feign coolness. "I mean, don't take it off yet— you'll catch a cold. Just, give it back to me whenever."

"Oh?" you freeze, letting the hem of the jumper fall from your hands, back down to your thighs. A moment passes as he chews on his bottom lip, bright red with the cold.

“Yeah...besides, it—uh— it suits you.” He plays with the handle of the Quidditch bag tucked under his left arm, the other propped up on his vertical broom.

You stare at him, momentarily thrown-off. You try to stutter something out ("I— uh, should I—?") as you become aware of the deepening blush spreading across your face.

He interrupts you before you can make a fool of yourself, a hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth: “plus, it’s good for team morale. If everyone thinks I inspire that level of loyalty...” his eyes finally meet yours, a lop-sided grin spreading across his face.

You scoff out a laugh despite yourself. “Wearing your jumper after falling into a lake is not loyalty, it's trying not to freeze to death.”

“Debatable,” he shrugs, cockily. “You did say my training plan was— oh, what was it— 'genius'...?” he quotes you, raising his eyebrow playfully.

You shake your head, smiling now, a twarmth creeping back into you that has less to do with the jumper and more to do with its owner.

"I'll keep it for now, if you're so certain it'll help the cause," you smile sheepishly.

As you turn to head off, he calls after you. “Keep it till you’re warm, aye?”

You glance back. "Yes, Captain."

He watches you ascend the staircase with the same steady focus that he reserves for the pitch, but with a softness in his brown eyes that you've not seen before— even when Gryffindor win.

Finally, he turns around and walks away, smiling to the ground.

Maybe training come rain or shine does have its benefits.

[ashdashcrash]

winter at hogsmeade ☃️✨