#slytherin ron weasley

[ronnonon]

TW: attempt su!c!de

Slytherin Ron tries to take his own life and ends up in Saint Mungos. He asks someone to write to his parents, they respond by saying they are busy and will pick him up later, assuming he just got in another fight or something. After two days of them forgetting to come get him, he decides to write to Draco. He just say,

“Hey Drac,

I’m in Saint Mungos and my parents can’t come get me, do you think you could come visit or something? I’ll be honest with you, I’m really fucking alone right now and could use a friend,

~ Ron. W”

Draco immediately tells his parents who take him to see Ron. It takes all of five seconds of seeing him for them to realise what’s happened. The large cuts on his wrist, going down to his elbow, aren’t fully healed yet. His tired eyes, shaggy hair and raw knuckles say enough. Ron manages to get out that he wrote to his parents two days before but they never showed before Naraisca is pulling him into a hug as he sobs for the first time in two years. Draco and his parents share a look, all thinking, “he’s only 13, we can’t leave him like this but we can leave him with them.” It takes another four years for his family to realise he doesn’t live with them anymore and they are faced with the confrontation that they lost their brother and son all because of a house sorting

[kind-hufflepuff]

RON WEASLEY AESTHETIC

[march-on-26]

I know that some of you noticed that my art style is not consistent whenever I make a fanart, but I'm trying to find one. Just bear with me.

Anyways, another fanart for you all to see.

Silver Duo AU

I noticed that I didn't include Harry into this AU, so I added him on this one.

[ancient-depressed-druid]

i just want a fanfiction where ron is the one to go back in time, like, give me a ron weasley with enough maturity to not have an inferiority complex, give me him being a mastermind from a young age. give me him ending up in slytherin and having this frenemies relationship with draco. make this ron's chance to see the slytherin children as children and fight tooth and nail to help them. make harry have to deal with having his first friend be the one to tell him to chose gryffindor only for thesame child to end up in slytherin!

give me a pragmatic and extremelly intelligent ron tired from this bullshit enough to simply take his rat to dumbledore and be like: "this is an animagus, sirius is inocent, you done fuck up"

imagine him and the twins

also, him having 0 feelings for hermione bc THAT'S A CHILD. HIS WIFE IS NOW A CHILD AND EW, HE ISNT GONNA EVEN THINK ABOUT HER IN ANY WAY ROMANTIC OR CLOSE TO THAT. AND NO GROOMING FOR THE LOVE OF MERLIN

just

Ron Weasley, Slytherin menance

[melindaleehaha]

I couldn’t get it out of my head so there u go it’s Slytherin!Ron and Ravenclaw!Hermione. I think it’s interesting cause they are like the cold pallet versions of their canon selves.

[lazuli-writes]

Son

summary: Molly blames herself for what has happened to her son.

pairing: none

genre/warnings: angst / supposed-major character death / flashbacks pertaining to disownment, disavowal & angry parents / mentions of parents hitting their child / parent mourning the supposed loss of their child

estimated word count: 5200 words

a/n: Hi there, I’m glad I’m at a point where I feel comfortable in reuploadi g my fics here again. This is part 1 of a series so please check out my masterlist for more if you wish. Remember folks, copying other people’s works is plagiarism and that’s illegal. Don’t be that kind of person. Anyways, hope you all enjoy it :)

©little-lazuli. Do not copy, repost, or translate without permission

Molly gripped the wand closer to her chest. A cacophony of thoughts ensnaring her mind as she fell to her knees, sobbing, her heart shattering over and over and over again.

Her son. Her youngest son. Her baby boy.

Butchered by the vile and depraved witch of Bellatrix Lestrange. Right before the eyes of two of his brothers. There was nothing left of her son, other than a crater and Ron’s fir wood wand.

No formation of words could describe the pain she felt. No amount of tears could show just how bad it hurt. And no amount of blood she could take, could possibly be enough to sate Molly’s heart.

Her baby boy, her Ronnie, was gone.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

Her son was gone, and she could only blame herself.

Molly could only sit there, wailing. Gripping the wooden prize close to her chest as she bared her soul out to the world, mourning the death of her Ronnie. Her thoughts traveling, replaying all of the moments she shared with her son—more importantly, the moments she would regret the most concerning her baby boy.

She didn’t register Fred’s sobs or the way he was gasping out his apologies for not saving his youngest brother.

She paid no mind to the way Percy was shaking almost uncontrollably due to the strength of his crying.

She couldn’t even notice the way Arthur seemed to collapse in on himself. His own pain and culpability eating away at him like a parasite.

Molly was too consumed to watch how one by one—and with the arrival of Bill, Fleur and Charlie—her family caved in on themselves at the news of her sixth son’s demise.

She was just too busy feeling guilty.

Guilt consumed her as she thought of all the ways she failed as a mother.

How many times did she force him away?

Why wasn’t she there to save him from that wretched monster? What was so wrong with her as a mother that she couldn’t help her own child in their greatest hour of need?

•••

There was a time when Ron was only seven. He seemed so happy one morning. But now, all Molly could see in that memory of how she had dismissed him so easily.

“Mummy, wanna play with me?” A seven year old Ron asked, holding his chessboard—courtesy of Arthur’s father, Septimus Weasley.

Molly didn’t even spare him a second glance before returning her eyes to Ginny. The two witches sat on the dining table, the younger learning to play gobstones.

“Sorry Ronnie, but I already promised Ginny I would play with her.” Molly said, laughing out with Ginny as her daughter finally managed to knock the gobstone from the center.

“Could I play with Ginny and you too?” Ron asked lightly, still holding that beautiful smile of his.

“Sorry sweetie, go find your brothers maybe.”

And he was off, and out of Molly’s hair.

Why did she do that? How could she dismiss her baby boy as if he was nothing more than a nuisance?! How could she do that to him!

•••

There was that time she had found out about Ron’s sorting via the twins. And in her shock, she was speechless.

Even after receiving two pleading letters from her baby boy himself. She still was quiet. Molly was too far in her own head to realize that two months had passed before she ever sent a response.

Dear Ronald,
I hope all is well and that you are safe throughout your time in school. I apologize for the late response, but I needed some time to recuperate from the news of your sorting. Slytherin. My son, alone in the house of snakes. I will not lie to you and say that I am proud of your sorting. I am not. I am afraid. I am frustrated. I am lost. Are you well there? Are you being bullied? Why did the sorting hat believe you belonged there? What morals did the hat say you have? Did I fail you as a mother? Did me and your father falter in our love for you? I just don’t understand how this is possible, Ronald. Please know that me and your father do still love you with all our hearts, but understand that we are going to talk about this in depth the next time we meet.
Your mother, Molly Weasley

It only took her four years to see the fruition of this labor, in how Ron easily found comfort in Gianna Greengrass’ arms. Molly at the time didn’t know what it could have been at the time.

Why was her son so close to his friend’s mother? Why did this other woman dare to call Ron one of her own? Ronnie is her’s… not this stranger’s!

Yet now, Molly knew she was wrong once again. She had thought initially that Ron sought out the materialistic gains Gianna Greengrass could provide that Molly never could. But no… Ron isn’t materialistic. He never has… never was like that. He instead found a mother’s attention, something that he had craved… needed all his life. The attention Molly never gave him.

•••

And then there was when he had formally introduced Daphne—the girl who had stolen his heart—to the rest of the family. Ginny, the twins and Percy had already held their own opinions on the girl who had captured her baby boy’s heart. And though Percy regarded the girl as fierce and loyal, the twins and Ginny had other views.

“She’s as much of a snake as any other mum!”

“She’s so rude to us every time we try to talk to Ron and she’s there.”

“He doesn’t even stop her either! She’s truly mental mum.”

It was comments like this that set the foundation of how Molly viewed the Greengrass girl. Her mind at the time could only center around exactly how this… this… enchantress bewitched her son. Her kind and sweet baby boy. How could he have latched himself to someone apparently so demeaning?

“Thank you so much for supper Mrs. Weasley, it seems Ron was correct in his assessment of you being a goddess in the kitchen.” Daphne announced kindly, honest brown orbs following Molly’s own hazel eyes.

Molly could barely manage a genuine smile to grace her face. Her mind swarmed with less than kind thoughts every time she saw the Greengrass girl graze or touch Ron’s hand or shoulder, or when Ron would whisper in her ear before cracking an adorable grin as she laughed, or every time she saw Fred roll his eyes, George grimace or Ginny glare any time the young couple conversed. It was a true wonder dinner hadn’t been disturbed by her children’s typical quarreling.

“Thank you Daphne, Ron was indeed correct on that part.” Arthur’s cool voice sounded out, cutting off any potential witty comments the twins had prepared. Thank the gods above for Arthur.

“Yeah mum, thanks for dinner! It’s always amazing every time you’re in the kitchen!”

Ron’s cheery voice brought a true smile to the matriarch’s face as she prepared to fret over her sweet baby boy, only to have Ginny, sitting beside Ron, retort first.

“Of course it’s amazing, why wouldn’t it be?”

The ice and malice in the short quip could be felt leagues away, and all it brought about was Ron losing his smile and glancing at his little sister in annoyance.

“What are you on about?” Ginny sneered at Ron’s words. And Molly could only sigh in exhaustion, clearly seeing where exactly this was going.

And apparently, so did the twins.

“Why nothing ickle ronniekins”

“Nothing at all”

“Just a genuine question that’s all”

“From our lovely little sister”

“Nothing too bad, am I right Georgie?”

“Right, you are Freddie.”

Ron could only glare across the tables at the duo, the twins sporting smirks, as Ginny maintained a side-eyed glare towards Daphne and Ron.

Again, Molly gathered her thoughts, with every intention of cutting off any argument to come, and once again, she was just a second too late.

“Must you always antagonize your brother?”

Silence reigned supreme amongst those at the dinner table for a good minute. Everyone, digesting Daphne’s blunt words as both teenage witches stared in a severe contest of wills.

Molly was speechless and yet her mind ran rampant. How did it come to this? It was supposed to be a sweet dinner for this Yule break. Was this the side of Daphne that Ginny and twins were talking about? She had hoped it wouldn’t be true?

“Uh… I think that this has been a long night… best to-“ Arthur began before being interrupted by his enraged daughter.

“What’s your problem Greengrass!? Can’t go a single day without reminding everyone of your self-righteousness!”

Daphne’s severe look broke into one of confused shock, clearly bewildered in comparison to both Ginny’s glare and words, “What are you talking-“

“You think you’re better than us! Always flaunting your better manners and your daddy’s money, it’s all your fault Ron’s become a bloody prat!”

Molly gasped, barely muttering out “language” at her daughter's crude words before Ron turned on to his sister.

“Cut it out Ginny! You’ve been nothing but a crazy bint ever since you met Daph-“

Molly didn’t hesitate to defend her only girl.

“Ronald, stop yelling at your sister! Must you be so crass?!”

And somehow, someway, that line alone set the fire off in her youngest son’s eyes and heart. Looking back, Molly couldn’t really remember how exactly the argument traveled from the dining table, to the living room. But after constant screams of unnecessary wrath, Ron and Molly stood face to face, voices roaring, spitting venom towards one another.

At the time, Molly’s internal fire only seemed to be fueled at the thought of her son being nothing but disrespectful. Yelling at his sister, and later the twins that night. Shrugging off Arthur’s comforting and peacemaking attempts, ignoring Molly’s own shouts in favor of escorting Daphne out for the floo, that was the last straw for the elder witch.

“RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY! You stop ignoring me this instant!!”

“Or what?!”

“How DARE you?!”

Mother and son both held faces as red as their hair, eyes burning, hearts roaring with wrath.

“WHY ARE YOU BEING SO DISRESPECTFUL! YOU WANTED THIS DINNER AND YET YOU GO AROUND SCREAMING AT YOUR SIBLINGS AND YOUR OWN PARENTS!”

“I WASN’T THE ONE THROWING RUDE REMARKS ABOUT MY GUEST AT EVERY CHANCE POSSIBLE!”

“AND THAT SOMEHOW EXCUSES YOUR HORRID BEHAVIOR RIGHT NOW!?”

“AS IF I’M BEING MORE HORRIBLE THAN THEY WERE NOT EVEN TWENTY MINUTES AGO!”

Molly took a breath, fighting to maintain the growing eruption that she knew was brewing beneath her already infuriated stance. The infamous Prewett temper exuded itself in totality from both mother and son.

Molly took another breath. Her voice restraining the lashing it had initially intended to unleash.

“Ronald… I will not tolerate anymore of this behavior. Please escort Daphne back to the fireplace and then go straight to your room”

Ron didn’t even have the chance to intrude on his mother’s fierce command.

“Me and your father will speak to your siblings and then we will be upstairs to talk to you”

She ignored the way his narrowed eyes seemed to challenge her own, almost daring her to strike, to give him casus belli. As unnerving as it was, Molly persisted.

“A conversation concerning your behavior is long overdue Ronald. As long as you remain under this roof, you will retain the respect your father and I taught you to carry yourself with. I am your mother Ronald, and you will do as I say.”

Molly could feel the brief sigh of relief come from Arthur as the smallest of smiles graced his lips, probably glad that Molly had diffused the situation all on her own. The couple however seemed to completely forget about their youngest son—who seemed ready to burst in pure fury. The older witch didn’t think her son could possibly say anything that would conflict with her own final demands.

And yet he did.

And the verbal flogging, the seven words that seemed to spill from her baby boy’s mouth was the final straw. Seven words that broke any restraint Molly had retained only seconds ago.

“Some mother you are, aren’t you mum?”

Time froze for the smallest fraction, and Molly didn’t even register how far and how fast her rage had carried her, but after blinking she had realized that the back of her hand stung viciously. And stumbling back before her was her youngest son.

Grasping at his cheek, eyes stinging with tears, Molly’s breath hitched. She struck him. She hit her own child.

Molly didn’t have time to apologize. She didn’t register the way Ginny and Daphne had shrieked, or the way the twins stood frozen and silent or how Arthur had screamed in shock. She didn’t even have the chance to even move out of the culpable stupor she was in before Ron moved away. Roughly scraping away tears, and the traces of blood from the tiny scratch that now marred his cheek, Ron tugged Daphne away before heading to the floo.

Her mouth ran as fast as her feet after her son. Apologies spilling, Arthur in a similar state, with frustrated pleas for peace coming from his lips.

But her fierce, strong, proud and hurt baby boy left, gone in a flash of green fire along with Daphne. Away from her. From his own mother, who hurt him.

•••

And the worst of it was seen on that disastrous night. That horrible night.

It was supposed to be a peaceful summer hols, Molly and Ron and had made up from their fight back in December. The twins had already left the Burrow to start their shop in London, Ron was entering his sixth year and Ginny her fifth. The only worry on her mind was whether or not Percy was alright, but she had faith in her boy’s strength and tenacity.

Though she would be lying if she still didn’t worry about him every single hour of every passing day. The war had begun in earnest not long after Ginny, Harry and their friends exposed Voldemort to the world. And now she could only hope they would leave her family untouched just a little longer.

But the expected calm shattered when Ginny screamed. Fear held Molly hostage as she bolted into action, racing down the stairs of her home, hoping to any and all higher beings that no monsters had come to her home, for her family.

Imagine her utter disbelief when she had discovered that the monster wasn’t some bigoted pure-blood looking to kill some blood traitors. But rather her own son, who’s eyes were shining with tears, trying to hide the wretched black marks gracing his left forearms. Molly kept herself frozen in utter shock, incredulity, rage and despair.

Ronald had the mark. The dark mark.

The proof laid bare for Ginny, Arthur and Molly, as they stood across from the sixth Weasley boy. Ron was shaking, shivering in fear, silent tears spilling out from his eyes as they graced the floor rather than his own family. And whilst Molly once again was left speechless, her daughter and husband were not.

Ginny raged with both fury and hurt. Hundreds of ‘How could you?’ And words like ‘traitor’ or ‘snake’ spilling out from her mouth. Molly’s eyes moistened as she watched her daughter scream at her ever so silent brother. And the elder witch couldn’t help but silently agree.

How could her own flesh and blood do this? Did she not raise him right? Did he really have no care for others? Was he truly a monster all this time? So many had died fighting to protect the chance for a world of peace and equity, her own brothers Fabian and Gideon, everything they fought for… how could her own child spit on this dream? She didn’t raise her children to be this way. If that was true, then was this boy standing before her… was he truly her son?

After stewing in her thoughts for a moment or two longer, Molly returned to the present as she watched the scene before her. Arthur held a crying Ginny and his face. Oh Merlin…

The look of the purest ire and wrath found itself plastered upon her husband’s face. It was a face she had only seen once in her long life with him. The night she tried to avenge her brothers’ deaths. Arthur raged, shouted and tore Molly a whole new perspective. It was the most terrifying display of his love that Molly had seen come from her husband. She remembers that night, Arthur demanding to know why she thought abandoning their children for revenge was worth it. She had never been so ashamed of herself in her entire life.

But seeing that look again, Arthur, her doting, caring, loving husband… looking upon one of their children that way reawakened the defensive motherly instincts within Molly.

Molly raced, standing between Ron and Arthur, her husband scowling through her as Ron whimpered and hid behind her. Her heart started to crack under the pressure, the waves of conflicted and painful emotions began to drown Molly completely.

Arthur will not break Ron with his words, her baby boy wouldn’t survive such a tongue lashing, especially not in this state! But my son… my youngest son… a death eater… There are no words to describe my utter contempt. Why did he do this? WHY?!
“How could you do this Ron?” The eeriness in Arthur’s smooth tone only seemed to smother the other three Weasleys with pure fear.

Molly maintained her defiant eyes as Arthur ignored her, focusing his hard and frozen eyes on the boy behind her. Even Ginny who now stood behind Arthur was quite in her despair, now eyeing her father with the tiniest looks of terror.

Ron could only whimper and sniffle in response, clearly too shaken to even formulate a response.

“ANSWER ME BOY!”

Her son sobbed harder, trying to shrink his lanky build behind her further. Molly didn’t want this. This summer was supposed to be good. Peaceful. A respite from the terrors from the war that was already consuming their community. And yet, the war has already struck her family. And it has stolen another son from her.

“Arthur please-“

“NO MOLLY!”

Molly could barely stop herself from jumping in shock at her husband’s tone.

“Arthur stop!”

“HOW COULD YOU DO THIS RON?! WHY-“

“I had to dad! I had to!” Ron mewled out painfully, still withering under his father’s eyes.

Molly turned to her boy. Gripping him by the shoulders, it was second nature for Molly to comfort her children when they were in pain. And despite her lingering disgust at the odious black mark on her son, Molly still held him close. Enveloping Ron into her bosom, leaving no room for her baby boy’s tears to escape.

In that moment, the way her son shivered, the way he let his tears fall free with no care, the way he gripped unto Molly the same way when he was naught but a toddler, the way he inhaled her soothing essence, and exhaled a sigh of genuine peace and content… Molly knew her son was truly her son.

Her son was no monster. Her Ronald was no death eater. Her Ronnie was her baby boy. And she despises that small fraction of time that she doubted such a thing.
“Get out.”

Three pairs of eyes found its way to the fuming form of the Weasley patriarch. Molly turned to her husband, her own eyes beginning to match that of her two youngest babies. No Arthur! Please! He’s our son!
“D-Dad-“

“GET OUT!”

Arthur’s shout cut off the meek voice of his son.

Molly could only grip her son to her own person closer. Refusing to let him leave. Refusing to let her son fly away from her arms again. And despite the menacing glare her husband shined down upon both mother and son, Molly stood strong, defiant, with all of her will standing against that of the man she loves.

“Arthur. No.”

Molly barely breathed those words out before Arthur stomped forward. Ginny squeak her own terror out, silently crying, falling back against the nearest wall, slowly gliding down to the floor as she watched the scene before her.

Molly hadn’t the time to register what was happening before Arthur began again.

“You bring that disease into this house. You dare to spit on everything your mother and I raised you to believe in”

Arthur ripped Ron out of her arms, ignoring the cries and pleas of his own wife and son as he gripped Ron by the collar of his shirt.

Molly gasped, throwing herself into the fray. “ARTHUR STOP IT!”

Despite her best efforts, Molly couldn’t get around the gangly form of her husband who all but hauled Ron towards the door.

“Your mother and I tried our damn hardest Ronald! Praying! Hoping! That maybe you would still be our son by the time you finished school! BUT FOOLS WE WERE”

Ron began to pull against his father’s arms, pulling free for the faintest second, barely grasping Molly before Arthur grasped him again. Throwing him at the door. And then it happened.

“D-Dad…. Please!”

Molly froze as she heard the sorrowful plea come from her baby boy. There she stood, watching her son, back laid against the door. Arthur between her and Ron, staring down like a beast, with fire, ice, storms and pure wrath and ferocity lingering in his eyes. Face red and fists clenched. Molly had never felt dread and fear like this. Arthur wouldn’t harm his kids in anger. Never. Right?

“Please… let me explain da… please.”

Tears falling down both wizards' faces, Arthur shook his head at Ron’s begging.

“No son of mine would have ever done what you’ve done Ron. You shame the Weasley name. You shame your mother and her family. You need to leave.”

Molly shook as the tears flooded her face. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t have another son away from her. Percy was all alone. That alone was too much to handle. She wouldn’t let her last boy be forced away! He’s not even of age! He’s still a child! Her child!

“Dad…. Please…” Ron sobbed out once more. But it was all for naught because Arthur was too far gone in his anger to care.

“You are no son of mine… You are no Weasley any longer. Get out. And don’t ever return.”

The silence that followed Arthur’s declaration was deafening. Molly was numb. Stunned into near paralysis as her husband’s words sunk in. And in the silence, all four Weasleys’ hearts broke at the patriarch’s command.

The hurt that presented itself in totality on Ron’s face was too much for Molly to handle. His eyes wide, smothered by tears, body shivering, hands pressed close to his chest, as if praying for his father’s words to be a figment of his imagination. Molly’s heart felt like it was getting stomped on, and still she was unprepared for the pain that came from what happened next.

“Please Da—”

Arthur cut Ron off, ripping his wand out from his pocket and pointed it at the face of her baby boy. Molly screamed in fear at the act, charging forward.

“GET OUT!”

For Ron, the sight of his father—the man who he had looked up to all his life, the man who’s love, pride and respect were once Ron’s greatest desire—raising his wand, screaming, with a look almost akin to hate, strangled Ron’s soul with fear. Never in his entire life had the young wizard felt so afraid in his life. The fear that gripped his very being was unparalleled in encapsulating Ron… slithering around his soul like a basilisk, gripping him, strangling him, leaving him a mangled mess. Ron was terrified of his father. And the realization was too heavy a burden to carry.

Ron did the only thing he could do. He fled. Flinging the door open, Molly watched as Ron sprinted for the hills, sobs echoing, tears spilling from his cheeks and snot locking his airways as he ran.

The elder witch initially gave chase, but the sudden grip on her arm brought her to a halt. Arthur, for all the love that she knew he had in his heart, not a single drop of this love made itself present on his face. Despite the tears clashing against his wrathful look, Molly stared into her husband’s soul. She gritted her teeth, almost daring for Arthur to stop her any longer from pursuing her son.

“Molly… don’t. He’s… he’s no so—“

She didn’t even spare him the courtesy of finishing his weak revelation. Cutting off his somber and hurtful words with her own, laced with fury.

“If you even dare to say he’s not my son, Arthur… I swear by all of those above and below…. Let go of my arm RIGHT NOW ARTHUR WEASLEY!”

Arthur’s grip went limp as he remained stock still, aggressive yet aggrieved in his current state. Almost in disbelief at the show of love and loyalty Molly had. And for someone who had spit on everything the old couple had believed in. He couldn’t understand it, yet Molly didn’t care. Her mind focused only on her baby boy.

“Why Molly? Why do you wound us further… what comes from wanting him here?!”

Arthur’s words almost seemed like a slap in the face to Molly. She erupted at her husband’s ignorance… his cruelty… his lack of sight. But most of all, for his refusal to love their son, flaws and all. It hurt her so much to see that this is what it boiled down to—she always knew Ron’s relationship with both Arthur and herself was strained. But love was still there. On both ends of the street. Yet, somehow, Arthur’s love wasn’t there, not for Ron. And it infuriated her to no end.

In that split second, at hearing the way Arthur could be so blinded in his wrath, that he could not even feel the love she knew he had, she felt herself fall back to barely a year prior… to the way Arthur and Percy had fought. In the aftermath, she saw her third boy feel unloved, unwanted, unneeded and divided from his family. How could this current situation be any different? She couldn’t let Ron leave, not now, not ever! She couldn’t lose another one of her babies.

“I WILL NOT LOSE ANOTHER SON ARTHUR!”

Molly pushed past a silent and still Arthur, rushing for her son who bolted out the door only moments ago.

“Ronnie!”

In the distance, she could make out only a tall shadow, racing up the hill, away from the Burrow. The faint silver gleam of the moon granting her a look of the back of her son’s form.

“RON WAIT!”

Molly charged forward, holding her long skirt up as she raced to meet her son. Hoping to any and all that she could stop Ron from passing the wards of their home.

“RON PLEASE!!” THUD

Molly fell forward after she cried out again for her son. Her body giving out as a rock caught her foot. Landing on her hands and knees—which she was sure held bruises and scrapes, littered with mud—she kept her eyes forward, facing the retreating teen.

Molly’s heart skipped a beat as she watched on. Ron had paused, an aggrieved look scanning the scene behind him. Molly could feel his heart break as she saw him witness her injured self recuperate. Standing up and dusting herself off, she could feel the world recompose itself as she gestured that she was alright.

“M-Mum… you’re hur–“

“I’m okay Ron.” Molly called out to the shivering boy some fifteen meters ahead of her.

“Mummy… I’m sorr—“

“I’m okay son. We’re gonna be okay Ron.”

Molly held back her own sobs as she watched her baby boy be consumed by his own tears. It was like he was toddler all over again. Crying for her love, her affection.

One step. Two steps. And another. Molly inched closer and closer to her youngest boy, who stood like a statue, frozen in time, with only shivers and tears as signs to his humanity. She was so close, so close to reaching her son, who stood only a few steps away from the last of the wards surrounding the Burrow. Only a few more bated breaths and a few more soft steps forward and her son would be back in her arms.

Yet, it wasn’t meant to be as she heard the door to her home slam open once more, releasing Arthur and Ginny from its threshold. Molly didn’t need to look behind her to know what had captured Ron’s attention in totality. Arthur, who was still gripping his wand. Molly almost cried out in frustration as she saw the wheels churn in her son’s eyes, his beautiful sky blue orbs, filling themselves with dread, terror, fear.

She only caught his eyes for the smallest second. She could feel the echoing of his silent apologies flow through the air between them. And Molly could only cry further as she failed once more. Running for him once more, the elder witch was too late to take hold of her son as he apparated away after passing the last ward.

And as he was whisked away to a place unknown, Molly finally broke. Collapsing to the floor with her sorrow, she cried as she did herself in.

Why did she stop? She could have easily moved faster! Why didn’t she spare him from Arthur’s wrath? Why did she fail her son again?! What will happen to Ron? What if they hurt him? Did they give him the mark to keep him a prisoner?! How long have they been hurting my baby?! He’s not even of age! They’re gonna kill my baby boy!!!!

She failed again as a mother. And this time, it just might be the one that could cost her her son for good.

•••

It was this truth that broke Molly.

She failed as a mother. She failed her baby boy. She failed her son, her Ronnie.
And the proof was right there. Held close to her chest, a survivor's wand who had lost its long and rigorous battle. Forced to survive a world without the support of his family. Without the support of his mother.

She didn’t even have her son’s remains to hold and caress one last time. No physical manifestation for her to beg… beg to come home to her. No corpse to apologize over. No ashes to cry and scream over. There was nothing left.

Only that gods be damned crater and his wand.

This truth screamed at her as she heard her sobs joined by that of her traumatized sons Percy and Fred. She could hear it in the whimpers of George and Arthur as they held each other, in the comforting words that Fleur tried to say to a wailing Ginny. Even in the ragged breathing of Bill who held a broken Charlie close to his chest.

Her family was shattered. And it was all her fault.

She did it. She lost her baby boy. Her little Ronnie… her son was dead.

Molly could only scream louder as that truth nestled into her soul.

[blueberrycasanova]

i think dumbledore was growing weed in the forbidden forest the whole time and that’s why it was forbidden. that’s also why he acts the way he does.

[incorrectharrypotterblog]

Hermione: why are threesomes only for sex

Hermione: why can’t I join in on a couples argument if I want to

[heartthrobin]

the hate game (1)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 13.3k

warnings: enemies to lovers, so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, super grumpy!oliver, oliver's scottish accent (it's a warning in itself), alcohol consumption, super! duper! cheesy! (sorry not sorry)

an: just survived the worst two weeks of my life, but the fic is finally here! this fic was originally a full 50 chapter fic i had planned for wattpad like three years ago but i found my draft for it recently and decided it needed a revival. so enjoy it, and don't forget to comment and repost to support your favourite writers :)

summary: the only thing more grating than Oliver's foul moods and his permanent scowl, has to be the fact that he's so damn pretty. you fucking hate him for it.

part two/final part

Movies, as is their premise, glamourise plenty of things - high school, politics, tiny Greek islands - but none more than the classic sucker-punch.

The teeth-crunching, blood-spitting moment where skin meets skin in a satisfying thump that sends an unsuspecting victim to the floor. Music plays and the hero grins, grabbing the girl round the waist: dipping low to kiss her.

What’s consistently (conveniently) left out is how bloody painful it is to be on the sending end of that fist.

The first, and only, time you’d ever punched someone was in second year.

It had seemed like a great idea in the moment, quickly succeeded by the mind-numbing pain that shot up your arm where knuckle met face.

You’d aimed for his jaw, but as it turns out: in addition to painful, punching someone wasn’t a particularly accurate sport for a beginner and your slippery skin found a round-tipped nose instead.

A collective gasp and a month’s worth of detention waited for you on the other side of your act of rage.

And sure, while afternoons in Snape’s classroom every Friday sucked: it was all worth it.

Every purple knuckle that throbbed with the slightest brush, the points lost to Hufflepuff, the pages and pages of Hogwarts Does Not Condon Physical Violence you’d been forced to write was worth seeing the trickle of blood running down from Oliver Wood’s nose.

To see that smug fucking look wiped clean from his face. To watch how he doubled over in pain, grappling onto his friend for balance.

“Tyler fancying you? Any bloke would rather snog a goblin.”

His little comment had earned him a broken nose.

It had been the start of a five year long feud.

It’s the reason - now - why the ground is racing up to meet you, the nose of your broomstick pressed down towards it and wind whipping so hard against your face it draws tears. You knock into the ground, catching yourself on wobbly legs. A few feet away, Oliver Wood has done the same.

He’s marching towards you with the same ferocity that’s curdling in your chest:

“Tha’s blatching and you know it!” His accent is ringing, thick and blistering with heat like it always is when he talks to you. At you, rather.

The accusation is crystal clear, and loud despite the echoing din of the quidditch stands above. From the field where you're parked, you can hear the chatter and the cheers and the boos all conglomerating into a fuzzy uproar.

There’s still twelve brooms floating in the air, spewing irritated shouts from players in both yellow and red:

Just let it go, Wood!

Come on, Cap, can we just finish the match please!

You promptly ignore them. Oliver follows suit.

“What?” You scoff, face hot as a kettle on a lit stove. “As if Laurel and Hardy haven’t been elbowing my girls all game!”

It goes without saying that you’re referring to Gryffindor’s red-head twin-set of beaters.

“Bullshit.” He seethes, it’s purposefully quiet enough that McGonagall’s approaching figure doesn’t pick it up.

She, unlike yourself, is less patient and knobby vein-webbed hands come out to knock you both against your chests: widening the gap to a safe enough distance between the opposing captains.

“You two are exhausting.” And she sounds it too. Her glasses tremble at the edge of her nose, sun shining down on her aged face. "If one more match this season is interrupted because you two can't control your tempers, you will both be stripped of captainship and you will not fly until you graduate. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

But Oliver isn't looking at her. His eyes are focused on yours over her cloaked shoulder.

He's taking the predictable route of not replying first.

"Crystal clear, Professor." You resign to speaking first, skewing a grin at his anger-sewn face.

It’s another long boring moment before he cuts his gaze from yours, kicks up a patch of grass and grits through his teeth.

“Yes, professor.”

As can be imagined, things between you and Oliver Wood have been tense since the day he’d hobbled up to the hospital wing with a palm over his face and blood dripping down over his already red tie.

But with age, came ferocity, and what started as passing glares in the corridor melted into anger-drowned faces and sharp words flung with intent to scar.

Things got infinitely worse when you were elected captain of the Hufflepuff quidditch team in the same year Oliver was made captain for Gryffindor. It stoked the already sizzling embers that made moments around him warm and stuffy and hard to breathe.

The murky history swirled with what should be friendly competition, instead frothing into a bubbling pot of annoyed teammates and exasperated teachers and more sessions of detention than you would have ever had if you'd never met the son of a bitch that is Oliver Wood.

It's what puts you in situations like the ones you find yourself in the middle of before you even know how you got yourself there.

"You two," Professor Burbage had never held you in particularly high favour. It was just your luck that Oliver received the same courtesy. "One more word out of either of you and I will be seeing both of you this afternoon for detention in my classroom."

It was even unluckier that she'd sat you two barely three wizards away from one another and one fly-away comment had blown out into another heat-filled exchange. It always does.

"But professor--" you try.

"Right then. I'll see you both at five o' clock."

Oliver sighs, hands running up over his head between chestnut locks: "Fucking perfect. Thanks, big-mouth."

"Would you like to make it two days, Mr Wood?"

He huffs like an angry dog, tightening the grip on his writing-feather but says nothing else.

The end of the lesson doesn't come soon enough and when it does, Oliver is first out of his seat. You're grateful for it.

Cherry bumps you in the shoulder where she throws her bag over it. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"

You grin, despite the sunken feeling hollowing your chest with the acknowledgment that you're gonna be spending yet another afternoon at the mercy of an under-paid staff member alongside the hothead that was the Gryffindor captain.

"Come on, that wasn't my fault and you know it."

Her tight red curls dance when she shakes her head. They match her blood red tie. "Somehow it never is."

To your dismay, but not surprise, Enzo shares Cherry's views when he waltzes into step beside you in the corridor between Muggle Studies and Divination. His arm drapes over your shoulders and his tall frame shakes when he laughs.

"You know," his voice is thick and gravelly. "You two are gonna have to fuck it out eventually."

You roll your eyes, shoving him off you with a chuckle. The sentiment isn't anything new. "Oh, shut up."

The day folds blurrily between classes and lunch and greenhouse visits that by the time you look up it's just about five o clock.

Burbage's office door stares down at you.

The corridor is ghostly all the way behind you and it's emptiness means it's easy to make out Oliver's heavy footsteps down the stone floor. They're not slow, in an arrogant strut, neither quick like he has somewhere to be.

He trudges. Like the weight of the world is strapping him to invisible pins in the floor. It's easy to figure that your existence doesn't lighten his load any.

You don't turn. He simply falls into place beside you, keeping a good foot distance between your tightened shoulders.

The door opens.

Charity Burbage is insufferable in the way that she forces you and Oliver to sit almost on top of each other behind a scratched up desk where she can watch you under the curtain of her ratty blond hair.

You inch the chair dramatically away from Oliver's.

She's set a stack of pages by him and a wet stamp. "Stamp these and sign the date."

Additionally, she's dropped a stack of envelopes under your nose. "Tuck and seal. When you're done, you can leave."

You eye the papers. There must be hundreds.

To Whom It May Concern,

Hogwarts would like to remind all parents and guardians that the third-years will require prior permission before being allowed to visit the nearby village of Hogsmeade--

You jump when Oliver's elbow knocks yours (more violently than what was really necessary). He holds the first page out to you silently, face dripping with impatience.

When you take the page, his thumb brushes yours.

The paper is delicate in your fingers where you fold it. You tuck and seal, and by the time you've set it aside Oliver is offering the next page to you again.

His thumb brushes yours for a second time.

You find that it does for every letter that's passed on.

It's hard not to watch him out the corner of your eye. Oliver has this dark brown, nearly black, hair that's thick and almost too long and untamed all over. It's matched by bushy eyebrows and speckled freckles over the bridge of his nose.

If you didn't hate him as much as you did, you might think he was pretty. You might think that anyway.

Time stretches until the sun is setting the classroom afire with golden light and it's boredom that causes it, or possibly a desire to hear his voice at such tight quarters, but you speak.

"You know," it's soft enough that Burbage doesn't look up from her Witch Weekly magazine. "Even if - in some act of God - Scotland qualifies for the semi-finals, Luxembourg is gonna flatten them. I mean, think about it unemotionally, Wood: they have Luca Schmit as seeker. It's really a no brainer--"

"Are y’really just stupid or are you purposefully trynna start another argument?" His gaze flickers up to eye Burbage's desk warily, she still doesn't react.

Maybe it's both. After all, the subject of the Quidditch World Cup had been what put you both there in the first place.

You shrug, unfazed by his scathing remark.

"I'm just trying to make conversation."

"Well don't."

His hand brushes yours again.

-

Every second Friday, generally at the tail-end of lunch, Hooch's grey barn owl swoops low over your head and drops a smaller-than-average white envelope right into your mashed potatoes. Cherry yelps in surprise every time.

Then you watch the bird drop the same over the Gryffindor, Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables.

Good afternoon,

Reminder of Captain's meeting this afternoon in my office. Six o' clock, don't be late.

Regards,

Madam Hooch.

The letter says the same thing it has since you became captain and it's a wonder you still take the effort to break the seal on the envelope.

But come six o' clock, you're traipsing towards the west end of the castle. Lavender streaks caress the sky under the last impression of sunlight through the ornate stone arch of the corridor windows and an autumn chill creeps up your arms where your sweater isn't thick enough.

Hooch's office is in a quiet alcove, nearly impossible to find if you didn't know where to look, and the lamps are lit. Beyond the door, you can hear voices: you grin.

The door creaks noisily where you push it open. Inside it's cramped and cluttered with shelves of quidditch equipment - broken brooms, punctured quaffles and loose kits draping every open surface - but it's warm and smells like leather and is maybe your favourite little room in the whole castle.

The quidditch legend herself, Rolanda Hooch, has her legs kicked up on her desk and the boys are standing ahead of it locked in animated chatter.

She's laughing at something they said, and smiles when you enter.

"Sorry I'm late, coach."

It's nothing new and she waves you in with a smile. "Come in, poppet."

"Merlin," Marcus' shoulder finds yours and the force of the bump nearly sends you off your feet. "You'd be late to your own funeral hey, Puffers?"

You laugh, shoving him back with as much force as you can muster against the giant brute that is Slytherin captain Marcus Flint. It barely nudges him but he barks out a laugh, rough like tractor tires over crumbly concrete.

"I'm worth the wait." You quip back, leaning around Marcus to wink at Roger Davies. "Isn't that right, Rodger?"

He flirts back, "Always, sweetheart."

Roger is the antithesis of Marcus: all pale skin, blue eyes and short blonde hair. Easy on the eyes.

Oliver lingers just behind him, the tallest of the captains. You catch his eye, face slipping into something more serious, and nod. "Hey, Wood."

He nods in return, curt like how a ministry wizard's might be.

"Right," Hooch sits up straight in her high-back chair. "There are just a couple things we need to get through tonight, we won't be long."

The dynamic between the captains would be easy, if not for Oliver.

You're the only girl and that made for tough beginnings. Marcus is naturally brash and brutish, but - as you found - easy to impress with a couple showy tricks on the broom. A single promise to show him how to pull off a Woollongong Shimmy had him eating out your hand: the favour of a couple Slytherins was generally hard to buy and invaluable to a plushy Hufflepuff such as yourself.

Roger popped out the womb with a wink at the nurse. Impeccably charming and impossibly negotiable. Beyond being slightly dim, it was hard to say a bad thing about the Ravenclaw captain

On the other hand, Oliver was … well, Oliver.

Hooch tapped the sharp end of a writing feather rhythmically at a spot on her desk, eyes roving her clipboard.

"Next week we're doing a clean up of the supply room down by the pitch. I've set you each up on days, the whole team needs to be down to help unless they're excused by a teacher: I want a written letter."

She offers a piece of parchment without looking up.

"As you all know, it's the Slytherin versus Ravenclaw game next week."

You bump your elbow to Marcus'. He looks down and grins a mouthful of crooked teeth before turning to Roger. "Ready, pretty boy?"

Roger rolls crystal blue eyes, but he's smiling too. "Bring it on, tough-shit."

"Oy," Hooch interrupts them with a cool sigh, "The last thing, you all submitted your autumn practice requests for the pitch: Roger, Marcus, you have the days you want--"

They nod. Your shoulders stiffen.

"--Oliver, Y/n. You both want Wednesday afternoons. Monday afternoon is open, I'll let you two decide between each other who is gonna move their practice. I want a decision before tomorrow night."

Marcus is sniggering under his breath. The edges of your mouth sink into a frown, of course he wants the same day as me.

You can feel the heat of Oliver's eyes on the side of your face. You don't indulge him, keeping your gaze settled on Hooch's face.

"We'll figure it out, coach."

"Unlikely." Roger's quip is barely a whisper but you catch it.

"Alright." Hooch doesn't. "You're dismissed, go get some dinner kids."

The office door bounces back off the stone wall where Marcus tosses it carelessly open, echoing all the way down the empty corridor.

Frosty air chases over your face and the boys start down towards the Great Hall. Roger is complaining about a potions essay he hasn't started and Marcus is shrugging him off with a suggestion that includes something along the vein of blackmailing a sixth year into doing it for him but you can't focus long enough to follow.

"Oliver." Irritation is prickling at the surface of your skin. It flares into an almost rash when he stops walking, glancing over his shoulder with an unconcerned expression. "Who's giving Wednesday up?"

His arms fold against his chest. You're working extremely hard not to look down where his biceps stretch the seams on his Hogwarts jumper. "Well, you obviously."

Marcus barks another laugh, he calls down the corridor: "We'll see you kids at dinner."

"Yeah, don't kill each other! It's only practice!"

You huff in disbelief, unconcerned with the running commentary.

"Uh," you mirror Oliver by folding your own arms. "no it's not. Come on, we can negotiate like civil people can't we?"

Thick caterpillar eyebrows disappear beyond the overgrowth hiding his forehead. "Negotiate? I'm the one who wasted three hours of my life in detention last week thanks to your big fat mouth. Wednesday is mine."

"That was a joint effort, twat." You can feel where your throat is flush with rising anger. It wires your jaw tight. "Are you really so bloody difficult that we can't even come to a simple agreement?"

"Difficult?" His arms have shifted from his chest to perch against his hips. "Just because I'm not giving you what you want? Cry me a fucking river, darling. Sorry Puffers, but I'm not your precious Marcus or Roger. I'm not gonna fold just cause you bat yer pretty little eyelashes at me."

Pretty?

You blink in surprise. It's brushed quickly aside for more pressing matters. Your hands scrunch into fists at your side:

"Well. I'm not giving it up. I want Wednesday."

"Neither am I."

"Fuck you."

"In your dreams."

-

Oliver collapses loudly into the open spot at the Gryffindor dining table. His callousness knocks Archie's goblet of pumpkin juice across the shiny wooden surface between dishes of sausages and peas and roast potatoes.

"Bloody hell, what's got you in a mood?" He's patting down the table with a serviette, transforming it into a orange lump under his palm.

Shaking his head, as if it would joggle the thought of you loose, Oliver stabs a chicken drumstick from the top of a nearby pile with his fork. He doesn't respond.

"Wait, let me guess." Archie presses the elbows of his red jumper into the still wet surface beside his plate. "Something to do with your little Hufflepuff sweetheart?"

Oliver grunted around a mouthful, looking annoyed. "Not mine and not a sweetheart. A fucking brat."

Archie seems to find something funny, leaning back on the bench with a haughty laugh. "Right. What she do this time?"

"Wants the pitch the same day as me for practice." He's mumbling around a mouthful of chicken, tipping forward to shove a spoon teetering with peas alongside it. "Refuses to give in, despite the fact that she put me in detention last week with Burbage."

Shifting to the edge of his seat, Archie leans around Oliver's frame to find your figure across the Hall at the yellow-lined table. He nods, seemingly finding you. "Yeah, she don't look too happy either."

"I don't care."

Oliver is trying very hard not to give into the itch to look back.

"Whatever," Archie's gaze finds his again. "in better news ... I spoke to the twins just before dinner. They're still on for tomorrow."

He's twitching in his seat, eyebrows dancing and grinning around his words like a kid who's found a matchbox.

Right. The twins.

Specifically, Daisy and Delilah Dawson: two Ravenclaw sisters a year below Oliver.

They're peng, Archie had reasoned, you need a little fling to get your mind off quidditch. You're too strung up, mate.

And sure, they were, but Oliver had more important things to do than gallivant across Hogsmeade attached to the hip of some sixth year who just wants to earn her I Kissed The Quidditch Captain! badge.

He'd groaned and whined and glowered at the prospect. Was it petulant? Naturally, but spending five sickles on subpar hot chocolate and making false conversation with some Ravenclaw was a waste of precious time in Oliver's humble opinion.

His priorities are, as they've always been, crystal clear in his mind.

1. Win Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup 2. Refer to point (1)

There was little wiggle room for the introduction of girls into any spot on that list.

You're the only one who came almost close to the tight list. Only because if there had to be a third priority, "shove winning the cup in Hufflepuff's face" might just crack it. He thought about you significantly more than any other girl in the castle and maybe that might mean something if he thought about too long about it, but fortunately, he refused to.

Regardless, Archie was adamant and more than a little pathetic when he mentioned that Daisy only agreed to see him if he had a date for Delilah. It was all settled very quickly.

And it's in this show of loyalty to his dearest friend that Oliver finds himself walking the cobblestone path down into Hogsmeade on a crisp Saturday morning.

The little village is bustling with students - it normally is - and the crowd has him knocking shoulders with Delilah who's walking in step beside him.

He's uncomfortable to find that she's staring dreamily up at the underside of his jaw.

On Oliver's other side: Archie is talking Daisy's ear off, making another pitiful attempt at holding her hand. He doesn't quite manage it and Oliver can't tell whether it's because she genuinely doesn't notice or she just can't be arsed.

"So," Delilah's voice is light and sweet. Delicate. "You mentioned that you take Arithmancy? I've heard it's tough."

Oliver nods airily. "Yeah ... yeah, it's difficult."

He tightens his jacket closer over his frame. The wind is whipping between their bodies and he thinks that maybe she didn't hear him over it's howling if her confused expression is anything to go by. He finds he's not bothered enough to repeat it.

The entrance of Madam Puddifoot's comes into view at the end of the walkway.

Oliver’s relieved. It's freezing out here and maybe he'll be more in the mood for flirtatious conversation once he's gotten some food in his stomach (Archie had insisted they skip breakfast: we have to order something to eat, so we can sit longer).

There's a jingle of a bell overhead when Archie pushes the door open, standing awkwardly aside to let the ladies in first.

Inside the shop, it's more than busy: powdery blue walls barely visible beyond the sea of Hogwarts couples crammed around tiny circle tables and waiters in red uniform knocking the back of their chairs with wobbling trays.

There's music coming from ... somewhere, it sounds like The Weird Sisters and at the sound, Oliver can't imagine how this morning could possibly go any worse.

Oh wait, yes he can.

You could be sitting at a table right by the door across a too-small-table knocking knees with some Slytherin prick. Like you are right there right now.

Delilah tugs on his wrist, it's gentle and he almost doesn't feel where he's being lead between tables towards an open booth across the room. He falls unceremoniously down against the torn leather, eyes never leaving your table.

You haven't noticed his presence, he knows because your lips are stretching around a giggle he can't hear but can already imagine. You don't smile around him, that's for sure.

Oliver's stomach is frothing and bubbling and he's trying really hard to tune back in where Archie's knocking a menu into his hand.

Of course you're there. To ruin his mood and his day, because you're just bloody perfect at it.

"So, am I seeing you girls at the Quidditch match on Saturday?" Archie's voice carries somewhere over his head.

Delilah laughs. Or maybe it's Daisy, Oliver doesn't look.

"Maybe," she says, "Depends if Oliver's gonna be there. You're gonna be there, right?"

He feels a hand nudge at his forearm. Definitely Delilah.

His gaze floats back over the table to offer a fraction of eye contact, he nods. "Oh, uh ... yeah. Sure, definitely."

Archie saves him by speaking again and your table finds Oliver's attention just in time for him to watch the boy sitting across from you swipe away a smudge of hot chocolate over your cheek. You smile, looking bashful and a little bit flushed.

A suffocating, searing heat rushes from the soles of Oliver's feet up between his every organ and over every tendril of hair on his head. His jaw tightens.

Of course he recognises the pratt across you.

Ryo Yoshida.

Every girl in the castle's wet dream, if the rumours he's heard are anything to go by. With his fucking sleek black hair and his Japanese accent that had witches flocking to him in the dozens.

He doesn't wonder why you're here with him.

Oliver is a proud man, but even he could admit that you're beautiful. Albeit reluctantly.

With your wide wet eyes that make him a little sick in a way that turns his stomach warm and the way you do your hair and those fucking dangly earrings that clink when you loose your cool on him.

That's without even mentioning the sound of your laugh - the one he only ever overhears - and your legs in the school uniform skirt and the way you look when you're diving on your broom under the light of a sunny day.

Alright, maybe he couldn't admit to all of it ... but you were okay.

Okay enough to crack a date with Ryo Yoshida or any other schmuck in the castle if you wanted.

"Anything good to eat here, Oliver?"

He pretends he doesn't hear her at first, but the kick at his shin under the table is harder to ignore.

Archie is glaring at him across the table. Dude, don't fuck this up for me.

Oliver's eyes find Delilah. She's scooted up close under his elbow and, to be fair to the poor girl, she was pretty too. Red lipstick smeared across her smiling lips, painted nails edging closer to his arm and perfectly styled hair sitting over her shoulder.

He nods, reaching for the menu: "Yeah. Actually, last time I had the Merlin Meal and it was pretty good."

She perks up, cherry red smile widening at his reply. "Oh, I thought that looked good!"

Training his eyes on the menu, Oliver wills himself not to look back at you. You're already souring his mood and you haven't even said a bloody word.

It's just what you do. What you do to him: infuriating him with the threat of an argument around any and every corner.

The waiter comes by and Oliver finds himself generous enough to gift Delilah with an arm draped over the back of her seat. She giggles and he pretends he doesn't notice when she mouths something that looked suspiciously like 'he's so hot' to her sister across the table.

Archie seems pleased too. Daisy has granted him, finally, her hand and his arm bends at an awkward angle to maintain the grip in hers under the table. He's positively beaming.

But despite Oliver’s best efforts to stay engaged, he still catches himself - only when it's too late - and his eyes are already glued to watching the way your jeans are hugging your thighs where you shift in your seat.

Your table is sat by the door. The chime of the bell calls for his gaze every time it tolls and every time he finds you let off a violent shiver in your seat as the autumn crisp rolls over your shoulders.

The door shuts again and you still.

Oliver can feel where the tips of his ears are burning red and his bones are itching: Ryo’s black suede coat is hanging over the back of his chair.

You’re still talking - hands rubbing together, fighting for warmth - he’s leaned over with his chin in palm to listen and his jacket sits unused behind his shoulders while you fucking shiver in the breeze.

It’s pathetic, really. He’s not sure whether he’s referring to himself or you: but Oliver is still looking and you’re still shaking like a leaf and he’s halfway to flipping tables to get to you and just give you his own fucking coat so you’ll stop shaking and stop annoying him—

“Oliver was just telling me about wanting to join the Hogwarts Choir.” He turns again to find Archie waiting with an expectant face, it's laced in a little bit of smugness: caught you. "Weren't you, mate?"

When he looks back you’re gone.

There's a short pile of sickles abandoned on the table and he hopes that Ryo at least had the good sense to pay for your drink after forcing you to sit in the freezing cold.

He shakes the thought off. Who cares.

In fact, he hopes you catch a cold.

-

The day passes like swimming through molasses: slow and sticky and exhausting.

It's nearly seven when Oliver presses a sympathy kiss into Delilah's cheek - Daisy allows for no such thing from Archie - and the two sisters skip off down the west wing corridor with a wiggle of their fingers over their shoulders at the boys.

"I think that went well." Archie's grinning, hands on his hip and glasses edging down his brown nose.

It's the first thing that genuinely brings a jolt of life out of Oliver all day. He teeters back on his heels, hands gripping his stomach where he laughs. Laughs like a madman.

"I think you need to get yer fucking head checked, mate."

The tail end of his outburst is simmering down, now barely a breathy chuckle, when a voice washes over him from down the other end of the corridor. "Wood!"

He'd recognise that voice anywhere. From the dead of sleep or the depth of the ocean.

He's slow when he turns on his heel, the remnants of his smile dripping all the way off the edge of his jaw until he's nearly frowning.

You're jogging, scarf bouncing at your shoulder with the movement, and coming to a stop right under his chin.

"What?"

There's a sharp edge to his tone - there always is - but he really hopes you haven't noticed how the syllable wobbled at the end. Now that you're right beneath his frame and not across the room, it's harder to ignore the lashes kissing at the corner of your eyes. You're wearing lip gloss and he knows it's for Ryo.

His stomach is churning and your face is twisting into something he is struggling to recognise.

"I--" your hands wring, eyes flickering behind to where Archie's watching curiously (you wave awkwardly). "You ... you can have Wednesday."

It's not what Oliver is anticipating. He almost takes a full step back in surprise.

"Why?"

Your eyes roll in a comfortably familiar way, "Because Hooch wants an answer tonight and one of us had to be the bigger person."

His brow tightens, eyes roving down the stitching of your sweater. It's cute. He's quiet.

"You not gonna argue?" You throw your words quickly, snatching them back before he can answer: "Perfect. I'll send her an owl before bed."

You're marching back down the corridor before he has chance to say anything else and he's watching your retreating figure with the hope - that he’s not gonna address - you’re not going to cozy up somewhere in the Slytherin dorm room.

“Well.” Archie’s running a hand over his thick black curls. “That was unexpected.”

Oliver huffs. “It’s been a weird day.”

-

An uneasy air has settled over Hogwarts.

It came in like a storm front, drifting in on the wind that dropped the article at the door of the castle. 

The same copy of The Daily Prophet has been doing the rounds between dormitories and class rooms all week: Sirius Black, Azkaban’s most infamous prisoner and recent escapee, has been sighted in Dufftown by an astute Muggle, The Daily Prophet reports. 

Dufftown. A barely twenty minute ride by carriage from Hogwarts bridge. 

It’s got the castle on edge, it’s got you on edge. Creeping around the castle like Sirius Black is gonna jump out from around any corner. 

Dumbledore stationing dementors at the edges of the castle was the tipping point for the cold drip of trickling fear in your chest that's become easy to ignore in daylight - when Cherry and Enzo are flittering around you between classes - but in moments like these, like now, when you’re on the tail end of a quidditch practice, grow like a poisonous black vine up around every nerve in your body. A Monday night, the team’s kit weighing heavy in your arms - broomstick tucked precariously in the bend of one elbow - and following the siren call of the dormitory showers. 

You’d promised the team you’d get them to the house elves before the upcoming match on Saturday. The match against Gryffindor. 

But for tonight, they’re gonna live in a pile at the end of your bed. 

You’re exhausted: calves burning, sweat sticking loose hairs to your forehead and probably smelling like wet socks and broomstick polish. 

The touch of night is suffocating the flicker of the corridor lamps. It’s long past the recently set curfew and you know that if McGonagall finds you out you’re likely in deep enough trouble to get you off Saturday’s match roster. 

Despite the prospect, you don’t dwell on it. You find you’re more worried about escaped Azkaban convicts: the echo of your own footsteps setting you further on edge. 

You’ve craned your neck over your shoulder enough times to form a knot there. Each time you’re relieved to find that Sirius Black hasn’t crept up behind you. 

Suddenly, the squeak of your boots against the stone floor are un-alone. 

Someone is marching and right in your direction. Your heart bangs wildly on the inside of your ribcage - blood turning to an icy slurry in your veins, but you don’t move. 

The corner is sharp when the figure turns into the corridor you stand and the scream is halfway out your throat when your eyes find his face. 

Absent is the matted black hair and sunken eyes you’re anticipating. Instead, warm brown rings reflect the fire of the lit torches. 

Your broomstick clutters to the floor, warm relief flooding down to your fingertips. “Fucking hell, Wood.” 

He looks just as surprised as you. Only for a moment, though, before his gaze is tightening in annoyance again. 

“I thought you were Sirius Black.“ 

“Well that’s stupid isn’t it.” 

You huff, shifting the weight of the team’s robes precariously between your arms: squatting to try scoop up your broomstick off the floor again. You’re halfway successful when it clatters loudly back against the stone floor. 

“What are you even doin’ out here so late? You know curfew is passed, don’t you?” His voice curls with something that might be mistaken for concern if you didn’t know who you were talking to. 

“I could ask you the same thing.” 

You’re reaching down again. A robe on the top of the pile slips off, landing beside the broomstick. 

“Aye right. Whatever, goodnight.” 

He’s brushing past you. 

In a movement neither of you anticipated, driven by the fear shooting up your spine again, your hand finds his wrist. “Wait—“ 

Oliver freezes: eyes dropping to where you’re connected. You rip your hand back, as if scalded. 

“I …” the words mash and wrestle at the back of your throat. “Could …”

You glance down the darkened corridor awaiting you in the journey back to your dorm before meeting his face again. It’s unreadable. 

His brow scrunches. “Yes?"

"Could you want me to walk my common room?” 

Embarrassment sears at your cheeks. On a normal day, you’d sooner go dancing naked under the Whomping Willow before asking Oliver Wood a favour but that was before the image of Sirius Black swum behind your eyes everywhere you looked. 

Oliver would be fairly useless if faced with the criminal, naturally, but at least you wouldn’t die alone. 

“Please?” Your voice is quiet and you think it’s the gentlest word you’ve ever said to him. 

There’s a long stretch of quiet. His eyes flicker between your face and the broomstick on the floor. It’s quickly stretching past the blurring boundaries of an appropriate time for consideration. 

You’re practically melting in embarrassment now, electing to make the decision for him. 

“Never mind.” You squat again, successful this time in sticking the broomstick back under your arm. The dropped robe is more difficult but you manage to replace it. “Forget I asked.” 

Oliver’s moving before you’re stood straight up again. He’s reaching for your broomstick, you instinctively yank it back but he sticks you with a firm look and his thumb is unexpectedly soft where it caresses over your knuckle wrapped around the handle. 

Your grip loosens and he perches the broomstick over his shoulder with ease. He surprises you again by taking half the load of laundry in your arms into his own. 

“C’mon, before someone catches us out here. I’m not doing any more detention because of you.” 

He’s already three feet ahead when blood rushes down to your legs, prompting them to chase after his figure. The movement is easier, lightened by Oliver’s surprise act of kindness. 

You fall into step beside him, half-tempted to comment on his willingness to share your burden, but knowing him, one wrong word and he’d dump it all back into your arms. 

It’s quiet. 

You don’t make a move to talk and Oliver doesn’t look your way. It dawns on you that Gryffindor dormitory is in the other direction and you’re still deciding whether to feel guilty or flattered over the fact when Oliver speaks. 

“Why’re you out here alone?” 

You look, met with the side of his face: it’s still like he hadn’t said anything at all. There’s a tugging instinct to snap at him. 

Why do you care? 

But his tone is perceptibly gentle enough that you think maybe, just this once, it won’t end in an argument. You test the tepid waters. 

“Uh …” your head knocks sideways, tilted as you speak. “I let the team come up early while I sorted the quaffles in the sports closet by the pitch. Didn’t want them walking up in the dark.” 

You’re tempted to mention that it was his team last week that left it in such a mess. You don’t. 

"And now you’re walking in the dark yourself? Smart move, princess."

Your breath hitches. 

It’s not the first time he’s called you that. Princess. A couple times over the years, usually in the heat of a spiraling argument, but never so benign. While still ungentle, the tone is soft enough that it rings in your ears.

You choose not to succumb to the antagonization of his reply. Humming, you shrug. "Rather me than them."

His eyes flicker, almost barely, to the high apple of your cheek. You notice in the corner of your eye how his jaw twitches, like he wants to say something. 

He seemingly decides otherwise because he focuses his eyes ahead of him and stays silent. 

The overhanging ceiling art is sloping down, air going sticky with the scents of the kitchen the further you go: it’s the trademark of the approaching Hufflepuff common room. 

Another two turns and it will be the end of your little journey with Oliver Wood.

"‘M surprised Ryo didn’t walk you up."

You're more surprised than you've been since finding him, eyes widening in confusion. He grants you another look out the side of his eye.

"How do you know about that?"

Oliver shrugs, shifting your broomstick to the other shoulder.

"The whole world saw your little date down at Madam Puddifoot's the other day."

Of course. Word travels faster through seventh year than a new Firebolt.

"Yeah. Well." You hum. "That's not gonna be happening again anytime soon.” 

It had all been good and well. The rush of having Ryo Yoshida, Hogwart's most eligible bachelor, ask you out and - to be fair - the date had been fine. Ryo was funny and made good conversation but nothing near thrilling enough to daydream over and you'd allowed yourself to brush over a couple red flags because of it, until Cherry came bursting into your dormitory less than a day after your date relaying how he'd caught her between classes to ask her out to the same spot.

"Why's that?"

You're confused now, why Oliver cares or how he'd become curious enough to actually ask. You're even more confused as to why you decide to answer him. You shrug, "He asked Cherry out the very next day. She said no, obviously, but that was enough to let the whole thing go."

You expect him to say something malicious, quip something spiteful about What you did you think would happen? You're nowhere near in his league.

He doesn't.

"He's an idiot."

Not for the first time in the last five minutes, you're not sure what to say. You think this is the longest a conversation has gone without an argument. You sigh, "Yeah."

The stack-up of barrels comes into view. You dig into you the deep pocket on the inside of your robe, emerging with your wand.

Oliver stops, eyes flickering between the barrels and his shining black boots.

You step ahead, tapping the barrels in the rhythm that's become second-nature and the entryway opens.

Turning to him, you offer out an arm and he sets the robes back into your hands. The awkwardness is stifling. He leans forward, tucking the broomstick under your arm, hand wavering to make sure it doesn't fall again. The gesture makes the hold in your knees wobbly.

He nods. "Right. Goodnight."

You nod back, so quickly that you hear your earrings jingle. "Yeah, g'night."

Oliver turns, marching back the way you came and you watch him: biting your bottom lip so hard you're half expecting to draw blood.

"Thank you!" It leaps from your mouth before you have you moment to let it marinate on your tongue. You wince immediately.

He pauses, turning halfway on his heel. He smiles, it's not wide enough for teeth, but definitely wide enough to have your heart falling through your stomach. He nods again and then he's gone.

-

Saturday arrives gloomy and dripping.

It makes for good quidditch conditions, but the chill in the air is still hard to ignore when you step out into mushy grass under stadium lights. The roar of the crowd nearly deafens you, but it'll only take a couple minutes in the air for it to burn down to a soft hum.

In the middle of the stadium floor: Hooch is standing with a whistle to her lips, her figure blurred by the drizzle. Oliver stands beside her, and behind you, your team is clambering onto their brooms and rising into the air with the freshly washed kit over their backs.

You go to walk, but the icy glance Oliver is sending your way convinces you into a jog. He's always impatient before a game, itchy, antsy.

"On time as usual." Hooch hums when you land beside her.

"Got the whole bloody school waiting on her." Oliver mutters but Hooch shrugs him off, pulling the game coin out from inside her robes.

"Perfect." She positions it so we can see, "Gryffindor?"

Oliver straightens out, chest swelling: "Heads."

Hooch nods and before you can suck in another breath, the coin is in the air. She catches it with a skilled hand, flipping and revealing it to the set of captains.

"Hufflepuff, first ball!" She shouts loud enough that the floating players can hear. They nod, some groaning.

The coach turns back on the captains, "I want a fair game kids, no fighting."

"Me and Ollie? Fight?" You smile, "Never, coach."

Oliver rolls his eyes. "Yes, coach."

Suddenly you're above the pitch, sucking in breaths of wet air and struck with that familiar feeling like you could conquer the world on just your broomstick.

The quaffle flies and you stoop to catch it, twisting around Alicia Spinnet to snatch the ball before she's even noticed you're there.

Rain pelts on heads and the game goes on.

Oliver is shouting like a madman from his place in front of the goals behind you - you’ve long learnt to drown it out. He does it half to annoy his own team and half to distract yours. 

You're spinning, flying, swooping and - as you predicted - the crowd has become a distant call, a blurring sight of yellow and red.

An hour passes and the game is already halfway into the next when there's a rise in the crowd. It's not the normal yells and whoops and hollers, but you still don't look up: you're calling over to Jane and Wyatt, your beaters.

“Get between the twins, and stay there!” 

Below, Harry Potter and your own seeker, Cedric Diggory, are flying in circles around each other. The call of Cedric's name is on the tip of your tongue when there’s another ripple of sound off the crowd and this one draws your eyes. It’s there for a second before you find the army of figures descending on the pitch. 

Your breath catches in your throat, freezing solid so you can’t swallow. 

The dementors are even more ghostly this close. You'd never seen so many.

A darkness is permeating the air, the sight of the supporters in the stand dissipating into black. They’re floating in from every corner, drifting at a pace that’s too fast for you to make a move in any direction. 

There’s a scream and your gaze finds the body falling through the sky: it’s Harry.

The ground is racing up to meet him and adrenaline drives your hand to tip your broom, to chase after his quickly disappearing shape when a blurry figure blocks your way. 

Someone yells your name but you don’t hear it. 

You’d never imagined examining a dementor, much less this up close, but even if you had: nothing your imagination could conjure up would ever come close to the harrowing darkness of its empty eye-sockets. 

Its silhouette spreads over every corner of your vision, black like night and blocking the view of the sky. Your nose is so close you could tip forward and meet it's silken cloak.

A cold washes over your body like you've never felt, like you're freezing over: ice creeping up your fingertips, shoulders and face.

Your brain looses all grip on thought, replaced with a seeping dread. It barely acknowledges where a scabbed, decomposing hand is reaching out to you.

Charcoal fingertips brush your cheek when you're tugged back, all the way off your broomstick.

There's not even a last coherent thought to panic when you're engulfed in a warm chest, a hand stabilising around your waist onto a new broomstick. It dips and the green grass is reaching up to you.

The new heat engulfs you through to your bones. You grasp blindly for the expanse of a thick veined neck, wrapping yourself around him.

Digging your face into his shoulder, it takes one glance at the scarlet robes to know who it is. Oliver's panting, one hand holding you against him while the other steers the broomstick down to the floor.

You're trembling, no thought occupying any space beyond Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, Oliver--

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?"

The voice is distant, said against your temple but echoing as if from the end of a long corridor. You don't register where hot tears are wetting your cheeks, erupting over your face without being called.

His words prompt you closer: a tight arm furling over his shoulders and wrapping around him like a vine around an old tree.

"O-Oliver ..."

The hand over your waist tightens. "Sh ... it's fine. You're fine."

The broomstick lands shakily, Oliver's boots squelching into muddy grass. You barely realise you're back on ground when another hand is tugging you off, but you cling tighter to the sweaty red neck: shaking your wet face against his well-pressed robes.

"C'mon, princess ..." His calloused hands pry you from him, gently like you're a piece of china sitting on the very edge of a high shelf. "It's Pomfrey, she's gonna look after you."

You think you feel a kiss press into your hairline before you're being scooped up into a new set of arms. Madam Pomfrey is warm too, smelling like antiseptic and maple syrup.

There's another swell of noise erupting from the supporters above and you're being lead away.

Oliver watches your figure, slumped against the school nurse until you've disappeared into the medical tent.

His heart is going wild, slamming against the walls of his ribcage. Beside him his hands are shaking and he's sucking in thick gulps of air, he finds it still isn't enough oxygen.

There's another splatter where Angelina has landed a few feet behind him. She's panting too, tugging on the edge of his robes and pointing up into the sky.

"Wood!" She's frantic, "They won, Cedric caught the snitch!"

His mouth is dry when he swallows. Rain catches in his eye when he looks up, half the Hufflepuff team is no longer in the sky and the Gryffindors are all on their way down.

"I ..." feeling is returning to his fingertips, "is ... where's Harry?"

Angelina points in the direction of the medical tent. Above, the pitch is engulfed in a bright white light and Oliver catches the wispy end of a shining phoenix chasing between disappearing Dementors. It's a patronus. Dumbledore's, Oliver figures somewhere in his muddy brain.

"Is everyone else okay?"

Angelina nods. Her eyes flicker to the medical tent then back at him. "Is she?"

The image returns to him: the mass of darkness engulfing your figure in the sky. The terror that ripped through him like he was being torn apart from the inside, the whistle of the wind that stung over his ears and how it blocked out his mutterings of please, please, please--

He shakes his head. "She's too tough for her own good. She'll ... she'll be fine."

But it comes out like he's trying to convince himself more than Angelina.

-

Oliver doesn't see you for a few days.

Two, to be exact, and his skin itches the entire time. A deep itch, like it's coming from his bones.

It's only on Monday evening at dinner, with the Hufflepuff table whooping, that you come strolling back into the light of his eyes.

Your head is down, flushed with all the attention, and when you sit, kids are rising from their seats to tackle you into side hugs. He can tell you're embarrassed but he can't gather himself enough to care: the warm rush of relief flooding his stomach so much so that if he dared open his mouth it would all come rushing out.

You look fine. All limbs attached and smiling, it settles him.

He doesn't snap at Archie when he knocks his shoulder with a "you're staring" and his dinner suddenly looks more appetising when he peels his eyes off your figure down to his plate. He finds that he doesn't care as much as he usually does where Enzo's lanky arm is strung over your shoulder.

The week passes in a flurry.

While you share several classes, Oliver doesn't share a single word with you. It's hard not to notice that you're working very hard not to interact with him.

In Muggle Studies, you arrive late and keep your nose tucked deep into the pages of a textbook he knows you couldn't care less about. You're up and out of the classroom before he's even zipped up his bag. It's the same in Potions and Arithmacy.

While going days without talking to each other is not unusual, this time he can tell it’s on purpose. He pretends that he doesn't care.

The rain has cleared and when Friday arrives the sunset is red and orange and purple, granting Oliver with a rare enchanting view out his bedroom window where it's setting behind the East tower.

It's in this quiet, peaceful moment that Archie comes bouncing in with some news of a party happening in the Ravenclaw dormitory.

He's indifferent but Archie is nothing if not convincing.

"Come on, dude. You're literally a hermit crab." He sighs, falling back against his own poster bed across Oliver's. "There will be girls."

"There's girls everywhere, Arch."

His eyebrows wiggle, "And alcohol."

It takes a bit more pestering and the Weasley twins rushing in after him with the same news (and a far less patient approach) to get him up off his bed.

He digs in his cupboard for the last pair of clean jeans and a somewhat suitable purple jumper, tugging them on with a grumble, before he's being dragged by both arms - a twin on each side - across the castle to the West tower wherein resides the Ravenclaw population.

The common room is bustling with seventh years, he recognises them from all houses, and a table set up to the side with some trays of food. He's barely made himself comfortable when Katie Bell is shoving a red solo cup into his hand:

"It's Angelina's brew." She informs him.

He can believe that. The liquid is strong, burning down his throat followed by the barely there after-taste of pumpkin juice. Oliver downs the whole thing in one go.

The music swells louder and he's three cups of Angelina's concoction deep when you come tumbling through the entrance portal.

You're drunk yourself, he can tell by the way you're giggling and half leaning on Cherry Stretton. Bumping through people, not passing without leaning back to apologise to them tipsily, you head straight into the arms of Angelina and Alicia Spinnet. They smile in surprise, engulfing you in their arms.

Despite his and your long-held rivalry, it had done nothing to stop the rest of his team from sweetening up to you. The twins called you their favourite yellow tie at regular intervals and the girls found you nothing less than endearing. Oliver could lie and say he hated it.

Instead, he wrestles his way to where Katie is situated with more to drink, filling his cup and downing it.

-

The room is twisting in a flurry of colours and faces and it's the lightest you've felt in almost a week. You giggle against Enzo, his dreads tucked safely back in a bun while Cedric sets a Dragon-Barrel Brandy shot on fire and hands it carefully over.

Enzo's head knocks back, slipping the burning liquid down his throat with a wince. There's a cheer at his accomplishment, and suddenly Cedric's knocking your elbow: "you're next, Cap!"

After the match-gone-wrong, Madam Pomfrey had held you down in the infirmary until Monday morning. You were fed copious amounts of chocolate - in the form of bars and drinks and cakes and ice creams. By Saturday night you were - surely a couple kilograms heavier - and feeling fine, but Pomfrey was nothing if not paranoid:

"That was no light ordeal you went through, dear. I'm not letting you out of my sight until I'm happy with you."

In all honesty, you'd prefer if the whole school forgot it ever happened.

If Pomfrey didn't fret and your friends didn't come by every meal time and your team stopped sending you get better! letters and nobody mentioned it ever again.

More than anyone, you wished Oliver would forget. The ordeal, or maybe just you as a person.

You'd made a stupid decision under the heat of stadium lights and the influence of racing adrenaline, trying to chase for Harry, and he'd made a stupider decision coming to save you from yourself.

When it got quiet in the infirmary past dusk and Harry's shadowy figure was long since snoring in the bed across yours, you could feel Oliver's touch. Could feel it's strong hold wrapped around your waist and the voice against you the back of your neck and the lips at your temple.

You never reminisced long: for with his touch came the writhing, scalding fear burrowing a hole in your chest.

He could tease you, he will tease you.

Oliver had saved you from the clutches of a dementor moments from your soul being sucked out your body and you'd cried in his chest the whole time, refused to let him go in front of the whole school. It was a mortification you would never live down. And if Oliver decided he was going to use it against you, even once, you were sure you'd melt into the floor in shame.

It's what's made the Firewhiskey and Lemon squash concoction Cherry had handed you back in her room so easy to toss back. It stung and steam rose out your mouth where you'd panted for air. There was another ... and another, they went down the same.

The walk across the castle to reach the Ravenclaw Tower had been wobbly and you'd laughed with your friends loud enough to wake up the whole castle you're sure, but it dissolved the fear that clung to your bones. The fear that he was here, lingering between the people in the crowded blue common room.

Now the liquor is fading. Numbing to a dull buzz and you decline Cedric's offer at a burning shot, thinking about how proud you'll be of yourself when you wake up tomorrow morning in bed rather than wrapped around a toilet seat and hauling up guts into the bowl.

The party, not unlike yourself, is dimming.

Students are crawling away into all corners, each with their own excuse. I have a potions essay to do or No, dude, I'm too drunk for this or Flint wants us down at the pitch for drills at eight tomorrow morning, I gotta head to bed.

The crowd, though thinning, is beginning to clump into respective circles across the room. You glance annoyed at the fireplace where the flames crack merrily. Even with your short skirt and thin satin top, the heat of the common room is stifling.

Enzo is on his fourth burning shot, it's lost it's appeal to the crowd but he seems undeterred, knocking Cedric in the shoulder with the empty shot glass motioning: another! You yawn, playing mindlessly with the ruffled sleeve of your shirt.

"Oh no," A harsh tug at your hand draws you from the lure of sleep that's fogging your mind. "The night is young, no yawning!"

Cherry has your wrist in her grip, Enzo's in the other. He blinks blearily down at his friends.

"Huh?"

"Come on," Cherry's brown eyes roll far back in her head. "Fred says they're starting Seven Minutes In Heaven. Let's go join--"

"Seven minutes--?" you laugh between words, "Cher, are you mad?"

She whines, pouting like a kicked dog. "It'll be fun. Besides, when last did you have a good fucking snog? Too long, I say!"

Somehow, you're not only convinced across the room into a spot onto the floor in a circle of a couple others, but a drink has ended up in your hand and its contents quickly down your gullet.

For the nerves, you assure yourself.

Before you know it, Angelina - who's conveniently settled beside you - is topping up your plastic cup with a nearly empty bottle of Daisyroot Draught. "This is the good stuff. Katie stashed it in, her sister works at a brewery."

You smile nervously, nod, and take a tentative sip. The pre-existing buzz in your head convinces you it's not so bad.

In the circle is a couple Gryffindors you recognise, some giggling Slytherin girls, a Ravenclaw you can't name and three members of your quidditch team. There's an open spot on the side you don't take note of.

That is until Archie Kumar is steering a grumpy, visibly drunk Oliver Wood into the open place and collapsing beside him.

Your breath catches in your throat, heart sinking into your stomach like a stone. You're halfway off the floor, suddenly desperate for the loo, when Cherry - on your left side - drags you back down to the floor.

Maybe it's Katie's sister's brew, but you tumble too easily back onto your bum.

"Relax. Just don't look at him, okay?"

You suck in another breath, eyes trained on the white moon outline sewn into the rug. "Yeah ... okay."

It doesn't hold long and when you find the Gryffindor captain again, his gaze is trained on your face. It's stone cold. You gasp quietly and look away.

"Right!" George Weasley is on his feet, setting an empty Firewhisky bottle into the centre. "Who's first?"

Alicia shuffles forward on her knees, the first of the group to move, and the bottle goes spinning. It lands on the Ravenclaw boy. He grins and she does too: Fred wolf-whistles when they stand.

The "heaven" in question is a tall oak cabinet leaning against the back wall of the common room. The pair disappear into its depths and conversation rises again as the circle waits.

You sip your drink in large gulps, trying to hold conversation with Angelina against Oliver's hot gaze that's burning a hole through the side of your face. It's difficult: the Gryffindor girl is so drunk that she's talking with her eyes closed.

Seven minutes later, there's a chorus of "time's up!", Alicia and the boy emerge another ten seconds later. They're rearranging their clothes and Alicia is as scarlet as her quidditch robes. The boy is grinning like the cat who caught the canary. You're suddenly struck with the violent urge to throw up.

The game goes on like that, round after round. Lee Jordan and Jane Emmet (your beater), Katie and Wyatt (your other beater), Cherry and a pretty Slytherin girl you don't know - she's especially chuffed when she returns, red lipstick smeared over her chin.

You're working very hard not to look at Oliver, much less think about him, but it's proving difficult. Every time the bottle takes its spin, your stomach churns.

It had occurred to you during the time that Alicia and that boy were in the closet that there was a very real chance that Oliver could be called up when one of those pretty Slytherins take their turn at the bottle. The thought had made you down the last of your drink and immediately want to vomit it all back up into your cup.

The image of their slender arms curling around his criminally wide-set shoulders, Oliver pushing them back against the inside wall of the grand closet. Would he make noise? Would he sigh or groan against their lips or whisper something about how beautiful they looked tonight in their ears--

"Ollie, you're up mate."

You can't remember who said it, but the words stripped your gaze off Angelina and straight into the pooling brown eyes you'd been avoiding all week long.

He sighed, grumbling under his breath and only with a less-than-gentle nudge from Archie, did he lean up on thighs that flexed unfairly -- bloody hell, stop it! -- and wrap his hand over the neck of the bottle: it went spinning.

The only sound you could hear was the twist of the glass against the woven rug and the hum of your own blood rushing past your ears. It stopped.

"No fucking ways." Enzo cracked from two people down.

A hand landed on your shoulder, shaking you half off your arse: Angelina. "You're up, babe! Go!"

The bottle was pointing irrefutably at your little spot in the circle.

Oliver's face was as white as you'd ever seen it when you dared look up.

"I-I'm not going in with him--" It was the first thing that came to your mind and went spluttering out your mouth.

George was laughing so hard that he'd fallen all the way onto his back. The roar of the group was ear-splitting.

"There's no ways I'm going in with her!"

"Let's end this feud once and for all," Katie bellowed over their heads. "Captain versus captain!"

You're being knocked from all sides, hands crawling under your arms and lifting you off the floor. Across the circle, Oliver is experiencing the same and before you know it: the wooden doors of the cabinet are creaking open.

"Go on!" Lee's finger is piercing your side.

Oliver is beside you but you won't look. You take one last look over your shoulder at Cherry back on the floor, she does nothing but offer a sympathetic shrug and mouths "sorry, dear".

Your hand reaches before Oliver's, flinging the door open with maybe a little too much force. It bangs against the wall behind it.

"Let's get this over with." You mumble, only half concerned that he heard you.

You slouch climbing in, the top is low and the space is even more cramped than what you assumed. To your surprise, Oliver is stepping in after you. He takes his turn at slamming the door, shutting it this time.

It's dark inside, but not enough that you can't see. Light is peaking in through the cracks and he's leaned back against the opposite wall to you.

In the narrow space, your legs are twisting around each other to stand: his one knee situated between yours. In the dimness, he folds his arms and you notice for the first time the jumper he's wearing. The purple one, you recognise it as the one he's had for years. Time has taken its toll where the jumper is clinging to life around his frame, Oliver having grown at least three times wider while the jumper has remained the same size.

"Go on, Wood, give her a kiss!"

The voice is unrecognisable but it knocks your tongue back into your mouth where you'd been ogling at his torso.

His arms are folded, proffering you with a glare that could cut through steel. He makes no visible sign that he'd heard the shout at all. You mirror him, folding your own arms.

"I'm not kissing you."

His head cocks. "Oh, so you're talking to me now?"

You suck in a sharp breath. It's not the response you're anticipating. "What?"

"So we're playing dumb?" He leans just a fraction closer. You can smell the linger of alcohol on his breath, but it doesn't work hard enough to drown out the smell of peppermint that follows him around. "Doesn't suit you, princess."

"I'm not playing anything. I don't know what you're talking about." You double down. It's probably not sustainable but the heat of his body almost against yours and the thrum of liquor in your blood makes the decision for you.

"Y've been avoiding me all week."

"I haven't"

"You're a bad liar."

You swallow hard. Embarrassment is rising again, making your head spin. Oliver's chest is puffed up in anger, you can tell because you've had five years to learn the look like the back of your hand. Except, now - as it has been for a longer time than you care to admit - it's harder to focus on the waves of fury reflecting off of him when his face is just so ... beautiful. Nose scrunched and lips pulled tight into a grimace.

It's what makes you change tactics, you think.

"So what if I was? Why does it matter?"

His arms unfold, eyes rolling so far that his head knocks back against the wood of the cupboard.

"Why?" you press, "Did you miss me, Wood?"

"Maybe I did."

He's looking at you again. For what feels like the hundredth time just tonight, your breath escapes you in a rush and your lungs struggle to grasp back at it. Your face softens without meaning to.

You blink at him.

"You did?" It's a whisper.

His arms are still folded but something clement passes like a shadow over his features.

"No."

His face betrays his words, eyes soft and lip daring to curl up at the edge.

The air in the tight space goes cold. Or maybe it's your blood. It's more likely the look on Oliver's face: like he hasn't just turned your organs to slush. You're all the way sober now.

"I'm not kissing you." You repeat dumbly, but it's gentle.

Merlin, you want to kiss him so fucking badly.

"You mentioned." He's almost, almost, smiling. It's gentle too.

The space between you falls quiet. You're suddenly overly focused on the brush of his knee between yours. His swirling brown eyes catch on the split of light creeping in past the hinge on the door.

It stays like that until your voice creeps nervously out. "I was embarrassed. Am, I am embarrassed."

A thick brow tightens in confusion. "Why?"

You huff, almost annoyed. Your eyes train on a dark spot by your intertwined feet. "Come on, Wood."

"What, about the match?" The alcohol thickens his accent.

Your silence seems to answer his question. The apples of your cheeks are warming again.

"What was I supposed to do, leave you to have you bloody soul sucked out yer body?" His voice is rising, "No, princess, I'm not apologising for that."

It's an outpour that you're not expecting. Oliver's clearly in the mood to shock and surprise tonight.

Your lips tighten around the words that are all fighting for the spot at the tip of your tongue. Silence reigns while they argue, he's still watching you with exasperation set into the lines of his face.

"Princess." You settle.

His expression twists again. "What?"

"You always call me that. Why?" It's a question that you buried long ago. But his proximity, in conjunction with the night you've had, unearths it.

It's his turn to look surprised. He grumbles some indiscernable Scottish blabber before-- "It's because y'are a princess. Spoilt and bratty. Always gets her way."

There's no malice to his response, you find. It draws a chuckle from the depths of your chest.

"Aye, right." You mimic his accent and his quip, one he's used many times at you.

He laughs. It's not a sound you hear often and it's setting your whole nervous system alight like a tangled bunch of christmas lights. His whole body's shaking with it, head resting back against the wood again, and you really do think you might grab him and kiss him -- when the door flies open again: seeping his whole body in yellow light.

Alicia's standing at the opening, grin wide as night is wide and clearly expectant on catching you with your tongues down each other's throats.

If she'd given you another three seconds she just might have.

"Oh." She slumps in disappointment, looking back over her shoulder and shaking her head to the expectant crowd. They groan collectively. "Well, love birds, your time is up."

You'd almost forgotten where you were. Oliver clears his throat, the ghost of his laugh impossible to find on his face, and clambers over your legs out into the common room again. He doesn't pass without brushing his hand over yours.

-

It's nearly three in the morning when Enzo finally lets up.

His long legs are sprawled across the midnight blue couch in the middle of the common room. Fiona, a lovely Ravenclaw girl you'd met just tonight, shrugs at you: "Don't stress it. He can crash here tonight."

The party is long since dead. Seven Minutes In Heaven had looped another three rounds before everyone had gotten their chance in the dusty cupboard and began to grumble in boredom.

You'd avoided Oliver's eyes the whole time again, sure that if you looked he'd be able to read the fondness on your face.

It wasn't long after that the last of the students dissolved in the direction of their respective bedrooms. With your dear friend in good hands with the Ravenclaws, you loop your arm with Cherry - knocking against her side towards the portal.

You've barely pushed it ajar when she breaks off you, "Hold on, I need to get my Transfig notes from Jacob!"

"Cher, it's three in the morning?"

Alcohol is directing her legs in the opposite direction clumsily, "I'll wake him. If I fail another quiz, Mcgee's gonna have my arse."

She's gone before she catches your call: "I'll find you outside!"

The portal creaks where you shove it open again. The corridor is dimly lit and colder than the common room and a shiver chases up your exposed legs.

"Bloody hell." You run a hand over your forearms.

It's quiet too, and empty besides the Gryffindor captain leaning against the stone wall closest to the entrance you've just emerged from.

"Merlin," your eyes find his. "Not you again."

The flush over your cheeks is warding off the chill.

Oliver shrugs. "Me again."

An awkward silence permeates. Against better judgement, you shuffle forward, leaning against the wall beside him. He doesn't react, arms folded and staring into the inky abyss of the corridor leading out to the rest of the castle.

"Why're you out here?" You ask, tucking your hands between your back and the wall.

"Archie." He huffs out, voice wrapped in annoyance. "He's in there with Penelope. I gave him ten minutes."

Ah, Penelope Clearwater. She'd joined the game in the last round. A good thing too because Oliver's friend was looking more crestfallen as the bottle spun again and again, surpassing him each time. Penelope had taken the last turn, ending up with her hair in every direction and Archie's spectacles leaning half off his face when they emerged from the cupboard.

"You?"

The eddy of average conversation is strange, but you find you like it.

"Cherry." You hum. "Something about quiz notes."

He drops his head back against the wall.

"That what they calling it now?"

It startles you, head tilting to stare up at the side of his face with a grin: "oh, Wood’s got jokes now? I didn’t know it was possible for you to make a joke."

His eyes flutter shut, a twinkle of laughter bubbling out of his frame. Tucking his head down to his chest, he shrugs against his own light chuckle. "I have them. I just don’t share them with you."

You giggle back at him. "Right. Well then you better stop smiling there, someone might walk past and think we’re friends."

He shakes his head, the sound of his snicker fading but leaving behind the imprint of a smile. "Nobody’s gonna think that."

You lean back again, eyes drifting over the low ceiling. Quiet falls again - not uncomfortable - and you let it linger for a moment. A thought tugs on a loose string in your mind, not a new one, but one you’ve carefully buried over time.

It comes falling out your mouth. "You ever think about how it might be ... if things were different?"

The question grants you a look out the side of his eye. "Different?"

"Y’know," you shrug, the very last remains of alcohol are ebbing and unsureness is replacing where it stood. "If we … we had—"

"If you hadn’t suckered me in the bloody nose?" His words are unexpectedly fond.

You laugh at him, "If you hadn’t deserved to be suckered in the bloody nose."

He draws in a long breath, not answering. It prompts you.

"We could have been friends." You whisper, more to your chest than to him really.

But he hears it. "We would never be friends."

It stings sharper than it should. Your shoulders go stiff and the corners of your eyes sting inexplicably, turning the corridor blurry. A dying fire revives in your chest, blistering the cave, reminding you why Oliver Wood has been nothing but a stake in your side since you were thirteen years old.

"Of course. How stupid of me, for a minute I forgot what an absolute arsehole you are." You push off the wall, intent in going to dig out Cherry from the depths of the Ravenclaw dormitory. "Goodnight, Wood."

An arm wraps around your waist, not unlike it'd done a week ago in the air of the quidditch pitch, lurching you into him until you're pressed back against the cool stone of the corridor wall.

Oliver looms over you, crouched so that your nose bumps against his. "Don't sulk, princess."

It all happens at once: his hands grab onto the fat of your hips, digging in there like he really does hate you, and lips crash against yours like maybe he doesn't at all.

He stays there, unmoving for a second that feels a year long.

Where the inside of your brain had been buzzing with runaway threads of thought, ribbons streaking out in all directions: they disappear in a sizzling light. Oliver Wood is kissing me.

You melt against him, tipping up onto your toes and latch onto muscled shoulders. He seemingly takes that as his cue, pressing you closer against his body with his arm - lifting you half off the wall.

He tastes like the remnants of Firewhisky and pumpkin juice, the flavour setting every nerve ending in your body on fire. Lips soft but persistent while his hands grip onto you like you'd dissolve into dust if he didn't.

It's aggressive, but familiar in that way. Oliver is nothing if not hot-blooded and his touch, darting between your hips and your face is turning you tipsy again.

"If you want a friend," It's muffled when he speaks, punctuating his words with hot wet kisses, "go be friends with Ryo."

It's only in this moment, with his desperation mirroring in the glimpses of sugar brown irises you catch where he's fluttering his eyes over your face, that it dawns on you.

"Jealous much?"

He growls lowly and it makes you giggle against him, your hands slithering up into the hairs at the base of his neck. Oliver shakes his head against you, still huffing in disbelief.

"Shut up." It's accent-heavy and bleeds a hole through the bottom of your stomach. "You're such a fucking brat."

"And you're a fucking prick."

He huffs lowly, you press harder to him: solidifying the sentiment. Somehow the bickering makes it all sweeter, like you're dissolving cotton candy against your tongue where his swoops over it.

You'd just about forgotten where you were when a creak echoes down the corridor. Halfway to ignoring it in favour of Oliver's touch, your situation dawns on you in the same moment it does him.

Like you'd both licked the end of a live wire, you and Oliver jolt back a foot, hands diving to your respective sides.

Cherry is standing against the light of the common room behind her, a lanky Archie parked beside her. Their eyes are wide and Cherry's hand is against her jaw in shock.

"Oh my god." She mumbles against it.

Blood is rushing to your face and out the corner of your eye, Oliver is running a hand over the hair that's sticking in all directions from the influence of your fingers.

Cherry is laughing breathily, eyes still wide and white in surprise. "Oh my god."

Archie's eyes are flickering between you and Oliver.

"Sorry to interrupt." He says, a smirk curling onto his features.

It jumpstarts your entire system. You step forward, grabbing Cherry by the arm.

"Well," you nod at Archie and at Oliver, not daring to meet his eyes, "goodnight then."

You march with fervour, half-dragging her in the direction of the Hufflepuff common room until your figure disappears behind the next corridor.

Oliver stands with his hands hanging at his side dumbly. He swipes a finger of his bottom lip, still tasting the strawberry lip gloss you'd left there.

"Can't say I didn't see this coming, mate." A hand claps over his shoulder.

He groans, running both hands over his face, and Archie shakes him lightly.

"So ... how was it?"

With another groan, Oliver shoves Archie's hand off of him. "Bloody hell, Arch."

Archie throws his head of curly black hair back, laughing so loud it bounces off the wall. "That good, huh?"

(part two/final part)

-

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

taglist:

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[cornflower-uvu]

They are not ashamed.

[the-colourful-witch]

🚂The Hogwarts Express🚂

I loved working on this piece, putting my own spin on the design of the carriage and the candy trolley :) 🍭 The Hogwarts Express scenes are always so amazing and cozy and fun, so I thought it time to do something with it :)

I hope you enjoy this one! Have fun spotting all the little magical details :) ✨⚡️🚂

[daddiesdrarryy]

Ron: Hey, guys, Zabini is doing that thing again

Harry: What thing?

Ron: He just handed me a new chessboard and told me to have a nice day! How weird is that? He’s been doing this for months and I don’t know what he’s trying to do!

Hermione: You don’t know why, Ron?

Ron: I just think he’s being all weird like Slytherins are. Like Draco constantly bickering with Harry and Pansy constantly teasing you, you know, before you got together! Right?

Hermione: Okay, so let me get this straight, you are sitting here with a new chessboard from Blaise, eating chocolates that Blaise bought for you, and a pie Blaise made for you, wearing pajamas that Blaise got for you, and you are…wondering what he is trying to do?

Ron, chewing on a mouthful of pie: I know! How weird is he!

Harry: …I’m less oblivious than this, right?

Hermione: Debatable

[kind-hufflepuff]

FIRE BENDER RON WEASLEY

[march-on-26]

I give you romione silver duo au.

They’re in their sixth year. They’re basically helping Harry out with the whole Voldemort problem as discreetly as they can.

[noelan1]

I can't trust character ai with my fictional crushes because they make them completely different and always say things that aren't canon

¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ ͡⁠°⁠ ͜⁠ʖ⁠ ͡⁠°⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

[meelusinee]

Can you do Lupin Reader x Theodore Nott and he asks her to go out with him, and Harry,Hermione and Ron are like; 'he's an ass and probably thinks it's a joke because your a werewolfs daughter' but Theodore ends up being either the best boyfriend she's ever had or he makes her believe he is,either way you want to do it <3 or you can do it with Mattheo if you want

this prompt was actually such a good prompt that i wrote a fic almost 5k words long and still wanted to keep going. if anyone wants a part two, please do let me know

LOVE ISN'T BLIND | T.N X READER

word count \ 4.7k | fuliffty fluffnut sandwiches | slash / theodore nott / wolfstar daughter!reader

in which your friends think theodore and you aren't a good pair, but you care to disagree

part one | part two

“You’re a good student, Theodore.”

Theodore winced as the words cut through the air like a sharpened knife cutting through a tomato, his fingernails scratching at his skin and trying to find purchase on the scars. “I know.”

“I know that you know,” McGonagall said, a soft chuckle escaping her throat as she spoke. “You’re a very good student, and I know you know that. I know you don’t put in nearly enough effort into your schoolwork,” she continued, her face fading back to its stern expression at the mild wince in Theo’s body. “But I know that you’re a good kid.”

“I know.” Theo said quietly, his voice weaker than when he first said it.

Theodore had a special relationship with Professor McGonagall, especially compared to his other professors. He had found out that his mother and Minerva were close when she was a student in Hogwarts. When McGonagall had first seen Theo in her office hours, she had gifted him a small scrapbook his mother had worked on during her school years.

McGonagall was the first one to really understand how he felt about his mother. If there was anyone he might view as close to a motherly figure as he could, a woman he would go to in order to try and poorly replicate the feeling of what he lost, it would be McGonagall.

Which is why it hurt so much more when McGonagall reprimanded him.

“I’m sure that Mr. Riddle is a good kid as well, I have no doubt about that.” McGonagall sighed quietly, her quill scratching against the parchment she was doodling on while she talked. Theo had found she had a habit of doodling swirls whenever she held serious conversations. “But I need you two to do something.”

Theo sighed quietly and nodded, picking at his fingernails and cuticles. “I don’t know why Mattheo started fighting that guy, Professor.”

“Were you not there?” McGonagall asked him curiously.

Theo shook his head before shrugging. “Not until the end, I pulled him off. Mattheo still won’t tell me why he got into the fight though, so I’m assuming it was something important.”

McGonagall nodded quietly at that before sighing quietly. “You do understand what I’m saying though, correct?” she asked quietly.

Theo nodded at that, still picking at his fingernails. “Yes,” he whispered quietly, before sitting up a bit straighter in his seat. He never quite noticed the taste of tobacco between his teeth until he was in McGonagall’s office. “I’ve been studying in the library more often. For my Charms exam.”

McGonagall smiled a bit brighter at that. “Have you been working on the Mending Charm?”

“I’ve been trying to.” he groaned quietly, deflating as quickly as he sat up straight. Theo had been struggling with the Mending Charm ever since it had been introduced into the class. While he wanted to master it as soon as he had been introduced to it, he had only been able to mend things like torn paper or a barely cracked rock. “I don’t understand why I can’t mend things the way most people can. I mean, I can do small things. But not big things.”

McGonagall chuckled at that, the soft smile he had grown comfortable with coming onto her face. “Do you think you need a tutor?” she asked amusedly.

“A tutor?” Theo asked, though not in a rude way. Just curious.

McGonagall nodded, a small smirk growing on her face. “I have a student who’s really good with those kinds of charms. She might be able to help you with your Reparo.”

Theo narrowed his eyebrows a bit, noting the smirk on McGonagall’s face. She almost never got that smirk on her face, the last time he had seen it on her face was when he had learned that Dumbledore encouraged the Professors to bet on student relationships in his Third Year. “You’re not trying to set me up with her, are you?”

McGonagall giggled quietly and shrugged simply. “I think you and her could be very good friends.”

“Minnie,” he whined, resting his head in his hands. “You know how I feel about that.”

“I know, I know.” she said, grabbing a biscuit and taking a bite. “But I don’t think that she’s like most of the girls that people try to pair you with.”

Theo raised an eyebrow at that, his eyes observing McGonagall as she spoke. “Really?”

“She’s one of my favorite students, Y/N.” McGonagall said, breaking off a part of her biscuit to hand to Theo. “You the girl that sits near the front?”

Theo felt his cheeks flushing slightly at that. He knew about you, he had known of you for a while, ever since the beginning of this year.

You had transferred to Hogwarts at the beginning of this year, to barely anyone’s recognition. Theodore honestly wasn’t sure how nobody had noticed you. You were like the light of his entire life, a sentence he knows is absurd given that the two of you have never even talked before. He was sure that McGonagall had noticed, Mattheo had noticed how often he would do nothing but stare at you during his classes. Still, he couldn’t help but ask. “You noticed?”

“Course I did.” McGonagall deadpanned. “You only stare holes into the back of her head every class that you have together.”

Theo chuckled a bit awkwardly, picking at his fingernails. “She’s really beautiful.”

“Maybe you should talk to her.” McGonagall said with a smile.

Theo nodded, looking down at his hands resting in his lap. “Maybe I should.”

You were currently studying in the library with Hermione, Ron and Harry. Mainly Hermione and Harry, though he was still groaning with Ron about the workload that they had.

“This is so much work.” Ron groaned out loud, the sound reverberating off of the library walls. There was a small shushing sound from behind the bookshelf, which Ron rolled his eyes at. “Why do they assign so much school work?”

Hermione sighed and flipped through her textbook as he said that, the sound of her highlighter almost loud enough to be a reprimand. “Maybe you should’ve worked on it sooner.”

“It’s Potions class Mione,” Harry grumbled. “Snape always gives us an unfair amount of work.”

“He doesn’t give an unfair amount, right Y/N?” Hermione asked, looking over at you.

You looked up from the book that you were reading, fixing your hair behind your ear as you looked at the workload that the boys had. It definitely was more than you had been given though you also knew that they were ones to procrastinate as well. “It might be a mix of both.”

“I guess that’s fair.” Harry shrugged, much to Ron and Hermione’s dismay.

The four of you fell back into silence again, reading through notes and writing down points for potions and charms that you each were working on. It was silent in a calming kind of way to you, a way that reminded you of home, if only for a moment.

That was until your reading session had been interrupted. “Excuse me?”

The four of you looked up to the voice that was standing above you. You recognized him from your Potions and Transfiguration classes, though you didn’t know much else other than that. His voice was nice and smooth with an Italian accent, much like a smooth kind of red wine. His tie was Slytherin green, tied perfectly into his uniform, and his hair had been brushed recently.

“Yes?” you asked quietly, sitting up a bit straighter. As much as you knew that your friends might judge him for the color of his tie, you didn’t mind it too much. The green matched his face well.

Theodore smiled softly and waved, pointing down at the Transfiguration book you were reading. “McGonagall paired us up for tutoring. On the Mending Charm.”

“Oh!” you said before smiling, sighing internally. McGonagall had told you that you would be tutoring someone yesterday, though you were rather anxious about whether the person you would be tutoring would actually pay attention or not. He seemed to want to pay attention, at the very least. “What’s your name?”

“Theo.” he said, clearing his throat. “Theodore Nott.”

You smiled and closed your textbook, packing your bag and offering to go to a different section of the library. “We can study there, they have Silencing Charms around the study area.”

Theo nodded quietly before walking off to the area you had mentioned, leaving you with Harry, Ron and Hermione. The library seemed to get silent at that moment, almost ridiculously so.

“What?” you asked them confusedly.

Ron was the first to speak, his eyebrows furrowed confusedly. “You’re tutoring Nott?”

You shrugged simply. “I guess so,” you muttered quietly, looking to Harry and Hermione in confusion. Theo didn’t seem like a bad person, at least not from what you had seen. “That’s not a bad thing, is it?”

“He hangs around a bad crowd.” Hermione muttered under her breath. Her voice seemed darker than it usually was, something that confused you. “You know, Riddle and them.”

“I mean, he’s probably not as bad as them.” Harry muttered quietly, looking over at Theodore. He was setting up the area that you had pointed him to, since the desks and the chairs were never set up properly. “I’ve never heard much about him, not unless it’s about him pulling someone else out of a fight.”

“See!” you said with a small smile, adjusting the strap of your bag. “He just seems quiet.”

“He’s a womanizer, ain’t he?” Ron said, face contorting in disgust.

You rolled your eyes at Ron’s words, looking over at Theo again. You could definitely see it, especially with the tiredness in his eyes. He was a conventionally attractive man. “At least he can understand women.” you rolled your eyes, looking over at Ron with a teasing smirk.

“Hey!” Ron pouted. Hermione chuckled quietly, with Harry laughing a bit louder. Ron rolled his eyes again before sighing. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

You rolled your eyes back. “If Nott hurts me, then he’s gonna have to deal with my dad.”

“Yeah, yeah I know.” Ron said. “But still.”

Harry chuckled and closed his book, stretching out his back. “If anyone can handle themselves, it’s Y/N, Ron. Pads trained her with that stuff.”

“Ron still has a point.” Hermione said quietly. “I don’t know if I’d trust Nott either.”

You rolled your eyes again at that, taking the rest of your stuff and placing it all in your bag. “I’ll be fine.” you said, waving them goodbye and wishing them well in their studies.

You had been having study sessions with Theo for a couple of weeks at this point. He was a very talented student, so talented you weren’t even sure why McGonagall gave him tutoring lessons in the first place. Regardless of whether he needed them or not, he had them anyway. Which meant that the both of you wasted time talking to each other.

You learned a bit about what he was passionate about. He loved to read and write, especially poetry that was mellow and dramatic. He liked tea and Italian wine, and he liked the smell of cigarettes and weed at the top of the Astronomy Tower after a stressful day. You found yourself quite liking the scent of cigarettes and weed too, especially from his lips at the top of the Astronomy Tower. Theo told you about how he loved the stars, how his mother was resting there and how he liked to imagine them shining down through her love.

It was something that warmed your heart, a sentiment so mellow and sweet.

You learned silly things about Theodore as well. He was a sarcastic and sassy man, sassier than most that you knew. He had a knack for getting drama and dirt on others, though you doubted he’d use it unless he truly needed to. Not unless he wanted to talk gossip with you, something he had apparently never been able to do. You also learned that he hated a lot of petty things, some tiny things that had you howling on the floor.

You seemed closer to Theodore than you seemed to anyone else. Your friends were put off by it at first, especially Ron, though you tried not to pay them any mind. You went about your school days hanging around all four of your friends, at least until winter break came along.

The both of you were resting in the Astronomy Tower together, the bite of the wind reminding you of the fact that you would both be going home in the morning, even if temporarily.

“Are you going to go home for the holidays?” Theo asked quietly. His voice was thicker than usual, especially his accent. “Or are you gonna stay here?”

“I’m going home.” you chuckled quietly. Your voice was quite hoarse from screaming earlier, the both of you flying around in the empty Quidditch pitch. The rain had bit at your skin and peeled it off, at least it felt like that was what happened. “My dads would kill me if I didn’t.”

“Dads?” Theo asked curiously, his eyebrows furrowed as he looked over at you. You had never noticed how full they were until now, the both of you huddled together on the floor for warmth.

You looked over at him with furrowed eyebrows as well. “What?”

“I didn’t know Lupin was gay.” he muttered quietly.

You shrugged simply. “I mean, he’s been with women before. But he’s married to my other dad.” you explained to Theo, looking at him with a tilted head. “Does that bother you?”

Theo shook his head instantly, chuckling quietly. “Not at all, I think it’s cool. I just didn’t think he was.” he said to you. “What’s your other dad like?”

You shrugged again before leaning your head on his shoulder. “He’s way louder. A drama queen. I think you’d like him.” you whispered, wrapping your arms around his for warmth. You weren’t quite sure why the air seemed to be freezing more than usual. Maybe it was the water still in your hair, which had poofed quite a bit.

“He sounds fun.” he whispered, resting his head back on yours. “I don’t know if I’m going to go home.”

“Do you want me to stay with you?” you asked him, looking up at him.

Theo shook his head. “I don’t want to keep you from your family, that’s cruel.” he whispered quietly, a small smile forming on his face. “Mattheo’s probably gonna stay and annoy the shit out of me. As long as we can send each other owls and whatnot, we can be apart for just a couple weeks. Right?”

You smiled softly at that. “Definitely.”

Theo smiled at that, his hand linking with yours. You felt your cheeks warming slightly. You had only just now realized how close the two of you were, especially with physical contact. What scared you most was how easily you had become accustomed to it, but what scared you more was how much you craved it when you didn’t have it.

“We’re going to have to go soon.” Theo whispered quietly.

You shrugged simply, head still resting against his shoulder. “I have my bag packed already.” you said. “As long as I leave here before the sun rises, I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe we can rest here for a bit?” he asked. There was something in his voice that you couldn’t pinpoint, though you wanted to say it was hopeful. “Just an hour or two.”

“Or maybe three.” you giggled quietly, cuddling closer to him.

“Y/N, my love!” Sirius called out, his body quivering with excitement as soon as he saw his daughter entering the house again. Remus was walking behind him with a cane, the last full moon having broken his leg in a way that hasn’t mended just yet. Sirius, as attentive as he was to Remus’ injury, seemed to forget about him completely in the face of their daughter.

Remus couldn’t really blame him either.

“You’re late!” Sirius pouted as he pulled you into a hug. You had to get Floo Flame access to the house through McGonagall’s office, though Remus or Sirius had been given a reason why. Nothing more than a letter from Minerva to ask you about it. “And you had to get Floo powder!”

“I’m fine, Dad.” you chuckled, dragging your bag into the room. “Can I go unpack before you barrage me with questions?”

“Of course you can.” Remus said with a small smile, kissing your forehead before letting you go upstairs. He noted a couple of new scars on your body, though nothing too major from the most recent transformation.

Sirius and Remus watched as you walked upstairs before turning to face each other, calculating expressions on the both of their faces. Ron and Hermione had come to them earlier after they had unpacked all of their clothes with concerned expressions on their faces. Remus had listened carefully when they expressed their concerns about you and Theodore, how they didn’t believe that Theodore would be a good influence on you.

Sirius seemed way more dramatic about it than he needed to be, though Remus was sure it was more for the fun of it rather than any potential danger. Remus tried to listen to Ron and Hermione’s concerns, as dramatic as they sounded from them, with an open mind.

He knew of the kid they were talking about through his year of teaching at Hogwarts, which quickly led to Sirius interviewing him as soon as Ron and Hermione had left the room.

A bright student that might not have put his whole foot into the assignment, but enough effort to have his grades worth something. He was a quiet student though, he didn’t get into much trouble. And as much as Sirius pouted about him potentially being a womanizer, Remus was sure that he wouldn’t get worse than Sirius was at Hogwarts.

“I’m back!” you called out, walking into the room with your pajamas.

“You look amazing, dove.” Remus smiled, pulling you into the hug he hadn’t been able to get earlier. “How was school this year? Did you have fun?”

“Oh yeah, tons!” you smiled brightly, jumping up and down a couple of times. “Can I tell you guys about it?”

“Be our guest.” Sirius smiled brightly.

Remus offered to make tea while you talked about the school year. It definitely had its downsides with Umbridge, who you were finally able to talk about now that you weren’t being tracked by her and her devices. But it was also a good year too. You had hung out with your friends, your grades had been good, and you had helped Harry establish the DA inside of the Room of Requirements. Sirius and Remus found themselves laughing at many different times during the stories of your escapades, though it eventually mellowed out when Sirius took his final sip of tea.

“Dove,” he said, clearing his throat and resting his hands on the table. “We had something we wanted to ask you about.”

“You do?” you asked confusedly, looking over at Remus who seemed just as confused. “We do?”

“Yes, we do!” Sirius pouted. “Ron and Hermione have informed us that you may or may not be hanging out with a Slytherin boy, who may or may not go by the name of Theodore.”

You rolled your eyes and groaned, resting your head on the table. “Dad!”

“Was that really that much of a big deal?” Remus asked amusedly.

“Course it is!” Sirius wailed, his hands waving aimlessly in the air. “He’s a Slytherin! What if he’s using you to steal the Gryffindor’s Quidditch formula so that way they can beat the Gryffindors. I cannot stand even the thought of such atrocities.”

“Dad,” you groaned out loud. “Quidditch is cancelled, he couldn’t do that anyways.”

“She cancelled Quidditch?” Sirius asked dramatically, though Remus knew that he felt sadness running through every bone of his body from the news alone. “That’s a crime!”

“And I know that Theodore wouldn’t do that anyways.” you said, your voice much more collected in comparison. “Even McGonagall trusts him! She set us up in the first place.”

“McGonagall set you two up?” Remus chuckled out.

You sputtered out for a moment before shrugging. “Yeah, she had me tutor him.” you muttered quietly to the both of them. “For the Mending Charm. Though I think she just wanted us to hang out, he was rather good at it anyways.”

“Oh, the classic tutoring.” Sirius sighed wistfully. “You know, McGonagall did that for James and Lily too back in our Sixth Year. Worked like a charm.”

You smiled softly at that. “He really isn’t that bad. Ron is just being dramatic.”

“Do you like him?” Remus asked curiously, taking a sip of his tea. He drank his much slower compared to Sirius.

You looked down at your cup of tea, which had barely been touched in your rambles. “I think so, but I’m not sure.” you whispered quietly. “We were cuddling last night, you know? Talking about stuff. He’s still staying at Hogwarts for Christmas.”

“Umbridge?” Sirius asked with a raised eyebrow.

You shook your head quietly. “His dad sucks.”

“You could’ve stayed with him if you wanted.” Remus said.

You shook your head again, this time a bit louder. “I would’ve. But he said I should come home. Family’s really important to him, you know?” you said with a soft smile. “His friend’s staying.”

Sirius and Remus looked at each other before smiling at that. Remus knew that Ron probably had a wrong perception, though he wasn’t aware it was going to be that wrong. He did, however, know that you were being genuine. “That’s a lot better than I thought it’d be.”

Sirius chuckled and shook his head. “Ron and Hermione were being rather dramatic, weren’t they?”

“What on Earth did they even say?” you asked exasperatedly.

“Nothing much,” Remus chuckled. “Other than that Theodore was a major ass, and probably thought it was a twisted joke to mess with you because you're a werewolf's daughter.”

You groaned loudly, slamming your head on the table. “Oh my God.”

“But,” Sirius said, a small smile on his face. “If he treats you well, and you love him truly, then I don’t think there’s an issue. Right Moony?”

“Exactly.” Remus said with a smile. “I’m sure that as long as he knows I will kill him should he hurt you, that whatever you choose to do from here will be a very healthy relationship.”

You chuckled loudly at that, standing up from your seat to give them both a hug that Sirius returned a lot quicker than Remus could. “I love you two.”

“We love you too, dove.” Remus whispered quietly, a small but proud smile on his face.

“Y/N!”

You looked up as you heard Theodore’s voice echoing through the halls, eyes blinking open in confusion. The lights around you were blinding to say the least, but they soon calmed down as you saw Theo move them to the side. “Theo?”

“What on Earth happened?” he gasped out.

You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion before looking down, sighing quietly.

Your body was covered in bruises and cut marks, all from the night before. The full moon had been violent this month, a vision piercing through your mind that had led you to lashing out in the Shrieking Shack. You were usually never violent to your other self, unlike your father, though you still sometimes inherited the anger.

It seemed like tonight was a night you did.

“It’ll heal up.” you whispered quietly, looking over at Theo again. There was a pained expression on his face. He was obviously the first to know your night had gone sour, since you hadn’t heard from Hermione, Ron or Harry yet. “I promise.”

“Did someone do this to you?” he asked, looking you in the eyes. You immediately noticed the venom in his voice, and almost wanted to chuckle at it. He was so protective of you it was almost like a comedy show. Just earlier that week he had dragged you to the Slytherin Common Room when you came back early from your Yule break, and he had almost punched Mattheo square in the jaw for an offhand comment he thought was about you. Turns out that Mattheo had been looking at a completely different person, much to his luck.

You supposed that it was fair, all things considered. You both worked out the kinks of your relationship that night when you came back, which ended in a long session of kisses and affirmations of love whispered into the starry night shining just outside of the Astronomy Tower.

Even still, you weren’t sure how Theo would react to you being a werewolf. He knew of your father’s condition, every one of his students did, but not of yours.

You supposed there was only one way to find out.

“I did this.” you whispered.

Theo looked at you confusedly, in the sort of way like he thought you were lying more than the way like you didn’t make sense. “You did this.” he deadpanned out.

You shrugged simply, sitting up a bit straighter with his help. “You do know I’m a werewolf, right?”

Theo looked up at you, before looking down at the claw marks and the bruises again. “What does,” he muttered confusedly, eyebrows furrowed like he was trying to solve a rather hard Ancient Rune tome. “I know that lycanthropy can be genetic. But I didn’t know that werewolves harmed themselves on full moons.”

“Most usually don’t.” you shrugged, a great sigh leaving your mind internally. He was more observant than you had given credit for. “I guess it was just a bad night.”

Theo felt his eyebrows furrowing even further. “Is that where your father got his scars from?”

“Mhm.” you nodded. “His leg’s healing from last month’s moon still.

Theo nodded before pulling you into a kiss. It wasn’t like the kisses the both of you had before, it wasn’t harsh and demanding. No lust was present in the ridges of his tongue, no wanton need or burning desire for something sinful hidden in the cracks on his upper lip. There was only love. A pure love, one that you weren’t sure you had ever felt before.

It was warm like the sun on a summer’s morning, wrapping your soul in a blanket so cozy you were positive you never wanted to leave this kiss. If you weren’t of a more practical mind, you’d think that this kiss was a cure to all of your ailments. You might even believe that now.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” he whispered quietly, his eyes locked with yours.

You scoffed quietly. “I would’ve hurt you.”

“I bet you were beautiful.” he said, a small but smug smirk on his face. “I wouldn’t mind dying to your claws.”

“Theo!” you smiled ridiculously, swatting his arm. “You’re insane.”

“I can be anything for you.” he winked, before looking over at the door to the Hospital Wing. “I should probably get going. Your friends are coming.”

You frowned softly at the door, noticing that Harry was holding it open for Ron and Hermione. No doubt they were way behind, he always walked faster than most. “Will I see you again?” you asked him quietly.

“Of course.” he smiled, biting his lip as he tried to figure out how he’d get out without being seen.

‘Harry doesn’t mind you, you know.” you whispered. “I’m sure he’d let you pass.”

Theo looked at you with a grateful smile, kissing your lips before walking over to the door. You were sure Harry had seen everything, a theory based nothing more than on the smirk he sent your way and the look he gave to Theo. Not a mean look by any means, nothing more just a protective look. Theo seemed to understand it, nodding quietly with a small smile before walking out the infirmary before Ron and Hermione approached.

You were glad that he came first. You felt rather glad for everything, really.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

this one took a lot longer than i was anticipating for a lot of reasons. i got sick, it's long as hell, had schoolwork beating my ass sideways and got really into watching arcane when i quite honestly should've been writing, but i finally got it done! sorry for the long wait anon, but i hope that this story fits your prompt's idea!

AS ALWAYS - please like, comment, and reblog! love ya!