Nov 5, 2024
her body so tea
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her body so tea
Charming
Harry James Potter x F! Reader
Movie 4. Veela reader. Beauxbatons. That's it.
The doors to the Great Hall swing open.
A cold wind bursts forward towards the tables of the grand hall. Banners hanging move abrubtly as the cause of the commotion stride forward.
Conversation dies instantly, followed by the anticipation and low murmurs of the expectators.
You step forward with the rest of Beauxbatons leading the graceful march.
Blue silk, pale light, and the perfect practiced posture drilled into you as you hold your head high and proud.
Madame Maxime leads in front of you, towering and regal and as the attention is pinned at the centers of attention,
The Veela charm stirs.
Not unleashed, just present enough that the attention does not falter.
You don't smile yet, saving the best for last.
Girls whisper. Boys straighten up on their posts. Somewhere, a thud is heard.
And the choreography begins.
Beauxbaton bows. Elegant, poised, just as rehearsed.
You lift your head at the same time the others do. That's when it hits.
The charm doesn’t surge all at once, it lingers. Like sparks finding dry air. Eyes lock onto you, drawn by something softer than beauty but stronger than curiosity.
You feel it pass through the room.
Most people lean forward.
One person freezes.
At the Gryffindor table, Harry Potter forgets how to breathe.
He’s not staring like the others, not openly, not boldly. His gaze flicks up, catches you mid-motion, and he looks away so fast he nearly headbutts Ron’s shoulder.
“What-” Ron starts, already half-standing.
Harry grabs his sleeve and yanks him back down. “Don’t.”
“Why not?” Ron demands, eyes glued forward.
Harry doesn’t have an answer. He just knows his chest feels tight and warm and wrong somehow, and that looking at you feels like stepping too close to the edge of something.
Hermione, notably, does not react at all. Arms crossed, eyes sharp, observant. Ron’s attention snaps back to her the moment she mutters something irritated under her breath, whatever pull the charm might have had sliding right off him.
You notice that too.
Interesting.
The performance ends. Applause erupts. Beauxbatons straightens, flawless and composed.
This time, you smile.
Not wide. Not dramatic.
Just enough.
The effect is immediate.
A few boys sigh like they didn’t realize they were holding their breath. Someone drops a goblet. A Ravenclaw knocks over an entire stack of parchment.
Harry Potter grips the edge of the table.
His ears burn. His heart stumbles. He feels it, the brush of enchantment, but it doesn’t take. It tangles instead, caught on nerves and self-doubt and the overwhelming awareness of being seen.
You don’t look at him again as you’re led to your seats.
But he watches you anyway.
Later, long after the noise returns, after plates refill and conversations rise, you feel someone hovering near your table.
You look up.
Harry Potter stands there like he’s walked into the wrong scene of his own life.
“Oh, hi,” he says, then winces. “Sorry. Hi.”
You tilt your head, studying him. Up close, he’s nothing like the whispers. No arrogance. No confidence. Just honest awkwardness and eyes that look like they’ve seen too much.
“Hello,” you reply.
He swallows. “Your entrance was, um, really impressive.”
“Rehearsed,” you say lightly.
“Oh.” He nods. Then, without thinking, adds, “It didn’t feel fake.”
The charm stirs again, gentle this time, curious.
You smile, and watch him fight the instinct to look away.
“Well,” you say, rising from the bench, “I’m glad someone noticed.”
As you pass him, close enough that your sleeve brushes his hand, you feel it shift.
Not infatuation.
Recognition.
Behind you, Harry Potter stands frozen in the aftermath of the charm as you walk away, smiling softly at the boy.
-----
Or, or, hear me out, after a while he reacts without you even using your veela charm ¬‿¬
-----
You are seated near the windows in the courtyard, parchment spread out, quill hovering as you pretend to work. The charm is dormant, fully and intentionally. You learned early how to tuck it away, how to quiet the hum beneath your skin until it is barely a whisper.
And yet.
Harry Potter still trips over his own feet when he sees you.
Not literally. But he does stop mid step, his gaze catching on you like he did not expect to find you there. He does not stare. He hesitates, as though his body pauses to check in with his mind before moving again.
That is not how enchantment works.
You glance up just as he realizes you have noticed him noticing.
“Oh. Hi,” he says too quickly.
“Hello again,” you reply, setting your quill down. “You look surprised.”
“I am. No. I mean. Just morning.” He winces. “Sorry.”
You smile gently this time, carefully.
Nothing flares. Nothing reaches.
Still, his ears turn pink.
You tilt your head, studying him openly now. No charm. No magic threaded through your expression. Just curiosity.
“Does this happen often?” you ask.
“What?” he says.
“You forgetting how words work.”
He lets out a breath that is half laugh, half sigh. “Only when I am nervous.”
“And are you nervous often?” you ask.
He thinks about it. Really thinks about it. Then he shrugs, sheepish.
“Lately.”
That is when it settles into place.
Not dramatic. Not sudden.
Just a quiet certainty.
You have seen enchantment before and felt it echo back at you, easy and predictable. Desire amplified. Interest sharpened. This is not that.
Harry is not leaning closer. He is not glassy eyed or drawn toward you like gravity.
He is simply aware.
You fold your hands together. “I am not using the charm,” you say casually.
His brow furrows. “The charm. Oh. Right. I did not think you were.”
You blink. “You did not?”
He shakes his head. “No. I felt it last night when you smiled during the entrance.” He gestures vaguely and then stops. “But this is just me being awkward.”
You laugh softly, genuinely.
“That is not how most people describe themselves around a Veela.”
“Well,” he says, adjusting his glasses, “most people are not me.”
There it is.
Not immunity. Not resistance.
Choice.
You lean back slightly, warmth blooming in your chest that has nothing to do with magic.
“Harry,” you say, and his attention sharpens at his name. “Do you know why the charm works?”
He shrugs. “Because magic.”
“Because people want it to,” you reply. “They reach for the idea of being enchanted.”
He looks at you then. Really looks.
“And you think I am not.” His expression stills, not startled this time but thoughtful.
“Oh,” he says.
You flash a smile and gather your things. As you pass him there is no brush of sleeves and no spark of magic.
Still, his heart stumbles.
You pause just long enough to say, “That is rarer than charm.”
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like c'monnnnnn I am in desperate need of some Harry x Veela reader fics like pleaseeeee. Anyways, hope you enjoyed!!!
Every time someone calls Severus Snape a “Nazi,” a political scientist dies a little inside.
xaden and violet got me kicking me feet and everything omfg
“art is just as bad” “art is a manipulative snake” i too would do anything to marry zendaya, he’s not evil, HE’S REAL‼️
oh crossover of the century!!!!!!
phil is genuinely so strikingly gorgeous in this stream it’s blinding
julien baker & torres via spotify!