#hufflepuff

[cherry-issecret]

It’s me, cat.

[mssorceressupreme]

Our Deal | F.W

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Pairing: Fred Weasley x hufflepuff!reader (works for any house really, except gryffindor for story purpose)

Summary: stuck in detention with Fred for a prank you never did, grants you the deal of a lifetime. Fred would help you get with your crush, Oliver Wood, and you get him with his, Gabriella Moon, in time for the Yule Ball. Though, as you spend more time teaching each other how to "flirt", complicated feelings start to arise.

Warnings/content: hufflepuff!reader, subtle enemies to lovers, mutual pining, jealous!fred, protective!fred, jealous!reader, mentions of alcohol, parties, quidditch injury, injured!reader, tension, flirting, kissing, teasing, Yule Ball

Wordcount: 6.8k (got carried away and kinda wrote a mini fic 😭🙏🏼)

———

“This is entirely your fault,” you snapped, bending down to scrub at the sticky residue on the stone floor. “I had nothing to do with that prank.” The potions storage room air reeked with the scent of something foul, probably from whatever concoction had spilled from the shelves earlier today. All thanks to that stupid explosion caused by none other than the twin's prank just outside the room.

You gestured around at the remnants of the prank—green goo still dripping from the shelves, a set of abandoned dungbombs rolling near the base of Snape’s desk. Crossing your arms, you huffed as you glared at Fred, who was leaning against the wall with that insufferable smirk, clearly enjoying your misery.

Fred chuckled, tossing a sponge into the air and catching it lazily. “Yeah, yeah, tell that to Snape. You just happened to be there, hands covered in fluorescent goo, looking guilty as hell, which might I add, doesn't help with your case.”

“I was cleaning up the mess, Fred, not causing it” you gritted out, shoving the bucket closer to him. “Unlike you, who just stood there laughing while George ran for his life.”

Fred grinned, bending down to soak his sponge in water. “Ah, Georgie. Quick on his feet, that one. Maybe you should take notes for next time.”

Lucky for George, he managed to escape Snape's fury, leaving the stupendous detention task of reorganising and cleaning the entire potions storage room to the two of you.

“There won’t be a next time because I don’t do pranks,” you retorted. “Unlike some people.”

Fred gasped, pausing from squeezing the water out of his sponge, “No pranks? No mischief? Merlin, what a dull existence.”

You scowled, but your lips twitched. “Not all of us live for chaos.”

“You sure? Because you seem to enjoy my company a lot for someone who claims to be innocent,” he teased, turning his attention to scrubbing the fluorescent goop from the floor.

“Oh, shush If I weren’t such a good person, I’d leave this room right now and tell Snape about the other pranks you and George are planning.”

Fred turned to face you, holding back a doubtful laugh as he momentarily stopped scrubbing, “You wouldn't dare, Y/L/N.” his tone sprinkled with a hint of mockery.

You rolled your eyes, dipping your sponge back into the murky water. “Unfortunately you're right.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Because you secretly like me?”

“Because I’m not a snitch,” you corrected smugly. ____ An hour later, you were balancing on a stool, reaching for a jar of pickled salamander eyes while Fred stacked vials below. You glanced down at him, waiting for him to pass you more vials for the higher shelves.

A small played on his lips, Fred exhaled softly before handing you another vial, “Alright, since I do feel a tiny bit bad about dragging you into this, I’ll make it up to you.”

You raised your brow suspiciously. “How?”

Fred’s smirk returned. “The Yule Ball's coming up, right? I’ll help you get with whoever you want."

"In return, you promise not to rat me out about, oh, I don’t know, the prank in the Great Hall last week. Or the one from two days ago in McGonagall’s class. Or the—" He continued but you interjected swiftly.

Your eyes widened slightly, finally registering what he just offered. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said, placing another vial on one of the lower shelves. “You name the bloke, and I’ll be your personal matchmaking genius.”

"You're kidding." You pressed your lips together, skeptical.

"Am not." He affirmed, "Go on, the look on your face says you have someone in mind Y/N."

A slow grin spread across your face, but you hesitated. "No one in mind." You shrugged.

Fred folded his arms, eyeing you up and down before tilting his head to the side, "I'm sensing...someone....taller than you?" Yeah, no kidding.

Without thinking you retorted, "Yeah obviously he's taller than me." Your hands flew at the speed of light to cover your mouth while turning to face away from Fred.

You hoped to hide your flushness, but you ended up losing your balance on the stool in the process. "Merlin, don't tell me you're quite literally falling for him." Fred quickly held your waist, steadying you before you could meet the ground. You grabbed his shoulder for support before adjusting yourself and returning to your respective task of arranging the vials on the upper shelf. You hadn't planned on telling anyone about your secret crush on Oliver Wood, but here you were, letting these words slip aimlessly out of your mouth.

Fred took your silence as an answer, curiosity lingering in the air.

"Ah, so there is someone on your mind." He pressed, "And who’s the unfortunate sod you fancy?"

You paused, feeling the heat of his gaze from below, "Oliver Wood..." You mumbled all too softly; even the house elves, with their sharp hearing abilities, wouldn't be able to decipher what you said.

Exhaling, you got down from the stool, standing in front of Fred and avoiding eye contact at all costs. He took slow tentative steps toward you, bending down to your level so he could hear, "Come again?" You could feel his breath on your skin.

Your eyes found his, not registering how close he was, "Oliver Wood." Your face tainted a light shade of red.

Fred choked on air, a loud chortle escaped him, "Wood? The Gryffindor Captain, Mr. ‘Quidditch is My One True Love’?"

"Shut up," you mumbled, heat rising to your cheeks. You placed a hand on his chest and shoved him away playfully, "Don't tell anyone! I'll vanish off the face of this earth if you do."

Fred laughed, shaking his head. “Blimey, you’ve got high standards.”

“I barely know him, but he’s just—” You sighed wistfully. “He’s so kind and driven and—”

“Obsessed with Quidditch?” Fred interjected.

“Yes, but in a dedicated way,” you said dreamily.

Fred snorted. "Merlin, alright, fine. I’ll help you. But just know that if I have to listen to you swoon over Wood for the next month, you owe me more than just detention duty."

You beamed. “Deal.”

“Good. Because I might need your help, too.”

You tilted your head, furrowing your brows. “With what?”

Fred leaned forward conspiratorially. “Gabriella Moon.”

"Gabriella? As in, my Gabriella?"

"I didn’t realise you had ownership over her," Fred mused. "But yes, your Hufflepuff friend."

You nodded, grinning. "Oh for sure, I can definitely help with that. Piece of cake."

Gabriella was in your house, a sweet and kind Hufflepuff, and you got along with her well. Setting her up with Fred should be a simple, easy, task.

"Alright, Weasley. You’ve got yourself a deal."

Fred held out his hand, and you shook it—sealing a pact neither of you realised would completely change everything.

"Our deal." He affirmed.

____ The deal meant spending more time together. At first, it was simple things—giving each other tips, practicing flirting, and being seen together enough to spark curiosity.

One evening in the Great Hall, Fred joined you at the Hufflepuff table. Your friends sat with you, but you were so engrossed with Fred, that everyone seemed to disappear into the background, feeling as though it was only the two of you in the hall.

Fred leaned in with a smirk after placing a dinner roll on your plate, which he knew you enjoyed pairing with butter. "Alright, say I’m Oliver—how would you charm me?"

You exhaled dramatically. "Fine." You turned to him, putting on your best smile. "Hey, Oliver, fancy seeing you here. Do you always look this good after practice?"

Fred chortled, nearly choking on his pumpkin juice. "Merlin’s beard, that was atrocious."

You gasped, smacking his arm. "It was not!"

"It was!" Fred wheezed, clutching his chest. "Try again, but maybe without sounding like a lovesick poet."

You scowled but tried again. "Alright, then. How about this—‘I hear you’re the best Keeper Hogwarts has ever had. Think you could keep me?’"

Fred blinked, then groaned throwing his head back. "Oh, that was painful."

You shoved his shoulder, laughing. "I hate you."

"Sure you do," he teased, winking. "Now, do I get a turn?"

"Go on, then," you challenged, crossing your arms.

Fred turned, propped his elbow on the table, and smirked. "Hey, Gabriella," he began, "are you a Snitch? Because you’ve got me chasing after you."

You stared at him, face scrunching up in disgust. It was as though you had just witnessed a crime.

He wiggled his eyebrows before taking a mouthful of peas, chewing as he awaited your response.

You burst out laughing. "Oh, that’s horrible. No wonder you need my help."

Fred's mouth dropped, "Excuse you, that was a good chat up. Thank you very much."

You both laughed, completely unaware of the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs watching the way you two bantered—how Fred’s eyes softened when you laughed, how you bit your lip when he grinned. You weren't super close to Fred, just casual friends, but you had to admit, these few recent days had you seeing him in a different light, he was more carefree around you, cheery, and you felt yourself coming out of your shell, all thanks to him.

You were confident in approaching Oliver now, and all the more excited for it.

____

"No, no! Merlin, Fred, you're going to scare the girl away if you look at her like that." The next few days were all about perfecting your tactics, anything to impress your targets, of course.

"Like what?" He sat beside you on the couch in the Gryffindor common room. It was a Saturday, and naturally, most students were either at Hogsmeade, outside, or sleeping in, leaving most of the space to the two of you.

"Again! Again..." You waved your hands, ushering him off the couch. "Pretend I'm Gabriella, and I'm sitting on a bench somewhere nice. You've just walked into the place, and you see her."

Fred straightened his shirt, retreating from the couch, before strolling over to you again, a devious smirk painted on his face, his hair slightly tousled and messy. He held his chin up high, and his arms swayed beside his lanky figure as he approached you.

"Y/N? Fancy seeing you here!" He beamed, pretending to act out the scenario.

"Wrong." You corrected, "Not Y/N, Gabriella." You flashed your brows, and he exhaled, walking away to take his place once again.

He strolled to you, once more, "Gabriella! Haven't seen you in a bit! What brings you here?"

You nodded, indicating he was doing a decent job so far, encouraging him to continue.

Fred plopped himself beside you, your knees were touching and he extended an arm around you.

"I"m good! This is my favourite place to unwind actually." You fake-mocked Gabriella, pretending to be her in this situation.

"Well, then I guess you'll be seeing me here more often, darling." Fred leaned in, you could feel his body heat against you, and you blinked before shaking your head.

"Darling? You barely know the girl!" You chuckled, and Fred's eyes glinted with awe as you threw your head back, he had not realised it, but your laughter ignited a warm honey like feeling in his chest.

"Fine, what about love? Baby? Babe?"

"No no, save those for when you're actually with her, but I suppose 'love' is a good place to start."

"Alright, love." He teased, and you playfully smacked him but an idea popped into your head, and immediately, you got into character.

"If you say so, Oliver." You pretended to act as if you would in this scenario with Wood.

Fred, still seated next to you, glanced down from your eyes to your lips.

You leaned in, tilting your head and gazing from his left eye, to his lips, then to his right eye. You smiled sweetly, blinking slowly as you gave Fred your full attention, staring at him with doe-like eyes, "So, Oliver, how was quidditch practice today?"

Fred gulped, eyes blinking rapidly as he coughed, "G-Good."

You smirked, lowering your voice, "I'm sure it would've been better if I was there with you." You bit your lip as you glanced at his lips.

"You should come to the next one." Fred responded softly, smiling as he leaned in, ever so slightly, one arm still wrapped around you, and you were fully within his proximity.

You could feel your breaths against each other; his scent crept its way to your nose, and you scrunched it. He smelt like fresh grass on a hot summer's day and clean laundry in the fresh breeze, something you'd never noticed before.

There was a moment of comfortable silence, but the portrait door clicked open, and some students returned from their trip to Hogsmeade.

"That was, uh, something I'd say if I was with Oliver." You quickly dismissed this, leaning back to a comfortable distance. Fred cleared his throat, and removed his arm, "Yeah, that was good. See, told you I was a good teacher."

You scoffed, "You? Please that one was all me."

"S'pose you are getting pretty good at this, annoyingly so, in fact." He hummed and you mouth dropped slightly,

"Is that a compliment?" You beamed, wiggling a happy dance in your seat.

"Don't get too cocky Y/L/N, I have yet to see you interact with him." Fred laughed, attempting to hide his awe for your little dance.

____

Days passed, and you found yourself spending an increasing amount of time at the Gryffindor table, supposedly to get closer to Oliver. But somehow, you always ended up next to Fred, bickering, laughing, sharing food.

People noticed—Hermione tried, and failed miserably to hide her excitement for you two, George outright smirked, Ginny started whispering to Harry, smiling at the thought of the two of you, Ron was amused at how Fred could pull someone as gorgeous as you.

Only you and Fred knew about your deal, to them, they saw this as a newfound friendship, alliance, even...romance? Hermione seems to think the latter describes your relationship perfectly.

You brushed it off, for you knew that you were only helping each other, and once the deal was over, you would go back to normal.

The topic of quidditch was no foreign topic at this table, Harry making remarks about how he'll confront Malfoy, Angelina and George talking about the Nimbus 2000, Oliver and Fred discussing a new game plan.

"Hey Y/N, why don't you come watch us at practice today after lunch, it'll be fun." Oliver invited you, and you blinked in surprise.

"I'd love to!" You chimed, "How could I pass on a chance to support the best quidditch team at Hogwarts?"

Oliver beamed, laughing softly at your enthusiasm, "Ooh careful now, don't want Hufflepuff's quidditch team to hear that now do ya?"

"Consider me an ally of both teams." You chuckled, and he grinned, smiling warmly at you.

"Surely you become an honourary Gryffindor for the day?" Oliver raised his brow, before taking a bite of his toast.

"Won't miss me too much when I switch back to Hufflepuff would you?" You teased.

"Then I'll just ask you to join Gryffindor again."

You were about to pour yourself some orange juice, but Oliver moved at the speed of light, "Here, let me." He poured a glass for you, then one for himself. "Fred? Some for you too?"

"Nah mate, I'm pretty full."

Fred silently watched the two of you interact; a part of him was happy and proud, seeing the way you effortlessly interacted with Oliver, but there was this foreign feeling inside him. Like a splinter poking him from the inside, if that were even possible.

His eyes darted from you, to Oliver, then back to you.

Each time you paid attention to Oliver, laughed at his quips, his charm, a small part of Fred wanted that attention from you, again.

He wanted you for himself.

Fred shook his head, dismissing all these thoughts, where were they even coming from? He knew one thing thought, he was being silly thinking about you like this.

However, Gabriella was starting to become a long-forgotten thought.

The only person consuming his mind lately, seemed to be…you.

Fred exhaled, taking a sip of his water, hoping to refresh his mind from whatever nonsense he thought about.

It didn’t matter anyway because after this deal was done, and you were happy with Oliver, that was it. You’d go your separate ways, well, mostly. That was, after all, the whole point of you becoming close with Fred.

"By the way, is it alright if I bring a friend?" You asked Oliver.

"The more the merrier!"

"I'll bring Gabriella." You whispered trying to contain your excitement, nudging Fred who was seated beside you.

He was quickly snapped out of his thoughts, "Oh, yeah, that'll be great."

____

Later that afternoon, you sat in the stands with Hermione, Gabriella, and Ginny, watching Gryffindor’s practice. Oliver was in his element—focused, determined, calling out plays.

Your eyes were glued to him, who looked impossibly handsome as he soared through the air, his hair ruffled by the wind. He turned, caught your gaze, and waved with that signature kind smile of his.

Your heart stuttered and a faint blush crept on your cheeks, moments like this only pulled you in deeper. Part of the reason you fell for him, was that one day you were lost and he helped you find your way to class. Being younger than him, he felt the duty to lookout for his juniors, he was patient, kind and made you feel right at home when you felt lost. His kindness was just so endearing.

"Go Oli!!" You cheered, and Oliver waved at you again.

"Nicknames already?" Hermione, seated next to you, smiled knowingly and you chuckled as a response.

"Fred looks really determined today, isn't that a good look on him?" You nudged Gabriella, hoping to steer her focus onto Fred.

"Yeah, he does look kinda cute." She agreed, grinning up at him. "Also, thanks for inviting me Y/N, this is really nice." Gabriella turned to you, smiling sweetly. She was a kind soul, much like you, always helping others and making sure everyone felt comfortable. Of course guys would fancy her.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Fred. His red hair caught the sunlight in a way that made it seem almost golden, his strong frame relaxed but still commanding attention as he sat on his broomstick, laughing with George.

There was something about him today—maybe the way his sleeves were rolled up, or the effortless confidence he carried. And for some reason, your found your heartpace steadily increasing as you continued observing him.

No. No, this was about Oliver. You shook the thought away and focused on the Gryffindor Captain instead.

Moments later, Angelina, Oliver, and Katie flew over, beaming. “Oi, you lot! Come play a friendly match with us!” Angelina called, gesturing eagerly.

You hesitated. “Oh, I don’t know... I’m not really—”

“Come on, it’s just for fun,” Oliver encouraged, flying closer. His eyes met yours, playful and inviting. You wanted to impress him. So, against better judgment, you stood and dusted off your robes. The four of you made your way down to the grassy field, and used some spare brooms.

Ginny, Hermione, and Gabriella exchanged amused glances but joined in as well.

You borrowed a broomstick—the nearest one, which happened to be Fred’s. "Can I?" You smirked, turning to Fred who took a quick break, reaching into his bag for his bottle.

"Yeah yeah, if you break it I'll crack your head." Fred teased, before chugging his water. With that, you kicked off the ground, feeling the rush of wind as you soared into the air.

The game was lighthearted, filled with teasing and playful competition. You and Oliver found yourselves in the same airspace often, exchanging witty remarks and laughter.

It felt effortless, easy. Below, Fred stood watching, arms crossed, watching in amusement as you 'bonded' with Oliver. Though you weren't sure if amusement, was the right word to use here, seeing how he kept tapping his foot.

“You’re getting the hang of this!” Oliver grinned, flying beside you.

“I’m just trying to keep up,” you joked, glancing at him.

So caught up in the moment, you didn’t notice the Bludger hurtling toward you until it slammed into your shoulder with brutal force.

Pain exploded through your arm, and your broom wobbled violently beneath you. You gasped as your grip faltered, and before you knew it, you were falling.

The ground rushed toward you, and you thudded harshly on the grassy patch. Ouch.

Oliver flew down hastily, but before he could reach you, Fred was already there, kneeling beside you, face pale.

“Are you daft?” he scolded, voice tight. “Didn’t you see that Bludger?”

You winced, trying to sit up. “It wasn’t that bad—”

“Not that bad? You fell from twenty feet up,” he snapped, his hands hovering over you like he didn’t know where to touch in case he hurt you further. “You’re going to the hospital wing.”

Oliver finally reached you, eyes filled with concern. “You alright?” He looked from you to Fred, who was still kneeling beside you, jaw clenched.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, but Fred wasn’t having it. Before you could protest, he scooped you up effortlessly, ignoring your weak protests.

“You’re being overdramatic,” you huffed, but your heart betrayed you, beating erratically against your ribs as Fred carried you toward the castle.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he shot back, striding forward without a second glance at Oliver, who remained standing on the pitch, watching with an expression that hinted he had figured something out.

He observed as Fred held you close, furrowing his eyebrows slightly, "Hm." He was so sure that you and Fred were just friends, but the way Fred acted today made Oliver doubtful.

The others stayed back to practice, you assured them that you were fine, and that there was no need to come. ___

Madam Pomfrey fussed over you, muttering about reckless students and dangerous sports as she poured a bitter healing potion down your throat. “You’re lucky it wasn’t a full-speed hit,” she chided, waving her wand to mend the bruising on your shoulder.

Fred stayed beside you the whole time, leaning against the infirmary bed with that signature mischievous glint returning to his eyes. “So, you were trying to impress Wood, huh?” he mused, arching a brow.

“Shut up,” you muttered, cheeks warming.

“Not my fault you nearly died doing it,” he teased, nudging you playfully. “Maybe I should give you some lessons on how to survive Quidditch.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips. “Maybe I should give you lessons on how to stop being so intolerable.”

Fred smirked. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You laughed, the earlier pain fading into the background as the two of you fell into easy conversation.

He stayed with you the rest of the day until you felt better enough to head back to your dorm.

____

The next day, the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match had the entire school buzzing with chatter. The game was brutal, with Slytherin coming in close, though Gryffindor still came out victorious.

The moment the Snitch was caught, the stands erupted into cheers, the players celebrating mid-air before descending to the field. You watched Fred among them, his face lit up with triumph. When his eyes met yours, something unspoken passed between you.

And you weren’t so sure anymore if Oliver Wood was the one making your heart race.

You, Hermione and Gabriella made your way down to the team, "You guys smashed it out there." You chimed, clapping for the them.

"Couldn't have done it without your support." Oliver walked over to you, hi-fiving your hand which you extended for him.

"You played amazingly, especially in the second half! Fred—the way you hit the bludger right before it touched the ground, just, wow!" Gabriella beamed, waving her hands around expressively.

"Hey, all in a day's work." Fred expressed, cockily brushing his hands together which earned a giggle from Gabriella.

"You know, you should come to the party tonight, hosted by yours truly." Fred shuffled closer to Gabriella, extended his arms as he gave himself credit for hosting the party.

"More of a team effort actually, he just talks too much." Lee quipped, "But yeah, you guys should come. Gryffindor common room, at 7."

"We'll be there." Gabriella replied for the two of you, twirling her hair as she smiled sweetly at Fred.

You were happy for her truly, especially Fred, who was grinning back at her, engaging in a new conversation about what'll transpire at the party tonight.

You were happy. Yes, you were.

But, does someone who is supposedly happy for their friend, feel a pit in their stomach every time they watch them with their respective crush?

____

"How do I look?" Gabriella asked, gesturing to her outfit, fitted flared blue jeans and a yellow peplum top, with a yellow bow to accessorise.

"You look stunning, Fred's going to love it!" You chimed, "Oh wait, here-" You helped straightened her bow from the behind, "Perfect."

"Look who's talking, Oliver's going to swoon over you when he sees you in that black dress!" Gabriella stood beside you, looking in the full body mirror, shaking with excitement for the party.

The two of you made your way over to the Gryffindor common room, met with a few ravenclaws and fellow hufflepuffs by the portrait entrance.

It was no surprise that the common room was alive with celebration and merriment. You and Gabriella stepped inside, immediately greeted by George and Lee, who enthusiastically showed you around.

"Welcome welcome! You guys look great!" Lee hyped you two up, always the enhusiast.

Laughter, chatter, and the warmth of victory filled the space. As your eyes scanned the room, they landed on Fred and Oliver by the fireplace, who spotted you and beckoned you both over with bright grins.

After a while of lively conversation in the group, you and Gabriella naturally parted ways—her heading away to the couch with Fred while Oliver guided you to where his friends stood.

You chatted and laughed, but something felt off. Your attention was divided, and no matter how much you tried to focus on Oliver and his friends, your eyes kept finding Fred’s.

Across the room, you noticed his eyes constantly meeting yours, just as much as yours longed to find his.

You were snapped out of your gaze when one of Oliver’s friends playfully nudged you, shoving a drink into your hands. “Come on, have some firewhiskey on me! You’ve got to celebrate properly!”

"Oh wow, where'd you manage to get that?" You asked, curious as to how he managed to sneak in alcohol. Granted, he was older than you so it was fair to assume he was more daring when it came to liquor.

"I have my sources." The guy wiggled his brows, "Come on, drink up Y/N, join us!"

You hesitated. “I’m good, really.”

“Oh, don’t be a buzzkill. Just one!” He pushed again, grinning as if it were a challenge.

“I said I don’t want to.” Your voice was firmer now, but he rolled his eyes.

Oliver sensed your discomfort and interjected swiftly, “Knock it off Felix. She doesn’t have to drink if she doesn’t want to.”

"Alright alright, you're just a wee girl after all innit." Felix chuckled, "More for me then."

Wee girl? Merlin, who does he think he is? You scoffed to yourself, shifting closer to Oliver.

Still, the group laughed it off, and you suddenly felt uncomfortable, wanting to be anywhere but here. You excused yourself quickly, heading upstairs to a quieter gryffindor study room.

The party noise faded, and you sank into one of the couches, taking a deep breath.

A knock came at the door, before it slowly opened.

Truthfully, a wave of relief washed over you when you saw Fred entering, his usual smugness replaced with something softer. “Saw Felix being a git, it's safe to say he won't ever bother you again.”

Fred's implication that he had a word with Felix made you all the more relieved, you exhaled softly, nodding.

You smiled weakly. “Thanks.”

He stood at the doorframe for a second, inspecting your state before slowly walking over. The couch dipped upon the weight of him as he sat beside you.

“You okay?” He nudged you with his body gently.

You nodded, looking forward though you felt his gaze on you. “Yeah. Just needed a minute.”

He listened intently, offering you the silence you much needed after the earlier commotion.

There was a pause before you turned to face him, “How’s it going with Gabriella?”

Fred shrugged. “Good,” he lied, then exhaled. “Alright, fine. She’s nice, but I think I bored her to death. She’s talking to Neville about some plants now.”

You chuckled. “Plants are fascinating.”

“To you, maybe. Not exactly my best topic,” Fred admitted. "Might buy a bouquet or two, but other than that I'm clueless."

"If you do, red roses are the way to go. She loves them, practically every girl does."

"Including you?"

"I adore them. Sounds a bit basic but they're a classic for a reason, they're just so...romantic." Your eyes glistened as you spoke about roses, dreaming of the day someone would buy you flowers.

"Noted, I'll pass a good word to Oliver." Fred chuckled, smiling at the way your eyes lit up, but his smiled disappeared when you frowned, a sigh escaping your lips.

“I think I’m losing it with Oliver. I feel like a total idiot for not drinking in front of him and his friends."

Fred shook his head. “Nah, you’re not an idiot....maybe a little, but not a full blown one." You slapped his arm playfully, but he continued, raising his hands in defence, "If anything, that makes you better than them. You don’t need to do anything to impress him, so what if you don't feel like drinking?”

"I don't think I'll face him again, if his friends hate me, he'll probably grow to dislike me." You groaned, burying your face in your hands.

"Nothing a little flirting can't solve," Fred was optimistic, attempting to cheer you up in this moment of despair, "Next time you see him, get more touchy. When you laugh, place a hand on his arm, lean on him, lean in to him...y'know, the usual."

"Ugh, in front of his friends?" You grumbled.

"All the better, shows you've got game." He continued to give you tips on how to approach Oliver again later, helping you plan your next move.

It was only fair of you to return the favour, leaning in slightly. “Right, so, lean in when you talk to her, like this,” you said, demonstrating the closeness.

Fred swallowed, blinking at you. “Like this?” He mimicked you, your shoulders were touching all the more, your face near his neck, his mouth a few inches away from your forehead.

You nodded, voice softer now. “And maybe say something like… ‘Your eyes are a remarkable shade of hazel, I never noticed how stunning they were until up close now. They sparkle beautifully in the moonlight, yet they manage to shine even brighter when you're caring.’”

It was meant for Gabriella. But as you spoke, something in your chest tightened. You were speaking to Fred. Really speaking to him. His hazel eyes met yours, and he leaned in once more.

His mouth parted slightly, as his eyes darted to your lips then back to your eyes. You found yourself leaning in too, your breathing became heavy.

Your heart felt like it was going to pounce out of your chest with the rate it was beating.

The air between you stilled as you both realised the weight of your words.

Before he could respond, the door creaked open. You and Fred jumped apart just as Oliver and Gabriella entered, looking at you both in confusion.

“There you are, we were wondering where you two had vanished off too.” Gabriella remarked, her eyes darting from Fred to you.

Your heart raced and Fred's face flushed a shade of red. Though completely innocent, if felt as though you were caught doing something you weren't supposed to be doing.

Flustered, you quickly went to Oliver, while Gabriella made her way to Fred.

The rest of the party carried on, fun and lively, but you couldn’t shake the strange feeling that lingered. No matter how much you tried to focus on Oliver, your gaze kept drifting back to Fred.

____

The anticipation leading up to the Yule Ball had everyone on edge. With the Yule Ball near approaching, the talk of the castle revolved around the ball; students asking each other to the dance, flowers being exchanged, and whispers filling the corridors.

You woke up that morning with only one name in your mind—Fred Weasley. It was irritating, really. You weren’t supposed to be thinking about him. You liked Oliver. You were going with Oliver. And yet, Fred’s stupid, mischievous grin had invaded your thoughts like an unrelenting charm.

At breakfast, you sat with Gabriella at your usual hufflepuff table, chatting about the Yule Ball. She was gushing about how beautiful everything was going to look, the magical snowflakes, the ice sculptures, the romantic lighting. You smiled along, but your mind was elsewhere. Across the hall, Fred was laughing with George, but every so often, you swore you caught him glancing at you.

After your 'Defence Against the Dark Arts' class, you walked out with Harry, Ron, and Hermione when Oliver approached. He was holding a bouquet of red roses, his confident smile making you a blushing mess.

"Y/N," he said warmly, holding out the flowers. "Would you do me the honour of accompanying me to the Yule Ball?"

You paused, then beamed. "Of course, Oliver. I'd love to!" He pulled you in for a warm hug while students around you cheered, and whistled loudly.

You were happy—you really were. This was what you wanted, wasn’t it? But as you took the roses, a strange heaviness settled in your chest.

Later that day, you found yourself with Fred, helping him prepare to ask Gabriella. You were ranting about Oliver, swooning over how charming he was. Fred, though smiling, was already fuming inside. He wanted to be happy for you. He wanted to believe this was all fine. But every word you spoke about Oliver grated on his nerves.

"Do you think Gabriella will like this?" Fred asked, holding up a box of assorted chocolates, changing the topic quickly after countless nods and 'that's great' as a response to you gushing over Oliver.

You turned to him, considering. "Yeah, she will, can't go wrong with chocolate. You got this, Freddie!"

"Right," he said, running a hand through his hair, looking more uncertain than usual. He was prolonging it, he knew it. He didn't want to ask her. He had someone else on his mind now. But what choice did he have? You were already going with Oliver.

When he finally did ask Gabriella in the courtyard, you cheered for him, clapping as she said yes. It was the right outcome—technically, you both won. And yet, watching Fred grin as he hugged Gabriella filled you with an unexpected wave of envy.

_____

The Yule Ball arrived in a flurry of excitement. You walked down the stairs with Oliver, arm in arm, dressed in your most elegant red gown. Across the entrance, you saw Fred with Gabriella. You both gave each other thumbs-up and smiled, though your smile never quite reached your eyes, nor did Fred's.

As you approached the entrance, Oliver and Gabriella walked in first, conversing with each other, leaving you and Fred standing alone for a moment.

Fred shoved his hands into his pockets before breaking the silence, "So…we both got what we wanted."

You exhaled, forcing a smile. "Yeah…we both got with our dates. All too smoothly, I might add."

You both chuckled, but there was an undeniable weight in the air.

"You look nice, cleaned up well for Oliver eh? Lucky bloke." Fred joked, though his voice was laced with subtle serious undertone.

"Hm, you don't look like a grindylow for once, I see you clean up pretty nicely too."

He chuckled softly, removing his hands from his pockets. Neither of you moved, it was as though a silent message of 'please stay here with me' was shared.

You hesitated before extending your hand. "Thank you, Fred. For everything."

He took your hand, shaking it lightly, but neither of you let go. There was a static, a spark, if you would, something both of you didn’t want to ignore. You both looked down at your touching hands, then back to each other.

Oblivious as to what the other party was thinking, the two of you decided to ignore it, let go, and move on, for the better, right?

"So, that's our deal done then?" you said slowly, though regretting it.

Fred swallowed hard, nodding. "Yeah. I'll, uh…see you around school then."

Your heart clenched, but for the sake of the ball, you put on your best grin. "I'll see you around, Fred."

You then turned to Oliver who was a few steps ahead, extending his arm to you. As you walked with him into the ballroom, you turned back one last time.

Fred was still standing there. You waved. He waved back, smiling—but his eyes told you that there was something masked beneath that smile. Gabriella came up to him, and they walked inside together, you turned forward to let them have their moment.

The ball was everything you imagined—beautiful, magical, enchanting. Oliver was the perfect gentleman, twirling you around the dance floor, kissing your hand, your cheek, your forehead, even. He got you punch, held the door open, pulled out your chair, he was the ideal guy, truly ticking off all your boxes.

You smiled at him, but your heart was never quite satisfied, there was a space yet to be filled.

And you hated that you knew why.

Your eyes kept drifting to him. He was dancing with Gabriella, but his mind was far away. Uncomfortable. Lost.

You chuckled to yourself, shaking off this silly feeling, turning your attention back to Oliver, who was explaining about his latest tactics for the upcoming Quidditch match with ravenclaw.

____

Later that night, Oliver walked you back to your common room. He leaned down, pressing a sweet kiss to the back of your hand. "Goodnight, Y/N."

You lips curled up into a grateful smile, thanking him for the wonderful evening, but as he turned to leave, something inside you snapped.

If something was wrong, you needed to fix it. Merlin, what's the point in waiting? If something didn't feel right, your gut knew that you had to fix it right away. And this, was one of those moments.

You turned on your heel and ran in your red gown. Through the castle, past students, up and down staircases—you had no plan, no direction, just a need to find him.

Until you did.

At the main staircase, you froze. Fred was at the bottom, looking up at you. He was holding a bouquet of red roses.

Your throat tightened, immediately regretting your decision. "For Gabriella?"

Fred shook his head. "No." He stepped forward, "They're for you."

Your paused, holding your breath as he started walking up the stairs, to you.

"Y/N, I—" Fred hesitated, then exhaled sharply. "I don’t want Gabriella. I don't think I ever did, truthfully. I just…I wanted to be with you. And I was too much of a git to see it until it was too late."

Tears burned at your eyes. "Fred—"

"I don't care about the deal. I don't care about anything except you. I don't want to ever lose you Y/N. And if I have to watch you with Oliver one more time, I think I might actually go mental."

He was close now, the roses in one hand, the other reaching for you.

You let out a shaky laugh. "You're such a git, you know that?"

Fred grinned, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek and tucking it behind your ear. "Yeah. But I’m your silly git, if you'll have me."

You didn’t give him a chance to say anything else. You surged forward, crashing your lips to his, your hands gripping his suit. He dropped the flowers, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you flush against him.

It was passionate, desperate, hungry, everything you had ever wanted but had been too blind to admit. The kiss of two people who were starving and desperately in need of each other. Fred savoured every bit of your mouth, as though tomorrow would never come, ending with a sweet peck.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, a grin sprawled across that deviously handsome face of his, his hair messy but Merlin, it was such a look on him. "So, I take it that’s a yes, love?"

You laughed, leaning your forehead against his. "Yes, you fool."

Fred cupped your face, thumb brushing over your cheek once again. "Best deal I’ve ever made."

[slytherinboysvip]

Imagine best friend Mattheo being absolutely obsessed with his innocent little Hufflepuff bsf but she just can’t tell. Everyone else knows, and it is quite obvious, but she just can’t think someone like him would want someone like her. But when she jokingly says she’s gonna get Cedric to take her virginity he decides it’s time he came clean.

Possibly with some soft smut if you are comfortable with it of course

bsf mattheo riddle x hufflepuff reader

hopefully this matches your request <3 i’ll most likely make a part 2 for this because.. you’ll see ;) 3.5k words

you lived a rather simple uncomplicated life, attending hogwarts as a hufflepuff with no interest in anyone’s drama. though you kept to yourself most times you tried to be nice to all your peers maintaining your classic hufflepuff demeanor, despite this there was one thing that was different about you.

you see, you didn’t see or understand why people don’t like other houses just because of “house rivalry” especially the students who weren’t even participating in any sports or point winning. and with this over your years though you had few friends you had one best friend who at first seemed rather impossible to be friends with.. mattheo riddle.

when you two met you were a fourth year and him a fifth, coincidentally you were going on to a few friends about your annoyance with people automatically assuming the worst of slytherin even though you yourself weren’t in their house or nearly like one. mattheo overheard this heated- adorable voice coming from behind him and he walked towards you carefully.

he sat down in front of you beside your friend as she gawked faces towards you at his presence. “you don’t think we’re too mean, huh?” he questioned small laugh leaving his lips. “i just think that some people are misunderstood and just because some wizards turned out bad doesn’t mean all of them in your house are” you looked at him answering his question with ease

he smirked in amusement and leaned a little closer to you “hm, hufflepuff eh? what year are you puff?” he sat back examining you and you didn’t fail to notice that nickname he slipped in “fourth year but i have an early birthday which is annoying because i could technically be out sooner” you sighed ignoring his staring.

“well, seeing as it’s ravenclaw against gryffindor do you wanna watch the quidditch game with me i know the best view” he stood up and held his hand out for you, you look towards your friends and they’re both nodding their heads for you to go so you did.

from that point on you and mattheo had been best friends, sadly he was in his seventh year and now you in your sixth nothing much had changed in your life. living vicariously through mattheo and his stories about slytherin parties and how you should go to one with him before it’s too late, he’d tell you about his sexual adventures and your jaw would drop everytime.

you yourself also confided in him though with much less interesting things, telling him how you feel unlikeable by guys sometimes because they never try to get or talk to you, or how you feel lonely because you’ve never had a a boyfriend before. hed always help soothe the thoughts away, telling you that it’s only your brain making those things up , “listen y/n, anyone who doesn’t love you is fucking insane”.

𓆙

talking to your friend zarah who’d been there since day one you always told her what you told matt, for the most part. “i just don’t get why nobody is interested in me zar, like am i genuinely that ugly” you plopped onto your bed sighing dramatically. “you’re not ugly and if you think no guys want you you’re blind i know one in particular that really, really wants you” she giggled.

you looked at her with a confused expression “i must be missing something because i have no idea who you’re talking about” you awaited her response and she just rolled her eyes and sighed “girl your practically boyfriend of a best friend you do everything with” she gave you a duh look and you just laughed. you genuinely couldn’t believe she’d even think he’d like you especially with all the girls he’d been with, “you’re hilarious, we both know he doesn’t want me he wants all the girls he tells me about” you started to compose yourself but zarah’s expression didn’t change.

“you literally must be blind y/n do you need glasses? or should i say puff? let’s talk about how that man hasn’t stopped calling you that pet name since you’ve met.. he’s in love” she rolled her eyes raising her hands in the air. “i still don’t think he wants me so there’s no convincing me” you shrugged her off and she groaned getting up and leaving your shared dorm.

𓆙

“puff you gotta come to this party, slytherin won agains gryffindor i just know this is gonna be the party you want to go to pleaseee” mattheo put his hands on your shoulders shaking you “fiinee” you attempted to answer between shakes before he let you go “if i would’ve known it was that easy i would’ve done that years ago” he rolled his eyes.

“anyways it’s tonight at like 8 so i’ll just get you from your dorm at like 7 do you think they’ll let me in? actually what’s the password?” he didn’t give you time to finish any of your sentences before you just gave him the password “butterscotch” you whispered, in response mattheo laughed “fucking butterscotch merlin that’s hilarious” you looked up at him and rolled your eyes walking away.

“i’ll see you at 7 puff” he yelled across the hall and you just gave a thumbs up and continued walking. you honestly were quite nervous seeing as you’ve never necessarily been to a party before, you’ve made small appearances at hufflepuff parties but you’ve heard they don’t even compare to slytherin.

making your way into your dorm you spot zarah and you pull her up from the common room couch “i finally said yes to a party need help now” you quickly mumbled and she quickened her pace “when does it start girl i need the info right this second come on you’re talking too long for me” she rushed and you blurted it all out “8pm he’s getting me at 7 he has the password he will be at the dorm” closing the door behind you two you both stopped to catch your breath

“sooo is it a dateee” she shimmied her arm on you winking “i already told you he doesn’t like me!!” you replied to her relentlessness. “ugh whatever we need to get you ready girl it’s already six” she pushed you onto your shared vanity chair and pulled out all of your makeup and a few things of hers, “creative control?” she asked smirking at you “mm fine but not too much” you agreed “we’ll see” she giggled.

after around 30 minutes she finished your makeup and she showed you the finished product, looking at yourself in the mirror you thought how you never would’ve put on red lipstick yet you feel really good in it. she gave you a small smokey eye and a small winged liner and you felt you looked more aggressive then you were, but you kinda loved it.

“it’s so much but so pretty” you admired yourself and the makeup she put on you slowly getting used to the feeling of fake eyelashes on your eyes. “i’m so glad you love it, but we need to find an outfit like three hours ago” she joked and rushed to your closets “i actually have the perfect dress in mind if you’re feeling the want to rep slytherin green” she raised her eyebrows up at you in a suggestive matter “sure why not” you shrugged

she handed you a velvet body con forest green dress that you were sure was going to be extremely short and you mean in every place. she held it up onto you “this will be perfect. get it on come on” she rushed you into the bathroom and you began putting it on “this is sooo tight” you called out as you struggled “oh i forgot it was a corset back wait i need to help you can i come in” she yelled through the door

“yeah come on i need this thing one me already” you struggled more as she walked in and immediately began to help you loosening the strings of the dress and pulling it down onto you “there we go now suck in like your life depends on it” she said half jokingly and began retightening the corset back. with every pull it felt like your chest was spilling out more and more and your ribs were shrinking “okay merlin that’s enough before i can’t breathe” you huffed and she stopped tying it off in a bow

“stop you look so hot y/n i bet matt will be drooling” she teased and you just rolled your eyes “what do we do with my hair” you looked at her with horror as you only had ten minutes before he should arrive. you quickly began curling your hair not really caring if it was messy just giving it some body and just as you were spraying perfume on there was a knock on your door.

zarah looked at you and whispered “answer it go go now” she pointed to the door like she was afraid to touch it herself and you walked over opening it to see mattheo in an all black button down with the top few buttons undone and black dress looking pants yet somehow he didn’t look overdressed. he didn’t say anything for a minute he was just staring at you looking up and down in awe “holy fuck y/n who did your makeup you look woah” he put his finger on your chin moving your head around examining your makeup

“zarah isn’t it pretty” you smiled and he removed his hand and replied “yeah you are, now let’s go” he grabbed your hand and you looked behind you waving bye to zarah “he’s so in love with you” she whispered before the door slammed closed.

𓆙

once you got the the party you noticed there were already many slytherins already pregaming and mattheo brought you two to them, “let’s get some alcohol in you little puff” he winked and poured you a shot of who knows what, you smelled the foul drink and it made your nose burn “come on do ittt” he cheered on and you held your nose throwing the shot back gagging at the taste. “how do people enjoy that” you made a face at him “like this” he replied taking two shots himself, “now catch up” he winked pouring you yet another

“if i didn’t know any better id say you’re trying to get me drunk matt” you laughed and he looked at you amused “obviously that’s what im trying to do it’s a party” he put the shot glass to your lips and you parted them taking the burning substance down your throat, “eugh that didn’t get any better the second time” you shook your head in disgust. “hm, let me make you an actual drink” he grabbed a clear liquor and a red juice mixing them together adding more alcohol than your past two shots and handed it to you

“matt this smells foul” you looked up at him, “just try it trust me the slytherins have the masking drink down” he winked and you reluctantly took a sip, and to your surprise all you tasted was juice. after taking another few sips you quick began drinking it and mattheo pulled the cup from your lips “slow down there this shits dangerous you’ll get so drunk you won’t be able to walk straight” he chuckled. “it’s not my fault they made it taste like juice” you shrugged still sipping.

“hey mattheo have your little hufflepuff take some shots with us” enzo threw his arm around your shoulders and mattheo pushed them off almost immediately “no she doesn’t need any shots” he spoke “you didn’t even ask me” you protested, granted you didn’t necessarily want to take any shots you just didn’t like being talked for. “oo are you sure you’re not slytherin you got an attitude” enzo laughed handing you a shot and you looked at mattheo who rolled his eyes as you took the shot.

throwing the shot back the burning sensation took over your throat and you could feel it rushing down your throat. you coughed a bit and chugged your drink for comfort “puff you’re going to get shitfaced slow down” matt fully took your cup this time and you were already feeling it. giggling looking up at him “okay now who was going to tell me party’s are fun” you continued giggling.

the music started playing and the slytherin common room was now getting more and more packed. you saw fifth year students and up in here, even a few ravenclaw and hufflepuffs your recognized. to your surprise in the corner of the party you spotted cedric diggory talking to a group of girls holding a drink.

pansy noticed your head being stuck in a certain direction and followed your eyes “oh em gee, someone’s got their eyes on a certain hufflepuff” she winked shoving her shoulder at your “shhhhh he’s just nice to look at” you giggled at her and she giggled along “you two would be soo cute” she added dragging you back to the drinks

“let’s take some shots!” she exclaimed handing you two , you took them smiling and shot them back with her, a woo leaving her mouth. “here chaser, chaser!” she shouted handing you another drink this time what looked like a lot of the punch, downing it all she laughed “girl we’re gonna be gone”. looking around you were seeing doubles of everything but didn’t want the night to already end.

“so, are you a virgin?” pansy shouted over the music making your already alcohol flushed face even redder “pansy!! you can’t just ask that!!” you shouted back flustered at the intrusive question, “i’m only curious girl” she giggled and gave you begging eyes “come onnnn” she shook you till you gave in “fine yes i am but don’t tell anyone!” you replied back as lowly as you could over the music

“who would you lose it to?” she giggled “i lost mine to blaise hehe sshhhh” she winked, considering she just told you her secret you felt obligated and just looked around “i mean i guess cedric” you giggled as she pointed at him after your response. before she could say anything else you felt a pair of hands wrap around your waist and drag you off. trying to kick your way out was useless and they brought you to an empty dorm.

through all of this you couldn’t tell who it was kicking and screaming for them to let you go till you heard mattheos voice “puff calm down it’s just me” he sighed putting you down on what you now assumed was his bed “why did you bring me in here that was so scary” you huffed trying to gain your composure. “diggory?” he scoffed not answering your question.

you looked at him confused as to what he was on about “what do you mean? what about cedric” you cocked your head to the side in confusion “you lost your virginity to him??” he questioned stepping closer to you looking rather.. pissed. you just laughed in response “me? lose my virginity to cedric?.. you’re funny” yeah you fantasized about it but it certainly wouldn’t happen.

“what were you talking to pansy about then??” he looked at you unconvinced, “she asked if i lost it and i said no, but id let him take it.-“ you shrugged “besides you know i tell you everything matt i’ve never even had a boyfriend let alone a guy be interested in my virginity” you sighed laying back onto the bed now feeling upset.

you heard mattheo sigh and you picked your head up to look at him, his eyes stared back at you in silence before breaking it “believe me there’s a lot of guys who want to get in your pants” he rubbed his fists and you gave him a confused expression yet again “what are you on about matt?” you were getting sober just from all of this extra mystery.

he walked over to the bed sitting beside you, “listen when we met you were just.. blooming completely and i would be lying if i didn’t say i first went up to you because of your looks.. well overtime you know we became friends and i noticed other guys staring in ways they shouldn’t have been so i had to teach them a lesson.” he looked at you and yo didn’t know how to respond to something like that.

“what exactly are you saying matt?” you didnt understand what he was poking at, did matt mean to say he basically likes you? were you reading too much into this? “look y/n, no one else in this school fucking deserves you. hell i don’t deserve you but i know i can treat you how you need. don’t ask me what took so long to confess to you y/n, but do you feel even remotely the same?” he let it all out quick and fast, and your mouth dropped.

“you want.. me?” you looked at him in disbelief and he just smiled “that’s what that whole speech was about, yeah” he chuckled nervously awaiting your reply “why?” you sighed still slightly unconvinced “have you fucking seen yourself puff? you’re so undeniably gorgeous, i don’t know how i hold myself back from you everyday” he leaned in closer to you making this all seem more real. without thinking you allowed yourself to lean into him, faces and lips meeting for the most magical first kiss you could’ve ever imagined.

“you’re so fucking beautiful y/n” he grabbed your face pulling you closer to him till you straddled over his lap sitting down continuing the now makeout. “this is so much better than.. imagined” you huffed through the kisses. you could already feel mattheos member growing beneath you and you never thought you’d be the one experiencing this from your best friend.

you’d be lying if you didn’t admit to a fantasy or two about him in the past but this was already one thousand times better than ever imagined. mattheos lips kissed their way down your neck leaving small marks tiny moans leaving your mouth, “i need to hear more of that, y/n, let me eat you out.. please i need a taste” he continued his kisses along your neck bringing them back to your lips “i’ve never- mm yes” you replied as his fingers began making circles over your underwear.

“you sound so good fuck” he groaned pulling you off of him and getting off the bed, “you’re sure of this?” he questioned one last time and you just nodded impatiently awaiting his next move. next thing you knew he was yanking you to the edge of his bed and slowly removing your pants and underwear looking up at you from below. “holy fuck puff.. you’re fucking soaking” he breathed out over your pussy sending tingles down your spine.

without warning his mouth met your untouched area and you felt things never imaginable. his tongue made its way around your bulging clit, flicking it up and down and making his way to your entrance sucking and licking “you taste so good holy fuck” he huffed going right back in not even looking up at you, “can i put two fingers” he spoke from your pussy and you couldn’t even properly answer “mm y-yes” you replied between your moans.

you felt his slender fingers teasing your entrance and he slowly began inching one in and out teasingly, “mattheo-“ you huffed and he chuckled shoving both fingers in, loud moan escaping your mouth and this new feeling. he did a few different moments trying to figure out what makes you moan the most, soon his tongue was sucking expertly on your clit as his fingers twisters and curled inside of you.

“matt i want to.. try” you moaned at this pleasure wanting nothing more than to feel him inside of you now. “mm but you’re not ready yet puff” he continued devouring your pussy simply divulging in it as if he’d never eaten anything before. his pace on everything quickened and you were already near your own orgasm, “if you don’t s-stop i’m gonna cum” you moaned loudly trying to control yourself.

“let go for me sweetheart” he sucked harder on your clit, the nickname and action forcing your orgasm to flood over you harder than you’ve ever been able to make yourself experience. your body was shaking and you couldn’t hold your reactions back, mattheo slowly licked your gushing area clean before standing up “mm now i think you’ll be ready soon” he smirked leaning down over you, grabbing your chin and giving you a kiss.

[snugglyhufflepuff]

found on pinterest 💛

[trowneyy]

𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓

• theodore nott

{summary} After Slughorn pairs you with Theodore Nott for a Potions project, you accidentally find letters he never meant to send, each one about you.

{content} no smut, unspoken feelings, no-war universe, invasion of privacy

It starts because of Slughorn.

more specispecifically, because Horace Slughorn decides that “collaboration builds character” and pairs you - a Hufflepuff - with Theodore Nott.

you don’t question it out loud, but you do notice the way a few slytherins glance over when your names are called together. nott doesn’t react at all. he just nods once, like it’s already been decided and there’s no point arguing.

“amortentia variation,” Slughorn says, beaming. “subtle alterations, personal influence—very delicate work, you’ll need to trust each other.”

you almost laugh at that.

nott doesn’t.

๑

he doesn’t talk much during the first half of the lesson. he works efficiently, measures precisely, and corrects your hand placement once—briefly, without comment—before stepping back again like even that was more interaction than necessary.

when the bell rings, you’re still copying down notes when he speaks.

“i’ll do the base draft,” he says, already packing his things. “you can refine it.”

you look up. “or we could just… work on it together?”

a pause. not long. just enough to feel like he’s considering whether that’s worth the effort.

“the library,” he says finally. “tomorrow.”

then, like it’s an afterthought, he slides his textbook toward you. advanced potion-making, edges worn, pages marked.

“you’ll need it,” he adds. “the annotations are more useful than the printed instructions.”

you hesitate. “are you sure?”

“i’ve already memorized what I need.”

there’s no arrogance in it. just fact.

you take the book. “right. thanks.”

he nods once, and that’s the end of it.

๑

you don’t think about him again.

not properly.

not until later that evening, when you’re sitting in the hufflepuff common room with the book open across your lap, skimming through his notes—neat, precise, written in the margins like he couldn’t help improving what was already there.

it’s almost impressive.

you’re halfway through a paragraph when something slips loose from between the pages and falls against your wrist.

a folded piece of parchment.

you frown, picking it up. it’s thicker than a normal note, creased carefully.

your name is written on the outside.

that’s what makes you pause.

there’s no reason your name should be there. not in his handwriting.

you turn it over once in your fingers, like that might change something.

it doesn’t.

you open it.

you answer questions before anyone else has time to think. it’s inefficient.

you blink.

not because you’re wrong. because you don’t hesitate.

your grip tightens slightly on the page.

there’s no signature, but there doesn’t need to be. the handwriting is unmistakable—controlled, deliberate, almost too precise.

nott.

you should stop there. you don’t.

the next one is tucked further into the book.

you sit near the windows in herbology even when it’s colder. i don’t understand why.

a pause in the writing, like he’d stopped.

you said you like the light.

another line, sharper.

that’s not a sufficient reason.

and then, smaller—

iIt is to you.

something about that one lingers.

you reach for another.

Diggory spoke to you after class today.

the ink presses harder into the parchment.

you laughed. It was louder than usual.

a space. then—

it shouldn’t matter.

another line, written over slightly, like the first version wasn’t enough.

It doesn’t.

and then, almost cramped at the edge—

It does.

you don’t realize how many there are until they’re spread in front of you.

some are short. observational. detached in a way that feels forced.

others-

others aren’t.

one, written more messily than the rest:

I don’t like you.

a line break.

I don’t.

the ink digs into the page.

This is inconvenient.

and then, after a long gap—

You are inconvenient.

you stare at that one longer than you mean to.

๑

the next day, you notice him.

not intentionally. not at first.

but now that you’ve read them, it’s impossible not to see it—the way his gaze lifts when you speak, how it lingers just long enough to be deliberate before dropping again. the way he seems aware of where you are without ever turning fully toward you.

it’s controlled. Subtle.

but it’s there.

and now you know what it means.

๑

by the time you meet in the library the next evening, the letters are folded neatly in your bag.

you tell yourself you’re going to focus on the project.

you don’t.

theodore is already there when you arrive, books arranged in front of him, notes half-written. he glances up briefly as you sit across from him, then back down again like this is nothing more than obligation.

like you didn’t read every word he never meant you to see.

you try, for a few minutes, to pretend the same.

it doesn’t last.

your hand moves before you can overthink it, pulling the folded letters from your bag and placing them between you.

his reaction is immediate—not outwardly dramatic, but precise.

his pen stops.

not mid-word. exactly at the end of the line.

then he sets it down.

carefully.

“you took those,” he says.

not you read them.

not give them back.

just that.

“they fell out of your book,” you reply quietly. “i didn’t know they were there.”

“you do now.”

“yes.”

a pause settles in. he doesn’t reach for them.

that’s what feels strange.

“they’re about me,” you add.

“i know.”

his voice is even, but there’s something underneath it now—tight, restrained.

“you weren’t supposed to read them.”

“i figured that out.”

his gaze lifts to yours then, sharp and direct in a way it hasn’t been before. “then why didn’t you stop?”

the question lands harder than you expect.

you hesitate. “because my name was on them.”

that’s the wrong answer.

you can tell by the way his jaw tightens slightly, the only visible sign that something’s slipped.

“that doesn’t make them yours,” he says.

“i didn’t say it did.”

silence.

you study him for a moment, then push a little further. “you wrote that you don’t like me.”

“i don’t.”

too quick.

too clean.

you shake your head slightly. “that’s not what it sounds like.”

“they weren’t written to sound like anything.”

“they contradict each other.”

“that’s not your concern.”

“it is if they’re about me.”

that lands.

he stills—not completely, but enough that you notice.

“you’ve decided you understand something,” he says, quieter now.

“i think you’re trying very hard not to say something.”

his gaze sharpens. “and what would that be?”

you don’t answer immediately.

because now that you’re here—now that you’ve pushed this far—it feels different. he’s not angry, not really.

he’s… exposed.

and he hates it.

“you notice everything,” you say instead. “where I sit. who I talk to. when I’m not there.”

“that doesn’t mean anything.”

“it does if you keep writing it down.”

his fingers press lightly against the table, controlled but tense. “writing something doesn’t make it important.”

“no,” you say softly. “but keeping it does.”

that’s the moment it shifts.

not loudly. not dramatically.

but something in him gives—just slightly.

his gaze drops, not to the letters this time, but to the space just beside them, like looking directly at them would be worse.

“they weren’t meant to be kept,” he says.

“but you did.”

a pause.

then, quieter—more honest than anything he’s said so far—

“i didn’t throw them away.”

it’s not a confession.

not really.

but it’s close enough.

you feel your chest tighten slightly. “why?”

he doesn’t answer right away.

when he does, his voice is lower.

“because it’s easier to write it,” he says, “than to have to see it happen in real time.”

you frown slightly. “see what happen?”

his gaze lifts to yours again, and this time there’s no distance in it. no careful detachment.

just something unguarded. brief, but real.

“that it doesn’t matter,” he says.

your breath catches.

“that you talk to other people,” he continues, more evenly now, like he’s already trying to pull it back under control. “that it’s irrelevant.”

“and it isn’t?”

a pause.

“no.”

the word is quiet. certain.

you don’t look away. “then why pretend it is?”

“because it should be.”

there it is.

not anger.

not denial.

just… truth, said like it’s a problem he hasn’t found a solution to.

you glance down at the letters, then back at him. “you could’ve just told me.”

“no,” he says again, but softer this time.

“why not?”

his expression shifts slightly—not defensive, not cold.

just tired.

“because then you’d know,” he says.

“i do know.”

“not like this.”

a beat.

“not because you chose to.”

that lands heavier than anything else.

you hadn’t thought of it like that.

you swallow, then gently push the letters a little closer to him. “do you want them back?”

he looks at them for a long moment.

then shakes his head once.

“no.”

you blink. “no?”

“you’ve already read them,” he says. “there’s no point pretending otherwise.”

You hesitate. “do what happens now?”

another pause.

he picks up his pen again, but doesn’t start writing.

“now,” he says, voice steady again, control slipping back into place, “we finish the assignment.”

that almost makes you laugh.

“right,” you murmur.

but neither of you moves.

not immediately.

and when you finally do start working, something has shifted—quietly, subtly, but undeniably.

because now, when you glance up and catch him looking at you—

he doesn’t look away quite as quickly.

[weezyweasleys-fg]

Bruises and Oozes | F.W

summary: You and Fred Weasley were like two sides of the same coin—constantly at each other's throats for as long as you could remember. It was a rare day when something didn't happen where you'd do something to spite one another, or an ill-timed comment didn't slip out of either of your mouths. Could feelings between two long-standing rivals really change? Get a grip. You hate each other.

c/w: enemies to lovers, aged up above twenty, hogwarts having a university, cursing, gets physical between you and him, forced proximity, fred accidentally injuring reader, emphasizing ENEMIES, so a lot of teasing, bullying, and harsh words, so please read at your own risk!, fluff ending, my sad attempt at slow burn

w/c: 12.4k

a/n: let's pretend that events from ootp and gof (book) happened in their later years in a university setting for the sake of the story :))

“History of Magic, Ancient Runes…Advanced Potions…” You mumbled to yourself, eyes glued to the parchment nestled firmly in between your fingers—eyebrows knitted together as you assessed your schedule for the rest of the week while you walked the bustling halls to your next class.

You were concentrated. In the zone. Just how you always liked it before your classes—until a sudden thwack sent your parchment flying.

It fluttered into chaos. Students jostling past, one foot nearly stomping it into a smear of pumpkin juice and shoe prints. 

You lunged for it,

Only to find Fred Weasley already there.

He stood over it like a roguish vulture, one polished dragonhide shoe planted right on the corner of your timetable. His twin was nowhere in sight. Just him, grinning down at you like he’d just won Galleons on a bet.

"Oi, what’s this? Y/n’s life in ink and panic?" He crouched low—too close—and plucked up another loose sheet before you could stop him. "Ooooh! Color-coded?! Merlin’s beard, someone’s sad."

You snapped upright and snatched back what he stole. "Got a stick up your ass again this morning, Fred?"

He lets out a mocking gasp, "And here I thought we were friends!" One hand pressed dramatically to his chest while the other still pinned down half your schedule. "Best frenemies since Slytherin betrayed everyone!"

You yanked hard on the parchment. It ripped clean through, but his presence didn’t seem to invoke much care for it in you at the moment.

Then,

He did it again.

One sharp shove against your shoulder sent you stumbling sideways into a suit of armor that clattered like thunder through the corridor.

Students glanced your way before wisely scattering. The usual warning signs flashing behind their eyes: "Weasley vs l/n: Round ??? – Duck & Cover." It was an endless facade. Hell, even cats and dogs got along better than you two.

Before you could retaliate, Fred leaned right in.

Close enough that his freckled nose nearly brushed yours, breath warm with mint gum he sneakily pocketed from breakfast in Hogsmeade last weekend—one you spent hexing each other's Butterbeers until they exploded like fizzy fireworks across Madam Puddifoot's china teacups.

Won’t be seeing that place until you were in her good graces again.

Fred in a soft voice spoke to you. “Runes exam tomorrow...fancy helping me fail spectacularly?”

Your heart kicked once—in rage or something worse?

Probably poison from that cursed love potion incident last year when George swore he wasn’t testing ingredients on unsuspecting students…

This rivalry was starting to feel like foreplay made of sparks and sabotage, and you were just about to see it all unfold at a timing you so terribly dreaded.

Him being this close solidified the one thought that constantly swirled in your head: 

You hated Fred Weasley, and you sure got the message that he hated you too. Maybe even just as much.

You shoved him hard, sending him back a step with a scowl. 

"The only thing you'll be failing spectacularly is breathing if you don’t get away from me."

Fred just laughed—low and rough, like he enjoyed the threat. He shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking forward on his heels like he owned the entire corridor. 

"Tsk, tsk, such hostility before noon." His eyes sparkled, dangerous and bright. "I missed breakfast because I was too busy charming Professor Vector’s quills to write ‘y/n’s crush list’ during class."

Your jaw dropped.

"You what?!"

He winked.

"Every single one started writing your name followed by…well, let’s just say they’re not so subtle about who you really want under the mistletoe."

“Mistletoe!? I don’t even like anyone, you halfwit!” You retaliated, not with your words—but swung your bag at his head.

He ducked fast as lightning—but not fast enough. The corner clipped him right in the ear.

"Hey!" Fred yelped, staggering sideways into a broom closet that burst open behind him from the impact.

Supplies rained down. Cauldron scrubbers smacking his shoulders, buckets toppling over like an angry orchestra of clatter—

And then George's voice rings from down the hall.

“Fred? You alive in there or did she finally snap?”

But Fred didn’t answer right away.

Because now you were chest to chest inside that cramped closet with half-lit dust swirling around—and you gripping a handful of his robes to keep from falling atop him after tripping over yourself mid-attack.

His breath caught once when you pressed closer by accident—or fate—or some cursed force determined you’d both suffer equally for seven years of mutual torture masked as banter.

“One day,” he murmured, voice suddenly raw beneath all that mischief, "you're gonna hex me so hard I turn into something unrecognizable…"

His hand slid up your wrist—slow—to peel off your ink-stained grip from his collar without breaking eye contact…

"And then maybe," he added, thumb brushing under your pulse point, "you’ll miss me when I’m gone."

Silence hummed between you—loud enough to drown out even Peeves cackling overhead minutes later as he chucked sponges at your heads and screamed.

“FRED’S IN LOVE! FRED’S IN LOVE WITH THE GIRL WHO HATES HIM!”

Both of you jumped apart—eyes darting to the mischievous ghost faster than Polyjuice had ever worn off wrong.

You clicked your tongue, hardening your gaze before returning it back to the Weasley in front of you. 

“I couldn’t care less, nor would I notice—let alone miss you even if you’d turned into a Freshwater Plimpy...” 

And that was the end of it and neither of you said anything again until Potions, where somehow—he passed you back your ripped schedule with scribbles across it in fiery red ink of Professor Snape wearing a witch hat and had exploding cauldrons all around him that refused to wash off no matter how many spells you tried later…

The lecture had ended and your nerves were still at an all-time high. It had been for the last seven years with Fred around, and your vandalized, rumpled up schedule was your final tipping point for this week.

You stormed out of the classroom—bag clutched tightly in your hand. The leather squeaks, almost as if coming alive to tell you of its pain as indents began to form in your palm from how tightly you were gripping onto its handle.

The irritation showing on your face was like a miserable trophy of that boy’s doing. Unintentionally flaunting it around for everyone to see just how deep he’s gotten under your skin for the day. And that made him proud.

The corridor blurred as you stormed down it—shoulders stiff, jaw clenched so tight your teeth threatened to crack. That smug, freckled nightmare had ruined another morning. Another schedule. Another piece of your sanity.

All you wanted was to get this day over with, have a nice bath, and throw darts at the Quidditch poster with his stupid picture in it.

You turned a sharp corner down the hallway—only for someone to dart out of a side passage and slam you square in the shoulder with their own.

This didn’t feel like an accident.

Never any accidents with him.

This one felt intentional.

"Whoa there, love! You’re walking like you’ve got a Bludger shoved where the sun doesn’t shine."

You whipped your head towards him—bag still screaming in protest—and found Fred leaning against the stone wall like he’d planned this ambush for days. 

Maybe he had. The git probably enjoyed watching you unravel.

"Move," you hissed.

He didn’t flinch. When did he ever? Just pushed off the wall with that infuriating nonchalance, hands casually slipping into his pockets. The picture of calm while you were three seconds away from setting his eyebrows on fire without magic.

“Temper, temper…wouldn't want McGonagall docking house points again because someone finally cracked after seven years of perfection." His eyes flicked down to where your knuckles whitened around your bag handle, and back up with a smirk that was far too knowing. “Or are we finally admitting we care?”

That did it.

You stepped right into his space—placing your palm firmly against his chest and pushed him against the wall. One solid pace forward until only breath separated you two before jabbing your index finger hard against his chest.

"I don’t care about you, Weasley. I care about peace. About not having my notes rewritten as comedy handouts by you! About getting through one single day without some prank or smirk or—" you choked slightly on rage.

"That stupid way you look at me like I'm some kind of game!"

Fred blinked, not knowing whether to laugh or ridicule you for your sudden outburst. In his mind, he hadn’t done anything wrong. That what he did wasn’t anything to throw a fit over.

He thought the same way then when your rivalry first began, and still thought the same way now in your last few years of university. It was all just banter to him. Painful, excruciating, patience-testing, banter.

Admittedly, his back did sting a considerable amount from the impact of him hitting the brick wall—but he would never say it aloud. Not to your face at least.

He managed to stifle out a chuckle. Sharp. Concise. “Don’t act like you’ve been betrayed by a close friend or something. You’re the one always having your knickers in a twist. Always so serious. But then again, can’t expect anything less from Miss Prim and Proper.” 

You stayed silent, not straying your eyes from his as your heart pounded from anger…? Or was it adrenaline? You couldn’t tell the difference anymore. The line between which emotions were which when it came to him had been blurred long ago. His voice was like grating sandpaper against steel. Unpleasant in every way. 

His brows shot up in response to your elongated silence,  but took note of your deadly gaze. One he knew all too well, and one he basked in like a wolf during a full moon. 

“Good Godric,” he drawled, smirking, “what, have you suddenly discovered feelings other than being a killjoy? Shame it took so long.” 

“Killjoy? Really…?” You mocked, keeping the pressure against his chest firm, "I expected something a bit moree… creative. I fear you’ve lost your touch, Freddie. A bit rusty I daresay.”

“Rusty?” He echoed, a small laugh bubbling from his chest—sending vibrations throughout your fingertips. “Funny, considering how I'm still getting under your skin.” 

“No, look—” you used your free hand to swipe away invisible tears. “Not a single shed today! Not that you’ve ever made me cry, though—but nice try.”

“Oh, please, I could’ve filled ten prefect’s baths with your tears when we first got acquainted.”

“Enjoyed it that much, huh?”

“Pushing your buttons, yes. It’s become a hobby of mine now, really. Even thought about giving up Quidditch to do it full-time.”

You sighed, lowering your arm from his torso and turning to leave. “You know what, whatever. There's better things to do with my time. Goodbye, Woser, hope to see you never.” 

Hearing that stupid nickname you gave him back in your third year (Weasley + loser), made something crack inside of him. 

And because he can’t help it, because chaos runs in his veins and your rage is his favorite melody,

He flicks your bag strap.

Hard.

The motion sends it swinging off your shoulder—and you turn back to look at him so fast he actually looked surprised (not that he'd ever admit that).

"Oops," he says with a grin that attempted to feign innocence.

“Say one more word," you replied, tone deadly calm.

His grin widens, so of course—he says two.

“Make me.”

Silence cracks like a spell about to backfire.

Then—

You pounced. Not for his face, not for his throat—but for the front of his robes, hauling him down so your noses nearly touch again, fury sparking in every inch of space you don’t dare fill.

And Fred?

He kept smiling. Almost amused. He was definitely having fun.

“Wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you," you threatened through a smile.

“Mm, I love when you talk to me like that. Turns me on.” His voice drops—low and teasing. “Nothing but pretty threats—which makes a bloke really wonder… do you actually wanna slap me, or kiss me?”

And then—without thinking— you didn’t stop at a glare.

Your foot jerks down—fast and sharp—and smacks right into his own with enough force to make him grunt.

"HOLY—" he stumbled back half a step, retreating the foot like he’s been cursed. "Merlin's saggy left—"

"Oops," you responded sweetly, imitating him from earlier.

He stares at you wide-eyed. Pained. And then—that damned grin creeps back bigger than before.

Because now there’s fire in your eyes and color in your cheeks and for the first time all week—he felt alive.

“Seven years… and not once have I seen you this unhinged.” He tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he can’t quite solve but is hell-bent on finishing. “I think I like it.”

“Should I have done the other foot too, then?” You inquired sarcastically, reeling your shoe upwards and ready to strike down his other unfortunate set of toes.

But nothing came.

You didn’t bring your foot back down with twice as much force as the first time like you were intending to. There was no action, no effect.

The hush that settled after was quicker than dust in an old room. Uncomfortable and stuffy. But it didn’t take long for that tense atmosphere to be cut off by Peeves, who was making his comeback and was shrieking overhead.

“KISS HER OR DUEL TO THE DEATH, WEASLEY—PICK ONE!”

You jumped apart—faces burning as Filch’s slimy footsteps followed, echoing down the hall like doom incarnate, and you definitely weren’t gonna hang around for his arrival. So you took your bag, and turned away from Fred to leave.

But as you stormed off with fire in your stride, you didn’t miss the way Fred watched you go, quiet for once, and how his hand still lingered over where your fingers had gripped him tight.

You didn’t step on him again just because you were exhausted… right? 

There’s no compromise for second thoughts when it comes to revenge on Fred Weasley!

Thinking about why you never followed through ultimately terrified you, so you brushed it off and carried on with the rest of your day like nothing happened—like the brawl you had earlier wasn’t fit enough to land the both of you in a boxing ring with crowds placing their bets on their fighter of choice.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It was finally the weekend, and a certainly crowded one at that.

Hogsmeade had always been the hotspot for students looking for a bit of fresh air, or simply wanting to run away from extra schoolwork to be done back at Hogwarts—so mischief was either lurking around the corners somewhere, or an area as painfully obvious as the fifth years chucking rock hard Fizzing Whizbees at each other outside some shops with fragile display windows.

This day was no different. Stores were overflowing with mostly the younger classes carrying barrages of sweets and knick knacks enough to last them until their next visit to the village which won’t be for a while, and the older students were usually seen around supply shops, Zonko’s, or in an alley somewhere...

The Three Broomsticks was your go-to. Always the best place to relax and get a bit of reading in. Also because you were craving a particularly delicious and deathly cold Butterbeer to cool off after a long week of work and, well…him.

It was a miracle you’d manage to make it this far without having done anything drastic to get yourself suspended, or for the lack of a better word—expelled.

That seemed to be the only plausible outcome other than sitting through hours of detention together like from that one time you nearly set the Divination Classroom on fire when you attempted to tamper with Fred’s crystal ball. Ended up casting the wrong spell and sent fire sprites taking laps all around the room. Professor Trelawney was not the least bit pleased—but she seemed intrigued nonetheless.

She said something along the lines of “Those flames foretold me something about you, child. Your future is going to be one of many trials!” And if Fred Weasley was the trial she was “foretelling” you about, you wouldn’t be so surprised.

And Merlin forbid you two get stuck together in detention again. There was just something about him discreetly trying to get on your nerves while a professor stood watch that was much more vexing than when he did it obnoxiously. 

Unfortunately for the both of you, the detention room had become your sleeping quarters for more nights than you’d care to admit.

Your fingers caressed the smooth paper of the page you had just finished reading before flitting it over to the next one—eyes immediately dancing on the rows of beautifully arranged letters of the new novel you had only picked up a week before.

An empty stein of Butterbeer sat to the left of your book with water pooling at its base from condensation while one half-full waited patiently with your fingers tangled lazily around its handle—occasionally twisting the heavy glass unconsciously as you read.

Since you were fully immersed in your book—you paid no mind to the hustle and bustle of the very crowded, very busy Three Broomsticks. You had your own booth right at the very back all to yourself with your personal supply of Butterbeer, and Fred Weasley was nowhere to be seen. You were as happy and relaxed as you had ever been in a long time.

For a while at least.

Just when the flow of the story you’d been reading was beginning to pick up, a sudden and abrupt force slides into the booth next to you—shoving your body sharply to the side, causing your book to close (without a bookmark in it, no less), and your precious, long awaited Butterbeer to spill from its glass.

You froze as you looked at the mess before you. Weekend Hogsmeade relaxation plans were officially ruined.

You scoffed, a snarl slowly painting your face. “Excuse me—”

But the face of evil incarnate met your line of sight the moment you turned your head to meet your perpetrator. 

With a stupid grin plastered on his troublesome mouth, partially sweaty complexion, hair that looked windswept as if he’d been running, and that damn jumper he liked to wear so much.

It eventually clicked in your mind that he probably was running away from something—or more appropriately, someone.

And you were right. He was running away from someone. Specifically, Graham Montague.

Just a few minutes before your unfortunate disruption of peace, it was supposed to be Fred’s usual visit to Hogsmeade too—with George and Lee Jordan tagging along as per their routine.

They were aiming for Spintwitches first to get a look at some new Quidditch gear, then Honeydukes for some sweets, Zonko’s to buy some supplies for a few pranks him and his brother were working on (and maybe some inspiration for their own joke shop), and then lastly, The Three Broomsticks as the cherry on top after a long day of exploring.

The schedule panned out smoothly. So smooth that the only thing on Fred’s mind was getting back to their common room, snack on some Honeyduke’s delicacies, and tinker with their newly bought thingamabobs. And maybe find ways to rile Filch up if he’s got extra time.

That was the plan until they were on their way to the last stop of their little visit: The Three Broomsticks.

The air around the trio was calm and energetically laid-back. Fred had his hands shoved into his pockets while he walked—laughing with the other two who were shoving each other as they debated on whether Zonko’s or Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes made the better Dungbomb.

And quite the heated debate it was. Lee still reckoned that Zonko’s original recipe stunk more authentically, while George begged to differ and replied with sass in his tone. 

“Please—as if anything beats our extra-sticky, triple-rotten-egg blend," he snorted. "You, Jordan, lost that argument the moment you tried to test it in McGonagall’s classroom."

Fred tipped his head back and roared in laughter. "We’re still banned from her office…was bloody brilliant, though!”

But all that carefree banter died down as soon as Lee motions to a familiar figure approaching them from down the street. 

“Hey, isn’t that Montague?”

George and Fred turned their heads to Lee and cocked up an eyebrow—seemingly confused as the name didn’t seem to ring any bells.

Lee scoffed and quickly rolled his eyes at their obliviousness. “You know, the bloke from the Inquisitorial Squad? The one you two pushed into the Vanishing Cabinet when he was about to nick points from Gryffindor?”

George’s eyes went wider than the cauldrons sold at Ceridwen’s, and Fred’s lips had compressed so tightly that he looked like an old wizard with no teeth.

Lee found it absolutely hilarious seeing the shift in the twins' expressions—and he got a front row seat to seeing it in its full glory. He even thought he could’ve become a millionaire should he decide to plaster their faces on some shirts and sell them.

The younger twin’s breath hitched as Lee’s words landed like a well-aimed Bat-Bogey Hex.

“Oh. That Montague,” George said with a hybrid of a smile and a frown.

The memory of that one fateful day on the first floor at Hogwarts came crashing back. The sly student who worked under Umbridge with the Inquisitorial Squad badge gleaming like a target, and the glorious shove into the Vanishing Cabinet. 

"Blimey," Fred whispered, "I thought he’d been splinched into next week." He paled slightly, eyes darting toward the approaching figure as if calculating escape routes—or backup prank plans.

"And here I thought we’d seen the last of him. Wonder if he still smells faintly of cabinet dust…"

Lee smirked, arms crossed like he wasn’t about to watch history repeat itself in real time.

“Well—!” Fred swung an arm around George, attempting to turn both their bodies away slowly before Montague notices them. “I think The Three Broomsticks can do without our Galleons for now, men.” 

“For once I actually agree with you, Freddie," answered George who attempted to hide his growing nervousness (which Lee thought to be quite unlike him) as his legs itched to skedaddle away so quickly his upper body wouldn’t be able to keep up.

Right as they were taking their first holy steps back to the motherland (which really is just the castle), a sharp, audibly fuming voice thundered from behind them—bouncing off the shops which caused students and merchants alike to stop and stare.

“WEASLEY!!!” 

And that was all it took for the two notoriously “brave” mischief makers to bolt—leaving Lee Jordan out on the battlefield. 

While coordination was the one thing Fred and George prided themselves on, the chaos of their impromptu getaway had managed to separate them, leaving each twin to fend for themselves.

Merlin knows where George had found himself in, and Fred—as you guessed—ended up in The Three Broomsticks.

With you.

The moment he rushed through those heavy wooden doors, his eyes immediately began looking around the crowded venue for a secluded area where he wouldn’t even be caught dead in. 

And then by some luck or misfortune… he found you.

After dealing the damage of recklessly slipping into your booth and messing up your things, he sneakily peeked over the seat—checking to see if Graham had followed him in. 

You observed the tall ginger in disbelief—annoyed at how he didn’t show an ounce of decency after causing the clutter you thought you didn’t have to worry about today.

“What in Godric’s name are you doing!? Get out, you look like an idiot!” You whispered harshly, not taking your eyes off of him as he continued to peek over the seat like a perverted schoolboy in a girl’s locker room. 

You attempted to push him out, but the man was as sturdy as Snape’s wrists.

Eventually after a hot minute, he finally slid back down beside you. 

“Well that’s not very nice, I thought to give you some company. Doesn’t it get boring being so lonely the way you are?” He asked, attempting to mask his exhaustion from all the running—clearly brushing away the real matter at hand. 

I mean, as if he’d ever want you to know. It would absolutely embarrass him if you’d found out that he was actually running from someone—let alone a person he and George had pranked.

“Don’t need to reflect your insecurities on me, Freddie,” you commented, plopping a bunch of napkins on the puddle of spilt Butterbeer. ”I’m perfectly content, thank you very much.” 

Fred’s eyes followed your hands as they cleaned up the mess he knew he had caused. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t wallop me with your book there," he says, changing the subject and inclined his head to motion to the closed book by the empty glass of Butterbeer.

I mean you would have, but not for no particular reason. You promised yourself no violence against Fred Weasley today.

You glanced at him annoyed and just about every bit as confused. “What are you talking about?”

“I caused it to close without that little blue bookmark thingy.” 

You froze for a moment. How’d he know about the blue bookmark only you were certain had known about? Not even your friends knew of its existence.

“How…” you trailed, mustering up the willpower to look into his eyes.

Still as sharp and as belittling on your being as usual.

“Okay, beer-brain, spit it out,” he leaned against the seat, crossing his arms and smirked at you. “Don’t expect me to sit here all day, though. Don’t ask me to help you relearn the alphabet either.” 

You glared at him before shaking your head. “Nevermind.” 

Now choosing to ignore the Weasley sat beside you, you took your unfinished book back in your hands and sifted through the pages to try and find where you’d stopped—but unfortunately to no avail.

"You always do that when you’re all pissy," he said suddenly, voice lower with undertones of mocking. "Flip too fast like the words’ll jump out and bite you. Never seen someone fight a book like it owes them Galleons."

He leaned in slightly, hovering over your space without touching you.

"And for the record, I’ve seen it. The blue bookmark. You left your Charms notes open during Study Hall last Tuesday. Page 37—Protego variants—and there it was. Little frayed at the edges. Blue as McGonagall’s tartan socks."

Your eyebrows knitted together at his oddly specific observation. 

“Didn’t know being a creep was also in your line of expertise," you said, taking out your wand and gave it a flick over your book.

The pages began to unfold and flutter before your eyes like a flurry before eventually settling down on one particular page. The page where you left off.

He scoffed, scooting back up his seat. “Show-off. Bet you practiced that little flourish in front of a mirror.” 

“But also,” Fred added, leaning his arms against the table then looking at you. “I much rather prefer the term ‘passively observant stud with excellent memory and zero impulse control.’ But sure, slap on ‘creepy’ if it makes you blush harder.”

“Eugh, in your dreams. As if someone like you could ever make me blush.” You rolled your eyes and reached out to grab your Butterbeer—giving it a small swirl before taking a sip. He wasn't being very discreet with the way his eyes bore holes into your neck as you drank.

You finished the remaining beverage in one go, exhaling a refreshed sigh before moving the empty ware with the other empty glass.

A beat of silence passed between you and Fred, both of you caught in the middle of an odd standoff. But despite the intensity of the moment, a flicker of humor glinted in his eyes as he smirked.

"You know," he drawled, "for someone who hates my guts, you don't seem all that eager for me to leave."

“Yeah?” You replied, going along with his quip, “I could say the same for you. You could’ve banished me from my own booth and taken it as yours like you always do.”

“You’re right, you’re right…” he nodded his head with an enlightened frown. “But where’s the fun in kicking you out when I could watch you pull those goppin faces at me instead.” 

You scoffed, failing to hide the slight twitch on the corners of your lips.

Fred noticed. 

Of course he did.

“But,” you shot back, “you’re still here. Breathing my air, stealing my legroom, and polluting my peace with your Weasley-level destruction.”

“Polluting?” He retorts in mock horror. “I practically improved the atmosphere! Without me, this booth would’ve been so clinically depressed Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t even know what to do with it.” 

“She aids injuries on living beings, not furniture with mental illnesses, you numpty.” A laugh slipped from your lips before you could stop it—small, sudden—and Fred froze like he’d caught something rare.

And for just a second…one terrifying second—both of you forgot to pretend.

The pub buzzed around you like static, and neither of you moved an inch towards leaving.

“You’re such a headache," you whispered with less venom than intended—your eyes glossing back to your book to try and brush off the earlier event.

“But you’re here talking to me."

You flipped a page slowly, pointedly ignoring him, though you could feel his gaze like a warmth against your skin.

Then—

A soft brush.

His knee bumped yours under the table.

Both of you froze.

"Oof," he murmured—low and lazy—but made no move to reposition. "Must be all the walking loosening my limbs."

"Right," you responded back, voice tight. "Because it couldn't possibly be your complete lack of spatial awareness."

He smirked—but not fully. 

Outside, thunder rumbled—distant at first—then closer as storm clouds rolled in overhead. The pub hushed slightly; people turned toward the windows as rain began to patter against the glass like drops of milk being strewn by a child.

“Looks like Hogsmeade’s throwing itself a proper tantrum," he said quietly. “Kinda like you.” 

You glanced at him then—really looked—and caught him watching you again. Not smirking this time. Just… looking.

Your breath caught slightly—as if by accident—and he saw it.

Of course he saw it.

"What?" You asked sharply—the word too fast to be casual.

“Nothing," he replied. "Just wondering if y/n has an umbrella-shaped book in her collection."

"Piss off."

“See?" He mused—but there was no aggressive bite behind it. "Always with the violence when someone tries to pull a gag.”

Your heart thudded once.

The space between your knees stayed close—the warmth where his leg pressed gently into yours now undeniable under the table and spilled Butterbeer droplets.

And then—

A loud crash from across the room—a dropped tray sent tankards skittering—and suddenly reality snapped back into place like an over-tightened shoelace.

Fred pulled his leg away with exaggerated speed—as if burned—and cleared his throat loudly.

“Blimey! That bloke's gonna need more than magic to clean that up!”

You aggressively flipped through two pages to try and play your embarrassment off. “I hate how much noise you make when you’re surprised. Too bloody loud.”

“And I hate how much ink smudges on me when someone's throwing a fit,” he shot back with half-hearted sharpness.

Time seemed to move incredibly quickly when Fred made it known that it was time for him to head back. The threat of Graham potentially catching him was now no more than a speck of dust in his mind.

And since he didn't necessarily bring much with him other than the small knick knacks he bought and shoved into his jumper and pant pockets, there wasn’t much for him to gather before leaving.

He stood up from the booth, your eyes unintentionally following. He doesn’t say anything—but rather looked back at you with pursed lips, almost as if hesitant to say something.

You raised an eyebrow at his hesitation. “Why’re you stalling like that? Thinking of something creative to say for once?”

He shifted slightly, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“I’m not stalling,” he replied. “Just thought I forgot something.” And without another word, he turned and walked away from the booth.

Before he could completely vanish from your sight, you sneakily took your wand in your hand and gave it a small wave towards him—and almost immediately, he tripped on his own two feet earning a few giggles from the girls sitting around that witnessed the whole “mishap”.

He turned back to look at you on instinct—like he knew you did it (and he knew he was right), and there you sat, already expecting his gaze to be cold. Annoyed. Condescending even—and it was, only…a little softer. Foreign. 

Your small observation made your throat feel tight, but you didn’t want to feed more into it so you just brushed it off again—twirling your wand in between your fingers as you shot him a half-assed smile.

Fred huffed, glaring at you before turning around for the final time and walked out the door.

And from within and beyond that pub window,

A certain girl “tried” to immerse herself back in her reading, while a certain twin ran through downpour stricken alleys—not realizing why going home suddenly felt like walking away from it instead.

Certain thoughts were creeping up and bubbling over in the depths of your mind, but no. You can’t. You hated him.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

December rolled in quicker than you downing a hefty sum of Treacle Tarts during lunchtime just a few hours ago.

How you wished you hadn’t eaten so much—because while everyone, including your friends, were having an absolute blast dancing with each other and their partners at the ball, there you were fighting arm and toe with your dress just trying to get a breath in.

“Damn those tarts for tasting so good—” you grumbled, voice straining a bit as you adjusted the waistband of your gown for the nth time tonight.

Despite your thinning patience from the conundrum you had gotten yourself into, you wouldn’t dare deny the lavish and elegant spectacle that engulfed The Great Hall with a view that never failed to take your breath away.

And that was the Yule Ball.

The preparations always filled Hogwarts with a flurry of activity. Students buzzed about in their finery—hair coiffed, robes and gowns pressed, and smiles eager.

In your humble opinion, winter, with the honorable mention of autumn, was the one season that Hogwarts seemed to always wear beautifully. The pure white snow painted the castle’s historic dark stones, piling up on balconies and rooftops like wool on a newborn lamb, creating a familiar and deeply comforting ambience you can’t seem to get enough of.

Everything just felt welcoming in the cold. Even the classrooms with lessons you absolutely dreaded taking.

You couldn’t say the same for some people, though.

Despite having pushed the events that happened between you and Fred back at The Three Broomsticks a few months ago to the very deepest pits of your mind, you’d be lying if you said it didn’t resurface from your thoughts every now and then—especially in moments where you weren’t supposed to be thinking about anything.

Like when you lay in the silence and solitude of your bedroom.

With every bite you took during breakfast.

And with every page you caressed in the books you read before flipping it over…

He was there. As sneaky and as big an eyesore as he could ever be, even in your thoughts.

But tonight was the night where you really set your sights on steering away from Fred Weasley. Not even so much as a peek of his nauseating ginger hair would get in your line of sight today.

And maybe, just maybe, you had wished for it hard enough that the wizard gods had granted your plea. Not once did you see him on the dance floor, the tables, or even the buffet area. Save for his brother George, who was, albeit sloppily, dancing with his date on the dance floor. 

You let out a frustrated sigh, giving up on the God-forsaken wraps of clothing you called a gown and dropped your hands back on your lap as you sat on one of the chairs by the tables. You didn’t have a date to the ball, and yes—it was completely of your own volition to not go with anybody. 

Despite receiving offers from a few lovely gentlemen (much to your surprise), you’ve decided to save yourself from the hassle and declined all their proposals. It didn’t really take away much of the fun from the festivity anyways.

Your eyes danced around the ensembles of sparkles, satin, and fur—taking in the last few hours of the ball before it ends. 

That was the least you could do now seeing as how tired you were after your friends insisted on dragging you onto the dancefloor for the extra four sets of The Weird Sisters' performance.

“Whew!” A shriek of enjoyment snapped you out of your thoughts. You looked up, seeing one of your friends approaching you from the dancefloor—face flushed and all sweaty.

“You look terrible!” You yelled at her through the music—a small smile painted on your lips.

“I wouldn’t be so surprised! A real dancer, that one!” 

“Who!”

“That Ivan from Durmstrang! I couldn’t keep up!” She roared in laughter.

Your friend looked radiant under the dimming lights. The sweat that painted her skin resembled crystals as they reflected the snow in the hall, and her wide smile that reached up to her eyes was her biggest accessory.

“You’re doing great!” You exclaimed as she reached behind you for her drink—taking a huge swig before turning back to you.

“I tried!” She looked behind her, causing your eyes to follow. There her date stood, waiting for her to come back before giving the flustered damsel a small wave. “Dance with us again, won’t you?!”

You shook your head, frowning teasingly. “Absolutely not! You’ve drained me for the night, you madman!”

“Come on, live a little! That Weasley’s not here souring your mood for once, so let me be greedy with you!”

Hearing your friend mention Fred made you cringe so hard mentally your face practically concaved back into your skull.

“Your date’s getting impatient!” Exclaimed yourself, trying to wriggle out of her insistent invite. ”You know how some Durmstrang men are! And besides, I need the loo!”

“Do you need me to come with?!”

“No!” You responded quickly. “No, I’ll be fine! You go have fun! I don’t want to hear a word of your whining later about your regrets on not dancing with Ivan enough tonight!”

Your friend’s eyebrows crinkled slightly before her face returned to its normal, carefree, expression. She gave you a nod before waving goodbye, disappearing into the dance floor and back into the arms of her partner. Best prepare yourself for the stories she’d be telling you until the early hours of the morning once you’re back in your dorms later.

You let out a sigh, smoothening out the silky fabric of your gown’s skirt before getting up to walk towards the hall’s exit. 

You thought about calling it a night a few times during the event, but a few extra hours past your bedtime to enjoy a once-in-a-year festivity didn’t seem to bother your psyche too much. But you really did need the loo, though. Your dress was practically killing your insides at this point.

The walk to your destination was calm. Almost eerily serene. The silence occasionally being cut through by the sounds of your heels clacking against the stone floors, and the muffled bangs and yells of the band’s music gradually fading as you walked further away from The Great Hall. 

But now wasn’t the time to be thinking about anything again. And in these moments, he always crept in. Like some hawk stalking its prey from above—circling overhead enough to drive the poor bastard below insane.

You were scared. Scared when you realized you caught yourself unconsciously seeking his presence the whole time during the ball.

As for your reasoning, it never came to. Confused and frustrated as you may have been, you yearned for just a glimpse of him. 

Denial was an understatement and one of your closest friends—and perhaps some justified reasoning would help ease the discomfort in your chest:

Maybe your body’s just naturally conditioned now to constantly be on the lookout for him so you know when to dodge his dull remarks, or steer yourself away from his pranks that were so lame they bored you more than it angered.

Shutting your eyes tight, a groan of exasperation rumbles from deep within your throat, echoing all throughout the empty, warmly lit corridor.

You forcibly shook your head to try and desperately rid of all those absurd ideas. The bracelet on your wrist now became the next victim of your unease.

As the entrance to the restroom neared, something began to smell. 

Distinctively, gunpowder. 

You paused just short of the restroom door, nostrils flaring as the scent hit you—sharp, electric, unmistakable.

Not perfume. Not candles.

Fireworks.

And not just any kind—this was Weasley fireworks. The sort that didn’t just explode…they performed. The sort that sang opera before setting fire in a perfectly choreographed act of chaos.

Your pulse jumped.

No. He wouldn’t.

But then—

A tiny pop, like a cork from a champagne bottle—soft, cheeky—and from the corner of your eye, you saw it: a single spark spiraling up from beneath the restroom door like a curious firefly made of gold.

Then another.

And another—forming letters in midair before fizzling out with a coy little puff.

“𐌔𐌕𐌉𐌋𐌋 𐌕𐋅𐌉𐌍𐌊 𐌉'𐌌 ɠO𐌍𐌄?”

And as quick as you could’ve said the words to a levitation spell, the sparks started hurling towards you—or more rather, your feet.

Whistles and bangs of red and orange danced around your stems, causing you to let out a shrill scream as you tried your best to dodge the searing flames of color.

“Shit!" You yelped, heart lodged somewhere between your throat and your stomach.

And then a laugh—rich, low, utterly unapologetic—echoed somewhere behind you.

You spun, wand raised and cheeks flushed with the embarrassment of being caught off-guard.

There, leaning casually against an adjacent pillar, was Fred.

His hands were in his pockets—and the corners of his mouth were twitching. As if he were fighting a smile.

“You…!” Disbelief slipped through your clenched jaws. 

"Having fun yet?" He asked in an exaggerated murmur, amusement threaded through every word. "Or need I send up a few more?"

“You’re dead to me, Fred Weasley—!” A sharp sting cuts through your words like a hot knife—silencing you with enough time to have your body run cold.

You looked down to the source of the pain and saw blood. A good amount of it, rolling down one of your ankles and right onto your heels.

With scared, wide eyes, you looked up—and for the first time in seven years, tears finally appeared before Fred Weasley.

His eyes locked onto the blood staining your skin, your shoes…his prank had gone sour in the worst way imaginable.

"No, no, no—" his voice cracked. "I didn’t—I didn't mean for this—those weren't supposed to—it’s just smoke and spark!"

But it wasn't.

Somewhere along the line—a stray shard of enchanted casing, a rogue charm misfired from one of George’s untested prototypes tucked in his pocket—had sliced through illusion and flesh alike.

And now you were bleeding.  

Crying.  

In front of him—for the first time since he’d known you—and it shattered something deep inside Fred that he didn’t even know could break.

"Merlin's beard,” he whispered, "I'm sorry—I'm so bloody sorry.” 

He looked up at your face like he was drowning and only you could throw him rope—but all he saw was pain and fear.

Not anger at first...not even blame...

Just hurt.

And it wrecked him more than any curse ever could.

"I’ll get Pomfrey," he started frantically, "no—I'll carry you myself—"  

But then—

You stepped back sharply—the movement small but final—and wiped your tears with gritted teeth like they were a betrayal too far.

And without saying anything more, you pushed him away from the door and bolted. Out of the restroom, and into the corridor. Anywhere, just not anywhere near him.

You knew some stupid feelings could never be trusted.

Why, of all people, did you think Fred Weasley would ever do something nice to you for a change?

Whatever happened in The Three Broomsticks was all just banter! Rubbish! It really was just nothing!

With one heel stained with blood and the other nearly charred to a crisp, you ran faster than you ever had before. The amount of pain you felt on your ankle couldn’t compare to the weight that was pressing on you emotionally.

He actually went too far this time, and the crimson that painted your skin was what solidified everything. 

You hated Fred Weasley.

You hated Fred Weasley!

Not even a minute into your getaway did you hear louder, more frantic footsteps slowly gaining speed from behind you. You didn’t need to look behind you to know who it was—all you knew was that you wanted him gone.

“Y/n! Please, can you slow down a minute?!” His voice thundered from behind you. The echo from the corridor had him sounding like a recurring nightmare.

But you didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Each step sent fire up your ankle, a sick rhythm syncing with the frantic pulse in your throat—but the pain was nothing new. You were good at carrying weight that wasn’t yours. Had been doing it for years.

But this was different.

This wasn't just another prank gone cheeky, another smirk and “I didn't mean it, love" like butter on toast. This was blood on stone. Real blood. Yours. And Fred had been the one holding the spark.

With one foot slick with smooth, red, liquid, it was no surprise when one of your heels decided to slip off, leaving you with no choice but to discard the remaining one and continue running.

The corridor twisted sharply ahead and you veered into it like a wounded animal fleeing its hunter—your breath jagged, tears smearing through soot and fury as they fell.

You took a sharp turn, eventually finding an empty staircase. Dark, partially lit by moonlight and the stray casts of firelight from the torch lamps just down the hallway. You were tired, and it was the perfect place to stop. You didn’t even hear Fred running after you anymore.

So thinking you’d finally lost him, you dragged your body that seemed to grow heavier with each limp you took towards the steps.

And with each step, came a new tear.

And another one,

And another one.

In the distance, the Yule Ball hummed with music and laughter, golden lights shimmering like trapped fireflies across The Great Hall. But outside the warmth of that glow—on the cold stone steps leading down from an unused corridor—there you sat.

Alone.

One heel somewhere in the castle, and the other lost between pride and pain.

Tears streaked your cheeks—not just from the sharp throb in your ankle where Fred’s prank had gone wrong, but from everything else that came after.

The look on his face when he realized what happened.  

The way you pulled away before he could even say your name.  

And worse—that flicker in his eyes as you ran, like he wasn’t sure whether you were running from him or finally past all the things neither of you dared say.

Then—

Soft footsteps echoed behind you.

Slow. Careful.

And there he appeared at the top of the stairs.

Breathless. Tie loose. Hair wilder than usual.

"Oi," he whispered, voice rough but gentle, "lost property found."

He stepped down slowly—and held out a single glittering heel.

Then paused, realizing there was only one.

"...wait." His brow furrowed. "There's not two?"

You hugged your arms tighter around yourself, trying not to cry harder.

“Get away from me…” your voice shook.

Fred sighed softly and sat beside you—not too close, but close enough so his warmth brushed yours in waves under winter air.

“Just let me help—”

“I said get away from me!” Your voice—as mighty as thunder yet as broken as the cracks in lightning filled his ears.

Fred blinked, slightly taken aback by the sudden volume in your tone. And he’d been yelled at many times in his life.

“You’re…” you hiccuped, your throat not showing you any mercy by how much it made your voice quiver. “You’re like an itch I can’t scratch…!”

“Y/n—"

“You’re insufferable, Frederick Weasley!”

He flinched.

It wasn't just the use of his full name—although that stung more than it should have.

It was the venom in your voice. The hatred in those words—as if the fire he'd always sought from you had suddenly been lit and aimed towards his head.

"Y/n," Fred started again, "I can fix this. There are spells to heal wounds this size—"

"Fix this?" Your laugh was like acid. "You’ve never fixed anything. Not this time either. You only waited long enough for me to forget what you’ve done before doing it all over again!"

"Oh, like you haven’t been doing the same thing! And that's not—"

"That's exactly right," you hissed. "I only did them because of you! You think if you’d left me alone all those years ago, we’d end up like this?! Every time, you say you're sorry, then turn around a day later and do something even worse. It's an endless cycle, Fred, when does it end?! Has my trust never crossed your mind?!"

"It has!" He yelled, guilt now clipping away at what was left of him. “It has…and I probably smashed it doing those daft stunts."

A beat passed—one heavy with silence.

"...but it was supposed to be funny."  

"It went sideways real quick—and I swear I didn’t mean—"  

"Fred," you cut in sharply, eyes red-rimmed, "It wasn't just the fireworks."

Then he froze—the weight of those words settling like snowfall after a blizzard.

"You ran," he said quietly. “Not screaming mad…not cursing me into next week…” he turned slightly toward you. ”You looked at me—and ran.”

"And?" You snapped through tears. "What did you expect?"

“Something!" He leaned forward—voice faltering slightly. ”A slap! A hex! Hell—even an eye-roll would’ve been better than watching you disappear like you couldn't stand being near me anymore!”

Silence fell again, but softer this time as rain began tapping faintly against high windows above you.

Finally, he reached out onto the step behind him and pulled out both heels—clutched carefully between two fingers.

"I charmed it back together," he mumbled sheepishly, "It'll last through midnight if we hurry back before Cinderella turns into Snape," he says, throwing in a reference from some Muggle fairytale he’d heard about from Ron.

You sat there quietly. Sniffling—almost in a daze as you gazed at the new pair of shoes like you envied it. There wasn’t any blood. No soot. No trauma. Brand new like you didn't just bleed in it earlier. It had the chance to experience everything anew again.

Fred noticed, so he took initiavive—extending his arm carefully and placed the newly conjured kicks by your bare feet. 

“Look, I don’t expect you to forgive me. Not right away, anyways.” He shrugged, looking slightly defeated.

“But let me help you at least. Make an exception just for tonight and I promise I won’t bother you anymore starting tomorrow—we can both forget this ever happened. But I can’t promise you won’t be seeing me around school, though. I’d like to graduate as well.”

And without warning, a clean napkin appeared in his hand with the flick of his wand.

“Because I caused it—” he nodded towards your foot, “I know damn well I can fix it.”

An expression of reluctance stills itself on your face as you looked at Fred. His gaze expectant as he holds the small (charmed with a cleaning and healing spell) towel open in his palm. His simple gesture showed you that your ankle was the perfect fit for such a place.

But the words were on the tip of your tongue.

Get lost.

All those years you spent weighing between fighting or fleeing from him was now embedded deep into your system despite feeling the complete opposite. It was a curse—and one you never for once, had been eager to learn in the first place.

However the look in his eyes made you falter. Like leaving without patching you up first would kill him.

For a split second, something in you wondered if that was true. 

So instead you sat there in silence—blindly feeling out the atmosphere before hesitantly extending out your injured leg, then watched him take your ankle and bring it onto his lap. 

Fred sucked in a breath as he gingerly pushed up the dirty, slightly burnt hem of your skirt, trying to keep his touch feather-light against your skin.

"It's...a pretty bad cut," he muttered softly—more to himself than anything. His fingers traced along the bloodied skin, eyes tight with quiet focus as he inspected it for pieces of those charmed casings. He was almost shaking. Call it guilt, shame, or fear, but he was all of those things right now. 

He paused, hands hovering over you—hesitantly, like he had finally realized that you were something fragile. Breakable.

“This might hurt. I need you to stay still.”

His touch was gentle as he began to wipe at the blood with the towel—cleaning up his mess with trembling hands.

It was in the silence of his concentration where you really got a good look at the man in front of you. Not fleeting like those moments where he’d run past you so quickly after charming your notes into a pile of complete gibberish—or those times when your vision would be so clouded with anger his face just completely blurred into a whirlwind of every single grievance you’ve held against him.

But a proper look this time.

Fred Weasley was sitting in front of you, dabbing your wound with the cloth he had conjured up, and was quiet for once. Concentrated. 

Gentle. 

A notion so new and completely incomprehensible to you up until this moment.

You noticed the delicate wrinkle in between his eyebrows as he fought to keep himself steady. To not press onto the cut too hard. And the way his lips parted ever so slightly as his eyes danced around your skin with a gaze that had every possible emotion known to man swirling beneath it.

With your observation, something in your chest felt off shortly after. Almost enough to pass off as a bunch of Cornish Pixies playing bouncy house inside your lungs.

It churned in the pits of your stomach and made your hands feel all tingly.

Every accidental brush of his fingers against your skin as he cleaned you off left a feeling similar to electricity in its wake. 

You felt your heart literally skip a beat. Palpitations, perhaps? Or the growing unease when you thought of the impossible actually happening? 

Your vulnerability was as new to Fred as the hairdo George opted for himself for the ball. It was your stillness as you simply sniffled away the stings of his undoing.

You didn’t nag at him.

Or yell.

Or hit him with some sort of retaliation that would have his skin burning red and painfully for days.

A shame it would be for his pride to say it aloud; but your tears had made you as beautiful as he’d ever seen you before. The natural flush on your cheeks made him wonder what you’d look like if someone were to actually make you blush, and the way your lips were painted with the most delicate shade of reddish pink—oh, he was done for. 

Fred felt himself stop breathing for the shortest second, letting out a small cough as it erupts from his torso to try and appear casual about all this. Like he wasn’t just battling his own fear and defensive rebuttal about you in his mind in real time—but there was no denying it now.

This was his repentance. The only punishment he’d ever welcome with open arms.

He finally saw now that—

He liked you. 

It was as simple as that.

Fred finished wrapping your foot with a quiet charm, his fingers lingering a second too long.

“There,” he said, voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “All patched up.”

But neither of you moved.

He stayed sat in front of you—hands hovering near your ankle like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to let go. Like letting go meant admitting this moment was over and whatever just happened between you would vanish into the same silence that had once held it together.

You swallowed hard.

Why isn’t he leaving?

Why do you not want him to?

His eyes flicked up—slowly—and caught yours. Not joking, and no pretenses. Just…looking at you like he’d only ever seen you now. Like the truth had been there all along, buried under pranks and insults and years of pretending not to care…

And now it was uncovered.

Real.

Raw.

"I shouldn't have run that joke," he whispered, thumb brushing ever so lightly over the edge of the bandage—a touch so soft it made your breath hitch— "but I’m glad I ran after you.”

A moment passed—one where time seemed to forget its job—then Fred stood abruptly—as if catching himself before saying something even more dangerous and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

"Anyway," he said quickly, voice regaining its usual pitch before cracking slightly, "don’t go making a habit outta getting hurt, ‘cause I’m not showing up.”

He tried for a smile—but failed halfway through.

"...Even though I probably will."

You didn’t answer right away—just watched him shift from foot to foot like standing still hurt more than running.

Outside, the storm began to fade to soft whispers against glass instead of fists pounding walls—as if even nature had held its breath waiting for this moment too.

Fred Weasley turned away with red ears and took one last look at your shoes.

Both clean now,

Both whole—

Maybe like tomorrow.

He took the first steps toward what could be your final moments together, and without thinking, your body moved on its own—arm shooting out, and fingers closed tightly around his wrist.  

The air stilled, and time seemed to pause. It wasn’t just contact—it was resistance, a silent plea wrapped in a single touch.

Don’t go.

He froze halfway through a step—his mind racing on whether you actually did just cling to him or was it some deluded illusion he wished so badly to happen his body acted on itself?

I mean—you? Willingly touch him so comfortably?  

Fred didn't look at you immediately. His eyes apparently finding his feet more interesting than the girl behind him whom he’d tormented and was indiscreetly telling him not to leave her.

Your lips parted, his name a breath away from slipping from your mouth. 

But nothing came out. 

You were afraid that if you so much as muttered something, the tone would give away everything that’s been left unsaid.

Your fingers tightened just slightly around his wrist. Not enough to pull, but enough to tell the man all he needed to know.

Fred didn’t move.

Didn't breathe.

The corridor stretched long and silent behind you both, the lamps flickering like hesitant stars watching a moment too fragile to survive daylight.

Slowly—so slowly it hurt—he turned his head just enough for one eye to catch yours over his shoulder. Just... waiting.

Like he was afraid that if he looked fully at you, you’d vanish—or worse, confirm what he'd already felt blooming in his chest since the Yule Ball.

You weren’t really okay with losing him.

And neither was he.

The air between you hummed—not with magic this time—but something quieter, deeper…older than pranks or potions or schoolyard dares.

Your lips parted again—

But instead of words?

A shaky breath slipped out. Quiet. Unraveled.

His name died on your tongue once more, but your hand didn't release him, and your eyes didn't look away.

And somewhere beneath all the wreckage of hate and fireworks and bleeding ankles, it all started to come together.

Fred Weasley closed his eyes—and leaned back into the truth without saying a word.

He wasn't walking away tonight. Not when you were holding on.

So instead of pulling free, he turned around fully. One slow revolution of regret and reckless hope.

He followed through with the natural pull of your arm, slowly walking back to the steps where you sat before taking a seat beside you.

And then it was quiet. Quieter than quiet had ever been the whole night.

Neither of you moved, and neither looked away. Both hearts seemingly competing on who’s to burst from who’s chest first.

After what felt like a millenia of intense eye contact, Fred finally made the first move and cupped your face with a cool, gentle hand. The action was so sudden you had allowed it to happen before you could flinch or fight or remember how much easier it was to lie than feel...

"...say it," he whispered, voice breaking at the edges. "Even if it's just once."  

“Let me hear it."

And there in the dim glow of Hogwarts’ last candlelight, you sat trembling…

Not from the pain anymore, but from how close love had gotten. From it being spoken aloud in a language built entirely on jokes and petty insults.

But love isn’t always spoken first in words anyway.

Sometimes, it starts as blood on stone.

A vandalized schedule.

Or a bag swung at your head with full force.

Two stubborn students learn that running stops being fun when someone mattered more than the escape.

“Fred…” you whispered, eyes searching his with a gaze completely different than the cold and sharp looks you’d send his way before.

And for a fleeting moment, you could’ve sworn you felt him tremble when he heard his own name slip past your lips so gently the way it did. It wasn’t said with the intention of slicing through him like you’d always intended it to.

And his eyes. Oh, his eyes, why have you never noticed how much depth they held? They weren’t shallow and filled with evil like you’d always thought. They were brown. Ah, brown! That was Fred's eye color.

He had you in a daze. One where you didn’t even realize you were in. So much so you didn’t notice him slowly beginning to lean in.

With his brows low and furrowed, jaw clenched, and hands colder than death itself, there was no denying how wrong your minds were making this feel despite the overwhelming magnetic pull between you.

Your breath catches in your throat as your eyes barely fluttered shut. Fred pressed your foreheads together and your lips brushed—just barely—until he pulled away with a shaky exhale and dropped his head onto your shoulder.

“What are we doing…” he muttered to himself. The weight of both his words and head were grounding in a way where it snapped you back to reality.

But nothing more was to be said on your part. You were done trying to explain or intervene with words. And Fred would be the first to know.

Your hand, despite trembling like it had a mind of its own, reached over to where Fred was resting his head on your shoulder and cupped his cheek right below his ear. And without resisting, he allowed you to bring his face back up into your view again.

The expression on his face was unreadable—yet too soft to call anger. It was pensive. On the brink of desperation. With eyebrows scrunched and slightly slanted with eyes that were rimmed with dew, it was painfully obvious he had held himself back from doing the unthinkable.

So now you took the lead. Leaning in, but not so boldly. It was every drop as hesitant and nervous as the first years entering Hogwarts for the first time.

Your lips hovered inches from each other for a just few seconds, before they barely brushed. Fred closed the distance with nothing more than a soft press, but it was enough to ignite your whole bodies.

The kiss wasn’t like fireworks or the stories you’d read as a child.

No bangs, no sparkles, and definitely no birdsong.

Just warmth—gentle, quiet—spreading from your lips down to your toes like sunlight peeking through lace curtains. A single breath shared between two people who’d spent years coming for each other’s throats.

Fred’s hands trembled against your face, calloused fingers catching the curve of your cheekbone as he deepened it just slightly, but barely there—as if afraid you’d vanish if he pressed too hard.

And maybe you would’ve if it hadn’t felt this right.

One heartbeat passed. Then another. 

Silence wrapped around you both—the kind only found after storms end and before birds returned to sing.

When he pulled back slowly, you didn't open your eyes right away—afraid movement would shatter it all into dust and denial again.  

His voice came low—rougher than before—and so close his next words brushed against your still-tingling lips.

"Still hate me?"

You finally opened your eyes and met his stare head-on. The usual mischief drowned in something deeper now. 

Softer…You.

And instead of answering?

You leaned forward and kissed him again.

No words needed.

None true enough anyway.

Because hate doesn't linger with trembling hands and shared breath in moonlit corridors...

Hate doesn't rewrite the past with one touch...

And most importantly?

Hate certainly doesn't start feeling suspiciously like coming home.

“You’re not half bad," you say, a small smile finally settling itself on your lips for the first time genuinely tonight.

“Oh, don't go soft on me now.”

“Fuck off...”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

≡;- ꒰ °bonus!!! ꒱

It started with tea.

Not flowers. Not jokes. Not enchanted love notes that sang horribly off-key to make you laugh.

Just tea.

A simple cup—steaming, carefully held in both hands—offered to you the next morning by a boy who looked like he hadn’t slept at all.

Fred.

He stood there in The Great Hall before your house table, early enough that only a few scattered students were about. His hair flat on one side from what looked like hours spent lying awake on a pillow too hard for comfort.

His robes were wrinkled, and his eyes—usually alight with mischief or laughter—were heavy and soft, searching yours like he was afraid something had changed despite all that happened the night before.

You slowly dropped your book and fork—both of which were simultaneously nestled in your hands after noting his presence, and looked up at him.

"You’re up early," you said quietly—words far from unkind.

"Couldn't sleep," he admitted, voice rough as if sandpaper lined his throat. "Too busy thinking about how much of an absolute tit I was until last night."

You didn't answer right away—just took the cup from him slowly—the warmth seeping into your fingers before it reached your heart. 

You gave him a small nod.

Not forgiveness yet…

But not dismissal either.

And Fred? He clung to it like oxygen after nearly drowning.

He didn’t follow you everywhere—not openly—but somehow always seemed to be nearby when needed.

The next day at lunch—you opened your bag and found a pair of soft wooly socks inside. Hand-knitted (terribly), in a burnt orange color with one toe suspiciously larger than the other. 

A note tucked inside it read:  

“SO YOᑌᖇ ᗩᑎKᒪE STᗩYS ᗯᗩᖇᗰ. GEOᖇGE ᕼEᒪᑭEᗪ (ᑕᑌᖇSEᗪ ᗰOᖇE TIᗰES Tᕼᗩᑎ I ᑕOᑌᒪᗪ ᑕOᑌᑎT). ᗯEᗩᖇ IT Oᖇ ᗷᑌᖇᑎ IT—I’ᒪᒪ STIᒪᒪ KᑎOᗯ."

You wore it under your shoes that afternoon when Madam Pomfrey cleared you for walking again—and Fred just “happened” to pass by outside the hospital wing carrying two butterbeers (in his words, “in case someone needed sugar,”) and fell into step right beside you without saying a word.

Until four minutes later when he mumbled,  

"Still hate me? Be honest."

A pause was all it took from you for the Weasley to weigh the odds of him biting all of his fingernails off, or just deciding to not exist altogether.

"...slightly less than yesterday," you responded, trying to pass it off as a joke.

It wasn’t much, but Fred grinned anyway—as if those words alone had healed more than any spell ever could have done.

And so continued days filled not with pranks, but quiet gestures.

A textbook levitating gently onto your lap during Charms because “Your arms looked tired.”  

Him silencing Lee mid-petty comeback towards another girl because “we don’t do that here anymore.”

Sitting across from each other every evening in the library or the Astronomy Tower—one badly reading poetry aloud while pretending not to care if she listened—and one pretending she didn't hang onto every awkward syllable anyway.

No grand speeches.

No dramatic declarations beneath starlit-stricken skies.

Just presence.

Consistency.

Gentleness and adjustment where only chaos and spells gone sideways used to be.

Then came Valentine’s Day—The Great Hall had become strangled by pink ribbons and lovesick owls dropping roses overhead—and nestled in front of you between servings of Cauldron Cakes sat a tiny velvet box tied shut with red string shaped strangely familiar.

Inside was no jewel,

No flashy trinket,

But something simple.

A small silver band with something engraved around its inside rim—with two barely visible words etched so finely they could only be read up close.

"𝑇𝑜 𝑦/𝑛."

When Fred finally approached later with cheeks pinker than Ginny’s rose-colored jumper—he didn’t say anything dramatic.

Just leaned down slightly near where you sat stunned, and whispered simply.

"I envied the bracelet you wore that night for being so close to you all the time—so I’d rather see something of mine on you instead… If y’want."

Silence stretched long again…

Long enough for him to begin fidgeting nervously after pulling away.

Long enough for him start wondering whether this time—he'd overreached too far again.

But then soft fingertips curled gently against his palm as your hand found his, squeezing just once before bringing him closer slowly… Deliberately…

As if testing each other’s trust inch by fragile inch before finally whispering back—

"I wouldn’t mind."

Fred exhaled shakily—a smile blooming slow but true across his face—one full of hope instead of doubt.

Your breaths lingered—until they didn’t. Meshing into one soft yet heady kiss that showed how much you both had craved for each other since that night.

Fred had deepened the kiss (much to your embarrassment), so all of The Great Hall could see—and believe me when I say what a spectacle and cause for discussion you two had become.

Stray remarks about how “the third Hogwarts war had finally ended!”—or how big of a 180 you two had taken from practically setting each other’s robes on fire on a random Wednesday, to a sickeningly sweet couple that practically leaked honey wherever they walked. 

However, it did take a lot of time before getting to where you were in terms of intimacy.

Sex was something you both discussed and decided to put off until the time was right—but other than that, it was still quite… chaotic.

Fred spent a good three months stressing about how he’d find the right time to tell you, but before he could worry any more, a small mishap—or perhaps miracle during Potions solved that problem for him.

He ended up abruptly sputtering out a “Merlin, you’re lucky I love you.” After you so foolishly spilled a hefty amount of a potion he knew you always perfected with ease on his uniform which shrunk them nearly three sizes down. 

It wasn’t your fault that he knew all the ways to fluster you. Especially during class and in front of Snape too, no less.

You, on the other hand, weren’t so fortunate when it came down to taking your time with your “I love you’s” to him. 

It took you twice as long, and Fred (though appearing nonchalant), was finally bursting at the seams just to hear you say it back—though he never pressured you into doing so.

Him now proudly bearing the status of being your boyfriend didn’t take away the tricks he always had up his sleeves for you. Only now it was more for your laughs rather than your angry yelling. 

One afternoon during your vacant period in between your classes, he asked you to meet him in the courtyard to “help” him with some lessons he couldn’t seem to get a grasp of—and with no objections, you did so willingly.

But only if you’d seen the way his eyes flashed with mischief while that devious smirk of his grew on his lips, you could’ve braced yourself better before Fred decided to push you down onto the warm grass, giving you an advanced apology kiss before he began tickling you in all the right places.

You squealed, legs frantically kicking as you attempted to pry his hands off by twisting your body away.

“Say it!” He exclaimed, his fingers magnetically drifting to where you were your weakest.

“Say what?! Fred, stop!” Your face flushed with pools of red from how hard you were laughing.

“Say that you love me!”

“What?! You’re crazy!”

“‘I love you’ doesn’t sound like that!”

“Fred!!!”

“I know my name!!”

“OKAY, OKAY, I LOVE YOU FREDERICK WEASLEY, NOW LET ME GO!!!”

A wide, victorious grin took over his face as soon he finally got those three little words out of you.

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a quick, tender kiss before pulling back again, eyes still shining with triumph.

"Only took ya six months and a full-on tickle attack. Now was that so hard?" He teased, propping himself up on his elbows over you.

“You’re a madman.”

“Yeah, a madman that’s head over heels for you.”

Admittedly, his little stunt did put a chip in your mood the remainder of the day—sulking because your chest was hurting from how much he’d made you laugh. 

But for once, your anger didn’t feel so heavy and deep-rooted anymore.

Because forgiveness might take time,

But love?

Love already knew your names.

And years later, when your grandchildren asked how Granddad Weasley won Grandma over, they’d always hear:

“Oh,” the old man would chuckle, squeezing your hand tightly even now, “she hated me fair well at first.”

“And Merlin bless her—I never stopped trying till she loved me harder.”

[kaciebello]

Soft launch

Slytherin boys texts genre: crack warning: none note: i would eat these up, ngl Navigation Masterlist

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