When you and Draco get into some small argument, Narcissa decides to knock some sense into her son. What? Did you really think she'd take anyone's side but yours?
CW! small couple fight, coarse language, Draco overcomes ego. Let me know if I missed anything!
This is a short one, but I love any fics with great Narcissa-reader relationships.
Masterlist
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
Narcissa Malfoy loves routines.
She loves pre-set tea-times and punctual gatherings. She loves the certainty it brings to such an uncertain existence. And she simply does not care if the snobbish pureblood ladies call her a rigid scheming bitch for it.
It’s just who she is.
So forgive her for the overwhelming concern that collects in her neck when you don’t show up that weekend. It’s practically a ritual–ever since you started dating Draco. Saturdays mean a day full of shopping and a luxurious evening dinner. Over the years, as you developed from the nervous girl Draco brought home, to his confident fiancée, she’d grown attached to it. In her mind so had you.
It must be serious if you missed it.
So, she storms into her son’s study, voice low as she says, “What did you do?”
“Mother,” Draco startles. But Narcissa is unfazed, her arms crossing over her chest.
“Why isn’t she here yet?”
He remains silent for a long moment. Then he sighs, long and full of suffering. Sounds like an argument. Narcissa is unsure whether to feel bad for her poor son, or hex him for fighting with you.
“We got into a small…disagreement,” Draco says finally. He runs a hand through his hair, eyes averting to his desk.
“A disagreement about what?”
“It’s very petty. I don’t know why she’s gotten into such a toss about it.”
“Now, Draco.” Narcissa loves her son very much. She would die for him, it’s common knowledge. But there are some things she considers unacceptable. Which is disrespecting women, you especially.
“Have I taught you nothing?”
Draco sighs again. Narcissa softens a little. She gently rubs his shoulder, “What happened?”
“I forgot to say ‘I love you’ before leaving the apartment last Friday.”
Narcissa barely stifles a gasp. Draco casts her a look, before sinking into a wing chair.
“Draco Lucius Malfoy.”
“Mother.”
“You better go apologize to the girl right now.”
“What? It wasn’t that ser-”
“I don’t want any of that ego, Draco.” Her tone rarely hardens around him. He scowls, but it falls flat immediately. Narcissa knows this must be hard on him. For all that pride he’s inherited, there’s only so long he can stay away from you. Only so long until his steel and porcelain crack.
She sighs this time, settling beside him.
“Verbal acknowledgements of love are very gratifying, Draco.”
“I know.”
“It doesn’t take long to say three words.”
“I know.”
“And it’s obvious to anyone with…any senses, truly, that you love her.”
“I-I do.”
“And I want my best friend back.”
Draco finally meets his mother’s gaze. She sees the baffling combination of emotions ravaging through his head. She reaches over to smooth the hair on his forehead. He leans into the age-old comfort, nodding slowly.
“I’ll go talk to her.”
A beat of silence.
Then he jumps up to his feet, pulling his coat off his hanger, “I’ll go right now.”
Narcissa can’t help but smile. He can’t stay away from you for long, but sometimes, everyone needs a little guiding nudge.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
The last thing you expected to see when you opened the door was a very rain soaked Draco Malfoy.
His platinum hair drips all over the fancy wooden floors of the building. His coat is sopping, and despite the very recent argument, you are terrified your Victorian child of a fiancé will catch a cold. You tug him into the warmth of your apartment.
But you are mad at him.
So no welcome. And certainly no kiss.
“Darling.”
You don’t respond, disappearing within the depths of the house to fetch warm clothes. You hear his footsteps behind you.
What does he think? He can show up drenched in rain and just expect you to talk to him. You take your goodbyes very seriously.
You don’t know why he didn’t apparate into the building straightaway. There’s no protective spells about it. Or why he didn’t just use your fireplace. He has done so multiple times before, of course. But then again, he’s always been dramatic.
“Y/N.” He catches hold of your wrist. The cold makes you shudder.
“Look at me.”
You turn slowly. You’re surprised he’s overcome his pride at all.
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, are you?”
You free yourself from his grasp. He doesn’t resist. He runs a hand through his hair. A trait you’re so familiar with. He’s frustrated, maybe tired. You huff, annoyed.
“I didn’t think I’d have to force you to say ‘I love you’.”
“I do say it!”
“Yeah,” you scoff, “Not everytime.”
“Merlin’s sake,” He curses, and you roll your eyes, “You and my mother have dangerously similar ideals.”
“Oh, so she put you up to this? That makes sense.”
“No, wait. Please let me-”
“Get changed, Draco.” You all but toss the clothes at him. A shirt that you had stolen from him a few weeks ago. He catches it, tossing it to the side.
Before you can react, he grabs hold of your waist, spinning you around. You let out a small yelp, but he’s down on his knees, his wet hair pressing against your abdomen. His thumbs rub slow circles over your hips. A shaky breath escapes his lips.
“I love you, Y/N.” His voice makes a shiver run down your spine. It’s soft and low, like the sound of rustling velvet. You love it so, so much. But you force your hands to stay stiff by your side.
“I love you every moment of the day, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you last week. It is utterly my fault, and it is again my fault that it took my mother for me to realise that." His head lifts to meet your gaze, “Do you understand?”
You think you might cry. Your voice trembles when you say, “Yeah. Yeah, I love you too.”
He takes your hand to press a gentle kiss to the inside of your wrist, “Good. Because I do think my mother would kill me if I let you miss another weekend with her.”
You laugh at that, finally ruffling his hair like you’ve been dying to do. He scowls, but it’s playful.
“I don’t think I could live without another weekend with her,” You answer.
He lets out some sound of relief, and you giggle again, “Let’s go then.”
You grin, wild and unrestricted.
Narcissa might just be the bestest friend a girl could ask for.
⤷ One-shot!!! in which...Jungkook, a 7th year pure-blood Slytherin, is secretly in love with you, a 7th year half-blood Ravenclaw. His only obstacle from consuming you is your Gryffindor boyfriend, Minjae, whom he hates with his entire heart. Jungkook hexes him in the hallways whenever he gets the chance and silently wishes for his downfall.
Maybe I'm too busy being yours to fall for somebody new (Do i wanna know?-Arctic Monkeys)
pairing: 전정국 x fem!reader
genre: enemies to lovers | slice of life | smut | angst|
warnings: 18+, nsfw, jk is a manace, he's cocky but he's SOO in love, love triangle, dom!jungkook, swearing, multiple orgasms, making out, drinking, teasing, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, class differences, power imbalance, teasing, pet names, arguing
word count: 11.3k
Click here for the characters' moodboards and information!
Taehyung slid into the chair opposite you. "You're hiding. Minjae is looking for you. He wants you to help him with some Quidditch strategy diagrams, again."
You sighed, the sound barely disturbing the quiet. "Tell him I'm studying."
Taehyung gave you a look that said he knew exactly what kind of "studying" you were doing… which was none. The heavy book in front of you was, in fact, upside down.
"Mhm, I will tell him you're studying… whatever," he said, a smirk playing on his lips. "He'll probably believe it. You're the smart one."
Then, the heavy oak doors of the library swung open, and a very specific brand of chaos walked in. Or more accurately, two brands.
Jeon Jungkook and Park Jimin. Slytherins. Pure-bloods.
"I'm telling you that it's a terrible idea," Jimin's voice was a strained whisper.
"All of my ideas are terrible, that's why they're fun," Jungkook said, his voice loud enough to carry.
You didn't need to look up. You knew that voice. Jeon Jungkook's eyes scanned the room until they landed on your little corner. He quickly looked away, a disinterest that was more telling than a stare.
"Besides, what else are we supposed to do? Study?" He snorted, leaning against a bookshelf, his arms crossed over his chest. He paused, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "I heard Whitmore's new strategy involves trying not to fall off his broom this time. It's revolutionary, really."
Jimin let out an exasperated sigh. "Keep your voice down JK, for Merlin's sake."
Taehyung mumbled just loud enough for you to hear, "He has the emotional range of a teaspoon, I swear."
Jungkook's head snapped toward your table, his smirk widening. "What was that, Taehyung? Working on your NEWTs in stating the obvious?"
Jimin grabbed Jungkook's elbow. "Oh, we're leaving now, before you make a scene and Madam Pince bans us for life."
You finally looked up as Jimin was steering Jungkook toward the door, but not before Jungkook shot a sharp look in your direction and called over his shoulder, "Don't strain yourself, Y/n. It would be such a shame if a Ravenclaw Head Girl failed her exams."
The library door finally shut.
Taehyung closed his book with a soft thump. "That was so subtle."
You muttered, "What's his problem anyway?"
Taehyung laughed a bit. "His problem is about 5'10", wears red and gold, totally reminds him of a golden retriever, and he can't help but bring up Quidditch at the worst moments."
He gave the book cover a little tap. "But honestly, I'm more worried about into these books you’re getting. They read from bottom to top, you know."
You shut the book, a bit embarrassed. "Come on, quit it."
While you were packing up, Minjae burst into the library, his usual lively energy brightening the mood.
"There you are! I've been searching everywhere for you!" He waved from across the tables, completely unaware of the drama that just unfolded. "You won't believe the new formation I've come up with for the Hufflepuff game, it's genius, and I need your help to map it out."
"Oh, sure," you said, the words feeling hollow.
Minjae plopped down in the chair next to you, pulling out a crumpled piece of parchment from his robe pocket without even noticing the upside-down book or how flustered you were.
"Alright, picture this: instead of doing a regular starter formation, we flip it. Chasers fly in reverse! It’s a bit risky, but if we pull it off…"
Taehyung cleared his throat as he packed up his stuff. "I’m outta here. Try not to burn the library down with all this revolutionary brainstorming."
You nodded. "Catch you later." Then you looked back at Minjae. "It's a bold move..."
Minjae was grinning, totally wrapped up in his 'genius' idea, scribbling messy lines on the parchment with a quill that was leaking ink everywhere.
He was so focused on his plan that he didn’t see Jungkook come back into the library this time without his usual buddy, Jimin. Jungkook leaned against a bookshelf, not looking at you at first. He was too busy fixing the cuff of his green robes, his silver Slytherin tie just loose enough to seem a bit rebellious.
"A starter formation...? How ambitious of you. Did you come up with that all by yourself, Whitmore, or did you have help from a first-year's Quidditch practice picture book?"
Minjae was startled and turned to face him. "Jeon, we're in the library."
Jungkook pushed off the bookshelf and took a few steps closer. "I know, I can smell the desperation from here." His eyes flickered to you for a split second.
"Can you two take this somewhere else?" Your voice cut through the tension like a knife. Both boys turned to look at you, Minjae with surprise, and Jungkook with a mask of indifference that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Minjae held up his hands. "Sorry, you're right." He turned back to Jungkook. "This isn't the place."
"Don't sweat it, Y/n. We definitely wouldn’t want to interrupt your… studying," he said, giving you a pointed look at the upside-down book on the table.
Minjae let out a sigh. "What’s his deal? Seriously, he’s been acting like this for ages." He glanced at you, his expression softening. "Anyway, sorry about that. Let’s hit the Great Hall, I'm starving."
You nodded, grabbing your bag while Minjae quickly picked up his crumpled parchment.
"Lead the way, beautiful. I swear no more Quidditch talk for at least ten minutes," he said with a grin.
As you both headed out of the library, you noticed a quick shimmer of a disillusionment charm hastily casted . Next to where Jungkook had been standing was a small, crumpled piece of parchment. You bent down and snatched it up fast, folding it clumsily and shoving it into your robe pocket before Minjae noticed it.
The walk to the Great Hall was filled with Minjae chatting about random stuff, the upcoming Hufflepuff match, the treacle tart he was hoping would be dessert, and a funny story about a Gryffindor first-year. He didn’t mention Jungkook again, and he totally missed how often your fingers brushed against that folded parchment in your pocket.
Once you got to the Great Hall, it was loud and warm, buzzing with the usual dinner noise. Minjae walked you to your table and hung out with you for a moment. Across the hall, Jungkook sat at the middle of the Slytherin table, surrounded by a bunch of younger Slytherins who were clearly hanging on his every word. His eyes were locked on you.
Jimin elbowed him sharply. "You're staring, again."
Jungkook's gaze snapped back to his friend, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm observing; it's called strategy."
Jimin sighed. "Right. The only thing you're strategizing is how to not get another detention for hexing Minjae."
Jungkook's jaw tightened, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the table as he tried his best to look casual.
You sat down at the Ravenclaw table, Minjae next to you as he wanted to stay a little longer.
"Here, tart," Minjae said, pushing a small plate toward you.
You thanked him and took the food, trying to pay attention to his story about the team’s latest practice, but your mind kept wandering. A table over, Jungkook had his arm casually draped over the back of the bench, cracking up at something a seventh-year girl said, but his laugh didn’t reach his eyes.
He raised his voice just enough. "-think the best parties are the ones Filch doesn't find out about until the next morning, right, Jimin?"
Jimin stabbed a roasted potato. "I think the best parties are the ones where you don't set anything on fire."
Jungkook chuckled, his cocky grin showing. His eyes caught yours again, and he raised his goblet in a mock toast in your direction before returning to his friends.
Minjae finally noticed your distraction. "Oh, don't let him get to you. He's just trying to get a rise out of you. Out of everyone."
At the Slytherin table, Jimin whispered to Jungkook, "What do you think you're doing?"
Jungkook shoved him lightly away. "I'm having dinner."
Jungkook stood up suddenly, his chair scraping across the stone floor. The Slytherin side of the table went silent. He didn’t look at you again. Instead, he stuck his hands in his pockets and left the Great Hall. Jimin let out a sigh, rubbing his face in frustration, before getting up to go after him.
Minjae shook his head. "See? Drama. Everything is a performance with that guy." He cleared his throat. "More tart, pretty?"
You shook your head, your heart pounding. "No, thank you. Excuse me, I have to use the bathroom."
You quickly ducked into the girls' bathroom, hoping there wasn’t a ghost hanging around tonight. You leaned against the sink and pulled out the parchment you had in your pocket.
As you unfolded it, the writing was all over the place. It wasn’t a letter; it was a list.
• Charms essay (ask her for notes? Stupid)
• Check broomstick polish
• Tell Jimin to mind his own business
• Don't look at her in the Great Hall
• Don't look at her in Potions
• Don't look at her. Period.
• Yule Ball (who is she going with? Don't care.)
• I care
• Stop caring
• Her hair is beautiful in the sun.
• Merlin, I'm pathetic.
The last line was crossed out so violently that the quill had torn through the parchment in one spot. At the very bottom, written smaller, was:
• Tell her
Everything except one thing was crossed out, and that one thing was circled over and over, with the ink soaking through the paper. Suddenly, the door creaked open. You jumped, clenched the paper in your fist, and quickly shoved it back into your pocket.
And then Moaning Myrtle decided to make her entrance with a dramatic sob. "Oh, what's that in your pocket? Is it a secret? I love secrets!"
Myrtle swooped down, her translucent form passing close to your pocket. You clutched the paper instinctively.
"Nothing and nobody wants to hear you wail for the next hour," you said, your voice sharper than you intended. "Go bother someone in the prefects' bathroom. I hear they have better bubbles."
Myrtle let out a piercing wail and flew into a nearby toilet. You took a shaky breath, your mind racing. The list, the messy and crossed-out thoughts of the boy who tormented you at every turn. The boy who, it seemed, was just as tormented by you.
You stepped out of the bathroom, the crumpled paper crammed in your pocket feeling like a heavy rock. The Great Hall was still loud, but it all felt far away, like it was muffled. Minjae was still at the Ravenclaw table, chatting excitedly with one of your classmates. He noticed you and his face brightened up with a smile.
"Hey! Everything okay? You were gone a while," he asked, his brow furrowed with concern.
You forced a smile, the muscles in your face feeling foreign and stiff. "Everything's fine. Just a headache." The lie tasted like ash in your mouth.
Minjae, bless his oblivious heart, accepted it immediately, his brow smoothing out as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders.
"Ah, the perks of being the smartest and the most beautiful witch in the room. Come on, let's get you back to the common room, you need rest."
You let him guide you, you couldn't bring yourself to glance at the Slytherin table to see if Jungkook had returned. You weren't sure you could handle it. The walk to the Ravenclaw tower was a blur of Minjae's comforting chatter. You murmured noncommittal and monosyllabic responses, your mind a thousand miles away, replaying the crossed-out words on the parchment.
Finally, you reached the bronze eagle knocker. Minjae waited patiently for you to answer
"I have cities, but no houses live there. I have mountains, but no trees. I have water, but no fish. What am I?"
"A map," you answered automatically.
The door swung open, revealing the circular common room. Minjae followed you in.
"Well," he said, dropping onto one of the blue sofas. "That was… eventful. Jeon really needs a hobby." He leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head. "You know, I sometimes wonder what his deal is. We could probably be friends if he wasn't so… Slytherin about everything."
You froze by the window, your hand tightening on the sill. The crumpled parchment in your pocket seemed to burn.
"He's not just 'Slytherin', Minjae," you said, your voice quiet but sharp. "He's cruel."
Minjae sat up, his easy-going expression replaced by one of confusion. "Cruel? He's just an arrogant boy who takes the house rivalry too seriously. It's not personal."
"It's always personal with him," you whispered, turning to face him. "Don't you see that? The hexes, the comments… It's all aimed at you."
"Because I'm the Gryffindor Captain and he is the Slytherin Captain! It's part of the game!" Minjae insisted, his voice rising slightly in frustration. "Why are you defending him all of a sudden?"
"I'm not defending him!" you shot back, "I'm just… I'm saying it's not just a game to him. Nothing with him is just a game."
The silence that fell between you was heavy and unfamiliar. Minjae was looking at you like he'd never seen you before, a flicker of hurt and confusion in his hazel eyes.
"What's going on with you, Y/n? You've been distant for weeks. And now you're defending Jungkook? Is this about that note he passed you in Potions? Because that was just him being a jerk as usual."
You stared at him, and he remembered the note Jungkook had "accidentally" dropped on your desk that simply said, "Your tie is crooked, Head Girl." You had seen the way Jungkook's fingers had brushed against yours, the panicked look in his eyes before he'd masked it. You had thought it was a strange moment, now you knew it was a desperate move.
"I'm tired," you said finally, turning away from him and heading towards the girls' dormitory. "I'm going to bed."
"Y/n, wait," Minjae called out, standing up.
But you didn't stop and walked up the spiral staircase, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the common room.
You flopped onto your bed in your dorm, leaning back against the headboard. The room was quiet; your roommates were already out cold. You pulled the crumpled paper from your pocket, feeling your fingers shake as you laid it out on your lap. You read it over and over again.
Your eyes wandered to the bedside table, where a photo of you and Minjae was sitting. He had his arm around you, and that grin on his face was just full of happiness. It was a perfect snapshot of a couple in love.
You picked up the frame, tracing Minjae's smile with your thumb. You glanced back down at that frantic, ink-stained paper in your lap, and a scary thought crept in: maybe being safe just wasn’t enough anymore. Maybe it never was.
The prince in the dungeon
The decision was born of a desperate, reckless curiosity. For two days after you had found the list, the piece of parchment in your pocket felt like it was burning a hole through your robes.
"You've been a million miles away,” Minjae said on Friday afternoon, wrapping his arms around you from behind as you stared out a window. "Is it NEWT stress? Because if it is, we can have a fun study session with snacks."
You forced a laugh, leaning back into his warmth. "Something like that, just tired."
It was always the same damn excuse, and he bought it every time.
That evening, as you sat in the Great Hall, the announcement came. Jungkook was throwing a party tonight in the Slytherin common rooms.
"He's going to get himself expelled," Minjae muttered “and probably take half his house with him."
Taehyung, sitting across from you, caught your eye. He gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod. He knew, he knew you knew, and he knew this was your chance.
"I think I'm going to skip the study session tonight" you said.
Minjae looked at you, surprised. "Oh? Okay, we can just relax then, maybe sneak up to the Astronomy Tower?"
"No," you said, a little too quickly, "I mean… I heard about that party in the dungeons."
Minjae's fork clattered onto his plate. "You want to go to Jungkook's party? Y/n, why? It's just going to be a bunch of Slytherins getting drunk and being… well, Slytherins."
"I'm curious," you lied, your heart starting to pound. "I'm Head Girl, maybe I should… make an appearance, show them I'm not afraid."
It was a flimsy excuse, and you both knew it, but Minjae wanted to believe it.
"Okay," he said slowly, "If you think that's a good idea, but I'm coming with you. I'm not letting you go down there alone."
Panic flared in your chest. This wasn't part of the plan. You needed to see him, to talk to him, alone.
"No, Minjae, it's fine, really. You hate that stuff anyway. I'll just pop in, make a scene, and leave. It'll be good for my reputation."
He looked unconvinced, but you gave him your most convincing smile, the one that usually made him agree to anything.
"Alright but be careful.”
You nodded, your throat tight. "I got it."
An hour later, you find yourself wandering down a dark, unfamiliar hallway, your footsteps echoing off the stone walls. . You're making your way to the dungeons, drawn in by the muffled music. As you reach the bottom of the last staircase, the noise hits you first, and the air is thick with the smell of Firewhiskey.
The password, told to you by a cheeky Slytherin, is "Pureblood."
When you step into the common room, it's like a whole different world. The place is packed with students, a sea of Slytherin green mixed with a few from other houses, all dancing, laughing, and drinking. You can’t help but feel like you stand out in your blue and silver colors.
And then you notice him.
Jungkook is up on a raised platform, drink in hand, looking like he owns the place. His gaze sweeps over the crowd. He definitely gives off the cocky pureblood prince vibe, and you think about bailing.
But then he spots you.
His eyes lock with yours, and the smirk he had disappears for a moment. He looks genuinely surprised, but then a slow, confident grin spreads across his face. He says something to Jimin, who’s next to him, and starts pushing through the crowd, still keeping his eyes on you.
"Well, well," he said, his voice low and raspy, just for you. "Look at you, come to bust the party, Head Girl?"
"I came to see what all the fuss was about."
"The fuss is about not caring. You should try it sometime." His eyes flickered down to your pocket. "Or maybe you already are."
Your breath hitched. He knew you'd taken the list, he had to. This was a game of cat and mouse. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't you?" He was so close now you could smell the Firewhiskey on his breath. "You're in my world, Y/n. You should learn the rules."
"And what are the rules?" you challenged him, your chin held high, your arms crossed.
His gaze dropped to your lips, and for a heart-stopping moment, you thought he was going to kiss you right there, in the middle of his own party, but then he smirked.
"The first rule is that you don't belong here."
He looked entirely too proud of himself. He was playing with her, treating the conversation like a Quidditch match where he already had the lead. He liked the way she crossed her arms, it was a defensive gesture, but it didn't hide the way she was still flushed.
"Besides, if you leave now, you're just proving me right. You're just a little bird who's too scared to stay in the dark for more than five minutes."
"Fine," Y/n said, the word defiant.
"Now that's more like it."
Your gaze shifted without meaning to a couple making out in the corner of the room. His eyes followed your line of sight to the couples, and Jungkook let out a low, mocking hum.
"Careful, Y/n. If you stare too long, you might actually learn something. What's the matter? Is the Gryffindor too gentle? Does he only hold your hand and kiss your forehead?"
Y/n felt the heat creep up her neck. "None of your business."
Jungkook chuckled sarcastically. He turned away from you and rejoined his friends. You didn't leave, and you grabbed a bottle of something that smelled like cinnamon from a nearby table and took a sip. It burned all the way down.
You spent the next hour watching him from across the room. You saw him charm a pretty sixth-year girl, saw him win a round of wizard's chess, saw him laugh with Jimin, and through it all, you felt his eyes on you, quick glances that he thought you didn't notice.
Finally, you'd had enough, you set your bottle down and pushed your way through the crowd towards the exit. You'd seen enough for tonight and you knew what you had to do.
You were almost at the door when a hand shot out and grabbed your wrist, pulling you into a small, dark alcove behind a tapestry. He slammed his other hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in. The noise of the party was suddenly muffled, replaced by the sound of your own breathing.
“What the-”
"Where do you think you're going?”
"Home," you said, your voice trembling.
He leaned in closer, his face inches from yours. "You shouldn't have come here," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. "You shouldn't have seen that."
"Seen what? The perfect party?"
"This," he said, gesturing vaguely at the party beyond the tapestry. "This is all I have. This is all I am, a joke, a performance. Is that what you wanted to see?"
"No," you whispered, your anger melting away. "That's not what I see at all."
His eyes searched yours, desperately "Then what do you see?"
You saw the boy who wrote the list, the boy who was desperately lonely, the boy who thought he was unlovable.
"I see you-," you whispered, the words hanging in the charged air between you.
"You don't, you see him." He jerked his head in the direction of the party, in the direction of where Minjae would be. "You see the charming Gryffindor hero. You don't see this."
"This?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper. "What is this, Jungkook? This party? This… mask? Is this all you think you are?"
"It's all I'm allowed to be!" he said angrily, his eyes blazing. "Do you have any idea what it's like? To be told, every single day, that your worth is tied to your name, your blood, your ability to be ruthless?”
He was so close, his body trembling with the force of his confession
"I look at you and I see everything I'm supposed to hate, everything I can't have. You're good, you're brilliant, you’re beautiful and kind, and you're with him, the perfect Gryffindor. It's a fucking fairytale, and I'm the monster in the dungeon."
"You're not a monster," you breathed, your hand coming up to rest on his chest, over the frantic beating of his heart.
He didn't pull away. "Aren't I?" he challenged, his voice a bitter whisper. "I hex your boyfriend in the corridors, I spread rumors about him, I do everything I can to make his life miserable because I'm jealous of him. I'm jealous of the way he gets to hold your hand, I'm jealous of the way you look at him, I'm jealous of the air he breathes because it's the same air you're breathing. If that's not a monster, what is?"
"Why?" you asked, your own voice shaking. "Why do you do it? Why not just… tell me?"
"And say what?" he laughed, a harsh, broken sound. " 'Hey, Y/n, I know I've been a bastard for the past seven years, but I'm secretly in love with you, please leave the wonderful, decent guy you're dating for the messed-up son of a Death Eater sympathizer who doesn't know how to feel anything without hating himself for it?' How well do you think that would go?"
"I would have listened" you said, your heart aching for him.
"No. You wouldn't have. You would have seen me as a joke. A pathetic Slytherin pining after something he can't have. It's better this way, the enemy part, at least that's real."
"It's not real," you insisted, your fingers curling into the fabric of his robe. "None of it is real. This…" you said, gesturing to the space between you, "…is real. This is the realest thing I've felt in years."
For a moment, you thought you had reached him. The wall of arrogance and cruelty crumbled, leaving just the boy who was lost and scared and so incredibly in love with you, it was destroying him. He leaned in, his eyes fluttering shut, his lips parting slightly. He was going to kiss you. And you were going to let him.
You licked your lips
You swallowed
Your stomach did the flip thing
But then, a loud cheer erupted from the party, followed by the sound of a shattering bottle, and Jungkook's eyes snapped open, everything you’ve tried to build tonight crashed down.
"No," he whispered, pulling back from you, running a hand through his hair, his eyes wild. "No, we can't, I can't."
"Jungkook, wait-” you reached for him, but he flinched away.
"Don't," he said, his voice flat "This was a mistake, a big stupid mistake.” He straightened his robes, the mask was back on. "You should go."
"Jungkook, please…," you begged, your heart breaking.
"Go back to your tower, Y/n." He didn't look at you, he looked at the stone wall behind you, as if you were no longer there. "Go back to your boyfriend.”
He turned his back on you and walked away, disappearing into the crowd of laughing, Slytherins. He had pushed you away, but not before he had given you everything.
You stumbled out from behind the tapestry. You didn't look back, you couldn't. The walk back to the Ravenclaw tower was a nightmare.
The rest of the weekend drifted by in a quiet silence. You stayed away from the Great Hall, saying you had a terrible headache at the NEWT level, and Taehyung kindly brought your meals to your room. Minjae kept sending owl messages, each one cheerier than the last, checking in on how you were feeling and letting you know he was thinking of you. But, somehow, you just couldn't find the words to reply to any of them.
By Monday, the bubble of your isolation had to burst. You had Charms with the Gryffindors, and you knew you couldn't avoid Minjae forever. Walking into the classroom felt like marching to your own execution.
"Hey! You're back!" he whispered as you sat down, his hand immediately finding yours on the desk. "I was so worried. Are you feeling better?"
"I'm fine," you lied, pulling your hand away to retrieve your wand. "Just needed some quiet."
"Right," he said, his smile faltering slightly. "Well, I'm glad you're here, maybe you can help me with the wrist flick, I always mess it up."
You tried to focus, you really did. You tried to listen to Flitwick and to perform the practiced flicks of your wand, but all you could think about was the way Jungkook's body caged you in, and the sound of his voice as he confessed everything.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a concerned whisper. "Y/n, seriously. What's going on? Is this about Jungkook's party? Did he say something to you? Did he hurt you?"
"I think we should talk, Minjae," you said, your voice barely audible over the chatter of the class. "Meet me by the Black Lake, after class."
He didn't know what, but he knew something was fundamentally wrong. "Okay, the Black Lake, after class."
The next twenty minutes were the longest of your life. When the bell finally rang, you packed your bag with shaking hands and walked out of the castle. He found you a few minutes later, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the cold. He looked at you with those honest, hazel eyes.
"So, this sounds serious."
"Don't," you whispered, turning away from him to look at the water. "Please don't be kind right now."
"What? Why? Y/n, whatever it is, we can fix it. Just talk to me."
"I am trying to talk to you! I'm breaking up with you."
"You're… what? No, you're not. You're just stressed."
"It's not that," you said, finally turning to face him. His face was pale. "This isn't working, Minjae."
"Not working?" he repeated, a humorless laugh escaping his lips. "What does that even mean? We've been working for years! We work!"
"We were," you corrected gently. "But we're not anymore."
"Is this because of him?" he demanded, his voice rising with anger. "Is this because of Jungkook? That party? What did he do to you?"
"He didn't do anything!" you insisted, the words feeling more and more like a lie. "This is about me. This is about… us. We're a fairytale, Minjae. We’re a lovely story, but it's not real."
"It is real!" he shouted, stepping closer. "What I feel for you is real! Is this a joke? Are you breaking up with me because you're bored? Because you've decided you want some drama in your life? Is that what this is?"
"No!" you cried, tears finally welling in your eyes. "It's because I don't love you! Not the way you deserve, not the way I should."
"You don't… but you said…"
"I know what I said," you whispered, the tears now streaming down your face. "And I meant it when I said it. But things change, and people change."
"So you've changed," he said, his voice flat. " You've changed so much that you just throw away two years? Don't I deserve a real reason? Don't I deserve the truth?"
"The truth is that I'm not the person you think I am. And you deserve someone who is, someone who can give you all of this, without hesitation." You gestured between you, to the life you had built together. "I can't. I’m sorry."
"So that's it," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Just like that."
"I'm so sorry, Minjae," you choked out. "I am so, so sorry."
He shook his head, a sad, broken little smile touching his lips. "Don't be. Just… go. Please. Just go."
You didn't want to. You wanted to stay and explain, to take the pain away, but you knew you couldn't. You turned and walked away, leaving him standing alone; the perfect hero had just lost its heroine.
You skipped dinner that night and found yourself hiding in the back of the library, acting like you were researching some potion you already knew by heart. You felt like such a coward for breaking a good guy's heart, and now you were just avoiding the fallout. Every time the library doors opened, you freaked out, hoping it wouldn’t be Minjae or, even worse, Taehyung, showing up and wanting to know what the hell happened.
It was nearly curfew when a shadow fell over your book.
"Rough day, Head Girl?" He slid into the seat opposite you, his movements fluid and predatory. He looked rested, composed, a stark contrast to the emotional wreckage you had become.
"What do you want, Jeon?" you asked, not looking up from your book. Your voice was hoarse from crying.
He reached across the table and deliberately closed your book.
"I want to know why," he said. “I want to know why you did it."
"I don't know what you're talking about," you lied, your voice a pathetic whisper.
"Don't even think about lying to me. You dumped him, the so-called hero of your fairytale. So I'm gonna ask you again. Why?"
You had no answer. How could you explain that his confession changed everything?
"I… I had to," you stammered, looking away.
"Had to?" He laughed harshly. "No one has to do anything, Y/n. You wanted to end it. Why? Was it because of me?"
Your head snapped back to his. "What?"
"Was it because of me?" he repeated. "Did you see me on Friday night and decide your perfect little life wasn't so perfect anymore? Did my 'performance' finally get to you?"
"It wasn't a performance!" you shot back, your own anger rising to meet his. "I saw you, Jungkook. The real you."
"The real me?" he laughed again, that same broken, bitter sound. "You saw a pathetic, drunken mess in a dungeon who spilled his guts because he couldn't keep his fucking mouth shut. That's not the real me. The real me is the one who hexes your boyfriend and makes your life hell. That's the one you should be afraid of."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"You should be," he hissed, leaning even closer. "You took it, the list. The one thing, the one stupid, pathetic piece of parchment in the entire world that was just for me, and you took it. You read it, and then what? You decided to do what? Pity me? You felt so sorry for the monster in the dungeon that you threw away your prince?"
"No," you breathed, shaking your head.
"Then what?" he demanded, his voice rising in frustration. "Give me one good reason why you would throw away everything for… for this."
You couldn’t tell him the whole story. You couldn't admit that all those mean things he’d said now felt like love notes. You couldn’t say that his broken confession stuck with you more than two years of Minjae being all sweet and easygoing. So, you did the only thing you could think of: you dug into your pocket.
His eyes followed your movement, his breath catching in his throat. You pulled out the crumpled, worn piece of parchment, his list. You didn't unfold it.
"This," you said, your voice shaking. "This is why."
"I don't understand," he whispered.
"You told me to tell you what I see. You said I see the hero, and honestly, you’re right, I did. I saw that boy who was kind, good, and safe. But he wasn't really mine, not really." You glanced down at the parchment in your hand. "This… this is mine. This chaotic, messy, broken thing. This is real, and I'm over pretending it's not.
He looked at the paper, then back at you, his eyes wide with realization. He hadn’t pushed you away; he’d actually pulled you in.
“No,” he whispered, like it was both a prayer and a curse. “You can’t. You shouldn’t.”
“I already did,” you replied softly.
The days after the breakup blurred into a week. You were… on your own. The castle felt off. Minjae kept his distance, which was both good and bad. You’d catch sight of him in the Great Hall or outside on the lawns. Taehyung was always around, his sharp eyes catching everything, but he gave you your space.
And then there was Jungkook.
Nothing much happened, at least on the surface. He went back to being Jeon Jungkook, the cocky Slytherin prince, but it felt different now. You noticed the cracks, you saw how his eyes searched for you across a crowded room, not with his usual teasing. He was giving you space, which had to be tough for him. He was waiting, you realized. Waiting for you to make the next move. The ball was in your court.
However, things hit a boiling point on Friday morning.
The Great Hall was buzzing with the pre-weekend energy. You were picking at a piece of toast when Taehyung slid onto the bench beside you.
"You look like a dead pufferskin," he stated, not unkindly. "Have you even slept?"
"Shut it, Taehyung," you mumbled, pushing your plate away.
He sighed, pulling a bowl of porridge towards him. "Look, I know you're going through… whatever this is. But you can't just exist on air and angst forever.”
"I'll be fine."
"No, you won't," he said flatly. "And neither will he."
You didn’t need to ask who ‘he’ was. Your eyes automatically shifted to the Slytherin table. Jungkook was staring blankly at his plate, pushing food around like he was annoyed but didn’t have the energy to care. Jimin was chatting with him, looking worried, but Jungkook wasn’t really paying attention. He looked just as miserable as you felt.
Just then, the main doors of the Great Hall creaked open, Minjae. He wasn’t his usual bubbly self. He scanned the Ravenclaw table and finally locked eyes with you. For a moment, you could see a flash of something cross his face before it turned cold, and he focused on someone else.
Jungkook.
Before you could even wrap your head around what was going on, Minjae was confidently walking across the Great Hall.
Taehyung grabbed your arm under the table. "Oh no. Y/n, don’t just sit there."
But you were totally frozen. You could only watch as Minjae stopped right in front of the Slytherin table, staring straight at Jungkook.
"We need to talk, Jeon," Minjae said.
Jungkook slowly lifted his head. The tired look was gone. He leaned back in his chair, throwing an arm over the back in a way that showed he didn’t care.
"What’s up, Whitmore?" Jungkook said with sarcasm. "Your amazing new plan to lose tomorrow’s match?"
A few of the younger Slytherins laughed. Jimin looked like he was about to be sick.
"This isn't about Quidditch," Minjae said, his voice tight with restraint. "This is about Y/n."
At the sound of your name, Jungkook's entire posture changed. He sat up straight.
"Ah," Jungkook said, his voice now dangerously soft. "The Head Girl. What about her? Did she come crying to you, telling you the big, bad monster scared her in the dungeon?"
Minjae's fists clenched at his sides. "You have no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" Jungkook stood up, towering over Minjae. "I saw you sulking around for a week. I know she finally got fed up with pretending to be happy with the perfect Gryffindor. She woke up and realized she wanted something real."
That last part hit hard. A gasp went through the students nearby. You felt your face go pale.
"You're lying," Minjae shot back, stepping closer. "You manipulated her. This is all your fault."
"My fault?" Jungkook chuckled, but it sounded nasty. "How's it my fault she finally realized you're just a boring, safe placeholder? I didn't even have to lift a finger. You messed up all on your own."
That was all Minjae needed to hear.
He charged at Jungkook, hands stretched out, ready to grab the collar of Jungkook's fancy robes. But Taehyung was quicker. "Immobulus!" A blast light hit Minjae mid-lunge, freezing him in a goofy pose.
Jungkook didn’t even blink. He ignored Taehyung, the professors rushing in. He locked eyes with Minjae. Slowly, he raised his wand.
“Finite Incantatem,”
The spell hit. Minjae stumbled forward, nearly losing his balance before he caught himself, breathing hard, embarrassment flaring in his eyes. Jungkook just saved him from making things worse.
“Don’t you dare touch me,” Minjae growled, his voice strained. “Don’t even look at me after what you’ve done.”
“What I’ve done?” Jungkook took a step closer, stepping into Minjae’s space, holding his wand loosely at his side like a casual threat. “I haven’t done anything. That’s the issue, right? I stayed out of it. I kept quiet. And she still left you.”
"You messed with her head!" Minjae shot back, his voice shaking. "You've been filling it with your garbage for years!"
Jungkook laughed, “Garbage? I told her the truth. I told her I was a wreck. I told her I was a monster. The only thing I’m guilty of is wanting her. What about you? You had her! You had everything anyone could want, but you were so boring that you let her slip away."
"I loved her!" Minjae yelled, fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, "I would have done anything for her!"
"Anything except what she actually needed," Jungkook shot back, his words hitting hard. "You loved the idea of her, the smart, pretty girlfriend to make you look good. Did you ever really see her? Did you notice how she bit her lip when she was deep in thought? Did you know she hates treacle tart but ate it every time you offered it because she didn't want to hurt your feelings?"
Each question was a fresh blow, and you watched Minjae's face crumble. He didn't know. He didn't know any of it. And Jungkook, the boy who supposedly hated you, knew everything.
"She was happy with me," Minjae whispered, a last, desperate defense.
"Was she? Or was she just comfortable? There’s a difference. She was settling for a life that was easy, safe, and a bit empty. I just… I gave her a reason to stop."
Minjae looked completely shattered. He locked eyes with Jungkook, pleading for him to deny it, to tell him it was all a lie. But Jungkook said nothing. Eventually, Minjae’s gaze slipped past Jungkook to you across the silent hall. The anger had faded from his eyes, replaced by deep sorrow. He understood now, he saw everything. With that final, heartbreaking look, he walked out of the Great Hall.
Jungkook's shoulders drooped for a moment, the weight of his victory pressing down on him. Every eye in the room was on you, judging silently. You were the reason for this chaos, the girl at the center of a storm you hadn't known how to stop.
In that crowd, his eyes found yours. His eyes locked onto yours, and in them, you saw not a question but a command. Come.
You pushed your chair back, the sound slicing through the quiet like a shout. Keeping your head up and your expression blank, you made your way over to him. You didn’t glance at Taehyung’s worried expression or Jimin’s cautious look. All that mattered was reaching him.
He met you halfway, right before the huge doors of the hall. He didn't say a word; just turned and brushed past you, and you fell in step beside him. Instead of dragging you down to the dungeons or some creepy hidden spot, he took you up on the moving staircases. As you climbed higher, the noise of the castle faded away, replaced by the sound of your own racing heartbeat. He was guiding you to a place filled with ghosts and memories, somewhere you hadn’t been in ages.
The Room of Requirement
"Are you happy now?" you finally asked, your voice barely a whisper.
He turned slowly. "Happy?" he repeated, the word a bitter taste on his tongue. "No. I'm not happy."
He closed the distance between you in two long strides.
"I'm furious. I'm furious at him for being so blind. I'm furious at you for being so stupid. And most of all, I'm furious at myself for thinking for one second that this could ever end well."
"You didn't have to do that," you shot back, he grabbed your wrist.
"Didn't I?" he chuckled. "What was I supposed to do? Let him keep living in his little fantasy? Let him keep looking at you like you were his trophy? I had to show everyone. You’re not his. You never were."
"And I'm yours?" you whispered.
His eyes grew dark as he lifted his other hand, fingers gently tracing your jaw, his touch surprisingly soft compared to the tight grip he had on your wrist.
"You've always been mine, little raven," he said quietly, his thumb brushing your bottom lip.
And then he kissed you.
It wasn't soft or sweet at all. His mouth was demanding, pushing against yours with an urgency that took your breath away. He pressed you back until your shoulders hit the cool stone of the wall, trapping you in.
He let go of your wrist and tangled his fingers in your hair, tilting your head to make the kiss deeper. His other hand moved down your back, pulling you against him so you could feel his arousal through your robes. A gasp slipped out, and he seized the chance, slipping his tongue inside to explore and claim you.
Your hands flew around his neck, pulling him closer. You wanted to crawl inside his skin, to consume him, to be consumed by him.
He broke the kiss, both of you panting, your foreheads pressed together. The night air was cold on your swollen lips.
He leaned in again, but this time his kiss was softer. It felt different, almost like he was cherishing the moment after that intense passion from before. His lips moved against yours slowly, setting a rhythm that made your legs feel a little wobbly. One of his hands slid from your back to your hip, his thumb drawing little circles, sending shivers all over you.
"Y/n," he murmured against your lips, making your name sound almost sacred. "You’ve gotta tell me this is real."
"It's real," you promised.
That was all the permission he needed.
His mouth reclaimed yours with a renewed hunger, his hands growing bolder. He found the clasp of your school robes, his fingers fumbling with it for a moment before it came undone with a soft click. The heavy wool pooled at your feet, leaving you in the thin white blouse and skirt.
He reached out and slowly, deliberately, began to unbutton your blouse. His fingers were calloused from Quidditch, rough against your skin. One button. Two. Three. He took his time, his eyes never leaving yours, watching your every reaction.
When your blouse was open, he pushed it off your shoulders, letting it fall to the stone floor. You stood before him in your simple white bra and skirt.
"You're so beautiful, little raven." He reached out and traced the lacy edge of your bra with his fingertips. "Merlin, I've thought about this. About what you'd look like. In bed, under me."
His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you. He leaned down and kissed the hollow of your throat. His kiss felt warm and open, and he traced a line down your neck to your collarbone. You tilted your head back, letting him have better access, a soft sigh slipping from your lips. His hands were on your waist, holding you steady.He found the sensitive spot behind your ear, and you couldn't stop the moan that rose in your throat. He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound against your skin.
"I knew you'd be sensitive here," he murmured. "I spent an entire Transfiguration lesson once just watching the way you'd twist your hair when you were concentrating, wondering if you'd make that same little sound if I put my mouth right… here." He punctuated his words with a sharp nip of his teeth, and you jolted, a gasp torn from your lips.
"Jungkook," you breathed.
"Tell me what you want, pretty," he commanded, his mouth moving back up to claim yours in a searing kiss. "Tell me, Y/n."
You couldn't form the words. All you could do was hold on tighter, arching against him, a silent, desperate plea for more.
He seemed to understand. He broke the kiss, breathing heavily, "Can't talk? That's okay. I can do all the talking."
His hands moved from your waist to the small of your back, tracing the curve of your spine before sliding down to grab your ass through the fabric of your skirt. He squeezed, pulling you tight against him, and you gasped as you felt his hard cock pressing into your stomach.
"You feel that?" he said, his lips close to your ear. "That's what you do to me. You've been doing it for years. Every time you walked into a room, every time you answered a question in class, even when you just breathed in my direction."
His hands were restless now, roaming over your body, learning the shape of you. He slid one hand up your side, his thumb brushing against the side of your breast. You whimpered, pushing into his touch, needing more.
"Patience, I've waited too long for this to rush it."
But his own patience was running out. He let out a frustrated groan, reached behind you, and struggled a bit with your bra's clasp. It clicked open, and he tossed it aside with the rest of your clothes. The night air hit your bare skin, and your nipples instantly got hard.
Jungkook stilled, his gaze fixed on your chest. "Fuck, you're perfect."
He reached out, his hand lingering for a second before he grabbed one of your breasts, his palm warm and heavy. He ran his thumb over your already hard nipple, and you let out a gasp.
"Shh," he murmured, leaning down to take the other into his mouth. "We don't want to bring the whole castle up here, do we?"
His mouth was hot and wet, a shocking contrast to the cold air. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive peak, then sucked, hard. Your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands, holding him to you. He gave attention to your breasts, alternating between them, his mouth and hands working in rhythm.
Just when you thought you couldn't take anymore, he pulled back, his breathing ragged.
"I need to see all of you," he said, his voice a raw, rough command.
He dropped to his knees before you, He looked up at you from his position. He reached out and placed his hands on your hips, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of your skirt. You nodded.
Slowly, he peeled your skirt down your legs, his fingers tracing the path of the fabric as it went. He followed it with his mouth, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your hips, your stomach, the tops of your thighs. You were trembling.
When your skirt was around your ankles, you where in nothing but your simple cotton underwear.
"You're shaking," he observed, his voice soft.
"You're doing this to me," you managed to say, your voice barely audible.
"I haven't even started yet."
He hooked his fingers into the sides of your panties and slowly pulled them down. You stepped out of them. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss under your navel, his lips soft and gentle. You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders to steady yourself.
"Jungkook," you pleaded, not even sure what you were begging for.
"I know," he murmured against your skin. "I know."
He shifted, settling between your thighs. He looked up at you one last time, and then he lowered his head.
The first touch of his tongue against your clit was a lick and it sent a shockwave of pleasure through you so intense your knees buckled. He held you steady, his hands gripping your hips, while his mouth working its magic.
He didn’t hold back. He explored you with his. He circled your clit, then flicked it, then sucked it into his mouth. Your world was just the sensation of his mouth on you, the rough slide of his tongue, the desperate sounds of your own breathing.
You were babbling now, a stream of incoherent pleas and praises. "Please, Jungkook, yes, don't stop, please, please, please…"
He didn't stop. He increased his pace, his movements becoming more urgent, more demanding. He slid one hand from your hip, his fingers finding your entrance. He teased you for a moment, circling the opening, before sliding one long finger inside you.
You cried out, your inner walls clenching around him. He began to move his finger in time with the movements of his tongue while you were closer to the edge. He added a second finger, stretching you.
"Come for me, Y/n, let me feel it, let me taste you."
With a final, desperate cry, you orgasmed. It left you breathless and shaking, and he held you through it, his mouth and fingers milking every last drop of your slick.
Once the shaking finally stopped, he stood up and wrapped his arms around you. You sank against him, your head on his chest, listening to his heart. He just held you for a while, gently running his fingers through your hair.
"You're gorgeous," he murmured.
You looked up and kissed him. You could taste yourself on his lip, his tongue sliding into your mouth. He was still fully dressed, and the rough texture of his robes felt amazing against your bare skin. All you could think about was wanting to feel him fully, wanting to see him.
You pulled back, your hands going to the front of his robes. "Your turn."
He watched you as you fumbled with the clasp of his robes. Your fingers were clumsy with urgency, but you finally managed to get it open. You pushed the heavy fabric off his shoulders, and it joined yours on the stone floor.
He was wearing a simple black shirt underneath. You made quick work of the buttons, your hands brushing against the warm, hard plane of his chest. He was lean and muscular, his body a testament to years of Quidditch training.
Your fingers trembled as they traced the lines of his chest, feeling the steady, rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm. You pushed the black shirt off his shoulders, and it joined the growing pile of discarded clothing on the cold stone floor. You reached out, your fingers tracing the lines of his abs, feeling them tighten under your touch. He sucked in a sharp breath, his hands coming to rest on your waist.
"Your hands are cold," he murmured, a low rumble in his chest.
"Sorry," you whispered, but you didn't stop touching him.
"Don't be," he said, his voice thick.
His skin was warm, and you could feel the fine tremor running through him, a mirror to your own. He was magnificent, and he was all yours.
Your gaze drifted downward, to the very obvious bulge straining against the fabric of his trousers. You swallowed hard.
"Like what you see, little raven?" he asked, his voice a low, husky rumble.
Instead of answering, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his chest, right over his heart. You could feel it thumping against your mouth. You kissed your way across his chest, your tongue darting out to taste the salty skin, to trace his collarbones. His hands came up to rest on your back, his fingers digging into your flesh as if he needed to anchor himself.
With a surge of confidence, you let your hand drift lower, palming him through his trousers. He groaned. His hips jerked forward instinctively, seeking more friction.
You knelt before him, just as he had done for you, your gaze fixed on the button of his trousers. Your hands shook as you undid it, the sound of the zipper loud. You looked up at him, your eyes wide, and saw the raw, naked hunger on his face.
You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and slowly pulled them down. His cock sprang free, hard and thick. It was bigger than you'd imagined, the head flushed, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip.
Your breath hitched in your throat. You'd seen boys before; you’d seen Minjae, but this was different.
You reached out a trembling hand and wrapped your fingers around him. He was hot and hard in your grasp, the skin velvety soft over the rigid core. He let out a harsh groan, his hips bucking forward instinctively.
"Fuck, Y/n," his head falling back. "Don't… don't tease."
You weren't teasing. You were exploring. You ran your thumb over the head, smearing the bead of pre-cum over the sensitive skin. He shuddered, a full-body tremor that ran through him like a wave.
"You don't have to."
“Shut up, Jeon, I want to.”
You leaned in and flicked your tongue against the tip, tasting the salty, slightly bitter flavor of him.
He hissed, his hands flying to your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands. "Y/n," he warned, his voice strained. "I'm serious. If you… if you do that…"
You looked up at him, your lips hovering just a breath away from his cock. "If I do what?" you whispered boldly.
"Gods," he groaned, his eyes squeezing shut. "If you put your mouth on me, I won't be able to control myself. I'll… I'll fuck your mouth. And I don't want to do that. Not yet."
His words sent a fresh wave of heat to your core. He wanted you so much he was afraid of his own reaction.
You took a deep breath and made your choice. You wanted to taste him, to feel him, to give him the same mind-blowing pleasure he had just given you. You wanted to see him lose control.
You wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, swirling your tongue around the sensitive tip. He cried out, his fingers tightening in your hair, his hips jerking forward. You took more of him into your mouth.
You couldn't take all of him, not at first, but you tried. You relaxed your jaw and took him deeper, your hand working the base of his shaft in time with the movements of your mouth. He was breathing heavily now, his head thrown back, his eyes closed. The sounds he was making were driving you crazy.
He was right. He couldn't control himself. His hips began to move, a slow, shallow rocking at first, then faster, deeper, his cock hitting the back of your throat.
"Y/n, fuck, your mouth… so good… gods.”
"Fuck, yes, just like that. Your mouth is so fucking good."
You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder, and he cried out, his whole body tensing. You could feel him getting closer, his thrusts becoming more erratic.
“Y/n, I'm gonna…"
He tried to pull back, to warn you, but you held on. With a final groan, he came, his hot, salty release flooding your mouth. You swallowed, your throat working, milking him for every last drop.
“You crazy little witch,” he murmured against your lips, his voice hoarse.
You chuckled softly.
He shifted, his body covering yours. He was already hard again, his cock pressing against your thigh.
"I need to be inside you. Are you ready for me, little raven?" he murmured against your lips.
You nodded frantically. He reached between your legs, his fingers finding your clit. You were still wet from your earlier orgasm, and his fingers slid easily through your folds. He circled your clit, then slid two fingers inside you, testing your readiness.
"Mhm, You're so wet for me," he said.
"All for you," you echoed.
His fingers stroked and teased you until you were squirming beneath him, begging. He reached between you, guiding his cock to your entrance.
"Look at me, clever girl," he commanded, his voice low and intense.
You forced your eyes open, and he held your gaze as he slowly, deliberately, pushed into you.
There was a brief, sharp sting as he stretched you, and you cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders. He stilled.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
You took a deep breath, the pain already starting to fade. "I'm okay," you said. "Don't stop."
He began to thrust slowly and deeply at first, then faster, harder. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the silent room.
"Harder," you gasped, your voice a raw, desperate plea. "Jungkook, harder."
His movements becoming almost brutal, his cock pounding into you, driving you closer and closer to the edge.
"You're so tight, sweetheart," he gritted out, his fingers digging into your thighs. "So fucking perfect."
He reached between you again, his fingers finding your clit. He rubbed it in time with his thrusts, and you felt your orgasm building again. Your entire body tensed, your muscles locking up as the pleasure increased.
"Come for me, Y/n," he commanded, his voice strained. "Come with me."
With a final, brutal thrust and a hard pinch of your clit, you orgasmed. You screamed his name, your body shaking underneath him, your inner walls clamping down on his cock in a series of powerful, rhythmic spasms. He fucked you through it, his thrusts becoming erratic, his control finally breaking as your body milked him. With a loud, guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt inside you, his own orgasm crashing over him, and you felt the hot, powerful pulse of his release as he spilled into you.
He collapsed on top of you, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You were both panting, your bodies sweaty and trembling. He didn't move for a long time, and you didn't want him to. You wrapped your arms around his back, holding him close.
“Hi," he whispered, a small, crooked smile playing on his lips.
You laughed, a breathy, soundless puff of air. "Hi," you whispered back.
He leaned down and kissed you gently. "Are you okay?" he asked again, his thumb gently stroking your cheek.
"I'm more than okay," you whispered.
He smiled, a genuine, brilliant smile that lit up his entire face. He kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips.
“Me too," he murmured against your skin.
With a soft sigh, he carefully withdrew, the loss of his warmth making you shiver. He grabbed the heavy wool of the discarded school robes and draped them over you both.
"You’re going to have bruises," you murmured. "I'm sorry," you said, your voice thick with regret. "I got... carried away. I didn't hurt you, did I? Truly?" You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow to look down at him.
He reached up and cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking his skin. "No, little raven. You didn't hurt me. Plus, I like them, they're a reminder."
"A reminder that you’re mine?" you asked.
"Mhm, always," he confirmed. "So. What do we do now, Y/n?"
"We walk out of here, and tomorrow, we sit together at breakfast. And I’ll sit at your table, and you’ll hold my hand, and we won't care who sees."
"Just like that? You know…Y/n, my father-"
"Just like that," you confirmed.
He buried his face in your hair, his arms tightening around you like he was afraid you might disappear.
"I love you," he whispered, the words muffled against your skin. "I think I've loved you since the 4th year.”
You laughed, "I thought you were an arrogant, Quidditch-obsessed boy. and I love you too."
"I am," he said, pulling back to grin at you. "But I'm your arrogant, Quidditch-obsessed boy."
Eventually, you knew you had to move, because the night couldn't last forever, but this time you risked it for the biscuit and walked down with him in the dungeons. Jimin had luckily gone somewhere, maybe also dealing with his little secret.
When morning came, Jimin's jaw practically hit the floor, his eyes darting from Jungkook's smug face to the copper hair peeking out from the duvet.
Jungkook pulled the duvet higher over the still asleep Y/n, shielding her, and looked at Jimin with a look of absolute, smug triumph. His voice was a low, morning rasp.
"Morning, Jimin. Close the door."
"Close the door? JK, you have a Ravenclaw, a Head Girl, in your bed!" He gestured wildly with one hand. "Do you have any idea what happens if a Prefect walks in? Or a professor? Or the entire school?"
Jungkook yawned lazily, not moving an inch, his arm remaining locked around you. His voice was thick and rough, devoid of any guilt.
"Then they'll know." He looked down at you, his gaze softening into something sweet, before he looked back at Jimin. "Now, I said, close the door, Jimin. Unless you want to be the one to tell the Gryffindor Golden Boy that his ex-girlfriend spent the night in the snake pit."
Jimin scoffed and left the room.
Jungkook didn't move to get up. Instead, he shifted, his chest vibrating as he chuckled. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a teasing, low vibration. "Wake up, little monster. We have an audience."
Y/n groaned and buried her face deeper in his chest. "Five more minutes. Are we doomed?"
"We're not doomed," he said, his eyes soft. "We're just beginning." He leaned in and kissed you. When he pulled back, he was smiling. "Now, get dressed, Head Girl. You have a castle to run. And I have a rumor to start."
You looked at him, "What rumor?"
He grinned, "The one that says Jeon Jungkook finally got his girl."
▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰
a/n: I hope you guys enjoyed this. i have been obsessed with H.P. and Hogwarts Legacy lately, and I couldn't bring myself to not write something, even if I'm graduating next month and my mind is everywhere ;-;
Summary: helping a younger student resulted in you and the first-year walking into a prank not meant for you, and as you do so, you catch Fred's attention.
the next day he tries to apologise with another prank and it backfires, but this only resulted in him falling even harder for you, he just knew wanted to be yours.
Warnings/tags: hufflepuff!reader (well it suits anyone really :D), love at first sight, he fell first and HARD, fred needs you so bad, pranks gone wrong, teasing, fluffy and cute, fred's a simp
a/n: inspired by "Wanna be Yours by Arctic Monkeys"
———
The courtyard was alive with the soft hum of spring—branches swaying in the breeze, birds chirping from the castle walls, and a few students milling about on the cobblestones. Fred crouched behind a large stone pillar, his mischievous grin matching the one plastered across his twin’s face.
Huddled in a corner, the four of them—Fred, George, Lee and Oliver, were planning a revenge prank on Marcus Flint and Draco Malfoy for their obnoxious antics during the Quidditch match earlier.
“Are you sure about this?” Oliver Wood asked, trying to sound stern but failing as he bit back a chuckle.
Malfoy had spent most of the game taunting Harry, and Flint’s borderline dirty play had cost Gryffindor two near-goals. That didn’t sit well with Fred and George, so what better way to get back at them than with a prank.
“Hundred percent.” Fred said, smirking as he held up a pouch of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. “Alright, we rig this near the tree. As soon as they walk by, poof! Total chaos. Then, George, you release the Dungbombs—”
“Already got ‘em primed,” George said, patting his pocket with a devilish grin.
“Don't forget the slime and feathers!” Lee added, holding up a jar of fluorescent green goop in one hand, and a bag of feathers in the other.
Oliver, who had reluctantly joined but couldn’t resist some payback, frowned. “Let’s make sure they’re the only ones who get caught in this mess though, yeah?”
“Relax Wood,” Fred said, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s a foolproof plan. Nothing can go wrong.”
“Trust us,” George said, “We’ve calculated everything.”
“Right,” Lee affirmed, “It's simple charm, a bit of instant darkness powder, and—bam! Feathers, slime, and a nice little puff of stink powder for good measure.”
George cackled, clapping his twin on the back. “Beautiful. They’ll be too busy cleaning slime and plucking feathers off their robes to bother us for weeks.”
“That's what they deserve for acting like twits during the match.” Lee chimed in.
"S'pose they do deserve it." Oliver chuckled, his reluctance turning into enthusiasm.
The trap was simple but effective: a hidden tripwire enchanted to release darkness powder, then a rain of slime and feathers from above, followed by the dungbombs. All they had to do now was wait for their targets.
"Now, they're supposed to walk pass here any moment..." Fred told the others, as the four of them watched eagerly.
Fred’s eyes glinted as he nodded toward the enchanted tripwire stretched across the cobblestones, ready to unleash chaos on Flint and Malfoy the moment they stepped on it.
Everything was perfect.
Until it wasn't.
From behind a stone archway, you appeared with a small Ravenclaw first-year in tow.
It wasn’t Malfoy or Flint who walked into the courtyard first.
It was you.
You were laughing softly, your eyes crinkling with warmth as you guided a nervous-looking first-year Ravenclaw girl who clutched her books tightly to their chest. The poor kid had taken a wrong turn, and you volunteered to show her the way to the library.
In your arms, you helped carry some of her load, making it easier for the first-year.
“Don’t worry,” you were saying, your voice kind and steady. “The library isn’t far. Just through the next hall and up the staircase."
Fred’s eyes locked onto you, and for a moment, the world seemed to slow down. He didn’t hear anything else. It was like the world had narrowed to just you—the way your hair caught the sunlight, the easy grace in your step, and the way your smile seemed to light up the entire courtyard.
How had he not noticed you before?
“Is Fred broken?” George whispered to Lee.
“Looks like it. Never seen him go this quiet before,” Lee replied, smirking.
Oliver elbowed Fred, snapping him out of his trance. “Mate, you’re staring.”
“Shut up,” Fred muttered, his eyes never leaving you.
"Who is she?..." He continued, holding true to Oliver's statement.
“Who?” Lee asked, following his gaze. He snorted when he saw you. “Her? Oh no. Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft, Fred.”
Fred didn’t respond. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from you but he was quickly snapped out of his trance as you approached the tree.
Oh shit. "Not the tree, don't walk past the tree..." He muttered to himself, hoping you would somehow magically hear him.
It was no use.
Disaster struck.
You were met with instant darkness, coughing slightly as the powder released a thick fog around you and the first year.
Before you could grasp the full situation, a torrent of green slime and feathers rained down from above, coating you and the first-year from head to toe. The Dungbombs exploded seconds later, filling the courtyard with an awful stench.
The first-year yelped, clutching her books as the slime dripped down her robes. You froze for a moment, stunned, before shaking your head with a soft laugh.
Fred winced, guilt twisting in his chest.
“Oops,” George muttered, though he didn’t sound all that sorry.
Lee burst out laughing, "Merlin, did we just traumatise a first year?!"
“Poor kid,” Oliver said, though his lips twitched with suppressed laughter.
Fred, however, barely heard them. He was too busy watching you. Instead of panicking or getting angry, you crouched down immediately, brushing feathers off the first-year’s face.
“Hey, it’s okay,” you said gently, your voice soothing. “It’s just a bit of slime and feathers. Another tip, beware of silly pranks, it's all part and parcel of the Hogwarts culture." You comfort the kid, trying to lighten the situation by laughing softly, "Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”
The first-year nodded, her lower lip trembling, and you smiled, guiding her toward a nearby fountain.
Fred couldn’t stop staring. He didn't know who you were, but he did know this, he wanted to be yours.
You were covered in slime and feathers, an absolute mess, yet you still looked radiant.
There was something about the way you put the first-year first, your patience and kindness shining through, that made his heart thud in the best way.
You helped her cleaned as much as you could off her robes, murmuring reassurances the entire time before chanting, "Scourgify!", instantly her robes were as good as new.
Only after she was cleaned up did you finally turn your attention to yourself. With the help of the cleaning spell, the feathers were out of your hair and the slime off your sleeves in no time.
“Merlin! Fred, you’ve got it bad,” Lee said, smirking.
“Oh, leave him,” George teased. “He’s clearly in love.”
Fred’s ears turned pink, but he didn’t care. For once, he was speechless.
“How come I’ve never noticed her before?” The red head murmured, more to himself than anyone else. He was certain he would’ve remembered someone like you.
“Maybe because you’re too busy pranking people,” Oliver said dryly.
"Who is she?" Fred asked, ignoring Oliver's remark.
"Seen her around a couple of times, especially in the library, she's in Ron's year." Oliver hummed, watching as you conversed with the first-year.
“That explains it,” George quipped. “She’s too smart to bother with Fred’s idiocy.”
Fred scowled, but his gaze remained fixed on you. There was something magnetic about the way you carried yourself, and he felt like everyone had disappeared, you were the only one in sight, to him.
He knew he had to make this right. He needed an excuse to approach you. Right! An apology. And of course, he had to impress you.
The Ravenclaw girl finally gave a small laugh as you finished off explaining the pranking culture at Hogwarts. “Thank you, I-..I think I know my way to the library from here now.” she said softly before hurrying off.
___
The next day, Fred had a plan. A proper one.
Breakfast in the Great Hall hummed with the usual morning chaos: the clink of cutlery, the murmur of conversation, and the occasional bursts of laughter from each houses' table.
Fred stood at the entrance, trying to look nonchalant but failing miserably. In his hands, he clutched a bouquet of enchanted flowers—slime-free this time—that were charmed to sing a cheerful apology tune when presented.
He wiped his palm against his robes for what felt like the hundredth time. “This is foolproof,” Fred muttered under his breath.
“You say that every time,” George pointed out, his tone dripping with amusement. He nudged Lee, who was barely containing his laughter. “What do you reckon? Will he get through two words before tripping over himself?”
“Five Galleons says he’ll combust,” Lee said, grinning.
“Will you two shut it?” Fred snapped, though the tips of his ears turned red. “This is serious.”
“Serious,” George repeated, mocking Fred’s tone. “You’re holding a singing bouquet, mate. Nothing about this screams ‘serious.’”
“Just watch,” Fred said, his voice low but determined.
That’s when you walked in, and Fred’s stomach flipped.
You were laughing as you entered, your head tilted toward one of your friends. That laugh—light, carefree, and far too distracting—was etched into Fred’s memory, playing on a loop since the previous day.
The sunlight streaming through the tall windows hit you at just the right angle, illuminating your smile. You were radiant.
Fred’s heart thumped in his chest as he stepped forward, the bouquet held out like a peace offering. “Hey!” he called, catching your attention.
You turned to him, eyes widening slightly in surprise. “Yes?” you said, the corners of your mouth quirking up into a curious smile. What did he want from you?
Fred grinned, his confidence teetering on the edge of unraveling. “Listen, about yesterday—”
But before he could finish, the bouquet let out a sudden pop. A puff of pink smoke erupted, followed by an earsplittingly off-key version of “I’m Sorry About The Slime” that echoed through the Great Hall.
Fred barely had time to react before the bouquet detonated in a second burst, showering him in glitter and knocking him flat on his back.
The Hall erupted into laughter.
Fred groaned, staring at the enchanted ceiling, which now looked even farther away than usual. He could hear George’s loud, obnoxious cackling somewhere to his left.
“Five Galleons,” Lee said smugly.
Fred grimaced, but before he could even begin to think about recovering, a familiar voice broke through the laughter.
“Guess I’m not the only casualty this time.”
Fred turned his head, blinking in disbelief. You had flopped down beside him, lying flat on your back on the floor as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Glitter sparkled in your hair, and your grin was wide and unapologetic.
“What are you doing?” Fred asked, his voice caught somewhere between bewilderment and awe.
“Making sure you’re not the only one who looks ridiculous,” you replied, shrugging as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s only fair.”
Fred let out a breathless laugh, his embarrassment momentarily forgotten. “You’re mental.” But he loved it.
“Takes one to know one,” you shot back, glancing at him with a teasing smile.
From across the Hall, George shouted, “Right on, Romeooo!!” His voice was exaggerated and dramatic, and Fred could practically feel the heat rising in his face.
“Oi shut it, George!” Fred yelled, though his tone lacked bite.
You laughed again, and Fred swore his heart might actually burst. “You’ve got quite the fan club,” you said, gesturing toward the group of students, particularly, Fred's 'boys', who were now openly watching the scene unfold and chortling.
“They’re a bunch of idiots,” Fred muttered, though his lips twitched into a reluctant smile.
You tilted your head, studying him for a moment. “You know,” you said thoughtfully, “for someone who’s usually so good at pranks, this was a spectacular disaster.”
Fred groaned, running a hand through his now glitter-covered hair. “Tell me about it.”
“But,” you added, your voice softening, “I appreciate the effort and the apology.”
Fred looked at you, his heart stuttering. “You do?”
“Yeah.” You leaned closer, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “And between you and me, I think you pull off the glitter look better than anyone else here.”
Fred laughed, the sound loud and genuine, and for a moment, the rest of the hall faded away. “I reckon you pull it off better than I do.”
“Why thank you, it's actually my dream to be covered in glitter. Shining as bright as a quidditch trophy is the goal." You joked, but Fred smiled warmly.
You do shine bright, he thought.
As you stood up, you reached out a hand to help him up. Fred took it without hesitation, warmth spreading through him at the simple gesture.
“Come on, glitter boy,” you said, your tone teasing but fond. “Let’s get you sitting somewhere before you injure yourself again.”
Fred let you lead him to a bench at the side of the hall, his hand still tingling from where yours had been.
As you both sat down, he turned to face you, his usual confidence returning in a slow, steady wave, “I’m Fred, by the way."
You laughed, tucking a strand of glitter-dusted hair behind your ear. “I know. You and George are kind of hard to miss.”
Fred’s grin widened, his chest fluttering at the sound of your laugh. “Yeah? Well, you’re kind of hard to forget...uh?" As if on cue, you told him your name.
"Y/N." You smiled.
"Y/N..." He repeated back, how fitting, a pretty name for a pretty girl.
Your eyes softened, and for a moment, you studied Fred's features. He did the same, glancing at your lips occasionally.
You'd always seen him from afar, to you he was just a prankster, a jokester, busy with his schemes, you'd never thought you'd actually come face to face with him.
But now that you did, you saw him in a different light, almost.
“If this is how you usually apologise,” you said, your voice light again, “I’m scared to see what happens when you’re not sorry.”
Fred chuckled, shaking his head. “Stick around, and I’ll show you.”
You leaned back slightly, your smile lingering. “I just might.”
And in that moment, Fred knew—he didn’t just want to impress you. He wanted you, all of you, your wit, your laughter, your sparkling eyes.
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.
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.”
