Hiiiiii!!!First of all I absolutely ADORE YOUR FICS!!!!and I was wondering if you could do a Fred Weasley x (fem) reader (who's in Ron's year)one where the reader's a HEAVY YAPPER! SHE'S LIKE SUNSHINE IN HUMAN FORM, PROFESSIONAL JOYBAITER AND SOMEHOW ALWAYS HAPPY!but still she doesn't have any friends. And she's Only friends with Hermione cuz once they were paired up for a task,but Fred FOR SOME REASON has taken a significant interest in the reader.Mostly because her reactions to their pranks just make him question everything in life! And since he knows nothing about Her,he tries to find information about me ALONE but fails MISERABLY and FINALLY Is forced to ask about me to his younger brother (Ron) and his group,and then getting teased like there's no yesterday!(It's like he falls first and THEN FALLS HARDER)
[I'm sorry if it's too complicated,you can totally take your time or just ignore it!No pressure!!♥️]
Happy-Go-Lucky
(Fred Weasley x Sunshine! Reader)
‘After trying and failing to put a name to the face of the incessantly optimistic and congenial fifth-year, he is forced to ask Hermione who you are.’
As the bubbliest student in the Castle, you’re well known among your fifth-year Gryffindor peers. You’re loud in the best way: quick laugh, quick wit, and always the first to congratulate someone on a good Quidditch catch or a well-answered question in class. You bounce from conversation to conversation like a Snitch on the field; cheering up post-detention first-years with terrible jokes in the common room; debating the finer points of potions with the Ravenclaws; helping Hufflepuffs rehearse for Charms in the corridors… people genuinely enjoy your company— your energy is contagious, your questions show you’re actually interested, and you remember tiny details about everyone. You have a way of making people feel special, and that makes them gravitate toward you.
“Oi, Davies, how’d your mum like the Chudley Cannons show?” You shout across the Great Hall one morning, and Roger Davies will grin and give you a thumbs-up because you listened when he mentioned it last week.
You’re the one who organises impromptu Exploding Snap tournaments in the common room on rainy evenings, who drags half the dormitory down to the kitchens at midnight because someone looked hungry, who starts a standing ovation when a nervous first-year finally manages a Levitation Charm. Professors actually like you (McGonagall was even heard muttering “competent and enthusiastic— a dangerous combination” with the faintest twitch of a smile). Even Filch grumbles less when you’re the one who runs into him.
Your extroversion has its disadvantages, though: you never seem to have made a fixed friendship group. You sit with different people every meal— one day you’re at the centre of the table holding court with Seamus and Dean, the next you’re squeezed between Lavender and Parvati gossiping about the Yule Ball, the day after that you perch at the Ravenclaw table, arguing with Luna about Thestral care. People love having you around, but no one seems capable of claiming you, like you’re out of their league, platonically. You’re everyone’s friend, but after a short while, you’re off noticing someone else who looks like they could use some company.
Fred Weasley starts paying attention to this… anomaly in fourth year. It begins with a prank: he and George charm the suits of armour to break into synchronised dance every time someone says the word “essay.” The whole corridor dissolves into chaos. Most people shriek, or laugh and run, but you stop dead and watch the armours moonwalk past you. You immediately stop to admire the work, elbowing Hermione on your left. “Holy shit! The one on the left has serious moves.”
Fred, watching from a balcony above, feels something in his chest do an odd little flip. George notices immediately and smirks, but Fred can’t look away as you try to drag Hermione in to your dancing with the suits.
After that, he starts tracking you without meaning to. He notices you’re always in the middle of whatever’s happening, but never anchored to it. You’re the one who knows everyone’s name, everyone’s favourite sweet, everyone’s current drama, but when the portrait hole swings shut at night, you’re usually heading up the stairs alone.
He tries to dig for information the subtle way, first. He describes you and asks Lee Jordan if he’s ever properly talked to you. “Sure, she’s class. Helped me rewrite my entire Divination essay in ten minutes, once. Then vanished before I could buy her a Butterbeer! I wanted to ask her out and all, but I never got her name…”
He even asks Angelina. “Oh, I know who you’re talking about! She’s really nice. Sat with me in the hospital for ages last year when I broke my ankle during Quidditch.”
“Did you get her name?” he asks hopefully.
“Nope. Sorry. I was out of it for most of the time. Madam Pomfrey gave me some serious painkillers.”
Another dead end. He resorts to asking random first-years about the “nice crazy lady” that comforted you in the hallway last week.” The answer is always some variation of “You mean Y/N? Everyone likes her. She’s dead fun.” At least this time he got your name.
Eventually, swallowing every ounce of pride, Fred asks Hermione, who seems to have some connection to you.
It’s a Sunday evening in the common room. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny are sprawled around the fire. Fred descends the stairs alone, hands in his pockets, trying to look like he’s just stretching his legs.
“Hermieeee,” he says casually, drawing out her name a little too long, “quick question. That girl in your year—Y/N, I think — what’s her… deal? Seems like she knows bloody everyone.” He flops down onto the armchair behind them both.
The reaction is, predictably, shock. Ron’s head snaps up so fast his neck cracks. Harry’s eyes go wide. Hermione lowers her book slowly, like she’s watching a slow-motion train wreck. Ginny actually cackles. Fred? Asking about a girl? Whatever for?
“Fred has a crush, Fred has a crush!” Ginny rhythmically chants. Fred throws a pillow at her head, making her laugh harder.
Ron recovers first. “Y/N? The one who can talk the hind legs off a hippogriff? What do you want to know?”
“And why?” Harry chimes in.
Fred shrugs with Oscar-worthy indifference. “Just… noticed she’s always around. Popular, yeah?”
Hermione’s voice is carefully neutral. “She is very friendly. People really like her. She just floats around.”
Ron leans forward, grinning madly at the joy of having the upper hand on his brother. “Got a little crush, have you?”
“I do not—” Fred starts, then realises protesting too much is worse. He settles for a scowl. “Forget I asked.”
But they don’t forget. For weeks the teasing is relentless. Ginny starts bowing dramatically whenever you walk past. George leaves fake fan letters in Fred’s trunk (“To the taller, slightly less handsome twin— love, Your Biggest Admirer”). Ron hums love songs when Fred’s within earshot. Even Harry mutters, “Wonder if you’re the only person ever she’s not talked to,” and has to duck a cushion.
Fred endures it with increasingly creative threats of revenge. All the while, you remain cheerfully oblivious— still flitting from table to table, still starting conversations with “Okay, random question—” and leaving people smiling in your wake, still heading up to bed alone with a wave and a “Night, all!”
But Fred watches more carefully now. He sees how you light up when someone remembers something you told them weeks ago. How you always notice when someone’s quiet and draw them out without making it obvious. How you deflect when anyone tries to pin you down to one table, one plan, one group— like you’re afraid of overstaying your welcome. He — much to his disappointment — crushes harder every time he watches you make someone else’s day brighter and then drift away before they can return the favour.
One evening, after a particularly vicious round of sibling mockery, Fred finally decides enough is enough. He finds you in the common room, perched on the arm of a sofa, mid-story with a group of fourth-years who are hanging on your every word. When you finish and they scatter, laughing, he slides into the empty space beside where you’re now sitting alone.
“Y/N, right?” he says, offering his best lopsided smile.
You turn, eyes bright with instant recognition. “Geo- no, Fred Weasley,” you narrow your eyes a little, studying his face, “yes, definitely Fred— your left eyebrow does something when you talk. Hi.”
He laughs, surprised and delighted. “Guilty as charged. Yeah, I’m Fred. Nice to put a face to a name. Look, I’ve got a question.” He tugs at his sleeves, uncharacteristically nervous.
Your eyebrows furrow as you tuck your legs under yourself and curl up on the sofa opposite him. “I’m listening…”
“I was wondering if you’d like to go to Hogsmeade with me next weekend. Just you and me. No exploding…things — well, maybe one if you ask nicely. Butterbeer, Zonko’s, maybe a walk by the lake? If you want?
The words hang between you for a beat. Your eyes go wide, surprised, but the smile that follows is slow and radiant.
“Like…a date, as in,” you ask, voice warm with delight.
He coughs, a little sheepish. “Yeah. If that’s…alright?” Jesus Christ, he thinks, where have all my words gone?
You don’t even hesitate. “I think I’d like to! I think I’d love to, actually.”
The relief on his face is instant— shoulders dropping, grin turning brilliant and boyish.
“Grawesome,” he says, quickly shaking his head, “I mean— I started to say great and then I said awesome.” He blushes furiously as he stands up, brows furrowed.
“No, I like it,” you laugh, craning your neck up at him. “It will be grawesome.”
He realises you’re sort of immune to embarrassment, so his blush lessens and he finds his verbal footing again. “Next Saturday, then. I’ll meet you by the portrait hole at ten,” he says, looking down at you on the couch.
You take his clammy hands, cradling one another nervously, and give it a quick squeeze before letting go. “It’s a date, Fred Weasley.
He walks away— backwards for the first few steps, still grinning at you like he’s just pulled off the best prank of his life. “Alrighty…” he shoots a finger-gun your way as he spins around then internally cringes. As soon as he’s out of eyesight he begins to bound up the boys’ staircase, instantly rugby tackling his twin brother, who was relaxing on his bed. “Get off me, you big melon,” George protests.
For the first time at Hogwarts, you head up to bed with the feeling that you might just have found an anchor.
summary: 7k. your immortal life is spent in the shadows, working at your Maker’s bar in Romania to keep yourself fed and occupied, but everything changes when you catch the eye of a certain dauntless dragonologist.
cw: MDNI 18+, vampires and all the things that come with it (blood! many mentions of blood!), vamp bites are pleasurable, canon divergence probably, simp!Charlie, some primal play if you squint, dry humping, general feral behavior, incorrect usage of the Romanian language (i’m sorry romania, i really tried)
an: there will probably be a part 2 for this lol
masterlist | inspired by this request | divider by @strangergraphics
Knock knock.
“Yes?” you called, not looking up from the account books sprawled across your desk.
“Alexei still hasn't shown up for his shift.”
Fuck. You turned to look at Nik, who was apparently your lone bartender for the evening. They were leaning against your office door, dressed in all black and a scowl, with a blood red towel slung over their shoulder.
“How busy?” You asked, pinching the bridge of your nose. You already knew the answer, could smell the dozens of humans in the bar, could count each tremor of their unique heartbeats.
“Too busy for just me,” Nik sighed. “I hate to ask, but I could really use a hand out there.”
When your Master, Florin, decided to open the Nocturna, a vampire bar in Brasov, you agreed to work there under one condition: you could stay in the back. No bartending, no serving, no “entertaining”.
You preferred your solitude, content to spend your immortality between the pages of books, both accounting and fictional. And you preferred to feed on an as-needed basis. The more time you spent around humans, the more challenging that was.
But you'd fed a few days prior, and your annoyance at Alexei overpowered that ever-lingering thirst.
“I’ll let you take the regulars. They're easy,” Nik added. “Mostly ursas and brandy snifters.”
“Fine.” You flipped your books closed and pushed to your feet, making a feeble attempt to straighten your own all-black outfit. “But I'm going to complain the entire time.”
Nik beamed, gesturing towards the bar with a flourish. “I’d expect nothing less.”
You stalked out to the bar, bracing yourself for the onslaught of scents and sounds. Nearly every table was full, the chatter like a discordant orchestra grating against your sensitive eardrums. The Nocturna was bathed in crimson and low candlelight, the windows draped with red velvet, the ceiling aglow with polished bronze tiles and glittering chandeliers.
Vampires and humans alike filled the plush booths and mahogany tables, co-mingling safely due to the strict rules Florin enforced. The Nocturna was a haven to drink and be drunk, to feed and be fed upon, and it always kindled a flicker of pride in your hollow chest to see it in action.
You and Nik moved behind the bar, and you tied your hair back, slapping a smile on your face.
“So, who's regular?” You asked, busying yourself with wiping down the already glossy bar.
“There's the hiking group,” they gestured to a pile of college-age kids by the fireplace. “And those are the farmers, swingers, Americans—”
You made mental notes of each of them, tallying up their drinks and who would need refills sooner rather than later. Fuck, this was going to be such a long night.
Your eye caught on a rather rugged group tucked into one of the quieter sections by the windows, a haze of smoke lingering over their pints, cards scattered across the table.
One of them—you detected his heartbeat quicken—felt your gaze, eyes lifting from his cards and flicking towards you. He was breathtaking, with amber eyes and freckles scattered like stars across his cheeks, his loosely tied hair and short beard the same ruddy auburn as a candle's halo.
You felt a pang where your dead heart slumbered, caught off guard, and averted your eyes.
But, of course, Nik caught you.
“Ah, our most interesting patrons,” they hummed, pulling a pint with a knowing smile. “The dragonologists.”
Your eyes widened. “They work at the sanctuary?”
You've heard of Romania’s dragon sanctuary, buried deep in the Carpathian Mountains. But, despite being a bona fide monster yourself, the concept of dragons still sent a childlike thrill through you.
“Mhm.” Nik’s smile widened, but you realized they were looking not at you, but just over your shoulder. “How are the beasties today, Charlie?”
You turned on your heel, and—oh, fuck—tall, ginger, and handsome was standing right there. Up close, you could pick out his unique scent, caramelized sugar and muddled cherries, woodsmoke and pine. A dull ache pulsed through the roots of your teeth.
“A pleasure, as always.” Charlie's voice was low and melodic, laced with mirth. “The horntail was especially lovely.” He pushed up the sleeve of his Henley, forearms thick and lined with damn near juicy veins, and revealed a crude bandage looped just above his elbow.
He must be an idiot, a supremely sexy idiot.
The dull ache in your teeth grew to a distracting throb, an echo of the bodily rhythm you no longer had.
Nik set the pint in front of him, pointedly not looking at the carmine that had seeped through the gauze. “What'd you do to piss her off?”
“I made the mistake of looking her in the eye.” His eyes shifted to yours, whiskey-rich and mischievous, catching you like a snare.
“You're awfully bold, coming into a vampire bar with an open wound,” you chastised. The last thing you needed was a frenzy on your watch. And right now, you felt like you might be the one to start it.
Charlie shrugged, unrolling his sleeve while holding your gaze. “Vulnerability doesn't scare me.”
Oh. Supremely idiotic and arrogant.
“Charlie, this is Y/n. Y/n, Charlie Weasley,” Nik introduced you, relishing in the stunned look on your face.
“It’s an honor,” Charlie said, taking a slow sip of his pint. “I've heard a lot about you.”
You cast a side-eye at Nik, who winked at you. “All terrible?” You asked, nails tapping anxiously against the wood. You folded them into your palm before you accidentally marred the glass-like surface.
They, along with your fangs, seemed to have grown marginally sharper over the course of the conversation. The animal in you stirring beneath a placid smile.
“The worst.”
“I have nothing but praise to heap upon you, and you know it,” Nik chuckled. “I was actually telling him about your obsession with books after I caught him reading Nostalgia.”
“Nostalgia?” You raised a brow. Perhaps you were being judgmental, but you'd never expect someone with biceps the size of your head to be into classic Romanian anthologies.
A flush crawled up his neck, his heart thumping a little heavier. “Yeah, one of my younger brothers sent it to me. Doesn't have nearly enough pictures for me, though.”
A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.
Okay, supremely idiotic, arrogant, and oddly charming.
“Your brother and I would probably get along great, then,” you teased, his levity almost contagious.
Maybe this night wouldn't be so unbearable after all.
“I imagine so. But, unfortunately, he's in London working for the Ministry, so you'll have to settle for the second most intelligent Weasley.”
“And how many are there?”
Charlie counted on his fingers. “Six? No—seven.”
“Seven?”
Nik bumped your hip behind the bar, then turned to help customers while Charlie regaled you with delight about his giant family.
Ten minutes passed, then twenty, an hour, with you and Charlie yapping about anything and everything between serving customers, the steady melody of his voice, the drum of his heart, drowning out the rest of the Nocturna.
It wasn't just his good humor that was infectious, but him. His charm, his wit, his dauntless curiosity—you couldn't remember the last time you met someone that piqued your interest so much. Or at all, for that matter.
When a human and vampire pair brushed by, hanging on one another like tendrils of ivy, Charlie fell quiet, gaze trailing after them, lingering on the curtain of the private lounge they entered.
“Does it hurt?” He asked, turning his attention back to you. Trying in vain not to look directly at your lips, red as a thorned rose.
“Only at first,” you shrugged.
“And then what happens after?” His heart revved like an engine.
You bit your lip, fangs elongated enough to prick the tender skin, hoping the reality of them would deter whatever idea had bloomed in his mind. “Nothing good.”
But instead his scent deepened, honey-sweet and tart as ripened fruit, and the ache in your teeth began to spread. Thrumming in time with the flickering artery under his jaw.
Fuck, he smelled divine.
“Well, if you ever want to take me out for dinner sometime…” he flirted, brazen.
Your muscles coiled, hunger tying your guts into ribbons. If you sank your teeth into him, you feared you'd never let go. “Don't hold your breath, Weasley.”
He smirked. “I think you'll find I can be very patient, love.”
“Hey,” one of Charlie's friends appeared at his shoulder, and you turned away, trying to look busy. “Early shift tomorrow, you ready to go?”
You could feel Charlie's eyes sweep over you, heat blooming beneath your chilled skin in his wake.
He tipped the last of his beer into his mouth, swiping his tongue over the rim to collect the last of the foam. “Lead the way, mate.”
You fought down the surge of disappointment that tightened your throat.
His friend headed towards the door where the rest of the dragonologists were waiting, and Charlie stood, bracing his hands on the bar to lean towards you. “Will I see you tomorrow?”
“Doubtful,” you said, but failed to suppress your smile.
Charlie tossed you a wink before waving to Nik and following his friends out into the night.
“Not a word,” you said, pointing to Nik as their grin turned giddy.
They mimed zipping their lips and threw away the key.
Charlie barreled through the trees, branches whipping his face and snagging his clothes. Thousands of tiny fingers trying to hold him back as he ran.
A flash of white fabric ripped a hole in his periphery.
THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP
Footfalls. His heart. The ancient drum of the world.
He knew it could hear him.
He knew it was gaining on him.
He also knew he wasn't afraid—or, not as afraid as he should be.
Was he fleeing? Or was he chasing? He couldn't be sure, couldn't remember. The trees were an endless viridian sea, held in a basin of stone. No beginning or end.
Only the forest, and the hunt.
The roots rose to trip him, yanking his boots off his feet. He pitched forward, tumbling through the brush. Spinning, spinning, stop.
Another flash of white. Not fabric, but teeth. Your teeth. You. Sinking into the damp valley of his throat, into the soil, into the earth. Down, down, down.
He was afraid, now, with the heat of his life spilling out beneath him, fluid and hot against his skin. It was endless, infinite. You never filled, he never emptied. A constant cycle and endless loop. Him and you and you and him and him you him you you him teeth and blood and bone and dirt and sky and—
Charlie jolted awake, hand clawing at the animal racing inside his throat, frantic footfalls echoing in his mind. His room was dark, skin intact, sheets bloodless, and he exhaled, willing his heart to slow.
But a lingering warmth in his lower belly kept him tethered to wakefulness. He shifted his legs, trying to understand what he was feeling, because surely not—and the cool kiss of the sheet had him gasping.
He was achingly hard, the top sheet clinging to his balmy skin, and he groaned, wrapping a fist around his base in a feeble attempt to dissuade his body from what it was begging him for.
On unsteady legs, he slipped out of bed, the floor a shocking cold against his overheated flesh. But he welcomed it, let it ground him fully in reality, even as dream’s gossamer webs still clung to the edges of his mind—
—you, your teeth ripping through his flesh like the skin of a peach, the weight of your body against his as he gave to you, nourished you, filled you—
He shook himself, smoothing a hand over his face.
The clock on the wall read 5:03 a.m. The Nocturna opened at eight p.m.
Only 14 hours and 57 minutes until he could see you again.
Charlie took a shower, ice cold at this hour, and got ready for the day. Cargo pants, slash-proof thermal, utility jacket, tool belt, boots.
Only 14 hours and 23 minutes until he could see you again.
He ate breakfast at the cantina, mămăligă and bitter black coffee, and sat in on the morning briefing of the recruits. Though he spent most of it daydreaming about your smile, the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed.
12 hours and 36 minutes.
Did the morning feeding rounds with his assigned dragons and checked on the clutch of eggs being guarded by a cantankerous Ridgeback. Got whacked by her tail when thoughts of your lips made him careless. Then, sitting on the infirmary table while the medic prodded his ribs, imagined you chastising him with that sharp tongue for not paying closer attention.
Nine hours and 12 minutes.
It was going to be a long fucking day.
You could smell him as soon as he stepped through the doors of the Nocturna. Burnt sugar and merlot, leather and dragon-smoke. His heart was thumping heavily in his chest, knocking against the walls of your mind like a fist.
Let me in.
Thoughts of him had kept you up all day, tossing and turning so much that Florin threatened to stake you if you didn't knock it off.
He was kidding, mostly, but you took yourself down to your office in the bar anyway, hoping to catch some sleep on your pull-out before doors opened at eight.
You hadn't.
And now, with Charlie's scent on the air, a fresh hunger bloomed.
With a wave of your hand, your office door swung shut, the lock clicking into place. Then, you lit a few candles and a stick of incense, hoping the smoke would clear what the door couldn't block.
Charlie was too decent to have you drooling over him like an animal. Or worse, losing control and hurting him.
Exhaustion and hunger could be a deadly combination.
It worked for a while, until Nik barged in without knocking.
“Hey, what are you—fucking hell, are you performing a seance in here?” Nik coughed, waving a hand in front of their face.
The scent of Charlie wafted in, along with dozens of other humans, and you buried your head into your arms. “Go away,” you grumbled.
“He's asking for you,” Nik said, drawing out the ‘you’ with great relish.
“Tell him I’m out.”
“Ah, but you're sitting right here.” Nik rested a hand on your shoulder. “Hiding again, are we?”
“No,” you muttered, petulant, and lifted your head.
Nik crouched down beside you. “I think he really likes you,” they whispered. “His heart would start racing whenever someone came up from the back. His eagerness is stinking up the joint.”
Your lungs grew buoyant, something fluttering to life low in your belly. Not hunger, something delicate, toothless.
Terrifying.
“Seemed like you liked him too…” they continued.
“He's human,” you huffed.
“He's hot.”
“I don't want—what if I—” you cut yourself off, head dropping back onto your forearms.
“Oh, honey. You won't hurt him,” Nik soothed, expression softening. “You keep yourself on such a tight leash, it's okay to live a little.”
“We don't live at all,” you argued, but it was hollow. Deep down, you knew they were right.
“Maybe you don't,” they teased, pivoting before you dragged yourself down too low. “What do you want me to tell him?”
“Just…tell him I'm too busy tonight,” you sighed. “And that I'm a raging bitch.”
“Should I tell him you're a lone wolf, too?” Nik smirked.
“Yes!”
“No.” They tsked. “But I will tell him that you're not feeling well.”
“Fine,” you exhale, relieved.
Nik patted the top of your head before leaving, closing the door behind them. Leaving you alone to ruminate in your cloyingly perfumed cave.
Their words rattled around in your brain, taunting you. Charlie barely knew you; whatever he was feeling was, at best, mild interest, and, at worst, fetishizing you because you were a vampire.
Plenty of vampires indulged in wizard's morbid fascination with your kind, as evidenced by the constantly booked lounges at the Nocturna, but you were never interested in that.
You were a vampire, but you weren't just a vampire.
Did Charlie like you? Or was he just chasing a new adrenaline rush? Would you be able to tell the difference? Could he?
It was all too much, too risky. And it was a poorly-calculated risk that got you in this bloodthirsty mess in the first place.
At the end of the night, just when the sunlight began to paint the mountains lavender, Nik knocked on your door again, holding something behind their back.
“What's that?” You asked, blowing out the few candles that hadn't melted down to a puddle.
“For you.” They held it out, barely containing the smile on their face.
It was a book, a thin volume with bent corners and a wrinkled spine. Clearly, well-loved.
“Charlie asked that I give it to you—” they were grinning fully now, “—and sends his well-wishes.”
Your jaw went slack, and you took the little book with trembling fingers. It was a collection of poetry by John Keats, and the world went still around you.
You could smell Charlie as you flipped through the pages, the salt from his skin, the soap he used on his linens, the ink from notes he had made in the margins.
When you reached “La Belle Dame Sans Merci”, a slip of paper fluttered out from between the pages.
To discuss next time. Hope you feel better soon.
Charlie
A full week passed, and Charlie had yet to return to the Nocturna. You pretended not to care, despite the fact that you'd fallen asleep every morning with the stanzas of John Keats swimming behind your eyes, and the mounting hunger that seemed to crave only one thing.
Rather, one man.
You'd even tried to sate yourself with a bottle of the preserved blood Florin keeps in the back, but it only made the gnawing worse. And after nearly ten days without a full meal, you were growing more unstable by the hour.
You hunkered down in your office, a scarf doused in peppermint oil wrapped around your neck to dampen the reek of humans just outside your door. But the words on the account book in front of you were blurring together, meaningless, and you shoved it away, growling with frustration.
But in your state, you had less control of your strength, and the book went sliding off the edge of the desk, crashing to the floor with a bang that made your ears ring, your head pound.
No, your head wasn't pounding—someone was knocking.
“What?!” You snapped, wrenching the door open.
Nik startled, fist hovering above the wood. “Sorry to, ah, disturb you.” Their eyes swept over you, the corner of their mouth tugging down in concern. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, what do you want?” You were fine. You could control yourself. You weren't an animal.
“There's a bit of an issue in lounge 7, I tried to resolve it, but—”
You shoved out past them, tossing your scarf onto the floor as you stalked down the hall. Normally, you'd let Florin handle any incidents, but the beast in you was jonesing to show its teeth, and your impulse control was rapidly depleting.
Perhaps a little scuffle would be just the thing to take the edge off.
“Wait, maybe I should—” Nik hurried after you, looking mildly alarmed at your urgency.
“I can handle it,” you bit.
“When’s the last time you ate?” they asked, but you were already wrenching open the curtain.
The smell of him caught you across the face like a slap, and your fangs gave an agonizing lurch, mirroring the way your stomach flipped.
Charlie was sitting on one of the red velvet chaises and jumped to his feet, his smile faltering when he saw the look on your face.
“Hey, love. I didn’t—ah—”
His pulse was hammering in his chest, so flush with blood it colored his cheeks, engorged the veins in his throat—
Nik stepped between you, hands up. “This was my idea, Charlie didn't want to do it, but I insisted—”
Something possessive flared, a low rumble behind your ribs, a serpentine clicking that had Nik’s eyes going wide, and it snapped you out of your trance.
“It's okay,” you rasped, clearing your throat as you tried to get your bearings. “Everything’s okay.”
Nik raised their eyebrows.
“I’m okay,” you reassured them.
They looked unconvinced, but relented. “Okay…call if you need anything,” they said, giving you a pointed look before stepping out from the curtain. Leaving you and Charlie alone in the velvet-draped room.
Candles flickered along every surface, shadows stretching long and wine-rich. There were no windows, only plush couches, a fur rug, a sink, and a minibar. A room made to feast in.
“I’m sorry about this,” Charlie said tentatively. “I just—I really wanted to see you again.”
You felt the coil in your muscles begin to loosen, hunger abating slightly at the calm baritone of his voice. You'd never met someone who could settle you and rouse you in such extremes.
You should find it unnerving, alarming, even, but instead, you just felt…seen.
“I wanted to see you too,” you admitted, despite your reservations. “Thank you for the book.”
He smiled, a boyish, unreserved thing that had your own mouth twitching upwards. “I'm sure you've read like, every poem ever written, but I thought maybe—”
“Charlie.” You took a step towards him, setting a hand on his bicep with measured gentleness. “I loved it.”
You could smell how nervous he was, but it was cut with the unmistakable honey-thick scent of desire. But it wasn't the same, house-on-fire burn that you smelled on others, tearing their way through the bar to get to the lounge. This was softer, sweeter, but no less intense.
You wanted to guzzle it like wine. Get drunk on it until you couldn't remember your name, your life, yourself. Until all you could feel was him, warm and buzzing through your veins.
“Are you feeling better?” He asked, brows knitting together as he guided you onto the couch with a hand hovering over your hip.
“Much better. How's your arm?” You leaned against the plush cushions, tucking your legs underneath yourself.
“Much better.” His hand moved to push up his sleeve, but he hesitated, then let it fall back down. “Look, I wanted to say something, but I don't—” he carded his fingers through his waves, chuckling dryly. “Fucking hell, you make me so nervous.”
The corner of your lips curled up, chest fluttering. A distant part of your brain clanged with alarm. You were close, too close. Teetering on the edge of something you'd spent several lifetimes avoiding.
But, sitting here, surrounded by his warmth, his sweetness, it was growing increasingly difficult to remember why.
Maybe you could do this.
Maybe Charlie was worth the risk.
“I just—I know that there are a lot of wizards who seek out vampires for—ah—reasons. And I know I made a comment about taking me out for dinner, but I didn't mean it like that, and I don't want you to think that I don't respect you or your kind—er, vampires? Fuck—”
You set a hand on his knee, and he fell silent, jaw a little slack as he stared down at your hand, then looked back at you. You could feel his blood surging through the thick denim, the slight tremble of his muscles as he fought to stay still.
God, he was so darling it made you want to scream. This beefy, rugged, gorgeous man was practically putty on the couch beside you, a simple touch melting him like sugar.
“I like you,” he managed, carefully resting a large hand over yours. His touch was scalding, deliciously warm, and you wanted to shrink down to the size of a peanut just so you could curl up into his palm. “And I don't want you to think I have ulterior motives besides getting to know you.”
When humans lie, it turns their scent sour, acrid like rotten lemons.
Charlie was being sincere.
Your reservations slipped even further out of reach. And at the moment, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over the back of your hand like you were some fragile little thing, you found you didn't care.
“I don't usually interact much with humans,” you confessed, withdrawing your hand only so you could trace the thick veins running along his forearm. He tried to suppress a shiver, but you could feel every twitch down the delicate fibers. “But I like you too, Charlie.”
His eyes lit up, pulse rioting under your fingertips.
“You realize Nik served you up on a silver platter for me, right?”
Charlie's smile turned wicked, eyes twinkling. “I do, best wing-person I ever had.”
Your hunger flared again, stoked by his openness, his refusal to shy away from what you were, and you recoiled a bit, withdrawing your hand when you felt your nails begin to elongate and folding them into your lap.
You're in control. You're in control.
Charlie's brow furrowed, eyes lingering on your clenched hands, then lifting to your face. “When Nik said you were sick, you weren't actually sick, were you?”
You opened your mouth, then snapped it shut, realizing a second too late that your fangs would be all too visible.
His heart rate quickened, but his expression remained concerned. “Are you hungry, love?”
You averted your eyes, shame scorching your cheeks. Apparently, that was answer enough.
“Do you want me to ask Nik to bring one of the, uh, pre-made bottles? Or I could get someone—”
“No, Charlie—” Your hand shot out when he shifted to stand, coiling around his wrist like a constrictor, startling you both. You immediately released him, tucking your hands underneath your thighs. “Shit, sorry, just—I’m okay, really.”
“Hey.” He brought a hand up to your cheek, brushing your hair out of your face. His pulse rang loud in your ears, the scent of his blood like a crimson fog in your mind. “If you're hungry, eat. It doesn't bother me. If you need something…” he trailed off, noticing the way your eyes darkened, your body betraying you.
Part of you wanted him to turn tail and run. The other part wanted the same thing, but only so you could give chase.
He shifted closer, the rough pad of his thumb grazing your lips, his hand so warm against your cheek. “If you need something,” he repeated, lifting your upper lip to expose a razor-sharp canine. “Take it.”
“Are you sure?” You whispered, voice wobbling as much as your control.
His thumb grazed your tooth, featherlight, and he pressed the pad of it against the point. Puncturing himself. And the world went scarlet.
Pain lanced through his arm, bright as a lightning strike, but he didn't dare move, holding his breath as your lips wrapped around his thumb, and you began to suck.
At first, he was acutely aware of his blood moving through his veins, shifting against the current of his heart, but it was quickly overpowered by the movements of your tongue and teeth, lapping, scraping against his knuckle as you took a long pull, then another, lashes fluttering against your cheeks. Delicate as moth wings.
Then, something else began to stir in his chest, radiant as sunlight, spilling warmth through his body until a moan nearly slipped out between his teeth.
Fuck—your mouth was around his thumb, but it may have been his cock with the surge of pleasure that was coursing through him. And from the little quirk at the corner of your mouth, you knew it.
You shifted closer, nearly climbing into his lap, as your hands wrapped around his wrist, holding him still as you fed from him. You made a tiny sound in your throat, a delighted little squeak, and his cock throbbed so hard he got a little lightheaded.
You were so fucking beautiful, lips tinged red, skin glowing as he sated you. He did that for you, and with the pleasure came a surge of pride, too, a fierce protectiveness that clutched his heart like a vice.
And he knew then that if you needed it, he would let you drain him dry. He wanted to be the blood in your veins, the life in your cheeks, the warmth in your skin.
Whatever you needed, it was yours.
Suddenly, you were lunging forward, and your teeth sank into the meat of his palm. Tearing through the flesh like tissue paper. The pain returned, a blistering burn that had him grunting, but it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced with that same, delirious pleasure.
He almost felt drunk, his body languid and heavy on his bones. You were fully in his lap now, body flush with his, his achingly hard cock pressed right against your clothed cunt.
“Fuck, baby,” he panted, free hand grabbing your hips. Your skin was so much warmer now, nearly a regular temperature—or maybe he was getting colder.
You whimpered, rolling against him in a sinful wave, and he bit back a pathetic moan at the friction.
“Good girl—that’s it, all yours,” he murmured, daring to press a kiss to your shoulder as you started rocking against him, gyrating your hips with each pull of your mouth. He matched your movements, thrusting up against your heat while he mouthed along your throat, feeling the tendons and muscles work while you swallowed the blood. His blood.
He pulled back to look at you, smoothing your hair out of your face so it wouldn't get in the way. Were his fingers shaking? No—no, he was fine.
“Sooo fuckin’ gorgeous—” his words were slurring, tongue thick and stupid in his mouth.
Your eyes opened, locking onto his, and the breath was knocked out of his chest. Your iris had gone blood red, the sclera fever-bright, pupils blown wide.
Your fangs detached with a wet sucking sound, and you scrambled off of him, grabbing at one of the curtained walls. “Charlie, I’m—fuck, oh fuck—”
“Hey, hey—” Charlie pushed himself up, and the world spun, a dizzying whirl of red, and he collapsed back onto the couch. “M’okay,” he mumbled, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. His whole body felt tingly, floaty in the best way. The most intense afterglow he'd ever experienced, and he hadn't even come.
“Shit, here.” You grabbed the bar cart and rolled it over, perching on the side of the couch beside him.
“Pretty girl,” he cooed, reaching for you, wanting to feel your weight on him again.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” You caught his hand, which was very much still bleeding, and doused it with something in an amber bottle. Immediately, the bleeding stopped, the ruined flesh knitting itself back together.
His head lolled back onto the couch, basking in dregs of pleasure still swimming through his veins.
“Charlie, baby, are you okay?” You patted his cheek, and his eyes opened.
He hadn't realized he'd closed them. “I'm great,” he hummed, catching your fingers and pressing a kiss to your palm before you pulled them away. “You're good at that.”
A giggle bubbled out of you, pitchy with nerves but still effervescent, and he was flying all over again. “I didn't mean to take so much, I'm really sorry.”
“Don't apologize—” you shoved a bite of cookie into his mouth. Gingerbread.
How'd you know gingerbread was his favorite?
“I am apologizing. I could have seriously hurt you—”
“Nah, I’m tough. I work with monsters ten times your size every day,” he joked, already starting to feel steady again. His hand was mostly intact, save for the drying blood that coated him to the wrist. Though his cock was still half-hard in his trousers, begging for more of that delicious friction.
You scoffed, rolling your eyes, but you were still smiling. The blood had done you good; you were luminous, cheeks bouncy and hair glossed, eyes bright and shiny. You'd looked beautiful before, almost otherworldly, but now you looked…loved.
And he wanted to make you look like that every damn day.
He reached for you, not caring about the traces of blood still lingering at the corners of your mouth, and drew you in. You melted into his arms, lips parting, nose pressing against his. A brush of contact, sparking like flint off a stone—you stiffened, retreating with a pained expression.
He was about to ask what was wrong when the curtain was pulled aside by a talon-tipped hand, and Florin Ciobanu glided into the room.
The ancient vampire was dressed in brocade and velvet, his skin flawless, but lifeless beneath his curtain of white hair. Charlie had only glimpsed him in the bar, and heard stories of his generosity, and sordid history, exchanged over campfires and ursa back at the sanctuary.
Florin was also the vampire who created you and at least a dozen other vampires, if the stories could be trusted. And you seemed even more frightened than Charlie to see your Maker standing there, despite the relatively placid look on his face.
Charlie reached for you instinctively, draping a protective arm over your lap and drawing you into his side.
Florin tracked the movement, a smile hooking the corner of his mouth, flashing a bone-white fang. “Ah, I was wondering where you’d gotten off to, draga mea,” he purred, his Romanian accent thick as the luxurious carpet beneath your feet. “This must be Charlie.” His name sounded strange in the noble accent, too casual, borderline demeaning.
Charlie gritted his teeth.
“It is.” You removed Charlie’s arm, rising to your feet. “Florin, this is Charlie Weasley. Charlie, this is Count Florin Cioba—”
“He knows who I am,” Florin interrupted you.
Charlie’s temper flared hotter, but he held his tongue.
Florin’s head tilted, crimson eyes sliding over him, appraising. “What an interesting find—el arde.”
He burns.
You moved closer, muttering to Florin in Romanian, too hushed and hurried for Charlie to follow. His Romanian was elementary at best. Florin listened, an ear tilted down towards you, but his eyes never wavered from Charlie.
“We have rules for a reason, fată.” Florin withdrew a gold-trimmed handkerchief from his breast pocket, used it to clean the remaining blood from the corner of your mouth. “Aleargă acum, aș vrea să vorbesc puțin cu mica ta jertfă.”
The only word Charlie caught was sacrifice.
You nodded, head bowed low, and cast Charlie one last glance before slipping out of the room, the curtain fluttering shut behind you.
Charlie was on his feet in an instant. “You can’t just—”
“I will only say this once, Master Weasley.” Florin held up a heavily-ringed hand, fingers long and gaunt. “If you have an ounce of self-preservation in that thick skull of yours, you will never return to this place. You will not seek her out. You will not think of her, or dream of her. You will forget this ever happened. Do I make myself clear?”
“And if I do?” Charlie taunted, crossing his arms over his chest. “What, you’ll kill me?”
Florin shook his head, a malicious smirk on his face. “No, dear boy, I won’t. But she will.”
Before he could respond, the Count swept out of the room, the flourish of his cloak snuffing every candle in the room, and leaving Charlie alone in the smoke-filled dark.
thank you for reading! comment below if you'd like to be tagged in any future parts.
summary: perfect prefect percy weasley would never be caught dead breaking the rules. that is, until he meets you.
⤷ requested by anon
warnings: 18+ mdni. smut, sub! percy, kinda meanish reader, oral (m. receiving), riding, dirty talk, objectification (?), nothing super insane, hogwarts uni au obviously
wc: 1k words
author's note: this one is for the percy weasley fans. y'all are a bunch of freaks
Percy Weasley was in quite a predicament. The predicament being you and him in a classroom after hours, you on your knees, swallowing his cock whole like there was no tomorrow. He hadn't meant for this arrangement to fall into place — he was a prefect, chosen by Professor McGonagall for being an exemplary student. Yet here he was, abandoning his rounds so you could have your fun.
His face was construed in pleasure as his head fell back, pants escaping his thoroughly kissed lips. "Shit, y/n, someone's going to hear."
You pulled off him momentarily, a cheeky grin gracing your features. Your hands continued jerking him off slowly, spreading the precum. "You want me to stop, baby?"
"Merlin, no—" he let out a strangled groan. "Don't stop."
"Then I guess you'll just have to shut up and take it like a good boy," you replied sweetly.
Your lips wrapped around him once more, efforts doubling ten fold. You hollowed your cheeks, hands gripping his thighs, not letting your eyes leave his face. Percy turned an even deeper shade of pink, and you felt a feeling of satisfaction wash over you. One of your hands moved to fondle his balls, causing his hips to buck up, cock grazing the back of your throat.
"It's too much, fuckk, slow down." reasoned Percy. His knuckles were turning white from where he gripped the edge of the chair.
Your eyes glinted wickedly as you examined his state. "Too much? You're taking it juuuusst fine. Leaking everywhere, making a fuckin' mess. Who knew all it took for perfect prefect Percy Weasley to break was a good cock sucking?"
You slurped at his mushroom head, before shoving your mouth down. Your nose was nestled into his coarse happy trail, inhaling the heady scent. For fuck's sake, he tasted delicious. You swallowed, letting your throat constrict around his cock, making the perfect little hole for him.
"M'gonna cum, angel, please can I come?" pleaded the redheaded boy. "Need it so bad."
You nodded the best you could while letting your head bob rhythmically, feeling Percy's cock pulse, once, twice and then warm cum was filling your mouth. Instead of swallowing it, you let it dribble out, down your chin and onto your bare tits.
Percy watched it drip. And then he was leaning down, rubbing it into your skin, tweaking your nipples and rolling the buds between his fingers. "You're so pretty." he breathed out, voice just above a whisper.
You clambered up, thigh bracketing his as you sat on his lap. Your lips were quick to find his neck, nibbling and nipping as you moved up to his jawline.
Percy whimpered, he actually whimpered as you found his sweet spot. You batted your eyes at him. "You'll let me do whatever I want, right Percy?"
He nodded eagerly. "Whatever you want."
Your lips found the shell of his ear. "What I want right now is to ride you until my legs won't stop shaking. Until I can feel your fucking cum deep inside by cunt."
He nodded again. You tutted disapprovingly. "Use your words, Perce. Say you're going to let me use you."
His fingers were digging into your thighs. "I—I'm going to let you use me."
Your lips were ghosting his. "You're my little toy. My plaything, a cock for me to fuck myself onto."
His glasses were skewed, curls wild. But you saw how his breath hitched, eyes darkening even more. Underneath you, his cock twitched — all the confirmation you needed. You trailed your fingers down his chest, slowly beginning to grind on top of him.
Your wet heat was dragging deliciously against his length, an obscene noise filling the room. Percy's lips collided with yours, clumsily applying pressure as he pulled you closer.
You broke apart momentarily, foreheads pressed against each other. You stroked him once, twice, before sinking down onto him, taking him inch by inch. A long, drawn-out whine escaped from your lips. There was no other way to say this — Percy Weasley was packing.
"You're filling me up soooo good," you moaned out, as his tip kissed your cervix over and over. "Feels fuckin' amazing."
A loud whine escaped from Percy's lips and you glanced nervously at the door. "Baby, you've got to be quiet."
Percy looked up at you with his large eyes. "C-can't."
"Can't?" you mocked. "Can't? Stupid baby's so fucked out he'd let anyone hear us, anyone walk in?"
Percy meets your hips with shallow bucks as his eyebrows knit together. "You're just so warm — ngh— shit."
You squeezed your tits together before bringing his mouth to them. "Go on. Suck on my tits. Maybe that'll keep your mouth full long enough to shut the fuck up."
The added stimulation reinvigorated you, riding him faster than ever. Your hand snaked down to draw tight circles on your clit. "Ever felt a pussy this tight, Percy?"
His thrusts were getting sloppy, uncoordinated. You spit downwards, watching it mix into where you two were connected. "Go ahead and cum for me. Fill me up to the brim."
Percy was cumming before the words were out of your mouth, warm liquid pooling inside you, causing your own cunt to flutter before you finally clenched down. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, a low groaned being punched out of your throat. "Fucckkk right there, Percy! Ngh, fuckin' love your big cock."
When you had both recovered from your highs, you got off him, hissing slightly. Your legs were wobbly as you redressed. Percy still sat on the chair, utterly fucked out. "Y/N, this can't happen again. I'm a prefect, I can't be caught fornicating with you."
"Use the word fornicating again and you won't."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "See you tomorrow?"
"'Course," you said, winking. Then you leaned down, your hot breath against his ear causing him to shudder. "I'll even let you fuck my ass."
crutches - george weasley x reader
friends to lovers
Sixth Year had welcomed them with open arms — with breakfasts in the Great Hall now turned into a refuge for stressed-out students, and hours lost in the library over pumpkin juice and ink-smudged notes.
Autumn had swept in with it the rising expectations of the professors, all preparing their students for the NEWTs they’d sharpen the following year. And so everyone had started wandering the corridors smelling faintly of scorched lavender from Potions class, reading letters from home while poking at dinner.
But there was something different in the air that year.
Maybe it was the feeling of nearing the end of their Hogwarts days, or maybe the taste of freedoms they’d longed for ever since the Sorting Hat had first been lowered onto their heads.
That day, students were standing before Professor Snape, listening as he explained the use of new ingredients they'd cultivated during Herbology. He handed each of them a new textbook to keep.
His black hair framed an expression even more sour than usual — the one he wore whenever Gryffindors were paired with Slytherins for the practical part of the lesson.
His eyes, predictably, drifted to the back of the classroom, to the same sight he’d been met with for years.
George Weasley was standing there, spinning a quill between his fingers, while his loyal partner in green had her head gently resting against his arm — her usual place.
As if — be it summer or winter, whether they'd just witnessed a girl being petrified or the latest prank from that ever-famous Gryffindor trio — they always ended up there.
On the shiniest tile of the Potions classroom floor, her voice low and steady as she explained the diagrams Snape had handed out at the start of class.
George always kept an eye on Snape.
She, meanwhile, was already memorizing the measurements of each ingredient, with that soft smile she wore whenever something truly captured her interest.
She loved Potions.
Or maybe — she loved every class, really.
They’d made it through the winter wrapped in their robes, and now the dungeons were warming with spring's return — that heady, reckless warmth that made you want to spill out onto the grounds, maybe even wander past Hagrid’s hut just because.
But Snape’s dramatics anchored them all to the floor.
And he kept watching the way George and the Slytherin girl worked together — now seated, elbows brushing.
She was peeling a root. George was copying her notes, gripping his quill between thumb and forefinger, the other hand flat on the parchment to keep it still.
When they moved to the brewing, George rolled his sleeves up to the elbow, stirring with a focus he had never once shown in Snape’s classroom. She had once again leaned lightly against his arm, reading instructions with a lock of hair slipping past her nose.
“Miss ____,” Snape drawled, voice dry as bone. “I presume Mr. Weasley is now your official emotional support twin?”
She didn’t look up, simply poured a vial of extract into the potion.
“Must I remind you that your role in this classroom is not decorative?”
“No, sir.”
Her voice was calm, respectful, measured.
When she stood upright again, shoulders square, nobody noticed the way George took half a step closer — just enough to read over her shoulder again.
Around them, caldrons hissed and spit. One group’s potion billowed black smoke; another had achieved a murky green sludge.
But beneath Snape’s ever-watchful eye, the pair — the pair he least tolerated — had brewed something perfectly clear, subtle, and steady.
They had met in third year, back when they'd started chatting in the hallway outside Transfiguration. Sometimes they’d trade chocolate frogs, sometimes just keep each other company between lessons — him with his half-muttered jokes, her with that crystalline laugh that rang through even the quietest corners of the castle.
By fourth year, they were hiding behind stone arches after mischief with Fred, then reappearing like nothing happened — her returning to being the straight-A student no one really knew, because there was always someone louder, someone flashier.
But with George, she never had to be the best. She didn’t even have to prove she could be.
He handed her ink before she could ask. Waited for her by the common room door when he knew her day had been long, just to walk her down to the wooden bridge and sit there in silence until dinner.
“If your proximity to Mr. Weasley is required for his comprehension,” Snape said now, placing a hand on her shoulder as she adjusted the flame beneath the caldron, “I suggest you consider tutoring him outside of scheduled class hours.”
“I’m not tutoring him,” she replied, unshaken. She’d grown used to Snape’s tone — the way he never quite accepted that George was improving in his classroom.
“He knows what he’s doing.”
Snape squinted at George through the veil of his black hair, as if he’d just caught him stealing dittany from his personal stores.
George, for his part, was silently slicing the last root, movements precise, mouth set in quiet focus.
Their sides touched — her stirring, him cutting — a small, easy closeness that spoke more than words ever could.
“Remarkable,” Snape murmured. “He’s learned something. And yet your elbow appears permanently fused to his arm.”
George didn’t even look up. His knife slid cleanly through the root.
Snape leaned in slightly, head between theirs.
“You may not be speaking,” he said coolly, “but some distractions, Mr. Weasley, are visible rather than audible. You take up more space than your marks suggest you deserve.”
The class reeked of burnt lavender, and yet the air was warmer than usual. The lesson ended — at last — and Snape made his final lap around the classroom.
He declared another group’s cloudy, oversteeped potion the best of the lot.
Not theirs — even though he knew it was superior, flawless in technique and result.
He gave ten house points to a pair of Slytherins whose work didn’t hold a candle to theirs.
That evening, on the bench in the quiet courtyard, they laughed over it all — at Snape’s face, at his comments, at how he just couldn’t stand the fact that they worked better together than any student pairing he’d ever tried to engineer.
“And you, if you plan to succeed in this subject—” she imitated, dramatically, “—I suggest you learn how to stand without a crutch.”
The sun hung lazily above them, catching on the edges of the grass that George was fiddling with in one hand.
He lay almost fully stretched out on the lawn, nose scrunched, smiling lazily as he pretended to reread her notes.
She sat upright beside him, head tucked against the curve of his shoulder and chest — because that was always where she ended up.
And he never moved.
“You reckon,” she added, “Snape keeps a personal diary of all the ways he wants to sabotage our friendship?”
“With headings and bullet points.”
She picked a few little flowers from the grass, pressing them between the pages of her book, while George had abandoned the notebook beside them and closed his eyes.
“Daily entries,” she insisted.
“‘April tenth: Miss _____ smiled at Weasley again. Points deducted on principle.’”
And the Slytherin burst into that crystalline laughter—the one that had brightened George’s days ever since he handed her one of his creepy crawlies during Divination class a few years back.
He looked at her, hands folded behind his head, lips parted in amusement.
“He probably cries into his robes.”
“We’re his worst nightmare,” she said, turning to rest her chin on the boy’s chest, her face tilted slightly, lit by the lazy sun that had begun to signal the arrival of evening—when fireflies flickered and seventh years dashed off toward Hogsmeade.
“And each other’s favorite person,” replied the redhead, reaching out to affectionately tap her nose, with no awkward pause, knowing how easy it was for them to spend time like this—without the heavy questions that might make things complicated.
“D’you think McGonagall finds us annoying, too?”
“She gives us house points when she thinks no one’s watching.”
George grabbed the notebook again, mumbling something about her handwriting being illegible, which earned him another smile from her and a delightfully witty comeback.
Still full of pumpkin juice and the delicious treats that always appeared on the Great Hall tables in the morning, they’d headed to Transfiguration class, where tall windows cast soft morning light across their faces.
George had arrived first, walking casually, a bluish glint masking his freckles as he slid into their usual seat—always at the back, far right, behind Fred and Lee, who were certainly going to be late.
As usual, he laid down his parchment and quill on the desk, fiddling with the cap of the ink bottle while Professor McGonagall prepared the lesson behind her desk.
She arrived a bit later, delayed by a Hufflepuff girl who’d asked her for help with a Herbology assignment that would otherwise have interfered with Quidditch.
The light catching her face came in gold tones from the lower part of the windows, and she lingered at the doorway to grab a few more parchments before sitting beside the redhead.
The usual scent of burnt lavender from the dungeons had been replaced by the warm aroma of wood and ink in the Gryffindor head’s classroom—but what hadn’t changed was how close the two of them always sat.
“Excellent, Miss ______” said the professor, her voice kind.
The Slytherin had just transfigured a matchstick into a silver pin under George’s attentive gaze, as he observed closely, memorizing everything she did even though she never had to turn to see him do it.
When she noticed McGonagall standing in front of her, she paused for a second, moving slightly away from George, but the professor raised her hand slightly, as if to say not to worry, her glasses low on her nose.
“Mr. Weasley,” she added, “you seem to be concentrating harder in my class than you ever have before.”
“Suppose I’ve upgraded my seat, Professor.”
McGonagall had grown used to scanning her classroom, catching boys testing their wands and girls adjusting their hair when students from other houses entered.
Most always sat in the same spots, forming patterns they assumed she didn’t notice—but her gaze often landed on that last row in the back-right corner.
Y/L/N and Weasley.
They didn’t talk loudly or whisper like the others; they gave each other their full attention, absorbing one another.
Perhaps McGonagall had been the first to notice how they always gravitated toward the same anchor point, their little corner.
And when the girl rested her head on the arm of the boy—so much taller and broader than her—it was never out of exhaustion or flirtation like others who slouched or bumped shoulders teasingly.
She simply leaned on his shoulder, and neither of them ever seemed to mind.
George never got distracted, even though he had never once paid attention with Fred.
He didn’t look down at her or get lost in her—he just made sure she was comfortable, jotting down a few notes here and there.
They had never been distracting—and never would be.
But they were always noticeable.
“Five points to Gryffindor and Slytherin,” she said, “for correct technique… and improved discipline.”
George smiled as he watched her walk away.
And let himself toss out a small joke that made the girl next to him laugh.
“Do you think she’s going soft in her old age?”
She handed him another parchment, amused.
Every point their houses earned came directly out of Snape’s tally, who seemed increasingly unable to stomach watching one of his best Slytherin students bond so effortlessly with a Gryffindor—worse, a Weasley.
He’d say she was competent, while George was just an accessory—and that his classroom was no stage for duets.
All while George’s pinky wrapped gently around hers.
And in all those times she handed him her quill, knowing exactly what he needed—or when he saved her from disaster, knowing she was brilliant but also hilariously clumsy—
George was improving, in all those evenings around the Gryffindor table, which had half-adopted her, one arm draped around her shoulders and his eyes on the napkin she used to explain things during the most random moments.
And everyone saw the house points rising, despite Snape’s best efforts.
And McGonagall was secretly pleased, her rare smile quietly revealing it.
By summer, they found themselves once again in the dungeons of the castle, the scent of potions embedded in their memories, cauldrons bubbling, students anxious over the final Potions class before their seventh year.
In the very back—where the shadows couldn’t reach—two figures stood behind their workstation, shoulders nearly touching as if silently reminding each other that they worked better together than alone.
Their table was perfectly organized, ingredients balanced with care, and a shared checklist sat between them—half in her writing, half in his unexpectedly neat script.
The potion they had to brew was the hardest of sixth year—so complex that a single extra stir could curdle the entire mixture.
Most students had already given up.
A Ravenclaw girl declared her defeat after spilling a foul-smelling mess on the stone floor, while a few Gryffindors muttered frantically about smoke and whether they’d added the right amount of feathers.
Through the chaos, Snape’s voice cut like a crow through storm clouds over the Black Lake.
Meanwhile, she and George didn’t need to speak.
He lit the fire; she checked the temperature with the back of her hand, consulting the list while the Gryffindor ground moonstone in the mortar.
And the most remarkable part? They hadn’t rehearsed this potion.
Not once.
His movements blended with hers like they’d done it a thousand times before.
Three clockwise stirs, she added an ingredient, one counterclockwise stir, five seconds of stillness—then repeat.
The potion began to glow with a pearly shimmer and its unmistakable scent filled the air.
She glanced up at George, breaking free from their shared rhythm, just as his lips curled into a small smile.
The classroom had quieted.
Even Snape’s sighs were audible now.
Everyone else had given up.
Lee had been the last, his hand trembling when he saw the professor approach.
When Snape finally stood in front of their desk—the one he loathed most—they didn’t even look up.
Their potion spoke for itself, releasing soft, perfect-colored puffs just as the textbook described, no trace of cloudiness.
For once, there was no mistake.
Nothing to criticize.
“I assume,” Snape said at last, his voice like steel cooled in oil, “that Miss ______ brewed this alone. Mr. Weasley’s hands appear clean, for once.”
They didn’t answer.
George picked up the final vial and poured it into the potion without a trace of tension, while she checked the temperature with unmatched precision.
And that’s when Snape saw it.
The perfect timing. The shared glances. The subtle nods, exchanged like silent cues.
“Is there a reason,” he continued, quieter now, “that the two of you insist on treating this classroom as if it were… a coordinated ballet?”
At that, they finally looked up.
Matching, quietly confident smiles on their young faces.
The potion was complete.
There was nothing left to say.
As Snape walked away, she rested her head on George’s arm, and he drew a line through the last step of the recipe.
Once again, they had worked beautifully—in silence.
That evening, they returned to their usual spot on the grass, backs against the bench.
Fred had joined them, watching as she scribbled something into a notebook and handed it to George.
“What in Merlin’s name was that today?”
They laughed, and George crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for her to lean against him.
And she did—this time looking up at the boy’s smile.
At the soft freckles on his nose.
The ones she’d come to love all summer long at the Burrow.
“I think he didn’t know what to do with us,” she said. “No insults left. No points to take.”
funfact: the first complete fanfic I've written on wattpad was about George, and writing this imagine was like reconnecting with middle school me
think about walking into the kitchen of the burrow, intending to make a cup of tea but instead, you find yourself interrupting a rather heated discussion between three of five Weasley boys.
"sorry, should I go?" you kinda laugh, trying to ease the tension. Bill crosses his arms and draws in a breath.
"no. no. do not bring her into this." Fred cuts him off while George brings his fingers to his temples.
"no, fuck you. i'm asking her." Bill barks at Fred and turns to you.
"so when you're fucking a guy and he's behind you..." George's hand clamps over Bill's mouth as Fred's eyes go wide, almost like they're both mortified. Bill finally wrestles off the maniac and goes to finish his sentence.
"as i was saying; when you're intimate with a man and you vocalize that you like something, you don't want him to stop that thing, right?" Bill gets out his question while simultaneously fighting off the boys. Once it's hanging in the air, they all fall silent and look at you expectantly.
"well...right. if it's a good flow, why ruin the flow?" you try to stay neutral, not knowing where this conversation is going.
"okay see?" Bill looks back at George and Fred, starting up their little argument once more.
"so what kinds of things are we talking about?" a new voice chimes into the conversation.
Charlie.
"Freddy here was just asking for advice and he didn't believe my opinions were correct, so i brought in the opposite sex for further investigation." Bill straightens his shoulders out as Charlie walks closer. they hug and Charlie turns to you, his eyes trailing up and down your figure while you feel your face heating up.
"and what did miss sex expert have to say?" he smirks at your blushed cheeks. you look up at him through your eyelashes and smile innocently.
I’m dying at your jealous Charlie bc I just imagine his family takes that as their cue to try to whisk mc away at any moment. She come to visit the burrow and charlie keeps trying to hang out with her but then Molly is sitting her down at the table to eat and and then Percy is asking her about some books and Ron wants to play with her and even little Ginny comes up asking to be held. Charlie’s like wow even you Ginny how could you. She sticks her tongue out at him bc she’s a little shit lmao
