HELLOOOO could you do theodore x reader/ draco x reader/ mattheo x reader where slytherin just lost match against griffindor and he’s really really angry and takes out the anger on reader (i just find it very hot when lorenzo zurzolo looks angry 😔)
Wear My Name Pt.1
Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader
Summary: After Mattheo receives unfortunate news before Slytherin’s biggest match of the year, tensions are already running high. Unfortunately for you, his Gryffindor girlfriend, frustration has to go somewhere.
Warnings: Short tempered Mattheo straight up cussing reader out.
A/N: I meant to post this yesterday but I forgot 🥰. Also I agree, angry Lorenzo Zurzolo is FIIINE. I just thought that this story would suit Mattheo more. Thanks for the request @starg1r71nter7ude ! Pictures are from Pinterest. Here is Part 2.
Masterlist
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It was the morning of the final Quidditch match between Slytherin and Gryffindor.
You were sitting on his bed when Mattheo slammed the door open and stormed into his dorm.
"Bloody hell. Theo broke his foot this morning. I swear to God it was those bloody Gryffindors. He can't play today."
You tilted your head.
"How did Theo get hurt?"
"He slipped down the stairs this morning. Said it felt like they were buttered or something. Madam Hooch said we couldn't confirm whether the Gryffindors had anything to do with it. I'll have to sub in Pucey."
You got off the bed.
"But I thought Adrian was a good player."
"He's a good Chaser, not a Beater. We need a Beater."
He groaned in frustration.
"We needed Theo. He's the best we've got."
"Hey... Matty, it's okay. The rest of your team is amazing. I'm sure you still have a chance of winning."
His eyes flicked to the scarlet Gryffindor tie around your neck.
"Course you'd say that."
Your eyebrows furrowed.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You're probably rooting for your own house, aren't you? That bunch of bloody dimwits."
You sighed.
"Matty, come on. We've had this conversation almost every time Slytherin and Gryffindor play each other."
He sighed too.
"I know... I know. I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm just stressed."
He ran a hand through his hair.
"You'll be wearing my jersey, won't you? I'm gonna need all the extra luck I can get today."
You smiled.
"Of course I will. My house is gonna kill me, but they're probably used to it by now."
He stepped closer, cupping your face.
"I've gotta go now. Need to brief Adrian and all that shit. I'll see you in the stands, yeah?"
"You know I will. I'll be cheering the loudest."
He smiled before turning and leaving.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
"Shit-shit! Bloody-"
You stumbled into someone, two glasses of Butterbeer flying from your hands and soaking your clothes.
Your jersey was ruined.
You looked up to find yourself face-to-face with a red-headed, red-handed Ron Weasley.
"Blimey! I'm so sorry-I didn't see you."
He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.
You groaned.
"Great going, Ron. Now what am I supposed to wear? The match starts in five minutes!"
"Well... you can borrow my jacket. Again, I'm really sorry."
You glanced at it.
"The jacket with 'WEASLEY' written across the back in massive block letters?"
"Would you rather be sticky for the next three hours?"
The whistle echoed across the grounds.
The match was about to begin.
You groaned.
"Fine. Give it here."
You threw on the jacket before sprinting toward the stands.
Pansy was already waiting for you, dressed head-to-toe in green.
"Merlin... what are you wearing? And where's my Butterbeer?"
You sighed.
"Stupid Weasley bumped into me. I spilled Butterbeer all over myself and had to wear his jacket."
"Yeah... I can see that."
Her eyes drifted to the huge WEASLEY across your back.
"Riddle's gonna be pissed. You know that, right?"
"I know! I didn't have enough time to change, and you know they've restricted wand use after what happened last year-"
A deafening roar erupted from the crowd.
The Slytherin team flew onto the pitch.
And there he was.
Captain of the team.
Looking serious and determined, his dark hair already windswept by the breeze, "RIDDLE" emblazoned across the back of his robes.
Merlin
He looked unfairly good.
His eyes scanned the stands until they found you.
You waved enthusiastically.
He smiled.
Then his gaze dropped to the jacket.
The smile disappeared.
Shit.
He noticed.
For a second, it looked like he was about to say something.
Then the whistle blew.
The match began.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Mattheo. was. pissed.
With Theodore injured, Slytherin was already at a disadvantage.
And it didn't help that every time he circled the pitch, his eyes found you.
No.
They found the jacket.
The bright red jacket.
The giant WEASLEY plastered across your back.
A sharp, metallic flutter echoed through the stadium.
"The Snitch!" the commentator shouted.
"Potter's spotted it! The Slytherin Seeker's after him!"
Mattheo's head snapped toward them.
At the same moment, a Bludger came hurtling straight toward their Seeker.
Normally, he would've knocked it away without a second thought.
Instead...
His eyes flicked to the stands.
To you.
To that bloody jacket.
One heartbeat.
One mistake.
The Bludger slammed into the Slytherin Seeker's shoulder.
The Seeker lost control of his broom for just a second.
That was all Potter needed.
He shot forward and closed his hand around the Golden Snitch.
The whistle blew.
Game over.
Gryffindor erupted into cheers.
Slytherin players swore in frustration.
Mattheo didn't say a word.
He flew straight to the locker room.
You hurried after him, weaving through the celebrating crowd.
"Mattheo!"
He didn't turn.
He yanked off his gloves before ripping the rest of his gear off in frustration.
"Mattheo."
Still nothing.
"Look at me."
He spun around.
"What the fuck, Y/N? What the fuck do you want?"
You froze.
He'd never spoken to you like that before.
"I just-"
"You just what, huh? Want to show off your new jacket? Or are you here to gloat because your house won? "
"What? No! Of course not-"
"You promised you'd wear my jersey. And now you're just shoving it in my face aren't you? Wearing another bloke's name"
"I wore your jersey! But Ron spilled Butterbeer all over it. I didn't have time to-"
"Oh, convenient."
His laugh was humourless.
“Do you know how that looked? Every time I looked up all I could see was bloody Weasley across your back.”
"Mattheo...."
"You know what?" he snapped.
"I don't want to hear it."
"Just... just shut up and go away, okay? I don't want so see you right now"
Your heart clenched.
He wouldn't even look at you.
He needs space to cool down. He'll be back to normal. Right?
✧.* R.W x Muggle! Reader
☁︎ childhood friends // slow burn // tomboy y/n
✎ When Ron’s childhood friend returns, changed, distant, and no longer his, he realizes too late he’s been in love with her all along. Now he has one summer to make it right.
𖦹4.4k
[masterlist]
Much Love, Saige
★ request : @ashdreams2023
ϟ taglist ϟ : @randomfanpage @littlemadamred @raiweasley @ulearnnewthingseveryday @iluvhrj
You always thought Ron Weasley was the luckiest boy in the world.
Even when he complained about his hand-me-down robes or his chipped wand (the one he wasn’t technically allowed to use yet), even when he sulked about being the youngest boy in a family full of absolute legends, he still had something you never would. Magic.
You lived in the village, down a winding lane past the corner shop and the cricket pitch, where the houses were lined up neat and small, nothing like the crooked chaos of the Burrow. Your older brother, Will, had gotten his Hogwarts letter two years ago and left with a puffed chest and twinkling eyes. You remembered him talking your ear off about broomsticks and Bertie Bott’s Beans and some oddball named Dumbledore before he even packed a single sock.
But Ron? Ron was yours before all that.
He’d tumble into the village with his too-long arms and bright red hair, searching for frogs in the creek, nicking licorice sticks from the shop with a wink and a “Don’t tell Mum.”
You were his shadow back then; mud-stained knees, a scraped elbow, your ponytail sticking out through the back of a baseball cap. You were the only girl who could run faster than him on a hot August afternoon and the only one who dared to climb to the very top of the hay bales in the Miller’s barn.
You were brave together, reckless even. Laughing until your ribs hurt, chucking pebbles into the river to see who could make the biggest splash. That summer, he’d built you a wand out of an old stick, and you’d paraded around the town pretending to hex everything from post boxes to parked bicycles.
“You’ll get your letter too,” he said once, sitting in the grass with his back against a sycamore tree. The sun had caught in his hair, setting it aflame.
You’d shrugged. “I won’t. Not like Will. I’m just the Muggle sibling.”
Ron had frowned. “That’s not bad, though.”
“It’s not magic either.”
He’d looked at you for a moment, quiet, and then poked your knee with his stick-wand. “Still cooler than Percy.”
You grinned at that. Because back then, it was enough.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Then August crept in, slow and cruel. Will returned for a bit, lankier than before, bursting with stories about moving staircases and some awful dungeon full of jars. And Ron?
Ron was buzzing.
He was going.
You were at the train station the morning he left. Your mum had brought you, more for Will’s sake than anything else, but your eyes had only followed Ron. He stood with his trolley, talking quickly with his brothers, looking like he was about to burst from the seams.
You were wearing a hand-me-down rugby shirt and your oldest jeans, still dirty from trying to beat your own climbing record on the town church’s trellis the night before. When Ron finally looked your way, you grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.
He gave you that big, crooked smile of his, the one that made your ribs go wobbly, and waved before following his brothers through the barrier.
And that was the beginning of the end.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
He didn’t come into town much after that.
You’d catch a glimpse of him over Christmas, maybe Easter, always surrounded by siblings or rushing back to the Burrow. You’d wave sometimes, and he’d wave back, but he never came by to knock on your door or ask if you wanted to go climb the fence down by the creek or throw apples at Mr. Flinch’s scarecrow.
You’d hear about him through Will mostly.
Ron and Harry this. Ron and Hermione that.
Hermione. Hermione. Hermione.
It was always the same trio.
And still, you didn’t let it bother you. Not really. You weren’t the type to sulk. You kept your hands busy and your voice loud, playing football with the neighborhood boys, daring them to eat worms, climbing higher, running faster. Tomboys don’t get jealous, you told yourself.
Tomboys don’t care.
But you were lying. And something deep down…something you never said aloud, knew you missed him.
Not the stories. Not the headlines about trolls or dragons or that time he got detention in the Forbidden Forest.
You missed him.
The way his voice would crack when he laughed too hard.
The way his freckles always got darker in the summer.
The way he used to glance over at you like you were something wild and invincible.
You weren’t sure he even remembered anymore.
And you were too stubborn to ask.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
It was the summer before Ron’s fifth year when you finally made your way back up the hill to the Burrow.
Your mum had to work a double at the clinic, and Will was already off doing some magical internship up north. Mrs. Weasley, bless her warm, nosy heart, insisted you stay the week.
You hesitated at first. It had been ages since you’d properly seen Ron, and the boy who used to chase you through hedgerows had long since become a secondhand myth you heard about in your brother’s letters. Part of you wasn’t sure if you’d fit in anymore. But another part of you, the part still wearing muddy trainers and pretending you didn’t care, wanted to see if anything had changed.
So you packed your bag, kissed your mum on the cheek, and walked all the way there.
And when you stepped onto the crooked porch, the Burrow exactly as lopsided and wonderful as you remembered, the door flung open before you could even knock.
“Y/N?”
Ron’s voice cracked somewhere between disbelief and boyish glee.
You didn’t even get a full “hi” out before he wrapped his arms around you.
He was taller now, a lot taller. His chin just about knocked your shoulder, and his arms were warm and tight, the kind of hug you hadn’t had from him in years.
“You’re actually here?” he said when he pulled back, eyes wide. “Mum said you might come, but I didn’t think—Merlin, how long’s it been?”
You grinned. “Too long, I guess.”
“You still climb stuff?”
“Only when the cops aren’t around.”
He barked out a laugh and nudged you inside, rambling excitedly, catching you up on every half-finished sentence from the past four years like no time had passed at all. You listened, really listened, because hearing Ron like this, like your Ron again, made your chest feel full in a way you’d forgotten.
But then, a voice came floating down the stairs.
“Ron, have you seen my book? I left—oh!”
She stood halfway down the staircase, holding a thick, worn volume with a pressed flower for a bookmark. Her hair was wild and brown and bushy in the most defiant, brilliant way. Her jumper was slightly oversized, sleeves pushed up to the elbow, and she had the kind of eyes that looked like they knew more than you ever would.
“Oh,” you breathed, barely audible.
She was beautiful.
“Y/N, this is Hermione,” Ron said, completely oblivious to the way your entire spine stiffened. “Hermione, this is—this is Y/N! I told you about her, remember?”
Hermione smiled in a way that was both kind and intimidating. “Of course. You’re the one who beat Ron in that infamous tree-climbing contest when you were eight.”
“Ten,” you muttered. “But yeah.”
She laughed softly. “I like you already.”
You smiled back, but it felt mechanical. Hermione descended the stairs, brushing past Ron in a way that made something sharp twist in your chest. His eyes followed her for a second too long.
And that’s when it hit you.
Like a bloody Bludger to the stomach.
She wasn’t trying to be anything. She just was.
You couldn’t compete with that.
Ron turned back to you and gestured toward the kitchen. “C’mon, let’s get something to eat before Mum forces us into chores.”
You nodded numbly, trying to keep your steps even, your expression light. Inside your chest, something was shifting, curling into itself.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
That night, you stared up at the ceiling of Ginny’s room in your temporary bunk, and tried not to feel foolish. You weren’t supposed to care about things like boys or attention or Hermione bloody Granger. You were the girl who tackled the neighbor kids and climbed rooftops for fun.
But you hadn’t realized how much you wanted to be seen until you saw the way Ron looked at her.
And he’d never looked at you like that.
Maybe he never would.
Still, you weren’t one to pout or cry or hide.
So the next morning, you tied your hair back, rolled your sleeves down, and smiled a little sweeter.
Not for him.
Not even for her.
For yourself.
Because you had a feeling this was going to be a very long week.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
It started with the tomato.
Or rather, the lack of it.
Ron sat at the Burrow’s kitchen table, elbow-deep in mashed potatoes and laughter, but something about the noise felt thinner than usul - less real.
There was no tomato arcing through the air, no sudden splat against his cheek, no shout of “Oi, Weasley, duck!” followed by your victorious cackle as he sputtered and chased you halfway across the garden.
For the first time in years, you were back at the Burrow. But you weren’t you.
You sat at the end of the table, posture too proper, napkin folded in your lap like some Ministry intern, smiling politely at everything Mrs. Weasley said. Your voice had softened into something careful. Your hair, once knotted with bits of twig and wind, was pulled back in a neat braid. You wore a pale yellow jumper that — bloody hell — actually matched your socks.
Ron stared at you over the rim of his glass, trying to work out what the hell had happened to the girl who used to belch the alphabet for a dare.
You were different.
Grown-up.
And he hated that he was only noticing now.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
He found himself thinking back to the summer before his first year, before Hogwarts, before Hermione, before the world turned into something heavy and war-touched.
He remembered the two of you racing through the cornfield like wild animals, your laughter echoing off the trees. You used to call him “Ginger Legs” when he couldn’t catch up, and he used to trip you into puddles just to watch your eyes go wide before you shoved him in after.
It was easy back then. Stupid and loud and real.
And now?
You offered him the last roll at dinner like it was a business transaction. You laughed at his jokes, sure — but they were soft, sugar-sweet things that disappeared too quickly. No snorting. No howling. No sarcastic “Wow, Ronald, your brain’s really firing on all three cylinders today.”
It unsettled him.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Later that night, after Hermione had disappeared up to Ginny’s room and the house had mostly gone quiet, Ron wandered into the kitchen for a snack. To his surprise, you were already there, nursing a glass of water and staring out the window at the darkened garden.
You turned when he stepped in. “Couldn’t sleep?”
He shrugged. “Always get a bit restless after Mum’s shepherd’s pie.”
You smiled faintly. “Still haven’t changed your eating habits, I see.”
“There’s the Y/N I remember,” he said before he could stop himself.
You blinked. “What?”
He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how tall he felt and how small the kitchen seemed. “I dunno. Just… you’re different now. Not in a bad way. Just… not how I remembered.”
You were quiet for a moment, the silence stretching like thread between you.
“People grow up, Ron,” you said finally, voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah, I guess. It’s just… weird.”
You looked at him then — really looked at him. “You didn’t think I’d stay the same forever, did you?”
“No, I just…” He trailed off, eyes dropping to the floor. “You used to call me Ginger Legs.”
“You used to stuff worms in your pockets.”
He huffed a laugh, and for a moment, something familiar flickered between you. Something old and golden and full of summer grass.
But then you looked away again, that soft expression returning to your face. The one that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
“Anyway,” you said gently, pushing off the counter. “I should go to bed.”
And just like that, the moment was gone.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Ron stood there long after you’d left, his sandwich forgotten.
He couldn’t name what it was, exactly.
Only that something inside him felt like it was slipping through his fingers.
Like he’d gone and missed something important while he wasn’t looking.
You weren’t just different.
You were beautiful now. Not just in the way you looked, but in the way you carried yourself. Quiet, steady, changed.
And it scared the hell out of him.
Because he’d never once thought about what he might lose while he was too busy chasing other things.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Ron couldn’t sleep.
Again.
It had started happening every night since you arrived. The ceiling above his bed became this blank, glowing thing he couldn’t stop staring at, every creak of the Burrow’s old bones keeping him wide awake, his brain filled with thoughts that didn’t used to matter.
Thoughts like:
What’s she thinking right now?
Does she still like sherbet lemons?
Has she always looked like that?
He rolled over, groaned, and buried his face in his pillow.
This was ridiculous. You were his mate. You’d shoved him into a pond once because he’d called your shoelaces “girly.” You used to spit toothpaste foam at him while racing through brushing your teeth. You’d never cared about matching clothes or speaking softly or smiling like someone was watching.
Now you were different.
And it made something ache behind his ribs in a way that had nothing to do with indigestion.
It wasn’t just the way you looked.
Sure, he’d noticed that, too, how your face had softened, how your eyes had changed shape when you smiled. How you had this quiet confidence now, like you didn’t need anyone’s approval to exist.
But it was more than that.
It was the distance.
You laughed at his jokes, but not like you used to.
You talked to him, but like he was someone safe — not someone special.
You smiled at everyone now.
And Merlin, that hurt more than he expected.
Because you used to look at him like that.
And he hadn’t realized how much he’d liked it until it was gone.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Earlier that day, he’d caught you outside alone, kneeling in the garden to help Ginny with the gnomes. You’d had your sleeves rolled up and a smudge of dirt across your cheek, and for a second, just a second, he saw her — the girl who once tied daisies into his hair while daring him to climb the roof of the sweet shop.
But then Hermione came out, calling for Ginny, and the spell broke.
You stood up quickly, brushing your hands off on your trousers, and turned your head away from Ron like it hadn’t even mattered that he’d been watching.
He wasn’t used to you turning away.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Now, lying there with his thoughts spiraling, Ron rubbed a hand down his face and let out a groan that probably woke the ghoul in the attic.
What was this?
Why did it feel like the floor had been quietly pulled out from under him?
He kept thinking about how you smiled at Bill when he asked about your plans, how you shared a private joke with Ginny over pudding, how you’d quietly moved through the Burrow like you didn’t want to take up too much space.
Like you didn’t want to be noticed.
Or worse—like you didn’t expect to be.
And that was when it hit him.
Right between the eyes.
You weren’t just different.
You’d changed because of him.
Because he hadn’t noticed soon enough.
Because he’d let you slip into the background.
Because for years, he’d chased Hermione and been too blind to realize someone else had been quietly cheering him on, waiting for a look, a moment, something.
And he’d missed it.
He’d missed you.
Not just the muddy-kneed tomboy.
But the version of you now—the one who still knew how to climb a tree but had learned how to sit still, too.
You weren’t just a friend anymore.
You were a woman. A beautiful one.
And he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to feel this way about you, or if it was already too late.
He sat up suddenly, feet hitting the cold floorboards.
Somewhere in the house, the floor creaked, maybe Ginny moving, or a door shifting in the wind, but Ron couldn’t hear anything properly through the pounding in his chest.
He needed to talk to you.
He didn’t know what he’d say, but the thought of letting another day go by without saying something felt unbearable.
He didn’t want to keep pretending you were just part of his past.
Because right now?
You were all he could see.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The morning came too fast, all sunlight and nerves.
Ron got dressed without thinking, nearly putting his jumper on backward and missing the staircase step that squeaked.
His palms were sweaty—why were his palms sweaty?—and he kept checking the mirror for crumbs on his shirt like this was some kind of date.
It wasn’t a date. He was just going to talk to you.
Say something.
Anything.
Because he couldn’t keep pretending that the distance between you didn’t make him feel like something was missing.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
You were already in the kitchen when he walked in.
Of course you were.
Sitting on the bench under the window, hair tied in a loose ponytail, wearing an old T-shirt that looked suspiciously like one of Will’s. You were stirring a spoon through a bowl of cereal, slow and absentminded, like your thoughts were miles away.
And you looked… sad.
Not crying sad. Just quiet. Like you didn’t want anyone to notice.
And no one else would.
But Ron did.
You looked up when he entered and smiled, just barely. “Morning.”
“Hey,” he said, voice cracking like he was twelve again. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Hey.”
You blinked, mildly amused. “You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just—um.” He reached the table and hovered there awkwardly, thumbs tapping the edge of a chair. “Can I sit?”
You gave a little nod and slid over to make room. “Sure.”
He sat stiffly, arms crossed over his chest, looking anywhere but at you.
This was going well.
A long pause.
The cereal in your bowl got soggy.
“Listen,” Ron blurted suddenly, like someone had pushed the words out of him. “I—I feel like I haven’t said anything proper since you got here.”
You looked at him sideways. “You’ve said plenty.”
“No, not like—proper proper. I mean…” He groaned and dropped his head in his hands. “Bloody hell, why is this so hard?”
That made you laugh, soft and surprised. “What are you trying to say, Weasley?”
He looked at you then. Really looked at you.
And there you were. That same spark in your eyes, even if it was dimmer now. That same quick-witted, untameable girl, except now you looked more like a painting than a memory. Something soft and striking and real.
“I miss you,” he said finally, voice lower, honest. “The old you. Not that you’re not still you. You are. But you’re also not. You’re just… different. And I get it. People change. I just—I didn’t notice. Not until now.”
Something flickered behind your eyes. You set your spoon down gently and shifted in your seat.
“I didn’t mean to change so much,” you said after a moment. “It just sort of happened. Felt like I had to.”
“Why?”
You hesitated.
And then you shrugged, but it wasn’t the usual carefree shrug, it was a shield. “Because it’s easier not to be the loud one when no one’s listening.”
His stomach twisted. “I was listening.”
You gave him a look that nearly knocked the air from his lungs. “Not to me, Ron.”
There was silence.
Your words hung between you like smoke, visible, inescapable.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel that way,” he said, voice softer now. “I was just—stupid. Wrapped up in school and—and everything else. I didn’t even realize you’d faded until I looked over and you weren’t there anymore. Not really.”
You looked down, lips pressing into a tight line. “Yeah. Well. I noticed.”
It hit harder than he expected.
He reached across the table without thinking, his fingers brushing yours, barely. Just enough for your eyes to meet again.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said.
You let out a quiet breath, and this time your smile was bitter. “You already did. A little bit. Just… a little.”
Ron wanted to say something—fix something. But the words didn’t come fast enough.
You stood up before he could try again, bowl in hand, walking to the sink with careful steps. You rinsed the dish, set it on the drying rack, and turned with a polite smile.
“I’m gonna go help Ginny with the laundry.”
And then you were gone.
He stayed at the table for a long while, staring down at his empty plate.
And he realized—
This wasn’t just a friendship that had shifted.
This was something that could slip through his fingers entirely if he didn’t stop it.
Because maybe he hadn’t noticed you soon enough.
But he saw you now.
And that had to mean something.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Ginny had been watching him all day.
Ron could feel her eyes burning holes in the side of his face through breakfast, through chores, through a particularly tense game of garden Quidditch where he barely managed to keep a hold of the Quaffle.
He tried ignoring her.
He failed.
And when she finally cornered him near the orchard, wiping her hands on a towel from hanging the wash, he knew he was done for.
“You’re acting like an idiot,” she said plainly, squinting against the sun. “Again.”
“What did I do now?” he muttered, pretending to focus on tying the strings of the garden tent.
Ginny folded her arms. “It’s not what you did. It’s what you didn’t do.”
Ron turned. “Can you be slightly less cryptic, or is this one of those sisterly brainwave moments where I’m supposed to just guess?”
She took a step forward. “Y/N. You’re the one acting like she just appeared out of thin air when she’s been there all along.”
Ron’s throat tightened.
Ginny raised an eyebrow. “She’s not the same girl who used to tackle you into the river. And you’re not the same boy who thought gnomes were terrifying.”
“Still are terrifying,” he muttered.
“But she’s still her,” Ginny pressed. “And she’s hurting, Ron. Because she thinks you only noticed her after she changed. Like all the versions of her you used to laugh with weren’t enough.”
His heart thudded.
“You have to do something,” Ginny said. “Before she thinks she’s not worth being seen as she really is.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Ron found you in the orchard, standing beneath the twisted apple tree that dropped fruit far too early in the summer. The sky above you was soft and bruised with evening, and your arms were crossed over your chest, fingers picking nervously at the sleeve of your jumper.
You looked so small.
And so strong, somehow, all at once.
He approached slowly.
You didn’t look up at first. “If you’re here to apologize again, don’t.”
“I’m not.”
You glanced over your shoulder.
He scratched the back of his neck. “I mean—I am sorry. But that’s not why I came.”
“Then why did you?”
“Because I needed to say something before I lose my nerve again.”
You turned fully now, brows drawn together, lips parted like you were already bracing for a disappointment you’d learned to expect.
And it broke something in him.
“I saw you before,” he said, stepping closer. “I just didn’t understand what I was looking at.”
You blinked.
“I thought I knew you. All wild elbows and scraped knees and that laugh that could shake windows.” His voice wavered. “But I didn’t realize what it meant. What you meant. I thought I’d have more time.”
You shook your head, voice barely a whisper. “You only noticed me when I stopped trying.”
“No,” he said quickly, stepping even closer. “I noticed when you started pulling away. When you smiled like it didn’t matter if anyone saw you. When you stopped throwing tomatoes and stopped yelling at me for being a git.”
A breath caught in your throat.
“And that’s when I knew,” he said, voice low. “You’ve always been there. Always. And I’ve been an idiot. A blind, distracted, selfish idiot who didn’t see the person standing right in front of him.”
You looked up at him then. Really looked. And in the space between heartbeats, something cracked open.
He reached out, hand tentative, fingers brushing the edge of your sleeve. “You don’t have to be different for me to see you. I see you now. And I don’t want to look away again.”
You didn’t speak.
But you stepped closer.
And that was enough.
His hand slid to your cheek. Your eyes fluttered shut, and your breath hitched.
The kiss wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t clumsy or unsure or soft like porcelain.
It was real.
It was four summers of missed chances, of laughter and ache and wanting and not knowing how to say it. It was the feeling of falling off a broomstick and realizing someone was there to catch you.
It was him.
And it was you.
When you finally pulled back, both breathless, both a little stunned, Ron laughed softly, his forehead still pressed to yours.
“You still smell like apples,” he whispered.
You smiled, eyes warm with something like wonder. “You still kiss like you’re trying to prove something.”
does anyone still write for harry potter.. i feel like no one writes for them anymore im so deprived i just keep on going back to my favorite fics💔💔 if yall have recommendations pleaseeeeee give meeeee
I plan to turn these into stickers, along with some older illustrations I think look good in prints as well. Right now I’m stocking up my catalogue to send them to a print co. all at once. I want something of my own to stick on iPad and in sketchbook. （╹◡╹）
Hiiii!!! I saw that you had made a post about yandere Harry Potter characters and I have been starving 💔
So I was wondering if you could do headcanons or a drabble of yandere Harry Potter and Ron Weasley (separate) with a shy and kinda creepy willing reader that has never had friends so they love that attention, even if it's toxic
Thank you in advance!!! ❤️❤️❤️
Yandere Harry and Ron With a Willing! Reader
A/n: You totally get me. Two little fucked up weirdos :)) match made in hell. Also, same :( I don’t really see Tom Riddle as hot because I fear he would crucio his darling if it came to it (“No he wouldn’t!!” Okay talk to the crucio wand) and I just… personally can’t with the fanmade characters (Theo, Lorenzo, literally whoever). Because they usually dominate the Harry Potter tag, we been on rations. Proof read er once so hopes and prayers.
CW: Assumed 6th year bc I had Hogwarts in mind when writing this (but send postwar requests if you’d like!), basic unhealthy relationship stuff, no classic threats or violence but lots of inner dwelling, pretty vanilla, sfw, and maybe ooc Ron because movie and book Ron are very different, but at the same time, he still lowkey a bih in both (love tho)
Harry
Harry is beyond ecstatic that you agreed to date him. He was initially apprehensive about confessing to you, seeing as his situation at Hogwarts is continuously life-threatening and due to social circumstances, he didn’t want you to become overwhelmed and regret your decision. The thought of you getting hurt because of him held him back from asking you out the most.
In the back of his mind, he knows he’s sort of taking advantage of you. Your meek and lonely nature makes you susceptible to selfish blokes like himself. He tries to rationalize his feelings, telling himself that he just wants to protect and treat you as you deserve! Seeing you sit alone in the Great Hall at every meal, studying at a lone row in the library, sitting with no one in a lively courtyard, never speaking up when someone nearly jinxes you while roughhousing in the halls, it only makes sense that you would accept his invitation of companionship. But even then, he can’t help but be grateful he got to you first.
Harry could never shut up to Ron about how he hated seeing PDA (mostly because he couldn’t stand the horrible thought of you doing that with someone else and that you weren’t doing any of that with him!). Now, he can’t stop holding your hand in the halls and kissing you quick outside the door before you two are separated due to differing schedules. Ron rolls his eyes every once in the while, though Harry doesn’t mind.
He loves the flustered effect he has on you. You usually never expected anyone to even know your name in passing, and now Harry Potter is wiping bits of gravy off your lips with a napkin. Of course, it’s a cute thing and all, couples being caring about the little stuff, but deep down inside his heart, Harry enjoys breaking that innocent part of you.
He doesn’t want to hurt you, nor does he think you’re all flower patches and butterflies. It’s just that he now knows he is the only one who can do this to you, and you’ll enjoy it. At first, he thought it was a bit weird how you never told him off like how Hermione did when he peeked at her finished homework, or how Ron sometimes told him to sod off for a second if he was particularly stressed. You always stood at his side no matter what. It really should’ve worried him. Instead, it made Harry relieved- reassured that you wouldn’t leave him if he somehow screwed up.
Harry doesn’t think you’re really creepy at all. Rather, he thinks what makes you weird makes you more attractive. People forget all the time that even though he is the famous Boy Who Lived, he can still be quite moody and reclusive at times. He sort of thinks you’re just like him, only if he never met Ron or Hermione on the Hogwarts Express. Lonely, stuck in his own head, and an overall anomaly. He loves that he can take care of you. Make you stay in the palm of his hand now that you’re safe and loved more than anyone else ever could be.
You have no reason to talk to anyone else, look to any other boy than him, disagree with any activity he wants to do, or even think of leaving him. Harry doesn’t often have to hurt any rivals, nor make any roundabout plan to win you back. You already love him as much as he loves you! Even if you only accept his toxic behavior because you yourself can’t come to terms with certain personal issues, Harry couldn’t be any happier he snagged such a sweet, malleable darling. Forever will he thank you for being a sweetheart, not making a mess of what could’ve easily been one.
Ron
Ron is actually quite perplexed you accepted to be his. When he first took notice of you, he definitely thought you were strange. Not anything to be worried about, really. There were loads of students like you. Surely mute, skittish, and a little unpredictable with how invisible you were. But oh, how he fell for your meek, socially inept, lonesome ways. He could just look at you without consequence because you never looked up from the table. Admire your weird little habits when you thought no one saw. Hermione told him to stop being the creepy one plenty, and Harry often shook his head at his affinity with you, always making Ron slouch and rest his hand on his cheek, looking like a dope at any given moment when you were in the same vicinity.
When he passed by you, he was always preparing some sort of action if you randomly decided to acknowledge his existence back (which you never did). To him, you were like if Peeves the Poltergeist was a silent mastermind instead of a mental prankster. Always somehow invading his mind, time, and privacy at the most unexpected moments- it’s exhausting, you know!
At the start of the relationship, Ron hesitated to hold your hand, a rising flush on his freckled skin any time he reached for you. The moment you didn’t show any signs of rejection, he began to settle in very, very quickly. So quick, in fact, even his siblings had to tell him to get back to his schoolwork and forget snogging you for a moment! Apart from teasing, George and Fred could care less about who Ron was dating. For Ginny, she saw it all coming from a mile away.
Honestly, he could kiss his Prefect badge goodbye if it weren’t for his mum. In the end, he made the promise to keep on top of his academics while seeing you. As much as you invaded his mind between the spaces of his inked letters, making him regret being a prefect altogether, he stayed true to his word. There are a lot of scrapped balls of parchment Harry complains about now.
Ron especially loves your self-proclaimed “creepiness.” No way, you’re so adorable! Everything about you screams, “Please adore me!” From your averting gaze to your lack of chattering mates, he cherishes every part. You made it so easy for him to pour his overwhelming love into you; it’s strangely exciting. Never had he met someone so ready to dedicate their being to him and him only. He understands that perhaps putting so much on you might make you feel burdened, and yeah, maybe he is taking advantage of the fact that you’ve had no attention up until now, but isn’t that what makes you two so special?
Ron believes there are men who could still swoop you off your feet if they really tried, yet he also believes he’s the only one who could love you so deeply and purely. Who has kept track of your semesterly schedules, collected forgotten quills and shed hair strands on desks, followed you to your most frequent study areas, knows what your favorite things to grab from the magic plates at meal times are, and just how much you secretly crave the intimate acknowledgement from another? Surely only he, the sole man who can relate every increment of your pitiful being, can be the singular suitor you need? It’s no secret he feels just as alone and needy for approval. So really, is it taking advantage of someone if you both feed into that dark, inky, blotty part of each other? He thinks not.
Might it be a pitiful sight to see him drag you around wherever, he doesn’t care. Ron is utterly exuberated at your willingness to excuse his terrible habits. Ugh, no, that boy talks terribly slow, don’t even bother trying to ask him to partner for the herbology project. Perhaps you two can ask the professor if you guys can partner instead despite having differing periods? What? You don’t want to cut off a considerable amount of hair for him? Love, he doesn’t care if your hair will look uneven, he loves you the way you are! Come on, his dad put his mum’s hair in a locket a long time ago. It’s really basic stuff here. Merlin, what does higher education matter? You can have your hobbies at home while he works towards being an Auror. All the cards are in place, so you just have to sit at his side nice and tight, okay?
