#quidditch tryouts

[psychobrew]

jealous ginny moment??

“Ginny! You’re drooling,” Demelza giggled.

She tightened her grip on her broom and tore her eyes away from Harry, who was commandeering a clumsy group of first years who had probably never flown a day in their lives. “I am not,” she said brusquely, “just scouting his body language, is all.”

“He’s not bad looking,” Dee qualified. “You like his captain’s badge, do you?”

“Shut up,” Ginny groaned. She gestured at the first years. “How’d they get in, anyways? First years can’t play.”

“Dunno why you’re so worked up. He’s bound to pick you,” said Dee offhandedly. “He practically lives with you, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t want him to put me on the team cause he’s friends with my brother,” she grumbled, “I want him to put me on the team because I’m bloody good at quidditch.”

Dee patted her knee. “That’s very noble of you, Gin.”

Ginny huffed. A second group had taken to the pitch – a gaggle of third and fourth year girls, giggling and falling over themselves. Ginny spotted Romilda Vane immediately.

“Oh, god,” she moaned.

“What?” said Dee.

“It’s Romilda,” she said coldly. Romilda was not well-liked amongst Ginny’s dorm mates. They often heard her through the floorboards, in the fourth-year dormitory below – giggling loudly at all hours of the night. “No way she can fly a broom.”

Harry had his back to her – Ginny couldn’t see his face, but she could see the way Romilda looked at him, eyes wide and falsely bashful, batting her lashes. Her hair wasn’t even tied back. It cascaded in long, dark curls down her back. She kept on tucking pieces behind her ear in a manner that could only be described as seductive.

“She needs to put her hair up,” Ginny muttered, “that’s a hazard.”

Dee blinked at her. Their grudge against Romilda had always been quiet and outspoken. None of them, especially Ginny, had ever been so outwardly venomous.

It seemed to click instantly, though, exactly what they were up against. Dee crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, who does she think she is?” she said.

“Harry, I’m so sorry –” Romilda’s high-pitched voice carried across the pitch, and Ginny cringed inwardly – “could you help me mount the broom?”

Something deep inside her chest threatened to rear its ugly head. “Oh, that bitch.” 

Beside her, Dee dissolved into poorly concealed laughter.

Harry refused to help Romilda mount her broom. “It’s expected you know the basics of flying before you come to a try out,” she heard him say.

Romilda and the other girls did not last long. They just as soon got their brooms off the ground as they collapsed into a giant squealing heap. Harry told them to get off the pitch – the girls obeyed, clambering up into the stands to watch the rest of tryouts.

“He’s very authoritative,” Ginny observed. Dee smirked at her.

And she really needn’t have worried about her own try out – she easily out flew the rest of the contenders for chasers, and sank seventeen goals before Harry blew his whistle.

The chasers landed in a semi-circle around him, chests heaving from the effort as he announced that he had made his decision. Ginny hardly felt winded.

“Alright. Er – you all did very well –” Harry met her eyes for a split second before lowering his head. “But obviously I can only choose three...”

Ginny felt her heart sink. Was this his indirect way of letting her off easy?

“Katie Bell – we’ll keep you, obviously.” Ginny saw Katie grin with pride. She felt a surge of dislike toward her, though she couldn’t identify the source – Katie had never been anything but kind to her. “And next… Demelza Robins.” 

Dee let out an involuntary squeal of excitement, and squeezed Ginny’s hand. It was with great effort that Ginny returned the gesture. If Dee made the team and she didn’t, she’d have to seriously consider dropping out of school altogether.

Harry was very pointedly avoiding looking at her. Ginny’s heart sank. She thought she might throw up right here on the pitch – so she really hadn’t made it.

Her disappointment was swiftly replaced with anger. How dare Harry not choose her? She’d filled in for him all last year – proven herself, again and again –

“And, er, Ginny Weasley,” said Harry. 

Everyone else let out soft sighs of displeasure. Ginny felt strangely lightheaded. “But like I said, you all did quite well, there’s always next year…”

“Yeah, right,” said a girl Ginny recognized as one of the seventh years. She crossed her arms and stormed off toward the changing rooms.

Harry watched her go, then clapped his hands together. “Good work today, everyone. Katie, Demelza, Ginny – I’ll see you all at practice. I’ve got to go find some beaters, now.”

Dee grinned at her sideways.

Ginny’s eyes were locked on Harry. He was turning to leave, to head back toward the group of potential beaters. He caught her eyes for a fleeting moment, just long enough to give her a small smile.

Something warm spread down to Ginny’s toes. She smiled back.

[lulublack90]

Prompt 27 - Qualify

@wolfstarmicrofic August 27, word count 445

Remus had no idea why he agreed to follow James, Sirius and Peter down to the Quidditch pitch to watch Sirius attempt to qualify for a place on the Gryffindor team. James went to stand with the established team, Sirius with the other hopefuls, while Remus and Peter climbed the steps into the stands. 

Peter left Remus pretty quickly to go hang over the edge of the railing so he wouldn’t miss a thing. Remus relaxed back, casting a warming charm on himself as he guessed they were going to be there a while. 

The chasers went first. It was pretty boring to watch. James was so good, that they really didn’t need anyone but him on the team, but apparently, the rules said they had to have three chasers. It took a while but finally, the new chaser was picked and they moved on. 

Next up were the beater tryouts. Remus leaned forward with more interest as Sirius took to the skies.  

Sirius’s muscled arms rippled as he swung his bat at the oncoming bludger. Remus had never noticed just how big and strong those muscles had got. His mind was suddenly flooded by visions of Sirius throwing him bodily onto his bed. Of Sirius pushing him up against a wall and kissing him while those arms kept him aloft. Of Sirius grabbing his arm and tugging so hard, Remus twirled into his arms and gazed up into those stormy grey eyes. 

He was abruptly shaken from his daydreaming by yelling. 

“REMUS DUCK!!!!” Sirius screamed at him from the pitch. Remus had a split second to react as the bludger came hurtling towards him. He flung himself to the floor, landing flat on his stomach. He heard a whoosh and a crack above him. When he dared to look up, Sirius was hovering above him, his batting arm extended. 

“Oi, Aldersley, you nearly killed Moony!” He shouted angrily at the other boy who was trying out for beater as well. The captain blew her whistle and they all landed. “Are you okay Moony?” Sirius asked before he followed the rest to where the team was waiting. 

“Yeah, thanks,” Remus stammered as he got up off the floor. “Thanks for saving me,” He gave Sirius a weak smile. 

“Anytime, Moony,” Sirius winked at him and sped off towards the grass where he was welcomed to the team alongside Marlene. 

He really needed to stop fantasising about Padfoot. It was never going to happen anyway, and clearly, it was detrimental to his health. But as he looked down at Sirius in James's arms, he couldn't help but hope that one day those fantasies might come true.  

[captainsophiestark]

Thunderbolts and Lightning

Oliver Wood x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Written for my Year of Olympians, part of a bigger challenge being run by @yearofcreation2023 which features a ton of creators and runs all year! Go check it out if you haven’t already!

Fandom: Harry Potter

Prompt: Zeus; the sky, lightning, thunder

Summary: Oliver Wood is *determined* to make it onto a professional Quidditch team. Tryouts are coming up, but without Y/N to pull him back and keep him in the sanity zone, he might not survive long enough to even make it to the pitch.

Word Count: 2,540

Category: Angst, fluff

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

I sighed as I sat down at the breakfast table, my eyes only half-open. I didn't want to be awake at all this early, literally as the sun still rose outside the windows, but Oliver, my boyfriend, needed me. He had tryouts for the major professional Quidditch teams in just four days, and he'd been driving himself crazy with stress and preparation as the big day approached.

As I sank into the chair next to him, trying to muster the energy to chat about literally anything other than Quidditch to help take his mind off things, he stood.

I turned, bleary-eyed, to squint up at Oliver in question. He sighed and tangled a hand in the hair at the back of my neck, staring at me fondly before leaning in to place a soft kiss on my lips. Then, he pulled back and stepped a few paces away, and I realized he was wearing his Quidditch clothes.

"Sorry, sweetheart, but I've got to go get some more practice hours in," he said. He looked just as tired as I did, and he slouched despite the broom over his shoulder. The prospect of playing Quidditch usually lit him up like a Christmas tree, but not now. "The tryout's only three days away, and I can't waste this opportunity."

"I- Oliver, are you sure?" I asked, trying to gather my thoughts as I struggled to stand up. I was not awake yet. "You've been working yourself ragged lately, maybe you should take a break-"

"I can't afford to take a break. I have to ace this tryout, which means I have to get as much practice as possible before then."

"Okay, but Ollie-"

"I'm alright, love, I promise," he said, pausing long enough to give me a confident (if tired) smile. "I'll see you later tonight. If you're up for it, maybe you could help me practice a little later too. The charmed Quaffles are great, but you're definitely a better Chaser than a charm."

I just stared back at him, my brain still operating a little slowly. He gave me another smile, then raised his wand and swished it confidently through the air. Just like that, he disappeared.

I sighed. The only thing I wanted to do was go back to bed, immediately. But I loved Oliver more than I wanted to go back to sleep. And he may have said he was fine, but I didn't believe him for half a second.

Just like at Hogwarts, I needed to suit up and head to the Quidditch pitch at the crack of dawn. And, just like Hogwarts, I needed to make sure my wonderful, driven, fantastic, and crazy boyfriend didn't completely run himself into the ground in pursuit of his goals.

Suddenly more awake now that I knew Oliver needed me, I rushed to put on my Quidditch robes. I shot a blast of magic back over my shoulder with my wand, quickly brewing a pot of coffee while I changed. I grabbed as much caffeine as I could in a go-mug, then moved to where Oliver stood a few seconds ago and Disapparated to the Quidditch pitch.

I arrived to find dark clouds moving quickly over the pitch, starting to block out the barely-risen sun. Still, my boyfriend hovered between the hoops, bewitched Quaffles flying at his face. He blocked one after the other with no problem, like he always did. He didn't need this practice. He needed to take care of himself. But this was basically the only way he knew how to handle stress.

I sighed, then used my wand to disappear my empty coffee cup before hopping on my broom, pushing off, and taking to the sky.

"Ollie!" I called, waving to him as I got closer to the pack of hovering Quaffles. He looked confused for a second, but then his face lit up when he saw me.

"Y/N! You came!" he cried. I sighed, but smiled at him nonetheless.

"Of course! I'm always here for you, no matter what."

We shared a soft look, and my heart warmed despite the distance between us, the biting wind cutting through my robes, and the tiredness still hovering around me. Then, I grabbed the nearest Quaffle, and we began.

Oliver locked into the zone quickly, and I could see his brain working a mile a minute as I streaked across the field towards him, Quaffle ready to throw. Despite my best efforts, Oliver blocked almost everything that came at him, just like I knew he would. He really didn't need this practice; he was a cinch for the pros.

Still, he wanted to keep working, so I kept flying down the pitch at him. The sky continued to darken around us and the wind picked up, but I didn't say anything until the first few drops of rain started to fall.

"Oliver?" I called, pausing at his end of the pitch after he made another fantastic save. He floated back up to me and tossed me the Quaffle, looking more than ready for the next round, but I didn't budge.

"What's the matter?" he asked. I squinted up at the dark clouds and rain above us, then looked back at Oliver.

"I think it might be time to call it a day," I said. Oliver frowned, looking up at the sky himself for a minute and then shaking his head.

"No, I can't. I need to be able to play in conditions like this, I can't let it beat me." I started to say something in response, but he continued before I could. "If you want to call it a day, though, that's alright. I appreciate all the practice and help you've given me already."

"Honey... don't you think you should take care of yourself? Maybe come in from the cold and rain and give yourself a little rest?"

He waved me off, pulling out his wand to bewitch the Quaffles to fly at him again. "I'm doing fine. What I need is more practice. I'm starting to run out of time before the tryouts, after all."

I frowned, but floated back towards the ground anyway as Oliver resumed his training. I wanted nothing more than to go home and curl up by the fire in sweats with a nice cup of tea, but I couldn't bring myself to leave Oliver. So instead, I settled for huddling under the overhang of some of the stands around the pitch, slightly out of the rain and wind, and watching him.

As time went on, the storm just got worse. I was almost soaked to the bone, so I couldn't imagine how wet and tired Oliver must be getting up there. A bolt of lightning struck in the sky not too far from us, and I decided enough was enough.

I jumped back on my broom and took to the sky, determined to retrieve my boyfriend before he got seriously hurt or ill. I made it about halfway to him, then called over the wind and rain to try to get his attention.

"Ollie! I think you need to come in!"

He looked at me, seeming a little concerned, and then the next thing I knew a bolt of white hot light came streaking out of the sky and made contact with the front end of his broom.

"Oliver!" I screamed, my voice breaking as my boyfriend's broom exploded under him. He sank through the air, going limp and falling off the side, and after a second of panic I raced after him.

By some miracle, I managed to catch him before he hit the ground. He was incredibly heavy, so we half-flew half-fell to the ground, but I managed to keep him from hitting at full speed. As soon as we touched down in the grass, I started to drag him towards the pitch's locker rooms, the nearest possible shelter. Thank God he started to come to as we walked, and although he was more than a little delirious, he stumbled along next to me with an arm across my shoulders and my arm around his waist.

I shoved open the door to the locker rooms and Oliver and I stumbled through, leaving the storm behind us. I helped set him down on the nearest bench, then dropped to my knees in front of him, checking him over as quickly as I could for any sign of injury.

"Oliver? Are you okay?" I breathed, only half expecting an answer. He nodded, slowly, and after another minute or two I came to the conclusion that he was more rattled than actually hurt.

I sighed a massive breath of relief, then stood before collapsing down on the bench next to Oliver. We just sat there for a second, together in total silence, recovering from the shock of the past few minutes. Then, slowly, Oliver reached out and took my hand. He didn't turn to look at me, but he squeezed my hand, then spoke.

"Thank you for saving me," he said. I sighed and squeezed his hand back, closing my eyes for a minute. Then, I turned to face him.

"Oliver. I will always save you if I can. But the next time you decide to go do something insane like this, I might not be around to save you," I said. "I mean... what if I had decided to go back to bed this morning, like I was first planning to? What if you had left before I woke up, and I didn't know you were out here? You could be dead right now, Oliver!"

"I know, Y/N, I know..."

"No, Ollie, I don't think you do." I paused and took a deep breath, then took Oliver's hands again and faced him a little better on the bench. He met my eyes, and it gave me a warm feeling in my chest. "Oliver, you are so driven and determined. You've been working for this for your entire life, and it's wonderful to see how hard you're working for that goal. But you can't keep completely sacrificing and disregarding your own health and wellbeing for stuff like this. You just can't."

He sighed heavily, dropping his head a bit to stare at the floor. We stayed like that in silence for a few beats, and I let my words settle. Then, finally, he looked back up at me.

"You're right, I suppose," he said. "But I just... I can't make myself stop. Like you said, I've been working for this my entire life. For the most part, this has been my life. Quidditch, and almost nothing else. I... I'm terrified, Y/N, that after all the work I put in, all the time I dedicated... it's all going to be for nothing. If I fail this tryout, it all goes to waste, and I stop being able to do the thing I love."

"Oh, Oliver," I sighed, rubbing my hand up and down his arm to try to offer him some kind of comfort. I leaned into him, then continued. "I know it's probably not going to make you feel much better now, but this one single tryout is anything but the end for you."

He scoffed, clearly not believing my words, but I didn't let that deter me.

"First of all, there are plenty of players who didn't do well on their first tryout and had to come back and try it again," I said. "Some of your favorite players in fact, if memory serves."

Oliver hummed, giving me a little bit of acknowledgement, which I took as a good sign.

"And besides that, even if, for whatever reason, you don't make a professional team, that doesn't have to be the end-all be-all for doing what you love. You can always play for fun, or somewhere else without necessarily being on one of the fancy professional teams. You could even coach! But either way, there's plenty of ways for you to continue doing what you love, no matter the results of this tryout."

Oliver hummed as I leaned into him and continued.

"Besides, you don't need to worry anyway. You're the best damn Quidditch player I've ever seen, and I went to the Scotland vs Canada World Cup a few years ago."

Oliver huffed a laugh, but the small smile stayed on his face. He seemed to be feeling a little cheerier, thankfully, since he'd been in a very bad place almost all day. I gave him a second, resting my head on his shoulder as I could hear the storm quieting outside, before I played my last card to finish making my case.

"Not to mention, Oliver, that you can't play Quidditch if you're dead thanks to a lightning strike after insisting on practicing in insane weather like this."

He took a deep breath in, and I leaned back to look at him as he let the breath out in a long, long sigh. Finally, after a second, he turned to me.

"You're not wrong," he sighed, giving my hand a light squeeze. I met his warm brown eyes as he continued. "I don't want to have to resort to any other opportunities, but if I get struck by lightning, that's going to hurt my chances at these tryouts more than anything else could."

He hesitated, glancing briefly at the ground, and then he met my eyes again, his attention more focused on me than it had been in any of the Quidditch craziness so far.

"Thank you, Y/N. For taking care of me. Especially when I'm so bad at taking care of myself."

I gave him a soft smile, happy to be here with him, especially after watching him literally get blown out of the sky.

"I'll always watch out for you, Ollie. I love you."

"I love you too, Y/N."

I leaned in at the same time as him, sharing a soft, lingering kiss before pulling apart. After a second, he sighed, then stood up from the bench.

"It doesn't look like the weather's going to be good enough for practice any time soon," he announced. "So, what do you say we go home and rest by the fire instead?"

"Oliver, I can't think of anything I'd want more," I said with a smile as I stood to join him. He met my smile with a tired one of his own, then took my hand before gathering up both of our brooms.

"Would you do the honors?" he asked. I nodded.

"I'll even make the tea, if you're willing to start the fire."

"You have a deal," he said. We shared another calm, comfortable smile, and then I raised my wand and disapparated both of us back to our cozy, wonderful apartment. As promised, Oliver went to put our brooms away before going to start the fire as I got tea started on the stove. Before today, I honestly couldn't have imagined Oliver willingly taking a break from Quidditch to relax with me at home. And although it would probably still be a fairly rare occurrence, after today it seemed far less than completely impossible.

Nothing like a near-death experience to completely change someone's life view, I suppose.

****************

Harry Potter Taglist: @valkyriepirate​

[fandomfrenzy97]

After 6 weeks and 5 days of completing Quidditch Tryouts, earning a grand total of 200 Moonstones, 500 Galleons and 100 Winged Keys, along with custom gear, I’ve finally unlocked both Ron Weasley and his 2nd wand!!

I’m definitely ready for when we face the 1st season: Defence Against The Dark Arts, hopefully bringing in the magic of the Hogwarts Holidays, along with a Yule Ball themed update…after the craziness of now being able to play Quidditch in the Forbidden Forest, it wouldn’t surprise me if the Great Hall becomes a Quidditch Pitch…can you imagine that 🤪😄😆

[jacobscursebreakerlilsis]

Basically sums up Orion’s personality🤷🏼‍♀️

[ihsnamih]

[sunnami]

❝we can't be friends (wait for your love.)❞

[credits to @artofpan for the lovely art! title is taken from ariana grande's song, we can't be friends.]

summary. fortune favours the bold, so they say. but you're an awkward ravenclaw in yearning.

pairing/s. poly!marauders x reader (james potter x reader, lily evans x reader, remus lupin x reader, and sirius black x reader.)

word count. 11.4k

tags. childhood friends to ex-friends to lovers, fluff, minor angst, happy ending, not proofread we die like remus and tonks, also a bit of spice ;3

note. asdhjf while im working on the last part of the time traveller au pls enjoy this fluffy piecee ueueue

‘TIS THE SEASON OF raucous jeering and gaudy paraphernalia in the corridors, the unmistakable scent of overly-polished brooms, mud trekking through the cobblestone floors, and jerseys soaked in sweat, rain, and grime after hours of vigorous training. The dreaded second week of school where arrogant fledglings end up in the infirmary on account of broken noses, dislocated shoulders, or sprained wrists.

In other words: Quidditch tryouts. 

You’re just not fond of the havoc wreaked in every corner and alcove of the castle. But to your relief, the library remains untouched through it all. 

Needless to say, you absolutely hate Quidditch. 

It is a fact you simply will not elaborate on. The skies are blue, the grass blades are green; you and the Marauders are as different as night and day. 

On your way to the library, the last bastion of academia, you weave past the crowd in the courtyard corridor, ears ringing from the shouting match earlier in the Great Hall for breakfast—something about the Cannons versus the Magpies. There’s a pile of books shoved inside your leather satchel, painfully bumping into your hip with each step you take. You traverse through the Romanesque architecture, blissfully unaware of the misfortune to come. 

“If I study for Charms now, I can take a nap for the rest of the day,” You say to yourself, pensively tapping at your chin. 

“Watch out!” 

You barely have any time to react before a Quaffle comes crashing straight into your face. 

“Merlin’s hairy arsehole—fuck!” There’s a sicky sound of bones cracking, a dizzying flash of white before your eyes, and something viscous trickling from your nose down to your lips. Your hands fly to your face—instantly flinching when you catch a glimpse of your fingers dipped in blood. Your eyes grow wide in panic, chest rapidly heaving—it’s only now that you realize that you’re sitting on the ground, textbooks laying haphazardly around you, shoulders quivering from the adrenaline. The crowd’s concerned murmurs are lost in the cacophony of hysteria. 

“Move!” 

To your rescue, is Alice Fortescue, a fellow prefect. She cuts through the onlookers of petrified first-years and nosey fifth-years. You have no doubt this incident will grace the school’s gossip column for the next few days. She grabs your arm and wraps it around her shoulder with ease. You’d write poetry of her gallant display, but you were too busy moaning in agony. She utters a few incantations to stop your nosebleed from worsening, though there’s not much she can do to help with the possible concussion. 

“Did you know Bludgers used to be called blooders?” You mumble languidly, nearly crashing into one of the knight statues. 

“I do now,” replies Alice, tightening her hold on your waist, the ghost of a fond smile on her face. (She’s missed you, actually—three and a half years of radio silence. There used to be a time where running into you in the Gryffindor common rooms was an everyday occurrence. Even the Ravenclaw prefects knew where to look first if they wanted to find you.)

After what feels like an eternity of trudging through the castle, you finally reach the infirmary. The matron, Poppy Pomfrey, shrieks in alarm at the sight of your soiled blouse and blood stained lips. She gently ushers you into her hold, guiding you to a vacant bed. Alice hangs back, awkwardly shuffling her feet, gaze worriedly trained on you. 

“You may return to your classes, Miss Fortescue, thank you,” says Madam Pomfrey, tipping your head upwards and grimacing.  “Oh, good heavens, what happened?” 

Your head droops in her palms, blood trickling from the corner of your mouth—you must have bit your tongue earlier. You blubber pathetically, “Got hit by a stray quaffle.” 

Wordlessly, Madam Pomfrey summons a vial from her stash in the cupboards. She hands the small bottle to you, uttering various healing spells under her breath with a deft expertise of someone who’s been doing this for years upon years now. “There,” says Madam Pomfrey, lips firmly pursed. “That should help with the fractured cheekbones.”

With—what?

As your eyes bulge out of your head, Madam Pomfrey looks over you once more, a floating quill at her side hastily scribbling on a parchment. “Concussion, mild blood loss, fracture in the cheekbones, broken nose cartilage.” She illuminates the tip of her wand, and moves it left and right in front of you. “Hmm. Any nausea at all, dear?”

“There’s a six point four chance I’m going to get amnesia,” You whisper solemnly, head hanging low as your voice cracks from the unbearable pain. “I don’t want to get amnesia.”

“There’s no need for you to worry about that while you’re under my care.” Madam Pomfrey gently nudges you to lay on the pillow. She hands you a folded blanket. “Rest now. We’ll keep you here until the morning in case your condition worsens.”

“I can’t.” You groan, sitting upright—Madam Pomfrey pushes you back onto the bed with a stern glare. “I’ve got to study.”

“And I’ve got three other students to tend to. Mister Lockhart has been dealing with food poisoning all week.” Madam Pomfrey places her hands on her hips, sighing sharply. She jerks her thumb behind her back—that’s when you notice that three certain people are staring back at you. Sirius Black and James Potter squeezing together in one chair—and miserably failing—and Remus Lupin, resting cozily on the infirmary bed with bandages around his arms and head. “And don’t even get me started on this one.”

“You love him, Poppy, don’t lie.” Sirius grins wolfishly at the matron. You make out the sunken bags underneath his gray eyes, pale lips and his unkempt heap of dark curls. 

Pomfrey huffs exasperatedly. “It would be easier to wrangle a hoard of Hippogriffs than to keep you three out of the infirmary past visiting hours.” She spares you one last glance, nodding when she deems you safe and healthy—as can be, anyway. Gilderoy Lockhart rolls out of his bed, his cries echoing around the room, threatening to barf up his entire breakfast, and Madam Pomfrey is gone in an instant. 

There is an awkward silence that envelops your side of the room—you roll over on your left, desperately ignoring the three of stares burning intensely into your back. 

THE STORY GOES like this: 

You know their names more than you know your own. Each morning finds them at the Ravenclaw common room’s doorstep—while waiting, Lily, Sirius and Remus try to figure out the password as James attempts to brute force his way in. (He had actually figured out the riddle minutes ago, James would just rather play along with his friends.) The blue-tied prefects watch endearingly as one of their first-years rush out of the tower, squealing deafeningly, and jumps right into the lion cubs’ embrace. (It’s not that Inter-House friendships are rare, it’s more common than one would think; usually, it just takes more time for the eaglets to break out of their shell.) 

“I got a hundred and twelve!” You exclaim merrily, hair in disarray and eyes puffy from having just woken up. Lily grabs your hands; together, the both of you jump up and down, excitedly giggling in celebration of the success of your History of Magic essay. (You had ignored them for a day to focus on your homework—Sirius did not like that at all. It wasn’t as fun to play if one of their friends were missing. Gone off to study, of all things.) 

The tale of your friendship may be an unsolved mystery to some, but to you, it’s like finding jigsaw pieces that perfectly fit together. Magic isn’t only centaurs in forbidden forests, or ceilings bewitched to look like the night sky—sometimes it’s stumbling into a random train compartment and shyly offering your bag of assorted treats. Next thing you know, Lily Evans and Marlene McKinnon are constantly with you in the library, oohing and aahing over pages of the fantasy novels Lily had brought from the muggle world. 

There’s rarely a day where you aren’t spotted in a sea of red and gold. Except when you’ve studied yourself sick—and the Marauders are never fond of that. 

(“I’m sorry, she can’t come down today,” says one of the fifth-year prefects, Lalita Burman, a rather tall girl with intricate curls, brown skin, and eyes that stare into one’s soul. She wakes up to banging on the tower entrance, not even eight o’clock in the morning yet—on a Saturday. It doesn’t come off as a surprise anymore when she opens the door to five red-faced children. “She’s come down with the flu. Most of the firsties have, actually. Madam Pomfrey says they’ll get better by tomorrow but Alex and I have been running ourselves ragged looking after them.” 

James Potter narrows his eyes at her. “Okay. Then we’ll go inside.” 

“Maybe we can help,” says Remus. 

Lalita holds up her hand to stop them from barging in. “That’s really sweet, but we can’t risk any of you getting sick as well.” 

Sirius stands on his toes to spy past Lalita’s shoulder, frowning when he finds nothing of importance—or really, when he can’t find you. He couldn’t wait to call you stupid for getting yourself sick—you just missed out on frog hunting. “That’s alright.” He huffs, shoulders slumping dejectedly. “Our immune system can take it. Will you let us in now?” 

Her eye twitches. “Come back tomorrow.” 

With that, she slams the door in their faces. 

The Marauders then declare you are never, ever allowed to get sick again.) 

Your second year in the castle creeps up on you without you noticing. 

“Remus Lupin, I am going to kill you!” 

No one bats an eyelash when you stalk up to the Gryffindor table, twelve years old and on a mission, fresh from the summer holidays. You slam your hands down onto the table, eyes ablaze as Remus stares at you, head resting on his palms, shaggy blond hair falling over his brows—no thoughts, head empty, just sheer adoration. 

“Hello there, stranger,” Remus says, grinning fiendishly. “You look rather lovely—did you have a good holiday?” 

You scoff, pointing an accusatory finger at him—Peter watches at the scene with wide eyes, slowly chomping on his shepherd’s pie, not an inkling as to what was going on. “Don’t try me, Lupin!” You exclaim sternly. “That book you gave me—you said it would have a happy ending! Tell me why I stayed up until bloody five o’clock in the morning crying me eyes out! You. . . you—!” 

“Wanker, dingbat, berk, git,” Lily supplies helpfully with an innocent smile, pulling you down to sit with her. “And my personal favorite—toerag.” 

You gape at the pretty redhead, jaw falling to the floor. “How do you even know these words?” 

She hums nonchalantly, spreading blueberry jam onto her buttered toast. “A lady must arm herself with the necessary ammunition.” Lily points to a certain pair of boys—James and Sirius are currently engaged in an eating contest, shoveling pancakes after pancakes inside their mouths; so far it looks like Sirius is winning. Lily sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes, “Especially if she wants to survive that kind of company.”  

“Him, even more,” says Lily, gesturing to Remus. “He may be Professor McGonagall’s golden boy but I see right through him.” 

“What can I say?” Remus smirks, helplessly shrugging his shoulders. “I’m a monster.” 

Lily glares at him. 

Then, you turn thirteen—the dreaded age. Suddenly, you’re dealing with oily skin, acne, body odor, hair growing out of places you didn’t even know could grow hair, hormones messing up the way you look at everyone else—something awakens in you the day you see Dorcas Meadowes in the Quidditch pitch wearing a black sleeveless turtleneck—and hormones messing up the way you look at yourself. 

Everything is starting to change. 

You usually never blink twice when James wraps his arms around your waist, laying his head on your shoulder. Except this time, he’s gone from a gangly bean sprout, to a heartthrob with perfectly messy hair, newly defined muscles from his countless hours of Quidditch training, charming smile, eyes that one could get lost into for hours, and a tantalizing scent of mint and bergamot. 

“Are you really not going to our game this Saturday?” James whispers in your ear—the five of you had been hanging out in the library. 

You sigh. “Can‘t. Sorry.” 

“Scared your House is going to lose to us, pet?” Sirius teases from where he’s sitting backwards on the chair next to you, engrossed in twirling locks of your hair around his finger. 

You bristle at the nickname—they have been brazen with the endearments lately, you’ve noticed. “It’s not like we’re going to win anyway,” You mumble, tapping your quill on the empty parchment—there’s never any work done while they’re around. “There’s only a sixteen point seven percent chance of Ravenclaw winning against Gryffindor.”

James wrinkles his nose, now sitting on the edge of the table. “Percent, shmercent. What matters is how everyone plays that day.” 

He kicks his legs against yours, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “So, will you come watch?” 

“We have that History of Magic project, remember,” You say defeatedly. “I need to get started on it this week otherwise I’ll be behind all the electives I signed up for this year.” 

Lily frowns, looking up from her own homework to glance at you in concern. “How many did you even pick?” 

“All of them.” 

“What?” Lily screeches in terror, suddenly rising from her seat to lean over the table. “How is that even possible? How did McGonagall even allow that?” 

“Professor Flitwick,” You correct, wincing when Lily and Sirius glare at you. “It took a lot of convincing, but eventually I wore him down. All I had to do was rework some of my class schedules and promise him over a thousand times that my wellbeing wouldn’t ever be compromised by my studies. Otherwise he’d take back his decision.” 

Remus doesn’t seem all too happy. “No wonder we don’t see you at Transfiguration anymore.” 

“Or in Kettleburn’s class,” Peter pipes in. 

“Are you sure it’s okay for you to be taking that many classes at once?” Remus grimaces, sharing a worried look with James. “The limit is three, and even that is too much to handle.” 

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry.” 

(Peter knows a lie when he hears one.) 

James tenses up, jaw tightening. “So you’re saying you’re going to miss a game because of school? Like all the other times? That’s bullcrap!” 

Remus hisses his name in warning. 

Tears prick your eyes instantly—you’ve heard him speak like this when quarreling with Slytherins, but never to your face. “That bullcrap means a lot to me, Potter. You’d understand that if you took your studies seriously more than just going around and playing silly pranks on everyone!” 

James scoffs. “Like how you take us seriously? Did you know that Lily is the youngest ever to be invited to Slughorn’s club? Yeah, she got the invitation last week. Did you congratulate her for that when she was staying up late with you to revise for your practical test in Herbology?” 

“I—” You stammer, guilt pooling in your stomach. 

“No, you didn’t.” James sneers. “You only see yourself. Do you know what Remus has been going through? Do you even care?” 

“That’s enough, James,” Lily says vehemently. 

“Well, if you think like that, maybe we all should just stop being friends!” You retort.

Before anyone else can reply, Madam Pince comes around the corner, and everyone falls silent—a tense atmosphere that threatens to choke you. With a heavy heart, you gather your belongings and run out of the library. 

The months pass by, and Frank Longbottom wonders why he doesn’t wake up at midnight anymore to find five students having a sleepover in the common room with a certain eagle, each of them trying to contain their giggles and  failing. (One time, the Prewett twins had run down the stairs in panic, only to find you and Peter screaming from Remus’s theatrics in telling his ghost stories during an awful thunderstorm.) You no longer visit the Gryffindor table at breakfast, and they no longer wait for you after your classes. 

“It’s probably just a tiff,” says Alice to Mary Macdonald. “They’ll make up—they always do.”  

Mary nods, though unsure—while Peter is gut-wrenched about it all, the other four in particular seem like heartbroken puppies when you enter the Great Hall and barely acknowledge their presence. 

The snow melts and time catches everyone unaware.

“I can’t believe I’m going to graduate and you idiots haven’t made up yet,” Lalita sighs as she pulls you in for a hug. In a few weeks, she and the other seventh-years are due to leave; you’ve grown real close with her over the past few terms. Her departure is going to be truly difficult for you to handle. “Just talk it out with them, okay?” 

You sniffle, holding onto her robes. “I’m trying, but they’ve been ignoring me, too.” 

Lalita squeezes you tighter. “Don’t worry. These kinds of things have a way of sorting themselves out.” 

At the end of the term, you present your final project to Professor Binns. The ghost nearly returns to life. It was a research study on the Evolutionary Analysis of Magical RNA Manipulation in the Catalonian Fireball. Days after your paper is published, you’re featured on the Daily Prophet; dragon tamers and professors from Spain are owling you letters of praise and congratulations. It goes without saying that such a feat had naturally catapulted Ravenclaw to the top, ultimately winning the House Cup. 

(But what you don’t tell everyone is that you’re so severely burnt out after that—to the point where you didn’t want to ever pick up a textbook again. For the first time in forever, learning had become a chore, not a passion. You’d been puking out of anxiety, hands trembling as you forced yourself to write on the parchment, the sides of your fingers constantly swollen and raw. You’d study until four o’clock in the morning, and wake up an hour later to complete all of your homework. You’ve begun to masquerade as the ghosts of Ravenclaw Tower; lifeless and indifferent. Xenophilius and Pandora fuss over you, but you just lock yourself in your room and say: “I’m tired.”

Perhaps, it is why Professor Flitwick isn’t surprised when you withdraw from most of your electives. 

“The pursuit of knowledge is a rewarding journey,” says Professor Flitwick on the day you visit his classroom—hours away from needing to be on the train platform. He sighs and sets his spectacles on the table. “But it is a perilous one, too. I trust that you have understood the consequences of your actions. As a teacher, I can only offer guidance when it is needed. The other professors may disagree, but I find the best learning method to be, what is it the kids say—fuck around and find out.” 

You snort. 

Professor Flitwick chuckles, quite pleased with himself. “If I may be so bold as to leave you with another piece of homework, I would like to ask you to truly enjoy the holidays. I hear the summer is a time for discovering new things about oneself, for new beginnings and growth. After all, learning does not happen only within the castle grounds.”) 

Later that day, you board the express, purposefully choosing the farthest compartment where you know they’ll be staying in. You share the cabin with two people whose names are Regulus and Narcissa Black—this is the first time you’ve ever met them. Narcissa shares her green tea flavored candy with you.  Afterwards, you spend the rest of the ride back to King’s Cross asleep. 

(Right before the train arrives, Remus is nervously searching for you in the crowd of people. 

“We’ve got to say goodbye, at least.” Lily nibbles on her lower lip uneasily. She once joked that she could find you anywhere—as if you two had a red string tied around both your pinky fingers. Now, it seems you’re too far away for her voice to reach you. 

James drops his head down in shame. “I never got the chance to apologize.” 

“She’ll appear somewhere,” says Sirius unwaveringly with a nod, taking Lily’s heavy suitcase from her as steam whistles are heard in the distance. “She could be in our special compartment, waiting for us right now.” 

“Are you sure?” Peter questions dubiously. 

“Of course I am, she’s my best friend,” Sirius counters resolutely. “She’s there, I can feel it.”)

You’re fourteen when you return back to the castle—you hadn’t touched a single book throughout the summer, but you find yourself well-rested; you learn how to swim from your mother; staying up all night to accompany your family dog as she gives birth to seven beautiful puppies, and scratching yourself on the bark of sycamore trees with your poor attempts at climbing.

You find out that you don’t like Arithmancy at all, strongly preferring Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures. You’ve also garnered a curiosity for Ornithomancy, the oracle reading of birds. 

This year, you signed up for the Gobstone club, despite your unfamiliarity with the game. It’s led by a Slytherin girl named Haerin Seong. (It’s properly read as Seong Hae-rin.) She has pin-straight hair, a sharp nose, and the mouth of a drunken sailor.

You also decide that you want to become a professor after Hogwarts. The groundskeeper, Rubeus Hagrid, belly laughs when you declare this to him one afternoon, right in the doorway of his hut. 

“Well, go on then!” Hagrid bellows, patting you on the head. “Anyone who tries ter stop yeh has got ter go through me!” 

On the dawn of your fifth-year, an owl delivers a prefect badge to your doorstep. Your father, born and raised as a Muggle, doesn’t understand the significance of this, but he cries harder than you on that Sunday morning. (“My child is a prefect!” He sobs into the telephone after dialing your aunt’s number.) 

The fresh batch of Ravenclaw firsties aren’t the only new additions to the castle. According to the gossip mill, James and Lily are finally dating, so are Sirius and Remus apparently. (Then, months later, everyone would be shrieking about how they’re all dating. )

You hear of the news as you guide the first-year eaglets to their next class. You’re climbing up the spiral staircase when you see the Quidditch pitch through the window. They look like flying ants from this distance. You can imagine the wind in their hair, the tense muscles as they chase after the Quaffles, the crowd roaring in their ears, victory within their reach if they just fly fast enough. 

You hate the way you envy them—how easily they soar up in the skies while you watch from below, much like a flightless eagle, shackled by your own shortcomings. 

You hate Quidditch.

It’s bound by no rules, unpredictable and barbaric. Most of all, it looks down on the cowardly. 

In your sixth year, you have your first kiss with a boy named Augustine Fenberry. It’s extremely short-lived and awkward. You date for three months until it’s unanimously agreed that you two are better off as friends—until you catch him laughing about you with his mates in an empty corridor, saying that you were clingy, too much, and needed to learn how to shut up. (You wonder if that’s why they grew tired of you, too.) 

You handle him with a quick, “Entomorphis.” 

It’s probably one of the more cruel jinxes; Augustine bawls piercingly as he grows antennas atop his head, the spell forcing him to get on his hands and knees; his friends hover around him in panic, but all Augustine can do is chirp like a grasshopper in the night. You wonder if you’ve gone too far, but Haerin tells you that’s exactly what Augustine is—vermin. 

You also, with great satisfaction, deduct thirty points from his House—which happens to be Ravenclaw. 

(Nobody knows this about Peter, but he’s nimble on his feet, a bit of a wallflower—and he is now the newest editor of Hogwarts’s newspaper column, The Golden Snidget. By the next day, everyone knows what he’s done. Argus Filch, who’s in charge of his month-long detention, should be the last of his worries. Peter sympathizes with the wizard—but only for a fraction of a second. Because it’s not even the werewolf Augustine has to be scared of, not the pureblood heir who could ruin anyone with just a lift of his finger; not the Quidditch prodigy with a sharp mind, knowing a thousand ways to seek revenge. 

It’s Lily Evans. 

“Go near her again and I’ll rip your balls off!” Marlene flips the bird to the group of cowering boys. “Matter of fact, if you treat anyone like that again, I will come for your bloodline.”

“Fucking toerag!” Lily wildly swings the Beater’s bat she had stolen from the Quidditch changing room. “If you even look at her, I’ll hunt you down and shove this up your arse—until you feel it in your throat!” 

Peter shivers in fear. He didn’t ever want to be on the receiving side of Lily’s wrath. 

“This is the same girl who cried for an hour when she saw the ducklings in the Great Lake separated from their mother,” says Remus, horrified. 

“Honestly, I feel so, so conflicted whether to find this terrifying. . . or attractive,” James whispers to Sirius.

“Attractive. Definitely attractive,” Sirius responds breathlessly, all eyes on Lily.)

Gryffindor wins the House Cup that year, to no one’s surprise. You find yourself clapping along with everyone else, but can’t help it when your gaze drifts to the left-side of the Gryffindor table. You watch as Sirius lifts Lily in the air, her giggles somehow louder than the thunderous cheering, pressing a loving kiss to her lips. James stands on the table, encouraging everyone to sing more of his praises—there’s a split second where his eyes find yours, you look away immediately—as Remus covers his face with his palms, flushed from all the attention. After James, Remus had won the most points for their House. 

They seem complete—a puzzle that never really needed another piece. (You miss them, heartachingly so.) Maybe it was for the best that all of you drifted further and further apart. You now forget the way they call your name.  

And so, the story ends just like that. 

YOU HAVE FOUND yourself in a very tricky position. 

It’s past midnight when you wake up—you nearly scream bloody murder when James, Lily and Sirius materialize out of thin air. They stare back at you, frozen in place, unblinking for the last twenty seconds. 

“Oh God, I’m hallucinating.” You cry to yourself, wrapping your arms around your waist. “I hit my head and now I’m seeing things.” 

“No, no, no, no,” James stammers, shaking his head. “It’s an invisibility cloak—see?” He wears the cape, then abruptly takes the cloak off—his body disappearing and reappearing in time with his actions. “Not hallucinating, I promise.” 

“That’s even worse,” You say hoarsely, on the verge of hyperventilating. “Y-You’re out past curfew—visiting hours are over. Someone could catch you. Madam Pomfrey will have your heads.” 

Remus chuckles—he had missed your voice so bloody much. He barely contains his grin when you glare at him. (Finally, after three years, you look his way again.) 

“We snuck in here to see you all the time,” Sirius tells you, the corner of his lips tipping into an overfond smile. “At some point, Poppy just stopped trying to keep us out.” 

“Yeah, I guess.” Your gaze falls to the floor as you mousily toy with your fingers. The infirmary falls painfully silent. Again. You clear your throat. “Anyway, I–I should get going.” 

“Oh.” Lily’s expression turns crestfallen, words cracking from the thick lump wedged in her throat. (This is the first conversation she’s had with you in years—one that isn’t awkwardly bumping into one another with shallow, hesitant greetings, before you scurry off like a timid squirrel.) “R-Right. But why don’t you have dinner first? We brought some from the feast and—” 

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry,” You rasp, slipping into your shoes and throwing your cardigan over your shoulders. (More than anything, you want to hug Lily and congratulate her for making Head Girl—but you have to wonder if it’s too little, too late; if the distance between you and her is too great to try and  cross.) 

You toss Remus a wary glance. There used to be a time where you could say anything to him, and now it feels like ice-cold hands are stapled over your mouth. “F–Feel better soon.” 

“Thanks.” Remus coughs. 

Sirius’s eyes bounce from you to Remus, mentally ripping his hair out from exasperation—this whole thing is going nowhere. 

You sprint out of the infirmary without a word, hands trembling from the nerve-wracking encounter inside. You take a moment to catch your breath, to shove your heart back inside your ribcage, as you lean sideways on the wall. It’s like running into a pack of wild chimeras in the mountains bare-handed. 

“That was so scary.” You breathe out deeply, clutching the front of your shirt tightly. 

The loud call of your name slices through the hallway and you jump in fright. 

Luckily, it’s just James—but just James sets your heart aflutter and your knees wobbly even after all this time. He bridges the gap between you in quick, long strides; murmuring your name once more like a prayer. “Hey,” James says quietly, as if afraid to spook you off. 

You gnaw on your bottom lip anxiously, tucking your hands inside your pockets. “Hey.”

“Listen, I just wanted to say—back in the library, all those years ago. I’m sorry. Really bloody sorry. Sirius decked me in the face that day, which I definitely deserved.” James nervously scratches the back of his head. “It was stupid of me—and I never should have said any of those things. I know it’s been years since then, you don’t even have to forgive me. But I just wanted you to know—”

“It’s fine, James.” You cut into his rambling, having already forgiven him for that day. “Really. Water under the bridge.” 

In fact, some of what he had said made you realize how much you isolated yourself without even knowing. “And, I—uhm.” You take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, too.” 

James widens his eyes, then instantly shakes his head. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

A dark red blush spreads from his neck to his prettily carved cheeks.  “So. .  . uh. . . are we okay?” 

“We’re okay,” You say and he exhales deeply in relief. “And James, I. . . I. . .”

“Yeah?” There’s a hopeful lilt in his voice as he takes one more step towards you—achingly patient, but there’s a sense of urgency and desperation. 

“I—” You look away and the words fizzle out in your throat. “Never mind.” 

I just wanted to say I’m sorry for what I said that day. I miss you more than life. Thank you for staying by my side all those years—for being one of my best friends. You make me feel safe, James Potter. You are one of the most intelligent and caring wizards I know. How  anyone can think otherwise is baffling to me. I’m sorry if I don’t let you know that more often. 

“See you around, James.” With that, you turn and leave. 

Perhaps, some things are better left unsaid. 

(So why is your heart shattering into a million pieces?) 

“TODAY, WE ARE GOING TO be interpreting messages from the divine!” 

On a lovely Friday morning, Professor Nasenyana drags the class out to the grounds for a hands-on Divination lecture, the groundskeeper’s hut within sight. He unlocks the barn nearby, where flocks of various bird species take to the skies instantly. He’s a rather eccentric fellow with one of the friendliest smiles you’ve ever seen. Most of the Ravenclaws are also star-struck, hanging onto his every word. As it turns out, Nasenyana is a graduate from Uagadou, the top school for Astronomy and Divination.

“Ornithomancy—!” He proclaims, flashy cloak billowing, startling some of the Gryffindors from their sleep. “It is a form of divination that looks into the behavior of birds—celestial creatures blessed with the ability to traverse through the heavens and the earth. But, you see, it is more than that. It requires utmost concentration and mastery. To pass this class, you will need to—” 

“I told you we didn’t miss anything important!” 

“Pads, shut up.” 

Sirius and Remus come rolling down the hill. Remus’s robes are disheveled, whereas Sirius’s tie is loosely hanging around his shirt, sleeves folded up. They nearly crash into Professor Nasenyana—who doesn’t appear to be pleased with their tardiness. You notice Remus’s flushed cheeks, the sweat running down the sides of his forehead, and the pinkish bruises on the column of Sirius’s neck. 

Lily chortles. 

Oh. 

You blush deeply—that is so none of your business. 

“Mister Black! Mister Lupin! So nice of you to finally join us.” Professor Nasenyana exclaims. “I trust that it won’t take you thirty more minutes to find a place to sit?” He gestures to the assembly of students sitting down on the grass, some shielding the sunlight from their face with the Divination textbook, and others transfiguring their school robes into a picnic mat. “Take your seats, gentlemen.” 

“And that is five points from Gryffindor. Each.” Professor Nasenyana declares just as Remus and Sirius plop down on the closest patch of grass to them. 

Which happens to be right beside you. 

You pour all your attention on the teacher, and not how warm Sirius feels next to you. 

“As I was saying,” Professor Nasenyana continues, hands folded behind his back, eyes gleaming with anticipation. “In order to pass this class, you will form groups of three where your task is to read each other’s fortune based on the information presented to you and document your findings. Everything you need for interpretation is in your textbooks. You will hand this assignment in after the winter holidays. I expect excellence from each and every one of you. Failure to comply will result in a Dreadful.” 

Gilderoy’s arm shoots up in the air. 

“Shall I guess your question, Mister Lockhart?” Nasenyana grins blindingly. “Your groups will be determined by fate—those closest to you will read your fortune, and you theirs.” 

He lowers his arm with a bright blush. 

You, however, are frozen in place, sitting cross-legged on the ground with a robe strewn over your lap—you even hold your breath from the shock. Fate must be mocking you right now. Spending the next few weeks in close proximity with the boys who held your fragile, little heart in their hands.

How fun.

Not.

FOR THE FIRST TIME in forever, you don’t pay attention in Charms.

The thought of working with Remus and Sirius haunts you so much that you burrow your head in your arms for the entirety of Professor Flitwick’s lesson. Your seatmate, Xenophilius, watches in horror as you flub the enunciation for Ascendio. Thankfully, no one is accidentally flung into the air—except for Gilderoy who is unfortunately blown away from his chair.

“Sorry.” You twinge empathetically as he climbs back onto his chair, glaring at you. 

Xenophilius nudges your shoulder, whispering, “Are you alright?” 

“Perfectly fine,” You respond hurriedly, almost choking on your spit. “What ever gave you the idea that I was not fine? I’m bloody fantastic even. The sun is shining, fishes are swimming, and there’s not a single thing out of the ordinary in my life.” 

“It’s cloudy outside,” Xenophilius says impassively. “And Lockhart is looking at you like you’ve just attempted murder.” 

“Lockhart always looks like that.” You brush him off with a wave, busying yourself with flipping the pages of your Charms textbook. 

Xenophilius pokes you in the side. “You are avoiding the subject. Is it because of Lup—”

“Ascendio!” 

This time, it’s too perfect of an incantation that even Merlin weeps from his grave.

At the end of class, you’re greeted with yet another surprise. Just as you leave the classroom, you find Sirius and Remus standing in the corridor, so absorbed in conversation that they don’t notice the sixth-year girls giggling as they walk by—either that, or they have had plenty of practice when it comes to  ignoring attention from the entire student body. It’s not like you can blame everyone else—they’re a duo carved by heaven’s finest. 

Sirius realizes instantly when you walk out of the doors. He smiles blazingly at you, instantly rising to his feet, hands shoved inside the pockets of his trousers. You can’t believe this is the same boy who’d give you piggyback rides down the hallway. Dark layered curls tumble messily past his shoulders, a smidge of dark liner around his eyes, multiple piercings in his left ear. He’s grown taller, certainly more confident, too. 

“Ready to go, pet?” He asks, as if casually inquiring about the weather. 

“Go?” You echo, nonplussed. “Go where?” 

“Birdwatching, obviously.” Sirius grins devilishly before grabbing your hand and leading you to the courtyard, Remus hot on your heels—who, for some reason, now has your bag hanging from his shoulders. 

“D-Do I even get a say in this?” Truthfully, you had thought that you could finish the project without meeting up. Ever. You even think of collaborating with them via owl; staying far, far away from one another. So that none of you get hurt again, and you don’t risk another heartbreak. 

“Not one bit, darling.” Sirius looks back at you and winks—this cheeky bastard!

You’re in a daze by the time the three of you reach the middle courtyard. Sirius happily plonks down under a tree, further unbuttoning his shirt until a hint of a tattoo peeks out—you gape. Remus chuckles before urging you to sit as well, before he settles on your other side. 

“This is nice,” says Sirius as he leans his head against the tree trunk, eyes closed. “Bloody missed this.” 

“Missed what?” You dare to ask, heart hammering in your chest. 

He opens one eye, cheek dimple flashing. “Being by your side.” 

“Oh.” 

One does not respond to that, actually. One just simply passes out and fades away. 

And as you typically do when facing hardships in life, you ramble about homework. Clearing your throat and staring straight at the earthworms crawling out of the mud, you say, “So, about our project. . .” 

“I was thinking we could get started on it next Saturday,” You splutter, fiddling with your fingers. “Or I could start on everyone’s reading and we’d put it on paper sometime next month—but I could do that myself, too. I-If you wanted. Just so that it’s easier for everyone. We really don’t have to rush, honestly.” 

“Procrastinating on schoolwork?” Remus laughs heartily with a slow shake of his head, stretching his long legs on the ground. “Who are you and what have you done to our best fr—” 

The word falters on his tongue, and his smile fades into a somber line. 

To save everyone from the awkward tension, you carry on, ignoring the way Sirius stiffens, “If you want to start early, I can head to the library after lunch to find some books on Ornithomancy. The more references we have—”

“What happened to us?” Sirius interjects gravelly. 

You let out a deep sigh. 

You suppose this conversation has been a long time coming, given lions and their stubbornness. 

“It’s simple,” You say gingerly. “After that. . . that day, the distance kept growing and growing until we went our own separate ways without looking back.” 

A single teardrop slides down your cheek before you can stop it. “You changed. I changed, too. The difference was, you all had each other while I had no one.”

(Though Pandora and Xenophilius were the truest and most honest friends one could ask for, they didn’t hold your soul captive the way they did.) 

Sirius stares at you as if you had just spit acid; a thunderstorm forming within his gray eyes, his jaw locking painfully. 

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” Remus asks softly, leaning forward to offer you his handkerchief. His voice sounds strangled—as though your words physically torment him. He pulls away just as your gaze falls on his. 

“That’s what happened, though. But I suppose it doesn’t really even matter anymore.” You flinch away, electrocuted from his touch. 

There’s a stretched silence that blankets the three of you. It carries on for a few minutes, the breeze flowing by, and the slow, clamorous bell chiming in the distance. You’re about to speak up when Sirius breaks the quietude first.

“Be ready,” He says decidedly, looking straight ahead. 

“For what?” You ask in disbelief. 

Sirius drags a hand through his hair with a loud exhale. He rests his elbows on his knees, chin carelessly set on his palm, eyeing you intensely. “We’re going to prove you wrong from now on.” 

“What exactly are you going to prove?” 

Sirius chuckles, coiling a strand of your hair around his finger. “That it’s always been you and us for life, princess.” 

Merlin’s saggy balls. 

THE GRYFFINDOR TABLE descends into a coalescence of wide eyes and rapid, hushed whispers when you arrive sometime during dinner. It’s not out of your own volition, of course, but your own duty and responsibility as prefect to return the handkerchief that Remus had lent you earlier this afternoon. You hoped it would be a quick in-and-out; dishing out more forced smiles, and some half-baked banter until you could finally run away, tail tucked between your legs. Like most things in your life, it does not go the way you want. 

“You could keep it, if you want,” says Remus, hesitantly taking the embroidered cloth from you. 

If the world knew how many trinkets Remus Lupin had gifted you during your friendship, you would be swimming in gold—and cursed letters from his devoted fangirls. 

“That’s alright. Thank you.” You placate him with a crooked grin, the words spilling from your lips like a jumbled mess. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Gideon and Fabian Prewett nudging each other’s shoulders whilst pointing at you, keeping their heads low. You have no idea what that’s about. 

“Well. That is all. E-Enjoy your dinner.” You nod, mentally patting yourself on the back for not passing out in the den of lions. “Goodbye.” 

Though the Ravenclaw table is placed next to Gryffindor’s, you have the bright idea of sitting with your backs to them, lest you engage in a round of cloddish staring contests with the Marauders. Just as you pivot on your heels, ready to make it to Pandora’s side, an achingly familiar voice calls for your name. 

“Wait!” Marlene is partially out of her seat, bright blonde hair in a loose, messy braid; hand outstretched, as if reaching out to you. Her pale cheeks blossom with shades of scarlet as she receives miffed glares from the students nearby—such is the curse of a Gryffindor; if this were a fantasy novel, they would be the perfect protagonist. “Why don’t you eat with us? F-For old time’s sake. It’s been so long and I really would like to catch up with you.” 

Your resolve nearly crumbles. This is the same girl who would bring sweet candies in her pocket in case you got hungry during class. But, if this were a fantasy novel, you would only be an extra; fated to walk a path so different from the likes of James Potter and Lily Evans.

“Maybe next time,” You say, unconvincing to even your own ears. 

FROM ACROSS the Great Hall, another conversation is taking place. 

“I am telling you, Minerva, I caught them talking again in the infirmary,” says Poppy Pomfrey to her fellow teacher, a spry grin on her kind face. 

“Poppy, as I’ve told you, I do not make a habit out of discussing my students’ personal lives,” McGonagall replies tiredly, slicing into her dinner plate of steak and kidney pie. She pauses for a few moments, before pushing up her spectacles with a wrinkly smile. “But, perhaps, I’ll let this slide just this once. Tell me all about it. I’ve also heard that—” 

“ACTA NON VERBA.”

Deeds, not words. 

Truly a befitting password for the House of bravery and recklessness. The Fat Lady’s portrait gasps in delight, raising her champagne glass to you. Seconds later, the Gryffindor common room is revealed to you. (Most of the Ravenclaw prefects have the House passwords memorized, in case they encounter a lost student outside the dormitories who has forgotten the passcode. It happens more often than one would like. Although it isn’t just first-years who are often stuck outside. You’ve stumbled upon Frank Longbottom many times before in a heated argument with the Fat Lady.) 

“Oh!” Alice, bundled up in a red scarf and a wooly jumper, is startled to find you at the entrance. She breathily says your name, eyes crinkling as she smiles widely. “What a pleasant surprise! Oh my Gods—it’s so nice to see you again. How’s the head? Last time I saw you, you were bleeding everywhere.”

“I didn’t get amnesia. So that was good.” You head inside the room, instantly enveloped in a familiar warmth, a welcoming hug as if you had never strayed far. “Thank you. For that day, I mean. For bringing me to Madam Pomfrey.”

She waves you off. “Don’t mention it.” 

“But. . .” Alice cocks her head with a conniving smile. “Don’t tell anyone else this, but when James found out it had been the Gryffindor team’s co-captain who hit the Quaffle your way, I heard James put him through some intense training. He must’ve had to run a hundred laps around the pitch for a week straight.  Poor guy even had to wash everyone’s jerseys without magic.” 

“What?” You shriek. “But it was just an accident. Surely, James wouldn’t—”

Alice tweaks your nose with a chuckle. “Oh, for you? He would.”

You have the strangest urge to throw yourself out of the tower. 

You cough into your first, desperate to shift the conversation topic otherwise you’d spontaneously combust. “S-So, where’s Remus? We agreed to work on our Divination project here—if that’s alright with you and the others, of course.” 

“Ha!” Alice exclaims, palming her forehead. “So that’s why the tower stinks of flipping perfume.” She snickers at your bewildered expression, before engulfing you in a bear hug. “It’s so good to see you. You’re welcome here anytime, you know that.”

“Thank you, Alice.” You squeeze her back, giving yourself just this one time because you really did miss her.

Alice takes a step backwards before roaring loud enough to shake the ceiling. “Remus!”

“Get down here! Your girlfriend is waiting!”

You break out in a coughing fit. “I am not his girlfriend.” 

“Not yet.” Alice winks at you, patting your cheek before skipping out the common room. 

You hear the heavy footfalls of someone coming down the stairs. Moments later, you see Remus Lupin beaming at you, casually dressed, hair damp and tousled over his brows, broad shoulders stretching his white top, and fluffy, mismatched socks over his feet. He walks over to you in record speed. 

“You came,” He says huskily. 

“I did.” 

“You look beautiful today.” Remus grins wolfishly, dimples poking out of his cheeks, flecks of light in his hazel eyes. 

You blink owlishly, dumbfounded. You peer at your clothes—nothing fancy or experimental. “This is how I normally dress, though.” 

“I know.” 

Remus smiles, swiftly taking your bookbag from you. (Alice was right. He smells like a basket of green apples, old leather tomes, and sandalwood. Not that you mind.) You follow him to the couches by the fireplace. 

“Where’s Sirius?” You look around the common room as you sink into the red sofa. There’s a pair of third-years playing chess, a young girl feathering her hand across the bookcase; sunlight streaming in from the tall windows. 

But no sign of Sirius Black. 

“Miss me, did you, love?” 

Sirius chuckles into your ear—you jump out of your skin, clutching at your knees in fright. 

“Merlin’s tits—!” 

You gasp for air while Sirius and Remus laugh at your expense. “You fucking wanker!” You grab one of the quilted pillows as Sirius jumps over the back of the couch. “You’re an idiot, Sirius Orion.” 

“There.” Sirius flops right down on the sofa; his hair tied up in a low bun, silver rings around his fingers. “Now you don’t look so bloody scared and nervous around us. We don’t bite, you know.” He pauses, then grins devilishly at you. “Unless you ask.” 

You slap your palms against your lap. “Anyways—!” 

Nostrils flaring as you take a deep breath—this is going to be a long day. You begin setting the parchments, feather quills, and Divination textbooks on the coffee table, along with a notebook where you had written some observations during the week. “When we were out—erm—birdwatching the other day, I noted down the birds that flew by for our readings. For Remus, it was a flock of Firecrests. And—” 

“I’m very sorry, loveliest love, but none of this makes any bloody sense to me.” Sirius goes through the Divination volumes you had checked out from the library, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Tea reading, I can tolerate. But studying bird droppings really isn’t my thing.” 

You glare heatedly at him, oddly defensive about the subject. “We’re not studying bird droppings, you plonker. There’s so much more to Ornithomancy than what meets the eyes. You see, nature connects everything. From the number of birds you encounter, to which direction they fly, their pattern of flight, down to the colors of their wings.” 

You point to the glaring page from Snallygasters and Omens: Vol. 1 where a picture of a Jobberknoll jumps out. “This bird flies to the east because the east governs new beginnings and warm springs after winter. Blue wings symbolize reliability. One day in the future you’ll be tasked with a huge responsibility. A family could entrust their godson to you, who knows? You have to be clear-headed, Sirius. Your emotions can get the best of you if you’re not careful.” 

Without even pausing to breathe, you say, “Remus. The firecrest. Smallest bird in the wizarding world, but will dare to fly higher than any other creature, even the king of birds. The firecrest and its flock were flying to the south that day, Remus. To the place of passion and life. Love. Beauty.” 

“So it’s. . . it’s more than just bird droppings!” 

By the end of it all, your chest is heaving, fingers trembling with adrenaline; Remus and Sirius gazing at you with stars in their eyes, devotion pouring from their growing smiles. (Oh, how their hearts beat for you.) 

Sirius tips your chin with his knuckle, leaning closer until you feel his breath on your nose. “Welcome back, princess.”

NIGHT FALLS WITHOUT anyone’s permission. James, Lily, and Peter make their way back to the Gryffindor tower, patches of sunburn on their nose after spending the entire day outside observing bird flight patterns. Like Sirius, Lily has her mind firmly set against the philosophies of Divination; the mumbo jumbo not really all that comprehensible to her. As they enter the common room, her hand in James’s, they’re greeted by a rare sight—one that Lily didn’t think she would see again. 

Sirius is sitting on the floor by the fireplace, wand tucked behind his ear, a pile of books at his side, his brows contorted in frustration as he drowns in the pages of When Fortunes Turn Fowl. He presses his finger to his lips when his silvery eyes fall on Lily and James, jerking his head to the scene across him. 

Lily fails to bury her smile when she sees you snoring away at Remus’s lap, his fingers absentmindedly knitting through strands of your hair. The space is bedecked in loose pages with scribbled notes on them and ink stains on the carpet. 

“I take it you three got further along than we did,” Lily whispers as she kneels beside Remus, softly nudging his chin as she captures him in a fond kiss. 

Remus smiles into her lips. “A month’s worth of progress, at least. Thanks to this one here. I don’t think I’ll ever look at a bird the same way again.” 

“Who knew our little eagle had a knack for Divination?” Lily chuckles, gaze softening as she delicately drags her knuckle down your cheek. “It’s getting pretty late. Should we wake her up?” 

Remus shakes his head. “No. Let her sleep a bit more.” 

Selfishly, Lily agrees. She traces the tip of your nose, the pillows of your lips, before retracting her hand with a long sigh. “We used to talk about anything and everything until the sun rose. Now, it seems like I can never catch up to her no matter how fast I run.”

“Lily—” 

“Don’t worry,” says Lily. “I am nothing if not stubborn. She’ll know my wrath soon.” 

Sirius snickers. “How charming.” 

The fire crackles and you mumble something, deep in slumber, shifting in Remus’s hold, “Only one percent. . . of the world’s population is . . . is naturally redheaded.” 

“Is that right?” Lily grins from ear to ear. 

Just you wait, Lily is going to sweep you off your feet.

(Something she should have done years ago.) 

“IS THAT A new jumper?”

Pandora simpers knowingly, heterochromatic eyes uncovering your every secret—the beads in her long braids click as she keeps in time with your brisk pace. She teasingly pulls at the oversized sweater. “It looks good on you.” 

You narrow your eyes at her, watchfully twisting your arms around your waist. “It was cold this morning, alright? Remus lent it to me. It’s not a big deal. It’s what friends do, right?” 

“So, you’re friends now?” Pandora muses. “Well, thank the Gods, because it has been excruciating watching you tiptoe around one another. It only took you lot three years, but it’s better than never, eh?” 

“Wilderwood! No magic in the corridors! That’s five points from Slytherin!” You bark at the stubborn fifth-year who grins sheepishly at you, before you reply to Pandora, an ache forming at the back of your head. “It’s complicated. Everything was sort of awkward in the beginning.” 

You think of last night, how Sirius was especially keen on making you laugh every few seconds; Remus would inch closer to you, head nearly on your shoulder as he peeks at the notes you’ve jotted down. You could barely think straight in their presence. Then, you remember waking up earlier this morning, James sprawled all over Sirius and Lily on the couch; Remus’s nose fully buried in his drawing book.

“But. . .” You trail off, remembering Remus’s arms around you as he sent you off, careful not to wake the others. (“I am a selfish bastard, pet,” He whispers into your hair, “I’m sorry, but let me steal this morning from them.”)

“It’s like coming home after a long day.”

“Brilliant!” Pandora exclaims, roughly laying her hands on your shoulders as she ushers you past the cobblestone walkway and into the grassfield, where the Quidditch Pitch rests in the near distance. You hadn’t even realized that you were a little ways from the castle already. “Tell them that!” 

“What?” You squawk. “Are you mad, woman?”

You hear the sound of brooms zipping by at an unimaginable speed. The crowd clamors over the announcer’s intense commentary. Your legs feel like they’ve been jinxed to feel like jelly. You hate Quidditch. 

“GRYFFINDOR SCORES! — That’s one-hundred and twenty in all! — Still no snitch yet! Hurry on, Potter! Mulciber’s got nothing on you– Ow! Professor! — Fawley heads for the goal! — Great deflect by Black! — Bletchley misses! — Another point for Gryffindor! We might as well end the game now!”

“Mr. Prewett!” You hear McGonagall scold into the charmed megaphone. 

“Sorry, Minnie! Anyway! — Mulciber and Potter race for the Snitch! Potter reaches out! — Surprisingly good manoeuvre from Mulciber! — Come on, James! — He’s almost got it! — It’s right there!”

You wait with a bated breath.

The crowd goes absolutely wild.

“Potter’s got it! — GRYFFINDOR HAS WON!” 

“Go on now, treasure. Before the Wrackspurts get inside your head again.” Pandora urges you forward, dusting the invisible creatures off your shoulders. As you take one step into the field, fireworks of gold and scarlet light up the sky, the Gryffindor teams’ cries of victory shake the ground; you hear Fabian screaming into the megaphone. Your fingers go numb. “Don’t let another day go by without expressing your heart,” says Pandora into your ear, almost a gust of wind if you hadn’t been paying attention. “Go to them. They are waiting for you.”

“But what if they aren’t?” You watch as the sun descends on the Gryffindor team lifting James in the air, Golden Snitch in his gloved hand. Sirius catches Lily by the waist, twirling her up high; her smile more dazzling than any other gem you’ve seen. As James is set back down on the ground, he snatches Remus unaware and bends him down for a fervent kiss.

“Dora, what if I’m the only one who feels this way? I can’t do that to them. What are the chances that I’ll ruin everything? That would hurt more than anything.”

Pandora cups your cheeks and lays her forehead on yours. “You won’t ever know unless you go out there.”

With that, she pushes you into the Quidditch pitch. 

You swallow the lump in your throat, ears ringing from the crowd chanting James’s name, and your heart pounding in fear. 

“J-James. . .” You call out weakly as he drowns in the sea of students.

Perhaps it’s a sign.

This really wasn’t a good idea.

Love is a fool’s game.

Don’t you get it? They don’t need you in the picture at all.

“N-No!” You shout, chest heaving. If everything happens for a reason, maybe you were meant to meet in that train compartment all those years ago. You’ve lost three years with them already.

If you don’t go to them right now, you could lose a lifetime. 

If bravery is for the reckless and arrogant, you’re prepared to be the most depraved witch in the castle just to stay by their side. 

“James—!”

“Go, go, Gryffindor!”

You bite your lip in frustration—but you can’t just give up. Not now. 

Once more.

“JAMES FLEAMONT POTTER!”

Please.

Time stops as you stand at the edge of the field; James whips his head around and finds you instantly. The glow of having just won a match doesn’t even compare when his eyes land on you. He pushes past his team members and some of the Gryffindor students, his gaze unwavering, some of them call out his name but he doesn’t bother looking back. Before you even know it, he stands in front of you, breathing heavily—but not from the rush of the game.

“You’re here,” He says, eyes disappearing into his smile. “But you hate Quidditch.”

“I do.” You grin wearily. “But I love you more.”

Without even giving James the chance to speak, you ramble on, hurricanes whirling in your stomach, “You’re a bloody brilliant wizard, James Potter. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you that before. I see you. I see all of you. How could I not? I love you. I think I’ve loved all of you before I knew it was even love. It’s alright if you don’t feel the same w—” 

James grabs the back of your legs and hoists you up, tendrils of hair falling over his glasses as he beams at you. The sun can’t even dream of competing with him. 

“Put me down, James, I am going to hurl—!”

He spins you one more time for good measure before placing you on the ground. James barely gives you a second to gather your bearings as he seizes your lips with his own, hand cradling the back of your neck. 

“You’re here,” He says, unable to believe his very eyes, gently chasing after your lips, breaths mingling until you don’t remember where either begins or ends. “Don’t leave. Please.”

“I won’t. I won’t.” You promise breathlessly as James pecks the tip of your nose, the arch of your eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Beautiful.” He kisses you until you’re gasping for air. “And all ours.” 

There’s not a moment where you don’t feel loved, not even when he lets you go, and it’s Lily who encompasses you in her arms, bright hair filling your vision; you willingly burn in the warmth of her body. The mellow scent of pomegranates and red roses fill your nose. You see a never-ending horizon of kindness in her emerald eyes. (How could you have stayed away for so long?) It’s like finding a missing piece of your soul that you never knew that was lost. 

Lily laughs—it sounds like an orchestral symphony. Her gaze cascades to your lips, the prettiest of smiles on her face; she cradles the curve of your jaw with utmost sincerity, a few drops of tears shimmering against her freckled skin. “May I?”

“Please.” You feel her breath tickling your lips, deftly pulling you in for a kiss until all you can feel is her. She consumes every inch of you, and you are happy to surrender, heart and soul. 

“You must be the thickest Ravenclaw I’ve ever met,” says Lily, giggling as she kisses you once, twice—thrice. 

“And that means?” You scoff lightheartedly. 

She steals another kiss from you. “That means: I hope you know that we have loved you ever since, you daft witch. That I’ve loved you all this time. And now that you’re ours, we are going to make sure you remember that. Every single day for the rest of our lives.” 

You smile, holding onto her hand, dizzy with a hundred emotions. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

(Your Divination project is a point lower than Lily, Peter and James’s, but you find that it’s the luckiest fortune you’ve ever had.) 

EPILOGUE:

“I LOVE QUIDDITCH!” 

You are twenty-two years old, nose bitten from the chilly air, lounging in the best seating area the Quidditch World Cup has to offer; an unobstructed view of the players. The match is between the Brazilian and Japanese National Quidditch teams. Much to Sirius and James’s chagrin, your cheek is painted in yellow and green stripes, the vibrant flag around your shoulders. 

You scream along with the crowd, nearly spilling your Butterbeer popcorn, as the Brazilian players enter the vast stadium. You ardently shake Lily’s shoulders. “That’s him! That’s him! Lily, it’s Brazil’s youngest ever Seeker! Vinícius Silva! I watched a replay of his matches and he’s got a seventy-eight percent win rate!”

“Watch out, love, you’ll fall off the edge if you aren’t careful,” Lily says worriedly.

“His fastest record for catching the Golden Snitch is ten minutes and thirty seconds! He’s won Most Outstanding Player in the Junior Division twice! I’ve got a good feeling about this team—I knew those auguries were a lucky sign.” 

“The only Seeker you should be obsessing over is me.” You hear James grumbling behind your back, stealing a kiss from Lily’s lips before pressing his mouth to your cheek. “And you bloody well know that Japan’s Chaser, Kurosawa, is going to steal the limelight in this match. An average possession time of thirty seconds per play. A beast, that one.” 

You wave him off, more confident in your statistics. “Did you place my bets? I’m telling you, we’re going to be rich.” 

“Yes, darling,” He says, utterly loving his role as the dutiful husband. 

Moments later, Sirius appears at his side, fussing over your scarf, and kissing you just because. “Can we take off your bloody hat now? I think you just blinded Malfoy and his little blonde gremlin.” 

“Isn’t that a good thing?” You simper fiendishly before smacking his arm. “And don’t call your nephew that.” 

Sirius grins.

You pull at one of his curls. “Besides, if you’re good you can take off everything later tonight.”

He pulls you in for a deep kiss, hand at your waist, nose brushing each other’s. “And that is why I love you, dear wife.” 

You pout, albeit seeing right through his white, little jape. “Truly?” 

Sirius lands another kiss to your forehead. “Are you doubting me, loveliest love of my life? The lighthouse in my ocean storms. The apple of my eye. Fire in my loins—”

You slap a hand over his mouth. “I get it, thank you, my love.” 

Sirius beams from ear to ear. “Glad to have eased your doubts, darling.”

Thirty minutes into the match, Remus arrives, dressed in a muted gray suit, light brown hair flopping over his eyes. He greets everyone with a tired kiss. 

You immediately wrap him in a hug, nuzzling your nose into his neck. He had a particularly difficult full moon some nights ago. You press a tender kiss to the scar right below his jaw. “How was work? Did you bring my binder? It has my lesson plan for next week, I don’t want to return to the castle unprepared, and—”

The newest Defense Against the Dark Arts professor squeezes your waist. “Work was fine, pet. And no, I didn’t bring the papers because right now we are not working. We are going to watch Brazil win the bloody match and get right home to Harry after.” 

You, the newest Divination teacher of Hogwarts, tug him by his necktie, smiling coyly. “Sounds like a wonderful plan to me.” 

BONUS: 

“REMUS!”

The empty classroom is filled with soft, fervid moans—two professors especially drunk on the taste of each other’s lips. You’re seated on the desk, Remus wedged between your thighs, his hand inching dangerously higher and higher; the other hand slipping under your shirt and thumbing the bare skin underneath. He captures your whispers and mewls with his lips. Jackets and ties are tossed carelessly to the side. 

“So fucking beautiful.” He nips at your lower lip. 

“Rem. . .” You whimper, tugging at the strands of his hair. “Remus—please!” 

The door to the DADA classroom slams open and you two detangle from each other’s embrace in record speed. As you pat down your hair, Remus draping his blazer over your shoulders, you watch Lily and Harry stalk over to you in lengthy strides, reaching the both of you within seconds. You clear your throat, awkwardly averting your gaze from your son’s precious eyes; Lily, a moment away from throwing her head back in laughter. 

Harry, fourteen, and not at all ignorant to what couples do in the castle alcoves, sees the ruffled hair, the lipstick over his father’s cheeks and neck, and his parent’s misbuttoned blouse. 

He grimaces. “You two are disgusting, you know that right?” 

You guffaw, pinching his cheek. “Now, is that any way to greet the person who’s changed your diapers since you were a baby?” 

Lily cackles from Remus’s side, fixing the collar of his shirt. “Harry’s got a bit of a problem. Go on, tell them, my love.” 

Harry immediately throws his hands in the air, groaning frustratedly. “It’s Ron! He thinks I put my name in the bloody Goblet—!” 

“Which, I will still be having a word with Dumbledore about,” You say decisively. You’re not about to endanger your son. The Minister of Magic and the Headmaster be damned. They can also take it up with your husband, James, Head Auror of the Magical Law Enforcement department. 

“And now Ron’s not talking to me, Hermione’s not talking to me because I’m not talking to Ron—Colin’s following me around everywhere I go! I’m going mad, mum!” Harry slumps on one of the empty chairs, huffing. “Stupid bloody tournament.” 

You chuckle as you walk over to him, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu. “Take it from me.” You press a warm kiss to his forehead. “Talk to them, otherwise you’ll lose time that was meant to be spent together. It doesn’t matter who was wrong or who was right. It’s important that you have the courage to reach out. They’re your friends. They will understand your heart soon enough.” 

Harry blinks. “Thanks.” 

He exits the classroom in a daze, heavily pondering on your words. 

The door clicks shut, and Lily wordlessly locks the entrance. She turns to you and Remus, a sultry grin on her ruby red lips. “What are the chances we Floo home, and invite Sirius and James to join us?” 

You take her outstretched hand. “A hundred and twelve.”

a/n. i wasn't satisfied with the angst here.. so expect a hufflepuff!reader and enemies to lovers next time (i promise to do better in the next fic aaakfsh) tell me what u thought of this one EUEUEU HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS FIC!! heart heart

[slytherinslut0]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 4th — virginity loss / corruption kink.

PART ONE | kinktober masterlist. | 2024.

pairing: mattheo riddle x berkshires!sister

summary: mattheo’s conscience can only hold him back for so long.

warnings: 18+, hogwarts uni (putting this even tho it’s obvious), jealous mattheo, flirting, tension tension tension, “we can’t do this” type of vibe, “your brother is right over there” type of vibe. bestfriends lil sister trope. part one of two.

Morality—what is it, really? How is it measured? Is it a linear scale? Could someone be morally sound yet sometimes make an exception when the situation called for it?

Perhaps it's subjective. Anything that falls outside of the law, that is.

Mattheo forced a breath from his lungs, the drink in his hand was tasteless, some watered-down excuse for a cocktail. But that didn't matter, not really—what mattered was the way you kept laughing, the way your hand lingered a second too long on that random bastard's sleeve. The sight made something concerning coil tight in his chest, but he stayed where he was, back against the wall, sucking down drinks like he'd been tasked to it.

God, this was stupid. Morality. Right and wrong. He knew the difference, of course he did. Just because he was a Riddle didn't make him a monster. Not yet, anyway. But that line, the one between you and him—the one drawn so clearly in the sand—was practically mocking him with its absolutes and daring him to cross it. Forbidden, off-limits, the one thing he shouldn't want.

His best friend's little sister. The good girl. A virgin, no less.

"Riddle—you coming?"

Mattheo's head jerked slightly, but his mind was miles away.

He waved a hand. "I'll catch up in a bit.”

Malfoy and Zabini nodded, slipping into the night, leaving him behind in the dim, crowded ballroom. Spring dance. Hours past dusk. He didn't even know why he was still there. Normally, he was long gone before the clock struck twelve, but tonight the room pulsed with bodies and the music hummed under his skin. His drink was half-forgotten in his hand, and his gaze was fixed on a group across the room.

Or, more specifically, on you.

You were standing, black dress to your mid-thighs, half-listening to boys from your year drone on about quidditch tryouts and the usual chatter that filled the space between your breaths. But your eyes—your eyes weren't on them. You were looking at him. A soft smirk tugging at the corners of your lips, like you knew something he didn't.

His heart kicked against his ribs. Where was that line again?

You winked, and he sipped his drink. He'd always said bad decisions made good stories—but even if this (unnameable thing between you) was a story worth telling, the people to hear it would be few.

The tension grew suffocating and he finally looked away. You took that as a win, but you weren't about to let the game end there—not after you noted the tense of his fingers around his cup. You excused yourself from the group, your body moving through the crowd like water, fluid and unhurried, weaving your way toward him.

You knew the line well, the one Mattheo pretended so hard to respect. Restraint wasn't his nature—it never had been, not in the decade you'd watched him take whatever he wanted without a second thought. He wasn't made for holding back, and it showed every now and then—every time his lips crashed against yours in some hidden corner, whispering confessions of how badly he wanted more, how he ached for what he couldn't have.

You loved pushing him to that point. You loved knowing how bad he wanted you. Your brother would lose his mind if he found out. But that didn't matter, not even a little. Not when Mattheo looked at you like that.

"Having fun?" He asked upon your approach, his voice a shade too flat.

"A little." You leaned against the wall beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your skin, your presence seeping into the space between you. "What about you? You seem a bit...tense."

"Tense." The word came out bland, barely audible, and he took a slow sip of his drink, like he needed it just to find his voice. "Why would I be tense?"

You wet your lips, slow, deliberate, studying him with that sidelong glance that made his pulse skip. His jaw tightened, and his eyes—those beautiful, dangerous brown eyes—scanned the room with something too close to desperation.

"Good question." You tilted your head, gaze playful, curious, like you were dissecting him right there in the half-light. "Maybe it's because you've been watching me like a hawk. Like you're waiting for me to do something...wrong."

"Maybe I'm just looking out for you," he muttered, his gaze sliding to your brother across the room, lips locked with some brunette. Mattheo's eyes flickered back to you, just for a moment. "Your brother's a little...busy, after all."

You raised an eyebrow, the corner of your mouth curving into an amused, almost wicked smile. "Ah, so that's it. You're just being my big, overprotective babysitter."

"I don't need to babysit you," he grumbled, though his gaze betrayed him, darting over to the group of boys you'd been talking to. "Just keeping an eye on the company you keep."

It was almost amusing—the way Mattheo stood there, sizing up your guy friends like they were targets in a lineup, probably mentally noting who he'd hit first if any of them dared to step out of line. He was different tonight—and you could have brushed it off, could have let that flicker of vulnerability slide, but that wasn't how this game was played. Not with him. Not with you. There was no room for naivety here.

You turned to face him now, full-on, shoulder resting against the wall as you raised a hand, fingers brushing lightly up his arm.

"Keeping an eye," you repeated as you traced the hard line of his shoulder, then down, lower, over his chest. "Ever my hero, Mattheo Riddle."

When your fingers grazed his abdomen, his breath caught and he grabbed your wrist—hard—the suddenness of it making you gasp. Then, he turned to face you, and his gaze finally met yours—really met yours—for the first time since you'd crossed the room.

"Don't." His voice was low, strained, like he was fighting himself as much as you.

Your eyes widened in mock surprise, that innocent look you'd perfected like a sport. You wore it like a halo you knew you didn't deserve.

"Don't...what?" You damn-well knew what.

His grip tightened, just enough for you to feel the heat of it, pulling you closer, so close you could feel the tension radiating off him. He wet his lips, and you melted—remembering how it felt to kiss them.

"Don't play games with me." He said. "Not tonight."

The warning was clear, but instead of pulling away—heeding his words and letting that heat simmer down—you leaned closer, defying every unspoken rule. The thrill shot up your spine, into your brain, turning everything hazy, electric. You were drunk on it.

"Why not?" Your free hand traced up his other arm and his gaze followed the movement, lips parting ever so slightly. "...afraid you'll lose?"

Before you knew what was happening, he had you spun around—so fast you barely registered the movement before your back hit the cold stone wall. His drink found the table beside him, his focus entirely on you.

"Don't to this to me. Not here," he whispered. "Your brother is right over there."

You glanced toward Enzo, still too preoccupied with the brunette to notice a thing.

"He's a little distracted, don't you think?" Your fingers on your free hand resumed their path, this time up toward his collarbone. But his other hand found them, too. You looked down. Two large hands, wrapped tight around your wrists, like he could stop the fire running through your veins if he just held on hard enough. Your thighs shook. "Gods, you really are tense tonight, aren't you?"

Mattheo's eyes narrowed, two embers gleaming in the night— his lips twitching in a way that made your pulse stutter. There was need in him now, a raw, visceral energy that vibrated between you. Untethered.

He leaned in, closer, his breath brushing against your skin. "You're impossible."

"Impossible..." you echoed, the space between you shrinking with every second. There was no choice in it. It was magnetic, inevitable. He leaned closer, and you—against all reason—matched him, drawn by a force you couldn't name. "Impossible to...resist, Matty?"

Your lips were so close, you could almost taste the flavours lingering on his breath. The heat of him drew you in like gravity, pulling you into that dangerous space where everything blurred—boundaries, rules, reason. His eyes flickered down to your mouth, his tongue darting out to wet his lips in a way that felt instinctive—

And then, the world snapped back.

Cheering—loud, raucous—followed by the sharp crack of glass splintering against the floor. It cut through the moment, pulling you both back to reality. Mattheo's gaze jerked toward the sound, and in an instant he took a step back, his hands releasing your wrists like you'd burned him—like you were the danger here, a fire he'd gotten too close to.

"We can't," he whispered, and it sliced through you. It hit harder than the crash of glass, harder than the noise around you. "You don't want this. I promise you don't."

You stared at him. You knew what he meant, what he was trying to say, the warning etched in every tense line of his body. The two of you had been over this before. You knew Mattheo Riddle was not the man who would love you, not the man who would stay, who you'd call your forever. You weren't that naive. You weren't looking for forever—you just wanted a beginning. A first. A first that would teach you the edge of desire, with someone who knew what to do.

Someone experienced.

"I do," you whispered, barely holding steady under the weight of it all—the realization that you'd almost kissed him, right here, where anyone could've seen, where your brother wasn't far. "More than anything, I do."

His jaw clenched, that flicker in his eyes darkening. He ran a hand through his hair, curls falling messily back into place, his face twisted in thought, already calculating the fallout, already seeing the inevitable consequences.

"Your brother will kill me," he muttered. "He'll kill you."

"He’s not my dad, Mattheo. I’m an adult. He doesn't have to know." The words came out firm, too firm for how fast your heart was beating. You didn't dare move closer, but the tension between you was still electric, still alive. "No one except us."

For a heartbeat, his eyes locked onto yours, and you felt it—that gravity pulling you both back to the brink. It was visible—the weight of his indecision, the way he was measuring the risk, the pull of you against the walls he was trying to keep intact. It'd been months of this. You were relentless. His scowl deepened, but he didn't pull away. He let the silence stretch, your words simmering between you like a match lit, waiting to catch fire.

And then, a nod.

Barely there, just a sharp dip of his head, almost as if he didn't want to acknowledge it himself. You couldn't tell if it was for you, or some silent permission he was giving himself, a final surrender to the pull that neither of you could fight.

"Room of Requirement," he said, vibrating with the tension that still hummed in the air. "Ten minutes."

Your stomach leapt into your throat, every bone in your body suddenly weak. After a moment that felt as though it went on forever, you nodded, and he took another step back.

"Ten minutes." You repeated.

"Ten minutes." He confirmed, before turning and heading out of the ballroom.

[ellecdc]

Hi!! Ok this is my first time doing an actual request so…I hope I do this right 😭.

Poly!marauders x transfer student reader: Reader comes from the US, where quodpot is the more popular wizarding sport (like quidditch is rugby and quodpot is football). Reader has always LOVED quidditch and is excited Hogwarts actually has a team. Maybe reader trying out for the team? Seeker would be cool bc the reader would be able to practice that by themself. Reader going to the pitch early every morning to practice leading up to tryouts, Sirius and James watching from the stands bc that’s normally THEIR time to practice. Remus sitting with a hot tea and bundled up…UGH I LOVE!

this was such a cute idea! this is actually the second fic I've ever written that involved 0 dialogue and I only realized that about either fic once I finished this one, so hopefully it's good! thanks for your request, love, I hope I did it justice!

poly!marauders x transfer student!reader who is obsessed with quidditch [900 words]

CW: .... I don't think any?? read is Gryffindor, written for a fem!reader (term that's used is witch) but could be read as gender neutral as they/them/their are used

If someone were to ask Remus why he could suddenly be spotted haunting the castle grounds before the sun rose most mornings now-a-days, he would quickly blame it on his sodding no good energetic and horribly devious boyfriends (who he loved very much). 

But the real answer was a far more selfish one.

You see, Remus (and Sirius and James) had developed a rather peculiar crush on a rather peculiar witch in their final year of Hogwarts. 

The rumour had been that a new student transferring from Ilvermory was going to be attending Hogwarts for their seventh year, and with Hogwarts (and the wizarding community in general) being as small as it was, it had created quite the buzz. 

The rumours were proven true when a witch far older than the many first years lined up for their turn at the sorting ceremony took their place below the hat only for it to shout GRYFFINDOR before their robes were decorated in red and gold.

You seemed utterly enchanted by it all; by the floating candles, by the stone walls, and by the feast itself. 

Watching you skip throughout the castle in the weeks following the Welcome Feast was nothing short of inspiring; it was as if watching a muggleborn first year see the castle and all of its secrets for the first time again. 

You seemed to be very skilled at finding the magic in, well, magic. 

Remus wondered then when magic stopped feeling so magical to the rest of the seventh year class; even children who were raised by magical parents were nothing short of ecstatic to begin honing their own skills at Hogwarts.

When did that stop feeling so exciting? When did throwing up silencing charms and summoning objects towards yourself become second nature instead of an exciting and exceptional learned skill? When did transfiguring buttons into butterflies become an arduous lesson instead of a wondrous adventure?

And that's not to say that you hadn’t seen or experienced magic before; on the contrary, you were a very talented witch. But you seemed to be awestruck by every single thing that you set your eyes on.

The fact that you were living in a castle had been particularly exciting for you, from what Remus had overheard, as was the game of quidditch. 

The popular and more commonly played sport in the magical United States was that of quodpot, and what little Remus actually understood about quidditch, he understood even less of quodpot, which is to say that he understood absolutely none of it. But even Remus had to admit there was something mesmerising about watching the way your tongue stuck out a little bit through your teeth as you drew out different drills and formations in your dedicated quidditch journal.

Though the quidditch season hadn’t started yet, every time there was a pickup game or a one-on-one, or even a few players feeling the familiar itch of flying through the air at record speeds and dodging other players and flying balls, one could be certain that you would be standing in the bleachers - often even hanging over the edge of the railing (in a way that made Remus very nervous, thank you very much) - with a wide smile on your face as you took it all in. 

And if Remus was really lucky, he’d even get a chance to watch as you balanced on the balls of your feet as if your body was just itching to join in on the fun. 

And if Sirius and James both took the piss for Remus finally enjoying ‘quidditch’ enough to put his sodding book down every once in a while, well, that was neither here nor there. 

So, the second that madame Hooch announced that tryouts for house teams would be starting in a few short weeks; you were hardly ever spotted around the common room anymore. 

Any time there was a free moment, one could bet you’d be down at the pitch - or even elsewhere on the grounds - with a broom underneath you and your eyes peeled for the wiley little snitch. And anytime you were found at the pitch? Well, one could bet James and Sirius would be too.

….

… As was Remus. 

James was all too happy to finally have (enthusiastic and consensual) company in the mornings to comment on the fact that it had been nothing short of painstaking torture to extricate Sirius from his bed for quidditch practices before you had transferred to Hogwarts, or to comment on the fact that it had been nothing short of painstaking torture to extricate Remus from his bed on any given day before you had transferred to Hogwarts.

Because it appeared that they were all in agreement that, even if it had to be at six in the bloody morning, watching you experience the unbridled joy that Hogwarts and quidditch and magic could give you was the best place to be.

Sirius leaned casually against the railing flashing you the odd wink or holler of encouragement when you happened to look over at your admirers in the stands whilst James shouted pointers and cheered you on, basically hanging over the railing in much the same way you would when the roles were reversed.

And Remus?

Well, Remus usually had about three layers on, a hot cup of tea, and a book that laid untouched as he got to enjoy the view.

[illbegottenfaith]

handwritten - theo nott x reader

yours and theo’s story as told through notes passed in class

Part 1 | Part 2

a/n - came up with this quick idea to release some pent up creative energy while mulling over lucky pt 3. will prob make this an ongoing series for small ideas I can’t get fully fledged fics out of. easy to write, easy to read, enjoy!

tropes/warnings - fluff, a minor hinting at angst, newstudent!theo, estranged friends to lovers

word count - 1.5k

Monday, 10.07 am, Charms

Hey. You might want to pull your nose out of that disgusting textbook for once.

We’ve been over this. Just because you don’t understand something it doesn’t mean it’s disgusting. It’s very disrespectful.

What is disrespectful is you not paying attention to our year’s hottest new commodity - emphasis on the hot. I must say, he fills out that uniform quite nicely.

I’m sure he does.

C’mon, you’re not even a little bit curious? Just a peek?

Y/N? Hellooooooo? 

Oh my god. I know the guy.

???

What is he doing here? Last I heard he was being homeschooled.

Know him how??

We went to the same primary school. We were…friends.

Riiiight.

Don’t get any ideas. I haven’t seen him since I was ten. And he looked very, very different back then. Had a ratty sort of face. I can still kind of see it, actually.

Oh, Y/N, how could you say such awful things about his beautiful face! Oh dear, that bone structure…

Quiet, you. He’s really…grown. He’s so much taller now.

You know what you should do? You should offer to help him catch up.

On five years of school?

Oh, please, he was homeschooled. He had to have learnt some things. Who is he, anyway?

Theodore Nott.

Now that’s an Old Money name if I ever heard one.

Ivy. Be nice.

So? Is he? Old money, that is.

I…suppose so.

Are you sure you two were friends?

Yes. It’s been a while, that’s all. I just…wow. I can’t believe he’s here. Like, right there. I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again.

What happened?

He moved. I was starting at Hogwarts. We lost touch, it happens.

But now he’s back! Yay! Did you see those sinfully blue eyes of his?

Ivy, you have a boyfriend.

I know. Ivan agrees, by the way.

That he’s hot?

Yes.

He’s sitting on the other side of the room. When did you have time to discuss this??

Just now. Right in front of you. What did you think all that eyebrow-waggling was about?

I thought you were having a stroke. Merlin, the two of you are perfect for each other.

Don’t change the subject. He’s not gay, is he? Your friend? All the hot ones usually are.

I wouldn’t know, now, would I? I haven’t heard anything about him in years. Ivy, leave him alone. Please don’t harass the poor guy, sexually or otherwise. And quit it with the notes. He’ll notice.

How??? Has he got eyes on the back of his very nicely shaped head? He’s busy with Flitwick anyway.

Trust me, he’ll see. Nothing gets past Theodore Nott.

Monday, 2.15 pm, Potions

Well?????

Well, what?

The chat!!! Your chat!!!!!! With Mr. Theodore Nott!!!!!!!!

You have to quit it with the caffeine. You’re far too excitable after lunch.

The chat!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It was fine. It was…nice.

Uh-huh.

He goes by Theo now.

Okay. I’ll pretend I care about that.

It was all very casual, very superficial. It was really just us exchanging pleasantries. Oh, right. He asked me to accompany him to Quidditch tryouts.

You??? But you hate Quidditch.

I know.

Please tell me you didn’t say that.

I didn't. I just said I didn’t know much about it.

And?

He said that didn’t matter. He just wanted me there for moral support.

Then what was with all the turning red halfway through? You looked like you were going to combust.

Was it that obvious?

Ivan had some pumpkin juice ready, just in case.

It was nothing. I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all. He called me his good luck charm.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You’re going to rip a hole through the parchment.

AWWWWW

So?? Did you say yes??

I said I’d think about it.

BOOOOOOOO

Come on, Vee. He’s been flying since before he could walk. He always talked about joining the big leagues, you know. He knows everything there is to know about Quidditch, so of course he’ll make the team. And it’ll have nothing to do with me.

But he doesn’t even have any friends yet :(

That’s because he hasn’t talked to anyone yet.

Y’know, Romilda Vane wanted to know why he was talking to you of all people.

What’s that supposed to mean??

Eh, you know. You can be a little…snippy.

I am NOT snippy.

There it is. The snippiness.

Whatever. It’s all so pointless. Come Thursday evening, he’ll have joined the Quidditch team and he’ll be hanging out with, y’know, those people, and we’ll be ancient history. He’ll make plenty of friends. He just doesn’t know it yet.

Okay. If you say so. Also, at lunch, I finally tried that thing you’re always talking about, “applying myself,” and I found this article on his dad in the library. From 6 years ago.

Don’t you want to know what the article said?

You could have mentioned he was a death eater, you know.

I don’t care about that, by the way. You used to be friends and that’s good enough for me. But, Y/N, he was arrested six years ago. And you haven’t talked to Theo in six years. But there isn’t any kind of connection between those, is there?

Y/N?

Do not make me throw this at you. I know how you feel about paper cuts.

Tuesday, 3.03 pm, Defence Against the Dark Arts

Where’s your friend?

?

You know. Who you’re always passing notes with in class?

You noticed?

Hard not to. It makes you all fidgety and annoyed.

Yeah, well, Ivy’s an annoying person.

I’ll take your word for it. What do you have after this?

Transfiguration.

Wow. That’s one of the harder ones, isn’t it?

Er, depends on who you ask, I think.

Still brilliant as ever, then.

Shut up. I’m not half the swot I was in primary school. 

I never thought you were a swot. You were just…enthusiastic.

That’s sweet of you to say, Theo.

Huh. I thought I’d always be Teddy to you.

We’re not ten anymore, Theo. I can say your name perfectly now.

That’s good. So, have you thought about it?

Thought about what?

The Quidditch tryouts. You’re the only person I know here so you have to say yes.

I don’t know. Some of the girls look pretty interested in getting to know you.

What?

Nothing. I guess I could swing by for a short while.

That’s my girl.

Thursday, 8.37 pm, Common Room

SO?????

He got in. Obviously. Was there ever any doubt?

Did he run up to you? Did he hug you? Did he pick you up and spin you around???

Witch Weekly is a bad influence on you.

Details, please.

He hugged me. Kind of. Nearly tackled me, he was so excited.

you are SO his good luck charm!!!!!!

Friday, 11.17 am, Defence Against the Dark Arts

Witch Weekly?

It’s not mine. I’m holding it for a friend.

Right.

Really, I am. Ivy’s a fiend for these but she has this Charms test coming up that she absolutely cannot fail.

I believe you. ‘Top 6 Magical Contraceptives for the Modern Witch’ doesn’t sound like your kind of reading material.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I was only having a little fun.

I’m not embarrassed. Are you embarrassed?

Erm, no, but you’re very red. Do you need to see the Healer?

I’m fine. It’s just hot. And no one calls Madam Pomfrey ‘the Healer,’ by the way.

Ah. I see.

Is there a point to all this? Did you need to ask something?

Oh, right. What are you up to on Saturday night?

Saturday? Dunno…wanted to take a crack at that Transfiguration essay.

Excellent. I’ll pick you up at 8.

Oh?

It’s nothing. A couple of the guys on the team wanted to celebrate with drinks at Hogsmeade. Everyone’s bringing someone, and I thought it would be nice if you came. Being my good luck charm, and all.

Oh, Theo, you probably don’t know this since you’re new and all, but going down to Hogsmeade is only permissible on certain weekends. And only start a couple of weeks into the term, so not yet.

Did you just -? Oh my god, you did. You laughed at me. You laughed at my note. Out loud. You’re lucky you’re in Slytherin, you know. Snape usually goes absolutely ballistic if anyone interrupts his lesson.

I’m sorry, I forgot what a stickler you were. I just - I didn’t think I’d miss it.

Please, Theo, forget the drinks. I cannot in good conscience stand by and let you break so many rules. You’ve been here less than a week!

Guess you’ll have to keep an eye on me. Make sure I stay out of trouble.

Exactly.

Great. See you Saturday at 8.

Part 2

[pretty-little-mind33]

chaser!James Potter x chaser!fem!reader

Summary: James is threatened by how good you are at Quidditch which means he hates you. And what emotion is closer to hate than love?

Genre: Angsty Fluff, 'rivals' to lovers <3

Warnings: James is seriously a dick in the beginning, teasing, slight bullying, swearing, fighting, social class differences, reader is an only child, didn't really understand how Quidditch Captains are appointed but bare with me <3

~ finally finished this! loved this ask anon! thank you, my lovely! ~

JAMES POTTER MASTERLIST

James Potter is sprawled across the large, maroon, couch in the center of the Gryffindor Common room, his arms draped over the cushions as his legs lay across Sirius Black's lap.

Sirius, who would probably mind more if he wasn't as drunk as his best friend. 

"I mean, fuck me, she wasn't even that good and McGonagall saw her and still looked at her like she'd just hung the moon in the sky!" James exclaims, his ears burning as he recalls Quidditch tryouts that morning. 

He's pissed. 

"You're just annoyed that she just started and now has a chance at Captain because Mini liked her so much," Sirius points out, which earns him a harsh swat on the top of his head.

James's face sours and he restrains himself from whining like a petulant child. Sirius was right, he was mad because you gave him a run for his money and no one has done that until now. 

This was supposed to be his year. McGonagall loved him (mostly)! The Captain position was basically promised to him since his second year and now you've come around and ruined this for him! 

"She's seriously not even that good, it's infuriating," James lies and looks around the small gathering they're having. He knows everyone can hear him but he doesn't care. "And she's so fucking annoying," he sounds bitter, "she's always talking everyone's ears off— and have you seen her stupid hair? She wore those fucking space buns just to make herself look cute, I swear!" He lifts himself off the couch for a moment, his arms raising in exasperation, and then lets out a sigh. 

"That is usually the reason girls do their hair, James, yes," Remus interrupts from the floor where he's reading his book, his back leaning against the couch. 

"Shut up," James grumbles and slumps back down. "I don't want her on the team. She's a nuisance already." 

"Speaking of," Peter adds, his voice smaller as he glances towards the stairs to the girls' dorms. James whips his head around and his eyes narrow. You're walking towards the small gathering with some friends. 

You're dressed in a Quidditch sweater that is only slightly oversized as the sleeves cover your hands. You're blissfully unaware of how much James Potter hates you so when you see him staring, you assume he wants to talk to you. You liked his company during tryouts. He was funny.

You'd always found him funny. 

So, you walk over with a smile and James struggles to sit up. He's very obviously sloshed. 

"Hello, Potter," you say and your smile widens. "This is Jane and that's Gabrielle," you introduce your friends. "I enjoyed try-outs, you were amazing. If I'm honest, I've always admired you during games. You're so talented," you feel yourself rambling but you're smiling too much to stop yourself, "I'm so happy we're gonna be on the same team now! I think we should–" 

James cuts you off, a mean smirk on his lips as he looks at his friends and the students around you, "What did I say? A little chatterbox this one is," he quips, not completely unaware of how harsh his words are even in his drunken state. 

Your hands fall at your sides, and the wind feels like it's been knocked from your lungs at his words when you realize he's making fun of you. You look at your friends and they stare at James with pronounced frowns.

"Oh," you whisper, but then you add, "That's not very nice, Potter." 

A little surprised you'd had the guts to stand up to him, James retorts instantly. "Yeah? Is it now, Y/l/n?" He sounds mocking again and you don't understand why. 

Your friends pull on your sleeve. "C'mon, Y/n, he's a prick," they turn you around, feeling how hurt you are as they walk away from James and his friends. 

"Classy, James, real classy," Remus mutters under his breath. 

And as awful as sober James might admit it is, he feels like he'd won something against you. 

* * *

You can't understand why James seems to hate you as much as he does. 

You've never been mean to him or done anything to harm him— on the contrary, you've only ever spoken highly of him and you know you've made a point of showing him that you trust him as a player when you're practicing. You want him to trust you too. 

And still, James hates you and he makes that very clear. 

He turns anything into a competition when it comes to you and it's obvious he takes pleasure in making you feel like shit.

As the days turn into weeks, you feel hopeless and even now you find yourself sitting alone on the grass during breaks, adjusting your uniform so you look busy as you hold in your tears. 

You can hear James's cruel whispers about you to your teammates, purposefully creating rifts between you and them so you'll feel even more alone.

"She's so desperate," James's mockery causes another ache in your stomach and you chew on your lip so hard you're afraid you'll draw blood. You try not to listen to him as the whistle blows and the practice game starts again. 

You're not on James's team this time–which means he either ignores you completely or targets you over anyone. As he hovers near you, you realize this morning it's the latter. 

Maria Baker throws you the Quaffle and just as she does, you can sense James coming. You avoid his shoulder just in time and, with a huff, you score into the nearest hoop.

This just infuriates James even more and ups his game—which means the next time you have the Quaffle, he flies up to your shoulder again and pushes you hard to the side. He jabs his elbow into your ribs, purposefully playing dirty. 

You wince. "O-ow, James, that hurts," you hiss, focusing on staying in the air as James rough-houses with you.

Your anger builds now and you shove him back, almost slipping from your broom as you try and defend yourself.

The Quaffle falls from your arms as James hits your shoulder with his again and you gasp. You expect him to rush to the ball and continue the game but he's furious from you shoving him so he grabs one of your braids and pulls. 

You feel yourself fall from your broom as you cry in pain and you turn your body, clutching the end of James's uniform and, with a grunt from him, you're suddenly both plummeting to the ground. 

You roll onto your stomach, falling onto James's chest as his arms automatically wrap around your back and he groans, looking up at you as you practically straddle his lap. Your head is throbbing from where he'd pulled your hair, your left braid messier than your right, and pure fury flashes in your eyes. 

You lean over James, grabbing a handful of his curls and you pull. "What the bloody hell is your problem? How do you like it, hm?! You insufferable jerk!" 

James doesn't take too kindly to this and he grabs your wrists, flipping you over so you're the one under him. His mum had told him never to hit a girl but oh does he want to hit you right now. You're staring up at him with that look he hates—the one that makes him feel all fluttery in his stomach.

You're struggling against his grip, grass in your hair. James's cheeks must be just as covered in dirt as yours are and his shoulder aches from the way he'd fallen. 

"Potter! Y/l/n!" The whistle blows and the current Captain, Ines Clarke, runs up with McGonagall behind her. She'd seen the commotion from inside and seemed more than furious as she rushed over.

Some of your teammates follow, including Sirius Black who grips James's collar and pulls him off you. You hear Sirius hiss, "Prongs!! What in Godric's name is wrong with you?!" and then McGonagall pulls your attention to her. 

Ines helps you up, looking concerned but then turns her attention to James. McGonagall walks over and when she sees the mess James has made of you, she frowns. "Are you alright, Miss Y/l/n?"

You nod, your lips pressed tightly as you see a bunch of your teammates have gathered around James as he rolls his shoulder. You look at your broom, which lies broken on the grass, and your eyes water. McGonagall senses your distress and she glances at James. 

"James Potter!" She suddenly snaps her dainty fingers and James is next to her in seconds, both hands gripping his only slightly damaged broom. 

It had been better quality than yours anyway. 

His nervous eyes dart from McGonagall to you as he takes you in. You stare at him, unable to look away from how messy you've made his naturally tousled hair and you wonder if grass and dirt stick to your cheeks just as they do to James'. 

"This," McGonagall points in between you both, "isn't how we do things here—you know this better than anyone, Mr. Potter. Your behavior is unacceptable." she reprimands him sternly and then looks at you, "and Miss Y/l/n, no matter how other teammates provoke you, you don't have the right to lay your hands on them either."

"But–" 

"No. No more buts." McGonagall ignores both your protests as she looks down at your broom. "You need to learn how to behave like a team."

She thinks for a moment. "Tomorrow morning, you'll travel to Hogsmeade so Miss Y/l/n can replace her broom. Mr. Potter, you'll help her without any complaints, and neither of you better step foot on the pitch again until you've worked out whatever this feud is." 

Your eyes widen. You want to tell McGonagall you cannot buy a new broom right now, but she clearly doesn't have anyexcuses about her new team bonding exercise. This means, much to your dismay, you end up waiting for James early the next morning, hugging your arms around you as you pick at the wool on your sweater. 

James is ten minutes late. You want to kill him. 

"Oi," his voice calls from behind you, irritatingly nonchalant. You turn and see he's also wearing his Quidditch sweater—which means you're now unintentionally matching—and a pair of casual trousers. James sends you a lopsided smirk, pushing his hands into his pockets as he sways on his feet almost awkwardly. "Why so gloomy, newb?" he mocks, the nickname rolling cruelly from his tongue.

You scrunch up your nose and spin around, walking in front of him as you clutch your purse. You don't want to give him a reaction and have him mock you the entire way into town. Instead, you both walk in silence, taking in the morning air and the sound of the birds.

Occasionally your purse will hit James's hip and he'll frown, opening to say another snarky comment until he sees a keychain; the one you have of Olive Gnats, a famous chaser from the Montrose Magpies.

"Oh, Gnats, I like her too—" he finds himself admitting before he can remind himself he hates you. 

You startle and clutch your keychain, wanting to hide it from him but then you look down and then back up at James. "O-oh, yeah, she's my favorite player. Her technique is incomparable."

"Seen her match last year?"

"'Course," you say, your tone less on edge now that you're talking about something you clearly love, and the rambling you do so much kicks in, "I would watch her every game ever since I was six years old. Have around ten posters in my room at home, some are old now but—I- I studied her moves when I would play around with my mum and dad—they also played in school—that's how they met—" You cut yourself off, James's earlier taunts ringing in your head. 

Your rambling is ignored as curiously overpowers him and James asks, "You have no siblings to play with?"

You shake your head. "Nope. Only child."

James's hazel eyes soften and he feels a funny feeling in his chest. "Oh, m-me too. Has its perks and its downfalls, y'know?" he whispers as he looks at you from the corner of his eye. His heart pounds.

The sun hits your skin just perfectly and your hair smells like cinnamon shampoo. James feels drawn to you again—just like he had in the beginning—and he wants to stop himself but when you laugh at his comment, he feels like an arrow has just shot his heart. 

"Oh yeah, it certainly does," you sound guarded again and James can't even be upset.

It's his fault you're like this around him.

He opens the door for you when you enter Quality Quidditch Supplies and the little bell rings. Instantly, you're drawn to the newest broom—displayed with polished wood and improved flying qualities—but you turn your head, knowing instantly you can't pay for a broom like that—

"Hey, look at this one," James's excitement tugs at your heart and you walk over, standing beside him as you can't help but admire the broom up close. "It feels amazing," James says as he runs his hand over the smooth wood. He's grinning. "This is the one, isn't it?"

You bite your cheek. You want it to be.

"I don't know, I–haven't seen the others," you whisper, avoiding James's eyes.

"What? What are you talking about? This one is the best by far, you aren't gonna find a better broom."

"I want to look around," you whisper, looking at the price of this broom, and your heart sinks.

"Y/n, this is ridiculous—"

"James, stop," you snap, very clearly annoyed. You can't tell if he means well by being persistent since he's only just now started to show you any form of kindness and this still feels like some cruel joke he's playing on you.

"I can't pay for this one—and the truth is I can't pay for any of these so—I- I think—" you pause, clutching at your purse desperately as you hold in tears of embarrassment. "I should tell McGonagall I couldn't find a broom I liked and I'll borrow an older one from my parents—

—plus, if I buy this one you'll just have another reason to hate me," you finish. 

Your words hit James hard as he takes in what you mean. Shame sneaks up on him instantly as he knows exactly why you would think that. It suddenly hits him just how threatened he's been and as silly as it sounds the only image in James's head is the disappointed look of his mother if she knew he had taken out his own insecurities on you. 

If Euphemia Potter knew how much of a dick he's been to you, she'd be horrified.

He looks at you closely, taking in how embarrassed you look. During tense moments with his friends, Remus had sometimes told him he was a spoiled rich boy—unaware of real struggles — and he'd always brushed him off.

Only this time, he can't unhear Remus's jab as he realizes how foolish he had been to assume anything about you.

"Oh," he whispers.

You look away at the other brooms. "I- I honestly didn't realize how expensive new brooms are. My mum and dad had gotten the other one for my eleventh birthday—I should have been more careful—" You sound sad and James's heart sinks. 

"Hey, listen, it's my fault your broom is broken. I- shouldn't have been so rough on you like I was. I'm sorry," he speaks up, sounding sincere and you look up at him, expecting a better explanation than that. 

"It's no excuse but, the truth is, I was incredibly threatened by you. You're so good, better than me even, and I really want Captain so—"

"I don't want Captain," you say instantly. "I just wanted to be on the team—"

At that point, James remembers what you'd said that night when he was piss-drunk in the Common Room. 'I've always admired you during games.' It dawns on him that you just wanted him to like you and, instead, he'd gone and seen you as an enemy. His chest hurts. 

He has never felt more like an ass than now. 

"Okay, well, um," he whispers, rubbing his nape, "Let me make it up to you then. I'll buy you the broom." James means well, he truly does, but it only makes you feel more embarrassed and you shake your head. 

"No. I don't need your pity," you say instantly as you stare at him, eyes narrowed. 

"I'm not pitying you! I'm fixing my mistake," he exclaims, his voice strained.

You open your mouth to protest when he adds, "Please."

James looks determined as he rummages through his robes for any spare change he can use and then he curses. "Shit, I didn't bring enough money," he mumbles and lifts his head, looking up at you with his puppy-like brown eyes. "I promise I'll buy it for you, Y/n. Okay? I'll make this right," he adds again and your expression softens. 

"Sure, James," you whisper, not entirely sure if you believe him. 

* * *

He did buy you the broom.

James had it wrapped neatly with a small letter signed J.P accompanied with the words, "I'm sorry," scribbled onto the parchment. 

Since that morning, he didn't ignore you anymore, he included you with the other teammates, and he played fair with you—even complimenting you sometimes. McGonagall had seen the change in dynamic and so had Ines, which she'd praised you both for.

"Good job, Y/l/n," Ines grins as she packs up her bags, "you and Potter seem to be getting on much better now." She winks and her comment passes over you as you focus on untying your ponytail, rubbing your scalp. 

The rest of the team has fallen in front of you, laughing and chatting as they walk back to the dorm. You're lost in the moment, struggling with holding your bag as you run your hand in your hair, the tightness of the ponytail was causing you a headache. 

Suddenly, you suddenly squeal when you almost trip over James—who had bent down to tie his shoes and had been separated from the group. 

He grunts and stands up, turning around and catching your arm as he steadies you. 

"Oh hey, Y/n," he grins, and then he glances at your poor bag hanging from your arm. Swiftly, he takes your bag and holds it over his other shoulder, not even commenting on the gesture. 

"Want some company walking back to the Common Room?" he asks casually.

You blow some strands away from your eyes as you look up at him, grateful for the momentary relief from your bag as the pain in your scalp subsides.

"Sure," you say, reaching for your bag but James holds it up and away from you. 

"Let me be a gentleman here," he teases.

You roll your eyes with no malice. "Hero complex much, Potter?"

He chuckles as you walk inside the school, side by side. James winks at you. "On the contrary, Y/l/n, I am the hero. Don't need a complex when you are one, y'know?"

You laugh, hearing the joking infliction in his voice as your heart feels lighter. Much to your better judgment, you've actually been enjoying James's company these last weeks, and talking to him alone like this has been even more fun. "I think you think much too highly of yourself, James." you tease him back. 

"I am wounded, Y/n." He fakes hurt as he puts a hand over his heart. 

"It's true is it not?" you say with a smirk and James narrows his eyes as you turn a corner, getting closer to the Common Room. You shrug, catching yourself. "Nothing wrong with some confidence." 

James grins, his eyes sparkling playfully as he gently nudges your side with his elbow. "You could learn a few things from me, eh?"

You frown. "Are you saying I'm not confident?"

James hums, smirking, "'M just giving you some advice, love. You have the skills now, you gotta trust yourself." You both approach the entrance and you mutter the secret word to the Fat Lady Painting and the door cracks open. You push it further with your palm. 

"Since when are you giving me Quidditch advice to make me better?" 

James turns around once he's inside and hands you your bag. "Since I realized if you can't beat them, join them," he jokes with a smile, "We're a team now, Y/n. I know I was a real dick in the beginning, but I look out for my teammates. You're my teammate, so now I look after you."

Your shoulders relax and a small smile tugs your lips. "Thanks, James," you say honestly and rest your bag higher on your shoulder, tucking some hair behind your ear as you smooth the knots a little. "I really appreciate that."

"Anytime," James whispers as you walk up the stairs to the girl's dorm. Sirius whistles from where he's sitting on one of the couches, his head leaning against the armrest as he watches you and James. Once you disappear from view, James spins around, his eyes narrowing at his best friend. 

Sirius winks and looks at James's sneakers. "This is the third time this week you've used that stupid shoelace excuse, Prongs. At this point, just stay back and ask her to walk with you, you chicken."

James's cheeks turn crimson and he walks over to shove Sirius, "Shut up." 

Sirius just laughs loudly. 

* * *

You've never felt so nervous in your life as you clutch the wood of your new, expensive, broom. The wind has picked up and everyone can tell the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor seekers are having a hard time finding the snitch. You're breathing heavily as you look around, seeing Maria—the third chaser—throw James the Quaffle. 

James easily catches the Quaffle, avoiding the Ravenclaws on his right as he swoops lower. Your adrenaline is pumping and you think you know what he's doing. You hope. You fly closer and higher to the hoops, letting James know you're open.

Your memory flashes to the beginning when he wouldn't pass you the Quaffle under any circumstances, even if it cost the team the point. He can be so headstrong and your body is buzzing as you watch him closely.

What if he doesn't throw it to you? You have the perfect shot. 

James looks at you from the corner of his eye, shoving a Ravenclaw with his shoulder to disorient them.

He could want the score for himself—but he's surrounded, he could miss.

The sound of the crowd is drowned out when you see his arm raise and he's communicating with his eyes. You nod, jumping into action as you fly closer and avoid the Ravenclaws as you catch the Quaffle and throw your arm back, throwing the Quaffle directly into the middle hoop. 

Just as you score, Oliver—Ravenclaw's seeker—catches the snitch and the whistle blows. Gryffindor was leading already and you glance at the board. It didn't matter that Oliver caught the snitch, your goal had helped secure Gryffindor the win. Cheers erupt around you and you find yourself in a trance as your feet hit the ground and you clutch your broom.

"Y/n!" Someone calls your name as the ringing in your ears dies and you feel hands wrap around your waist, hoisting you up in the air as you twirl around. A gasp escapes your lips as you clutch onto the culprit's shoulder, the cheers continuing to echo around the pitch.  

"You did so amazingly," James's excitement shines as he slowly lowers you back onto the ground, your chest brushing against his as your hands find themselves wrapped around his neck. You stare into his eyes, feeling his proximity and you suddenly feel warm and dizzy.

Has he always been this handsome?

"James." His name is the only thing your brain can think to say as he refuses to let you go. He also looks breathless and his cheeks have turned a faint shade of pink as his eyes roam over your features. 

You want to tell him a thousand things. How good he was, how you're so happy the team won, how honored you are he trusted you enough to throw you the Quaffle to make the score. You want to ask if you were more confident this time and if he's noticed your effort—but instead, any attempt at words is drowned by his lips meeting yours. 

You don't kiss him back for a moment, your hand faltering behind his neck as your fingers find the baby hairs on his nape. He feels so close and your lips part a little, kissing him back carefully as your eyes shut. 

James's hands squeeze your waist and for a moment the crowd and the team are completely forgotten until James pulls away, and the sound of cheering returns as the realization of what happened dawns on you both. 

"I'm sorry," James mutters, stepping away but he keeps a hand on you. 

"You're sorry?" you ask, your voice small. 

James hesitates, looking at you seriously and then he shakes his head. "No. I'm not sorry."

Your lips curl upwards and, still ignoring everyone around you, you pull him down by the collar of his shirt and kiss his lips again. James grins against your mouth, his heart thumps in his chest as all he can think about is you.

"Oi, no PDA on the pitch, you pervs!" Sirius's teasing voice suddenly shouts out from somewhere beside you but you're almost positive no one else is worried about you and James considering everyone's celebrating on their own.

James must feel the same because he throws up a middle finger with the hand that leaves your waist and you laugh into his mouth, reaching for his arm to stop him.

"Prick," James mutters to Sirius, "You're annoying," he adds with some playful bite. 

He turns to you and his gaze softens. "But you're lovely," he whispers, earning him the prettiest smile he's ever seen and he's never been more proud.

tags: @mischievousmoony, @sayitlikethecheese

[ask-wren-zhang]

It isn't long until she senses a pair of uneasy eyes on her back and sure enough, her favourite Mongoose is looking every bit as high-strung as he often is as of late - having robbed of his hair during those weeks must've done him a number or two.

Just this once, she'll refrain from ruffling the locks on his head.

Not that she's allowed to. But he doesn't need to know that ;)

My dear Wren, just a hypothetical anon here... I know you and the Mongoose are on the same team but what would it cost me to bribe you into pushing him off of his broom one of those matches? Just a HYPOTHETICAL.

Summoning her quill, she quickly scribbles a quick response on a scrap of parchment, laughing quietly as she does:

Mel, dearest, is this you? ♡

[shadowtriovibes]

pt. i: break a sweat

pt. ii: blood, sweat and tears || pt. iii: sweat it out || pt. iv: never let 'em see you sweat

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

Word Count: 5.2k

Rating: E

Warnings: 18+, aged-up characters, explicit sexual content, unprotected PIV sex, dubious safe sex methods, even more dubious interpretations of how the room of requirement works

Summary: sebastian makes the house quidditch team after training all summer. before his first match, you let him talk you into a bet over its outcome that will in all likelihood ruin your friendship. (merlin, you sure hope it does.)

"Speaking of which," you say, leaning out of the hug just enough to see Sebastian’s face. "What prize will you not be winning?" Sebastian lets his hands drop down to your hips as he murmurs, "I have something in mind." You force yourself not to get distracted. "Do tell." "If I win, I’d like to take you to the Room of Requirement after the game," he says, and the way he grips your sides through your skirt ensures you have no way of misunderstanding what he’s suggesting.

Seeing Sebastian for the first time since the end of your sixth year at Hogwarts is quite the shock.

You knew from his detailed letters that your dearest friend had spent the better part of his summer break training for Quidditch tryouts in the fall, frequently flying down to the Poidsear Coast to log hours and hours at their pitch.

Sometimes he would even bring Anne along with him when she was feeling well enough to ride on the back of his broom. He’d convince her to release a secondhand Snitch for him to track down, and while he hunted it down, she worked on the assignments your professors had set to help her prepare for her return to Hogwarts in the fall.

He’d even written to tell you that he’d never felt more confident on a broom, and that if he only got to have one last season on your house team before leaving school, he was determined to make the absolute most of it.

You knew all of this, and yet when you first see him in the Great Hall for the start-of-term feast, you nearly swoon like a Muggle schoolgirl at the sight of him.

The first thing you notice is that he’s taller. Even seated next to Anne at the Slytherin table, you can see his entire head whereas you can barely make out the top of his sister’s. Sebastian had never seemed that much bigger than his twin before, but things have clearly changed.

Then, you notice that his complexion has changed as well. He’s tan from spending all summer training in the sun, his button-down shirt suddenly looking so crisply white against his sun-kissed face.

His freckles, too – there are so many more.

But that could also just be because there’s simply more Sebastian now. His shoulders are broader, his chest wider, and even his hair has grown long enough to brush upwards into a less haphazard style (though certainly not as severe as Ominis’).

It’s as if your boyish Sebastian from the previous school year had quite suddenly become a grown man in just three short months, and you can’t tear your eyes away from the sight of him.

It takes you a few minutes to adjust as you slide into a seat across from him next to Ominis, and based on the look on Anne’s face, she at least knows what’s got you so flustered.

During a lull in conversation about Anne’s return, you tell Sebastian, “You’re looking fit.”

You hope you can casually get it out of the way, and that no one will dwell on it.

“Am I?” he asks with an easy smile.

“I mean physically,” you insist, remaining one step ahead of him. “I nearly mistook you for one of the Beaters for the Magpies.”

“Sebastian could never be a Beater,” Anne interjects. “He’s too much of a show-off to be anything but the Seeker.”

“I’ll be whatever the team needs me to be,” he insists. “I practiced for all four positions this summer, so wherever they want to slot me in is fine.”

���Silly Sebastian,” Violet McDowell calls out from a few seats down, a wicked grin on her face. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that there are many more positions than just four?”

Your entire end of the table bursts into laughter while Sebastian simply flashes a wicked grin, and you think about using your ancient magic to hurl one of the stacked platters of food in front of you at Violet’s head. (Or maybe you should simply toss her out into the courtyard.)

“Is this how it’s going to be this year?” Anne sighs. “When I left, Sebastian was just an awkward boy with his nose always buried in a book, and now the girls are lusting after him.”

“I’m not thrilled about it either,” Ominis agrees. “He had a big enough head before he was attractive.”

“I think it’s excellent,” Sebastian laughs. “It’s about time everyone realized that I’m the perfect man, and all it took was a little bit of Quidditch practice and one last growth spurt.”

“‘All it took,’” Anne mumbles at the same time Ominis exclaims, “‘Perfect man?!’”

While both his sister and best friend take turns putting dents in Sebastian’s inflated ego, he takes it in stride and sneakily winks at you from across the table when he catches you silently observing, your gaze firmly settled on the sharp line of his jaw.

Sebastian makes a mental note of the fact that you immediately go red. Even if no one else notices, he certainly does.

—

Two weeks later, you and Anne link arms with Ominis to walk down with him to the Quidditch pitch to watch the Slytherin team tryouts.

“Now that I’ve got a brilliant witch on each arm, I suppose I won’t be needing my wand as often to get around,” he teases.

“Please, I know a thing or two about that wand of yours,” Anne replies. “Last year I spent a full month reading books on wandcraft that Sebastian brought me from the library. If I had to guess, I think you can probably ‘see’ more clearly than either of us can. It’s powerful.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Ominis demurs. “I’m just naturally perceptive.”

Once you arrive at the pitch, the three of you take seats along the practice bleachers with a few of your housemates, who chat excitedly when the Slytherin hopefuls begin to take the field.

You spot Sebastian quickly, even among nearly two dozen others in green practice uniforms circling for warmups on their brooms. Compared to how big he’d looked at the start of term in just his school robes, he’s huge now – equipped with pads across his shoulders, forearms and shins that accentuate his muscular form.

He’d declined a helmet, of course, because despite his newfound bulk he’s still the same exasperatingly headstrong boy you’ve nurtured a crush on for nearly your entire school career.

“Between us, what do you think his chances are of making the team?” you ask Anne.

“Truthfully?” she smirks. “I think he’ll have his pick of positions, unless Imelda wants to humble him on purpose.”

“Which one would be humbling?” you ask, amused.

“Probably Chaser,” she muses. “He’d be an excellent Chaser, of course, but it’s his least favorite.”

“I’ll bet he becomes a Beater,” Ominis offers. “Without the Dark Arts, I’d like him to have some sort of outlet for his intensity.”

“Fine, then I’ll say… Keeper,” you say, smiling to yourself at your private joke that only Sebastian would appreciate. “Because that way he’ll get to stay in one place the whole game and know that everyone’s eyes are on him.”

—

Shortly after tryouts wrap up, Imelda sequesters herself in the girls’ dorm to put together her official roster and the majority of Slytherin’s upperclassmen start passing around Butterbeers while they settle in to await her decision.

Sebastian is inarguably the center of attention, casually leaning against a table in the corner with Anne at his side. A flock of fifth-year girls crowds around him to listen intently as he talks about the impressive diving save he’d made, capturing the Snitch just feet from the ground.

“He’s going to be insufferable now,” Ominis groans while the two of you watch from across the room. “There’s barely enough room for his ego in this friendship as it is.”

“Come now, we can keep him in check,” you laugh. “Especially with Anne here.”

“It’s really good to have her back,” Ominis agrees softly, smiling to himself when he hears Anne’s voice through the noise, telling Sebastian’s fan club how he’d attempted a similar save over the summer and ended up crashing into a derelict poacher camp.

Huh.

However, before you can spend too much more time thinking about Ominis and Anne, you hear the noise in the room spike as Imelda saunters down the stairs, a rolled-up piece of parchment in her hand.

“Who’s ready to meet this year’s Slytherin Quidditch team?” she calls out, and the entire room bursts into excited cheers.

She starts to read off from her list, allowing brief pauses for applause after each name. You and Ominis snake through the common room to stand by Sebastian. He seems to be perfectly calm, but by now you can recognize some telltale tension lingering in his jaw.

Anne holds one of his hands to reassure him, swaying a bit nervously herself.

While Imelda works her way down the list, the four of you learn that hasn’t been named Slytherin’s Keeper. He’s not a Beater either, nor is he ultimately a Chaser.

“Lastly, your newest Seeker,” Imelda teases as she reaches the end of the list. “...It’s obviously Sallow!”

Sebastian beams brilliantly while Anne pulls him into a tight hug, and Ominis smiles and murmurs his congratulations to his friend, assuring him he always knew he’d make the team.

There are several other girls quick to offer their congratulations as well, but you wait for the crowd around him to thin out and for Anne to escort Ominis to get more Butterbeers before you sidle up next to Sebastian and nudge your shoulder against his.

“Excellent work, Bash,” you murmur. “You put on quite a show at tryouts.”

“Only because you were watching,” he flirts back, and you roll your eyes fondly.

Since the start of term, he’s been relentless with his play-flirting. You resist it as much as you can, but it always makes your heart race when he calls you “love,” or offers to carry your books for you, or even charms little notes poking fun at your classmates into tiny birds that gracefully land on your desk during classes.

(You don’t have the heart to ask him to knock it off, because even though you know he doesn’t mean it, it still feels nice to be the center of his attention.)

“Then I’ll have to come to see you start in next week’s match,” you offer. “Especially if you only play that well when I’m watching.”

“You can be my good luck charm,” he jokes. “Felix Felicis is prohibited, but you’re not.”

“That was awful,” you laugh, but Sebastian just grins.

“Tell you what,” he says after a moment. “We should make a bet on it.”

“A bet?” you ask. “On what, that you’ll win?”

He shakes his head. “Too easy, we’re playing Ravenclaw, we’ll obviously win. I mean something more challenging.”

“You’re clearly confident,” you tell him. “What are your terms?”

He considers his offer for a moment and then says, “I’ll bet that I can catch the Snitch in under thirty minutes. I’ll even let you be the official timekeeper, since I’ll be a bit preoccupied.”

“Under thirty?” you ask skeptically. “That’s nearly professional, Sebastian. Ominis told me most games last at least an hour.”

“I’ve been practicing all summer,” he insists. “Anne would release a Snitch and I’d even give it a five-minute head start, but I never let one get further away from me than the far side of Marunweem Lake.”

“Careful, Sebastian, you sound quite cocky,” you murmur, and you think you see Sebastian’s gaze dip down to your mouth for a split second.

“I am,” he agrees. “In fact, I’ll even let you pick your prize first, for if you win.”

“Alright,” you laugh. “When I win, I want… for you to write my History of Magic assignments for the next month.

“That’s it?” he scoffs. “You could have anything and you want me to write your essays?”

“I didn’t start studying magic with the rest of you lot, and I don’t know a lot of the foundational things that Binns wants us to reference,” you remind him. “You know your history much better than I do, and I need to bump my ‘Acceptable’ up to ‘Exceeds Expectations’ by the time N.E.W.T.s roll around.”

“Love, I would’ve done them for you anyway,” Sebastian says dismissively, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning at the nickname. “Pick something fun.”

“Fine,” you reply. “I want…”

You consider your options for a moment, trying to think of something that isn’t either obscene or pathetic. Finally, you have an idea.

“There is one thing I’ve been thinking about,” you tell him, a secret smile on your lips.

Sebastian perks up, leaning in closer. “Go on then.”

“I want you to help me set up Anne and Ominis,” you say carefully, watching him for any signs that he’s about to blow up.

He just blinks at you, bewildered. “What.”

“I think they would be a lovely couple,” you croon. “And I know she’s your sister and you’re, y’know...”

“I’m what?” he demands.

“You’re very protective of her,” you say tactfully. “But we’re all adults now, and I think they really understand each other. I want you to help me convince them that they should give it a chance.”

Sebastian is quiet for several long moments.

“Well,” he finally murmurs. “I would prefer it if Anne never dated anyone so I wouldn’t have any more reasons to worry about her, but I suppose if she must, Ominis is a good man.”

You shout excitedly and wrap your arms around his impossibly broad shoulders, pulling him in for a hug. He easily allows it, fondly pressing his nose to your hair.

“I suppose it doesn’t really matter though, since you won’t win and I’ll never have to aid you in your scheming,” he murmurs against your temple.

“Speaking of which,” you say, leaning out of the hug just enough to see Sebastian’s face. “What prize will you not be winning?”

Sebastian lets his hands drop down to your hips as he murmurs, “I have something in mind.”

You force yourself not to get distracted. “Do tell.”

“If I win, I’d like to take you to the Room of Requirement after the game,” he says, and the way he grips your sides through your skirt ensures you have no way of misunderstanding what he’s suggesting.

“O-oh?” you ask softly, squirming a little in his grasp. “Just me?”

“Just you,” he confirms.

His eyes are dark, and despite the cacophony of the room around you both, he’s focused solely on you.

“And what would we be doing in the Room of Requirement?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t even dignify your question with a response. Instead, he deliberately drags his thumbs across your hips, raking his gaze down your body and back up with a pointed look.

“You mean it?” you ask him quietly. “You aren’t just teasing like earlier?”

“When was I teasing?” Sebastian asks, amused.

“This whole time,” you insist, fidgeting nervously with the laces at the front of his Quidditch shirt. “All the flirting, all this back-and-forth… You’re just winding me up.”

“I’m not,” he says quietly. “I thought about you all summer, love. I missed you like mad, and I sincerely want you.”

Merlin.

Some bold part of you steps a little closer so you can lean in close to his ear and ask, “Are you sure we shouldn’t just go to the Room of Requirement right now?”

You hear Sebastian swallow and exhale sharply.

“N-not now,” he answers. “After the match. I just…”

He doesn’t really have the words to articulate it, but he wants to earn your affection. He has to prove he’s good enough first, that you aren’t making a mistake by letting him finally force your close friendship into something more.

“Alright,” you acquiesce, gently brushing your lips against his cheekbone. “Just don’t get too distracted and fall off your broom, because I actually want you to win.”

“The match or the bet?” he asks in a low voice.

You just take a step back with a teasing grin, and before you disappear into the crowd to find your friends, you murmur, “Wouldn’t you like to know, Sallow.”

—

It’s so many flights of stairs up to the Room of Requirement. You almost feel bad for Sebastian, but not enough to stop relentlessly tugging him up countless flights in the quiet Astronomy Tower.

He must be exhausted already, you assume. While the match itself had only lasted twenty-seven minutes and forty seconds, he spent nearly all of them racing around the pitch alongside Ravenclaw’s Seeker, eyes trained on any flash of light that shimmered like gold.

He’d even taken a Bludger to his right thigh. You’d felt like you were going to be sick just watching it collide with him, but he’d merely dropped a few feet with a wince and sped off again.

Not even a damn Bludger could knock him off his broom.

(As soon as your nausea had dissipated, you’d felt another dizzying wave of sensation take over slightly south of your stomach.)

Just as he’d promised, he quickly caught up with the Snitch near the base of the Hufflepuff student section, landing not-so-neatly in the muddy grass with one arm thrown up in the air. He was evidently clutching the struggling Snitch and beaming so hugely you could see it from your spot in the stands fifty feet in the air.

As soon as Madam Kogawa blew her whistle, the Slytherins had begun to move en masse toward the stairs, preparing to turn their common room into the official site of the year’s first not-so-clandestine party.

You, however, snuck away from the group and lingered outside the team’s changing area. Inside, you could hear raised voices.

“Imelda, you don’t understand,” Sebastian was whining. “I need to go now.”

“There’s a way we do things here, Sallow,” she had argued “I’m the captain, and if I say we’re going to discuss the game before anyone leaves, you stay.”

Sebastian had a few choice words to say to that but ultimately relented, and you couldn’t help but laugh softly while you leaned against one of the canvas walls that lined the interior channels of the pitch. Ultimately, it only took about ten minutes to discuss how everyone could improve – and Imelda’s only suggestion for Sebastian had been to try to find a dryer patch of grass on which to land next time.

Seconds later, he’d burst through the door and started to take off toward the castle.

“Bash!” you called out. “Not so fast.”

When he turned and spotted you, his face lit up.

“You waited for me,” he breathed.

“Of course I did,” you said. “I believe you’ve won a prize, and the nature of it is time-sensitive.”

He looked like an utter rake with that crooked smile on his lips. He was still in his uniform head to toe, his hair even messier than usual thanks to his helmet. He’d even kept his pads on, so when he reached out to take your hand, you felt impossibly small next to him.

“Shall we?” he asks, and then the two of you were off.

By the time you reach the Room and ensure no house elves are present, you’re both out of breath and panting.

“Come here,” you whine, throwing your arms around his shoulders and messily kissing along his jawline.

“W-wait,” he stammers. “Let me get these pads off, and–”

He cuts himself off, making a face.

“I need to clean up,” he tells you, suddenly self-conscious. “I must look like hell.”

“You look obscene,” you reply, dragging your hands down his chest pads. “Which is obviously a compliment.”

He wraps his hands around your wrists to stop you from attempting to undo the laces at the front of his trousers. “Just – just let me clean off first, the prefects’ bathroom isn’t far and I got the password off of Weasley.”

“No, don’t leave,” you whine, and Sebastian is merely a man, he can’t resist the girl he’s been in love with for years when she’s begging him to take his pants off.

“I must smell foul,” he laughs. “You’re – you’re seriously okay with this?”

“Look where we are, Sebastian,” you croon, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the side of his neck. “Just imagine what you need.”

For your part, you imagine a plush armchair where you can wrangle Sebastian into finally taking a seat, and one quickly spins to life just behind him. You take advantage of his distraction to shove him backwards toward it and climb astride lap.

“It’s the Room of Requirement,” you tease him, straddling his thighs and dragging your nose along his cheek so he’ll tip his head back for you. “If you require something, the Room provides.”

“I require a bath,” he drawls, cursing quietly when you gently bite just over his pulse point. “Quickly, please, Room.”

Sebastian waits patiently while you eagerly strip him of his pads, but the Room doesn’t change.

“I thought you said you’ve taken baths here,” he points out skeptically. “In a huge basin, like the prefects have.”

“I have,” you insist, frowning. “I don’t know why it’s not…”

Then you trail off, your realization making you go red.

“Go on, love,” Sebastian murmurs, sliding a hand up the back of your thigh to lazily palm at your ass underneath your skirt. “I know that face, you’ve figured it out. What’s the problem?”

“W-well, it’s my Room,” you tell him sheepishly. “So it, um… I suppose it defaults to what I require.”

“And what you require,” Sebastian says slowly, “is for me to not take a bath?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassed.

“I… I suppose the Room must have deduced that I – I like you like this,” you whisper, dragging your hands across his rumpled Quidditch shirt. “And I don’t need to wait for you to clean off.”

“You don’t?” Sebastian asks, his eyes now impossibly dark. “You’d let me touch you just like this? I’m a mess, I’m covered in sweat and mud and probably some blood, even.”

“Don’t care,” you breathe, sliding your hands underneath the hem of his shirt. “I want you now, Sebastian, exactly like this.”

He says some absolutely filthy words under his breath, sitting back so he can strip off his filthy uniform shirt. You can’t get your hands on his body fast enough, hurriedly familiarizing yourself with his sculpted core, broad chest, and strong shoulders.

He’s less of a mess underneath where his shirt had lain, but his skin is still warm and damp with sweat from the match. You want to put your mouth all over him, everywhere – and there’s so much of him to explore.

“I couldn’t believe it when I first saw you like this,” you confess to him. “You’ve gotten bigger since last spring, and so handsome… how did you become a man in just one summer?”

“You think I’m the only one who changed this summer?” he asks with a low voice. “Look at you.”

“What about me?” you ask dumbly.

His hands go straight for your chest, roughly tugging open your uniform shirt with no regard for the longevity of its buttons.

“Here,” he murmurs, his hands cupping your breasts through your thin brassiere. “I can assure you that I noticed where you’ve grown bigger.”

You gasp softly as he tugs down on the cups of your bra until he can lean in and press his mouth to your skin, sucking on one of your nipples and then the other.

“And here,” he murmurs into your chest, his hands returning to the backs of your thighs and sliding up your ass. “You have all these curves now, love, and they’re driving me mad.”

“Sebastian,” you whimper. “Take off my clothes.”

He helps you wrestle your skirt up over your head and tosses it recklessly as far as he can. When you’re left in nothing but your undergarments, Sebastian wraps one strong arm around your lower back and hooks the other below your hips, easily standing up from the armchair to walk you over to the bed you’d hastily imagined into existence.

Once he has you on your back, he tugs down your last remaining garment and leaves you bare and exposed to him, breathless and flushed all over.

“Your turn,” you remind him, even though part of you wishes he could leave the uniform pants on (despite the impracticality).

Once he manages to peel off the last of his clothes, he settles on his knees between your legs and skims a hand up your body, from the curve of your hip all the way up to your cheek.

“Is this too fast?” he asks you softly. “Did I ask too much?”

Your heart aches. Sebastian always stuns you with his sincerity when you least expect it.

You turn your head to kiss his palm and murmur, “No, love.”

His shoulders drop a little, the last of the tension he’d been carrying all week draining from his body. He wants, he always wants so damn badly and he would never forgive himself if he marred your first time with each other by rushing you.

“Can I touch you?” he asks in a hushed voice.

“Please,” you whine, letting your knees fall wide.

(Whether or not the other has ever done this before is still a mystery to you both, and it’s not something you’ll discuss until afterward. But right now, it’s of no importance to you.)

For a while, Sebastian’s hands roam your body without an agenda, acquainting himself with your breasts, your hips, the insides of your thighs. You moan softly when he drags his thumb along your slit, spreading your wetness around until he can easily rub slow circles over your clit.

“How do you feel?” he asks you.

“Good,” you gasp. “So good, Sebastian, like that.”

“Do you want more?” he offers, and you frantically nod, one of your hands fisting the pillow behind your head.

He carefully presses one long finger inside you, glancing between your face and your entrance to make sure you’re comfortable the entire time. One finger quickly becomes two, and when two nearly becomes three, you have to pause and take a breath.

“Enough,” you pant. “That’s enough.”

“Are you sure?” he asks you.

You reach down and wrap your hand around his cock, giving him a few slow strokes while he leaks precum onto your hand and groans helplessly.

“I want you,” you insist. “I’ve wanted you.”

“R-right, yeah,” he agrees, trying to clear his head and focus on the task at hand. “Enough.”

He gently nudges your hand away so he can guide himself inside you, one hand wrapped around himself and the other gently pressing on your inner thigh to keep you still for him.

Underneath Sebastian like this, pinned to the mattress by his hips and hands, he completely overtakes your senses. He’s all you can see, all you can touch — you even taste and smell him.

Masculine sweat. Dark brown eyes. Crisp autumn air. The curve of his collarbone where it meets his shoulder. Woodsmoke. A million tiny freckles. Metallic blood from a split lip. Flashes of copper in his messy curls. Singed pine needles.

Sebastian groans low in his throat as he presses in, his hair falling into his eyes before he frantically brushes it away so he can see you take him for the first time.

Once he’s fully seated inside you, he bends down and presses his forehead against yours.

“Tell me,” he begs, his hand curling gently around the back of your neck to hold you close.

“Tell you what?” you whisper, your lips brushing against his with every syllable.

“Tell me that it feels like this for you,” he practically breathes into you. “It feels like you’re — you’re everywhere, like you’re all there is.”

“Sebastian,” you whimper, and his hips snap against yours.

“Say it,” he growls. “Please.”

“You’re all there is,” you gasp. “You’re all mine, Bash.”

He makes a sound like you’ve sucker-punched him, messily kissing wherever he can get his mouth on you – your cheek, your jaw, your lips. All the while he’s fucking you open with relentless, eager thrusts.

He’s not going to last long, but you don’t expect him to. You just want him to feel good – the two of you have already wasted enough time not doing this, so why delay satisfaction?

You wrap your legs around his hips to hold him against you, rocking your own hips upward to meet him and coax him closer to the edge.

“I’m going to come,” he grits out, grinding into you desperately the closer he gets to his climax. “Can I finish inside?”

“N-no,” you whimper. There’s a potion you can drink to make it safe that takes an entire week to brew, and the batch that’s currently bubbling away at your potions station across the Room isn’t quite ready yet.

“Where?” he begs.

“Anywhere else, wherever you want,” you promise him, your mind quickly tossing out mental images of him spilling himself across your breasts, into your mouth, on the curve of your back.

He pulls out of you with a reluctant moan and kneels between your open thighs, wrapping a hand around his cock to finish himself off. You watch his eyes while he takes you in, seemingly torn between meeting your gaze and staring transfixed at your fingers between your thighs as you get closer to finishing yourself.

“Next time, love,” you murmur softly. “The next time you fuck me you can finish in me, I’ll take it all.”

“Promise?” he asks breathlessly, still an incorrigible flirt even when he’s seconds away from his orgasm.

“Promise,” you whine, spreading your legs a little wider when you catch his gaze lingering again.

You’re so close, desperately rolling your hips against your own hand until you tip over the edge, the rush of your release arching your back before you collapse lazily against the bed.

He shuffles forward and groans your name just before he spills, leaving a warm, wet mess all over your stomach and between your hips. You feel properly claimed – especially when he flops down next to you and immediately tugs you against his chest, unbothered by his release smearing between your bodies.

“You’re amazing,” he breathes into your hair. “Merlin, I love you.”

“You love me?” you whisper against his collarbone.

“Enduringly,” he says.

You rest your cheek against his chest and listen to his racing heartbeat for a few moments before you tell him, “I love you too, you know.”

Just then, the Room starts to rumble.

“What’s going on?” Sebastian asks, urgently peering around for his wand.

He quickly settles and even laughs under his breath when he sees the Room shifting around the two of you to provide a spacious, sunken bathtub in the middle of the room, complete with a luxurious amount of taps that undoubtedly offer an array of bubbles, salts and soaps.

“Oh, now you want to let me clean myself up?” Sebastian drawls. “After you’ve completely worn me out, hmm?”

“It’s more for me,” you giggle. “I can’t possibly sleep like this, but you’re welcome to join me if you’d like.”

As if Sebastian would ever pass up the chance to feel you up in the water.

[fandomfrenzy97]

Happy 1st September, everyone!!

For all you witches and wizards out there, as you all know it’s time to go back to Hogwarts, no matter if it’s via book, via movie series, or even via gaming. It’s definitely been a while since I was last at Hogwarts myself, so hopefully a surprise return for this years’ Quidditch Season should do the trick to mark the occasion, and who knows, maybe I’ll be reunited with Sebastian Sallow. Hope to see you all on the Pitch from September 3rd.

[dearestdo3]

Can you write headcanon for mlm snily?

Thankyou for the fun ask, anon!! I honestly base Liam's personality a lot from Harry lmao but hcs below cut!

The first time they met eachother, Liam immediately commented on Sev's choice of clothing (this boy cannot control his tongue)

Liam loves to tease Sev. He thinks Sev's reaction is funny, while Sev just gets annoyed at this weird boy's humor but he tolerates it

Sev urges him to go for the quidditch tryouts during the second year (because he remembers how fascinated Liam was when he talked about quidditch during their childhood)

Thanks to being a chaser in the Gryffindor quidditch team, Liam became very popular in their year overnight. It annoys Sev because Liam likes the attention too much

Liam always asks Sev to watch him practice and play, especially if its Gryff v Slytherin

^ Much to Sev's annoyance, he does enjoy seeing Liam play

^^ So he swallowed his pride and disregard the comments from his housemates just to cheer for Liam

Liam becomes more and more popular because he grows up to be smart, outspoken, and confident. But he insist on still befriending Sev

Once, Liam physically pulls Sev away from Mulc & Avery, carries him to their favorite hang out spot, and scolds him for hanging out with them and not him

^ Sev retaliates by saying that Liam might as well just be a Marauder with how much he hangs out w Potter

^^ Argument ended when the two apologized at the same night (doesn't really solve the problem at hand tho lol)

Sev's already in love with Liam for a long time, doesn't deny his feelings too, but he never says it out loud (he was sure Liam would date Potter with how close those two are)

^ Liam meanwhile is still confused and doesn't want to acknowledge his feelings because it's 'wrong' to like another boy

^^ Until he saw Sev hanging out with [insert Slytherin boy here] and he lost it

^^^ Liam confessed that he starts feels weird seeing Sev, and he thinks it's because he likes Sev romantically

^^^^ Sev confessed back <3 and they kiss

[pufflyhallows]

The Tryouts

Pairing: Oliver Wood x reader

Request: @cokecola4211 Harry Potter imagine Oliver flirts with Harry sister at the Gryffindor warm up tryouts. / Harry Potter imagine the reader is Harry sister and Oliver tries asking the reader out to.

a/n: sorry for taking so long!

Warnings: none.

Word count: 1,6k

You were excited.

It was the quidditch tryouts and the Gryffindor team was looking for a new chaser to replace Katie Bell. Your younger brother was already on the team and that made you even more excited. It would be fun to play alongside him, representing your house and also your family. You liked to think your dad would be proud of both of his kids. So, needless to say, this was important to you.

You woke up extra early to have breakfast and meet with Harry, who was already in the Great Hall with the rest of the team and a few other students who were maybe just early birds. Or maybe they were there for the tryouts too. You hoped it was the former.

“Nervous?” he asked as you sat down beside him.

“Good morning to you too,” you said. “And no, I am not.”

“So your sister will be trying?” Fred Weasley asked from across the table. “I reckon it will be a tight dispute.”

“Why? Is there no room for another set of siblings?” you inquired back.

“I’m just saying there will be a lot of people trying this year.”

“Again, why?”

“Well, we always have more than a few contestants,” George Weasley explained. “But this is Oliver’s last season. He’s been encouraging nearly everyone to try their chance. He wants to win the cup.”

You looked over at Oliver Wood, the team’s captain, who was sitting a few seats away from you, drinking from his glass of juice, seemingly clueless to the conversation.

“Oh,” you said, “Then he should let me in. I’ve been training all summer.”

“Some people have been training all their lives,” Angelina Johnson fired back.

“I didn’t have that opportunity,” you answered, leaving her uncomfortable. Harry smirked.

“Sorry”, she said.

“Well, I’m rooting for ya,” Fred said as he and George stood up, “It’d be cool to have another Potter on the team.”

“Thanks,” you smiled at him.

“Don’t get too excited,” Harry warned as the twins left, “There will be a lot of people.”

“That’s a lot of faith you have in me, brother.”

“C’mon, team,” Oliver Wood suddenly said as he stood up, “I would like to practice a bit before the other students get there.”

Harry, Alicia Spinnet and Angelina Johnson prepared to follow him.

“Can I come?” you asked Harry, who shrugged.

“Ask Oliver.”

For God’s sake, you thought.

“Hum, Oliver?” you called and the boy, who was already leaving, turned around. He looked at you as if he didn’t expect to see you there.

“Yes?”

“Can I come? I know the tryouts are at 8 and it’s still 7, but I would like to watch you guys practice.”

“You’re up this early for the tryouts?” he asked. You looked at Harry, who shrugged again.

“Yeah,” you nodded.

“Hm, I like your readiness,” he said, “Let’s go.”

You smiled, thinking that maybe you had gained a few points already. You grabbed whatever you could to eat on the pitch and followed the others.

It wasn’t too hot outside, and soon you made your way to the stands. The team gathered in the center of the pitch, brooms in hand, and you could see that Oliver was talking to them, probably telling them what they were going to be doing today. You took a bite of your ham sandwich and sat back to watch as they flew away.

Harry was going to practice by himself, as usual, while Alicia and Angelina practiced shooting the Quaffle at Oliver, who was at the goalposts. Fred and George practiced with each other.

Normally, you would watch your brother, but something was drawing your attention towards Oliver Wood. He was the captain. He was the one you needed to impress. And that was his last year at Hogwarts, which meant you really needed to impress him. That finally made you nervous, something you weren’t before.

Angelina managed to grab the Quaffle from Alicia and flew towards Oliver, who had his eyes fixed upon the ball. You felt your heart start to beat faster with excitement to see him defend. Angelina threw the Quaffle at the first goalpost, and Oliver raced to his right, stretching his arm out and touching the ball with his fingertips, just enough to get it out of its way to the goal. You smiled. And suddenly Oliver had his eyes on you. He had a proud look on his face and seemed satisfied to know that you had seen that.

Then, your eyes were back on your brother, your cheeks slightly warmer. You spent the rest of the practice paying attention to him, while he chased the Snitch again and again, catching it every time. You wished your dad could see him now.

Oliver called the team back to the center of the pitch, and everyone got down from their brooms. They talked a little bit and then Harry waved at you, telling you to go there. You pointed at yourself as if to say ‘me?’ and he motioned ‘come here’ again. You stood up and got down from the stand, entering the pitch and walking towards them.

“Practice with us,” Harry said as soon as you approached them.

“Right now?” you asked, surprised.

“Yes. Right now. Go get a broom.”

“Give me a lift,” you asked and he rolled his eyes, but got on his broom anyway. You got on the back and you both flew to the locker room, where you picked a broom to use.

“But hey, why am I practicing with you guys before the others?” you asked, curious.

“I don’t know,” Harry shrugged for the third time that morning, “It was Oliver’s idea.”

“Hm,” you thought. Oliver’s idea. Maybe he wanted to see if the other Potter was just as good? Either way, you couldn’t not think that you were getting a little advantage over the others.

Once you were back on the pitch, Oliver approached you.

“I want you to work against Alicia and Angelina, okay? You’re on the opposite team. They’ll try to take the Quaffle from you and you won’t let them. Then, you’ll shoot at me. Understood?”

“Understood,” you replied, slightly nervous.

He handed you the Quaffle and everyone got on their brooms, flying high in the air. You followed. When everyone was on their positions, Oliver whistled. It had started. On your left, Alicia came flying fast, Angelina was on your right. You quickly flew down below them, making them almost collide on each other. Before they could recover, you were already flying fast towards the second goalpost, where Oliver was.

You flew as close as you could, and then threw the ball at the first goalpost, but Oliver was just as fast as you, and caught the Quaffle before it could go through.

“Damn it!” you shouted. Oliver smiled, spinning the ball in his hand.

“So close,” he said, “But not close enough,” then he winked at you.

“Let’s do it again,” you challenged, feeling flustered with that wink.

“Sure thing.”

Oliver gave Alicia the ball and told her she would be in your place now, with you and Angelina working together.

He whistled and it started. Alicia went to your left as fast as she could, and you followed, but suddenly she moved to the right, faster than you could tail her. You spun in the air trying to catch her, but she was gone. Angelina was right behind her, though, so you flew towards Oliver, already predicting Angelina’s next move. The chase was spectacular, with both girls going up and down. But much to Alicia’s dislike, Angelina was faster, and soon grabbed the ball from her hands. You were in the right position, close to the first goalpost, with Oliver flying in front of the middle one, but still closer to you. Angelina, then, threw the Quaffle over to you, and you caught it just fine, flying straight to the first goal. As soon as Oliver moved to his right, you shot the ball with your whole strength to the third goalpost, past him, who wasn’t quick enough to try and catch it. You scored a goal.

“Yes!” you shouted, quite happy with yourself.

“Well done,” Oliver said in an admiring tone, “Not bad at all. Let’s do it again!”

This time, Angelina was alone against you and Alicia. Through teamwork, Alicia almost scored a goal, but Oliver was able to catch it. He then called everyone to the center of the pitch once again.

“We’ll do the tryouts as a formality, but I think we have our new chaser right here,” Oliver announced.

You looked over at Harry, who was smiling. The rest of team cheered and congratulated you.

“Are you serious?” you asked in disbelief.

“Of course I am,” he said, “I know talent when I see it. And you definitely have it, Ms. Potter.”

You smiled at him and thanked everyone.

“We can take five to rest!” Oliver said to the team, and most of them left the pitch, except for you and him.

“What happens when we do the tryouts and you realize there’s someone better than me?” you asked sincerely.

“I don’t think that’s gonna happen,” he replied with the same sincerity.

“How can you be so sure? I mean, this was my first practice.”

“And you scored a goal against people who have been playing competitively for years. Look, Y/N, I see talent in you. And even more, I see potential. I can see a good future for you in this team. With more practice and training, who knows what you’ll be able to achieve? I have faith in you.”

“Wow,” you smiled, “Thank you.”

“But I can definitely tell you more about it over a cup of tea.”

“W-What?” you blushed.

“A cup of tea. Me and you. What do you think?” he asked, hopeful.

“I… Sure. Yeah, a cup of tea,” you smiled.

“It’s a date.”