[whimsyweasleys]

𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧?

— ᨳଓ 𝐿𝒾𝓏 :: ravenpuff. 18+ mdni. infp. southeast asian. the smell of books, libraries, morning dew, butterbeer, autumn, warmth, amorentia :: freshly cut grass, spearmint toothpaste

— ᨳଓ writing for :: ron weasley, fred weasley, george weasley, cedric diggory, harry potter, draco malfoy, mattheo riddle, sirius black, regulus black, remus lupin, james potter, etc...

masterlist (coming soon!)

recent work: 𑣲. four important meals : ron weasley

[whimsyweasleys]

Could you do a George Weasley x Gryffindor reader? She’s older than him and the quiddich captain. Very opposite attracts, she’s strict and doesn’t show emotions. He’s the opposite and tries to make her laugh all the time.

stop i love this so much!! i’m such a sucker for the black cat x golden retriever trope because it’s literally me. thank you for sending this🙏🙏

i’ll write about this soon!!!

[whimsyweasleys]

—𝓟rank 𝓡eaper

𝐹red 𝒲easley x 𝒥ordan 𝐻ufflepuff!Reader

the weasley twins have gotten on your nerves ever since a prank from third year—exposing you for liking cedric diggory to the entire great hall. now, it’s seventh year and your brother, lee jordan, has finally had enough of you thwarting their mischief. when you don’t budge, fred comes up with his stupidest scheme yet: promise to help you win over cedric (who you still like after 3 years) if you agree to a truce. as luck would have it, fred realizes he's in love with you instead!

𝒯ags : idiots in love. soo much crack. lee jordan’s twin!reader, hufflepuff headgirl!reader, she's nice to everyone but me trope, lots of teasing & banter. cedric x cho chang. juxtaposition between cedric & fred for the plot (ftr i love cedric i swear i’m not slandering him even if it comes off that way at the end?😭)

𝒲ord count : 16.6k (holy moly)

𝒜uthors note : i enjoyed writing this so much omlll. i hope whoever’s reading this enjoys it too!! and there will be a part 2 soon!

The Great Hall is loud with the clatter of cutlery and the roar of a hundred conversations, but you've long since learned to tune it out. You sit at the Hufflepuff table with your housemates, prodding a piece of toast, when a familiar cackle cuts through the noise.

It's the Weasley twins, both of them bent over something at the Gryffindor table—probably some new invention meant to turn someone's hair purple.

You don't bother looking up.

Three years ago, you'd have watched them with fond exasperation, the way Lee Jordan's twin sister might watch her brother's ridiculous friends. But that was before third year. Before they hexed your entire Charms textbook so that every time you opened it, a tiny, off key chorus broke into "Cedric Diggory is a dreamy guy, a right proper gent!" right in the middle of the Great Hall.

You'd been fourteen, head-over-heels for the golden boy in a way that felt enormous and terrifying. But at least it had been private. The twins had found out somehow—probably through Lee—and decided it was the funniest thing since the time they'd made a dungbomb explode in Snape's office.

They poked at you after the incident, asking if you were still mad after a week of ignoring them—even after fixing the textbook. Eventually, they said sorry, but you knew they didn't mean it. They never apologized properly. Not once. 

Cedric had laughed it off, charming as ever, comforted you after in private even—but you'd wanted the floor to swallow you whole. 

The memory still burned.

Lee, oblivious to your moody morning nostalgia, greets you as usual. He's late to breakfast. "Morning, sis. Sleep well?"

You offer him a smile. "Well enough."

Your eyes flicker to the Gryffindor table despite yourself. Fred catches your gaze immediately, as if he had been watching, and raises a hand in a mock salute—mischief written all over his face.

You whip your head away from the Gryffindor table and reach for your juice, but Lee had already seen the exchange.

"Fred's just being friendly!"

"Mhm." You take a long sip. "Friendly."

Lee sighs and lets it drop, heading to the Gryffindor table to sit with the twins. He knows better than to push. Three years of silence on the subject have made that abundantly clear. He still carries a sliver of guilt for being the one who mentioned your crush to the twins in the first place.

Breakfast is uneventful until a second-year Hufflepuff named Eleanor skids up to you, cheeks flushed, clutching a note. "Head Girl! They're doing something by the Potions corridor. The Weasley twins. I think—" She glances at the note. "I think it's for Snape."

You take the note. On it, in Fred's unmistakable scrawl—Operation: Serpent Serenade. Supplies in tow. ETA: next period.

Seriously? 

You sigh. Of course this would be their first prank of the year. 

You find them after breakfast two corridors over, Fred holding a crate of enchanted alarm clocks and George mid-incantation over a jar of what looks suspiciously like singing slugs. George stops when he sees you. Fred doesn't even look up.

"Nice of you to join us, Miss Jordan," Fred says lightly. "Need a clock? We've got spares."

"Put it away." Your voice is flat. "Now."

"Or what?" He finally glances at you, grin crooked. "You'll hex our books? Ooh, wait—" His eyes light up with false realization. "Did you ever get yours to stop singing about Diggory? Or do you still hum along?"

You scowl. A deadly look on a usually sweet Hufflepuff. A look that they've seen plenty. George winces, elbow jabbing his brother's ribs, knowing they'll be facing your wrath even stronger now that you're Head Girl—but Fred just watches you, that infuriating grin still in place. He's always gotten on your nerves more than his twin. You hate it.

Lee appears at the end of the corridor, takes one look at the standoff, and groans.

"You heard me." You step forward before Fred's fingers can curl around the crate, snatching it clean out of his grip. The enchanted alarm clocks rattle inside, indignant at being stopped. 

"McGonagall's office. Now," you say, and you're already turning, already walking, the crate tucked under your arm like a dead weight. "I'll take points away if you don't follow."

"You wouldn't," Fred calls after you. You don't turn around. A beat later, you hear their shoes on the stone floor, following.

McGonagall takes one look at the crate, one look at the twins, and assigns them a week of cauldron scrubbing. She thanks you with a curt nod. You feel Fred's eyes on your back the whole way out.

Lee doesn't speak to you at dinner that night.

It becomes the usual pattern. Over the next few weeks, you intercept them everywhere: the enchanted quills meant for the Slytherin common room, the portable swamp kit destined again for the Potions corridor, a crate of bewitched fireworks scheduled for the Great Hall ceiling. 

Every time, you're there. Every time, you confiscate. Every time, McGonagall's office gets a visit.

Younger Hufflepuffs call you the Prank Reaper. You'd earned the nickname after becoming a prefect—your main target being the twins' tomfoolery. 

You pretend not to enjoy it. 

You've upped their punishments since last year because now, you had even more authority as Head Girl. The twins became sloppier. Or maybe just more reckless, pranks coming faster and bigger, like they were trying to outrun you.

Lee corners you one evening, arms crossed, face tight.

"You've got to stop this, Y/n."

"Stop what? Doing my job?"

"Stop making it personal." His jaw clenches. "They're my best friends. You're my sister. It's the last year for all of us. Every time you take them down, I'm the one stuck in the middle."

"They did this to themselves."

"They made one mistake when we were fourteen!" Lee's voice rises. "You've been punishing them for three years!"

The corridor goes quiet. Curious eyes flick between you.

You snap. "You don't get it! They don't care who they hurt! They don't even apologize." You exclaim. "You were a good kid before them, Lee. You'd still be one, if they hadn't gotten their claws into you."

Lee's face goes angry. He stares at you for a long moment, then turns and walks away without another word.

People whisper. Nobody looks at you.

You stay in the corridor Hall long after Lee's footsteps fade, arms crossed like a shield. The cold seeped in through the stone. Maybe you were dramatic. Just a little. Students pass you in pairs, whispering, and you let them.

Up in the Gryffindor common room, the fire burned low. Fred is sprawled in an armchair, twirling a quill between his fingers, ignoring his essay, when Lee storms in through the portrait hole.

"What's crawled up your arse—"

"Shut it, Fred." Lee stands over them, fists at his sides. George looks up from his collapsing Astronomy telescope, eyebrows raised. "Both of you. I just had it out with my sister in front of everyone. About you two."

"Oh great," George says dryly.

"She thinks you ruined me." Lee grumbles. "She thinks I'd be some perfect little saint if you hadn't— and I quote—gotten your claws into me. And I had to stand there and listen to it because of that prank from third year. One prank. Because you lot never apologized properly."

The quill stills in Fred's hand.

"So here's what's going to happen." Lee's jaw is set. "This is our last year. I'm not spending it as a buffer between my best friends and my twin sister. We'll never get to do anything! You're going to apologize to her. Tomorrow, after dinner. No trying to be funny or making stupid suggestions."

George opens his mouth. Closes it. Fred, for once, doesn't crack a joke.

"Fine," Fred says finally. "Tomorrow."

The next evening, you're leaving the Great Hall when they fall into step beside you—Fred on your right, George on your left. The corridor's busy, but the space around you goes quiet.

"Y/n." George clears his throat. "We... wanted to say something."

You huff and keep walking, boots hitting the stone in a rhythm that says done. Done with this conversation, done with them, done with the spectacle.

"Y/n, wait." Fred's voice carries down the corridor, stripped of its usual swagger. "I'm sorry. We're sorry. For the books. For— everything."

You stop. Slowly, you turn.

Three years. Three years of that song rattling in your head every time you cracked a textbook, three years of their snickers in the corridors, three years of watching them wrap Lee up in their chaos. And now, suddenly, now they find their words?

"You had years to say that." Your voice is calm. "Three years, and you only found your tongue now when I'm standing between you and your fun. Don't pretend this is about a proper apology."

Fred's mouth opens, closes. No clever retort comes.

You turn and march away, shoulders square.

Behind you, barely audible, George's low mutter drifts down the corridor, "Told you it wouldn't be easy."

"I know you told me," Fred snaps back, more tired than angry.

Their footsteps stop following you. The corridor stretches ahead, empty, the torchlight flickering over your Head Girl badge.

At the bottom of the stairs, Lee stands waiting, arms crossed, face unreadable. He must have heard everything.

Of course. Of course it was Lee.

The pieces slot together with a cold click—Fred's stiff apology, the rehearsed cadence of it, the way George couldn't quite meet your eyes. Neither of them had wanted this. Your brother had made them.

You don't slow down. You don't even look at Lee as you pass him at the bottom of the stairs. His mouth opens, maybe to call after you, but the sound dies before it reaches you.

"Y/n—"

Your name bounces off your back. You keep walking.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

The corridors are quiet that night, the way they only are during patrol. Cedric walks beside you, wand light casting a soft glow ahead, Hufflepuff scarf loose around his neck, matching yours.

"You've got that look," he says, amused.

"What look?"

"The one that says someone might get hexed." He nudges your shoulder with a grin. "The twins again?"

You exhale. "And Lee. He made them apologize to me tonight." The words come out with an additional groan. "As if I wanted a performance from them."

Cedric laughs, and the sound loosens something despite yourself. "Sounds like the twins, alright. I think they could talk their way out of a dementor's kiss, but apparently not a sweet Hufflepuff's wrath." He glances at you, grinning. You can't help but startle, heat creeping up your face. He thought you were sweet? Cedric continues, "But your brother is a good lad. He just wants everyone to get along."

"Yeah. I guess," you say, letting the torchlight swallow the words.

You don't mention the reason why you hate the Weasley twins so much because of third year and your singing book. All because of the ginormous crush that you still had on him. 

The corridor stretches ahead, empty and quiet.

"Quidditch, then," you say, steering the conversation onto safer ground. "Our last year. And your last as captain. Nervous?"

Cedric grins, that easy grin that's made half of Hogwarts swoon at one point or another. "Terrified, actually. Our team's got talent, especially you, but I heard the Slytherins have been training like mad all summer. Flint's got them doing drills at dawn."

You try to ignore how he called you talented in the middle.

"Merlin, that sounds dreadful." 

"It is. For them." He chuckles. "I keep telling your new Chaser the only thing she should be afraid of is Professor Snape confiscating her broom for excessive enthusiasm."

You laugh despite yourself. It's hard to stay mad about the twins when Cedric's looking at you like that. And that's exactly why you like him, you realize. He's never once brought up third year. Never once made you feel small for a schoolgirl crush he probably forgot the day after.

Somewhere below, the clock tower chimes eleven.

"Last loop?" he asks, tilting his head toward the dungeons staircase.

"After you, Head Boy."

Cedric dips his head in a little mock bow, the corner of his pretty mouth crooked. He starts down the staircase toward the dungeons. You follow a step behind, watching the way the torchlight catches the back of his robes.

He's so effortlessly warm. So Cedric. And you're so effortlessly—stiff. You've got a tongue like a rusty hinge around him, and you know it. Other girls flirt with him in the corridors with laughter and hair flicks, and he takes it in stride. You've never managed more than patrol small talk about Quidditch and the occasional shared joke.

You think about saying something. Something clever. Something that isn't about Quidditch or patrol routes or the weather. 

"So," you say, and the word hangs there like a held breath.

Cedric glances back. "So?"

Your mind goes blank. The torchlight flickers. Somewhere below, water drips in the dungeons.

"Nothing," you manage. "Just— the stairs. Slippery. Watch your step."

He chuckles, easy as anything. "Noted." He pauses at the landing, waiting for you to catch up, and for a moment the two of you stand shoulder to shoulder in the dim quiet, close enough that you can smell the faint soap on his collar.

"Patrol's nearly done," he says, not quite looking at you. "It's been a good night."

Your face goes warm and you swallow the words you wish you could say. You offer him a small smile instead. "Yeah. It has."

The barrels by the kitchens await you both. You knock the easy rhythm of Helga Hufflepuff that you've known for seven years, and the passage opens to reveal the warm, fire lit hush of the Hufflepuff common room.

Cedric pauses at the threshold, glancing back at you. "See you tomorrow."

"See you."

He gives you that crooked smile, then disappears toward the boys' dormitory stairs. You watch him go a beat longer than you should, then turn toward the girls' side, the weight of the Head Girl badge pressing against your robes.

Both of you are the last one done with patrols. You, the Head Girl—the one who should be delegating, always ends up covering the slack of the younger prefects. Cedric notices. He never says anything about it, but he stays with you every night, walking the extra loops like it's nothing, like he wouldn't rather be in the common room with his friends.

Maybe that's why you've never been able to stop liking him.

You hang your robe on its hook and sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the flickering candlelight, wondering what it would take to be the kind of person who says what she means.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

The next morning, you walk into Charms to find the seat beside you occupied by a grinning redhead who has absolutely no business being there. Fred Weasley, lounging in your usual neighbor's chair like he owns it, quill already twirling between his fingers.

You stop. Glare.

"Move."

"Morning to you too, Y/n." He pats the desk. "Saved you the good seat."

This was your normal seat.

"Go away, Fred."

Before he could say anything else, Flitwick comes in and the class falls silent. You grit your teeth and sit, pointedly turning your attention to the front.

A scrap of parchment slides onto your textbook. You don't look at it.

Another one. Then another. You ignore all of them, stacking them neatly to the side without reading a word, until the pile has grown into a small monument to Fred Weasley's persistence.

Flitwick's voice fades into the background. The notes sit there, untouched, like a dare.

The bell rings. Students shuffle out. You gather your things deliberately, and Fred rises with you, falling into step.

"Y/n. Hey." He catches your sleeve, and for once there's no mischief in his voice. "I meant it, alright? The apology. I'm not just saying it because Lee made me." A pause. "If you agree to a truce, I could help you. With Cedric."

You blink. 

Help. With Cedric.

"Fred," you say slowly, "what are you talking about?"

He shrugs, grin creeping back. "You think I don't notice? You've still been mooning over Diggory. I can help. I know blokes. I am a bloke."

You don't dignify the offer with a response. You just walk, robes swishing, heading for the Potions corridor with Fred Weasley trailing at your elbow like a persistent, redheaded shadow.

"Y/n. Y/n, come on." He sidesteps in front of you, walking backward, hands raised. "I'm serious. I'm friends with him— boys and Quidditch, y'know? I could drop hints. Subtle ones. I could tell you what he likes, what he talks about when he's not being the perfect Head Boy." He's almost tripping over his own feet to keep pace. "Books. He likes books. And he's got this thing about—"

You stop dead.

Fred stumbles, catches himself, and grins like he's just won something.

You huff, arms crossed, and you hate how much you want to hear the rest of that sentence. How much you've wanted, for three years, to know what Cedric Diggory is like when he's not being perfect at everyone.

"What's the catch?"

"There is none!" He spreads his hands, all wounded innocence. "No catch. I just—" A flicker of something real crosses his face. "I owe you one, alright? For the books. For being a git. Call it a peace offering."

The corridor's half empty now, students trickling into Potions. He's walked down the whole way with you and he's not even in your class. The door looms ahead. Snape's class. Not somewhere you want to be late to.

Fred waits, uncharacteristically still, letting you make the call.

"So?" he asks, quiet. "Deal?"

"And what?" You cross your arms. "You want me to actually stop ruining all your pranks?"

He looks away, scuffing his shoe against the stone floor, and gives a small, sheepish nod.

You scoff. The apology, the help, the peace offering—all of it was a way to get the Prank Reaper off their tails for the last year.

But then Fred's head snaps back up, and there's something almost frantic in those puppy like  eyes. "No—wait. That's not—" He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further. "I mean, yeah, that'd be nice, obviously, but you know I can't force you to—" He groans. "Y/n, come on. I'm trying to do a good thing here, and you're making it really bloody difficult."

He looks at you, actually looks at you, and for a moment the mischief's gone entirely. "I want to help you with Diggory. If you stop hexing our crates into oblivion, great, but—" He gestures vaguely. "I just. I know what it's like, wanting something you can't figure out."

The Potions door is right there. Snape's voice, low and silky, drifts out into the corridor. Late. You're going to be late.

Fred watches you, waiting, caught somewhere between a plea and a shrug.

You sigh, "Fine. Help me with Cedric. But I'm not making any promises."

The words come out flat, grudging, and you're already reaching for the Potions door handle when Fred explodes behind you.

"Yes!" He pumps his fist in the air, a full body celebration that draws the attention of a passing group of late third-years. "Yes! That's what I'm talking about! You won't regret this, Y/n, I swear—"

You turn your back to him, and you hate it. You hate that your lips are twitching. You hate that a warmth is creeping up your chest, loosening something in your shoulders. You step through the door, and behind you, Fred's still crowing.

"Lee's gonna flip! Oh, this is going to be brilliant—"

"Mr. Weasley!" Snape's voice slices through the corridor like a blade. "Unless you intend to spend your evening in the dungeons, I suggest you remove yourself from my doorway and find whichever classroom you're meant to be in."

"Right. Yes. Going, Professor!" You hear the scuffle of retreating boots, and then, a whisper, just before he goes, "Tomorrow. I'll have something for you tomorrow."

The door swings shut. Snape's eyes track you to your seat with the particular disdain he reserves for anyone who arrives late to his class. You take your place, dip your quill, and try very hard not to think about the fact that you just made a deal with Fred Weasley.

The parchment beneath your hand seems to glow with it. A pact. With the most annoying Gryffindor.

And somewhere down the corridor, still grinning, Fred Weasley is late to his own class, the echo of your smile still burning behind his eyes.

He'd caught it, the corner of your mouth curling before you had turned your back to him. A real smile. Not the polite one you gave professors or the warm one you gave random people who crossed your path. A real grin.

You were nice to everyone except him and George. Everyone. The classic Hufflepuff role model. That's why you were Prefect for years and Head Girl now, obviously. He's seen you stop to help a sobbing second-year with a lost cat, seen you charm a bruise off a first-year's knee, seen you laugh with your housemates at your table.

But never at him. Never for Fred. In three years, Y/n Jordan has smiled at all of Hogwarts, and Fred Weasley hasn't been on the receiving end since third year.

Until now.

He touches his own mouth, frowning, then shakes it off like a stray hex. "Right," he mutters to the empty corridor. "Right." He's late. Lee's going to ask questions and George is going to know something is up because George always knows. Fred is going to stop thinking about the way his stomach went fluttery when your lips curved.

He takes the stairs two at a time, and he doesn't think about how you'd looked at him with those steady eyes and said fine like you were granting him a pardon. He doesn't think about how he wants to see that smile again, aimed at him, full force.

It's just a deal, he tells himself. Just helping her get Diggory. That's all it is.

He ignores the way the thought sits wrong in his stomach, and he pushes through the door to History of Magic, already planning the first hint he'll deliver tomorrow.

The Great Hall is doing its usual lunchtime roar when Fred finally slams his palms on the Gryffindor table, rattling the plates. He had waited until after Binns' class to make the declaration.

"Gentlemen," he announces, chest puffed, "I have achieved the impossible. Y/n Jordan has agreed to a truce."

Lee's head snaps up from his treacle tart, face splitting into a grin. "No way. Really? She actually—you talked to my sister? What did she say?"

"Agreed to a truce," Fred repeats, sliding into the bench. "She used the word 'fine,' which, coming from her, might as well be a love letter."

Lee looks genuinely delighted, practically glowing. "That's brilliant. That's— you've got no idea how long I've wanted this. I knew you two could sort it out." He claps Fred on the shoulder, oblivious, happy, already imagining family dinners where he doesn't have to play mediator.

George, however, has not touched his food. He's watching Fred with the particular stillness of a man reading a map upside down and knowing it's wrong.

"How?" George asks, quiet.

"How what?"

"How'd you get her to agree?" George's eyes narrow. "She's been icing you out particularly for three years. You walked up to her this morning and suddenly she's fine with you?"

Fred's grin doesn't waver. He reaches for a bread roll, takes a bite, chews slowly, buying time. "Charm, brother. She couldn't resist my famous charm."

"Mmm." George's voice is flat as a flatiron. "Charm."

Lee, bless him, is already telling a nearby sixth-year about his sister's thawing heart, missing the entire conversation happening over his head.

George leans in, too low for Lee to hear. "What aren't you telling me, Fred?"

Fred's jaw works on the bread roll. The deal sits in his throat like a swallowed stone. It's not a secret he wants to share, not yet, not when he hasn't figured out why it feels like a weight in his chest.

"Nothing," he says, and grins. "Just glad the Prank Reaper's hanging up her scythe."

George holds his gaze a long moment, then lets it go. For now.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

The library is nearly empty after dinner that night, the kind of hush that settles into the stacks like dust. You're three paragraphs deep into your Advanced Transfiguration essay when a shadow falls across the table.

Your head jerks up. You know it's Fred. You always get that feeling when it's him. "Stalking me now, Weasley?"

Fred only grins, sliding into the chair across from you—long limbs and easy confidence. "Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart. Coincidence, pure coincidence."

"I know you're not here to study." You don't look up, dipping your quill back into the inkwell. "So state your business and go."

"Straight to the point as always, Head Girl?" He leans forward, folding his arms on the table, voice dropping to something conspiratorial. "Alright. First hint, free of charge. Cedric Diggory—he's got a thing every Sunday morning. Hogsmeade, before the shops open. He gets a breakfast and butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, sits in the corner booth, reads the Prophet. Alone."

You pause writing mid sentence, quill hovering.

"He doesn't tell anyone about it," Fred continues, quietly. "I only know because I ran into him there last month, hungover and in desperate need of peace. He looked almost embarrassed to be caught." A beat passes. "He's not going to be alone forever, Y/n."

You set the quill down slowly, and look at him properly for the first time. The mischief's still there, lurking at the corners of his mouth, but underneath it there's something careful.

"Why are you really doing this?" you ask.

Fred's grin flickers. "Told you. Peace offering."

He holds your gaze a second too long, then pushes back from the table, rising with faux carelessness. "Sunday. Corner booth. Just thought you should know." He starts toward the door, then pauses, glancing back. "And Y/n? You might want to wear something that isn't school robes. Diggory's a man, after all."

The door swings shut behind him, leaving you alone with a hot face, your half finished essay, and a Sunday morning that suddenly feels very close.

You stare at the parchment. The words blur into meaningless black scratches. Sunday. Corner booth. Alone. The information loops through your head like a song you can't shake. Was this a trap? You've known Fred Weasley for seven years now. You know his poker face, the way he can sell a lie with a straight face and a hand on his heart. This felt different, but you've been fooled before. 

Three years ago, you'd have trusted him with anything.

But what do you have to lose? A Sunday morning. A walk to Hogsmeade. Worst case, you looked foolish and alone.

You close your book and give up on the essay entirely.

The next morning, you spot Fred at the Gryffindor table, mid story, gesturing with a piece of toast. You march over before you can lose your nerve. A few heads turn as you cross the Hall.

"Fred." You stop at the table's edge. "A word."

He blinks, toast frozen halfway to his mouth. George's eyebrows climb. Lee looks between you, delighted and confused.

"Me?" Fred points at himself.

"Yes, you. Is there another Fred nearby?"

He sets the toast down, grins at George and Lee he's won something, and follows you out into the corridor. The moment you're out of earshot, he folds his arms, that insufferable grin still in place. "Well, well. Miss Jordan, seeking me out. To what do I owe—"

"Sunday." You cut him off, crossing your arms. "The Three Broomsticks. Is it actually true, or are you just making me a fool again?"

The grin softens. "It's true."

"And you'll actually help?"

"Swear it." He holds up two fingers, mock-serious. "Weasley honor."

"Fine." You turn to leave, then pause, glancing back. "If this is a prank, Fred—if this is payback for all the times I've ruined your pranks—"

"It's not." His voice is quiet, stripped of dramatics. "I promise."

Something in his face makes you believe him. Then, you exhale, suddenly panicked.

"Okay. Well, what am I supposed to talk to him about?" The words spill out of you in a jumble. "During patrols we only have small talk. Quidditch, patrol routes, the weather. It's terrible. I'm too awkward. I've had years with him and I can't— I don't know how to—" You run a hand through your hair, frustrated.

Fred stares at you. He's never seen you like this. Not the kind, composed Head Girl, not the Prank Reaper, not the ice queen who's frozen him out for three years. Just a girl, tangled up in her own feelings, coming apart at the seams.

His expression shifts. The grin fades, and something softer takes its place. He leans against the corridor wall, arms crossed, and for once he looks like he's actually thinking before he speaks.

"Alright. Here's the thing about Diggory." He ticks off points on his fingers. "Everyone talks at him. How good he is at Quidditch, how brilliant he is in class. He gets that all day, every day. He doesn't need another person telling him he's wonderful."

You blink. "Okay. Yeah. Then what does he need?"

"He needs someone to ask him what he wants." Fred's voice is careful. "Not what everyone expects of him." He shrugs "Ask him about his last match, sure, but then ask him something stupid. Small. What he'd do if he wasn't Head Boy. Whether he likes pumpkin pastries!"

You open your mouth, then close it.

"How do you know that it'll work and he won't be weirded out?"

"Because I know what it's like to have everyone expect you to be one thing all the time." He meets your eyes. "And you've treated me like two things. First a funny lad, and now just a git."

You huff at his words, the tension in your shoulders easing a fraction. Fred's lips twitch.

"You know," he says, "you really are the perfect Hufflepuff. Always huffing and puffing. Are you gonna blow my house down next?"

"Ha ha." You let out flat, unamused—trying not to smile because that would inflate his ego even larger.

He raises his hands in surrender, still grinning. "Okay, okay. Puff, if you will."

You cross your arms, studying him and you suddenly remember something else. "Have you told Lee and George about this? The deal?" Your voice drops. "I swear, if you tell the whole school that—"

"I haven't!" Fred claps a hand to his chest, wounded, offended, the very picture of theatrical betrayal. "You wound me, Y/n. Really. I'm the soul of discretion. I haven't said a word." A pause. "Well— they know you've agreed to a truce, perchance. But the Diggory thing is between us."

You search his face. He meets your gaze, steady. You find no joke hiding in the corners of his mouth.

"Fine. I believe you. But you still have to zwear you won't tell anyone. Not my brother, not your brother, not anyone."

"I swear." His voice is softer than you've ever heard it. "On my mother's life. The Diggory thing stays between us." He holds up three fingers, mock-serious. "Cross my heart and hope to—"

"Don't—Don't finish that." You wince despite yourself.

He drops the hand, and grins. You're too cute.

Shit.

Fred tries to ignore the part of his brain that supplied that.

"Sunday," he says, shaking his head and pushing off the wall. "Three Broomsticks. Corner booth. He'll be there by eight."

You nod, throat suddenly tight.

Fred lingers a beat, like he wants to say something else, then just nods and heads back toward the Great Hall. At the doorway he glances back, and his voice carries down the corridor.

"Hey, Y/n? For what it's worth, I think he's lucky to have you notice him at all."

Then he's gone, the door swinging shut behind him, leaving you alone with the echo of his words and a Sunday morning that's suddenly very close.

You stand there, blinking, the words rattling around your skull. 

What in Merlin's Beard did that mean? Every girl in the castle had noticed Cedric Diggory.

You shake your head, muttering something about Fred Weasley under your breath. Then you cross back to the Hufflepuff table, pointedly not looking at the Gryffindor side. Lee catches your eye and grins hopefully. You offer him nothing.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

It's finally Sunday. 

The counter is warm against your palms as you order, keeping your eyes fixed on Madam Rosmerta like she holds the secrets of the universe. You get breakfast and a butterbeer to give your hands something to do. You can feel Cedric back there, the Prophet a thin shield between you and three years of rehearsed conversations.

You're halfway to an empty table near the window when his voice carries across the quiet pub.

"Y/n?"

You turn, butterbeer sloshing in your hand, and find him peering over the top of the newspaper, head tilted, that easy smile already settling on his face. Surprised. Pleased, even.

"Didn't peg you for an early Sunday riser," he says, folding the paper down. "Come to escape the castle?"

"Yep," you say, and your voice comes out smaller than you'd like. You cross to his booth, heart hammering, and hover at the edge. "It's- it's quiet here this early."

"It is." He gestures at the seat across from him, and you slide in, the worn leather creaking under you. Thank goodness he saw you first and you didn't have to approach him awkwardly. Up close, early in the morning, he's warm—rumpled hair, a hint of stubble, his robes traded for a simple jumper. The Prophet lies folded between you, and your scone sits untouched on its plate.

"You come here often?" you manage.

"Every Sunday, if I can." He says easily. "Need the butterbeer. Plus, in the morning, nobody's got expectations of me."

Expectations. 

The words sit on your tongue, waiting.

"So," he echoes, and the word comes with a warm grin, like he's sharing an inside joke. You know what he’s referring to. 

Your heart stumbles. 

Ugh. Why did he have to be so handsome? Why did he have to look at you like that? 

You take a bite of scone you don't taste, buying a heartbeat.

The silence stretches. It's not uncomfortable, exactly, but it's heavy, full of all the things you haven't said. He doesn't rush to fill it. He just sits there, folding the Prophet into a neat rectangle, watching you with that patient, open expression.

Say something. Anything. Fred's voice surfaces, annoyingly helpful. Ask him what he wants. Not what everyone expects.

"So," you try again, setting the scone down. "What would you be doing right now if you could do anything?"

His eyebrows lift, caught off guard, and there's a flicker of something beneath the surface. He leans back, considering the question like it's a strange thing someone's handed him.

"Huh." He turns it over. "No one's ever asked me that before."

The words land somewhere in your chest. He's looking at you differently now—not like you’ve been patrol partners since fifth year, not like a Head Girl. Like someone he's meeting for the first time.

Your hands find your butterbeer mug, and you wait. The whole pub seems to hold its breath with you.

You lift the butterbeer to your lips and sip slowly, using the mug as a shield. The foam leaves a faint mustache you don't wipe away, because wiping it would mean lowering the mug, and lowering the mug would mean he'd see your face, and your face is currently doing something complicated.

Cedric doesn't seem to notice. He's still turning your question over, thumb tracing the rim of his own mug, gaze gone somewhere soft and distant.

"Huh." He says it again, quieter this time. "I think... I'd go flying. Not for practice, not for the team. Just for me." A small, almost embarrassed laugh. "I never get to do that anymore. Every time I'm on a broom it's drills, or matches, or someone wanting to talk Quidditch. I can't remember the last time I just—went up because I wanted to."

He looks at you then, and there's something unguarded in his face, a crack in the polished Head Boy veneer. "That's a weird answer, isn't it? Everyone expects me to say something grand."

"It's not weird," you say, quick and honest. "I feel the same way. I haven't flown like that in a while, either."

He smiles at that, a real one, and you feel it like a warm stone pressed to your chest. The butterbeer mug lowers an inch. The shield cracks.

"What about you?" he asks, leaning in. "If you could do anything today, what would you do?"

The question hits you, and suddenly the corner booth feels very warm. You realize you've been so busy planning what to ask him that you never once thought about what you'd say back.

You think about it for a long minute. 

Finally, you say, "I guess... I'd want to find somewhere fascinating. Somewhere no one else knows about." You pause, trying to put the picture in your head into words. "Like a secret clearing that opens up to something magical. Maybe a little pond in the middle with dreamy sunlight through the trees. Maybe there'd be flowers everywhere, or fireflies at night." 

You grin to yourself, the image becoming clearer the longer you think about it. "I'd probably spend the whole day there. No one needing anything from me. Just somewhere I could forget about everything for a while." A nervous laugh escapes you before you can stop it. "Sorry. That was probably way too specific."

Cedric doesn't laugh at you. He smiles. "No," he says. "That's the best answer I've heard in a long time." He tilts his head, considering you. "I think I'd like to see that clearing if you ever find it."

Your face goes warm. You duck behind your butterbeer again, but the shield's gone soft now—he's seen you, and the terrifying thing is, he seems to like what he saw.

"I'll let you know," you manage. "When I find it."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He grins, and the morning light slants through the frosted window, catching the dust between you. For a moment the whole pub feels like it's holding still. Your scone sits forgotten. 

"So," he says, leaning back, easy as anything. "You do this often? Escape the castle on Sunday mornings?"

"First time," you admit. "Might become a habit."

"Good." He says it simply, like a fact. "I could use the company."

Your heart does a thing it has no business doing. You're acutely aware of the years you spent watching him from across the Great Hall, class, patrol routes. And here he is, asking for your company. 

The morning stretches out, warm and unhurried, and for the first time since you walked through that door, you forget to be nervous. By the time your mugs are empty and your scones are crumbs, the pub has woken up around you—a few locals, the morning sliding toward noon.

"We should probably head back," Cedric says, glancing at the clock. He says it like he regrets it.

"Yeah," you say, and mean it just as much.

He pays before you can argue, waving off your protests with a grin. "I asked you to join me. My treat." You thank him. He really was such a gentleman.

The frost bites at your cheeks as you step outside, and he falls into step beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulders close enough that your arms almost brush on the path.

The walk back is easier than the walk out. The village wakes behind you, shutters opening, smoke curling. He asks about your Transfiguration essay and you tell him. He listens.

At the Entrance hall, he pauses, breath fogging. "Same time next Sunday?" he asks, casually.

You're acutely aware of your heart, doing its clumsy dance in your chest. "Same time," you hear yourself say.

He grins, warm as the pub fire, heads off toward the with a wave before you can say anything else.

You watch him go until he disappears around the corner, and then you stand there a moment, giddy, replaying the whole morning in your head like a song you don't want to end. Same time next Sunday. 

You're still floating when you push through the entrance hall, essay nagging at the back of your mind, and nearly walk straight into Fred Weasley, who is leaning against the wall with the posture of a man who has been there a while, pretending not to wait.

"So?" He grins, jerking his chin toward the doors Cedric vanished through. "How'd it go?"

You try to school your face into something neutral. You fail spectacularly.

"Fine," you say, and the word comes out at least three octaves too bright. You clear your throat. "It went fine."

"Fine." Fred echoes, crossing his arms, eyebrows climbing. "You're glowing like someone casted Lumos on your face, Y/n. That's not fine. That's 'I just spent the morning with the love of my life and he asked to see me again' fine."

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "He—" You stop. The heat rushes to your face.

Fred's grin widens, proud. "Asked to see you again. I knew it." He doesn't gloat, exactly, but there's a warmth there, a pleased crease around his eyes. "So. Diggory's not going to be alone in that corner booth next Sunday?"

"Nope," you beam.

He nods, and for a moment something flickers across his face—there and gone, too fast to name. "Good." He pushes off the wall, hands in his pockets. "I'm happy for you, Y/n. Really."

You don't know what to do with his earnest words, so you do what you always do around Fred Weasley—you huff. "Don't get sappy, Weasley. It's unbecoming."

His laugh echoes down the corridor and the essay in your head suddenly becomes a very distant concern.

"Only sappy for you, sweetheart."

Your face goes hot—which is ridiculous, it's Fred Weasley. The bane of your existence who always calls you sweetheart. You refuse to acknowledge it.

You clear your throat. "Right. Well. Thanks, anyway. For the— the advice. The whole... scheme." The words come out stiff and formal, like you're addressing the Wizengamot. "It was... helpful."

Fred's eyebrows climb. "Did Y/n Jordan just thank me voluntarily?"

"Don't make me regret it."

"I'm framing this moment. It's going on the wall above my bed."

You huff, and he grins, and somehow—you don't remember making the decision—you're walking alongside him instead of toward the library. He steers you out a side door, and the autumn air hits you both, crisp and golden, leaves skittering across the stone in small spirals.

The courtyard is quiet, the last of the morning mist burning off. He walks with his hands in his pockets, unhurried, and the silence between you is strange—not the tense silence of confiscated prank supplies, but something almost easy.

"So," he says, kicking through a drift of leaves. "Sunday. Round two. You're going to be a regular in his corner booth by Christmas."

"Maybe." You're smiling without meaning to. "Or maybe I'll get there and realize I've got nothing left to ask him."

"Ask him what his favourite constellation is," Fred says, without missing a beat. "Or whether he'd rather fight two hundred pixies or one Acromantula. Everyone's got an answer to that one."

You laugh—an actual laugh, the kind you didn't know you had in you around him—and he looks over, surprised and pleased.

"See?" he grins. "You're a natural."

"I'm starting to think you'd be better off with Cedric," you say, "with all the one-liners and questions you've got for him."

The joke comes out before you can stop it, and you're bracing for him to make it weird. But Fred stops mid stride, staring at you like you've grown a second head. Then he laughs—surprised and bright. His cheeks even go a little pink.

"Y/n Jordan," he says, shaking his head, "making a joke. I think I need to sit down."

"You're already sitting."

"Figuratively."

You laugh again, and it surprises you too. Somewhere between the entrance hall and the courtyard, the ice has gotten thinner. Neither of you mention Cedric again. Instead you talk about everything else. 

He tells you about the time in first year when George convinced him a Sphinx was loose in the dungeons. He spent thirty minutes hiding in a suit of armor. You tell him about your grandma's garden, the one that grew singing daffodils, and how you tried to sneak some into Hogwarts to show your friends and got detention. You hadn't known it would be that serious. He talks about Lee—little Lee, who used to follow him and George around asking if he could be a Weasley too—and his voice goes soft in a way you've never heard.

"He's always been my favorite Jordan," he grins at you slyly. "And you were always his terrifying twin I was convinced would hex me into next week."

"Not convinced," you say, chin up. "I could have."

He laughs, and for a moment the autumn light catches him gold—hair turning fiery catching in the sunlight—and you realize the afternoon has gotten away from you both. The courtyard's emptying, students drifting toward lunch, and you're sitting here with Fred Weasley having forgotten entirely to be angry at him.

You check your watch and nearly drop your arm. "Oh— Blimey. it's already lunch."

The words seem to break whatever spell the afternoon had cast. Fred blinks, looking around at the emptying courtyard like he'd forgotten time existed, and you walk to the Great Hall together, your strides falling into an easy rhythm.

The doors swing open to the usual chaos of lunch. You're halfway to the Hufflepuff table when George spots you both—and stops, mid-bite, fork hovering.

"Lee! Lee. Look."

Lee turns. Sees you. Sees Fred. His expression cycles through confusion, concern, and something that looks suspiciously like hope. He's at your side before you can detour.

"Why are you two together?" 

"We were talking," you say, which sounds absurd even to you.

Lee and George exchange a look. George's eyebrows climb into his hairline. And then Lee does something you didn't expect—he grabs your elbow, gentle but firm, and steers you toward the Gryffindor table.

"You're sitting with us," he announces. "You and Fred. Together. I need to see this with my own eyes."

"Lee—"

"Nope. You're eating lunch with your dear brother and his friends. That's allowed, isn't it? Or do I need permission?"

He plops you down on the bench between him and Fred, and you find yourself surrounded by red and gold. George slides a plate of treacle tart in front of you with a grin that says everything.

"So," George says, leaning in. "How long has this been going on?"

Fred kicks him under the table. Lee watches you both like a proud parent, and you realize that you're comfortable.

You roll your eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. "It's just a truce. You're acting like you caught us snogging or something."

The words leave your mouth before your brain catches up. You don't notice Fred go pink—the red creeping up his neck, suddenly very interested in the pumpkin juice in front of him. You don't notice George's eyebrows rocket toward his hairline, or the slow delighted grin spreading across his face as he wiggles them at his twin.

But Lee notices. 

"Yes, a truce," Lee repeats, drawing the word out. "With Fred. My sister. Who has confiscated every prank supply he's owned since third-year."

"Accurate accounting," George mutters, still grinning at Fred, who is now studiously examining the table.

"And now she's sitting at the Gryffindor table," Lee continues, "laughing, eating lunch, saying words like 'snogging' in reference to herself and a Weasley twin."

"I didn't—"

"You did." George leans in, happily. "You absolutely did. Fred, did you hear that? She said snogging."

"I'm sitting right here," Fred says flatly, but his ears are burning, and George is absolutely not letting this go.

Lee looks between you and Fred, a slow grin spreading across his face. "So. Truce with my sister." He picks up his fork, pointing it at Fred like a wand. "Explain. Now. What exactly did you do to earn a truce with Y/n Jordan?"

You give Fred a pointed look. His promise hangs in the air between you—I won't tell them about Cedric—and he clears his throat, all theatrical composure, like a man about to deliver a speech.

"I'll have you know," he announces, "it's not a truce so much as a victory. For me. Through sheer, undeniable charm, I have tamed the Prank Reaper herself."

George snorts. Lee looks deeply skeptical. You try not to smile at how seriously he says it.

"Charm," Lee repeats flatly. "That's your story."

"Overwhelming charm. It's a documented phenomenon. Ask anyone."

"And my sister just— what? Melted?"

"She did. Right there in the corridor."

You sigh, forking another bite of treacle tart into your mouth, pointedly not dignifying any of it with a response. 

Lee stares at you, waiting for the real answer. He knows you. He knows it isn't charm. But he also knows that look on your face—the one that says drop it—and he's known you long enough to obey it, for now. You are a few seconds older than him after all.

"Right," Lee says slowly. "Charm. Got it. Very convincing."

"I thought so," Fred says cheerfully, but he catches your eye for half a second like he's asking, did I do okay?

You give him the smallest nod, and he looks away. George is absolutely saving all of this for later.

Lunch goes on and laughter bubbles out of you before you can stop it—George's impression of Snape, Fred's follow up about Snape's ingredients spilling, Lee nearly choking on his pumpkin juice. Your sides ache. Your face hurts from smiling.

And then it hits you like a brick.

The last time you sat like this, all four of you—was third year. Before the singing Charms textbook. 

You stop mid laugh, fork hovering over your plate, the treacle tart suddenly tasting different.

Fred notices first. His grin falters, a question flickering in his eyes. "You alright?"

"Yeah." The word comes out softer than you meant. "Just—" You shake your head, a small smile finding its way back. "Nothing. Just remembered I used to like sitting here."

The table goes quiet. Lee's face does something complicated and George, for once, doesn't fill the silence.

"You did," Lee says quietly. "You used to sit here all the time. Before—" He stops. Doesn't finish.

"Before I became the Prank Reaper," you finish for him, and it comes out lighter than you expected, almost like a joke.

George smiles, "Well, Prank Reaper. Table's always open. If you want it."

Fred says nothing, but his foot nudges yours under the table.

You look down, smiling shyly, the warmth of the table settling into your chest like a hearth fire. It's been a long time since you felt this easy, and you let yourself sit in it a moment longer.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

Patrol that night is different.

Cedric meets you at the usual spot, and the smile he gives you is friendlier than his standard greeting. You walk the corridors side by side, and the conversation that used to be easy but careful is now easy and more. 

"See you tomorrow, Y/n," he says as you split at the common room. You like how he says your name.

You're still floating the next morning when you find Fred in the corridor near the Charms classroom, lounging against the wall. He straightens when he sees you, a grin already forming.

"Well, well. The Reaper, smiling. What happened? Wait, let me guess— Diggory?"

"Fred." You grab his sleeve, excited, "It's going well! We talked for hours at patrol. After years, I'm finally—" You stop, breathless, laughing.

Fred's grin softens. "That's great, Y/n."

But there's something else in his voice—a flicker he hides fast, looking away.

You're too happy to catch it.

The days that follow blur into something you didn't know your seventh year could be.

It starts small—Fred catching your eye across the Great Hall and pulling a face that nearly makes you choke on your porridge. Then it's him "accidentally" sitting near you in Charms again, passing notes disguised as parchment scraps that say things like Rate today's breakfast: 4/10 for me then, McGonagall's angry eyebrow look: 1-10? You find yourself scribbling answers back, biting your lip to keep from laughing out loud.

When you're not with your Hufflepuff friends, you're laughing with Fred Weasley. 

You never thought it was possible to laugh this much. You'd forgotten your face could hurt from smiling.

The library incident happens on a Thursday.

You're meant to be researching for your Arithmancy project—a stack of books three feet high, your quill poised, every ounce of Head Girl dignity intact. Fred slides into the seat across from you without asking, a book held up like a shield, and whispers, "Y/n. Important question. If you had to fight two hundred pixies or one Acromantula—"

"Fred. I'm working." You whisper-yell back.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer you're getting."

He sighs dramatically, loud enough that Madam Pince's head snaps up from behind her desk. Fred doesn't notice. He leans in, drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, and says something so absurd that a laugh rips out of you, loud and undignified, echoing off the shelves.

Madam Pince is at your table in three strides. "Miss Jordan." Her voice is ice. "I expected better from a Head Girl."

You cover your mouth. "I'm so sorry—"

"Out. Both of you."

"But I—"

"Out."

You gather your books, face burning, and Fred has the audacity to look proud of himself, ushering you out with a sweeping bow. However, the moment the doors close behind you, you both crack—doubled over, laughing in the corridor, your books nearly slipping from your arms.

"I can't believe she—" you gasp. "She loves me. She's never done anything but smile at me!"

"First time for everything," Fred wheezes. "I'm a bad influence. You should've known."

You're still laughing, leaning against the stone wall, and he's looking at you with something soft in his eyes that you're too breathless to notice.

You're still catching your breath from laughing when the thought surfaces, unbidden. 

This was supposed to be about Cedric.

You had a plan. The deal was simple—Fred helps you win Cedric, you're civil, everyone goes home happy. Hanging out with him was supposed to be just for intel. Not… whatever this was.

But somewhere between the library and the courtyard, between the pixies and more absurd questions, the plan got fuzzy around the edges.

It's worse when you’re talking to Cedric on patrol.

Friday night, Cedric is telling you about his fathers letter—asking when he's bringing a girl home—and you're laughing along lightly while half your brain is replaying the way Fred's ears went pink when George teased him. You catch yourself smiling at nothing.

"Y/n?" Cedric's voice pulls you back. "You alright? You've got a look."

"Yeah." You blink, forcing your attention back to the corridor, to the Head Boy walking beside you. "Just tired. Long week."

He accepts it easily and you hate yourself a little for the relief you feel. He deserves better than a patrol partner whose mind wanders.

That night, lying in the dark of the Hufflepuff dormitory, you stare at the canopy of your bed and try to remember when exactly Fred Weasley stopped being an insufferable nuisance. When he started being the person you look for in the Great Hall without meaning to. The one whose laugh you'd know anywhere.

You don't find an answer. You just find yourself thinking about him again.

Weeks go by, you and Cedric becoming closer friends. You laugh with him at dinner, talk to him in classes, and of course on patrols.

You also let the twins and your brother carry out their harmless pranks, the so-called truce with Fred holding up. You figure it’s fine as long as nobody is hurt. And so far so good since then. They’ve never really hurt anyone, after all.

You hate to admit maybe you had been dramatic—not just a little, treating them the twins like criminals after the incident. 

One important Sunday arrives mid winter. You're in the corner booth of the Three Broomsticks, as usual, Cedric across from you with his Prophet.

He's happy to see you. You’re happy to see him. He'd saved you the seat and ordered your butterbeer without asking. He tells you about his fathers latest letter, about a Quidditch strategy that's been eating at him, about a book he read that made him think of you. He's handsome, kind, and warm, and the morning should be perfect.

It is perfect, like it always is with him. Mostly.

He makes you laugh—a good laugh, a comfortable one. But you realize your cheeks don't ache. Your eyes don't water. The laugh doesn't tear out of you in that helpless, undignified way that made Madam Pince glare and Fred look unbearably proud of himself.

You catch yourself smiling, waiting for a punchline that isn't coming, and the realization hits you like a Bludger to the chest.

You're comparing them.

You're sitting across from the boy you've crushed on for years and years and you're measuring him against Fred. Fred Weasley. 

When did you start comparing Cedric Diggory to Fred Weasley?

The question sits in your chest, heavy. Across the table, Cedric is talking about a charm he wants to try, and you're nodding along, a look on your face, your mind a thousand miles away.

"Y/n?" He tilts his head, concern in his eyes. "You alright? You've gone quiet."

"I'm alright. Sorry! Just zoned out." You smile, and it's partly the truth. Cedric accepts it and the rest of breakfast passes pleasantly enough. Butterbeer, conversation, the frost melting off the windows.

The week passes, and you don't think about it. Or rather… you're lying to yourself again because you think about it constantly. About him.

You and Fred have completely stopped talking about Cedric. It's been months since he came up to you with a truce in mind and a plan about getting you closer to Cedric. 

It's not a decision either of you make. The subject just withers. He used to slip Diggory's name into every other sentence, teasing you about your booth and love potions and how many Hufflepuffs would faint at your wedding. Now he doesn't. You've stopped bringing him up too. 

You find yourself watching Fred more. The way he tips his head back when he laughs, adam's apple bobbing. The way he always walks on the outside of the corridor, like he's shielding you from traffic. The way he asks about your day, listens, and remembers.

Wednesday, he passes you in the hall and presses something into your palm without stopping. A folded scrap of parchment. You wait until you're alone to open it.

If you had to fight, two pixies or one Acromantula?

Your inside joke since the library incident. You laugh alone in the middle of the corridor, like a mad woman—cheeks hurting. You don't know how to explain to anyone—least of all yourself—why. 

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ 

The following Saturday, you're walking through the corridor with your friends, halfway through a conversation about Advanced Transfiguration, when you hear your name.

"Y/n!"

You whip around. You'd recognize his voice anywhere.

Fred is hurrying toward you from the other end of the corridor, slightly out of breath. He has his coat and scarf on, and there are faint flecks of snow caught in his hair, melting as he moves. He looks almost frantic, which is enough to make you stop talking in the middle of your sentence.

"Fred?" you ask, eyebrows knitting together. "What's wrong?"

"Nothin! Nothing's wrong." He reaches you and immediately grabs your attention with an impatient gesture toward the staircase. "You need to go get your coat."

You blink. "My coat?"

"And your scarf."

"Why?" You question, suspicious.

"Because we're going somewhere," He gestures vaguely. "Come on. It's a good surprise."

"Where?" You press.

"Y/n." He glances down the corridor then at your two friends, like he's worried they're going to interrupt him. "Please. Just— coat and scarf."

You stare at him. Hesitate. "I have Quidditch practice in two hours so—"

"Even better!" He cuts you off instantly. "You'll already be outside."

Your friends exchange looks. You fold your arms. "Fred, that doesn't explain anything! I don't do surprises."

"It doesn't need to!"

"That's not how explanations work."

He groans, clearly running out of patience—not with you, but with the fact that you're asking questions when he clearly doesn't want to answer just yet. "Just trust me, will you?"

You open your mouth to argue, but one of your friends suddenly grabs your arm exclaiming, "Oh, just go!"

"Hey—"

Your other friend takes your other arm, laughing as they start steering you toward the common room, "Come on, Y/n."

"Wait, why are you helping him?" You exclaim, betrayed.

"Because we want to see what he's planned!"

You look helplessly back at Fred. And he's already backing away, a grin finally breaking through his frantic expression, snow still clinging faintly to his hair as he moves. "Five minutes!" he calls. "Coat and scarf!"

"Fred Weasley!" But your friends are already dragging you toward the staircase, laughing. "You people are unbelievable," you grumble, though you can't stop the smile tugging at your mouth.

Behind you, Fred calls one last time, "And don't take forever!"

You turn your head just enough to glare at him.

"You're lucky I'm curious!"

His grin widens. 

You meet him out in a little over five minutes. You’ve barely stepped out of the Hufflepuff common room when he straightens from his lazy lean against the stone wall, posture snapping into something far too alert. His grin widens the moment he spots you, like he’s been holding it in all day and only now finally gets to let it loose. 

His scarf is slightly crooked, his hands buried in his coat pockets, and yet the second your eyes meet, it’s like you’re the only thing in the corridor that matters.

“Finally,” he says, as if you’ve kept him waiting for hours instead of minutes.

You come to a stop in front of him, a little breathless from the stairs and all the rushing—all for something, you don't know what.

”It’s been five minutes, Fred.”

His eyes flick to the clock down the hall without even turning his head. “Six minutes and thirty-two seconds,” he corrects with absolute certainty.

“You’re ridiculous.”

He sticks his tongue out. You would've snickered if you weren't pretending to be annoyed by this sudden Saturday surprise. ”And you're late, Y/n Jordan.”

”I’m not late!” You roll your eyes, but before you can add to your argument, a sound drifts from behind both of you—muffled laughter.

“Oh, Merlin,” you mutter under your breath, heat creeping up your neck.

One of your friends lifts a hand in an exaggerated wave. “Go away,” you hiss, though it lacks any real threat. They only laugh harder, shoulders shaking as they refuse to move an inch.

Fred leans slightly to the side, trying to see past you, curiosity brightening his expression. “Your friends seem to like me.”

“They’re laughing at you,” you correct immediately.

“Same thing,” he says without missing a beat.

“No, it isn’t.”

“It’s my charm again,” he grins.

That earns him a sharp snort from you. “You’ve never been charming a day in your life.”

He presses a hand dramatically to his chest, staggering back half a step like you’ve physically wounded him. “That’s hurtful.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitches. Fred sees it instantly. “There it is,” he says, far too pleased.

You frown. “What?”

“Nothing,“ he says, nonchalantly. “Come on! Let's go.“

“Where are we going?“ You attempt to press again. But it's no use. He gives you that look that says his lips are sealed as he walks along.

The castle grounds stretch out before you, covered in a thick blanket of snow, and Fred doesn’t say a word as he leads you farther away from Hogwarts, following a narrow, hidden path between the trees that you’re fairly certain you’ve never seen before. You glance back once, just to make sure you’re not imagining the distance growing between you and the castle, and sure enough Hogwarts is already beginning to blur and disappear behind the falling snow, swallowed up by white and silence.

“Fred?” you call after a moment, watching his back as he walks ahead of you.

He looks over his shoulder immediately. “Yeah?”

“How much farther?”

“Not far.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’ve said that three times.”

“And I meant it every time,” he replies easily.

You roll your eyes, but you keep following him anyway, boots crunching softly against the frozen ground. The trees grow thicker the further you go, their branches heavy with snow that sag under its own weight. Ever so often Fred glances back at you, like he’s checking you’re still there and not about to turn around and march straight back to the castle.

The deeper you go, the less familiar everything feels. You slow a little without meaning to, eyes scanning the trees.

“Okay,” you say carefully, breaking the quiet. “If this is how I die, I’m going to be really annoyed.”

Fred looks back at you over his shoulder. “Die?”

“I mean,” you gesture vaguely at the endless trees, "I'm walking into the forest with a boy who keeps saying ‘not far’ like a suspicious liar.”

He snorts. “A suspicious liar?”

“Yes.”

He starts walking backwards in front of you, grinning mischievously. Hands in his pockets. “So your theory is I’ve lured you out here to murder you?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “It’s not a theory. It’s a possibility.”

Fred presses a hand to his chest. “I’m hurt.”

“You should be. I trusted you.”

He grins. “That was your first mistake.”

You stop for half a second just to stare at him, deadpan, before running at him. He laughs breathlessly, yelps, running away from you in the bright snow. After running for what seems like an hour—without warning, Fred stops so suddenly you bump straight into him.

“Ow!”

“Sorry,” he says quickly, catching your arm for a second to steady you before letting go. “We’re here.”

You blink, looking past him.

At first, it doesn’t make sense. It’s just more trees, more snow, more silence, and you almost frown in confusion. But then Fred shifts slightly to the side, stepping out of your line of sight, and your breath catches so sharply it almost hurts.

The trees open like the forest has been holding something back and has finally decided to let you see it.

A clearing spreads out in front of you, quiet and untouched, and for a second your brain refuses to process it properly. Snow lies softer here, thinner, as if the ground itself is warmer somehow, and in the center there’s a pond, its surface pale and glassy beneath the winter light. The trees curve around it in a natural arch, branches heavy with snow but arranged so perfectly it almost feels unreal.

It’s silent too. Completely, impossibly silent. The kind of silence you don’t just hear—you feel, deep in your chest, like the world has finally stopped asking anything of you.

You don’t move.

Fred watches your face, waiting for something. But it never comes.

"So..." He starts, unsure. You look at him, mouth open wordlessly. He looks up, awkward, suddenly seeming much less confident than he was on the walk here. "Do you like it?"

You turn back to the clearing.

It's like the secret place you wanted to find. The one you told Cedric you'd look for if you could do anything. The pond. The trees. Straight out of your dreams. Your mouth opens slightly, then closes again. Nothing clever comes.

“How did you—” you start, but your voice comes out quieter than you expect, almost disbelieving, and you stop because you don’t even know how to finish the question.

Fred shrugs sheepishly. “I just found it.” You finally look at him properly. "I thought you might like it."

You smile. Not the small, polite smile you give to people you don't know. Not the one you use when you're trying to hide how you're feeling. You smile unabashedly, letting it spread across your face as you turn back toward the clearing.

Fred's expression softens when he sees it.

You wander closer to the pond, looking at everything from every angle like you’re afraid it might disappear if you blink. Fred follows, and eventually the two of you settle beneath one of the trees, the snow around you untouched except for the trail you left behind.

For a long while, you just talk.

About nothing important at first. Quidditch. Classes. The professors you both can't stand. The latest ridiculous thing George or Lee have done. You tell him about something your friends said earlier, and he laughs so hard he nearly knocks snow from the branch above you.

Eventually, the conversation gets quieter. You tell him about the little things. Things you want to do someday. Places you want to see. Books you want to read. The sort of life you think you'd have if nobody was constantly telling you what you should be doing with it.

At some point, you notice Fred rubbing his hands together.

"You’re cold." You point out.

"I'm fine."

"You’re freezing."

"I'm not."

"You are."

He gives you a look. You sigh.

"Fine," he says begrudgingly.

You lift your wand to do the warming charm that you're already using on yourself. For someone who does so many pranks with charms, you think he'd always use a warming charm.

"Hold still."

Fred raises an eyebrow but obeys. A gentle warmth settles over him almost immediately. He blinks.

"Oh. Right…"

You smile smugly. "Better?"

"Much," he grins sideways. A charming look. Not that you'd ever admit it.

"You're welcome."

The two of you fall quiet again, watching the snow drift lazily through the trees. And then, because you've been meaning to tell him since he brought you here, you say, "You know what's funny?"

"What?" He glances at you, curiosity dancing in his eyes.

"I told Cedric—"

His face scrunches. "I don't want to hear about that bloke right now."

"It's not that!" You laugh, surprised. "I— I told Cedric about this. We were talking about what we'd do if we could do anything, and I said I'd want to find somewhere like this."

Fred makes a small noise. "Oh. Really?"

You nod enthusiastically.

"I described it almost exactly like this. A little clearing hidden away from everyone, a small pond in the middle, sunlight through the trees..." You gesture around you, smiling. "It's really beautiful, Fred. Thank you for showing me this place."

When you look back at him, he's looking at you with something soft in his eyes you can't name. "Of course, Y/n."

Comfortable silence passes between you. You play with the soft snow underneath you for a while, before lying down onto the snow with a content noise. He follows, lying next to you.

Then, suddenly, almost like the two of you are trading secrets, he quietly begins, "Do you want to know why I never apologized?"

You blink, brows furrowing. And then you realize what he means. 

That prank from three years ago had been the last thing on your mind—sitting here with him in this beautiful clearing.

"Why are you reminding me? I was starting to forget." You joke. 

You see him smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

Okay. Now you're concerned.

"We weren't planning for you to open your Charms book in front of the whole school," He says sheepishly. "Just in our shared class. I thought it would get Diggory to talk to you or something. It was painful watching you pine after him after Lee told us you liked him."

You let out an incredulous laugh, staring at him in disbelief. Fred's cheeks go pink—you weren't sure if it was because of the cold or because he was embarrassed.

He goes on before he loses his nerve. Again. "After that, I just couldn’t apologize to you. It was my idea. I felt terrible. And— Well, we never mean for our pranks to hurt anybody's feelings. They're supposed to be fun. And well, maybe embarrass people who deserved it sometimes. But you didn't deserve that."

He clears his throat when you don't say anything, still looking at him in disbelief. "All I'm saying is that I get why you held your grudge for so long. And— er, I really am sorry I did that."

Fred finally meets your eyes. You soften completely at his words. You can tell he's been thinking about how to say that for a while. 

“Thank you, Freddie." His eyes widen comically. You laugh. "Though, you should've told me that much earlier. I would've been less mad. It's kind of embarrassing how long I held that grudge for."

You don't let him answer, suddenly sitting up and remembering you have Quidditch practice. 

"Merlin! Would you look at the time? I'm gonna be late for practice. See you!"

He stays put in the snow, croaking out a “bye” that you probably don't hear. His face stays warm, replaying the whole thing in his head.

Freddie. You called him Freddie.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

The weeks pass in a blur of frost and laughter, something changing between you and Fred. Something soft there now. 

Before you know it, it's Sunday again—the corner booth, the butterbeer, the familiar rhythm of a routine you've almost stopped thinking about.

You talk a bit. The usual. Updates about classes. Quidditch. But Cedric is quieter than usual. You notice it in the way he stirs his butterbeer without drinking it, the way he keeps glancing at you and looking away, a flush creeping up his neck.

"Y/n," he says finally, setting his mug down with both hands. "I wanted to—I mean, you're the first person I've wanted to tell, so—" He laughs, embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. "This is mortifying. The lads would never let me hear the end of it."

"Tell me what?" you prompt gently. Your heart does that thing and you're suddenly wondering if he's finally going to do something.

That hope shatters at the next thing that comes out of his mouth.

"Cho." The name comes out soft, almost reverent. Cedric's whole face transforms—shy, happy, lit from the inside. "We're getting back together. We didn't work out last time, but—" He shrugs, helpless and grinning. "I'm happy. Really happy."

He talks about her for the next hour. Her laugh, her Quidditch, the way she scrunches her nose when she's concentrating. You listen, laughing, nodding. You wait for the knife in your chest.

It doesn't come.

Somewhere between his description of her flying, you realize with a strange, clarity—that you're not devastated at all. You're not even sad. There's a small pang, a ghost of the girl who crushed on him desperately—blushed at everything he said, but she was a memory now. She's someone you used to be.

You're happy for him. Genuinely.

And the realization settles over you like snowfall. 

You've been comparing him to Fred Weasley every Sunday for weeks. And Cedric kept losing.

After breakfast, you cross the castle grounds. The news about Cho Chang didn't hurt the way it should have. It settled inside you like a stone dropped into deep water—a ripple, then calm. And with the calm came a single, urgent thought—Fred. You had to see Fred.

You spot his back in the courtyard from across the lawn with your brother—the familiar red hair. Your heart does that traitorous little skip as you hurry over.

"Fred—" you start, breathless.

The figure turns. 

But it's not Fred. You could always tell with just a glance. This was George. Their noses and eyes were different. Fred had a straight nose. George had a little bump. 

He grins, slow and delighted, taking in your flustered expression and the way you skidded to a halt. "Well, well. Y/n, running across the grounds. Looking for a certain someone, are we? Not me?"

Your face goes hot. "Sorry. I- I thought—" You shut up. You didn't feel like explaining and facing their questions, "Where's Fred?"

"Library." George says with a smirk, arms crossed. "Apparently our Freddie has discovered a newfound passion for books."

Your mouth drops a little. "The library? Fred? What in Merlin's Beard is he doing in there alone?"

George shrugs, the smirk widening. "Beats me. He's been weird all week. Spacey. Forgets to laugh at his own jokes. And believe me, he always laughs at his own jokes." He tilts his head, studying you. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Reaper?"

The nickname lands soft and teasing. Your mouth opens, closes. You're flustered all over again. The courtyard seems very quiet all of a sudden.

"Why would I know anything about it?" The words come out sharp, defensive, maybe a little too fast.

Your brother, on the other hand, doesn't flinch. Lee crosses his arms, that knowing look settling on his face—the one he's been wearing since lunch that day, like he's watching a chess game only he can see. "Y/n. You've been spending a lot of time with him."

"So?"

"So, nothing." He shrugs, all innocence. "Just an observation. You used to confiscate his stuff. Now you laugh at his notes in Charms and get kicked out of the library together. That's not nothing. That's—" He gestures vaguely. "Something."

George hums in agreement, and you can feel both of them watching you, waiting, like you're a potion about to bubble over.

"Whatever," you say, and roll your eyes so hard it's a wonder they stay in your head. "I'm going to the library."

Lee's grin widens. "Yeah. To find Fred. Alone."

You don't dignify that with a response. You turn on your heel and walk, spine stiff, cheeks burning, and you can hear George mutter something to Lee that makes him snort, but you're already too far away to make out the words.

The library looms ahead, warm light spilling from its windows, and your steps slow as you near the doors. Concern—that's what you told yourself. You're just concerned. Fred Weasley, voluntarily in a library, alone instead of scheming with his best friends. Something's wrong, clearly.

You push open the heavy oak door, and there he is—hunched over a table in the corner, a book open in front of him, but his eyes are fixed on the window, unfocused, a quill spinning absently between his fingers. A habit of his that you've noticed. He hasn't seen you yet.

The sight of him does something complicated to your chest. You take a breath.

"Fred."

He startles, the quill clattering to the table, and when he looks up, his face does a strange thing—bracing himself and softening all at once. "Y/n." 

You sliding into the chair next to him. "What's going on with you? George and Lee said you've been acting weird all week," you say softly, the words slipping out before you can dress them up.

Fred's face does something remarkable. The pink creeps up from his collar, across his cheeks, right to the tips of his ears. "They said that? I haven't been— I'm not— I've been perfectly normal—"

"Shhh!"

Madam Pince's hiss cuts through the quiet like a blade. Both of you freeze, shoulders hunching instinctively, two students caught in the crosshairs of the librarian's glare. She's already halfway across the room, wand pointed at the both of you like she's considering a permanent silencing charm.

"Unless you are discussing Arithmancy, I suggest you take your conversation elsewhere." Each word is clipped, precise, and utterly terrifying.

"Sorry, Madam Pince," you and Fred say in unison—and the synchronized apology hangs there, absurd, almost funny.

She watches you for a long moment, then turns with a swish of robes, retreating to her desk. The silence stretches. Fred's ears are still red, and he's staring at the book in front of him like it might save him, but you can see the way his hands are fidgeting with the quill again.

You wait. The library is warm. He won't meet your eyes.

"It's nothing," he says finally, quietly, not looking up. "George talks out of his arse. I'm fine."

You don't believe him. You can't remember the last time Fred Weasley said fine without a grin attached, and the word sits wrong in the quiet air between you.

You stare at him, unconvinced. He's looking everywhere but at you—the book, the window, the ceiling—anywhere that isn't your face. The word hangs in the air between you, limp and unconvincing.

"I don't believe you," you say.

And then you're moving. Your hand closes around his sleeve—forceful and determined—and you haul him out of the chair before he can protest. Madam Pince's head snaps up, but you're already dragging him toward the door, and something in your expression must warn her off because she doesn't say a word.

"Y/n—" He stumbles after you, caught off balance. "What are you—"

The heavy oak door swings shut behind you, and you let go of his sleeve in the corridor, spinning to face him. He's flushed, breathless, hair mussed, and you're breathless too, though you've done nothing more strenuous than tug a lanky Gryffindor across a library.

"Tell me what's wrong." The words come out breathless and demanding. "You're being weird. George noticed, Lee noticed, and I—" You stop, swallowing. "I guess I noticed."

He stares at you. The corridor is quiet, the noise of the castle muffled around you both, and for a long moment he doesn't speak. His hands find his pockets. His jaw works.

"It's stupid," he says finally. "Really stupid."

"Fred."

He looks at you then—really looks, and there's something raw and open in his face, like a door he's been holding shut all week and is too tired to keep closed. "You really want to know? Fine." A breath. "It's about you. It's been about you for a while now."

"What about me?" The words come out breathless, barely above a whisper.

"I don't want to see you with Cedric!" He blurts out suddenly. Loud in the empty corridor. And then he barrels on, words tumbling over each other, the dam finally breaking. "There— I said it! I don't want to know you're at that bloody corner booth every Sunday. I never wanted to hear about how great your breakfasts were. I've been lying through my teeth for months, pretending I'm some kind of matchmaker. Fed you intel on the bloke I'm supposedly helping you win—and it's the stupidest bloody plan I've ever come up with, and I once tried to turn the entire Slytherin common room purple—"

He stops, chest heaving, hands raking through his hair. His ears are crimson. The corridor is silent except for the distant hum of the castle.

"You want to know why I've been weird all week?" His voice drops, raw and honest. "Because I realized I don't want you to date Cedric Diggory. I don't even want you to smile at Cedric Diggory. And— and I know that makes me a hypocrite and a git and probably the worst matchmaker in the history of Hogwarts, but—"

He meets your eyes, finally, and there's nothing left to hide.

"It's you, Y/n. It's been you for so long. Even when you were a pain in the bloody arse about our pranks. It's been you since the day I saw you smile and I realized I hadn't been on the receiving end of it for so long—and I did everything since then to see you smile at me."

The words hang between you, raw and bare, and Fred Weasley—who never runs out of things to say—stands there, chest heaving, watching you like a man who's just thrown himself off a cliff and is waiting to see if there's a net.

And you can't help it. Your mouth pulls into a smile.

It's not a small one. It's the kind of smile that starts somewhere deep and works its way out, warming your whole face. Three years of a stupid grudge—and here he is, red-eared and terrified, having just ruined his own master plan out of sheer, stupid honesty.

Fred's face cycles through several expressions in rapid succession. Confusion. Alarm. A deepening, spectacular crimson.

"Why are you smiling?" He splutters, gesturing wildly. "I just— I just told you—and you're smiling—? That's not— what does that mean?!"

You take a step toward him. He takes a step back, bumping into the wall.

"You're adorable," you grin.

The word hits him like a Stunning Spell. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "Adorable." He repeats it like it's a foreign language. "I just confessed my deepest, most embarrassing feelings and you're calling me—adorable?"

"Mhm." You take another step, and there's nowhere left for him to go. "You are. You're a complete git, and I thought you and your brother ruined my life in third year. But then you made a deal to help me win over someone else—and you went and fell for me instead." You tilt your head. "That's adorable."

His ears are on fire. "I hate you."

"No, you don't."

He stares at you. And then, slowly, impossibly, the corner of his mouth twitches—a grin fighting its way through his mortification. "No," he admits, quiet, almost wondering. "I really don't."

"I stopped thinking about Cedric like that weeks ago." The words come out quiet but firm. 

Fred's eyes go wide—comically wide, the kind of wide you'd expect from someone who's just been told the sky is actually green. You've never seen him like this. Fred Weasley, who always has a quip, standing utterly speechless in the middle of the corridor.

"He never made me laugh like a maniac," you say, and the smile won't leave your face. "He didn't get me kicked out of the library for the first time. He didn't—" You take a breath, and the last three words come out soft, "He's not you."

Fred blinks. Once. Twice. His mouth opens, and for a horrible moment you think he's going to make a joke, defuse it all with a punchline. But he doesn't.

"Y/n." Your name comes out rough, like it scraped him on the way out. He takes a step toward you—the first step he's taken all conversation, instead of away. "Say that again."

"Which part?"

"All of it." His voice cracks on the second word. "Every bloody word."

You could tease him. The moment is begging for it—his ears on fire, his hands fidgeting, the great Fred Weasley undone by a Hufflepuff's confession. But the way he's looking at you, like you're something he's afraid to touch in case you vanish—it steals the joke right off your tongue.

"He's not you," you repeat, and it's easier this time. "You're the one I kept looking for. You're the one who made me forget why I was even talking to him."

The corridor is quiet. A door closes somewhere distant. Fred reaches for your hand like he's checking if you're real, and his fingers are warm and slightly shaking when they close around yours.

"I finally got Fred Weasley at a loss for words." The giggle bubbles out of you, victorious—and it's the last thing you get to say before his hands are in your hair, cupping the back of your head, pulling you in.

His lips crash onto yours.

You gasp into his mouth—a soft, startled sound that he swallows whole—and your hands find his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his jumper like he's the only solid thing in the corridor. He kisses like he acts: all in, no hesitation, a grin threatening at the edges. His mouth is warm, insistent, and there's something almost desperate in the way he holds you, like he's been saving up every word he couldn't say for weeks and this is the only way left to say them.

Your back meets the stone wall—when did you get backed against the wall?—and he breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours, eyes dark and bright and utterly wrecked.

"Adorable," he repeats, voice rough. "You called me adorable, and then you said all of that, and you expect me to… what?"

"I expected you to keep being at a loss for words, actually. Not— ah, kiss me…"

His laugh is breathless, almost disbelieving. "Y/n." He says your name like it's a prayer. "I've wanted to do that since you started marching me into McGonagall's office looking like you'd won a war."

"Those were good days," you say breathlessly, unable to help but smile again.

"They were terrible days. I couldn't stop thinking about you." He kisses you again, large hands at your waist, softer this time, a slow press that makes your knees forget their job. "I still can't." He adds gruffly.

The corridor is warm, muffled, a world of two. His thumb traces your jaw, and somewhere far away, a door opens and closes, and neither of you moves.

"I'm a bloody idiot," he mutters against your skin, the words muffled. "I should've come to my senses sooner."

"You should've." You hum in agreement. "Years sooner, really. I've been confiscating your prank supplies for three years, Fred. The signs were all there."

He pulls back just enough to fix you with a look, equal parts affronted and adoring. "You confiscated my glorious portable swamp."

"It was leaking into the Charms corridor."

"It was a masterpiece."

Your grin widens. "You wouldn't have wasted all of it if you had just—"

He distracts you with his mouth—not on your lips this time, but lower, at the curve of your jaw, trailing down to where your neck meets your shoulder. The scrape of teeth, the press of lips, and a delicious shiver wracks its way down your spine, pulling a soft sound from your throat before you can stop it.

His laugh vibrates against your skin. "Oh, you like that, Prank Reaper?"

"Don't call me that while your mouth is on my neck."

"Why not?" Another nip, harder this time, and your fingers curl into his robes. "The Reaper, undone by a bit of—"

"Finish that sentence and I'll hex you into next week."

He pulls back, grinning like he's won something, and his eyes are bright and warm and entirely fond. "You won't."

"I will."

"You love me too much." The words come out lighter than they mean to, and he freezes for half a second, like he didn't mean to say them out loud. His ears go pink. "I mean—"

You reach up, cup his jaw, and pull him down to kiss him slowly. Until he stops thinking about whatever he was going to say. When you pull back, his face is the definition of a wrecked man.

"Maybe," you say softly. "We'll find out."

He looks at you in wonder. Cheeks pink. Ears that match.

"You bloody doofus." You mumble it, grin softening, and reach up to smooth the crease between his scrunched brows. "You know what's funny? Cedric told me—"

He groans, dropping his head onto your shoulder. "I don't want to hear about Diggory ever again. That bloody—"

"Fred." You laugh, reaching up to thread your fingers into his hair. "He and Cho got back together."

He goes still against you. Slowly, he lifts his head, eyes searching your face. "What?"

"Cedric and Cho. They're together again. He told me at breakfast." You shrug with a grin. "So even if you hadn't confessed dramatically in the middle of a corridor like a complete idiot… Cedric was never going to be a problem."

Fred blinks, a slow, dawning horror creeps across his face as the realization settles in. "So I— I spent a week moping in the library. I ruined my own grand matchmaking scheme. I confessed my deepest feelings—"

"Very dramatically," you agree.

"—and the bloke was already off the table? I did all of that for nothing?"

"Not for nothing." You tug him down by the collar and press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Would you have told me if you weren't blinded by extreme jealousy?"

He stares at you, ears burning, and then his face cracks into a grin—helpless, ridiculous, utterly besotted. "I'm going to have to send Diggory a thank you note, aren't I?"

"Definitely."

He pulls you against him, both of you laughing, and the corridor feels warmer than it has all winter. Somewhere above, a portrait snickers—no doubt, telling every other portrait about the tea. But for now, you stay right here, wrapped up in Fred Weasley—the Prank Reaper thoroughly, irreversibly caught.

Fred leans down to kiss you again, mouth curving, and his lips are a breath from yours when the shout rips through the corridor like a cannon.

"FRED GIDEON WEASLEY!"

You both spring apart like you've been hit with a hex. Both your brothers stand at the end of the corridor. Lee's robes askew, face cycling through shock, accusation, and something that looks dangerously close to glee.

You groan, hiding your face. 

"When I told you to make up with my sister a few months ago—" He jabs a finger at Fred, advancing with the righteous fury of a man who has waited his entire Hogwarts career for this exact moment. "I didn't mean for you to make her your girlfriend and snog her in front of me! I knew something was up!"

"Lee—" you start, face burning.

He turns to you instead, "He's been in love with you for months! I had to listen to him mope! In my common room! In front of my bed!"

"It's my common room too," Fred manages weakly. George snickers from behind Lee, not wanting to interrupt his whole rant.

"Don't you sass me, Fred! What do you have to say for yourself?"

Fred rubs the back of his neck, ears crimson. "I didn't mean for it to go like this…?"

"Like what?" Lee demands. "You're snogging my dear sister where anybody could see!"

"Whatever. Your sister is the best thing that's happened to me all year. So if you're going to yell, yell about that."

Lee stares at him. You blush furiously and hit his shoulder. George makes a suggestive look at you and Fred. And then Lee's face splits into a grin so wide it nearly cracks.

"Finally," he says. "I've been waiting years for you two to sort yourselves out."

Your face goes hot enough to warm the whole corridor at the insinuation, and then you shove Lee away instead with both hands—he stumbles back, cackling, utterly unrepentant.

"Why?!" Lee throws his arms wide, the picture of wounded innocence. "Want to snog him more?"

"Lee— You little—"

George's laugh cuts you off. It's his turn to humiliate you two now, apparently. He gives you and Fred a long, slow look, then wiggles his eyebrows with a man who has been saving this exact expression for years.

"So," he says, drawing the word out like treacle. "The Prank Reaper and my twin brother." He taps his chin. "I have to say, this is not how I pictured my Sunday going, but it's certainly an improvement."

"We were talking." You retort uselessly.

"Mhm." George's grin widens. "And the talking involved lips, did it?"

"George, I swear—" Fred begins.

"Freddie, I've been waiting for this. Do you know how long I've had to listen to you mope about a certain Hufflepuff Head Girl? How many times I've watched you stare at the Hufflepuff table like a lovesick Kneazle?"

"I have never—"

"You wrote her initials in the margin of your Transfiguration notes. I saw it."

Fred makes a strangled sound. Lee, beside you, is absolutely vibrating with delight, looking between you and Fred like he's watching the final match of the Quidditch Cup.

"Y/n. Wait," Lee says, voice suspiciously innocent. "Did you know Fred must have been in love with you since—"

"Lee, I swear to Merlin—"

"—since you confiscated his swamp kit? He wrote a whole poem about it. Called it 'Ode to the Reaper.' It was terrible."

Fred buries his face in his hands. George is wheezing. And despite everything—your burning cheeks, a cackling George, your brother's delight—you find yourself laughing helplessly, the sound echoing down the corridor like something you've been holding in for three years.

"Merlin, I have to hear this." You laugh, wiping your eyes.

Fred's face falls so dramatically it's almost a special effect. "You're supposed to be suffering with me! I poured my soul into that poem! I was vulnerable!"

"You wrote a poem about my swamp confiscation and expected me to be sympathetic?"

"I expected a little respect for the craft!"

Lee, sensing blood in the water, clears his throat theatrically, striking a pose against the wall like a bard preparing an epic. "'Ode to the Reaper,' by Fred Weasley—"

"Lee Jordan." Fred lunges. Lee dances out of reach, cackling.

"Her eyes like chocolate, her wrath like thunder, she took my swamp and I went under—"

"THAT IS NOT—"

"'—oh Reaper mine, so stern and fair, I'd let you confiscate my underwear—'"

"LEE I SWEAR TO MERLIN— Y/n! He's— he's making it up!"

You double over, hands on your knees, laughing so hard your ribs ache and tears prickle at the corners of your eyes. George is wheezing against the archway, one hand on the wall for support. Fred stands in the middle of the corridor, ears so red they're practically glowing, pointing a shaking finger at Lee.

"That," Fred says, voice cracking, "is not— I never— that was—"

"It's beautiful," you manage between gasps, wiping away a tear. "It's the most beautiful thing anyone's ever written about my work."

"It's not about your work—"

"You should publish, Freddie."

George lets out a noise like a dying hippogriff. Lee is doubled over. And Fred—Fred looks at you, at the tears streaming down your face, at the way you're clutching your stomach—and slowly, despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitches.

"You're going to make me recite it at our wedding, aren't you?" he groans absently.

"Wedding?!" You, Lee, and George all exclaim at the same time. This time your brother is the one lunging for Fred.

It erupts into chaos.

part 2 is coming soon, taking place a few weeks later!!

i hope you enjoyed! if you’ve gotten all the way to the end, dont forget to comment and reblog to keep the fandom alive <3

[whimsyweasleys]

—𝓟rank 𝓡eaper

𝐹red 𝒲easley x 𝒥ordan 𝐻ufflepuff!Reader

the weasley twins have gotten on your nerves ever since a prank from third year—exposing you for liking cedric diggory to the entire great hall. now, it’s seventh year and your brother, lee jordan, has finally had enough of you thwarting their mischief. when you don’t budge, fred comes up with his stupidest scheme yet: promise to help you win over cedric (who you still like after 3 years) if you agree to a truce. as luck would have it, fred realizes he's in love with you instead!

𝒯ags : idiots in love. soo much crack. lee jordan’s twin!reader, hufflepuff headgirl!reader, she's nice to everyone but me trope, lots of teasing & banter. cedric x cho chang. juxtaposition between cedric & fred for the plot (ftr i love cedric i swear i’m not slandering him even if it comes off that way at the end?😭)

𝒲ord count : 16.6k (holy moly)

𝒜uthors note : i enjoyed writing this so much omlll. i hope whoever’s reading this enjoys it too!! and there will be a part 2 soon!

The Great Hall is loud with the clatter of cutlery and the roar of a hundred conversations, but you've long since learned to tune it out. You sit at the Hufflepuff table with your housemates, prodding a piece of toast, when a familiar cackle cuts through the noise.

It's the Weasley twins, both of them bent over something at the Gryffindor table—probably some new invention meant to turn someone's hair purple.

You don't bother looking up.

Three years ago, you'd have watched them with fond exasperation, the way Lee Jordan's twin sister might watch her brother's ridiculous friends. But that was before third year. Before they hexed your entire Charms textbook so that every time you opened it, a tiny, off key chorus broke into "Cedric Diggory is a dreamy guy, a right proper gent!" right in the middle of the Great Hall.

You'd been fourteen, head-over-heels for the golden boy in a way that felt enormous and terrifying. But at least it had been private. The twins had found out somehow—probably through Lee—and decided it was the funniest thing since the time they'd made a dungbomb explode in Snape's office.

They poked at you after the incident, asking if you were still mad after a week of ignoring them—even after fixing the textbook. Eventually, they said sorry, but you knew they didn't mean it. They never apologized properly. Not once. 

Cedric had laughed it off, charming as ever, comforted you after in private even—but you'd wanted the floor to swallow you whole. 

The memory still burned.

Lee, oblivious to your moody morning nostalgia, greets you as usual. He's late to breakfast. "Morning, sis. Sleep well?"

You offer him a smile. "Well enough."

Your eyes flicker to the Gryffindor table despite yourself. Fred catches your gaze immediately, as if he had been watching, and raises a hand in a mock salute—mischief written all over his face.

You whip your head away from the Gryffindor table and reach for your juice, but Lee had already seen the exchange.

"Fred's just being friendly!"

"Mhm." You take a long sip. "Friendly."

Lee sighs and lets it drop, heading to the Gryffindor table to sit with the twins. He knows better than to push. Three years of silence on the subject have made that abundantly clear. He still carries a sliver of guilt for being the one who mentioned your crush to the twins in the first place.

Breakfast is uneventful until a second-year Hufflepuff named Eleanor skids up to you, cheeks flushed, clutching a note. "Head Girl! They're doing something by the Potions corridor. The Weasley twins. I think—" She glances at the note. "I think it's for Snape."

You take the note. On it, in Fred's unmistakable scrawl—Operation: Serpent Serenade. Supplies in tow. ETA: next period.

Seriously? 

You sigh. Of course this would be their first prank of the year. 

You find them after breakfast two corridors over, Fred holding a crate of enchanted alarm clocks and George mid-incantation over a jar of what looks suspiciously like singing slugs. George stops when he sees you. Fred doesn't even look up.

"Nice of you to join us, Miss Jordan," Fred says lightly. "Need a clock? We've got spares."

"Put it away." Your voice is flat. "Now."

"Or what?" He finally glances at you, grin crooked. "You'll hex our books? Ooh, wait—" His eyes light up with false realization. "Did you ever get yours to stop singing about Diggory? Or do you still hum along?"

You scowl. A deadly look on a usually sweet Hufflepuff. A look that they've seen plenty. George winces, elbow jabbing his brother's ribs, knowing they'll be facing your wrath even stronger now that you're Head Girl—but Fred just watches you, that infuriating grin still in place. He's always gotten on your nerves more than his twin. You hate it.

Lee appears at the end of the corridor, takes one look at the standoff, and groans.

"You heard me." You step forward before Fred's fingers can curl around the crate, snatching it clean out of his grip. The enchanted alarm clocks rattle inside, indignant at being stopped. 

"McGonagall's office. Now," you say, and you're already turning, already walking, the crate tucked under your arm like a dead weight. "I'll take points away if you don't follow."

"You wouldn't," Fred calls after you. You don't turn around. A beat later, you hear their shoes on the stone floor, following.

McGonagall takes one look at the crate, one look at the twins, and assigns them a week of cauldron scrubbing. She thanks you with a curt nod. You feel Fred's eyes on your back the whole way out.

Lee doesn't speak to you at dinner that night.

It becomes the usual pattern. Over the next few weeks, you intercept them everywhere: the enchanted quills meant for the Slytherin common room, the portable swamp kit destined again for the Potions corridor, a crate of bewitched fireworks scheduled for the Great Hall ceiling. 

Every time, you're there. Every time, you confiscate. Every time, McGonagall's office gets a visit.

Younger Hufflepuffs call you the Prank Reaper. You'd earned the nickname after becoming a prefect—your main target being the twins' tomfoolery. 

You pretend not to enjoy it. 

You've upped their punishments since last year because now, you had even more authority as Head Girl. The twins became sloppier. Or maybe just more reckless, pranks coming faster and bigger, like they were trying to outrun you.

Lee corners you one evening, arms crossed, face tight.

"You've got to stop this, Y/n."

"Stop what? Doing my job?"

"Stop making it personal." His jaw clenches. "They're my best friends. You're my sister. It's the last year for all of us. Every time you take them down, I'm the one stuck in the middle."

"They did this to themselves."

"They made one mistake when we were fourteen!" Lee's voice rises. "You've been punishing them for three years!"

The corridor goes quiet. Curious eyes flick between you.

You snap. "You don't get it! They don't care who they hurt! They don't even apologize." You exclaim. "You were a good kid before them, Lee. You'd still be one, if they hadn't gotten their claws into you."

Lee's face goes angry. He stares at you for a long moment, then turns and walks away without another word.

People whisper. Nobody looks at you.

You stay in the corridor Hall long after Lee's footsteps fade, arms crossed like a shield. The cold seeped in through the stone. Maybe you were dramatic. Just a little. Students pass you in pairs, whispering, and you let them.

Up in the Gryffindor common room, the fire burned low. Fred is sprawled in an armchair, twirling a quill between his fingers, ignoring his essay, when Lee storms in through the portrait hole.

"What's crawled up your arse—"

"Shut it, Fred." Lee stands over them, fists at his sides. George looks up from his collapsing Astronomy telescope, eyebrows raised. "Both of you. I just had it out with my sister in front of everyone. About you two."

"Oh great," George says dryly.

"She thinks you ruined me." Lee grumbles. "She thinks I'd be some perfect little saint if you hadn't— and I quote—gotten your claws into me. And I had to stand there and listen to it because of that prank from third year. One prank. Because you lot never apologized properly."

The quill stills in Fred's hand.

"So here's what's going to happen." Lee's jaw is set. "This is our last year. I'm not spending it as a buffer between my best friends and my twin sister. We'll never get to do anything! You're going to apologize to her. Tomorrow, after dinner. No trying to be funny or making stupid suggestions."

George opens his mouth. Closes it. Fred, for once, doesn't crack a joke.

"Fine," Fred says finally. "Tomorrow."

The next evening, you're leaving the Great Hall when they fall into step beside you—Fred on your right, George on your left. The corridor's busy, but the space around you goes quiet.

"Y/n." George clears his throat. "We... wanted to say something."

You huff and keep walking, boots hitting the stone in a rhythm that says done. Done with this conversation, done with them, done with the spectacle.

"Y/n, wait." Fred's voice carries down the corridor, stripped of its usual swagger. "I'm sorry. We're sorry. For the books. For— everything."

You stop. Slowly, you turn.

Three years. Three years of that song rattling in your head every time you cracked a textbook, three years of their snickers in the corridors, three years of watching them wrap Lee up in their chaos. And now, suddenly, now they find their words?

"You had years to say that." Your voice is calm. "Three years, and you only found your tongue now when I'm standing between you and your fun. Don't pretend this is about a proper apology."

Fred's mouth opens, closes. No clever retort comes.

You turn and march away, shoulders square.

Behind you, barely audible, George's low mutter drifts down the corridor, "Told you it wouldn't be easy."

"I know you told me," Fred snaps back, more tired than angry.

Their footsteps stop following you. The corridor stretches ahead, empty, the torchlight flickering over your Head Girl badge.

At the bottom of the stairs, Lee stands waiting, arms crossed, face unreadable. He must have heard everything.

Of course. Of course it was Lee.

The pieces slot together with a cold click—Fred's stiff apology, the rehearsed cadence of it, the way George couldn't quite meet your eyes. Neither of them had wanted this. Your brother had made them.

You don't slow down. You don't even look at Lee as you pass him at the bottom of the stairs. His mouth opens, maybe to call after you, but the sound dies before it reaches you.

"Y/n—"

Your name bounces off your back. You keep walking.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

The corridors are quiet that night, the way they only are during patrol. Cedric walks beside you, wand light casting a soft glow ahead, Hufflepuff scarf loose around his neck, matching yours.

"You've got that look," he says, amused.

"What look?"

"The one that says someone might get hexed." He nudges your shoulder with a grin. "The twins again?"

You exhale. "And Lee. He made them apologize to me tonight." The words come out with an additional groan. "As if I wanted a performance from them."

Cedric laughs, and the sound loosens something despite yourself. "Sounds like the twins, alright. I think they could talk their way out of a dementor's kiss, but apparently not a sweet Hufflepuff's wrath." He glances at you, grinning. You can't help but startle, heat creeping up your face. He thought you were sweet? Cedric continues, "But your brother is a good lad. He just wants everyone to get along."

"Yeah. I guess," you say, letting the torchlight swallow the words.

You don't mention the reason why you hate the Weasley twins so much because of third year and your singing book. All because of the ginormous crush that you still had on him. 

The corridor stretches ahead, empty and quiet.

"Quidditch, then," you say, steering the conversation onto safer ground. "Our last year. And your last as captain. Nervous?"

Cedric grins, that easy grin that's made half of Hogwarts swoon at one point or another. "Terrified, actually. Our team's got talent, especially you, but I heard the Slytherins have been training like mad all summer. Flint's got them doing drills at dawn."

You try to ignore how he called you talented in the middle.

"Merlin, that sounds dreadful." 

"It is. For them." He chuckles. "I keep telling your new Chaser the only thing she should be afraid of is Professor Snape confiscating her broom for excessive enthusiasm."

You laugh despite yourself. It's hard to stay mad about the twins when Cedric's looking at you like that. And that's exactly why you like him, you realize. He's never once brought up third year. Never once made you feel small for a schoolgirl crush he probably forgot the day after.

Somewhere below, the clock tower chimes eleven.

"Last loop?" he asks, tilting his head toward the dungeons staircase.

"After you, Head Boy."

Cedric dips his head in a little mock bow, the corner of his pretty mouth crooked. He starts down the staircase toward the dungeons. You follow a step behind, watching the way the torchlight catches the back of his robes.

He's so effortlessly warm. So Cedric. And you're so effortlessly—stiff. You've got a tongue like a rusty hinge around him, and you know it. Other girls flirt with him in the corridors with laughter and hair flicks, and he takes it in stride. You've never managed more than patrol small talk about Quidditch and the occasional shared joke.

You think about saying something. Something clever. Something that isn't about Quidditch or patrol routes or the weather. 

"So," you say, and the word hangs there like a held breath.

Cedric glances back. "So?"

Your mind goes blank. The torchlight flickers. Somewhere below, water drips in the dungeons.

"Nothing," you manage. "Just— the stairs. Slippery. Watch your step."

He chuckles, easy as anything. "Noted." He pauses at the landing, waiting for you to catch up, and for a moment the two of you stand shoulder to shoulder in the dim quiet, close enough that you can smell the faint soap on his collar.

"Patrol's nearly done," he says, not quite looking at you. "It's been a good night."

Your face goes warm and you swallow the words you wish you could say. You offer him a small smile instead. "Yeah. It has."

The barrels by the kitchens await you both. You knock the easy rhythm of Helga Hufflepuff that you've known for seven years, and the passage opens to reveal the warm, fire lit hush of the Hufflepuff common room.

Cedric pauses at the threshold, glancing back at you. "See you tomorrow."

"See you."

He gives you that crooked smile, then disappears toward the boys' dormitory stairs. You watch him go a beat longer than you should, then turn toward the girls' side, the weight of the Head Girl badge pressing against your robes.

Both of you are the last one done with patrols. You, the Head Girl—the one who should be delegating, always ends up covering the slack of the younger prefects. Cedric notices. He never says anything about it, but he stays with you every night, walking the extra loops like it's nothing, like he wouldn't rather be in the common room with his friends.

Maybe that's why you've never been able to stop liking him.

You hang your robe on its hook and sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the flickering candlelight, wondering what it would take to be the kind of person who says what she means.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

The next morning, you walk into Charms to find the seat beside you occupied by a grinning redhead who has absolutely no business being there. Fred Weasley, lounging in your usual neighbor's chair like he owns it, quill already twirling between his fingers.

You stop. Glare.

"Move."

"Morning to you too, Y/n." He pats the desk. "Saved you the good seat."

This was your normal seat.

"Go away, Fred."

Before he could say anything else, Flitwick comes in and the class falls silent. You grit your teeth and sit, pointedly turning your attention to the front.

A scrap of parchment slides onto your textbook. You don't look at it.

Another one. Then another. You ignore all of them, stacking them neatly to the side without reading a word, until the pile has grown into a small monument to Fred Weasley's persistence.

Flitwick's voice fades into the background. The notes sit there, untouched, like a dare.

The bell rings. Students shuffle out. You gather your things deliberately, and Fred rises with you, falling into step.

"Y/n. Hey." He catches your sleeve, and for once there's no mischief in his voice. "I meant it, alright? The apology. I'm not just saying it because Lee made me." A pause. "If you agree to a truce, I could help you. With Cedric."

You blink. 

Help. With Cedric.

"Fred," you say slowly, "what are you talking about?"

He shrugs, grin creeping back. "You think I don't notice? You've still been mooning over Diggory. I can help. I know blokes. I am a bloke."

You don't dignify the offer with a response. You just walk, robes swishing, heading for the Potions corridor with Fred Weasley trailing at your elbow like a persistent, redheaded shadow.

"Y/n. Y/n, come on." He sidesteps in front of you, walking backward, hands raised. "I'm serious. I'm friends with him— boys and Quidditch, y'know? I could drop hints. Subtle ones. I could tell you what he likes, what he talks about when he's not being the perfect Head Boy." He's almost tripping over his own feet to keep pace. "Books. He likes books. And he's got this thing about—"

You stop dead.

Fred stumbles, catches himself, and grins like he's just won something.

You huff, arms crossed, and you hate how much you want to hear the rest of that sentence. How much you've wanted, for three years, to know what Cedric Diggory is like when he's not being perfect at everyone.

"What's the catch?"

"There is none!" He spreads his hands, all wounded innocence. "No catch. I just—" A flicker of something real crosses his face. "I owe you one, alright? For the books. For being a git. Call it a peace offering."

The corridor's half empty now, students trickling into Potions. He's walked down the whole way with you and he's not even in your class. The door looms ahead. Snape's class. Not somewhere you want to be late to.

Fred waits, uncharacteristically still, letting you make the call.

"So?" he asks, quiet. "Deal?"

"And what?" You cross your arms. "You want me to actually stop ruining all your pranks?"

He looks away, scuffing his shoe against the stone floor, and gives a small, sheepish nod.

You scoff. The apology, the help, the peace offering—all of it was a way to get the Prank Reaper off their tails for the last year.

But then Fred's head snaps back up, and there's something almost frantic in those puppy like  eyes. "No—wait. That's not—" He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further. "I mean, yeah, that'd be nice, obviously, but you know I can't force you to—" He groans. "Y/n, come on. I'm trying to do a good thing here, and you're making it really bloody difficult."

He looks at you, actually looks at you, and for a moment the mischief's gone entirely. "I want to help you with Diggory. If you stop hexing our crates into oblivion, great, but—" He gestures vaguely. "I just. I know what it's like, wanting something you can't figure out."

The Potions door is right there. Snape's voice, low and silky, drifts out into the corridor. Late. You're going to be late.

Fred watches you, waiting, caught somewhere between a plea and a shrug.

You sigh, "Fine. Help me with Cedric. But I'm not making any promises."

The words come out flat, grudging, and you're already reaching for the Potions door handle when Fred explodes behind you.

"Yes!" He pumps his fist in the air, a full body celebration that draws the attention of a passing group of late third-years. "Yes! That's what I'm talking about! You won't regret this, Y/n, I swear—"

You turn your back to him, and you hate it. You hate that your lips are twitching. You hate that a warmth is creeping up your chest, loosening something in your shoulders. You step through the door, and behind you, Fred's still crowing.

"Lee's gonna flip! Oh, this is going to be brilliant—"

"Mr. Weasley!" Snape's voice slices through the corridor like a blade. "Unless you intend to spend your evening in the dungeons, I suggest you remove yourself from my doorway and find whichever classroom you're meant to be in."

"Right. Yes. Going, Professor!" You hear the scuffle of retreating boots, and then, a whisper, just before he goes, "Tomorrow. I'll have something for you tomorrow."

The door swings shut. Snape's eyes track you to your seat with the particular disdain he reserves for anyone who arrives late to his class. You take your place, dip your quill, and try very hard not to think about the fact that you just made a deal with Fred Weasley.

The parchment beneath your hand seems to glow with it. A pact. With the most annoying Gryffindor.

And somewhere down the corridor, still grinning, Fred Weasley is late to his own class, the echo of your smile still burning behind his eyes.

He'd caught it, the corner of your mouth curling before you had turned your back to him. A real smile. Not the polite one you gave professors or the warm one you gave random people who crossed your path. A real grin.

You were nice to everyone except him and George. Everyone. The classic Hufflepuff role model. That's why you were Prefect for years and Head Girl now, obviously. He's seen you stop to help a sobbing second-year with a lost cat, seen you charm a bruise off a first-year's knee, seen you laugh with your housemates at your table.

But never at him. Never for Fred. In three years, Y/n Jordan has smiled at all of Hogwarts, and Fred Weasley hasn't been on the receiving end since third year.

Until now.

He touches his own mouth, frowning, then shakes it off like a stray hex. "Right," he mutters to the empty corridor. "Right." He's late. Lee's going to ask questions and George is going to know something is up because George always knows. Fred is going to stop thinking about the way his stomach went fluttery when your lips curved.

He takes the stairs two at a time, and he doesn't think about how you'd looked at him with those steady eyes and said fine like you were granting him a pardon. He doesn't think about how he wants to see that smile again, aimed at him, full force.

It's just a deal, he tells himself. Just helping her get Diggory. That's all it is.

He ignores the way the thought sits wrong in his stomach, and he pushes through the door to History of Magic, already planning the first hint he'll deliver tomorrow.

The Great Hall is doing its usual lunchtime roar when Fred finally slams his palms on the Gryffindor table, rattling the plates. He had waited until after Binns' class to make the declaration.

"Gentlemen," he announces, chest puffed, "I have achieved the impossible. Y/n Jordan has agreed to a truce."

Lee's head snaps up from his treacle tart, face splitting into a grin. "No way. Really? She actually—you talked to my sister? What did she say?"

"Agreed to a truce," Fred repeats, sliding into the bench. "She used the word 'fine,' which, coming from her, might as well be a love letter."

Lee looks genuinely delighted, practically glowing. "That's brilliant. That's— you've got no idea how long I've wanted this. I knew you two could sort it out." He claps Fred on the shoulder, oblivious, happy, already imagining family dinners where he doesn't have to play mediator.

George, however, has not touched his food. He's watching Fred with the particular stillness of a man reading a map upside down and knowing it's wrong.

"How?" George asks, quiet.

"How what?"

"How'd you get her to agree?" George's eyes narrow. "She's been icing you out particularly for three years. You walked up to her this morning and suddenly she's fine with you?"

Fred's grin doesn't waver. He reaches for a bread roll, takes a bite, chews slowly, buying time. "Charm, brother. She couldn't resist my famous charm."

"Mmm." George's voice is flat as a flatiron. "Charm."

Lee, bless him, is already telling a nearby sixth-year about his sister's thawing heart, missing the entire conversation happening over his head.

George leans in, too low for Lee to hear. "What aren't you telling me, Fred?"

Fred's jaw works on the bread roll. The deal sits in his throat like a swallowed stone. It's not a secret he wants to share, not yet, not when he hasn't figured out why it feels like a weight in his chest.

"Nothing," he says, and grins. "Just glad the Prank Reaper's hanging up her scythe."

George holds his gaze a long moment, then lets it go. For now.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

The library is nearly empty after dinner that night, the kind of hush that settles into the stacks like dust. You're three paragraphs deep into your Advanced Transfiguration essay when a shadow falls across the table.

Your head jerks up. You know it's Fred. You always get that feeling when it's him. "Stalking me now, Weasley?"

Fred only grins, sliding into the chair across from you—long limbs and easy confidence. "Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart. Coincidence, pure coincidence."

"I know you're not here to study." You don't look up, dipping your quill back into the inkwell. "So state your business and go."

"Straight to the point as always, Head Girl?" He leans forward, folding his arms on the table, voice dropping to something conspiratorial. "Alright. First hint, free of charge. Cedric Diggory—he's got a thing every Sunday morning. Hogsmeade, before the shops open. He gets a breakfast and butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, sits in the corner booth, reads the Prophet. Alone."

You pause writing mid sentence, quill hovering.

"He doesn't tell anyone about it," Fred continues, quietly. "I only know because I ran into him there last month, hungover and in desperate need of peace. He looked almost embarrassed to be caught." A beat passes. "He's not going to be alone forever, Y/n."

You set the quill down slowly, and look at him properly for the first time. The mischief's still there, lurking at the corners of his mouth, but underneath it there's something careful.

"Why are you really doing this?" you ask.

Fred's grin flickers. "Told you. Peace offering."

He holds your gaze a second too long, then pushes back from the table, rising with faux carelessness. "Sunday. Corner booth. Just thought you should know." He starts toward the door, then pauses, glancing back. "And Y/n? You might want to wear something that isn't school robes. Diggory's a man, after all."

The door swings shut behind him, leaving you alone with a hot face, your half finished essay, and a Sunday morning that suddenly feels very close.

You stare at the parchment. The words blur into meaningless black scratches. Sunday. Corner booth. Alone. The information loops through your head like a song you can't shake. Was this a trap? You've known Fred Weasley for seven years now. You know his poker face, the way he can sell a lie with a straight face and a hand on his heart. This felt different, but you've been fooled before. 

Three years ago, you'd have trusted him with anything.

But what do you have to lose? A Sunday morning. A walk to Hogsmeade. Worst case, you looked foolish and alone.

You close your book and give up on the essay entirely.

The next morning, you spot Fred at the Gryffindor table, mid story, gesturing with a piece of toast. You march over before you can lose your nerve. A few heads turn as you cross the Hall.

"Fred." You stop at the table's edge. "A word."

He blinks, toast frozen halfway to his mouth. George's eyebrows climb. Lee looks between you, delighted and confused.

"Me?" Fred points at himself.

"Yes, you. Is there another Fred nearby?"

He sets the toast down, grins at George and Lee he's won something, and follows you out into the corridor. The moment you're out of earshot, he folds his arms, that insufferable grin still in place. "Well, well. Miss Jordan, seeking me out. To what do I owe—"

"Sunday." You cut him off, crossing your arms. "The Three Broomsticks. Is it actually true, or are you just making me a fool again?"

The grin softens. "It's true."

"And you'll actually help?"

"Swear it." He holds up two fingers, mock-serious. "Weasley honor."

"Fine." You turn to leave, then pause, glancing back. "If this is a prank, Fred—if this is payback for all the times I've ruined your pranks—"

"It's not." His voice is quiet, stripped of dramatics. "I promise."

Something in his face makes you believe him. Then, you exhale, suddenly panicked.

"Okay. Well, what am I supposed to talk to him about?" The words spill out of you in a jumble. "During patrols we only have small talk. Quidditch, patrol routes, the weather. It's terrible. I'm too awkward. I've had years with him and I can't— I don't know how to—" You run a hand through your hair, frustrated.

Fred stares at you. He's never seen you like this. Not the kind, composed Head Girl, not the Prank Reaper, not the ice queen who's frozen him out for three years. Just a girl, tangled up in her own feelings, coming apart at the seams.

His expression shifts. The grin fades, and something softer takes its place. He leans against the corridor wall, arms crossed, and for once he looks like he's actually thinking before he speaks.

"Alright. Here's the thing about Diggory." He ticks off points on his fingers. "Everyone talks at him. How good he is at Quidditch, how brilliant he is in class. He gets that all day, every day. He doesn't need another person telling him he's wonderful."

You blink. "Okay. Yeah. Then what does he need?"

"He needs someone to ask him what he wants." Fred's voice is careful. "Not what everyone expects of him." He shrugs "Ask him about his last match, sure, but then ask him something stupid. Small. What he'd do if he wasn't Head Boy. Whether he likes pumpkin pastries!"

You open your mouth, then close it.

"How do you know that it'll work and he won't be weirded out?"

"Because I know what it's like to have everyone expect you to be one thing all the time." He meets your eyes. "And you've treated me like two things. First a funny lad, and now just a git."

You huff at his words, the tension in your shoulders easing a fraction. Fred's lips twitch.

"You know," he says, "you really are the perfect Hufflepuff. Always huffing and puffing. Are you gonna blow my house down next?"

"Ha ha." You let out flat, unamused—trying not to smile because that would inflate his ego even larger.

He raises his hands in surrender, still grinning. "Okay, okay. Puff, if you will."

You cross your arms, studying him and you suddenly remember something else. "Have you told Lee and George about this? The deal?" Your voice drops. "I swear, if you tell the whole school that—"

"I haven't!" Fred claps a hand to his chest, wounded, offended, the very picture of theatrical betrayal. "You wound me, Y/n. Really. I'm the soul of discretion. I haven't said a word." A pause. "Well— they know you've agreed to a truce, perchance. But the Diggory thing is between us."

You search his face. He meets your gaze, steady. You find no joke hiding in the corners of his mouth.

"Fine. I believe you. But you still have to zwear you won't tell anyone. Not my brother, not your brother, not anyone."

"I swear." His voice is softer than you've ever heard it. "On my mother's life. The Diggory thing stays between us." He holds up three fingers, mock-serious. "Cross my heart and hope to—"

"Don't—Don't finish that." You wince despite yourself.

He drops the hand, and grins. You're too cute.

Shit.

Fred tries to ignore the part of his brain that supplied that.

"Sunday," he says, shaking his head and pushing off the wall. "Three Broomsticks. Corner booth. He'll be there by eight."

You nod, throat suddenly tight.

Fred lingers a beat, like he wants to say something else, then just nods and heads back toward the Great Hall. At the doorway he glances back, and his voice carries down the corridor.

"Hey, Y/n? For what it's worth, I think he's lucky to have you notice him at all."

Then he's gone, the door swinging shut behind him, leaving you alone with the echo of his words and a Sunday morning that's suddenly very close.

You stand there, blinking, the words rattling around your skull. 

What in Merlin's Beard did that mean? Every girl in the castle had noticed Cedric Diggory.

You shake your head, muttering something about Fred Weasley under your breath. Then you cross back to the Hufflepuff table, pointedly not looking at the Gryffindor side. Lee catches your eye and grins hopefully. You offer him nothing.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

It's finally Sunday. 

The counter is warm against your palms as you order, keeping your eyes fixed on Madam Rosmerta like she holds the secrets of the universe. You get breakfast and a butterbeer to give your hands something to do. You can feel Cedric back there, the Prophet a thin shield between you and three years of rehearsed conversations.

You're halfway to an empty table near the window when his voice carries across the quiet pub.

"Y/n?"

You turn, butterbeer sloshing in your hand, and find him peering over the top of the newspaper, head tilted, that easy smile already settling on his face. Surprised. Pleased, even.

"Didn't peg you for an early Sunday riser," he says, folding the paper down. "Come to escape the castle?"

"Yep," you say, and your voice comes out smaller than you'd like. You cross to his booth, heart hammering, and hover at the edge. "It's- it's quiet here this early."

"It is." He gestures at the seat across from him, and you slide in, the worn leather creaking under you. Thank goodness he saw you first and you didn't have to approach him awkwardly. Up close, early in the morning, he's warm—rumpled hair, a hint of stubble, his robes traded for a simple jumper. The Prophet lies folded between you, and your scone sits untouched on its plate.

"You come here often?" you manage.

"Every Sunday, if I can." He says easily. "Need the butterbeer. Plus, in the morning, nobody's got expectations of me."

Expectations. 

The words sit on your tongue, waiting.

"So," he echoes, and the word comes with a warm grin, like he's sharing an inside joke. You know what he’s referring to. 

Your heart stumbles. 

Ugh. Why did he have to be so handsome? Why did he have to look at you like that? 

You take a bite of scone you don't taste, buying a heartbeat.

The silence stretches. It's not uncomfortable, exactly, but it's heavy, full of all the things you haven't said. He doesn't rush to fill it. He just sits there, folding the Prophet into a neat rectangle, watching you with that patient, open expression.

Say something. Anything. Fred's voice surfaces, annoyingly helpful. Ask him what he wants. Not what everyone expects.

"So," you try again, setting the scone down. "What would you be doing right now if you could do anything?"

His eyebrows lift, caught off guard, and there's a flicker of something beneath the surface. He leans back, considering the question like it's a strange thing someone's handed him.

"Huh." He turns it over. "No one's ever asked me that before."

The words land somewhere in your chest. He's looking at you differently now—not like you’ve been patrol partners since fifth year, not like a Head Girl. Like someone he's meeting for the first time.

Your hands find your butterbeer mug, and you wait. The whole pub seems to hold its breath with you.

You lift the butterbeer to your lips and sip slowly, using the mug as a shield. The foam leaves a faint mustache you don't wipe away, because wiping it would mean lowering the mug, and lowering the mug would mean he'd see your face, and your face is currently doing something complicated.

Cedric doesn't seem to notice. He's still turning your question over, thumb tracing the rim of his own mug, gaze gone somewhere soft and distant.

"Huh." He says it again, quieter this time. "I think... I'd go flying. Not for practice, not for the team. Just for me." A small, almost embarrassed laugh. "I never get to do that anymore. Every time I'm on a broom it's drills, or matches, or someone wanting to talk Quidditch. I can't remember the last time I just—went up because I wanted to."

He looks at you then, and there's something unguarded in his face, a crack in the polished Head Boy veneer. "That's a weird answer, isn't it? Everyone expects me to say something grand."

"It's not weird," you say, quick and honest. "I feel the same way. I haven't flown like that in a while, either."

He smiles at that, a real one, and you feel it like a warm stone pressed to your chest. The butterbeer mug lowers an inch. The shield cracks.

"What about you?" he asks, leaning in. "If you could do anything today, what would you do?"

The question hits you, and suddenly the corner booth feels very warm. You realize you've been so busy planning what to ask him that you never once thought about what you'd say back.

You think about it for a long minute. 

Finally, you say, "I guess... I'd want to find somewhere fascinating. Somewhere no one else knows about." You pause, trying to put the picture in your head into words. "Like a secret clearing that opens up to something magical. Maybe a little pond in the middle with dreamy sunlight through the trees. Maybe there'd be flowers everywhere, or fireflies at night." 

You grin to yourself, the image becoming clearer the longer you think about it. "I'd probably spend the whole day there. No one needing anything from me. Just somewhere I could forget about everything for a while." A nervous laugh escapes you before you can stop it. "Sorry. That was probably way too specific."

Cedric doesn't laugh at you. He smiles. "No," he says. "That's the best answer I've heard in a long time." He tilts his head, considering you. "I think I'd like to see that clearing if you ever find it."

Your face goes warm. You duck behind your butterbeer again, but the shield's gone soft now—he's seen you, and the terrifying thing is, he seems to like what he saw.

"I'll let you know," you manage. "When I find it."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He grins, and the morning light slants through the frosted window, catching the dust between you. For a moment the whole pub feels like it's holding still. Your scone sits forgotten. 

"So," he says, leaning back, easy as anything. "You do this often? Escape the castle on Sunday mornings?"

"First time," you admit. "Might become a habit."

"Good." He says it simply, like a fact. "I could use the company."

Your heart does a thing it has no business doing. You're acutely aware of the years you spent watching him from across the Great Hall, class, patrol routes. And here he is, asking for your company. 

The morning stretches out, warm and unhurried, and for the first time since you walked through that door, you forget to be nervous. By the time your mugs are empty and your scones are crumbs, the pub has woken up around you—a few locals, the morning sliding toward noon.

"We should probably head back," Cedric says, glancing at the clock. He says it like he regrets it.

"Yeah," you say, and mean it just as much.

He pays before you can argue, waving off your protests with a grin. "I asked you to join me. My treat." You thank him. He really was such a gentleman.

The frost bites at your cheeks as you step outside, and he falls into step beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulders close enough that your arms almost brush on the path.

The walk back is easier than the walk out. The village wakes behind you, shutters opening, smoke curling. He asks about your Transfiguration essay and you tell him. He listens.

At the Entrance hall, he pauses, breath fogging. "Same time next Sunday?" he asks, casually.

You're acutely aware of your heart, doing its clumsy dance in your chest. "Same time," you hear yourself say.

He grins, warm as the pub fire, heads off toward the with a wave before you can say anything else.

You watch him go until he disappears around the corner, and then you stand there a moment, giddy, replaying the whole morning in your head like a song you don't want to end. Same time next Sunday. 

You're still floating when you push through the entrance hall, essay nagging at the back of your mind, and nearly walk straight into Fred Weasley, who is leaning against the wall with the posture of a man who has been there a while, pretending not to wait.

"So?" He grins, jerking his chin toward the doors Cedric vanished through. "How'd it go?"

You try to school your face into something neutral. You fail spectacularly.

"Fine," you say, and the word comes out at least three octaves too bright. You clear your throat. "It went fine."

"Fine." Fred echoes, crossing his arms, eyebrows climbing. "You're glowing like someone casted Lumos on your face, Y/n. That's not fine. That's 'I just spent the morning with the love of my life and he asked to see me again' fine."

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "He—" You stop. The heat rushes to your face.

Fred's grin widens, proud. "Asked to see you again. I knew it." He doesn't gloat, exactly, but there's a warmth there, a pleased crease around his eyes. "So. Diggory's not going to be alone in that corner booth next Sunday?"

"Nope," you beam.

He nods, and for a moment something flickers across his face—there and gone, too fast to name. "Good." He pushes off the wall, hands in his pockets. "I'm happy for you, Y/n. Really."

You don't know what to do with his earnest words, so you do what you always do around Fred Weasley—you huff. "Don't get sappy, Weasley. It's unbecoming."

His laugh echoes down the corridor and the essay in your head suddenly becomes a very distant concern.

"Only sappy for you, sweetheart."

Your face goes hot—which is ridiculous, it's Fred Weasley. The bane of your existence who always calls you sweetheart. You refuse to acknowledge it.

You clear your throat. "Right. Well. Thanks, anyway. For the— the advice. The whole... scheme." The words come out stiff and formal, like you're addressing the Wizengamot. "It was... helpful."

Fred's eyebrows climb. "Did Y/n Jordan just thank me voluntarily?"

"Don't make me regret it."

"I'm framing this moment. It's going on the wall above my bed."

You huff, and he grins, and somehow—you don't remember making the decision—you're walking alongside him instead of toward the library. He steers you out a side door, and the autumn air hits you both, crisp and golden, leaves skittering across the stone in small spirals.

The courtyard is quiet, the last of the morning mist burning off. He walks with his hands in his pockets, unhurried, and the silence between you is strange—not the tense silence of confiscated prank supplies, but something almost easy.

"So," he says, kicking through a drift of leaves. "Sunday. Round two. You're going to be a regular in his corner booth by Christmas."

"Maybe." You're smiling without meaning to. "Or maybe I'll get there and realize I've got nothing left to ask him."

"Ask him what his favourite constellation is," Fred says, without missing a beat. "Or whether he'd rather fight two hundred pixies or one Acromantula. Everyone's got an answer to that one."

You laugh—an actual laugh, the kind you didn't know you had in you around him—and he looks over, surprised and pleased.

"See?" he grins. "You're a natural."

"I'm starting to think you'd be better off with Cedric," you say, "with all the one-liners and questions you've got for him."

The joke comes out before you can stop it, and you're bracing for him to make it weird. But Fred stops mid stride, staring at you like you've grown a second head. Then he laughs—surprised and bright. His cheeks even go a little pink.

"Y/n Jordan," he says, shaking his head, "making a joke. I think I need to sit down."

"You're already sitting."

"Figuratively."

You laugh again, and it surprises you too. Somewhere between the entrance hall and the courtyard, the ice has gotten thinner. Neither of you mention Cedric again. Instead you talk about everything else. 

He tells you about the time in first year when George convinced him a Sphinx was loose in the dungeons. He spent thirty minutes hiding in a suit of armor. You tell him about your grandma's garden, the one that grew singing daffodils, and how you tried to sneak some into Hogwarts to show your friends and got detention. You hadn't known it would be that serious. He talks about Lee—little Lee, who used to follow him and George around asking if he could be a Weasley too—and his voice goes soft in a way you've never heard.

"He's always been my favorite Jordan," he grins at you slyly. "And you were always his terrifying twin I was convinced would hex me into next week."

"Not convinced," you say, chin up. "I could have."

He laughs, and for a moment the autumn light catches him gold—hair turning fiery catching in the sunlight—and you realize the afternoon has gotten away from you both. The courtyard's emptying, students drifting toward lunch, and you're sitting here with Fred Weasley having forgotten entirely to be angry at him.

You check your watch and nearly drop your arm. "Oh— Blimey. it's already lunch."

The words seem to break whatever spell the afternoon had cast. Fred blinks, looking around at the emptying courtyard like he'd forgotten time existed, and you walk to the Great Hall together, your strides falling into an easy rhythm.

The doors swing open to the usual chaos of lunch. You're halfway to the Hufflepuff table when George spots you both—and stops, mid-bite, fork hovering.

"Lee! Lee. Look."

Lee turns. Sees you. Sees Fred. His expression cycles through confusion, concern, and something that looks suspiciously like hope. He's at your side before you can detour.

"Why are you two together?" 

"We were talking," you say, which sounds absurd even to you.

Lee and George exchange a look. George's eyebrows climb into his hairline. And then Lee does something you didn't expect—he grabs your elbow, gentle but firm, and steers you toward the Gryffindor table.

"You're sitting with us," he announces. "You and Fred. Together. I need to see this with my own eyes."

"Lee—"

"Nope. You're eating lunch with your dear brother and his friends. That's allowed, isn't it? Or do I need permission?"

He plops you down on the bench between him and Fred, and you find yourself surrounded by red and gold. George slides a plate of treacle tart in front of you with a grin that says everything.

"So," George says, leaning in. "How long has this been going on?"

Fred kicks him under the table. Lee watches you both like a proud parent, and you realize that you're comfortable.

You roll your eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. "It's just a truce. You're acting like you caught us snogging or something."

The words leave your mouth before your brain catches up. You don't notice Fred go pink—the red creeping up his neck, suddenly very interested in the pumpkin juice in front of him. You don't notice George's eyebrows rocket toward his hairline, or the slow delighted grin spreading across his face as he wiggles them at his twin.

But Lee notices. 

"Yes, a truce," Lee repeats, drawing the word out. "With Fred. My sister. Who has confiscated every prank supply he's owned since third-year."

"Accurate accounting," George mutters, still grinning at Fred, who is now studiously examining the table.

"And now she's sitting at the Gryffindor table," Lee continues, "laughing, eating lunch, saying words like 'snogging' in reference to herself and a Weasley twin."

"I didn't—"

"You did." George leans in, happily. "You absolutely did. Fred, did you hear that? She said snogging."

"I'm sitting right here," Fred says flatly, but his ears are burning, and George is absolutely not letting this go.

Lee looks between you and Fred, a slow grin spreading across his face. "So. Truce with my sister." He picks up his fork, pointing it at Fred like a wand. "Explain. Now. What exactly did you do to earn a truce with Y/n Jordan?"

You give Fred a pointed look. His promise hangs in the air between you—I won't tell them about Cedric—and he clears his throat, all theatrical composure, like a man about to deliver a speech.

"I'll have you know," he announces, "it's not a truce so much as a victory. For me. Through sheer, undeniable charm, I have tamed the Prank Reaper herself."

George snorts. Lee looks deeply skeptical. You try not to smile at how seriously he says it.

"Charm," Lee repeats flatly. "That's your story."

"Overwhelming charm. It's a documented phenomenon. Ask anyone."

"And my sister just— what? Melted?"

"She did. Right there in the corridor."

You sigh, forking another bite of treacle tart into your mouth, pointedly not dignifying any of it with a response. 

Lee stares at you, waiting for the real answer. He knows you. He knows it isn't charm. But he also knows that look on your face—the one that says drop it—and he's known you long enough to obey it, for now. You are a few seconds older than him after all.

"Right," Lee says slowly. "Charm. Got it. Very convincing."

"I thought so," Fred says cheerfully, but he catches your eye for half a second like he's asking, did I do okay?

You give him the smallest nod, and he looks away. George is absolutely saving all of this for later.

Lunch goes on and laughter bubbles out of you before you can stop it—George's impression of Snape, Fred's follow up about Snape's ingredients spilling, Lee nearly choking on his pumpkin juice. Your sides ache. Your face hurts from smiling.

And then it hits you like a brick.

The last time you sat like this, all four of you—was third year. Before the singing Charms textbook. 

You stop mid laugh, fork hovering over your plate, the treacle tart suddenly tasting different.

Fred notices first. His grin falters, a question flickering in his eyes. "You alright?"

"Yeah." The word comes out softer than you meant. "Just—" You shake your head, a small smile finding its way back. "Nothing. Just remembered I used to like sitting here."

The table goes quiet. Lee's face does something complicated and George, for once, doesn't fill the silence.

"You did," Lee says quietly. "You used to sit here all the time. Before—" He stops. Doesn't finish.

"Before I became the Prank Reaper," you finish for him, and it comes out lighter than you expected, almost like a joke.

George smiles, "Well, Prank Reaper. Table's always open. If you want it."

Fred says nothing, but his foot nudges yours under the table.

You look down, smiling shyly, the warmth of the table settling into your chest like a hearth fire. It's been a long time since you felt this easy, and you let yourself sit in it a moment longer.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

Patrol that night is different.

Cedric meets you at the usual spot, and the smile he gives you is friendlier than his standard greeting. You walk the corridors side by side, and the conversation that used to be easy but careful is now easy and more. 

"See you tomorrow, Y/n," he says as you split at the common room. You like how he says your name.

You're still floating the next morning when you find Fred in the corridor near the Charms classroom, lounging against the wall. He straightens when he sees you, a grin already forming.

"Well, well. The Reaper, smiling. What happened? Wait, let me guess— Diggory?"

"Fred." You grab his sleeve, excited, "It's going well! We talked for hours at patrol. After years, I'm finally—" You stop, breathless, laughing.

Fred's grin softens. "That's great, Y/n."

But there's something else in his voice—a flicker he hides fast, looking away.

You're too happy to catch it.

The days that follow blur into something you didn't know your seventh year could be.

It starts small—Fred catching your eye across the Great Hall and pulling a face that nearly makes you choke on your porridge. Then it's him "accidentally" sitting near you in Charms again, passing notes disguised as parchment scraps that say things like Rate today's breakfast: 4/10 for me then, McGonagall's angry eyebrow look: 1-10? You find yourself scribbling answers back, biting your lip to keep from laughing out loud.

When you're not with your Hufflepuff friends, you're laughing with Fred Weasley. 

You never thought it was possible to laugh this much. You'd forgotten your face could hurt from smiling.

The library incident happens on a Thursday.

You're meant to be researching for your Arithmancy project—a stack of books three feet high, your quill poised, every ounce of Head Girl dignity intact. Fred slides into the seat across from you without asking, a book held up like a shield, and whispers, "Y/n. Important question. If you had to fight two hundred pixies or one Acromantula—"

"Fred. I'm working." You whisper-yell back.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer you're getting."

He sighs dramatically, loud enough that Madam Pince's head snaps up from behind her desk. Fred doesn't notice. He leans in, drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, and says something so absurd that a laugh rips out of you, loud and undignified, echoing off the shelves.

Madam Pince is at your table in three strides. "Miss Jordan." Her voice is ice. "I expected better from a Head Girl."

You cover your mouth. "I'm so sorry—"

"Out. Both of you."

"But I—"

"Out."

You gather your books, face burning, and Fred has the audacity to look proud of himself, ushering you out with a sweeping bow. However, the moment the doors close behind you, you both crack—doubled over, laughing in the corridor, your books nearly slipping from your arms.

"I can't believe she—" you gasp. "She loves me. She's never done anything but smile at me!"

"First time for everything," Fred wheezes. "I'm a bad influence. You should've known."

You're still laughing, leaning against the stone wall, and he's looking at you with something soft in his eyes that you're too breathless to notice.

You're still catching your breath from laughing when the thought surfaces, unbidden. 

This was supposed to be about Cedric.

You had a plan. The deal was simple—Fred helps you win Cedric, you're civil, everyone goes home happy. Hanging out with him was supposed to be just for intel. Not… whatever this was.

But somewhere between the library and the courtyard, between the pixies and more absurd questions, the plan got fuzzy around the edges.

It's worse when you’re talking to Cedric on patrol.

Friday night, Cedric is telling you about his fathers letter—asking when he's bringing a girl home—and you're laughing along lightly while half your brain is replaying the way Fred's ears went pink when George teased him. You catch yourself smiling at nothing.

"Y/n?" Cedric's voice pulls you back. "You alright? You've got a look."

"Yeah." You blink, forcing your attention back to the corridor, to the Head Boy walking beside you. "Just tired. Long week."

He accepts it easily and you hate yourself a little for the relief you feel. He deserves better than a patrol partner whose mind wanders.

That night, lying in the dark of the Hufflepuff dormitory, you stare at the canopy of your bed and try to remember when exactly Fred Weasley stopped being an insufferable nuisance. When he started being the person you look for in the Great Hall without meaning to. The one whose laugh you'd know anywhere.

You don't find an answer. You just find yourself thinking about him again.

Weeks go by, you and Cedric becoming closer friends. You laugh with him at dinner, talk to him in classes, and of course on patrols.

You also let the twins and your brother carry out their harmless pranks, the so-called truce with Fred holding up. You figure it’s fine as long as nobody is hurt. And so far so good since then. They’ve never really hurt anyone, after all.

You hate to admit maybe you had been dramatic—not just a little, treating them the twins like criminals after the incident. 

One important Sunday arrives mid winter. You're in the corner booth of the Three Broomsticks, as usual, Cedric across from you with his Prophet.

He's happy to see you. You’re happy to see him. He'd saved you the seat and ordered your butterbeer without asking. He tells you about his fathers latest letter, about a Quidditch strategy that's been eating at him, about a book he read that made him think of you. He's handsome, kind, and warm, and the morning should be perfect.

It is perfect, like it always is with him. Mostly.

He makes you laugh—a good laugh, a comfortable one. But you realize your cheeks don't ache. Your eyes don't water. The laugh doesn't tear out of you in that helpless, undignified way that made Madam Pince glare and Fred look unbearably proud of himself.

You catch yourself smiling, waiting for a punchline that isn't coming, and the realization hits you like a Bludger to the chest.

You're comparing them.

You're sitting across from the boy you've crushed on for years and years and you're measuring him against Fred. Fred Weasley. 

When did you start comparing Cedric Diggory to Fred Weasley?

The question sits in your chest, heavy. Across the table, Cedric is talking about a charm he wants to try, and you're nodding along, a look on your face, your mind a thousand miles away.

"Y/n?" He tilts his head, concern in his eyes. "You alright? You've gone quiet."

"I'm alright. Sorry! Just zoned out." You smile, and it's partly the truth. Cedric accepts it and the rest of breakfast passes pleasantly enough. Butterbeer, conversation, the frost melting off the windows.

The week passes, and you don't think about it. Or rather… you're lying to yourself again because you think about it constantly. About him.

You and Fred have completely stopped talking about Cedric. It's been months since he came up to you with a truce in mind and a plan about getting you closer to Cedric. 

It's not a decision either of you make. The subject just withers. He used to slip Diggory's name into every other sentence, teasing you about your booth and love potions and how many Hufflepuffs would faint at your wedding. Now he doesn't. You've stopped bringing him up too. 

You find yourself watching Fred more. The way he tips his head back when he laughs, adam's apple bobbing. The way he always walks on the outside of the corridor, like he's shielding you from traffic. The way he asks about your day, listens, and remembers.

Wednesday, he passes you in the hall and presses something into your palm without stopping. A folded scrap of parchment. You wait until you're alone to open it.

If you had to fight, two pixies or one Acromantula?

Your inside joke since the library incident. You laugh alone in the middle of the corridor, like a mad woman—cheeks hurting. You don't know how to explain to anyone—least of all yourself—why. 

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ 

The following Saturday, you're walking through the corridor with your friends, halfway through a conversation about Advanced Transfiguration, when you hear your name.

"Y/n!"

You whip around. You'd recognize his voice anywhere.

Fred is hurrying toward you from the other end of the corridor, slightly out of breath. He has his coat and scarf on, and there are faint flecks of snow caught in his hair, melting as he moves. He looks almost frantic, which is enough to make you stop talking in the middle of your sentence.

"Fred?" you ask, eyebrows knitting together. "What's wrong?"

"Nothin! Nothing's wrong." He reaches you and immediately grabs your attention with an impatient gesture toward the staircase. "You need to go get your coat."

You blink. "My coat?"

"And your scarf."

"Why?" You question, suspicious.

"Because we're going somewhere," He gestures vaguely. "Come on. It's a good surprise."

"Where?" You press.

"Y/n." He glances down the corridor then at your two friends, like he's worried they're going to interrupt him. "Please. Just— coat and scarf."

You stare at him. Hesitate. "I have Quidditch practice in two hours so—"

"Even better!" He cuts you off instantly. "You'll already be outside."

Your friends exchange looks. You fold your arms. "Fred, that doesn't explain anything! I don't do surprises."

"It doesn't need to!"

"That's not how explanations work."

He groans, clearly running out of patience—not with you, but with the fact that you're asking questions when he clearly doesn't want to answer just yet. "Just trust me, will you?"

You open your mouth to argue, but one of your friends suddenly grabs your arm exclaiming, "Oh, just go!"

"Hey—"

Your other friend takes your other arm, laughing as they start steering you toward the common room, "Come on, Y/n."

"Wait, why are you helping him?" You exclaim, betrayed.

"Because we want to see what he's planned!"

You look helplessly back at Fred. And he's already backing away, a grin finally breaking through his frantic expression, snow still clinging faintly to his hair as he moves. "Five minutes!" he calls. "Coat and scarf!"

"Fred Weasley!" But your friends are already dragging you toward the staircase, laughing. "You people are unbelievable," you grumble, though you can't stop the smile tugging at your mouth.

Behind you, Fred calls one last time, "And don't take forever!"

You turn your head just enough to glare at him.

"You're lucky I'm curious!"

His grin widens. 

You meet him out in a little over five minutes. You’ve barely stepped out of the Hufflepuff common room when he straightens from his lazy lean against the stone wall, posture snapping into something far too alert. His grin widens the moment he spots you, like he’s been holding it in all day and only now finally gets to let it loose. 

His scarf is slightly crooked, his hands buried in his coat pockets, and yet the second your eyes meet, it’s like you’re the only thing in the corridor that matters.

“Finally,” he says, as if you’ve kept him waiting for hours instead of minutes.

You come to a stop in front of him, a little breathless from the stairs and all the rushing—all for something, you don't know what.

”It’s been five minutes, Fred.”

His eyes flick to the clock down the hall without even turning his head. “Six minutes and thirty-two seconds,” he corrects with absolute certainty.

“You’re ridiculous.”

He sticks his tongue out. You would've snickered if you weren't pretending to be annoyed by this sudden Saturday surprise. ”And you're late, Y/n Jordan.”

”I’m not late!” You roll your eyes, but before you can add to your argument, a sound drifts from behind both of you—muffled laughter.

“Oh, Merlin,” you mutter under your breath, heat creeping up your neck.

One of your friends lifts a hand in an exaggerated wave. “Go away,” you hiss, though it lacks any real threat. They only laugh harder, shoulders shaking as they refuse to move an inch.

Fred leans slightly to the side, trying to see past you, curiosity brightening his expression. “Your friends seem to like me.”

“They’re laughing at you,” you correct immediately.

“Same thing,” he says without missing a beat.

“No, it isn’t.”

“It’s my charm again,” he grins.

That earns him a sharp snort from you. “You’ve never been charming a day in your life.”

He presses a hand dramatically to his chest, staggering back half a step like you’ve physically wounded him. “That’s hurtful.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitches. Fred sees it instantly. “There it is,” he says, far too pleased.

You frown. “What?”

“Nothing,“ he says, nonchalantly. “Come on! Let's go.“

“Where are we going?“ You attempt to press again. But it's no use. He gives you that look that says his lips are sealed as he walks along.

The castle grounds stretch out before you, covered in a thick blanket of snow, and Fred doesn’t say a word as he leads you farther away from Hogwarts, following a narrow, hidden path between the trees that you’re fairly certain you’ve never seen before. You glance back once, just to make sure you’re not imagining the distance growing between you and the castle, and sure enough Hogwarts is already beginning to blur and disappear behind the falling snow, swallowed up by white and silence.

“Fred?” you call after a moment, watching his back as he walks ahead of you.

He looks over his shoulder immediately. “Yeah?”

“How much farther?”

“Not far.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’ve said that three times.”

“And I meant it every time,” he replies easily.

You roll your eyes, but you keep following him anyway, boots crunching softly against the frozen ground. The trees grow thicker the further you go, their branches heavy with snow that sag under its own weight. Ever so often Fred glances back at you, like he’s checking you’re still there and not about to turn around and march straight back to the castle.

The deeper you go, the less familiar everything feels. You slow a little without meaning to, eyes scanning the trees.

“Okay,” you say carefully, breaking the quiet. “If this is how I die, I’m going to be really annoyed.”

Fred looks back at you over his shoulder. “Die?”

“I mean,” you gesture vaguely at the endless trees, "I'm walking into the forest with a boy who keeps saying ‘not far’ like a suspicious liar.”

He snorts. “A suspicious liar?”

“Yes.”

He starts walking backwards in front of you, grinning mischievously. Hands in his pockets. “So your theory is I’ve lured you out here to murder you?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “It’s not a theory. It’s a possibility.”

Fred presses a hand to his chest. “I’m hurt.”

“You should be. I trusted you.”

He grins. “That was your first mistake.”

You stop for half a second just to stare at him, deadpan, before running at him. He laughs breathlessly, yelps, running away from you in the bright snow. After running for what seems like an hour—without warning, Fred stops so suddenly you bump straight into him.

“Ow!”

“Sorry,” he says quickly, catching your arm for a second to steady you before letting go. “We’re here.”

You blink, looking past him.

At first, it doesn’t make sense. It’s just more trees, more snow, more silence, and you almost frown in confusion. But then Fred shifts slightly to the side, stepping out of your line of sight, and your breath catches so sharply it almost hurts.

The trees open like the forest has been holding something back and has finally decided to let you see it.

A clearing spreads out in front of you, quiet and untouched, and for a second your brain refuses to process it properly. Snow lies softer here, thinner, as if the ground itself is warmer somehow, and in the center there’s a pond, its surface pale and glassy beneath the winter light. The trees curve around it in a natural arch, branches heavy with snow but arranged so perfectly it almost feels unreal.

It’s silent too. Completely, impossibly silent. The kind of silence you don’t just hear—you feel, deep in your chest, like the world has finally stopped asking anything of you.

You don’t move.

Fred watches your face, waiting for something. But it never comes.

"So..." He starts, unsure. You look at him, mouth open wordlessly. He looks up, awkward, suddenly seeming much less confident than he was on the walk here. "Do you like it?"

You turn back to the clearing.

It's like the secret place you wanted to find. The one you told Cedric you'd look for if you could do anything. The pond. The trees. Straight out of your dreams. Your mouth opens slightly, then closes again. Nothing clever comes.

“How did you—” you start, but your voice comes out quieter than you expect, almost disbelieving, and you stop because you don’t even know how to finish the question.

Fred shrugs sheepishly. “I just found it.” You finally look at him properly. "I thought you might like it."

You smile. Not the small, polite smile you give to people you don't know. Not the one you use when you're trying to hide how you're feeling. You smile unabashedly, letting it spread across your face as you turn back toward the clearing.

Fred's expression softens when he sees it.

You wander closer to the pond, looking at everything from every angle like you’re afraid it might disappear if you blink. Fred follows, and eventually the two of you settle beneath one of the trees, the snow around you untouched except for the trail you left behind.

For a long while, you just talk.

About nothing important at first. Quidditch. Classes. The professors you both can't stand. The latest ridiculous thing George or Lee have done. You tell him about something your friends said earlier, and he laughs so hard he nearly knocks snow from the branch above you.

Eventually, the conversation gets quieter. You tell him about the little things. Things you want to do someday. Places you want to see. Books you want to read. The sort of life you think you'd have if nobody was constantly telling you what you should be doing with it.

At some point, you notice Fred rubbing his hands together.

"You’re cold." You point out.

"I'm fine."

"You’re freezing."

"I'm not."

"You are."

He gives you a look. You sigh.

"Fine," he says begrudgingly.

You lift your wand to do the warming charm that you're already using on yourself. For someone who does so many pranks with charms, you think he'd always use a warming charm.

"Hold still."

Fred raises an eyebrow but obeys. A gentle warmth settles over him almost immediately. He blinks.

"Oh. Right…"

You smile smugly. "Better?"

"Much," he grins sideways. A charming look. Not that you'd ever admit it.

"You're welcome."

The two of you fall quiet again, watching the snow drift lazily through the trees. And then, because you've been meaning to tell him since he brought you here, you say, "You know what's funny?"

"What?" He glances at you, curiosity dancing in his eyes.

"I told Cedric—"

His face scrunches. "I don't want to hear about that bloke right now."

"It's not that!" You laugh, surprised. "I— I told Cedric about this. We were talking about what we'd do if we could do anything, and I said I'd want to find somewhere like this."

Fred makes a small noise. "Oh. Really?"

You nod enthusiastically.

"I described it almost exactly like this. A little clearing hidden away from everyone, a small pond in the middle, sunlight through the trees..." You gesture around you, smiling. "It's really beautiful, Fred. Thank you for showing me this place."

When you look back at him, he's looking at you with something soft in his eyes you can't name. "Of course, Y/n."

Comfortable silence passes between you. You play with the soft snow underneath you for a while, before lying down onto the snow with a content noise. He follows, lying next to you.

Then, suddenly, almost like the two of you are trading secrets, he quietly begins, "Do you want to know why I never apologized?"

You blink, brows furrowing. And then you realize what he means. 

That prank from three years ago had been the last thing on your mind—sitting here with him in this beautiful clearing.

"Why are you reminding me? I was starting to forget." You joke. 

You see him smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

Okay. Now you're concerned.

"We weren't planning for you to open your Charms book in front of the whole school," He says sheepishly. "Just in our shared class. I thought it would get Diggory to talk to you or something. It was painful watching you pine after him after Lee told us you liked him."

You let out an incredulous laugh, staring at him in disbelief. Fred's cheeks go pink—you weren't sure if it was because of the cold or because he was embarrassed.

He goes on before he loses his nerve. Again. "After that, I just couldn’t apologize to you. It was my idea. I felt terrible. And— Well, we never mean for our pranks to hurt anybody's feelings. They're supposed to be fun. And well, maybe embarrass people who deserved it sometimes. But you didn't deserve that."

He clears his throat when you don't say anything, still looking at him in disbelief. "All I'm saying is that I get why you held your grudge for so long. And— er, I really am sorry I did that."

Fred finally meets your eyes. You soften completely at his words. You can tell he's been thinking about how to say that for a while. 

“Thank you, Freddie." His eyes widen comically. You laugh. "Though, you should've told me that much earlier. I would've been less mad. It's kind of embarrassing how long I held that grudge for."

You don't let him answer, suddenly sitting up and remembering you have Quidditch practice. 

"Merlin! Would you look at the time? I'm gonna be late for practice. See you!"

He stays put in the snow, croaking out a “bye” that you probably don't hear. His face stays warm, replaying the whole thing in his head.

Freddie. You called him Freddie.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

The weeks pass in a blur of frost and laughter, something changing between you and Fred. Something soft there now. 

Before you know it, it's Sunday again—the corner booth, the butterbeer, the familiar rhythm of a routine you've almost stopped thinking about.

You talk a bit. The usual. Updates about classes. Quidditch. But Cedric is quieter than usual. You notice it in the way he stirs his butterbeer without drinking it, the way he keeps glancing at you and looking away, a flush creeping up his neck.

"Y/n," he says finally, setting his mug down with both hands. "I wanted to—I mean, you're the first person I've wanted to tell, so—" He laughs, embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. "This is mortifying. The lads would never let me hear the end of it."

"Tell me what?" you prompt gently. Your heart does that thing and you're suddenly wondering if he's finally going to do something.

That hope shatters at the next thing that comes out of his mouth.

"Cho." The name comes out soft, almost reverent. Cedric's whole face transforms—shy, happy, lit from the inside. "We're getting back together. We didn't work out last time, but—" He shrugs, helpless and grinning. "I'm happy. Really happy."

He talks about her for the next hour. Her laugh, her Quidditch, the way she scrunches her nose when she's concentrating. You listen, laughing, nodding. You wait for the knife in your chest.

It doesn't come.

Somewhere between his description of her flying, you realize with a strange, clarity—that you're not devastated at all. You're not even sad. There's a small pang, a ghost of the girl who crushed on him desperately—blushed at everything he said, but she was a memory now. She's someone you used to be.

You're happy for him. Genuinely.

And the realization settles over you like snowfall. 

You've been comparing him to Fred Weasley every Sunday for weeks. And Cedric kept losing.

After breakfast, you cross the castle grounds. The news about Cho Chang didn't hurt the way it should have. It settled inside you like a stone dropped into deep water—a ripple, then calm. And with the calm came a single, urgent thought—Fred. You had to see Fred.

You spot his back in the courtyard from across the lawn with your brother—the familiar red hair. Your heart does that traitorous little skip as you hurry over.

"Fred—" you start, breathless.

The figure turns. 

But it's not Fred. You could always tell with just a glance. This was George. Their noses and eyes were different. Fred had a straight nose. George had a little bump. 

He grins, slow and delighted, taking in your flustered expression and the way you skidded to a halt. "Well, well. Y/n, running across the grounds. Looking for a certain someone, are we? Not me?"

Your face goes hot. "Sorry. I- I thought—" You shut up. You didn't feel like explaining and facing their questions, "Where's Fred?"

"Library." George says with a smirk, arms crossed. "Apparently our Freddie has discovered a newfound passion for books."

Your mouth drops a little. "The library? Fred? What in Merlin's Beard is he doing in there alone?"

George shrugs, the smirk widening. "Beats me. He's been weird all week. Spacey. Forgets to laugh at his own jokes. And believe me, he always laughs at his own jokes." He tilts his head, studying you. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Reaper?"

The nickname lands soft and teasing. Your mouth opens, closes. You're flustered all over again. The courtyard seems very quiet all of a sudden.

"Why would I know anything about it?" The words come out sharp, defensive, maybe a little too fast.

Your brother, on the other hand, doesn't flinch. Lee crosses his arms, that knowing look settling on his face—the one he's been wearing since lunch that day, like he's watching a chess game only he can see. "Y/n. You've been spending a lot of time with him."

"So?"

"So, nothing." He shrugs, all innocence. "Just an observation. You used to confiscate his stuff. Now you laugh at his notes in Charms and get kicked out of the library together. That's not nothing. That's—" He gestures vaguely. "Something."

George hums in agreement, and you can feel both of them watching you, waiting, like you're a potion about to bubble over.

"Whatever," you say, and roll your eyes so hard it's a wonder they stay in your head. "I'm going to the library."

Lee's grin widens. "Yeah. To find Fred. Alone."

You don't dignify that with a response. You turn on your heel and walk, spine stiff, cheeks burning, and you can hear George mutter something to Lee that makes him snort, but you're already too far away to make out the words.

The library looms ahead, warm light spilling from its windows, and your steps slow as you near the doors. Concern—that's what you told yourself. You're just concerned. Fred Weasley, voluntarily in a library, alone instead of scheming with his best friends. Something's wrong, clearly.

You push open the heavy oak door, and there he is—hunched over a table in the corner, a book open in front of him, but his eyes are fixed on the window, unfocused, a quill spinning absently between his fingers. A habit of his that you've noticed. He hasn't seen you yet.

The sight of him does something complicated to your chest. You take a breath.

"Fred."

He startles, the quill clattering to the table, and when he looks up, his face does a strange thing—bracing himself and softening all at once. "Y/n." 

You sliding into the chair next to him. "What's going on with you? George and Lee said you've been acting weird all week," you say softly, the words slipping out before you can dress them up.

Fred's face does something remarkable. The pink creeps up from his collar, across his cheeks, right to the tips of his ears. "They said that? I haven't been— I'm not— I've been perfectly normal—"

"Shhh!"

Madam Pince's hiss cuts through the quiet like a blade. Both of you freeze, shoulders hunching instinctively, two students caught in the crosshairs of the librarian's glare. She's already halfway across the room, wand pointed at the both of you like she's considering a permanent silencing charm.

"Unless you are discussing Arithmancy, I suggest you take your conversation elsewhere." Each word is clipped, precise, and utterly terrifying.

"Sorry, Madam Pince," you and Fred say in unison—and the synchronized apology hangs there, absurd, almost funny.

She watches you for a long moment, then turns with a swish of robes, retreating to her desk. The silence stretches. Fred's ears are still red, and he's staring at the book in front of him like it might save him, but you can see the way his hands are fidgeting with the quill again.

You wait. The library is warm. He won't meet your eyes.

"It's nothing," he says finally, quietly, not looking up. "George talks out of his arse. I'm fine."

You don't believe him. You can't remember the last time Fred Weasley said fine without a grin attached, and the word sits wrong in the quiet air between you.

You stare at him, unconvinced. He's looking everywhere but at you—the book, the window, the ceiling—anywhere that isn't your face. The word hangs in the air between you, limp and unconvincing.

"I don't believe you," you say.

And then you're moving. Your hand closes around his sleeve—forceful and determined—and you haul him out of the chair before he can protest. Madam Pince's head snaps up, but you're already dragging him toward the door, and something in your expression must warn her off because she doesn't say a word.

"Y/n—" He stumbles after you, caught off balance. "What are you—"

The heavy oak door swings shut behind you, and you let go of his sleeve in the corridor, spinning to face him. He's flushed, breathless, hair mussed, and you're breathless too, though you've done nothing more strenuous than tug a lanky Gryffindor across a library.

"Tell me what's wrong." The words come out breathless and demanding. "You're being weird. George noticed, Lee noticed, and I—" You stop, swallowing. "I guess I noticed."

He stares at you. The corridor is quiet, the noise of the castle muffled around you both, and for a long moment he doesn't speak. His hands find his pockets. His jaw works.

"It's stupid," he says finally. "Really stupid."

"Fred."

He looks at you then—really looks, and there's something raw and open in his face, like a door he's been holding shut all week and is too tired to keep closed. "You really want to know? Fine." A breath. "It's about you. It's been about you for a while now."

"What about me?" The words come out breathless, barely above a whisper.

"I don't want to see you with Cedric!" He blurts out suddenly. Loud in the empty corridor. And then he barrels on, words tumbling over each other, the dam finally breaking. "There— I said it! I don't want to know you're at that bloody corner booth every Sunday. I never wanted to hear about how great your breakfasts were. I've been lying through my teeth for months, pretending I'm some kind of matchmaker. Fed you intel on the bloke I'm supposedly helping you win—and it's the stupidest bloody plan I've ever come up with, and I once tried to turn the entire Slytherin common room purple—"

He stops, chest heaving, hands raking through his hair. His ears are crimson. The corridor is silent except for the distant hum of the castle.

"You want to know why I've been weird all week?" His voice drops, raw and honest. "Because I realized I don't want you to date Cedric Diggory. I don't even want you to smile at Cedric Diggory. And— and I know that makes me a hypocrite and a git and probably the worst matchmaker in the history of Hogwarts, but—"

He meets your eyes, finally, and there's nothing left to hide.

"It's you, Y/n. It's been you for so long. Even when you were a pain in the bloody arse about our pranks. It's been you since the day I saw you smile and I realized I hadn't been on the receiving end of it for so long—and I did everything since then to see you smile at me."

The words hang between you, raw and bare, and Fred Weasley—who never runs out of things to say—stands there, chest heaving, watching you like a man who's just thrown himself off a cliff and is waiting to see if there's a net.

And you can't help it. Your mouth pulls into a smile.

It's not a small one. It's the kind of smile that starts somewhere deep and works its way out, warming your whole face. Three years of a stupid grudge—and here he is, red-eared and terrified, having just ruined his own master plan out of sheer, stupid honesty.

Fred's face cycles through several expressions in rapid succession. Confusion. Alarm. A deepening, spectacular crimson.

"Why are you smiling?" He splutters, gesturing wildly. "I just— I just told you—and you're smiling—? That's not— what does that mean?!"

You take a step toward him. He takes a step back, bumping into the wall.

"You're adorable," you grin.

The word hits him like a Stunning Spell. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "Adorable." He repeats it like it's a foreign language. "I just confessed my deepest, most embarrassing feelings and you're calling me—adorable?"

"Mhm." You take another step, and there's nowhere left for him to go. "You are. You're a complete git, and I thought you and your brother ruined my life in third year. But then you made a deal to help me win over someone else—and you went and fell for me instead." You tilt your head. "That's adorable."

His ears are on fire. "I hate you."

"No, you don't."

He stares at you. And then, slowly, impossibly, the corner of his mouth twitches—a grin fighting its way through his mortification. "No," he admits, quiet, almost wondering. "I really don't."

"I stopped thinking about Cedric like that weeks ago." The words come out quiet but firm. 

Fred's eyes go wide—comically wide, the kind of wide you'd expect from someone who's just been told the sky is actually green. You've never seen him like this. Fred Weasley, who always has a quip, standing utterly speechless in the middle of the corridor.

"He never made me laugh like a maniac," you say, and the smile won't leave your face. "He didn't get me kicked out of the library for the first time. He didn't—" You take a breath, and the last three words come out soft, "He's not you."

Fred blinks. Once. Twice. His mouth opens, and for a horrible moment you think he's going to make a joke, defuse it all with a punchline. But he doesn't.

"Y/n." Your name comes out rough, like it scraped him on the way out. He takes a step toward you—the first step he's taken all conversation, instead of away. "Say that again."

"Which part?"

"All of it." His voice cracks on the second word. "Every bloody word."

You could tease him. The moment is begging for it—his ears on fire, his hands fidgeting, the great Fred Weasley undone by a Hufflepuff's confession. But the way he's looking at you, like you're something he's afraid to touch in case you vanish—it steals the joke right off your tongue.

"He's not you," you repeat, and it's easier this time. "You're the one I kept looking for. You're the one who made me forget why I was even talking to him."

The corridor is quiet. A door closes somewhere distant. Fred reaches for your hand like he's checking if you're real, and his fingers are warm and slightly shaking when they close around yours.

"I finally got Fred Weasley at a loss for words." The giggle bubbles out of you, victorious—and it's the last thing you get to say before his hands are in your hair, cupping the back of your head, pulling you in.

His lips crash onto yours.

You gasp into his mouth—a soft, startled sound that he swallows whole—and your hands find his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his jumper like he's the only solid thing in the corridor. He kisses like he acts: all in, no hesitation, a grin threatening at the edges. His mouth is warm, insistent, and there's something almost desperate in the way he holds you, like he's been saving up every word he couldn't say for weeks and this is the only way left to say them.

Your back meets the stone wall—when did you get backed against the wall?—and he breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours, eyes dark and bright and utterly wrecked.

"Adorable," he repeats, voice rough. "You called me adorable, and then you said all of that, and you expect me to… what?"

"I expected you to keep being at a loss for words, actually. Not— ah, kiss me…"

His laugh is breathless, almost disbelieving. "Y/n." He says your name like it's a prayer. "I've wanted to do that since you started marching me into McGonagall's office looking like you'd won a war."

"Those were good days," you say breathlessly, unable to help but smile again.

"They were terrible days. I couldn't stop thinking about you." He kisses you again, large hands at your waist, softer this time, a slow press that makes your knees forget their job. "I still can't." He adds gruffly.

The corridor is warm, muffled, a world of two. His thumb traces your jaw, and somewhere far away, a door opens and closes, and neither of you moves.

"I'm a bloody idiot," he mutters against your skin, the words muffled. "I should've come to my senses sooner."

"You should've." You hum in agreement. "Years sooner, really. I've been confiscating your prank supplies for three years, Fred. The signs were all there."

He pulls back just enough to fix you with a look, equal parts affronted and adoring. "You confiscated my glorious portable swamp."

"It was leaking into the Charms corridor."

"It was a masterpiece."

Your grin widens. "You wouldn't have wasted all of it if you had just—"

He distracts you with his mouth—not on your lips this time, but lower, at the curve of your jaw, trailing down to where your neck meets your shoulder. The scrape of teeth, the press of lips, and a delicious shiver wracks its way down your spine, pulling a soft sound from your throat before you can stop it.

His laugh vibrates against your skin. "Oh, you like that, Prank Reaper?"

"Don't call me that while your mouth is on my neck."

"Why not?" Another nip, harder this time, and your fingers curl into his robes. "The Reaper, undone by a bit of—"

"Finish that sentence and I'll hex you into next week."

He pulls back, grinning like he's won something, and his eyes are bright and warm and entirely fond. "You won't."

"I will."

"You love me too much." The words come out lighter than they mean to, and he freezes for half a second, like he didn't mean to say them out loud. His ears go pink. "I mean—"

You reach up, cup his jaw, and pull him down to kiss him slowly. Until he stops thinking about whatever he was going to say. When you pull back, his face is the definition of a wrecked man.

"Maybe," you say softly. "We'll find out."

He looks at you in wonder. Cheeks pink. Ears that match.

"You bloody doofus." You mumble it, grin softening, and reach up to smooth the crease between his scrunched brows. "You know what's funny? Cedric told me—"

He groans, dropping his head onto your shoulder. "I don't want to hear about Diggory ever again. That bloody—"

"Fred." You laugh, reaching up to thread your fingers into his hair. "He and Cho got back together."

He goes still against you. Slowly, he lifts his head, eyes searching your face. "What?"

"Cedric and Cho. They're together again. He told me at breakfast." You shrug with a grin. "So even if you hadn't confessed dramatically in the middle of a corridor like a complete idiot… Cedric was never going to be a problem."

Fred blinks, a slow, dawning horror creeps across his face as the realization settles in. "So I— I spent a week moping in the library. I ruined my own grand matchmaking scheme. I confessed my deepest feelings—"

"Very dramatically," you agree.

"—and the bloke was already off the table? I did all of that for nothing?"

"Not for nothing." You tug him down by the collar and press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Would you have told me if you weren't blinded by extreme jealousy?"

He stares at you, ears burning, and then his face cracks into a grin—helpless, ridiculous, utterly besotted. "I'm going to have to send Diggory a thank you note, aren't I?"

"Definitely."

He pulls you against him, both of you laughing, and the corridor feels warmer than it has all winter. Somewhere above, a portrait snickers—no doubt, telling every other portrait about the tea. But for now, you stay right here, wrapped up in Fred Weasley—the Prank Reaper thoroughly, irreversibly caught.

Fred leans down to kiss you again, mouth curving, and his lips are a breath from yours when the shout rips through the corridor like a cannon.

"FRED GIDEON WEASLEY!"

You both spring apart like you've been hit with a hex. Both your brothers stand at the end of the corridor. Lee's robes askew, face cycling through shock, accusation, and something that looks dangerously close to glee.

You groan, hiding your face. 

"When I told you to make up with my sister a few months ago—" He jabs a finger at Fred, advancing with the righteous fury of a man who has waited his entire Hogwarts career for this exact moment. "I didn't mean for you to make her your girlfriend and snog her in front of me! I knew something was up!"

"Lee—" you start, face burning.

He turns to you instead, "He's been in love with you for months! I had to listen to him mope! In my common room! In front of my bed!"

"It's my common room too," Fred manages weakly. George snickers from behind Lee, not wanting to interrupt his whole rant.

"Don't you sass me, Fred! What do you have to say for yourself?"

Fred rubs the back of his neck, ears crimson. "I didn't mean for it to go like this…?"

"Like what?" Lee demands. "You're snogging my dear sister where anybody could see!"

"Whatever. Your sister is the best thing that's happened to me all year. So if you're going to yell, yell about that."

Lee stares at him. You blush furiously and hit his shoulder. George makes a suggestive look at you and Fred. And then Lee's face splits into a grin so wide it nearly cracks.

"Finally," he says. "I've been waiting years for you two to sort yourselves out."

Your face goes hot enough to warm the whole corridor at the insinuation, and then you shove Lee away instead with both hands—he stumbles back, cackling, utterly unrepentant.

"Why?!" Lee throws his arms wide, the picture of wounded innocence. "Want to snog him more?"

"Lee— You little—"

George's laugh cuts you off. It's his turn to humiliate you two now, apparently. He gives you and Fred a long, slow look, then wiggles his eyebrows with a man who has been saving this exact expression for years.

"So," he says, drawing the word out like treacle. "The Prank Reaper and my twin brother." He taps his chin. "I have to say, this is not how I pictured my Sunday going, but it's certainly an improvement."

"We were talking." You retort uselessly.

"Mhm." George's grin widens. "And the talking involved lips, did it?"

"George, I swear—" Fred begins.

"Freddie, I've been waiting for this. Do you know how long I've had to listen to you mope about a certain Hufflepuff Head Girl? How many times I've watched you stare at the Hufflepuff table like a lovesick Kneazle?"

"I have never—"

"You wrote her initials in the margin of your Transfiguration notes. I saw it."

Fred makes a strangled sound. Lee, beside you, is absolutely vibrating with delight, looking between you and Fred like he's watching the final match of the Quidditch Cup.

"Y/n. Wait," Lee says, voice suspiciously innocent. "Did you know Fred must have been in love with you since—"

"Lee, I swear to Merlin—"

"—since you confiscated his swamp kit? He wrote a whole poem about it. Called it 'Ode to the Reaper.' It was terrible."

Fred buries his face in his hands. George is wheezing. And despite everything—your burning cheeks, a cackling George, your brother's delight—you find yourself laughing helplessly, the sound echoing down the corridor like something you've been holding in for three years.

"Merlin, I have to hear this." You laugh, wiping your eyes.

Fred's face falls so dramatically it's almost a special effect. "You're supposed to be suffering with me! I poured my soul into that poem! I was vulnerable!"

"You wrote a poem about my swamp confiscation and expected me to be sympathetic?"

"I expected a little respect for the craft!"

Lee, sensing blood in the water, clears his throat theatrically, striking a pose against the wall like a bard preparing an epic. "'Ode to the Reaper,' by Fred Weasley—"

"Lee Jordan." Fred lunges. Lee dances out of reach, cackling.

"Her eyes like chocolate, her wrath like thunder, she took my swamp and I went under—"

"THAT IS NOT—"

"'—oh Reaper mine, so stern and fair, I'd let you confiscate my underwear—'"

"LEE I SWEAR TO MERLIN— Y/n! He's— he's making it up!"

You double over, hands on your knees, laughing so hard your ribs ache and tears prickle at the corners of your eyes. George is wheezing against the archway, one hand on the wall for support. Fred stands in the middle of the corridor, ears so red they're practically glowing, pointing a shaking finger at Lee.

"That," Fred says, voice cracking, "is not— I never— that was—"

"It's beautiful," you manage between gasps, wiping away a tear. "It's the most beautiful thing anyone's ever written about my work."

"It's not about your work—"

"You should publish, Freddie."

George lets out a noise like a dying hippogriff. Lee is doubled over. And Fred—Fred looks at you, at the tears streaming down your face, at the way you're clutching your stomach—and slowly, despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitches.

"You're going to make me recite it at our wedding, aren't you?" he groans absently.

"Wedding?!" You, Lee, and George all exclaim at the same time. This time your brother is the one lunging for Fred.

It erupts into chaos.

part 2 is coming soon, taking place a few weeks later!!

i hope you enjoyed! if you’ve gotten all the way to the end, dont forget to comment and reblog to keep the fandom alive <3

[distantdarlings]

LIFETIME IN REPEAT // r. black

RATING: R / 12K WORDS

Regulus Black x Fem!Half-blood!Reader Insert

+ SUMMARY - *Requested - based on this, this, and this* Small snippets of a life in which your best friend, Reg, comes to terms with how bad his family really is. Or, 5 times Regulus Black chose his family over you, and the 1 time he didn’t.

+ WARNINGS - SMUT! (PIV w/ no protection), oral (f!receiving), kissing, fem!reader, maybe slightly subby top!Regulus, creampie, brief drooling, crying during sex, eye contact kink?, Half-blood!reader, discussion of blood purity, the Black family hating on you (not Sirius), little bit of angst (not too bad, I don't think), Regulus does not die!, no horcrux timeline, 5 + 1 fic, very briefly in Regulus's pov, language (lmk if I missed anything)

+ MUSIC (listened to while writing) -

Circles - EDEN (title from song)

- - -

Sometimes, in the very dead of night, when the only sound was your breathing and the distant howling of wolves, you thought of Regulus Black. 

He was the personification of those lonely spaces where the air felt just empty enough to make you question if someone was taking up space on the other side of your window. In some cliché kind of way, it was always too quiet. Like you’d step foot inside a vacuum, and the world was seconds from detonating. 

The glass panes near your head stood in the middle of the collision between the fire crackling in the corner and the frigid temperatures outside. Swirls of frosted condensation appeared across the surface, just barely obscuring your view of the world beyond. It was as if you were staring through lace curtains. 

Lace curtains that resembled the ones beneath the thick, dark drapes in the Black household. 

See? You couldn’t help it. Everything came back to him. The curtains in his family’s estate, your shuddering breath in the empty air, the wolves screaming too far away for you to care. They were symbols, you supposed, representing him in ways you could never put into words. 

In a way, it was funny. In fact, you were stifling a giggle, uncomfortably swimming its way up your throat. He was everywhere, and everything. So how could you say you were lonely? Reg was not here, and yet, he was all around you.

The night cloaked you, the sounds surrounded you, and they were him. Yet, they weren’t. No one and nothing was equivalent to Reg. He was more. 

It was pathetic, really. You, that was. Not him; never him. 

He was the night sky and the world, and you were waiting for his next letter, and could not eat when he was away. He was always there, and always had been since you were eleven. 

*

You had met him in the frontmost corridor of Hogwarts Castle, where you had met all of your other friends, as well. He was no different than the rest of them at that time. 

There were dozens of little black cloaks topped with a wide variety of hair types and colors, but one in particular had stood out to you. Long, wavy, with the deepest shade of black you’d ever seen. The shine from the sconces on the walls reflected almost like a mirror. 

In the farthest corner, conversing with another first-year with hair the color of white silk, was the owner of that dazzlingly dark hair. Regulus Black. His name suited him in more ways than one. 

You had discovered his name when you’d asked the short girl next to you. By this point, you hardly remembered her name, but she had been nice enough to you on the train, so you’d asked. “Hey?” you’d asked. “What’s that black-haired boy’s name? That one, over there. No, the one standing next to the blond. Yes, yes. That’s him!”

And she’d smirked cheekily, almost as if she were proud to have known him—or just proud to have had any knowledge at all. You knew better than anyone that it was nice to be needed. 

“Oh. Him. Well, of course, that’s Regulus Black. It couldn’t be anyone else. He looks just like his older brother, Sirius. My older sisters say he’s so cute.”

You remembered that your eyes hadn’t come away from the boy once as she told you about him and his family, the jarringly severe house of Black. He was entirely enticing; even your young self could see that. 

And Regulus, in all his passed-down severity, was completely gorgeous. As a child, you’d never had a “crush.” Nothing like what your girlfriends had ever mentioned. There was no boy who caught your eye, who made you blush, or who made you want to slip notes under the desk during class. It was just something you were not afflicted by. 

This moment, however, was something you’d never experienced before. Your young eyes set on Regulus, and it felt as though everything had lay into place; as if you’d managed to greet your destiny in an instant whilst waiting to be sorted. And you could remember thinking that if this was how crushes felt, you couldn’t fathom how all of the other girls dealt with this. It was all-encroaching and aching, as if you’d fallen down a flight of stairs. 

And, so, in all of your breathless yearning, you’d gathered what little confidence you had and walked over to him. 

Expecting him to be unfortunately unwelcoming, you only slightly slid into his frame of view. When his eyes found yours, you raised a finger gently between the two of you, requesting his attention. 

“Yes?” he asked, though it was almost friendly, rather than cruel and condescending.

“Um, hello,” you’d giggled nervously. “I was just over there, and couldn’t help but wonder if I knew you. You look very familiar to me.”

“You know, I was thinking the same thing,” he said gently, a small smile pricking at the corner of his lips. “I was wondering if you had stopped by one of my parents’ parties.”

“Oh, certainly not,” you laughed. “My mum’s a Muggle, so I doubt we’d have been invited.”

When you’d mentioned your Half-blood status, Regulus had not flinched. But the boy beside him had. The one with the platinum hair sneered uglily and steered Reg away by his shoulders. 

At your immediate dismissal, you felt your smile fall away from your face. You watched as the blond boy walked Reg away, deeper into the crowd of other nervous black robes, though you did not miss how he’d glanced back, mouth open and longing to say something more. 

You’d given a small wave before he disappeared into the group.  

**

Though that had been the beginning of Regulus’s struggle with his Pure-blood status and the evil bigotry that came with it, you couldn’t help but enjoy that first meeting for all it was. The disgusted way the blond boy had looked at you had not been enough to overshadow seeing Reg for the first time. 

And, even when your initial meeting was the cornerstone of the struggles in your relationship, you and Regulus hadn’t minded it much. You still talked almost every day, and your love for each other had bloomed slowly but surely, no matter the hatred surrounding the two of you.

No instance had shocked you more than in second year when the Herbology professor had announced that the end-of-year project would require a partner. 

You and Regulus had gotten on pretty well ever since that first meeting, interacting pretty openly and ignoring the off-handed comments when you could. Of course, there were times when he’d elect to hang out with his Pure-blood friends over you, but your young mind had just rationalized that as him hanging out with his other friends. At that time, it seemed that there was no way his friends’ hatred of you was truly based on prejudice, but rather just the jealous antics of children.

You had been wrong, though. Your lack of Pure-blood status was disgusting to them all from the beginning. They had made that clear, but your young self couldn’t understand why. 

So, during second year in Herbology, when the professor had announced the partner requirement, Regulus’s head had whipped toward you in an instant. He’d had a goofy, gap-toothed smile printed on his face, waiting expectantly for you to look over to him as well. Of course, you had, knowing that there was no other partner you’d rather work alongside. 

But you hadn’t ended up working with him that year. When the professor had let the class split into partners, she hadn’t seen that stupid blond boy sneering at you the moment you stopped in front of Regulus. 

He’d stopped behind him at the same time, with a demanding hand on his shoulder. The smile on your and Regulus’s faces had faltered as soon as the blond had made his presence known. Nothing was said at first, as if the blond expected no pushback from Regulus. 

“I think I’m going to pair with her for this one, Rosier,” Regulus had said. “I paired with you earlier this year.”

There was a moment when the blond’s expression had soured even further, and it appeared as though he were about to throw a curse in your direction, but he’d just melted into laughter. Though nothing was comforting or humorous about it. His laugh was cruel and condescending. 

“You want to pair with her?” the boy chuckled. “I mean, honestly, do you want passing marks on this assignment or not?”

Your face had fallen. 

“What on earth do you mean?” Reg had asked. “She’s top of this class. I’d get a better grade with her than I would with you.”

The boy’s laughter had stopped, and he’d wiped a few tears from beneath his eyes. The joke was over. His expression had returned to one of disdain, and his eyes had narrowed on you.

“Half-bloods have moderately to severely reduced intelligence,” he’d said, eyes never leaving yours. He’d meant every single word. “Everyone knows that. It’s basically been proven.”

Your lips had parted as your jaw all but slackened beneath the weight of his words. For so long, your innocence had allowed you to believe that Regulus’ Pure-blood friends only disliked you because you were a girl or because it took up their time with him, but there was no denying it now. 

Your Half-blood status was genuinely disgusting to them all. Somehow, you’d convinced yourself it was all just uncomfortably personal banter, jabs thrown at something you couldn’t control just to hurt you. But they meant it. 

And Regulus had seen the way his words had affected you, had seen the realization hit you.  

You’d often wondered for years why he hadn’t done something more, but Regulus was never the combative type in his early years. He’d had to build that defensiveness. 

At first, it only presented as protecting you by redirecting their cruelty, but it had eventually built up after years of dealing with it. 

At that time, though, he’d just pushed the boy back and conceded. “Alright,” he’d said. “I’ll work with you. Just leave her alone.”

And he’d walked off with Rosier, only glancing back for a moment at your shocked face to mouth one word: sorry.

That had bugged you for weeks. It still bugged you to this day. You always considered it your first real interaction with such hatred of your blood status. Perhaps your first had been when you had met Regulus in the foyer of Hogwarts, but you hadn’t seen it for what it was then. After second year, you knew that you were different, and that many people hated you for it.   

***

The different treatment had only escalated from there. 

As the boys got older, their disdain for you did as well. They could not stand that Regulus still interacted with you in any form. They viewed you as something holding him back, like some kind of trash caught on the edge of his robes. 

When he walked through the halls of the castle, there you were clinging to him like some desperate beggar. They couldn’t stand it. 

They wanted you gone, so their insults became meaner, more pointed. If they could not pull Regulus away from you, their goal was to push you away. After all, who would willingly stick around through so much verbal abuse? 

In fourth year, on your fourteenth birthday, Regulus had bought you a present. 

You glanced over to the armoire in the corner on which still rested that very gift. It was a darkwood jewelry box with ornate carvings of Merlin on the face. Its intended use was for jeweled bracelets and pearl necklaces and emerald brooches, but you did not have anything like that to fill it with. 

Regulus knew that you adored all of the magical flora Hogwarts had introduced you to, and he’d filled it with small vials of dried flowers and pieces of vine, all of which had some kind of magical purpose. It was a potion master’s dream, but an Herbology enthusiast’s collection. 

You did not want to cut them up or crush them or anything of the sort; you wanted only to admire them and organize them in gorgeous arrays and plant their children. Their intent for you was their beauty, not their use. 

And, to this day, it still held jars of seeds and dried plants because you still used it. The only thing that had remained unchanged on it was the small stem of lavender that was taped to the inside of the lid. It was altered magically to stay fresh and beautiful forever. 

Reg had prepared it after learning and practicing the conservation spell for weeks. He told you when he’d given you the gift that he’d worried his utilization of the spell would not come out right, as it was his first time using it. But now, decades later, it was still as gorgeous as the day he’d handed it to you. 

And so was its memory, if it had not been so marred by the vision of Rosier and his friends (as so many of your memories with Regulus were). 

When he’d given you the gift, you’d accidentally sliced your finger on the sharp edge of ribbon he’d used to secure the wrapping. 

A small hiss had left you at the sensation. Only a single drop of your blood had been able to spill to the floor before Regulus was ripping the bottom hem of his uniform shirt and pressing the torn fabric to your skin. 

You’d gasped and tried to pull away, but his hands had locked you against him. “Reg!” you had breathed. “Your shirt! You didn’t have to do that. I could have—”

“No matter,” he’d said. “I wanted to. You were bleeding; what was I supposed to do? Just let you bleed?”

“It’s just a paper cut, Reg,” you chuckled nervously. “I’m not going to bleed out.”

“No, but I don’t want to see any of your blood.” 

The look in his eyes as he’d said that had been something out of a dream. You could still remember the way his gaze was unfaltering as he spoke those words in a way that somehow felt reminiscent of a confession. A confession of what, you were not sure.

“What on earth are you doing—?” Rosier had come up behind Regulus and stopped when he’d seen the sight of your hands together. 

When he realized the situation, he frowned. He stared at the piece of shirt pressed to your finger, and Regulus’s hands clasped around yours, and sneered.

“Nice going,” he’d said. “At least you ripped it. Merlin knows dirty blood doesn’t wash out of clothes. Even with magic.”

Again, just like in second year, you’d been unable to respond—just shocked by his blatant hatred. You could hardly understand why he could feel this way about a person, Half-blood status or not. 

“Rosier,” Regulus had cut him off with a stern voice and a pointed look. “Stop.”

“I’m just saying it’s—”

“That’s enough,” Reg interrupted him once again. “Let’s go.”

And he’d left you again, redirecting Rosier’s attention away from you. Only this time, he’d left you with a forgotten birthday gift, a scrap of his clothing, and a bleeding finger. 

****

After that, you slowly learned to avoid interacting with Regulus where his other friends could see. If there was a moment you had together without them around, you took it as long as you could. 

Unfortunately, those moments were few and far between. You really only saw him in the very early morning and late at night, typically in passing at the Astronomy Tower, where you both sought out the quiet, endless nights. 

Those times were always your favorites, when you’d both be leaning against opposite ends of the balcony overlooking the entirety of the castle. You’d laugh and talk and enjoy each other’s company under the clean starlight, and not think of blood status or Evan Rosier or his family. 

And that was all you needed with him. You didn’t need the open, public moments; if only you could have these little times in between. 

But Regulus didn’t like that. It wasn’t enough for him. You were fine with hiding your friendship, understanding that your Half-blood status could negatively affect his image. He was a Pure-blood with an excellent brain, a promising future, and a family with ancient money. He could not change that about himself, just like you couldn’t change your blood. He had a responsibility to his reputation; you understood that. But Regulus, clearly, did not.  

At Christmas time, in fourth year, Regulus insisted you come back with him to his family’s house for the break. He wanted you to finally attend one of those parties he was so often talking about. He wanted you to meet his brother more than just in passing, and, more than anything, he just wanted to spend the holidays with his best friend.

So you’d ridden the train back to King’s Cross with him. The two of you had shared a compartment on the train, with him thankfully ignoring his other friends the entire time. He’d bought the two of you an immense collection of snacks from the trolley to share, and his older brother, Sirius, had popped in every once in a while to crack a couple of jokes. 

It was truly one of your favorite memories. In any lifetime, you felt that the train ride with him would still be with you.

The Black house was gorgeous, dark, and looming. It was impossibly beautiful in an almost frightening way, a way you were very unfamiliar with. 

Regulus had invited you before, but you’d always declined, knowing that his family was living in a completely different world from you. But, with this being the middle of your educations, he’d practically insisted. You had felt that this would be an unfortunate experience at the least, and you had been right. 

Because after an awkward, mostly silent meeting of his immediate family, you had been seated at a long, dark table with an immense number of Black family members and other distant relatives. Though you were nestled somewhere in the middle, in between Regulus and Sirius, you felt like you were at the head of the table with every eye on you. 

As far as you were aware, no one had explicitly stated that you were a Half-blood, but you couldn’t help but think that his family—namely his mother—could sense it. Like a bad smell, your rotten, half-dead bloodline stinking in the corner. 

For the most part, the family ate in silence, only breaking it every so often to offer a forced, yet basically polite comment to someone across from the table. 

His father spoke the most, always blathering on about his passion and involvement in local politics, just before he’d died. 

Then, his mother, Regulus’s grandmother, would chime in here and there with some ridiculous, insensitive comment that had Reg’s mother flaring her nostrils. Though all of their beliefs were quite similar, it was obvious that the brothers’ mother did not care for her mother-in-law. 

Eventually, his grandmother’s attention had turned to you—exactly what you’d hoped would not happen. 

“Dear, where did you say you met Regulus? Was it at school? I’m so glad to hear that they have such a high population of Pure-bloods this year. I was beginning to get concerned with how many Mudbloods were filtering in each year. Now, what did you say your family name was again?”

You were shocked. The voice you were begging so hard to speak up refused entirely. Your words were completely dissipated.

You could hear Regulus set his fork down on the edge of his plate with a porcelain clink. 

The silence that was so prevalent in this house somehow sank even lower, into the realm of near sense deprivation. You could hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears. 

 “Uh, yes, ma’am,” you finally choked out. “I met both Regulus and Sirius at Hogwarts.”

“That’s what I thought! And your…family name?”

When you told her your surname, she stopped and pondered for a moment, rolling an almost black wine around in her glass. Her eyes traced the intricate carvings on the ceiling of the dining hall.

“Hmm, I’m not quite familiar with that name. Perhaps they’re more working-class? Nothing wrong with that, of course. Pure-bloods need all the help they can get nowadays. Money can’t be a concern anymore. These halflings are going to run us through—!”

“Grandmother!” Sirius interrupted, drawing attention toward him. 

He’d always been the black sheep in the family, standing up for you just as much as Regulus had. It was not hard to see that he did not align himself with his family’s beliefs in any way. 

“Yes, Sirius, what is it?” his grandmother asked. She seemed almost bored with him. 

“She comes from a Half-blood family,” he said, completely mortifying you. “Perhaps it’d be best if you held your tongue.”

She seemed completely taken aback by his tone, but eventually realized what exactly he’d said. You were a Half-blood. 

Dirty blood. A disgrace. A mistake.

“Well,” his grandmother finally spoke after what felt like hours of her just staring at you. She took a sip of her wine. “I won’t have my grandson reproducing with a non-Pure-blood.”

“Grandmother, I’m—we’re not dating. We’re just friends. Please…”

She glanced back up at you, then to Regulus. A small nod rippled through her jaw. “Fine. As long as it goes no further.”

And, of course, you could have never even hoped it would. As you’d always known, Regulus was in a completely different world than you. Just as he’d always be. But, unfortunately, there was some immature, mystical version of you that still harbored hope that he’d love you in the ways you did him.

But that first visit with his family solidified what you should have already known: you would never, ever be a part of his world. You simply weren’t welcome. You could change the way you dressed, the way you acted, cut off your family, but you would still be separate. The very essence of you was not allowed there.  

*****

After that dinner, you had kept your distance from Regulus. It was clear that being around him was doing nothing but driving a wedge between him and his family and friends. You did not want to be the one to do that to him. 

So you stopped sitting near him in classes, you stopped laughing at his jokes, you ignored your desire to be near him in any capacity. The extent of your interactions for several months included only you flashing him a brief smile in passing, just as you would any other person.

He’d obviously noticed the change in your behavior, because he stopped trying to speak with you as well. There was some part of you that was deeply hurt by his lack of trying to fight for you. But what were you to him? Just a childhood friend. 

It was not like he was losing anyone supremely important to him. Childhood friends separated and went away. They enjoyed the time they spent together, but it was only meant to be used as memories, not a lifelong thing. It was time to grow up, and you just hoped Regulus understood. 

You could not have him in the way you wanted, and having him any other way was too painful. It hurt you, and it hurt him. It was the right thing to do.

But Regulus did not see it that way. The only thing that had crossed his mind in the time he was apart from you was not hopeful or decisive or understanding. He was frightened that you were angry with him, that you thought he believed the same things his family did. 

Of course, he didn’t, and he’d tried to tell you that repeatedly after that stupid dinner. It had been a dumb idea. He knew that he could not rely on his family not to make some kind of awful comment. But he’d at least hoped they’d hold off for one evening. He’d hoped that not mentioning your blood status would have kept them quiet and on other subjects. But he’d been wrong. 

And now the girl he loved was not talking to him, and possibly even thought that he did not care for her. 

After begging you to understand that he did not agree with his family so many times, he figured he was just further upsetting you, so he stopped. And when you started to pull away from him, he assumed it was because he’d ceased defending himself. 

He wasn’t sure if he should bring it up again and remind you that he was not like them, or if he should keep quiet about it to avoid hurting you. But if he didn’t talk about it at all, he seemed like another one of his family members. He hadn’t known what to do.

And after a few months had passed, he’d figured that it was too late to do anything, that he’d missed his window, that you were gone and did not want anything to do with him. 

He’d completely fucked it up, and you were not a part of his life anymore. He decided that he’d just have to be okay with that, as he had no one to blame but himself.

But with Sirius having left shortly after that dinner, and Regulus’s friends making offhand comments about how glad they were you were finally gone, he was determined not to let anything stand in his way. 

It had just taken him a lot longer than he’d expected. 

He’d speak with you whenever he could, complimenting your work in class, noting when you got a haircut, congratulating you when you’d passed your O.W.L.s, and then later when you’d passed your N.E.W.T.s.

He’d mustered up the courage to speak with you about that dinner for years, watching as you grew into a beautiful woman that he’d let down so many years before. You became smarter and stronger. 

He watched from afar as the two of you graduated and went your separate ways. He watched as you became involved in politics, an astounding advocate for Half-bloods and Muggle-borns. He watched all of it while he lingered in the background, in the shadows of his monstrous family.

And during it all, he grew more and more bitter that he had not spoken to you when he’d gotten the chance. He’d always been nothing short of brave and defiant. He’d had everything he needed to buck up and talk to you. But he hadn’t. 

He’d let the obstacles of his parents and his friends and his social identity come between him and the woman he loved. And now, you were perfect, and everything he’d always known you would be. Only, you did not have him. And some deep, terrible part of him that had been raised by a family who believed they deserved everything was disappointed that you were so happy without him. 

Mostly because he was so fucking miserable without you. And it was entirely his fault.

So, five years after both of you had graduated from Hogwarts, whilst sipping on some tea in the dining hall of his family’s house, he decided he was going to reach out. 

He had been flipping through the papers when he noticed a large picture of you on the second page. A bright smile was printed on your face, and your hand reached above you in a proud wave. A crowd of flickering camera flashes and cheering wizards and witches spread out before you. He glanced up at the headline.

The Witch Leading the Front In Blood Diversity

A few paragraphs in, he noted the journalist had included a quote from an interview she’d had with you. His hand shuddered so hard he had to set his teacup down. 

“I lost someone very important to me to the idolatry of blood purity—someone I’d loved. After that, I’d decided I was not going to let anything get between another witch or wizard and what they wanted. Nothing should hold any of us back, let alone something we can’t control. Our blood looks the same. If you held two vials of blood up, could you tell me which one was the Pure-blood and which was the Half? You couldn’t.”

Regulus could hardly breathe after reading that. Someone you’d loved. Was there any chance it was him you were talking about? Was it someone else?

For all he knew, you could not have thought about him a single day since that dinner. He hoped that wasn’t the case, though, especially because there was never a time you weren’t in his mind.

So he’d made a decision and pulled a small roll of parchment out. He’d written you an embarrassingly long letter saying everything he’d never been able to. He’d described his feelings for you in ways that he hoped didn’t put you off. Then he asked if you’d be willing to meet him at his family’s home, stating that they would be out of town all week as they vacationed up north. 

He made his points crystal clear. He wanted to be as transparent and honest as possible, so you could turn him down if you wanted. He did not want to trick you into coming here. So, if you did show, you knew exactly why he’d asked you to.

It had taken all of a week for his owl to get the letter to you, for you to read it, draft your letter about a thousand times, then decide not to send it. 

You had no idea what to say to him. 

Regulus was such a tender part of your life, a bruise that you hadn’t ventured into pressing on in a while. He was everything you’d ever wanted, everything you’d ever lost. He was the entire reason you’d ended up on the career path you were on. He’d hurt you in ways you never wanted anyone else to feel. 

And yet, here he was sending you a painfully emotional letter, ripping open every suture you’d placed over your heart. You wanted to tell him to leave you alone, to demand why he hadn’t reached out years earlier, to tell him he’d missed his chance, that you didn’t need him anymore. 

But you did. You did. 

You missed him every day that you fought for equality amongst your world, and you missed him every night in ways that felt like a knife between your ribs. 

You’d been frightened for years that the opportunity to reach out had passed. That Regulus had adopted the same ideology as his family and all his friends, that you were no more than an awkward past. But now, it seemed, that that was not the case. 

There was a lot of doubt leading up to the decision to meet him. What if he was lying? What if this was some kind of cruel joke? All of his family and friends would be there, laughing at how ridiculous it was that Regulus would ever have feelings for him. 

What if they had cameras? What if they sent word to the papers? You could practically see the headlines now. Blood Status Advocate Desperate for Pure-blood Acceptance.

It made you nauseous to think about. So you didn’t. 

You completely put it out of your mind while you packed a small bag and gripped his letter tightly in your hand. Then you were disapparating all the way to a dark, ancient house that you swore you’d never return to. 

You did not have to knock. The loud crack that rippled through the overcast sky alerted Regulus that you’d arrived. He’d waited for that sound ever since he’d watched his owl fly out the window. 

His heartbeat had kicked up three times over as he opened the front door of the Black manor and caught you standing right in the middle of the expanse of his family’s land.

Your breath sucked out of your lungs as you met his eyes in ways you hadn’t dreamt of since school. He hadn’t changed at all, though he looked older, more mature. 

His jaw had sharpened further, his nose was stronger, his brows were darker and thicker. His hair was longer than he’d kept it in the past, tilted lazily over his forehead in ways that his family would never have approved of. He looked more unkempt than you remembered, more than just his hair. 

Both of your mouths opened to speak at the same time. 

“I’m sorry,” he chuckled nervously. “You can go first.” 

He sounded just the same. Hearing his voice when you’d forgotten its sound so long ago was like stepping before a fireplace after months in the snow. He warmed you from the center outward. 

“I— I don’t know what to say,” you stuttered. “I just mi— I m—” You could not get the words out.

“I missed you so much,” he breathed, each word stapled down like a thick piece of parchment. They permeated the air, seemingly silencing the impending thunderstorm all around you. He said what you had not been able to.

And then he was walking down the grand stairs with a pace that his long legs maintained much more smoothly than you’d ever be able to. He crossed the small strip of neatly manicured, half-dead grass that remained choked before the Black Manor, and, seeing no resistance from you, wrapped his arms around your shoulders. 

You gasped through your nose as your face was pressed into his shoulder. The shock of being grabbed by him rendered your body useless for only a moment. Once you were able to move again, you wrapped tentative arms around his waist. 

When he felt you reciprocate, he quickly readjusted himself. One arm wrapped around your waist, dragging you impossibly closer, while the other hand pressed against the back of your head. He cradled you against him, tucking his face deeply into the collar of your clothing. He breathed your scent in like a drag of a cigarette an addict had been without for years.

Which, in a way, that was what you were to him. 

Tears pricked at the corner of your eyes as your hands clutched at his clothing. You revelled in his scent, in his warmth, in his presence. 

Before his letter, you’d been sure that you’d never feel this sensation again. But now, you were so completely satisfied. 

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbled into your neck, his warm breath curling against your jaw. 

“It’s okay,” you gasped, almost embarrassed at how quickly you forgave him. “I’m sorry too.”

He pulled away, eyes searching yours confusedly. One of his hands reached up and hesitantly placed against your cheek. “Why?” he breathed. “Please don’t ever apologize to me. You did nothing wrong.”

“No, I should— Regulus, I’m so sorry,” you choked out. There was no stopping the tears now. They flowed freely down your cheeks, hot and streaking. “I should have reached out. I should have talked to you. I’m sorry. I messed it all up, I—”

“No.” His voice was soft, yet stern. “You didn’t mess anything up. It was me. I should never have let you go. My family, they’re… they’re nothing to me. I should have done better. You deserved so much more.” 

Both of his hands clutched your face now, his thumbs wiping the tears away from your soaked cheeks. There were a few more moments of silence, the two of you just remembering how it felt to be near one another. 

“Do you want to come in?” he asked, his head pressed back into the crook of your neck. His lips were soft against your skin, flesh skimming yours every other syllable. You fought the shiver that shot through your body. 

“Um, I don’t want to impose. Is your family…?” you trailed off.

“My family is away,” he responded, brushing one last tear off the edge of your chin. “It’s just us. There’s so much you have to catch me up on.”

“Not really,” you snorted.

“That’s ridiculous! I saw you in the papers just this morning!” he argued, a playful smile teetering at the edges of his lips. Merlin, you’d missed that smile. 

“I mean, I’m doing good work, like it’s a good cause,” you scratched the back of your head. “But I just worry I’m not the right person to do it.”

He began to lead you toward the enormous, dark manor as you spoke. 

“I can’t think of anyone better suited,” he said, smiling easily. As you walked up the stairs to the front door, you felt a gentle hand press to the small of your back, expertly guiding you back into his life. And you genuinely could not have been happier.

Once inside, he sat you in a sitting room off to the left of the foyer. You hadn’t been inside this room when you were last here during Christmas dinner, but you were certain it’d take you weeks to see all the rooms in this house. 

He set you down in one of two cushy armchairs, dark green and faded with age, where a small oaken table sat between the two of them. You slipped your coat off, and he took it politely, draping it over the back of his own chair. Ever the gentleman, you thought, a small smirk playing at your lips. 

He prepared you both a small cup of tea while he insisted you keep talking.

And you were shocked at how easy it was to slip back into that old routine, of spilling your guts at his feet and begging him to put you back together. He never made you feel weak or worthless or pathetic when you did, because he knew you’d do the same for him. You were both weak sometimes, but you both always put each other back together. 

You told him of your life post-graduation, how you thought the bigotry would cease even slightly as everyone became adults, but it never did. If anything, it worsened. 

You told him of the comments and insults and threats that had been thrown your way, and your eventual realization that something needed to be done about it. 

You’d realized that nobody was coming to help you or any of the other Half-bloods or Muggle-borns, and it was up to you to make a difference. 

So what had started as a small rally of a few witches and wizards protesting on the sidewalk had eventually turned into the beginnings of a political party set on making a difference.

And all the while, Regulus watched you as if you were the night sky. His eyes glanced down to your lips when you smiled and back to your eyes when they sparkled with delight. He never pulled away from you, even to just sip his tea. 

You were sure that his tea was completely cold, and yet still untouched, by the time you’d finished speaking. 

“That’s amazing,” Regulus said. “What you’re doing, it’s really amazing. I’d love to… er… make a donation, if that wouldn’t be too odd for you.”

“Oh, yeah?” you snorted. “Using Black money to donate to a blood diversity campaign? How do you think that’s going to go over?” 

“First of all, it’s my money,” he said, scooting to the edge of his seat. “And, secondly, they wouldn’t need to find out. I could just make it anonymously. I’d love to help.”

And despite his obvious desire to help, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment in your stomach as you realized that he was still the same in some capacity. It had been foolish of you to hope that he’d want to join your movement. But his making a donation was more than a lot of people would ever do.

“No, I couldn’t possibly ask that of you. I—”

“You didn’t ask me,” he chuckled, finally taking a sip of his tea. “I offered.”

“Well, yes, but I just feel like that’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Why do you think that? It’s something you care about, and it’s a good cause. Would you rather I blow it on ridiculous frivolities?”

“I can’t really dictate what you do with your money. I just don’t want you to feel obligated to do anything.”

“I don’t feel obligated,” he said. “I feel as though a very important person to me is standing for a great cause. It’s strong but could always use support. So, I’m offering my support.”

“Someone important to you, huh?” you smirked slightly.

He set his teacup down on its saucer before his eyes flickered back up to you. The serious expression on his face made your smile falter.

“Did you not read my letter?” he asked, some kind of hurt flashing in his eyes.

“No, I did. I mean, yes, I did read it. I was just… I thought it was almost too good to be true. I mean, you talk of these uncontrollable feelings that had plagued you for years all through school, but then you left me alone for the latter half of it,” you sighed, fingers curling nervously in your lap. “There were times I needed you, and you weren’t there.”

You glanced up at him through the edges of pooling tears. Damn it. You said you weren’t going to cry. 

But the residual pain that lit up in your chest each time you remembered lying awake in bed at school, wondering what you’d done wrong, was too much to bear. Your best friend hadn’t spoken to you in weeks, and you were completely alone. 

Of course, weeks had turned to months, and months had turned to years. And now here he was, all these years later, stating he loved you and always had. It just wasn’t fair.

“I loved you, Reg,” you choked out, a single tear working its way down your cheek. “But I had to deal with that alone. You never talked to me; you never sat with me. I spent so much of my school career wondering what I had done to make you hate me so much.”

“No, please, I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I never hated you. Please don’t ever say that.”

Your vision was blurred by the sadness you had tried to restrain, but you noticed that Regulus’s eyes were also beginning to dim with sparkling tears.

He dropped to the floor, his knees pressed into the rich brown rug beneath you. His hands found yours in your lap, as he begged before your chair. 

“I’m so sorry,” Reg said. “I completely fucked it all up. I know I did. I’m sorry. I should have been there, but I was frightened that you thought I was the same as my family. I thought if I didn’t bring it back up, you would just forget about me. I was hurting you by being around because of my stupid friends and family. I’m so sorry.”

His hands clasped tightly around yours. His head dropped against your knees, a stuttering sob gasping from his lips. His fingers shook around yours. “Please,” he whimpered against your pant legs, his salty tears dampening the fabric. “You don’t have to do anything, just please…”

“Please, what?” you sobbed, failing to hold back every tear that threatened to fall. 

“You don’t have to love me back,” he cried. “You don’t have to care for me. You can leave. Just please forgive me. Please. I’m so sorry.”

You could not refrain from comforting him. Perhaps it would have been healthier for both of you to move on from this, to forget all about it. But you could not see him begging like this and not feel your heart clenching like it was.

Your hand, not clenched in his, reached into his dark curls, applying gentle, soothing caresses. A broken sob left his lips at the sensation. His fingers tightened around yours. 

“I forgive you, Reg,” you whispered, salt slipping between your teeth. 

His head tilted upward, chin positioned just above his clasped hands. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, pooling with emotion that refused to cease. He looked just as gorgeous as you’d ever remembered him.

“That’s all I need,” he sighed, his chest hiccuping from the weight of his sobs. “Just your forgiveness.”

He pressed a soft kiss to your knuckle. The hand that was in his hair moved down to his cheek, your fingers caressing the edge of his jawline. His eyes closed as he leaned into your touch. He seemed completely at peace in ways you’d never seen him before. 

“I’ve been so alone,” he whispered, lips brushing over the edges of your palm. “After… Sirius left, all of my mother’s anger…”

“I’m sorry, Regulus,” you said. “I really am.”

There was a moment of silence between the two of you where he refused to let go of your hand, and his cheek nestled against your palm. He basked in your presence; your scent, your warmth; your face. He’d never expected to experience you ever again.

“I miss him too,” you breathed, thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone.

Sirius had run away years prior. He’d moved in with one of his Gryffindor friends and found some form of happiness in ways that did not involve you or Regulus or the rest of his family.

It hurt, knowing that he was able to separate himself so easily, but you knew that it was healthier for him in the end.

Shortly after you and Regulus had graduated, though, he’d been arrested and sent to Azkaban. Ever since then, you’d had to watch as a close friend’s image was destroyed. 

You’d had to withstand every accusation involving your friendship with him regarding your career; you’d had to pretend to have nothing to do with him when all you wanted was to speak with him, to ask him what happened. You’d never believed he’d be able to kill someone—not the Sirius you knew. 

And in all of the suffering you endured with it, Regulus experienced that ten times over, because while you’d lost a friend, he’d lost a brother. 

“How dare you?”

The voice came from the hallway. 

It sent shivers down your spine, with a sound like a bow screeching over a violin’s strings. 

Both you and Regulus turned abruptly toward the door where his mother stood lurking. The malice imprinted on her face was like nothing you’d ever seen before.

You stood so quickly the armchair scratched audibly against the floorboards. Regulus got to his feet as well, placing himself naturally between you and his mother.

“Mother, what on earth are you doing here—?”

“Silence!” she demanded, her voice lingering uncomfortably in the eerie quiet of the house. “What in Merlin’s name is she doing in my house?” 

“I—” you started to defend yourself.

“I invited her here,” Regulus cut you off. His mother made a noise like a scoff through her nose. 

“I needed to speak with her—it’d been too long.”

“And I thought I’d made it clear that she was not welcome here,” she hissed. “And here I return to my own house to find it spoiled with dirty blood.”

Tears rose in your throat, producing a pain like no other. Lightning spread from your jaw down to your chest as you forced the sobs to stay within you.

“I’m sorry, Reg, I’ll just be going—”

“And you! I don’t know if it’s those filthy Half-blood parents of yours that taught you to intrude in someone else’s home, but it is unforgivable. You are not welcome here; you have never been welcome here. To come here and warp my son's mind with your delusional beliefs. Then, to have the audacity to mention… aspects of my family that have nothing to do with you!”

She couldn’t even say Sirius’s name. It was like he was a curse. 

“I never meant to intrude,” you scoffed, those bastard tears welling up in your eyes again. “I only meant to catch up with a friend.”

“Regulus is not your friend,” she growled.

“Mother, don’t speak of—”

“It’s fine, Reg,” you sighed. “I’ll just go.”

You didn’t expect him to stand up for you any more than he had in the past. It was unfair to expect that. He still had a family—one that would take care of him his entire life. Why risk it all for the favor of one pitiful girl? 

You grabbed your coat and slipped past his mother, avoiding the way her gaze burned down your neck.

“If I ever see you here again, I’ll be contacting the Aurors!” she threatened as you made your way down the hallway into the foyer, then out the door.

As you rushed down the stairs, the sobs you’d been trying so hard to conceal began to spill uncontrollably. You ran through the courtyard to the edge of the manicured yard where thick, misty woods lined the property. Your legs gave out as soon as you were out of the house’s line of sight.

You fell to the cobblestone ground, tears sliding down your cheeks and soaking your clothes. You pressed a hand to your face and attempted to muffle your cries with the collar of your shirt. 

How could you have ever hoped that Regulus was any different than he once was? He’d always defended you, and clearly always would, but he never chose you in the end. The only one who was ever there to comfort you was you.

So when you’d gotten accustomed to the absence of arms around you, the last thing you’d expected to feel was a sudden crash of weight against you that smelled of cloves and the earth after it rained. 

*

Regulus’s arms tightened around you, concealing your body within his robes. His body against you forced a gasp from your lips. And you were weeping into his chest, grasping desperately at his shirt, pressing years of pent-up anger and frustration and love into his skin. 

After you had cried until you couldn’t any longer, he slipped his arms beneath you and got to his feet. A small squeak of surprise left your lips as you clung to his shoulders.

“What are you doing?” you shivered. 

“What I should have done years ago,” he mumbled. Then you were off, Disapparating while still pressed against him. 

When the two of you landed, it was not in a place you were immediately familiar with. Its dim, gray interior and Victorian accents seemed reminiscent of the Black Manor but in a different way. 

“What is this place?” you whispered, your face warm under the inflammation of having cried for so long. He set you down on the carpeted floor, glancing about briefly. 

“Grimmauld Place,” he said. “My family once owned it, but my brother gifted it to Dumbledore before he was arrested.”

“It’s lovely,” you whispered, nerves impeding your ability to speak properly. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay. What about your mother? What will she say? She’ll surely kick you out now,” you fretted, placing your hands against his chest.

Solemnly, he covered your hands with his own, stroking slow patterns over your knuckles with his thumbs. “I told her I wouldn’t be returning.”

“You— What?” you gasped, eyes blowing wide. You pulled away from him, stepping backward until the backs of your legs hit the velvet chaise behind you. 

“I told you I’d do anything for your forgiveness,” he breathed. “I couldn’t let her speak to you like that, not with how much you mean to me.”

You stepped back toward him, chest heaving with the panicked breaths your body refused to calm. A cold hand was placed to his cheek, bidding him look at you instead of the floor. His eyes, so full of sorrow and love, tore right through your soul. 

“Reg…”

Before your past self could convince you to hold back any longer, your lips were on his. He exhaled deeply into the kiss, hands finding their way upward to grasp at your face and hair. 

A soft whimper slid from his lips that you swallowed up instantly. 

Years of yearning and anticipation had been lost the moment his tongue caressed yours, all of it suddenly having been worth it. All of the pain, the misery, the tears were all meaningless in the wake of his taste. 

He walked you backward once more, though this time he did not stop when your legs hit the chaise. Instead, he pushed you down onto its velvety cushion, cradling your head as the both of you fell. He crawled atop your body, pulling away from your lips only to trail his mouth down the length of your neck. His tongue soaked up all of the salt that had dried on your skin from your tears. 

You gasped at the sensation, fingers curling in his hair, as you reveled in the sensation of being chosen. Regulus chose you this time—not his friends, his family, his image. He chose you.

And now, here he was, placing a kiss on each inch of your body that was exposed as he unbuttoned your blouse. 

His fingers worked nimbly, sliding each button through its eyelet, tasting a complete line of your flesh until his face was just before your waistband.

He glanced upward at you, watching your expression alter with each new touch. His tongue traced the edge of your trousers, slipping only once below to tease the top of your inguinal dip. 

You ventured a look downward when his movements stopped. His face was still pressed to your exposed belly, his mouth lingering open, tongue darting out intermittently to taste of your skin. His eyes were lidded, with the pupils blown impossibly wide. 

“What is it? Why’d you stop?” you whined. 

“Need to hear you say it, my love,” he whispered against you.

“Say what?”

“That you want this,” he answered, pressing another kiss to your flesh, his breath hot and pulsing. 

“Yes, I want it.”

“Want what? For me to take these pants off?” he asked innocently. 

Your eyes clenched shut as his fingers caressed down the length of your ribs. They followed the natural anatomy of your body all the way down to your trousers, where he agonizingly eased the latch open, taking his time to work the zipper down tooth by tooth. 

When he had separated the band, he slipped the article of clothing down your legs, exposing you to the cool air. Chills erupted down the length of your thighs. 

Beneath, you wore a pair of black panties—simple enough, though they had a nicer band of lace around the waist (thank Merlin). 

“Fuck, look at you,” he whispered, immediately taking to mouthing along the line of the underwear.

You moaned at the feeling, fingers curling instantly in his hair, entrapping his mouth against you. “Please, Reg, no teasing. Been waiting long enough.”

“Oh, you have, have you?” he exhaled against you. “What about me? What about all the nights I dreamed of taking you apart for hours?”

You whimpered, fingers coming up to thread in your own hair as you fought your own self-control. “Please, please just touch me.”

“I will, baby, but let me taste you first.”

“T-taste me?” you choked out, pressing a hand over your mouth to shut your own nervous rambling up.

“What, you don't want that?” he asked, lips separating from your hips to glance up at you.

“No! No, I do want that. Please, Reg. Please.”

“Please, what?” he teased.

“Please, just…,” you groaned embarrassedly.

“Please…,” his fingertips slid ever so slightly beneath the waistband of your panties, skirting the sensitive skin that waited just above your core. “Please taste this sweet cunt? Is that what you want?” 

“Yes, please, Regulus,” you cried, fingers curling uselessly in the throw blanket laid above you. 

He dropped down against the chaise, his chest skirting its cushion like a lion stalking in tall grass. His eyes were only just visible over the curvature of your body, and they were scathing. Watching his dark irises fixed on you was reminiscent of holding your hand too close to a candle’s flame. You could hardly comprehend the heat it washed through you. 

As he continued to watch you, the tip of his nose eased up the length of your core, brushing against every inch of the most sensitive part of your body. Your head rolled back against the small pillow propped against the arm of the chair. 

At the sight, Regulus’s mouth parted open in a silent gasp, his warm breath cascading over you. Your hips bucked at the sensation, your body entirely too wound up from the dramatic events of the evening. The chaise rocked ever so gently as Regulus ground his hardening cock into the edge of the framework. 

“Stay still for me,” he whispered against you, lips brushing against the fabric of your underwear. 

“Fuck, Reg, please just touch me,” you groaned, fingers sliding into your hair. It felt as though eternal bliss was being withheld from you cruelly and completely. If you could just feel his tongue against you, you thought you might see heaven. 

“Please, please, pl—” Your words were cut off with a shuddering inhale as he pressed his mouth to you, lips and tongue moving languidly against you through the thin fabric of your panties. You struggled not to bury your fingers in his hair once more. 

You moaned aloud, the sound cutting off with a high-pitched whine as your voice broke. Hours of crying, arguing with his mother, and then begging beneath him had taken a toll on your irritated vocal cords. 

“Yeah?” he groaned against you, vibrations from his voice travelling up your very spine. His hands slid around the circumference of your naked thighs, strong fingers digging in deeply. He propped your legs wide open, holding them in place against the cushions. 

He was deceptively strong, you’d come to discover, as you tried to press your knees together to pull away from his overzealous tongue, but found that you could not. 

“Please,” you begged, attempting to pull yourself away by propped-up elbows now. 

“Uh-uh,” he tutted, grabbing hold of your hips and yanking you back toward him. “Haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.” 

He slid a cold finger between the moistened fabric of your underwear and the sweet heat of your core. “W-what are you doing?” you gasped. 

He said nothing, only glanced up at you through deeply mischievous eyes. A small, open smirk played on his face as he pulled his free hand out from around your leg. 

“Reg?” you whimpered. 

His hand met the tent of fabric he’d created with your panties and, using the familial crest ring slid down the length of his third finger, slit the lace right across. The ruined underwear fell loosely away, revealing every inch of your most sensitive area to his eyes. Your cunt pulsed at the imagery. A moan tried to force its way out, but it only exited in some form of a whispered whine. 

That smirk never dissipated as he pulled the ring off of his finger and tossed it somewhere to the far side of the room. The heavy metal clinked off in the distance, rolling noisily until it hit one of the walls and fell on its side. Your attention had been momentarily diverted to that discarded ring, though it did not take long for Regulus to bring you back to him. 

He dove against your core, wettened mouth devouring you as though you were the sweetest of fruits. He groaned against you as your taste flooded his mouth. At the sudden contact, you gasped and fell back against the chaise, your weakened arms no longer capable of holding you up. 

Pathetic, breathy moans left your lips with every taste that he took of you. His strong hands refused to release you as he took everything he desired. 

Somewhere along the way, your fingers had made their way back to his hair and had tightened in it just enough to make Regulus’s hardened stare falter for only a second as his eyes fluttered backward. 

With each second that his tongue caressed you, your natural wetness pooled at the curve of your entrance. It pulsated with every breath your chest heaved out, begging for something to satiate it. 

Just as you were about to ask him to please use his fingers, his tongue, anything, he slipped a long finger into you where he found little to no resistance. The intrusion stretched your body so easily, you felt as though he’d willed you to loosen for him on contact. 

“Fuck, you just took me right in,” he whispered against you, finger curling gently upward. “Like you were made for me.”

“I was,” you whined. 

“I know you were.” 

He pulled away from you, your cunt clenching around nothing as he pulled his hand away from you. You whimpered at the loss. 

You looked up, wondering why he’d ever stop when you were already teetering on the edge of blind pleasure. Seconds more and you’d have come against his mouth. 

Regulus made quick work of his shirt, unbuttoning it at record speed. He ripped the dark material off his shoulders, letting it fall somewhere behind him. Next, he forced his trousers down, revealing only a dark pair of briefs that cupped every inch of his hardened length deliciously well. 

Your lips parted at the sight. His chest heaved as he let you take him in for a moment. Each elegantly carved muscle descended to a strong apex in his hips where he was concealed only by the thinnest of materials. You sat up, crawling forward on your hands, mouth watering at the sight of him. 

Just as you were about to place your tongue against his prominent core, he stopped you with a gentle hand curled into your hair. You stopped and looked upward, confusion clouding your expression. “What is it?” you whispered, cheeks burning beneath his eyes. 

“Next time,” he whispered, pushing you back against the cushion. 

“Why?” He crawled back atop you, his face nestling in the crook of your naked shoulder. He pressed a few open-mouthed kisses against your flesh, tongue curving over your collarbone. 

“Because I won’t last if you do that right now,” he whispered against the shell of your ear. “Want to fuck you. This is my first chance, ‘m not missing out on feeling you wrapped around me.”

A shudder passed through your body at his words, his warm breath fanning over your skin. Finally, after pining for so long, you dragged your fingers up the length of his exposed back, feeling each defined length of sinew flexing as he hovered above you.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” you whispered, tears pricking at your eyes once again. Regulus pulled away from your shoulder to look at you, concern warping his features. 

He placed all of his weight against one arm and reached up with his free hand to ease a strand of hair out of your face. “Why are you crying, my love?”

“I just—” Your throat burned again. You didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to taint this moment with unnecessary emotion, but you couldn’t help it. All you’d wanted for what felt like eternity was Regulus, and now that you’d had him, you couldn’t help but be overwhelmed. 

“It’s okay,” he whispered ever so gently, leaning down to press a slow kiss against your lips. When he pulled away, you mourned the loss of his warmth. “Do you want to stop?”

“God, no,” you laughed just a bit, the humor pushing the edge of sadness back just a bit. Regulus smiled lazily at your response. He leaned forward and pressed a sweet kiss to your forehead. 

“It’s alright,” he said. “I understand. Let me take care of you. Don’t think of the years we missed; just think of what we have right now. Just feel me, okay?”

His eyes searched yours seriously, awaiting the answer he was not going to let you get away without. Never breaking eye contact with you, he eased his briefs down his legs. You did not look down at his body. You were completely unable to tear your eyes away from his. 

In the slightest breath, he eased his naked core against yours. Hot, pulsing strength eased against you, sliding along your wet heat. The softest gasp was all your body was able to produce, but still, you did not look away.

“That’s it,” he breathed. He slid himself along you, teasing every inch of you. You could hardly find it within yourself to draw a breath. Your fingers clutched tightly against his shoulders, searching for any kind of purchase at all. 

“Don’t look away,” he said, cock circling your soaked entrance. “Don’t look away, okay?”

“I won’t,” you shuddered. “Just, please…”

“Please, what?”

“Please fuck me, Regulus,” you sobbed. Your nails dug into the pale flesh laid along the broad muscle of his shoulders. He groaned at the stinging, fists clawing into the throw blanket as he forced his self-control to hold on for one more second. 

He wanted to savor every second of this moment. He didn’t want to miss a single detail; everything had to be committed to memory. Because Merlin forbid, after all of this was done, you’d regret it all. Merlin forbid, he’d never see you again. The thought made him sick. 

So as long as you let him have you, he wanted to make it last as long as possible, but you were making that so impossibly hard.  

“Please,” you begged again, tears pooling at the edges of your eyes. Again, you could hardly understand what this odd mixture of emotions was, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care much. The only thing that mattered in this moment was Regulus burying himself as deep as he could inside of you. You didn’t want to think; you didn’t want to hurt; you only wanted to feel his hips bruising the backs of your legs. 

You wriggled beneath him, trying to push him into you. 

“Stop,” Regulus breathed, his hand wrapping around your jaw. “Can’t you see I’m trying to make this last?”

“Why does it have to last? I just want to feel you,” you whined. “We have forever.”

“What if you change your mind after this?” he asked. “What if you think all of this is a mistake after?”

“Reg,” you breathed. “I’ve spent long enough without you. All I want now is you for the rest of forever.”

“But what if you can’t find it in yourself to love me? After everything I’ve done?”

“Regulus, I have forgiven you,” you said. “You are entirely forgiven. I will never, ever leave you again. I am not angry with you, but I will be if you don’t fuck me in the next two seconds.”

At the sound of your words, Regulus found that his self-control had been completely terminated, and he could not withstand shoving himself into you any longer. He pressed into your tight, wettened heat in one smooth movement that yielded no resistance. 

A high, broken whine fell from your lips as he slid into you. His lips parted in a low, shuddering gasp as his face hovered over you. You were everything he’d ever imagined and more—the most delicious sensation wrapping around him, one neither his hand nor any other woman could even begin to compare to. 

Your lips brushed against each other’s as both of you tried to catch your breath, each hot exhale intermingling between you. 

He stayed still for a few moments, just feeling your heat around him, fulfilling every fantasy he’d ever had about you. His knuckles were wrapped so tightly in the throw, he could no longer feel them. They buzzed with a numbed static. 

“Don’t look away,” he whispered.

“Never,” you responded, tongue slowly easing out to tease his bottom lip. His breath came out heavily through his nose as he pressed your mouths together once more. 

As soon as you were connected in that way, he began to slowly roll his hips, eliciting a deep groan from both of you. Your hands slid up the length of his spine, nails burying deep into his flesh, leaving marks that he hoped would stay forever. He wanted your touch to scorch his skin like a brand—one that he could look at every morning and every night. He did not want any form of identity that did not contain you. 

When he separated your lips, a moan slipped away from you instantly as his hips angled and hit a spot that you’d never been able to touch yourself. He buried his head in your neck as he began to increase his speed, consistently bullying that one, heightened spot. 

One of your hands slid into his hair, fingers tightening into the damp curls. Once again, he groaned against your hot skin when you tugged against his scalp. That was a sensation he’d never get used to. 

Between the constant teasing and his having devoured you only moments ago, you did not have much stamina left within you. A few more thrusts of his hips and you’d be coming harder than you’d had in years. And Regulus could tell because each movement warranted a tighter squeeze from your cunt. 

“Reg, I’m c–close, so close!” you whined, breaths heaving out of you as though you were being dangled over an insanely high precipice. The bottom of the chasm taunted you, beckoning you to slip off the edge. 

“Please come,” he sighed against your ear. “It’s all I want. Please come for me.”

His filthy words, in combination with his brutally accurate thrusts, took all of five more seconds to force you over that edge. You came with a gasp that punched out of you like a fist. Your body arched against his, sticky skin pressing to each other. As he worked you through your high, his body clutched around yours like a kind of protective shell. His weight on you was reminiscent of only the safest of armors. You felt as though, lying like this with him above you, nothing could touch you. 

Your cunt spasmed around him. The quick fluttering sent shocks up the length of his spine, before cracking his skull wide open. 

“Fuck!” he groaned, a spidery string of spit spilling from his lips onto your chest as he fucked himself through his own orgasm. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you…”

Each interjection was punctuated with a sloppy, rapid thrust that pumped you full of his finish. The upper half of his body fell completely limp as he lay against you, his hips still rolling into you as he came down from the longest end he’d ever experienced. 

He worked himself to the brink of overstimulation, pushing every drop of his cum deeper into you, as he struggled to stop. He didn’t want to pull himself out of you. In that moment, doing so felt like being ripped out of his body. 

Once he finally stopped moving, and his lower half went still as well, his complete weight upon you crushed all of your breath out of your lungs. A huffing laugh spilled from your lips as one of your hands came up and caressed the top of his head. He sighed contentedly against you. 

After a while, you were sure that the two of you had fallen asleep, because you’d woken alone in the dark with a slowly dimming fire scorching in the corner. You were in a new room, presumably still at Grimmauld Place, nestled in a cushy bed. Outside, you could see delicate snowflakes fluttering about outside the main window. 

Your naked body was completely wrapped in a combination of the throw blanket from the chaise and a soft duvet you’d never seen before. 

And in the silence, in the very dead of night, when the only sound was your breathing and the distant howling of wolves, you thought of Regulus Black. Only this time, he was just in the next room, reading peacefully and waiting for you to wake.

---

Tag List: @lilymurphy03, @mypolicemanharryyy, @angelfrombeneth, @clairesjointshurt, @bunbunbl0gs, @acornacreacure, @niktwazny303, @thestarlithideout, @sarahskakskskskajakwwnwjw, @yhiiil, @xxrougefangxx, @thatblackthorn, @robinyx, @starsval, @jolly4holly, @blvebanisters, @chgrch, @ilovehotmenandwoman, @smutnyrobocikwrakiecie, @synicaljah, @2dloveshp, @seagull-on-toast

[carolinesalvawhore]

george weasley fingering the shit out of you ( 18+ mdni ) (requested by anon)

your mind was blissfully empty. drool was slipping from your mouth as moan after moan escaped your lips. the reason? george weasley had you face down, ass up as his fingers pumped in and out of you.

you words were beginning to slur. "ngh — s'good, s'fucking good."

"yeah?" asked george, his voice dripping with pride. "i know it is."

george only had one finger inside you, but one was was enough. long and thick, he was curving it perfectly to hit the right spot, over and over. you tried to rock your hips back, but a slap to your ass made you reconsider. george soothed the red skin down, chuckling. "i'm in charge, darlin', don't forget it."

"need mo — more!" you gasp out, head tilting back to look at him.

"more?" he echoed. "greedy girl. already dripping down my whole hand."

george might've been teasing you, but he was also never one to deny your pleasure. which is why a minute later, you felt his thumb press onto your clit as another finger breached your entrance.

you let out a strangled groan. "please, please, please, yes! thank you — fuucckkk — thank you, georgie."

george shoved your head back down, muffling your voice and keeping a firm hand there. "keep it down, will you? don't wanna wake someone up. can't have everyone knowing you love getting fingered like a slut."

you nodded, feeling a little pathetic by how wet you are. george's fingers move faster and faster, filling the room with an obscene squelching sound. your thighs were beginning to tremble, threatening to give out, but george's voice snaps like a warning: "don't you dare. i've been doing all the work anyway, all you have to do is sit there and take it."

you nearly wail as his fingers slip out of you, flipping you over. your eyes meet his chocolate ones, and they darken even more as he takes in your state. tears are rolling down your cheeks, panting in small puffs. he leans down and places a soft kiss to your temple. "you're a bloody vision, sweetheart. lookin' all fucked out and i haven't even given you my cock yet."

you pouted up at him. "needa cum, georgie, please, fill me up again!"

he looked over your body almost scientifically as he pulled a pillow under your hips, elevating them. "gotta do something about your damn mouth, though... keep you quiet."

you bit your lip as you took his other hand to your mouth and sucked on his fingers. he seemed satisfied as he pushed them deeper into your mouth. "that'll do it. suck them like it's my cock. fuckin' cockwhore. maybe next time fred can keep your mouth busy."

you spread your legs wider, showing him how your entrance clenched, and his eyes darkened. without any warning, he plunged his fingers back inside. three long, veiny fingers were splitting you open. every thrust of them was hitting just the right spot, causing your vision to whiten and eyes to flutter closed.

"mhm, don't stop!" you said, voice warbled around his fingers. spit was escaping from the corner of your mouth, dripping down your tits as you tweaked and pinched your nippes.

"can feel your pussy squeezing me sooo tight." said george triumphantly. "gonna cum? go ahead, soak my fingers."

that was all you needed as your body writhed around the bed, waves and waves of pleasure rolling over you. you could feel electricity tingling to your fingertips, toes curling. george's assault never stopped, his fingers moving faster and bordering on overstimulation.

it was only when you finally collapsed, tired, did george pull out his fingers, licking each one theatrically while his eyes were raking over your body. he was nowhere near finished with you.

[aureateink]

I need some more George Weasley pics!! omds! ur fics of him are so good they just hit different 🤧 i literally cannot read GW fics of any other author after discovering your work! literally anything you'll give me of him ill appreciate and devour 🙏

ask and you shall receive 🫶 thanks for your patience

when did you get hot?

George Weasley x f!reader

summary: that gangly, red-headed boy that had a major crush on you at Hogwarts looks a little….different.

cw: MDNI 18+, post!Hogwarts, getting finger blasted in a dive bar, the Knee Thing™, dirty talk, pet names

aureate's library

“You remember George, right?”

It took your brain a full thirty seconds to catalogue what you were seeing. Auburn hair. Ginger scruff. Honey-colored eyes. Tall. Like really tall. Brown slacks and loose, half-unbuttoned white dress shirt. Crooked smile.

That smile was the only thing that hadn't changed in the five years since you last laid eyes on George Weasley.

“I-uh, yeah! Of course!”

That smile widened, lilting upwards at the left corner.

You were wrong. His smile had changed. It never used to make your brain go all slushy.

That was definitely new.

“It’s been a long time,” George said, his voice barely an octave higher than the bass thudding from the speakers overhead. Vibrating through your bones. “How have you been?”

You're mind was wiped clean of anything but when did he get so hot?

The George Weasley you remembered was a beanpole, always a bit too tall for his slacks, arms a bit too long for his shirts. He was always exuberant, borderline manic with his endless pranks and games. Sweet, always sweet, but too eager.

Now, he was practically dripping with confidence. An ease about himself you definitely don't recall him having.

Now, you were the one fumbling over your words. Palms slick as you wiped them on your mini skirt.

“I've been good, really good—like, yeah, uh—how are you? How's the shop?”

“Can't complain,” he said, dipping his head down to hear you better over the din of the bar. His cologne wafted over you. Musky and warm. You noticed that the friends who dragged you out had abandoned you. “How’s McLaggen?”

His distaste was evident even all these years later. You couldn't really blame him. Cormac was an asshole more often than he wasn't.

You shrugged a shoulder. “Fine, I guess. We split a few months ago.”

“Oh, I didn't—I’m sorry.” And he actually looked it.

“It's alright. There's no hard feelings.”

His eyes flitted over your face. Searching for something. Then—“can I get you a drink?” He lifted a hand to flag down the bartender before you could answer, crooking two long fingers in the air.

You felt the gesture down to your toes.

“Espresso martini?” He glanced back at you.

“How'd you know?”

“I remember that match against Slytherin. You and your friends were drinking dorm coffee and vodka—”

“Oh my god, you do not remember that!” Heat scorched your cheeks.

He laughed, a sound like a summer storm. “Of course I do. You were drunk before you even made it out to the pitch. You used my broom like a walking stick.”

You groaned and hid your face in your hands, mortified.

Warm fingers circled your wrists, urging your hands back down. “Don't be embarrassed. Even sloppy drunk, you were still the coolest person in the stands.”

“Yeah, right—”

“I thought so.” Those eyes were molten, soft with sincerity, but something burning underneath. A kindling flame.

His crush on you had been apparent from the moment you stepped off the train that first year, and as far as you knew, never quite left him entirely, even when you started dating McLaggen in fifth year.

The breakup was most of the reason your friends had dragged you out tonight. They thought it was time for you to get back on the horse, so to speak.

And now, you were thinking it hadn't been such a bad idea after all.

The bartender set your drink on the bar, along with a frosty pint nearly as dark. You took a long drink, trying to rally your nerves. George did the same, watching you over the rim. His throat worked as he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, and you had to stop yourself from staring.

“Still do,” he added, setting his beer down, “if I'm being honest.”

You almost choked. Saints sake, you needed to get a grip. This was George Weasley. You've known him for more than a decade. Sure, he's like Adonis-level hot now, shoulders straining the seams of his shirt, forearms thick and tanned—

Get. A. Grip.

“You've always been honest, Weasley,” you teased. A feeble attempt at gaining some control of the situation.

You didn't think he could lie if he tried. It was a trait of his that once embarrassed you, the vulnerable, raw way he used to look at you. But now, after years of failed dates and fakes, you found it quite endearing.

He chuckled, eyes flinting. “And you've always made a fool out of me.”

“I think you managed just fine on your own.” You let your eyes wander over him now, hoping he caught your double meaning.

He did, his chest puffing up just the tiniest bit, and your heart squeezed.

Your friends and his chose that moment to descend upon you once again, filling in all the charged space between you with chatter and laughter. You let them buoy you away, but kept an eye on George as the night wore on. He did the same, your eyes meeting across the room countless times. Even when you looked away, you could still feel him watching, tracking you from the bar to the dance floor and back again. Like a cord had fastened you together, a connection that thrummed with energy even when you were physically apart.

The old George would have clung to your side, seeking any attention you could give him, but this George let you wander, let the distance stretch and pulse. Like he knew you'd find your way back to him when you were ready.

And you were about to do just that, anticipation quickening your steps, when some stranger stepped into your path.

“Hey, babe. Want to dance?”

This dude was greasy and reeked of light beer, and you didn't appreciate being physically blocked.

“No thanks.” You tried to move around him.

He blocked you again. “Aw, why not? I’ll be good to ya’—”

“I said no.” You shoulder checked him, pushing harder to get around him.

He grabbed your wrist, yanked you back around in a dizzying whirl. “Watch it, bit—”

“She said no.” A long-fingered hand grabbed around the guy's wrist, knuckles going white as it squeezed. George.

The guy cursed, releasing you immediately. George shoved him backwards. Put his body between the two of you. The stranger stumbled, then fell onto his ass. He muttered something unintelligible, then scurried away into the crowd.

Your head was spinning, heart pounding as you rubbed your wrist. The man hadn't exactly hurt you, but the echo of the unwanted touch burned.

“Come on, love.” George lifted his arm, and you tucked into his side without thought. Easy and familiar as settling into a favorite chair. He smelled like herbal tea and cinnamon, with something like gunpowder lingering on his clothes, and you wanted to wallow in it. “Are you hurt?” He asked once you made it to a quieter corner of the bar.

“No, no—thank you, George.” You looked up at him, and the spark of electricity that ignited nearly blinded you. The interaction from a moment ago completely forgotten.

God, had his lips always been so gorgeous?

“No need to thank me,” he said, eyes holding yours before flicking downwards. His tongue darted out, whetting his lower lip. “I, uh—”

“Hm?” You hummed, turning to face him. Bodies barely an inch apart. The racket of the bar fell away, drowned out by the thump of your hearts, shallow pants of breath.

“I always liked looking out for you,” he murmured, the arm around your shoulders slipping down your back. Bracketing your waist to pull you a bit closer.

“Yeah?” You lifted a bit onto your toes. Even in heels, you barely cleared his chest.

“Got detention once for wailing on that Hufflepuff that knocked your books out of your hands.” He shifted his weight forward. Your back bumped against the wall.

You leaned against it, gliding your hands up his chest. Fuck, he really has been working out. “I never knew that,” you said, breathless.

He melted into you, nose brushing along your temple, hands growing heavy on your hips. “Didn't want to embarrass you.” He nosed behind your ear, breath hot against your cheek. “I knew you didn't feel the same.”

Your heart panged. You cupped his jaw, lifting his face so you could look at him. Tried to push away the thought of how his stubble would feel scarping along your inner thighs.

George was—saints, it was like you were seeing him for this first time.

“George, I—”

“It's okay,” he reassured you with a soft smile. “You were always nice about it. It was a long time ago.”

He was always nice about it, too. Never once made you feel pressured, or uncomfortable, or like an object. His affection always seemed sincere, respectful, almost innocent.

Almost.

“D-do you still, um—” Your brain stuttered, struggling under the intensity of his gaze, the closeness of his body. Overwhelming you.

“Not sure I ever stopped.” The words fanned against your lips, honey-sweet.

You just had to taste them.

You pulled him in the final inch, pressing your lips to his in a slow, experimental kiss. He returned it eagerly, molding his lips to yours. Dizzyingly natural, like you'd been kissing for years, instead of seconds. Your mouths moved instinctively together, pressing and pulling, his tongue teasing along your lower lip, your teeth nipping back. His hands found their way into your hair, tilting your head back so he could kiss you deeper. Harder. Your body purred.

Kissing Cormac had never felt like this, and you actually had been kissing him for years.

George pressed closer to you, crushing you against the wall, and you squeaked, arching into him as his tongue finally plunged into your mouth. His left leg parted yours, thigh pressing up against your core.

The pressure zipped straight to your head. You gasped into his mouth. He smiled, breaking the kiss to nibble at your ear, down towards your throat.

“Even better than I thought,” he said.

You could barely hear him over the buzzing in your veins. “What is?”

“The sounds you make.” He sucked your skin between his teeth, biting a bit harder, and you moaned again, hips rocking involuntarily over his thigh. You could feel how soaked you were, and imagined leaving a damp spot on his slacks. A thrill ran through you at the thought of making a mess of him. Marking him.

He grabbed your hips again, dragging you forward, grinding his leg into your sensitive clit. Pleasure shot up your spine. Sparkled behind your closed lids. You dragged him by the hair for another kiss, teeth scraping together in your urgency.

You needed him. Now.

“Shop is up the street,” he panted.

You shook your head. “Too far.” You grabbed his hand and dragged him down the hall towards the bathrooms.

Together you stumbled into the ladies, startling two girls who were fixing their makeup. They were gracious enough to leave you be, and George locked the door behind them before tossing you up onto the counter. The chill bit into your heated skin, but did nothing to dampen the burn. His hands found your knees, pushing them apart as he dove in for another fervent kiss.

You moaned into his mouth. A lingering suspicion you'd had wormed its way into your addled mind—a rumor from your Hogwarts days. You dipped a hand between your bodies, fingertips grazing the thick bulge in his pants.

He hissed at the contact, his cock pulsing as you palmed it. Well, some of it.

Because he was fucking huge.

“Find what you're looking for?” He teased, a little breathless as you started to stroke him through the fabric. Mentally calculating just how big he was. Already, you knew he was bigger than anyone else you'd ever had. By a long shot.

Beater, indeed.

You hummed, popping the buttons of his slacks while guiding his hand between your legs. “Hard to miss.”

He chuckled, gliding his fingers over the soaked gusset of your panties. “All this for me?” He pulled the fabric up, drawing it tight against your aching clit, and you whimpered.

“I could say the same.” You pulled him free of his boxers, feeling the full heft of him in your palm. Your fingers just barely touched as you pumped him lazily. Precum smeared on the inside of your wrist. He was practically weeping for you. “The rumors were true.”

“Rumors?” The tops of his freckled cheeks tinged scarlet. From the pleasure or embarrassment, you couldn't tell.

“Yeah, that your Beater bat wasn't the only big stick you carried around…” A surprised moan swallowed the end of your sentence as his fingers dipped beneath your underwear, dipping into the pool of honey at your entrance before gliding up to your clit.

“You’ve already got me in the palm of your hand, love. There's no need for flattery—” You squeezed him gently at the base, and he grunted, thrusting once into your fist.

“True. You’ve been so patient, Georgie,” you cooed, dragging your hand up again and twisting the slickened head. Watched as his eyes started to glaze over. Lips parted as his jaw went slack.

He recovered quickly, though, and took your wrist, moving your hand away from his dick. “I have,” he said, catching your other hand from where it was fisted in his shirt. “So, you'll forgive me for wanting to enjoy myself.” He pinned your wrists to the mirror behind you, grip tight but not painfully so, and forced your back to arch upwards. Tits pressing hard against the fabric of your shirt.

He didn't waste a second. Diving down, his lips closed around one of your nipples poking through the fabric while he plunged one finger inside you. You cried out, writhing in his hold as he devoured you. Pleasure coursed through you, clenching your toes in your heels and making you arch even further into him. He quickly added a second finger, curling them just right to stroke the place that made your eyes cross.

“George—oh, fuck—” your head fell back against the glass as he coaxed you open. The wet sounds of his fingers fucking in and out your sopping pussy echoed around the tiny bathroom.

“So pretty like this,” he breathed, lifting his head to look over your body. All stretched out and heaving for him. The air was cold against the wet spots he'd left over your nipples, making them tighten even further. “Tell me how pretty you are.”

You just moaned in response as he did something with his thumb on your clit that made your legs start to tremble.

“Tell me.” He slowed, fingers still pressing against your g-spot, but no longer moving. A torturous high-note that he refused to break.

You squirmed, desperate for relief. “I'm pretty—so pretty—please—”

“Good girl,” he praised, resuming at an even faster pace before, and your pornographic cries were obscene even to your own ears.

You were unraveling at an unprecedented rate, and you didn't even care. Just wanted it—wanted him—so badly it hurt.

He released your wrists, bracing his palm flat against the glass. “Touch yourself,” he ordered, and you obeyed instantly, hand flying down to circle your clit while he finger fucked you into oblivious. “That's it, love. Squeezing me so tight I can barely move.”

“Close—” you whined, grabbing his shirt and dragging his mouth to yours for a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. This more dominant, confident side of him was going to be the death of you.

“Yeah? Go on, baby. Come for me.”

The knot in your belly wound impossibly tighter, static screaming under your skin, roaring in your ears until finally—

It burst like a dam, crashing through you in wave after wave of bliss. You convulsed in his arms, and he held you tight to his chest while he continued fucking you through it. You were drowning in it, gasping for air until finally, he withdrew his fingers to let you catch your breath. He peppered kisses anywhere he could reach, hand wet where it gripped your thigh, murmuring praise to guide you back to him.

Then, as the waters receded, you realized what had just happened.

“Oh my god—did I—” A hand flew up to cover your mouth when he stepped back to show you what happened. He was completely soaked to the wrist and at the waist. And grinning ear to ear.

“Make a mess of me? Yes, yes you did,” he said, smug as anything.

You had never squirted. Not once in your life, despite yours and Cormac's best efforts.

George managed it on the first fucking try.

“I—I’ve never—”

His whole expression changed, smugness dropping away instantly as he wrapped his arms around you again. “Oh fuck, really? Are you okay? Was that okay—”

You buried your head into his shoulder to hide your expression, unable to stop yourself from giggling as aftershocks quaked through you. “No, no, it felt—it felt really good.”

“Yeah?” He lifted your chin, eyebrows creased with concern. “You promise?”

You answered him with a kiss, slow and sweet. He relaxed, sighing contentedly against your lips.

Knock knock!

Someone banged on the bathroom door.

“We should get cleaned up…” George muttered between pecks.

“Mhmm.” More pecks. You didn't want this to end. This perfect little moment of bliss. Of relief. Of finally.

“…and then maybe I can take you out on a real date?” He pulled back to meet your eyes, a nervous smile tugging at his lips.

“How about breakfast?” You asked, dragging a finger down his abdomen.

His eyes lit up. “I know a place that makes some mean pancakes. Delivered to you in bed and everything—” he leaned down to kiss you again, though you were both smiling too big for it.

“Oh yeah? That sounds perfect.”

He cleaned you both up quickly, and you ducked out of the bar amid whoops and cheers from all your friends.

“You think they set us up?” You asked George over a plate of pancakes the following morning.

He paused while chopping strawberries. “You know, Lee was the one that convinced me I should go out last night.”

Huh. “…Lee's dating my best friend. She was the one that talked me into it.”

You met each other's eyes across the kitchen island and burst out laughing.

© aureateink 2026. do not copy, post, or claim my writing as your own.

[whimsyweasleys]

have you seen Malachy in cherrybomb 2009?

MY JAW DROPS EVERY TIME 😭

OMG YES. I DID A LONG WHILE AGO. UGHH HE WAS SO FINE. bless rupert gint our ronniekins. thank u sm for the reminder anon. i had to immediately go on pinterest to find these pics. currently drooling

[whimsyweasleys]

omgg i love your ron fic sm!! i wonder if you would do something inspired by the ig message trend going round on tiktok, where reader sends a text meant for someone else to ron. it doesn’t have to be nsfw it’s up to you! thankss

thank you so much i’m glad you liked it🥹

i’m not really sure if i’ve seen this trend and i’m not sure if i can execute a text fic well either😭 so maybe in the future!!! i’m sorry, thank you for stopping by with this idea tho!!

[luveline]

you know, I'm coming right back [Fred Weasley x Reader]

summary: you're a lonely artist and Fred is your adoring model

word count: 2.4k

tags: reader insert, lonely reader, artist reader, seventh year, kids in love, first kiss, getting together, pining, fluff, friends-to-lovers

It was easy for you, usually, to act fine. To feel fine. Any loneliness that clouded your life was pushed firmly into the depths of your thoughts. You tried to focus on the things that mattered, essays and charms and your art.

You loved to draw. You had sketchbooks filled to the brim with sketches, some half finished, others coloured and lined. You drew everything, though you struggled to bring anything from your memory. Everything you drew had to be done right there, right then, with unsuspecting models. You sketched students eating their dinner, scribbled side profiles when you managed a spare minute in class. But you're most impressive artwork was done in the library, where nothing moved. Everyone was silent. You had pages and pages of bored, tired looking students. When exams approached, you hurriedly copied down the expressions of people on the edge of depression and panic.

You had friends, ish. You knew people. You'd had intense friendships that somehow always ended in awkward drifting aparts. Well, you thought. There must be something wrong with me. They liked me before they didn't, so the fault must've been mine.

You huffed out a sigh, pressing your face deep into the textured page of your sketch book, breathing in the smell of charcoal. You were sketching the illusive Fred Weasley, who you'd never truly drawn before. Maybe you had scraps from your second or third year when you'd still attempted to draw moving objects before getting comfortable and accepting that still life was your forte.

He was maddeningly good lucking when his eyebrows puckered in concentration. He seemed to actually be studying for once, sat at a table with his brother, George, and housemates Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet.

You were sat by yourself, and couldn't help listening to his lilting voice as he bantered with his friends. They were talking about Umbridge (the current victim of the Hogwarts' student body hate train), and quidditch, and their recent ban from quidditch. You'd never played.

"Watch out, dolly fell asleep," said one of the girls.

You bit your lip. You'd been nicknamed dolly by the girls in your dorm because of your porcelain doll you'd had since childhood. Even though this year was your last, you still hadn't felt the need to hide her away. She made you feel much less anxious and alone.

The whole school knew, naturally.

"Don't get any funny ideas," said Angelina,  to the twins.

"Come on Angie, you think so little of us?" said George.

"Yesterday I watched you trick a group of forth years into taking puking pastilles." Angelina said.

"It was hardly a trick. We told them they were multi-faceted," said George.

You could hear your heartbeat if you focused. It was in your ears. It bump, bump, bumped.

Bump bump. You flinched, a hand settled on your shoulder quickly moved.

"Wake up, dolly. Library's closing."

You squinted up into Fred's face, head halo'd by candlelight. Lifting your head from the wooden table, you stretched your neck to the left. It clicked.

"Uh..."

"Hmm?" You prompted him, smoothing your hair behind your ears.

"You have - dirt. On your face. Here-" He said, reaching forward. You closed your eyes as he gently wiped the skin above your eyebrow.

"It's charcoal."

"What?"

"It's not dirt," you said, peaking at him through your eyelashes. "It's charcoal."

He looked mildly surprised. You shifted, hoping to cover your sketch before he caught sight of it.

It didn't matter.

"It's me. My gorgeous dolly, you've created quite the masterpiece right there, haven't you? I look vexingly handsome, of course. Thought if that's a consequence of your skill or my handsomeness is anyones guess."

You were lost for words. "Uh, quite."

"Yes, yes, quite. Say, could I keep it?"

"... You want the drawing?"

"I'd love it, if that's okay."

"I," you quickly dug your thumbnail into the paper, tearing carefully at the centre. The paper came away a little ragged and smudged. "Of course. It's yours."

He handled it with care.

The librarian jingled her little bell again.

"Thank you. So, see you?"

"Yep," you agreed.

He nodded his head and bowed out with his friends. You tried not to feel paranoid at their laughter.

-

You were curled up in a hidden alcove, though it was hardly hidden. Most students knew where to seek privacy in the castle. You just so happened to get there first that evening.

You were trying to sketch Fred again. It felt weird to be missing a page from your book, and weirder still that you couldn't remember his face when he wasn't right in front of you. You tried, but it kept going wrong.

When you finally managed one you liked well enough, you had accidentally ruined it with a heavy hand and the wrong shade of brown.

He looked much too brunette.

You carefully rolled your coloured pencils back up, securing the leather ties tightly so as to keep every pencil confined.

Sighing morosely, you flipped to a new page. Things got so complicated sometimes, it made you agitated. You doodled a little sad face in the corner of your page. When the one thing that you enjoyed in life started to go wrong, it set off your whole mood.

Your birthday was coming up. It had been on your mind a lot lately. You'd spend it alone. That's what you figured. Nobody would know it was your birthday, or if they did, you weren't friends now, so...

You began with an arching circle, bisecting the lines appropriately. Feeling out the familiar lines of your own face came easy, the slight upper tilt of your brows, your hair and your pursed mouth. You always looked sad in the mirror, and it showed, dotted here and there when the only thing to draw was your own face.

The rudimentary outline of a birthday cake took form. The candles were unlit.

In a fit of unhappiness, you scratched out your mouth. It was never smiling.

"What did that piece of paper ever do to you?" said a voice.

You jumped. Fred was peering down at you curiously, wringing his hands. You put your pencil between the soft cover and smashed it flat, closed.

"Hi, dolly."

"Weasley."

"Oh, not even a first name?"

"You neglected mine first," you reasoned, rolling the words. He smiled at your joking tone.

"How rude of me. Hi, Y/N," he corrected himself.

"Hi, Weasley."

He smirked.

"Anymore of me in that blessed vessel?"

"Nah. You never stand still."

"If I pose for it?" He asked. You patted the ground in front of you.

He was a lovely model. He stayed infinitely still, more still than you imagined possible for him. He sat at a 3/4ths angle, chin up but not too far, mouth tilted and eyes open.

His eyes were the one thing he couldn't keep still. You tried not to flame in the cheeks everything you'd catch his gaze on you.

You sketched fast, choosing to hatch rather than render, big swooping lines to give the illusion of a depth that wasn't really there. You would've loved to do a full render, maybe even a colour portrait, but he was beginning to look a little antsy.

You set the book on the floor to face him and pushed it into his eyesight softlt. He turned. He looked nice like that, face bent, hair falling into his eyes.

After a moment, he began scrounging through his robe pockets. He set down a box, a lighter, a pair of gloves.

Finally, he set a galleon onto the floor close to your crossed legs.

"For you," he said, smiling at your inquisitive look. "For the drawing."

"Oh, I can't accept that. And I'd like to keep this one, if it's alright."

Fred thought for a moment. "Alright, you keep it. And the galleon, too, for the one you gave me the other day."

You bit back a smile. "I can't take your money, Fred."

"I can't keep having you draw me for free. It's as valuable a service as anything else. Plus, I'm not sure if you know, but I run a lucrative business these days."

You picked up the coin, rubbing your thumb against the engravings thoughtfully. "It's hardly a service."

"A talent, then. A skill. You're very good."

You're neck almost snapped as you looked into his face, wanting to assess his expression for genuineness. He looked earnest, and kind. You blinked away the gathering heat behind your eyes.

"Thank you."

He waved a hand at you. "Think nothing of it."

"Really-" you cleared your throat, "-you're doing me a favour. I'm not good at drawing things that move."

"I'm sure you're better than you think," he said.

You shook your head, smiling smiling smiling.

"What's in the box?"

"Oh, this old thing?" Fred weighed the box in his hands. It was soft at the corners, like a simple jewelry box that you had in your trunk. He offered it to you. You opened it carefully, the lid sliding free with a shhhhh sound. Inside was an evil looking fruit pastille, a match stick and a dried up flower petal.

It felt like a very private thing to see, suddenly. Such an eclectic collection of items couldn't be random.

"The first puking pastille George and I made. Or rather, the second - the first was forcibly fed to Lee Jordan in our third year. The match stick is from my Uncle's matchbox. I never met him. And the flower was from Ginny, when she was 9." He sounded nervous.

"It's a memory box."

"I- yes. It is. Things are sometimes so miserable now, with Umbridge and you-know-who. Scary, even. I look at them when I feel like it won't ever end."

You took them in for a little while longer and then placed the lid onto the box with nimble fingers. You scratched the lid with a fingernail.

"It's nice. You're right. Things are so awful right now, it's good to have reminders of why we keep going."

"Exaclty. Dolly, can I interest you in a fruit pastille?"

"Not on your life."

"They're perfectly edible!"

"Sure, Fred."

-

The honest conversation you'd shared with Fred was a catalyst between you. He often came to find you, each time whining and nagging you to just sit in the library like most people do.

"What, so your housemates can throw paper balls at me?"

"They thought you were sleeping!"

A likely story, you thought. He sometimes asked you to draw him, posing with the elegance of a natural born model. It was great for you personally, you felt that you were really getting a feel for his face. Eventually, you were able to draw his face from memory, the details of his nose coming to your fingers as easily as a first year spell.

It became about capturing emotion. You could capture his likeness now without a second thought, but his emotions were much more complicated. How would you show his veiled frustration the day Umbridge kicked him off the quidditch team? Through the clenching of his jaw? The shy veins in his forehead? How did you showcase the fear when he'd come back to Hogwarts after Christmas break, through his eyes, downturned and squinting just a little?

Today, it was poorly hidden elation. "How come you're so happy?" You asked, pencil between your teeth. He grinned. You measured his face with your thumb in the air, forming an L.

"Is it a prank?"

"You're thinking too small."

"A new product?"

"Still need to go bigger!"

"Hmmm," you hummed. Measure twice, cut once. Or in your case, sketch once.

"George and I, we're gonna open a shop."

"A section at Zonko's isn't enough for you?" You asked, casually, though you were very very happy for him.

"It's going to be amazing. We're going to run it, just the two of us, and you won't catch me in these scrappy long sleeves anymore. The next time you see me, I'll be in a full suit and tie."

"The next time? Is that not tomorrow?"

Fred closed his mouth, realising his mistake. He had revealed something he hadn't intended to. "We're leaving," he confessed. "We were going to wait for our NEWTs but... Well, we won't need them. This is going to work."

"So. You're leaving today?" You asked, crestfallen.

"Hey," Fred said, rubbing a placating hand over the curve of your shoulder. "Tomorrow. During the DADA OWL. We have a plan."

"This is goodbye?"

"No! No. Not if you don't want it to be. Actually, I've been meaning to ask you something, and maybe now isn't the best time, I had this whole letter planned and I didn't want to distract you from your exams and-"

"What do you want to ask me?"

Fred straightened. "I wanted to ask - will you go out with me? Not, you don't have to be my girlfriend if it's too soon, I'd love to take you for food someplace, I was going to ask you to Hogsmeade, but when the shop officially became ours, the plans changed so fast and I didn't know if you'd still want-" you cut off his rambling.

"I'll be your girlfriend," you said.

"You will?"

"Sure, if you'll be my boyfriend," you murmured.

Fred moved the arm that had been on your shoulder to the nape of your neck. "That's a dealbreaker," he said, leaning in.

He kissed you chastely on the lips first and then pulled back to look into your face. You chased him, a moment of bravery, and opened your mouth to taste him. He was sweet, like sugar. Your sketch pad crinkled beneath you both as he pressed forward. Your chests touched, heaving.

"You're not gonna be my boyfriend?" You asked against his mouth, breathing hard.

"I'm gonna be much more than that, dolly," he said heatedly.

Your mouth was tingling. "Kiss me again?"

You gasped at the force of him, laughing. He laughed too against your lips, and the sound tickled. He gave you a multitude of short and sweet kisses before pulling away again.

He wiped the wetness from your lip with his pinky finger. "Godric, you're cute. Look how flushed you are! You're insane."

Something churned in your stomach. The butterflies had acquired a trampoline. You felt happier than you had in a very long time. "You're not half-bad yourself, Weasley."

[whimsyweasleys]

You characterized Ron so well!

thank you so much😭😭

this means a lot, really. ron has always been my favorite and i despise how much hate he gets :( i plan to write so much more him him heheh

[whimsyweasleys]

highkey need a sub ron fic on my desk stat👀👀

OH ILY ANON. i’m happy this is the first thing i get in my inbox. sub!ron is just so UGHH. he’s so adorable, red in the face the whole time. and he has the sweetest whimpers. he tries to hold himself back (he’s scared to hurt us bc he’s so big) but it never works… and you want him to let loose anyway. i’d worship him so good he forgets every self deprecating comment he’s made about himself.

he deserves so much love🥹 i’ll write a full fic, trust

[whimsyweasleys]

—𝓕our Important Meals.

𝑅on 𝒲easley x 𝑅avenclaw!reader

breakfast, lunch, & dinner are the three important meals everyone should have in a day! but… ron’s a hungry guy. his hunger for sweet treats translates to that constant hunger in bed for a fourth meal—a sweet taste of what’s in between his girlfriends thighs!

𝒯ags/warnings : porn + plot. 18+ minors do not interact. shy!reader, picky eater!reader (mostly since she has a bunch of allergies), head girl!reader, nerd!reader, reader wears glasses, fluff + comfort, ron’s a sweetheart. soft dom!ron, fingering, oral (both recieving), readers first time giving a blowjob, praise kink, L bomb

𝒲ord count : 5.9k

𝒜uthors note : my first fic on this account!! i was planning to have a 15k+ cedric fic out first but this sidetracked me heheh

The library at this hour is a graveyard of ambition filled with the scratch of quills. You've claimed your usual corner table with the good light, a stack of Transfiguration texts rising like a fortress around your parchment. Hermione marches in with Harry and Ron in tow, her voice carrying.

"Honestly, if either of you would just— oh! There you are." She beams at you, setting her bag down across from your walls. "You don't mind if we join? I'm making them study whether they like it or not." She shoots a pointed look at the redhead slouching behind her.

Ron Weasley. You've exchanged maybe six words with him. He always looks at you like he's waiting for something, and you never know what, so you look at your books instead.

"Brilliant," he mutters, dropping into the chair farthest from you after you smile and nod at Hermione’s question. "Nothing says fun like a Saturday in the library with Hermione's scary Ravenclaw friend."

You blink. And then your face goes hot with shame. "I'm scary?"

Ron's ears go pink. "I didn't mean—I meant like… smart-scary. Y'know. Like a dragon that does homework."

Harry snorts. Hermione sighs.

You huff—almost a surprised laugh. A small, surprised sound, pressed behind your hand. You thought you’d be more offended. You weren’t. The way he said it so embarrassed and earnest made it seem like being compared to a dragon was a compliment.

Ron stares. His blush deepens, but a grin tugs at his mouth, slow and delighted.

"Hang on. You've got a laugh.” He says. “And here I thought you hated me." The ginger adds weakly.

Your cheeks heat again. You drop your eyes back to your essay. "I don't hate you. I'm just… quiet."

The weeks that followed back in your second-year were when you learned the most about Ron Weasley. He collected laughs the same way he collected Chocolate Frog cards. And you had easily become his rarest find.

It started small. A whispered comment about Professor Snape's greasy hair during double Potions. Fake back to back loud sneezes timed to interrupt a particularly long winded Flitwick lecture.

Then it escalated—a genuinely terrible impression in the library that made you choke on your water. Harry began placing bets with Hermione on how long Ron could keep it up before you cracked and started snorting. 

You're not sure when it happened, but somewhere between the terrible impressions and the way he lingered after study sessions, to him, "Hermione's quiet friend" became just Y/n. 

He says your name like he's been saying it for years.

You remember one day in third year where he watched you eat at lunch like he was solving a puzzle. You had spent the five minutes dissecting your shepherd's pie, excavating it with your fork like an archaeologist.

"You do that every day, y'know," he says. "I've been keeping track. You always eat around the... whatever that is." He points at a suspicious chunk. "Is it a mushroom? You allergic to mushrooms too?"

"Not allergic," you mumble, cheeks warming. If you were allergic you wouldn’t be eating that pie. You’d told him about your many allergies and reasoned that’s why you were a picky eater. "It's just... the texture."

Ron's eyebrows climb. "The texture." He says it like you've just told him you speak fluent Mermish. Then he leans in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Between you and me, my mum's cooking is about texture. If it's not crunchy, it's not real food."

A startled laugh escapes you before you can stop it. Ron's face lights up like a Christmas tree.

"Got it," he crows. "That's number forty-two."

"Forty-two what?"

"Laughs," he says, grinning. "I'm keeping count. My personal record for you is gonna be in the Hogwarts history books one day. Only git in the school whose gotten you to laugh."

You can't help it again—a laugh bubbles out of you, at the absurd thought of him counting your laughs, and your face feels like it's been held over a candle. You duck your head, hiding behind the curtain of your hair, but it's too late. Ron's already got that grin, the one that says he's won something.

"There is no way you’ve actually keep count."

Ron's grin widens. "Forty-two. Swear on my mum."

"You're making it up." You press, unconvinced.

"Am I?" He counts off on his fingers, unbearably smug. "There was the Snape one—that was a good one, that was, one of the firsts. The owl impression, that got a proper giggle. That time we were by the lake. I made you laugh before the twins could."

Your cheeks burn hotter. You press your lips together, trying to compose your face, but your eyes keep betraying you, crinkling at the corners.

Harry looks up from where he’s cramming for a Potions exam—the one Ron is currently ignoring by paying attention to you instead—exchanging a look with Hermione that you pretend not to see. Hermione's smile is small and knowing. She's been watching this unfold ever since the day you two met—the careful, quiet girl and the boy who collected her laughter like treasure.

Ron leans back in his chair, satisfied. "Anyway. You need to finally try a treacle tart at dinner. I’m telling you you’ll like it. No weird texture or anything you’re allergic to."

He says it so casually, like he's been planning your dinner menu and thinking about what you'd actually eat. The thought lodges somewhere warm in your chest, and you have to look away before he catches you smiling at him instead of laughing.

"Fine," you huff. You hated trying any food you hadn’t been eating since you were 7. But you agree because you hate saying no to him. "I'll try it."

When it’s finally dinner, Ron slides a piece onto your plate with the reverence of a man handing over something sacred. You take the smallest forkful, pushing up your glasses nervously, fully prepared to find a reason to put it down—but… it's warm and sweet, and there's no hidden texture lurking inside. It's... good.

Ron watches you take the second bite with barely contained glee. "Yeah? Good?"

"It's good…" you admit begrudgingly.

"Told you." He says it like he's won the Quidditch Cup.

Four years later, he still says it like that.

Now it's a cold Saturday in seventh year, and Ron's leading you through the crowded Three Broomsticks with a hand on the small of your back, steering you toward a corner table he's already scoped out. He pulls out your chair dramatically like a proper gentleman before flopping into his own, reaching for the menu.

"Right," he says, scanning it like it's a battle plan. "I dunno what’s exactly in this soup but I could ask Rosemerta for you. Hm. This pie has nuts. Oh, steak should be safe." He looks up. "Unless you fancy the roast?"

"I'm fine with Shepard's Pie, Ron.” You shrug sheepishly. He’s always like this when you two are eating together. To comfort him you add, "Last time Madam Rosemerta said she’d make a separate pie for me in case of cross contamination."

Last time you were here with him your throat had started itching a little. It was no big deal. You had taken your allergy meds right away. But Ron saw it as the opposite. Still, he gave in seeing the look on your face that said you weren't going to budge on this.

"Pie it is." He flags down Madam Rosmerta with practiced ease. "One steak and a Shepard’s Pie, no mushrooms? And sorry, habit—she's allergic to…” He goes on to list all your allergies.

Rosmerta nods, knowingly, scribbling notes. "I remember from last time, dearie. I'll make sure to make it separately."

Your face burns just a little. "Ron."

When she leaves he shrugs, unbothered. “What? It doesn’t hurt to make sure. Don’t want you dying on my watch.”

“You sound like my mum.” You mumble.

The pie arrives, perfect, no mushrooms. You eat more than half successfully before you slow down, pushing the plate away with a quiet sigh of defeat. Full. Ron glances at it, then at you, and wordlessly reaches over with a grin, dragging the plate toward him.

He always ate your leftovers. You loved it for it, hated wasting food.

You watch him eat your leftovers, red hair falling over his forehead, and something in your chest goes soft and warm. Five years ago you'd barely spoken. Now he knows your allergies better than you. And he always, always saved you the last slice of tart.

He catches you staring and pauses mid-bite.

"What?"

"Nothing," you say, with a grin.

He finishes the last bite of your pie and sets the fork down with a satisfied sigh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The treacle tart hasn't arrived yet and Ron's already eyeing the kitchen door like it owes him money.

From his side of the table, he watches you fiddle with the edge of your napkin, folding it into smaller and smaller triangles. 

He's got a whole catalogue of these, he realizes. The napkin folding. The way you press your lips together when you're deciding whether to say something. The way your eyes go bright and you hum then do a tiny dance in your seat when you take the first bite of something you actually like.

He does anything to see it. He knows this the way he knows his Quidditch plays, the way he knows the taste of his mum's treacle tart. He's spent years collecting those reactions, and he's never going to stop.

You look up and catch him staring. The same exact way you had been watching him eat your leftovers. Your face goes warm, and you immediately drop your gaze back to the napkin.

"What?" you ask, the word barely a mumble.

"Nothing," he says, which is a lie. It's never nothing. "Just—you've got a bit of..." He gestures vaguely at the corner of his own mouth.

Your hand goes up, patting at your face. "Where?"

"Got it." He leans across the table and wipes the corner of your mouth with his thumb. 

There's nothing there. You both know it.

His grin is unrepentant.

Your face goes impossibly warmer. You're about to say something, to scold him or hide or both, when Madam Rosmerta arrives with a plate of pie and his steak. Ron's whole attention snaps to the food like a compass finding north. 

He thanks her before declaring, "There it is! Eat up."

The fork's barely at your lips before the warmth hits—soft and buttery on the top, savory on the inside. Your eyes go bright and a soft hum escapes you, a sound you don't even register making, and do that little bounce in your seat without realizing.

Then you look up.

Ron's watching you with a grin so wide it's a wonder his face doesn't split, steak half chewed in his mouth. He's not even pretending to be subtle about it. The smugness radiating off him could light the whole village.

You raise a brow, the hum dying in your throat. "What?"

He swallows, wipes his mouth, and leans back in his chair with the self-satisfaction of a cat that's found the cream. "Nothin'. You just did that thing you always do. I was waitin' for it."

Your brows raise. "Huh? What thing?"

"That thing when you eat something you actually like. It’s cute. You know, the one where you—" He mimes a little wiggle in his seat, poorly and dramatically.

"Ron!" Your voice comes out strangled, half-mortified, half-laughing. "Stop."

"Never," he says cheerfully, and takes another huge bite of tart. Around the mouthful, he adds, "You're my favourite thing to watch eat. And that's saying something because I should be focusing on the food."

You open your mouth to retort, but the laugh escapes anyway. 

A week passes in a blur of NEWT revision and stolen moments. You spend most of it in the library or your dorm. You have your own room to yourself as Head Girl. It feels enormous when it's just you, and you find yourself thinking about a certain redhead more than you should while staring at Advanced Runes.

The knock comes Thursday night, after curfew. You don't even ask who it is—you just open the door, and Ron slips inside with a grin and a bottle of butterbeer he's clearly snuck in.

"Hullo, my favorite Ravenclaw Head Girl. Figured you need a break from all that studying," he says, setting the butterbeer on your desk.

Before you can retort you’re the only Ravenclaw Head Girl—he's kissing you—one hand cupping your jaw, the other finding your waist, backing you toward your bed. His mouth is warm and insistent, tasting faintly of the peppermint he always pockets from the Great Hall, and he kisses you like he's been saving it up all week.

"Missed you," he says against your lips.

You laugh against his mouth. “Ron— We saw each other at dinner 2 hours ago.”

“Exactly.”

You don't get a word out before he's kissing you again, deeper this time, walking you backward until your knees hit the mattress.

Oh. 

You’re quickly realizing which mood he’s in. 

You sink onto the duvet, and Ron follows, settling between your legs with a reverence that makes your breath catch.

He moves your oversized t-shirt up slowly—possibly one you stole from him—pressing open mouthed kisses along your stomach, your ribs, then the underside of your breast making your breath hitch. His hands map your skin like he's memorizing. Way more attention than he’s given any of his studies over the year, you think to yourself with amused disappointment.

"Been thinkin' about this all week," he says, voice gone rough. "About how you sound."

You make another embarrassing noise as his hands slide up your thighs.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your sleep shorts and drags them down your thighs. 

When he looks up at you from between your legs, there's that same delighted grin he gets when he sees a treacle tart—the one that says he's about to get exactly what he's been craving.

A whine escapes you before you can stop it. He eyes your panties, a wet patch having formed on them just from his sweet words and even sweeter kissing. 

Your hand flies up to cover your mouth as he finds your clit through your panties and rubs lightly. Ron pauses and looks up at you through his lashes. There's that grin. That bloody grin.

"Don't you dare," he says, low and bemused. "I've been waiting all week to hear you. You’ve been so busy, smart girl."

You shiver. You love when he calls you that, too. He presses a kiss to the damp cotton, deliberately slow, and your hips twitch. His hands slide up your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to hold you still.

He pushes the soaked fabric aside with his thumb. The cold air hits you and you gasp into your palm.

"Go on, then. Silence yourself if you want. But I'd much rather hear it."

He lowers his head and drags his tongue flat and slow through your slick folds, and your whole body jerks, the whine behind your hand turning into something broken and wanting. He hums against you, pleased, and does it again.

"Ron—" His name comes out as a whine, pitching high in the middle, and your hands find his hair. The soft, fiery strands slipping between your fingers like spun silk. You fist them, not hard enough to pull, just to hold on. Anchor yourself.

The silencing charm sits on the tip of your tongue, half-formed. The walls are thin, and the portraits in the halls of the girls dormitory definitely gossip. But Ron's mouth is doing something devastating to you and all coherent thoughts are currently abandoning you.

You manage it anyway eventually, a wandless Silencio and the room goes muffled—the crackle of the common room fire and the distant noise of the castle dropping away until there's only the sound of your panting and the wet sounds of his mouth.

Ron pauses. Lifts his head just enough to look up at you, lips slick, grin sharp with drunk delight, "Shame. Wanted everyone to hear the pretty noises you make too."

You want to retort at the crude insinuation, but he lowers his head again, and the thought evaporates. You make a sound louder than you'd ever let out before and Ron hums against your obscenely wet cunt like it's the best thing he's ever heard.

"There it is," he breathes, and the reverence in his voice makes your toes curl. "Keep makin' that noise for me."

He seals his mouth over your clit, and you stop thinking entirely. Your fingers tighten in his hair, your back arching off the duvet.

One particularly hard suck hits you like a hex—your whole body seizing, a cry tearing out of you as your thighs slam shut around his head, trapping him there.

"Sorry— sorry—" The apologies spill out of you in a breathless, broken string, mortification and pleasure tangled so tight you can't tell them apart. Your hands fly to his shoulders, trying to push him back, to give him air, to make him stop—or maybe to pull him closer, you're not sure anymore.

Ron doesn't move. He makes a low, muffled sound against you, and you feel his head shake—nose grinding against your clit, teasing, like he's saying no, I'm not going anywhere.

The vibration of it shoots through you like lightning. Your thighs clench again, harder this time, and a keening whine escapes your throat. You can feel his grin pressed against you, wide and unapologetic, and then he does it again—shakes his head slower, more purposefully, nose working against your clit, his tongue massaging your entrance leaking with honeyed arousal. Sounds of your slick feel the room. So incredibly lewd.

"Mmph—" he lets out against you, and the sound buzzes through your whole body yet again. "Always tastes s’good."

You're drowning. Your fingers are twisted in his hair, brows knitted, your legs shaking around his head.

"Ron!" His name tears out of you, broken and desperate. "It's— hah! It's too much!"

He hums against you, and this time that vibration alone nearly undoes you. Then his hands are moving, and you feel it—two fingers pressing inside with an ease that makes your eyes roll back. He curls them, easily finding the spot that makes your whole body jolt.

"S'okay." His voice is muffled against your mound. "I know you can take it. Ya always do. Just let yourself feel good, yeah?"

You want to argue. Want to tell him you can't—but he's already moving, fingers pumping in a rhythm that matches the lazy circles his tongue draws on your clit, and the protest dies in your throat. With every curl of his fingers, you hear a wet squelch that makes your body burn even hotter.

He works you like he's got all the time in the world, like he's memorizing every twitch and gasp, the way your hips chase his thick fingers, calloused from Quidditch. 

His free arm hooks around your thigh, holding you open, keeping you exactly where he wants you. You whine, feeling so exposed—too dazed to do anything about it. Not wanting him to stop.

"There you go," he says, and you feel him smile softly against you. "That's it. Let go for me."

The coil in your belly winds tighter and tighter, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps, eyes teary. Your fingers twist in his hair, heels of your feet digging into his back, and you're trembling everywhere, all at once, right on the edge. You can't stop whimpering and whining his name, all other thoughts gone.

"My smart girl's completely gone, hm?" He says, saccharine sweet words coming out hoarse.

It only takes one last curl of his fingers for your vision to white out as you cream around his fingers. The warning you usually give never makes it out. One moment you're teetering, the next you're gone—body bowing off the mattress as you clench around his fingers. Coming undone with a full body shiver with a sound that's half moan, half sob, cracked and raw in a way you'd be mortified about if you could think at all.

Overwhelmed to the brim, the tears finally spill over, sliding into your hairline and smudging the lenses of your glasses that you haven't even noticed sit awfully crooked on your face. You're trembling, thighs shaking around his head, fingers twisted so tight in his hair you're probably pulling it now.

Ron doesn't pull away. He becomes gentler, mouth softening to slow soothing kisses, fingers easing into a slow rhythm, pumping you through the aftershocks like he's cradling you through every wave. His free hand strokes your thigh, thumb rubbing small, grounding circles into your skin.

"That's it," he says thickly against you. "That's my sweet girl. You did so well, pretty."

You make a small content sound at the praise. Ron waits until your trembling slows, your thighs to relax, before he lifts his mouth away leaving one last kiss to the inside of your thigh.

He surfaces, licking his lips then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His face is flushed a pretty pink, eyes dark and soft. He crawls up the bed, settling beside you, and pulls you into his chest before you can curl away.

"Alright?" he asks, pressing a kiss to your temple. His voice is hoarse, pleased. "You with me?"

You hum in confirmation against his shoulder, breathing still shallow. You wrap your hands around his lean middle and you can feel a soft smile pressed into your hair.

"Good," he murmurs. "Because I wanna see you cum again."

You whine suddenly, shaking your head against his shoulder, the words tumbling out before you can second guess them.

"No— I can't. I just came. S'too much," You let out pitifully.

He softens instantly. When you look up at him, you see the eager heat in his eyes turn to something warmer. His hand comes up to stroke your hair, thumb brushing your temple. "Hey. That's fine Y/n. We don't have to do anything you don't want."

"Let me—" You swallow, the words you’ve been wanting to say for a while tumbling out as you hide your burning face against his chest again. "Let me suck you off."

Ron's eyes widen. His hand stills in your hair.

You look at him as you fix your crooked glasses nervously, pushing them up your nose, scared you said the wrong thing. 

He opens his mouth, closes it. There's a beat of silence where you can feel his heartbeat speed up under your cheek. "You've never— I mean, you don't have to?" He says quickly. "I've never minded, you— you know that."

"I know." Your voice is tiny but steadier than you feel. "But I want to. I’ve wanted to try for a while. You're always been the one doing things for me. I haven’t done anything for you yet…”

Ron lets out a slow breath. When he speaks, his voice is still rough but gentler than you've ever heard it. "Y/n. Look at me." You lift your head. His face is flushed, eyes softer, still blown. "You sure?" he asks quietly.

You nod.

He exhales, a shaky laugh escaping him, and leans back against the headboard, reaching down to palm himself through his trousers.

He's hard. He has been for a while. Seeing him palm the hefty bulge makes your stomach flip. "Alright. Just… go slow, yeah? No rush. And if you want to stop, you tell me, and we'll stop."

He doesn't move to undress himself, he just waits, letting you set the pace. His hand finds yours, squeezing once. He shifts back against the headboard as you sit up, giving you room. His hands stay loose at his sides, but his eyes are dark and watchful, drinking you in.

You're suddenly shy again as you reach for the button of his trousers. Your fingers fumble once, twice, and his hand covers yours—steadying you.

"Slow," he reminds, voice strained. "There's no rush, love."

You bite your lip. Slightly steadier at the reassurance, working the button of his trousers loose then tugging the fabric down his hips. He lifts his arse to help, a little awkward, a whole lot eager, and then you pull his boxers to follow.

When you free him, you completely freeze.

He's big. So big.

You gulp. You imagined he would be. Ron was tall, after all. Lean. Long limbs and long fingers that made you drool—of course it meant he was big down here too. But seeing it is different from imagining it.

He's longer than he is thick, curving slightly. Blue-green veins decorating his length. His tip is an angry red, slick with a bead of moisture. And it's pretty in a way that surprises you. Your mouth waters. You feel feral.

You stare at his cock for another moment too long. Ron's ears have gone scarlet, followed by his cheeks, then his whole neck. He shifts under your gaze like he doesn't know where to put himself.

"Y/n," he says, voice strangled. "You're starin'."

You can't help it. 

"You're—" You stop. Swallow. Whisper, "You're really big."

His blush deepens impossibly. "Yeah, well. S'pose that's— that's a good thing? Or—" He winces at himself. "Sorry. That was— I'm nervous too…"

That makes you look up, meeting his eyes.

Ron Weasley was nervous. Because of you.

Your hand moves before you think, fingers wrapping tentatively around him. He's warm, and he twitches alive in your grip, a shaky breath hissing through his teeth.

"Oh." You breathe out at the sight of him. "Okay?"

"Yes." He says too quickly. "Yeah, that's— very okay."

Your hand is small around him. You can't quite close your fingers. That gap feels intimate and telling. Before you can hesitate, you pump him experimentally, learning the weight and heat of him.

Ron's head falls back against your headboard. His eyes flutter shut, lashes pretty against his flushed cheeks, and a shudder rolls through his whole frame. A sound escapes him—low, punched out, barely a breath.

"Y/n," he groans, and your name comes out wrecked.

You like that. You like watching him fall apart under your hand, the boy who made it his mission to make you laugh. A strange, heady warmth blooms in your chest, and you feel your thighs press together—slick all over again, wet and wanting despite what he just did to you.

Your thumb drags over his tip, spreading the bead of pre there. His hips jerk, a broken noise catching in his throat. His hand finds your wrist—not to stop you, just to hold on, fingers trembling.

"S'good," he manages, eyes still shut. "That's— that's so good. Where'd you learn—" He cuts himself off with a shuddering exhale. "Never mind. K-Keep goin'."

His other hand finds your hair, fingers threading through it, and he guides you down. Not pushing, but a question. A gentle pressure that says please. When you lean closer, his breath catches, and his eyes open, dark and glazed and full of you. The stunning blue you know all but gone.

You let him guide you down with a soft smile on your lips. His hand is gentle in your hair, an invitation you choose to follow.

You inhale sharply, mouth wrapping tentatively around just his tip. He's warm and hard and the taste surprises you. It's not bad at all. Almost good. Salty, faintly musky, human and him in a way that makes your stomach flip with something between nervousness and want.

Ron's breath catches. His hips twitch, a barely restrained jerk, and his fingers tighten in your hair.

"Oh fuck," he breathes shakily. "Oh, that's—"

You don't move, just holding him there, tongue pressing flat against the underside of his tip, learning the texture. He shudders, whole body trembling. You feel a bead of precum on your tongue salty and sharp.

"Y/n," he says, wrecked, and the sound of your name, broken like that, sends a pulse of heat through you. Your thighs press together beneath you, slick and aching.

His hand strokes your hair, shaky. "You can— you don't have to—" He swallows. "If you want to take more, go slow. And if you don't want to, that's— that's fine too."

But his voice is thick with wanting, and the way he says your name makes you want to give him everything.

You answer with a hum, a muffled sound that vibrates through him. It's meant as a yes, a small one, but Ron curses loudly, the word punching out of him like a hex, his hips jerking against his own control.

Encouraged, you take him deeper. The stretch is sudden and overwhelming, his thickness pressing against your tongue and then the back of your throat. You gag, a reflexive spasm that makes your eyes water, and your hands fly to his thighs, gripping the lean muscle there to steady yourself.

And then you look up.

It's the first time you've met his eyes from down here, lips stretched around his cock, tears pricking at your lashes. Ron's head is tipped back, but the moment your gaze finds his, he drops his chin, and his eyes glazed with wanting—lock onto yours.

For a long second, neither of you breathe.

His throat works. His hands, fisted in the sheets at his sides, are white knuckled. You feel the shudder run through him, the barely leashed urge to thrust into your warm little mouth. His whole body strains toward you and holds itself back with visible effort.

"Look at you," he voices, wreck. "Lookin' up at me like that. You're so—" He swallows. "So good. So bloody perfect. Doin' so well for me, Y/n."

You hum around him again, your throat easing, eyes staying on his because you want to see all his reactions.

"That's it," he breathes. "That's my girl."

You bob your head slowly, a tentative rhythm building as you take him deeper, hold it, then breathe through your nose. Your eyes are teary, glasses starting to fog with the warmth of him. You can feel the sting of it, the ache in your jaw already settling in—but you don't stop. You clench your fists against his thighs, steadying yourself, and take him as deep as you can manage swallowing down the gags that threaten to choke you.

Ron's head falls back. A moan escapes him and then it breaks into something higher, almost a whine. The sound of it shoots straight through you like a spark. You've never heard him sound like that. Ron, who's always joking, always grinning—undone, because of you.

He sounds so pretty.

You look up again, through the fog of your glasses, and he looks even prettier—head tipped back, throat working, freckles stark against flushed skin, chest heaving under his rumpled shirt. His hands are fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, every line of him straining toward restraint.

"Y/n," he chokes out, voice cracking. "Y/n, I'm— I'm not gonna last—"

His hips twitch and he groans in frustration at himself, forcing himself still. His hand finds your hair again, trembling, stroking. You rub your thighs together, and hum wanting him to cum, trying to tell him it's okay through the look in your eyes.

He shakes his head, "You don't gotta—" He swallows hard. "If you keep doing that I'm gonna—" The sentence dies into a shuddering exhale.

You don't pull off. You answer with your mouth, bobbing deeper—a promise made of heat and salt and the ache in your jaw. Ron makes a sound like he's been struck, a broken, desperate noise that vibrates through him and into you.

"Y/n—" His voice is barely there. "I can't— I'm gonna—"

You hold his gaze, tears blurring your vision, glasses fogged, and you keep going. He thinks you look so unfairly hot like this. You take him as deep as you can, and hold, breathing through your nose, throat working around him. His hands find your hair, no longer gentle, gripping, trembling with the effort of not thrusting.

He fails.

His hips jerk, once, twice, and a shudder wracks his whole frame. "I'm sorry— I'm sorry—" he chokes, but you don't pull away. You hold him there, eyes wet and wide. You let him fall apart, still inside your mouth. His cock twitches on your tongue and then he's cumming. It's warm and salty and strange, flooding your tongue, and you swallow through the shock of it, gagging slightly, but you don't pull off, swallowing every drop.

You stay with him until his grip in your hair goes slack and his body sags against the headboard, chest heaving. You pull off of him gently and he hisses at the cold air hitting him.

For a long moment, neither of you move. Then his hands find your face from where you're resting on his stomach, cupping your cheeks, tilting your chin up as he catches his breath. You realize his eyes are wet too and you blush. His freckles are stark against the flush on his cheeks, and he looks at you like you've just handed him the whole world.

"Y/n," he breathes, hoarse, reverent. "You—" He laughs, shaky and disbelieving. "Merlin, I love you. I really bloody love you."

Both your eyes widen. The three words hang in the air between you. You watch the realization hit him in real time—the way his mouth opens, closes, the way the flush on his freckled face deepens to something close to panic.

"Shit. I didn't mean to say it like this—" He scrubs a hand over his face, mortified. "I meant— I was gonna do it properly, y'know. Candles, or— or a nice walk by the lake, or somethin'. Not—" He gestures vaguely at the state of you both. "Not like this."

Something in your chest aches helplessly. You wrap your arm around him, pulling yourself into his side, and your face is so hot that it feels as hot as his looks.

"I love you too, Ron." Your voice comes out hoarse, scraped raw from more than just what you just did. You say it before he can spiral any further. "I've loved you since second year."

He goes very still. Then he looks at you like you've just told him he's won the Quidditch World Cup, the lottery, and every last piece of treacle tart in the world all at once.

"Yeah?" he says, small and disbelieving.

"Yeah."

Ron's face splits into a grin so wide it's almost stupid, and he pulls you into his chest, burying his face in your hair, holding you so tight you can feel his heart hammering against your cheek. He laughs a disbelieving sound.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing your cheek, and the wonder in his eyes is the same as it was in the library four years ago—the boy who thought you hated him, who found out you were just shy, who's been trying to make you laugh ever since.

"Love you," he says again, deliberately this time, testing the weight of it. "Love you, Y/n."

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