#I also regret so much that I wrote Tom's hair as longer and messy

[baconcolacan]

I wonder how Hillary would react to Tord and Tom, like their interactions, mostly Tord,,,

Hillary hugging Tom like: you stay away from my boy, my baby- my brat idiot boy-

Dad doesn't approve of the boyfriend :P (This is their Regimen versions lol)

[ickle-ronniekins]

clarity, george x reader

hey guys! happy new year! it’s 2020, which is crazy, ‘cause wasn’t it just 2009 like a second ago? anywho, i’m sick with a cold and am working on requests (i promise!) but i recently discovered the whole soulmate au thing and i really wanna try it soooo...here’s hoping this isn’t terrible! i posted about it yesterday about the idea but i did change some things (i rewrote the end five different times i shit you not) also ps sorry this is hella long

prompt: soulmate au; everyone has a journal that allows them to write back and forth with their soulmate

A/N: so as i’m writing this it kind of reminds me of when harry wrote to tom riddle in CoS haha. anywho—i still want the reader to be a ~magical being~ so i do still want them to go to hogwarts (does that count as an au, then? WHATEVER, lol) however even though they can write back and forth with their soulmate, there’s this lingering restriction on soulmates revealing their identities because of the impending war and voldy and stupid fucking umbridge and all this stuff so they’re sworn to secrecy, not even names, not even hints, until one of them breaks

warning(s): mentions of war, blood, bodies, anxiety, not proofread

So sorry my writing’s been sporadic. Potions is dragging, love.

The words appeared very lightly, you almost didn’t catch them at first. Grinning giddily to yourself, you pulled your journal close to you so only you could see the fragile script in front of you. Potions. With Snape. You were just in Potions with Professor Snape. Is it possible that your soulmate had passed you by on your way out of the dungeons?

Well, of course it was. The castle was only so large, after all. It was proving rather difficult to keep your identity a secret.

You wanted to know who he was the second he first wrote you and made you blush. But, there were rules. Rules you both didn’t want to follow.

Is it four o’clock yet? He asked you now.

You grinned with excitement. Each time his handwriting appeared, it filled you with an overwhelming sense of closeness to him—since this, of course, was as close as you’d gotten.

The impending war put so much worry on your heart—for you, for him.

Biting your lip, you wrote back, I reckon Snape’s class isn’t going terribly well?

A quick response appeared. It’d certainly be better—if you were here.

You wanted nothing more than to know his name, hear his voice, be there with him.

The feast anxiously awaits your arrival, you wrote back cheekily, taking a sip of your pumpkin juice and watching as a cackle of students filtered into the Great Hall. Desperately, you searched the crowd for an inkling of him. There was none, of course. You had no bloody idea. Sighing greatly, you slumped back into your seat, poking at the food on your plate. How long could you possibly keep this going? Your soulmate didn’t really feel like one, especially when you didn’t even know his name.

Are you here, in the Great Hall? he wrote. I just walked in. C’mon, any type of sign that you’re here—at least tell me the color of your hair so I can eliminate some people—that isn’t too daring, now, is it?

How you wanted to. You wanted more than anything to tell him. But the worry that pulled at your heart—it was too much.

With utmost regret, you scribbled, You know we can’t, darling.

His response wasn’t exactly what you’d wanted. What you wanted, truthfully, was maybe for him to break—for him to finally reveal himself to you in a fit of fury, because he was so irrevocably in love with you that he just couldn’t stand it anymore. You could practically feel his sadness when, after a few painful minutes, he just answered, I know...

You looked around you, anxiously searching for some type of answer, but there was none. Many around you were scribbling quickly in notebooks in front of them. It was useless, really, to search for someone you barely knew in a sea full of people.

These restrictions are bloody ridiculous, he wrote one cozy, autumnal afternoon. He was frustrated. You could tell. The pressure of his quill marks and his messy handwriting showed you just how frustrated he was. It’s not fair that they’re keeping us from one another. It drives me bloody mad.

He had already left Hogwarts. Any hope you had of maybe locking eyes with him in the Great Hall and just knowing, deep down, that he was the one...those feelings of hope we’re gone. He was even further away now than you could imagine. You were no longer under the same roof.

In the common room next to the fire, you gripped the pages of your journal tightly. You knew how he felt, of course you did. I’m sick of it too, love... Your heart ached for him.

It seemed silly, but it was the truth. How were you supposed to feel about the man you were to spend the rest of your life with when you barely knew anything at all?

An idea of sorts came to him. You could almost feel his excitement and adrenaline rush. He answered, softer now, What if, instead of in writing, we just plan to meet...

His writing trailed off. You knew he recognized the danger of this idea, with every single slip of parchment and message being watched and intercepted.

I don’t care, you know. I don’t care what they do to me. As long as I can finally meet you.

Slowly, you flipped through the many pages of your journal, reading some of your conversations with him from the past years. It had proven extremely difficult to not give any hints about your identities over the years, so of course, you reread, every single day, the hints that he had given you.

He was one of many children. He was an inventor. He inherited his mum���s love for cooking and was a damn good one, if he did say so himself. He loved Hogwarts in the wintertime. His dad was overly fascinated with Muggles and their way of living. And he was funny—really funny, but he didn’t need to tell you that. He was always making you laugh.

You fed off of these five and only things for years. Years, they had sustained you, but right now, it wasn’t feeling like enough. Nothing felt like enough.

I want you to be safe, you told him. You need to be.

And then, you wrote again. Promise me that you are. Safe, I mean.

Your answers had been more sporadic and choppy and less long and interesting. He’d told you after he’d left Hogwarts that he’d been working on something, something to ease the pain of the impending war, something that he was excited about. The glimmer of those feelings kept you afloat in what felt like a world in which you were drowning slowly.

An answer came when you were asleep. I’m safe, darling. We had a long night. Promise me you’ll focus on your classes and graduating and keeping yourself safe and sound and I promise everything will be worth it.

All these years of writing and waiting and hoping seemed to be taking it’s toll on you both. There had been days where you hadn’t talked with one another at all, days where you didn’t even have the energy to pick up you quill and write a single thing. You barely had enough energy to discuss the news of you finishing school.

He told you one stormy night that he’d gotten hurt, that he’d lost one of his ears. In a moment of panic and worry, you’d written back as quickly as you could with questions you knew he couldn’t answer. What happened? Where are you? I’ll find you, let me come and help you.

A stern “no”, and then a softer, “I’m okay, I promise,”, had not helped your nerves at all. Things were getting worse. Voldemort’s army were taking out witches, wizards and Muggles alike, one by one, as the world you knew and loved was crumbling in pieces around you.

It was an awful feeling, knowing your soulmate was out somewhere in the world, hurting—in pain—and you couldn’t do anything at all to help him.

As the war worsened, your family was tortured for information. Death Eaters had stormed your home, questioning you on the whereabouts of Harry Potter, a boy just a year younger than you, a boy whom you went to school with—but you didn’t know. It didn’t matter, though. You were left with stinging burns, open wounds, broken ribs and gashes along your arms and legs.

It’d been exactly four days since you’d written your soulmate.

Please, love, let me know that you’re okay, he pleaded. You swore you could see tear drops next to the words he’d written. You told him swiftly, with all of the energy you could muster, that you were.

It seemed as though the sky had turned permanently dark gray. Storm clouds had swallowed the world whole. There was an eerie, cool wind that sent chills down your spine, and it was quiet—too quiet—the kind of quiet it is when it’s snowing outside. But this wasn’t the good kind.

Word had gotten to you that Hogwarts was under attack. The school you grew up in was being pummeled to the ground with those that you loved inside of it. He was there, he had to be there. Maybe, just maybe, in a moment of clarity, you’d find him somehow. You hadn’t thought once—you apparated almost immediately, the pull behind your naval nearly knocking the wind right out of you, but before you’d left, you wrote him one last thing. I’m going to Hogwarts. If we don’t survive...know that I love you. Salty tears escaped your eyes and landed on the pages of your journal.

You did, of course, even though you hadn’t met yet. Love him. You knew it deep in your heart. He was your soulmate, after all, even if you didn’t survive.

But the second before you apparated, you saw scribbly, messy handwriting on the journal placed delicately on your desk. It was so quick that you almost missed it, but you know you couldn’t have dreamt it. It was all too real. My name’s George Weasley—find me as quickly as you can.

Of course you knew him. He was one of the most well known people at Hogwarts when you were in school there. Heart thumping as you landed on your feet in the middle of the Great Hall, you noticed the blood, the bodies, the debris all around you. You swallowed over a lump in your throat. What would happen now that he revealed himself?

You’d been waiting years to hear his name.

Where was he?

And you saw him, hoisting himself on top of rubble, firing spells in every which direction, with his brothers next to him. A piece of debris slid against your cheek and left a stinging burn in it’s place. You touched your fingers to it gently, only to see some blood appear. You winced and fumbled over bodies and bricks and rubble.

He knocked a Death Eater over the edge of the bridge.

“George?”

He whirled around immediately—his face tired and his eyes bloodshot and sad. There were cuts and bruises all over his head, his red hair matted down by dirt, a large gash in his arm glistening with bright blood.

“It’s you,” his voice was hoarse and dry. He brought a hand to your cheek and wrapped it around the back of your neck. His hands absentmindedly made their way through your long, messy hair. His eyes were glassy. You tried to choke back your tears.

You placed your hands against his chest. “Finally.”

A moment of clarity hit when you realized that you’d met the man you’d spend the rest of your life with.

“I love you, you know—” he said in a moment of panic, a small smile tugging at the edges of his lips.

Everything went black.

When you opened your eyes, you were in a hospital of sorts—St. Mungo’s. Everything was still hazy. You rubbed your temples, head throbbing, and swallowed. Your throat was extremely dry. You reached for the glass of water on your beside table.

There was a news clipping there. Once your eyes adjusted to the light, you read slowly. There’d been a war a few months prior. Lord Voldemort was dead—he had died at Hogwarts. Wasn’t that the school you’d attended? You furrowed your brow.

Your memory was very fuzzy.

A red haired man walked slowly into the room with some sort of book in his hands.

Why did he look so familiar?

He stopped in his tracks when your eyes met his. Careful, so as not to scare you, he grinned lightly and said softly, “You’re awake.” There was a hitch in his voice.

He tried to tell you many things about your life. Your name, your age, where you went to school. What had happened during the war. That he was your soulmate. He mentioned something about journals and how he and you had communicated only through them for years. You couldn’t seem to understand. You wanted too, but you just...couldn’t. He didn’t really tell you anything about his life—just yours. Perhaps you needed to remember yours first. Having him near you gave you a sense of warmth, though.

“The doctors say she may not remember for a while, mate,” another man who looked exactly like him had whispered one afternoon. He patted his brother on the shoulder. “Maybe try and start from the beginning.”

The beginning. Had you forgotten everything from the beginning?

Panic rose in your chest.

Through a very frustrating conversation, trying to get you to remember anything at all, he reintroduced himself, as if to start new. “I’m George,” he told you.

George, you thought. Familiar. You smiled at him.

Everyday, he stayed by your side and watched as your memory seemed to improve, even slightly—bits and pieces coming back to you. You’d attended Hogwarts. Your father was a wizard, but mum was a Muggle. Your favorite class at school was Charms. But him—he was still hazy.

You could tell it was hurting him, but he’d never let on. Your heart ached.

“When did we meet?” You asked him one day, sitting up in bed and blowing on your hot soup.

He loved it when you asked him questions. “During the war, actually,” he told you. “It was only for a moment, though. Very fleeting, but very wonderful.” He smiled at you.

You grinned back at him, feeling a surge of familiarity enter your body. You reached out and placed your hand on top of his, squeezing lightly. You saw him swallow over a lump in his throat, his eyes yearning for you to remember.

And now?

You asked him, “Can I...can I read your journal?” It was the book he brought with him every single day.

Tears welled up in his eyes, he gently placed the book into your hands. “Of course you can.” He stood up and placed a kiss onto your forehead. “I’ll have a word with the doctors—I’ll be right back,”

When you were sure he was out of the room, you opened the pages. Some were ripped and tattered, but you could still read the passages and differentiate between your writing and his. I just can’t wait to spend my life with you. You’d said that. Your heart skipped a beat.

I hope you that when we finally meet, he’d written, I am going to kiss you and never stop. I know it sounds silly because we haven’t met, but I love you...more than anything in this world.

Your cheeks flushed red at the thought.

As you sat there in bed, imagining what it’d be like to press your lips to his, slowly biting your bottom lip, he sauntered back into you room and snapped you back into reality. You hadn’t noticed how wide you were smiling until he startled you.

You placed the journal gently on your bedside table and took to cooling off your soup again. George was busy tidying up around the hospital room. When you took a slow sip, it was as if your taste buds had been reawakened. “Bloody hell, this is delicious—where did you get it?”

George smiled gratefully at you. “I made it this morning,” he told you. And just like that. Clarity. “I love cooking, actually, nobody really knows that but I got it—”

“—from your mum,” you cut him off.

He stood at the other end of the room, peering at you.

“Yes,” he said.

It was like everything came back to you at once—the writing, the moment he revealed himself, the war, seeing him for the first time—it was everything. Your soulmate.

Smiling greatly, you continued. “And your dad, he—he loves Muggle things, doesn’t he? He’s fascinated by them, everything about them—and you’ve a lot of siblings, don’t you?” He’d sat down next to you and pulled your hands into his. “And you absolutely hated Potions class—” at this, he laughed through a sob. A feeling of bravery entered your body. “And you promised me that when we finally met, you’d kiss me and you’d never stop.” You inched closer to him. “Guess we never really got a chance, did we?”

With tears in his eyes, he gently caressed your cheek and glanced longingly from your eyes to your lips. With a tiny nod from you, he laughed into the kiss that was years in the making. You felt like you were reentering your body. He kissed your forehead, your jawline, your neck, your shoulders, your hands— “You remember,” he said quietly.

You let out a soft hum as you pulled him close again. He gave you the most genuine and heartwarming smile when you told him, “I could never forget the man I love. I just can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

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