#no one (maybe except for harry) has burrowed under my skin like this

[benthemagnificent]

literally it's so funny that when i say im always five seconds away from crying about yuzu i am like. dead serious. im crying right now as i type this post because i just watched like. 2 fanvids and im thinking about how when i show my mum his skating that well. if she doesn't 'get it' i will unfortunately take that very personally because his skating is so personal to me now!

[writeraven]

GOODBYE, MY LOVE

“Saying goodbye to close ones is always the hardest.” — Edin Dzeko

TAGS: [ ravenael. » A Series of Unrelated Events ]

LINKS: [ Tumblr » Collection, Fandom | AO3 » Work, Collection, Series ]

STATUS: Complete; 1 chapter (2 parts).

FANDOM: Wizarding World » Harry Potter (Next Gen).

GENRES: Short Story, Family, Slice of Life.

COUNT: 1,154 words.

SHIPS: Arthur/Molly, Harry/Ginny (mentioned).

CAST: Arthur Weasley, Molly Weasley, Weasley children (mentioned).

ACCOLADE ― JUDGES’ PICK: WINNING ENTRY.

HOST: [FFnet] The Houses Competition.

CATEGORY: [Y4R8] Prompt.

PROMPT: [Prompt] Saying goodbye to a loved one.

WARNING ― character death.

The Burrow had been quiet and empty ever since Molly Weasley’s youngest child, Ginny, left the house to live with her husband, Harry Potter, in London. She could still count the years since the chatters had gone with the wind; all the kids were grown up and gone, venturing out into the world towards the unlimited opportunities waiting for them out there… Just like how birds would leave the nest to spread their wings and fly towards the open, blue sky. Molly knew she should feel proud of her children, each armed with the talent, knowledge, and skills that would help them to succeed in their respective areas. However, she’d be lying if a part of her didn’t want to let them go, forever seeing them as her little tykes whom she would smother with all the motherly love she could ever give.

Now, only the enchanted family clock was left behind with her, showing the current status of her loved ones at all times… except for one. Fred’s clock-hand has been permanently stuck at ‘lost’ since his death at the Battle of Hogwarts many years ago, and she couldn’t bring herself to remove his portrait from the clock. It was a loss she could never come to terms with, even after such a long time; the hand was the only thing left in the house to remind her of Fred, that he was never really gone.

Fred’s clock-hand wasn’t the only thing that left a gaping hole in Molly’s chest. Her eyes glanced at another portrait that would shatter her fragile heart into a million pieces. People would die one day, she knew that, but logic did nothing to calm the despair eddying inside her trembling body. She wasn’t sure if she could go on like this to watch someone dying in front of her again, especially when the person was someone she loved so deeply.

Closing her eyes to fight back her tears, she finally turned her back on the clock—at the clock-hand of her husband, Arthur, pointing at ‘mortal peril’.

The high-pitched creaking echoed up the staircase as Molly made her way towards Arthur’s bedroom, balancing a tray of food cautiously with her wand. Her hands were shaking too much to carry it manually; she had to grip the handrail to steady herself, fearing that she would fall off if she took a misstep. Maybe it was the old age that made her breathless when she finally reached the door to Arthur’s room, or maybe it was her welling sadness that tired her out while trying to suppress the feeling.

Taking a deep breath, she raised her free hand to knock on the door.

“I’m coming in, Arthur.”

The door opened to the view of an old man seated in a rocking armchair, who turned his head to Molly when she entered the room with the food tray. The wrinkles on his face deepened as the corner of his cracked lips lifted up into a smile, then his lips parted to croak out a word, “Molly.”

Arthur Weasley was beyond recognition from how he used to look like. Aging had taken a serious toll on the former Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office: his signature bright red hair was gone, and only a few wisps of white strands remained on his almost bald head. His once tall, lean build was now reduced to a shrunken, bony figure; his fair complexion had lost its original luster, now merely wrinkled skin that appeared dry and brown under the setting sun that streamed through the open window.

“Merlin’s beard, Arthur!” Molly exclaimed, setting down the tray hurriedly on the bedside table and rushed towards the rocking armchair. “How many times have I told you to stay in bed? You shouldn’t be moving around so much—”

“My dear Molly,” her husband interrupted; the twinkle in his blue eyes did not falter even with his declining health condition. “What is coming will come, whether we like it or not. I know.” Molly instantly grabbed a shaky hand that poked out from under the blanket on Arthur’s lap. Before she could open her mouth, her husband stopped her with a hacking cough before he went on, “The time is near… isn’t it?”

"No, no… Arthur, please. Don’t say it.”

He shook his head slowly and continued to smile. “I’m… dying.”

Molly was finding it harder to fight back the tears in her eyes, her vision blurring as the fear of losing Arthur threatened to overwhelm her. No, she wanted to scream, but nothing came out except quiet sobs. No, you can’t do this to me!

“Look… at me, Molly.”

She wiped away her tears and complied, her brown gaze locking with Arthur’s blue ones. The very thought of losing her husband to Death terrified her, so why did he seem so peaceful, brave, with no ounce of fear in the eyes that still shone with vitality, even as his body was deteriorating with each passing day?

“Don’t look… so sad,” he wheezed, lifting his wizened hand slowly to touch Molly’s cheek. “Death is inevitable… It’s something we must accept, instead of running away from it. Fearing the unavoidable… won’t change anything.”

Molly felt his finger slipping off her jawline, and she grasped his hand in hers. “But, Arthur…”

“If anything, the Battle of Hogwarts taught us many important lessons. Harry and Ron have told me a little about… Voldemort.” There was bitterness in the last word he uttered. “He never knew, understood, and felt true love. He believed that power was everything in the world… that love was what made people weak. He thought that love would drive people to death and that it was pathetic, so he was afraid of dying. He closed his heart and committed numerous horrifying crimes… to run away from all the things he didn't want to face.”

“He was wrong.”

“Yes,” Arthur breathed, and his voice was becoming softer—weaker. “Power and love… are part of the same double-edged sword. Power can make us physically stronger… but our hearts susceptible to temptations. Love can drive us into despair when it’s lost… but it can also strengthen us beyond our imagination if we understand its meaning and value in our life.”

He turned to his sobbing wife with a small smile. “Don’t… blame yourself for Fred’s death, Molly. He may be gone from the world, but he’s forever in here.”

His hand slithered out of Molly’s grasp and pointed a trembling finger at her chest.

“And I… will always be in your heart, too.”

“A-Arthur?”

Then his hand landed with a thud beside him on the armchair seat, and his wheezing voice was barely more than a hoarse whisper.

“Goodbye… my love.”

Molly let out a sharp gasp at her husband’s last rattling breath, and the light in his blue eyes went out with the final heartbeat in his chest.

“Arthur!”

AUTHOR’S NOTE.

This story contains a few sources of inspiration:

Title based on the Chinese ballad, “Goodbye My Love”, performed by Teresa Teng.

Parts of the story loosely based on the theme song of Disney’s Tarzan, “You’ll Be In My Heart”, performed by Phil Collins.

Support me on Ko-fi — https://ko-fi.com/whyraven. Thank you very much for your continuous support☕

[freddie-weaselbee]

Someone Blue//F.W.

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader 

Warnings: Slight language, angst, a lot of confusion, fluffy ending

Summary: Fred spots a familiar face at his brother’s wedding, and has a sinking suspicion about why she’s acting so upset during this time of celebration. 

Prompts: Enemies to Lovers (kind of) and Weddings with the dialogue prompts “you look like you need a hug” and “did you need something?”

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: Day 1 of @theweasleyslut‘s 2k writing challenge 

Angelina looked absolutely ethereal, skin glowing in the shimmering lights as she glided across the grass as if it was a ballroom floor. Her white dress was slightly stained, mostly from when her now husband tackled her to the ground after their first kiss as a married couple, and yet it only made her seem all the more angelic. 

George’s feet seemed to never touch the ground. He was moving at record speeds, prancing and hopping and skipping around the dance floor, dragging his wife along with him. It was the most joyful Fred had ever seen him. 

Not when they left Hogwarts, not when they opened their shop, not even when Angelina said yes to the proposal could have compared to the happiness on George’s face. Nor Angelina’s. They were in a pure state of bliss. 

The rest of the wedding-goers seemed to match their energy. Fred couldn’t go anywhere without being bombarded with drunken laughs and horrid dancing, and the occasional congratulations or two from some tipsy guests who didn’t know that the man they were talking to wasn’t the groom. 

All in all, it was an amazing night. The field behind the burrow had become a traditional wedding venue for the growing Weasley children, so far hosting Bill, Percy, Ron, and now George’s days to remember. The tents and lights were all set up as they were with Bill and Fleur’s wedding, except this time there was no risk of Death Eaters ruining the event. Hopefully. 

However, while making his way around to talk to (and flirt with) the guests, Fred happened to notice one person who did not fit the overzealous tone. Well, he didn’t really happen to notice. Rather he’d been staring at her throughout the entire night, watching her somber mood break through her happy façade. Not that he’d ever admit that to anyone. 

You were standing by yourself, but you weren’t secluded from the action. Rather, you were right in the middle of things, on the very edge of the dance floor, staring out at the masses of bodies swinging their partners around. Your arms were crossed over your chest, a defensive position that Fred had seen so many times in you before. 

He turned away and tried to ignore it. It wasn’t any of his business if you were upset. The two of you were barely even friends anymore. You had cut him out of your life so many years ago and never looked back. To this day, Fred still didn’t know why, and it killed him. 

He wanted to walk away. To go the other direction toward a beautiful guest wearing a flowing red dress, hair done up perfectly. The stranger would be the smart choice. A fun way to spend the evening, dancing around and snogging under moonlit trees. But, against his better judgement, Fred’s heart wouldn't let him leave. 

Sighing, Fred lifted his feet and made his way in the other direction, to the girl who couldn’t care less about him. 

You stood unmoving, except for a subtle sway to the music. People brushed by you, but you paid them no mind. You were too focused on something else. As Fred drew nearer, he was able to follow your line of sight to the people in question. The newlyweds. 

Fred bristled before softening slightly. Of course. This must be about George. Back at Hogwarts, Fred was positive you had the biggest crush on his brother. You were always tagging along with their jokes, even when they got you into huge trouble. You definitely spent more time alone with George than Fred, sharing whispers and stares at the expense of the older twin. He could never get George to break and tell him what you two talked about. George even took you to the Yule Ball in your 6th year. You had never looked as radiant as you did that night, except for maybe this moment. Fred wished he had asked you to dance at the ball, but he never worked up the courage to. He didn’t want you to internally grimace at the thought of dancing with the “lesser” Weasley twin when George was right there. 

In his recollection of memories, Fred hadn’t noticed how close he had gotten to you, and how you were no longer gazing at the couple dancing. You were now staring at him. 

“Did you need something?”

Fred was shaken out of his imagination, met with an annoyed glare but soft smile coming from you. His surprise was immediately replaced with his signature cocky grin, leaning his hand onto one of the wedding tables while keeping his gaze on you. Unfortunately, his hand accidentally dipped into a wine glass, but he quickly pulled it out and hoped you didn’t notice. You did. 

“Well, that’s not a very nice way to greet one of your oldest friends, now is it?” Fred wiped his wine-covered hand on his suit pants and slipped it into his pocket, pretending to be unbothered by his previous mistake. 

You turned your eyes away from him, once again gluing them to the dance floor. “I think it’s fitting, seeing as how you were creepily staring at me for about 5 minutes before I said something.”

Fred’s ears grew pink at the accusation. “I, umm, I didn’t realize it was that long. Or that you noticed. Sorry.” He bashfully rubbed the back of his neck, pretending to glance around at other guests who might interest him more. 

“You still haven’t answered me.”

Fred cocked his head to the side in question. 

“Why’d you come over here? Was there something you needed?”

“Ah, yes well,” Fred began smoothly, “I saw this darling beauty from across the tent and I just could not take my eyes off of her--”

“Fred,” you interrupted. You were looking at him again, your gaze piercing through him, forcing him to tell you the truth, to tell you everything about him. His fears, his hopes and dreams, what he had for breakfast this morning. He wanted to tell you it all. 

“The truth, please.”

Clearing his throat, and his mind of whatever thoughts just plagued him, Fred decided to be honest. You deserved that much. 

“You look like you need a hug,” he said, shrugging nonchalantly. 

Evidently, those were not the words you were expecting to hear. You were prepared with about a dozen quips to say in response to whatever cocky joke Fred was about to make. But he didn’t, and nothing could have prepared you for what he did say. 

“I--I need a what?”

“Sorry, have you lost your hearing or was I not loud enough? It’s definitely not the second; you’ve told me on numerous occasions that I have the biggest mouth of anyone you know.”

There it was. But it still made you giggle, relaxing and gravitating closer to your companion. 

“I heard you,” you said, “just wasn’t expecting that from you, I guess.”

Fred took a half step closer, visibly glad when you didn’t move away. “Wasn’t expecting me to have noticed your behavior, or wasn’t expecting me to care if I did?”

It took you a few seconds to respond. “Both.”

He let out a sound of understanding before you both averted your eyes, looking straight ahead. Occasionally, Fred would try to look at you using his peripheral vision, and you would do the same. It became a kind of game--just an awkward back and forth between two people who used to be so close, and were now so far apart.

You game ended when one of the wedding guests decided to clink their glass, beginning a chorus of high pitched chimes to echo throughout the room. You watched as George turned to find Angelina, running to her to give her a kiss so full of love and passion that it took everything Fred had not to shout out a joke and ruin the moment. He could do that next time. 

He noticed you stiffen at the kiss, presumably because it was just another reminder of what you couldn’t have. George. 

“You know, I always wanted to be a Weasley.”

Fred was surprised that you had spoken to him, and even more surprised about the turn the conversation had taken. 

“I grew up with you guys,” you continued, not waiting for Fred to respond. “Molly was like my second mother, even though she always liked Hermione and Harry a bit more than me.”

“Join the club,” said Fred, causing you to laugh loudly, a sound he hadn’t heard from you in ages. Godric, how he had missed it.

“It’s just…” you trailed off, not knowing if you wanted to be open with Fred, someone you hadn’t spoken to in years. Chances were, you wouldn’t keep in touch much after the wedding, so you might as well. What was there to lose? “It’s just...seeing Angelina, one of my best friends, dance around, wearing that ring, getting to be an actual Weasley. It’s...it’s making me a wee bit jealous.”

Fred watched you fidget with a bracelet on your wrist and decided to push his luck just a bit more. “And you’re wishing that it could be you wearing the ring, married to a certain Weasley gentleman?”

The shock was evident in your expression. “No, no, it’s not--I mean I never…” Sighing, you decided to come clean. “Yeah, I’ve maybe been harboring feelings for a certain twin for, oh I don’t know, my entire life. No biggie though, it’s totally fine that he never asked me out.”

The ginger beside you threw an arm around your shoulder, handing you a glass of wine in the process. “Drink. It makes everything better.”

You glared at him, but took the glass anyways, chugging it down in a few large gulps. “Another, please,” you demanded, and Fred obliged. 

You started to ease into Fred’s side, as soft and comforting as you remembered it to be, before realizing exactly what it was you were doing. “Fred, can I ask you something?”

“‘Course. You can ask me anything.” The absolute last thing Fred wanted to be doing at the moment was talking about your undying love for his twin brother, at his wedding no less, but he didn’t want to leave you alone. Not seeing you for so long had had a harsher effect on him than he thought, and he didn’t want to leave your side. 

Taking a deep breath and gathering your courage, you asked him the question that had been plaguing your mind for years. The one that ate you from the inside out and kept you tossing and turning at night. The reason you had to separate yourself from your love in the first place. “Why am I not good enough?”

Your voice broke a tiny bit, but a lot less than you had been expecting. A tear did happen to slip out, and Fred quickly wiped it away, his fingertip resting on your cheek for a moment too long. 

“Y/N, love, come here.” Fred pulled you into that hug he had talked about earlier, holding you closely to his chest. If he thought you were going to appreciate the gesture, he was wrong. You pushed him away softly, refusing to let any more tears fall. 

“I’m serious, Fred. W-Why am I not good enough? I’ve made it clear for years and yet...nothing. And not even a simple rejection. I could’ve handled that, y’know. If I got a simple no, I could’ve handled it and moved on. But I never did, and it’s killing me. Why am I not good enough?”

It killed Fred to see you this upset, and it hurt him even more to see that the anger was directed at him and not at George. It was his brother that broke your heart after all, not him. “You are good enough!” Fred said, with enough truth and force that a little part of you believed it. “You’re, you’re too good! You’ve been by our side from the beginning and haven’t left it since. Well, we haven’t seen you in years, but that’s probably because of--”

You nodded, confirming what he thought. Your heartbreak had driven you away. 

“But other than that,” he continued, “you’ve been like my third arm. Any guy would be crazy to give you up, you know that?”

 A tiny smile grew on your face, but was gone as soon as it had arrived. “The timing...the timing was just all wrong, wasn’t it?” you asked. 

Fred nodded, watching his brother and his wife greet guests and take pictures that were sure to be on the mantle in the burrow as soon as the wedding was over. “Yeah, I guess so. The prick should’ve asked you out sooner.”

“Oh I agree wholeheartedly, he is a prick,” you said, poking his arm, a gesture that slightly confused him. “So, I’m guessing there’s no chance of anything happening now? No sliver of hope that maybe this could work out?”

He hated that he would be the one to crush your dreams, but he couldn’t let you keep living in false hope. “Well,” he said, “the wedding bands are on and they both said ‘I do.’ Kind of hard to come back from that. I’m sorry.”

You froze, now more befuddled than you had been all night. “I...what?”

Before Fred could say anything you reached to grab his left hand, checking his ring finger for something you knew wasn’t there, but you had to be sure. 

“Wedding bands? What in the world do you--” Realization hit you like a brick, and you wanted to slap yourself. Or Fred. Either one. But preferably the latter. 

“Frederick, my dear love, who do you think we have been talking about this whole time?” you asked, voice genuine but also teasing. 

Fred didn’t know what you all of a sudden found so amusing, but he was already doubting himself and he didn’t want you to make fun of him for whatever he had done wrong. 

“Umm, well you said a Weasley, and then you said a Weasley twin. So I thought the answer was obvious.”

“Say it,” you demanded. “Who have we been talking about? Who am I in love with after years of unrequited feelings?”

He felt like he was walking into a trap, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. He hesitated for a few seconds before your searing gaze forced him to answer. “George. We’re talking about my brother George.”

No sooner had his words left his mouth than your hand came up to slap his head. “You idiot! Are you serious right now?”

Fred stood flabbergasted, racking his brain for who else you could have been talking about. George was a Weasley twin. You said you were in love with a Weasley twin. Who else was there?

“It’s you, you big oaf!”

Oh. OH! There were two Weasley twins, and he was one of them. Which meant…

“You’re in love with me?!”

By this point, heads were turned to watch the scene and people were not-so-subtly whispering to their partners. 

You dragged a still surprised Fred through the crowd and out of the tents, finding a secluded enough area where you could talk. 

Fred’s brain had still not been caught up. “It’s me? You’re in love with me? But, but what about George?”

You furrowed your brow, wondering how Fred could have so easily mistaken your feelings for him as those for another. “What about George?”

“You’re in love with him!”

“I most definitely am not!”

“The Yule Ball!” he spat out. “You went to the Yule Ball with him when we were 16!”

“Yes,” you said calmly, “and you went with Angelina, but I don’t see you two getting married. We went as friends and I talked to him about you the entire night. In fact, most of the time when we hung out I was talking about you. Made him swear not to tell though. I was never good about expressing my feelings.”

Fred put a hand to his head, a growing throb threatening to overtake his senses. “But why were you so sad tonight? You wanted to marry George!”

“No,” you said patiently. “I was sad because Angelina and George’s relationship worked out the way I was wishing one between you and I had. They fell in love during school, dated a few years later, and now she’s a part of your family. I wasn’t wishing it was just me out there with your brother. I was wishing that it was our wedding.”

You blushed heavily and buried your face in your hands, embarrassed by your bluntness about your feelings. “Oh, Godric, I shouldn’t have said that, now it’s more awkward. I, umm, I should probably get going.”

Fred grabbed your wrist before you could leave, pulling you into his chest. His eyes were wide, mouth hanging slightly ajar as he gazed down at your muddled expression. 

“It’s me. I’m the one you love.”

He said it as more of a declaration rather than a question, but you could tell that he needed confirmation. 

“Of course, Freddie,” you said. “It’s always been you.”

His hand wasted no time in going to the back of your head, pulling your face into his and melding your lips together in your first kiss with Fred Weasley. After the shock wore off, you were hastily kissing him back, hoping against all hope that he wouldn’t pull back and proclaim what a stupid mistake this all was. But he never did. You kissed and kissed and kissed until you were the one who had to pull back in order to catch your breath. 

It took you both a few seconds to realize what had just happened, and for the first time you both were at a loss for words. “That was, umm…” you mumbled, trying to think of what to say. 

“I love you too.”

Fred’s words were rushed out of his mouth, voice deep ragged. “I mean, when you said it was me, not George, that you loved. I, well, I love you too. Always have. Guess I just thought that you had a thing for George and I had no chance. Pretty silly of me, huh?”

“Downright stupid of you,” you replied, giggling as he pushed you away with a bashful smile gracing his lips. 

“So,” he said quietly, inching closer to you once again, “is there a chance of anything happening now?” Fred repeated the words you had said earlier, making you smile wider than you had all night. 

“Depends,” you said. “Are you gonna get the courage to ask me out?”

Fred waited for a moment before answering. “How about,” he said, offering his arm out for you to link with yours, “we have that dance we never got at the Yule Ball. And then that date we never got after, and then that relationship we never got as well. Oh! And then that wedding, and then a dog, maybe a few kids, a big house in the country--”

“Woahhh, slow down buddy, you haven’t ever properly asked me!”

You took his arm and made your way back to where the music continued to blare and festivities raged on. 

“Y/N, love, may I have this dance?”

You pushed a strand of hair from his face, ruffling it up a little to give it that signature Fred Weasley style. 

“Of course, Freddie. And every dance after that.”

Tag List:

@famdomhideout @amourtentiaa

[lumosandnoxwriting]

Summer Heat and Moonlit Kisses - Fred Weasley

Title: Summer Heat and Moonlit Kisses Pairing: Fred x Fem!Reader Summary: Fred and Y/N have been dancing around their feelings for each other since their friendship began, both of them too afraid to admit how they truly feel. But can a summer at the burrow change all that? A/N: for the anon who wanted some fluff at the burrow, with Fred and the reader confessing their feelings for each other! In case it isn’t obvious this takes place between Fred and George’s 6th and 7th year! Feedback is always welcome, and requests are open!

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Smack!

All of the Weasley’s sitting at the breakfast table flinch, and Fred turns around just in time to see Errol sliding down the kitchen window, a few letters clutched in his beak. Everyone else gets back to their conversations, and before Molly can tell one of the kids to grab the post, Fred is jumping out of his chair.

“I’ll get it!” he announces, bounding over to the window. He throws the window open, reaching down to pick up Errol before setting him on the ledge and taking the mail from his beak. Fred’s fingers shuffle through the few envelopes quickly, pausing when he sees one addressed to him in familiar loopy letters. He tucks the letter into the back pocket of his jeans as he places the rest of the mail in his mother’s outstretched hand.

Everyone else is too preoccupied eating or talking to notice Fred’s excitement over the mail, except for George of course.

“What’s got you so smiley, Freddie?” he teases as Fred sits back down in his chair.

Fred immediately drops all the emotion from his face, taking a bite of his eggs. “No idea what you’re on about, George.”

George rolls his eyes and reaches behind Fred to pull the letter out of his back pocket. Fred immediately tries to grab it back, but George pulls away too quickly. “Bet you don’t have any idea what this is either then?”

“Shove off, git,” Fred grumbles. “Last I checked it wasn’t a crime to send someone a letter.”

“Okay, drama queen, I wasn’t accusing you of anything,” George huffs. He takes a look at the envelope, suddenly understanding Fred’s odd behavior. “Should have figured it was from Y/N,” George teases before handing the letter back to Fred. “You always get like this when it comes to her.”

Fred waits for Molly to turn her back before he flips his brother off, praying the blush on his cheeks isn’t obvious. “I don’t act any differently around Y/N than I do around any of my other friends.”

“Yeah sure, keep telling yourself that,” George retorts before he leans over to steal a piece of toast off of Ron’s plate.

With everyone distracted Fred slips out of his chair and up the stairs, so he can pour over Y/N’s letter far away from George’s accusatory glances.

-

“I don’t know why anyone would want to come here to spend the summer with you two gits,” Ron jokes as he flies in between George and Fred. Fred launches the Quaffle in his hand at Ron and both twins cheer excitedly when it hits him in the back of his head. “Fuck off asshole!” Ron shouts, flipping them off behind his back.

It’s been a few days since Fred received Y/N’s letter, and excitement has been running through his veins ever since. He’d been trying to get her to come spend the summer at The Burrow since before term even ended, and it her latest letter she’d finally agreed to come. Y/N is due to arrive sometime this afternoon, and Fred’s inability to stay still caused Molly to kick him, George, Ginny, Ron, Harry and Hermione out of the house. Everyone apart from Hermione has been whizzing around the back garden on their brooms, passing a Quaffle back and forth for the past few hours.

“I’m surprised it took Y/N so long to say yes,” George comments idly as he comes up next to Fred.

Fred’s eyebrows furrow and he looks over at George. “What do you mean?”

“You can’t be that daft,” George insists with an eyeroll. “She would crawl inside of your pocket and just sit there if she could. You guys are together almost as much as you and I are.”

“Last I checked friends are supposed to spend time together,” Fred responds casually, trying not to read into what George is saying. “You and Y/N spend a load of time together too.”

“Fair point,” George admits. “But I’m not the one she’s been sending letters to the past few weeks.”

Fred bites his lip, looking away from George. Fred didn’t truly take notice of Y/N until third year, but he didn’t pay much attention to anything besides George, Lee and mischief before then. That’s when he first started noticing girls, and it seemed that every week he fancied a different girl in his year, until his attention landed on Y/N. Of course, he knew of her, they were in the same year and in the same house, but it wasn’t until a few weeks into term when he really noticed her, and he hasn’t stopped noticing her since.

One second he’d been thinking about the new bludger bat his parents had scrapped enough money together to buy, and the next his eyes were trained on Y/N, unable to look away as she tipped her head back and laughed at something Angelina said. All the fires in the castle had been turned on to keep away the autumn chill, and Y/N’s cheeks were rosy from the heat. Her eyes were bright with joy and her hair looked like a waterfall as it cascaded down her back. Her laugh sent a shiver down his spine, and he decided in that moment he’d do anything to hear her laugh like that again.

This mission is of course what started their friendship, since one of Fred’s attempts at making her laugh went awry and landed them both in detention for a few nights. Luckily, Y/N had thought his plan to charm Snape’s cauldron to explode was brilliant, so she didn’t mind scrubbing the tables in the Potion’s classroom with him. Like his other crushes, Fred figured his feelings for Y/N would fizzle out and he’d be left with a new friend instead, but the more time they spent together the more intensely he started to feel for her.

Fred didn’t realize how desperately he craved being something more with Y/N until last school year, when Adrian Pucey took her to the Yule Ball. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her all night, she looked more radiant than ever and Fred got angry every time Adrian got to touch her and he didn’t. Fred had suddenly realized that friendship wasn’t enough for him anymore, but Y/N had become such a big part of his life, he didn’t want to risk giving that up. Y/N has Fred wrapped around her finger, and Fred will do anything to make her happy, even if he has to suffer for it. He basks in every moment that they spend together, in every touch they share and every close moment. It doesn’t mean the same to her as it does to him, no matter how many times George tells him it does.

“Hey, Hermione. Good book?” Y/N asks, coming up behind the younger girl.

Hermione turns around excitedly, putting her book down so she can get up and hug her friend. “Y/N! When did you get here?”

“Just a few minutes ago. Seems everyone is a bit too busy to notice,” Y/N responds with a laugh, returning Hermione’s hug.

Hermione pulls away from Y/N, giving her a knowing smile. “Fred will be so excited to see you. He was practically bouncing off the walls this morning.”

“You’re just saying that,” Y/N insists as she blushes, shoving Hermione’s shoulder playfully. Y/N has had a crush on Fred for as long as she can remember, and when they finally became friends in third year she hoped that it would turn into more. Much to her dismay it never did, and no matter how hard she tries to view Fred as just a friend she can’t. He’s absolutely captivating and being around Fred makes her feel dizzy. She had initially rejected his offers to come stay with his family due to her glaringly obvious crush, but the thought of getting even more time with the ginger boy was too enticing to give up.

“As if,” Hermione responds. “Why do you think we’re all out here in the blaring hot sun? Mrs. Weasley kicked us all out of the house because she was tired of dealing with Fred.”

Luckily for Y/N Ginny notices her presence a moment later and when she heads towards the ground at lightning speed shouting her name, the boys take notice of her too and start to head back towards the ground.

“Finally, you’re here!” Ginny greets, practically jumping into Y/N’s arms. She hugs her tightly, laughing as Y/N pokes her in the ribs. “Maybe now Fred will finally shut up about you.”

“It’s nice to see you too, Gin,” Y/N giggles, putting her down. As reluctant as they are to admit it, Fred and George love their siblings, and being friends with them means the whole Weasley clan comes with. After Ginny’s hellish first year at Hogwarts, Fred had expressed his worry for her to Y/N and she took it upon herself to take Ginny under her wing and look out for her.

Ron and Harry reach them next and Y/N greets them both briefly. They’re both fairly awkward around girls still, something both Fred and George love to tease them about. Y/N finds it endearing, but it does make it hard to be around them since Harry can barely look her in the eyes and Ron struggles to finish his sentences. They end up running off after each other as George comes up and pulls Y/N into a hug.

“Welcome to the crazy house,” he teases with a laugh. “You’re going to regret your decision to stay here.”

Y/N rolls her eyes as they pull away. “You guys aren’t that bad. At least here your Mum is around. You may not be afraid of Snape or McGonagall, but I know for a fact you’re afraid of her.”

“Where’s my hug then?” Fred asks as he comes up behind George, and Y/N’s eyes widen as George steps out of the way and Fred comes into view.

Fred runs a hand through his messy hair as he approaches, and Y/N practically drools at the way his veins in his forearm pop out. He’d lost his shirt at some point during the day, so his skin is tinted pink from the sun and the sheen of sweat attached to it is glistening in the bright light. Y/N lets her eyes trace every line of his defined torso, taking special note of how low his jeans are hanging on his hips.

“Freddie!” Y/N squeals as his arms wrap around her waist so he can lift her up. Her arms wrap around Fred’s neck as her legs wrap around his waist, clinging to him tightly. Hermione gives Y/N a look as she leads Ginny away, prompting her to stick her tongue out at the younger girl.

Fred presses his face into Y/N’s neck, breathing in deeply. She smells like she always does, lavender and vanilla, and it makes Fred feel like he’s finally at home. “Missed you,” he mumbles into her neck, resisting his urge to press a kiss to her soft skin. He rests his chin on Y/N’s shoulder, his eyes narrowing as George makes a kissy face before disappearing back into the house.

“Missed you too, Freddie,” Y/N says softly. A shiver runs down her spine as his hands shove under her shirt to rest on the small of her back and her legs involuntarily tighten around his waist. “Ugh, you’re so sweaty,” she teases, twirling a lock off his hair around her finger.

Fred rubs the sweat on his forehead into Y/N’s neck, smiling as she squeals and giggles. “There, now you’re all sweaty too,” he announces happily, pulling away to grin at her.

“You’re insufferable,” Y/N teases, sticking her tongue out at Fred. She can feel his fingers digging into the small of her back, and every time he shifts his back ripples against her calves. Y/N hopes that the blush on her cheeks can be mistaken for the beginning of a sunburn, and she wiggles in Fred’s grip. “Put me down you oaf.”

Fred bites his lip to stifle the groan that wants to escape. Having Y/N in his arms feels like heaven and he squeezes her once more before reluctantly placing her back on the ground. “As you wish, my Queen,” he teases, giving Y/N a sloppy curtsy.

Y/N rolls her eyes playfully. “Maybe George is right, I’m already regretting my decision. I’m just gonna grab my trunk and go home.”

“Oh you’re really in for it now, Y/N!” Fred shouts, chasing her around the garden as they both laugh wildly.

-

“What the hell is that?” Ginny asks, pulling Y/N and Hermione from their conversation so they can look at what she’s pointing to. They’re heading across the back garden, bathing suits on and towels in hand so they can beat the heat at the pond behind the Burrow.

Y/N’s first few days at the Burrow have been incredible, but it’s getting harder and harder to contain her feelings for Fred.  With the unusually hot weather England has been experiencing he’s taken to walking around without a shirt on, and Y/N practically drools every time she looks at him. It doesn’t help that he’s become much more affectionate with her recently. It’s always very casual, like a hand on her thigh at the table or an arm around her shoulders while they all sit on the couch. But every time his bare skin touches hers goosebumps erupt all over her body. Not to mention every time he comes down for breakfast his voice is still raspy with sleep and his hair is tousled. Y/N has had to excuse herself from the room nearly every morning to stop herself from pulling their mouths together.

Y/N watches in awe and somewhat horror as George kneels on Ron’s back, one of his hands pushing his brother’s face into the dirt. Fred and Harry are cheering him on while Ron struggles to get out of his brother’s grasp.

“Whatever it is, I don’t like it,” Hermione responds with a grimace.

The three girls share a look before making a detour to head over towards the boys. They’re all so captivated by what’s going on that they don’t notice the girls have arrived until Y/N clears her throat.

“Do I even want to know?” she asks as all four boys look over at them. Ron and Harry immediately drop their gaze to the ground, their cheeks flushing nearly the same color red, clearly flustered by the lack of clothing the girl’s have on.

Fred’s eyes rake over Y/N’s body, and if he wasn’t already red from the sun he’s sure his cheeks would be burning bright red. Her hair frames her face perfectly, and the sun shining behind her makes it look like she’s glowing. Greek goddesses would be envious of her beauty, and Fred bites his tongue to keep from blurting out all the feelings he’s shoveling down.

“Some muggle thing Harry told us about,” George answers when no one else speaks up. “Wrestling I think. Right, Harry?” George looks over at the younger boy, unable to stop the laugh that bubbles out of his mouth. “Blimey, Harry. You ever see a girl in a swimsuit before?” he teases.

George’s laughter snaps Fred out of his daydream and he reaches over to ruffle Harry’s hair. “Aw poor bloke, still so shy.”

“Boys are weird,” Ginny responds with an eye roll before turning and walking away. Hermione follows quickly after her, and Y/N can’t help but spot the slight blush on her cheeks.

George finally releases Ron and sits back in the grass. “You fancy a go Y/N?” he asks playfully. “Fred was supposed to take Harry on next but I’m sure he’d much rather wrestle with you.”

“Fuck off,” Fred chides, shoving George. “Maybe I should shove your face in the dirt.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, forcing herself to look away from Fred’s bare shoulders. Freckles litter the pale skin, and if Y/N isn’t careful she can get lost in them for hours. “As thrilling as it would be to watch Fred make you eat dirt, it’s hot and I’m going swimming. So you boys can continue with whatever weirdness that was or you can join me.”

“Race you to the pond!” George shouts, kicking off his shoes before taking off in the same direction as Ginny and Hermione have gone. Ron and Harry mumble something about flying before they take off, leaving Y/N and Fred alone.

“You coming, Freddie?” Y/N asks, biting her lip. Fred holds both of his hands out, and Y/N sighs, rolling her eyes playfully. She throws the towel in her hand over her shoulder so she can grab Fred’s hands, a tingle shooting up her arm and straight to her head when they touch.

Fred grins as Y/N pulls him up, purposefully stumbling a bit so he can pull her into a hug. “Thanks for the hand, princess.”

“Yeah you needed it you oaf,” Y/N teases, trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach from Fred’s nickname. “Now carry me to the pond!” she demands, pushing him away slightly.

“Of course, my Queen!” Fred drops down in front of Y/N, trying to calm himself down as she climbs on his back. He grips her thighs tightly as he stands to make sure she doesn’t fall. Once her arms have wound around his neck he takes off. “To the pond we go!”

Hermione, Ginny and George are already splashing in the water as they approach and George stops trying to shove Ginny’s head under the water when they come into view.

“Nice of you two to finally join us,” George teases. Before Fred or Y/N can tell him to shove it, Ginny is slinging herself onto his back and pulling him under the water.

“I knew Ginny was always my favorite,” Fred laughs as George flounders around to try and get Ginny off of him. He turns to give Y/N a grin. “Your turn, princess.”

“Fred, no!” Y/N laughs, but it’s too late. Fred is grabbing her off of his back and into his arms, throwing her out into the water. The cold water shocks her warm skin, and Y/N fights back to the surface so she can tell Fred off. But as she wipes the water from her eyes the words that used to be on the tip of her tongue go to the back of her throat as she swallows thickly. Y/N watches as Fred shimmies out of his pants and inch by inch his pale muscular thighs come into view.

“Like the view?” Hermione whispers into Y/N’s ear.

Y/N turns around to glare at Hermione, splashing some water at her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Instead of responding Hermione splashes her back, and within a few minutes all five of them are pushing water at each other, laughing and chasing each other through the water. George and Ginny are the first to exit the water to rest on the grass, both tired from the splash fight and their attempts to drown the other.  Y/N moves a bit deeper into the pond and lets her eyes close as she lays on her back, just floating around to let the cool water lap at her skin.

“Oh,” Y/N gasps as a warm hand wraps around her ankle. She opens her eyes and picks her head up, grinning when she sees Fred looking over at her. “Where did Hermione go?”

Fred tilts his head back, gesturing towards the shore. “She left a few minutes ago, mumbling something about going to find Harry and Ron.”

“So you’ve just been what? Staring at me?” Y/N asks.

Fred nods slightly. “I was thinking about pulling you under the water. I was trying to plan my escape route,” he lies. Truthfully Fred had been studying Y/N. He was tracing the long shadows her eyelashes cast on her cheeks, imagining what it would be like to trace them with his finger. He had watched her chest rise and fall slowly with each breath she took, wondering if he’d be able to feel her heartbeat if he held her close.

“You would have been a dead man, Fred Weasley,” Y/N warns. A shiver runs down her spine as Fred uses his grip on her ankle to pull her body closer. “Water’s getting cold,” she says a moment later, trying to excuse her weird behavior.

Fred knows that he should suggest getting out of the water so the sun can warm them back up, but he can’t resist an opportunity to be close to her. So instead he pulls her onto his lap, so Y/N is straddling his waist. “Come closer, then. I’ll warm you up.”

Y/N wraps her arms around Fred’s neck, so they’re resting on his warm shoulders and she rests her chin on one of her arms. Neither of them says anything as Fred’s arm wind around her waist, his head coming to rest on her shoulder and his face pressed into her neck. Y/N’s eyes flutter closed, and she lets one of her fingers trace mindless patterns on Fred’s back, just letting herself enjoy their moment together.

-

“So Y/N,” Ginny starts as all three girls settle onto her bed that night. They’re all exhausted from the time they spent in the water and out in the sun, so they opted out of the boy’s usual nighttime shenanigans in favor of their pajamas and some girl talk.

“Yes?” Y/N asks as she rips open a cauldron cake.

“When are you going to tell Fred you like him?” Ginny asks suggestively.

Y/N coughs as she chokes on her cauldron cake, shooting Hermione a look of thanks when she hits her on the back. “I’m sorry, what?”

Ginny rolls her eyes playfully. “I said when are you going to tell Fred you like him?”

“I don’t like Fred,” Y/N insists. When Ginny and Hermione share a look, Y/N frowns. “I don’t!”

“Oh please,” Ginny scoffs. “I saw you two today, at the pond. I had my suspicions before but,” she pauses to take a bite of her candy bar. “But that right there was all the proof I needed,” she finishes as she chews.

Y/N blushes as Hermione’s eyes light up. “The pond? What happened at the pond?”

“Nothing!” Y/N says firmly, giving Ginny a look. “Nothing happened at the pond.” Something definitely happened at the pond, but Y/N is still unsure of what exactly it was. Sitting close to Fred, hell even sometimes cuddling Fred is a normal part of their friendship. When Fred is tired he gets cuddly, and there have been a few times that Y/N lulled him to sleep by running a hand through his hair while they sat on a couch in the common room with his head in her lap. But sitting in the water with Fred today felt different. It felt like she couldn’t get close enough to him, like every inch of her body craved to be touching Fred in some way. And Y/N couldn’t help but think that Fred had felt the same way. When Ron had come to get them for lunch both of them were reluctant to pull away and Y/N could have sworn that there was a moment when Fred leaned in as if he was going to kiss her.

“They were all cuddled up together,” Ginny reveals, ignoring the glare Y/N gives her. “Y/N was sitting in his lap, their arms were wrapped around each other. It really was quite cute.”

“I can’t believe I missed that!” Hermione pouts.

“Okay so maybe I do have feelings for Fred,” Y/N mumbles, flipping both girls off as they cheer. “But there’s no way he feels the same way. We’ve been friends for nearly four years now, if it was going to happen it would have already.”

“Are you mad?” Ginny asks. “Y/N, there is literally no way Fred doesn’t feel the same way. I swear he turns into mush whenever you’re around. Hell, the only time he’s actually quiet is when you’re nearby. He was moping around every day until you finally agreed to come and stay, after that he wouldn’t sit still.”

Y/N bites her lip. “Then how come he didn’t kiss me today?” she asks quietly. “He leaned in like he was going to and then he just, pulled away and ran off.”

Hermione frowns. “Have you thought about talking to him?”

“And potentially ruin our friendship? I’ll pass.”

“Y/N you have to notice the way he looks at you,” Ginny reasons. “He looks at you like you’re the only person on the planet. Like you’re the eighth wonder of the world or something.”

Y/N blushes and grabs another cauldron cake to keep her hands busy. “Whatever, let’s just talk about something else.” Y/N grins over at Hermione. “Hermione how about you tell us when you’re going to tell Ron you like him?”

Both Y/N and Ginny burst into fits of laughter as Hermione grabs the nearest pillow and starts swinging at them.

-

“What are you doing down here?” Fred’s soft voice asks from somewhere behind Y/N.

Y/N’s shoulders tense as Fred approaches, and she keeps her eyes trained on the pond, watching as the water ripples in the slight breeze. “Couldn’t sleep,” she answers dully as Fred sits down next to her. Ginny and Hermione dropped off hours ago, but all Y/N could do was toss and turn in her cot as she thought about what Ginny had said. Y/N had always been sure in her mind that Fred didn’t return her feelings, but after what Ginny said and the moment they shared together in the pond, she started to rethink every moment they’ve ever shared together.

“Me either,” Fred whispers as he looks over at Y/N. There are worry lines on her forehead, and her bottom lip is red and puffy from her teeth digging into it. Fred reaches out and gently tucks a piece of hair behind Y/N’s ear. “What’s on your mind?”

Y/N wraps her arms around her shins as she tucks her legs into her chest before resting the side of her head on the tops of her knees so she can look at Fred. He looks gorgeous drenched in moonlight, and when their eyes meet butterflies erupt in her stomach. “Can I ask you a question, Freddie?”

Fred smiles and reaches out to boop Y/N on the nose. “Of course, princess. Can’t promise I’ll know the answer though.”

“When we were in the water earlier, were you going to kiss me?” Y/N asks before she lets her nerves catch up to her.

Fred’s taken aback, and he pauses for a moment, trying to decide how to answer her question. Fred had gotten lost in their tender moment while they sat together in the water earlier, and when they started to break apart it felt natural to him to lean in for a kiss, like it was something they always did. Thankfully he had caught himself and he ended up running off, hoping she hadn’t noticed his slip up.

“Did you want me to kiss you?” Fred asks a moment later, too afraid to answer her question.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Y/N’s tone is firm, but there’s a small smile on her face.

Fred inches closer to Y/N, so their bodies are touching. “Would it be a bad thing if I said yes?” he murmurs.

Y/N shakes her head as she starts to lean in closer to Fred. “Would it be a bad thing if I said I wanted you to?”

Fred moves forward to close the gap between them and presses their lips together. Their first kiss is soft and tentative, but Y/N is still lightheaded when she pulls away. Y/N’s eyes are still shut tight, but she can feel Fred’s gaze on her face.

“I like you, Fred. Like way more than a friend.” Y/N pauses to swallow the lump in her throat, and her nerves start to melt away when Fred cups her cheek gently. “I have for a while and I’m tired of pretending that I don’t.”

“Y/N, will you look at me? Please?” Fred asks. His voice is soft and when Y/N finally looks at him he smiles. “You’re the only girl for me. It’s always been that way, and it’s always going to be that way.”

[writings-of-dumpy]

VooDoo Doll: George Weasley x Reader blurb

A/N: This is actual garbage. Like it’s just bad. I’m so sorry.

Summary: Based on VooDoo Doll by 5SOS. George doesn’t really like Y/N, but suddenly he has feelings he can’t explain... until he can.

Fred and George played pranks on everyone, almost no exceptions. They tried to stay away from those much younger than themselves, but sometimes a know-it-all Slytherin first year would get on their nerves, so slipping puking pastilles into the morning pumpkin juice of that specific student would be deemed appropriate by them. Hey, they were getting him out of class at least.

Most of their pranks were directed at their fellow classmates or their siblings and their friends, and there was one in particular George liked to prank. Not because he disliked her, she was just an easy target being only a year younger than them and Ginny's best friend. She usually took it well, but George could tell by her frustrated sighs after a raincloud had followed her all day or her robes were suddenly made of feathers that the pranks were getting a bit more annoying throughout the years. Fred and George decided to give Y/N a break in their last year at Hogwarts especially with Dumbridge spoiling their fun. During the DA meetings, George found himself not able to stop himself from looking at Y/N. She performed the spells so well. He felt a feeling swell in his very soul and he couldn’t fight the urge to do one last prank on her before their time was up at Hogwarts.

“It’s brilliant,” Fred said with a grin when George proposed the idea. “Who’s the target?”

“The usual. She’s just a good sport about it,” George said and smiled devilishly. Fred raised a brow and shook his head and they made arrangements.

The following day, the Weasleys staked out the hallway Y/N always walks down to charms class. Her head was in a book and she didn’t even notice the trip wire that they had set up. Her ankles were caught in the wire and she nearly fell over as the wire tugged. George watched her look around on the floor, but then their fake dementor swooped in from the roof. The sound effect triggered and Y/N jumped, then screamed at the appearance of the shadowy figure. It swooped down and then the twins revealed themselves to Y/N as the perpetrators behind the childish prank. Y/N looked terrified, then annoyed when she saw them sniggering in the end of the hallway.

“Very funny,” she said sarcastically and walked away quickly. Fred and George high-fived and made their way to their class. George noticed that he hadn't seen Y/N as much throughout the day today as he usually does and bu the time lunch rolled around, he was concerned. He looked to where Ginny and Y/N usually sat and chatted during the lunch hour and saw that both of them were gone.

“Hey, where's our sister?” Fred asked Ron as if he were thinking the same as George. Ron shrugged.

“Maybe she's comforting Y/N. I heard that Y/N was really upset and crying in the girl's bathroom,” Hermione informed them without looking up from her papers. A wash of guilt fell over George and he looked at Fred, who appeared to also be feeling slightly guilty. After lunch, George went to find his sister, but had no luck and wished that he could apologize to Y/N.

When Fred and George returned to the Burrow early, Molly wasn't surprised, but was slightly disappointed that her prankster sons weren't going to graduate Hogwarts. Luckily their misbehavior was swept under the rug at the ministry and the pair were able to keep their wands and continue practicing magic.

“Would you two like to meet them at the train?” Molly offered on the morning the Hogwarts Express was to return students to their homes. Fred and George smiled and nodded having missed their two younger siblings.

“Oh, Harry and Y/N will be staying with us this summer, just to let you know,” Molly said as the train pulled into the station.

“What?” George said in surprise. Y/N was a name he hadn't heard in a few months, but she wasn't very far from his thoughts. He still felt bad about their last interaction and how it may have effected Y/N. He never plucked up the courage to talk to her about it, and she kept her distance after that.

“Hi mum!” Ron greeted Molly with a hug.

“Hello there boys,” Ginny greeted her brothers with a warm smile and hugs all around.

“Oh, it's so good to see you, Y/N dear! And Harry, welcome back, my boy,” Molly said with a  smile and hugged them.

George wanted to say something to Y/N, but their greeting was cut short as they were all ushered out of King's Cross and hurried back to Diagon Alley to use the Floo system. It wasn't until they were all back at the Burrow that George was able to have a moment to talk to Y/N.

“So how was the rest of the year?” he asked her. She raised a brow at him.

“It was horrible up until the very end when Umbridge finally just went missing,” Y/N said. “But... well, poor Harry.”

George nodded as he had heard about Harry's godfather and order member. “I'm sorry I left.”

“I'm not. Umbridge deserved it, and it looks like you two have been doing better than you were at school, so... it worked out,” Y/N said with a smile.

After a few weeks had passed and the summer assignments were complete, they had all taken to playing quidditch on the large property. Hermione and Y/N sat off to the side while the rest of the Weasleys plus Harry played. The match was well underway and Fred and George reprised their beater roles to help their sister and brother become better keepers and chasers. After the quaffle had been passed around a few times and a few bludgers had zipped around, George felt himself gazing in Y/N and Hermione's direction. His eyes lingered for a bit too long on the way the sun hit Y/N's hair and made her eyes shine when she smiled. Behind her, he saw a bludger heading straight towards her head.

“Watch out!” George said to them, which caused Y/N and Hermione to look around in confusion. Acting quickly, he zoomed his broom behind her and beat the ball into submission.

“Finite incantatem,” George said with a wave of his wand and the balls dropped to the ground with a loud thud.

“Well that's it for today I think,” Ron said as they all flew to the ground and dismounted.

“Are you alright?” George asked Y/N, who looked at him in shock.

“Um, yeah... Thank you,” she said and smiled politely at him.

George felt his cheeks get hot and he nodded.

“What's gotten into you, mate?” Fred asked once they retired to their rooms that night.

“What do you mean?” George responded.

“You just seem... distracted. Like you kept looking over at Y/N the whole match and last week you nearly dropped a stack of dishes when she walked by you. She slip you a love potion?” Fred teased.

“What? No,” George scoffed. He remembered that incident well, though. Y/N had just woken up and George was so distracted by how attractive she looked in an oversized shirt and shorts that he felt his whole body go numb and he nearly shattered the plates he was carrying to put away.

Well into the night, George found himself thinking about the light brushes that Y/N and he had shared throughout their time at Hogwarts and he could still feel how soft and warm her skin was in the places they had connected. He felt embarrassed as if she were watching him obsess over such a small gesture like a prank to get her attention even though she was in the other room. He kept imagining her in his mind, and he remembered several times now that he had done this exact routine at night. He couldn't help but think of nothing but her.

He rolled over and saw that Fred had fallen asleep. He didn't know what time it was, but the house was silent so he assumed late. His stomach made an ungodly sound that signaled for him to feed it and he happily complied. He glanced at the clock and was astonished to find it was nearly two in the morning. Had he really been so involved in his thoughts about Y/N that he hadn't noticed several hours passing? He opened the refrigerator and found a small sandwich up for grabs. As he closed the door, he saw a small figure outlined in the darkness and nearly screamed his soul out of his body.

He pointed his lit wand at the figure to find Y/N in her sleepwear standing next to the counter with the glasses cabinet open.

“Jesus fucking christ, don't scare me like that,” George exhaled.

“Sorry, I was really thirsty..” Y/N chuckled. George watched as she moved about the kitchen, his hunger forgotten for the moment. His eyes trailed along her body many times as he took in every bit of her he could.

“Can I help you?” she asked after taking a drink from the cup.

Without thinking and fatigue beginning to cloud his judgment, George responded, “Tell me where you're hiding your voodoo doll.”

“Pardon?” Y/N said in an almost offended tone.

“I can't sleep, there's pins in my head in my heart in my chest and I can't breathe around you. What have you done to me?” George asked as he walked closer to her. By the end of his sentence, Y/N's back was against the wall and George's eyes connected with hers through the dim light of his wand that rested on the counter.

“Is this another cruel prank?” Y/N asked.

George's heart clenched. Cruel prank? Did he really hurt her? He hadn't meant to, he wanted her to laugh with them like she used to. George shook his head.

“If you think for even one second that your face doesn't haunt my dreams and that you're the reason for my heart beating at all or that you're not the motivation for me to breathe... you're dead wrong,” George said with his heart in his throat. George's eyes searched hers as he leaned closer, but he found no resistance. He acted purely on instinct and kissed her mouth with a conviction that he could only muster through inhibition of his doubts and fears.

She kissed him back and for a moment, time stopped for George. It was as if the world had been completed when their lips collided and moved together. George felt Y/N pull away from him and he opened his eyes to find hers tearful.

“You're ruthless, George Weasley,” she said with a small sob. George's heart shattered as she walked away from him and up the stairs.

~*~

Y/N couldn't believe the audacity of that red-headed heartthrob. The last interaction they had was a terrifying dementor prank, then he abandons the school and now suddenly he's a proper gentleman asking how her day has gone and saving her from a trip to the emergency room during a quidditch practice and then kissing her in the kitchen? Y/N's heart was racing, but she couldn't wake Ginny up to tell her. Ginny could never find out about Y/N's massive crush on George in spite of her heart being broken. She felt bad for calling him ruthless, but there was no better way to describe such a horrible joke. He had to be joking, there's no way he could feel so strongly for Y/N, not after all the years of torment he put her through. Y/N curled up under the covers and only let a few tears of frustration escape. She longed for his lips on hers again, but wouldn't dare let that show.  Maybe she'd wake up and this entire night would be a dream.

That was not the case. Y/N woke up and remembered the feeling of George's lips against hers vividly. The sun shone through the window and Y/N could hear Ginny start to stir. Sighing to herself, Y/N got up from her bed and got dressed. Throughout the day, she and George would make eye contact briefly, and Y/N's heart ached to talk to him, but she couldn't find it in herself to play into his game. She was convinced he was playing a prank on her, not that he had feelings for her the way she did for him. By the end of the day, she could tell George's irritation growing.

“I need to talk to you,” he said after dinner in a low voice. Y/N was hesitant but didn't dare deny alone time with George.

They went to the back yard and sat down on the patio. Y/N had noticed Ginny's sly smirk and raised eyebrow at the two of them when Y/N had exited the room with George, but Y/N ignored the glances.

“What is it?” Y/N asked once the door had shut.

“I meant what I said. My feelings haven't changed once. You've become my entire world, I need you to know that,” George said.

Y/N looked into his eyes and found remorse and a warmth that she wanted to envelop herself in. She nodded in response and urged him to continue with raised brows.

“I want to be yours... if you'll have me,” he finished after a moment.

Y/N was taken off guard and her nerves seemed to get the better of her because she felt sick to her stomach and her mouth went dry. Her mind screamed with glee, and she was sure the smile she formed was involuntary as she nodded. George grinned and pulled her into a close embrace.

[wwitbeyondmeasure]

Summer at The Burrow : r.w. fan fiction

Previous Chapters

Introduction / Author’s Note / Chapter 1: The Journey to The Burrow / Chapter 2: Hidden Letters / Chapter 3: Ron’s Return / Chapter 4: Nighttime Conversations / Chapter 5: A Morning Surprise

Chapter 6: The Quidditch Match

You were greeted by a grinning Ron in the kitchen.

"I see your mood has changed," you noted, gratefully taking the buttered toast he was offering you as you heard your stomach rubble loudly.

He nodded. "Fred and George talked to me," he stated.

A bolt of terror ran up your spine. Talked to him? Talked to him about what? Surely they didn't tell Ron how you felt about him? You knew they were pushing you towards confessing, but you never thought they would betray you like that.

"Oh?" you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral. You took a big bite of toast and chewed to keep your mind off of Ron's next words, and your impending feeling of doom.

Ron nodded, his smile returning. "They said I can use the best Cleansweep Five we've got. Thank Merlin too, all our other brooms give me splinters."

Relief washed over you like a great tide. They hadn't ratted you out after all. You felt a twinge of guilt from believing the twins would go behind your back like that, you knew they wouldn't.

After you finished your breakfast, you headed out to the field behind The Burrow. You were greeted by the sight of quidditch balls already laid out, goalposts standing ready, and redheaded boys fighting over brooms. Hermione and Ginny chatted pleasantly with one another to the side.

You walked over to them and offered an apologetic smile. "Sorry I was so uptight upstairs," you said.

Ginny waved you off with the flick of a wrist, "We understand. Although we were quite hopeful seeing you in Ron's bed," she added with a wink.

Hermione gave you a hug with one arm and whispered, "We expect to hear all the details later." You laughed, happy to have your girls back, and followed them to the others.

"I called this one!"

"No you didn't, you great git, I did!"

"Yeah right, get your own!"

Laughing at the twins' argument, you grabbed the shabbiest looking broom in the pile. It was no secret that you were the best Chaser on your house team so you thought taking the worst broom was a fair way to even out the match. Also, you weren't in in the mood to fight tooth and nail with a ginger about a broomstick.

After the broomsticks were distributed to each player, George still grumbling about Fred taking his broom, the teams were determined. On one side: Fred, George, Ron, and Harry. On the other: you, Hermione, and Ginny. You were the chaser, Ginny the beater, and Hermione the Keeper. Much to Harry's dismay, the group had opted out of the need of the seeker role and Snitch. Instead, you would just be playing to see how many points you could score through the goals.

"Shirts vs skins!" Fred and George shouted. "Isn't that what the muggles do to keep track of their teammates, Harry?" They asked him, already yanking their shirts off their backs.

"I suppose," Harry said, following their action.

You laughed, "Yeah, except nobody ever offers to be the skins."

"Well if they looked as good as I do, they would," Fred replied confidently, earning giggles from you and Hermione. Ginny, however, scoffed at his words.

You were so busy talking to Fred that when you turned your head, you noticed Ron had already taken his shirt off. Maybe you were imagining it, but you felt his gaze flick quickly to yours and then both of your cheeks reddening instantly. This had been the second time in 24 hours that you had seen your best friend with his shirt off and it still made your heart skip a beat and your head feel dizzy. Hopefully you could keep your eyes on the Quidditch match instead of him.

Before you knew it, the match had started.

You had grabbed the Quaffle once it was in the air, and were rushing towards the other team's goalposts. You noticed your broom was a lot slower than yours at home, drifting slightly to the right as you propelled yourself forward, but that didn't impede your skills at all. In fact, before long, the score was 50-10.

"That's rubbish!" Harry shouted as you scored yet another goal. He was really getting into the spirit of Quidditch.

"The only thing that's rubbish is your flying!" Ginny countered back with a wicked smirk.

Being here with your friends, playing Quidditch outside under the sun, wind whipping through your hair- it was everything you wished for and more. You recalled sitting all alone in the great big empty house of yours, your mind would often wander to wishing for something like this. A sense of community, friendship, and family. Right now, you couldn't be happier.

"y/n, look out!"

You heard it too late. By the time your head turned in the direction of Ginny's voice, the Weasley's battered old bludger from their home Quidditch set had smacked into the side of your head. Falling from your broomstick, you really wished you hadn't forgone the helmet offered to you before the match began.

The match abruptly ended as you hit the ground with a thud. Admittedly, you weren't flying that high up, but the fall still stung. You felt a large welt on your forehead, and as you touched above your left eyebrow you were surprised to see blood.

"Ow," you commented.

The first person to reach you was Ron, looking pale with worry.

"Y/n! Are you alright?" He asked, his voice quivering as his eyes flicked between your eyes and bloodied forehead.

You nodded, but the effort in doing so made you dizzy. You swayed a little from where you sat, and Ron wrapped a protective arm around your back to steady you. Despite being on the precipice of passing out, Ron's palm being pressed flatly to your lower back made butterflies erupt in your stomach. So now you had that making your head spin too.

Concerned blue eyes stared intently at you and you tried your best to not notice how close Ron's bare chest was to you. He was breathing heavily from the game and despite being sweaty from the heat, he still smelled like cinnamon and apples. His red hair was tousled from the wind and you wanted nothing more than to reach out and run your fingers through it.

"I'm alright, just a little fall," you said, struggling to your feet. Ron kept his arm wrapped tightly around you to keep you from toppling over.

"Alright there, y/n?" Harry asked as the others came to join you. "I didn't mean to hit that blunger so hard, I'm sorry."

You waved him off with your hand. "S'all right, I've suffered from worst during Quidditch," you replied. And it was true. Last year, you had broken your arm three times during the Quidditch season. Madame Pomfrey welcomed you as a regular visitor in the Hospital Wing. You had even managed to become quite good friends with her.

After a quick survey of the group, it was obvious everyone was beaten and tired. Two hours of Quidditch can do that to a person.

"I'll take her upstairs and clean her cut. Will you lot make lunch? Or ask Mum too?" Ron asked. You were surprised by his taking charge, usually he was one to sit back and let Hermione make all the plans.

Everyone nodded and then embarked back to The Burrow.

"Despite my fall, we were winning," you proclaimed as you entered the house. You, Hermione, and Ginny shared a satisfying smile at your victory.

"I call a rematch for tomorrow," Harry insisted as he followed the twins into the kitchen.

Ron led you upstairs, his hand still planted firmly on your back, as you walked up the countless steps. After a couple levels, you had reached the tiny bathroom all the Weasley's shared.

You entered it, followed by Ron. It was quite a tight fit. With both of you standing in it, backs facing the wall, your chests were almost pressed against one another. Ron still hadn't put his shirt back on. You tried your best not to notice this fact.

He stepped closer to you, and your heart started beating so fast you felt there was a hummingbird trapped in your ribcage rather than an organ. Ron wrapped his arms around you, lifted you up, and set you on the bathroom counter. You blushed at the ease in which he did this. He really was quite strong. You remembered back in second year when he could barely push open the heavy common room door, now here he was lifting you onto counters as if you weighed nothing.

Ron searched above you in the mirror cabinet for some bandaids and ointment for your head. You waited patiently, taking advantage of his distracted attention to stare at him. He really looked good. He was biting his lip in concentration as he read different bottles to find the correct medicine, and his eyebrows were knitted together. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face and his freckles looked like constellations on his skin. In that moment, you swore he was the most handsome wizard you ever saw.

"Got it," he said, his deep voice snapping you out of your fantasy. "Mum used to put this on our scrapes when we were little. It might sting a bit," he warned you.

You nodded and shut your eyes as Ron wet a rag and turned to you. You felt him lean closer. Cinnamon and apple. His smell was intoxicating.

Ron lighted brushed your hair behind your ear. With a wet cloth, he dabbed the blood away. His touch felt so soft and gentle that you fought the urge to sigh and melt right into the arms. But that feeling quickly subsided as a new sensation of an intense burning reached your cut.

"Ow," you muttered through gritted teeth as he continued applying the ointment.

"I know, sorry," he replied, still concentrating.

You opened your eyes to sneak a glance at him. He was so close to you that if you moved forward a little bit, your noses would be touching. You snapped your eyes shut again, afraid that if you kept them open for a second longer, you wouldn't be able to restrain yourself anymore. You were certain you would kiss him if he stayed that close to you.

The feeling of a dry fabric being pressed to your head brought you out of your thoughts as the stinging subsided. The bandaid Ron pressed gently to your forehead seemed to help because you didn't feel dizzy anymore. Magic, it was great at healing.

Taking in a deep breath, you opened your eyes. Ron was still standing so close to you, both of his arms resting against the counter on either side of you. His eyes immediately met yours and you could swear that every sound in the world went quiet. The temperature in the bathroom seemed to increase as you were so close to one another. You couldn't help yourself, your eyes slipped from his blue eyes to his lips. Merlin, you wanted to kiss him so badly.

Looking back up, you saw his gaze was focused on your mouth as well. His eyes met yours once again. Was he leaning in? He definitely looked like he was getting closer. Is this really happening?

"Lunch is ready!" Ginny's voice traveled from downstairs to the bathroom like a shrill bullhorn. You felt as if a bucket of cold water was poured onto your head, that's how quickly you jolted from the dream-like trance you were in.

Ron cleared his throat awkwardly, moving backwards to give you more space. The absence of his proximity made you feel colder, and you wished Ginny had called you a minute later.

"Shall we?" He asked, offering you a hand as you climbed down from the counter.

"Yeah, I'm starving," you replied as you exited the bathroom and made your way downstairs. But you were more than just hungry for lunch. You had a hunger for whatever atmosphere donned upon you and Ron in that tiny bathroom. You were hungry for that feeling of being the only two in the world. It was in that moment that you realized how strongly you felt about Ron. How strongly you felt about your best friend. It was there, atop the rickety steps of The Burrow, that you vowed that this summer was the one where you would tell Ron Weasley that you were in love with him.

[cuculine-nelipot]

Wish We Could

Chapter One: Loved You First

{ Pairing: Hermione Granger x Fred Weasley

Summary: After the Battle of Howgarts, Hermione and Ron start dating; their slow-burn friends to lovers arc complete. He’s nice, and she’s comfortable, and everyone is happy for them. Everyone but Fred, who can’t stop thinking that he loved her first, and Hermione, who begins to wonder if they really are as over as she thought they were. }

2nd May 1998, The Battle at Hogwarts

Hermione Jean Granger was far from perfect. No one knew that better than she did. But she was careful, and she didn’t break things she couldn’t fix, or at least she didn’t used to. So you can imagine the devastation she felt when she kissed Ron, when he kissed her back, and the years of bickering, and flirting with flirting ended in that one, cataclysmic moment. She saw Fred watching, she saw the break; the life she then realised she wanted more than anything broke to pieces right there in his startlingly green eyes. She heard Harry yell something at them, Ron peeled away, laughing, and Fred was gone. The show went on, as it had to, as it must, because  if there is one thing Hermione had learnt in her life, it’s that there is no such thing as a person, only players, and there is no free will, only the cruel pen of fate, and Hermione was its unwitting almost-heroine.

22nd August 1998, Morning

So maybe things aren’t so bad. Ron is sweet, or he is trying to be. Ron calls precisely when he says he will. Ron comes to dinner with her parents. Ron tries his hardest to at least look like he is following their dentist-talk. Ron’s kisses are soft, though they tend to be more mushy than gentle. Ron smells like strawberry shampoo. Ron is learning everything he can about cricket, and Chelsea F.C, and Ron is memorising her favourites of everything. Ron is a practiced mummy’s boy, and hers simply adores him. And Ron is her friend, has been since First Year. Together they have fought trolls and rode dragons. They almost died together more times than she cares to count. Theirs is the story you couldn’t write, a romance blown to epic proportions, this love is sweeter than fiction, — right? So why is she so nervous?

Ron arrives at 0930 sharp, dressed in respectable dark grey trousers and a blood red jumper. He kisses Hermione on the cheek, hugs Mrs. Granger, and shares a firm handshake with Mr. Granger. He hands Hermione a bouquet of garden roses because, she supposes, they look enough like peonies. On observing that his white shirt collar is crumpled and half tucked in, she compulsively reaches out and straightens it. He blushes, and from the corner of her eye she sees her mother purse her lips as though trying not to smile, a gleam in her eye as she witnesses this small act of intimacy. Hermione drops her hand, wishing she could take it back.

The again restored powder blue Ford Anglia idles in the driveway. Mr. Granger makes a remark about car batteries, and Ron agrees, saying nothing of the vehicle’s extra-ordinary traits. He holds the door open for Mrs Granger and Hermione. You look beautiful today, he says as the latter slides past him. This is the first time her parents are visiting The Burrow, so she thought they would be more comfortable undertaking the journey the muggle way. Her parents, quite understandably, have become just the slightest bit skittish around magic since learning of their daughter’s escapades, starting from aged 12 to seven months ago, including the fact that she had erased their memories and sent them to Australia for the better part of a year. This had the unforeseen and rather unfortunate side-effect of inspiring in them a strong desire to become more involved in the social aspects of her ‘other life’, as they had come to think of it. When Ron showed up one day, shortly after she gave them back their memories, and re-introduced himself as her boyfriend, this day became inevitable. And so, they are on their way Ottery St. Catchpole to visit the Weasleys.

The conversation flows well enough, Ron proves surprisingly adept at keeping the usually rather withdrawn Mr. and Mrs. Granger talking about their work, and sports. Her parents, eager to make up for lost time, and to know everything about their daughter’s apparent suitor, ask him lots of questions about the upcoming school year, and the adventures of their past, though there is a significant portion they skirt around (the time she was petrified for instance). Ron knows when to listen and when to ask the right questions. Ron knows which stories to tell. Ron keeps them laughing enough that they don’t notice the ride to Devon is going much faster than the laws of physics allowed. And Hermione looks out the window, and says nothing. It is a scenic drive to the West Country. All rolling fields and blue skies. The sun, a pale gold, trips lightly through a barely there mist, and everything shimmers.

“Is everything okay?” Her mother asks, nudging her with her elbow. Hermione half turns to look at her and nods, saying nothing of the cold dampness rolling through her stomach.

19th  June 1996

It didn’t come out of nowhere, their first kiss, though it would have looked that way to anyone watching. Maybe it wasn’t the best timing — okay it was terrible timing — but time suddenly seemed to be in short supply. After all, she had just almost died again — Hermione, and everyone else who had been at the Department of Mysteries the night before. It must have been afternoon but it was impossible to tell with the curtains drawn, shading the ward an artificial dusk. Everyone was sound asleep except her, and Sirius, who was in another room going mad from his glimpse beyond the veil. Hermione was reading a book. She could always find one.

Fred walked in alone. She remembered thinking that was weird, but when he pressed his lips to hers, it became apparent why. “What are you doing here?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

“Well in case you missed it, my brother, my sister, and my friends all just almost died. I got here is soon as I could.” He skips over the words with characteristic lightness, but there’s a gravity in his aspect she had never seen before.

“Well in that case you’re late,” she teases, her tired face jerking in the vague likeness of a smile.

“It’s just gone past seven in the morning,” he frowns, and brushes the hair from her cheek, “what time did you think it was?”

“Afternoon,” she sighed, leaning back into the pillows. “So I only slept for a few minutes then.”

“I’ll ask a nurse to get you more Sleeping Draught.” He turned to go but she grabbed his wrist to stop him. It seemed too intimate, but she liked it, and judging the grin that flitted across his face, so did he.

“Don’t. They’re busy.”

“You need to sleep. You’re a patient too.” He leaned down, gently kissed her on the forehead, and swept her hair back. “I’ll be right back.”

22nd August 1998, Afternoon

Hermione had hoped that she would have to act as mediator between her parents and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and that she would therefore be much too preoccupied to worry about how uniquely uncomfortable the circumstances are. But she had no such luck. Not only was Fred everywhere, but her parents and the Weasleys got along famously. Ron had apparently  well-advised his father on the appropriate number of muggle-specific questions to ask in an hour (one), and their mothers shared a passion for gardening. Already there was talk of exchanging various herb seedlings. She should be relieved, happy even, and it occurs to her that under different circumstances she would have been.

The rest of the gang had peeled away shortly after lunch in search of something more entertaining, leaving her and Ron alone with the parents. Hermione politely excuses herself from the table.

“And where do you think you’re sneaking off to Granger?” This particular red-haired boy  that she almost slams into is missing an ear.

“George!” The smile that creeps across her face is nothing short of ebullient. Perhaps even more so than his twin, George Weasley could put near anyone in a good humour. “I wasn’t sneaking off anywhere. I just… needed to use the loo.”

“Pity. We were just about to throw the Quaffle around. Could do with a sixth. I was meant to get Percy but I’m sure everyone would much prefer you.”

“Everyone?” She asks skeptically. George was, of course, the only one who knew about the car crash that had been hers and Fred’s… whatever it was.

“Everyone,” he insists.

It’s cold for August, the sky is clear and the sun is still shining in that enchanted way.  If there was a such a thing as perfect Quidditch weather, even Hermione would have had to admit that this was it. Harry has his arms wrapped around Ginny, saying something in her ear that makes them both laugh. Fred and Charlie talk a few feet away, watching them with equally perplexed and somewhat revolted expressions.

“If I saw Ron doing that I might just puke,” she hears Fred say. She could have heard him say anything and smile, but that particular remark makes something spark in her heart that she fights hard to stifle. “Oh, Hermione!” His pond-weed green eyes widen comically when he catches sight of her, the skin of his cheekbones turning pink. “Hi Hermione, hey!” He shifts his weight uncomfortably and looks away.

“Fred,” she says, cool as ever. “Hey Charlie!”

“I’m sorry, Hermione was it?” He asks with a teasing glance at Fred. “It’s good to see you again,” he adds, and gives her a brawny hug. She hadn’t actually managed to properly say hi to anyone earlier, there was so much excitement about Ron and Hermione, and The Meeting of the Parents. Harry and Ginny tear themselves apart and come over, and more hugs are shared. The divide themselves into teams of three, and for the first time in a while everything feels almost normal.

While she is by far the weakest player between the six of them, one simply could not spend years around Quidditch buffs without picking up a few things and Hermione, a true perfectionist, was now more than capable of sort of holding her own. And besides, Ginny was the only one present who actually played as a Chaser; George and Fred are more suited to whacking than passing, and Charlie and Harry, like most Seekers, are terrible at paying attention to other people. After a far too lengthy debate it was decided that the most balanced configuration was Hermione, George, and Harry against Ginny, Charlie, and Fred. Things get off to a slow start; it was nearly impossible to get Harry and Ginny to stop flirting and actually play the damned game. But once George slips past Charlie and scores an easy goal, it’s game on. He and Harry score five more between them in quick succession. Ginny, not one to take losing lightly, especially not to her Seeker boyfriend, ‘accidentally’ sends the Quaffle flying at Harry’s head, causing it to ricochet straight into Fred’s hands, and he makes fast work of scoring. They equalise soon after.

The game quickly degenerates into anarchy. Ginny bites George’s arm to keep him from scoring. Hermione flies up behind Harry and covers his eyes as he tries to make a pass. At some point, Charlie takes a shot and both George and Hermione dive to save it, ramming into each other head first. Hermione, much smaller, and the weaker flyer, falls off and George lunges to grab her arm but misses, so she’s free falling. Everyone swoops in to catch her but Fred gets there first. She slams into his outstretched arms, and his broom jerks down, threatening to send them both tumbling to the ground but he manages a semi-controlled landing and they both stumble onto the grass, winded and half in shock, but otherwise okay. Bending over with their hands on their knees, they catch their breaths while the others land one by one. Their eyes meet, and they experience a fleeting, shinning moment of absolute clarity.

“Well I suppose it’s been a good few months since someone’s almost died,” Ginny quips. All faces turn to her, stunned, speechless. She shrugs and makes a face as if to say am I wrong? And just like that the tension dissolves into hysterics, and they’re laughing — side-stitch, red-face, on the floor laughing harder than any of them have in longer than they can remember.

“Sorry,” George manages between gasps for air. “I’m really sorry.”

“You better be careful Georgie,” Fred says with a pointed, peevish sideways glance in Hermione’s direction, “wouldn’t want to incur the wrath of ickle Ronnikins now would we?” In that moment she swears she could deck him, and she’s sure he only said it because he knows she can’t.

“What’s going on here?” The voice cuts through the hilarity like an ice pick.

“Nothing dad!” Hermione trills defensively “We were just messing around.”

“Well no one invited me,” Ron groans at what he thinks is a discrete volume, but earns their party a withering look from Mrs. Weasley anyway.

“Sorry Ron,” Charlie offers diplomatically, “but we had an even six and if you joined then we would have had to ask Percy to play too —”

“— I heard that!” Comes the disembodied screech from inside.

“— which we of course would have thoroughly enjoyed but he’s just so hard at work helping to rebuild the wizarding world in these trying times.” Charlie works very hard at keeping a straight face while the rest of them burst into laughter again. He may have been laying it on a bit thick, but it works well enough to put an end to the subject, and they all go inside for tea. Fred shoots Hermione another peevish grin, and this time it’s undeniable; she wants to kiss him as much as she wants to absolutely eviscerate him.

Evening

No, Fred Weasley does not know what he’s doing. He just know it’s a bad idea, and that he can’t stop himself. He can’t stop his heart working double-time whenever he catches sight of Hermione. He can’t stop watching his younger brother talking to Mr. and Mrs. Granger, and thinking that it should be him. He couldn’t stop the rush he felt when he had Hermione in his arms, and he can’t stop wishing that he hadn’t had to let go. He couldn’t stop the hope that sparked in his chest when they landed and she looked at him that way, and he can’t stop it happening again every time he replays the moment in his head. He also cannot stop replying the moment in his head.

He can’t stop looking at her. He couldn’t stop himself from sitting across from her at dinner. He can’t stop himself brushing her fingers when she passes him the butter, and the salt, and the pepper and the peas. He can’t stop looking at how her skin glows bronze, and her dark hair flecks golden red in the warm, floating-candle light. He can’t stop thinking how he loved her first. He can’t stop any of it.

“You’re playing a dangerous game here,” Charlie says low into his ear, after the third time he asks Hermione to please pass the plate of Yorkshire puddings.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“She’s dating our brother.”

“I know that.”

“So what are you doing?”

“I’m not doing anything” he snaps, struggling to keep an even keel. Charlie leans back with a satisfied smirk and says no more on the subject for the rest of dinner, but he does yelp when Fred spills hot soup onto his lap.

20th June 1996

Already Hogwarts felt like something from another age. Was it just months ago George and Fred turned the fifth floor corridor into a swamp and flew off into the sunset, hanging up their blue and and bronze ties with so much flair and theatricality? It didn’t seem possible. Held up in the early morning’s grey light, against the dense mist rolling over the glassy, black lake, that moment seems somewhat lurid now. So Voldermort was back. They already knew that, and now everyone else did too.

“Are we going to talk about yesterday?” Hermione asks, her voice splintering the thin silence. The question catches him entirely by surprise. First because he wasn’t sure how she knew it was him coming up behind her. Second because she had seemed to be ignoring him since the hospital.

“Do you want to talk about yesterday?”

“Why did you kiss me?” She tried to sound cold, but a slight whine in her voice made it obvious that she had been fretting over the question.

“Because I wanted too, and because I almost didn’t get the chance.

After some consideration, during which she was completely still and he shifted anxiously on his feet, she turned to him and said, “I think I’d like to do it again. Just to see.”

He kissed her without hesitation, tilting her head back with his hands on either side of her face. It was brief and it was sweet. “Was that okay?”

“That was perfect. Thank you.” She turned back to face the lake, agonisingly unreadable. After a moment, she reached out and silently took his hand.

 22nd August 1998, Night

There is nothing Hermione wants more than to dive into bed and stay there until it’s time to go to King’s Cross. Or better, to simply wake up on the 2nd of September and find herself in History of Magic, or Transfiguration. Maybe if she was lucky, Professor McGonagall would teach her how to turn herself into a teapot. At least that way she will always be full of tea and she’ll never have to think about boys again. But no, there had to be showers, and hot chocolate, and going over the evening with her parents in agonising detail. When she at last manages to escape, she is already halfway up the stairs when her mother calls out.

“The twin with both ears — Fred — was he the young man that used to call all the time?”

“Yes,” Hermione replies curtly, a prickle of heat rising up her neck.

“What happened between the two of you?”

“Nothing,” she shrugs, trying her best to look nonchalant. Too much. Not enough.

She tries to go to sleep but fails. She reads but can’t concentrate, as is wont to happen on the rare occasions books seem to yield no answers or insight. Eventually she takes to laying upside down on her bed, staring at the pinprick lights criss-crossing her ceiling. There’s a tap at her window, and turning her head reveals a familiar old bird. A really old bird. At the sight of Errol she scrambles, perhaps a little too excitedly, to slide the window open. He offers her his leg, and the attached scrap of parchment. She scratches his head and offers him the small bowl of birdseed she keeps nearby for such occasions. He flies away. She unfurls the note, and sees the familiar, elegant script that he uses when he’s up to something:

Mademoiselle Granger,

I would like to request the joy of your company at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour this coming Monday, the twenty-fourth of August, at ten o’clock ante meridiem.  

Sincerely, F. Weasley

chapter one | chapter two

[writersmacchiato]

Wanting | Oliver Wood

Summary: When Oliver, the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, is asked about you, the Slytherin Quidditch Captain and his childhood best friend, he slips up and misunderstandings develop.

Requested by: @whatwouldidowithoutgeorgeluz (sorry for not completely following your prompt, but i hope you like this anyway!)

———

Harry didn’t know what to think of you. Since starting school at Hogwarts, his experience with the Slytherin house has been less than favorable. They were rotten.

Except you weren’t. Harry has seen you in the halls, often alone or looking annoyed as Malfoy or Marcus Flint tried to capture your attention. It pleases him beyond imagine every time you brush off Malfoy, his face embarrassed. Ron takes great pleasure in mocking him. ‘Oh L/N you are so beautiful. What do you mean you won’t marry me? My father will hear about this!’

You weren’t rotten, but you were ambitious. Cunning. Smart. Clever. Beautiful. Harry had unfortunately been on the receiving end of Oliver Wood going off on a tangent about you more than once. It seemed that the only topics Wood knew a profound amount on was Quidditch and you. He could spend hours at any given time listing off how you were everything a Slytherin was meant to be, but then forget the spell he was learning in transfiguration.

“She’s so wickedly smart, you should hear her talk about potions. She’s been tutoring me.” Wood sighs, “without her, I wouldn’t even get an A on my NEWTS.”

Harry feels uncomfortable listening to Wood moon over you once again, all he wanted to ask about was something for his class and now twenty minutes later he was stuck listening to all the ways in which you were amazing.

“Uh,” Harry cleared his throat, coughing as he mumbles out a feeble, “Is L/N your girlfriend?”

And Oliver Wood, his head in the clouds as he thought about the way you smirked at him earlier that morning, comes crashing down to the sky. A brilliant shade of red blooms over his cheeks.

He stutters for a moment, fumbling until he manages to strangle out a heated “no!”

“Oh.” Harry says lamely, feeling dread creep in over the looming Quidditch practice tomorrow.

. . .

You let out a laugh, trying to hide it behind your hands before Madam Pence kicks you out — nothing got past her. Oliver’s cheeks are a light pink as he recounts his conversation with Harry Potter.

“You do talk about me an awful lot, Wood.”

He rolls his eyes. “Only about how insufferable you are.”

“Insufferably beautiful? Smart?” You lean in with a smirk. “Oh, I know. I’m so insufferably good at Quidditch it makes you want to tear your hair out.”

Oliver doesn’t respond, closing the distance you had shortened. “You are insufferable.”

You grin at his challenging tone. “I’m looking forward to the Quidditch match this Saturday.”

Ravenclaw versus Slytherin.

“Will you be there to cheer me on?”

Oliver rolls his eyes, a tug of a smirk on his lips. “No, actually. You need to be knocked down a peg or two. Merlin knows how you even walk around with your big head.”

“My big head? It’s nothing compared to yours, Wood.” You say, then laugh at the implication. He rolls his eyes so hard that he’s surprised they don’t sprain.

“I have practice. See you later.”

“Tell Potter your girlfriend says hello!”

. . .

The wind tossed through your robes,

“Oy! L/N!”

You turn with a hand on your hip, face unimpressed as Oliver stalks towards you. The Slytherin Quidditch team grumbles when they spot him, but you ignore their empty threats.

“Wood.”

“Talk to ya for a minute?”

You follow him down a small side path, out of the way of everyone filtering down to the Quidditch pitch. Oliver’s cheeks are flushed pink from the wind, burrowing under his gryffindor scarf. His brown eyes peer at you, reflecting warmly against the chill in the air.

“What do you want, Wood? Trying to shake me off my game last minute?” You break his silence, wanting him to start but not having time to beat around the bush.

Oliver smiles to himself, scuffing at the dirt with his shoe. When he looks up through his lashes, you’re struck by how handsome he has grown to be.

From children, where you played endlessly together, to mere tweens teasing each other, to now...on the verge of adulthood.

“I just wanted to say good luck out there.” He settles on, the words unsure.

Instead of saying the smart remark that rises, you touch his hand and smile. “I don’t need it, but thank you.”

Oliver scoffs, though he’s smiling. Wind drifts through his hair, it had gotten long over the weeks, sweeping over his forehead. You’re not sure what possesses you, but you find that your fingers are tucking it back into place. Oliver’s cheeks turn a rosy pink, eyes casting away from you.

“See you later, champ.” Oliver pats you on the shoulder, hand lingering for a second longer than it should.

. . .

Oliver almost wished that Slytherin had lost the game against Ravenclaw. The rambunctious and petty gloating from their Quidditch team, understandable to a point, was plain ridiculous now. Not a minute passed where someone from the team wasn’t loudly talking about the game and the plays, a lot of them dirty. He knew it bothered you, that your team’s victories were never entirely fair.

“Can’t wait til’ we kick their asses.” Fred Weasley speaks up after practice one windy morning. “Finally shut them up.”

Oliver finds himself nodding along, not entirely listening as he thinks back to the practice and what needed to be improved. Harry was still unsure, hesitating in his movements. Oliver would have to bolster his confidence. And, the Weasley’s—

“—You with us, Wood?”

Oliver looks up, looking at his teammates. They’re a mixture of bemused, annoyed, and mischievous. “What?”

“We were asking how you’re friends with L/N? She’s the captain, she should set the example.”

Wood felt himself getting defensive. “I’m not.”

A lie, a bold-faced lie. How long had they been friends? You knew Oliver Wood better than Oliver Wood knew himself.

. . .

“Wood.” You hardly spare a glance from your textbook.

Oliver hesitates in front of you, stumbling as he tries to gain his thoughts. There was something in the air, different from the usual causal air between you.

“I haven’t done anything, have I?” His words are tentative, feeling thick on his tongue.

You finally let out a sigh, eyebrows arched. The pages of the book slip close as your hand moves.

“No, Oliver,” your tone is sickly sweet, sliding over his skin in a way he doesn’t like. “You’ve done nothing.”

And, while there was obviously something wrong, Oliver did not have the time to figure it out. Potions was looming in the dungeons and he couldn’t afford to be late.

. . .

Weeks drag by and Oliver does not see you as often. Or rather, he does. A glimpse of your hair in the halls, your laugh ringing out in the Great Hall, a fleeting moment of your eyes meeting his before you turn away.

He misses you.

It’s a slow, startling feeling that he is unused to. The realization that you, one of his closest friends that has been there since nappies, are slipping away from him is a feeling that he can only liken to losing a game of Quidditch. His chest hurts, heart heavy every time you refuse to stop and talk to him.

Oliver is miserable and no one has seen him so dismal since they lost against Ravenclaw last year. It’s enough to be noticed, rumors spreading through the school. They even reach you, all the way in the dungeon.

. . .

“Wood?”

Oliver glances up and his heart does a little leap in his chest.

“Y/N?” It’s strangled

“What’s up? You’re not you.”

“I’m not?”

“Yes. And Gryffindor can’t afford their captain to be off his game against Ravenclaw. Especially with their new seeker, gave us hell in our match.”

Oliver, despite his anger at your coldness, is amused and not surprised that Quidditch is your common ground. It often was. His heart, beating a mile a minute, warms at your concern. You turn to leave the library, patting his hand before you go.

“Chin up, Oli.”

. . .

Oliver finds you facing the windows outside the courtyards, back turned to him as his steps fall heavy against the stone ground. The sun is setting, already past the line of trees from the forbidden forest. A glow from its light is still cast on your face, ethereal as you turn to look at him. There is a smear of dirt on his forehead, his cheeks flushed red. The twinkle in his eye is unmistakable.

“Congratulations on the win.”

Oliver nods, not being able to hide his wide grin. Elation coursed through him, blood still pumping fast in excitement. There’s something in the air, charged with an energy that feels soft and delicate.

“Thank you.”

He swallows thickly, watching as you lean against a column. You’re relaxed, eyes looking at him with something he can’t place. The palms of his hands itch as he has the desire to touch you, suddenly, but he pushes the thought away. No other words are exchanged.

When, the sun finally makes its final descent beyond the horizon Oliver knows that he should head back inside. The celebration party in the gryffindor common room would already be in full swing by the time he made his way there, but he was far too captivated by your gaze.

You notice his conflict, a small smile playing at your lips. “You should go celebrate.”

“Maybe I want to stay here.” He finds the nerve to say this, though he feels like he’s suddenly grown two sizes smaller. “With you.”

You smile, a real true smile, that has his cheeks warming. “Me?”

“Yeah, you...” he breathes, noticing just then how small the distance was between you. Your fingers touch his hand, sliding up his arm and settling on his shoulder. The material of his jersey is rough, well-worn, and comfortable. An aggregate of him, everything you know him for.

Oliver, distantly, is aware that anyone can see this, but he doesn’t care when you kiss him. Something he’s been waiting to a while, years even.

———

Everything taglist: @venusstarlight108 @knivestheresnothingtoit @awesomefaith14 @ardentmuse @salladwinston @maddieb97222 @anchy-bananchy @staygoldponebone @unique05sstuff

Harry Potter taglist: @p-adfoot 

also @croatianbagudna here is the rest of the fic! 

[turning-dreams-into-chaos]

Closure

*Not my Gif*

Post Date: 9-30-19

Paring: Fred Weasley x Reader

Word Count: 1.9K

A/N: I have no heart anymore 😂

~Master Lists~

~Harry Potter Master List~

“You ever been in love?” Fred asks as his head hung upside down off the couch, looking at you in the same position. You scrunched up your nose, turning to meet the boy eyes.

“Why would you ask me that? You know I haven’t.” You said with a chuckle as Fred joined in, making the small living room echo with your sounds. “Seriously though, why would you ask such a thing?”

“Just wondering. I was curious as to why you never got a boyfriend. You know you could get one.” He nudged your shoulder and you brought your hand to your face, hiding the slight blush coming in at this topic. “Lee was asking about you a lot last year.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing, Fred was really trying to set you up right now? Sure you could go out with Lee, chances were you could get almost any guy in the school but you just graduated, and now the chances of you seeing any of the kids at hogwarts we’re pretty low if they didn’t show up at the twins and your joke shop.

“Who needs a boyfriend when I have a best friend like you?” Fred gave you a small smile and grabbed your hand, giving it a squeeze before standing up.

“Come on Love, store opens soon and I promised George I’d get you there on time at least once this week.” He pulled you off the couch, bringing you next to him before you both apparated to your shop.

The store sprung to life around you but you couldn’t bring yourself to smile right, never quite reaching your eyes. It was hard to remain cheery and happy while your dreams were coming true if the person you’d dreamt them with wasn’t there. It had been nearly 6 months since Fred died, your best friend leaving the store to you and George to take care of alone. George was a mess. He hardly ever showed up anymore and you couldn’t blame him, everything in here reminded you of Fred, hell seeing his twin caused your entire brain to shut down. You felt guilty, your time with the Weasley family was cut down tremendously because you were too afraid. You were too afraid to face them and not break down because you might’ve lost the best person and friend you could’ve asked for but they lost a brother, a son, family, and you couldn’t help but feel bad for thinking only about yourself. Today was supposed to be a shorter day for you, George was supposed to come in a few minutes and relive you of your duties but time seemed to stand still as a little boy approached the counter you sat behind. It wouldn’t have been completely dreadful if he hadn’t turned around to his brother, wearing the same face as him and you found yourself staring a little long.

The moment they were gone and leaving you alone, you ducked under the counter, trying to calm your now rapid breaths. It was like that every time a twin came in, which turned out to be more frequent than not. You would clam up and suddenly the entire world around you yet none of it registered in your head until ginger hair entered your view and grabbed your shoulders, shaking you gently before pulling you into their arms. For a second you thought the world was right again and you were in Fred’s arms, but soon enough you realized that wasn’t him.

“Let me go!” You cried quietly into the once younger twins arms as he held you tighter, running a hand over your hair which only made things worse.

George knew exactly what to do from watching Fred over the years. He was like a guidebook that he could never open again.

The moment your cries turned to gentle sniffles George let you go, watching you press your back into the shelf behind you and wipe your nose onto your sweater. “Thank you.” You mumbled as George nodded, copying your pose across from you. Neither of you said anything, just staying in the comfort of each other as kids laughed around you.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself Y/N.” George finally spoke as you looked up at him, seeing him play with his fingers instead of looking at you. You were about to ask him what he was talking about before he kept going. “You need closure.”

Your mood instantly got worse as you realized what he meant. In the 6 months since you lost Fred, you never once visited his grave. It was just too hard. “What about you huh? Don’t you need closure as well? I don’t see you making any move to visit him.” You knew you would soon regret the words but George didn’t say anything, just leaning forward to wipe the tears streaming down your face.

“It’s different for you.” He whispered, letting his fingers stop to cup your cheek. “He’s always going to be different for you.”

The first time you realized life wasn’t going to just wait for you to get your shit together, you were eleven. Hogwarts has always seemed like a dream to you growing up but now that you were here it didn’t really seem all that special. You were failing half your classes, Snape scared the living daylights out of you, you had yet to find the people you would fit in with, and Gryffindor truly didn’t seem like the house you fit into. You were always more of a shy girl, everyone called you a mouse since you could talk because you never really did, brave and daring were just two words you’d never use to describe yourself. So far the only thing you managed to do was get detention for staying up too late in the library studying and getting caught by Snape on your way back. You tried to convince him to just let you go but instead he took 50 points from Gryffindor which had increased due to your persistence further damning you to solitude in your house. No one really liked the out of place first year losing 50 points in one night.

You sat alone for what seemed like the millionth time that month in the Great Hall before the spot across from you became occupied by a ginger haired first year you’d seen quite a bit through out hogwarts. “Umm... hi?” You said, hoping that this awkwardness would be put to rest soon. The boy just gave you a cheeky smile and stuck his hand out.

“I’m Fred. I’ve seen you around, you don’t talk much.” He seemed so cheery that you couldn’t help but smile a little, letting your hair fall into your face but Fred wasn’t having it. He pushed the hair behind your ear, revealing your Y/E/C orbs he just stared into. It didn’t last long before another boy came up behind him, making you do a double take at the fact they were twins. That’s why you saw them so much.

Fred introduced his brother to you and from that day forward he made it his mission to crack your shell, bringing out the girl he grew fond of over the years. It only took him 5 years to get you to show your true self to everyone else at hogwarts instead of keeping it inside you for only Fred and sometimes George to get glimpses of. Fred wanted the whole world to see what made you special, but the moment he did he hated it. Boys suddenly started finding you more and more interesting and Fred got worried, yet you never made any move to get with them. You never had any interest in people who only found you worth it when you changed what you showed them, you preferred people who put in the work and who would love you regardless.

The air was a lot thicker than you thought it would be as you stood right in front of the grave you had been avoiding for the better half of a year. A bag of dung bombs was in your hands, they seemed to better fit Fred more than flowers but now you couldn’t help but feel stupid as you held them because how was he supposed to know you brought him this instead of flowers.

“Hi Freddie.” You whispered as you fell to your knees, tears slowly making their way into your vision but you held strong. “I’m lost without you.” You said, jumping right into the hard stuff. You fought the battle with your tears as they plummeted to the ground, wetting your cheeks along the way. “Do you remember that day you asked me...” you swallowed and took a big breath, trying to keep your words from coming out cracking. “Do you remember that day you asked me if I had ever been in love?” You asked even though you knew he couldn’t answer. Your hand found the ground, the only way you could feel like you were holding his before you continued.

“Merlin, I mean what do I say?” You let your eyes close and laid the dung bombs by the top of the grave, sighing as read his name over and over again. “What do you say to the man you love? The man you’ll never be able to see again? What do you say except goodbye?”

You could of sworn your heart broke a little more at your words, finally feeling the full affect the boy had on you. “I love you Fred Weasley.”

It was like the sky could sense your emotions because the moment you got the words out, rain started to fall and yet you made no motion to move, letting the cold water cover your skin because maybe you’d finally feel something.

Maybe you’d finally feel something besides the heartbreak. “I love you Freddie. I love you and I never even found the courage to tell you before I lost you. I-I Lost you.” You couldn’t tell the tears from rain at this point but you didn’t care. All you wanted to do was just curl up in a ball and sleep away the pain, sleep away the memories and hope that you would wake up and Fred would be there sleeping next to you after you showed up to his house unexpectedly and Molly would give you a big hug and tell you that you were always welcomed here and Fred would agree, wrapping his arms around your waist and putting his chin onto your head. You wished you could go back to when Fred asked you to the Yule ball and he spent the entire night making you blush and laugh. You wished you wouldn’t have wasted your time and just kissed him then and there. You wished more than anything that Fred was back in your arms, whispering a stupid joke just to see your smile once again before lifting you onto his back and jumping around the burrow. You wished you had been there to get him out of the way of the building falling on him because living without the one you love was worse than death. But George was right. Closure did make it a little better. At least now you told Fred the truth, even if he wasn’t alive to hear it.

Thoughts?

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[synechd0che]

Aim Your Arrow at the Sky (I’m so Tired Now)

For the 2019 Tolkien Secret Santa Exchange run by @officialtolkiensecretsanta

Recipient: @stand-up-and-fight-daleks

World: Silmarillion (First Age Middle Earth)

Rating: Teen and Up

Pairings: none (general audiences)

Characters: Celegorm, Oromë, Curufin

Summary: 

The bees in the west field hum as Nerdanel works, star-wife, clay-shaper, the bright babe of scarlet mother hears the wind-whisper of little things.

Author’s note:

Title from Florence and the Machine’s “Sky Full of Song.”

I didn't tag this as Graphic Violence because it's not super detailed, but there is a passage towards the end that has some gore.  If you want a synopsis of the passage so that you can skip reading it, please message me and I'm happy to do so.

I will post this on AO3 very very soon, at which point I will attach a link on this post.  Otherwise, I’m Barefoot_Dancer on AO3 and the pseud I use for Tolkien related works is Lorinand_Lost.

Aim Your Arrow at the Sky (I’m so Tired Now):

The little one is in the vegetable garden, cloth-swaddled, brilliant-haired. He inches beneath the fruit vines, out under the humid canopy of gourd leaves. A mole he catches; it wiggles the moist star on its nose, sable fur dappled in tree-light. Dirt-digger, brother-mine.

And the little one whispers, root-feeder, brother-mine, and he turns him loose to burrow.

The leaves part and his mother’s face appears. As mothers do, she wipes berry juice from his cheeks, gives a scolding for his clever escape. Back into her shawl he is wrapped.

The bees in the west field hum as Nerdanel works, star-wife, clay-shaper, the bright babe of scarlet mother hears the wind-whisper of little things.

...

The old forest is ancient-dark, loam-rich, and the air is full of the creakings of the mossy, the time-bent. The little one is now a childling, taller than the sword ferns and shorter than the elderberry.

Little-water-swimmer, the brook gurgles. The childling drinks, and the water is clear and sweet.

With a leap he's an arrow, a ray of light, and he's reached the lowest branch of the spruce. A third of the way up, he finds a nest, four pale blue eggs, and the disgruntled parents, fretful and feathered.

Egg-eater, whistle the wood thrush in their woven home, Bird-catcher.

He climbs to where the branches are whip-willow thin and the sun lances through the needles, to where the wind whispers.

…

Deep in the wood, there is shadow, under beech and oak of interminable age. Everywhere is covered in their leaves, and everywhere not covered by leaves, in a deep moss. The childling is now a youth, tall and lean, his gold hair braided back. He carries his spear, ash-haft, heart-finder. The youth kneels, feeling the moss. The hare has come this way, light-footed, liquid-eyed.

And there it is in the underbrush, and there the youth lunges in pursuit. Then everything blurs in a dizzying, frenetic sprint, and he is a boy, and he is the hare, and then he has it by it's haunches. It goes still, looking at him with one golden eye, sides heaving. Fleet-foot, danger-tooth, and as a plea, brother-mine. The youth feels another set of eyes on him, and looks up slowly.

In the clearing, in the heart of the forest, there is a stag standing in a shaft of light. There is ivy in his antlers, and then he is a man. In a breath, the shade of a deer, gleaming bone and wet sinew. And then a man again, with the stag's head. He moves between these aspects as he says in a voice as old as time, boy-prince, swift-runner, come you now a-hunting?

The youth lowers his spear. Forest-lord, monsters-bane, Oromë.

Gather for me the waltalís nectar from their cliff-face hives, and you may join my wild-hunt.

~~~

Around in a circle are the other Huntsmen. They bear torches, stamp to the beat of a hide drum, sing in a tongue that sounds like the running hare, the charging boar, a diving hawk. Oromë stands at their head, motionless; he has taken the form of a man, dark skinned, braids capped with bone beads.

There is a wind in the cliffs, and the old harvesting ropes groan. Overhead, the bees whir and circle lazily. In one hand, the youth holds the harvesting basket, in the other, a long wood shaft tipped with a blade. He seeks purchase on the ropes with his knees, his bare feet, toes white-knuckled to the jute. He begins to climb.

Inching his way to the top is slow, and grueling. The youth is cold from the sweat-damp tunic that clings to his chest, and the ground is dizzying down below. The bees grow louder. Flightless-brother, knife-bearer. They spiral down from their nests, humming around him, alighting on his clothing and on his bare skin. The youth can feel their little feet as they bump their way over his breast bone and into his tunic, their gossamer wings across the eyelids that he screws closed.

When he can hear the hive above him, he raises the long blade to cut. The bee-music swells. elixir-thief. And they bite him, quick flashes of pain that bloom and burn. They bite at his exposed feet, the youth cries out, tethering himself into the ropes tighter. Now they crawl across his lips, and he locks them shut; they carry with them their sticky and bewildering nectar, made from the cliff flowers that give visions and heat and euphoria.

But they do not stop biting him, and in anguish he cries Shining-wings, sister-mine, Queen, I beseech thee! The nectar is in his mouth now, and there is a fire behind his eyelids and in the sky as the sun sets. It is bitter, it is sweet, and he burns. And the queen says, Take with care and temperance our madding-sweet, thee who speaks with little things. The biting ceases, and the youth fills his basket. Thanks-be, golden-daughter.

With his descent can hear a wild music, and the air moves in strange forms with languid intent. Below, he can see Oromë, and his head seems to shift between aspects - deer, decay, man - antlers grasping at the sky and weaving like vines.

When his feet hit the ground, the youth crumples. Oromë looms over him, washed in torchlight. Turkafinwë you are, father-named for strength and pride.

…

It is dark here, except for the fires burning on the northern horizon. The youth is of majority now, forest-hardened, valinor-soft. Below him in the valley, the goblin army, tortured-legion, unfortunate-brother. Under him shifts his horse, a dappled grey mare. She snorts, unsettled by the smell on the wind, puissance and suffering. Gentle-girl, Turkafinwë murmurs, Peace-be, safe I keep you. She nickers, settling.

When the ground-crawlers and night-wrigglers bring word that the orcs are in the Vale, Turkafinwë lights his torch. In a wave behind him, his men light theirs. There is the rolling sound of ringing steel being drawn, and then it is a hot-rush mad-scramble down the hillside. There is a shout in the air, and a wave of lights charge down into the orcs, who are night-blind with the sudden fire.

Down past Eithel Sirion and into the Fens they are driven, hunted and harried by Turkafinwë and his men, splashing and stumbling into the salty water, muddied and bloodied by the horses' hooves.

Their screaming sounds elvish. And their blood looks elvish as it streaks his blade and soaks into his hair. Some cry for mercy, some cry curses, some fall silently and their bodies relax into a peace cheated from them in life. Turkafinwë surges forward; for mercy, for vengeance, none will be spared here.

Silence falls, except for the groans of the wounded. Overhead, the carrion birds wheel. Brother-hunter, fearsome-fighter, blood-glutted you are, and now we fall to feast. The spirit of Alqualondë is in the air, or maybe it is just the sea air. In the water, elvish hair and orcish hair appear identical.

Tyelkormo he is by mothers-wisdom, the hasty-riser, hot-blooded.

…

Snake's-brother, Orodreth names him, lie-smith, brutish-betrayer. Turned out from Nargothrond in the dead of night. He mourns Huan, and his brother mourns his son; both are living dead, and neither will see their loved one again on this side of the sea. They are shades in the forest. They hide in the day, and travel at night as traitors under a sliver of moon. They seek their brothers' company.

The birds gossip about him, the beasts ignore him. He hunts for food, and his prey fall with baleful glares and die inelegantly, and he can hear them cursing him.

He is not Turkafinwë, he is not Tyelkormo, he is Celegorm in this new language that he speaks poorly and of which understands little, and silence is now his friend.

…

In that blood-haze, in those dark caves lit with glittering lamps, he can feel that familiar oath-madness creeping at the tips of his bones.

Behind him, there is a cry, and he turns to see Caranthir with an arrow sprouting from his jugular. On the causeway above him is Nimloth holding a great yew bow. Celegorm screams like it's his throat in which the arrow is buried, like a panicked horse, like a she-wolf protecting her pups. From his belt, he frees his last dagger. Willing it to fly like a bird, that Oromë and his teachings haven't quite abandoned him, he looses it. His aim is true, and the Queen of Doriath falls.

A scream rings in answer to Celegorm, ripping from the throat of Nimloth's human husband. King Dior charges him, broadsword raised. When their swords meet, all else falls away. Celegorm is dimly aware of the tears on Dior's cheeks, and that he is crying as well. He thinks he can kill this man, who is only human, but when Caranthir, falls with a groan, Celegorm's world freezes. He is too late to block Dior's blade, which slides through his breast plate like cold fire. He coughs blood, grabbing onto Dior's pauldrons to support himself. But in Dior's hasty fury, Celegorm's sword has also found its mark. The light leaves the man's eyes, and he and Celegorm fall as one.

The cold seems to spread from the wound, racing across his body and relieving Celegorm of oath-madness. He cannot push the blade free, but he does have the strength to pull Caranthir toward him, to roll Curufin into his lap. Celegorm listens as their breathing slows, as they go limp in his arms. Now, with bloody faces and sightless eyes, they look younger than they have since departing Valinor.

At last, he too can rest. Cold darkness comes to claim him, rolling over him like a wave.

…

When Celegorm awakes, there is fog, and out of the fog come gleaming eyes. A pack of wolves ring him, and they speak with Namo's voice. Welcome-be, kinslayer, oath-keeper.

Well-met, doomsman, spirit-master, Celegorm whispers.

The wolves close in on him, and he draws in on himself. When they savage his body, he thrashes out, and then realizes that the wounds close almost instantly. This must be his punishment, he realizes: eternal torment, unbroken by death or the oblivion of the void to which he had promised his soul, but from which he had apparently been saved to experience this fresh hell.

The wolves speak with Namo's voice, naming him Prideful-child, headstrong-hunter and they tear at his arms.

The wolves speak with his little brothers' voices, naming him Failed-caretaker, and in his father's, oath-breaker, and they rip at his legs.

The wolves speak with the young voices of Elured and Elurin, naming him Butcher-brethren, child-murderer, and they rend at the soft meat of his belly.

The wolves speak with Finrod's voice, melodious and terrible, naming him Cousin-killer, home-defiler, and their teeth sink home in his throat.

One wolf nuzzles close to his throat, and says Hound’s-friend, brother-mine, and Celegorm begins to cry because that is Huan’s voice inside that wolf.

And then the wolves speak in a new voice, and they name him: Hunter who is now prey, Turkafinwë; wrathful Tyelkormo; wretched Celegorm.

And Celegorm gasps, This is my voice, Namo, you torture me with my own voice.

And they say, his blood dripping from their teeth, Of course we do, for we are you. So tell us, how do you name yourself?

As Celegorm struggles between the heaving bodies and snapping jaws, he cries I am a kinslayer and an oathmaker, I am a monster and a butcher! His head disappears beneath the sea of fur. But I am also a third-brother and my people's defender, friend to little things and silent-hunter! He surges upward, grasping the largest wolf around the neck. Above all else, I am tired, and heart-sick, and I desire only restful darkness.

The wolf laughs. You will have no rest, not here, not until the remaking of the world. And everything goes dark.

...

When Turkafinwë awakes, for the second time since his death and after an interminable age, there is sunlight.

Turkafinwë sits up with a start. "I must be dreaming!" He shouts horsely, "You mock me, Mandos!"

"Can't stand the idea that you're one of the last of us to be released?" Curufin rises lazily from his seat under a tree.

"Brother?" And then quietly, “how long have I been gone?”

"Mother says it's been about four thousand years."

“You said one of the last…” Celegorm says slowly. “Who else is left?”

“Maedhros, for starters,” says Curufin. “If I know our oldest brother at all, it’s more due to his prodigious capacity for self-recrimination and less to Mandos’ judiciary streak.”

“And father?” Celegorm asks, pretty sure he already knows the answer.

“Well, look at it this way. When I was in the halls, I only ever saw visions of Celebrimor’s torment; how do you think it feels to have failed not one but seven sons?”

Celegorm sighs. “What are we doing here, brother? Surely the council would rather condemn our souls to the void.”

Curufin laughs. “I think Manwe is something of an optimist. And I do remember one last thing from the halls - the shade of my son that I had conjured as my punishment told me before I was released that I would have no rest until the world is remade.”

Celegorm starts.

“We May have forgiven ourselves in the halls,” continues Curufin, “but out here, we must fight for the forgiveness of others. One individual seems like he wishes to be first in line.”

The bushes behind him rustle, and out steps Huan. Turkafinwë, brother-mine And he knocks headlong into Celegorm, who falls flat with a laughing face full of dog fur.

There are bees - which he can hear, but cannot see, because he is on his back looking up at the bluest sky imaginable. And the bees say Welcome-be to land-everlasting, son of Fëanor, he who hears the wind-whisper of little things.

Author’s Note:

Waltalís - derived from walta (excite, rouse, wild) and lís (honey) in quenya.

Inspired by something I read once about traditional honey gatherers who climb up the side of a cliff to collect the honey made from a particular psychedelic flower.

Concerning the battle at the fens of serech,I headcanon that since the orcs began as elves that Sauron tortured and experimented upon, the first few generations are startlingly elf-like in appearance.

I like the idea of Mandos being the rehab of Valinor. They both serve time as penitence and learn to forgive themselves.  So Namo’s brilliant idea is to have people overcome their self-hatred by handling their own punishment.  Celegorm feels guilt over Finrod and his younger brothers, so he punishes himself with wolves until he’s all worn out and willing to forgive himself.

[devilrising]

Fallen Draco, Pt. 10

This story is following a prompt set by @mymindsmadness

Summary: AU where Draco is a fallen angel, and the way he gets his wings back is by guiding Harry in defeating Voldemort, but it all goes wrong when Draco starts falling in love with Harry.

Word Count (Part 10): 3,729

Word Count (Total): 31,581

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Mentions of abuse/torture (non-graphic)

***

17th April, 1998 (continued)

Someone is in Grimmauld Place. Someone has gotten past the wards, the locks, the ancient magic. Someone has opened Mother’s door. But who is that someone? Why would they? They wouldn’t achieve anything at all. Getting a grip on the terror coursing through me, I continue on my path of going downstairs. If they are still there, they will be expecting me to join Harry. If I walked in now, I might not leave.

“Hey Harry?!” I call to him.

“Yes?” He shouts back, his voice sounding strange through the amount of walls.

“What do I wear?”

“That’s what you’re worried about?” I can hear him laughing from the kitchen. My neck flushes as I realise how stupid that sounds out loud.

“Well, what are we doing at the Burrow?”

“I think it’s just a casual lunch, Draco.”

“Ok!” I call in response. Deciding that the black trousers and dark blue shirt I have on are fine, I continue walking down the stairs.

Grimacing at the dust and chipped paint that is still the staircase, I make it a point to redo them next. As I reach the kitchen, I take in the mess that’s covering the countertop. Harry is covered in flour, what looks like sugar, and somehow milk. There are various other ingredients strewn about, some spilled everywhere.

“What have you been doing?” I ask, trying to hide a laugh.

“Baking, obviously.”

“Are you baking yourself, or the kitchen?”

“Very funny Draco,” he rolls his eyes. “It’s the first time I’ve seen Fred and George since their birthday two weeks ago, so I thought I would bring them something.”

“How many people will be there?” I ask, suddenly nervous that there will be dozens of people hating me there.

“Just Ron and his siblings, his parents, and us.”

“Okay,” I breathe in relief. But my relief stops cold, because I remember why I’m down here.

“Hey Harry…” I murmur, not wanting to make a lot of noise.

“Yeah?” He asks, turning to me fully. When he sees my expression, concern takes over his features. “Is something wrong?”

I shush him immediately, nodding my head. “Mother’s door is ajar…”

“What do you mean? It’s open?!” He whispers fervently. I nod my quickly, desperate for him to react. “Okay, just let me clean up the kitchen, and then we can go.”

My heart clenches painfully, my blood rushing from my face. What does he mean by that? Unless… But no, Harry isn’t that smart. But then again… he is winning a war right now… My suspicions are confirmed when he draws his wand and casts various charms over both of us and the kitchen. He then pulls a silvery cloak out of his pocket and shrugs it on.

“Charms to silence our footsteps and breathing, and to clean the kitchen noisily. Come on,” he jerks his head to the stairs, turns away, and vanishes from sight. His invisibility cloak. Allowing myself to smile to his turned back, I follow him up the staircase slowly. I can somehow sense his presence in front of me, even through the spells. There must’ve been a spell he cast so we could hear each other up no one else could. He halts at the top of the stairs, which I find out by running into him. His back is solid and warm against my front, and I swiftly step away. I can’t be dealing with my attraction to him now. Not while we are trying to save my mother.

Through where I know Harry is standing, I can see the landing and all of the doors leading off of it. Mine is fully closed, of course, as is every other one on the floor. Everyone except Mother’s, which is still open ever so slightly. I sense him moving very slowly towards the door, so I draw my wand and do the same. From around one of the corners, Harry comes to a slow stop. This time I don’t run into him. My shoulder is cool where it’s pressed against the wall, and I scan my eyes over everything in sight. Nothing catches my attention at all. There is not a single thing in the area that seems off, everything just as it usually is. I reach my hand out to touch Harry in front of me, worried that this might be a trap. Everything seems too neat, too organised. It has to be professional.

My hand brushes against what I assume has to be the cloak, and I grab some of it and pull it away slightly. Harry’s face comes into view, and he is facing away from me, towards the door. There is a pensive look on his face, one that instantly drops away when cold air hits his skin. He freezes in place, before rapidly turning to me silently. Dangerously. Throwing my hands up instantly, I force myself to smile at the deadly warrior before me. Harry truly is made for this war, like it’s his destiny. I shudder at the gruesome thought, and allow myself to relax when he returns the smile hesitantly.

“What is it, Draco?” He whispers, his mouth moving nearly silently.

“What if it’s a trap?” I murmur back, gesturing to the flawless crime scene. “It’s too perfect, don’t you think?”

Harry looks around for a second, before nodding slowly. “Could be,” he agrees. “You stay here, I’ll go.”

Opening my mouth to protest, Harry shakes his head. “Draco, no. If it’s a trap, it’s me they want. You are safest here. Besides, I have training.”

“So do I,” I coolly reply. “Besides, they might want to draw you away from me to take me. They could be sent by my father.”

“Looks like we’ve hit a dead end then,” Harry says. “Fine.” He waves his wand over me again, casting a strong Disillusionment charm.

Harry smiles at me, for less than half a second, before throwing the cloak back over his head. I feel him moving away instantly, inching closer to the door. Creeping along after him, I stop behind where I know him to be. I strain my ears for any sound of movement, but hear nothing. The charms he cast are staying strong. I watch intently as the door very slowly drifts open, as if by a wind. Except there is no wind, Harry is the one pushing it silently. The door stops it’s motion for a while, waiting so as not to draw attention. And then it’s opening again, and I can suddenly see further into the room than the opposite wall. My pulse is thumping in my ears, becoming all I can hear and think about. A rush of air tells me that Harry has moved forward slightly, so I stop thinking entirely in order to enter after him.

The room looks much the same as normal. It needs a bit of redecorating, like the rest of the house, but it looks perfectly fine. Except, of course, for the empty bed and open window. My eyes widen, my heart clenching painfully. Someone has abducted Mother. Why? Why would someone do something like that? Fighting the urge to fall to my knees, I try to think critically. The first answer that comes to my mind is my father and his lord, but this seems too random. Surely they’d go after me directly? Not risk everything by trying to draw me out? But then again, they did always have an eye for the dramatic.

Harry materialises in front of me, a worried and apologetic expression shadowing his features. His arms reach out for me and he holds my shoulders. He is at arms reach from me, but his eyes are so green it hurts to look at them. Or maybe it’s just because I don’t have the nerve to right now.

“I am so sorry Draco…” he whispers. His thumbs start rubbing up and down, up and down, across my shirt-covered skin. I feel like the world is drifting away from me. Still in sight yet out of reach. My pathetic excuse of a father and his lord have destroyed my life. This is the last straw.

“We go to the Manor. Today.”

***

“Are you guys sure this will work?” Harry asks cautiously. Granger—Hermione as she insists—has been helping me ever since we found the empty room this morning. Harry ended up going to the Burrow for an hour while Hermione arrived at Grimmauld, and he told everyone there the situation. At least, as much of the situation that was possible to tell. Which ended up going something like ‘something has come up at Grimmauld, and I can’t stay long’. Apparently, everyone there knew something bigger was up, but they didn’t push it and let Harry come back as soon as possible.

“Positive,” Hermione assures him, pushing a strand of hair off her forehead. “The spell I’m going to cast on both of you will allow Draco to hear what you hear. He will still hear what’s happening around him, if faintly, but your’s won’t be compromised.

I nod along, having partially come up with the spell when at the Manor. I cast it on the House Elves sometimes when I was desperate for information, and they had no idea what was happening to them. Of course, it wasn’t anywhere near as good as this version. “It will work perfectly, as long as you can get through the wards.”

“What if I can’t?” Harry asks. “We haven’t exactly tried.”

“Well no. But you managed to when you rescued Draco, so it should be no different,” Hermione reasons.

“I’m still not used to you guys using first names…” he murmurs, so quietly I wonder if I imagined it. “Fingers crossed then.”

That’s clearly a Muggle saying, as Hermione nods along and physically places her middle finger over her index.

After a little longer of checking over plans and reassuring Harry, we all Apparate to the base of the long driveway. It’s really weird seeing the Manor from this perspective. As someone intent on bringing it down, instead of as a childhood home. But I can no longer think of it as that. Too much has happened here, and there is no going backwards. The driveway under our feet was once gravel neatly laid down. Now though, it’s an absolute mess. The small stones are kicked off the sides of the wide road, and there are patches where dirt pokes through. Hedges still line the outskirts, but there are none of the white peacocks that usually strut on the top.

As our little party arrives to the bend where the wrought-iron gates come into view, we come to a halt and duck behind a group of trees.

“Remember, the plan is for Harry to Apparate beyond the gates from here, where he will then shrink himself. Skipping the gate will prevent my father knowing of his entrance. If it doesn’t work, I try to get him. If that backfires, I activate the Portkey around my neck which will takes us back to Grimmauld.” Everyone nods as I quickly rehash the plan. It’s not the best one ever, as it was mostly fueled by anger and a lot of it is going to work by chance and luck. But it’s a plan all the same, and we get ready to initiate.

“Harry?” I ask as I turn to look at him for might be one of the last times. His hands are in balls by his sides, his face set. His mouth is pressed into a grim line of concentration, and I want to change that expression for even just a second. Taking a step closer to him, I lean in and whisper, “Thank you. For everything.” I turn my head and see that Hermione has completely turned away, giving us some privacy. On a whim, I wrap my arms around Harry and squeeze. It’s our third hug. I allow myself to rest my head next to his as his wrists lock behind my neck.

“Your welcome,” he whispers back. We stay in the hug for a little too long, but neither of us care. He is the first to step away though, and I immediately miss his body against mine. Pulling myself together, I address him properly.

“Good luck,” I say, praying that my voice doesn’t give away how scared I am for his safety. It trembles slightly, but beyond that it’s fine.

“Oh Harry,” Hermione exclaims as she turns back around. She rushes to give him a hug, her arms wound tightly around his neck. “Please be careful.” Her face buries itself in his neck, and he kisses her temple. When she pulls away, she cups his cheeks for a second before stepping back further. “If Ron knew we were doing this he’d kill me…” she anxiously laughs. “It’s a good thing he’s so preoccupied in Rivington Wo-” Harry slams his hand onto her mouth, preventing her from speaking.

“‘Mione!” He snaps. “I can’t believe you would blurt out his location here.”

I watch as she pales, blood running from her face. “Right, of course.” She rushes to draw her wand and cast some bubbles around the three of us. They glow in strong colours before she drops her wand arm, and they fade to nothing. “Rivington Wood is a very secure place, Harry. There is no way saying it out loud could put him in danger.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I press. “Harry, you need to go.”

“Right.” His eyes scan over Hermione and then me, taking his time memorising us before turning away. I wring my hands when he vanishes from view with a loud crack. Thank Merlin for the charms Hermione put up.

“Do you think he’s through?” She asks me.

“I can’t hear anything from my end, meaning he’s not activated the spell yet. So, I can’t be sure.”

She takes that as an answer for right now, and begins pulling things out of her bag. A Muggle quill is thrown out, followed by weird parchment book things and what looks to be a portable table top that sits on your legs. Hermione sees me watching and smiles. As she sits down behind the tree, and invite some to join her.

“What on earth are they?” I inquire when I see her click the end of the Muggle quill and press it to the parchment.

“This is called a pen,” she holds up the odd quill. It’s clear that she is latching on to a distraction from Harry, and I gladly allow it. “It acts as a quill, but is much more efficient. You don’t have to constantly dip it to get more ink, as it’s inside already. All you have to do is press on the end and you are good to write.” She demonstrates by clicking it again and writing her name on the weird parchment. “This is called a spiral notebook. It’s essentially thinner parchment called paper, and instead of being bound in a leather cover there are holes on the edge. A spiral is thread through the holes and holds the pages together.” Hermione rips one of the pages off easily and passes to me. It’s nearly transparent and is so light in my hand.

“Wow…” I murmur. I ask her for the pen so I can try it out, but a buzzing in my ear snaps me to attention.

“Are you okay?!” I rush to ask Harry, before remembering that he can’t hear me. There is a series of static in my ear, which I think is words. I grab my wand and sharpen the sound so I can hear Harry talking to me.

“-nything suspicious within the gates. Everything is good on my side and I will go ahead to Phase 2.” Harry’s voice is controlled, all business. He’s clearly done something like this before, and I can’t help but think he’d make a great Auror. Unless, of course, he is sick of battling dark wizards. I completely understand the sentiment, even though I’ve never done anything of the sort. I don’t want to choose a career in anything similar to this war.

“Phase 2 is complete,” he announces. “I have shrunk myself to the size of a blade of grass, and will now progress into the house and to Phase 3.”

I relay the information to Hermione, who scribes it down in neat little notes. As well as the listening charm that she created specifically for this purpose, she also tweaked a form Legillimency so that I can feed memories to Harry in order to help him. Once he says he’s completed Phase 3–which is entering through the first side door on the house’s right—he will ask me for instructions. From there, I have to either find a memory of myself going along the route, or quickly draw a sketch of the layout and send it to him mentally. Hermione is truly brilliantly clever, and it’s a wonder I haven’t seen more of her during this living-with-Harry situation. She appears to be the brain of the Golden Trio, as the only person who can actually think let alone strategise. I’m not sure what Weasley does, but Harry is clearly the field guy.

“Are you worried?” I ask Hermione as I sit back down next to her.

“How could I not be? I’ve known him for seven years and I’ve just sent him into one of the most dangerous buildings in England!” ‘Worried’ seems to be an understatement, but I don’t know how to comfort her without crossing a line. This odd understanding that’s developed between us is very fragile, so I don’t say anything for fear of breaking it. Not only would this mission become impossible, but Harry would never forgive me. If I’m going to be his friend—or even something more—I need to make an effort. Because I can feel Harry and I drawing each other in. It’s like a magnet, pulling me towards the man who saved me from my father and a lifetime of ill decisions and regrets.

“What about you?” Hermione rebounds my earlier question, drawing me from my thoughts.

It takes a while to figure out how to answer the simple question without giving away my true feelings. I stopped denying them to myself what seems like ages ago, but in reality it’s only been a day. Not that that’s the length of time I’ve been falling for him for, of course. That’s just when I stopped lying to myself about it. These feelings have been building up for nearly a month, and even before that I’ve always been weirdly obsessed with him.

“I don’t know what will happen if Harry isn’t the only one in there. I am concerned for his safety in that regard.” I decide that’s a neutral way to put it. A way that disguises my emotion by feigning nonchalance. I can see on her face that that doesn’t work.

“I’m not taking that shit, Draco,” she swears. “I know how you feel about him.”

The colour drains from my face, my heart skipping a beat. “I don’t know what you mean,” I say as I wipe my hands on my legs.

“I’m calling BS there.” Hermione sweeps her eyes over my face, as if she can read my every thought. “You know exactly what I mean.”

My answer is cut off by Harry’s voice in my ear. It’s amazing how quickly that cheered me up, and I once again jump to my feet. “Phase 3 is complete, awaiting instructions.” His voice is just as steady and emotionless as earlier, and it chills my blood to be seeing—or hearing—this side of him. Wordlessly, I send him a picture of how to get into the vents. It’s quite a task when you’re the size of a blade of grass, but it’s detailed enough in my memory that it should be enough.

“I’ve just given him the picture,” I tell Hermione, who swiftly writes it down.

“Was it a video or a picture?” She asks. I have absolutely no idea, so I just shrug in a tell-you-gesture.

“I am in the vent. Awaiting directions.” There is a pause before Harry adds, “Preferably in sketch format.”

I relay that to Hermione who rips out a page and hands it to me. It’s a copy of the layout she drew five days ago, and I send Harry a picture of it. From his end, there is a bang and swearing, before silence. He clearly hit himself on something, and I bite back a laugh.

“What’s a video?” I ask as I turn back to her.

“It’s another Muggle invention. Their photos don’t move, they’re just a moment in time where everything is frozen. Videos are more like our photos. They are essentially long photos. They have to be taken on certain devices, and can go for as long as the taker likes.” Her explanation doesn’t make much sense, but I think I get the gist of it.

“I sent him a video then, I think.”

“Okay,” she replies as she jots that down as a footnote. “Also, Draco?”

“Mhmm.”

“I fully accept your relationship with Harry.”

My cheeks heat instantaneously. “What relationship?”

Hermione rolls her dark eyes. “I know you two are dating. I’m fine with it and I want to be closer with you to show Harry that.”

“We aren’t dating…?” I feel dizzy, like my world is spinning.

“If you aren’t dating, then you are both oblivious idiots who are not-so-secretly pining over each other.”

“I don’t like him like that,” I deny.

“Yes you do,” she says on a sigh.

“Well, he doesn’t like me like that.”

“You really don’t pay any attention, do you?”

“I do! I am very observant.”

“But not to the way he feels about you.”

I groan, my hand moving to pinch the bridge of my nose. “Can we talk about this another time?”

“I guess so. But I’m telling you now, Draco. He likes you too, and you’d be foolish not to make the first move.”

“Draco,” comes Harry’s voice. This time it isn’t steady and devoid of emotion. This time, fear fills the trembling word. “I can see them. Lucius and Voldemort are both in the dining room having a feast with about thirty guests.”

***

A/N: Bit of a longer part today as an early Christmas present for you guys! Merry Christmas (if you celebrate it, of course. If not, then you just get a present 🤷‍♀️). Xx

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[ohmyohpioneer]

my best friend’s brother is also on this snowy vacation queliot headcanon:

So I just got back from a snowy vacation and I was a little winedrunk on the plane and I thought (and consequently typed) a truly idiotic headcanon. 

Quentin is invited (ok bullied into but with good intentions) last minute by his friend, Margo, to come on her big annual ski trip and even though he doesn’t ski because his parents never had the money he says yes because it feels nice to be invited and, well, he likes Margo. It can’t be that bad, right?

Except that it kind of can because he didn’t realize Margo’s older brother, Eliot, is also invited (why did this not occur to him because of course he is) until Eliot steps out of the car, all regal and long legs in a crazy expensive but ok pretty cute Canada Goose parka.

And he knows Eliot. It’s not like they’ve never met before. Which is kind of the problem because Quentin inexplicably just really likes him. I mean, yeah, he’s attractive, sure, but the last time he went to one of Margo’s parties they ended up talking and laughing for, well, a long time and it was all knocking knees and shared bottles of tequila. And Quentin–

But it’s all beside the point because Margo is a good friend and Eliot is off limits and absolutely unattainable for someone at Quentin’s level. Also potentially involved with that guy Mike - who has bad hair - regardless. Just. Not anyone he should be sweating.

And ok. Eliot seems delighted - which is not a word Quentin uses with any sort of frequency - to see him and gives him a hug. A big one. Like, the kind with great arm pressure? And a shoulder sniff? Fuck, Quentin is weird. God. Why can’t he be normal?

But of course Eliot is charming and immediately they’re all in the little rented chalet with hot toddys heavy on the toddy (assuming that’s the whiskey part), and he really needs to keep himself in check.

Quentin’s only frame of reference for ski lodges or ski culture or whatever is from movies, namely romcoms, and it seems exactly right that the rented chalet is tiny and there are only a few, cosy (the rich word for cramped) rooms and he ends up sharing a room with Eliot. It’s a bunk bed because sure. And Eliot immediately claims the bottom (“I am a top in all other realms” he smirks and is that flirting or just witticism?)

Josh and Margo and Penny and Julia all immediately go to the double and triple and quintuple diamond and rhombus hills (it is all utter nonsense terminology to him and maybe this is what people feel like when he talks Fillory) but Eliot stays with him while he rents skis and insists on joining him on the bunny hill (“It’s where all of the cute instructors are. All you have to do is ask about the french fry pizza technique and Marcel, who is here for the winter from Switzerland, is buying your après aperitifs.”)

Quentin falls. A lot. But Eliot laughs and picks him up and it’s sort of okay. But cold. People like this?

They call it early because “the chalet is calling, and so is an adequately made, intensely overpriced cocktail” (Eliot, not Quentin)

Somewhere around day three, with less falls and a lot of Eliot insisting he’s ready for at least one of the lesser diamonds, he starts calling him Q.

Quentin (Q) absolutely does not blush when Eliot cheers and hugs him in a clacking frenzy of skis when he makes it down his first real hill without so much as a stumble.

They’re all very drunk and playing the Forehead Game, pieces of masking tape stuck to their heads, names written in disorderly Sharpie letters (person, fictional or real rules: no you are not real, yes you can talk, yes you are animated, fine yes, you are the Brave Little Toaster, you cheater) when Josh and Margo start making eyes and not-so-subtly tell each other that Margo is Jon Snow and Josh is Kylie Jenner so that they can “sneak off” (stumble out of the room making out with disturbing vigor) to do whatever it is they plan on doing (subtle)

And Penny and Julia decide to go on a starlight walk or some uber-saccharine romantic beautiful thing

And then it’s just. Quentin and Eliot. And a lot of wine. In front of a cracking fire in a moonlit chalet and they slump even further in their chairs by the mantle and they’re talking about something so inconsequential and great (“Ugh. Margo usually has flawless taste in friends but Back to the Future III?? No one with any decency is allowed to like that movie, Q.”)  and fuck Quentin is giggling and they’ve fallen to the floor (“How can you have not read any of the Harry Potter books?”) and if his head lolls just a fraction closer to Eliot’s wild curls, it’s because of some sort of scientific, magnetic pull or something.

He’s pretty sure that Eliot is leaning forward, or maybe somehow the wooden floors have slanted, or-or the world has moved and slid him closer to Eliot - his face in particular. And lips. His lips are like just molecules away, and–

Penny and Julia. Back. Snow dusted. Glowing. In love or some shit.

He accidentally calls him El. It just happens when they’re both at the breakfast table drinking coffee one morning. (“Of course you like it black, Coldwater. All tortured 50s existentialist.” “Just shut up and pass me the butter, El.”) And Eliot doesn’t correct him, just smirks and sips daintily at his coffee (no sugar, lots of milk) and nudges the butter at him.

Quentin really likes the way Eliot says Coldwater. He just. Does.

It’s Vermont during ski season so there’s a giant snow storm. 

Obviously.

All that snow has knocked the power out. It’s getting increasingly cold inside the cabin the longer they’re without heating, and Penny and Julia Do the Brave Thing and venture out to see if they can scrounge up a generator or something to make this less miserable. Margo and Josh beeline for their room without a word and that’s that, apparently.

His bunk is fucking freezing.

He can hear Eliot on the bunk under him turning and turning. He wonders if he’s any warmer.

“Q. For the love of all things unholy, could you please get down here and help me generate some body heat before I go full Ötzi the Iceman. Not that a millennia of future generations wouldn’t benefit from seeing my beauty preserved in icy mummification- but I’m not that altruistic. Oh. And please bring all of the blankets you have.”

Eliot’s bed is. Really small. Well, it’s the same size as the top bunk, but with two people on it, it’s notably less spacious. Eliot is big spooning (as a verb), and Quentin is small spooning (silently freaking out), but it is really helping to keep the chill off. The four blankets Princess and the Pea style stacked on top of them probably aren’t hurting either.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, the heat must have kicked back in - or Penny and Julia had succeeded in their quest - because Quentin wakes, sweating, pushing off cover after cover after cover and Eliot has somehow lost his shirt (and Quentin quickly loses his shit), but mostly he just lays back down and doesn’t go back to his own bunk.

He wakes up again because there are lips on his shoulder.

Not like, random, disembodied dream lips. But specific lips.

Eliot lips.

It’s still dark outside.

Quentin had kind of forgotten that feeling? That one low, low in your stomach when you wake up in bed with someone, someone who is against you and kissing your skin and you feel warm and dazed and blissed the hell out.

But he definitely remembers it now.

And he turns and they are for sure, absolutely, 100% full-on making out now and it’s really small in this bed.

Somehow Quentin loses his shirt, too (Eliot is good at somehow misplacing clothing)

“Just making sure you’re warm, Q.”

“Yeah. Taking off my shirt is definitely helping.”

They wake up in the morning and it’s hot and sticky and the opposite of Ötzi and Quentin says so. 

Eliot agrees and doubles down.

They decide to stay in the chalet for the day while Margo and Josh and Penny and Julia spend their last day on the slopes. They drink hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps and Quentin hates it (the schnapps), but doesn’t tell Eliot, and Eliot loves it (burrowing into the couch with no clothes, but wool socks on, next to Quentin) but doesn’t tell Quentin.

“This hasn’t been that bad.”

[celtics534]

Finesse

@gryffindormischief and I are proud to present a cooperative effort! It all started as a fun conversation and now we have over 5,000 words for y’all! 

Also available on FF.net and AO3

Harry sat by the fire in the common room, trying to talk himself out of it.

It’s a bad idea, his brain kept saying, in a voice that sounded all too much like Hermione. He shouldn’t ask her. It would be difficult to get the words out for starters, but -- Merlin -- he needed to know! He hated being blind. Harry liked going into a situation with as much detail as he could get, without it… well, he wouldn’t let his mind drift back to anything like that now.

He shook his head. He didn’t want to do this, but who else could he ask? Sirius was gone, Remus was busy with the Order, Mr Weasley -- Hell no! No, he could only think of one person who he could handle going to this about.

With his decision made, Harry stood from the sofa, crumpling the paper he had been doodling on and threw it into the fire. It was only an hour before curfew, so most people had settled into the Common Room for the night, minus patrolling prefects and stressed fifth and seventh years who haunted the library.

No one paid him any mind as he exited the portrait hole. Ever since he and Ginny had gotten together people watched him like a show animal, more than usual. Though honestly, he didn’t really care (for once), because he was blissfully distracted by Ginny.

Ginny… The reason he was having to do this… The cause of all this…

Harry’s feet led him to the office without any guidance from his mind. Then his fist rattled the door without any forethought.

Professor McGonagall opened at the third knock, her teaching robes still on, even though the lateness of the hour would have presented her with more than enough chance to relax.

“Potter.” Her tone was as sharp as ever, but her eyes shone with curiosity. “What’s happened?”

“Noth -” Harry’s voice betrayed him as it cracked. He cleared his throat, trying to prevent his face from flushing. “Nothing, professor.”

“Students don’t come to my office for nothing.” She moved out of the door frame. “Come in a take a seat.”

Harry did as he was told, perching on one of the empty stiff back chairs across from McGonagall’s seat. McGonagall took her position, pulling open the tin of biscuits on her desk. Harry politely refused with a shake of the head.

“Alright then, Potter.” McGonagall watched him. Her gaze always seemed to draw words from his mouth. “Care to explain why you’re here?”

“I don’t know anything about sex.” Harry’s could feel his eyes become the size of saucers. He hadn’t meant to blurt it like that! Damn that McGonagall stare!

In her defense, McGonagall didn’t look away or even look surprised. She simply kept her attention on him. “And?”

Harry wanted his chair to become sentient and man-eating and swallow him whole. It was a better way to die than by the complete and utter embarrassment slowly destroying him. He couldn’t look at her, his eyes focused on the corner of the desk where an ink stain seemed permanent.  

“Harry.”  That made him look up. It wasn’t often she called him by his first name. Her face was kind as she held out the biscuit tin again. “Take one.”

He followed her order this time, taking the shortbread with no intention of placing it in his twisted stomach.

“I’m guessing Sirius never got to have this… talk with you, huh?” Her tone was soothing, and honestly, that freaked him out almost as much as the topic… almost.

He shook his head once.

“Alright then.” She seemed to square her shoulders. “Once we finish this discussion we never speak of it again. Got it?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Harry moved his lips across Ginny’s jaw down to her throat. He loved the way her body seemed to hum as his attention moved south. This was their hidden part of the Burrow, their hideaway in the months since everything had ended. A place where no war had ever touched. Sadness didn’t thicken the air.  And best of all, no brothers around to glare daggers at Harry for touching their sister.

No; here he was free to kiss Ginny whenever he wanted and he wanted to now. His mouth glided across her semi-exposed collarbone and over to her shoulder. His hands, which had a mind of their own, had already reached up under her shirt and were steadily moving north.  Apparently, being this close to Ginny brought out the cartographer in Harry.

Just as his hands were about to touch the underside of the cotton that covered her breasts, an unwelcome voice popped into his head.

When a woman is aroused -

Harry tore his lips away from Ginny’s skin.

“Harry?” Her voice was confused. “What’s wrong?”

“Shit!” Harry murmured as he backed his body away from hers as if she were hot flame, “Shit! Damn it!

“Harry?” Ginny sat up from her indented section of grass. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“She’s in my head!”

“Okay…” Ginny tilted her head. “What ‘she’ are you talking about?  Because I should be the only she in your head when we’re snogging.”

Harry groaned, falling backward onto the ground. “Bloody McGonagall!”

There was silence. Harry covered his face with his hands. Then Ginny spoke in a tone full of suppressed mirth. “Well, I guess she’s hot in a stately way.”

That made Harry tear his hands from his face to look at her. The glee in her expression matched her earlier tone. “Ew, Gin! That’s not -” Ginny let out a snort. “Shut it. That’s not what I meant. She gave me the…”

“She gave you the?” Ginny’s brow quirked.

Maybe it would be easier to claim he had a thing for McGonagall’s glasses.

“The talk.”

“The talk? Like the talk?”

Harry wished he had the power to make a sinkhole appear, or maybe that the chair in McGonagall’s office had gotten a taste for humans. “Yeah. That talk.”

The silence returned. Harry didn't know how long they remained quiet. Finally, Ginny let out a giggle, then a another, and another, until she was full out laughing.

“Stop!” Harry groaned. “It was the worst moment of my life!”

“You've died twice.” Ginny reminded him.

He sat up. He looked her dead in the eye before saying, “Worst. Moment.”

Ginny let out a final cackle. She moved her body close to his, letting their breaths mix. “Maybe I can make it better.”

Summer is strange, perhaps it’s conditioning from school days, or maybe just the laziness that seems to settle over everyone when heat waves wriggle on the asphalt, but everything feels relaxed and comfortable. Well, except wearing anything denim and sitting on vinyl seats.  

Harry’d fully bought in to the whole atmosphere, taking a week off work to stay at home with his wild little family in their cozy country home.

Albus and Lily were spending the day at the seaside with Bill and Fleur’s brood, and Harry had become one with the hammock in the yard.

All in all, Harry was the most relaxed he’s been in a while. Especially after the way Ginny wished him a restful sleep the night before, and then the way he woke her up that morning. God being married was even better than he could’ve imagined.

Not that it’s all shits and giggles. Something he was reminded of when James wandered into the yard with a dramatic sigh, the one that always preceded a headache of a conversation and often a subsequent firecall with McGonagall.

“Dare I ask, James?”

The eldest Potter son flopped down in the soft grass next to Harry’s lounging spot with another sigh. “When did you get the - the talk?”

Tension wriggled up and down Harry’s spine, but he forced his voice to remain calm. “We - do you have more questions?  It’s not just the one talk and then we’re done. You can come to me whenever you have questions or ideas or - ”

Face scrunched, James flinched backward like he’d been slapped.  “Yeah but, Dad, it’s so... Who gave you the talk?”

Ah, even my least emotionally aware child doesn’t want to blurt out that my parents are dead.

“You mean since my mum and dad were gone?”

James grunted. “I was trying to be less-- abrupt. Mum said, well she said if I wasn’t careful I was going to say the wrong shite to the wrong person and get punched.”

“And?”

“And that it’s good to be nice,” James parrots.

“Right,” Harry agreed, letting his leg dangle over the edge of the hammock to set it swinging, “So, anyway. Back to your original question... not that I can really answer it.”

James pushed up on his palms and blinked at Harry, biting at his lip. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not allowed to say who gave me the talk.” Or more accurately, I swore to myself I wouldn’t.  For my own sanity.

"Was it Sirius?"

Harry snorted, I wish. "Sure, we'll go with that. Not that anyone would believe the truth."

Wind rustled the trees, carrying the scent of mint from the flourishing bushes tucked on either side of the back door, and Harry took a deep breath as James grumbled, “Dad. Why do you have to make this so awkward?”

“Your life could be so much more awkward,” Harry grunted, “Count your blessings cupcake.”

And despite a somewhat rocky start, Harry did manage to dig James’ current romantic troubles out of him and provide some measure of clarity on the subject.  Being a teenager is a minefield even without homicidal fascist maniacs trying to kill you. Harry, at least, comforted himself that his kids had it better, safety wise and in terms of trustworthy adults on hand.

But there comes a point where even the most loving parent has to let their little chicks spread their wings and fly, even if it’s just to Hogwarts. And that little flight means Harry can shield them from things only so long.

Which meant when James returned to Scotland in the fall, he was a year older, twice as sarcastic, and trying on adult humor for size. They’d been studying long term effects of transfiguration on the human body and he’d just delivered a highly witty (or immature, depending on whom you ask) one liner when a throat cleared behind him.

Since when do professors linger near the student’s tables during dinner? Dad would say it’s the height of stupidity to rely on assumptions based solely on usual activity. He also probably would have laughed because the joke was funny. Mum would probably say doing anything under McGonagall’s watchful eye was a gamble and the joke wasn’t quite enough to risk it.

But, spilled milk, glare ice, and such.  He was now facing down not just a Professor, but Headmistress McGonagall and all that office entails, while she eyed him with an inscrutable expression.

Grinning nervously, James maintained eye contact - a tip from Uncle George - while his supposed mates inched toward the opposite end of the table. The loser speaks first - that’s from Uncle Percy - so James holds his tongue.  

McGonagall quirked her brow as her lips tightened almost imperceptibly before she murmured, “I see your father has passed on my lesson.”

“I - what?”

The hours pass in a haze and around ten, James penned a vague letter and sent it off with his owl, Matilda, with explicit instructions to deliver it to his dad immediately. The common room had long since cleared, save a few seventh years waist deep in NEWTs prep, and James laid across the plush rug in front of the fireplace in a sort of malaise.  

Until the flames flared green and his dad’s face looked up at him worriedly. “James? Are you alright?”

James rolled onto his side. “You didn’t go through McGonagall?”

“You said not to. I had to use the fireplace in my office at the Ministry to get in.”

“Sorry, Dad.”

Harry smiled. “S’alright. So long as you’re alright. Hopefully there weren’t any members of the press lingering around to get a shot of Harry Potter in his pants.”

“You didn’t put on trousers?  It’s not that important,” James nearly shrieked, lowering his voice when he gets a few death glares from sleep deprived students.

That earned him a loud bark of a laugh from his dad and a rueful shake of the head. “James, your letter was almost unreadable and said, and I quote, ‘It is a matter of the utmost importance, please contact me by floo at your earliest convenience.’”

Shrugging, James ran a shaky hand through his hair. “What? Gran says young gentlemen should use good grammar and letter etiquette.”

“Yes, but your dad is an auror and knows his kids,” Harry put in, “And you never use complete sentences unless you’re terrified. And then the whole ‘avoid McGonagall thing’ - you know where my mind jumped.”

“Such a drama queen, Dad,” James teased, feeling the tension begin to leave his body at the familiar banter.

“Hm. It’s hereditary.  Do with that what you will. And now, let’s get to the guts spilling part.”

“Well, at dinner tonight I was with my friends and McGonagall - ”

“How much trouble are we talking?”

James raised his hands defensively. “No trouble! Just. How did we get here?”

Harry frowned. “We? You mean - did you not get the talk we had?”

“I mean how in the world did you,” James winced and sent a glance over his shoulder before continuing in a whisper, “shag when McGonagall is the one who told you about it?”

Harry’s a really sympathetic parent, almost too much according to Ginny. When James flooded the dungeons with his latest ‘experiment’, Harry argued detention for being caught out after hours was enough.  When Lily Luna’s accidental magic ended with a couple of nasty kids at her birthday party getting a free hair dye, Harry’d said her love for Teddy was admirable and it was good that she protected people she cared about, that she stuck up for bullies.  

Ginny was mildly persuaded on the first, particularly since it seemed James’ foray into potioneering was for academic purposes.  Lily’s was a harder sell, particularly when the Muggle Protection Squad had to show up and subtly alter remembrances of the afternoon.

Comparatively, Albus has been a pretty calm child, except for his tendency to want to touch and poke everything. Wet paint? Check. Neville’s semi-poisonous and highly experimental saber-toothed Snargaluff? In a second. But generally speaking, he’s less dramatic than the other two.  

Which is why when Albus came home during Winter hols in sixth year and threw himself across the lounge seat in Harry’s home office, it was a bit of a red flag. “Dad. Sixth year is horrible.”

Harry glanced up from the folders, papers, and other garbage that littered his desk and laughed. “It’s not all that bad.”

“You don’t understand - ”

“That won’t work until seventh year,” Harry snickered, “And I’ll gladly pass all your final year struggles to Mum.”

“I mean, your seventh year was kinda shitty.”

“Sixth year was worse.”

Albus slumped lower on the couch and twisted his face toward Harry. “Isn’t that when you and Mum?”

“She was a bright spot in an otherwise awful three-hundred-and-sixty-five days,” Harry began gathering up a few of his pens, highlighters, and whatever other tools he’d managed to pile all over his desk in the last day and a half, “I appreciate your lack of mock hurling when I say shite like that.”

“I’m mature. Back to the main issue though, not all of us can have a world saving prophecies hanging over our heads at sixteen. S’not really fair to hold my teen angst to that standard.”

Harry fiddled with the sleeve of his jumper, “Al - that was far from the worst part of my sixth.”

“I feel like that’s a lie, but I’ll bite,” Albus said, “At least I’ll forget about my own mess of a life.”

A shout sounded from upstairs, followed by a thud and more shouting. Harry wondered if he’d need to pause this heart to heart when Ginny’s own voice joined the fray.  God she’s amazing.  They could really use a night off...or maybe a weekend.  A long one.  And he could visit that little shop in London with the lacy bits she likes…

Harry cleared his throat and refocused. “Mess? Are you seeing anyone? Is that what you’re having trouble with? I can - ”

Albus threw a cushion over his face and groaned. “Oh God, Dad! Can we not have the talk? We did whatever that was before my second year and I’ve picked up a few things since then so.

“Let’s hope you didn’t pick up anything - we really should have another discussion, there’s more to talk about.”

Punching the pillow over his face, Albus murmured, “I think I might actually die from embarrassment.”

“Trust me, this is a better option than...you know what, I’ll give you a way out.”

Albus sat up and let the cushion fall to the carpet, his hair a ruffled mess around his flushed face. Poor kid. Harry can only imagine what he looked like twenty or so years ago…

“You can hear it from me, or learn how I did.”

They had a staring contest of sorts, Albus considering his father and his options, probably also regretting the chain of events that set him up for the current state of affairs. But life happens and so, inevitably, do hormones. “I want more details before I decide.”

Harry smirked and rounded his desk, settling in the armchair across from Albus.  “Well you know Remus was hardly around and Sirius had…”

James groaned as he crossed out another word in his pitiful excuse for a potions essay. Assigning them three feet on Veritaserum during the winter holidays was just cruel.  Why should he be forced to think about saliva from a chimaera while his brother and sister were free to do whatever?

Crumpling his third attempt, James threw his head back so it thudded against the kitchen wall. He closed his eyes. He only had to complete this one assignment, then he would be free for the rest of the holidays. Next time, he wouldn’t complain about his homework in the car ride home. If his parents hadn’t known about the damn paper…

“You know chimaera’s have the head of a goat not a sheep, right?” James opened his eyes to look at his twelve year-old brother, Albus, reading his most recent attempt.

“Have you ever seen one up close?” James asked sardonically.

Albus shrugged one shoulder. “No, and clearly neither have you.”

James was ready to kick something. First off, he’d been working his arse off for over two hours on this assignment, and now Albus decided to come into his work zone and be a sarcastic little shit. He wasn’t in the mood for this. Yes, he was ready kick something and was definitely leaning toward it being Albus’ arse.

Before he could tell his brother as much, Lily rushed into the kitchen eyes wide with panic. “James!”

She barreled into him. Being ten, she was no light feather. James let out a small grunt. “What, Lily?”

“I think Mummy is hurt.”

That was enough for both brothers to spring into action. “What do you mean?” Albus asked as they heading in the direction Lily came from.

“I think I heard her scream!” Lily moved as quickly as her little legs would carry her. “She’s in her room.”

That made James’ pace stutter. He came to a stop on the first step to the upper floor. “Uh, Lily, do you know if Dad was with her?”

And now Albus paused. He gave his brother a wary look. “Oh… I hope not.”

Lily, however, didn’t know what her brothers silently agreed upon. “Yeah. I saw Daddy close the door earlier when I was reading the book about Hungarian Horntails Uncle Charlie gave me.”

“Ew!” Albus shuddered. James closed his eyes hoping the images of his parents doing -- that -- wouldn’t possess his brain.

But of course, it was at that moment he heard what could only be described as a happy moan come from the direction of his parents’ room.

“Oh! Do you think Mummy and Daddy are okay?” Lily asked, her fear almost palpable.

“If I had to place a bet,” James scrunched up his nose and grumbled to himself, “I’d place a thousand galleons on them being more than okay.”

Albus’ expression had taken on a look of pure, unadulterated horror. “We need to leave!”

“Do you think Uncle George would mind wiping my memory?”

“I know that’s how we got here, but…” Albus’ voice hung off as he visually had to shake off his demons.

“And I thought it was the stork,” James claimed sarcastically.

“Uncle Ron mentioned something about a pumpkin patch when I asked him,” Lily supplied helpfully, comforted by her brother’s lighthearted if odd banter.

“Yes, that works, Lily.”

“Gin.”

James flinched at the tone of his father’s voice. Nope! This wasn’t happening! “Come on!” He grabbed his siblings by their arms and led them to the fireplace. “We’re going to grandmum’s!”  

Harry rolled onto his back, trying to catch his breath. “So did I fulfill your orders?”

Ginny let out a low laugh. “Every box was checked, and then some.”

“Good, I would have hated to - “ Harry paused as heard the sound of the floo firing up. “Who’s here?”

Ginny already had one leg in her jeans. “With our luck it will be Ron. His timing is still the worst.”

Once she threw a shirt over her head, Ginny headed down to the sitting room to greet their visitor. Harry followed his wife’s lead, but no one was there.

“What the…?” Harry looked to the sofa which had a de-crumpled piece of parchment resting on cushion. He picked it up and choked on his own salva. “Gin!”

She came back from the kitchen. “Yeah?”

“No one is here, but… uh…”

“But what, Harry?”

He couldn’t speak any more. He handed her the note. It only took her a few seconds to understand the message, then she started laughing.

Only one word was scrolled in their eldest son’s messy handwriting in big, bold letters. Silencio!

“I think the kids may have heard us, dear,” Ginny said through her laughter, “That’s what we get for trusting our kids to keep themselves busy for a quarter of an hour.”

“Where do you think they went?” Harry asked, “And it was at least three quarters of an hour, Gin.”

“Most likely Mum’s, they know they can get biscuits there.” Ginny set down the note and moved her finger to trace his jaw. “Care to join me back in our room?”

“How does James know that spell? It’s a sixth year lesson.”

Ginny changed tactics. She pressed her lips to his chin then to his lips. “We can talk about what our son is doing in his free time later.”  

Harry lifted up his piece of toast absentmindedly, his attention on the Daily Prophet in front of him. Another quiet morning. Ever since Lily had left for Hogwarts, the Potter household was more often than not relatively calm. Sure, he and Ginny could throw some raging parties (typically consisting of only them, a bottle of cheap wine, and minimal clothing), but kids seemed to keep a house constantly alive.

“Anything interesting?” Ginny asked, taking a sip from her coffee mug.

“Not really.” Harry snorted at the front cover, as he folded the pages back to a convenient size. “Just Chip having another affair again.”

“Chip Greene? The one who -”

“Who would always flirt and try to get you to go home with him after you played against each other? Yeah.” Harry’s annoyance with the old Cannons player was still higher than a kite. “That Chip.”

“I don’t know why he ever thought I would want to become another notch on his bedpost.” Ginny mused as she cleaned up her breakfast plates. “I doubt he had any clue what he was doing.”

Harry grimaced. Now his mind fell back onto his talks with James and Albus. Merlin, those had been horrible… horrible… It was at that moment Harry’s mind started to connect dots. Ginny had forced Harry to have-- that-- talk with James just after he turned twelve. Same with Albus. Lily had just started her second year at Hogwarts. Her twelfth birthday had been right at the end of her first year… Twelfth birthday…

“Gin?” Harry tried to complete his breathing exercises. Percy’s wife had recommended them after a traumatic case. He needed to stop his mind from jumping off the plank into the shark-infested waters.

“Hmm?”

“Did you and Lily ever have the - ” Harry had to swallow the lump expanding in his throat. “The talk.” He lowered his tone at his final words.

Ginny snorted. “You mean the sex talk?”

Ugh! There were two words he didn’t want to be combined. His daughter and sex. He could only nod.

Damn, he wished he didn’t find that smirk on Ginny’s face so endearing.

“Not yet,” Ginny’s tone matched her amused expression. “I figured we could wait a little longer with Lily. I thought the best moment would be when she got her first period.”

And another word Harry had no desire to hear in relation to his daughter. He let out a breath. At least Lily wouldn’t be dealing with boys yet. It was then that a vivid and dreadful imagine appeared in his head.

His second year… Seamus chatting with Parvati Patil in hopes of getting her to kiss him… he had been twelve… just like Lily and her classmates.

“Ginny, we gotta floo up to Hogwarts.”

Ginny paused her motion of putting the now clean mug into the cupboard, and turned to face him “And why is that?”  

“We need - I need -” Harry wasn’t quite sure how to explain that he needed to keep the entire male species away from his daughter without making Ginny roll her eyes. Instead of coming up with a calm, rational explanation he blurted, “I know how they think!”

“How ‘who’ thinks?” Ginny’s was using the tone she used with an upset child.

“Boys,” He spit the word out like venom. “Them and their wandering eyes… I’ll die a third time before any of them looks at my baby like that.”

Ginny’s body started to shake. Harry’s mind, at first, thought she was agreeing with him, that her fear of the heinous boys in Lily’s class made her shiver. This, however, was not the case. Harry’s beautiful, logical wife was shaking with suppressed laughter.

“This is why,” Ginny choked down a giggle, “George calls you a drama queen.”

Harry huffed out a breath. “I never considered that an accurate title.” His fingers started to tap against the table. “We need to get up there and stop any fraternizing.” A cruel thought popped into his head. “If McGonagall talked to them -”

Ginny couldn’t stop her laughter now. “Merlin, Harry! They’re twelve. The worst they’re gonna do is hold hands and maybe kiss once or twice.”

“That’s once or twice too much!”

“You know what, though?” Ginny looked thoughtful. “McGonagall did a good job teaching you. Maybe she should start a sex ed class.”

Harry’s ranting mind came to a sudden halt. “Aw, Ginny. Don’t say things like that!” Chills ran up his spine.

“Like what?” Ginny smirked at him as she took the empty chair beside him. “That McGonagall taught you well? It’s true.” Her expression could only be described as evil. “I guess I should be thanking her for my seventeenth birthday present, huh?”

With a thud, Harry’s forehead collided with the table. He turned his neck so he could make eye contact with his wife. “Ginny! You can’t talk to McGonagall about your seventeenth!”

Ginny clearly wasn’t listening to Harry’s order. “Do you ever wonder how she became so educated in the subject?”

“Ginny.” Harry could hear how whiny his own voice had become, but at that moment he didn’t care. “I’ve become a relatively well-adjusted person all things considered, so I need you to stop trying to hurt me.”

Again, his wife didn’t seem to care about his pleas. “You know what? I bet she was a real hit with the blokes. With that stern attitude and tight bun… then the moment they entered the bedroom and she became a freak in the sheets -”

Harry groaned as he sat up. “Merlin, is this my own version of Hell?”  

Ginny leaned over and flicked his nose. “Don’t be such a baby!”

“Wipe my memory, Gin!”

“Seriously?”

“Never mind.” Harry reached across the table to a blank piece of parchment. “I’m Head Auror. I can order a memory removal.”

Ginny snatched the parchment away from him before he could grab a quill. “Harry, you’re almost forty-years-old. You can’t believe McGonagall is still a virgin.”

Harry took his now vacant hands and covered his ears. “Can’t hear you, Gin!”

“So you are a baby.” Ginny shook her head. Then, her eyes sparkled with a look Harry knew all too well. It was the warning sign to some serious cheek. “You know, I wonder if she has any new tips for us.”

“Stop right there!”

Ginny plucked the forgotten quill from Harry’s side and started to write. She read her words loudly, over-pronouncing as she wrote, “Dear Headmistress McGonagall.”

“Ginny I will divorce you,” Harry claimed weakly.

Ginny snorted. “Sure you will, babe.” But she put the quill down and turned back towards him. Her eyes blazed all to attractively. “You won’t be able to resist me after my tutoring sessions with McGonagall. I bet she’s even updated her curriculum, you should ask if her class had a lifelong guarantee.”

“Hey!” Harry protested. “I think I’m rather competent. I certainly didn't hear you complaining last night!”

Ginny gave him a coquettish grin. “Come on, you can’t tell me your not even slightly enticed by,” she confiscated his glasses off his nose, placing them on her own so the lenses made her bright, brown eyes wider than ever, “Professor Weasley.”

“First off, it’s Potter. And second, no.”

Ginny stood from her chair and took up residence in his lap, his hands automatically held her steady by the waist. She moved her mouth up his jaw and to his ear. Harry sucked in a breath as her teeth grazed his earlobe. “While you do exceed expectations, Mr Potter, I think you could benefit from some,” one of her hands threaded into his hair, “One on one lessons.”

Harry couldn’t prevent a moan from escaping his lips as Ginny ran her tongue back down his jawline. “Why - Why are you doing this?”

Ginny leaned back, so Harry could take in her full glory. “You know the glasses are hot.” Her gaze could have melted his insides to mush and her glasses-- his glasses-- Wait a moment.

“When did you transfigure my glasses to look like McGonagall’s?”

“Ah, I knew you’d remember these old things.”

“Ginny!” Harry moaned again, in a different manner this time.

Ginny placed her hand on his cheek, her lips twisted in a small smile. “It’s alright, Harry. I know she was your first love.”

“Please…”

“I mean,” Ginny shrugged, “Who didn’t have a naughty dream about her at least once or twice.”

“Why…”

“Harry, it’s really okay.” She patted his cheek. “I mean, I understand completely. If you could have only seen my dreams of Flitwick,” she made an exaggerated fanning motion her hands, “Hot damn!”

“Ginny, I -” It was then his brain started to comprehend what she had just said. “Wait. What? Flitwick? What the fuck?”

“That was the idea.”

“This is - Flitwick?”

“Don’t get me started on Sprout.”

“Ginny!”

“Merlin, when you got Sinistra out in the moonlight.” Ginny deliberately licked her lips. “Damn.”

“Just -” Harry’s mind had left, unable to keep up with Ginny’s words. “Just - not Snape, right? Please.”

Ginny shook her head, a look of disgust on her face. “Oh no! That snooty upturned nose was such a turn-off, and don’t get me started on his apparent aversion to personal hygiene.” She then smiled dreamily. “But Slughorn. Now there was a potions professor.”

“Well, now you’re just being mean.”

“There was no silly wand waving in that dungeon…” She gave him an appeased look. “They knew what they were doing. Do you think McGonagall taught them too?”

Harry let his forehead fall on her shoulder. “Do you want to never have sex again?”

Ginny let out a dramatic sigh. “Well, if you can’t give me what I need,” she sighed again, “I’ll have to go to the source. Do you think Minerva's free tonight?”

And that was Harry’s limit. “You know what.” He lifted his head, placed his arms underneath Ginny’s legs and lifted her into his arms and then up over his shoulder. “There will be no more of this cheek. We’re not leaving the bedroom until you can’t remember who McGonagall even is.”

Ginny laughed as Harry carried her up the stairs. “Oh big claims there, Potter. I look forward to your practical exam.”

[magpiefngrl]

Drarry AUs: mermaid

A few days ago I asked for prompts for drabbles to kickstart my creativity, which is slumbering for months now, and you responded and gave me some fab ideas <3 However, the fact that I’m, apparently, completely unable to write anything under 500 words means that these “drabbles” are going to take me a while. 

@go-to-helvetica said: “a mermaid au because mermaid!Harry is my jam” 

Thank you for the prompt! I hope you like what I did with it :)

(No warnings, rated Teen, 1.7k, beta’ed and preread by the lovely @nerdherderette at a moment’s notice! I’m so grateful <3)

Customs of the land and the sea

Sunlight tickled Draco’s eyelids, tugging him out of a deep slumber. Licking his dry lips, he tasted sand and jerked awake. With wakefulness came the feeling of heavy, soaked limbs and burning lungs. He turned to his side and retched saltwater. Coughing, he wiped his face and attempted to sit up when a hand touched him lightly on the back.

‘Are you OK?’

Draco flinched with an undignified squeak.

Startling green eyes met his. The green eyes belonged to a face more handsome than faces had any right to be. Draco felt another part of him burning. Somewhere lower than the lungs this time. The man’s naked torso was glistening and tan and Draco swallowed hard as his eyes travelled down the planes of his chest and stomach—and came upon a silvery tail, twitching in the surf.

A merman! The legends were true, then.

Draco shook his damp hair out of his eyes and sat up. A quick glance told him he was in a small cove, not far from his town. He dimly remembered a storm breaking out during the night, the waves slamming into—oh fuck. They’d been out on Theo’s yacht.

‘Where are the others? Are they OK?’ He rasped, his throat hurting.

The merman shrugged. ‘Maybe? I don’t know what happened to them. Perhaps my friends saved them. Or ate them.’

Draco shuddered and shuffled a little back onto the beach. In the stories, the merfolk weren’t kind people. ‘Are—are you going to eat me, too?’

The merman tilted his head. ‘No, I don’t eat on the land.’

Draco’s shoulders refused to relax. ‘Well, why did you save me then? It was you who brought me here, right?’

The merman’s gaze travelled all over Draco’s face, then his body, making Draco’s cheeks heat up, his skin tingle. It was a predatory gaze, curious and greedy, but also tinged with a sentiment that Draco couldn’t discern.

‘I’ve seen you before,’ the merman said.

‘You have?’ Draco spent a lot of his time in the sea, usually taking one of his family’s boats for sailing or fishing in the bay. ‘What’s your name?’

‘In my country I’m called—’ here the merman made a screeching sound that pierced Draco’s ears. It sounded like Haerrrr and a long vowel eee at the end.

Draco gave it a try. ‘Harry?’

The merman mouthed the word as if tasting it. ‘Harry is good,’ he decided. ‘And you’re Draco. I heard your friends call you that.’ He blushed and his tail stirred in the surf.

Draco let his gaze wander down Harry’s torso and he burrowed his fingers in the sand to stop himself from reaching out to touch him. He’d heard of the merfolk beauty but he also knew it was more than that. ‘Charming like the devil, they are. They lure you in,’ his grandfather used to tell him on winter nights when the sea outside his window raged and swallowed ships whole. ‘And then they have their way with you, down in the murky depths of their world.’

In those days, ‘having their way with you’ conjured images of torture. Now, Draco could think of another interpretation that made his mouth dry.

Harry didn’t make him feel unsafe. He made him feel quite a lot of things, but fear wasn’t one of them. Draco stretched his hand out. The merman looked at it but made no move to take it.

‘In my country it’s custom,’ Draco explained, ‘to shake the hand of the man who saved your life.’

Full lips stretched into a smile that almost made Draco’s heart stop. Death by supernatural beauty: that’d be a first. Harry took his hand and Draco squeezed it lightly. Harry squeezed back. His hand was large and warm, and felt wonderful wrapped around Draco’s.

Draco didn’t want to let go. ‘Thank you for saving me.’ For a brief moment, an impulse to follow Harry to the sea overwhelmed him, and, startled, he dropped his hand.

The tide was coming in, the water reaching Harry’s waist and nearing Draco’s legs. He pulled his feet up, even though every part of him was damp.

Harry gazed out to the sea. ‘I need to go back in.’ His tail flopped impatiently. ‘I wish—I wish I could stay longer.’

‘I wish you could, too,’ Draco whispered.

Harry turned his back, his tail splashing once in the water, but he seemed to change his mind. He turned back to Draco, bit his lower lip and reached out. He buried his fingers in Draco’s hair, caressing white-blond strands, running down Draco’s skull in a way that brought shivers to Draco’s spine. ‘I’ve always wanted to do that,’ Harry smiled wistfully. ‘It’s… it feels nice.’

Draco’s heart pounded as loud as the sea. ‘It does.’ His voice came strangled and he coughed to clear it. ‘It feels really nice.’

Harry’s fingers trailed down Draco’s face. ‘You feel different, too,’ Harry whispered. ‘It’s so hard—to leave you. Now that I know what you— what you feel like to hold.’ Face swiftly turning red, Harry shifted down the shore. A second later, his tail flapped in the surf, and then he was gone.

Draco returned to the town to find it in unrest and mourning. Fishermen had gone missing since the storm and Theo and Vince had yet to be seen, but Blaise had found his way to the shore riding—according to the stories he told everyone who’d listen down the pub—a giant turtle. Blaise had always had a tendency to tell tall tales, but how could Draco doubt him ever again? The legends were true; perhaps turtles let people ride them to safety just as mermaids touched people’s hair. He didn’t tell anyone about his experience. Let Blaise have the attention and give interviews to the county’s paper. Draco wasn’t in the mood.

He felt listless after meeting Harry. He ate little, slept little and thought of the merman constantly. He had no idea how he could go through life without ever seeing him again. He went fishing several times in the next two weeks, but Harry was nowhere to be seen. Of course, Draco had never noticed him before. Perhaps Harry saw him and stayed away. That made Draco feel worse.

When at home, he spent all his time in his workshop carving wooden figurines; but whereas in the past he carved dragons and serpents, he now carved sea creatures, fantastical and fanciful—creatures that drew the admiration of friends, even though his father disdained them as he held no respect for anything that wasn’t useful.

Draco’s favourite wooden animal was a half-dragon, half-dolphin that was small enough to hang around his neck with black string.

A fortnight after the storm, on the night of the new moon, his mother caught him at the front door.

‘Going fishing again?’

‘Just here in the bay,’ he told her. ‘I’ll take the Narcissa.’ It was the small green boat Draco’s father had gifted to his mother when they were engaged.

She laid her hand on him. ‘You’re different. It looks like grief, but it’s as if someone has cast a spell on you. You seem distracted all the time. Oh! Draco…’ her eyes lit up and she took a step back to take him in. ‘Are you in love?’

Draco had no idea what he was except that he felt as if he was drowning in a longing he could never satisfy. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and opened the front door. ‘I’ll see you later.’

The evening was calm and his boat bobbed quietly in the dark water. Draco sat back on the stern and let his right hand trail in the ocean, while he looked at the stars. They held as many secrets as the ocean. The breeze whispered softly and he’d almost dozed off, his hand still trailing the cold water, when something brushed against his fingers. Draco’s eyes shot open, body tense and mind alert.

His hand felt the stirring in the water again and the feel of something warm, something that wrapped around it. Draco’s heart drummed fast and loud as he turned to the starboard side and saw a dark shape in the water. Two hands grabbed the side of the small fishing boat and Harry pushed himself up, water dripping down his face and naked chest. In the starlight, he looked as fanciful as the creatures Draco carved; a figment of his imagination, a dream made real because he willed it so.

Draco wrapped his fingers around the dragon-fish he wore around his neck and knelt on the side. ‘I thought I’d never see you again.’

‘I thought I could stay away,’ Harry murmured. ‘I couldn’t.’

‘So you saw me all those times I came out here?’

Harry gazed in Draco’s eyes. ‘I looked for you every night.’ He reached out and touched Draco’s hair again. ‘Your hair reminds me of the stars,’ he said.

‘”Fairy hair” they call it in my town,’ Draco murmured and leaned closer, feeling Harry’s breath on him. ‘I’ve missed you. I-I brought you something.’

He pulled back a little and took off the wooden animal. ‘I made this,’ he said. ‘I’d like you to have it. Something from the land.’

His eyes startled, Harry nodded, and Draco put it around his head. His fingers traced the cool, wet skin and rested around Harry’s neck.

‘In my country it’s custom,’ Harry said in a low voice, ‘to kiss the person who gives you a gift.’

The force of Draco’s desire squeezed his chest and made his breath come shallow. He leaned closer and felt Harry’s breath on him. ‘It’s a good custom.’ His lips played on Harry’s, his heart thrumming a wild tattoo against his ribs.

‘Customs should be observed,’ Harry murmured and rose an inch, his tail flapping below him, and kissed Draco. He tasted of the sea and of something feral and untameable and utterly enchanting. Draco deepened the kiss, one hand cupping Harry’s face, the other holding him tight around the shoulders. The feel of his ocean lips, demanding and insistent and increasingly more ferocious, made his blood sing. He could spend eons kissing Harry and he knew with a certainty as final as death what it meant to give your heart to the sea.

***

Dare Dating (8th year)

Pirate AU

Durmstrang!Harry and Beauxbatons!Draco AU 

Royalty/Arranged Marriage AU 

Musicians AU

Medieval AU

Fae AU

Adventure AU

Firefly/Space AU

Magical Flower Shop AU (canon universe)

kofi 

[romioneflufffest]

Between The Wines

Title: Between The Wines

Author: @lydias-martin

Prompt: Firewhiskey + Common room at midnight

Description: Au in which Ron and Hermione get to go to the Slug Club’s Christmas party together.

Rating: Teen (N/A: shout out to @diva-gonzo for taking care of the story and for her amazing beta work!)

Walking through the spacious hallway of the last atrium of the castle, Hermione hears her own heels hitting on the hard the floor as every steps echoes behind her and only partly reflects her distress.

Her dress is short, shorter than most she had been wearing lately anyway; the rayon blend of the sleeves covers just the upper part of her arms, and despite the neckline follows perfectly the curves of her collarbones, her back’s left bare and exposed to the winter piercing breeze.

Robot-like, she turns on the left, then another left, walking straight as she heads to the Quidditch field in her so not appropriate outfit for a match. She pretends to think that’s the reason why her heart is beating so out of her chest at every footstep she leaves behind. Except it’s maintained that pace for a hour or eight by now, since she woke up that morning, but that’s not the point.

Nor is the fact that Harry and Ginny had been both freed from their team’s Quidditch training and been able to meet their date in normal circumstances, to arrive at the ridiculous party on time and with someone who wasn’t even close to make them jump on their seat at the very first eye contact.

She doesn’t even bother that her date is apparently no influential enough person to Professor Slughorn, which means he wasn’t exonerated from his athletic duties but even less from the party dinner.. For that, he can be justified, at least. It was too bad that she had a bad habit of being punctual and not fashionably late.

But the point is that Ron Bilius Weasley, her date, was in fact not dating her, but her roommate Lavender, who’s now probably locked in their own bedroom leafing through some sort of jinxes magazine to conjure her in her sleep, or consult her divination bowl to try to check them out.

And Hermione really really wishes, with all her heart and soul, that this awareness didn’t make her lips tug up a little.

Her heels tap on the stone, her heart follows with a beat. Her heart skips a beat at the anticipation, her feet double the speed for the excitement. Her mind is screaming that it’s a bad idea. Her body wants to freeze, her heart pushes it forward. Her heels crush the ground harder, her heart pounds louder. And with that singsong in her head, Hermione finds herself in front of the changing room door that suddenly swings open and she’s assaulted by a red and golden crowd of sweaty boys, many back in their uniforms, some others still in the familiar team suit, none with ginger hair above.

She hears some greeting her, calling her name and she says hi on response without actually spotting their faces, too focused on finding Ron.

“Caref– oh, Hermione, hey!” She almost stumbles on a tall brunette girl, coming from side where the girl’s changing room is located. When she looks up she sees the radiant face of Katie Bell, smiling kindly down at her.

“Katie, hi!” She greets her.

“What are you doing here? You look gorgeous by the way.”

“Thank you,” she feels her ears flush slightly, not much at her compliment but for what’s coming next. “I’m… er, looking for Ron. Is he still inside?”

Katie’s attempt to repress a smirk is not even convincing. “I think he’s changing, he’s been in there for a while. You can stay here and wait for him if you like.”

“Thank you.” She smiles wholeheartedly, before waving her goodbye.

Hermione waits for a while outside, toying with her wand and playing hundred of different speeches in her mind to talk about once at the party, and somehow this manages to keep her brain busy for a good eleven minutes, before a loud thump coming from the change room draws her attention.

Worried, she stretches her hand towards the wooden door already when it suddenly flings open in front of her to reveal Ron, standing tall before her in his beige trousers… and bare torso. Her jaw clicks open so ridiculously fast she’s positive she might have broken it

“Her– hermione!”

“Ron!”

They call each other in unison, one stuttering and flushing as soon as he meets her eyes, the other with hoarse voice as if she hadn’t used it for ages.

“Uhm, hi!” They say at the same time again, before laughing shyly and Hermione feels the tension slowly fading away already.

“Hey.” He beams at her, now scanning her figure as If he had just seen her for the first time for months and Hermione can’t help but holding her breath at the way his eyes flicker on her curves, lingering on her exposed neck and with so much awe to have her melted in a minute.

They keep staring at each other’s bodies almost mesmerized, cradled in a heavy silent that however is nothing but awkward, as if they were born to look at each other.

The first and only time Hermione has seen him half naked was over a year ago, while he was playing Quidditch with Harry and Ginny in their field at the Burrow, shirtless and sweaty and looking absolutely fetching. That was probably the time she realized she wanted so much more with him; before that moment, the wildest dream she’d had of him was about them snogging, maybe in places where they shouldn’t be allowed to do stuff like that, like the library, in an empty class or in one of those secret passages for Hogsmeade. But after that? She did learn the meaning of ‘wild dreams’.

And now, standing right before him, so close that if she only stretched a hand forward she’d be able to feel his skin against hers, Hermione can’t help her appreciating look as her eyes linger the curve of his adonis belt, the smooth skin of his abdomen where light rectangular curves shape his abs, partly covered by tempting ginger hair on his lower abdomen, hiding down to the edge of his pants.

“You look… amazing.” His voice makes her lift her eyes again, swallowing hard as they meet his.

“Th– thanks.” She stutters; nodding to his naked torso she says, “well you look…” she really doesn’t know how to continue the sentence.

He smiles at her loss of words. “Yeah I forgot my bag on the benches, and my vest is in there so er… I was going to take it.”

“Oh, sure.” She makes him room and he quickly goes past her, leaving a contrail of his shampoo that smells like her amortentia and her brain goes blank for another moment.

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Yeah hurry up, Ronald.” She scolds him, more to regain composure than for annoyance. When he comes back he has his vest on, allowing her to relax and quit thinking of his abdominal hair and it takes him only five more minutes to finish changing, and lock his equipment locker with a spell.

They barely talk throughout all the way up to the room where the dinner is supposed to take place. Strangely enough, Ron doesn’t complain about the disparity of treatment between him and his sister and Harry’s; whether because he doesn’t feel like speak ill of them knowing it’s not their fault, or because skipping a part of that party can’t be but a blessing, she can’t tell.

“Blimey, I’m starving.” He mutters as they approach to the entrance of the hall.

Hermione chuckles. “That’s a new one.”

He pinches her softly at the deadpan which causes her to let out a loud gasp, making him laugh at once. She would normally yell at him in other circumstances, with her wand dangerously inches away from his ribs holding a threat – of spells or tickle doesn’t matter, being both incredibly efficient on him – and she is about to do the same when the air suddenly stops in her lungs at the feeling of his hand on her bare back, so unexpected to make her gasp. He gently leads her indoors and starts tracing slow circles with his thumb against her skin to comfort her, maybe confusing her wide eyes for a symptom of social anxiety.

(Which she doesn’t have, by the way. Nope. Not this girl.)

By the time they cross the entryway, a slightly tipsy Ginny has her arms flung around her neck already, giggling a ‘hi’ and greeting her brother with a pat. Hermione reacts pulling her in a quick hug, giving Ron a weak smile as he makes his way to the table, mouthing her to wait for her up there.

She watches him taking seat next to Harry, where she presumes Ginny was before. She spots Harry approaching her, which makes her close her mouth immediately.

“Hey!” Harry appears from behind Ginny and greets her with a kiss on her cheek, nonchalantly resting his hand on Ginny’s shoulder as support. Hermione pretends not to catch the flushing spots forming on the redhead’s neck as she speaks to Harry.

“How’s the dinner going?”

“Er, the usual: ignoring Slughorn’s remarks on my scar, or the ‘you got your mother’s eyes’ speech; looking away from Mclaggen who has had the same homicidal look the entire dinner.”

Hermione turns around towards the point of the table Harry just nodded to, and she finds indeed a very infuriated Cormac staring at the trio with his eyes so narrowed Hermione wonders if he can even see a thing like that. Beside him, a pretty brunette girl has one arm mischievously stretched around his back, the other hiding under the table as she whispers something at the young man’s ear with a grin on her mouth.

Hermione reddens at once for some reason and turns away.

“Yeah, I think that’s my fault actually.” Harry winces.

“Only ‘cause you picked Ron over him as keeper of the team?” Hermione hisses in surprise.

“Well, Ron’s like my brother…”

“But that’s nothing to do with his skills! He’s better than Cormac, period.”

“Right?” Harry intercedes, watching Hermione with a scolding look that she gets immediately and that makes her find the floor suddenly more interesting.

Once the dinner is over and the charmed orchestra of instruments playing in a corner starts turning up the volume, a couple of students – two slytherins of the fifth year Hermione doesn’t recognize at all – opens the dances, forced by a very tipsy Slughorn pushing the young man in the middle of the ballroom and whom inevitably drags a girl behind him, their cheeks red just like the professor although for two distinct and opposite reasons.

But by the time the couple had made the first turn around the room, half of the guests had joined them, including Luna, who Hermione spots her kindly declining an offer of a pretty brunette boy to dance with him, swirling away from him to make her way across the crowd. Hermione can’t decide what’s the most comic in the situation, whether the boy’s expression – a mix of incredulity and defeat – or Luna’s solitary dance with pirouettes around the dance floor.

Gradually the chairs around them empty and the four of them are left alone in a comfortable silence with a half-empty bottle of Butterbeer resting in the middle of the table.

When Ron yawns for the second time in a raw, Harry follows suit and Hermione keeps toying with the hem of her dress as if in another dimension, she suddenly hears Ginny emit an exasperated sigh and without warning she’s leaning forward.

“Okay, we need to do something. I can’t stand your faces anymore.” She urges.

“Unfortunately, this is the one your mother gave me.” Ron replies sarcastically, and Hermione has to stop every atom of hers to answer back with her own opinion about his face.

“This is supposed to be a party and we’re wasting it!”

“Yeah, not to be an arse but I didn’t sign up for this. Even though, “ he adds then with a pout, “I don’t know if the alternative would’ve been better.”

She knows what the alternative was. And it included a dark blonde girl and a very wide sofa which would end up being used for a third only and in no comfortable positions. “Let’s play a game,” Hermione exclaims suddenly, trying to shoo the picture of Ron and Lavender’s bodies tangled together.

The attention is immediately drawn to her and, satisfied with that, she stretches forward to grab the butterbeer bottle, a mischievous look glittering in her eyes. After having checked that no one was watching them, Hermione takes her wand, points it at the bottle and mumbles a spell. The liquid slowly turns darker, the bright golden shade of before becomes amber, the smell coming out from it disperses around them and when she looks up to check her friends’ faces, she finds them all staring at the new drink with some sort of intrigued expression, hypnotized by his familiar orange sparkles and its piercing scent. Harry grins. “firewhiskey?”

Hermione nods, reflecting his own smirk.

“And the game is…?” Ginny asks tentatively.

“Truth or dare.” Hermione states, for some reason looking directly at Ron as she speaks. “And every dare is a shot.”

After that, it’s all a long and very quick slope towards an imaginary ban that she hopes she won’t be the first one to break through. A climax she’s not interested to find out. And yet, it’s Hermione the one to push the bottle that reads ‘Butterbeer’ but smells like grappa towards Ron when he chooses dare for first.

That’s the song that goes on all night long.

“Truth or dare?” “Truth.” “Would you use Grimmauld Place to throw a random party?” “Hell yes.”

“Truth or dare?” “Truth. “Have you ever hooked up with someone while your parents were at home?” “What? No, Ronald! Not even with my parents out, if we’re making a point…”

“Truth or dare?” “Truth.” “Does mum know you’re dating Dean?” “…no.”

“Truth or dare?” “Dare.”

Everyone blinks, but stay silent. With narrowed eyes, Hermione slowly passes the bottle to Ron.

The others, unlike her, don’t seem too bothered by his answer, and neither would Hermione, if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s been giving that same reply every damn time. For five times in a row. Five times avoiding her eyes for some reason, five times swallowing down a copious glass of firewhiskey and licking his lips right after in a way that, for five times, made Hermione rub her thighs together as the heat pools over her body.

His cheeks had turned already into a bright shade of red by the time Ron sips the last drop of alcohol from his shot glass, finishing all that was left in the bottle as well.

He’s not even that drunk, Hermione thinks, watching his eyes still wide awake and sparkling, although his movements had gone slower and for a while now he’d started laughing at Ginny’s jokes. ‘So unrealistic, honestly,’ Hermione thinks

When she spots him taking out the wand from his jacket, eyes fixed on a bottle of cherry syrup in front of them, Hermione gets his intentions at once.

“Oh no.” She urges, putting a hand on his still holding his wand to stop him. “I don’t think so. You’ve had enough by now.”

“Oh come on.” He complains, but he had let go already, the wand rested harmlessly on the table. Beside his hand. That Hermione’s still grabbing.

The thought of removing her hand had just crossed her mind when Ron’s suddenly turns around beneath hers, entwining their fingers in a way that Hermione can’t help to notice how right it feels, and gets up.

“So let’s dance.”

She’s forced to get up as well, pulled towards him by the hand. “What?!”

“Let’s dance.” He repeats, shrugging. As if it was such a totally normal occurrence for them, to have a moment. As if it made so much sense for a compromised boy to dance with his supposed best friend.

Right. Friend.

Against her willing, she lets go of his hand. “You can’t, Ron.”

“What? Why not?” He says, completely oblivious and tilting his head.

Is he being serious?! He’s acting like he completely forgot to have a girlfriend, who besides, happens to be Hermione’s good friend and roommate.

“Ron, I think Lavander–”

She doesn’t get to finish the sentence.

He tugs her to him, cutting her off as he makes his way through the crowd, and still with her hand in his, he drags her behind him and stops only when he reaches the centre of the dancefloor. Even among all those people around them dancing and swinging their hips at the notes of what Hermione identifies as a reggae song, she can still feel Harry’s eyes drilling holes in the back of her head while staring at her probably in shock, or Ginny’s playful smirk as she watch them facing each other with flushed faces.

In her attempt to tune them out, Hermione totally misses Ron’s hand sliding away from hers, only to come to place on her waist and, as he does so, she’s automatically pulled closer to his body and she can’t help the gasp at his sudden vicinity.

“So,” he begins, a little uncertain on his feet for the lack of balance, “what were you thinkin’?”

“I uhm…” She literally can’t remember because all she can think about right now is the feeling of Ron’s flat hand on her side, so large, so warm, and concrete against her covered skin to make her feel safe by the only act of touching her.

“I think you know what I was thinking.”

Yes. That’s the more eloquent, mature, cunning thing she’s able to come up with. God, why does her IQ has to plummet whenever he’s so close?

Ron grins. “I was thinking that you owed me a dance.”

“Excuse me? You were dancing with someone else for what I recall.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you happened to be taken already.”

“I never heard an invitation coming from your mouth, though.”

“I did ask you.” Ron mutters.

“Oh yes, you mean when you realized I’m a girl?” She replies in a high-pitched tone.

“When I realized you were beautiful.”

Her feet stop moving, and she sees Ron do the same, although he doesn’t seem to look really well, now slightly pale - if either for his confession or for the alcohol she’s not sure. The music slowly ebbs away in her head, replaced by those six words played on repeat as a new favorite song she’s already got addicted to. He doesn’t meet her eyes, deciding to stare at their joined hands raised at one side instead, with his cheeks flushed just as much as hers and glassy eyes.

“What?” She breathes out.

But the moment he opens his mouth to speak, Hermione sees Ron’s body stumbling away and at his place, a tall blondish boy, unfortunately familiar, appears before her with a sneer. She really doesn’t have the time nor the willing to process Cormac’s stupid entrance, because in a minute she’s stretched forward, arms flung around Ron’s waist to support him as she manages to save him from smashing his face on the ground.

“Are you insane? You could’ve hurt him!” She helps Ron straighten as he massages the part where Mclaggen hit him.

“My apologies.” Nothing in his tone sounds apologetic.

“What do you want?” Hermione asks him sharply.

“A dance?”

She lets out a scornful laugh. “Forget about it.”

“Oh come on, it’s just a dance!”

“Cormac, I said no!”

“I know you thought about inviting me, so where’s the problem now?”

“Well I obviously changed my mind. You’re not very intuitive, are you?”

“I am and I can catch a sign when I see one, Granger.”

“Let go.”

“God, you’re so pathetic.”

One moment Ron’s yelling at Cormac in front of her; a moment later Ron has fallen on the floor, pummeling Cormac in the ribs..

The people around them split apart with a gasp, making room to the two wizards fighting on the ground. Initially, Ron’s the one prevailing, as he traps Cormac between him and the cold pavement, but then someone or something among the crowd distracts the ginger which gives Cormac an opportunity to react and roll on one side, so that now he’s towering over Ron who now struggles to fight back for the lack of reflexes.

“Ron!” Hermione shouts, frozen on her place.

But Cormac’s arm had raised already, a threatening fist clenched above his head and read to hit his goal when–

“MCLAGGEN. WEASLEY.”

Despite the sea of people, Slughorn’s figure is not really one that blends in easily and he austere tone reflects just right his large measures when he yells the boys’ names.

They stop fighting and look up at the old man; Hermione’s gaze follows theirs as well just to find the professor’s face red for anger, eyes wide and darting flames at those who clearly ruined his famous party.

“Out.”

***

“Glacius.”

The towel in her hand turns to a solid block of ice at once, and Hermione quickly wraps it in a soft tea cloth before her hands have the time to freeze at the contact with it.

Ron’s face contorts in a snarl of pain that he tried to mask with a weak smile as she places the cloth at the side of his head, right where it smashed on the ground when McLaggen pushed him.

“Sorry.” Hermione winces, as if she could feel his pain on her own skin.

“‘S okay.” Ron trails off, leaning his head on the couch and closing his eyes in the process. The common room is deserted, fortunately. The curfew was about half hour ago, so there’s no way someone would break in the room at that hour, and the best part of the students had already left for Christmas holidays, so it was no surprise that even the few people who remained were in bed, considered the hour.

After the fight, Harry and Hermione had helped Ron to stand on his feet and carried him to the tower. They had waited for him to gain back his balance and full senses –despite not having passed out for good he was still half-drunk, half-hungover – and eventually they decided it was quite useless for both of them to stick with him, and since Hermione first period happened to be free the following day, they agreed on her to remain with Ron.

Logical reasons a part, Harry’s acting skills never have been the best so when he starts fake-yawning from nothing and in a quite compulsive way, so unrealistic, Hermione doesn’t miss his knowing look, how his eyes (not sleepy at all, despite what he wanted to make her believe) landed on their joined hands, beaming. She hadn’t realized she never let go of his hand.

“Still hurts?” She murmurs, carefully moving the frozen cloth on his head for a better angle.

“Not so much now.” But his eyes are still shut, as to focus on controlling the ache and not to flinch.

When he opens them, their eyes lock in an instant, and Hermione suddenly finds it difficult to keep her breathing regular when he glances at her like that. His head is tilted slightly forward, resting on the couch, so that she has to lean a little to reach for the wound. And their faces are so close… his eyes weary on hers as if he was taking her in, contemplating her.

“Did you uhm… enjoy the party?” She hears herself say, internally cursing for the dumb question because really Hermione? He just got into a fight!

“Before I was completely pissed on firewhiskey and got my arse kicked? Sure.”

She bursts into a laughter, seeing Ron smile as well at the sound of it. “You’re a great dancer, anyway.”

“Large families involve numerous weddings and dance classes with your big bros, you know.”

“That sounds fun.”

“Until you break a toe per year, it is.” She laughs again and rests her side on the couch, getting only a few inches closer.

“What about you? Did you like the party?” He then asks.

“Yeah. It was nice after all.” She pauses for a while. “You didn’t have to punch him, you know.”

Ron’s eyes go wide. “You’re saying he didn’t deserve it?”

“No, I mean …you didn’t have to. Just that.” And somehow she can’t hold his gaze anymore and looks down on her lap.

He’s silent, probably considering the right words to say. “He’s a git.”

“I know…you could’ve just ignored him.”

“He was harassing you! He called you a pathetic! How I was gonna ignore that?” His tone slightly raises.

When she lifts her eyes to look up at him, she finds him gazing at her with an indignant expression, as if he had received all those offends himself.

“I really appreciated that, Ron.” She smiles and he smiles back at her and her heart is beating so fast at this point she thinks she could wake up the whole tower.

“You–” he clears his throat, looks away from her and suddenly his eyes are sad. “You really thought about inviting him?”

“No! Well, yes. But just because… you know, I asked you before you started dating Lavander and–”

“And what?”

“I didn’t think you would’ve come with me.” She blurts out. God she’d kept that inside since forever.

Ron’s expression is indecipherable at start. But then he grins, taking her hand away from his head and putting it on his lap instead, lingering a little when her knuckles brush his cheek. The iced garment forgotten on the couch, her hand between his as he draws circles on it with his thumbs and despite it’s not even close to the things she dreamt about his hands, the contact makes shiver, warming her up at once.

“You won’t get rid of me that easily, Hermione.”

She chuckles. “Next time I’ll try harder.”

“Oh, next time uhm?” He smirks playfully. “Take it back.”

“No.” She tried to refrain a laugh.

“Take it back!” He insists with a smile.

“Nope.” Hermione states amused, marking the ‘p’ with her lips.

Then he moves forward so quickly she doesn’t expect him to, unprepared seeing his lack of reflexes due to the firewhiskey, when his hands reach for her ribs and find her ticklish point that of course he knows.

“Ron–” she’s cut off by her own laughters, tears forming at the corners of her eyes already, “Ron, stop!”

“Admit you don’t want to get rid of me.” He says between laughters, still teasing her on her sides.

“Okay okay!” She urges, breathless. “Okay, you win.”

He stops. “So it’s true?”

“You know it is.” She rolls her eyes in attempt to sound annoyed but her tone is too soft, her eyes to happy and cheek too flushed to get it bought.

Then something else clicks on her.

“No lies between them, right?”

His look gets suspicious.”Of course.”

She nods, her heart hammering in her chest as she tries to formulate the question she’s been dying to ask all night.

“Why you never picked the truth when we were playing?”

Ron blinks once, twice, then again one last time before pursuing his lips in a way she’d find incredibly cute if she wasn’t so curious and slightly anxious. Is he hiding something from them? From her? Is he afraid of something they might have asked him? Hermione hates not to know. And especially about him.

“I …don’t feel comfortable to talk about my personal stuff.” His change of tone makes her regret about her question, but he looks calm and doesn’t seem bothered, which soothe her a little

“You’re uncomfortable with us?”

“I’m uncomfortable with the game in general, Hermione.”

“What does this even mean?”

“I mean, if I have to tell you guys something personal I can just talk to you at any time and not necessarily with an audience or so!”

“Well, you haven’t talked much about your ‘personal stuff’ lately, not to me at least.” She really wishes that hadn’t come out so harsh, her voice is painful and she’s regretting to have started this conversation in first place but she has to know.

“Okay, what do you want to know?” Ron exiles, slightly exasperated.

“What?” She’s gaping now.

“Tell me what do you want to know from me.” He’s offering her answers, opening himself like a book for her despite she has no right to know anything of him. It’s like a mutual agreement they set about two years ago by now, when he got mental because of Viktor and she understood she just couldn’t talk to him about certain things. Then Ginny and her became closer and it wasn’t so much of a burden to not be able to talk about her most private life to Ron.

She never really found herself in need to know such things from him. Not ever, until now. She has to know. Because now he has a girlfriend, he’s maybe doing things she only got a hint of when she dated Viktor, he’s kissing her and spending time with her and she doesn’t know.

He has a girlfriend and yet, his fingers are tangled with hers as he keep staring right into her eyes in wait for a question.

“So you’re gonna answer?”

“Just ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”

“What? That’s unfair.”

“That’s the game.” He shrugs again and gives her a soft smile to encourage her to go on. Right, that’s the game that she started and almost put the boy she’s in love with in trouble for it, and now she’s getting in one as well if she plays her cards wrong.

But she has to know.

She swallows hard, forcing her eyes to hold his look. “Okay,” she whispers, before clearing her throat nervously. “Are you… are you in love?”

Ron’s eyes widen, his cheeks suddenly flushing. “What?! That’s the question?”

“I– yes, Ronald. That’s my question.” Man, could it be any hotter in that room.

“Why do you even want to know?”

“We never talk about relationships?” She suggests.

“Am I supposed to talk about my relationships with you?”

Hermione pretends not have heard the plural and rolls her eyes at his annoyance. “‘Cause I’m your friend, you idiot!”

And then something happens. His glance, so intense and fierce and playful of seconds ago, suddenly turns sadder. His reds cheeks get their usual pale color back, and his whole expression flat, as if it just turned into stone. It’s sad first, then defeated, and finally devoid of emotions, all in less than a minute.

“Right.” He breathes out, his voice low. And she is so confused now.

His eyes lock on hers with so much intensity she feels pulled forward by his just look on her. His breathing is regular and she finds herself sync her own with his.

With his hand still covering hers and fingers brushing softly her palm, he answers her question. “Yes. I’m in love.”

Hermione’s heart falls so heavily she thinks or might get to the bottom of the tower. She doesn’t understand while Ron’s smiling like that now because she feels so bad, she wants to throw up and he’s smiling at her?

She’s lost contact with the world, except for the feeling of Ron’s fingertips drawing abstract figures on her hand, the only comfort of the situation. She focuses on that, closing her eyes at the sensation and tries to tune the rest of her awful feelings out.

A silent gasp escapes from her lips. Her heart comes back to live again and her upcoming tears suddenly feel like ones of joy at the discovery. They’re not abstract figures. He’s drawing the same exact one over and over again. A letter.

“Are you?” She whispers looking back at him, the pounding in her chest making it hard to breath properly.

One single letter.

“I am.” He smiles tenderly.

H.

[slytherinspired]

Tell me about the one who loved him (part four)

Part four of Tell me about the one who loved him.

Par two and three here.

12, Grimmauld Place, wasn’t a very happy part of Sirius Black’s life. Nobody knew how this old house, located in Central London, brought bad memories with it. There was this grim old hallway ending with the staircase leading to the upper floors, decorated with a row of withered house-elf heads, mounted on the wall on silver plaques. And there was this awful room, decorated with the giant tapestry of the Black family tree, where his mother burnt her son’s name when he had ran away as a teenager, along with other disowned family members names. The abuse he endured in this house could not be described. 

Sirius was sitting in the drawing room, admiring the flames dancing in the fireplace, the only thing that really warmed his heart since everybody had got back to their businesses. Harry was back at Hogwarts, along with his two best friends, the Weasleys had gone to the Burrow, and Remus was on his own. Which led him to endure his loneliness, once again. He looked down at his empty glass of wine. If he kept this pace, he’d empty his father’s cellar way faster than he was hoping for. But was there something else to do? Everybody was useful in some way – except him – he was totally useless for the cause, for Harry, for everyone. He sighed. There was something else bothering him too. Now that he knew he was a father, it didn’t even bring him joy. He was frustrated with himself. What a prick he had been, what a selfish and impulsive man he was back then. He missed all of those years with his daughter. He never saw what she looked like even! And from what he had gathered, she didn’t even know he was her dad. What a great way to cheer up…

Back in Azkaban, after many years, he had finally be able to forget about his life prior to James and Lily’s murders. Obviously, he missed Y/N, but he knew he wouldn’t ever get out; to survive, he had buried every memories with her. And if it weren’t for the fact that he hadn’t seen the proof that Wormtail was at Hogwarts, near Harry, he wouldn’t have dreamt to escape. He was driven by vengeance and mayhem only. That’s what really mattered at the time. But now he was locked into his childhood house, alone with his thoughts and memories, he was realizing that it was all he had left. And he obviously thought about Y/N. About her beautiful doe’ eyes and the softness of her skin. The way she was always cold and the way he’d wrap her in his arms. The way their lips would melt into each other, like they were the only ones in the world. Even the way they would always fight about anything and everything, and resolve the matter by having sex. At school, in a bar, near the Black Lake, hidden in the Shrieking Shack, in his old flat: everywhere. And he had spoilt everything. As a result, there was now that girl that had his eyes and, rumour has it, his arrogance, walking under the same stars, unaware of his existence. 

‘Sirius?’ asked a voice distantly.

Sirius looked above his shoulders. He had not heard him enter the house, and he wasn’t even bothered to get up. Remus could find him where he always was; drinking, somewhere in the house. As he guessed, Remus’ face appeared in the doorframe. He looked more uncomfortable than usual. Not that he looked more tired or torn than the regular, but it was his current expression, a peculiar mix of guilt and nervousness. Remus sat next to Sirius and took away his empty glass from his hand.

‘Are you drunk?’ he cautiously asked.

‘Unfortunately, no,’ Sirius answered, sighing.

‘Good,’ Remus replied. He looked into Sirius’ eyes.

‘Pads. I brought somebody with me…’

Sirius chuckled.

‘I don’t care, Remus. Bring whoever you want…’

‘Come on, get up, and greet our visitor,’ said Remus, standing up and leaving the drawing room.

Sirius didn’t even know why he was acting like he didn’t care. Usually, he was so exited to have company, to have actual people to talk to and make conversation. But since the Christmas holidays were over, it was like he didn’t care anymore. With or without people, he felt lonely anyway.

He stepped into the dimly lit hallway. There was a silhouette standing near the front door but his vision seemed to be blurry and his knees started to feel weak. He had only drank one, maybe two, glasses of wine, he thought, he couldn’t possibly be drunk. He stood still in the hallway, trying to find his balance back. Remus was close to him and put his hand on his shoulder.

‘I convinced her to come and see you, don’t make me regret it,’ he sighed into his ear. ‘I’m going to have a snack in the kitchen, if you need me…’

‘There’s ham on the table, and...’ whispered Sirius, unfocused, feeling delusional. 

He heard his friend step away silently but he couldn’t move, neither was the person standing at the end of the hall. They just stood there, staring at each other in complete shock and desolation. Her face was not even recognizable from the lack of light but he knew it was her. Was he hallucinating? He weakly strutted to her, his his vision starting to get clearer, but no sound would come out of his mouth. His throat felt suddenly sore and tight. How much he dreamt about this very moment, the instant where he would see her beautiful face again? He felt exactly like his old self, when he laid eyes on her for the very first time. He shook his head. Did he really think that he was over her? If he thought that time would stop him from feeling this unexplainable attraction to Y/N, he was wrong all the way. He looked into her eyes and couldn’t read what she was thinking; there was this thin film covering it, preventing him to read what was on her mind. Did she feel the same way he did? She didn’t move either, she was frozen in time like a statue.

‘Hi…’ he said very softly, like if breaking the silence too loudly would disrupt the moment.

Sirius hung at the tip of her lips, waiting for a response, which prevented him to see her cold hand coming to slap his left cheek in a deaf sound; that was not what he expected. Confused, he looked at Y/N again, catching sight of the tears starting to slowly accumulate in the corners of her eyes.

‘I guess I deserved that…’ he sighed, rubbing his reddish cheek.

She finally opened her mouth to speak:

‘Fourteen years…’ her sweet voice whispered.

‘I know -’ 

‘Fourteen years of complete silence, of you rotting in the back of a dirty cell, fourteen years of wondering if you’re still alive, and the first thing you say to me is ‘Hi’?’

He looked at Y/N. She was fulminating.

‘What did you want me to say?’ he replied.

She just collapsed on the floor and started to sob without restrain. Sirius sat next to her and tried to take her in his arms.

‘Don’t touch me!’ she shouted, breaking off the contact.

Sirius nodded.

‘I thought I’d be okay, seeing you, I thought I would be fine’ she continued.

Sirius felt his eyes tickling too.

‘I am sorry,’ he said, trying to put his hand again on her shoulder. ‘I am so sorry.’

This time she let him touch her and hid her face in his chest. They both stayed like that for what seemed to be forever. Sirius would only breathe the sweet perfume of her long hair, that hadn’t changed too. What started with a polite accolade was now transforming into a tight embrace, where their bodies melted into each others, his grip around her body was firm; he didn’t want to release her, he was holding on to her, he never wanted Y/N to get away from him ever again now. He caressed her soft cheek with his index.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he muttered again.

‘I’m sorry too,’ she replied, muffled with emotion.

Sirius Black felt home for the very first time.

Y/N released her body from his, suddenly noticing how close she let herself be with him, to Sirius’ disappointment. He didn’t know if it was the proper moment, but something he wanted to say was making the end of his tongue tickle.

‘I know about Stella*.’

Y/N turned around and stared at Sirius.

‘i know,’ she replied, hesitantly. ‘Remus told me.’

‘I’m her father’ he replied, feeling weak again.

His head was starting to buzz lightly.

‘No.’

*In my imagine, his daughter’s name is Stella. Feel free to replace with whatever name you had in mind. ;)