luvendiary

[luvendiary]

gente ptm

i just finished crying at the cinema after watching the superman movie. i come with a renewed sense of hope and humanity.

anyone who says this movie is just woke propaganda is evil and have nothing but hate in their hearts.

love and compassion and kindness are not woke. they are what make us humans.

[luvendiary]

PLS can you do a part 2 for five years later!!!

hello lovely! it's out now!! i hope you like it

[luvendiary]

five more days / h. haddock

hiccup haddock x reader

part 1 a/n: heres the long awaited part two! ngl i struggled with this one finishing it most of all. 4.3k words

The silence after your last words still lingered like ash in the air.

Valka—always knowing when to soften the world again—placed a gentle hand on Hiccup’s shoulder and said softly, “Come. It’s feeding time. They’ll be expecting us.”

He didn’t speak. Just nodded, jaw tight, and followed her through the winding tunnels. You didn’t move at first, not until your dragon nudged your side with a low rumble.

“I know,” you murmured.

You walked behind them, far enough to give them space, close enough that you could protect Valka if needed. You kept your gaze trained ahead—refusing to meet his, even as your heart pounded against your ribs.

The wind shifted as you stepped out of the caverns and into the sky.

Valka mounted Cloudjumper in one graceful motion, wings snapping open. Without waiting for any signal, she soared up, climbing high above the cliffside.

“Come along!” she called out behind her, the wind catching her words.

She whistled once, sharp and high, and immediately the dragons surged forward—but not chaotically. There was rhythm in their movement, an unspoken order. 

Hiccup glanced sideways at you, then toward Toothless, who waited patiently beside him. He mounted slowly, watching Valka ascend.

“Wait,” he said as he leaned forward and Toothless leapt into the air after her. “I thought we were going feeding?”

Valka twisted slightly in her saddle, turning her head with a smile. “Oh, but we are.”

Hiccup looked down. They were heading out over open ocean—far from the caverns, far from anything that resembled a feeding ground.

Before he could question it again, the sea below them began to stir.

A rumble. A deep, trembling groan beneath the water’s surface.

Then—a burst.

Foam and spray exploded outward as a monstrous shape breached the waves: the Bewilderbeast. Its sheer size cast a shadow across the sea. Ice crusted its shoulders, shimmering under the sunlight, and its cavernous mouth opened wide as it emerged from the depths.

And in its mouth—

Fish. Hundreds of them.

The Bewilderbeast paused, lifted its head high and launched them into the sky.

The dragons cried out in chorus and dove from the sky like comets, wings folded back, snapping their jaws open as fish rained down around them. Monstrous Nightmares spun midair, Stormcutters twisted through corkscrews, and baby Gronckles barrel-rolled with squeals of joy.

Hiccup let out a stunned breath. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Valka only laughed. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

Toothless glanced up at Hiccup, as if asking for permission, to which Hiccup replied with a wave of his hand. “Go ahead, bud.”

He didn’t waste a second after that. He dove straight down, Hiccup hollering as he held on to his saddle. You couldn’t help but laugh just a little —a chuckle perhaps— at the way his hair stood vertically on top of his head.

Once Toothless pulled up and joined the others in the sky, Hiccup steadied himself, falling into rhythm beside his mother.

He had so much to say. So many questions and much more answers than he had ever hoped for. He wanted to know everything about her life for the past twenty years.

He wanted to give her his undivided attention.

But he failed.

Because every time his eyes drifted toward you—he couldn't stop watching.

You were no longer the girl he'd shouted at moments ago. No longer sharp edges and biting words. In the air, you were something else entirely.

You laughed—actually laughed—as your dragon flipped beneath you and launched you higher. He saw the grin spread across your face, wide and unguarded, as you twisted midair and landed with a thud on the back of a passing Stormcutter. You leaned forward, steadying yourself with ease, and tossed a fish from your satchel to a group of smaller dragons circling below.

You were gliding across the backs of dragons like you'd been born to it. Barefoot, nimble, utterly fearless. Your movements were a dance—leaping from a Gronckle’s slow-flapping wings to the sleek curve of a Timberjack’s back. They made space for you. Lifted you. Carried you like wind does a leaf. When one wing dipped too far, Hiccup instinctively stepped forward—

Only to watch your dragon swoop in from beneath, timing it perfectly, catching your fall as if it had known before you did. You didn’t even flinch. You smiled, brushing your fingers along its spine as it soared beneath you, carrying you to the next perch.

Hiccup’s chest tightened.

It didn’t make sense. Not after everything. Not after the tears threatening to fall from your eyes only moments earlier. But somehow, up here, you weren’t weighed down by the past.

Something clicked inside him then. Like something had been covering his sight —something angry and heavy. But now, with the wind around him, and the unmistakable feeling of freedom; he saw you. 

Not the version of you he remembered. Not that fifteen-year old that had been frozen in his memory and the tragic fate that played out in his mind most nights. 

He got to see you now, as you were. 

As if you belonged in the sky in a way most people never would.

He wondered if he ever really knew you. If anyone in Berk had.

And as you circled higher, your dragon roaring joyfully beneath you, he felt something unfamiliar crack open in his chest.

Not guilt. Not sadness.

Awe.

You, laughing into the wind, were so far from the memory he’d held onto. And yet… still undeniably you.

And Hiccup realized he didn’t just miss you.

He’d never known what he lost to begin with.

You didn’t stay to watch them bond.

The moment the last fish had been caught, you quietly directed your dragon back toward the haven. No one noticed you leave. That was the point.

You didn’t need to see what came next. You knew.

Hiccup and Valka would spend the rest of the afternoon together, catching up on what they missed. She would show him all the things she had discovered: the jagged islands rising from the sea like old bones, the hidden nesting spots, the ice-frosted cliffs, the glowing caves carved out by time and tide. And he would show her something in return—his maps, his new tail-fin designs, his thoughts on dragon races and Berk’s changing tides.

They would laugh. They would cry. They would find each other again.

And you?

You would not be part of that.

Back at the haven, the dragons were calm, drowsy in the afternoon light. A few babies snoozed in warm patches of moss, curled around each other in soft bundles of wings and scales. Your dragon settled behind the wooden structure you'd helped Valka build months ago—a makeshift outdoor kitchen with stone slabs and smoothed logs for benches.

You moved wordlessly.

Laid out the fish you’d caught earlier. Built a fire. Roasted them slowly, methodically, the smell of char and smoke curling through the cavern air. When they were nearly done, you took the old clay pitcher and carried it to the nearest spring.

You liked the sound here.

The water was soft and constant, burbling over smooth stone. You knelt, dipping the pitcher into the clear pool, your reflection rippling out in ghostly rings.

You didn’t look at your face.

Instead, you focused on the way your hands moved—controlled, clean. The way the pitcher filled. The slight ache in your knees from crouching too long.

The silence you had chosen for yourself. Again.

You were setting the pitcher back on the wooden table—placing it carefully beside the roasted fish, now steaming and ready—when you heard it.

Laughter.

A kind, easy sort of laugh. One that tumbled out freely and without hesitation. Valka’s. Then Hiccup’s followed, slightly muffled by the tunnel entrance, but warm and familiar.

Your entire body tensed.

You didn’t turn right away. You couldn’t.

Instead, you carefully picked up a second wooden plate. Focused on arranging a few pieces of fish. As if that could shield you.

Their footsteps were light but unmistakable as they entered the space.

“I still can’t believe you mapped all of that,” Valka was saying. 

You blocked their voices out. Focusing on your movements and the clattering of the knives in your hand.

They laughed again.

You straightened slowly, spine stiff, plate in your hands.

You didn’t say a word.

Didn’t look at them.

But you knew they were both looking at you.

The warmth of their laughter didn’t quite reach the edges of the cavern now. It bumped up against the wall you’d built around yourself.

Valka was the first to speak. “You cooked.”

“I figured you’d be hungry,” you said simply, still not meeting their eyes. You set the cutting knife down. “The fish we caught earlier. Should still be warm.”

Your voice was even. Calm. But you couldn’t hide the way your shoulders had locked up. The tension in your jaw. The way your fingers lingered on the edge of the pitcher just a moment too long before pulling away.

Hiccup’s smile faltered slightly.

Valka, perceptive as ever, glanced between the two of you.

“I’ll go check on the Raincutters,” she said gently. “They’ve been sulking since lunch.” With a knowing pat on Hiccup’s shoulder, she turned and disappeared into the darker part of the cavern, her dragon slipping behind her like a silent shadow.

You nodded once and turned back to your task. Your dragon flicked its tail beside you, watching you closely. Protective. Always.

Hiccup stood.

And you knew he was coming toward you before he said a word.

“Need help?” he asked awkwardly, standing just beside your crouched figure, hands shoved into his belt like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

You gave no answer.

“I used to be terrible at gutting fish,” he continued, trying for a chuckle. “Toothless actually got sick once because I forgot to—”

“I’m fine,” you said shortly.

He paused.

You didn’t offer anything else.

“…Right,” he muttered, but didn’t leave.

You could feel him still watching you. Shifting his weight from foot to foot. Looking for something—an opening, a scrap of familiarity. You didn’t give him one.

“So,” he tried again, kneeling beside the fire. Still on the opposite side, but close enough now that you could smell the forest still clinging to his clothes. “You… you’re really good with them. The dragons, I mean.”

Nothing.

“It’s like you don’t even think. Just move with them.”

“I do think,” you said flatly, not looking up. “Constantly.”

He winced, but recovered. “That’s not what I meant. I just—It’s impressive. I guess I never realized how... how much you must’ve changed.”

Your hands stopped for a moment, the fish half-prepared. You set the blade down carefully, wiped your hands on a cloth, and finally looked up at him.

The expression on your face was unreadable. But your voice was cold.

“You never realized a lot of things.”

He blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You gave a dry laugh under your breath and turned back to your work. “Forget it.”

“No. I—” He leaned forward slightly, frustration starting to edge into his voice. “Look, I know you’re angry—”

“I’m not angry,” you said, too quickly. Then you shook your head and muttered, “I’m…”

You groaned. Not being able to pinpoint the exact feeling that was causing the evergrowing tightness in your chest. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” you snapped finally as you gripped the knife harder and seemed to cut the fish with renewed ferocity.

“Then help me understand,” he said after a brief silence-

Something in you told you to discard him. That he would never completely get you, or why you did what you did. That you would just be giving him more reasons to be angry at you. But there was something in his voice — something so undeniably soft and gentle —  that reminded you of the boy you had known. 

You didn’t say anything for a while and just let the sound of the dripping water in the cavern soothe both of your rising tempers. 

Then you set down the knife and sighed. You still didn’t dare to look at him.

“Do you remember the raid when we were thirteen?” you asked. “The one where a Nadder got caught in a net and fell on the beach near the docks?”

He hesitated, the softness of your voice catching him off-guard. “I… yeah. I think so.”

“I tried to free it,” you said. “It was terrified. Just a baby. Its wing was twisted and it couldn’t breathe through the ropes.” You clenched your fists. “I remember Astrid yelling at me. ‘Are you stupid?’ she said. ‘Do you want it to kill you?’ Then she grabbed the nearest spear and threw it straight into its neck. Right in front of me.”

Your breath hitched, but you pushed through it.

“And my father—” your voice cracked a little. “My father dragged me off the sand by my collar and told me if I ever hesitated like that again, I might as well feed myself to the dragons and be done with it.”

You looked at him then.

You could see the tension in the tightness of his mouth, how it was currently pressed into a thin line. And the way his eyebrows were lightly furrowed.

“I couldn’t sleep for three nights,” you continued softly. “I kept seeing its eyes. Kept hearing how it screamed. No matter how many times I tried to wash it, I could still feel the way the blood had splattered on my face. It wasn’t even trying to fight. It just wanted to fly. That was the first time I realized I wasn’t like the rest of you.”

He tried to call your name, but you didn’t let him. 

“I used to hope that maybe you understood,” you said. “That maybe you saw it too. But you never said anything. You never even looked.”

“I…” Hiccup’s voice was small now. “I didn’t know.”

You laughed bitterly. “Exactly.”

There was a long silence. Even the fire seemed to dim.

“I was too busy trying to prove myself back then,” he finally admitted. “To my dad, and to the village.”

You didn’t reply.

But something in your expression shifted.

“I should have,” he whispered. “I should’ve said something. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well…It doesn't matter now. Does it?”

Your dragon nudged your shoulder gently. You reached out and let it guide you back down to the fire, sitting again, this time slower.

“…You’re not the only one who changed,” Hiccup said quietly.

You didn’t answer.

The days that followed were… strange.

You didn’t speak to Hiccup much. Not unless you had to.

But that line—sharp and jagged as it was—had begun to soften.

You found yourself lingering a little longer at the table in the morning, not rising immediately when he entered the cavern. Sometimes you even sat beside him, sharing a plate in silence. A truce, if nothing else.

The routine you’d carved so carefully for yourself shifted around him without your permission. It started with small things—letting him follow when you made your rounds with the baby dragons, letting him watch as you sang low to calm the younger ones before the midday heat. Then there were the repairs on the shelter roof you let him help with. The way he’d pass you tools like he used to back in Gobber’s forge, silent, almost nostalgic.

At night, when he and Valka sat by the fire, sometimes you stayed close—perched up high on one of the rock shelves, half-listening as they spoke of Berk. 

It was strange. Hearing someone talk with so much love about a place you had associated with hate for the longest time. 

One morning, long after the others had risen, you found yourself playing with the hatchlings in a shaded corner of the sanctuary. The sun spilled in through the cracks above, casting fractured light across the mossy stone floor. A few baby Gronckles were tumbling over each other in a lazy pile, while a skittish Terrible Terror kept darting between your ankles. You laughed as one of the bolder ones tried to steal a fish from your satchel, swatting it gently on the nose.

“You’ve always been good with them,” came a voice behind you.

You turned. Valka stood at the edge of the alcove, arms folded, smiling softly. A cluster of baby dragons clung to the folds of her cloak.

You shrugged, trying not to read into the compliment. “They’re easier than people.”

There was something about Valka that would always make you admire her. She was like sunshine and a strong cup of mead combined. Her stern nature that gave way to her smiling and wonder-filled exterior was something you didn’t think you’d ever learn to master.

She was the light your life needed when you had been just a child. 

Valka stepped forward, crouching beside you as the hatchlings chirped curiously in her direction.

One of the Gronckles rolled into your lap with a huff, and you instinctively reached out to scratch behind its ear.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked after a brief moment of silence.

You turned your head to peer at her.

You had never been great at talking about this sort of thing. Your throat closed up and your chest ached. 

“I’m sorry if I’m making things difficult for you,” you said without looking at her. The baby Gronkle served as a life line of sorts. “He’s your son, and I’m happy for you. I just, don’t…” 

Valka hummed.

There was no malice in her tone, just that same peaceful nature that always seemed to follow her. She didn’t press. She never did. You wondered if she knew that if she waited long enough, the truth always came on its own.

You sighed, pressing your forehead briefly to the Gronckle’s warm side. “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do with him.”

“With Hiccup?”

You gave a single nod. “It’s like I’m speaking to a ghost. A version of him that I didn’t know existed. And I can’t decide if it’s better or worse than the one I remember.”

Valka said nothing for a moment. She reached out, plucked a leaf from the shoulder of your cloak, and let it flutter to the ground.

“I understand how that feels,” she said gently. “When I saw him again after all those years… He is so much taller now. Sharper. Wiser in some ways, but still that baby I remember last.”

She smiled faintly, though there was something painful beneath it.

“And even after all this time, he still looks for me .”

You turned toward her, surprised. “You’re his mother.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “And I left him. Just like the village left you.”

That made your breath catch slightly. Valka’s eyes held yours with a steady softness—not pity, or guilt. Just truth.

“I understand what you went through,” she said. “I went through the same.” Her hands tightened around the hem of her sleeve. “I was afraid. Of Stoick. Of what my own silence meant.”

You looked down. The Gronckle stirred and let out a sleepy snort.

You didn’t respond right away. Your throat was dry.

Valka shifted to sit beside you on the mossy stone. The dragonlings crowded her immediately, crawling up her side as if they’d done so a hundred times before.

“I hated Berk,” she said, plainly. “For a long time. For turning me into a stranger. For deciding what was right and wrong without listening to reason. But my son—he’s not Berk. Not anymore. Not really the one we knew anyways.”

You sighed. Your head tilted back until it bumped the cavern wall. “I spent years trying to let it go. I built a life here. I thought I didn’t need them anymore. Didn’t need him.”

“And maybe you don’t,” Valka said, not unkindly. “But maybe… maybe you want to try. And that’s harder.”

You let your head fall to the side to look at her. Her expression was gentle, a little tired, and utterly sincere.

“I’m not asking you to forgive him,” she said. “Not yet. But if you could give him the chance to show you who he is now, then maybe you’ll find that he’s not the ghost you think he is.”

You let out a long, slow breath. The kind you’d been holding for years without realizing.

It wasn’t like her words made everything click into place. They didn’t fill in the gaps or wipe away the bitterness that had been festering between your ribs for years now. But they did make you feel something you hadn’t expected:

Willing.

“…I can try,” you said at last, the words dry on your tongue. “I’ll give him a chance.”

Valka smiled, a warm, knowing thing.

“That’s all I’d hoped for.”

You reached down, gently lifting the Terrible Terror from your foot. It chirped indignantly before settling into your lap with a grumble.

The next morning, something was different.

You didn’t rush out before anyone stirred. You didn’t hide yourself in the back caverns or take the long way to avoid him. Instead, you found yourself pausing by the central fire as the steam rose from the cooking pot, fingers tapping absently against the edge of a wooden bowl.

And when Hiccup appeared, hair still damp from an early wash and arms full of sketch scrolls, you didn’t look away.

You nodded once in quiet greeting.

He nodded back.

No fanfare. No awkward explanations. 

To you, it felt like spring. Something light and ready for something new.

It started with the morning flights.

You’d take to the skies at sunrise, as you always had. But now, Hiccup began to follow.

The first time, you’d heard Toothless’s quiet wingbeats falling into rhythm with your dragon’s, and you nearly veered off in annoyance. But he kept his distance. Watched, quietly. Matched your altitude, your silence, your pace.

By the third day, you started waiting for him.

Not overtly. Not obviously. But you circled the far cliffs a little slower. You landed near the southern lookout just long enough for him to catch up. Sometimes you flew in parallel, not speaking. Other times you pointed to something in the distance—a new rookery, a nesting ridge. 

You didn’t want to admit it at first — the way he was starting to grow on you. Like vines crawling up a stone wall. 

But the small smile you tried to suppress every time he joined you, said otherwise.

He showed you a map once.

Unrolled it carefully across a flat stone after a long morning of flying. It was messy, ink-streaked, dotted with hasty notes and fine sketches of islands in the shape of teeth, claws, wings. His messy handwriting curled in the margins: Steep cliffs—deadly gusts. New dragon call recorded? Possible hybrid?

You crouched beside him, studying the northern chain.

“I didn’t know anyone had found this far east,” you murmured, tracing a coastline with your finger.

“I hadn’t,” he said. “Not until about a month ago. Toothless found it really, he seemed intent on going there.”

You considered. “There might be a death song nesting nearby. They mimic calls sometimes.”

He looked at you for a second longer than you were used to, his eyes slightly too wide and his mouth with a light smile. As if the piece of information you had offered him was pure gold.

As if what you said mattered to him.

It startled you how much you missed that feeling.

At night, you stayed by the fire a little longer.

You’d settle across from each other with the flames crackling in between, dragons curled behind you like breathing stones. Sometimes he’d pass you one of his little tools to tinker with—a broken clasp, a half-finished hinge. You’d hand him a small pouch of dried herbs in return, the ones you used to soothe dragons with respiratory strain.

“Crush them first,” you’d say.

“Into powder?” he’d ask.

You nodded. “Just enough to line the inside of the nest.”

He listened. He always did.

And when he spoke—about Berk, about what it had become, about the impending weight of leadership and how some days flying was the only escape he had—you listened back.

Sometimes you replied. Sometimes you didn’t. But he seemed to appreciate the quiet either way.

One evening, he handed you something wrapped in a strip of cloth. A bone carving—simple, small, shaped like a dragon wing in flight. The detailing was rough around the edges, and the balance slightly off.

“I carved it back when I first started mapping,” he said. “Didn’t know what I was doing.”

You turned it over in your hand.

“It’s… not terrible,” you said.

His mouth quirked, half-smile, half-wince. “High praise.”

You set it down beside you, but didn’t return it.

Later that week, while cleaning out the hatchling pool, he slipped and nearly fell face-first into a puddle of moss and algae. The squawk he made was utterly ungraceful, and your laugh—sharp and genuine—broke out before you could stop it.

He blinked up at you, soaking wet and annoyed. “Glad to see you’re enjoying this.”

“I am,” you said, too amused to deny it.

Something in his face relaxed after that. Like he’d been holding his breath for days.

It wasn’t a grand change.

There were no confessions. No sudden closeness. But the walls between you weren’t as tall as they once were.

He still asked questions. You still didn’t always answer.

But sometimes you did.

And when your hands brushed while securing a new perch near the cliffside, neither of you flinched.

The past still lingered. It always would.

But it no longer owned every breath you took near him.

And as you sat beside the fire one evening, passing a knife back and forth as you stripped bark to make kindling, you realized something strange—

You didn’t dread tomorrow.

You might even look forward to it.

[luvendiary]

yall, i just re read my last fred fic.

ngl…i sorta ate with that one

[luvendiary]

thinking a lot of thoughts about hiccup x reader with a deathsong

due to not being able to revise a full fic rn, here's some deathsong hc i wrote in a parking lot because i arrived an hour early to my class. thank you for this, i had not written these srt of blurbs (?) since my valka post. it was sm fun!

First of all, let me say that this is one of my favorite dragons — if not my favorite.

You can sing beautifully, that’s what attracts Hiccup to you at first. 

He's always found you beautiful, but what made him really pay attention was once when he heard you humming to your dragon. 

You do this thing were you lie on your dragons belly, and you harmonize together (like that one girl who harmonized with her ceiling fan) you like feeling the vibrations from your dragons belly

You are adorned with crystals — braided into your hair, stuffed in your pockets, weaved in your clothes — you name it. 

This is because you and your dragon love exploring caves (the sound bounces off of the walls better. 

Due to the colorfull nature of crystals, your dragon loves exploring them to because it feels right at home. I like to think Death Songs can sort of adapt their colors to their surroundings. So it's always interesting to see how your dragon shifts and changes along the cave walls. 

Whenever you feel overwhelmed, you like disappearing and find a new cave — sort of like how hiccup explores his islands 

You communicate through a series of whistles with your dragon. You have a set whistle for every situation. If you’re trapped, if you get separated, if anyone’s in danger, if you need help…

Due to the colorful nature of Death Songs, it sometimes feels like your dragon is more a performer than an animal.

For missions, you’re often asked to lure guards or other potential danger out of harm's way. The colorful nature of your dragon is sort of like a hypnosis thing state. 

Around berk you’re known as a cheerful person. You crack jokes easily and more often than not, you’re laughing along with the twins. 

But Hiccup starts noticing that you leave before feasts end, that you vanish mid-conversation sometimes and return hours later with sea salt in your hair and a new crystal in your belt.

He respects it. He never pushes. 

Sometimes he just sits nearby while you tinker with a new melody or sing wordlessly to your dragon, he often brings his sketchbook along. It almost always ends up discarded on his lap.

Sometimes he forgets he’s not supposed to be staring all the time 

You love spending time near water. 

Water carries sound, so there’s no surprise there. 

In the aforementioned caverns, you like finding pockets of water. 

You do this with the help of your dragon. Echolocation helps it see geographically.

You try teaching Hiccup how to whistle — he’s absolutely awful at it. he just ends up blowing raspberries or doubling over with laughter. You can’t help but laugh too

You try helping him get the mouth posture correctly. You squeeze his cheeks lightly with your hands

That's when you have your first kiss. 

You can’t stop rambling. And at one point, he just stops listening, because how can he focus with you so close to him? and he can’t stop looking at how your lips pucker trying to show him how it’s done. 

He grabs your wrist and places your hand in the nape of his neck before slowly leaning in and ever so softly kissing you. 

That effectively shuts you up. 

You start collecting crystals for him too. so you can braid in his hair 

you start collecting them in a small pouch and at the end of the day you give him a haul. telling him all about your favorites and the ones you’ve never seen before. 

he starts making them into small gifts — hair wrappings, jewelry, figurines…

Also, Death Songs don’t breathe fire, their attack method is this sort of amber thing that solidifies.

You sometimes collect it for Hiccup, and he forges goblets, and plates, or other useful things. 

Sometimes he likes forging amulets for you to wear.

You always have the one he made for you hanging around your neck.

Going back to the topic of water. I like to think you’ve become an expert in these sorts of underwater caverns, or lakes. like that one scene in Atlantis, where Kida shows Milo the big underwater mural.

You keep dragging him into these places, and he keeps asking you to harmonize, because since it’s a secluded space, your voice consumes it.

Sometimes you refuse, because to you, the music of the place in itself is enough. Other times you refuse because you get shy, but he always manages to convince you one way or another. 

He can be really convincing when he’s kissing you like that

[luvendiary]

hi!!! i read your Hiccup fics !! the 5 years later struck me the most— it was devastatingly beautiful and i was wondering if you'd make a pt. 2 of that 🙏 plus you write Hiccup so accurately huhu, i love your works!!!

hello!! yes, there is a part two in the works due to popular demand. i meant for it to be out by now, but i haven’t been able to polish it completely since im still sick. but it’ll be out soon, since its mostly done.

thank you for enjoying my work! it means the world to me <3

[luvendiary]

i am so terribly sick rn. i hope i can get this week’s fic out 😟

[luvendiary]

nice to meet you / f. weasley

fred weasley x f!reader

summary: you and fred weasley keep getting introduced. you decide to play along, but secrets carry a burden of their own. a/n: this came to me in a dream. i had some trouble writting it, but i really like the end result. hope you like it as much. also, sorry that i can't put out fics as often as before. i'm doing an internship and i get home absolutely wrecked. i still write because it's what i love. 9.9k words. no use of y/n. not proof-read. suggestive content (no smut).

Your parents’ work had always been a ticking clock.

When the move to England became official, it didn’t come with much fanfare — just a quiet knock on your door, a soft-spoken apology, and the usual promises: "It’ll be good for all of us," "It’s only for a few years," "Hogwarts has a wonderful reputation."

You didn’t protest. Not out loud. You just started folding your life into boxes again, familiar with the routine by now. America had been the longest stretch you’d stayed anywhere, and you’d actually liked it. Your school. Your friends. The way things felt… settled.

But your parents’ research was being relocated to London, and with it, your last years of magical education.

So now, here you were. In a borrowed room with a suitcase still half-unpacked. Trying to adjust to everything feeling slightly off: the weather, the accent, the way people said “reckon” like it was a completely normal word.

Angelina Johnson was the only familiar face in the mess of it. You’d known her loosely through family connections—her mum and yours had trained together at one point—and she’d been quick to offer you some kind of lifeline.

“It’ll be fun!” Angelina insisted as she curled her eyelashes. Her mouth was slightly open, and she sported a really focused expression.

You stared at her through the mirror with a cynical expression. It wasn’t that you didn’t like parties —in fact, you loved them— but it wouldn’t be the same without people you liked being around.

“I’ll sit this one out,” you said as you tried to go back to reading your book. 

The next thing you knew, she was crawling on the bed and had closed your book. “Please…” she said as she pouted.

“I won’t know anyone there…” you whined as you moved your legs, trying to kick her off of you.

She persisted. Probably the Quidditch player in her.

“You’ll know me!” she said as she practically jumped off the bed and started rummaging through your half-empty closet.

You sighed. You knew this was a lost battle.

Angelina had that look in her eye now — focused, determined, borderline smug. She flung open the mirrored closet doors like she was leading a mission, muttering to herself as she flipped through hangers.

“Too frilly… too boring… you didn’t pack this, did you?”

“I did,” you said dryly from the bed.

She pulled out a short velvet dress and held it up like it was holy. “This.”

You stared. “Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.”

You groaned, flopping back into the pillows. “I’m wearing jeans.”

“You’re not wearing trousers.”

“I’ll look weird.”

“You’ll look hot.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is at Lee’s.”

You let her dress you like a very grumpy, very reluctant doll — the dress complimented your figure, hugging what needed to be hugged and letting loose what needed to be let loose. Angelina handed you a pair of black sneakers with an excited grin. You took them and laced them up. At least a part of your outfit would be somewhat comfortable to you.

By the time you stood in front of the mirror, half-made-up and blinking at your own reflection, you had to admit—begrudgingly—you didn’t look bad. 

Angelina popped into view behind you, adjusting one of your earrings.

“There. If anyone hits on you tonight, just glare. Or hex.”

You rolled your eyes. “Comforting.”

“I mean it, though,” she said, her tone dipping into something quieter for the first time that night. “You don’t have to impress anyone. You’re not here to fit in—you’re just here. And anyone who doesn’t get that can shove it.”

You smiled, soft but small.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t get mushy on me now,” she said quickly, already turning away to grab her jacket. 

The night air was sticky with the kind of summer heat that clung to the back of your neck, even after the sun had dipped below the trees. You both apparated just outside Lee Jordan’s place—a two-story house with music rattling the windows and what appeared to be a bonfire happening in the back garden.

Angelina didn’t give you time to hesitate. She grabbed your hand, practically dragging you up the front path and through the door like a woman on a mission.

Immediately, the noise swallowed you.

Laughter, loud music, and the faint scent of something burning (in a good way?) hit you all at once. People were everywhere—sprawled on armchairs, dancing in the middle of the living room, leaning against the kitchen counters with drinks in hand. You were hit with the overwhelming sense that they all knew each other. Knew this space. Knew where to find the good drinks and which room was off-limits and which bathroom door not to open.

You, on the other hand, felt like someone who’d wandered into the wrong photograph.

Angelina disappeared into the crowd with a promise of “back in a sec,” and a minute passed. Then five.

Then you started planning your exit.

You sighed, edging toward the nearest wall and gripping the plastic cup she’d pressed into your hand during the walk. The music changed. Someone whooped. A girl bumped into you, apologized without really looking, and kept going.

You scanned the room, debating if it was too early to fake an emergency and leave.

Then someone brushed past your elbow.

“Hey—sorry, mind if I—”

You turned.

He was tall, all lazy angles and warm skin and reddish hair that curled just slightly at the ends. He looked like someone who never really hurried unless it was worth it. His eyes landed on yours for a beat longer than necessary.

He gave a slow, easy grin. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your…”

“Irish goodbye,” you offered as you stared up at him. A brow raised, unimpressed but not annoyed.

You saw him trying to suppress a smile. He failed. “Well it’s a shame we’re in England then.”

You opened your mouth—probably to make some snarky remark about how not even being a continent away from Irish grounds had stopped you from disappearing from events before—but before you could speak, a familiar voice cut through the hum of music and voices.

“Of course you found her first.”

You glanced past him just as Angelina returned, dragging a tall boy with dreadlocks and a redhead girl. She looked at the scene in front of her like she’d just walked in on her own punchline.

The boy turned his head lazily toward her. “You know her?”

“Yes, I brought her,” Angelina said, shooting him a look. “I was literally gone for two minutes.”

Dreadlocks smirked. “That’s on you for thinking Fred wouldn’t sniff out the new girl the second you blinked.”

The redhead was already eyeing you with a polite kind of curiosity.

You tried not to let your face show anything except mild amusement as Fred turned back to you, still wearing that infuriating half-smile.

“Well, I feel like we’ve been robbed of a proper introduction.”

Angelina rolled her eyes, but there was a glint of satisfaction in it.

She introduced him as Fred Weasley. The redheaded girl was his sister, Ginny Weasley. And the other guy was Lee Jordan, the host.

You nodded at each of them, offering polite, half-distracted greetings.

Fred, for his part, didn’t look away from you once.

“So you’re the American transfer,” Lee said, already grinning. “You don’t sound American.”

“I don’t?” 

“I expected a bit more yee-haw in the accent.”

You gave him a flat look. “Sorry to disappoint, darlin’,” you made sure to include that southern drawl which was not at all native to you.

“Give him five minutes,” Angelina muttered. “He’ll ask if you’ve ever ridden a dragon across the Grand Canyon.”

“Have you?” Fred asked, deadpan.

You looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “That’s not even geographically possible.”

“So you haven’t?”

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out—low and involuntary. Fred lit up like he’d won something.

“So what’s the biggest difference so far?” Ginny asked, nudging her shoulder against yours.

You hesitated. “Well… the weather’s worse. People say reckon unironically. And every time someone mentions ‘O.W.L.s’ I think they're talking about actual birds.”

Fred grinned. “We do have actual birds too. You’ll love the post system.”

Lee leaned in. “Have you seen a Hippogriff up close?”

“I’ve seen worse,” you said without missing a beat.

They seemed to hold their breath, waiting for you to elaborate.

“American teenage boys,” you said finally, and that got a full round of laughter, even from Ginny.

“Okay, okay,” Angelina said, waving a hand. “Let her breathe. You’re gonna scare her off before the party even hits its stride.”

“I’m fine,” you said, but she was already grabbing Ginny by the wrist.

“Come on. We’re getting drinks. Real ones,” she said.

Ginny smirked, sending you a knowing look before letting herself be pulled away.

And just like that, it was just you, Fred, and Lee again.

Well. Briefly.

Because, within seconds, someone slipped up behind Lee and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Oi. You stealing all the good company without me?”

Fred groaned. “Really?”

You looked up—and paused. Another redhead. Nearly identical to Fred, except his grin was wider, his eyes crinkled more, and his shirt was somehow worse.

“George,” Fred said, lazily.

You blinked. “So I am seeing double.”

George grinned. “It’s a common reaction.”

“She’s American,” Lee added, like it explained something.

“Ohhh,” George said, nodding solemnly. “That explains why she hasn’t hexed you yet.”

Fred elbowed him gently.

George clapped Fred’s chest. They appeared to say something to each other briefly before both him and Lee slipped away.

Fred gave you a long look as Lee and George headed off, disappearing into the din.

And then it was just the two of you again.

He turned toward you, expression softening, a bit less smug now that his audience was gone.

“You dance?”

You laughed. “I do. But you don’t seem like the dancing type.”

“I’m not,” he said honestly. “But I am a ‘you’ type.”

You blinked, caught off guard for a moment. Your fingers curled slightly around your empty cup. You were so used to people pushing, performing—trying to impress or one-up or drag something out of you.

Fred Weasley didn’t seem like he was trying anything at all.

And somehow, that was worse.

“Fine,” you said, finally putting the cup down on a nearby shelf. “But you’ll have to keep up.”

You didn’t wait for his reply. You were already making your way to the dance floor, hips already moving.

The room had thickened with music—low bass, scattered vocals, something old and funky that made it easier to move without thinking. Bodies swayed in lazy, rhythmic pulses, half-drunk limbs brushing too close in places, the air clinging with heat and smoke and the vague sweetness of perfume and cologne.

Fred caught up with you just as you started to sink into the tempo.

There wasn’t much space between the two of you, and even less so once his hands found your waist. Lightly, not possessive—more like a question he wasn’t asking out loud.

You didn’t answer with words. You just turned into the music, letting it ripple through you. His hands followed naturally, sliding to the small of your back as you moved.

He smelled faintly of aftershave and something warm—clove maybe, or cinnamon. And he was warmer than you expected, like he ran hot under pressure.

Neither of you spoke.

There wasn’t a need to.

He wasn’t bad at dancing, either. A little cocky, sure. A bit loose with the rhythm, but he moved with intention, letting your lead guide him just enough. His palm ghosted along your side as you shifted, the space between your bodies closing, your movements syncing up without effort.

The music slowed.

Not dramatically—just enough to pull everyone into a deeper sway. Shoulders softened. Conversations turned murmured.

Your eyes flicked up, finding his already on yours.

You cleared your throat quietly, peeling your hands from where they’d found his shoulders.

“Got a cig?” you asked, casually—like you weren’t just buying yourself a second to breathe.

Fred raised a brow. “Do I look like I have a cig?”

You tilted your head. “Yes.”

He smiled. “Come on.”

He took your hand and led you toward the back of the house.

The patio door stuck a little before giving way. You slipped through first, Fred close behind, and the sound of the party dimmed instantly behind the glass.

Outside, the air was still heavy, but cooler than inside—thank God. Crickets buzzed lazily in the hedges. A few people were smoking further down the garden path, silhouettes caught in flickering firelight from the bonfire. But out here, on the little stone patio just off the kitchen, it felt… separate. Quieter. Like you’d slipped out of frame.

You sat on the edge of an old patio chair and leaned forward, resting your forearms on your thighs as Fred pulled a cigarette tin from the inside pocket of his jacket. He flipped it open, offering it without a word.

You took one, holding it between your fingers before he lit it for you with a quick flick of his wand. The flame caught instantly. You inhaled.

The smoke filled your lungs with something sharp and familiar.

Fred took one for himself but didn’t light it. He just held it, rolling it slowly between his fingers as he watched you.

“What?” you asked, not looking at him.

He shrugged, resting back against the low railing that overlooked the yard. “Just trying to figure you out.”

You gave a dry laugh, exhaling smoke toward the sky. “You’ve known me for twenty minutes.”

“Exactly,” he said. “I’m working fast.”

You took another drag and leaned back. The stone patio was still warm beneath your boots.

“You always this direct?”

Fred finally lit his own, the flame briefly illuminating the sharp line of his jaw, the cut of his cheekbone. His eyes found you again through the smoke. “That’s for you to figure out.”

You didn’t respond right away.

From here, you could still hear the low thump of the bass from inside, the occasional burst of laughter from the garden. But it all felt muted. Like background noise to something else entirely.

You took another pull from the cigarette, slow, measured. The paper crackled softly as it burned down, the orange tip pulsing like a heartbeat between your fingers.

Fred didn’t look away. His cigarette dangled loosely from his lips now, forgotten more than enjoyed. You could feel his gaze press into you—steady, assessing, but not in a way that demanded anything.

Just... watching.

You turned slightly, crossing one leg over the other, and let the smoke roll out slowly between your lips—right toward him.

It wasn’t a challenge, not exactly.

But it wasn’t innocent either.

The smoke drifted lazily in the air between you, curling toward his face before thinning into the thick night.

Fred blinked once, slow.

Then he laughed—low, under his breath. “Alright.”

You arched a brow, satisfied.

He leaned forward a little, cigarette finally lit and between his fingers now. “So what’s your game?”

You gave him a look. “You think I’ve got one?”

“I hope you do,” he said. “Otherwise I’m wasting good material.”

You smiled, but it was the kind that didn’t reach your eyes.

He sat down beside you, close enough that your knees brushed. The stone bench was narrow, and neither of you made any effort to create more space.

Fred’s voice dipped. “Blowing smoke at people is rude.”

You glanced at him sideways. “So is staring.”

“Didn’t realize I was being that obvious.”

You flicked ash off the end of your cigarette. “You were.”

A beat passed.

Then: “Does it bother you?”

You looked at him fully this time.

His cigarette glowed between two fingers, untouched. His lips were parted slightly, eyes darker now—less playful. More curious. Like he wasn’t sure what answer he wanted from you.

“No,” you said, quiet but clear. “If it did, you’d know.”

Fred hummed softly, his gaze flicking to your mouth for just a second before coming back up. He didn’t smile this time. And for a moment, the air between you felt weighted—like something might shift if either of you leaned too far in the wrong direction.

Or the right one.

You dropped your cigarette into the cracked ashtray on the table beside you, then sat back. Not away—just back enough to meet him head-on.

“I thought you were the charming one,” you said.

Fred tilted his head. “Who told you that?”

You smirked. “Are you saying you’re not?”

He grinned then, slow and sharp. “And here I thought I was being subtle.”

“Not even close.”

His hand brushed your knee—barely. A test, maybe. You didn’t move.

You let the quiet hang.

Then, softly, “You’re not trying very hard.”

Fred’s eyes sparked. “Don’t have to.”

You held that for a beat. The way his gaze pinned yours. The barely-there smile at the corner of his mouth. The air between you pulling tighter with each second.

You leaned in a little—barely. Just enough that your voice came out softer, closer.

“Prove it.”

That did something to him.

His breath hitched just slightly, and for a flicker of a moment, he looked like he might say something else.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in, slow and deliberate, until you could feel the smoke still clinging to his breath. Until his hand brushed yours, then stilled. Until your noses were nearly touching and the world behind you blurred out into nothing.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured.

You didn’t.

So he didn’t.

His mouth found yours without hesitation—warm, steady, the kiss rougher than expected but nothing like careless. His hand slid to your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your cheekbone like he was trying to figure out what part of you to memorize first.

You kissed him back just as deliberately. Just as firmly.

No nerves. No butterflies.

Just heat. And pressure. And the sharp, clean snap of something starting.

When you finally pulled back, he didn’t move far. Just enough to breathe.

You looked at him through the haze, your lips still parted, the scent of smoke and clove hanging between you.

“Well,” you said. “That wasn’t very subtle either.”

Fred smirked. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

You didn’t.

And he knew it.

The summer went by faster than expected.

After that kiss—and everything it hinted at—you’d pulled a classic disappearing act. Slipped out of the party not long after, still tasting clove and heat and something you didn’t have the language for. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That the timing had been off. That he probably did this all the time.

Angelina didn’t let it go, of course.

She’d brought it up with a pointed look the next morning. Said something like “So… smoke break, huh?” with the kind of smirk that made it obvious she’d already heard the details from someone else—probably Lee. You brushed her off, played it cool. Changed the subject. Pretended not to check the mirror when you passed it, like you weren’t still replaying the moment in your head.

By the time September rolled around, Hogwarts felt like an entirely different orbit. Older. Colder. The train ride had been a blur of new faces and shifting accents and vague curiosity—some of it friendly, some of it sharp-edged. Most people just stared like you were a new animal at the zoo.

You didn’t mind. You’d learned how to shape-shift over the years. Being a new girl wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

Now, on your first official day, you found yourself being escorted through the halls of the castle by none other than Professor McGonagall herself—sharp, efficient, and somehow still managing to make you feel like you were under examination even when she was being polite.

You hadn’t expected the castle to feel this vast. You’d heard it described—maze-like, ancient, full of trick staircases and portraits that moved when they shouldn’t—but no one had prepared you for how much space could hum with memory.

Every corridor echoed with a kind of lived-in noise: footsteps from nowhere, shifting walls, the creak of portraits repositioning themselves just outside your line of sight. The place didn’t feel haunted, exactly. But it was watching.

Professor McGonagall walked with sharp, even steps beside you, her expression unreadable in that way people wore when they’d mastered command.

“This wing connects back to the Charms corridor—though if the third-floor passage is sealed again this year, you’ll need to go around through the courtyard. I trust you’ll learn the difference in time.”

You nodded once. She hadn’t asked for your thoughts.

The halls were mostly empty, save for the occasional blur of black robes in the distance.

You were just about to ask a question when a blur of motion whipped across the hall in front of you.

It was as if the ghost of summer’s past was coming to haunt you. 

You still couldn't help but try to suppress a smile.

Back in America, you would be able to go months without crossing paths with people from other classes. You had expected that the sheer vastness of the Hogwarts castle would ensure the same courtesy. 

But here he was, in all his red-headed glory. 

Fred Weasley. 

Sprinting at full tilt, as he skidded into view. His tie was half-undone and his eyes wide with something between laughter and panic.

“Mr. Weasley,” McGonagall said, tone arid as parchment, before he could collide into her.

He straightened immediately, breathing hard. “Professor. Fancy seeing you here.”

Behind him, a loud noise echoed through the corridor. Followed by a blue-ish floating figure that was carrying a bucket with a viscous-looking liquid inside.

“Thieves! Traitors! Ginger-haired goblins!” it shrieked.

McGonagall didn’t flinch. She turned slowly, gave the poltergeist a glare so precise it could’ve cracked marble.

The spectre froze midair.

“Peeves. I highly suggest you reconsider that course of action,” she said, voice like iron.

Peeves whimpered and vanished through the ceiling without another word.

Fred blinked. “That was almost impressive.”

“I expect silence unless it includes an apology,” McGonagall replied.

He smiled, easy. “Always sorry, Professor.”

She didn’t smile back.

Instead, she turned to you. The sound of your last name brought you back to reality. “...This is Fred Weasley. One of our more… spirited upper-years. Mr. Weasley, this is our new transfer student from America. I trust you’ll be a model student around her. For my sake.”

Fred turned to you fully now, something flickering across his face—surprise, humor, memory. But he recovered quickly, clearing his throat and putting on a perfect picture of polite interest.

He extended his hand.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said.

You stared at him for a half-second longer than was strictly necessary. Then, you slid your fingers into his expression, unreadable.

“You too,” you said, letting your voice fall into that same effortless neutrality you used on strangers. “I’ve heard a lot.”

Fred’s smile twitched, just slightly. “All of it true, I’m afraid.”

“Hmm,” you replied. “I doubt all of it.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted movement—a shadow just barely visible in the mouth of a side corridor.

George Weasley, unmistakable in stature and smirk, was half-hidden behind the stone archway, peering out like a feral cat waiting for the coast to clear. Lee Jordan crouched beside him, his hand flat against George’s chest, physically keeping him from stepping out into view.

You didn’t acknowledge them. You didn’t have to.

Your gaze flicked back to Fred, and you smirked—just barely. A warning.

Fred’s eyes glinted.

McGonagall had already started walking again, muttering something under her breath about detentions and stress-induced migraines.

“Shall we?” she called over her shoulder.

You nodded at Fred, voice perfectly cool. “Nice to meet you.”

He smirked. “The pleasure’s mine.”

As you turned to walk away, you caught it—the way his fingers curled slightly at his side, like he wanted to reach for something but wouldn’t.

You didn’t look back.

By mid-October, Hogwarts had cooled into something sharper. Even the sunlight in the mornings came through like it had somewhere to be. Nights arrived earlier. Hogsmeade weekends were a welcome relief—a sanctioned excuse to drift off school grounds, drown your essays in butterbeer, and pretend the real world didn’t live just beyond the hills.

It was dark now. Late.

The usual crowd had thinned in The Three Broomsticks. All the first and second years had been shuffled back toward the castle hours ago, and the only students left were the ones clever enough to not get caught—or charming enough to not care if they were.

You were tucked into a booth near the back, the dark wood sticky beneath your elbows, jacket slung behind you on the bench. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting everything in a gold haze that made the glass bottles behind the bar glow like treasure. The room smelled like clove smoke, wet wool, and spilled cider. There was a low hum of conversation, but it was mostly lazy now. Loose-limbed and late enough that the air felt more like velvet than noise.

Oliver Wood slid into the seat across from you, half-drunk and grinning, with the kind of flushed face that suggested he’d already started celebrating something—probably nothing.

He set his tankard down with a soft thunk and pointed at you like you were a question he hadn’t answered yet.

“You know,” he said, “I don’t think I’ve ever properly met you.”

You most definitely had met him. In fact, you had a lengthy conversation about American Quidditch teams. You had defended the Brazilian National team like your life depended on it. Because with Oliver Wood nearby, it most likely did. You had found middle ground in the fact that the team manager had called the Welsh Chasers “talentless hags”.

You blinked, sipping slowly from your mug. “Haven’t we?”

“Not officially.” He turned, waving someone over. “Oi—Fred!”

You didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.

You already knew the sound of his footsteps—easy, unhurried, a slight scuff to the heel like he dragged his feet just enough to be insolent. You’d heard it sneaking down to the kitchens three nights ago. And the night before that. And the one where he’d pushed you against the cold marble of the trophy hallway and said “You’re a menace” against your mouth like it was a compliment.

Fred Weasley slid into the booth beside Oliver, sparing you a single, unreadable glance.

“Weasley…” Oliver slurred. “This is…”

He stared blankly at you.

You stared back.

“What’s your name again?”

You offered him your name. 

His eyes lit up. “The Brazilian lass!”

“Not Brazilian.”

Fred didn’t laugh.

He didn’t smile either.

Just reached for Oliver’s half-finished tankard, took a sip, and let the silence stretch long enough that it almost became a conversation in itself.

You let your body relax into the booth, playing the part. Arms folded loosely across your chest, one ankle tucked beneath the other. The picture of polite disinterest.

Oliver, meanwhile, leaned forward like this was a game he’d just decided to win.

“You two’ve never met, right?” he asked, blinking slow and sloppy. “You’d get on.”

You tilted your head. “No, I don’t think we have.”

Fred’s lips twitched. Not a smile. A crease.

“Pleasure,” he said, finally turning to face you full. He offered his hand over the table like it was the first time.

You stared at it a second longer than you needed to, just to be difficult. Then you took it. Warm. Familiar. Callused just enough to remember.

“Nice to meet you,” you murmured, like his mouth hadn’t been on yours three nights ago.

Oliver seemed satisfied, completely unaware of the low tension curling under the table like a wire left too close to fire.

Fred’s hand let go a moment too late.

Not long enough to be noticed.

Long enough to feel.

He leaned back in the booth, arm draped casually over the backrest behind Oliver, fingers curling against the edge of the wood. Not touching you, but not far.

“Brazilian at heart, though,” Oliver continued, oblivious. “You should’ve heard her. Practically hexed me for calling the Cannons a real team.”

“She’s got taste, then,” Fred said mildly.

You took another sip of your cider. It was lukewarm now, clove-heavy. Your hands stayed wrapped around the glass anyway.

“Fred, you should’ve seen her during the match last week—stood the whole bloody game. Thought she was going to throw her shoe at the Slytherin beater.”

“That true?” Fred asked, turning his face toward you just enough to meet your eyes.

The fire cast the side of his jaw in amber and shadow. His knee bumped lightly against yours beneath the table. You didn’t move.

“I considered it,” you said, evenly.

He smiled again—this time with teeth. Brief. Sharp. Gone just as quick.

Oliver knocked back the last of his drink, setting the tankard down with a clumsy kind of finality. “You two’ll get on, I think. She’s trouble.”

“Is she?” Fred said, still looking at you.

You gave a small shrug. “Depends who’s asking.”

Oliver groaned, loud and dramatic. “Merlin’s tits, I’m the third wheel, and I was here first."

Fred’s gaze didn’t waver. “You should work on your timing.”

“Piss off,” Oliver muttered, standing—too quickly—and nearly knocking over the bench as he did.

He mumbled something about going to find Katie and stumbled off into the haze of low firelight and laughter.

And then it was quiet.

Sort of.

The noise of the room existed, but far away—muffled like water.

Fred didn’t speak right away.

His arm hadn’t moved.

Neither had his leg.

“You gonna pretend again?” he asked finally, voice low. A private murmur between you and the table and the dark.

“I’m playing along,” you said, calm.

Fred’s eyes traced your face. “That what this is?”

You didn’t answer.

Not with words.

Instead, you reached for your drink again, took a slow sip, and exhaled like nothing about this felt dangerous.

Fred leaned in, just enough for the tips of his fingers to graze your wrist under the table.

Then he said—quietly, so no one else would hear: “You’re fucking cruel.”

You smiled over the rim of your glass. “You like it.”

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t have to.

Because the way he looked at you said it for him.

You let the silence stretch.

Then, finally, you slid out of the booth—slow and unhurried—pulling your jacket from the bench and slinging it over your arm.

“Walk me back?”

It wasn’t a question.

Fred stood without hesitation.

And when you stepped out into the night—under stars that glittered like they were watching—you didn’t bother pretending anymore.

You barely had time to inhale before Fred’s hand curled around your elbow and pulled you sharply into the first alley beside the pub.

A low gasp caught in your throat—not from fear. Not even surprise. Just the speed.

The wall was cold against your back, and his mouth was on yours before you could say a word.

His hands found your waist, thumbs pressing into your hipbones like they belonged there. Your own slid up the front of his coat, clutching at the wool as his mouth slanted against yours, hungry and certain.

“What happened to playing along?”

You smirked against his mouth. “I said walk me back.”

He kissed you again, slower this time—like he could memorize it, bite by bite.

Eventually, you did walk.

But by then your lips were swollen, your knuckles scraped a little from the stone, your legs a bit wobbly, and Fred looked like someone who’d just won a bet no one else knew he’d placed.

The walk back to the castle wasn’t short.

And neither of you said a single word the entire way.

The rest of Hogwarts passed like smoke.

A blur of whispered meetings in empty classrooms, stray parchment notes folded into pockets, hands clutching fabric in the dark. Kisses that tasted like winter and peppermint and secrets. You and Fred had become a study in stolen time—meeting in secret, parting with smirks and half-muttered promises you never expected to hold.

You still remembered the sound of his laugh echoing off the castle walls. The way his fingertips always smelled faintly of sulphur and sugar from whatever half-baked prank he’d been helping George with. The soft scrape of his voice when he said "just five more minutes." And how it didn’t fail to make you feel weak in the knees every time.

It was messy and light and dizzyingly easy—until it wasn’t.

Until the twins left.

That day the castle cracked open.

The sky above Hogwarts turned into a canvas of fireworks. Laughter. Screaming. A roaring exit worthy of the Weasley name, leaving behind a trail of chaos and a gaping silence Umbridge couldn’t fill, no matter how many decrees she tacked onto the walls.

You didn’t say goodbye.

Not properly.

There wasn’t a moment for it. Just the flash of red hair disappearing into smoke and the dull thrum of your heartbeat in your ears.

You couldn’t even be angry. Not without getting angrier at yourself for it.

Fred Weasley had never been yours — not properly anyway. And you never had been his.

That’s the thing about secrets. They are only ever yours to keep.

After that, everything quieted.

The war had its shadows. Your last year was subdued. You graduated with decent marks and restless hands, the kind that needed to dig into soil or scribble notes into field journals just to keep still.

You studied Herbology. Then Magizoology. Plants and creatures made sense in ways people didn’t. They told you what they needed. They never looked at you like you were supposed to be something you hadn’t figured out yet.

Your professional career came to a halt for a brief moment. The war destroyed everything it touched. And for a moment, you thought the darkness would never dissipate. 

The letter came in the middle of the night.

You didn’t sleep much anymore, not since everything began to unravel in real time — not since the quiet rumors became battle lines, not since the list of names on parchment started including people you actually knew.

You arrived at Hogwarts under cover of dark, wand clenched tight in your pocket, the castle silhouette jagged and unfamiliar against the storm-lit sky. For a moment, it felt like walking back into a dream.

But it wasn’t a dream. It was a reckoning.

McGonagall met you in the courtyard.

She looked older. Not just tired, but aged in the bones — like the last year had asked more of her than magic was supposed to take. Her robes were singed, and there was a thin line of blood crusted at her temple, but she stood tall. Unshaken.

When she saw you, she didn’t smile. Just reached out and gripped your shoulder, firm and grounding.

“It’s good to see you,” she said softly.

You couldn’t answer. Just swallowed around the tightness in your throat and nodded once.

She led you through the castle — through corridors you used to sneak down with Fred, past classrooms where your name had once been whispered behind hands for other reasons. The walls bled smoke and light. Spells sizzled in the distance.

The castle was a battlefield now.

Still, you found some of the Weasleys — not all at once, but in flashes. You saw Ginny ducking beneath a shattered arch, her face streaked with ash. You passed Percy standing shoulder to shoulder with Charlie, both of them shouting hexes like they were pulling pieces of themselves apart. And George — you found George in the entryway, his lip split and wand arm trembling.

He caught your eye.

Stopped in his tracks.

Neither of you spoke.

But he looked like he wanted to.

Like there was a truth he needed to offer and no time to shape it into words.

Instead, he nodded — once. A small, brittle thing. And then he ran.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been fighting. How long the world had narrowed down to spells and blood and rubble beneath your boots.

It happened so fast.

The wall behind him collapsed.

Fred.

It came down with a thunderous roar, a split-second scream — too loud, too sudden — stone crashing like thunder. Someone shouted his name. Maybe it was you. Maybe it wasn’t.

You don’t remember running.

Just the dust choking your lungs, the crumbling brick still hot from spellfire, the way your fingers scraped raw trying to pull him out.

His body was limp when you found him.

Half-buried, blood running warm down the side of his face.

But breathing.

You held onto that.

You stayed by him all the way back to the Great Hall — now transfigured into a makeshift infirmary.  Lanterns floated above broken bodies. Cots lined the stone floor. Madame Pomfrey was everywhere at once.

You stood by a wall. Letting the Weasleys have their space.

The moment he woke up, you knew it immediately. 

You heard Goerge’s broken sob, as he went to hug his twin. Molly followed. Ginny was held by Charlie as she cried.

You didn’t go to him.

You couldn’t.

Not when all of them were finally able to touch him, to hold him, to know he was still there. It wasn’t your place—not really. You weren’t someone with a claim.

You’d been a secret.

And secrets don’t get to grieve out loud.

Still, he saw you. You knew it.

Your back was already half-turned when your eyes met across the Great Hall—his still cloudy with pain and potions, but sharp enough to land on you.

You didn’t wave. Didn’t smile.

Just held the gaze for a beat too long, and then—

You left.

Slipped past the wounded and the healers and the broken bodies beneath floating lanterns, into the corridor, into the silence.

You didn’t look back.

You stayed until the war ended.

You fought through the final night, knuckles blistered from your wand, spells coming out hoarse and ragged from your throat. You helped patch wounds with trembling fingers. You held someone’s hand—maybe a Ravenclaw fifth year—as they died.

And when it was over, you walked through the rubble of a place you’d once thought unshakable. You said goodbye to McGonagall—who held your hand a little longer than she needed to—and then you left.

No one stopped you.

No one even asked where you were going.

Slowly, everything went back to a semblance of normal. 

But not really. Nothing would be the same as it was before. 

You read the paper every morning, now more than ever, it was full of faces of people you knew. 

The ones who you had lost, the ones who had decided to lose themselves, and the ones who were working on building back what they once knew.

You had started working doing what you loved again. 

The old woman who owned the apothecary in Diagon Alley had lost her husband in the first war.

You never asked for details. She never gave them. But there was a kind of knowing in her—one that didn’t press when your hands shook while shelving bloodroot, or when you stood too long staring at the floating jars of calming draughts like they might give you answers.

Her name was Mildred. She wore too much perfume and kept tiny sweets in her pockets for the neighborhood kids. She insisted on closing the shop every Sunday, even though it made no business sense, and said the plants needed time to breathe just like people did.

You came to love her in the way you love the things that save you quietly.

You brewed. You blended. You took inventory. You learned how to listen to the hum of ingredients instead of your own thoughts.

Sometimes you’d hear fireworks in the alley behind the shop.

Your hands would freeze. Your heart, too.

But it was never them.

Until one Tuesday.

It was raining—a soft drizzle, the kind that clung to your eyelashes and soaked the stone roads in thin silver.

You were in the back room, labeling new deliveries of dried dittany, when the bell chimed softly at the front of the shop.

“One moment!” you called, brushing your hands against your apron.

You stepped through the doorway, still scribbling something on a notepad—

And stopped.

Fred Weasley stood just inside the shop, a small box of biscuits tucked under his arm, raindrops still clinging to his curls. His eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t say anything.

And neither did you.

Because before you could—

“Oh, Freddie,” Mildred chirped from behind the counter, already bustling forward.

She reached up on tiptoe and pinched his cheek with the same maternal familiarity she reserved for her houseplants. “You always remember. Look at this—you brought the good ones, too.”

She took the box from his hands and cooed like he’d just handed her a crown.

Fred gave a sheepish smile. “Wouldn’t dare forget.”

“You two don’t know each other, do you?” she asked suddenly, turning between you both. “This is my newest assistant—bit of a genius, this one. Got a feel for herbs like no one I’ve ever met.”

You inhaled slowly. Steadied yourself.

Then you extended your hand.

Smiled, slow. Familiar. Practiced.

“Nice to meet you,” you said.

Fred looked at your hand.

Then took it, palm warm against yours, grip just the right side of firm.

“Pleasure,” he murmured.

He came back the next week.

You told yourself it was just a coincidence. Mildred was beloved by all sorts, especially the ones who’d fought. She’d mothered more than her fair share of broken soldiers and ex-Aurors. Fred Weasley showing up again wasn’t surprising. Not really.

He brought her a bag of pear drops and a tiny enchanted orchid that opened and closed like a sleepy yawn.

You were in the back when the bell chimed again. You almost didn’t come out—stayed shelving silverleaf and grinding dried asphodel into fine powder, pretending not to recognize the voice through the wall.

But then Mildred called for help identifying a mislabeled root, and you didn’t have the luxury of disappearing.

He was leaning against the counter when you walked out, arms crossed over his chest like he’d been waiting longer than he was letting on. His hair was still damp from the rain. A few curls stuck to his temple.

You didn’t greet him.

Just went about your task with quiet efficiency.

When you passed him to grab a jar from the front display, he shifted slightly. Like he wanted to say something. Like he had rehearsed it, and then lost it in the moment.

It wasn’t until Mildred was out of earshot that he finally said it.

“I think I saw you.”

You didn’t turn around. “When?”

“During the battle.”

Your hands slowed, brushing over the glass of a jar, the label half-faded.

“I couldn’t be sure,” he added. “I wasn’t exactly lucid. But I thought I saw you.”

You finally looked at him. Not with warmth. Not even curiosity.

Just that same unreadable look you’d always worn best—cool and clean and just a little bit sharp around the edges.

You didn’t answer.

He cleared his throat. “Are you—are you angry?”

You blinked, once. “Why would I be angry?”

Fred straightened. “Because I left. Because I didn’t write. Because I didn’t find you after.”

“You didn’t owe me anything.”

“That’s not—” he paused. “That’s not what I meant.”

You gave a short, humorless sound. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I do,” he said, and for the first time, it didn’t sound like banter. It didn’t sound like him at seventeen, cocky and golden and invincible. It sounded older. Tired.

You went back to labeling vials. “You shouldn’t.”

“I should,” he said. “I should’ve said something. I should’ve—” He broke off, raking a hand through his hair. “I should’ve found you.”

The silence between you stretched, elastic and unforgiving.

You didn’t say you could’ve. You didn’t say you knew where I was. You didn’t say I was right there when they pulled you out.

You just said, “I’m not angry.”

And that was true.

You weren’t angry.

You were hollowed out.

You had been, for a long time now.

The kind of hurt that didn’t scab over—just settled in your ribs and made a home there.

He watched you. And maybe—just maybe—he saw it.

But you didn’t let it show. Not fully.

You finished the labels. Shelved the bottles. Wiped your hands clean.

When you looked back at him, your voice was light. Almost casual. “Can I help you with something?”

You saw the hurt your words inflicted on him. His face shifted for a second.

In a sick way, you liked it. 

Good, you thought. Let him hurt this time.

He called your name, but you didn’t let him complete it.

“Listren Fred…” you said as you cleaned out an empty glass jar with a cloth. “If you’re here because you feel guilty, or something like that. You don’t need to. You can go.”

He just stared at you, though you refused to meet his eyes for more than a second.

“We…” you paused. “We weren’t together. Not officially. You don’t owe me anything.”

He didn’t say anything.

Just stared at you, jaw clenched, like he was holding something heavy behind his teeth. You could see the words pushing up against his tongue, begging for release—but he wasn’t stupid enough to let them spill all at once. Not yet.

You didn’t look up again. You didn’t want to see what might be in his face. Not when you were still busy sweeping the last few pieces of yourself off the floor.

He left quietly.

Didn’t slam the door. Didn’t make some theatrical exit like the Fred you used to know might have. Just stepped out into the rain, letting the bell above the door chime in his wake.

You thought that would be it.

But the next time, he came back with a book on Scottish fungi and a tin of candied ginger.

“I figured you’d like the fungi more than flowers,” he said, placing them carefully on the counter.

You didn’t smile.

You didn’t thank him either.

But you didn’t tell him to leave.

Then he started showing up on Tuesdays.

Always early. Always pretending he needed something Mildred didn’t stock.

He once asked if you carried freeze-dried doxy wings.

“We’re not a bloody joke shop,” you said without looking up.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered, glancing at the rows of glittering jars behind you. “You still haven’t come around to ours.”

You didn’t answer.

A week later, he asked about the Battle again.

“I keep thinking,” he said, “about that night. About what I would’ve done if… if I hadn’t made it out.”

You stilled, a bundle of sage in your hand.

“I saw you,” he added. “Really saw you. George told me you dragged me out. You stuck around, didn’t you? Until I woke up.”

You didn’t reply.

He leaned against the counter, shoulders slumping a little. “You don’t have to pretend anymore, you know. Like it didn’t matter. It mattered to me.”

You looked at him for the first time that day, voice like smoke. “I’m not pretending.”

His brows pulled together. “You’re not fine.”

“Did I say I was?” you asked.

His mouth opened. Closed again.

And then, in a voice quieter than you expected, he asked, “Are you angry?”

You scoffed, turned your back on him. “This again?”

You ran your thumb along the edge of a sharp glass jar.

“I didn’t think it meant anything to you,” he continued, persistent. “What we had.”

You turned then, slowly. And though your face was composed, your voice wasn’t as steady.

“Don’t rewrite history, Fred,” you said. “You didn’t ask. I didn’t stop you. We both knew what it was.”

His voice was hoarse. “That’s what I’m trying to say.”

You just stared at him.

“I was an idiot,” he went on. “I thought… I thought if I didn’t call it anything, then it couldn’t hurt when it ended. Or if it ended. I was seventeen. I didn’t know how to want something properly.”

You didn’t blink.

He took a step closer.

“I don’t want to be that kid again. I don’t want to show up like this and make you think this is some… guilt trip. Or nostalgia. Or unfinished business.”

You leaned against the shelves, arms crossed. Cold. Quiet. Your eyes flicked to the clock.

“Let me finish.”

You didn’t stop him.

“I want you to know…” He hesitated. “I think about you. I think about you more than I have the right to.”

A long silence stretched.

Then Mildred’s voice floated in from the back, humming off-key, interrupting the silence.

You turned away.

“You should go.”

But he didn’t.

Not that day.

And not the next.

He started staying longer.

He brought tea and ridiculous pastries. Talked about the joke shop, and how George started asking about you. Asked questions about magizoology and didn’t pretend to know the answers. Let you teach him about endangered fungi and which roots snapped when overhandled.

He didn’t try to fix things with grand apologies or flowers.

He just kept showing up.

And slowly—so slowly—you stopped expecting to feel that hollow ache every time the bell above the door rang.

Because when it did, and you saw that freckled, familiar face again…

You didn’t feel angry.

You didn’t feel nothing.

You just felt.

And that, more than anything, terrified you.

It didn’t happen all at once.

There was no moment of revelation, no grand epiphany where your ribs opened and the light came pouring back in. It was quieter than that. Slower.

The first time you laughed in front of him again, it startled you.

You had been restocking the mint root, hands stained green, and he’d said something ridiculous—something about how it looked like you'd punched a leprechaun. And it wasn’t even that funny, really. But something about the lilt in his voice, the sparkle in his eyes, the sheer Fredness of it—something cracked loose.

You laughed. Out loud.

And Fred just blinked like he'd seen a rare bloom unfold. Like you’d caught him off guard.

He didn’t say anything.

He just smiled.

You started stopping by the joke shop sometimes.

Always unannounced. Never for long.

You’d hover near the back, under the flickering sign George still hadn’t fixed, pretending to inspect something absurd—self-charming shoelaces or a shrinking hat. And Fred would spot you every time, a grin already spreading across his face before he even turned fully toward you.

He always had a clever comment on the tip of his tongue.

You’d roll your eyes and hand him your bag so you could dig through the box of experimental toffees, ignoring how your fingers brushed when he took it.

Mildred loved it. She’d caught on quickly, of course—had been around long enough to see something blooming even through frost. She teased you relentlessly, slipping heart-shaped sweets into your lunch and asking if Fred was still bringing her pear drops “or if the new girlfriend had replaced him.”

You always denied it. Always flushed.

But you stopped denying it quite so hard.

One day, he showed up just before closing.

You’d had a long shift. Your hair smelled like dried herbs and your wrists ached from pouring potions into vials all day. You didn’t even look up when the bell rang.

But then he said, “I brought dinner,” and your chest did that thing again—that hollow ache that wasn’t so hollow anymore.

He held up a brown paper bag.

“I know a place that does scandalously good curry. And I even got the poppadoms you like. Mildred gets first dibs, obviously.”

You stared at him. At the way he stood there like this was normal now. Like you were normal now. Like the world hadn’t ended and rewritten itself in ash and fire.

You didn’t say anything.

Just took the bag and set it on the counter.

He didn’t leave that night.

You ate on the floor of the back room, legs stretched out beside drying bundles of sage and shrivelfig. He told you stories about customers, about the way George kept “accidentally” charming his own shoes to squeak when he walked, about how they’d managed to get Zonko’s old supply closet enchanted to sing show tunes if you tried to open it without knocking first.

You watched him as he spoke.

Watched how the war hadn’t quite touched the corners of his grin. How he still had that boyish tilt to his voice when he got excited, but the lines around his mouth were deeper now. Like time had traced its fingers over him too.

When the meal was finished, he leaned back on his elbows and glanced over at you.

“Want to go flying tomorrow?” he asked. “I’ve still got my old broom.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You want me to break my neck?”

He grinned. “You break anything and I’ll carry you home myself.”

You rolled your eyes.

But you didn’t say no.

You started smiling more.

It wasn’t conscious. It wasn’t performative.

It just… happened.

People noticed.

Mildred winked at you whenever Fred's name came up. Your owl, previously unimpressed with the world, started delivering notes with ridiculous frequency—usually folded bits of parchment with smudged ink and Fred’s increasingly absurd doodles.

You hung some of them on the wall.

You didn’t realize how heavy the numbness had been until it started to lift. The way grief hollowed you out and left you echoing inside your own skin. You'd grown so used to it—so used to functioning under its weight—that the absence felt foreign. Like walking on healed limbs you’d once assumed would never bear weight again.

Fred never asked for anything back.

He never demanded an answer or a confession.

He just kept showing up.

Day by day.

Touch by touch.

He made you tea without asking. Picked the daisies out of Mildred’s garden and tucked one behind your ear. Wrote you stupid poems that rhymed “mandrake” with “heartache” and compared himself to Shakespeare.

You caught yourself looking forward to things again.

And when he kissed you one night—soft and slow, standing in the doorway of the shop with your hands still dusted in lavender pollen—you kissed him back.

Because he hadn’t fixed you.

But he’d reminded you that you weren’t broken.

And that maybe—just maybe—you didn’t have to be alone anymore.

It was late again.

The shop had closed an hour ago, but you were still there. Fred was helping you alphabetize the fresh shipment of dried roots that had come in completely unmarked—because of course it had. Mildred had already gone upstairs to sleep, humming off-key and muttering about moon phases.

The lamplight was soft and amber. Dust hung in the air like settled silence.

You were both barefoot, the tiled floor cool under your heels. He was seated on the counter, legs swinging slightly, a sprig of rosemary tucked behind his ear—your doing. He hadn't even noticed you’d slipped it there mid-conversation.

You were labeling the last of the jars, writing in neat script even though your wrist ached. You hummed along to the song playing on the vinyl player.

Fred had gone quiet.

You looked up. Found him watching you again.

That same look—soft, unreadable, a little afraid.

You didn’t say anything.

Instead, you swayed your hips and slowly made your way to him. Your humming turned into soft singing.

He smiled as he held on to your waist. 

You reached him and grabbed his hand, tugging him gently from the counter. “Dance with me.”

Fred raised a brow. “Here?”

“There’s music,” you said, lifting your chin toward the vinyl spinning in the corner. “Floor’s clear. You don’t have any excuses.”

He let out a quiet chuckle and slid down to stand in front of you, his hands finding your hips almost instinctively, like they always did. You moved together slowly at first—barefoot, swaying in lazy circles under the glow of the oil lamp. The scent of lavender and powdered sage hung low in the air, the faint hum of the music wrapping around your ankles like smoke.

You twirled under his arm, laughing as you nearly lost your balance on the pivot.

He caught you, hands firm at your hips, steadying you in place.

Your bodies stilled except for the gentle side-to-side motion of your hips. His thumbs pressed lightly into the fabric of your shirt as you breathed, matching him. The laughter faded. Not into tension—just into something quieter. Something closer.

His eyes were already on you, low-lidded and thoughtful.

He looked at you like you were still humming, even though your mouth had gone quiet.

He didn’t rush it.

Just lifted his hands from your waist and cupped your face, his thumbs brushing lightly beneath your cheekbones. He tilted your face up to his—not to kiss you. Not yet. Just to look. Like he needed to.

And then, in the kind of voice people only use when they’re afraid of the answer, he said, “Can I ask you something?”

You glanced up again. “Permition granted.”

He chuckled before letting a beat pass.

“Are we… doing this?”

You paused. Your swaying slowly stopping.

Fred’s fingers curled over your hips. He looked serious. 

“Because I want to,” he said. “Not because of the past. Or the timing. Or… guilt. Just because I want to.”

You stayed quiet.

Let him sit in it.

He didn’t fidget. Didn’t fill the silence.

He just looked at you with a steady kind of honesty that felt harder to look away from than a wand pointed straight at your chest.

He exhaled slowly. “I know we weren’t ever really a thing. Not back then. Not properly. But I’d like us to be, now.”

You blinked.

He gave a small shrug. “I’d like to put a name on it. Not for the sake of it—but so I know what this is. So you know I mean it.”

You stared at him. Really stared.

At the freckles just below his left eye.

At the soft fray of his shirt collar.

At the fact that he wasn’t making a joke out of this, even though every instinct in him probably itched to.

You just smiled. “Alright then.”

His smile bloomed slowly. “Alright then?”

You gave the smallest of nods. “Let’s name it.”

He reached over, covered your hand with his.

And that was it.

No fanfare. No declarations or fireworks.

He leaned down and kissed you. Soft and warm and oh so tender. 

His lips tasted faintly of peppermint and something sweeter—like he’d eaten a sugar quill hours ago and the ghost of it was still on his breath.

There was nothing showy in the way he kissed you. No urgency. No heat-for-the-sake-of-it. Just a kind of certainty. Like he knew exactly what he was doing, and exactly who he was kissing.

When he pulled back, he didn’t move far. His mouth stayed pressed lightly to yours, and he breathed out your name like it meant something different now.

And maybe it did.

You stayed like that for a moment. The soft crackle of the record. The quiet shift of your breaths. His thumb brushing over your knuckles.

Neither of you said anything.

There wasn’t much left to say.

Eventually, you smiled again—smaller this time, but real.

He squeezed your hand.

And the silence that settled between you didn’t feel empty.

It felt earned and familiar.

[luvendiary]

open rp

“hey guys its me kurt cobain from nirvana” said kurt cobain from nirvana

[luvendiary]

Absolutely loved your writing! Could I request a fic with George? Where ginny and Hermione are talking with reader about boy problems and dating advice and he overhears them only for him to realize that he can flirt all he wants with reader but she ain't going unnoticed bc "what do you mean you dated Oliver wood? scratch that what do you mean you had a crush on my brother charlie?????"

this was suuch a good request, thank you so much! i hope i could do it justice, i strayed just a little bit.

hope you like it <3

[luvendiary]

reindeer games / g. weasley

geroge weasley x f!reader

summary: george weasley was not privvy to the fact that you were getting attention from other guys. the moment he realized it, the game changed. a/n: how i love dramatic confessions 4.6k words. not proof-read. no use of y/n. based on this request.

You loved Ginny Weasley—really, you did.

She was sharp and loud and loyal in a way that made you feel like standing next to her could protect you from just about anything. There was no halfway with Ginny. You were either in or out. And you? You were most definitely in.

But if there was one downside to being close to a Weasley, it was, well… another Weasleys.

Not all of them. Most of them were perfectly lovely. You’d always liked Bill, even as a kid he always seemed cool to you, that had not faded as you grew up. Percy was uptight but easy enough to ignore. Ron, you could handle. Charlie…you most definitely liked Charlie.

The twins however, were another story.

The twins were relentless.

From the first moment they figured out you and Ginny were close, it became open season. If you dropped your quill, it vanished. If you left a book unattended, it mooed when opened. If you rolled your eyes at a bad joke, you could guarantee that one of them would show up two minutes later to deliver five worse ones.

You met it head-on, of course. You teased back, gave them nicknames, mocked their flying form. That seemed to rub them on.

If there was something the twins liked more than anything, it was a challenge. And you had become the loveliest of challenges for them. It became a game, and you were good at it.

But even so, it went deeper. You could joke and play all you wanted, it even seemed like you were a magnet for them. Attracting them at whatever party or Quidditch match the three of you were at. They always found you, and you had started to like it. You could count on their presence and their jokes. 

But there was something about George.

Fred made you laugh, sure, but George had a way of lingering. Even after he was gone.

He’d sit beside you in the common room with a stupid comment ready. He’d nudge you in the corridor and say something ridiculous in your ear, just quiet enough to make your skin prickle. Every harmless insult came with a half-smile and a raised brow, like he was waiting for you to keep up.

And you always did.

The turning point when his teasing became more than just that. It was still teasing, but the nature of it had changed. 

He had started flirting.

It took you by surprise at first. And you supposed that’s what egged him on. The slight moment your eyes widened and your cheeks reddened.

You saw it clear as day, the way his smirk became wider and more insufferable.

You had stared at him, mouth slightly open and eyes narrowed before covering your face with the nearest pillow. 

His laugh had become ingrained in your brain. 

You would not let it happen again.

So you had started flirting right back. You would not lose, especially not to George Weasley.

It was late at night when Hermione and you found yourselves in Ginny’s room. You were flipping through one of Ginny's sport magazines as Hermione braided your hair.

“I’m just saying,” Ginny was saying through a mouthful of chocolate biscuit, “if he wanted to kiss me, he would have by now.”

Hermione raised her brows. “Or maybe he’s nervous. Not everyone dives headfirst like you do.”

You snorted. “Yeah, Gin, some people actually think before they speak.”

“Unlike certain Gryffindors,” Hermione added.

Ginny made a face and turned to you. “Alright, you’re awfully quiet. Who are you thinking about these days?”

You shook your head. “No one.”

Ginny gave you a look. “Liar.”

“I’m not lying!” you laughed, lifting your gaze from the magazine. “I’m just… not thinking about anyone in that way right now.”

Hermione tilted her head. “That’s funny, because I swear George Weasley hasn’t gone more than five minutes without bothering you since last week.”

“Exactly!” Ginny cut in, “It’s kind of gross.”

You rolled your eyes. “He flirts with everyone. It’s George. It’s what he does.”

“That’s different,” Hermione said, ever the analyst. “He doesn’t flirt like that with everyone.”

“Yeah,” Ginny agreed. “He called you ethereal the other day.”

You groaned. “He said I was ‘weirdly ethereal for someone who just tripped on their shoelace.’ That’s not a compliment, that’s an insult with extra steps.”

Both girls burst out laughing.

Ginny leaned forward with a mischievous grin. “But you like it.”

You took a slow sip of your butterbeer. “I like winning.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “So you’re saying it’s a competition?”

“I’m saying,” you said, flipping a page, “if George Weasley thinks he’s going to rattle me with a few well-timed winks and dramatic compliments, he’s going to have to try harder.”

Unbeknownst to you, George had, in fact, been trying harder. And listening in on your conversation. Ginny’s sweater gripped in his hands, the intent of returning it being more rewarding than he had planned.

“Besides, let’s not talk about crushes without mentioning Hermione and Lockhart,” you said, adding wood to the fire.

Hermione gasped and covered her face with her hands. “I was thirteen!”

Ginny laughed as she popped in another chocolate biscuit. “Yeah! And blindsided by his ‘golden locks’.”

“Alright, alright!” Hermione protested, face red as a Quaffle. “Let’s not act like I’m the only one who’s ever had a questionable crush.”

You smirked. “Fair. In that case… I might as well confess.”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed immediately. “Go on.”

You turned a page in the magazine with deliberate slowness, feigning disinterest. “Promise not to kill me?”

“Depends entirely on what you’re about to say.”

You grinned, leaning back into Hermione’s hands as she gently tugged through a knot. “I may have had a crush on your brother.”

Hermione’s hands paused mid-braid. Ginny blinked. “Which one?”

You bit your bottom lip. “Charlie.”

“Charlie?” Ginny shrieked, reaching for the nearest pillow and chucking it at your head.

You ducked, laughing. “I said don’t kill me!”

“Oh, come on! He’s ancient!”

“He is not ancient!” you countered. “He’s just…rugged.”

Hermione cackled. “That’s one word for it.”

“I was twelve,” you said, grinning now. “He was nice to me in second year when I got stuck in that stupid broom cupboard after the duel club,” you defended. “Helped me out. Smelled like dragon ash and lavender. I was twelve. It was a confusing time.”

Ginny groaned and covered her face with both hands. “I’m going to throw myself into the lake.”

“Oh please,” you said, tossing the pillow back at her. “You’ve got nothing to complain about. You’re not the one who spent two years doodling 'Mrs. Charlie Weasley' in the margins of your Potions notes.”

Hermione burst into laughter. “You did not!”

“She did,” Ginny groaned as if the fact had refreshed her memory, clutching the pillow to her chest. “I remember finding them. You nearly set yours on fire when I walked over.”

You sighed dramatically. “It was a dark time. Let us never speak of it again.”

“Too late,” Hermione said smugly. “Charlie Weasley. Merlin’s beard.”

Ginny snorted. “You’ve got a type.”

“What’s that?” you asked with a giggle.

“Tall, and disheveled,” she said immediately.

You couldn’t deny it, so instead you just shrugged as you flipped the page. “I’ll have you know, my last crush had neither.”

Hermione raised a brow. “Oh? Who was that?”

You hesitated. “McLaggen.”

The room went silent.

Ginny blinked. “McLaggen?”

Hermione looked vaguely horrified. “Why?”

“No, no—I didn’t like him,” you corrected quickly. “He had a crush on me.”

“Oh,” Ginny breathed. “That makes more sense. Still. Gross.”

“How do you know?” Hermione asked.

You gave them a pointed look. “He asked me what cologne Oliver used to wear.”

“Oliver?” Ginny asked, brow arched.

“Oliver Wood?” Hermione completed.

You hummed casually, popping a chocolate into your mouth. “Yeah. We dated. Briefly. It was nothing serious.”

Ginny’s head whipped around so fast her ponytail hit Hermione in the face.

“What?! You dated Oliver and you never told me?”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” you said, shrugging with exaggerated innocence. “Besides, I could never compete with his true love — Quidditch.”

“Define briefly,” Ginny said, squinting at you like you’d just confessed to secretly owning a dragon.

“A few months,” you said airily.

Hermione gaped. “And you didn’t tell us?”

“You didn’t ask,” you grinned.

At that very moment, George—still crouched on the other side of the door, Ginny’s sweater now clutched in a death grip—almost fell forward.

Because Oliver Wood?

And Charlie?

Worst of all, McLaggen thought he had a chance with you?

It had been fun. A game. He liked the way you talked back. The way you held your own. But now? Now there was a flame in his chest, and it was not jealousy, thank you very much—it was just mild irritation. Annoyance. Confusion perhaps.

Definitely not jealousy.

He didn’t like being late to the party.

And he was about to do something about it. 

George didn’t mean to notice.

Not at first.

It started in the Great Hall, over toast and pumpkin juice, when a Ravenclaw fifth-year leaned over from his table just to hand you a folded note.

You glanced at it, blinked, and gave a tight smile before tucking it under your plate and resuming your breakfast as if nothing had happened.

George caught the whole thing.

“Friend of yours?” he asked casually when he reached you, flopping onto the bench across from you and grabbing a slice of toast.

You didn’t look up from your book. “Not particularly.”

George frowned at the note still peeking out from under your spoon. “You gonna read that?”

“I already did.”

“What did it say?”

You turned a page. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

George leaned forward, squinting. “Was it romantic?”

“I’m sure he meant it to be.”

He scoffed. “Didn’t even seem your type.”

You tilted your head, finally looking at him. “And what, exactly, is my type?”

George opened his mouth, paused, then shoved a piece of toast in it instead. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

You smirked.

But it wasn’t just breakfast.

Later that afternoon, he passed you in the courtyard and watched as a Hufflepuff Chaser tried to flirt with you by showing off a ridiculous balancing charm involving four pumpkins and a floating apple.

You laughed—actually laughed—and George felt a strange, brief pressure in the center of his chest, followed by a violent desire to punch the bloke in the face.

And then in the evening, you were in the library, sitting with that seventh-year Slytherin—Theo something—who was not terrible-looking and had the audacity to lean in close when showing you something in a book.

George paused in his tracks, one arm full of overdue books, and watched as you smiled politely and pushed your chair just a bit away.

“You alright, Georgie?” came Fred’s voice, suddenly behind him.

George flinched. “Bloody hell, don’t sneak up on me.”

Fred ignored him, instead glancing down toward your table. “You look like a man torn between sending an unforgivable or a slightly less forgivable.”

George scowled. “Why is he sitting with her?”

Fred raised a brow. “Nott? He’s in Ancient Runes with her. You gonna duel everyone who shares a class with her now?”

George looked away. “She can talk to whoever she wants.”

Fred waited.

George added, reluctantly, “He just seems interested.”

Fred let out a low whistle, grinning. “Well, look at that. Jealousy looks adorable on you.”

“I’m not jealous,” George snapped.

Fred clapped him on the shoulder, smug. “You better get a move on, then. Before someone who isn’t you figures out she’s brilliant, funny, and insanely good at Quidditch.”

George looked back toward you just as you laughed again, tucking your hair behind your ear and shaking your head at something Theo said.

His stomach twisted.

Fred smirked. “Better hurry up before someone steals your girl, mate.”

“She’s not—” George started, but the words stuck.

Because the thing was—maybe she wasn’t.

Yet.

But he really, desperately, wanted that to change.

Something had changed.

At first, it was subtle—so subtle you almost thought you were imagining it. A longer glance at breakfast. A brush of his shoulder against yours in the corridor. A comment he whispered low enough to make the hairs at the back of your neck stand up.

George Weasley had always been persistent, but now… he was present.

You noticed it especially at breakfast.

You were half-asleep, blinking blearily at your toast, when he sat across from you with a grin that could only mean trouble.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said cheerfully.

You gave him a look. “You’re unnervingly chipper for someone who got hit in the head with a Quaffle yesterday.”

“Still riding the high of your concern,” he said, placing a spoonful of jam on your plate like it was a gift. “You gasped. I saw it.”

“I thought your skull cracked. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I am flattered. I’ll cherish that gasp forever.”

Hermione, sitting beside you, cleared her throat loudly.

You turned to her. “Don’t start.”

“I haven’t said a word,” she said innocently, though the corners of her mouth twitched. Beside her, Harry raised an eyebrow at George, who winked at him before stealing a piece of your toast.

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, grabbing it back.

“Only to you,” he said.

Which was probably true, and deeply unfair.

It didn’t stop there.

You’d started adapting to George’s nonsense like it was just part of your daily routine—right up there with brushing your teeth and dodging Peeves. You even started to rely on it. His teasing had become clockwork. If you didn’t see him by lunch, it felt like something was missing.

You started anticipating it. Waiting to see what outrageous thing he’d say next.

And once you’d accepted that, it became a game.

It started small. You’d catch him staring, and you’d smile—slow and smug, like you knew something he didn’t.

Then, you started seeing if you could get to him first.

You began trying to catch him off guard. A well-timed compliment. A glance too long. Whispering something just close enough to his ear to make him jolt and immediately cover it up with a bad joke.

It became about who could make the other crack first.

And you were determined to win.

In Herbology, when you caught him watching you over a potted Venomous Tentacula, you tilted your head and murmured, “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to think you actually like me.”

He blinked once. Twice. Then turned red and nearly sliced his finger off on a Devil’s Snare stem.

He’d lean close enough to brush your hand when passing you a quill. You’d send him messages through enchanted paper notes that heated up his desk mid-class.

He’d mutter something indecent in your ear before breakfast. You’d compliment his broom-handling in the most obscene tone possible.

He’d wink.

You’d blow him a kiss.

It wasn’t serious, of course.

Not officially.

But Merlin, it felt like it.

By the time the next Quidditch match rolled around, the tension was unbearable in a way that made Ginny refuse to sit between you two during warm-up.

“I am not risking my brain cells to your sexual warfare,” she said, walking off and leaving you both smirking across your brooms.

The match was brutal.

George was just as relentless. But not just in the game.

Every time he scored a goal, he did some ridiculous celebration—arms wide, chest puffed, bowing dramatically mid-air.

You pretended to boo him every time, but you were smiling. 

And every single time, he turned and blew you a kiss.

By the third one, you had to physically turn your broom away to stop yourself from smiling. You hated how much you were smiling.

Lee didn’t miss a beat.

“And there’s Weasley, dedicating yet another goal to his favorite seemingly-favorite teammate. That’s the third kiss blown in fifteen minutes. Starting to think this isn’t just about the Quaffle.”

You caught one of the kisses with a roll of your eyes and mimed stuffing it in your pocket.

Fred howled with laughter from across the pitch.

By the end of the match, the score was devastating in your favor. Gryffindor won.

You hit the ground running, adrenaline high and victory on your back like a second skin. George found you in the middle of the chaos — red hair wild, cheeks flushed, grinning like a madman.

“You played alright,” he said, nudging your shoulder.

You shoved him back. “You’re ridiculous.”

He reached for your waist without warning and hoisted you into the air and onto his shoulders, spinning you so fast you shrieked with laughter, grabbing at his hair to keep steady.

“Put me down!” you laughed.

But his hold on your thighs only seemed to get stronger. You hit his head softly.

“Say I’m your favorite Weasley!”

“Never!”

When he finally set you down, your legs were wobbly and your cheeks hurt from grinning. But before you could say anything, George caught your wrist, dipped you like a scene out of some ridiculous muggle romance movie, and kissed you.

Right there. In front of everyone.

It was reckless. Dramatic. Completely and utterly George.

You froze for half a second—eyes wide, brain short-circuited.

Then you yanked him forward by the collar of his Quidditch robes and kissed him right back, just to prove a point.

When you pulled away, you punched him hard in the arm.

“I hate you,” you said breathlessly.

He beamed like you’d said the opposite. “Love you too.”

You stepped back from George, cheeks warm, breath still a little uneven. Not that you’d ever let him know that.

Instead, you gave him a look that was far too calm for someone who had just kissed someone in front of half the school.

Then you rolled your eyes.

“Idiot,” you muttered.

And then—like nothing had happened—you turned and walked toward Harry and Ginny, your arms spread in triumph.

“Did you see that last play?” you called, grinning like a lunatic. “I basically flew through their Beaters—twice.”

Harry laughed and pulled you into a hug as you ruffled his hair.

George just stood there, a little dazed, watching you like you’d turned the sky upside down.

Fred sidled up beside him, swinging an arm around his shoulder with mock-sympathy. “I didn’t want to state the obvious,” he said, grinning like a fox. “But you’re screwed.”

George didn’t argue.

He didn’t say a word, in fact.

Just watched you laugh with your teammates, throwing your arm around Ginny’s shoulders and pretending nothing had happened. Like it was any other Tuesday. Like you hadn’t just kissed him in front of literally everyone.

And Merlin, he was so screwed.

He was still smiling.

Because the kiss had been good—no, great—but the real kicker was how easily you’d brushed it off, like it was part of the game.

And for you, maybe it was.

But for George?

It was already over. He’d lost. Completely. Utterly.

And he couldn’t wait to play again.

From the outside, the rumors had already started. You and George. George and you. People said you were dating. That it was obvious. That you had been for months.

You both swore you weren’t.

“It’s just a joke,” you said.

“We can’t stand each other,” George agreed.

You said it with smug smiles and lingering glances. He said it with his hand brushing yours and his leg always bouncing against yours under the table.

Neither of you meant a word of it.

Everyone knew.

Well—everyone except Ron.

Ron, who watched the entire post-match kiss with a face like he’d swallowed a Snitch.

“Wait, what is happening?” he asked, spinning toward Hermione. “They hate each other.”

Hermione sighed, not looking up from her book. “No, Ron. They’re in love.”

Harry clapped him on the shoulder, pitying. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Ron gaped. “She’s our age!”

George winked at you from across the common room, and you blew him a kiss.

He caught it with a smirk and stuffed it in his pocket.

You rolled your eyes, heart stupidly loud in your chest.

If this was a game, neither of you were ready to quit.

And Merlin help anyone who thought they could play it better than you two.

With Hogsmeade weekend looming, it became painfully clear just how many people had taken the “you and George aren’t dating” line a little too seriously.

You were barely two days out from the trip when the first attempt came—an overeager fourth-year with an unfortunate tuft of hair that refused to lie flat and a nervous stammer. He asked if you’d like to go to Madam Puddifoot’s “just as friends” with the same energy as someone approaching a sleeping dragon.

You were polite. You let him down gently.

George was not gentle.

He appeared at your side mid-conversation with a saccharine smile and his arm thrown over your shoulders like it belonged there. “Sorry, mate,” he said cheerfully, “she’s got a thing for men who can actually tie their own shoes.”

The boy fled so fast he left behind his Charms notes.

You turned to George, unamused. “Really?”

He just smiled wider. “What? He looked like he was about to cry. I did him a favor.”

“You didn’t have to be rude.”

It would’ve been easy to brush off—chalk it up to George being George—but then it happened again.

And again.

A quiet Ravenclaw prefect who asked if you'd like to walk down to Honeydukes together. A Hufflepuff whom you shared classes with and asked you about your notes along with a slipped compliment about your eyes. A seventh-year who found you in the library and tried to start a conversation about the book currently in your hands.

Each time, George found a reason to interrupt. Each time, the boys backed off, usually with a wary glance over their shoulder. And each time, you said nothing.

Until the hallway outside the Charms corridor.

“You know,” you said, tone sharp and easy at the same time, “I don’t actually need a guard dog.”

George blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Or a brother. Or whatever it is you’re trying to be.”

He jutted out his chin and furrowed his eyebrows, "A brother?!"

He seemed wildly insulted at the idea.

"I don't know what game you're playing Weasley—"

He crossed his arms. “You think I’m doing this for fun?”

“I think you’re too much of a coward to do what you actually want to do and ask me out already.”

His eyes went wide.

Like actually wide.

As if the words physically stunned him into silence. You’d never seen George Weasley at a loss. Not when Filch caught him red-handed with Dungbombs. Not when McGonagall threatened to hex the freckles off his face. Not even when you faked a letter from the Head Boy and convinced him he'd been made Prefect.

But now? Now he looked like you’d slapped him.

Then, slowly—furiously—his brows drew down.

“All I’ve been doing is asking you out,” he said, voice tight.

You blinked. “What?”

He stepped forward. “I’ve asked you out a hundred times.”

“You’ve never—”

“Every single time I asked if you wanted to walk with me to Hogsmeade. Every time I sat next to you in the library and brought you those stupid lemon biscuits you pretend not to like. Every time I said something flirty and you rolled your eyes and laughed instead of answering—that was me asking you out.”

“That’s not asking me out!” you shot back. “That’s just you being an idiot! That’s just—jokes—like always!”

He laughed, but there was no real humor in it. “You think that was a joke? You think I’m playing some long game for laughs?”

“George, it’s you. You flirt with everything that moves!”

“I don’t flirt with everyone like that,” he said sharply, stepping closer. “I don’t get stupid nervous when other blokes talk to anyone else. I don’t feel like throwing up when I see you smiling at Theo bloody Nott across the library.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“I’m not a joke to you, am I?” he asked, quieter now. “Because I sure as hell wasn’t joking when I kissed you after that match.”

Your breath hitched.

George ran a hand through his hair, eyes burning with frustration. “You think I just—what—kissed you on a dare?”

“I don’t know, George!” you shouted, voice cracking. “I don’t know what to believe with you! One minute it’s ‘you’re so annoying,’ and the next it’s—” You cut yourself off before the words you kiss me like I’m the only girl in the world could leave your mouth.

He saw it, though. Saw it in the way your lip trembled and your fists clenched at your sides.

“I didn’t want to get my hopes up…” your voice taught and slightly cracked.

George ran a hand down his face, like he was trying to physically pull himself back together. “You want to know when I realized it wasn’t a joke anymore?”

You said nothing.

He exhaled, quieter now. “I overheard you.”

Your brows pulled together. “What?”

“You. That night in Ginny’s room. With Hermione. When you said I was just playing around. When you said you liked winning, not me.” He swallowed hard. “It wasn’t even supposed to matter. But it did. It killed me.”

“George…”

“I’ve never felt that kind of jealous before,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “Like—real, violent jealousy.”

“And then McLaggen?” he said bitterly. “That absolute wanker trying to ask you out  like he had a chance. And the thing is—I knew you wouldn’t go for him. You’re not stupid. But the idea that he thought he could?”

He exhaled a sharp breath.

“That he thought you were up for grabs? That he thought you were free?”

You felt your heartbeat pick up, hot and pounding behind your ribs.

“That’s when I realized it,” George said, voice lower now. “It’s not a game to me. Not anymore. Maybe it never was.”

You couldn’t say anything. You just stared up at him, lips slightly parted.

“And when I kissed you?” His voice cracked. “When I kissed you, I thought—Merlin, I thought maybe you finally saw what I’ve been trying to say.”

You sucked in a breath.

“That it’s always been you,” he said. “And you’ve been driving me out of my bloody mind because I couldn’t tell if it meant something to you or nothing at all.”

Silence.

Tension curled hot and tight between you.

When you finally spoke, your voice was barely a whisper. “Of course it meant something.”

George blinked.

“I just…” You rubbed the back of your neck, helpless. “I thought it was all just part of the game.”

His voice was suddenly soft, broken open with relief. “It’s never been a game for me.”

You felt like all the air had left your lungs. And then, with a breathless laugh—half apology, half disbelief—you closed the space between you.

Your hand found the collar of his jumper, just like it had after the match, and you pulled him in.

This time, it wasn’t a kiss to prove a point. This wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t payback.

This time, it was real.

Something fast and tension breaking turned into something slow and certain.

His hands came to your waist, grounding you. Yours curled into his collar like you’d always meant to be there. Like every moment before this had been leading here.

When you pulled back, cheeks flushed, you looked at him for a long moment.

George grinned. “You gonna keep pretending it’s a joke?”

You smiled back. “Only when Ron asks.”

“Deal,” he said.

He didn’t have time to say much else, for his lips were already chasing after yours, with one of his stupidly enchanting lazy smiles.

Maybe the game was over now.

And you both had won.

[luvendiary]

"Como te explico que toda mi vida he tenido que rogar para que me quieran, para que las personas me den un poquito de su afecto"

[luvendiary]

Hey girl. Love u so bad please keep the amazing content up i live for it❤️

Would you be open to writing for harry? I dont see much love for him nowadays unforch💔

hey love! thank you so much, i’m happy my writing is making other people happy. and yes, i’m open to writing for harry —i’ve never done it before though, so please bare with me with any mischaracterization or rustiness on my part.

im going down on a harry potter x reader rabbit hole after this.

[luvendiary]

[luvendiary]

Not seeing a lot from my boy Georgie so yk I gotta send something in

I'm a sucker for the Weasley twin x Slytherin reader so what if I combine three of my favorite tropes>:D would you mind if I requested something with an unexpectedly kind Slytherin reader (the reason she was put in the house was because of being so cunning, ambitious, and a really good liar), and George needs space so he goes off to a little nook and cranny type place he didn't think anyone would be, but he finds her singing her little heart out??

Horrifically detailed, sorry 😭😭 I love what you do and how you write, take your time to write this if you end up doing it! 🫶 Tysm

-S

hello!! thank you so much for this request. i'm usually a fred girlie myself, but theres a soft spot for george in my heart, and i honestly love writing for him. this one's for you, hope you enjoy it <3

[luvendiary]

predispositions / g. weasley

george weasley x reader

summary: george weasley had always had a predisposition towards slytherins. a meeting in his hidding place changes that. a/n: i'm sorry for taking so long with this one. i had it written for a while now, but didn't have the time to revise it and make the final touches. also, would you believe me if i said that the bomb-ass line about broken things came about because i ripped some brand-new (and fairly expensive) pants that same day, and i had to keep repeating that in my head over and over. manyway, hope you like it. 4k words. non proof-read. no use of y/n. based on this request <3

The Owlery was usually empty mid-week. Most students only came to send letters home on the weekends—or when a Howler was absolutely necessary.

It wasn’t what most people would have called a peaceful place, due to the screeching of birds, their usual fluttering and not to mention the smell. 

Still, it was where George Weasley usually went to find small moments of calm. It fit him just right, he didn’t need silence. Just space. 

Which is why, the soft sound of a song he couldn’t quite name would have been a welcome surprise, if not for the implication that there was someone currently invading his place.

He stopped just at the top of the winding stone stairs. Trying to weigh his possibilities. Considering turning around completely and coming back later.

However, something kept him anchored in place. It might have been the melodious voice that accompanied the melody, or perhaps the fact that he was almost entirely sure it was a muggle song. 

The cold winter air carried the tune, projecting your voice. He edged closer, pressing against the stone as he peered around the archway.

The sight was one that surprised him. He recognized you.

Although he wished he didn’t. 

Your green robes were not entirely up to his liking. 

You were standing at the far end of the Owlery. Softly petting what he assumed to be your owl. Your singing wasn’t a performance, but rather something you appeared to do automatically. 

Your fingers absentmindedly rested under the beak of the owl, making him coo back at you. You smiled.

George took a careful step back, his shoes scuffing against the old stone with a faint scrape.

The noise echoed louder than he'd intended.

You turned instantly, posture tensing, hand halfway to your wand.

He winced as he stepped out from the archway. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sneak up. Was just…” He gestured vaguely behind him, trying not to meet your eyes. “Leaving.”

Your eyes narrowed, the initial fright giving way to wary curiosity. “Weasley?”

He cleared his throat, already halfway turned back toward the stairs. “Yeah. Just needed some air. This is usually my—y’know—hiding spot.”

A long pause stretched between you, filled only by the faint shifting of feathers and the wind whistling through the tall windows.

“How long were you standing there?”

George looked over his shoulder, sheepish. “Long enough to think you’ve got a hell of a voice. Not long enough to make it creepy, I swear.”

You blinked in surprise. 

“That sounded dangerously close to a compliment,” you said, turning back to your owl.

George gave a short huff of laughter, stepping just a bit further into the Owlery. “Don’t tell anyone.”

You smirked faintly and resumed petting your owl, though your eyes flicked toward him with cautious curiosity. “Bit surprising, coming from a Weasley.”

George tilted his head. “What, a compliment?”

“No,” you said softly, brushing a feather from your owl’s chest. “You talking to a Slytherin without your wand pointed at me.”

That made him pause, arms folded as he leaned against the stone wall. “Fair enough,” he admitted. “Though you lot don’t exactly go out of your way to make friends.”

You arched a brow, but your tone remained even. “You lot?”

“Well,” he said, glancing meaningfully at your green-trimmed robes, “you’re not exactly known for singing Muggle songs, are you?”

You straightened slightly. “So you did recognize it.”

George’s expression turned thoughtful. “Yeah. My dad’s got a thing for Muggle music. That was… what, The Mamas and the Papas?”

“‘Dream a Little Dream of Me,’” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “My mum used to sing it while cleaning the house.”

His brows rose. “Your mum?”

You nodded. “She’s a Muggle. Or was. Died a few years back.”

Something shifted in George’s expression—less surprise now, more consideration. “So… you’re not—?”

“A pure-blood?” you finished for him, quirking a brow. “Not even close.”

He hesitated. “Huh. Guess I just assumed—”

“Because I’m a Slytherin,” you said flatly.

George opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly caught.

You crossed your arms. “Look, I get it. Slytherin has a reputation. But we’re not all like them.”

“Them meaning Malfoy and his merry band of prats?” he offered.

You cracked a smile. “Exactly. Bad news tend to be the loudest too.”

He exhaled, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. “Suppose that’s fair. I’m not exactly Percy, either.”

You laughed, unexpectedly, and he found he rather liked the sound of it.

“It’s okay. People see the green and jump to conclusions. Ambition’s not a crime.”

“Neither is being able to lie like a politician, I suppose,” he teased.

“That’s a survival tactic.”

George’s grin widened. “So’s sarcasm.”

“That’s rich coming from you, wouldn’t you say?” you couldn't help but grin.

George held up a hand in mock surrender, then walked further into the space. His boots made a soft sound against the straw-littered stone as he crossed to where you sat near the arched window, the cold wind brushing past him like a curious cat. He didn’t ask, but eased himself down onto the ledge opposite you, close enough to speak without shouting over the hooting.

For a moment, you just looked at each other. Neither hostile.

Then he tilted his head. “So, what other Muggle stuff are you hiding up here? Any Bowie? Beatles?”

You blinked. “You know Bowie?”

“Please,” he scoffed, placing a hand over his heart. “My dad has ‘Life on Mars?’ on a charmed cassette that never shuts off. It's haunted me since I was seven.”

You laughed. “Alright, that’s fair. I do like Bowie. I’ve got some old tapes from my mum—Fleetwood Mac, Queen, a bit of Aretha Franklin. Also…” You hesitated, slightly sheepish. “ABBA.”

George pulled a dramatic face. “ABBA?”

“Hey.” You pointed at him. “Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve danced around a kitchen table to ‘Waterloo.’”

He laughed, and it was bright and unbothered. “Alright, alright. I’ll give you that. So you just come up here and sing to birds?”

“Better than people,” you shrugged, nudging your owl gently with the back of your knuckle. “They’re a great audience.”

George smirked. “I’ll take your word.”

You smiled faintly. The wind shifted a bit, tousling your hair. You made no move to fix it. “Despite your first impression of me, I don’t sing a lot. Just on special occasions…and Wednesdays."

He watched you for a beat longer. “You’re not what I expected.”

You glanced over at him, brow raised. “What did you expect?”

“I dunno. Something colder. Meaner. Bit of a snake in the grass.”

“Disappointed?”

He grinned. “Bit. I was preparing myself for some scathing comment about my shoes.”

You looked down at his scuffed boots. “They are tragic.”

He barked out a laugh. “See, now you’re just showing off.”

You leaned back slightly against the stone and studied him. He looked like he belonged there—wild red hair tugged by the breeze, eyes crinkled with humor but resting with unusual ease.

You tilted your head. “I used to think you and your brother were one person— when I was little, that is.”

“Oh, the ultimate insult,” he said, peering out the archway. “Do I look like I’d let someone else be this handsome?”

You smirked. “You’ve got something in your teeth.”

George turned slightly. “Do I?”

“No.”

He blinked, then looked at you sidelong, grinning. “You’re awful.”

You offered him a toothy grin that didn’t make it to your eyes. “That’s the Slytherin charm.”

George shook his head, still smiling, and leaned back on his hands, gazing out at the snowy peaks beyond the window. For a few quiet seconds, there was nothing but the sound of wings, the cold wind, and your owl’s sleepy hoot.

Then he asked, more gently, “Doesn’t Malfoy give you a hard time for…you know…”

“Being a half-blood?”

He nodded.

You shrugged. “I’m sure he tries to. They all do.”

“If he ever does, do tell me about it,” he couldn’t help but try to suppress a grin.

“You’ll save me?”

“I’m sure I’ll try to.”

It was your turn to try and hide a smile.

You both fell silent again—not awkward, just still.

Then George glanced sideways. “So what else should I know about you?”

You leaned forward slightly. “I once stole four chocolate frogs from Flitwick’s office and fed them to Mrs. Norris.”

His eyes widened. “Really?”

You held the pause—just long enough—then deadpanned, “No.”

He laughed so hard he nearly startled the owls.

You started noticing George Weasley more. If that was even possible.

Instead of associating him with the noise and explosions that plagued the castle on a daily basis, you now knew him as the guy from the Owlery. And along with that, came other attributes. The guy whose laugh was as infectious as the common flu, or the guy who didn’t flinch when you were sharp, or snort when you were soft.

You noticed he wasn’t as loud in comparison to his brother. You were fond of that.

He had more freckles than him as well. 

His voice had a soft raspy base to it.

It wasn’t something you planned—this noticing.

But it crept into your days like ink spreading in water.

You’d see him in the corridor between classes, red hair unmistakable in the crowd, and feel the ghost of a smile tug at your lips. Sometimes, he’d catch your eye and tilt his head just enough to acknowledge you. Other times, he’d brush past with a wink or a muttered line from whatever song you’d sung that week.

It didn’t escape Fred’s notice either.

It was after Transfiguration when George plopped down beside his twin in the Great Hall, uncharacteristically quiet as he dug into a stolen treacle tart.

Fred narrowed his eyes. “Alright. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“That’s not your ‘nothing’s wrong’ face,” Fred said, gesturing with a crusty spoon. “That’s your ‘I’m screwed’ face.”

George didn’t answer right away. His gaze was fixed on the back of a girl’s head—she was across the room, laughing softly with someone from Ravenclaw. That laugh. It had been stuck in his brain for two bloody days.

Fred followed his line of sight.

“Huh,” he said. “Didn’t peg her as your type.”

George froze, spoon halfway to his mouth.

Fred’s grin widened like he’d just won a bet. “Knew it.”

“Nothing’s happening,” George muttered. “We talked once.”

Fred gave him a look that could melt walls. “Mate. I’ve seen you watching her in Charms. You don’t even pretend to take notes anymore. I asked you what a Summoning Charm was yesterday and you said ‘ABBA.’”

George groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “I just—she’s not what I thought.”

“You hate ABBA.”

“Well, maybe I don’t anymore. Have you actually listened to Waterloo?”

Fred gave him a look as he tried to suppress a grin. “You are so screwed Georgie…” 

George groaned and dragged his hands over his head.

Fred’s cackling echoed in George’s ears all through the next class.

Later that week, Fred asked around—not in a nosy way, not really. Just light conversation, nudging curiosity. He cornered a girl in your year outside the Great Hall, offered her half a chocolate frog, and asked, “She ever had a thing with anyone here?”

The girl gave him a look that said, you think I’d tell you if she did?

But after a pause, she shrugged. “Not really. She’s too good at pretending she doesn’t care. Most people don’t have the patience to get past that.”

Fred smiled to himself.

George Weasley definitely had patience.

By the time Charms rolled around, George couldn’t focus for the life of him. You were seated two rows ahead, ink-stained fingers twirling your quill, humming softly under your breath while Flitwick droned on about wand motion refinements. George didn’t recognize the tune, but he caught himself leaning forward, trying to follow it anyway.

He wasn’t subtle.

Lee Jordan elbowed him halfway through the lecture. “You’ve been staring for ten minutes. Either ask her out or write a ballad.”

“Shove off,” George muttered, ears burning.

 The thing was—George didn’t like being confused. He was good at reading people, good at cracking them open with a joke and pulling something real from the wreckage.

But you were… not unreadable. Just careful. Measured. Like someone who’d been burned once too often and learned how to bleed behind closed doors.

And that made him want to know more.

Curiosity became a low, persistent thrum. Fascination, if he was being honest.

He found himself noticing things he never used to: how you took your tea with a slice of orange instead of lemon. How you waited until your dormmates left before humming softly under your breath at breakfast. How you once tapped your fingers against the bench in time with the rain during Herbology, like the storm had written you a song.

The next day, he found himself trailing behind a group of sixth-year Slytherins after lunch. Not the pompous sort, but the quiet ones. The kind who kept to themselves but didn’t carry the sneer like armor.

He spotted one of them—Mira Davis, you sometimes shared Herbology notes with her. She was threading a braid into her hair as they walked toward the greenhouses, talking idly with another girl.

George slid into step beside them without invitation.

Mira startled. “Weasley?”

“Mind if I bother you for a second?” he said easily, hands in his pockets.

She glanced around the corridor skeptically, most likely looking for George’s other half. She was not in the mood to be pranked.

The girls exchanged a look that clearly said absolutely, but Mira said, “Go on, then.”

“It’s about your friend,” George said, cutting straight to it.

“Which friend?”

“The one who hums—”

He was about to go on, give a description that would have most likely outed him, but the instant recognition on Mira’s face made him stop in his tracks.

The second girl leaned in. “You’re not going to prank her, are you?”

“What? No,” George said, a bit too defensively. “Why would I do that?”

“She hexed Montague last year for calling her a mudblood,” Mira said matter-of-factly. “Turned his eyelashes into moss.”

George grinned despite himself. “Brilliant.”

Mira squinted at him. “So what do you want with her?”

He hadn’t thought this through. He was sure they would have put up more of a fight.

“I just…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I want to know what kind of music she likes.”

The girls stared at him, matching arched eyebrows daring him to say something stupid.

“And maybe,” he added, “what she likes. Just in general. Things that make her laugh. If she’s allergic to chocolate frogs. That sort of thing.”

He watched as matching smirks appeared on the girl’s faces. 

“You fancy her Weasley!” Mira said.

George shushed her. “Merlin! Keep it down!” it was supposed to be a whisper but it came out as more of a breathy scream.

“You fancy her, Weasley!” Mira sing-songed again, delighting in the way his ears flushed pink.

George groaned and glanced around, as if the walls themselves might run off and tattle. “I don’t—fancy—look, I just…” he trailed off, dragging a hand over his face. “You know what, yeah. Fine. Maybe I do.”

“You’re so doomed,” the other girl said, voice thick with amusement.

George dragged a hand over his face. “Look, can you help me or not?”

Mira exchanged another glance with her friend, and George braced for a flat-out no. But instead, Mira sighed like it physically pained her to be useful.

“She’s got a soft spot for Bowie. Anything pre-Ziggy Stardust. And she’s obsessed with the way vinyl sounds compared to spells or magic recordings. Thinks they’re too clean.”

“She has a record player?” George asked, surprised.

“Snuck one into the dorm first year,” Mira said, clearly proud.

“Doesn’t surprise me,” George murmured.

“She’s weird about lyrics though,” Mira added, shrugging. “Says if she doesn’t feel it in her ribs, it’s not worth humming. Whatever that means.”

“It means she’s got taste,” George said before he could stop himself.

The girls looked at him again, this time with something like interest.

“She likes sour stuff. Hates people who are mean to first years. Collects broken things—buttons, quills, you name it.”

George’s brows furrowed. “Broken things?”

“She says they’ve already failed once. Less pressure.”

Something about that stuck.

Mira looked amused now, but not unkind. “You should talk to her.”

“Yeah…I’m trying.”

They raised an eyebrow simultaneously.

Mira studied him for a moment, then shrugged. “Ask her something stupid. Tell her her humming’s off-key. Just something.”

“Yeah,” George said. “I’m working on it.”

George Weasley had started lingering. He didn’t do that before.

You had started to notice.

He’d linger outside Potions, brushing close but never quite bumping you. He stayed longer than needed at breakfast, because he knew you got caught up in the mornings while listening to your vinyls. He even risked Peeve’s pranks by staying longer in the halfway he roamed because he knew you took it whenever you changed classes. 

It wasn’t daily. It wasn’t predictable. But it was enough to feel real.

And slowly, without meaning to, you let your guard slip. You started humming without worrying who heard. Started walking the halls without checking over your shoulder. Stopped bracing for impact.

Then, just when you thought it might quietly fade into nothing—a boy in your year, one of those Slytherins who mistook cruelty for charm, leaned in as you passed and said something low and venomous.

You didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch.

But it burned. Somewhere deep in your throat.

George heard it.

He was down the hall, halfway into a conversation with Lee Jordan, when the words hit him like a slap. His jaw tightened.

“Oi!”

The older boy barely turned before George was in his space, taller by just enough.

“Say that again,” George said, voice calm but taut.

The boy sneered. “Didn’t think you’d be the type to go sniffing around Slytherin leftovers, Weasley.”

“Didn’t think you’d be the type to talk that much with that stinking mouth of yours,” George replied, without missing a beat.

Fred appeared at his side like a shadow, arms folded. “Everything alright, Georgie?”

“Peachy,” George said without looking away. “Just clearing up a misunderstanding.”

The Slytherin boy muttered something and backed off, and Fred clapped George on the shoulder with a raised brow.

George however, was not looking at the boy anymore. His gaze was set on you.

You—still walking, head high, like the words hadn’t touched you at all.

And that only made him want to know what else you hid.

He didn’t say what happened. Didn’t ask if you’d heard.

He just stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, expression unreadable.

You joined him anyway.

The breeze at the top of the Owlery was stronger than usual, ruffling your robes, carrying the scent of feathers and parchment. George leaned against the wall like he had all the time in the world. But when you stopped beside him, he straightened ever so slightly. Like some part of him had been waiting for you to show up.

You didn’t say anything for a while. Neither did he.

Then, softly, you broke the silence. “You didn’t have to do that.”

George didn’t look at you. “Sure I did.”

There wasn’t a trace of bravado in his voice. Just simple truth, like he was stating the weather. You glanced at him, eyebrows furrowed.

He caught the look and finally turned, eyes serious. “He was out of line. And if it wasn’t me, someone else should’ve said something.”

More silence. You fidgetted with your hands. You would have reached for a cigarette, but the owls weren’t fond of the smoke.

“You’re not what I thought either,” you said after a while.

He hummed in acknowledgement, peering down at you. “Is that a good thing?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you leaned your elbows on the ledge, looking out at the sky beyond the towers. It was soft grey with streaks of gold—quiet, in a way Hogwarts rarely was.

“I thought you were just loud,” you said eventually. “You know…a typical Gryffindor.”

He chuckled at the irony.

You huffed a laugh through your nose. “You’re not just loud.”

“No?”

You shook your head. “You’re…unexpected.”

George turned to look at you then, properly. His eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them. His freckles caught the dimming light like constellations.

“Well,” he said after a moment. “So are you.”

A barn owl swooped in and landed above your heads, talons scraping the stone as it shuffled into place. You both looked up, then laughed as it puffed itself up dramatically and gave a single, unimpressed hoot.

George leaned in a little, dropping his voice. “She doesn’t like when people get sentimental.”

“Good thing we weren’t,” you said, meeting his gaze.

But something in your chest shifted anyway. And judging by the way George’s eyes lingered on yours, you weren’t the only one who felt it.

He cleared his throat and took something out of his pocket—a tiny, carefully folded square of parchment. He held it out without a word.

You raised an eyebrow but took it.

Unfolded once.

Then twice.

A third time.

Inside was a list.

In George’s scribbled, lopsided handwriting:

Things She Likes (working list):

Sour sweets  David Bowie (but not the glam stuff) Vinyl (magic makes it sound fake) Broken things Sharp comebacks Soft humming Quiet courage Not being asked too many questions

You stared at it.

Then looked up at him.

He scratched the back of his neck. “I’ve been trying— for a while now. To…I don’t know, talk to you. In some way other than dumb comments when I see you walk by.”

“George—”

“But…” he avoided your gaze, his voice quieter now, “you always looked like you were halfway somewhere else. Not in a bad way. Just…like your mind was already ten steps ahead of the room.”

You held the parchment a little tighter, unsure what to say. That was exactly how it felt most days—like you were watching everything from a distance, orbiting people instead of ever fully landing.

“So I started writing things down,” George said. “Little things I noticed. Stuff you’d say or wouldn’t say. It wasn’t meant to be anything. Just…” He paused, lips twitching like he was trying not to make a joke for once. “Guess I didn’t want to get it wrong.”

You studied him for a long moment. The wind tugged at his collar. His hands were back in his pockets, the very image of casual—if you ignored the tension in his jaw.

When you spoke, your voice was low. Steady. “You didn’t get it wrong.”

George looked at you then. The air between you felt impossibly still.

You turned the paper over in your hand, tracing the edge with your thumb. “I don’t usually let people notice things.”

“I know.”

A long pause followed. You could hear the owls shifting above, wings rustling. A distant bell from the castle chimed once, marking the hour.

You stared at the paper. Still trying to make sense of it. You kept re-reading it, trying to memorize these things yourself. It felt strange, seeing a piece of parchment containing such a clear piece of yourself. But it made something warm spread in your stomach.

“Can– Can I write something else?” you asked, already searching your satchel for a loose quill.

“Please do,” George replied as he watched you take out a quill being held together by a piece of tape near the center. He couldn’t help but smile.

You rested the parchment on the cool stone ledge and scribbled three additions beneath his slanted handwriting, careful not to smudge the ink.

Things She Likes (working list):

Sour sweets  David Bowie (but not the glam stuff) Vinyl (magic makes it sound fake) Broken things Sharp comebacks Soft humming Quiet courage Not being asked too many questions Rain Rocks that have been under the sun for a long time George Weasley

You didn’t hand it back right away.

For a few more seconds, you just looked at it, uncertain if giving this back would tilt something off-balance. If naming it made it real. If he’d laugh. Or worse, pretend not to see it.

But George didn’t rush you. He just stood there, a quiet steadiness about him that didn’t match the chaos people usually saw in him. And maybe that was why, in the end, you turned and held the parchment out with a small shrug.

His eyes skimmed the list—and stopped. You watched the moment he hit the new entries. His mouth twitched at “rain.” Curved a bit more at “rocks.”

And then— if you hadn’t been actively looking for it, you wouldn’t have noticed it— but he stopped breathing for just a fraction of a second. His smile fading completely.

He looked up.

There was a long moment where neither of you said anything. No jokes or semi-truths. Just his gaze locked on yours, eyes a little too wide for someone who usually had something clever ready on his tongue.

“Do you mean it?” he said eventually, voice low.

Your heart stuttered. “I didn’t write it to be polite.”

His laugh was quiet, almost disbelieving. “Right.”

“I’m serious.”

He nodded slowly, the edge of a smile threatening to give him away. “Alright. Good.”

You glanced toward the stairs. “I should go. Still owe Slughorn a three-foot scroll on bezoars, and I’ve only got… a sentence.”

George didn’t try to stop you. But he also didn’t step back.

Instead, he folded the parchment once more, tucking it gently into his pocket. “You know,” he said, “I had this whole plan. Weeks ago. Talk to her. Ask her something stupid. Tell her her humming’s off-key. Just—something.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That was your plan?”

“Not my best,” he admitted. “Fred said I should dump a love potion in your tea and let fate sort it out.”

You snorted. “Tell Fred if he tries that, I’ll make sure he isn’t a redhead for a long time.”

George grinned. “I’ll let him know.”

You turned to go, but hesitated at the top of the stairs. 

He was still looking at the list. A soft smile curving his lips now that he thought you weren’t watching.

“Dont’ be a coward Weasley,” you said after a beat, a teasing smile accompanying the statement. “It doesn’t suit you.”

 He looked up, he couldn’t suppress the smile now. “Noted.”

You gave him a small, crooked grin in return and finally took the first step down. The stone was worn smooth from years of footsteps, but it still felt unfamiliar under your feet, like the ground hadn’t quite caught up to the moment yet.

You didn’t say goodbye.

Behind you, George stayed still a while longer, listening to your footsteps fade down the winding stairs, the folded parchment still warm in his pocket.

He didn’t need to unfold it again to remember the last line.

He already knew it by heart.

[luvendiary]

hiii, i'm writing a fred weasley fic inspired by your one shots and i was wondering if you'd be okay with me tagging your account when i post it. if not, i'll still mention you but without tagging, or if you'd prefer i not mention you at all that's also fine.

i just want to give credit where credit is due and the truth is i wouldn't be posting it without your inspiration! i especially love love love hot summer nights and the post-war fic (sorry, i forgot the exact title).

i have no idea when it'll come out but i'm currently a couple thousand words in and still working!

omg yessss!!! please tag me!! honestly, you have no idea how happy i am about this. i never thought my work would inspire someone like this. i’m so excited to check it out! <3