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heartthrobin · 5 months ago

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all's fair in love and war (2)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 7.87k

warnings: enemies to lovers, still so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, archie being my fav oc, cheese fest

an: literally fell asleep on my laptop last night editing this, i was so exhausted from school so i’m sorry it’s late !!! but i had the most fun in the world writing this and i hope everyone enjoys :)) don't forget to comment and repost your favourite writers

summary: Oliver is still impossibly miserable, maybe more uncooperative than before, except now when you look at him: you can't think of much else beyond how sweet his lips tasted.

part one

You can’t sleep.

You're not sure you'll find sleep ever again.

“I knew it, I knew it—“ Cherry had bounced the whole way to your dormitory, howling into your ear. “I knew it!”

The image of Oliver’s fluttering eyes swum around your brain as you blinked into the darkness of the poster bed. The taste of his tongue and his words still right against your lips.

It was a riddle of a calibre that you can’t seem to detangle. More than anything, you try to remember how strong has he tasted of Firewhisky - was he so drunk to really dismiss it to nothing at all?

You lingered on it all weekend.

Cherry didn’t help at all — he’s been in love with you forever, that’s literally so obvious — and Enzo even less so once he’d been filled in: Oliver doesn’t seem a bloke who let’s alcohol make his decisions for him, something about Scottish genetics I think.

The interaction plagued you: digging a wide hole in the base of your stomach. You mourned the thought that you may never have the opportunity to kiss those soft lips again, more than anything: preparing yourself for the feud between yourselves to worsen.

There’s barely enough time to make sense of your situation before you’re racing down over the grassy hills of the grounds, bag swinging violently over your shoulder and extraordinarily late for your Herbology lesson in the greenhouse.

Your morning alarm had rung right into one ear and out the other, a product of the tossing and turning you’d been doing for the last two nights.

When you swing the greenhouse door open, panting and face flush from the beating sun, the whole room turns to you. Sprout pauses where her hands are flailing in explanation.

“Sorry I’m late professor,” you wheeze, readjusting your strap over your shoulder.

Cherry is smirking at you from her bench, sidled up with Jane Emmet.

It hadn’t escaped you that you’d be sharing the lesson with the Gryffindors, but you’d precious little time to worry about it in the five minutes you had to pull a robe over your head and stick a toothbrush into your mouth.

Your eyes are purposeful in not looking over the room. Scared to catch the wrong eyes.

“Not a problem peach, we’re just repotting some Fire-Seed Bushes.” She brings a stubby hand to her chin, “uhm … well, Mr Kumar there in the corner doesn’t have a partner. Go join him by his pots.”

Archie has a lopsided smile on his face when you approach, a thick black curl drooping over his left eye.

“Hey.” He nudges gently.

You set your bag down and grab a pair of gloves, chuckling. “Hey Archie.”

The soil is warm when you stick your fingers into the dirt, shifting it gently enough not to mess over the edge of the bucket. There’s a Fire-Seed Bush sitting tentatively at the end of the bench, spitting sparks and emitting smoke.

“So …” Archie speaks first, the back of his hand bumping yours between the black soil. “How was your weekend?”

It’s a veiled question, a poorly veiled one at that. The question draws a laugh from the base of your stomach.

You shrug, adamant on missing the point. “It was alright, I guess. How about yours?”

He shrugs right back. “Wasn’t the greatest. Penelope Clearwater rejected me for Percy Weasley.”

You don't mean to, you really don't, but it draws another bout of laughter out of you - you clap your hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry—“

“No, I get it. Percy bloody Weasley?” His brow is creased, dirt-stained hands rising messily from the soil to swipe at a fallen piece of hair in his face. “Dead sure that bloke's own mother can't say he’s handsome. I’m better looking than him, surely?”

There’s the hanging insinuation that it was rhetorical, but you reply anyways: “you’re definitely more handsome than Percy Weasley, Archie.”

His head cocks down at you, stained paws finding his waist and pressing black fingerprints into the red jumper. “You really think so?”

“Without a doubt.”

Archie smiles, bumping your side against his. You think he might be blushing. “You’re very charming. I understand what Oliver sees in you.”

You jolt involuntarily, spilling some black soil over the edge of the pot.

Swiping at the mess lazily, you play the comment off with another crumbly chuckle: hoping it convinces him more than it does yourself. “Oliver sees in me what a bull sees in a red cape.”

Archie’s reaching timidly for the Fire-Seed Bush, lifting it off the counter and holding the dangerous botanical at arm’s length. “Not true. The boy’s half in love with you.”

This conversation is getting awfully uncomfortable awfully quickly. It picks at your curiosity nonetheless.

“He said that?”

He’s quick to shake off the question, eyes still trained on setting the roots of the bush into the gap in the soil. “Oliver doesn’t have to say anything. He spends practically every fucking mealtime mooning over at your table, and he talks about you way more than necessary—“

“That’s just because I work on his nerves. Oliver doesn’t love me, he barely tolerates me.”

The boy turns on you, confusion set in his brow. “Why is this news? Last I saw you, your tongue was halfway into his stomach.”

Zachariah Smith and his Gryffindor partner look up at that. Your face goes hot all over - Archie doesn’t seem to notice.

“We were drunk.” You say softly, eyes stuck on a loose leaf crackling against the wooden counter.

There’s a special kind of fear that's crawling into your heart where you stand. The fear of putting too much faith into the words of Archie Kumar.

That it’s an elaborate ruse. A set-up, canons of confetti and a banner screaming “you’ve been fooled!” if you were to indulge his words. The danger of allowing your mind to drift too far off into the possibilities of a world wherein Oliver Wood doesn’t hate you - at least not as much as he lets on.

Archie looks at you out the side of his eye, you can feel it, but says nothing. He hands you a miniature yellow-handled spade.

Instead you fill the space. "I heard Isla Flynn has a crush on you."

He perks: "really?"

Across the room, Oliver is bumping elbows with Poppy Davis.

"Ow!"

A loose spark has evidently landed on her exposed arm. The sparks that Oliver was supposed to be watching for, the ones that he is intent on ignoring with the constant glancing back over his shoulder to where you and his best mate are in the corner of the room fucking giggling at each other like toddlers with a box of matches.

“Oliver — can you just focus for five seconds!” Poppy isn’t impressed.

Oliver isn’t either, with the situation as a whole. The pads of his fingers are blistered from the repotting of the bush and Poppy’s careless bumps and his general indifference to the task at hand.

It eats at his brain. What are you guys talking about? Is it about him?

You laugh again and it’s loud enough that it draws his shoulders all the way taut. There’s another snap of a spark and Oliver feels where it lands at his wrist, but he doesn’t react.

“Just pass me the bloody spade.” He grumbles.

The lesson passes more slowly than Oliver could swim shoulder-deep through molasses.

It feels like years later when he tosses his gloves into the box with the rest, when the class shuffles to return tools and begin slinging half-open bags over their shoulders.

Oliver doesn’t think he’s ever packed up faster - Poppy is still scowling at him, he doesn’t care - before he’s knocking through yellow and red tied students to find Archie’s head of curly black hair.

“Hey!” He catches him by the wrist, tugging on it like a dog with a bone. Archie jumps, eyes winding down to find his friend. “What did she say?”

You’re far ahead, Oliver can make out the back of your head: hips bumping with Cherry’s up the hill towards the castle.

Archie grins. “She said Isla Flynn has a crush on me.”

Oliver groans, “Not about that, you prat. About— wait, really?”

"Yeah!" He hikes his bag higher on his shoulder. "Can you believe it? She's got that hot Irish accent and everything."

Oliver nods, "Yeah ... yeah. Good on you, mate."

He's trying desperately not to steal this moment from his best friend, but he's fucking itching to know what else you and Archie had been giggling about.

"Did she ... say anything else?" He presses, more gently than his character usually allows. "Like about me?"

Archie shrugs without looking down. "I asked her, but she seemed tense about the whole thing."

"Tense?"

"Yeah, she said something about a bull and a cape, and went like all quiet when I told her you like her--"

At that, Oliver's stomach leaps up into his throat. He grabs his best friend by the arm, jolting him to a short stop. Some Hufflepuff bumps into their halted figures, grumbling before shuffling around them.

"You told her what?" His eyes flare erratically.

Archie shrugs, an innocuously confused look painting his features. "Well I said Oliver's half in love with you, or something like that and she looked all confused about it--"

Oliver's grip on his friend's wrist tightened to a degree that a ring was sure to form on his dark skin. "You fucking pinhead! You told her I liked her?"

Pulling his arm violently from his grip, Archie has the nerve to look affronted. "You don't?"

The morning sun shining over Oliver's head feels like it's growing hotter by the second, there's a dribble of sweat running down his spine.

"That's -- that's not the point. Even if I do, which I'm not saying is the case, she doesn't need to know that."

"Were you two obliviated in your sleep last night?" Archie's eyebrows are pressed down against his eyes, slouching down to meet his friend's face. "I caught you two making out like the world was ending less than three days ago! Surely she has to figure that you feeling something for her, she's not stupid."

Oliver struggles between his thoughts, worse around his words. "That was ... we'd been drinking. For all I know, she only kissed me back cause she was trollied off Dragon-Barrell--"

"She said that, too."

Eyeing him, Oliver's hands find his hips. "Said what, exactly?"

"That you were drunk, I mentioned the kiss and she said we were drunk."

A sensation he can only identify as closest to guilt seeps up into Oliver's chest from his stomach. "She thinks I kissed her just cause I was drunk?"

Archie's hand finds Oliver's shoulder. "You should probably talk to her, mate."

He sighs, eyes drifting over the silhouette of the castle in the distance. He shakes his head like it'll rattle the plaguing thoughts loose. "We're gonna be late for Transfig."

"I mean, Archie is his best friend." Cherry is trying to rationalise the whole story. "I don't see why he'd lie about it?"

You shake your head, knocking shoulders with a Ravenclaw girl trying to pass through the corridor. "I'm not entertaining it, Cherry."

"Come on," she sighs, practically skipping to keep up with the furious pace you've set. "Would it be so terrible if he likes you?"

"Yes." You don't look at her.

The redhead's eye-roll is practically audible, "Let me rephrase, would it be so terrible if he likes you back?"

You meet her eyes for the first time since you'd entered the corridor.

She sighs, "we're gonna see him in Muggle Studies in five minutes. I think you should say something."

"Forget I said anything, Cherry." Heat flares at your neck again, prompted by the embarrassment of even imagining how such a conversation might go.

The rest of the walk is quiet, but you feel Cherry's gaze warming the side of your face.

Burbage's classroom is over-populated with Gryffindors by the time you drop your bag against the marbled floor beside your desk. In the corner of your eye, your brain has already fixated on Oliver's silhouette leaned against the edge of his own desk. You flush hot all over again, as if your thoughts were transcribing into subtitles and floating above your head for the whole class to read.

The click of Burbage's heels prompt the lingering students to find their seats, "Please take out your copies of Muggle Wars: Cause and Effect. We left off on page eighty-seven--"

You suddenly regret snapping at Cherry. Wishing for the comfort of her presence, your eyes glazing over where she's perched in the first row of desks closest to the chalkboard.

Unusually, the class trickles on without disruption. There's a few glances over at your direction, like everyone is waiting for another outburst from the grade's most volatile duo. They're sure to be let down, you're adamant to not even breathe in the direction of Wood.

Burbage comments on it, too, nearly ten minutes from the bell.

"It's suspiciously quiet in your corner today, captains." she looks down through her fingerprint-smudged frames, brushing over you and then Wood three seats away. "Something the matter?"

You shrug, refusing to acknowledge the boy. He seems to be doing the same: completely unfairly, the thought that he wouldn't look at you made the hair on your arms stand straight. "We can start up if you'd like, professor?"

Her face contorts into that irritated look that you'd grown accustomed to when Professor Burbage addresses you. "You're flirting dangerously with another session of detention, miss."

"She's just answering your question, professor."

Nobody in the class seemed more surprised than Burbage, although that in itself was a feat. The two Gryffindor boys in the row ahead of you swivel all the way around in their seats to look at Oliver, who'd just spoken.

You fight the twitching urge to look at him.

"Detention for two, it seems. I'll be seeing you both Friday afternoon."

A calm air settles again over the class, as if order had been restored. You and Wood had lost the interest of the room and students shift back to the board where WHAT IS A PRIME MINISTER? is sprawled across it in chicken-scratch handwriting.

Sighing, your eyes find the clock against the wall. Eight minutes left.

You pick at the end of your quill irritably: electing to dip it into the ink at the edge of the desk and entertain yourself quietly by drawing a miniature snowman at the corner of your page, trying not to think about another Friday afternoon in too close of a proximity to Oliver Wood. There's a soft whir, barely audible if you weren't so focused on outlining pebble eyes, and a tiny paper-airplane whizzes quietly from under your desk: landing squarely on the nose-less head of your snowman.

Fear prickles at you. You don't look up for the source, lest a suspicious sideways glance earns you another weekend with the party-animal Charity Burbage.

Instead, you carefully undo the intricately folded wings of the plane. It's barely big enough to fit into your palm once open, the top of the little note marked in black ink.

It was the same handwriting that marked the sign-out sheet for equipment in the Quidditch storage rooms down at the pitch.

'Thanks for that one, smart-mouth.'

Your eyes flicker up to Burbage, who's back is turned, before you dip your quill into the ink and scribble out a response. In your peripheral, Oliver is leaned back in his stool: biceps folded over each other. There's an unexplainably airy-fairy, fuzzy feeling warming your rib cavity.

'Believe this one was your fault, dickhead.'

You quietly refold the creased edges, before tapping it lightly with the end of your wand: then watch how it takes off the airstrip of your page and zips quietly under the cover of desks to land back in front of the sender.

There's a long pause - enough for Burbage to draw out a whole flow diagram of something called "parliament" - before the edge of the paper wing grazes at your calf again. It lands quietly again.

'Maybe.

We good?'

There's a gentleness to the sentence. Like you can hear it from Oliver's mouth, like he's avoiding your gaze when he whispers it.

You hunch over the note again.

Oliver's knuckles are turning white, twisting his wand in his hands under the table. He shouldn't have said anything. He's regretting the whole fucking idea of the stupid paper-plane now.

He's trying not to watch you write, not to notice how long you stared at his writing before you picked up your own quill. He does anyways.

When the airplane flutters down into his palm, Burbage is already excusing the class. Stools are scraping against cold tile, the clutter of textbooks being crammed back into bags.

'Never :)'

His eyes run over the word once, twice, three times over. A smile is tugging at the edge of his lip, he forces it taut - but his eyes are still shining unusually brightly when Archie knocks his shoulder to his.

"What you looking so damn happy about?"

Oliver tucks the note into the pocket of his robes. "Don’t know what yer talking about."

"But professor, why can't Hufflepuff take Saturday?"

"Well, Hufflepuff already gave up our practice days for Gryff--!"

Hooch sighed so deeply she almost melted back into her armchair. "The decision is made, Oliver. The pitch is being cleaned out on Wednesday, your team can take Saturday for any extra training."

He could practically hear the smile creeping onto your face, the smug crossed-arm look he'll no doubt find when he turns to you.

Irritation bubbles up in his throat, a familiar companion in your presence, and just as he prophesied: you are grinning.

In the weeks that followed that day in Burbage's class, it seemed that both parties decided that the topic of their shared kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room was best left undiscussed.

The arrangement is working. At least Oliver thinks so.

You still bait him and he still snaps, rising to your taunts. He still finds himself in detention more Fridays than he spends free, and his body ripples with anger when you roll your eyes at him.

But it was in moments, like this now, where your little self-satisfied grin doesn't quite vex him to the degree it once did. It's now harder to find a retort, to snap at you with a sharp-edged comment. Not when amusement crinkles at the corners of your eyes where your black lashes kiss so prettily.

Hooch swivels in her chair to find a document between one of her cluttered drawers, you take the opportunity to stick the tip of your tongue out childishly at him.

Oliver draws a tight breath, he hopes his face is still taut in annoyance, because his heart has slipped like a stone down into his stomach. That's the other issue, the tiny little obstacle in these recent weeks: he can't stop looking at your mouth. It's distracting, disarming - paralysing at the best of times.

He strips his gaze away, before he can be outed by anyone in the room. "Whatever." He mumbles.

You seem disappointed in his lack of a real response, but it passes quickly - like a shadow - over your face.

"Thanks professor." You grab up your roster from her desk and turn to the door, practically skipping out into the corridor.

He huffs.

Somehow, you and Archie have become fast friends. Mornings around Fire-Seed Bushes and Venomous Tentaculas in the heat of Greenhouse Three seems to do wonders for a friendship.

It prickles at Oliver's nerves when you pass in the corridors, when you perk up with a high "hey Arch!" and he grins down from his towering height right back at you: "hey Y/n!"

You don't look at Oliver. He's notably sour the rest of the walk.

Alright, maybe the whole arrangement wasn't really working. You were a distraction to him before, no doubt, but somehow your powers of beguilement had tripled. Especially since you seem to be behaving perfectly normal: like you hadn't given Oliver the best snog of his life outside the Ravenclaw common room that night.

Maybe it was just alcohol, maybe he is the only one plagued by the knowledge of the other's taste.

The castle has turned impossibly colder, the bitter bite of winter stinging at the loose cuffs of his robes on walkthroughs of the corridors. He can't imagine how cold the air above the pitch is going to be on Sunday when Hufflepuff faces off Slytherin for a spot in the finals.

It's all Hooch has been going on about for the last two weeks.

Oliver's had to shift around at least four practices - Roger almost twice as much, he's a pushover - to allow for you and Marcus to have more time on the pitch. His complaints fell on deaf ears, Hooch dismissed him with a wave of her bony hand and a "your time is coming, Wood."

You prance into dinner late most evenings, hair in every direction and face flush with sweat: sticking it out like a bumblebee in those awful yellow quidditch robes.

Oliver only notices because, annoyingly, he's found that he is frequenting the bench at the Gryffindor table that faces over to the Hufflepuff's. His eyes drift over the yellow-tied heads to where you clump up with Enzo and Cherry, watches you talk around mouthfuls of toast lazily, giggle behind your napkin: head rolling back to showcase that smooth neck, how it runs down to the soft slopes of your shoulders: disappearing down into your button-up.

Archie has noticed, he's sure, but hasn't done more but allude to it with teasing glances or suggestive comments.

"The Hufflepuffs up to something particularly interesting over there, Ollie?"

The speed with which Oliver's eyes snap to his peas is almost comical. He shrugs and mumbles like a child. "Don't know."

On Sunday morning, you don't go to breakfast.

There's an uncomfortable gurgling in your midriff, like a snake is slithering between your organs and you're sure even just the smell of eggs on toast would bring up your dinner.

Instead you find yourself at the pitch a whole hour before the game is set to start. Marcus is running laps around the grass, something he's done since you've known him.

He offers a curt wave, face set like cold stone.

It reminds you of Oliver a little bit, the distraction in his eyes.

Oliver is never all the way there, wherever he is, you think. His eyes mist over like he's halfway between this world and another. You know it's Quidditch: he dreams it, eats it, sleeps it.

But lately he's foggier than usual.

You think it's your imagination, brush off the idea as you have all the millions of others you'd had in the preceding weeks about the surly brute that was Oliver Wood. He plagues you.

Just the vibrato of his unimpressed huff when you get your way, when you quip something purposely annoying at him. It's addictive, the feel of his sugar-brown eyes glaring a hole through you.

Lately, his reactions have been closer to underwhelming. Allowing for only a moment of eye contact: gone are the quick-witted retorts, the Scottish-laced "princess" usually attached. The thought makes you wince in embarrassment, knowing that you've been pressing him harder lately: like a seven-year old jabbing at a claw machine, outwardly desperate for that brown plushy on the top of the pile.

Maybe he's over it. So deathly mortified of your shared kiss that he doesn't want to know you anymore, much less take the effort to hate you. Your chest pinches tightly.

You dress into your match robes slowly, taking your time with the loops of your shoelaces and the buttons down the sweater you're wearing underneath everything. Oliver Wood should be at the bottom of your list of priorities, normally, but now more than ever.

The team filters into the change-room, exhibiting varying degrees of nervousness. Cedric is practically green, but Herbert looks like he's about to go down a water-slide he's waited over an hour in line for. Beyond the swinging doors, you can hear the crowd shuffling loudly into their seats.

Before your wits are completely about you, Hooch is rapping on those same doors. "Onto the pitch, Hufflepuffs!"

You muster up your best excuse for a captain's speech for what might be the last match you ever play as one. The team seem satisfied, you figure it's easy to find solace before a game when you know it's not your last. As the only seventh year, comfort doesn't come so easily to you.

The crowd is deafening when yellow robes take to the sky: Marcus looks over, offering another nod, not unlike the one he'd given you earlier. You can tell he's feeling the dread of finality too.

There's a whistle blow and the quaffle flies past your face with a speed that nearly evacuates your nose from your face. Lee is announcing in the distance and the rumble of adrenaline forces your fingers over the handle. It tilts and you dip, disappearing into the sky of players.

The winter air at Hogwarts was biting enough roaming the corridors, but thirty metres off the ground is something wholly unnatural. Your face was burning crisp from the icy wind, the feeling in your cheeks and nose lost to the Scottish cold.

Foggy white clouds puff out with each heavy breath. Cedric zooms past and Jane loops around his moving figure to knock a stray bludger in the opposite direction.

Your eyes flash between them and the fast approaching Malcolm, he tosses the quaffle at you with a grunt and you catch it at the tips of slippery, ice-frozen fingertips.

Shooting forward again, you duck under Marcus who is hurtling through the sky at you: gone is the look of friendly fondness from his eyes, replaced with a hunger for the leather-bound ball in your grasp.

Just missing the grasp of his meaty hand, the ball passes onto Heidi.

"Another ten points to Hufflepuff," Lee's voice echoes as if from heaven. "That brings the score to ninety for Hufflepuff and eighty for Slytherin!"

It's been nearly ninety-five minutes of sitting on your broom growing colder, and you're not alone.

Around you, the team is descending into frost-induced exhaustion: Jane's nose is as bright red as a Christmas ornament and Cedric has been peeping over the top of his thick woollen-scarf for at least the last half - barely enough to catch a glance of the whizzing canary and emerald robes, much less of a tiny golden snitch.

You sigh out another white breath, letting your eyes drift over the stands. It's saturated with moving heads of faces you can't make out and yellow and green swaying banners. Your gaze lingers on the top left, in the corner facing the castle. It's where Cherry and Enzo park themselves during every match, where you know they're screaming in support, clenching their teeth at every quaffle handover. You can feel them, even when their faces blur into the crowd.

Unintentionally, you think about how Oliver's mixed in there too. Somewhere between your peers. If you had been granted another moment, if the quaffle wasn't mid-air between two Slytherins just under your nose and you'd not taken the opportunity to snatch it from them, you would have meandered into the trap of hoping that deep down in his chest - even if it was core of the earth deep - he was rooting for you, too. That he seethed at a missed goal or clenched a tight fist at his side in celebration when a Hufflepuff makes a beautiful play.

Meanwhile in the stands, Oliver has decided that the desire to play his allegiances in secret has since disappeared from his heart.

He'd played it light in the first few minutes. Mumbling under his breath at a fumbled pass or a slimy move from the Slytherins, but by the forty-fifth minute he'd found himself on his feet.

"Diggory!" His hands waved in front of him, "it was right there you fucking git--"

A Hufflepuff third year a row ahead looked at him askew, but he paid her no mind.

Archie had taken the hint early. As soon as Oliver was out of his seat, so was he. Despite being Oliver Wood's best friend, Archie had somewhat limited knowledge of the game himself and eyed Oliver's reactions to find the appropriate moments to whoop and cheer. Oliver didn't say anything, but he appreciated it more than he could verbalise.

His eyes tracked you more than anything, when you were flying between players or just floating in place: eyes like a hawk, watching over the game. His heart swelled and his pride fell to the wayside.

Just short of the two hour mark, there was a rise in the crowd.

"The seekers have caught sight of the snitch!"

Oliver's stomach rose into his throat.

"They're diving for it, Malfoy and Diggory head to head-- and Slytherin grabs the snitch, winning by 140 points!"

It sank back into place, like a stone to the bottom of the river. He watched how you froze, how you twisted over your shoulder to find Diggory's figure lingering at the bottom of the field. You shoulders sagged, hanging in the air as the others dropped to the ground.

"Slytherin have made it into the finals against Gryffindor for the quidditch cup, back here at the pitch next month!"

After a long moment, the last in the sky, you followed them down.

The raucous cheers from the Slytherins were hard to drown out, he wasn't even sure Archie heard him toss a "i'll find you at the castle" before he found himself pushing through the masses of people.

He fought against the wave moving to find the stairs, eager to return to the warmth of their dormitories, but Oliver was markedly more motivated than the majority. He stomped on some toes and nearly tossed a first year off the stands to race down the stairs.

Only once his feet had found the mushy grass of the pitch, did he pause to consider that he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say. What was the rush for? To comfort you, tease you for your loss?

The latter option was definitely what he could do, what he could say. What was expected of him, if he was being honest. Recently, however, he's found it harder and harder to come up with remarks to hurt your feelings. Found that he quite prefers that little smile that tucks into the corner of your mouth when he says something unexpectedly fond. How your eyes practically gleam.

There's shoving from all sides of him -- get out the way, bloody hell -- and the teams pass ahead of him. Leading the march, despite it being nothing more than a slow trudge, is your figure: squashed between those of who he recognises to be Cherry Stretton and Enzo Musa's.

Their arms wrapped over your shoulders, talking animatedly into your ear on each side. Enzo tips his head to meet yours, a small touch of comfort.

Oliver sighs. He has nothing to say and no comfort to offer, wondering for a moment what he could possibly bare to hear in his own final moments as captain. He thinks that anything from your mouth would work.

So he waits, parks himself beside the stairs and waits for Archie: watching the six-legged figure disappear up over the hill.

You're not at dinner.

He knows because he's been watching the door for the better half of an hour. Archie pushes his plate at him, "Eat something there, Ollie."

Begrudgingly, Oliver brings his drumstick up to his mouth. "She's not eaten a thing since breakfast, it's almost eight."

Archie passes a sympathetic look over him. "Her friends are here, I'm sure she'll be by soon. There's no use you joining her on a hunger-strike."

He's right. Cherry and Enzo and some others that frequent your circle are talking around the table, around the spot that you usually fill. But dinner goes on and students leak steadily out towards bed without your return.

Eventually Oliver huffs, like an irritated bulldog, and grabs for the nearest napkin: unfolding it out in front of him.

"What are you doing?" Archie asks thickly, spitting bits of rice at him.

Oliver reaches for two chicken skewers, placing them neatly on the white square: alongside a dinner roll and a pumpkin pasty.

He wraps them over, double wraps it with another napkin too.

"What does it look like, Arch."

Placing it carefully into the deep pocket of his robe, Oliver goes to stand - lacking the patience it takes for Archie to answer, or for his inevitable teasing. "I'll find you back in our room."

He's halfway out the hall when Archie's voice calls out to him, "You don't even know where she is!"

Oliver shakes his head, brandishing a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "I know where she is." He mumbles for only himself to hear.

You’d watched close to twenty-one quidditch matches from the stands at the pitch on Hogwarts grounds: played in almost half of them.

The seat is still slightly too small, just uncomfortable enough to make a person shuffle. Beyond the rim over the other end of the pitch you can see the orange sun dipping behind the horizon, drawing to darkness over your moment alone.

By now you're sure the party in the common room has long since found momentum. The one you'd been promised by the team, "it's your last game, cap, we need to celebrate!". You're sure someone somewhere is looking for you, bracing a plastic cup of Firewhisky with your name on it, but you can't find it within yourself to face it all just yet.

The silence of the evening is enough, you only wish you'd been fast enough to retrieve your broomstick that's somewhere off with Enzo. Just for one last lap.

The serenity of your loneliness doesn't persevere, however. You can hear shuffling up the steps, you're tempted to look but the sunset is slipping so quickly out of your hands that it's not worth the time wasted.

It's only when the footfalls draw closer, stopping when a body slumps into the seat beside you. The seats are so cramped that his knee brushes yours, the figure long since identified from the corner of your eye.

"Come to gloat?" You ask, eyes never leaving the sky.

He shrugs. "Not today."

You nod. His smell drifts on the breeze under your nose, like peppermint and soap and Oliver.

There's a long silence. Your robes crease against the fist sitting in your lap, you've yet to change out of your quidditch uniform, you know it will be the last time.

"You missed dinner."

"Does it matter?"

Despite your avoidant gaze, Oliver's is warming the side of your face. The evening air cools the same spot.

There's a shuffling that finally draws your eyes. Oliver is still in his robes too, and his hand emerges from a deep pocket with a folded napkin square. "Figured you'd be hungry."

He places it onto your lap with a gentleness you're coming to find more of in him. Something frighteningly warm erupts in your chest and your hands come up to it, pulling apart the napkin to find picky bits inside.

You're fighting between smiling and starting to cry. You do neither.

"You carried this in your pocket the whole way from the hall?"

His eyes flicker between the food and your face before he shrugs. "Yeah."

By now, you were fighting a losing battle and the smile pulled up at the ends of your mouth so tightly that your cheeks started to hurt. "Gross."

You pick up a chicken skewer regardless, biting into it and facing the sky again. You offer him the other one and he looks for a moment like he's going to argue but takes it quietly in the end.

The chicken is tender and only after you'd swallowed the first bit did you realise how hungry you'd actually been. You finish it without a word, going to tear the pasty in half and offering a piece to your companion.

You're picking at the roll now, tearing tiny bits off and feeding it piece by piece to yourself like a bird. "Last game."

He nods. "I know."

"What could someone say to you after your last game, Wood?" You pick at him, eyes flittering between him and the now nearly black sky. "You know, to make you feel better?"

Oliver shakes his head, leaning back and rolling his shoulders: as if the thought itself unsettled him.

"Nothing, probably. I'd probably just walk into the Black Lake and drown myself."

You think he's joking, but with Oliver Wood that was hardly a sure thing.

"You wouldn't."

"What's there left to live for?" He says it with an airy chuckle.

Shrugging, your head falls against your shoulder. "You'd have to figure it out, because I'd go marching in right after you. Carry you out if I had to."

Oliver stills, eyes wide and blinking at you. Your chest goes tight, the ghost of a smile pressing at your face.

"Bridal style and everything ..." You add quietly, stifling your chuckle.

He seems to come back to himself, nodding. "We should get back. Been a long day."

The napkin crumples in your hand, shoved down into the depths of your own pocket. You walk ahead, the pathway to the steps is only narrow enough for one person at a time, and he trails behind.

By the time you've hit the steps, Oliver moving down beside you, you're brewing around an apology. A way to thin the air, to ease where your chest is tight: swirling around well done, now you've made things awkward you git. It's halfway up to your tongue when skin brushes against the back of your hand.

Warm fingers explore your knuckles to find your cool ones, slipping to knot between them.

You work not to look down, because Oliver's skittish like that. From the corner of your eye, you can see he's concentrating his gaze ahead.

His hand tightens against yours, palm callous from years wrapped around the wooden handle of his broomstick. It's a little sweaty and sticky but you're smiling so hard you're about to be sick.

You dare to look at him, Oliver's smiling too.

Oliver hasn't been sleeping.

His last few days of seventh year are slipping like water through his calloused hands and he can feel it. Every hour that passes, shadowy and fleeting.

Classes feel shorter than before, the terrible jokes Archie bombards him with over dinner sound funnier than he ever remembers them being and the glimpses he catches of you in the corridor never feel long enough. The ceiling of his poster bed flashes with moments of the day that's passed, feeling like a dream you'll be jolted out of as soon as it gets good.

Even over all his hours of broody contemplation, none of it makes the final whistle any easier to swallow. It hits him like he's been smacked with a bludger in the chest.

"Gryffindor has won the quidditch cup, two-hundred and thirty points to twenty!"

He can hear the crowd's roar, the whoops of the twins floating somewhere below him. Harry's standing on the grass of the pitch holding up his tiny golden trophy. The pitch is red all over: Oliver won.

He won.

Every moment building up over the last seven years culminated into the final blow of the whistle. The wind is whipping at the hair over his forehead: Oliver thinks this might be the happiest moment of his life, but he's not entirely sure.

He never realised that it would all be so fucking soaked in sadness.

It's over. He's leaving the castle empty handed. His engraving will live on the Quidditch Cup in a dusty cupboard for years to come, yes, and he might have a frame up in his future apartment somewhere, reminiscing on the old days. That's all.

He's struck with the devastating fear that in a few short years, nobody will remember him. More than anything, he can't believe he hadn't come to this overwhelming conclusion before right now. Before Angelina is yelling to him, waving a frantic hand and sporting the biggest grin in all of Scotland, before he was seconds from taking the prize he's held in his mind for so many years into his very hands.

Will you forget him?

It nearly knocks him off his broom. He finds that it scares him the most, more than the thought of the dust-caked trophy or the lonely corner at the back of his cupboard where his Hogwarts robes will no doubt live until eternity.

He won't forget you, he thinks. He knows.

You're just so damn annoying. And beautiful, fucking whip-clever and hilarious sometimes--

The handle of his broom is tilting down to the earth now, the crowd zooming into a blur on either side of him. He hits a shaky landing, broomstick abandoned on the grass behind him as he's pulled into the arms of his team and well-wishers.

A golden trophy passes over the heads of the twins and it's shoved into his sweating hands. It's cool to the touch and so much heavier than he thought it ever could be, but he can't seem to keep his mind on the situation long enough to realise any of that. His mind is racing around the castle wondering where you might be and what's the fastest way to get there.

His eyes are racing over the heads of the roving crowd. "Wood, Wood! Speech!"

Shadowing over everyone is Archie's tall figure standing at the back, grinning down at him. The team watches expectantly.

This is it. The moment for the speech he's been practicing in his bathroom mirror since he was seven.

"I--" he looks down at the cup for the first time, his face reflecting up at him in glimmering gold. He finds he can't remember any of the words. "I need to go find someone."

There's a buzz of confusion, but Oliver doesn't linger: shoving the Quidditch Cup into Harry's arms.

"That's the shortest speech Wood has ever given." He hears Angelina quip, but he can't be arsed to turn. He's already flying, moving through the crowd at such a pace he might just have been on his broom.

The sea of students had long since started moving up to the castle, particularly the non-gryffindors: trying to beat the stampede of scarlet that is no doubt to come. Oliver's legs carry him over the smooth green hill up towards Hogwarts, head craning over students to find your side profile somewhere in the mass.

He catches few oy, watch it!'s and congrats, Wood!'s but he doesn't turn, doesn't stop running. Students bespeckle the grass like ants lining up for crumbs, and he's all the way up into the stone corridor leading to the Great Hall when he spots Cherry's velvet red curls over the crowd, and sure enough, he finds you're knocking her shoulder with your own.

It only takes one shout of your name and you turn to peek curiously back, by which time he's taken both your shoulders into his hands and steered you to the wall of the corridor.

"Wood! What are you do--"

His hands squeeze around the plush at your upper arms. "Oliver. My name is Oliver."

Your eyes are wide in surprise, the window behind you showcases the gardens and the pitch in the distance. Sunlight forms a halo over the crown of your head.

With a head tilted in confusion, you nod slowly. "Alright ... what are you doing, Oliver?"

He can feel the eyes of Cherry and Enzo burning a hole through the side of his head, but doesn't bother with it. You're blinking up at him, gentle and benign in your features. He wonders when it became like this, when you'd lost the tight brow and the frown every time you looked at him.

"I won the Quidditch Cup." He says blankly.

You nod, a small smile tucked into the corner of your lip. "I saw. Congratulations."

Oliver only nods back at you. "I wanted to tell you. I wanted to come shove it in your face."

He's shuffling closer to your figure, and he's more than pleased to discover that you aren't cowering from it.

"Of course you did, because you're a prat." But you're smiling so hard now that it's impossible to take your jab to heart. "Is that all, Oliver?"

A warm sensation is spilling into his rib cavity and his fingertips are buzzing with electricity when they come to find either side of your face.

"No." His forehead is nearly touching yours and your hands have wrapped around his wrists. "I came to ask you out on a date. A sappy, disgustingly romantic date where I bring you flowers and pay for your hot chocolate. You'd hate it."

"That truly sounds horrible." Your smile is so wide he can barely see the whites of your eyes and it pumps more adrenaline through Oliver than any argument you'd ever shared over the last seven years.

"So, is that a yes?"

You're bouncing on your toes a little bit, bumping your nose against Oliver's clumsily. The babble of passing students and gawking onlookers has practically fallen mute to him.

"Depends, are you going to kiss me goodnight after?" You whisper it, like it's a secret between just you and him.

He nods slowly, "pretty desperate to kiss you right now, if I'm being honest princess--"

You don't wait for him to finish, thank Merlin you don't wait for him to finish, and push up onto your toes: crashing against his mouth. You're kiss is as dizzying as he remembers, but softer this time. You kiss like you know he's not running away, hands pressing softly over his neck.

It's nothing like your kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room: where that one was desperate and hot and angry, this time it's born from longing and tenderness and acceptance.

It leaves him just as fucking breathless as the first time.

Somewhere behind him, he hears wolf-whistling (he's sure it's Cherry) and when you pull your lips off his, your face is flush with embarrassment.

"I will go on a date with you, Oliver."

He takes your hand into his, curling his fingers between your own. You lean up to peck him softly and bat your eyelashes at him, grinning innocuously when you whisper: "If you treat me like you did with Delilah, I'm throwing your broomstick into the fireplace."

don't forget to comment and repost if you enjoyed :)

taglist:

@laurenmckiernan-blog @mooneyswife @meyaareads @buffkittenmuscles @emielry @amora-lilly @maximumride1 @sarcastic-nerd @chanyeolsbeloved @pinkb4t @betty13augustine @toadweed-twinklegaze-silverpuff @bella-rose29 @grimm1992 @mortallytenaciousmoon @alanalanalanalanalanna @amane-enama @sosasi521-blog @head-in-the-clouds222 @she-went-that-way @joeybelle @mahidahi @malenk @lillyys-reposts @m626 @rain-echos @meidl @arwn-yng @hotchberry1245 @avatar-lovergirl011 @silverblur @aphroditesanem0ne @angstywaifu @2-blind-2-see @alanatheblogger @ebklsbxgdsworld @gwnwrites @skskskye @girlqrush @cas-planet @thycia-flowers @badonkadork @malachitecorgi-spicy-account @carter-knight @angelic-destiny25 @nyxm0on @saltistic-dumbass @maddsunn @margflower @curlyblaze @ardrhys8 @carolga @my-beloved-fandoms @leaawrites @ilovelilies @ahead-fullofdreams @perciver4ever @amaliarosewood @iamthejam @inkyfairy

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incorrectquotesharrypotterv · 1 year ago

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Y/n, texting Hermione: Hermione! Help I'm being kidnapped.

Hermione: Where are you?

Y/n: I'm with some strange person. In a car. Help.

Hermione: I'll call George.

George, answering his phone: Hello?

Hermione: Where's Y/n? They texted me that they were being kidnapped.

George: Y/n? What you mean, they're right next to me-

George:

George: I'll call you back. *hangs up*

George: MY NEW HAIRCUT ISN'T THAT BAD!

Y/n: WHO ARE YOU?!

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weasleyreidstyles · 1 year ago

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Serendipity Masterlist

summary: it was only meant to be a purely transactional relationship. he would help her strengthen her abilities in return for her getting his friends out of his father's nasty path. he didn't mean to fall for her, but loving her was the easiest thing in his dark world.

series status: currently on hold (but not for long!!🙈)

“serendipity is the phenomenon of discovering something interesting or valuable by chance”

no use of y/n, but your general nickname is Meadow. All characters are aged up to be over 18. and bellatrix isn't mattheo's mother in this fic (just fyi)

pairings: mattheo riddle x fem!ravenclaw reader; platonic!slytherins x fem!reader; platonic!golden trio x fem!reader

general warning(s): 18+ content, angst, fluff, some canon compliance, some canon divergence, typical wizarding world violence, war, torture, drugging, hospitals, familial problems, mean!harry, mean!ron....

** indicates smut warning

~∞~ chapter one

chapter summary: on the trainride to your sixth year, your friends give you a proposition that you can't refuse.

~∞~ chapter two

chapter summary: it's your first day back as a sixth year student. Classes are more intense and your first lesson with Mattheo ensues.

~∞~ chapter three

chapter summary: the first Hogsmeade trip of the year has a rather unpleasant ending.

~∞~ chapter four

chapter summary: after you end up confined to the Hospital Wing, you're surprised when Professor Dumbledore pays you a visit.

~∞~ chapter five

chapter summary: Mattheo has been avoiding you. You find and confront him after a frustrating week.

~∞~ chapter six **

chapter summary: the growing tension between you and Mattheo snaps. He reveals something about yourself that you has scarcely any prior knowledge of.

~∞~ chapter seven

chapter summary: joyful dinner parties and a switch in point of view. Two juxtaposing starts to the christmas holidays.

~∞~ chapter eight **

chapter summary: you're given plenty of revelations: all equally as daunting as the other.

~∞~ chapter nine

chapter summary: Ginny ambushes you in the library and Ron's birthday is off to a delirious start.

~∞~ chapter ten

chapter summary: in the aftermath of Ron's poisoning, Harry learns a thing or two about where your loyalties lie when he overhears your private conversation with the headmaster.

~∞~ chapter eleven

chapter summary: intent on avoiding him, you underestimate just how desperate Mattheo is to be around you.

~∞~ chapter twelve

chapter summary: new friendships are formed and you finally learn to control your abilities. Mattheo comes to a life altering realisation.

~∞~ chapter thirteen **

chapter summary: idk how to summarise this but i will say it's pure smut...enjoy

~∞~ chapter fourteen

chapter summary: friendships are rekindled and you save Draco from certain death in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, igniting your powers in the process.

~∞~ chapter fifteen

chapter summary: now fully recovered, Draco has a task to complete. The fate of the Wizarding World hangs in the precipice of his actions.

~∞~ chapter sixteen

chapter summary: after a startling and gutting discovery. secrets are revealed and alliances are questioned as Voldemort's tyranny begins to fester into the beginnings of another war.

*invisible string fits into the plot here!!*

~∞~ chapter seventeen

chapter summary: Dumbledore's funeral reveals new allies as you navigate a world without its protector.

~∞~ chapter eighteen

chapter summary: with his new role as a secret spy of the Order, Mattheo begins to grapple with the consequences of the horrors that occur at his father's hand.

series oneshots/headcannons:

~∞~ tulips & starlight – valentines day drabble

~∞~ serendipity hcs (mattheo) – a glimpse at his life pre sixth year

~∞~ invisible string – bonus scene from chapter 16 **

~∞~ snippets of navigating fifth year with fred weasley

series taglist:

(striked out users are ones that i couldn't tag, reblogs of the individual posts have an extended taglist)

@camille-1019 @lovelyygirl8 @xluansstuff @babeylover @thejadeazalea @undercover-smutlover @adhxmoony @dreamingofonceuponatime @thepassionatereader @urmomsgayforme5 @aphroditeisamilf @devotedlycrookeddonut @purplegirls-posts @nofacenonamelikekira @foxboyapologist @lafrone @lovely-maryj @nromanovaswife @leeknows-wife @dracygf @wildlyobserving @ravenclawprincess33 @melllinaa @vellicora @lantsovheiress @emiliahoward @stunkbiggu @vcosette @prongsprincessworld @mattiesgirl @rachmmb @x-kermit-x @sun-fiower-seed @cas-planet @certaindreampost @weirdowithnobeardo @mikalovesicecream @sunasbbie @rainy-darling @faeriepigeons @lovely-blackinnon @hiireadstuff @gimalo135 @elsafromcabinsix @moonlightreader649 @blueshome @nopedefe @spencerreidsthings @navs-bhat @agent-tempest @magimtz23 @y0urm0m12 @sbrn0905 @leona-hawthorne @whatsupb18 @moni-cah @taylorann2013 @unstablereader @gisellesprettylies @nat1221

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winterssecrett · 11 months ago

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MORNINGS BY HIS SIDE | DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY

ღ Draco Malfoy was a dream, and being able to sleep with him was a dream come true.

Or at least that's how Y/n saw it.

The curtains of the boy's room were open and a few rays of sun started to kiss the pale and soft skin of the Slytherin prince. In Y/n’s mind, he looked gorgeous, with his hair made a mess on top of the pillow, and his lips slightly open showing his calm breathing. God, she couldn't ask for anything else in life.

Sometimes she wondered how she had gotten so lucky.

Moving her eyes from her boyfriend's frame she turned around to look at the clock, it was 06:50 in the morning and they had classes at 08:00, the boy's alarms were gonna start sounding in a few minutes and she knew she was gonna get teased for being once again in Draco's bed.

But how could she not be there? If the boy begged her to stay every night cause he was used to not sleep alone.

Blaise's alarm started to sound annoying everyone in the room, Draco mumbled something in his sleep before hiding his face in his girlfriend's neck, he didn't feel like waking up, and no one was gonna change his mind.

“turn that shit off Blaise or I swear to god I will shove the clock in your mouth and make sure it comes out of your ass”

Mattheo wasn't the nicest person in the mornings, or ever, but they were all used to it by now. Theo moved his head to the other side of the room and let out a huff.

“non riesci nemmeno a dormire, lo so, per l'amor del cielo” (you can't even sleep now for fucks sake)

The noise stopped and Blaise locked himself in the bathroom, Draco started moving again, and Y/n left soft caresses on his back.

“Always bothering us” He murmured sleepily making her laugh

“We have class in an hour” she reminded him softly “We have to get ready”

The blonde shook his head in -no- “I have DADA on my first period, Snape can go suck my father's dick”

“Draco!” Y/n scolded, hearing Mattheo cracking up from his bed

“Sorry love” he quickly said, leaving a kiss on her lips “Why don't we stay here, just you and me, we can sleep a little bit longer and then have Dobby bring us breakfast to bed”

His proposal, his voice, his caresses on her waist, everything was making her say yes. How could she not? It was Draco Malfoy.

“Okay, fine,” Y/n told him watching a smile a pear on his face “But this is the last time”

The blonde nodded rolling his eyes, he started leaving kisses on her cheeks and then along her jaw and exposed neck.

“Fuck, I could never get tired of this”

She let out a laugh “I know, Dray, I know”

Blaise finally came out of the bathroom and Theo was quick to get up with his towel in hand ready to have a shower. Mattheo on the other hand walked to the window and pulled out a cigarette.

“Want some, Y/l/n?”

Draco didn't even let her answer.

“It's not even eight in the morning, Riddle, leave my girl alone”

She just smiled “Go back to sleep, babe, it's still way too early for you”

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lordprettyflackotara · 2 months ago

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comfortable || draco malfoy

Slender fingers dug into your hips, Draco’s cold rings digging harshly into your skin. His grip was tight, ensuring you’d stay in place as he rammed into you from behind. You were hardly managing to prop yourself up, each thrust fucking you further and further into the mattress below. Your hands had scrunched up, holding onto the emerald silk sheets in an attempt to brace yourself. But all of your efforts were useless, your cunt eagerly pulling Draco back in with every thrust. “Enjoying the view Potter?” He asked, his icy eyes glaring at the brunette. You had forgotten your boyfriend, the infamous Harry Potter, was there to begin with. His hands and feet were binded together from one of Draco’s secret spells, his cock visibly aching against the fabric of his jeans.

It was Harry’s idea to have someone else ruin you while he watched. He did put the ball in your court, allowing you to pick who that someone would be. His eyes nearly popped out of his head when you chose Draco. The Slytherin was not one to shy away from knocking Harry down a peg or two, even if it meant fucking a shy girl he barely knew. “Your girl here isn’t so shy at all, she’s moaning on my cock like the whore she was meant to be,” Draco grunted. He couldn’t even remember what house you were in. All he could think about was breaking you and then sending the broken pieces back to Harry. Ruining you for the boy who got everything he wanted sounded like pure serotonin to the blonde. The urge to spite him made him snap his hips into yours harder than ever, your eyes fluttered shut as he abused your cunt. With his spare hand he grabbed a handful of your hair, yanking you towards him. Your back arched as you whimpered, your eyes finally opening. “Go on love, tell Potter how good my cock feels,” Draco hissed. His breath was hot against your ear, his filthy words only making your walls squeeze him tighter. “Feels sooo good,” You slurred, meeting your boyfriend’s gaze.

“Don’t ever get too comfortable with her Harry, I can promise you after we’re done she’s only going to be thinking about me,” Draco barked. Your body convulsed under him, squirting onto your thighs and the mattress. Your face was beet red with embarrassment, Draco’s large hand reaching around you and grabbing your face. “See that? That’s what a girl squirting looks like Potter, bet you’ve never seen that before,” Draco smirked cockily. He rammed into you a few more times, before you felt his warm seed flood your cunt. He murmured cursed as he came, your thighs trembling. “Get on your back baby, legs open,” He purred to you. In a dazed state you obliged, the cum dripping out of your cunt on full display for Harry to see. Draco got off of the bed, roughly grabbing a handful of Harry’s hair and dragging him over to you. You watched him attempt to crawl, his attempting failing as Draco dragged him against the coarse carpet. He sat in between your thighs, heat dashing across your cheeks as Harry’s eyes widened.

“Make yourself comfortable Potter, something tells me this won’t be the last time you clean up after me.”

#harry potter x y/n #harry potter x you #harry potter x reader #harry potter #harry potter x draco malfoy #draco malfoy x female reader #draco malfoy x slytherin!reader #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy x y/n #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x hermione granger #draco malfoy smut #draco lucius malfoy #draco malfoy #slytherin boys #slytherin

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the0doreslover · 5 months ago

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Stuck forever by the... glue? | t.n x fem!reader

summary: you and theodore are quite literally “stuck together”

warnings: a few innuendos

a/n: so i’ve been MIA for a little while but i hope this 4k piece makes up for it 😬😬😬

‘just make it to friday’

These were the five simple words that played in your mind since the beginning of the week.

Maybe it was because your mother had been sending you a letter every day, reinforcing the importance of your success in any exam you are to partake in, or because your professors had seemed to be putting extra pressure on you at the moment, or maybe… just maybe it was because you were simply tired, that every day seemed to be getting harder.

Your friends weren’t much help, it wasn’t their fault, they just couldn’t understand the pressure you had been going through over the past few weeks. You had unintentionally pushed them away.

Friday morning at last.

You had a little while to kill before your first lesson of the day and had decided on sitting in the courtyard.

You were walking towards your usual seat behind the large oak tree when you noticed

a rather peculiar looking sketchbook in its place

You picked it up, and opened the first page, and there in the neatest writing was the words; Property Of Theodore Nott

Great.

You were just admiring the pattern on the front of the book when a hand on your wrist startled you.

Looking up, in all his glory was Theodore Nott.

You didn’t have a chance to fully clock him, when he snatched the book from your hands.

“Did you open the book?” he asked, seeming to be catching his breath

“What?”

“i said did you open the book?” he urged, louder this time.

“No… Nott i didn’t” you answered

“right… well your blouse is undone” he nodded towards your chest.

You gasped slightly pulling your fingers towards the buttons, you felt around for a second until he started laughing “i lied”

“why do you have to be such a dick” you groaned noticing he tried to change the subject away from his sketchbook

“i guess i was born that way” he shrugged, with a slight grin on his face “why do you have to be such a prat?”

“i guess i was born that way” you huffed before walking away from him

Seeing as you had only a few minutes before your lesson, you had decided on going a bit earlier.

Professor Flitwick's classroom was already half-full, the usual chatter filling the air as students settled into their seats.

After what felt like an eternity, Flitwick clapped his hands together, drawing everyone's attention. "Alright, today we're going to practice some partner work. Pair up and choose the most interesting charm you can think of, the winning pair will be free from the assignment i am giving out later”

You groaned inwardly. Partner work meant having to socialize, something you didn't feel up to after the morning's events. You stayed seated, hoping someone would approach you. Instead, you felt a presence next to your desk. Looking up, you saw Theodore standing there,

"I’ll partner with you” he said taking the seat next to you

You blinked in surprise. Maybe he was trying to sabotage you in revenge of the morning…. but seeing some of the other options for partners, he didn’t seem so bad

"fine"

The two of you moved to an empty corner of the classroom, while you grabbed a study guide to charms.

“We’re not using that” theodore laughed

“well unless you’re secretly a charms dictionary i’m not sure what you think we should use”

He reached into his bag and pulled out a thick grey book, labelled “A masters guide to charms”

“Sorry Nott i didn’t know you were a master” you mocked him bowing your head down

“yeah yeah funny” he rolled his eyes opening the first page to its contents

“how about this one?” you asked pointing to a picture of a beautiful ocean

“no way i don’t really want to drown today”

you glared at his reply

“let’s do this” he hummed

“no way, i’m not turning everything edible”

“boring” he sighed

“lets do this” “we’ll do this”

you both said at the same time pointing to a photo of a man appearing to be stuck to a tree.

After agreeing on the spell and practising it without wands for a little while, You decided you should try it out.

“i have a pencil and a sharpener. Try on them” you said pulling both out your pocket and placing them infront of him

Stepping back you watched theodore perform the spell.

one

two

three

“nothing happened?” you sighed

“i think i can see that myself” he grabbed the pencil and placed it closer to the sharpener

“let’s do it at the same time. That way it might be stronger” you suggested and picked your wand up.

“one” you looked at him to ensure he was doing it correctly

“two” he watched your hands to ensure you had placed your wand at the right point”

“Three!” Just as you both cast your charm, a sudden jolt sent your wands askew. You glanced up in surprise to see Fred and George Weasley barreling past.

"Watch it!" Theodore snapped, but it was too late.

The spell went haywire. You felt a strange pull on your hand and looked down to see your fingers stuck to Theodore's. His eyes widened as he tried to pull away, but your hands were firmly glued together.

"Fred! George!" you called after the twins, who had stopped and were now doubled over with laughter. "What did you do?"

"Nothing, love, it seems we just gave your charm a little nudge," Fred grinned, winking at you.

"we are very familiar with this charm" George added, chuckling.

"So you can fix this?" Theodore demanded, his usual cool demeanor slipping into frustration.

"Afraid not, mate. You'll have to wait it out," Fred said, still laughing. "The charm wears off in a 24 hours."

“Even if we performed it at the same time?” you asked

This seemed to make the twins laugh even harder

“let’s say an estimate of 48 hours then”

As the twins walked away, still laughing, you turned to Theodore. "This is your fault," you accused, trying to free your hand but only managing to make the bond tighter.

"My fault? You're the one who suggested we practice that spell," he shot back, though there was a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“You said it too!” you argued

“Okay stop pulling! it’s my hand too!” he said

"Well, now what?" you sighed, looking at your joined hands.

“we need to find Hermione"

Theodore sighed "why?"

“because she is literally smarter than you”

Navigating the crowded corridors of Hogwarts with your hand stuck to Theodore's was an exercise in patience.

Students cast curious glances your way, and whispers followed you down the halls. You kept your head down, focusing on getting to the Gryffindor common room as quickly as possible.

As you entered the common room, heads turned, and the chatter died down. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were sitting by the fireplace, deep in conversation. They looked up simultaneously, eyes widening at the sight of you and Theodore hand-in-hand.

"What in Merlin's name?" Ron blurted out, almost dropping the chess piece he was holding.

Hermione stood up, her brows knitting in confusion. "What’s happening?"

You cleared your throat. "We had a bit of a mishap in Charms. Fred and George decided to 'assist' our spell, and now we're stuck like this."

Harry snorted, trying to hide his laughter. "Of course it was Fred and George."

You felt your cheeks flush with embarrassment as Hermione approached, examining your joined hands. "Hmm, let me see," she muttered, pulling out her wand and waving it gently over your hands. "It's a strong charm. They must have amplified it somehow."

"Can you fix it?" you asked, desperation creeping into your voice.

Hermione bit her lip. "It might take a bit of time. This isn't a simple charm to reverse, especially if they boosted its strength. Let's sit down, and I'll see what I can do."

You and Theodore awkwardly made your way to a nearby table, still joined at the hand. Hermione began leafing through her Charms textbook, occasionally glancing up at your hands.

"Are you sure it wasn't intentional?" Harry teased, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Shut up, Potter," Theodore shot back, but there was no real malice in his voice.

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the heat rising in your face. "Can you please just help us, Hermione?"

"Alright, alright," she said, waving her hand to shush the boys. "I think I found something. It says here that a reversal spell should work, but it needs to be performed perfectly, or it could make things worse."

"Perfectly?" you echoed, feeling a pang of anxiety. "And if it goes wrong?"

"Well, we might end up with more than just your hands stuck together," Hermione admitted. "But don't worry, I've got this."

“Okay i’m ready… let’s do it” you breathed in

“Wait… i can’t do it now, i need some time to practise it. As i said, it could go very wrong of not performed perfectly”

you groaned and fell backwards onto the sofa.

Theodore glanced at the clock on the wall, then at you, his expression shifting to one of mild panic. "I have to cut our despair short. I have Quidditch practice now."

You blinked at him, still processing the absurdity of the situation. "Okay, go then."

He raised your joined hands, giving you a pointed look.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione burst into laughter. Ron clutched his side, gasping for breath. "Good luck at practice, mate!"

Harry smirked. "Maybe you can use the bonding time to strategize."

Theodore rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed. "Yeah it’s all fun and jokes now potter, but we have a match against you tomorrow."

Hermione cleared her throat, trying to stifle her giggles. "Alright, you two. I’ll need some time to figure this out. Why don’t you… well, make the best of it?"

You groaned again, feeling the weight of the situation. "Great. Just fantastic."

Theodore tugged gently at your joined hands, pulling you toward the door. "Come on, i don’t have all day."

As you approached the Slytherin locker room, you felt a sinking feeling in your stomach. Theodore seemed to sense your apprehension.

"I need to get changed," he said leading you into the locker room. The room was empty, the rest of the team already on the pitch.

You looked around, feeling incredibly awkward. "Um, how are we going to do this?"

Theodore glanced at his Quidditch uniform hanging on a nearby hook, then back at you. "We'll have to cut the sleeve of my uniform."

You stared at him, unsure if he was serious. "Cut the sleeve? Are you sure?"

He nodded, his expression resigned. "It's the only way. Unless you have a better idea?"

You shook your head, feeling a bit guilty. "No, I guess not. Do you have scissors?"

Theodore rummaged through his locker, producing a pair of small, sharp scissors. He handed them to you, and you took a deep breath, trying to steady your hands.

"Alright, hold still," you instructed, carefully cutting through the fabric of his shirt sleeve. The sound of the scissors slicing through the material was oddly loud in the quiet locker room.

Theodore watched you, his expression unreadable, but you could feel his gaze burning into you. His breath hitched slightly as you drew closer to his skin, "You're surprisingly good at this," he said

You glanced up at him, surprised. "Really? I feel like I'm ruining your shirt."

He shrugged, "It's just a shirt. Besides, you can sew it back together later, right?"

You smiled, feeling a bit more at ease. "Yeah, I can do that. Don't worry, I'll fix it."

With the sleeve cut, Theodore carefully slid his arm out of the shirt, keeping your joined hands steady. He then reached for his Quidditch uniform

"Now for the hard part," he said, looking at the uniform's sleeve.

You repeated the process, cutting the sleeve of the uniform with as much precision as you could muster. The fabric was tougher, but you managed to make a clean cut. Theodore slipped into the uniform, and you couldn't help but admire how the green and silver suited him. His muscles flexed under the tight fabric, and for a moment, you found it hard to look away.

He smirked teasingly "stop checking me out."

You rolled your eyes, your face flushing. "you’re insufferable… i’m trying to make sure the sleeve fits right," you retorted.

The reality of your situation hit you again as you exited the locker room, your hands still firmly stuck together. Navigating the hallways and the field together was awkward, to say the least.

As you approached the Quidditch pitch, the rest of the Slytherin team was already in mid-practice, flying through the air, tossing Quaffles, and practicing their Beater drills.

The sight of you and Theodore hand-in-hand drew immediate attention.

Draco was the first to approach, a sly grin on his face. "whats happening here?" he laughed, "Nott, I didn't know you needed a babysitter for practice."

Theodore shot his friend a warning look. "Shut up, Draco."

Draco chuckled, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “i thought you guys hated each other? when did you make it official?” he laughed louder this time

"You are the only one laughing" theodore said chuckling at him

“i feel sorry for you” draco said towards you “anyway, let’s continue with practise”

You did your best to stay out of the way,

draco had allowed you and theo to simply sit in the stands while someone threw a bludger at him to try and hit.

he clearly didn’t try hard enough as you got hit in your head twice.

A few of the players couldn't resist taking jabs at you and Theodore as they ran past.

"Hey, Nott, maybe she can be our good luck charm!" one of them called out, laughing.

"Or a distraction for the other team!" another added, snickering.

You clenched your jaw, trying to ignore the comments.

“they’re all stupid” theodore would say

Finally, one player took it too far.

"Hey, Nott, why don't you just sleep with her already? Maybe that'll break the spell!"

Theodore stopped dead in his tracks, his face flushing with anger. "That's enough!"

a few members of the team fell silent, taken aback by his outburst. The player who made the remark, Marcus Flint, sneered. "What's the matter, Nott? Can't take a joke?"

Theodore scoffed. "Shut up you tosser, yes, she is a girl, but she didn’t ask to be surrounded by you idiots, so the least you can do is respect her"

You could feel the tension radiating off him, and it was clear that his patience had reached its limit. Flint opened his mouth to retort, but before he could say anything, you stepped forward.

"It’s okay," you said, "We didn't ask for this to happen, but we're dealing with it. So if you're done acting like children, maybe you can focus on your practise."

"Alright, enough," Draco said, his tone firm. "let’s end here today yeah, let’s just hope today was enough to get us our win tomorrow”

As the Quidditch practice ended, the players dispersed, heading towards the locker room.

"I can't go in there," you said, tugging on Theodore's hand to stop him from entering. "I don't want to see anyone...you know, changing."

Theodore paused "Fine, we'll wait out here until they're done."

You both sat on the bench outside the locker room, Silence hung heavily between you, neither of you wanting to break it. Finally, Theodore spoke.

“you should of punched flint, no one would’ve of said anything”

“well, i’m not one to start fights, that would make me reckless” you sighed

Theodore’s smirk widened. “well you did suggest we do this spell” he lifted up your hands “together, that’s pretty reckless.”

“Oh, please,” you retorted, turning to face him. “Like you didn’t push for it too. That ‘I’m a master of charms’ act? Such a joke.”

Theodore’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned in slightly. “well you’re always whining about how hard life is. If you’re so tired, maybe you should’ve stayed in bed instead of trying to impress everyone.”

“Impress everyone?” you shot back, your faces inches apart. “Nice try, but your house is all about being superior, right?”

“Well, if we’re talking about superiority,” Theodore said, his breath warm against your face, “maybe you should look at your own house, the loudest bunch of show-offs.”

“Loud?” you challenged, your fingers brushing against his arm. “At least we’re not sneaky and backstabbing. I’d rather be loud than be a two-faced snake.”

Theodore’s eyes flashed. “Better sneaky than a blabbering idiot. At least I don’t go around pretending to be perfect.”

“Perfect?” you scoffed, leaning in so close that your lips nearly brushed his. “You think you’re so high and mighty. Well, you’re not.”

“Yeah?” Theodore’s voice dropped to a low murmur as he leaned even closer. “Maybe I’m just tired of you acting like you’ve got it all together.”

“You mean like you’re tired of being a pompous jerk?” you spat, “I’m tired of your attitude.”

Your faces were so close now. Just as it seemed like something might actually happen, Theodore suddenly pulled back.

“Honestly, can’t we just have one conversation without it turning into a drama?” Theodore said, crossing his arms and turning slightly away from you.

“Oh, so now you’re the expert on handling disagreements?” you retorted,

“Well, you’re not exactly making it easy to like you,” Theodore snapped, turning towards you for the tenth time. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re a complete—” you began, but your words were cut off as Theodore’s lips almost touched yours again.

you both sat back

“Let’s just get this charm sorted and go our separate ways.”

You nodded, your jaw clenched.

“your blouse is open” he said staring at the pitch

“yeah nice try”

“i’m not joking” he urged

you discreetly looked down to see that your two buttons were, in fact undone.

you slowly dragged your hand towards your top, pulling theodore’s hand with it.

Your fingers failed to do the button with his hand in the way.

“Nott, please flatten your hand” you said lowly

he cleared his throat “if i flatten it… it would be on your chest”

you breathed out and closed your eyes slowly, before flattening his hand yourself.

Theodore shifted, his hand still pressed awkwardly against your chest. His eyes met yours, and for a brief, unsettling moment, the anger seemed to dissolve into something else.

“You’re such a...” Theodore started

“Don’t start,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You make me feel... things I don’t want to deal with.”

After visiting Hermione, who delivered the disappointing news that you and Theodore might be stuck like this for another day, the reality of the situation set in. The idea of spending an entire night with your hands stuck to Theodore's was less than appealing.

After agreeing on it, you both reluctantly made your way to the Astronomy tower. The tension was high, and you could feel every small touch between you—whether it was Theodore adjusting his position or the slight bump of your hands against each other.

“I guess we should figure out where we’re going to sleep,” Theodore said

“Right,” you replied, trying to sound collected despite the discomfort. “Do you have any suggestions?”

Theodore shrugged, glancing around the tower as if searching for an escape route. “We could just sit here until morning?”

You sighed, feeling the exhaustion of the day catch up with you. “Fine. Just... let’s try to make this as bearable as possible.”

You both found a quiet corner of the tower and made yourselves as comfortable as you could, given the circumstances.

“So,” Theodore began after a moment of silence, “since we’re stuck together, we might as well talk.”

“Talk?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “What could we possibly have to talk about?”

“Plenty,” Theodore said with a shrug. “We’ve been arguing nonstop. Maybe it’s time we actually had a proper conversation.”

You considered this for a moment. “Alright, fine. What do you want to talk about?”

“Let’s start with why you always act like the world is out to get you,” Theodore said, leaning back against the wall.

You stared at him, taken aback by the question. “What makes you think I act that way?”

“You always seem so stressed and ready to snap,” Theodore explained. “It’s like you’ve got this cloud hanging over you.”

“maybe i do”

A brief silence followed, during which you both seemed to be lost in thought.

“So,” Theodore said, breaking the silence, “what annoys you the most about me”

You laughed slightly. “Your carelessness.”

Theodore chuckled softly. “i care about a lot of things actually”

“yeah? like what”

he stared at you in a comfortable silence, leaving that question unanswered

You smiled faintly

As the evening wore on, you both found it increasingly difficult to ignore the closeness of your situation. The moonlight made even the smallest touches feel more significant.

Eventually, you both fell asleep, leaning against each other for support.

You rubbed your eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. “Oh, this is just perfect,” you groaned, pushing yourself up and realizing just how tangled up you were. “We need to get to our dormitories and change. It’s almost time for the Quidditch match.”

You glanced around the tower, feeling the urgency of the situation. Theodore sat up, still a bit dazed, and ran a hand through his messy hair. “Then we need to find hermione”

You both maneuvered to stand up, your hands still firmly attached. It was a delicate balance, trying not to trip over each other as you made your way out of the Astronomy Tower.

The corridors of Hogwarts were quieter at this hour, but you still drew curious glances from early-rising students who whispered and pointed as you and Theodore hurried by.

Once you got to your dorm you instructed theo to turn around while you changed.

after you had gotten ready you both sprinted to the locker room and sighed in relief at hermione waiting there you.

You both lifted your hands infront of her ready to be freed

“i can’t perform the spell”

“what?”

“it’s too dangerous, i even consulted with mcgonagall, she said that we will just have to wait it out”

You sighed, feeling frustration “It’s okay, Hermione. Thank you for trying.”

Hermione gave you both a sympathetic smile. “I’ll head to the stands and watch the match. Good luck”

As Hermione walked away, you turned to Theodore, “I’m really sorry about this, Theo. I know how much this match means to you.”

He looked at you, his eyes softening. “It’s okay. We’ll have to try and manage.”

The tension between you seemed to dissolve slightly as you both stood there

The Quidditch match was about to start, and with the stands starting to fill up, you found yourselves standing closer than you had all day. The space between you seemed to shrink and In a moment of impulsive decision, Theodore leaned in, and before either of you could second-guess, your lips met his.

When the kiss ended, you pulled back slightly, feeling a rush of warmth spread through you. You noticed, with a jolt, that Theodore’s hands were now resting comfortably on your waist. The realization hit you, and you looked at him in surprise. “Theo… your hands are on my waist.”

Theodore blinked, confusion crossing his face, before it dawned on him. “Wait—” he started, looking at your hands which were now free.

You both stared at each other, “I guess we really did have to kiss to break the spell,” you joked with a light laugh.

Theodore chuckled and a genuine smile lit up his face. “I suppose so.”

“Well,” Theodore said, “I’d better get changed before the match starts. I’m sure the team’s been waiting for me.”

“yeah” you said, smiling slightly. “good luck.”

he quickly leaned forward to kiss you one last time before fake saluting you with a smile on his face and turning towards the locker room.

“wait theodore”

he turned around

“your buttons undone” you pointed to his trousers

#harry potter #hogwarts #fanfic #x reader #slytherin #theodore nott #theodore nott x reader #theo nott #theodore nott x you #blaise zabini #hermione granger #draco malfoy #pansy parkinson #fluff

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plumso · 4 months ago

Text

get him back! (lorenzo x reader)

pairing: lorenzo berkshire x reader // reader's pov!! trope: academic rivals summary: y/n regularly complains about how lorenzo always teases and places ahead of them. but when someone else insults lorenzo, y/n can't stop the boiling rage inside. masterlist I do not consent to the reposting of my work! reblogging, however, is fine <3

Friday night and there’s no sound in the library except the faint scribbles of a frustrated individual.

Y/N has been studying since the start of the Slytherin and Gryffindor quidditch match. They have continued to study despite their friends’ efforts to drag them to the after parties. Everyone is at the common rooms socializing and laughing. Even Hermione is nowhere to be seen. Meanwhile, with their notes gradually becoming messier, Y/N is all alone. Or so they thought.

“Copying it down word-for-word won’t help with memorizing, you know,” a low voice says behind you.

You jump in shock and turn around to confront the sudden voice. You see that it’s Lorenzo Bershkire, the smug Slytherin boy you swore to defeat since first year. Since then, you made every attempt to beat him either in potions, charms, transfiguration - even in muggle studies! But to no avail. He has remained in his position as first with you as second best.

You watch as Lorenzo’s dark brown eyes examines your notes. His large body is hovering over your shoulder to peek at your work. With his broad chest so close, you can faintly smell his cologne - sage and bergamot. It smells clean and expensive.

“Mind your own business, Berkshire. And don’t look at my notes!” You exclaimed as you covered your books with your hands. You know he’s right, but after hours of rereading the same material, you felt desperate. But you didn’t expect your rival of 6 years to see your pathetic notes.

Lorenzo chuckles as he takes the seat next to you. He props an arm on the table and rests his head in his hand. His legs are crossed and his stare is unwavering. ‘Of course, he’s effortlessly good at posing,’ you think to yourself. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes.

“You’ll never be first if your handwriting is still like that,” he says as he points at my notes. “It looks like a 10-year-old wrote it.”

You feel your face flush and your cheeks burn. “Oh yeah? Well, at least I don’t pretend to get people to like me. Unlike you, I’m not fake.”

You expect Lorenzo to be caught off guard or hurt, but he remains calm with a smirk still on his face. You can’t stand it.

“It’s called manipulating, darling. It’s how you get ahead in life,” he says as he twirls my hair with his long, slender fingers. “You should try it sometimes. Maybe you’ll get first place over me one day.”

“So you admit that you manipulate people? Wait until I tell the others - they won’t be so accepting of you then,” you say with a triumphant grin.

“Do it. They won’t believe you,” he says with a smirk.

Your grin drops and you become silent. You know he’s right. You’ve voiced your opinions about him before, but no one believes you. He can get away with anything.

You sigh in defeat. “You know, I can’t stand you, Berkshire. You get on my nerves,” you say as you shake your head.

Now it’s his turn to be silent, but it feels weird. You’re afraid to look at him, afraid that you took it too far. You immediately want to apologize, but you don’t want to appear weak in front of him. So, you picked up your quill and continued writing.

After a few silent minutes, you hear his chair squeak. Afraid that he was, in fact, hurt by your comment, you turn around to stop him. However, you instantly lock eyes with his, his face only inches away from yours.

“I only leaned in to help you, but if you wanted to kiss me so badly, you could have just said so,” Lorenzo says with a chuckle. Though you know he was teasing you, your heart felt light knowing he wasn’t sad.

“No thanks! Not in a million years.” You exclaimed as you distance yourself from him.

“So after a million years, you’ll kiss me then? I can wait for that long.”

You give him a look of disbelief before you start packing your things. This causes him to laugh.

“I was just joking! Don’t leave,” he says as he tries to stop you from packing.

You push away his hands. “Well, it’s obvious that I won’t get any studying done with you here, so I’m gonna head to bed.”

“It’s 8:30,” he remarks with disbelief.

“I’m an early sleeper!” You exclaim as you close your bag and hang it over your shoulder. “Good night, and, uh, I hope you get nightmares.”

You start walking away, but Lorenzo takes hold of one of your hands. He doesn’t say anything and you don’t look back.

Surprisingly, you don’t draw back your hand. Instead, you linger in his touch. You notice the rough calluses of his finger and how gently he’s holding your hand. You’re surprised; you assumed it would be smooth and cold, but his touch makes you feel warm.

You linger for a few more seconds before you walk away, releasing your hand from his. You want to look back and see the face he’s making, but your pride urges you not to. Sticking to your pride, you exit the library and head to your dorm.

***

The next day during lunch, you couldn’t help but think back on last night with Lorenzo. Why did he hold your hand? Why was he even in the library late at night? Why wasn’t he partying with his friends? And how did he know you would be there?

You stop yourself. ‘Why would I even think that he was looking for me? I’m nothing more than an entertaining rival to him,’ you think as your cheeks heat up in embarrassment.

You glance behind you to spot Lorenzo sitting with his usual group. They seem to be deeply conversing in something before they all bust out in laughter. What were they saying that could make him laugh like that?

Feeling annoyed, you turn back around and grunt. His air of superiority, his fancy clothes, and his wispy hair - it annoyed you that you couldn’t stop thinking about him. You couldn’t stand how he made fun of your efforts and always placed ahead of you in everything. But what you couldn’t stand the most was how you couldn’t hate him.

You turn to Hermione who has pumpkin juice in one hand and the Daily Prophet in the other. “Hermione, do you think I’m shallow?”

Hermione raises an eyebrow and sets down her drink. “What a random question to ask. No, I don’t think you’re shallow,” she says with a small laugh.

“What if someone was mean, but they were also really handsome? I mean, you can be annoyed or even dislike them, but could you really hate them?”

“Hmmm. That is interesting. Are we talking about anyone in particular?” Hermione says with a secret grin that she shares with Ron and Harry.

“Uhh, no. No one in particular. Just curious!” You quip as you fiddle with your cup of orange juice, attempting to seem unconcerned.

“How about you give an example? It’ll help us answer,” Ron chimes.

“Well, I only asked Hermione, but okay.” You look around the Great Hall, trying to find someone who’s mean and handsome, but the only answer you can come up with is Lorenzo. ‘Maybe they won’t think too much of it,’ you think to yourself.

“Ummm, Berkshire, for example. He’s… conventionally okay-looking, but he’s rude and mean,” you say as you avoid looking at their eyes.

“You mean he’s mean to you. He’s always been nice to me,” Ron replies as he munches on a cookie.

“Because he’s two-faced! He makes fun of me at every opportunity,” you say with frustration. “Okay, Ron, maybe you’re too slow to see it, but surely you two believe me, right?” You give a hopeful look to Hermione and Harry.

“Uhhh, sorry, Y/N. Though he hangs out with Draco, he’s actually really nice,” Harry says with a sheepish smile.

“Maybe he teases you because you two are rivals?” Hermione says with a small shrug.

“More like you compete with him while he does nothing,” Ron says with a chuckle but stops when Harry nudges his side. “But, uh, yeah, the ‘rivals’ thing could be a… contributing factor.”

“cOntrIbuTing fActOr” you mockingly say back to Ron, which makes him laugh. “Now answer my question! Could you hate a super handsome person?”

Hermione shifts her body to you and gives you a serious look. “Y/N, I don’t think it’s about looks. I think you li-”

“What are we talking about?” Cormac McLaggen interrupts with a smug smile. He then sits himself between you Hermione. “Did you mention ‘Berkshire?’”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat and try to inch away from him. You never liked McLaggen. He’s weird and too arrogant for no reason, but you didn’t want to seem rude. “Uh, yeah. You know him?” You ask reluctantly, not really interested in his reply.

“Yeah, he’s a real suck-up,” McLaggen says as he slowly puts his arm around your shoulder. You hear a large bang behind you, but you ignore it as you try to fight all attempts to push him away. But you’re curious about his answer. He doesn’t seem fooled by Berkshire like everyone else.

“Why do you think that?” Harry replies with a disbelieving look.

“Think about it. He smiles too much and is ‘nice’ to everyone, but he’s a Slytherin,” McLaggen says with his arm still around you. You hear loud stomps behind you, but you pay no attention to it.

“Well, not all Slytherins are the same-” you attempt to say but you’re quickly interrupted by McLaggen.

“They’re Slytherins! They’re all the same. Evil and manipulative. The only reason that Berkshire places in everything is because he’s rich. He probably cheats or sleeps with the professors,” McLaggen laughs at his comment. “Or he probably threatens everyone because his parents are Death Eaters,” McLaggen says with a smug smirk.

The table is quiet and shocked by McLaggen’s bold comments. You stare at McLaggen’s stupid grin and feel something boiling inside you. Meanwhile, the footsteps you heard earlier were now right behind you, but your eyes were focused on McLaggen.

A dark, cold voice behind you speaks up. “McLaggen, get your hands off of Y-”

Slap!

The usual buzz of the Great Hall dissipates. Everyone turns away from their conversations to see you and your hands inches away from McLaggen’s face.

“Y/N? What the fu-”

“Shut up, McLaggen! Just shut! Up! Don’t talk about Enzo! Don’t even say his name! I can’t believe that, out of everyone, you are the one to judge. Do you think you’re better than him? McLaggen, you are slimy, creepy, and disgusting,” you exclaim as you shove him away from you. “Stop talking and stop touching me and LEAVE!”

Your face is burning and your hands are balled into a fist. You can feel everyone staring at you in disbelief - they’ve never seen you so angry before. But you don’t care. You want to do so much more than slap him. You wanted to curse him, to wipe McLaggen’s stupid grin on his face, to make him cry.

McLaggen looks around and sees everyone staring. His face flushes as he tries to compose himself. He then stands up and hovers over you, attempting to seem intimidating and tough. “Y/N, don’t you dare ta-”

Before he can speak further, someone takes his collar and pulls him to the ground, all in one swift motion. You look up to see it was Lorenzo. You’re shocked by his sudden appearance. ‘When did he get here?’ you think to yourself. You then worry if he heard McLaggen’s comment earlier.

Lorenzo looks down at McLaggen with a cold smile. “You heard Y/N. So, get out. Now.”

McLaggens huffs his nose and gets on his feet. He readies himself to fight back, but Harry and Ron stand up from their seats. Then Draco and his friends also stand up from their seats. Seeing this, McLaggen clicks his tongue and turns around in defeat.

The Great Hall remains silent as they watch McLaggen walk towards the door, but as soon as he leaves, they immediately start buzzing about what they just saw.

You turn back to Lorenzo and see he is already looking at you. You analyze his expression, looking for any signs of hurt or anger. Instead, he looked pleased.

“Y/N, can I talk to you?” He gives you a warm smile, a smile that he does not show often. Your three friends give a knowing smile at each other, which Lorenzo notices. “Alone,” he adds as he extends his hand to you.

You sheepishly look at your friends before you get up from your seat and take his hands.

***

Not once letting go of your hands, Lorenzo leads you to the nearest empty classroom. As soon as you two enter, he closes the door and turns around to face you.

“Why did you defend me?” He says as he carefully watches your expressions.

“I-I’m not sure,” you say as you try to avoid his eyes. Along with everyone else in the Great Hall, you were shocked by your own rage. You don’t understand why you got so mad.

“Don’t give me that, Y/N,” he says softly. It surprises you; his voice is usually cold. Too curious about what expression he’s making, you finally look at him.

“Think harder, Y/N,” He gently squeezes your hand which you realize he’s still holding. “Why did you defend me?” His eyes are pleading for something as if he knows something that you don’t.

You think harder about how you felt when McLaggen was talking about Berkshire. Of course, his comments were incredibly disrespectful and disgusting, but was it enough to warrant a slap? Why were you so angry? Were you angry in general or for Lorenzo?

‘Do I like Lorenzo?’ you think to yourself. Yes, he teases you occasionally, but he hasn’t done anything wrong or evil. In fact, he’s hardworking and reliable. Even though he says he manipulates people, he always helps those in need. ‘So maybe I do like him… as a person.’

You look back at Lorenzo, ready to answer properly, but his eyes entrap you. The faint light from the classroom windows hit them just right. His dark brown eyes shined golden. It looked like a warm pool of honey. You always recognized that Lorenzo was handsome, but this was the first time you appreciated it.

‘Oh. I think I like-like him.’ This epiphany shocks you and causes your breath to hitch. Suddenly, you’re conscious of how close you are to Lorenzo and how his hands are so big and warm.

You like Lorenzo. Probably for quite some time now. But could you admit that to him? After all the competition and petty arguments? After all your complaints about him? Would you two even work out?

But then you look back at Lorenzo and realize that, for the first time, he’s being vulnerable to you. His eyebrows are scrunched as his eyes are still pleading for your answer. Suddenly, the pride that you’ve kept for so long was now forgotten.

“I… like you.” You exhaled and felt a sudden weight lifted from your chest. All that’s left is an inexplicable tingling feeling in your stomach.

Soon, his warm body envelops you. He wraps his arms around your waist and nestles his head in your shoulder.

“Finally,” he says with a delighted chuckle. “I’ve known all along.”

“W-what? How could you have known? I only realized it just now!” You exclaim as you playfully struggle in his grip, but he refuses to let you go.

“Y/N, you’ve always been slow.” You give him a gentle pinch on his side, which makes him laugh. “I’m kidding! I’m sorry. I just…” He trails off as he draws back a little to look straight into your eyes. “I’ve been waiting for this moment.”

Of course, he’s always been one step ahead of you. Even when it’s about your own feelings, he knew about it before you did. You suddenly felt shy from his intense gaze, but you didn’t want to look away.

“...Did you hear what McLaggen said about you?”

“Yes.”

“Were you mad?”

“For a moment… but I was more annoyed that he was touching you.” He gently brushes your hair back from your face. “Do you believe what McLaggen said?”

“Of course not!” You exclaimed as you gently hit his chest. “He’s disgusting and weird. Anything that comes out of his mouth is complete bull crap. Why would you even ask that?” You grumble and slightly pout.

Lorenzo laughs. “Yes, yes, I’m sorry.” His hands drift to the ends of your hair and starts twirling it with his fingers.

“...So, how about you?”

“Hm?” He replies absentmindedly, still focused on your hair.

“Do you… like me?” You sheepishly ask as you look away and focus on the ground.

Lorenzo gives you a blank stare before roaring into laughter. His laugh shocks you, but it makes you laugh as well.

“I thought it was quite obvious,” he says as he places a hand on your cheek. He carefully analyzes each feature of your face as if he’s savoring it all in before his eyes flicker at your lips.

“B-but, I didn’t hear you say it.” You say as you notice his stare, causing your breath to hitch.

“I like you, Y/N.” Lorenzo slowly pulls you in closer and closer until your lips touch his. The feeling is immediate; it’s warm and electrifying. You can hear your heart thumping in your eyes as a strange warmth course throughout your body.

After a few seconds, you both pull away and look at each other in disbelief. It seems that the intense, crashing feelings you felt were mutual. You both laugh when you realize this.

“That… was something,” Lorenzo says with a smile.

You give him a warm smile before resting your head on his chest. You feel him stiffen in surprise, but he soon relaxes and places his hand on your head, gently combing his fingers through your hair. You smile to yourself when feel his heart beating fast.

“But you should know,” Lorenzo says with a smirk, “that I like you more.”

You abruptly lift your head and give him a look of disbelief. “This isn’t a competition.”

“You only say that because you’re losing,” Lorenze teases with a laugh.

You laugh back and hit him. “Enzo, you get on my nerves!”

Hearing you say his nickname, Lorenzo smiles and a small tint of red appears on his cheek. “Good,” he says as he pulls you in closer, wanting to feel your soft lips on his again. “As long as you don’t get bored of me.”

***

a/n: my first enzo fanfic! ahhh! it's also my first time writing in second person pov, and it's harder than i thought lol. and sorry to cormac mclaggen! i feel like he's a common antagonist in hp fanfics HAHA. also, i tried making y/n as general as possible so that it can appeal to everyone, but i couldn't help but add in the hair twirling. hair twirling is just so cute to me :')

fun fact! i chose olivia rodrigo's "get him back" as inspo because her lyrics have a double meaning: (1) she wants to get back together with her ex and (2) also get revenge on him. it emphasizes the fine line between love and hate, which i imagine academic rivals feel lol. hope you liked it! <3

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7s3ven · 6 months ago

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Hi! I love all of your harry potter writing!! I was wondering if maybe you could do something thats one of the slytherin guys (theo preferably) with a hufflepuff girl reader and just a tonnn of angst? like a happy ending but just a good amount of angst lol (maybe hes mean to her or smtg - or like he is just to keep up an appearance in front of his slytherin friends??) idk lol

ANGST IS MY FORTE.

BACK TO THE START. theodore nott

IN WHICH… theodore nott is dating the perfect girl, yet prefers to keep her hidden from his friends.

“Some boys take a beautiful girl and hide her away from the rest of the world.”

Warnings/notes : angst (duh, it’s me), matteo riddle and his dumb jokes, illusion to mature content, panic attack, astoria x draco mentioned, pansy x blaise mentioned

—

A/N : thank you so much for the request and the kind comment!

Being a Slytherin was hard. Being part of the popular cliche was even worse. It wasn’t hard for Theodore Nott to blend in with his crowd. He was rich, a little bit crazy when he drank, and as all of them were, an asshole to an extent.

Theo had his life all planned out; get sorted into Slytherin, check. Join the popular group, check. Date another rich Slytherin girl who he’d only use for reputation, not checked. That last point was an important part of his life plan but, as if the universe intentionally wanted to screw him over, his gaze was constantly stuck on a Hufflepuff.

Y/N L/N wasn’t all too bad. She was pretty (or gorgeous as Theo liked to mentally describe her), rich enough, and had a big reputation in school and outside. She should have been Theo’s ideal type if she wasn’t draped in that damn yellow uniform.

Nevertheless, Theo was smitten by her. He talked to her in secret, wanting to avoid his friends’ shifty eyes and gossip. They’d no doubt tell his parents that he was talking to a Hufflepuff of all people. But, at least she wasn’t in Gryffindor.

He kept her hidden from the world, which he knew she hated but what else could he do?

“Theo.” Y/N called out in the empty hallway. She had her books clutched closely to her chest, scared they’d drop. Theo passed, his heart slightly sinking.

How was he supposed to tell Y/N, his secret girlfriend, that he still wanted to remain a secret despite promising her otherwise? Theo didn’t have the time to even think about it before he heard loud chatter that could only be his friends.

“Theo!” Pansy exclaimed, jogging towards him. She didn’t even notice Y/N, pushing past the H/C-haired girl without a word. “You have to try Enzo’s batch of cookies! He’s actually getting good at baking after last month’s incident.”

Theo lightly chuckled before he remembered Y/N was still here. She was looking at him like she expected him to do something. He quickly brushed past Pansy. He could feel his friends staring daggers into his back, all curious as to what he was doing.

“I told you I don’t want to go out with you. Leave me alone, Hufflepuff.” Theo wasn’t half-bad at acting after all the times he had to pretend to brush Y/N off for the sake of his friends. He subtly leaned forward, “I can’t be weak around my friends, Y/N. You understand, right? I’ll tell them soon.”

It was ironic how Theo made the first move yet never revealed his relationship with Y/N.

“Yeah… sure.” Y/N whispered.

Theo quickly walked away, catching up with his friends. “What was that?” Astoria questioned as she hooked arms with Theo to quicken his pace.

“Just another lovesick girl.” Theo uttered, loud enough for Y/N to hear. He didn’t even spare her a glance as he walked away, breaking yet another empty promise.

“Isn’t that the same girl from two weeks ago?” Pansy asked.

“They all look the same to me.” His words, fake or not, always left Y/N wondering what was wrong with their relationship. She was a good girlfriend so why was Theo always acting so embarrassed of her? Was he ashamed of her?

Theo told her every time that he’d make their relationship public but he never did, too scared of what his parents and companions would think.

What a coward.

Y/N arrived in the Great Hall and immediately slumped into her usual seat beside her friends. “Hi.” She casually greeted them.

“Boyfriend troubles again?” One of her friends, Cerci, asked.

They all knew Y/N was dating someone from Slytherin, but she never told them his name. They didn’t doubt her, there were plenty of other Slytherin guys who would have asked Y/N out if it wasn’t for Theo.

“He keeps saying he’ll tell his friends but he never does. And it drags on for months. I can’t stand it anymore.” Y/N stabbed her breakfast with her fork and sighed.

“Just break up.” Alice, another girl, piped up. Cerci elbowed her.

“You can’t just say that, Alice. You know this topic is sensitive to Y/N.”

“I’m just saying. If he treats her so wrong, why not just break up?”

The pair begun to bicker, as always. There was never a dull moment with Cerci and Alice around. Y/N’s eyes shifted to Theo, who was trying to shake Astoria off his arm. He succeeded, but spilled pumpkin juice on his blazer.

Matteo immediately burst into laughter that could be heard even at the Hufflepuff table. Alice and Cerci seemed to notice the commotion.

“Nott and Greengrass are at it again.” Alice sighed. “You know, there’s a rumor going around that they’re dating.”

Cerci scoffed. “No way. Greengrass likes Malfoy, everybody knows that. And besides, I saw Nott with some H/C-haired girl and they seemed pretty close.”

Y/N quickly lifted her head, lips parted. “What?” She asked. “You saw Theo with someone?”

Cerci scrunched up her eyebrows. “Since when did you start calling him Theo?”

“We were paired up for potions last year. Old habit, sorry.” Y/N quickly lied through her teeth.

Theo was a master at hiding things, even his girlfriend, but not good enough to avoid Cerci’s watchful eye.

“Nott’s handsome, I guess, but have you seen Riddle? Too bad he’s a player.” Alice mumbled before taking a sip from her goblet.

Cerci snickered. “And an idiot. He asked me if the color orange came before the fruit. Everyone knows it’s the color.”

“No. It’s the fruit.” Alice immediately backfired. “Thats like asking if the chicken came before the egg. Which, by the way, was the chicken because of evolution.”

“Where did the chicken come from then? It needs to come from an egg.”

Y/N could only slump in her seat once more as her friends argued about trivial matters that she didn’t care about.

“Woah. What did I miss on my bathroom break?” Esme, the last member of their closely knit friend group, returned. She readjusted her blouse as she sat next to Y/N, stealing a grape from Cerci’s plate.

“Y/N’s having relationship problems with her little boyfriend. Any advice?” Cerci uttered through mouthfuls of food.

“And how does that relate to your argument about chickens and oranges?” Esme raised an eyebrow.

“What came first? The chicken or the egg?” Alice asked, leaning forward to know Esme’s opinion on the matter.

Esme sighed, quickly rolling her eyes. “Oh, not this again. It doesn’t matter. Shouldn’t we be focusing on Y/N right now?”

Alice and Cerci exchanged a glance before looking back at Y/N.

Esme sighed. “You two are useless sometimes. Y/N, if you don’t want to be secret anymore, confront him about it. It’s not fair to you if he keeps you hidden.”

Y/N pressed her lips into a thin line before sparing another look at Theo. “Yeah, I’ll try.” She murmured, resting her cheek in the palm of her hand.

—

Y/N spent all day thinking about what to do. Either she could confront Theo, which seemed like the obvious choice, or let him walk all over her. As much as she wanted to choose the first option, she was still an empath and wanted to see what was burdening Theo so much.

It was in potions, one of Y/N’s unexpectedly best classes, when Matteo Riddle surprisingly approached her. “L/N, right?” The handsome boy asked, leaning forward onto her desk. Y/N’s eyes darted to Theo, whose jaw was tightly clenched.

“Uh… yes.” Y/N muttered, lightly clearing her throat.

“I hear you’re good at potions. You wouldn’t mind tutoring me, right? I’ll make sure to give you a special treat after.” Matteo winked with a stupid boyish grin on his face that Y/N would’ve found charming if Theo didn’t exist.

“Back it up, Matteo.” Theo interrupted, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder and forcing Matteo to take a step back. Y/N’s heart jumped and she subconsciously sat up straighter in her chair. She tried to smile at Theo, anything to catch his wavering attention, but it was fruitless. The next words that rolled off Theo’s tongue stunned Y/N. “You know better than to be associating with low-life, Hufflepuff trash.”

Y/N’s smile immediately dropped. She could feel Theo’s apologetic gaze on her but his words cut deep. Theo left Y/N to sit with Pansy, who had been watching the whole thing with furrowed eyebrows.

“He’s joking.” Matteo tried to cover for his friend. Out of all the Slytherin boys, Y/N had expected for Matteo to be the meanest. But here he was, trying to lighten the mood with a Hufflepuff of all people.

“Right.” Y/N whispered, blinking away tears. If Theo were anybody else, maybe a random classmate she barely acknowledged, then his words wouldn’t have hit so deep. But he was her boyfriend.

Theodore Nott was the same boy who secretly showed up to every quidditch practice when Y/N had been on the team. He was the same sweet boy who aimlessly followed Y/N around the school when she was nothing but his crush, asking to hold her books. Since when had Y/N been the one chasing after him?

Y/N subtly packed her things away with the intention of skipping class to rewatch The Notebook or any other film that would lift her spirit.

Barely anybody noticed her slipping out of the classroom. She almost bumped into Professor Snape, who had been walking in at the same time. After seeing her glassy eyes and shaking hands, Snape let her past with a nod of acknowledgment.

“I expect you to catch up, Miss L/N. Complete page two hundred and twenty three.” Snape uttered.

“Yes, professor.” She weakly replied back.

She was walking to the bathrooms, head lowered and trying to hold back tears, when someone grasped her shoulder and spun her around. Y/N let out a loud gasp of surprise before a hand covered her mouth and she was dragged into an empty classroom.

“Whatever you think I did, I didn’t do!” Y/N exclaimed as she screwed her eyes shut and held her hands up. “I swear I didn’t steal your pet snake! When will you let it go?!” After hearing nothing but silence, she opened one eye. “Oh… it’s you, Theo.”

She was slightly glad it was only him and not the strange boy from two months ago who was sure Y/N stole his pet snake. He went to extreme lengths to try and prove it.

“First I’ve heard of that pet snake. We’ll go back to that later because I’m curious.” Theo placed his hands on Y/N’s shoulders. “Y/N, you know I love you.” Of course she knew that. It was hard to miss when Theo would mutter the same three words between every hidden, breathless kiss. “My parents and even friends expect a lot from me and I can’t go around just telling people I’m dating a Hufflepuff.”

Theo said Y/N’s house like it was a derogatory term.

“Are you breaking up with me?” She asked, furrowing her eyebrows.

“What? No.” Theo was at a loss for words. Y/N truly was his whole world but letting both Y/N and his Pureblood life collide was a recipe for disaster.

“Really? Because this sounds like a breakup speech.” Y/N retorted. A few tears slid down her cheeks and Theo was quick to wipe them away.

“I’m not breaking up with you. I just need you to understand what I’m doing.”

Y/N didn’t know if she could ever understand his reasons. They were all so bizarre and could be easily solved through telling the truth. A sudden wave of confidence drew over Y/N.

“I don’t understand, Theo. You always reassure me that you’ll tell your friends about us but you never do. And sometimes you’re mean to me just to save your reputation. You showed interest first, you talked to me first. You initiated everything first, so why are you trying to pretend like you didn’t? Matteo Riddle out of all people had the heart to comfort me while you walked away. You’re supposed to be nice to me, Theo, that’s your job as my boyfriend.”

Theo never once interrupted her, knowing he was in the wrong. “I’m sorry.” Was all he could muster.

“I don’t want an apology. I want you to tell your friends.”

Theo sighed. “You know I can’t… you know I need to keep up my appearance.”

“Is losing me not reason enough?”

“Don’t make me choose, Y/N.” Theo shook his head. “Please. You know how important my reputation is.”

Y/N slowly grasped Theo’s hands, intertwining their fingers for a moment before dropping them. “If you can’t choose, I’ll decide for you. I don’t want to be a secret anymore, Theo, and it’s clear that you won’t give up your reputation. So keep your reputation and I’ll see myself out.”

“No, Y/N, please.” Theodore Nott was above begging but he’d get down on his knees and plead for Y/N to stay. “I can’t do this without you. I need you. Please. Y/N.”

He watched as she picked up her bag, sparing Theo one more look over her shoulder. “Sorry, Theo. It’s for the best.” She brushed past the door, gently closing it behind her. Theo slumped into a seat behind him, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands gripping his face.

What had he done?

He felt stupid now for not mustering up the courage to tell his friends about Y/N. His leg bounced up and down as he regretted every mean word he spoke to Y/N in an attempt to cover up their relationship. She didn’t deserve that. She was the kindest girl he knew, always giving others a helping hand.

He gripped his shirt, nails digging into the skin beneath the thin fabric. Theo could feel his heart beating at an abnormal rate but it wouldn’t stop no matter how many desperate deep breaths he inhaled.

The room suddenly felt too small and Theo felt claustrophobic, a feeling he had never experienced before. The world was flashing before his eyes with every ragged breath he took.

“Y/N, please don’t go.” He whispered despite knowing she was already long gone by now. He wrapped his arms around himself, shaking. “Don’t go.” He repeated as an attempt to comfort himself. He harshly tugged at his hair, cursing at himself for being so stupid as to letting Y/N go.

He should have tried harder. He should have done everything she asked. He only had his reputation to worry about, but at what cost?

With his head hanging low, he made his way back towards his dorm, trusting his friends would bring his supplies back. He collapsed onto his bed, feeling numb. He was a little bit angry that Y/N broke it off so casually without much tears. Was he not worth it? He suddenly realized how Y/N felt, having to watch your lover walk away like nothing happened.

—

The days following the breakup were gloomy, and that was an understatement. Theo realized early that Y/N was much better at masking her feelings behind a fake facade of happiness than him. He spent every free hour wallowing in self-pity, hoping to catch another glimpse of Y/N like the good old days where he didn’t care about his relationship.

“Theo.” Pansy waved a hand in front of Theo’s face. He scowled, not wanting to go through another rant of how Blaise refused to make the first move. She sat beside him on the green couch, handing him a bottle of alcohol. It was the end of the term, and as always the Slytherin house decided to host a large party. Anybody was invited, unless your name was Harry Potter.

Draco had gone as far in their petty rivalry to hang up a sign at the entrance, stating “no Potters”allowed. He spelled Potter wrong at first, spelling it as pottery, which resulted in the Weasley twins bringing in jars of clay pottery. Theo quietly laughed at that.

“How’s your girl?” Pansy asked as she took a sip from her can of lemonade vodka.

“We broke up. She had enough of me- wait.” Theo quickly turned his head to stare at Pansy, “How do you know about Y/N?”

Pansy simply shrugged with a grin stretching across her lips. “Your words are convincing, Theo, but I’ve known you for a while. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you sneaking off and coming back with lipstick marks?”

Theo’s head hung low. “It doesn’t matter now. She’s done with me and vice versa.” He swirled his drink around before taking a gulp.

“You’re stupid, you know.” Pansy spoke up, “If you liked her so much, you shouldn’t have let her go.”

“I had no choice.”

“You had a choice. The door for you was wide open. You just never stepped inside, too scared of others’ opinions.”

“I’m a Pureblood. I can’t be dating a Hufflepuff girl.”

“You’re a boy, Theo. Three years from now, nobody will care that you dated a Hufflepuff.”

“I’ll care!” Theo exclaimed over the loud blaring music. Pansy didn’t flinch, only staring at him with a mix of pity and annoyance. “My parents expect me to marry a Slytherin girl.”

“You sacrificed your girlfriend for something your parents told you ten years ago?” Pansy was judging him now with a hardened stare. “Be careful how you treat girls, Theo. One day, you’ll realize the possibility of losing her is very much real.”

Pansy subtly pointed behind Theo. He glanced over his shoulder, his wandering gaze immediately spotting Y/N. Her friend, Alice, had an arm hooked around her while a boy was trying to hold a conversation.

“Do what you want, Theo. But if you don’t act fast, you’ll lose her for good.” Pansy stood up to retrieve another drink.

Theo, with his heart beating too fast to be healthy, jumped to his feet and pushed past the crowd. He didn’t know what he was going to do or what he was even going to say but he was determined to shove the other boy away.

Blaise was standing with Matteo on the other side of the room, holding a microphone. A dumb idea struck Theo, which he knew he was going to regret the moment he stepped onto that stage.

Y/N’s eyes lit up as she saw Theo walking through the crowd, scowling at anybody in his way. He caught her gaze and for a second she thought he was going to willingly talk to her in front of his peers. But he walked straight past, his shoulder lightly brushing hers.

Y/N deflated, all hope of having a second chance with Theo disappearing. Until she heard the microphone screech and the music abruptly stopped.

She didn’t have to turn to know who was interrupting the party. She heard his voice and immediately knew

“I’m going to fucking regret this. Matteo, shut your mouth or I’ll throw you out the window.” Theo said, glaring at his friend. He sighed before continuing. “I had a girlfriend.”

Some of the crowd lightly gasped, not expecting Hogwarts resident playboy to start his announcement off with that.

“She was sweet, and kind, and all I could ask for. But I cared more about what my family and friends thought so I lost her. I always promised her that I’d tell my friends about us but I never did so I’m doing it now. I don’t expect her to forgive me.” Theo glanced at Y/N who was already staring at him with her head tilted to the side slightly. “But I owe it to her.”

“Hurry up, man!” Someone shouted, “This is boring!”

“I’ll throw you into the black lake so it’s not boring!” Theo aggressively yelled back. “All I’m trying to say is that I had a girlfriend who wasn’t a Slytherin like most people expected. I was head over heels for a Hufflepuff.”

Theo didn’t hesitate to expose his secret. After years of stating he’d date a Slytherin to anybody who would listen, he ended up with a Hufflepuff instead of one of his lovesick Slytherin fangirls.

"Theo, man, I wanna get back to drinking. Are you done?!" Matteo yelled, cupping his hands over his mouth.

"Matteo, I'm done when I'm done! Y/N L/N is the girl I'm head over heels for, okay?! I forced her to keep our relationship hidden, and I will always regret that. She is smart, beautiful, and kind and if I had a chance to do it all over again, I would announce to the whole world that we were dating! After we broke up, I didn’t want anything else but to talk to her again. So I drew her over and over again and my mind was focused on only her.”

Matteo snickered from the side of the stage. “Dude.” He said, almost judging Theo for being so vulnerable.

“Shut up, you banged a Gryffindor girl then cried when she said it was nothing but a hookup. Don’t pretend like I didn’t see you sobbing and eating ice cream in the kitchen.” Theo wittily retorted.

That silenced Matteo.

“I don’t understand why as a Slytherin, I have to date another Slytherin. I can be happy with a Hufflepuff too, whoever I date doesn’t alter my way of living. Now I'm done, go get drunk, Matteo!" Theo shoved the microphone into Matteo's hands, glaring at him.

Theo found Y/N with Alice, who was intensely questioning the H/C-haired girl. “When were you going to tell me the Theodore Nott was your boyfriend?!” Alice yelled as she shook Y/N by the shoulders. "Were you ever going to tell us?!"

"Ex-boyfriend." Y/N quickly corrected her friend.

"Secret admirer, actually. Like old times." Theo butted in, standing behind Y/N with his hands shoved into his pockets. “I’m not demanding you to forgive me, Y/N.”

He kneeled down, gripping onto Y/N’s hands like his life depended on it. He had seen enough romance movies with Y/N to get the hint of what kind of guy she wanted.

“From now on, no more secrets. I don’t care if you never take me back, all I need is for you to look in my direction again. Let’s start over, Y/N.”

—

The school was buzzing with gossip after last night’s party, the word of Y/N and Theo’s relationship spreading fast.

“Is it true?” Hermione asked, leaning forward. “Were you really dating Theodore Nott?” Y/N silently smiled, sick of all the questions she was receiving. At least it was her last class for the day, she could return to her dorm after and sleep.

Y/N was the first out of the door when class ended. She turned down an empty hallway, a shortcut she would always take with Theo when she was too lazy to hike through the large castle.

“Hey, Y/N, right?” Someone questioned.

Y/N looked over her shoulder, half-expecting another guy to shoot his shot after hearing the news about her and Theo. Instead, it was actually Theo.

“I’m Theodore Nott, nice to meet you again.”

Y/N stared at his outstretched hand before slowly shaking it. “Nice to see you too, Theo. Where are you heading?”

“To the kitchen to bake some cookies with a certain beautiful girl. Would you care to tag along?”

When Theo said he wanted to start over, Y/N didn’t know he’d take it to the very beginning.

“What kind of cookies?” She asked as they walked through the hallway, hands linked.

“Your favourite along with a cup of coffee while you study herbology. Just like old times.”

#theodore nott x reader #theodore nott #blaise zabini #pansy parkinson #draco malfoy #matteo riddle #slytherin #gryffindor #hufflepuff reader #hufflepuff #ravenclaw #hermione granger #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #hp prompts #hogwarts mystery #hp fanfic #hp fandom

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deadsnakey · 4 months ago

Text

𝐁𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐎

❀⋆.ೃ fluff ೀ Headcanons. . .ᐟ 0.3k words★⋆.˚ ୨ ୧┈─★

˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡.

ꪆৎ You and hermione are best friends for sure, very sassy and chaotic duo.

ꪆৎ Ron loves sharing his chocolate frogs with you whenever he has extra, if you also really like them.

ꪆৎ Youre most likely also a gryffindor, but if youre not then be considered lucky, especially if youre a slytherin.

ꪆৎ If you are in a different house, they'd probably were sisicious at first of you, let alone if you're a slytherin, it probably took a long while for them to see that youre intentions were good and thats when they start being a little more nicer to you.

ꪆৎ If youre a gryffindor, you probably got into some trouble rather on accident or not and they had to save you, resulting in knowing your name and then sticking with them for the rest of hogwarts.

ꪆৎ You four are always making trouble, everywhere you go is trouble dude it's inevitable.

ꪆৎ If youre foreighn / have an american accent, youd talk british sometimes and they try and impersonate you, probably ask you how to pronounce some words like sum’fin.

ꪆৎ You definitely steal harry’s glasses because you think its funny but he knows youll give them back if he asks.

ꪆৎ You think its funny how sassy ron is, but goddamnit it can be ridiculously annoying sometimes, he’s kind of a smartass, especially as a child. (year 1 through 3, after that he got better with it.)

ꪆৎ you three protect each other all the time, its the only right thing to do.

ꪆৎ its someones being a testa di cazzo to you, don't worry cause the twins, and the three of them got your back and defending you.

ꪆৎ Fred and George are nice to you, you guys probably are good friends since you're really close to Ron. you probably have met at least half of his family.

ꪆৎ they genuinely refuse to get into any trouble without you unless they necessarily have too.

ꪆৎ you and Hermione are the brains of the friendship, the boys share one singular braincell throughout all the years.

ꪆৎ Hermoine and you love to get a break from the two boys, so late night sleepovers or hangouts with just the two of you are more common then you'd think.

ꪆৎ you probably developed a habit of bringing lots of snacks in your bag and dorm because of Ron specifically. boy always asking if you have snacks or food.

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claymoresword · 7 months ago

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I Choose Her | Epilogue

Hermione Granger x Slytherin Fem!Reader

Summary: You are the daughter of two known death eaters from one of the oldest and richest families in the wizarding world. Are you truly prepared to give up everything you know for Hermione Granger?

Pairing: Hermione x Reader

Wordcount: 2.4k

Warnings: time jump, smut, porn very little plot, draco & y/n , kid fic coded, y/n & hermione endgame obv

Note: Hi, so this is an epilogue in theory but i think what it ended up being is just an open ended conclusion. Which doesn't sound promising, but it also just means that there will more for me to expand on (for side chapters) so it's exciting! The main series is now concluded but i am nowhere near done with writing Hermione x Y/n within this particular universe that I've cultivated. Long story short: more to come!

Eitherway, hope you enjoy this one ;)

Taglist: @gvrsto @aweidlich @xxsekhmet @arielj @poppyflower-22 @scarleigh1989 @smut-religiously777 @cocoyeehaw @blackbirdv98 @arcturusseer @iamcapitalgbicorn8287 @lonewalker17 @karasonromanoff @httphayn @bigbadsofty07 @cherryflavoredcoke @dumpsapphic @idontwannabehereatm @js-a-writer @baylegend6 @puta1 @t-wylia @raven-ss @unexpected-character @brocoliisscared @aki-ham @theheartwants-what-itwants

Hermione turns towards the commotion in the living room, standing from her seat abruptly with her voice raised.

“Hugo! Give Scorpius a turn or I will shut that entire thing off, this is my final warning.” She asserts as the children bickered amongst themselves– fighting over the Playstation controller.

“Yes mother..” Your son mumbles, begrudgingly passing the controller over to his friend.

You lift the rim of the mug you are clutching up to your lips, masking your amusement at the display– your son has never taken to the idea of sharing; even with his own sister.

As anticipated, your attempt proves fruitless when you are caught on the receiving end of Hermione's narrowed gaze.

“Don't you dare laugh, he takes after you.” Hermione remarks as she pokes at your stomach, and your expression instinctively contorts in mock offense.

You soon turn to Draco and his wife, who remain sat across from you.

“Do you hear the way she speaks to me?” You retaliate in jest, earning a light slap to the arm from Hermione.

Astoria does grace you with a laugh, whether forced or not, you accept it as a small triumph.

Draco remains impartial, quickly redirecting the conversation.

“I've never understood those things” He gestures to the game console, and then the television it is attached to.

“I mean, when Y/n and I were their age we actually spent time outside.” Draco adds and you can't contain a scoff.

“Right, and you tormented me.” You contend, not allowing your best friend the chance to rewrite history simply to impress his wife.

“Did not.” Draco denies regardless.

You feel Hermione’s hand glide across your shoulders, causing them to relax involuntarily. Soon her fingers are delicately toying with your ear. A habit she had picked up over the years– one constantly reassuring, in an odd way.

“You were a nightmare.” You insist, leaning back in your chair, and Draco possesses enough cheek to appear affronted.

“I was a delight.” He claims defensively. This time it is Hermione who scoffs, and you allow yourself a smirk of satisfaction.

It is now two against one.

Astoria chuckles once more, hiding a smile behind her hand as she glances between you and your wife.

“Darling, I do find that hard to believe.. you seem to forget that we went to the same school, and Hogwarts was never immune to gossip.” She coos, turning to her husband, and Draco redirects his attention to her.

“Oh, now you're ganging up on me too?” He accuses, and you watch as Astoria smooths her hand across Draco's chest, up to the collar of his shirt. Without saying much else, she kisses him, and that quickly puts an end to the debate at hand.

You clear your throat, shifting in your seat as the couple escalated in their displays of affection.

You turn to Hermione, and she gives you a similar look in return, eventually nuzzling her face into the crook of your neck, an effort to escape the discomfort.

“I would say it's time for dessert but it appears they've already started.” Your quip, a whisper only for Hermione's ears.

Your wife stifles her laughter against your shoulder, glacing at the couple again, who remain in a full lip lock, oblivious to the world around them.

“Do you think they'd notice if you and I just got up and left right now?” Hermione asks, and you grin. Feeling inspired and overcome with the want to feel her mouth against your own.

“Probably not,” You respond, now leaning in to kiss her. Lightly at first, but as your hand slips around her waist, Hermione’s mouth opens wider, inviting your tongue.

You pull an involuntary moan out of her, causing your own smile to form mid kiss. Hermione breathes in sharply at the realization, before feebly shoving you away with her palm against your chest.

She is flushed, her chest heaving. Even after all the years of marriage; you'll never tire from watching this gorgeous woman blush.

Hermione averts her gaze, as if overwhelmed by your stare, and your smile only widens.

“I'll go fetch the cake.” Your wife says suddenly, her hand falls from your shoulder as she rises from her seat.

You can only watch as she disappeared into the kitchen.

Your own heart, pounding.

Seventeen years since you first met, and yet your pull towards Hermione remained formidable; your bond, unbreakable.

Seventeen years.

Your smile remains as you go to take another large swig from your mug. Draco and his wife have since stopped kissing, now instead whispering in secrecy to each other.

You roll your eyes, beginning to forget the point of inviting them today.

“Boys, dessert!” You bark, easily capturing Scorpious and Hugo's attention.

Now your son and his friend race towards the dinner table, disovering something new to squabble about.

Soon, Hermione emerges from the kitchen, a large lemon cake in one hand a stack of plates in another.

You then turn around in your seat to address your daughter. She had been a few paces away, sitting quietly by the window. Her nose in her book, as she often is. “Darling, do you want any cake?”

“Yes, please.” Rose replies simply, without looking up.

Your daughter; truly every bit like her mother. In both temperament, and appearance. Blessed with Hermione's rich curly hair and her gentle eyes. She's assertive as much as she is kind.

Your heart soars everytime you look at her, yet you are also overcome with the urge to weep all the same, for reasons unbeknownst to you.

Perhaps it was the cost of unconditional love, the price every parent had to pay. An impending burden that you could only do so much to ignore.

The fact is your daughter will not remain pristine and unspoiled forever. Life frowns upon innocence, it is bound to be stripped away from her; a violent and inescapable fate.

Change is a torturous and ugly thing, it is a challenge everyone must endure, no matter what you try to tell yourself.

“What's wrong?” Hermione's concern pulls you out your thoughts, you feel her hand grasping your arm.

You force yourself to smile, shaking your head dismissively. Now aware of Draco and Astoria's quizzical eyes on you.

“Nothing, I was just thinking.” You assure, resuming your position next to her at the table.

═══════════════════════════════════════════

You let out a breath of relief as Hugo finally slips into a slumber in your arms. You gently lift him to lay your son on his bed properly, subsequently draping the covers over him.

Shutting the book in your hand, you set it down on his nightstand, wary not to make too much noise.

“Goodnight, sweet boy.” You utter quietly, threading your fingers through his hair before placing a tender kiss upon his forehead.

Your son remains asleep as you exit his bedroom and gently shut the door behind you.

You roll your shoulders as you start down the stairs, stifling a groan at the ache.

However, any feelings of discomfort dissipate once you catch sight of Hermione, standing by the sink, still busy with the dishes.

“Do you need my help?” You offer as you step through the kitchen, rolling up your sleeves in preparation.

Hermione throws you a quick glance before replying. “No, thank you, I'm almost done.” Your wife says as she rinses the final traces of soap off a plate before propping it onto the drying rack.

Your stare soon turns incredulous as you approach your wife.

“I don't understand– you'd get the dishes done twice as quickly if you used your wand.. you won't even have to stand by the sink to do that.”

You remark, now standing close enough to Hermione that you can smell the familiar and welcomed scent of her hair.

“I prefer to wash them the normal way, I suppose I'm just used to it.” She explains and you let out a huff.

You needed no more proof that your wife is indeed, muggle-born.

“So odd.” You tease in return, Hermione lets out a breathless chuckle as you wrap your arms around her torso.

Your breasts pressing up against her back as you embrace her tightly from behind.

You observed as Hermione washed all traces of dish soap off her hands before turning off the faucet.

“Is Hugo asleep?” Your wife asks, and you nod. You hear the subtle way her breath catches in her throat as you kiss her neck.

“He did put up a brave fight, but he's out.” You quip.

Hermione’s chuckle morphs into a proper gasp as you slipped your hand underneath her shirt, cupping her breast, her nipple quickly growing hard from your touch.

Your wife merely leans further into you, allowing you better access to her neck.

“I don't think I got the chance to tell you how gorgeous you looked today.. I liked the dress.” You admit, nipping lightly at the column of her throat.

Hermione lets out a satisfied hum, pressing her rear harder against your groin, as she reaches back, her hand finds the nape of your neck. “I had a feeling you'd enjoy it.”

“Well, I did. You always look beautiful.” You state, expertly kneading her other breast, drawing a breathless moan from your wife; one that drives you half-mad with need.

“Fuck, you're perfect.” You praise her again, lips still brushing against her neck.

You swiftly shift your hand lower, unlacing her pajama bottoms, she lets you do so, quietly, for a moment.

“Even now? Even after how much my body has changed from bearing our children?” Hermione asks.

Ever since the birth of your son, insecurity has polluted her– and you find it entirely unwarranted.

Hermione is flawless, she deserves to feel beautiful and you aim to remind her of it everyday.

“Especially now.” You persist, finally slipping your hand inside her underwear.

Hermione lets out a louder moan as you boldly palm her heat, feeling how wet she is already.

She whimpers as your finger prods at her entrance. Your wife grips a fistful of your hair, her other hand firmly on the edge of the sink to steady herself.

“The children–” Hermione pants, her voice strained with arousal. Her words of concern do not match the way she is grinding against your hand ever so slightly.

“–are sound asleep in their beds.” You assure, finally entering with another finger.

Hermione’s hips buck against your touch as you are now knuckle deep inside of her. Broken gasps of pleasure is all she can manage as you begin pumping, slowly, in and out.

Your wife lets loose an unrestrained moan as you curl your fingers. You watch as she bites her bottom lip in an attempt to conceal her sounds of pleasure.

You can't help but groan at the sight.

It is near agony– no one should ever be this enticing.

Time is unrelenting to some, and cruel to most. Yet it has been generous to her; your wife has truly only gotten more desirable with age.

“You're so intoxicating..” You allow your own desires to speak.

Then, you place a lingering peck on her cheek, simultaneously pulling another loud moan from Hermione before she guides you in for a kiss, one on the mouth, desperate and hungry.

You consume her gasps and whimpers as you continue pumping in and out of her at a steady, yet urgent, pace.

Eventually, your thumb finds her clit, you begin rubbing in a circular motion in tandem, and soon, Hermione can no longer kiss you properly.

She is reduced to mewls and pants. She removes her fingers from your hair, letting her arm fall to her side before harshly gripping the hem of your shirt.

In truth, your wife could just as well shred the fabric to pieces and you simply wouldn't care.

Hermione's fingers graze your abdomen, and it is only then you notice that it was her clumsy attempt to undress you, but her plans are soon destabilized as a wave of pleasure wrecks her body anew.

You are now forced to place a hand over her mouth as your wife begins to tremble. She is close. You could feel it in the way her cunt was clenching around your fingers, almost painfully so.

“Come.. come for me, beautiful.” You urge, your breath against her ear; that is all it took for Hermione to surrender herself to her climax.

As she moans against your hand, you find yourself taking in the way her chest heaved violently, her fingers digging into the counter till her knuckles turned a pale white– utterly vulnerable, and breathtaking, and she is all yours.

“My god, y/n–” Hermione curses once she has gained enough of her strength back.

Even so, your wife continues to rest some of her weight against you, and you are happy to provide her the support.

Hermione mewls into your kiss as you pull your fingers out of her. She watches through hooded eyes as you pull away so you could take your digits into your mouth, tasting her release.

Your wife turns around fully, resting her back against the counter as she continues to observe you. Her arousal, searing and visceral.

Desire shrouds the both of you, impairing all sense and judgment. It doesn't take long at all before Hermione is on you once more. As soon as you remove your fingers from your mouth, she replaces it with her tongue.

Hermione swallows your noises of pleasure as she finds the hem of your shirt once again, this time successfully pulling it over your head before discarding it, heedless and uncaring.

Her hands quickly find your breasts as she trails wet, languid kisses along your jaw and eventually your neck.

You are aroused beyond belief, and you can hardly think– you want to slip your fingers inside of your wife once more, you need to feel her, taste her. and you need it now.

As your mouths make contact once more, you prop your hand firmly underneath Hermione's thigh, lifting her in one swift motion, setting her on top of the kitchen counter.

Hermione lets you remove her shirt in record time, you fling it out of your grasp in a similarly incautious manner, not heeding where it lands before your mouth makes contact with her nipple.

You licked and sucked at it eagerly, with primal and unchecked want. A string of trembling moans from your wife urge you on, she gasps as you shift your attention to her other breast before just barely mustering enough to speak.

“No– wait, not here.” Hermione gasps, pulling your head back, her chest now wet and glistening from your saliva.

Before you can respond with something coherent, your wife kisses you again, open-mouthed and deep, but it ends far sooner than you'd like. Happily, her next words easily make up for it.

“Take me to bed.”

#hermione granger imagine #hermione x reader #slytherin au #hermione granger x reader #hermione granger #hermione granger smut #draco malfoy x reader

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issues4him · 1 month ago

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𐙚 height difference headcannons

IN WHICH - draco is oddly obsessed with your guys' height difference. (i'm short & have a thing for tall guys - this one's for me ok? ok. call it a kink if you will)

warnings - fluff, smut 18+

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

- you have always been quite short for your age. you stand at just 5'0 (152 cm) tall.

- you always been shorter than average. you get mistaken for a first year quite often. if you get stuck in a crowd of them, there's no luck finding you.

- draco has always been quite tall for his age. standing at a magnificent 6'4 (193 cm), he's always seemed to be the center of attention.

- this is a source of great pride to him as he enjoys any opportunity to show off, whether he's standing on his tip-toes, or towering over anyone, especially you

-you noticed when you first started talking that draco definitely had a 'thing' for your height.

- you couldn't lie - you did too. it was the first thing you had noticed about each other.

- he'd always call you 'tiny', 'shorty', and 'pocket-sized'.

- the first thing he said to you was, "wow, did you drink the shrinking potion on accident?"

- after the first couple times you talked, draco nearly made it routine to poke good fun at your height

- he wasn’t so subtle with the flirting lol

- like he wanted to compare hand sizes all the time

- not slick at all, malfoy

- you found it so blush-inducing when draco picked you up like you weighed nothing.

- it made draco feel strong.

- your sex life was a struggle at the beginning

- the only way you could have shower sex was if draco held you up against the wall with your legs hooked around above his arms.

- 69 was pretty much a no-go. either one of you was getting head or not at all.

- BUT... cowgirl seemed to be draco's favorite.

- he loved the way he could see himself inside of you, bulging from your lower stomach.

- he also loved the way your hands and mouth fit around his dick

- it just made him feel bigger lol

- people always ogled at your height difference

- girls would constantly tell you they were jealous of the distance between you two

- omg draco LOVESSS the way you absolutely drown in his clothes.

- you once put his robe on & the bottoms of it were on the floor, sleeves entirely too long, and hood covering your entire face

- Draco couldn’t help but take a picture

- he keeps that picture by his bed

#draco is so effing cute #draco malfoy fluff #draco malfoy smut #draco x reader #draco fanfiction #draco lucius malfoy #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #hogwarts #hufflepuff #gryffindor #slytherin #ravenclaw #sirius black #ron weasley #hermione granger #golden trio era

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heartthrobin · 5 months ago

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the hate game (1)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 13.3k

warnings: enemies to lovers, so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, super grumpy!oliver, oliver's scottish accent (it's a warning in itself), alcohol consumption, super! duper! cheesy! (sorry not sorry)

an: just survived the worst two weeks of my life, but the fic is finally here! this fic was originally a full 50 chapter fic i had planned for wattpad like three years ago but i found my draft for it recently and decided it needed a revival. so enjoy it, and don't forget to comment and repost to support your favourite writers :)

summary: the only thing more grating than Oliver's foul moods and his permanent scowl, has to be the fact that he's so damn pretty. you fucking hate him for it.

part two/final part

Movies, as is their premise, glamourise plenty of things - high school, politics, tiny Greek islands - but none more than the classic sucker-punch.

The teeth-crunching, blood-spitting moment where skin meets skin in a satisfying thump that sends an unsuspecting victim to the floor. Music plays and the hero grins, grabbing the girl round the waist: dipping low to kiss her.

What’s consistently (conveniently) left out is how bloody painful it is to be on the sending end of that fist.

The first, and only, time you’d ever punched someone was in second year.

It had seemed like a great idea in the moment, quickly succeeded by the mind-numbing pain that shot up your arm where knuckle met face.

You’d aimed for his jaw, but as it turns out: in addition to painful, punching someone wasn’t a particularly accurate sport for a beginner and your slippery skin found a round-tipped nose instead.

A collective gasp and a month’s worth of detention waited for you on the other side of your act of rage.

And sure, while afternoons in Snape’s classroom every Friday sucked: it was all worth it.

Every purple knuckle that throbbed with the slightest brush, the points lost to Hufflepuff, the pages and pages of Hogwarts Does Not Condon Physical Violence you’d been forced to write was worth seeing the trickle of blood running down from Oliver Wood’s nose.

To see that smug fucking look wiped clean from his face. To watch how he doubled over in pain, grappling onto his friend for balance.

“Tyler fancying you? Any bloke would rather snog a goblin.”

His little comment had earned him a broken nose.

It had been the start of a five year long feud.

It’s the reason - now - why the ground is racing up to meet you, the nose of your broomstick pressed down towards it and wind whipping so hard against your face it draws tears. You knock into the ground, catching yourself on wobbly legs. A few feet away, Oliver Wood has done the same.

He’s marching towards you with the same ferocity that’s curdling in your chest:

“Tha’s blatching and you know it!” His accent is ringing, thick and blistering with heat like it always is when he talks to you. At you, rather.

The accusation is crystal clear, and loud despite the echoing din of the quidditch stands above. From the field where you're parked, you can hear the chatter and the cheers and the boos all conglomerating into a fuzzy uproar.

There’s still twelve brooms floating in the air, spewing irritated shouts from players in both yellow and red:

Just let it go, Wood!

Come on, Cap, can we just finish the match please!

You promptly ignore them. Oliver follows suit.

“What?” You scoff, face hot as a kettle on a lit stove. “As if Laurel and Hardy haven’t been elbowing my girls all game!”

It goes without saying that you’re referring to Gryffindor’s red-head twin-set of beaters.

“Bullshit.” He seethes, it’s purposefully quiet enough that McGonagall’s approaching figure doesn’t pick it up.

She, unlike yourself, is less patient and knobby vein-webbed hands come out to knock you both against your chests: widening the gap to a safe enough distance between the opposing captains.

“You two are exhausting.” And she sounds it too. Her glasses tremble at the edge of her nose, sun shining down on her aged face. "If one more match this season is interrupted because you two can't control your tempers, you will both be stripped of captainship and you will not fly until you graduate. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

But Oliver isn't looking at her. His eyes are focused on yours over her cloaked shoulder.

He's taking the predictable route of not replying first.

"Crystal clear, Professor." You resign to speaking first, skewing a grin at his anger-sewn face.

It’s another long boring moment before he cuts his gaze from yours, kicks up a patch of grass and grits through his teeth.

“Yes, professor.”

As can be imagined, things between you and Oliver Wood have been tense since the day he’d hobbled up to the hospital wing with a palm over his face and blood dripping down over his already red tie.

But with age, came ferocity, and what started as passing glares in the corridor melted into anger-drowned faces and sharp words flung with intent to scar.

Things got infinitely worse when you were elected captain of the Hufflepuff quidditch team in the same year Oliver was made captain for Gryffindor. It stoked the already sizzling embers that made moments around him warm and stuffy and hard to breathe.

The murky history swirled with what should be friendly competition, instead frothing into a bubbling pot of annoyed teammates and exasperated teachers and more sessions of detention than you would have ever had if you'd never met the son of a bitch that is Oliver Wood.

It's what puts you in situations like the ones you find yourself in the middle of before you even know how you got yourself there.

"You two," Professor Burbage had never held you in particularly high favour. It was just your luck that Oliver received the same courtesy. "One more word out of either of you and I will be seeing both of you this afternoon for detention in my classroom."

It was even unluckier that she'd sat you two barely three wizards away from one another and one fly-away comment had blown out into another heat-filled exchange. It always does.

"But professor--" you try.

"Right then. I'll see you both at five o' clock."

Oliver sighs, hands running up over his head between chestnut locks: "Fucking perfect. Thanks, big-mouth."

"Would you like to make it two days, Mr Wood?"

He huffs like an angry dog, tightening the grip on his writing-feather but says nothing else.

The end of the lesson doesn't come soon enough and when it does, Oliver is first out of his seat. You're grateful for it.

Cherry bumps you in the shoulder where she throws her bag over it. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"

You grin, despite the sunken feeling hollowing your chest with the acknowledgment that you're gonna be spending yet another afternoon at the mercy of an under-paid staff member alongside the hothead that was the Gryffindor captain.

"Come on, that wasn't my fault and you know it."

Her tight red curls dance when she shakes her head. They match her blood red tie. "Somehow it never is."

To your dismay, but not surprise, Enzo shares Cherry's views when he waltzes into step beside you in the corridor between Muggle Studies and Divination. His arm drapes over your shoulders and his tall frame shakes when he laughs.

"You know," his voice is thick and gravelly. "You two are gonna have to fuck it out eventually."

You roll your eyes, shoving him off you with a chuckle. The sentiment isn't anything new. "Oh, shut up."

The day folds blurrily between classes and lunch and greenhouse visits that by the time you look up it's just about five o clock.

Burbage's office door stares down at you.

The corridor is ghostly all the way behind you and it's emptiness means it's easy to make out Oliver's heavy footsteps down the stone floor. They're not slow, in an arrogant strut, neither quick like he has somewhere to be.

He trudges. Like the weight of the world is strapping him to invisible pins in the floor. It's easy to figure that your existence doesn't lighten his load any.

You don't turn. He simply falls into place beside you, keeping a good foot distance between your tightened shoulders.

The door opens.

Charity Burbage is insufferable in the way that she forces you and Oliver to sit almost on top of each other behind a scratched up desk where she can watch you under the curtain of her ratty blond hair.

You inch the chair dramatically away from Oliver's.

She's set a stack of pages by him and a wet stamp. "Stamp these and sign the date."

Additionally, she's dropped a stack of envelopes under your nose. "Tuck and seal. When you're done, you can leave."

You eye the papers. There must be hundreds.

To Whom It May Concern,

Hogwarts would like to remind all parents and guardians that the third-years will require prior permission before being allowed to visit the nearby village of Hogsmeade--

You jump when Oliver's elbow knocks yours (more violently than what was really necessary). He holds the first page out to you silently, face dripping with impatience.

When you take the page, his thumb brushes yours.

The paper is delicate in your fingers where you fold it. You tuck and seal, and by the time you've set it aside Oliver is offering the next page to you again.

His thumb brushes yours for a second time.

You find that it does for every letter that's passed on.

It's hard not to watch him out the corner of your eye. Oliver has this dark brown, nearly black, hair that's thick and almost too long and untamed all over. It's matched by bushy eyebrows and speckled freckles over the bridge of his nose.

If you didn't hate him as much as you did, you might think he was pretty. You might think that anyway.

Time stretches until the sun is setting the classroom afire with golden light and it's boredom that causes it, or possibly a desire to hear his voice at such tight quarters, but you speak.

"You know," it's soft enough that Burbage doesn't look up from her Witch Weekly magazine. "Even if - in some act of God - Scotland qualifies for the semi-finals, Luxembourg is gonna flatten them. I mean, think about it unemotionally, Wood: they have Luca Schmit as seeker. It's really a no brainer--"

"Are y’really just stupid or are you purposefully trynna start another argument?" His gaze flickers up to eye Burbage's desk warily, she still doesn't react.

Maybe it's both. After all, the subject of the Quidditch World Cup had been what put you both there in the first place.

You shrug, unfazed by his scathing remark.

"I'm just trying to make conversation."

"Well don't."

His hand brushes yours again.

Every second Friday, generally at the tail-end of lunch, Hooch's grey barn owl swoops low over your head and drops a smaller-than-average white envelope right into your mashed potatoes. Cherry yelps in surprise every time.

Then you watch the bird drop the same over the Gryffindor, Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables.

Good afternoon,

Reminder of Captain's meeting this afternoon in my office. Six o' clock, don't be late.

Regards,

Madam Hooch.

The letter says the same thing it has since you became captain and it's a wonder you still take the effort to break the seal on the envelope.

But come six o' clock, you're traipsing towards the west end of the castle. Lavender streaks caress the sky under the last impression of sunlight through the ornate stone arch of the corridor windows and an autumn chill creeps up your arms where your sweater isn't thick enough.

Hooch's office is in a quiet alcove, nearly impossible to find if you didn't know where to look, and the lamps are lit. Beyond the door, you can hear voices: you grin.

The door creaks noisily where you push it open. Inside it's cramped and cluttered with shelves of quidditch equipment - broken brooms, punctured quaffles and loose kits draping every open surface - but it's warm and smells like leather and is maybe your favourite little room in the whole castle.

The quidditch legend herself, Rolanda Hooch, has her legs kicked up on her desk and the boys are standing ahead of it locked in animated chatter.

She's laughing at something they said, and smiles when you enter.

"Sorry I'm late, coach."

It's nothing new and she waves you in with a smile. "Come in, poppet."

"Merlin," Marcus' shoulder finds yours and the force of the bump nearly sends you off your feet. "You'd be late to your own funeral hey, Puffers?"

You laugh, shoving him back with as much force as you can muster against the giant brute that is Slytherin captain Marcus Flint. It barely nudges him but he barks out a laugh, rough like tractor tires over crumbly concrete.

"I'm worth the wait." You quip back, leaning around Marcus to wink at Roger Davies. "Isn't that right, Rodger?"

He flirts back, "Always, sweetheart."

Roger is the antithesis of Marcus: all pale skin, blue eyes and short blonde hair. Easy on the eyes.

Oliver lingers just behind him, the tallest of the captains. You catch his eye, face slipping into something more serious, and nod. "Hey, Wood."

He nods in return, curt like how a ministry wizard's might be.

"Right," Hooch sits up straight in her high-back chair. "There are just a couple things we need to get through tonight, we won't be long."

The dynamic between the captains would be easy, if not for Oliver.

You're the only girl and that made for tough beginnings. Marcus is naturally brash and brutish, but - as you found - easy to impress with a couple showy tricks on the broom. A single promise to show him how to pull off a Woollongong Shimmy had him eating out your hand: the favour of a couple Slytherins was generally hard to buy and invaluable to a plushy Hufflepuff such as yourself.

Roger popped out the womb with a wink at the nurse. Impeccably charming and impossibly negotiable. Beyond being slightly dim, it was hard to say a bad thing about the Ravenclaw captain

On the other hand, Oliver was … well, Oliver.

Hooch tapped the sharp end of a writing feather rhythmically at a spot on her desk, eyes roving her clipboard.

"Next week we're doing a clean up of the supply room down by the pitch. I've set you each up on days, the whole team needs to be down to help unless they're excused by a teacher: I want a written letter."

She offers a piece of parchment without looking up.

"As you all know, it's the Slytherin versus Ravenclaw game next week."

You bump your elbow to Marcus'. He looks down and grins a mouthful of crooked teeth before turning to Roger. "Ready, pretty boy?"

Roger rolls crystal blue eyes, but he's smiling too. "Bring it on, tough-shit."

"Oy," Hooch interrupts them with a cool sigh, "The last thing, you all submitted your autumn practice requests for the pitch: Roger, Marcus, you have the days you want--"

They nod. Your shoulders stiffen.

"--Oliver, Y/n. You both want Wednesday afternoons. Monday afternoon is open, I'll let you two decide between each other who is gonna move their practice. I want a decision before tomorrow night."

Marcus is sniggering under his breath. The edges of your mouth sink into a frown, of course he wants the same day as me.

You can feel the heat of Oliver's eyes on the side of your face. You don't indulge him, keeping your gaze settled on Hooch's face.

"We'll figure it out, coach."

"Unlikely." Roger's quip is barely a whisper but you catch it.

"Alright." Hooch doesn't. "You're dismissed, go get some dinner kids."

The office door bounces back off the stone wall where Marcus tosses it carelessly open, echoing all the way down the empty corridor.

Frosty air chases over your face and the boys start down towards the Great Hall. Roger is complaining about a potions essay he hasn't started and Marcus is shrugging him off with a suggestion that includes something along the vein of blackmailing a sixth year into doing it for him but you can't focus long enough to follow.

"Oliver." Irritation is prickling at the surface of your skin. It flares into an almost rash when he stops walking, glancing over his shoulder with an unconcerned expression. "Who's giving Wednesday up?"

His arms fold against his chest. You're working extremely hard not to look down where his biceps stretch the seams on his Hogwarts jumper. "Well, you obviously."

Marcus barks another laugh, he calls down the corridor: "We'll see you kids at dinner."

"Yeah, don't kill each other! It's only practice!"

You huff in disbelief, unconcerned with the running commentary.

"Uh," you mirror Oliver by folding your own arms. "no it's not. Come on, we can negotiate like civil people can't we?"

Thick caterpillar eyebrows disappear beyond the overgrowth hiding his forehead. "Negotiate? I'm the one who wasted three hours of my life in detention last week thanks to your big fat mouth. Wednesday is mine."

"That was a joint effort, twat." You can feel where your throat is flush with rising anger. It wires your jaw tight. "Are you really so bloody difficult that we can't even come to a simple agreement?"

"Difficult?" His arms have shifted from his chest to perch against his hips. "Just because I'm not giving you what you want? Cry me a fucking river, darling. Sorry Puffers, but I'm not your precious Marcus or Roger. I'm not gonna fold just cause you bat yer pretty little eyelashes at me."

Pretty?

You blink in surprise. It's brushed quickly aside for more pressing matters. Your hands scrunch into fists at your side:

"Well. I'm not giving it up. I want Wednesday."

"Neither am I."

"Fuck you."

"In your dreams."

Oliver collapses loudly into the open spot at the Gryffindor dining table. His callousness knocks Archie's goblet of pumpkin juice across the shiny wooden surface between dishes of sausages and peas and roast potatoes.

"Bloody hell, what's got you in a mood?" He's patting down the table with a serviette, transforming it into a orange lump under his palm.

Shaking his head, as if it would joggle the thought of you loose, Oliver stabs a chicken drumstick from the top of a nearby pile with his fork. He doesn't respond.

"Wait, let me guess." Archie presses the elbows of his red jumper into the still wet surface beside his plate. "Something to do with your little Hufflepuff sweetheart?"

Oliver grunted around a mouthful, looking annoyed. "Not mine and not a sweetheart. A fucking brat."

Archie seems to find something funny, leaning back on the bench with a haughty laugh. "Right. What she do this time?"

"Wants the pitch the same day as me for practice." He's mumbling around a mouthful of chicken, tipping forward to shove a spoon teetering with peas alongside it. "Refuses to give in, despite the fact that she put me in detention last week with Burbage."

Shifting to the edge of his seat, Archie leans around Oliver's frame to find your figure across the Hall at the yellow-lined table. He nods, seemingly finding you. "Yeah, she don't look too happy either."

"I don't care."

Oliver is trying very hard not to give into the itch to look back.

"Whatever," Archie's gaze finds his again. "in better news ... I spoke to the twins just before dinner. They're still on for tomorrow."

He's twitching in his seat, eyebrows dancing and grinning around his words like a kid who's found a matchbox.

Right. The twins.

Specifically, Daisy and Delilah Dawson: two Ravenclaw sisters a year below Oliver.

They're peng, Archie had reasoned, you need a little fling to get your mind off quidditch. You're too strung up, mate.

And sure, they were, but Oliver had more important things to do than gallivant across Hogsmeade attached to the hip of some sixth year who just wants to earn her I Kissed The Quidditch Captain! badge.

He'd groaned and whined and glowered at the prospect. Was it petulant? Naturally, but spending five sickles on subpar hot chocolate and making false conversation with some Ravenclaw was a waste of precious time in Oliver's humble opinion.

His priorities are, as they've always been, crystal clear in his mind.

1. Win Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup 2. Refer to point (1)

There was little wiggle room for the introduction of girls into any spot on that list.

You're the only one who came almost close to the tight list. Only because if there had to be a third priority, "shove winning the cup in Hufflepuff's face" might just crack it. He thought about you significantly more than any other girl in the castle and maybe that might mean something if he thought about too long about it, but fortunately, he refused to.

Regardless, Archie was adamant and more than a little pathetic when he mentioned that Daisy only agreed to see him if he had a date for Delilah. It was all settled very quickly.

And it's in this show of loyalty to his dearest friend that Oliver finds himself walking the cobblestone path down into Hogsmeade on a crisp Saturday morning.

The little village is bustling with students - it normally is - and the crowd has him knocking shoulders with Delilah who's walking in step beside him.

He's uncomfortable to find that she's staring dreamily up at the underside of his jaw.

On Oliver's other side: Archie is talking Daisy's ear off, making another pitiful attempt at holding her hand. He doesn't quite manage it and Oliver can't tell whether it's because she genuinely doesn't notice or she just can't be arsed.

"So," Delilah's voice is light and sweet. Delicate. "You mentioned that you take Arithmancy? I've heard it's tough."

Oliver nods airily. "Yeah ... yeah, it's difficult."

He tightens his jacket closer over his frame. The wind is whipping between their bodies and he thinks that maybe she didn't hear him over it's howling if her confused expression is anything to go by. He finds he's not bothered enough to repeat it.

The entrance of Madam Puddifoot's comes into view at the end of the walkway.

Oliver’s relieved. It's freezing out here and maybe he'll be more in the mood for flirtatious conversation once he's gotten some food in his stomach (Archie had insisted they skip breakfast: we have to order something to eat, so we can sit longer).

There's a jingle of a bell overhead when Archie pushes the door open, standing awkwardly aside to let the ladies in first.

Inside the shop, it's more than busy: powdery blue walls barely visible beyond the sea of Hogwarts couples crammed around tiny circle tables and waiters in red uniform knocking the back of their chairs with wobbling trays.

There's music coming from ... somewhere, it sounds like The Weird Sisters and at the sound, Oliver can't imagine how this morning could possibly go any worse.

Oh wait, yes he can.

You could be sitting at a table right by the door across a too-small-table knocking knees with some Slytherin prick. Like you are right there right now.

Delilah tugs on his wrist, it's gentle and he almost doesn't feel where he's being lead between tables towards an open booth across the room. He falls unceremoniously down against the torn leather, eyes never leaving your table.

You haven't noticed his presence, he knows because your lips are stretching around a giggle he can't hear but can already imagine. You don't smile around him, that's for sure.

Oliver's stomach is frothing and bubbling and he's trying really hard to tune back in where Archie's knocking a menu into his hand.

Of course you're there. To ruin his mood and his day, because you're just bloody perfect at it.

"So, am I seeing you girls at the Quidditch match on Saturday?" Archie's voice carries somewhere over his head.

Delilah laughs. Or maybe it's Daisy, Oliver doesn't look.

"Maybe," she says, "Depends if Oliver's gonna be there. You're gonna be there, right?"

He feels a hand nudge at his forearm. Definitely Delilah.

His gaze floats back over the table to offer a fraction of eye contact, he nods. "Oh, uh ... yeah. Sure, definitely."

Archie saves him by speaking again and your table finds Oliver's attention just in time for him to watch the boy sitting across from you swipe away a smudge of hot chocolate over your cheek. You smile, looking bashful and a little bit flushed.

A suffocating, searing heat rushes from the soles of Oliver's feet up between his every organ and over every tendril of hair on his head. His jaw tightens.

Of course he recognises the pratt across you.

Ryo Yoshida.

Every girl in the castle's wet dream, if the rumours he's heard are anything to go by. With his fucking sleek black hair and his Japanese accent that had witches flocking to him in the dozens.

He doesn't wonder why you're here with him.

Oliver is a proud man, but even he could admit that you're beautiful. Albeit reluctantly.

With your wide wet eyes that make him a little sick in a way that turns his stomach warm and the way you do your hair and those fucking dangly earrings that clink when you loose your cool on him.

That's without even mentioning the sound of your laugh - the one he only ever overhears - and your legs in the school uniform skirt and the way you look when you're diving on your broom under the light of a sunny day.

Alright, maybe he couldn't admit to all of it ... but you were okay.

Okay enough to crack a date with Ryo Yoshida or any other schmuck in the castle if you wanted.

"Anything good to eat here, Oliver?"

He pretends he doesn't hear her at first, but the kick at his shin under the table is harder to ignore.

Archie is glaring at him across the table. Dude, don't fuck this up for me.

Oliver's eyes find Delilah. She's scooted up close under his elbow and, to be fair to the poor girl, she was pretty too. Red lipstick smeared across her smiling lips, painted nails edging closer to his arm and perfectly styled hair sitting over her shoulder.

He nods, reaching for the menu: "Yeah. Actually, last time I had the Merlin Meal and it was pretty good."

She perks up, cherry red smile widening at his reply. "Oh, I thought that looked good!"

Training his eyes on the menu, Oliver wills himself not to look back at you. You're already souring his mood and you haven't even said a bloody word.

It's just what you do. What you do to him: infuriating him with the threat of an argument around any and every corner.

The waiter comes by and Oliver finds himself generous enough to gift Delilah with an arm draped over the back of her seat. She giggles and he pretends he doesn't notice when she mouths something that looked suspiciously like 'he's so hot' to her sister across the table.

Archie seems pleased too. Daisy has granted him, finally, her hand and his arm bends at an awkward angle to maintain the grip in hers under the table. He's positively beaming.

But despite Oliver’s best efforts to stay engaged, he still catches himself - only when it's too late - and his eyes are already glued to watching the way your jeans are hugging your thighs where you shift in your seat.

Your table is sat by the door. The chime of the bell calls for his gaze every time it tolls and every time he finds you let off a violent shiver in your seat as the autumn crisp rolls over your shoulders.

The door shuts again and you still.

Oliver can feel where the tips of his ears are burning red and his bones are itching: Ryo’s black suede coat is hanging over the back of his chair.

You’re still talking - hands rubbing together, fighting for warmth - he’s leaned over with his chin in palm to listen and his jacket sits unused behind his shoulders while you fucking shiver in the breeze.

It’s pathetic, really. He’s not sure whether he’s referring to himself or you: but Oliver is still looking and you’re still shaking like a leaf and he’s halfway to flipping tables to get to you and just give you his own fucking coat so you’ll stop shaking and stop annoying him—

“Oliver was just telling me about wanting to join the Hogwarts Choir.” He turns again to find Archie waiting with an expectant face, it's laced in a little bit of smugness: caught you. "Weren't you, mate?"

When he looks back you’re gone.

There's a short pile of sickles abandoned on the table and he hopes that Ryo at least had the good sense to pay for your drink after forcing you to sit in the freezing cold.

He shakes the thought off. Who cares.

In fact, he hopes you catch a cold.

The day passes like swimming through molasses: slow and sticky and exhausting.

It's nearly seven when Oliver presses a sympathy kiss into Delilah's cheek - Daisy allows for no such thing from Archie - and the two sisters skip off down the west wing corridor with a wiggle of their fingers over their shoulders at the boys.

"I think that went well." Archie's grinning, hands on his hip and glasses edging down his brown nose.

It's the first thing that genuinely brings a jolt of life out of Oliver all day. He teeters back on his heels, hands gripping his stomach where he laughs. Laughs like a madman.

"I think you need to get yer fucking head checked, mate."

The tail end of his outburst is simmering down, now barely a breathy chuckle, when a voice washes over him from down the other end of the corridor. "Wood!"

He'd recognise that voice anywhere. From the dead of sleep or the depth of the ocean.

He's slow when he turns on his heel, the remnants of his smile dripping all the way off the edge of his jaw until he's nearly frowning.

You're jogging, scarf bouncing at your shoulder with the movement, and coming to a stop right under his chin.

"What?"

There's a sharp edge to his tone - there always is - but he really hopes you haven't noticed how the syllable wobbled at the end. Now that you're right beneath his frame and not across the room, it's harder to ignore the lashes kissing at the corner of your eyes. You're wearing lip gloss and he knows it's for Ryo.

His stomach is churning and your face is twisting into something he is struggling to recognise.

"I--" your hands wring, eyes flickering behind to where Archie's watching curiously (you wave awkwardly). "You ... you can have Wednesday."

It's not what Oliver is anticipating. He almost takes a full step back in surprise.

"Why?"

Your eyes roll in a comfortably familiar way, "Because Hooch wants an answer tonight and one of us had to be the bigger person."

His brow tightens, eyes roving down the stitching of your sweater. It's cute. He's quiet.

"You not gonna argue?" You throw your words quickly, snatching them back before he can answer: "Perfect. I'll send her an owl before bed."

You're marching back down the corridor before he has chance to say anything else and he's watching your retreating figure with the hope - that he’s not gonna address - you’re not going to cozy up somewhere in the Slytherin dorm room.

“Well.” Archie’s running a hand over his thick black curls. “That was unexpected.”

Oliver huffs. “It’s been a weird day.”

An uneasy air has settled over Hogwarts.

It came in like a storm front, drifting in on the wind that dropped the article at the door of the castle.

The same copy of The Daily Prophet has been doing the rounds between dormitories and class rooms all week: Sirius Black, Azkaban’s most infamous prisoner and recent escapee, has been sighted in Dufftown by an astute Muggle, The Daily Prophet reports.

Dufftown. A barely twenty minute ride by carriage from Hogwarts bridge.

It’s got the castle on edge, it’s got you on edge. Creeping around the castle like Sirius Black is gonna jump out from around any corner.

Dumbledore stationing dementors at the edges of the castle was the tipping point for the cold drip of trickling fear in your chest that's become easy to ignore in daylight - when Cherry and Enzo are flittering around you between classes - but in moments like these, like now, when you’re on the tail end of a quidditch practice, grow like a poisonous black vine up around every nerve in your body. A Monday night, the team’s kit weighing heavy in your arms - broomstick tucked precariously in the bend of one elbow - and following the siren call of the dormitory showers.

You’d promised the team you’d get them to the house elves before the upcoming match on Saturday. The match against Gryffindor.

But for tonight, they’re gonna live in a pile at the end of your bed.

You’re exhausted: calves burning, sweat sticking loose hairs to your forehead and probably smelling like wet socks and broomstick polish.

The touch of night is suffocating the flicker of the corridor lamps. It’s long past the recently set curfew and you know that if McGonagall finds you out you’re likely in deep enough trouble to get you off Saturday’s match roster.

Despite the prospect, you don’t dwell on it. You find you’re more worried about escaped Azkaban convicts: the echo of your own footsteps setting you further on edge.

You’ve craned your neck over your shoulder enough times to form a knot there. Each time you’re relieved to find that Sirius Black hasn’t crept up behind you.

Suddenly, the squeak of your boots against the stone floor are un-alone.

Someone is marching and right in your direction. Your heart bangs wildly on the inside of your ribcage - blood turning to an icy slurry in your veins, but you don’t move.

The corner is sharp when the figure turns into the corridor you stand and the scream is halfway out your throat when your eyes find his face.

Absent is the matted black hair and sunken eyes you’re anticipating. Instead, warm brown rings reflect the fire of the lit torches.

Your broomstick clutters to the floor, warm relief flooding down to your fingertips. “Fucking hell, Wood.”

He looks just as surprised as you. Only for a moment, though, before his gaze is tightening in annoyance again.

“I thought you were Sirius Black.“

“Well that’s stupid isn’t it.”

You huff, shifting the weight of the team’s robes precariously between your arms: squatting to try scoop up your broomstick off the floor again. You’re halfway successful when it clatters loudly back against the stone floor.

“What are you even doin’ out here so late? You know curfew is passed, don’t you?” His voice curls with something that might be mistaken for concern if you didn’t know who you were talking to.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

You’re reaching down again. A robe on the top of the pile slips off, landing beside the broomstick.

“Aye right. Whatever, goodnight.”

He’s brushing past you.

In a movement neither of you anticipated, driven by the fear shooting up your spine again, your hand finds his wrist. “Wait—“

Oliver freezes: eyes dropping to where you’re connected. You rip your hand back, as if scalded.

“I …” the words mash and wrestle at the back of your throat. “Could …”

You glance down the darkened corridor awaiting you in the journey back to your dorm before meeting his face again. It’s unreadable.

His brow scrunches. “Yes?"

"Could you want me to walk my common room?”

Embarrassment sears at your cheeks. On a normal day, you’d sooner go dancing naked under the Whomping Willow before asking Oliver Wood a favour but that was before the image of Sirius Black swum behind your eyes everywhere you looked.

Oliver would be fairly useless if faced with the criminal, naturally, but at least you wouldn’t die alone.

“Please?” Your voice is quiet and you think it’s the gentlest word you’ve ever said to him.

There’s a long stretch of quiet. His eyes flicker between your face and the broomstick on the floor. It’s quickly stretching past the blurring boundaries of an appropriate time for consideration.

You’re practically melting in embarrassment now, electing to make the decision for him.

“Never mind.” You squat again, successful this time in sticking the broomstick back under your arm. The dropped robe is more difficult but you manage to replace it. “Forget I asked.”

Oliver’s moving before you’re stood straight up again. He’s reaching for your broomstick, you instinctively yank it back but he sticks you with a firm look and his thumb is unexpectedly soft where it caresses over your knuckle wrapped around the handle.

Your grip loosens and he perches the broomstick over his shoulder with ease. He surprises you again by taking half the load of laundry in your arms into his own.

“C’mon, before someone catches us out here. I’m not doing any more detention because of you.”

He’s already three feet ahead when blood rushes down to your legs, prompting them to chase after his figure. The movement is easier, lightened by Oliver’s surprise act of kindness.

You fall into step beside him, half-tempted to comment on his willingness to share your burden, but knowing him, one wrong word and he’d dump it all back into your arms.

It’s quiet.

You don’t make a move to talk and Oliver doesn’t look your way. It dawns on you that Gryffindor dormitory is in the other direction and you’re still deciding whether to feel guilty or flattered over the fact when Oliver speaks.

“Why’re you out here alone?”

You look, met with the side of his face: it’s still like he hadn’t said anything at all. There’s a tugging instinct to snap at him.

Why do you care?

But his tone is perceptibly gentle enough that you think maybe, just this once, it won’t end in an argument. You test the tepid waters.

“Uh …” your head knocks sideways, tilted as you speak. “I let the team come up early while I sorted the quaffles in the sports closet by the pitch. Didn’t want them walking up in the dark.”

You’re tempted to mention that it was his team last week that left it in such a mess. You don’t.

"And now you��re walking in the dark yourself? Smart move, princess."

Your breath hitches.

It’s not the first time he’s called you that. Princess. A couple times over the years, usually in the heat of a spiraling argument, but never so benign. While still ungentle, the tone is soft enough that it rings in your ears.

You choose not to succumb to the antagonization of his reply. Humming, you shrug. "Rather me than them."

His eyes flicker, almost barely, to the high apple of your cheek. You notice in the corner of your eye how his jaw twitches, like he wants to say something.

He seemingly decides otherwise because he focuses his eyes ahead of him and stays silent.

The overhanging ceiling art is sloping down, air going sticky with the scents of the kitchen the further you go: it’s the trademark of the approaching Hufflepuff common room.

Another two turns and it will be the end of your little journey with Oliver Wood.

"‘M surprised Ryo didn’t walk you up."

You're more surprised than you've been since finding him, eyes widening in confusion. He grants you another look out the side of his eye.

"How do you know about that?"

Oliver shrugs, shifting your broomstick to the other shoulder.

"The whole world saw your little date down at Madam Puddifoot's the other day."

Of course. Word travels faster through seventh year than a new Firebolt.

"Yeah. Well." You hum. "That's not gonna be happening again anytime soon.”

It had all been good and well. The rush of having Ryo Yoshida, Hogwart's most eligible bachelor, ask you out and - to be fair - the date had been fine. Ryo was funny and made good conversation but nothing near thrilling enough to daydream over and you'd allowed yourself to brush over a couple red flags because of it, until Cherry came bursting into your dormitory less than a day after your date relaying how he'd caught her between classes to ask her out to the same spot.

"Why's that?"

You're confused now, why Oliver cares or how he'd become curious enough to actually ask. You're even more confused as to why you decide to answer him. You shrug, "He asked Cherry out the very next day. She said no, obviously, but that was enough to let the whole thing go."

You expect him to say something malicious, quip something spiteful about What you did you think would happen? You're nowhere near in his league.

He doesn't.

"He's an idiot."

Not for the first time in the last five minutes, you're not sure what to say. You think this is the longest a conversation has gone without an argument. You sigh, "Yeah."

The stack-up of barrels comes into view. You dig into you the deep pocket on the inside of your robe, emerging with your wand.

Oliver stops, eyes flickering between the barrels and his shining black boots.

You step ahead, tapping the barrels in the rhythm that's become second-nature and the entryway opens.

Turning to him, you offer out an arm and he sets the robes back into your hands. The awkwardness is stifling. He leans forward, tucking the broomstick under your arm, hand wavering to make sure it doesn't fall again. The gesture makes the hold in your knees wobbly.

He nods. "Right. Goodnight."

You nod back, so quickly that you hear your earrings jingle. "Yeah, g'night."

Oliver turns, marching back the way you came and you watch him: biting your bottom lip so hard you're half expecting to draw blood.

"Thank you!" It leaps from your mouth before you have you moment to let it marinate on your tongue. You wince immediately.

He pauses, turning halfway on his heel. He smiles, it's not wide enough for teeth, but definitely wide enough to have your heart falling through your stomach. He nods again and then he's gone.

Saturday arrives gloomy and dripping.

It makes for good quidditch conditions, but the chill in the air is still hard to ignore when you step out into mushy grass under stadium lights. The roar of the crowd nearly deafens you, but it'll only take a couple minutes in the air for it to burn down to a soft hum.

In the middle of the stadium floor: Hooch is standing with a whistle to her lips, her figure blurred by the drizzle. Oliver stands beside her, and behind you, your team is clambering onto their brooms and rising into the air with the freshly washed kit over their backs.

You go to walk, but the icy glance Oliver is sending your way convinces you into a jog. He's always impatient before a game, itchy, antsy.

"On time as usual." Hooch hums when you land beside her.

"Got the whole bloody school waiting on her." Oliver mutters but Hooch shrugs him off, pulling the game coin out from inside her robes.

"Perfect." She positions it so we can see, "Gryffindor?"

Oliver straightens out, chest swelling: "Heads."

Hooch nods and before you can suck in another breath, the coin is in the air. She catches it with a skilled hand, flipping and revealing it to the set of captains.

"Hufflepuff, first ball!" She shouts loud enough that the floating players can hear. They nod, some groaning.

The coach turns back on the captains, "I want a fair game kids, no fighting."

"Me and Ollie? Fight?" You smile, "Never, coach."

Oliver rolls his eyes. "Yes, coach."

Suddenly you're above the pitch, sucking in breaths of wet air and struck with that familiar feeling like you could conquer the world on just your broomstick.

The quaffle flies and you stoop to catch it, twisting around Alicia Spinnet to snatch the ball before she's even noticed you're there.

Rain pelts on heads and the game goes on.

Oliver is shouting like a madman from his place in front of the goals behind you - you’ve long learnt to drown it out. He does it half to annoy his own team and half to distract yours.

You're spinning, flying, swooping and - as you predicted - the crowd has become a distant call, a blurring sight of yellow and red.

An hour passes and the game is already halfway into the next when there's a rise in the crowd. It's not the normal yells and whoops and hollers, but you still don't look up: you're calling over to Jane and Wyatt, your beaters.

“Get between the twins, and stay there!”

Below, Harry Potter and your own seeker, Cedric Diggory, are flying in circles around each other. The call of Cedric's name is on the tip of your tongue when there’s another ripple of sound off the crowd and this one draws your eyes. It’s there for a second before you find the army of figures descending on the pitch.

Your breath catches in your throat, freezing solid so you can’t swallow.

The dementors are even more ghostly this close. You'd never seen so many.

A darkness is permeating the air, the sight of the supporters in the stand dissipating into black. They’re floating in from every corner, drifting at a pace that’s too fast for you to make a move in any direction.

There’s a scream and your gaze finds the body falling through the sky: it’s Harry.

The ground is racing up to meet him and adrenaline drives your hand to tip your broom, to chase after his quickly disappearing shape when a blurry figure blocks your way.

Someone yells your name but you don’t hear it.

You’d never imagined examining a dementor, much less this up close, but even if you had: nothing your imagination could conjure up would ever come close to the harrowing darkness of its empty eye-sockets.

Its silhouette spreads over every corner of your vision, black like night and blocking the view of the sky. Your nose is so close you could tip forward and meet it's silken cloak.

A cold washes over your body like you've never felt, like you're freezing over: ice creeping up your fingertips, shoulders and face.

Your brain looses all grip on thought, replaced with a seeping dread. It barely acknowledges where a scabbed, decomposing hand is reaching out to you.

Charcoal fingertips brush your cheek when you're tugged back, all the way off your broomstick.

There's not even a last coherent thought to panic when you're engulfed in a warm chest, a hand stabilising around your waist onto a new broomstick. It dips and the green grass is reaching up to you.

The new heat engulfs you through to your bones. You grasp blindly for the expanse of a thick veined neck, wrapping yourself around him.

Digging your face into his shoulder, it takes one glance at the scarlet robes to know who it is. Oliver's panting, one hand holding you against him while the other steers the broomstick down to the floor.

You're trembling, no thought occupying any space beyond Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, Oliver--

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?"

The voice is distant, said against your temple but echoing as if from the end of a long corridor. You don't register where hot tears are wetting your cheeks, erupting over your face without being called.

His words prompt you closer: a tight arm furling over his shoulders and wrapping around him like a vine around an old tree.

"O-Oliver ..."

The hand over your waist tightens. "Sh ... it's fine. You're fine."

The broomstick lands shakily, Oliver's boots squelching into muddy grass. You barely realise you're back on ground when another hand is tugging you off, but you cling tighter to the sweaty red neck: shaking your wet face against his well-pressed robes.

"C'mon, princess ..." His calloused hands pry you from him, gently like you're a piece of china sitting on the very edge of a high shelf. "It's Pomfrey, she's gonna look after you."

You think you feel a kiss press into your hairline before you're being scooped up into a new set of arms. Madam Pomfrey is warm too, smelling like antiseptic and maple syrup.

There's another swell of noise erupting from the supporters above and you're being lead away.

Oliver watches your figure, slumped against the school nurse until you've disappeared into the medical tent.

His heart is going wild, slamming against the walls of his ribcage. Beside him his hands are shaking and he's sucking in thick gulps of air, he finds it still isn't enough oxygen.

There's another splatter where Angelina has landed a few feet behind him. She's panting too, tugging on the edge of his robes and pointing up into the sky.

"Wood!" She's frantic, "They won, Cedric caught the snitch!"

His mouth is dry when he swallows. Rain catches in his eye when he looks up, half the Hufflepuff team is no longer in the sky and the Gryffindors are all on their way down.

"I ..." feeling is returning to his fingertips, "is ... where's Harry?"

Angelina points in the direction of the medical tent. Above, the pitch is engulfed in a bright white light and Oliver catches the wispy end of a shining phoenix chasing between disappearing Dementors. It's a patronus. Dumbledore's, Oliver figures somewhere in his muddy brain.

"Is everyone else okay?"

Angelina nods. Her eyes flicker to the medical tent then back at him. "Is she?"

The image returns to him: the mass of darkness engulfing your figure in the sky. The terror that ripped through him like he was being torn apart from the inside, the whistle of the wind that stung over his ears and how it blocked out his mutterings of please, please, please--

He shakes his head. "She's too tough for her own good. She'll ... she'll be fine."

But it comes out like he's trying to convince himself more than Angelina.

Oliver doesn't see you for a few days.

Two, to be exact, and his skin itches the entire time. A deep itch, like it's coming from his bones.

It's only on Monday evening at dinner, with the Hufflepuff table whooping, that you come strolling back into the light of his eyes.

Your head is down, flushed with all the attention, and when you sit, kids are rising from their seats to tackle you into side hugs. He can tell you're embarrassed but he can't gather himself enough to care: the warm rush of relief flooding his stomach so much so that if he dared open his mouth it would all come rushing out.

You look fine. All limbs attached and smiling, it settles him.

He doesn't snap at Archie when he knocks his shoulder with a "you're staring" and his dinner suddenly looks more appetising when he peels his eyes off your figure down to his plate. He finds that he doesn't care as much as he usually does where Enzo's lanky arm is strung over your shoulder.

The week passes in a flurry.

While you share several classes, Oliver doesn't share a single word with you. It's hard not to notice that you're working very hard not to interact with him.

In Muggle Studies, you arrive late and keep your nose tucked deep into the pages of a textbook he knows you couldn't care less about. You're up and out of the classroom before he's even zipped up his bag. It's the same in Potions and Arithmacy.

While going days without talking to each other is not unusual, this time he can tell it’s on purpose. He pretends that he doesn't care.

The rain has cleared and when Friday arrives the sunset is red and orange and purple, granting Oliver with a rare enchanting view out his bedroom window where it's setting behind the East tower.

It's in this quiet, peaceful moment that Archie comes bouncing in with some news of a party happening in the Ravenclaw dormitory.

He's indifferent but Archie is nothing if not convincing.

"Come on, dude. You're literally a hermit crab." He sighs, falling back against his own poster bed across Oliver's. "There will be girls."

"There's girls everywhere, Arch."

His eyebrows wiggle, "And alcohol."

It takes a bit more pestering and the Weasley twins rushing in after him with the same news (and a far less patient approach) to get him up off his bed.

He digs in his cupboard for the last pair of clean jeans and a somewhat suitable purple jumper, tugging them on with a grumble, before he's being dragged by both arms - a twin on each side - across the castle to the West tower wherein resides the Ravenclaw population.

The common room is bustling with seventh years, he recognises them from all houses, and a table set up to the side with some trays of food. He's barely made himself comfortable when Katie Bell is shoving a red solo cup into his hand:

"It's Angelina's brew." She informs him.

He can believe that. The liquid is strong, burning down his throat followed by the barely there after-taste of pumpkin juice. Oliver downs the whole thing in one go.

The music swells louder and he's three cups of Angelina's concoction deep when you come tumbling through the entrance portal.

You're drunk yourself, he can tell by the way you're giggling and half leaning on Cherry Stretton. Bumping through people, not passing without leaning back to apologise to them tipsily, you head straight into the arms of Angelina and Alicia Spinnet. They smile in surprise, engulfing you in their arms.

Despite his and your long-held rivalry, it had done nothing to stop the rest of his team from sweetening up to you. The twins called you their favourite yellow tie at regular intervals and the girls found you nothing less than endearing. Oliver could lie and say he hated it.

Instead, he wrestles his way to where Katie is situated with more to drink, filling his cup and downing it.

The room is twisting in a flurry of colours and faces and it's the lightest you've felt in almost a week. You giggle against Enzo, his dreads tucked safely back in a bun while Cedric sets a Dragon-Barrel Brandy shot on fire and hands it carefully over.

Enzo's head knocks back, slipping the burning liquid down his throat with a wince. There's a cheer at his accomplishment, and suddenly Cedric's knocking your elbow: "you're next, Cap!"

After the match-gone-wrong, Madam Pomfrey had held you down in the infirmary until Monday morning. You were fed copious amounts of chocolate - in the form of bars and drinks and cakes and ice creams. By Saturday night you were - surely a couple kilograms heavier - and feeling fine, but Pomfrey was nothing if not paranoid:

"That was no light ordeal you went through, dear. I'm not letting you out of my sight until I'm happy with you."

In all honesty, you'd prefer if the whole school forgot it ever happened.

If Pomfrey didn't fret and your friends didn't come by every meal time and your team stopped sending you get better! letters and nobody mentioned it ever again.

More than anyone, you wished Oliver would forget. The ordeal, or maybe just you as a person.

You'd made a stupid decision under the heat of stadium lights and the influence of racing adrenaline, trying to chase for Harry, and he'd made a stupider decision coming to save you from yourself.

When it got quiet in the infirmary past dusk and Harry's shadowy figure was long since snoring in the bed across yours, you could feel Oliver's touch. Could feel it's strong hold wrapped around your waist and the voice against you the back of your neck and the lips at your temple.

You never reminisced long: for with his touch came the writhing, scalding fear burrowing a hole in your chest.

He could tease you, he will tease you.

Oliver had saved you from the clutches of a dementor moments from your soul being sucked out your body and you'd cried in his chest the whole time, refused to let him go in front of the whole school. It was a mortification you would never live down. And if Oliver decided he was going to use it against you, even once, you were sure you'd melt into the floor in shame.

It's what's made the Firewhiskey and Lemon squash concoction Cherry had handed you back in her room so easy to toss back. It stung and steam rose out your mouth where you'd panted for air. There was another ... and another, they went down the same.

The walk across the castle to reach the Ravenclaw Tower had been wobbly and you'd laughed with your friends loud enough to wake up the whole castle you're sure, but it dissolved the fear that clung to your bones. The fear that he was here, lingering between the people in the crowded blue common room.

Now the liquor is fading. Numbing to a dull buzz and you decline Cedric's offer at a burning shot, thinking about how proud you'll be of yourself when you wake up tomorrow morning in bed rather than wrapped around a toilet seat and hauling up guts into the bowl.

The party, not unlike yourself, is dimming.

Students are crawling away into all corners, each with their own excuse. I have a potions essay to do or No, dude, I'm too drunk for this or Flint wants us down at the pitch for drills at eight tomorrow morning, I gotta head to bed.

The crowd, though thinning, is beginning to clump into respective circles across the room. You glance annoyed at the fireplace where the flames crack merrily. Even with your short skirt and thin satin top, the heat of the common room is stifling.

Enzo is on his fourth burning shot, it's lost it's appeal to the crowd but he seems undeterred, knocking Cedric in the shoulder with the empty shot glass motioning: another! You yawn, playing mindlessly with the ruffled sleeve of your shirt.

"Oh no," A harsh tug at your hand draws you from the lure of sleep that's fogging your mind. "The night is young, no yawning!"

Cherry has your wrist in her grip, Enzo's in the other. He blinks blearily down at his friends.

"Huh?"

"Come on," Cherry's brown eyes roll far back in her head. "Fred says they're starting Seven Minutes In Heaven. Let's go join--"

"Seven minutes--?" you laugh between words, "Cher, are you mad?"

She whines, pouting like a kicked dog. "It'll be fun. Besides, when last did you have a good fucking snog? Too long, I say!"

Somehow, you're not only convinced across the room into a spot onto the floor in a circle of a couple others, but a drink has ended up in your hand and its contents quickly down your gullet.

For the nerves, you assure yourself.

Before you know it, Angelina - who's conveniently settled beside you - is topping up your plastic cup with a nearly empty bottle of Daisyroot Draught. "This is the good stuff. Katie stashed it in, her sister works at a brewery."

You smile nervously, nod, and take a tentative sip. The pre-existing buzz in your head convinces you it's not so bad.

In the circle is a couple Gryffindors you recognise, some giggling Slytherin girls, a Ravenclaw you can't name and three members of your quidditch team. There's an open spot on the side you don't take note of.

That is until Archie Kumar is steering a grumpy, visibly drunk Oliver Wood into the open place and collapsing beside him.

Your breath catches in your throat, heart sinking into your stomach like a stone. You're halfway off the floor, suddenly desperate for the loo, when Cherry - on your left side - drags you back down to the floor.

Maybe it's Katie's sister's brew, but you tumble too easily back onto your bum.

"Relax. Just don't look at him, okay?"

You suck in another breath, eyes trained on the white moon outline sewn into the rug. "Yeah ... okay."

It doesn't hold long and when you find the Gryffindor captain again, his gaze is trained on your face. It's stone cold. You gasp quietly and look away.

"Right!" George Weasley is on his feet, setting an empty Firewhisky bottle into the centre. "Who's first?"

Alicia shuffles forward on her knees, the first of the group to move, and the bottle goes spinning. It lands on the Ravenclaw boy. He grins and she does too: Fred wolf-whistles when they stand.

The "heaven" in question is a tall oak cabinet leaning against the back wall of the common room. The pair disappear into its depths and conversation rises again as the circle waits.

You sip your drink in large gulps, trying to hold conversation with Angelina against Oliver's hot gaze that's burning a hole through the side of your face. It's difficult: the Gryffindor girl is so drunk that she's talking with her eyes closed.

Seven minutes later, there's a chorus of "time's up!", Alicia and the boy emerge another ten seconds later. They're rearranging their clothes and Alicia is as scarlet as her quidditch robes. The boy is grinning like the cat who caught the canary. You're suddenly struck with the violent urge to throw up.

The game goes on like that, round after round. Lee Jordan and Jane Emmet (your beater), Katie and Wyatt (your other beater), Cherry and a pretty Slytherin girl you don't know - she's especially chuffed when she returns, red lipstick smeared over her chin.

You're working very hard not to look at Oliver, much less think about him, but it's proving difficult. Every time the bottle takes its spin, your stomach churns.

It had occurred to you during the time that Alicia and that boy were in the closet that there was a very real chance that Oliver could be called up when one of those pretty Slytherins take their turn at the bottle. The thought had made you down the last of your drink and immediately want to vomit it all back up into your cup.

The image of their slender arms curling around his criminally wide-set shoulders, Oliver pushing them back against the inside wall of the grand closet. Would he make noise? Would he sigh or groan against their lips or whisper something about how beautiful they looked tonight in their ears--

"Ollie, you're up mate."

You can't remember who said it, but the words stripped your gaze off Angelina and straight into the pooling brown eyes you'd been avoiding all week long.

He sighed, grumbling under his breath and only with a less-than-gentle nudge from Archie, did he lean up on thighs that flexed unfairly -- bloody hell, stop it! -- and wrap his hand over the neck of the bottle: it went spinning.

The only sound you could hear was the twist of the glass against the woven rug and the hum of your own blood rushing past your ears. It stopped.

"No fucking ways." Enzo cracked from two people down.

A hand landed on your shoulder, shaking you half off your arse: Angelina. "You're up, babe! Go!"

The bottle was pointing irrefutably at your little spot in the circle.

Oliver's face was as white as you'd ever seen it when you dared look up.

"I-I'm not going in with him--" It was the first thing that came to your mind and went spluttering out your mouth.

George was laughing so hard that he'd fallen all the way onto his back. The roar of the group was ear-splitting.

"There's no ways I'm going in with her!"

"Let's end this feud once and for all," Katie bellowed over their heads. "Captain versus captain!"

You're being knocked from all sides, hands crawling under your arms and lifting you off the floor. Across the circle, Oliver is experiencing the same and before you know it: the wooden doors of the cabinet are creaking open.

"Go on!" Lee's finger is piercing your side.

Oliver is beside you but you won't look. You take one last look over your shoulder at Cherry back on the floor, she does nothing but offer a sympathetic shrug and mouths "sorry, dear".

Your hand reaches before Oliver's, flinging the door open with maybe a little too much force. It bangs against the wall behind it.

"Let's get this over with." You mumble, only half concerned that he heard you.

You slouch climbing in, the top is low and the space is even more cramped than what you assumed. To your surprise, Oliver is stepping in after you. He takes his turn at slamming the door, shutting it this time.

It's dark inside, but not enough that you can't see. Light is peaking in through the cracks and he's leaned back against the opposite wall to you.

In the narrow space, your legs are twisting around each other to stand: his one knee situated between yours. In the dimness, he folds his arms and you notice for the first time the jumper he's wearing. The purple one, you recognise it as the one he's had for years. Time has taken its toll where the jumper is clinging to life around his frame, Oliver having grown at least three times wider while the jumper has remained the same size.

"Go on, Wood, give her a kiss!"

The voice is unrecognisable but it knocks your tongue back into your mouth where you'd been ogling at his torso.

His arms are folded, proffering you with a glare that could cut through steel. He makes no visible sign that he'd heard the shout at all. You mirror him, folding your own arms.

"I'm not kissing you."

His head cocks. "Oh, so you're talking to me now?"

You suck in a sharp breath. It's not the response you're anticipating. "What?"

"So we're playing dumb?" He leans just a fraction closer. You can smell the linger of alcohol on his breath, but it doesn't work hard enough to drown out the smell of peppermint that follows him around. "Doesn't suit you, princess."

"I'm not playing anything. I don't know what you're talking about." You double down. It's probably not sustainable but the heat of his body almost against yours and the thrum of liquor in your blood makes the decision for you.

"Y've been avoiding me all week."

"I haven't"

"You're a bad liar."

You swallow hard. Embarrassment is rising again, making your head spin. Oliver's chest is puffed up in anger, you can tell because you've had five years to learn the look like the back of your hand. Except, now - as it has been for a longer time than you care to admit - it's harder to focus on the waves of fury reflecting off of him when his face is just so ... beautiful. Nose scrunched and lips pulled tight into a grimace.

It's what makes you change tactics, you think.

"So what if I was? Why does it matter?"

His arms unfold, eyes rolling so far that his head knocks back against the wood of the cupboard.

"Why?" you press, "Did you miss me, Wood?"

"Maybe I did."

He's looking at you again. For what feels like the hundredth time just tonight, your breath escapes you in a rush and your lungs struggle to grasp back at it. Your face softens without meaning to.

You blink at him.

"You did?" It's a whisper.

His arms are still folded but something clement passes like a shadow over his features.

"No."

His face betrays his words, eyes soft and lip daring to curl up at the edge.

The air in the tight space goes cold. Or maybe it's your blood. It's more likely the look on Oliver's face: like he hasn't just turned your organs to slush. You're all the way sober now.

"I'm not kissing you." You repeat dumbly, but it's gentle.

Merlin, you want to kiss him so fucking badly.

"You mentioned." He's almost, almost, smiling. It's gentle too.

The space between you falls quiet. You're suddenly overly focused on the brush of his knee between yours. His swirling brown eyes catch on the split of light creeping in past the hinge on the door.

It stays like that until your voice creeps nervously out. "I was embarrassed. Am, I am embarrassed."

A thick brow tightens in confusion. "Why?"

You huff, almost annoyed. Your eyes train on a dark spot by your intertwined feet. "Come on, Wood."

"What, about the match?" The alcohol thickens his accent.

Your silence seems to answer his question. The apples of your cheeks are warming again.

"What was I supposed to do, leave you to have you bloody soul sucked out yer body?" His voice is rising, "No, princess, I'm not apologising for that."

It's an outpour that you're not expecting. Oliver's clearly in the mood to shock and surprise tonight.

Your lips tighten around the words that are all fighting for the spot at the tip of your tongue. Silence reigns while they argue, he's still watching you with exasperation set into the lines of his face.

"Princess." You settle.

His expression twists again. "What?"

"You always call me that. Why?" It's a question that you buried long ago. But his proximity, in conjunction with the night you've had, unearths it.

It's his turn to look surprised. He grumbles some indiscernable Scottish blabber before-- "It's because y'are a princess. Spoilt and bratty. Always gets her way."

There's no malice to his response, you find. It draws a chuckle from the depths of your chest.

"Aye, right." You mimic his accent and his quip, one he's used many times at you.

He laughs. It's not a sound you hear often and it's setting your whole nervous system alight like a tangled bunch of christmas lights. His whole body's shaking with it, head resting back against the wood again, and you really do think you might grab him and kiss him -- when the door flies open again: seeping his whole body in yellow light.

Alicia's standing at the opening, grin wide as night is wide and clearly expectant on catching you with your tongues down each other's throats.

If she'd given you another three seconds she just might have.

"Oh." She slumps in disappointment, looking back over her shoulder and shaking her head to the expectant crowd. They groan collectively. "Well, love birds, your time is up."

You'd almost forgotten where you were. Oliver clears his throat, the ghost of his laugh impossible to find on his face, and clambers over your legs out into the common room again. He doesn't pass without brushing his hand over yours.

It's nearly three in the morning when Enzo finally lets up.

His long legs are sprawled across the midnight blue couch in the middle of the common room. Fiona, a lovely Ravenclaw girl you'd met just tonight, shrugs at you: "Don't stress it. He can crash here tonight."

The party is long since dead. Seven Minutes In Heaven had looped another three rounds before everyone had gotten their chance in the dusty cupboard and began to grumble in boredom.

You'd avoided Oliver's eyes the whole time again, sure that if you looked he'd be able to read the fondness on your face.

It wasn't long after that the last of the students dissolved in the direction of their respective bedrooms. With your dear friend in good hands with the Ravenclaws, you loop your arm with Cherry - knocking against her side towards the portal.

You've barely pushed it ajar when she breaks off you, "Hold on, I need to get my Transfig notes from Jacob!"

"Cher, it's three in the morning?"

Alcohol is directing her legs in the opposite direction clumsily, "I'll wake him. If I fail another quiz, Mcgee's gonna have my arse."

She's gone before she catches your call: "I'll find you outside!"

The portal creaks where you shove it open again. The corridor is dimly lit and colder than the common room and a shiver chases up your exposed legs.

"Bloody hell." You run a hand over your forearms.

It's quiet too, and empty besides the Gryffindor captain leaning against the stone wall closest to the entrance you've just emerged from.

"Merlin," your eyes find his. "Not you again."

The flush over your cheeks is warding off the chill.

Oliver shrugs. "Me again."

An awkward silence permeates. Against better judgement, you shuffle forward, leaning against the wall beside him. He doesn't react, arms folded and staring into the inky abyss of the corridor leading out to the rest of the castle.

"Why're you out here?" You ask, tucking your hands between your back and the wall.

"Archie." He huffs out, voice wrapped in annoyance. "He's in there with Penelope. I gave him ten minutes."

Ah, Penelope Clearwater. She'd joined the game in the last round. A good thing too because Oliver's friend was looking more crestfallen as the bottle spun again and again, surpassing him each time. Penelope had taken the last turn, ending up with her hair in every direction and Archie's spectacles leaning half off his face when they emerged from the cupboard.

"You?"

The eddy of average conversation is strange, but you find you like it.

"Cherry." You hum. "Something about quiz notes."

He drops his head back against the wall.

"That what they calling it now?"

It startles you, head tilting to stare up at the side of his face with a grin: "oh, Wood’s got jokes now? I didn’t know it was possible for you to make a joke."

His eyes flutter shut, a twinkle of laughter bubbling out of his frame. Tucking his head down to his chest, he shrugs against his own light chuckle. "I have them. I just don’t share them with you."

You giggle back at him. "Right. Well then you better stop smiling there, someone might walk past and think we’re friends."

He shakes his head, the sound of his snicker fading but leaving behind the imprint of a smile. "Nobody’s gonna think that."

You lean back again, eyes drifting over the low ceiling. Quiet falls again - not uncomfortable - and you let it linger for a moment. A thought tugs on a loose string in your mind, not a new one, but one you’ve carefully buried over time.

It comes falling out your mouth. "You ever think about how it might be ... if things were different?"

The question grants you a look out the side of his eye. "Different?"

"Y’know," you shrug, the very last remains of alcohol are ebbing and unsureness is replacing where it stood. "If we … we had—"

"If you hadn’t suckered me in the bloody nose?" His words are unexpectedly fond.

You laugh at him, "If you hadn’t deserved to be suckered in the bloody nose."

He draws in a long breath, not answering. It prompts you.

"We could have been friends." You whisper, more to your chest than to him really.

But he hears it. "We would never be friends."

It stings sharper than it should. Your shoulders go stiff and the corners of your eyes sting inexplicably, turning the corridor blurry. A dying fire revives in your chest, blistering the cave, reminding you why Oliver Wood has been nothing but a stake in your side since you were thirteen years old.

"Of course. How stupid of me, for a minute I forgot what an absolute arsehole you are." You push off the wall, intent in going to dig out Cherry from the depths of the Ravenclaw dormitory. "Goodnight, Wood."

An arm wraps around your waist, not unlike it'd done a week ago in the air of the quidditch pitch, lurching you into him until you're pressed back against the cool stone of the corridor wall.

Oliver looms over you, crouched so that your nose bumps against his. "Don't sulk, princess."

It all happens at once: his hands grab onto the fat of your hips, digging in there like he really does hate you, and lips crash against yours like maybe he doesn't at all.

He stays there, unmoving for a second that feels a year long.

Where the inside of your brain had been buzzing with runaway threads of thought, ribbons streaking out in all directions: they disappear in a sizzling light. Oliver Wood is kissing me.

You melt against him, tipping up onto your toes and latch onto muscled shoulders. He seemingly takes that as his cue, pressing you closer against his body with his arm - lifting you half off the wall.

He tastes like the remnants of Firewhisky and pumpkin juice, the flavour setting every nerve ending in your body on fire. Lips soft but persistent while his hands grip onto you like you'd dissolve into dust if he didn't.

It's aggressive, but familiar in that way. Oliver is nothing if not hot-blooded and his touch, darting between your hips and your face is turning you tipsy again.

"If you want a friend," It's muffled when he speaks, punctuating his words with hot wet kisses, "go be friends with Ryo."

It's only in this moment, with his desperation mirroring in the glimpses of sugar brown irises you catch where he's fluttering his eyes over your face, that it dawns on you.

"Jealous much?"

He growls lowly and it makes you giggle against him, your hands slithering up into the hairs at the base of his neck. Oliver shakes his head against you, still huffing in disbelief.

"Shut up." It's accent-heavy and bleeds a hole through the bottom of your stomach. "You're such a fucking brat."

"And you're a fucking prick."

He huffs lowly, you press harder to him: solidifying the sentiment. Somehow the bickering makes it all sweeter, like you're dissolving cotton candy against your tongue where his swoops over it.

You'd just about forgotten where you were when a creak echoes down the corridor. Halfway to ignoring it in favour of Oliver's touch, your situation dawns on you in the same moment it does him.

Like you'd both licked the end of a live wire, you and Oliver jolt back a foot, hands diving to your respective sides.

Cherry is standing against the light of the common room behind her, a lanky Archie parked beside her. Their eyes are wide and Cherry's hand is against her jaw in shock.

"Oh my god." She mumbles against it.

Blood is rushing to your face and out the corner of your eye, Oliver is running a hand over the hair that's sticking in all directions from the influence of your fingers.

Cherry is laughing breathily, eyes still wide and white in surprise. "Oh my god."

Archie's eyes are flickering between you and Oliver.

"Sorry to interrupt." He says, a smirk curling onto his features.

It jumpstarts your entire system. You step forward, grabbing Cherry by the arm.

"Well," you nod at Archie and at Oliver, not daring to meet his eyes, "goodnight then."

You march with fervour, half-dragging her in the direction of the Hufflepuff common room until your figure disappears behind the next corridor.

Oliver stands with his hands hanging at his side dumbly. He swipes a finger of his bottom lip, still tasting the strawberry lip gloss you'd left there.

"Can't say I didn't see this coming, mate." A hand claps over his shoulder.

He groans, running both hands over his face, and Archie shakes him lightly.

"So ... how was it?"

With another groan, Oliver shoves Archie's hand off of him. "Bloody hell, Arch."

Archie throws his head of curly black hair back, laughing so loud it bounces off the wall. "That good, huh?"

(part two/final part)

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