#hp fanfic

[mromitosen]

I am a PASSIONATE commenter on fanfiction, but sometimes it slows down my reading because I don't want to read if I don't have the mental energy to leave the long comments I want to

Still, as an author, I know even a short note can mean the world.

So, I put together a little guide with different “levels” of comments, so it’s easier to leave something without overthinking!

Hopefully this helps someone else too!

[edilzzi]

𝑊𝐻𝑂 𝐼𝑆 𝑊𝐻𝑂?

(ft. Mattheo Riddle) 18+

✧[Summary]✧ You have an enormous crush on Mattheo Riddle. Although, you're way too busy pushing your nose into books and being an angel for such a popular guy to look your way. That never stopped you though, your little 'harmless' ways to stalk him around hogwarts has gotten way more ridiculous than ever, as if your eyes lingering on him for way too long wasn't enough. But as time passes by, you slowly notice his figure disappearing within your sight. That's when you realize.. With how frequent you observe his presence in front of you, you never acknowledged watching behind you.

✧[Content]✧ Mature Content, nerd!reader, stalker!reader, fem!reader, stalker!mattheo, obsessive!mattheo, jealous!mattheo, pervert!mattheo, size difference, masturbation, oral sex, unprotected p in v, overstimulation, praising, swearing, teasing, smut with plot, no use of y/n, mattheo loves to tease you because you're always such a goody two shoes, but little does he know what he's about to find out..

✧[A/N]✧ Y'all need to speak up my inbox feeling real lonely 😔 Anyways, my second fic with a different guest, I hope it hits all the right buttons in your complicated brains. Luvlubs, cherubs!

✧[WC]✧ 4.4k

"He looks so ethereal." A random girl practically moaned out 'whispering' to her friends in the quiet library while pointing a long manicured nail at Mattheo Riddle leaning at a bookshelf laughing with his friends. Fuck these girls, why is he so damn popular?

Not that you don't agree with them. Ethereal? Hell yeah he is. He was carved by the finest sculptor of all time, it seems. His effect being on level with the past, present, and future. The image of him lingering with failed restraint and the presence of his name fluttering your heart, but the thoughts of Riddle scattering the inner walls of your brain was expertly masked by a sharp minded perfectionist every academic achiever fears.

Ironed uniform, ends of the white button up neatly tucked underneath your dark pleated skirt, tie securely wrapped below the collar, black robes folded somewhere in your dorm—the summer heat really got to every student, including him, seeing as you weren't the only one without it. Riddle had his black robes off long before he strode in the library—the fabric hanging on his shoulder. His tie loose, top few buttons were undone, shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up, both hands in his pockets, looking fine as ever.

You didn't bother to lower your shameless stare as you sat a few tables before him, books stacked left and right, a couple laid opened in front. To be fair, you were actually studying, but that was until he had to disturb your peaceful study session and decided to walk in. Why is he here anyway? Especially around this hour when he just chatters and jokes around with his group of friends. The hallways are dead silent, why not be there like he always does?

Whatever—you study at this specific table daily right after classes, surely it's fine if you finish a little early and take a break. And when you mean break, you mean staring a little more. You know his whole week schedule like the back of your hand, as if it was yours, but lately he's been missing a few classes, rarely shows up at the great hall to eat, and doesn't go on little smoking trips at night that much anymore. You hate how you notice—it's ridiculous. Your eyes trail as he takes a look at the expensive watch wrapped around his wrist and exits the room—perfect. The clock near the doorway signals that it was time for his quidditch practice (and when your study session ends).

When you arrive at the quidditch stands, there's no greater thing to have than a good guy friend that plays quidditch in the same team as Riddle—Graham Montague, whom you were partnered with once in class. Which also meant you get to watch them especially Riddle every single practice at fridays. It was known by everyone that Graham obviously had interest in you, but being too much of a 'goody two shoes', you were too oblivious to see and ended up pushing him into friend zone more than a couple of times. He was a known heart breaker anyways, he doesn't have any right to deserve you in any way, but you were always too nice to everybody, unknowingly spiked his hopes up with your kindness.

You sat with a book and two water bottles beside you—one for you and one for Graham. He always insists you bring it to him after the practice, but you bring it during just in case anyway. Being the good friend that you are, you occasionally give the sweetest smile man has seen and wave your hands at Graham every time you make eye contact—missing the way Riddle's stare flickering between you and your little friend who is smiling back a little too happily for his liking. His glare was firm, yet behind it, he couldn't hide the jealous storm rumbling within.

"Montague!" He yelled out from a distance, broom flying closer—your eyes switch from Graham's to his. "I chose you to be on this team to play, not to magnet attention. Back on track, c'mon." He patted Graham's back, leaving behind slightly before flashing you a grin with teeth before trailing back to the team. Your heart stuttered violently, thankfully you were sitting down because your knees weakened, as if coordination itself abandoned you.

It went on for couple minutes, and while sipping on your water, you couldn't help but glance more than just a few times at Riddle's focused face as they practice. His brows slightly furrowed, sweat slicked skin, and messy hair. You also noticed him being a little rougher when it comes to giving Montague directions.

Right after the last whistle at sunset—which indicates that their time on the pitch was done, you stood up and rushed down the creaky stairs to give Graham his water that was still ice cold (thanks to magic).

"Thanks, I really owe you one." Graham smiles while panting before he chugs his water down in seconds, some dripping on the sides of his mouth to his neck. You respond with a small smile back, "It's no problem really—"

"May I?" Riddle signals to your bottle that's half full, breathing heavily. Your eyes widened slightly, eyebrows lifting. "Uh—sure!" You squeeked out, blood rushing to your face—he thinks it's absolutely adorable.

"Thank you, sweetheart." He grins at your reaction at the nickname—thighs visibly clenched together. He takes it and twists off the bottle cap, the veins in his hands slightly flexing. You gulp as you quietly observe him tilting his head back, adam's apple bobbing as he drinks the given water, your bottle seeming a lot smaller squeezed in his large hand. After he was done, he licked his lips and wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand, handing you back the empty bottle—fingers brushing a little longer than intended.

To be honest, your neck ached a little looking up at him, but anything for that eye contact. His gaze moving up and down to your small frame. "Hey beautiful," Graham jumped in, causing you to take one tiny step backwards. You hummed in response, completely different to how Riddle reacted—his demeanor seemed like he wanted to rip the guy in half—kind of scary, oh well. "Come with me." Graham continued before capturing your wrist and dragging you with him to the changing rooms.

You struggled to keep up with his long strides and was in the process of protesting before you two came to a sudden stop. "Wait for me, okay?" He pants, sitting you down on one of the benches right outside the showers before entering in one of the shower stalls. Oh. It's this again. Dragging you all the way here just to make you wait for him to shower. He only did this once before when Riddle was in detention and couldn't monitor, now twice. You had no clue why, but considering you weren't familiar with his infatuation with you, it was no wonder you keep up with this shit.

He does it so you can see his bare torso, with just a towel wrapped around his waist. It honestly isn't even worth it. It takes him about an hour to shower, probably doing everything but taking a proper shower. Fidgeting with the hem of your skirt and ignoring a few other teammates other than Riddle roaming around, half an hour passed—only Graham's shower stall still running water. You hear a snicker and looked up, seeing Riddle leaning against the doorway. Shirtless. He only had a pair of grey sweatpants on, hanging low right where his v line ends, hair still damp from showering. Muscles flexed as his arms were crossed. Your cheeks burned at the way his eyes playfully narrowed at you as he caught your eyes wandering a little too low—he didn't mind at all.

He stepped closer, leaning down until you could feel his minty breath on your face. You tried to scoot backwards in your seat—heart beating faster when your back meets the wall and his face gets even more closer. Just when he's only centimeters away is when he stays still—eyes forcefully burning into yours, down all the way to your thighs that are clenched shut, then back to your flushed face, to which you can see that his pupils had dilated.

"What's a such good girl like you doing in the men's changing rooms, hm?" He spoke lowly, but clear enough so you could hear. You parted your lips to respond, but he cut you off, "Or maybe you're troublesome unlike what everyone portrays you to be." He teases, smirking.

"I'm just waiting for Graham." You huff, voice betraying strength. "Well, Graham can wait for himself." He knew Montague's tricks all too well—it wasn't the first time he's used it on someone. He softly grabbed your wrist, bringing you outside.

As soon as your face hit fresh night air, you sighed, relieved. "See what I mean?" He chuckles softly, "Montague isn't worth your time."

You give him a cheeky smile—cute. Moments of comfortable silence and occasional jokes and giggles passed before you both hear Montague's distant voice.

"Guys?"

⏤͟͟͞͞☆

After you both separated at the dorms, offering each other goodnights and doing your before sleep routine, your mind went crazy and your heart threatened to jump out of your chest as soon as your back hit the bed. Although your brain is absolutely about to burst out of excitement, your body can't help but slump against the bed as it's exhausted. It's Friday, understandable. You flutter your eyes closed, sending you to dream world where all dreams happen.

Next thing you know it's morning. Despite it being summer, you've been met with the very cold morning breeze. Rubbing your eyes, it regains focus specifically on a window that's ajar. So that's where the cold wind came from. You stretch for a good second before standing up to shut the window properly—your owl out of sight, it probably escaped, wasn't the first time that happened. Checking the small clock on your nightstand, you should probably dress for—

Oh.

It's Saturday. Damn it. Whatever, you always go to hogsmeade on Saturdays anyway. Whether its to buy clothes, food, read books on a really cold or really hot metal bench, or just walk around, it's basically a part of your weekly shit.

Rummaging through your clothes, you couldn't find single pair of one of your favorite underwear. You swear the number of it is decreasing by day. Finally deciding on a good pair with decent clothes, you took a quick shower, brushed your teeth, changed, and went out for breakfast.

As you passed by the great hall doors, you took some steps back for a sneak peek to check if Riddle was at breakfast.

Dang it—he's not there.

You wonder where he might be during his times of disappearing. Actually, you didn't have to as you walk in a straight line to smash your face right against his chest—thump!

You almost fell, but the image of embarrassing yourself this early in the morning makes you mentally retort and immediately take small steps backwards to balance.

"Looking for someone?" Riddle smirks down at you, "You should at least know by now that Montague sleeps in at Saturday breakfast, no?" His smirk fades away, blinking when he realized that you were probably checking up on your friend after leaving him unresponded yesterday.

"I wasn't—" You closed your lips shut, if you had said that you were totally not peeking through to check up on Graham, all your efforts of being 'sneaky' down the drain. "Mhm, yeah right." Riddle mutters and walks right past you like he never said a word.

What's his problem?

One minute he's taking long heavy strides down the halls, then leaning against a wall smoking a cigarette. He stills for a bit, thinking, you were on your way to hogsmeade by now. Maybe if he runs fast enough he could catch up like he always failed to do.

He shakes his head as if saying no to the voices in his mind. He thinks it's ridiculous, but really he shouldn't be saying anything when he stole a handful of underwear right next to your sleeping self and shoved it down his pockets last night. He shuts his eyes at the thought. He should really give those back, but he didn't—actually he found doing that pathetic, you're not getting those back.

He couldn't care less as he jerked himself off with it. He was absolutely fond of the idea of your underwear covering your cunt all day, the way the fabric fits in all the right places. His dirty fantasies doesn't stop there. Just a glimpse of your big curious eyes looking up at him has him crazily aroused. Oh and that smart mouth of yours has him wondering what other stuff it can do other than speak about complicated potion recipes, how warm your soft lips probably feels when it wraps around his—okay maybe he should stop there. He snaps himself awake from his little imaginations and walks straight to his dorm before he gets caught red handed with a boner.

Later that evening you had a hard time sleeping than usual. Just flipping and tossing around in your bed, eventually giving up and laying limp with your eyes focused on the ceiling. Tomorrow's Sunday, then after that it's Monday, then Tues—ugh—time flies fast. Since sleep neglected you now, you reach out deep into your thoughts looking for something that might help the boredom.

Ah, perfect—Mattheo Riddle.

You remember the way he stared in a specific way at you in potions, the way you made eye contact with him during his practices, the way his veiny hands were buckling his belt when you were peeking in his window while he was getting ready for school, the way his face was so close to yours yesterday at the shower rooms—what if you just leaned in?

His soft lips against yours, that would've felt heavenly. You sigh, this wasn't really the worst thing you've done, so why not? You decide as your hand reaches down to your clothed heat and pressing down on the sensitive area.

You push off your shorts and panties in one go, fingers dragging the dripping arousal right on your little bundle of nerves. Hair disheveled, eyes closed, lips parted as soft moans and whimpers escape, your fingers deliberately circling on your clit. Despite your perverse doings, you looked like a fucking angel.

That's exactly what Riddle thinks—as he shamelessly watches you masturbate and occasionally whisper moan his name through that same window he came in and out of last night.

Fucking hell—his mouth literally waters at the sight. He never knew such a sweetheart like you could ever be touching herself to someone that he thought you had no interest in.

Such a naughty girl, fuck—the way you squirm under your own touch. Such a cute little pussy too, just like how he imagined. Who knew his night could turn around like this just because he wanted to return your stolen underwear while you were—what he thought was sleeping.

As much as how badly he wanted to climb in and help, knowing he's exactly your target, it was wrong of him to do so. That doesn't mean it won't happen, now that he found this little secret of yours, it won't be the last time he gets to see you like this.

While your eyes were shut, desperate to chase that coiling feeling at the pit of your core, Riddle took a ripped piece of paper from your desk with the use of magic and burnt it with the tip of his wand to write on it. With a precise flick of his wand, the stolen relic was returned, neatly placed on your bedside drawer along with the paper.

Although his initial task was done, he didn't leave. From all the way over here, he could tell you were close. He also wishes you would call him Mattheo more often. Maybe then he'll remember this valuable piece of memory as if he would ever forget about it.

Staring intently into your fingers that had graduately sped up, he keeps on watching until at you reach your high and at the brink of gaining consciousness, he's already walking outside like he never passed by.

Fluttering your eyes open and breathing heavily, you cleaned yourself up in the bathroom and came back with a lingering sense that something changed.

Gaze darting across the room until it lands sharply on the bedside drawer. Isn't that your underwear?

How considerate—Riddle had the courage to give you one of the four panties that he stole.

"Where have you been hiding, hm?" You inspect the garment, it seems clean. As you picked it up, something slipped from the drawer and onto the floor. A paper. You picked it up.

Troublesome and naughty too? Who would've thought..? Other than me ;)

Oh fuck.

You read it for about a hundred times before throwing it across the room. You lay slump on your bed, palms covering your eyes. You just wanna fucking sleep, but how can you do that when you know there was definitely someone that saw you masturbating to someone you definitely shouldn't have been masturbating to?

Whatever this shit was, it was a dream. Yeah, a dream.

...

Please fucking wake up right now.

You didn't wake up.

Fuck fuckity fuck.

You curled up in a ball and hid under the covers. Eventually you did fell asleep, but not without having to stress yourself to death. Whoever saw you did what you did, you'll deal with it tomorrow.

Minutes later.. You found yourself wide awake under the moon. Staring at the ceiling. Troublesome? Sounds quite familiar, no? There was only one person who could've gave you that paper—and the missing underwear.

Mattheo fuckass Riddle.

What in the actual fuck was he doing in your room? And more importantly, why the fuck did he steal your stuff? Your heart thumping, you soon realized that you eventually have to confront him, now that he knows it's his name you're moaning when you touch yourself.

But at the same time, it kind of excites you. He literally stole your undergarment(s). What else did he do with them?

Only one way to find out.

After getting ready and changing into appropriate (or not) clothes, you hesitantly went down to the corridor leading straight into an ongoing party, if there was one thing to know about Riddle, it's that he never misses one.

Music blaring in your ears as you enter, glancing from person to person right until one of those eyes were staring right back at you. He gets closer till he was standing in front of you, ears blurred out the music, filling it with the quickening beat of your heart.

"That was you?" Your voice confronting, yet weak as he stepped even closer. He narrows at you, "Knew you're a smart girl, wasn't expecting you to figure it out so easily, huh?" He thinks for a bit, "Don't you think you shouldn't be the only one doing the confronting?" He smirks.

"Riddle." You gulp while looking up at him.

"It's Mattheo." He counters.

"Mattheo." You respond, the name tastes familiar on your tongue, but you never used it to actually address him.

His vision lowered down to your attire. You didn't think much of it as it was rushed, but clearly it made him think a lot more than just a short dress that barely covers anything. You never wore it out before, oh but it hugged your figure perfectly, showing the flesh of your thighs and cleavage that you swore to cover. He audibly groaned at the sight, hands finding the curve of your waist.

Even with all the bright party lights in his eyes, you knew in that moment, whatever he wanted, his eyes told you it was real.

And then it happened. Before any thought could resurface, before restrained unleashed, his lips found yours.

Raw, aching, and claiming. Both hearts thundered, a kiss that burned and drowned in chaos. It took strength to pull away, even to breathe. And once you did, it left you gasping.

His glare was harmless, but it meant something—desperate. His heavy grip, unfaltering, not ready to let go just yet. But then, he loosened his hold.

Instead, his fingers wrapped around your wrist in one swift move and leads you straight to his dorm. Except, he halted right at the door.

"I want you to tell me you need this as much as I do." He breathes, gaze softening.

"I want you." You didn't hesitate one bit.

His palms slide under your thighs and carries you into his dorm as his lips captures yours once more. You gasp into his mouth in surprise when he closes his door by pinning your back onto it.

Fingers grasping and curling against his scalp earns you a groan into your mouth that sends jolts to your core. His lips fierce, but his fingers were gently as it's securely under your thighs supporting your whole weight. He can feel warmth radiating from your body.

Still deep into the kiss, he walks you over to the bed and sits you on his lap. Removing his shirt, it cuts off the kiss. While your at it, you kneeled down on the ground in level to the unmistakable tent in his pants.

His eyes widened, "Darling, you don't have to—" You cut him off with a peck.

"I want to taste you, please..?" You beg and give your best puppy eyes, though you didn't have to, you on your knees for him was already more enough.

"Fuck, baby.." How could he ever resist you?

You watch him unbuckle his belt in full view, in all honesty, it just makes you pool even more. You impatiently pull down his pants and boxers at the same time.

He chuckles while you gawk at his size before reaching down to the ends of your dress and pulls it off as well, leaving you bare with just in a bra and panties. Slowly, your hand reaches to wrap around his length.

My goodness.

Your thumb does not reach the rest of your fingers around him. You mentally prepare your jaw before spitting to lubricate, then wrapping your warm soft lips around it. He groans, perfect.

You lower at least halfway in and do the rest of the job with your both of your hands.

"So good f'me." He rasps.

He slightly jolts in pleasure and whimpers as you swirl your tongue around his tip before bobbing your head up and down again.

You look up at him while he tilts his head back, eyes shut. He's undeniably close, but he hasn't even fucked you yet. Once you pull away to breathe, he takes his chance and throws you onto the bed.

While kissing and trailing hickeys on your neck, he slides a hand under and unclips your bra. A whine escapes past your lips as he latches a nipple into his mouth, sucking and licking and doing the same to the other.

He gradually moves down while the tip of his nose is firmly dragging tingling sensations all over your lower half. He halts right above your pulsating cunt and takes off the final piece of undergarment.

Your breath hitches as his tongue goes contact to your entrance and drags up to your clit, wasting no time. It was his dirtiest fantasy coming to life. His cock throbbing to replace his tongue, a competition, a test to Mattheo's resistance. Although his greediness won over in an instant, as he already planned out to do both.

The pulsating bud begging for air under his tongue makes him no less hungry. "Mmgh—Mattheo!" Your voice struggling to keep up with how much he's lapping you up.

One last lick before his warm lips suck on your clit. "Oh—shit..!!" You tremble as a tight rope inside you just snapped. Warmth gushing your lower half, Mattheo never stopped.

Your mind burns into flames as your eyes roll to the back of your skull. Hands gripped onto his hair, not knowing whether to pull him closer or push him away. Vision blurring, he eventually stops.

He claims your lips in a kiss and positions his tip right to your soaked entrance, collecting arousal. His head drops to your shoulder, placing light kisses as he sinks in. The stretch burning so satisfyingly.

"So perfect 'round me.." He holds your head to his chest when he bottoms out, groaning.

"Yeah—please, mhhm." You choke out eagerly, your pussy swallowing him whole.

"I know, baby.." He groans, holding his high so he can make you feel good first. The first few thrusts had you moaning so heavenly for him. He wasn't quiet either—moans so pornographic it should be illegal.

Speeding up, his cock flush deep inside, skin slapping. He supports his weight on one arm above your head, the other had a soothing thumb grinding deliciously right on your sensitive clit.

Tears brimmed, you looked at him with all your might. His eyes glued at the way his dick slides in and out of your greedy pussy that's securely around him, then up to your teary eyes.

"Yeah that's it, baby. You're doing so good." He forces his words out of his throat. You cry out his name, his steady pace getting harder each thrust.

The tight rope that broke earlier had tied itself, tighter and tighter, until it snapped, hard. Your walls rippled around him, clenching while your legs quivered.

His thrusts finally had it's moment and stutters. He groans and splutters his warm cum inside you, filling you up to the brim. Panting, he pulls out. In awe of his cum dripping out of your pussy.

"No one else ever gets to see you like this ever again." He was tired, but his words were sharp and sure.

"What does that even mean?" You pout, unsure if he's gonna keep you in the dark to have you to himself or well, nothing else.

"You'll find out."

What have you put yourself into?

Although you can't really hide that a part of you doesn't give a flying shit as long as you're in his hands.

I wonder how Graham would feel after finding out his captain fucked his girl(in reservation) 😛

Work written by me. Some dividers aren't mine and credits go to those who owns them. Please do not copy, translate, or feed my work to AI.

Respectfully yours, Edilzzi.

[thebatwitch-yaps]

Mattheo Riddle x Fem! Reader

"Riddle, get your girl."

Mattheo stared at his girlfriend who was currently screaming at some random man who happened to get on your nerves; a smile spread across his face at the sight. "She's having fun, I think I'll leave her be."

"The poor bloke isn't havin any fun." Blaise commented with a small smile of his own before looking back at mattheo.

"She's quite beautiful when she's mad, no?" Theodore asked with a side smile.

"Believe me, nobody loves my vindictive bitch more than I do." Mattheo grinned ear to ear as you tormented the poor man.

His hot headed girlfriend.

Once you had finally returned to him, he placed a kiss on your cheek before moving it to your lips. "What happened?"

"What happened? I'll tell you what happened!" As you had begun to tell your story, Mattheos friend swore he had hearts for eyes.

His hand was caressing your own, staring deeply at your face with a small - subconscious smile on his own. "I love you." He blurted out whilst you were mid-rant making you falter almost instantly.

You smiled softly. "I love you too, but don't ever interrupt me again."

"Of course, my apologies baby." He placed a kiss on your forehead, his arm now wrapped around your shoulder possessively.

You had started once again complaining about whatever the man had done earlier causing Mattheos lovestruck look to return once more - not that it ever really wore off.

He was simply too in love to have any self respect when it came to you.

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

friendzoned (h.p.)

Pairing: Harry Potter x Reader

Word Count: 9.5k

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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[ladyhelona]

hi heuehuwheuehwu hear me out: Fred Weasley x Studious!F!Reader cock warming at the library. Reader is trying to study but Fred really needs to be inside her right now, so why not accomplish both? heueheueheuw

Study Break

💌 Fred Weasley x Reader

💭MDNI: Smut, cock warming turns to riding, semi public sex (no one catches them), Fred’s a snug little shit

A/N: The Weasley twins def deserve more content, I have another Fred fic I’ll be working on later, I LOVE writing for him

—

It starts, as these things usually do, with the soft scratch of your quill and the faint rustle of parchment—textbooks stacked like fragile towers around you, each one opened to a different chapter you’re convinced will be on the exam.

You’ve claimed the farthest corner of the library. Not because it’s the quietest, though it is. But because he always finds you here.

And sure enough, you feel him before you see him—warm breath at your neck, the barely-there graze of knuckles dragging down your spine as he leans over you like he belongs there. Like he owns the air around you.

“Studying again?” Fred purrs, voice low and full of something that makes your stomach flutter. “Shame. I was hoping you’d be doing something fun.”

You don’t look up. You don’t have to. He’s grinning. You can hear it. That insufferable little smile that always comes before trouble.

“You’re distracting me,” you murmur, eyes locked on the same sentence you’ve read four times.

“That’s funny,” he says, slipping into the seat beside you. His thigh presses against yours, firm and deliberate. “I was about to say the same thing.”

You don’t grace him with a reply. You just dip the quill back into your inkwell and resume writing—your script a little messier than before, your pulse a little louder.

Fred doesn’t move away.

If anything, he settles in, arm slung behind your chair like he’s lounging on a sofa in the Gryffindor common room and not wedged into a desk barely meant for one. His fingers toy with the end of your braid, slow and lazy, twirling it like he has all the time in the world.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice low and honey-slick, “I read somewhere that physical closeness actually helps with concentration.”

You scoff under your breath, flipping a page with more force than necessary.

“Really?” you say flatly. “Is that why you’re pressed against me like a clingy kneazle?”

“Exactly,” he says, completely unbothered. “I’m only trying to help. Besides…”

His hand drifts. Not far. Just a touch lower—his knuckles grazing your waist, thumb resting just under the curve of your ribs.

“Thought it might be nice,” he continues, a smirk curling in his voice, “if we found a way to meet each other halfway. You get to study. I get to be inside you.”

Your quill halts mid-stroke. Ink pools into the corner of the parchment like blood.

You stare down at the words that no longer make sense. And then, slowly, you lift your head to look at him.

Fred Weasley looks entirely too pleased with himself.

You exhale through your nose, steadying yourself like you’ve just been hit with a gust of cold air and not an indecent proposal in the middle of the library.

Fred watches you, waiting. Not pushing, not quite. Just lingering—close enough that you can smell the faint trace of peppermint on his breath, feel the heat radiating off his body like a second skin.

You set your quill down with quiet precision. Fold your hands atop your notes. And turn your head just enough to meet his eyes.

“I’m not going to let you fuck me in the library,” you say, evenly. “That’s absolutely insane.”

His smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens, like he was counting on that exact answer.

“Didn’t say anything about fucking,” he replies, all innocent mischief. “I just want to sit.”

You arch a brow. “Sit.”

“In you.”

You blink at him. Once.

He leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “I won’t move. Promise.”

It’s the way he says it—soft, breathy, conspiratorial. Like a dare disguised as a favor. You hate how your thighs clench at the idea. Hate even more how easily he picks up on it.

“I’ll be quiet,” he whispers. “You won’t even notice me.”

That’s a lie, and you both know it.

But your body is already betraying you—heat curling low in your belly, your skin prickling where he touches you, your resolve bending in the weight of his attention like wet ink on a fragile page.

You glance down at your notes. Then at the empty aisle between the stacks. Then back to him.

“Five minutes,” you mutter.

Fred grins like you’ve just handed him the bloody crown jewels.

He doesn’t say a word.

Just shifts in his seat.

His hand slides lower, resting at the curve of your hip, fingers splayed wide. Possessive. Warm. He watches your face like he’s testing for hesitation—and finds none. Not anymore.

You pretend to keep your eyes on your notes. Pretend to stay still. But you don’t stop him.

He tugs, gently.

Not hard, not urgent—just a subtle pull, guiding you from your chair onto his lap like it’s nothing. Like you belong there.

Your skirt rides up immediately. Of course it does. The way you’re straddling him now—knees pressed to either side of his thighs, spine perfectly arched to keep your balance—it leaves you scandalously bare beneath the table. No barrier but him.

And he’s already hard.

You feel it—thick and heavy beneath you, his breath catching the moment you settle your weight into his lap. It makes your cheeks flush, even though you knew exactly what you were agreeing to. He keeps one hand on your waist, steadying you, and the other drifts—lower, bolder.

“Still want to study?” he asks, voice like velvet dragged over skin.

You swallow. Nod once.

Fred hums. You feel him shift again, hips tilting just slightly as he reaches down, the motion masked by the way you press in close, like lovers sharing a secret. Or a sin.

A moment later and some clothes shuffling, he’s inside you.

Thick and slow, inch by inch, and the stretch makes your mouth fall open in a silent gasp you don’t let out. Your hands grip the edge of the table like it’ll save you.

Fred groans softly against your shoulder, voice barely a whisper.

“Fuck, love. You’re always so warm for me.”

He bottoms out, then stills. Just like he promised.

And you—gods help you—you try to breathe.

You pick up the quill with shaking fingers.

Ink drips like sweat down the stem as you try to find where you left off—something about defensive charm layering, maybe. You’re staring at your notes, reading the same line again and again, and it still refuses to stick.

Fred hasn’t moved.

Not really.

But he shifts, ever so slightly—adjusting his grip on your waist, fingers spreading wider, anchoring you down. And then—

He flexes his hips.

Just once.

A deep, slow roll, barely an inch of motion—and it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. Your entire body goes taut, the quill scratching a long, jagged line across the page as your mouth parts in a sharp, involuntary gasp.

You bite it back immediately. Clamp your teeth down on your lip and squeeze your thighs around him like that’ll stop the trembling.

Fred hums, the sound reverberating low in his chest.

“That wasn’t a sound, was it?” he murmurs, lips grazing your neck like a ghost. “Because you said you could handle it.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He’s pulsing inside you, hard and hot and perfectly still again, but your body is aching—clenching around him like it wants more. Like it’s begging.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Open them. Force yourself to focus on the textbook, the words swimming like murky water. You pick up your quill again, start writing:

“Counter-spell applications rely on—”

Another roll of his hips.

Deeper this time. Slower.

Your pen jerks mid-stroke. The line splinters. Your breath stutters.

Fred chuckles, soft and sinful.

“You’re shaking, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Need me to stop?”

You can feel the smirk without looking. You know damn well he’ll keep doing it until you crack. And the worst part is—you’re not sure you want him to stop.

Your fingers tighten around the quill like it’s the only thing anchoring you to this plane of existence. You scribble out the half-sentence you just butchered and try again, jaw clenched, back stiff.

“Do that again,” you hiss under your breath, “and I will hex you.”

Fred’s lips brush the curve of your ear, lazy and amused.

“You’d have to say the incantation out loud, darling.”

You freeze.

The bastard is right.

You whip your head toward him, eyes narrowed, face flushed. “I swear to Merlin, Fred—”

But the rest of the threat chokes off when he flexes his hips again—another slow, deliberate push upward, grinding just right, and your breath catches so hard it makes your vision blur.

He groans, low and quiet, like he’s savoring you. His hands grip your waist tighter now, thumbs stroking circles just beneath your ribs.

“Fuck, I love when you talk like that,” he mutters, nipping your jaw. “So bossy. So mean. Like you’re not soaking for me right now.”

You make a strangled sound in the back of your throat—one that would’ve been a moan if you hadn’t bit it down just in time.

The parchment in front of you is ruined. Your handwriting is illegible. Your thighs are trembling with the effort of staying still while he isn’t.

You grit your teeth and look straight ahead, breath coming in shallow pulls. “You’re such a smug little shit.”

Fred grins against your skin. “And you’re still sitting on my cock. Funny, that.”

You don’t respond.

You can’t.

Because right now, your body is trembling—coiled so tight with heat and frustration you’re not sure whether you want to slap him or sob into his shoulder.

Fred’s breathing hasn’t changed. He’s not panting. He’s not desperate.

He’s enjoying himself.

Smug, unhurried, infuriatingly calm as he brushes your hair aside and presses a kiss to the back of your neck like this is some sweet little moment and not a full-blown test of will.

You’re still trying to focus—gods help you, you are—but every word looks the same. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t remember what the difference between an incantation and an invocation is, because he’s so deep inside you and every tiny twitch of his hips sends lightning straight to your core.

Another flex.

Another gasp you barely bite back.

Your quill drops.

Fred notices.

“Mmm?” he hums, nuzzling your jaw. “Something wrong, sweetheart?”

You suck in a breath, reach for the parchment again with shaking fingers—and he rolls his hips, slow and deep, just once.

It punches a whimper straight from your throat.

“Please—”

The word slips out before you can stop it.

Barely audible. Raw. Desperate.

Fred stills.

You go rigid.

You hadn’t meant to say that. You hadn’t meant to say anything.

And Fred?

He smiles.

Wide. Wolfish. Victorious.

“Please what?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Go on, love. Use your words.”

You press your thighs tighter around him, like that’ll somehow dull the ache—stop the pressure building and building with every slow, sinful shift of his hips. But it only makes it worse. Makes him feel bigger. Deeper.

He hasn’t even started moving properly, and you’re already unraveling.

It’s pathetic.

And he knows it.

Fred’s breath ghosts over your jaw, smug and slow, waiting for you to answer. His cock twitches inside you, thick and perfect, and you swear your vision goes white for half a second.

You clench around him, a broken little twitch you can’t stop, and his fingers dig just slightly deeper into your waist.

“Please what?” he whispers again.

You hate him. Gods, you hate how much you want him.

The quill is long forgotten. Your parchment’s a lost cause. There’s ink on your fingers, your thighs are shaking, and your arousal is slicking his cock so thoroughly he could slide in and out with nothing but your own desperation.

And maybe that’s what finally breaks you.

Because when you look at the mess of your notes, when you hear the smirk in his voice, when you feel him shift again, dragging against that aching spot inside you with slow, agonizing precision—

You lose.

Your breath shudders out of you, and your hips rock down helplessly.

“Just move, Fred,” you whisper, desperate and cracked. “Please. I can’t—fuck, I can’t focus.”

The silence afterward is deafening.

You feel him still. Hear the pause in his breath. And then—

“Atta girl.”

He doesn’t wait for another invitation.

Fred doesn’t give you a second to brace.

His hips draw back—slow, torturous—and then snap forward, driving up into you with a force that punches a moan right out of your throat.

But before it escapes—

His hand is on your mouth.

Firm. Gentle. Possessive.

Like he knew you’d be too loud. Knew you’d give yourself away the second he started fucking you properly.

“Shhh,” he murmurs against your ear, lips brushing the skin just below it. “Can’t have anyone hearing how sweet you sound, love. We’re still in the library, remember?”

You do not remember.

You can’t remember what you were trying to write.

His hand on your hip pulls you back into every thrust, setting a pace that’s deep and deliberate—none of the teasing now. No slow grinding. Just the heavy, wet slap of your bodies connecting, over and over again, obscenely quiet beneath the table, hidden in the shadows of the back corner.

It’s filthy.

And somehow, the way he holds you there—one hand muffling your moans, the other guiding your hips like you’re something he owns—makes it even filthier.

Fred’s mouth doesn’t stop moving.

“You’ve been so good for me,” he breathes, voice rough and aching with how much he wants you. “Taking me so well. Stuffed full of cock while pretending you’re still the smartest little witch in the room.”

You whimper against his palm. He groans, deep and desperate.

“Bet you like this more than studying, don’t you?”

You shake your head. You nod. You don’t know anymore.

All you know is the thick, relentless press of him inside you, the slick heat between your thighs, the way your body trembles every time his tip kisses that one perfect spot, again and again.

“Gonna make a mess of these notes,” he whispers, teeth catching your earlobe. “Gonna have you dripping all over your parchment.”

And you will. You know you will.

You’re already there.

His pace picks up—still measured, still careful, but harder now, more urgent. Like he’s chasing something. Like he knows you’re close and wants to bring you with him.

You’re panting against his palm, your moans muffled and raw, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how intensely it’s building inside you. It’s not just the pressure—it’s the heat, the stretch, the words. Fred is still in your ear, voice low and wrecked.

“Gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he breathes. “So tight around me—fuck, I can feel it. You’re close, I know you are.”

You nod helplessly, trembling in his lap, hips rocking without rhythm now. Your thighs are shaking, your vision’s gone hazy, and you’re so close—one more thrust, one more whisper, one more anything—

He groans into your neck, his grip on your hip tightening as he drives into you with one last deep, devastating roll.

“That’s it,” he groans softly. “Come with me. I’ve got you.”

And you do.

You fall.

Hard.

Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave breaking over stone—violent, full-bodied, unstoppable. Your head tips back onto his shoulder, mouth falling open against his palm as you moan into his skin, thighs clenching around him as your body convulses with pleasure.

Fred comes right behind you, with a choked, guttural sound buried in your hair. You feel him twitch inside you, thick spurts of heat filling you as his whole body shudders beneath yours.

You’re both breathing hard, slumped together in the chair like melted wax. Your notes are crumpled beneath your knees, parchment spotted with ink and who-knows-what else. The table is skewed. One of the books is halfway to the floor.

Neither of you moves.

For a long, perfect moment, the only sound is your breathing.

Then Fred shifts slightly—just enough to press a soft kiss behind your ear.

“Well,” he murmurs, smug and completely unrepentant, “that’s one way to motivate you.”

You elbow him in the ribs.

He just laughs, arms wrapping around your waist like he has no intention of letting you go.

You groan softly, still slumped against him, every limb boneless, every nerve still buzzing with aftershock.

Fred doesn’t move.

If anything, he shifts his hold on your waist, snugging you closer like he didn’t just completely ruin your ability to walk in a straight line.

You squirm.

Bad idea.

He’s still inside you—softening, but not by much—and the movement pulls a tiny, wrecked gasp from your throat.

“Don’t move,” you mutter, breathless.

Fred chuckles, lips brushing your temple. “You’re the one squirming, love.”

You reach back blindly and slap his arm. “Let me up.”

“Mm. You sure?” he asks, far too pleased with himself. “I quite like it here. Warm. Cozy. Smells like sex and ink.”

You shove at his chest until he reluctantly lets you go. Pulling off of him is a mess—literally—and the way he groans as you do it makes you shoot him a look so sharp it could flay a lesser man.

But Fred Weasley is not a lesser man.

Still seated, flushed and smug, he watches as you tug your skirt back down and reach for your wand with slightly shaking hands.

“Scourgify,” you whisper, casting a quick cleaning charm on your thighs, the chair, the floor—everywhere the scene of the crime might’ve left a mark.

You glance at your notes. A mess.

Ink stains, quill snapped, one page with a streak that could only be described as biological.

You flick your wand again. “Tergeo.”

Fred lets out a low whistle. “Look at you. So responsible. So neat.”

You turn to glare at him, cheeks burning. “You’re not helping.”

“I never help.” He stands, stretches like a smug bastard, and zips himself up with a flourish. “But I do inspire, don’t I?”

You don’t answer.

You’re too busy mending your crumpled parchment with Reparo, gathering the remains of your dignity and the notes you now barely remember writing.

Fred slides in beside you again, arm slung lazily around your shoulder, head tilted like he’s admiring your work.

“Back to studying, then?” he asks, as if he didn’t just rail you through a library chair.

You don’t look at him.

But your lips twitch anyway.

[crumblecreamery]

Jealousy's for the weak of mind- Tom Riddle

CW: Condescension, mock sympathy, begging, rough sex, unprotected vaginal sex, creampie, choking kink, hairpulling, brief spanking, he makes her taste it, dirty talking, filthy description

Tom Riddle is not a jealous partner.

Why?

Because jealousy is shallow and juvenile- a sign that one is unable to control their emotions, and an implicit admission that they believe they are not as good as the person they envy.

As someone who receives outstanding grades, glowing praise from every professor, a former prefect, and a Head Boy with a myriad of achievements, jealousy is beneath Tom Riddle. It's a weak, sentimental indulgence he simply cannot afford. A frivolous behaviour he refuses to entertain.

So if you decide to provoke him- to test or rile him up as a way to draw his attention- he'll not give you the satisfaction of starting a scene.

He'll remain steadily calm throughout Transfiguration as he observes the way your hand purposefully lingers and grazes against Rosier's whilst exchanging notes.

He offers no objection when you choose to partner up with Abraxas instead for a Potions assignment, despite the fact that he's Slughorn's star student. He simply returns to his cauldron, stirring with measured precision whilst mentally noting how close you've drifted to the blond, playfully flicking moondust onto his side of the bench.

As the day wears on and evening settles over Hogwarts with students gathering in the Great Hall, Tom cuts at his roast beef and sips from his goblet with his usual composure. Beside him, you laugh a little too enthusiastically at Mulciber's moronic joke and drawl, "Oh Mulciber, you're too funny."

You take a bite of the food from your plate, discretely glancing sideway towards Tom who sits primly with an impeccable posture by your side. Nothing. Not a clench of his jaw or a clipped remark. Not even a tightened grip on his drink.

If he notices your transparent attempts, he hides it well. Tom merely dabs his mouth with a napkin before rising from his seat, quietly excusing himself to retire early for the night.

His departure sends a small pang of disappointment stirring deep in your stomach. Had you really spent the entire day orchestrating schemes to make him jealous...only for him to remain completely unreactive?

Does he even care at all?

By the time you return to the Slytherin common room, the dungeons are veiled with a misty blanket of pale moonlight, serene and utterly quiet with only the distant trickle of a fountain and the occasional breeze of the castle's ghosts travelling about.

At this time, most of the girls' dormitory has fallen asleep, except for the dull, incremental rhythm of a grandfather clock. You're just about to crawl into bed when you spot it.

A small note written in a familiar, elegant script rests neatly atop your nightstand: "Come to my dorm. It'll be wise to not keep me waiting- T.M.R"

Back arched in a humiliating position, smudged mascara streaks down your cheeks, mingling with a broken stream of frustrated yet blissful tears. Your face is buried in his pillows, and the firm grip he has on the back of your neck does little to stifle the string of pleading noises that slip from your swollen lips.

"P-Please Tom-" You whine with a wet sniffle, the sound slightly muffled but loud enough for him to make of your request. "Too big...t-too much"

Tom's hips snap against yours, maintaining the same brutal and unrelenting rhythm he'd set from the moment he's sunk into you. Really, you should be glad he's even decided to fuck you tonight. After you publicly embarrassed him and whored yourself around his confidants and closest friends, you've given him every reason to be rough.

He wraps your hair around his hand and delivers a small but sharp tug that pulls your head up from the pillows until you're close enough to feel the warmth of his breath hit the shell of your neck. "What was that, hm?" he asks, his voice dripping with faux sympathy as he meets you with a particularly rough thrust that draws a broken moan. Tom tuts, "Too much for you? You want me to slow down, is it?"

Just as you’re about to answer, his hand that had been gripping your hip comes down on the curve of your ass with a loud smack, leaving behind a blooming sting that makes you tense.

"Ah! Please, Tom! Please-"

"Can't hear you, love. Not over the slicked sound of you taking me so well. Don't you hear that? How wet you are for me?" Tom angles his hips, watching you closely as he deepens himself to hit that spot inside you even more intensely. Plap. Plap. Plap. You don’t think it’s possible to feel this full.

His grip on your nape adjusts to wrap around the base at the front of your neck instead, squeezing just enough to manipulate your breathing but not enough to cut off your airway entirely. You gasp at the change, especially when Tom pulls out until only the head of his cock remains before slamming back inside, sheathing himself fully and feeling as your walls flutter and struggle to accommodate him, even now.

Seeing the tears on your cheeks, hearing the desperation in your voice, and feeling the way you're squeezing around him tighter like a vice only makes him harder in a sickening way.

"No more words?" Tom taunt, "Have I fucked you dumb on my cock? Pathetic."

Another smack lands on your ass, the sound reverberating through the room he'd purposefully chosen not to cast a silencing spell on tonight. Smack. Then another. Smack. And another. Smack. Let them hear, Tom thinks. All of them. In fact, they're probably rubbing and palming themselves to the sound of you being thoroughly wrecked right now. Knowing that only he gets to have you like this fuels him further.

"You thought you were so clever, didn't you? Parading around in that short skirt, leaning across the benches and laughing at their mediocre attempts at joking." Your vision has blurred at this point, thighs beginning to quake as your lips tremble. "It wasn't cute." Tom breathes out a dry laugh. "It made you look cheap and desperate, love."

Tom tightens his hold on your hair, your scalp now slightly sore as he yanks harder until your back is pulled against his firm chest. "We're not done yet. Don't you dare black out on me." His cock drills in and out of you, almost as if he wants to mould your pussy to remember the shape of him. At this point, your words have long transformed into incoherent babbles and discontinuous noises. You can feel it- the familiar pressure of climax building and building and building between your legs.

The hours stretch and pass by in a blur, and you've quickly lost count of the number of times you've come undone on his cock. A small patch of sticky mess has formed beneath the two of you on the mattress.

Finally, seeing your limp and fucked-out state, Tom releases a low grunt and buries himself to a hilt before spilling inside you- deep, warm, and full- before pulling out and leaving a messy trail seeping out from your sore cunt, slowly dribbling down your thighs. Your body collapses tiredly onto his mattress.

Tom gathers a smeared mix of your cum, commanding a low "open your mouth" before sliding his slicked fingers past your lips and pressing it against your tongue. "Remember how this tastes the next time you decide to do something this foolish." His expression softens only slightly as he brushes away your tears and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ears. "Never again will you test me."

The soft caress of his thumb is a stark contrast to the hours spent before as a reminder. "Nod if you understand."

Slowly, you do. A languid nod as exhaustion settles over you, making your eyelids heavy and droopy as the tension begins to fade.

"That's my girl," he murmurs, "If you want my attention, you need only ask. But you have it. Always."

Tom Riddle is not a jealous partner.

At least that's what he tells himself. And maybe, just maybe, there's a small part of him that knows it's not entirely true. After all, lying is another trait for the weak of mind.

A/N: First Tom Riddle fic bc there's a criminally low number of authors writing for him so... yeah! If it’s not the best it’s cause I wrote it half asleep

[pearlsteacup]

A Girl's Best Friend

fiancé!Draco Malfoy x fem!reader

fluff, slight angst

When you and Draco get into some small argument, Narcissa decides to knock some sense into her son. What? Did you really think she'd take anyone's side but yours?

CW! small couple fight, coarse language, Draco overcomes ego. Let me know if I missed anything!

This is a short one, but I love any fics with great Narcissa-reader relationships.

Masterlist

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Narcissa Malfoy loves routines. 

She loves pre-set tea-times and punctual gatherings. She loves the certainty it brings to such an uncertain existence. And she simply does not care if the snobbish pureblood ladies call her a rigid scheming bitch for it.

It’s just who she is.

So forgive her for the overwhelming concern that collects in her neck when you don’t show up that weekend. It’s practically a ritual–ever since you started dating Draco. Saturdays mean a day full of shopping and a luxurious evening dinner. Over the years, as you developed from the nervous girl Draco brought home, to his confident fiancée, she’d grown attached to it. In her mind so had you.

It must be serious if you missed it.

So, she storms into her son’s study, voice low as she says, “What did you do?”

“Mother,” Draco startles. But Narcissa is unfazed, her arms crossing over her chest.

“Why isn’t she here yet?”

He remains silent for a long moment. Then he sighs, long and full of suffering. Sounds like an argument. Narcissa is unsure whether to feel bad for her poor son, or hex him for fighting with you.

“We got into a small…disagreement,” Draco says finally. He runs a hand through his hair, eyes averting to his desk. 

“A disagreement about what?”

“It’s very petty. I don’t know why she’s gotten into such a toss about it.”

“Now, Draco.” Narcissa loves her son very much. She would die for him, it’s common knowledge. But there are some things she considers unacceptable. Which is disrespecting women, you especially.

“Have I taught you nothing?”

Draco sighs again. Narcissa softens a little. She gently rubs his shoulder, “What happened?”

“I forgot to say ‘I love you’ before leaving the apartment last Friday.”

Narcissa barely stifles a gasp. Draco casts her a look, before sinking into a wing chair. 

“Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

“Mother.”

“You better go apologize to the girl right now.”

“What? It wasn’t that ser-”

“I don’t want any of that ego, Draco.” Her tone rarely hardens around him. He scowls, but it falls flat immediately. Narcissa knows this must be hard on him. For all that pride he’s inherited, there’s only so long he can stay away from you. Only so long until his steel and porcelain crack.

She sighs this time, settling beside him.

“Verbal acknowledgements of love are very gratifying, Draco.”

“I know.”

“It doesn’t take long to say three words.”

“I know.”

“And it’s obvious to anyone with…any senses, truly, that you love her.”

“I-I do.”

“And I want my best friend back.”

Draco finally meets his mother’s gaze. She sees the baffling combination of emotions ravaging through his head. She reaches over to smooth the hair on his forehead. He leans into the age-old comfort, nodding slowly.

“I’ll go talk to her.”

A beat of silence.

Then he jumps up to his feet, pulling his coat off his hanger, “I’ll go right now.”

Narcissa can’t help but smile. He can’t stay away from you for long, but sometimes, everyone needs a little guiding nudge.

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The last thing you expected to see when you opened the door was a very rain soaked Draco Malfoy.

His platinum hair drips all over the fancy wooden floors of the building. His coat is sopping, and despite the very recent argument, you are terrified your Victorian child of a fiancé will catch a cold. You tug him into the warmth of your apartment.

But you are mad at him.

So no welcome. And certainly no kiss.

“Darling.”

You don’t respond, disappearing within the depths of the house to fetch warm clothes. You hear his footsteps behind you.

What does he think? He can show up drenched in rain and just expect you to talk to him. You take your goodbyes very seriously. 

You don’t know why he didn’t apparate into the building straightaway. There’s no protective spells about it. Or why he didn’t just use your fireplace. He has done so multiple times before, of course. But then again, he’s always been dramatic.

“Y/N.” He catches hold of your wrist. The cold makes you shudder.

“Look at me.”

You turn slowly. You’re surprised he’s overcome his pride at all.

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, are you?”

You free yourself from his grasp. He doesn’t resist. He runs a hand through his hair. A trait you’re so familiar with. He’s frustrated, maybe tired. You huff, annoyed. 

“I didn’t think I’d have to force you to say ‘I love you’.”

“I do say it!”

“Yeah,” you scoff, “Not everytime.”

“Merlin’s sake,” He curses, and you roll your eyes, “You and my mother have dangerously similar ideals.”

“Oh, so she put you up to this? That makes sense.”

“No, wait. Please let me-”

“Get changed, Draco.” You all but toss the clothes at him. A shirt that you had stolen from him a few weeks ago. He catches it, tossing it to the side.

Before you can react, he grabs hold of your waist, spinning you around. You let out a small yelp, but he’s down on his knees, his wet hair pressing against your abdomen. His thumbs rub slow circles over your hips. A shaky breath escapes his lips.

“I love you, Y/N.” His voice makes a shiver run down your spine. It’s soft and low, like the sound of rustling velvet. You love it so, so much. But you force your hands to stay stiff by your side.

“I love you every moment of the day, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you last week. It is utterly my fault, and it is again my fault that it took my mother for me to realise that." His head lifts to meet your gaze, “Do you understand?”

You think you might cry. Your voice trembles when you say, “Yeah. Yeah, I love you too.”

He takes your hand to press a gentle kiss to the inside of your wrist, “Good. Because I do think my mother would kill me if I let you miss another weekend with her.”

You laugh at that, finally ruffling his hair like you’ve been dying to do. He scowls, but it’s playful.

“I don’t think I could live without another weekend with her,” You answer.

He lets out some sound of relief, and you giggle again, “Let’s go then.”

You grin, wild and unrestricted. 

Narcissa might just be the bestest friend a girl could ask for.

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Thanks for reading!