Satoru Gojo is fucking gorgeous, which is so deeply unfair that you’re still kind of processing it as he pays for your movie ticket with trembling fingers. His white hair is slightly tousled, soft against his ears, and his glasses are tilted just a bit on the bridge of his nose. He keeps pushing them up like he’s stalling, trying not to meet your eyes too long because every time he does, he gets flustered. His face goes pink and he laughs too loud. You bite your lip every time he does that.
You’re no better. Your hands are clammy inside the sleeves of your hoodie, because you thought this was going to be a safe little date. Nerdy. Harmless. You met at a fucking Doraemon expo for god’s sake, where he gave you a Doraemon-shaped candy and then looked like he wanted to die from shyness.
And now you’re sitting in a too-dark movie theatre with his knee brushing yours.
You think you’re gonna die too. Because there’s heat pooling between your legs, and you're pretty sure you’ve soaked through your panties, and this was supposed to be your first normal date. Not a panty-ruining, thigh-clenching disaster where you keep imagining his stupid hot fingers pulling your hoodie up and touching you like you're not both trembling virgins about to combust from one misplaced touch.
Satoru’s voice cracks in the dark.
“You, uh— are you okay?”
You look at him, wide-eyed. “What? Yeah. I’m fine.”
He fidgets. “You’re breathing kinda fast.”
You are. Shit.
“I’m just…” you squirm, thighs pressed tight together. “The seats are uncomfortable.”
He makes a strangled little laugh, eyes darting to the screen and then back to your mouth. You don’t know who moves first, but a second later, your hands are brushing in the popcorn bag and boom— your bodies are pressed together like magnets.
The movie is completely forgotten. You’re both leaning toward each other, breathing the same hot air, and it’s dizzying how close he is. His scent is soft and clean, like soap and sugar and some light cologne that makes your thighs ache. Your lips almost brush before he pulls back, cheeks pink.
“I-I gotta pee,” he blurts. Then winces. “Fuck. Not like— fuck, I didn’t mean it like—”
You stare at him, lips parted.
“…Me too,” you whisper. “Bathroom. I mean.”
So of course, of course, ten minutes later, you’re both in the tiny single-stall bathroom behind the snack bar, the door locked, and you’re pressed against the wall with Satoru’s hands hovering an inch from your waist like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch you.
You’re panting.
So is he.
And there’s the faintest bulge pressing against his pants.
“You’re hard,” you whisper, stunned.
Satoru turns bright red. “I didn’t mean to be! I swear I wasn’t thinking anything— well I was thinking but not like— well yes like that but I didn’t expect you to—”
“I’m wet.”
That shuts him up.
He blinks. “Wha— You, wait really?”
You nod furiously. “Soaked. I thought I was dying. You’re, l-like— you’re so hot and tall and your hands are big and I thought—”
He sways toward you like he’s being pulled by gravity.
“You think I’m hot?” he breathes, shocked.
Your voice is barely a whisper. “You’re like—the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.”
“…But I’m a virgin.”
You blink. “You’re a virgin?”
He freezes. “You didn’t know?”
You shake your head. “You’re too confident. And tall. And your voice, like— you talk like you’ve seen shit.”
“I haven’t! I’ve literally never seen anything. I still sleep with a body pillow.”
“Oh my god.”
You both start laughing, but it’s too breathy, too nervous. You’re looking at his lips again.
“I thought you weren’t a virgin,” he admits, voice low now, almost in awe. “You look like— like—”
He waves helplessly at your body. “You’re so pretty. So hot. You look like you’d ruin me.”
“I’ve never even kissed anyone,” you whisper.
“Me either,” he says.
There’s a beat of silent realization.
Then— tentatively— his hands touch your waist. He’s shaking.
“Can I…”
You nod. “Yeah. Please.”
The kiss is terrible. Teeth clashing, noses bumping, your mouths slipping messily before you both pull away with startled laughter. But his face is flushed, and his eyes are glassy, and your thighs are pressed tight together because the way he’s looking at you is not innocent anymore.
“We’re so bad at this,” you whisper.
“I’m gonna die,” he mumbles, forehead pressed to yours.
“I’m so wet I think my panties are ruined,” you say, like a confession.
He groans. “That’s so hot, please don’t say things like that unless you want me to cum in my pants.”
You both snort, but neither of you moves away.
“Can I… touch you?” he whispers, barely audible.
Your eyes widen, breath catching.
“…Yes. But I don’t— I don’t really know how.”
“Me either,” he whispers. “Let’s be awkward together.”
You reach for his belt, and he lifts your hoodie just enough to see the swell of your tits in your bra. And then you both freeze, panting, staring— because holy fuck this is actually happening.
Two very horny, very confused virgins. In a bathroom. At the movies.
Grinding desperately like you’re learning each other’s bodies in braille.
His hands find your hips, pulling you closer. Your fingers tremble at his zipper. And you swear— you swear— when your pussy brushes against his bulge through your panties and tights, he nearly whimpers.
You're both gonna combust.
You’re still half-laughing, half-gasping into his neck, your panties damp and sticking to you like sin, and Satoru’s hard dick is pressed against your inner thigh through his jeans like it hurts. He keeps doing these little shaky inhales, fingers digging into your hoodie at the waist like he needs something to hold onto or he’ll float off the planet.
His glasses are fogged. His cheeks are pink. And when you drag your nose along his jaw just to feel him shiver, he makes the softest noise you’ve ever heard. A tiny, broken sigh— like the kind of sound you might make when someone pets your hair just right.
You feel like you’re on fire.
“You’re really… hard,” you whisper, a little dreamy, dragging your hand down the front of his jeans like you’re curious more than anything else. Because you are. You can feel the length of him, thick and hot under the denim, twitching at just the barest touch of your fingers. “Like… all the way.”
“I know,” he whines, quietly. “It’s been like that since the popcorn scene.”
You giggle. “We didn’t have a popcorn scene.”
“You were licking butter off your fingers.”
“…Oh. Yeah okay, fair.”
You’re still staring at the bulge in his jeans. It’s insane. It’s… kind of intimidating, honestly. But you’re so curious, and he looks like he might actually die from the idea of you wanting to see him like this.
“Can I see it?” you whisper.
His breath catches. His whole body freezes.
“You— my… dick?”
You nod shyly, face burning. “Just once. I just— I wanna know what it looks like.”
He stares at you like you’re a mythical creature. “You really want to see it?”
“…Yeah.”
His fingers are shaking as he fumbles with his zipper.
You don’t look away— not even when he shoves his boxers down and his cock bounces free, flushed and heavy and dripping. You make a noise, something halfway between shock and awe, because holy shit he’s big. Not just big— long, curved a little toward his stomach, thick enough that your mouth goes dry. The tip is glossy and wet, a pretty pink color— a clear bead clinging to the slit like he’s leaking from just grinding on you.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, stunned.
Satoru makes a noise that’s not human. “D-don’t look at it like that.”
“I can’t help it,” you breathe. “It’s pretty.”
His brain shuts down.
“Pretty?” he croaks.
You nod dumbly, staring. “It’s like… glossy. And pink. And it’s twitching.”
He groans. “Don’t say twitching—”
“But it is! It’s like it’s waving at me or something. It looks so needy.”
He grabs the wall behind your head like he might collapse.
“You’re so cute,” you whisper. “You’re really hard just from kissing me.”
“You’re soaking,” he counters, voice hoarse. “You’ve been wet for an hour.”
You whimper a little. “I didn’t even know I could get this wet.”
Satoru groans again and cups himself like it’ll stop him from cumming just from talking to you.
You reach out— slowly— and wrap your fingers around the base.
He jolts, hips stuttering forward into your hand like it’s instinct. His eyes flutter shut and his whole body shudders, like he’s never felt anything like this.
“…You’re so warm,” you whisper. “And thick.”
“I’m gonna cum,” he blurts.
You pause. “Wait, already?”
“I told you,” he gasps, pressing his face into your neck. “It’s your voice— fuck, the way you’re touching me—”
You slide your hand up and watch his cock twitch, leaking over your fingers.
He sobs a little. “Angel, please—”
That makes you freeze.
“…Angel?”
He peeks up at you, embarrassed. “It slipped out.”
You bite your lip, then smile, stroking him again. “I like it.”
“You’re so soft,” he moans. “And your hand’s so small, it doesn’t even fit—”
You squeeze a little tighter. He gasps.
“Tell me when,” you whisper, eyes wide. “I don’t wanna waste it. You’ve been hard for so long.”
“‘When’?” he pants.
“Yeah,” you say, breath catching. “I want to see what your cum looks like too.”
He shatters.
Just like that— hot, thick ropes spill out across your fingers, your hoodie, his shirt. You watch with wide, fascinated eyes as his whole body curls toward yours, hips stuttering, voice cracked and pleading into your shoulder. His cock throbs in your hand like it’s losing its mind. He sounds so helpless, so high and soft when he whimpers your name.
You stare at the mess.
“…Whoa.”
He’s panting against your cheek, totally limp. “That was so embarrassing.”
“It was awesome,” you breathe. “I made you cum.”
“I exploded in ten seconds.”
You stroke his hair. “I think you’re perfect.”
He melts a little into your chest.
“…You wanna see me next?” you whisper.
His head jerks up like a prairie dog.
Satoru’s still shaking.
You can feel it— his breath hot and unsteady on your neck, his heartbeat punching against your ribs where your bodies press together. Satoru Gojo just came all over your hand like some desperate teenager, having a wet dream, and you’re still standing in a movie theater bathroom, soaked to the skin and so turned on it’s getting hard to breathe.
His cum is sticky on your fingers. Warm, it smells faintly like salt and sugar, and he’s still leaning against you like he’s not sure how to stand on his own.
And then—
Your voice, soft and daring, nearly a whisper:
“…You wanna see me next?”
Satoru blinks. Eyes blown wide. Mouth parted, in disbelief.
“…Are you serious?”
You nod.
He looks stunned. “Like… your pussy?”
Your whole face burns.
“Y-yeah,” you stammer, suddenly nervous. “If you want. I mean— I know it’s— kind of a lot, and maybe messy, but I just… I’ve never… shown anyone." You're looking down at the floor before you finish the rest of that sentence... then your eyes are darting back up to his face, blue eyes stargazed in disbelief. “And I want you to see.”
He’s speechless, Satoru is utterly speechless.
You fidget, heart thudding, tugging your hoodie down like it can hide the way your thighs are trembling, how wet you still are under your panties.
“I just thought… since I saw yours…”
His hand flies up, quick. Cupping your face, both of you look into each other's eyes.
“I want to,” he blurts. “I want to so bad I think I’m gonna die.”
You smile, shy and giddy. “Okay. Then… can you take my panties off?”
He gasps.
Like, actually gasps. Clutches his chest. Staggers backward like you hit him with a spell.
“Say that again,” he whispers.
You reach under your hoodie, slowly rolling your leggings down to your thighs, revealing just a sliver of your pale pink cotton panties, soaked straight through. There’s a wet patch over your pussy— obvious, shiny, and dark.
“Take them off,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Please?”
He looks like he might cry.
“Oh my god,” he chokes. “You’re so wet you soaked through. That’s from me? From just— grinding on me?”
You nod, cheeks flushed. “You made me so wet I couldn’t focus on the movie.”
His hands are on your thighs now, huge and hot, trembling a little as he sinks to his knees in front of you like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. His glasses slide down his nose. He pushes them up, eyes fixed on your panties like they’re the most sacred thing he’s ever seen.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispers, “but I wanna learn so bad.”
You’re breathing so fast your legs are shaking.
His fingers slide under the sides of your panties. He hesitates.
“Ready?” he asks, voice so soft.
You nod, in eager anticipation, like when you know you're about to rip a band-aid off. But... in this case, it's your soaked sticky ruined panties.
And he pulls them down.
Slow, slow, slow
The cotton clings to your cunt, like they're almost glued to you, but he gets them off with a firmer tug.
Your cunt glosses in the light.
Dripping. Swollen. Slick as fuck and twitching under his gaze. You clench a little just from the air, the tension, the way he’s looking at you like he just saw an angel squirt holy water.
He moans. Moans.
“You’re so pretty,” he breathes. “Holy shit, you’re soaked. I didn’t know it could do that.”
You giggle nervously. “It doesn’t usually. I think it’s a you thing.”
He gulps, audibly.
His eyes don’t leave your pussy, even as he leans forward, nose almost brushing your thigh.
“Can I… touch you?”
You feel your knees threaten to buckle.
“Yes.” You say with too much enthusiasm than you meant.
His fingers twitch. “I don’t know how.”
You grab his wrist and guide it...
His middle finger barely grazes your folds and you gasp, clenching, hips jumping forward.
“Oh fuck,” he moans. “That was barely anything. You’re shaking.”
“You touched my clit,” you pant. “It’s sensitive.”
His eyes sparkle.
“Oh my god. I love that you know what it’s called.”
You’re breathless, laughing a little. “I’ve read fanfiction. Have you not?”
“I have, but in those they just say ‘your little pearl’ and shit.”
You groan. “That’s not even close.”
He’s looking again, hand hovering like he’s terrified to mess it up.
“Okay, so… this is your clit,” he murmurs, grazing it again, watching how your whole body twitches. “It’s so tiny. But you sound like I electrocuted you when I touched it.”
You whimper, cause he's teasing... He's curious as well and doesn't fucking know how much him petting your clit actually affects you.
“You like that?” he whispers, a bit entranced. Crystalline blue eyes focusing on the sticky strands of your slick connected to his fingertips as they stretch when he rubs and pulls them off your glued pussylips.
“Y-yeah.”
He touches again, a little firmer... slower, really working your clit, the soft squelches audible, he really wants to taste it, the creamy thing webbing his fingers, the thought pounding in his head.. Would you be grossed out if he just shoved his fingers in his mouth right now and got a taste of that sappy cream?
You whimper louder, snapping his attention back from his lewd thoughts.
His voice is shaking. “Can you c-cum like this? Just from me touching you?”
You nod furiously. “If you keep going, Fuck. Please keep going.”
His thumb brushes you now, a bit more confidently.
“You’re dripping,” he mumbles. “It’s getting on my wrist, angel”
Your thighs snap shut, embarrassed.
But you’re so close and he’s still rubbing in slow, shaky circles and whispering your name and watching you like he’s studying for a test he’s gonna fail with honors. Your clit feels like it’s throbbing. You can’t stop shaking. Can’t stop whining.
And then—
“Cum for me,” he whispers, awed. “Please, please pretty girl, I wanna see.”
That makes your cunt clench, his voice the thing that makes you break instantly.
You clam up around nothing, crying out as your pussy gushes over his hand, wet and twitchy, making a fucking mess on his hoodie sleeve. Your knees give out. He catches you instantly, still on his knees, arms full of shaking, panting girl.
You’re sobbing in relief, thighs sticky, pussy still fluttering, and his hands are holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
“You’re so amazing,” he breathes. “I can’t believe I made you cum.”
You whimper. “You’re so good. I didn’t think it would feel like that.”
He kisses your thigh.
Then your stomach, and makes his way up and then your lips, just to feel you.
Soft and careful, with utmost devotion and care.
And you melt against him, fucked out and flushed, pressed to his chest.
“…We should do this again,” he mumbles.
“Next time,” you pant, smiling, “I wanna see if you can make me squirt.”
He chokes, on what little air he's breathing.
But you’re still trembling.
Your panties are hanging off one ankle, his cum is drying on your sleeve, and your pussy is throbbing— still fluttering every now and then like your body can’t believe you actually came. You’re slumped against Satoru’s chest, half-limp, while he rubs soft little circles on your lower back like he’s trying to soothe an overstimulated kitten.
Time is passing and neither of you has said anything in the last full minute.
Except him whispering “holy fuck” under his breath every ten seconds like a mantra.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” he finally says, voice all hushed reverence. “You came.”
You nod, agreeing lazily. Dazed, and still reeling in the high. “Like… a lot.”
“You squirted.”
“I did not.”
“There was liquid. Splash zone level.”
You slap his chest, giggling, but your thighs twitch. You’re so sensitive you could cry, your clit aches in that perfect, pulsing way that means it wants no more and yet… you’re still soaking wet.
And you feel it. That ache deeper inside you now. Heavy and throbbing. Unused.
Unsatisfied.
You shift against him, face buried in the soft cotton of his shirt, and whisper:
“…Satoru?”
“Yeah?”
“I want you to put your fingers in me.”
You feel him freeze. Every muscle goes stiff. His hands still on your back. You feel his dick— hard again— press against your thigh like it heard you first.
“Wha— what.”
You look up at him, breath shaky. “You made me cum from the outside. But I’ve never been touched inside.”
His ears go red.
“I— I don’t wanna hurt you—”
“You won’t.” You take his wrist, place his hand gently against your mound. “I trust you.”
He swallows hard. You begin to guide his fingers between your thighs again, letting him feel how wet you still are. You gasp a little just from the contact— still sensitive, still twitchy.
His voice comes out hoarse. “You’re soaked.”
“Just go slow,” you whisper. “I wanna know what it feels like.”
He moves down again and actually takes his jacket off and spreads it over the tiles beneath you. He's kneeling like it’s instinct now, reverent and worshipful. Like he belongs on the floor for you. He kisses your inner thigh once, sweet and shaky, then stares between your legs like he’s seeing magic.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says.
You nod, open for him by parting your thighs, trembling ever so slightly.
His fingers sliding along your sappy folds, middle finger inching closer to your hole's opening, more slick gathers and pools as it tries to worm its way in.
You gasp at the feeling.. a bit in fear and uncertainty, but he's so gentle, holding you tighter against him.
His finger begins to push in, your tiny hole fighting him, the intrusion. It's nothing like you've ever felt.
Satoru’s breathing stops entirely.
“You’re tight,” he whispers, stunned. “You’re— fuck, you’re so warm, I can feel your pulse.”
You whimper. “Go slow. Just the tip.”
He pushes a little, and you clench involuntarily, sucking him in just a bit.
He moans. Actually moans. Like you’re the one touching him.
“Angel, you’re gripping me.”
You bury your face in your sleeve, whining. “It’s not fair. Your fingers are big.”
He curls his finger just slightly— experimenting— and your entire body jolts.
“Oh— oh fuck!” you cry out.
His eyes go wide. “Was that— was that good?”
“D-do it again,” you pant.
He does. Gentler, carefully pressing just right, and your walls flutter around him so tightly it’s like your body doesn’t know how to handle it.
“You’re so wet,” he mumbles. “You’re sucking me in.”
You grab his wrist. “Try two.”
He stares. “Are you sure?”
“Please, Satoru.”
You’re breathless, begging.
He shivers like it physically affects him.
He slides another finger in— and your pussy stretches around him, tighter than he expected. Your mouth drops open. Your thighs twitch.
“Oh my god,” you gasp.
“Fuck, you’re squeezing me— I can’t move,” he moans.
You rock your hips, helping him, whining through your teeth.
It’s deep. It’s thick. He curls again— and you sob, eyes fluttering back.
“There— oh my god there, right there—”
His fingers are hooked now, rubbing that spongey spot deep inside that makes your eyes cross. His thumb finds your clit on instinct, and suddenly you’re wailing, your whole body shaking, your pussy clenching so hard around his fingers he can barely move.
You cum again, messier and needy. Your velvet walls constricting his fingers in waves.
And he watches, awed, wrecked. His other hand supporting you as your thighs tremble uncontrollably.
He doesn’t even pull out.
He just whispers, “You’re so beautiful when you cum.”
And you start crying.
Happy tears. Dumb overwhelmed tears. Because no one’s ever touched you like this, seen you like this, loved your body with nothing but his hands and awe.
He kisses your forehead.
You sniffle. “I want you inside me someday.”
He nods. “Me too.”
“…But I might have to train for it.”
He laughs, breathless. “Me too. My heart can’t take this.”
You null away on his chest for a minute. Exhausted by everything your body's endured tonight, your panties still on the floor, his arms still secured tight around you and he press soft kisses to the top of your head.
Eventually when he slowly eases his fingers out of you, you're relaxed, no longer holding them hostage, it slides out with a flurry of slick gushing out, all what's been welling up and stuffed inside your cunt for the entire time.
He rubs it up and down your pussylips then into your clit one last time before he's bringing his fingers to his lips, and moaning as your flavour hits his tongue. Finally, getting a taste of you and he couldn't be more pleased at the tangy-sweetness of it.
Satoru licks his fingers clean, savouring it and after he's the one reaching for your panties, tugging them back up along with your leggings as he tells you softly to, "Raise your hips for me please, angel. Good girl, just like that." You do, and he secures them back in place, cunt still pulsing. Fresh slick soaking your panties again.
Satoru stands first, all long limbs and easy grace and he reaches down for you next. His hands are warm as he pulls you up from the bathroom floor. His jacket lies there still, a dark wet patch blooming where your cunt had soaked through.
Heat floods your cheeks, you're quick to mumble an apology, eyes glassy with leftover pleasure and sudden shyness.
He just chuckles softly. Bends to snatch the jacket up like it’s nothing. He balls it in one hand and tucks it under his arm.
“Shh, angel. It’s fine.”
He cups your face, thumbs brushing your flushed skin. Then he kisses you slow and deep, tasting like sin and sweetness. “One wash and it’ll be brand new. Don’t worry about it.”
He doesn’t tell you he plans to keep it exactly like this. A filthy little souvenir, from tonight.
His fingers lace with yours as he leads you out of the stall. The movie is long forgotten. He keeps you tucked close against his side the whole way through the emptying theater. The night air hits cool when you step outside.
In the car he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh. Possessive and gentle.
Later that night you lie in bed, sheets tangled around your legs. Your phone glows in the dark. Heart hammering, you type the silly questions anyway.
you 🩷
so… are we...
dating?
omg omg
am i your girlfriend now?!
His reply comes instantly.
toru 🩵
i knew we were soulmates when you asked to see my dick
aaaand called it "pretty"
ilysm angel omg
You giggle into your pillow, face burning. Your chest feels too full. Tonight was crazy. Wild and messy and perfect.
But now one, no two orgasms later and Satoru Gojo is yours. Officially. The nerd from the Doraemon expo.
You fall asleep smiling stupidly into your pillow, already wondering when you’ll feel his hands on you again.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
IN WHICH: yuji itadori has an enormous crush on y/n l/n, almost pitiful in a way, yet she barely knows who he is. thus yuji gets the brilliant idea to pretend to flunk biology so that y/n can tutor him - and he can shoot his shot.
warnings: none, just a text fic (smut incoming ;) masterlist
˚⟡˖ ࣪all work is written and owned by me, likes, comments and reblogs are welcome and appreciated! do not translate, copy, modify or repost my work or feed my work into ai.
megumi just came back from a long mission and he's sleeepppyy but he just wants you ˊᴖˋ
w.c. 600
c.w. suggestive themes !
"mmmf— gumi..!" you whine as megumi climbs on top of you, feeling his weight melt onto your body as his tongue slips past your lips once again.
his eyes are droopy with sleep, evident that he's exhausted. but megumi, hopelessly whipped for his girlfriend megumi, brings a hand to your bra, dipping his hand beneath the padding to squeeze your tit.
another hand cups your jaw, but his grasp is softer than usual. nearly every bone in his body is tired, but somehow his mouth keeps deepening the kiss, and his hips respond to yours every time you grind on him desperately.
"my pretty girl.." he mutters.
the bulge presses through his sweatpants, and you already know his leaky tip is completely soaking his boxers, but the two of you are simply too tired to do anything about it other than get off on clothed sex like the horny teenagers you once were.
megumi's never been too rough with you, now more than ever with the way he lazily kisses you back, the way his hands move across your body with less fervor.
he's got you leaning against the bedframe, your shoulders propped up on a pillow as strands of his jet black hair tangle in your fingers.
"love you so much" he whispers, and his eyes twinkle with adoration as he pauses for a moment to meet your gaze.
"you're so cute." you laugh back. the way you laugh makes him melt every time - the way your lashes flutter, the way your teeth show in your smile, the fact that he makes you laugh.
you start growing wetter the second he buries his face into your neck, hips rutting into yours.
a groan escapes his mouth at the way he can feel you all over him, him all over you, it's hard to distinguish the two at this point. he's exhausted. you can definitely feel that.
"baby," you pull away from his lips for a moment. "lay down for me."
megumi slumps down next to you, his hands laying loosely next to his head and his eyelids sagging.
thankfully, you're not as tired as him, and you lift a leg over his knees, straddling his lap. his hands instinctively move to your hips to guide you, but instead you bring his hand toward you. his fingers securely wrap around yours.
the grinding starts slow. you roll your hips enticingly, and somehow he feels even harder than before. it takes a second to find your pace, but soon enough you're practically bouncing on top of him, desperate to please your swollen clit with every time you snap back down onto him.
"fffuckk, baby," you press your chest to his as his cock twitches underneath you. "might cum just like this."
"yeah?" he breathes, an arm covering his eyes. he moans as you plunge your hips deep onto him.
you don't exchange a lot of words after that, only his heavy breaths and your soft moans fill the room as you each get your release. megumi strokes your hair as your wave of pleasure passes, and you feel his lips kissing your forehead.
the sheets rustle as you cuddle up next to your boyfriend, still softly rubbing your backside against his pelvis.
he's used to it by now, and his hand finds your waist under your his hoodie, rubbing circles into your skin with his thumb.
"..gumi?"
"hm?" he answers with his eyes closed.
"i love you."
you turn your head to face him when he doesn't reply, but he's already fast asleep, chest rising and falling as he breathes slowly.
a/n: it's my bday in 6 minutes!! a very self indulgent short lil drabble.. honestly i was js writing to write for this one so idk if it's very good and you can imagine more in your head yay how fun!!
should i create a taglist ?? please comment and tell me.. also reminder that my requests are currently open!! send me an ask.. if you want... ALSO my baby daddy toji fic randomly got a ton of likes which was super unexpected but tysm anyway!!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Pairing.ᐟ: Husband!Megumi Fushiguro x Housewife!reader
Synopsis.ᐟ: Megumi returns home from a mission under the influence of aphrodisiac. Overwhelmed by the drug's effects and aware of your desire to have babies, he initiates passionate, unprotected intimacy with the intent of conceiving a child.
Tags.ᐟ: curse au, fluff, cursing, L-bomb, smut with plot, top!megumi, a bit of self doubt megumi, sub!reader, afab!reader, breeding, unprotected sex, aphrodisiac, missionary, slight OOC, proofread.
Author's Note.ᐟ: I was thinking about this on some random day and I had to write it! Honorable tag: alebrasil0101
WCᐟ: 2.5K
If you like this, you should check out my masterlist!
Megumi married you right after high school.
The two of you had been dating since the middle of your first year at Jujutsu High. He had been badly injured and you, working under Ms. Shoko to master your Reverse Cursed Technique, were the only one in the infirmary that day. You were understandably intimidated by the severity of his wounds, but his beautiful green eyes remained calm, as if this were a common occurrence.
“Where’s Ms. Shoko?” he asked, leaning on the doorframe. Blood dripped from his forehead and seeped through his gym attire.
You quickly ran to his side and offered a hand, which he took weakly as you guided him toward the medical bed. As you set up your tools, you mentally rehearsed Shoko’s procedures, panicking at the thought of messing up your very first patient.
“Hey,” his voice cut through your trance.
“Y-yes?” you replied softly, trying to steady your breathing. You looked more rattled than he did.
“Take your time. It’s obvious that you’re nervous, and I would rather not walk out of here looking worse than I did coming in.”
You smiled, finding comfort in the fact that he could joke while bleeding out.
“You’re right.” Your hands stopped shaking as you focused on your technique.
He laid back languidly, trying to find a comfortable position on the cold sheets. You hovered your hand over the zipper of his jacket.
“May I…” you trailed off, unsure of what to call him.
“Fushiguro.”
“Oh! May I, Fushiguro?”
He nodded, allowing you to unzip the jacket so you could finish the healing process. The procedure went perfectly. While your technique did most of the heavy lifting, you were able to talk to him and properly introduce yourself.
After that day, he realized he had found someone who didn't buzz in his ear like his classmates or leave him smelling of cigarettes after a patch-up. Megumi grew to love your opinions and the way your voice alone made him feel safe and warm.
It was winter, and most of the students had plans for the upcoming break.
You stayed in your dorm to study ways to activate your cursed technique faster for emergencies. Just as you were getting comfortable in bed, you received a text from Megumi.
(Fushiguro): What are you doing?
(You): Reading. Need something?
(Fushiguro): Hmm. No, I don’t need anything. I only asked because everyone else is going to watch a movie, and I was only going to go if you went.
(You): Well, I mean, you can come over and hang out with me.
(Fushiguro): Sounds perfect.
From that day forward, you and Megumi spent your time together, sometimes in silence and sometimes in quiet conversation about school. Eventually, those moments turned into hangouts outside of the dorms, until he finally asked you if he could be your boyfriend.
The relationship remained private until the night of your high school graduation, when he led you out onto a moonlit beach. His hand gripped yours firmly as he guided you toward a secluded spot.
“Megumi! Where are we—” Your words were cut short when he pressed his lips to your knuckles, his fingers still intertwined with yours. He looked down at you, simply taking you in. No words were spoken; there was only the sound of soft breathing and the distant rush of waves.
“I love you,” he spoke, his voice softer than you had ever heard it.
“Aww, I love you too.”
He let go of your hand and dropped to one knee. You stepped back, covering your mouth in shock.
“I-i’ve never done this before, but…” He looked away, his face flushing and his ears turning a deep red. “I want to spend the rest of my life with the person I truly love.”
“Megumi…” You were lost for words.
He turned back to you, his expression full of determination. “Shit… don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, pulling a small box from his pocket.
“Sorry, sorry,” you whispered, fidgeting with your fingers.
He cleared his throat and opened the box, revealing a stunning ring that caught the moonlight. “Will you marry me?”
You dropped to the sand and threw your arms around his neck. “Yes! A billion times, yes!” you squealed.
Suddenly, your classmates rushed out to congratulate you both. The wedding that followed was breathtaking; there wasn't a dry eye in the crowd. But the guests were the last thing on your mind. All you could see was Megumi standing at the end of the aisle. He had always been stoic, but the moment he saw you, his face broke into the widest smile you had ever seen. You wished that moment would never end.
The honeymoon phase never truly faded, even after six years of marriage. He wasn’t always home because of his missions, but whenever he returned, he was deeply affectionate. It didn’t always require a grand date or expensive gifts; his presence alone was always enough for you.
Like today, he has the day off and is able to spend it with you—his lovely wife.
He lies in bed reading a book about animals, a subject that has fascinated him ever since he faced an animal-based curse. You cuddle up to his bare chest, his arm wrapped around your waist over your nightgown. You have your phone in hand, scrolling through social media.
“Aww, look how cute he is,” you say, pointing at the screen so Megumi can see.
The video shows a baby crawling toward the camera while a woman’s voice coos behind the lens, encouraging him to dance. The baby obliges, squatting up and down in that signature toddler rhythm.
“Mhm. Are you trying to tell me something?” he asks, patting gently on your hip, picking up on the fact that you’ve shown him a baby video every ten minutes.
“What? N-no!” You giggle, trying to brush off the comment.
He hums, taking a mental note of your blatant baby fever. He keeps it to himself, waiting until you feel comfortable enough to bring it up seriously.
“You would be a great mother,” he says softly. He places a bookmark in his book and sets it on the nightstand, giving you his full attention as he pulls you tighter into his embrace.
“Aw, really?” you ask bashfully.
“Yeah.” He kisses your cheek, then trails his lips to yours. “You’re sweet, loving, and thoughtful. Your soft features will look beautiful on our child,” he says, pulling away slightly between each affirmation.
“Gosh, don’t forget about your striking features, too,” you say, setting your phone down on the bed to cup his cheek.
The moment is interrupted by an aggressive buzz—the specific vibration that means a Special Grade curse needs to be exorcised.
“Of course,” he sighs. He gets out of bed, his scarred, toned back on display as he grabs his phone from the charger. You crawl to the edge of the bed and kneel there, watching him head into your shared closet to change.
“Sweetie, honey... I thought you said they wouldn't need to call you today.”
“Must be a tough bastard,” he grumbles, clearly annoyed that his time with you is over.
“Just stay safe,” you say with a smile.
“And if I don't,” he says, fixing his jacket and walking over to kiss your forehead, “you'll be here to patch me up?”
“Yes. Of course, like always,” you stand up to straighten his collar.
He smiles before slipping into his shadows—his fastest way to travel. You take this opportunity to get everything ready for his return.
Hours pass. You have everything ready for when he comes home: prepped Oyakodon—his favorite—scents waiting by the tub, pajamas laid out on the dresser, and the coffee table draped in various ointments and medicines in case he is too weak to reach the bedroom.
The wait is starting to get to you. You haven't heard from him since he left at noon, and it is now eleven at night. You pace around the kitchen, hoping to calm your racing nerves. This is a normal occurrence, but that doesn't mean you are accustomed to it. You love that he protects the world from curses, but sometimes the worry is overwhelming.
As you finish your umpteenth lap around the house, he emerges from the shadows near the door.
“Megumi! Oh, I’m so glad you’re—”
“F-fuck…” he groans before falling to his knees.
You quickly grab bandages from the coffee table and rush to him to check for wounds. To the naked eye, there are no injuries. In fact, he looks as clean as when he left, which would be a relief if his face wasn't flushed deep red and he wasn't shuddering as if he were freezing.
“I-I…” he stammers.
“Take it slow, baby.” You drop the wraps and cup his cheeks, trying to steady his heavy breathing and pounding heart.
“I need you.” He finally makes eye contact, but his pupils are dilated, filled with an intense hunger.
“Me? What do you need—Megumi!” You squeal as he hoists you up like a sack of potatoes and carries you toward the bedroom.
He drops you onto the bed and quickly climbs over you, kissing you deeply and leaving you no room to process anything but the sensation. You don't just feel love; you feel a palpable wave of lust. You can practically taste the aphrodisiac on his tongue.
You push against his broad shoulders, breaking the kiss. He doesn't stop his advances, however; he trails kisses down your jawline and reaches under your nightgown, his hand finding your smooth skin.
“Mmph! Baby, wait… you’re under a drug,” you protest, trying to snap him out of the haze, but it does nothing. The effects must have only recently taken hold.
“Mhm… P-please help me,” he whines, a sound so uncharacteristic it catches you off guard. “I need to feel you around me.”
Sex with Megumi is usually slow and passionate. He is typically very vanilla, and you enjoy every moment of it, but the way he looks at you behind his long, dark eyelashes tells you this won't be a normal session.
You have never seen him act so haphazardly. He stands up, striping off his clothes, tossing them onto the floor until he is left only in his black boxers. His print is distinctive, prominent against the fabric. As you reach toward the nightstand drawer, he suddenly yanks your ankles, pulling you down to the edge of the bed.
“We won’t need a condom tonight,” he states. His voice is deep and husky, sending a wave of nerves through you.
“H-huh?”
He kneels on the floor, pulling your thighs around his head until all you can see is his unruly, black hair.
“I said,” he murmurs, kissing your inner thigh, “we won’t need one tonight.”
“Are you sure? The drug will wear off with intercourse. It doesn’t need to be unprotect—aahh!” You moan as you feel his teeth graze your inner thigh.
“Don’t you want that?” His voice has never sounded so raw. He never speaks to you like this, and you can't lie—it’s incredibly arousing.
“Megumi, you’re not in your right mind,” you say, combing his hair back so he is forced to look at you.
“I know what you want. You’ve been practically begging for it,” he says, making you gasp.
“Megumi, honey... are you sure?” You search his eyes for any sign of hesitation, but all you find is burning lust.
“Even if this damn drug wasn’t in my system, I know you’ve dreamt of having a baby.” He pushes your damp panties aside to press a soft kiss against you. “I’m willing to make that happen right now.”
You nod sheepishly as he stands up, releasing himself from the restraint of his boxers. The sight of him never fails to make you admire him—thick, heavy, and already leaking with precum. For the first time, you’ll be feeling the real thing without the usual rubbery barrier.
“Take off your clothes before I tear them off,” he commands. You shudder, but you reluctantly do as you're told, pulling off your nightgown and tossing it onto the pile of his discarded clothes. His aggression makes your pussy throb with need, and as you sit up to slide off your panties, the dampness at the center is unmistakable.
You must be taking too long for his liking, because as you slide your underwear down he finishes the job himself.
He climbs back on top of you, hiking one of your legs up. He slaps the tip of his cock against your entrance, the wet pap pap pap sound filling the quiet room.
“You're going to take me so well, baby.” he growls. He lines himself up and pushes into your yielding cunt. You can already feel his slickness, which draws a lewd moan from your throat.
Without warning, he drives deep in you. His hips press firmly against yours, his eyes locking onto the slight, soft bulge of your lower belly with every thrust.
“Shitttt, you’re so warm and tight. Why haven't we done this before?” he groans into your ear, his hands moving to possessively grip the flesh of your chest. You can’t find the words to answer; you're too dazed by the pleasure washing over you with every heavy press. The raw words he whispers and the moist squelching sounds of his movements only make the intensity skyrocket. When you don't respond, he pulls nearly all the way out before slamming back in, making you cry out.
“Ahhh—Megumi!” you gasp, gripping his strong back. The cool metal of your wedding ring presses into his skin, making him grunt.
His thrusts grow quicker and more frantic. With how much moisture pools beneath you, it’s a wonder that he's still so hard inside of your clenching, sensitive walls.
“I’m close—fuck—gonna fill you up,” he says, crashing his lips against yours. Your mouth falls open, allowing him to deepen the kiss and taste you fully. He pulls away just enough to murmur, “Make sure it takes.”
He circles your clit with his thumb, causing you to squeal and clench impossibly tighter around him. His tip presses against your cervix, and the bed frame thumps rhythmically against the wall—definitely alerting the neighbors, if your moans hadn’t already.
“T-tightening so much around me.” he moans, his thumb moving faster. “Cum for me baby.”
You don’t hesitate. Your orgasm hits, and your nails scratch against his back for support as he continues to drive into you. He doesn't stop; your body spasms around him, which only makes him pump all his seed in your womb faster.
“Megumi!” you whimper. Your hands fall to the sheets, too weak to hold him as you squeeze your eyes shut.
Slowly, as you come down from your high, his pace shifts, reverting to his usual, steady rhythm.
“Honey?” you whisper, fluttering your eyes open to find him looking down at you.
“Will I... will I be a good father?” He stops moving, letting himself rest inside you.
You can tell the aphrodisiac has worn off, but it has been replaced by something you hate to see on your husband’s face: fear.
“Megumi, sweetheart,” you coo, raising a hand to the back of his head and pulling him down to the crook of your neck. You stroke his hair soothingly. “You will be a wonderful dad.”
He kisses your shoulder, letting your leg fall limp against the mattress as wraps his arms around your waist.
“As long as I have you by my side, right?” he whispers, a soft, genuine smile forming on his lips.
3k +
Summary: you think the hideout is yours, until you find harry potter already there. sharing it was supposed to be simple—homework, quiet, almost-friendship—until one accidental kiss ruins everything. now you’re avoiding him, avoiding you, until he corners you in the library and asks the one thing you’re terrified to answer: “please, stop avoiding us.”
Warnings: fluff, teen-level angst, accidental kiss drama, miscommunication, lots of soft pining, two idiots in love energy.
Main masterlist || Navigation
You'd found the room by accident.
A half-dangling tapestry near the Charms corridor had looked suspicious enough to tug aside one afternoon, and behind it—a door. Not locked, not even warded. Just… forgotten. When the door creaked open, you’d expected dust and cobwebs, maybe even Filch’s mop bucket. Instead, you’d discovered an empty classroom.
The desks had long been pushed to the walls. A faint layer of dust coated the floor, though the footprints you left became part of the place, familiar little marks you’d grow used to seeing. The shelves sagged with abandoned parchment and cracked ink bottles, and the window—oh, the window.
It stretched nearly floor to ceiling, glass cracked in a jagged line through the center. Sunlight spilled through it during the day, warm on your face when you sat in the far corner. At night, the moonlight painted silver lines across the floor. It was quiet, still, a bubble separate from the chaos of Hogwarts.
And so it became your refuge.
Sometimes you’d sneak here with a book, escaping the chatter of the common room. Sometimes you’d collapse against the wall after a long day, eyes shut, letting silence steady you. Sometimes you did your homework, parchment scattered in messy circles. Nobody knew about it. Nobody needed to. This room was yours.
Or so you thought.
—
Harry Potter found it weeks later.
It was after a particularly brutal Quidditch practice. His arms ached, his glasses were fogged with sweat, and Wood had shouted himself hoarse about “seeking faster, sharper, better.” Harry couldn’t bear the common room that night—the way everyone’s eyes tracked him, the way whispers followed him wherever he walked. He needed space, air, quiet.
The tapestry caught his attention as if it had been waiting for him. He slipped behind it, pushed open the creaking door, and froze.
Empty.
The relief was so sharp it nearly brought tears to his eyes. He dropped his broom against the wall and slid down to the floor, back pressed to the cool stone. For the first time in days, his chest loosened.
He didn’t tell Ron. Didn’t tell Hermione. Didn’t tell anyone. This room wasn’t for them. It was for him—the boy who carried too much and needed somewhere to set it down.
For a while, it worked.
You came on Tuesday afternoons, slipping in with your Charms textbook. Harry came on Wednesday nights after practice. Sometimes you lingered Saturday mornings; sometimes he arrived Sunday evenings, broom in hand. You never crossed paths. Not once.
But the room had grown used to holding two secrets, two sets of footsteps.
Your quills scratched late at night, leaving tiny ink stains on the wooden desk you claimed. His broom bristles brushed the same wall you leaned against. Your handwriting curled across parchment left forgotten overnight, and the next day Harry’s messy scrawl joined it in the dust on the floor.
The room belonged to both of you—only neither of you knew it.
—
It was a Tuesday evening when the balance broke.
You’d had a long day—Snape’s snide remarks, Transfiguration homework piling up, the endless hum of laughter in the common room that made your head ache. So you slipped away, ducked behind the tapestry, and breathed easier the moment the classroom door closed behind you.
Sprawling on the floor, you set your bag beside you, pulled out parchment, and muttered, “Finally.” The quiet felt like a balm.
You didn’t notice the footsteps approaching until the door creaked open.
You looked up—your heart jolting—just as Harry Potter stepped inside. His hand froze on the handle. His green eyes widened behind crooked glasses.
“Oh,” he blurted, just as startled as you.
The silence was sharp, almost painful. You scrambled to sit straighter, hugging your parchment as though it might shield you.
“What are you doing here?” you demanded, more defensive than you intended.
Harry’s brows furrowed. “I could ask you the same.”
“This is my spot.”
His mouth opened, then snapped shut. Finally, he gestured around the room, incredulous. “Your spot? I’ve been coming here for weeks!”
You blinked, heat rising in your cheeks. “So have I.”
The room, which had always felt like a sanctuary, now thrummed with tension. Two secrets colliding, neither willing to step aside.
And neither of you ready to admit the truth: that maybe, just maybe, it was big enough for two.
The silence stretched, heavy enough to press down on your chest. Harry was still in the doorway, his bag slung over one shoulder, his eyes darting between you and the familiar room like he couldn’t decide which surprised him more: that you were there, or that you belonged there.
You crossed your arms. “Well? Don’t just stand there glaring at me.”
“I’m not glaring,” Harry shot back, frowning.
“Yes, you are. You’re doing that thing with your eyebrows.”
He blinked, caught off guard. “My eyebrows?”
“Exactly.” You jabbed your quill toward him like it proved your point.
Harry’s jaw tightened, but his ears burned faintly pink. “Look, I don’t know what you’re doing here, but this is where I come to be alone. So if you wouldn’t mind—” He gestured toward the door.
Your mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”
He had the decency to look guilty, but only for a second. “I was here first.”
“No, you weren’t,” you said firmly, scrambling to your feet. “I found this place last month. Behind the tapestry by Charms. It’s mine.”
“Funny,” Harry muttered, “that’s exactly how I discovered it too.”
Something about his stubbornness sparked your own. The room, normally calm, suddenly felt too small, the walls closing in with every retort.
“Well, I don’t see your name on it,” you snapped.
Harry arched a brow. “And I don’t see yours either.”
For a moment, you just glared at each other, two stubborn Gryffindors refusing to back down. His green eyes, usually so quiet and tired-looking from afar, blazed with determination up close. You hated how sharp the sight made your stomach twist.
Finally, you huffed, dropping your parchment onto the nearest desk. “Fine. If you’re so desperate for it, then keep it.” You shoved your quill back into your bag with more force than necessary. “I’ll find somewhere else.”
You stalked toward the door, brushing past him. But before you could grip the handle, his voice—low and frustrated—stopped you.
“Wait.”
You turned, raising your chin. “What?”
Harry hesitated. His shoulders slumped, his irritation draining into something that looked far more human—far more tired. “I… I don’t want you to leave.”
The words caught you off guard. “What?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze darting toward the cracked window. “It’s just… this place helps. When everything feels too much. And if you’ve been using it too…” His lips pressed together. “I guess you need it as much as I do.”
Something in your chest softened despite yourself. The defensiveness wavered.
“So what,” you asked quietly, “you want to… share it?”
His eyes flicked back to you, uncertain. “Would that be so bad?”
You studied him—really studied him. The exhaustion shadowing his face, the weariness in his shoulders, the way his glasses slipped slightly down his nose. For all his stubbornness, Harry Potter didn’t look like someone trying to win. He looked like someone just trying to hold on.
You sighed, sinking back against the wall. “I suppose it’s big enough for two.”
The relief that flickered across his face was almost comical. “Really?”
“Don’t push it,” you muttered, though your lips twitched into the beginnings of a smile.
Harry chuckled under his breath and stepped fully inside, letting the door close behind him. The sound echoed, sealing the decision. He dropped his bag against the opposite wall, mirroring your position.
For a while, neither of you spoke. You pretended to focus on your parchment, but your quill scratched slower than usual, distracted by the fact that Harry was right there, close enough that you could hear the soft tap of his quill as he pulled out his homework.
It was strange—comforting, in an unfamiliar way.
Finally, Harry broke the silence. “So… ground rules?”
You raised a brow. “Ground rules?”
“Yeah,” he said, half-smiling. “Like… no taking up the whole floor. No loud humming.”
You scoffed. “You hum?”
His ears turned pink again. “Sometimes.”
“Fine. Then no snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
“You definitely snore.”
He shook his head, but his grin grew wider. And though you rolled your eyes, you felt something shift. The room didn’t just belong to you anymore. It belonged to both of you—clashing, stubborn, maybe even mismatched.
But somehow, it worked.
--
Sharing the room turned out to be less of a disaster than you expected.
At first, it was awkward—sitting across from Harry in near-silence, pretending not to notice the way his quill tapped or how he shifted whenever your eyes lingered too long. But as the days slipped into weeks, the tension eased. A rhythm formed.
You’d arrive to find him already sprawled on the floor, hair sticking out in every direction as he scowled at his Potions essay. He’d look up, mutter, “Hey,” and shuffle his things aside to make room for you. Other times, you’d get there first, parchment spread across your lap, only to hear the door creak and see Harry pause in the frame like he was checking if it was okay to intrude.
It was always okay.
Little by little, the silence turned into something else.
“You’re chewing on your quill again,” you teased one evening, nudging him with your foot.
Harry pulled the feather from his mouth, glaring half-heartedly. “Force of habit.”
“It’s disgusting.”
He smirked. “Noted.”
Another day, he leaned over your shoulder to peek at your Transfiguration notes. “How do you make them look so neat?”
“Because I don’t chew mine,” you replied sweetly, and he shoved your arm just enough to make your ink blot the parchment.
The arguments never lasted long. They always dissolved into laughter, quiet enough not to disturb the soft safety of the room.
—
One evening, as the sky outside turned lavender and gold, you both sat hunched over the same desk. The window spilled the last of the sunset across Harry’s face, catching in his hair like firelight.
You tried not to notice.
“Your handwriting is impossible,” you said, frowning at the page he’d just handed you.
“It’s legible,” Harry argued.
“Barely. If this were Potions, Snape would throw it back in your face.”
“He throws everything back in my face,” Harry muttered darkly.
You stifled a laugh and leaned closer, your quill scratching across the parchment as you rewrote a particularly messy line. Harry watched you, chin resting in his palm. The quiet stretched, warm and steady.
You didn’t realize how close you’d leaned until you both reached for the same ink bottle.
Your hands brushed.
You froze. So did he.
And then, in the clumsiest, most unplanned way possible, you both shifted at the same time—your head turning, his hand lifting—and your lips collided.
It was the briefest touch. Just the faint press of his mouth against yours, startled and accidental. But it was enough. Enough to send a jolt down your spine, enough to make Harry’s eyes widen in shock, enough to make your heart stutter painfully against your ribs.
You pulled back immediately, heat flooding your face. “I—sorry—I didn’t mean—”
“No, it was—” Harry’s voice cracked. He coughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “My fault. I should’ve—uh—”
The silence that followed was nothing like the comfortable quiet you’d grown used to. It was sharp, stinging, full of words neither of you could form.
You stared down at the parchment, pretending to study the smeared ink. Harry fiddled with his quill, jaw clenched, ears red to the tips.
Every second stretched unbearably.
Finally, Harry shoved his books into his bag. “I should—uh—I should go. Ron’s waiting.”
“Right,” you said quickly, though your chest ached in protest. “Of course.”
He nodded once, not quite meeting your eyes, and slipped out the door.
The moment it clicked shut, the room felt colder.
You pressed your fingertips to your lips, still tingling from the brief contact. It hadn’t been intentional. It hadn’t been planned. But it hadn’t felt wrong either.
And maybe that was the problem.
—
The days after were strange. You told yourself you wouldn’t think about it, wouldn’t replay the accidental brush of his lips, wouldn’t imagine what it might have been like if either of you had leaned in on purpose.
But you couldn’t go back to the hideout, not with the memory so raw. The thought of sitting across from him, pretending nothing happened—it was unbearable.
So you stayed away.
And though you didn’t know it, Harry stayed away too.
The classroom, once full of laughter and warmth, returned to silence. Empty.
As though neither of you had ever been there at all.
The next few days dragged.
You told yourself you were fine. That avoiding the hideout wasn’t a big deal. It was just a dusty old classroom, after all. You could do your homework in the library, or curl up in a corner of the common room. You didn’t need that space.
Except… it wasn’t just the space you missed.
It was the way Harry would groan at his essays like they were personally plotting against him. The way he chewed his quill until you threatened to hex him. The way his laugh—quiet and rare—seemed to fill the walls and soften the edges of the world.
You caught yourself glancing at the tapestry in the Charms corridor more than once, fingers twitching to pull it aside. But every time, your chest tightened. What if he was there? What if the air between you turned heavy again, full of that unspoken almost?
So you walked on. Every time.
—
Harry wasn’t doing much better.
Ron noticed first. “You’ve been acting weird,” he said one evening in the common room, tossing a Chocolate Frog at Harry. “More weird than usual.”
“I’m fine,” Harry muttered, barely lifting his head from his textbook.
“You’re sulking,” Ron pressed.
“I’m not.”
Hermione, without looking up from her notes, added, “You definitely are.”
Harry scowled, but said nothing. Because how could he explain? How could he tell them that the one place in Hogwarts that felt like his had been ruined—not by danger or enemies, but by the brush of someone’s lips?
He hadn’t meant for it to happen. It was an accident. But the memory clung to him like smoke. The surprise in your eyes, the warmth of your skin, the way you’d pulled back so quickly—as though it burned.
The thought that you regretted it made something inside him twist painfully.
So he didn’t go back either.
—
The room itself felt the absence. Dust settled heavier across the abandoned desks. The window, once spilling light onto parchment and laughter, only illuminated empty air. Silence returned, but it was no longer peaceful. It was hollow.
—
You and Harry still crossed paths in the castle, of course. In class, in hallways, at meals. But every time your eyes met, you both looked away too fast. Conversations were clipped, voices too tight.
“Can you hand me that book?” you asked in the library one afternoon, keeping your tone carefully neutral.
Harry slid it across the table without looking at you. “Here.”
“Thanks.”
“Mm.”
It was unbearable.
—
That night, you lay awake in bed, staring at the hangings above you. The memory of the hideout kept replaying in your head: the soft scrape of quills, the quiet banter, the warmth of sitting close enough to bump knees.
And, unavoidably, the kiss.
Accidental. Brief. Nothing, really.
So why couldn’t you stop thinking about it?
Why did it feel like everything had changed?
--
Harry asked himself the same questions as he sat by the dying embers in the common room. He pressed a hand to his chest, frustrated at the way it ached.
It would be easier if you hated him. If you’d snapped at him or cursed him or even told him to stay away. But the look in your eyes hadn’t been anger. It had been fear. Confusion.
And somehow, that was worse.
Because Harry wasn’t sure how to fix something that fragile.
So he didn’t try.
And the distance grew.
The library was nearly empty that evening. Only the scratch of quills and the faint rustle of pages broke the hush. You tucked yourself into a corner table, head bent over your parchment, pretending you were perfectly fine.
You weren’t.
Every word blurred. Every ink blot stretched into shapes that reminded you of his messy handwriting. You’d been trying—Merlin, you had been trying—to push the memory away. To convince yourself that the kiss had been meaningless, a slip of chance, nothing more.
But your chest wouldn’t listen.
You were so lost in thought that you didn’t hear the footsteps until someone slid into the chair across from you.
Your head jerked up. Harry.
Your heart dropped straight into your stomach. “What are you—”
“Stop avoiding me,” he said. No hesitation, no greeting. Just straight to the point, his voice low but firm.
You blinked. “I’m not—”
“Yes, you are.” His eyes, bright and fierce even in the dim light, locked onto yours. “You haven’t been to the room. You won’t even look at me in class. You barely speak unless you have to. Just—stop. Please.”
Your throat tightened. “Harry…”
He leaned forward, words tumbling out like he’d been holding them back for too long. “I don’t care about the kiss, alright? If it was a mistake, then fine. But don’t—don’t pretend like none of it happened. Don’t throw away everything else we had just because of that.”
The raw hurt in his voice struck you harder than any hex.
You swallowed, forcing yourself to look at him. “It was a mistake.”
The words left your lips before you could stop them. And immediately, you wished you could take them back.
Harry froze. For a heartbeat, his face was unreadable. Then his expression shuttered, something fragile snapping behind his eyes. “Right,” he said softly. He sat back in his chair, crossing his arms like he was bracing himself. “A mistake.”
Guilt clawed at your chest. You hadn’t meant it—not like that. But saying anything else would make you vulnerable, and vulnerability terrified you more than silence ever had.
“I didn’t mean—” you started, but Harry cut you off, his voice sharper than before.
“No, you did. It’s fine. You don’t have to explain. I should’ve known better.”
“Known better than what?” you demanded, heat rising to your cheeks.
“Than to think—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. His fists clenched against the table. “Than to think you might actually want me there.”
The words hit you square in the chest.
“I did want you there,” you whispered, the crack in your voice betraying you.
“Did,” Harry repeated, bitter. “Past tense.”
The hurt in his tone was unbearable. You reached across the table without thinking, your fingers brushing his sleeve. “Harry, no. I didn’t mean it like that.”
He finally looked at you, eyes flashing. “Then how did you mean it?”
You froze.
How could you explain? How could you admit that the kiss hadn’t felt like a mistake at all—that it had scared you because it had felt right? That the reason you’d been avoiding him wasn’t regret, but fear?
Your silence was answer enough. Harry shook his head, pushing back his chair.
“I can’t—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again, quieter this time. “I can’t keep doing this. Either it meant nothing, or…”
“Or?” Your chest was pounding.
He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping. “Or it meant something. And if it did, then you can’t keep pretending it didn’t.”
The truth hung heavy in the air, fragile as glass.
For the first time in weeks, you didn’t look away.
The silence stretched between you, heavy and aching. For a moment, you thought Harry might just walk away—that he’d leave you sitting there with your half-finished parchment and your half-spoken feelings.
But then you stood. “Harry, wait.”
He froze, his back rigid. He didn’t turn, not right away. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides.
You stepped closer, voice breaking. “I was scared, alright? That’s why I said it was a mistake. Not because it was—but because it wasn’t.”
His head turned sharply. His eyes, wide and searching, caught yours in the dim library light.
You swallowed hard, forcing the words out before you could lose your courage. “It felt too real. And I didn’t know what to do with that. So I pushed you away. But that doesn’t mean I wanted to.”
For a long moment, Harry just stared at you. His chest rose and fell like he’d just run a mile.
“Too real?” he asked softly.
You nodded. “I can’t stop thinking about it. About you. About us.”
His lips parted, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Then, slowly, he took a step toward you.
“You mean it?” His voice was careful, almost fragile.
You nodded again, this time firmer. “Yes. I’m sorry, Harry. I should’ve said it before. I should’ve—”
You didn’t finish, because Harry closed the space between you and kissed you.
It wasn’t clumsy or rushed like before. This kiss was deliberate, soft, certain. His hand cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek as though you were something precious. Your own hands found his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat under your palms.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was uneven, his voice hoarse. “Don’t call it a mistake again. Please.”
“I won’t,” you whispered, your chest aching with relief.
For the first time in weeks, his lips curved into a small, crooked smile. It was so unbearably Harry that you laughed through the sting of tears.
“Come on,” he said quietly, his hand brushing against yours in a tentative ask. “Let’s go back.”
You didn’t need to ask where.
Hand in hand, you slipped out of the library and down the familiar path to the old secret hideout. The room welcomed you like it had been waiting—warm, quiet, safe. You both settled onto the floor cushions by the window, the night spilling stars above you.
For a while, you just sat there, your hands still twined together.
“You know,” Harry said after a pause, his voice soft but lighter than before, “I thought you hated me.”
You turned to him, shocked. “Hated you? Harry, I—no. I never could.”
He smiled faintly, shaking his head. “Good. Because I don’t think I could’ve handled that.”
Your chest tightened at the vulnerability in his tone. Without thinking, you leaned against his shoulder. He let out a quiet breath, his head tilting to rest against yours.
The world outside might’ve been filled with homework, House rivalries, and the constant chaos of Hogwarts, but here—just here—it was only the two of you.
And as the night deepened, you both knew this wasn’t the end of something fragile. It was the beginning of something steady, something true.
Neither of you spoke the word together, but it lingered between your heartbeats all the same.
The silence stretched between you, heavy and aching. For a moment, you thought Harry might just walk away—that he’d leave you sitting there with your half-finished parchment and your half-spoken feelings.
But then you stood. “Harry, wait.”
He froze, his back rigid. He didn’t turn, not right away. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides.
You stepped closer, voice breaking. “I was scared, alright? That’s why I said it was a mistake. Not because it was—but because it wasn’t.”
His head turned sharply. His eyes, wide and searching, caught yours in the dim library light.
You swallowed hard, forcing the words out before you could lose your courage. “It felt too real. And I didn’t know what to do with that. So I pushed you away. But that doesn’t mean I wanted to.”
For a long moment, Harry just stared at you. His chest rose and fell like he’d just run a mile.
“Too real?” he asked softly.
You nodded. “I can’t stop thinking about it. About you. About us.”
His lips parted, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Then, slowly, he took a step toward you.
“You mean it?” His voice was careful, almost fragile.
You nodded again, this time firmer. “Yes. I’m sorry, Harry. I should’ve said it before. I should’ve—”
You didn’t finish, because Harry closed the space between you and kissed you.
It wasn’t clumsy or rushed like before. This kiss was deliberate, soft, certain. His hand cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek as though you were something precious. Your own hands found his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat under your palms.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was uneven, his voice hoarse. “Don’t call it a mistake again. Please.”
“I won’t,” you whispered, your chest aching with relief.
For the first time in weeks, his lips curved into a small, crooked smile. It was so unbearably Harry that you laughed through the sting of tears.
“Come on,” he said quietly, his hand brushing against yours in a tentative ask. “Let’s go back.”
You didn’t need to ask where.
Hand in hand, you slipped out of the library and down the familiar path to the old secret hideout. The room welcomed you like it had been waiting—warm, quiet, safe. You both settled onto the floor cushions by the window, the night spilling stars above you.
For a while, you just sat there, your hands still twined together.
“You know,” Harry said after a pause, his voice soft but lighter than before, “I thought you hated me.”
You turned to him, shocked. “Hated you? Harry, I—no. I never could.”
He smiled faintly, shaking his head. “Good. Because I don’t think I could’ve handled that.”
Your chest tightened at the vulnerability in his tone. Without thinking, you leaned against his shoulder. He let out a quiet breath, his head tilting to rest against yours.
The world outside might’ve been filled with homework, House rivalries, and the constant chaos of Hogwarts, but here—just here—it was only the two of you.
And as the night deepened, you both knew this wasn’t the end of something fragile. It was the beginning of something steady, something true.
Neither of you spoke the word together, but it lingered between your heartbeats all the same.
summary ☞ Harry's not the brightest crayon in the pack. In many ways, actually. Love is one of those ways.
word count ☞ 1.1k+
warnings ☞ fluff, harry is infuriating, background romione bickering, a few swear words, best friends to lovers
mene's notes ☞ previously posted on @/selenewowww. if I'm not mistaken, this was requested by @potterheadlovespotter
dividers by ☞ @cursed-carmine, @cafekitsune
Whoever said girls were complicated must have been a boy themselves, 'cause they clearly had never seen themselves act.
Let's be brutally honest; girls are not complicated. It's the men’s minds that couldn't get a girl's sign to save their lives. Men were confusing as hell, not the other way around. Couldn't they be more like girls? Girls understand each other. Girls stand up for another girl. They're loyal to each other. To the point where there's a girl code.
Women are said to be multitasking masters, their brains capable of doing mental calculations men could never even dream of reaching.
However, as a girl, she could not understand the enigma that Harry James Potter was.
They've been friends since third year, best friends since fourth. She had always been by his side, always standing up to him when that dancing ferret of a Malfoy would bother him or just exist near him when both didn't have the energy to be social.
But that's all. Friends. Their friendship never went past that limit. At least for her.
Harry had always… Acted off, strange around her. Staring oh so openly at her during classes, reserving a seat for her everywhere he went, sliding or sending her notes that would have been cute, if she could decipher his hieroglyphics–like handwriting.
All those things added together made her doubt that, to him, she was something that went a tad over than a friend. By no means was she the only one who thought it!
Many wondered if she and Harry were an item. Some were even bold enough to ask either of them. She had always answered those accusations with a rather confused gaze, utter disbelief painted on her face.
Harry, on the other hand, shrugged them off, denied them. It was almost as though he had never flirted with her in the first place, that the thought of them being in a relationship didn't shatter in a million pieces their friendship, as if he wasn't bothered by the questions about the nature of their friendship.
The boy went from enchanting owls to sing sappy things like, “Oh Godric, could you please return my heart? Stealing is not cool” to treat her like she was yet another girl constantly around him. That couldn't help herself but feel the need to be close to him.
Sometimes, he even went as far as to not acknowledge her at all. Something that, as unlikely as it may seem, even the twins had called him out on to. And if the twins caught on to his shitty and bipolar behaviour, it was certain to be serious.
Though, she never went as far as shaking some sense into his head through playful offended glances and dramatic gasps.
She tried not to read too much into it, though. It's Harry Potter she was talking about. Doing questionable things was his trademark, it was mandatory. It's just the genes of James Potter flowing through him.
Unfortunately, she was never successful. She found herself trying to make a sense of it all very often, too often. For instance, instead of having those average shower thoughts such as “What if Cinderella was a pizza chef's slave instead of a cleaning slave, and her name was Mozzarella?”, she made a list of his behaviour towards her, and tried to find a logical thread within it.
It was maddening, really. When she thought she was near the answer, he'd change completely, putting her off with yet another flirty and especially badly–written note passed under the desk.
Understanding how his mind worked was a tougher task than brewing a perfect Felix Felicis under the strict scrutiny of the ever–frowning Severus Snape.
Hermione had dragged her, Harry and Ron to the library to “get your homework done! Honestly, guys, I'm tired of having to force you three to do your homeworks!” again.
She was glaring daggers at her bushy–haired friend, hoping that she had understood well enough the non–verbal spells class to conjure a bunch of feathers falling right on her friend. Just to annoy her.
Both her and the guys groaned audibly. Ron slammed his head on the table, while Harry stared at Hermione like she had personally offended his cat, fingers tapped a rapid beat on the table, an outward display of impatience.
“Homework should be you guys’ first priority!”, she had huffed annoyed while arranging books, parchment, and quills in front of them.
Ron whipped his head up, a look of disbelief washing on his face.
“You're one to talk! Should I remind you about your own priorities, Hermione? You were bloody nuts! I remember in first year–!”, scoffed the freckled boy, interrupted by a very scandalised gasp from Hermione.
“Oh no, Ronald! You will not talk to me like that–!”
“Wait, what happened in first year?”, piped up YN, momentarily stopping her glaring contest with her friend’s hair.
“Nothing–!”
“She was bloody nuts–!”
“I was not! I was merely thinking of the consequences of your reckless actions–!”
“You said you'd rather die than be expelled–!”
“Oh, that's totally off the point, Ronald!”
She had lost interest in their bickering after only two seconds.
She had resorted to stare at Harry instead, who was too busy scribbling Quidditch strategies on the margins of the History of Magic essay to care about Hermione and Ron.
Somewhere in her inner monologue, back again to attempting to get a glimpse of his mind, she started noticing things about him, that she had never even cared enough to pay attention to before.
Things like his tousled dark hair, which had never once looked neat in his whole life; Looked like he had run his hand through it one time too many times. Things like his eyes, a shade of moss after rain, alive and changed under the right light; Now locked on her own.
“You're staring”, pointed out Harry, a faint smug grin playing on his lips, glasses down on the tip of his nose.
“So are you”, she retorted bashfully, embarrassed she had been caught ogling at him.
“Only because you were gawking at me first”, he replied, cocky. “That's a love confession in my book, darling”, he winked.
“Love?”, she scoffed incredulously. “You should be the one confessing, Potter”
“Me? And why should I?”
“'Cause you've been flirting with me nonstop!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yeah! You've been sending me mixed signals for ages! One moment you're there, practically eye fucking me, and the next it's like I'm no better than Romilda Vane and the rest of your little psycho fan club!”
“I've never done such thing–!”
“For the love of Merlin, Harry–!”
Needless to say, Madam Pince was trying to shush the bickering pairs, who looked more like old married couples than friends.
Once could only hope that both pairs would finally open their eyes and acknowledge the harbouring feelings in their chests.
As of now, though, Harry and she would continue with their mixed signals.
Synopsis: She was Harry Potter’s constant—his secret keeper, his sanctuary, the girl who stitched him together when the war threatened to tear him apart. A quiet Ravenclaw who stood by him when no one else knew how, she never asked for anything… except maybe for him to see her. But as the world began to heal and the noise returned, Harry reached for the girl who burned bright in public—Ginny—and left behind the one who had carried him through the dark. Years later, when fate crosses their paths again, Harry is haunted by what he lost: the girl who loved him in silence, and who walked away with all the parts of him he never knew he gave. A story of almosts, aching regrets, and the kind of love that gets remembered in every timeline—but never chosen in the one that mattered.
They met in the library, first year, when he was looking for a book he didn’t know existed.
You were sitting in a Ravenclaw alcove, quill between your teeth, parchment already half full. You barely looked up when Harry Potter stumbled over the bench across from you.
He looked lost—his hand brushing at dusty spines, brows furrowed like the whole wizarding world sat on them. You didn’t mean to care. But there was something about the way he bit his lip, that almost-frown. You cleared your throat.
“Second shelf to the right. “Hogwarts: A History won’t help you here.”
His eyes met yours. And for a second—just a blink of time—you felt it. The thread. The pull. That thread didn’t fray for years.
You became his safe place.
When the weight of the prophecy pressed into his bones, you were the one who pulled him into empty classrooms and let him breathe. When Ron and Hermione were off saving the world with plans and arguments, you were silence. Steady. A shoulder, a heartbeat, a secret kind of peace. You became his late-night library partner. His confidante. His secret-keeper. His almost.
You fell in love somewhere between fourth and fifth year. Maybe it was the night he snuck into the Ravenclaw common room just to leave a book you’d been searching for. Or maybe it was when he sat beside you in the Astronomy Tower, his shoulder brushing yours, and whispered, “I always feel lighter with you.”
You never asked for more. He never said there “wasn’t” more. But he lingered. And you stayed.
Sixth year, things shifted. Ginny started laughing louder. Her eyes caught his across the Great Hall. She burned like a wildfire. And you? You were the quiet warmth he never noticed was holding him together. He didn’t stop coming to you. Not at first. He kept coming back. Not in grand gestures. Not in ways people would ever notice. But in moments. In late-night wanderings and half-finished essays. In library tables hidden behind shelves and lingering glances during meals. You were the quiet place Harry Potter could come undone.
You learned his silences like languages. When he tapped his quill twice, it meant he was anxious. When he sighed and looked up at the ceiling, he was remembering the war he hadn’t fought yet. When he smiled without showing teeth, he was grateful—but didn’t know how to say it.
You didn’t ask for anything. And maybe that’s what made him stay.
“I don’t know how to breathe in this place sometimes,” he said one night, lying beside you on the Astronomy Tower floor.
“Then don’t,” you murmured, tracing constellations above you. “Just be.” You watched his chest rise, slow and steady.
He turned his head toward you. “You make it feel easy.”
You smiled. “You make it feel heavy.”
And yet you never moved.
Not even when his fingers brushed yours.
Not even when he kissed you.
He kissed you like he was drowning. And you kissed back like you didn’t care if you drowned too. You didn’t define it. Neither of you dared. But you had him—in the ways no one else did.
You held him through nightmares. You bandaged his bruises after Quidditch. You passed him calming draughts under the table during class when he started trembling. You sat with him in silence for hours.
He never introduced you to anyone. He never called you his. But he always came back.
Until he didn’t.
Ginny happened like sunlight after years of grey. Bright. Loud. Familiar. People smiled when they saw them together. The Chosen One and the girl who had always loved him.
He didn’t say anything to you. Not until you saw them. Kissing. And then it all shattered
He still sat by you in the library. Still walked you back to the tower. Still held your gaze a second too long. But he started showing up less.
And when you sat beside him one evening in the courtyard, your fingers brushing his on accident, he flinched. You pulled your hand back. Pretended not to notice.
He didn’t explain. And you didn’t ask. But it kept happening.
You’d wait for him outside Potions. He’d walk past you to Ginny.
You’d save a seat for him by the lake. He’d never show.
You became a ghost in his periphery. Always there. Never enough.
It was after the Quidditch final when everything broke.
You found him outside, alone, leaning against a pillar. The castle buzzed with celebration—Gryffindor had won. But his eyes were somewhere else.
“I saw you with her,” you said quietly. He turned. “What?”
“You kissed her. In the common room.” His throat bobbed. “You were there?”
You laughed, bitter. “I don’t think it matters, Harry. Everyone was.” He looked at you then—not confused, not oblivious—but like someone who had finally been caught.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said. “But you did.” Your voice cracked.
He looked away. “Ginny... she’s—”
“She’s easier,” you said, the words sharper than you meant. “She’s the right choice, right? The one they all expect.”
“It’s not like that—”
“No?” you snapped. “Then what is it like, Harry? Tell me. Because I’ve been here. Every bloody day. Through the war. Through your breakdowns. Through every time you couldn’t breathe, I was the one who “stayed.”
Silence.
“You should’ve told me,” you whispered. “You should’ve chosen.” He stepped forward. “Don’t do this. Please.”
“Too late.” Your eyes stung. “I begged you without ever saying a word. I waited, hoping you’d notice I was breaking. You never looked close enough.” And then, the final wound.
“Do you love her?” you asked.
He hesitated.
And that silence screamed louder than a yes.
You didn’t cry until you reached your dorm. And even then, it wasn’t sobbing. It was the kind of crying that made your throat burn and your lungs ache. The kind that felt like your ribs were breaking open. You stopped going where he might be. You stopped waiting for letters. For explanations. For apologies. Because you realized—he never made you a choice. You were the soft place he fell when the world got hard. But you were never the place he planned to stay. And he never chased you.
Not really.
Not until it was too late.
---
Years passed.You graduated top of your class. Worked in magical archives. Traveled. Lived. But you never returned to Hogwarts. Never wrote him. Never answered when Hermione asked if she could pass along your new address. He married Ginny. Had children. Lived the life people dreamed he would. But every once in a while, he'd see someone with your hair in a crowd. Hear your laugh in the wrong room. Smell your perfume in a bookstore.
And he’d break all over again.
Because Ginny didn’t know how he liked his tea when he couldn’t sleep.
She didn’t know the way he breathed when he was about to cry but refused to.
She didn’t know that, once, he almost told you he loved you.
Almost.
You didn’t go to the wedding. You didn’t send letters. You disappeared from his world like a name wiped from a tombstone.
But Harry? He never stopped looking.
Every time Ginny smiled, he remembered how yours looked first.
Every time she laughed, he remembered the nights you tried to make him forget the war.
And when Ginny argued, or left the room in anger, he saw your silence.
He began writing letters he never sent.
“You made me feel whole, and I chose the girl who made me feel wanted.”
“I thought loud love was the kind that lasted. I didn’t realize soft love was the kind I needed.”
“I still think of you when I hear your favorite song. I still wait for you in empty corridors.”
“Please—just once, look back.”
---
One day, years later, he found you again.
You were walking through Diagon Alley, head down, books in hand. He said your name like a prayer. You turned. And for a moment, it was like nothing had changed. Except everything had.
“Hi,” he said, like he hadn’t destroyed you.You nodded. “Harry.”
“You look… well.”
You gave a tight smile. “I am.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
“I—I’ve thought about you. A lot,” he finally said.
You tilted your head. “Regret doesn’t change the past, Harry.”
“I know. I just…” He stepped closer. “You knew me. The real me. Before the rest of the world decided who I was supposed to be.”
“And you still left,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.
“I was a coward.”
You looked at him then. Really looked.
There were lines on his face that hadn’t been there before. Sadness in his eyes that hadn’t left.
“I waited for you,” you said quietly. “Even after. I thought maybe… maybe you’d realize. Maybe you’d come back.”“I should have,” he choked. “But you didn’t.”
“I married Ginny,” he said, as if confessing.
“I know.”
“It’s not what you think. I—she’s great. But she’s not—”
“Me,” you finished for him. “She’s not the girl who held you while you broke. Who kept your secrets. Who loved you in silence.”
His eyes brimmed with tears. “I never stopped loving you.”
“But you let me go,” you said. “And now I’m gone.”
“Please…” His voice cracked. “Can I… can we start again?”
You stared at him.
And then, gently, you shook your head.
“I mourned you, Harry,” you whispered. “While you were still mine.”
He reached for your hand.
You stepped back.
And that, more than anything, destroyed him.
“I chose the girl who made me feel safe,” he whispered. “But I lost the girl who made me want to live.”
“You gave him one last look. “You didn’t lose me, Harry. You let me go.”
Then you turned and walked away.
And for the rest of his life, he would remember the sound of your footsteps echoing in that alley. He would remember the look in your eyes. He would remember that he was the one who gave up the love he never thought he deserved. And he would never forgive himself. Not even when the world forgot.
Because you never came back. And he never stopped waiting.
ㆍ H.P x Hufflepuff! Reader
ㆍ After years of pining, a yule ball spent alone, and a wall built in self protection.. the painful wait was worth it in the end.
ㆍSLOW BURN // strangers to enemies to friends to lovers
ㆍ10k
ㆍ r/q: @ashdreams2023
ㆍtaglist: @littlemadamred @raiweasley @iluvhrj @hoeforlifee @a1ienmush @marianaissocool @pottermagiczz @allielovesstars
ㆍa/n: dear god, i know never to apologies for a long fic but.. strap in.
Much love, Saige
[masterlist]
You should have known your friends wouldn’t let you back out.
The winter sun sat low over the Hogwarts courtyard, glinting off patches of snow that hadn’t melted yet. Students milled about, scarves wrapped tight, laughter steaming in the cold air. You and your little group of Hufflepuffs huddled on one of the stone benches—close enough to the courtyard path to see him coming, far enough away for you to pretend you were not here for this exact purpose.
“You look fine,” Marlene insisted, brushing your sleeve for the seventh time.
“You look more than fine,” added Tobias. “Honestly, if you don’t ask him now, I will.”
You snorted. “I’m sure he’d love that.”
“He’d love you more,” Hettie chimed, nudging you with her shoulder. “Come on. It’s Harry Potter. He’s nice! Mostly. Usually.”
“Except when he’s accidentally entered into a deadly tournament,” muttered Rowan, tightening his yellow scarf.
You tried to swallow the nerves tightening in your throat. The Yule Ball announcement had sunk into your dormitory like a spell—everyone buzzing, everyone planning, everyone pairing off. Except you. Except Harry, too, apparently.
And now… now your friends had decided today was the day.
You didn’t even want to look, but your eyes moved on instinct. And there he was—Harry Potter—hair already a mess from the wind, hands shoved into his robes, Ron beside him rambling about something Harry wasn’t listening to. His eyes drifted over the courtyard as though searching for a moment of peace.
Your friends exchanged the kind of look that meant you were being shoved onto a battlefield.
“Stop narrating me,” you hissed—but you stood anyway, your stomach dropping straight through your shoes. Your hands were shaking inside your pockets. You felt ridiculous. You felt brave. You felt like you might faint.
Harry and Ron were nearly passing when you stepped into their path.
“Um—Harry?” you managed, voice wobbling despite every pep talk you’d absorbed.
He blinked, surprised. “Oh—hi.”
Ron gave you a quick smile before catching sight of something on the other side of the courtyard and muttering, “I’ll… meet you inside,” before wandering off.
Which left you and Harry.
And suddenly you forgot every rehearsed line your friends had drilled into you.
“I—I just wanted to ask—um—I mean, if you weren’t going with anyone yet, I thought maybe—well, would you…”
You did not get to finish.
Harry’s eyes widened in pure panic, like a startled deer. “Oh—I’m—sorry—I can’t—I mean—no—sorry!”
He said it fast—far too fast—hands up like he needed to defend himself from your question. His voice cracked on the “no,” and before you could even breathe, he stepped around you, practically speed-walking toward the entrance like the castle was about to burn down.
You froze.
You didn’t even get a full sentence out.
Behind you, your friends watched with a mixture of horror and sympathy.
Hettie covered her face. “Oh my god. He didn’t even… let you finish.”
Marlene winced so sharply it looked painful. “That was… wow. That was rough.”
Tobias hissed through his teeth. “Okay, so confidence didn’t help. Confidence betrayed us.”
You stood there in the cold, heart crumpling faster than you could hide it. You tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out thin and hollow.
“It’s fine,” you said weakly. “It’s fine, I didn’t actually expect—”
But you had expected something.
Not a yes. You weren’t delusional.
Just… a moment. A chance to actually ask. A chance to not feel like a complete idiot.
Your friends surrounded you in a makeshift shield wall, ushering you away from the center of the courtyard. But the moment had carved itself into your chest, sharp and humiliating.
Across the courtyard, Harry disappeared inside the castle like he couldn’t get away fast enough.
And you were left staring at the snow, trying not to feel like you’d shattered on the spot.
The worst part?
His panic hadn’t looked cruel.
It had looked like something else.
And you weren’t sure if that made it better… or so much worse.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
You did not sleep well.
You told your friends you were fine—so many times that Hettie nearly hexed you—but lying awake and replaying Harry Potter’s panicked retreat left a dull ache behind your sternum. By breakfast, you’d convinced yourself you were overreacting. He didn’t mean to humiliate you. He was stressed, you were nervous… it was an unlucky moment. That’s all.
Still, walking into the Great Hall felt like willingly stepping into a spotlight.
You kept your head down, sliding into the Hufflepuff table beside Rowan, who offered you a supportive nudge under the table. Your friends didn’t mention the courtyard, and you were grateful for that, even if every one of them watched you with soft-eyed caution.
You reached for toast.
You pretended you didn’t see him.
But you did.
You felt Harry’s stare before you looked up—one of those prickling, uncomfortable sensations like sunlight on the back of your neck. Across the hall, at the Gryffindor table, he sat between Ron and Hermione, shoulders hunched, eyes drifting over students as though looking for something—or someone.
You refused to be that someone.
When your eyes finally flicked up, he was already watching you. The instant your gazes met, Harry snapped his eyes down to his porridge like he’d been caught doing something wrong.
Hermione said something to him. He mumbled. She frowned at him.
You tried not to care.
But you cared.
You spread marmalade onto your toast with the energy of someone sawing wood. Tobias leaned in.
“You’re murdering that breakfast.”
“I like marmalade,” you lied.
“You hate marmalade.”
“Well, maybe I’ve changed as a person.”
“Right. Because nothing says character development like violently ruining a piece of bread.”
You sighed and set the toast down. “Can we not do this right now?”
Tobias softened. “Sorry.”
You weren’t actually angry with your friends. You were angry with yourself—for caring, for hoping, for letting one awkward fifteen-second interaction turn you inside out.
Across the hall, Harry kept sneaking glances.
You didn’t meet any of them.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Harry Potter was having the worst morning of his life.
He couldn’t focus on Ron’s complaining, on Hermione nagging him about homework, or on the fact that a school decorated with frost and floating wreaths was supposed to feel festive—not suffocating.
He couldn’t think about anything except the moment in the courtyard yesterday.
He hadn’t meant to react like that. He hadn’t meant to panic. He just… heard a girl’s voice saying his name and asking about the ball, and suddenly every awful headline and rumor about him echoed through his skull. He’d blurted out “No!” without thinking, nearly tripped over his own feet, and then fled like an idiot.
Now you were sitting across the Hall looking like you wished the floor would swallow you.
Ron nudged him. “Mate. You look like you’re watching your own funeral.”
Harry blinked. “What? I’m not—I’m just—nothing.”
Hermione peered over his shoulder and followed the direction of his eyes.
“Oh,” she said quietly. “Harry.”
Harry hunched. “Don’t.”
“You could apologize,” she whispered. “You didn’t give her a chance to finish.”
“I know,” he muttered, ears heating. “I panicked.”
“You panic a lot lately.”
“Yeah, thanks,” he said miserably.
Hermione’s voice gentled. “Just talk to her.”
But he couldn’t bring himself to stand up. Not when you were surrounded by your friends, not when he didn’t know what words would even come out. What if he made it worse? What if you hated him?
What if you didn’t want anything to do with him at all?
He poked his porridge.
Across the hall, you laughed at something Hettie said—a short, strained sound—and it made his stomach twist with guilt.
He’d hurt you.
And he didn’t even know how to begin fixing it.
You did not talk to Harry Potter that day.
In fact, you spent most of it dodging him without meaning to — ducking into classrooms just before he arrived, moving through corridors full of people, slipping out of lunch early to avoid overlapping with Gryffindor’s schedule.
It felt cowardly.
It also felt necessary.
Because the memory kept replaying: your hopeful voice, and his startled “NO—sorry—NO—”
He hadn’t meant to be cruel. You knew that. But knowing didn’t erase the sting.
You weren’t planning to cry over it, though. You would bounce back. You wanted to, absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent forget about this in a few days.
Probably.
Hopefully.
You told yourself that again on your way back to the common room—until you rounded a corner and almost walked straight into him.
Harry Potter.
Standing alone.
Looking like he’d rehearsed something in his head and forgotten every word the second he saw you.
You froze.
He froze.
Your breath hitched.
His did too.
It wasn’t the moment either of you expected.
And it was definitely not the moment either of you were ready for.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The common room feels different lately.
Not in any physical way — the same warm lighting, the same fluttering Hufflepuff banners, the same cosy beds draped in quilted blankets your grandmother would have adored. But the air had changed. It buzzed with excitement you couldn’t grab hold of, with laughter and whispered plans that wrapped around your friends like ribbons.
Around everyone except you.
Leane sat on her bed, legs kicked up in the air as she wrote in neat curls on a parchment — confirming plans with a seventh-year boy from Herbology who’d asked her so sweetly she’d nearly fallen over. Hettie was rummaging through her wardrobe looking for a dress that “matched her eyes but made her look older,” humming happily between her options. Rowan lay on her stomach with her chin in her hands, reading a letter from her date, someone from Beauxbatons who’d sent a small enchanted hairpin shaped like a lily. Tobias was sprawled out across the floor like a starfish, kicking at your trunk absentmindedly while debating whether to shave for his date or “maintain the charm of teenage chaos.”
They were all glowing.
You were dimming.
And no matter how desperately you tried not to, you felt like the only candle in a room full of lanterns.
“Hey,” Leane chirped, glancing over at you with a hopeful look. “Still nothing?”
You forced a smile. “Still nothing.”
“You don’t… have to wait for someone specific, you know,” Hettie said gently. “You could ask someone else.”
You shrugged. “It’s fine. I’ll just… go with all of you.”
This was met with a chorus of awkward “oh”s and half-hearted protests. They meant well. You loved them. But being the extra puzzle piece that didn’t fit stung more than you wanted to admit.
When the chatter picked up again, you quietly slipped off your bed, grabbed your stack of muggle books from your nightstand, and sank into the windowsill — your usual perch. The glass was cold against your back. The castle grounds glimmered with frost and lanterns. In another life, this view might have felt romantic.
You opened the top book.
A knight’s quest. One of those stories your mum gave you when you were younger; brave heroes, impossible odds, and love that always arrived right on time. You flipped through pages worn soft from years of rereading.
The knight always showed up.
The heroine always got her grand moment.
The ending always felt worth the wait.
Your story… wasn’t like that.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever.
Below you, your friends laughed, Rowan shrieking because Tobias had levitated her hair around her head like floating snakes. It was warm, comforting, familiar noise.
But it wasn’t enough to drown out the ache.
You closed the book on your thumb and stared at the illustration of the knight on the page, shining armor, sword raised, gaze fixed on a girl he would always choose.
“Lucky,” you whispered to the paper.
Because your knight didn’t come.
Not yesterday in the courtyard.
Not today at breakfast.
Not tonight, or tomorrow.
All you had was the faint sting of humiliation, the ghost of Harry’s startled “No,” and the knowledge that he was probably going to the ball with someone lovely — someone brave, someone who didn’t freeze up or stumble over her words in a courtyard.
You pressed your forehead to your knees and tried to pretend you weren’t disappointed.
You weren’t entitled to his yes.
But Merlin, you were allowed to miss the possibility.
The lights dimmed slightly, curfew charms ticking over, and your friends finally began winding down. Dresses were draped over chairs. Schedules compared. Tobias asked if anyone had a spare comb because his hair was apparently “planning to mutiny.”
Someone asked if you were excited.
You smiled.
And lied.
Later, when everyone slept and the only sound was soft breathing and the gentle flutter of the curtains, you opened the book again.
You read about the knight who stayed through storms and darkness, who never ran, never flinched, never bolted at the first sign of fear.
You tried not to think about a boy who had.
You tried not to think about the way your stomach twisted when you caught Harry staring earlier.
You tried not to imagine that maybe — just maybe — he felt weird about the ball too.
The page blurred.
You blinked hard.
And for the first time since the courtyard, you let yourself feel it.
The disappointment.
You were not going to the Yule Ball with Harry Potter. You were not going with anyone at all.
And that was fine.
It had to be.
You curled tighter into the windowsill, clutching the book to your chest like the stories inside could shield you from your own feelings.
Outside, snow fell lightly across the grounds.
Inside, you fell quietly apart where no one could see.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The Great Hall had transformed.
You’d heard people say that so many times you expected it to feel repetitive, but stepping inside felt like walking straight into another world. Frosted garlands spiraled down marble pillars, evergreens glittered with glowing icicles, and the ceiling swirled with soft snowfall that never touched the ground. Warm candlelight shimmered off polished silver and the glassy ice sculptures that lined the walls.
It was beautiful.
You wished you didn’t feel so out of place in it.
Your friends sparkled — Rowan’s Beauxbatons-style dress flowed like stardust, Hettie glowed in icy blue silk, Tobias looked almost respectable in his robes (minus the chaos hair), and Leane couldn’t stop giggling with her date, who kept whispering something that made her blush crimson.
You trailed behind them like a satellite orbiting brighter stars.
“Come on,” Rowan whispered, looping her arm with yours as you stepped into the crowd. “Third wheel or not, we’re dancing first, alright?”
You nodded gratefully. You would’ve clung to her arm all night if she let you.
Until she didn’t.
Because two minutes later, her date whisked her away for a private slow dance “just while the floor wasn’t crowded,” and Hettie’s date pulled her toward the refreshment table, and Tobias practically tripped over himself racing to greet his.
And you were left standing alone.
The music swelled. Students twirled. Laughter lifted like bubbles over the hum of conversations. You tried to look fascinated by the ice reindeer centerpiece so you wouldn’t look pathetic.
It was going to be a long night.
You took a deep breath, smoothing the edges of your dress — secondhand, altered, but pretty. You weren’t expecting to catch anyone’s attention.
Which was why it was so startling when you did.
Harry Potter was staring at you.
Across the dance floor. Past Parvati Patil, who looked stunning in pink robes and was doing her best not to look irritated. Past Ron, who was sulking like a thundercloud. Past Hermione and Krum sweeping gracefully across the floor.
Harry’s gaze kept flicking toward you.
You quickly looked away, pretending to admire an enchanted snowflake sculpture.
But a heartbeat later, curiosity tugged, and you looked back—
Harry looked away so fast he nearly snapped his own neck.
Your stomach did a stupid, foolish flip.
Great. Exactly what you needed.
Meanwhile, the Boy Who Lived was living through the worst formal event ever.
Harry was miserable.
He’d expected the Yule Ball to feel cool, maybe even fun. Instead, he felt like he was suffocating. Sweat prickled under his collar. Parvati wasn’t speaking to him unless absolutely necessary. Ron looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. And Hermione… Hermione was dancing with Viktor Krum.
Harry didn’t even know where to put his eyes.
Well.
Except when they drifted to you.
He tried not to stare, but you looked… different tonight. Not flashy. Not trying too hard. Just, soft. Pretty, in a quiet way. The candlelight made your hair glow, and your dress shimmered like honey, and—
Parvati snapped her fingers in front of his face.
“You’re doing it again,” she huffed.
“Doing what?” Harry asked, ears burning.
“Looking everywhere except at me.”
“Sorry,” he muttered.
She crossed her arms. “If you wanted to stare at some Hufflepuff all night, you should’ve taken her.”
Harry choked. “I—what—no! It’s not—”
But Parvati had already turned away.
He really was the worst dance partner on earth.
Back on your side of the room, you drifted toward the punch bowl; primarily so you had somewhere to stand. The cool glass of the ladle felt grounding in your hand as you poured yourself a cup.
A few feet away, you overheard a whisper.
“Why didn’t she get a date?”
“I thought she liked Potter.”
“He said no, didn’t he?”
You stiffened.
Teenagers could be cruel without even realizing.
You reached for a sugared biscuit to busy your hands, crushing the delicate cookie the moment you heard someone say:
“She’s sweet, though. Shame.”
Shame.
Like you were a tragedy instead of a girl in a dress trying to enjoy her night.
You set the ruined biscuit down and backed away, cheeks burning.
Snowflakes drifted from the bewitched ceiling, disappearing before they hit your hair. You watched them dissolve, wishing your embarrassment would do the same.
“Y/N?”
You froze.
Harry stood a few steps away, hands stuffed awkwardly in his dress robes, hair sticking up more than usual, cheeks flushed.
Your heart thudded.
You hadn’t spoken in days. He’d tried to approach you once or twice, but you’d slipped away each time, too tangled up in your own feelings to unravel them enough for conversation.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He just looked… nervous.
“Hi,” you said, because someone had to.
“Hi.” His voice cracked slightly. “Um. You look—” He swallowed. “Nice.”
You blinked. “Thank you.”
A pause.
A horrible, stretching, silent pause.
Harry shifted from one foot to the other. “Are you… having a good time?”
You looked around at your friends dancing with their dates, at the beautiful decorations, at the couples laughing.
“Yeah,” you lied. “It’s fine.”
He nodded too quickly, like he didn’t believe you but didn’t know what else to say.
You were both saved when Parvati reappeared, grabbing Harry’s arm with a sugary-sweet smile that did a poor job hiding her irritation.
“Harry,” she said pointedly. “Are you coming back to the table?”
He flinched. “Yeah. Right. Sorry.”
She cast a tight smile your way. “Enjoy your evening.”
You smiled back because you were polite. Harry opened his mouth, like he wanted to say something more, but Parvati tugged him away.
You exhaled, chest tight.
You didn’t blame her. You’d be annoyed too if your date spent the night glancing at someone else.
But Merlin, it stung.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The night got lonelier from there
Your friends were busy. The music changed from waltzes to loud, thumping Weird Sisters songs. People jumped and shouted lyrics and spun around. You joined your friends when they dragged you into the circle, dancing like you meant it, laughing too loudly, pretending it didn’t hurt.
But every time you glimpsed Harry in the crowd — miserable, awkward, trying not to step on Parvati’s robes — you felt the bruise of something you didn’t have a name for.
You shouldn’t care.
You didn’t even know him well.
And yet.
When the song slowed again and couples paired off, you slipped back toward the wall, breathless and warm and slightly light-headed.
You leaned against a pillar, letting the cool stone soak through your dress.
Someone stood beside you.
You didn’t need to look to know who.
Harry.
Neither of you spoke.
He stared at the dance floor. You stared at your shoes.
After a moment, Harry said softly, “I didn’t… mean to say no like that.”
Your throat tightened.
“I know,” you said.
He nodded, but he didn’t leave.
The music floated.
Teenagers swayed.
And Harry Potter stood next to you like he wanted to say a dozen things but didn’t know how to start.
You felt it again — the bruise.
You didn’t move away.
He didn’t either.
You both stood there, painfully close, painfully awkward, painfully young.
No grand confession. No dance. No fairytale moment.
Just two people who’d made a mess of things standing under falling snow that never touched the ground.
And for one tiny, impossible second, you let yourself imagine an alternate world where things had gone differently.
Where he’d said yes.
Where you weren’t the girl watching everyone else live their stories from the sidelines.
The song ended.
Harry shifted, like he might turn toward you.
But then Parvati called his name again.
He flinched.
You stepped back automatically.
And just like that, the moment dissolved; quiet and fragile as the snowflakes.
Harry gave you one last unsure look before walking away.
You watched him go.
You didn’t know whether you wanted to laugh or cry.
Tonight, you didn’t get a knight.
But you got a moment.
And though it wasn’t enough, though it wasn’t what you wanted or deserved…
It was something.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Over the summer, something in you calcified.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just… slowly. Like frost creeping across a windowpane.
You didn’t even notice it happening at first. You just knew that the more you thought about the Yule Ball — the glances across the room, the almost-moments, the way Harry Potter couldn’t seem to make up his mind about wanting anything from you, the more foolish you felt.
So you stopped thinking about him.
Or tried to.
Trying turned into habit. Habit turned into armor.
When you returned to Hogwarts for your fifth year, people noticed before you did. Hettie told you your voice had sharpened. Tobias said you moved like someone expecting a fight. Leane accused you (fondly) of running low on your usual syrupy optimism.
“You’re different,” Rowan said one night in the common room. “Not bad different. Just… more guarded.”
You shrugged. “I grew up.”
But the truth was simpler and uglier.
You were tired of wanting things you never got.
Harry Potter noticed too.
Not that you gave him the chance to say anything about it.
You sat on opposite ends of classrooms now. You didn’t go out of your way to greet him in the corridors. When your eyes did meet accidentally, in passing — you looked away as if it cost you nothing.
It cost you everything.
Harry looked like he wanted to say something each time you brushed past him. Sometimes he’d take half a step in your direction before stopping, jaw tightening. Sometimes he’d frown like he was trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t have the pieces for.
But he never called your name.
Not once.
You weren’t sure if that made it easier or harder.
Fifth year was chaos anyway.
Umbridge’s presence was a suffocating fog across the school. Pink and lace and fake smiles, all wrapped around punishments that made your stomach twist. The whispers about Harry grew louder, harsher. Everyone seemed to be choosing sides, or at least pretending to.
You wanted to stay neutral. Neutral was safe. Neutral meant uninterested, unaffected.
But you weren’t unaffected.
Not when Harry was getting punished nightly.
Not when he came out of detention pale and silent, fingers pressed to his hand.
Not when he kept his chin lifted even when it hurt him.
You saw it. You noticed it. You cared.
You just didn’t do anything about it.
Your walls were too high and too thick, and every time you thought about walking over to him in the corridors — just to ask if he was alright, you remembered the courtyard from fourth year. The panic. The running away. The way he couldn’t even look at you properly at the ball.
You pressed your lips together and looked straight ahead.
Better this way.
Easier.
Then Harry found new people to fill the gap.
It was the DA that finally did it. Splintered something in you that you hadn’t intended to crack.
Harry didn’t invite you.
He didn’t even look at you when the rumors started.
Your friends joined, of course. Hettie came back breathless with excitement, whispering about spells and secret rooms. Rowan said it felt like being on the brink of a rebellion. Tobias claimed Harry was turning into a proper leader.
Leane practically glowed. “You should come,” she said, tugging your arm. “It’s… it’s amazing. He’s amazing.”
You forced a laugh. “I’m glad it’s going well.”
“You don’t understand,” she insisted. “He’s changed. You should see him.”
You didn’t want to.
You’d already memorized too many versions of him.
But you did see him. More often than you meant to.
Hurrying down corridors with purpose. Huddled with Ron and Hermione, whispering fiercely. Rubbing the back of his hand when he thought no one noticed. Ducking into the Room of Requirement with a look on his face you couldn’t decipher.
And every time your paths crossed, his eyes flicked toward you.
Just for a moment.
Enough to sting.
You acted like you didn’t see it.
Eventually, he stopped trying.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
One night, the common room felt too small.
Too tight. Too bright. Too full of laughter that felt brittle and wrong. You slipped out into the corridor, pulling your cloak tighter around you.
You didn’t expect anyone to be wandering the castle at this hour.
You especially didn’t expect to see him.
Harry rounded the corner from the staircase, looking exhausted — hair messier than usual, robes rumpled, the faintest smear of ink across his knuckles. He flinched when he saw you like he’d been caught doing something secret.
You froze.
He froze.
For a moment, you stared at each other across a few feet of cold stone floor.
“Y/N,” he said quietly, like a name he wasn’t sure he was allowed to speak.
Your throat went dry. You lifted your chin.
“Harry.”
Something flickered in his expression — a brief hurt, then confusion, then something like determination. He stepped closer.
Not enough to crowd you.
Just enough to be heard.
“Are you… okay?” he asked.
It was laughable, really. Harry Potter, who was drowning in the weight of the world, asking if you were alright.
You swallowed. “I’m fine.”
He nodded slowly. “You don’t seem fine.”
You stiffened. “Well, we can’t all be off saving the world, can we?”
The words were sharper than you intended. They hung in the air, cold and brittle.
Harry blinked. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“I don’t know what you’re doing,” you said. “You don’t tell me anything.”
The moment the words left your mouth, you regretted them.
Harry’s eyebrows drew together. “Y/N… you haven’t talked to me either.”
You looked away.
He hesitated, then stepped even closer — close enough that you could see the tiny nicks on his knuckles, the tired purple under his eyes.
“I miss talking to you,” he said softly.
Your heart thudded painfully.
You forced your voice steady. “You’ve had plenty to keep you busy.”
“That’s not—” He stopped. Exhaled shakily. “It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to you.”
“Could’ve fooled me. Would’ve joined your little club if you asked- ”
He looked at you like you’d just slammed a door he didn’t realize he’d been trying to open.
You wrapped your arms around yourself, your walls slamming back into place.
“It doesn’t matter,” you whispered.
Harry opened his mouth, but footsteps echoed at the far end of the corridor — Filch or a prefect or someone worse.
You stepped back before he could say anything else.
“I should go,” you said quickly.
“Y/N—”
“Goodnight..”
You didn’t look back.
You didn’t see the way he stood there long after you disappeared, fingers curled at his side, jaw tight with something he couldn’t name.
You didn’t see how alone he looked.
But you felt it.
Somewhere deep beneath your armor, you felt it.
Which meant your walls weren’t as impenetrable as you hoped.
Not when it came to him.
Never when it came to him.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
You never expected righteousness to feel like this — tight and cold and heavy, like a stone pressing down on your ribs.
Hogwarts is buzzing in the wake of the explosion that was Dumbledore’s Army being discovered. The atmosphere feels scorched. Hallways that once hummed with secretive excitement now feel charred, brittle around the edges, the way parchment looks after an improperly controlled flame spell.
You walk those hallways almost untouched.
Almost.
Your friends whisper about it constantly, their voices cracking between awe and fear and a kind of exhilaration you don’t share. They huddle together during breaks, recounting the punishments that were handed out, weeks of detentions, brutal hours with Umbridge, the risk of being expelled.
You stand with them, but you are not of them.
You weren’t part of the DA. You never even knew it existed until it was too late.
And the strangest part, the part that keeps you up at night, is that no one ever asked you.
Not Harry.
Not anyone.
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it was safer this way. You didn’t break rules, you didn’t put yourself in danger, you didn’t offer up your future for Umbridge to shred.
But late at night, when the castle is quiet and the guilt crawls up your spine, you find yourself wondering:
Was it because no one thought you could help? Or because no one thought of you at all?
You’re walking back from dinner alone, trailing your fingers along the stone banister as the conversations around you twist and swirl like smoke.
“Did you hear what Umbridge made Johnson do—"
“I can’t believe Potter—"
“I knew Dumbledore was up to—"
You tighten your grip on your bag. Every mention of Potter hits like an echo, reminding you that he is somewhere in this same castle, probably bruised and exhausted and worn down by punishments you’ll never experience. He is drowning in the consequences of battles you were never invited to fight.
And somehow, that makes you feel both resentful and ashamed.
A group of first-years scurries past you, whispering loudly about “the rebellion.” One of them looks at you, recognition flashing.
“Are you one of Potter’s friends? The ones he trained?”
There’s something hopeful in their voice.
You shake your head quickly. “No. I wasn’t part of it.”
Their interest evaporates instantly. They hurry on.
You swallow hard.
In the Hufflepuff common room, things are worse. Chaos, drama, excitement…everyone has something to say. Your friends rush you the moment you step through the barrel entrance.
“Y/N! Did you hear? Hannah’s in detention for the next month—"
“And Ernie got caught trying to defend—"
“And Harry—"
Harry.
His name hangs like a lantern, flickering with everything unspoken.
You manage a small, tight smile. “Yeah. I heard.”
One of your friends Maisie nudges you. “You’re lucky, you know. If you’d been there, Umbridge would've skinned you alive.”
Lucky.
That word tastes wrong.
Because somewhere deep inside, a lonely part of you whispers:
I wish I had been asked.
The others move on quickly, their excitement sparking between them like static as they list every dramatic detail they’ve managed to collect. They show off rumors like trophies.
You sit on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped, feeling like you’re watching them through a pane of glass.
“You okay?” Maisie asks softly when the others turn away again.
You nod. A lie. A safe lie.
Because how do you explain the hollowness inside you? How do you explain that you feel like you’ve failed some invisible test no one told you about?
Later that night, you slip out of the common room, unable to breathe under the weight of everyone else’s stories.
The corridor outside is dim, quiet, the torches low. You lean back against the cold stone wall and close your eyes.
The loneliness feels… victorious.
You weren’t caught.
You weren’t punished.
You weren’t betrayed by someone in the group.
You were safe.
Except you also weren’t chosen. You weren’t trusted. You weren’t part of something bigger.
You’re halfway to convincing yourself that this is what you want — safety, solitude, simplicity — when footsteps echo down the hall.
You open your eyes just as Harry turns the corner.
He looks rougher than you’ve ever seen him. His tie is crooked, his hair even more of a mess than usual, dark circles smudging under his eyes like bruises.
And for the first time all year, your eyes meet.
His steps falter.
Your breath catches.
He’s alone, no Ron, no Hermione, no DA members whispering encouragement or guilt or anger. Just Harry. Just you.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. The air between you is thick with something that feels old and unfinished.
You are the one who breaks the silence.
“Are you… okay?”
It slips out quietly, almost involuntarily. His eyes widen, like he wasn’t expecting anyone to ask — least of all you.
He swallows.
“No.”
The honesty hits you. Startling. Raw.
You bite your lip, unsure what to say, what right you have to say anything when you weren’t there, when you weren’t part of any of this.
He shifts, glancing down the hall, then back at you.
“You didn’t… you weren’t in the group,” he says, voice low.
Your stomach twists. “No.”
He nods once, like he already knew, but needed to hear it from you anyway.
“You’re lucky,” Harry says.
And for some reason, the words make your chest ache.
You force a small, brittle smile. “That’s what everyone keeps saying.”
Harry looks at you longer this time, his eyes searching your face — really looking, for maybe the first time since last year. Something flickers in his expression. Regret? Curiosity? Maybe just exhaustion.
“You didn’t miss much,” he mutters.
You want to believe him.
You want to feel comforted.
You want to erase the hollow place inside you that whispers you were left behind.
But instead, you hug your arms around yourself.
“I don’t know,” you say softly. “Sometimes it feels like I did.”
Harry stares.
The silence stretches — charged, fragile, important.
Then suddenly footsteps echo from around the corner. Harry tenses like a hunted animal.
“I should go,” he says quickly.
You nod.
He hesitates. Just for a second. Like there’s something else he wants to say. Something he can’t quite bring himself to give voice to.
Then he’s gone.
You stand there long after the hallway is empty again, listening to the faint fading of his steps, wondering why your chest feels warmer and emptier all at once.
You turn back toward the Hufflepuff common room, arms tightening around yourself.
Your loneliness saved you.
But it also cost you something you don’t know the name of.
And for the first time, you think—
Maybe you’re tired of being safe.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
There is a strange, honey-gold light in the halls the day Umbridge leaves Hogwarts.
You feel it before you understand it — this odd, weightless sensation, like your lungs finally expand all the way for the first time in months. The castle seems to exhale around you. Even the portraits look livelier, trading gossip in bright, excited bursts.
When the news spreads, it moves like fire:
She’s gone. She’s really gone. The toad is out.
Someone swears they saw Filch crying. Someone else swears they saw Peeves saluting McGonagall. Someone DEFINITELY heard a rumor about centaurs carrying Umbridge’s handbag in their teeth.
You don’t know what’s true. But you know what’s real:
The war in your chest has quieted.
Your friends cling to each other in the Hufflepuff common room, laughing, crying, releasing months of tension in one roaring crescendo. Even you — so careful this year, so reserved — find yourself smiling. Really smiling. It feels strange, like using a muscle you’d forgotten about.
Hannah grabs your arm and yanks you into a hug. “We survived!” she laughs into your shoulder. “Merlin’s beard, we actually survived her!”
You laugh too. “Barely.”
A cheer erupts around the room as some older students start conjuring harmless showers of yellow sparks. The atmosphere is buoyant, effervescent — fragile in its joy, and all the more precious for it.
But it’s loud. Too loud.
You slip away quietly, slipping out of the barrel entrance and into the corridor, where the noise softens into something more bearable.
You wander.
For once, wandering doesn’t feel dangerous. It feels like reclaiming something she took.
You end up in the courtyard without meaning to. The spring air is cool but comforting, and for a moment you simply stand there, listening to the distant hum of celebration from windows all around.
This courtyard, where last year, everything went wrong.
You almost expect to feel a twinge of pain or humiliation. But instead you feel… older. Like the memory belongs to someone you recognize but no longer fully are.
You walk to the fountain and sit on the edge, fingertips brushing the cool stone.
The quiet is warm. Healing.
“Y/N?”
Your heart tugs at your ribs.
You turn just in time to see Harry crossing the courtyard.
He looks lighter than he has all year — not carefree, not untouched, but less burdened, like some invisible chain has finally snapped. His hair is messy in the way it always is, but he isn’t tense for once. His shoulders aren’t hunched. His eyes aren’t darting around for threats.
He looks your age. For the first time in months.
He approaches cautiously, like he’s not sure whether he’s allowed to interrupt you.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi.”
He shoves his hands awkwardly in his pockets, glancing down at the grass before his gaze lifts to meet yours again. Something soft passes between you — a shared understanding, built from different kinds of loneliness carried through the same dark year.
“Everyone’s going mad in the common rooms,” Harry says, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s louder than the Quidditch celebrations.”
You huff a laugh. “Yeah, Hufflepuff’s a bit… chaotic right now.”
“I figured.” He rocks back on his heels. “You, um… wanted some quiet?”
“That obvious?”
His smile deepens just a little. “Yeah.”
There’s no mockery in it. No teasing. Just recognition.
A breeze rustles through the courtyard, brushing warm sunlight across both of your faces. Harry hesitates, then sits beside you on the edge of the fountain — not too close, not far. Just… beside you.
You feel the warmth of him like a candle at your side.
For a moment neither of you speaks, and it isn’t awkward. It’s peaceful. Strange. New.
“You didn’t get in trouble,” he says finally. “This year, I mean.”
“No,” you say. “I didn’t.”
He nods, eyes on the water. “I kept thinking about that.”
Your breath stutters.
He continues, voice low: “I’m glad you didn’t get dragged into all of it. Honestly. But…”
“But?” you whisper.
“But I noticed.”
Your heart lurches.
You stare at him, and he keeps looking at the rippling fountain, like the truth is easier to speak to the reflection than to your face.
“I kept thinking… I don’t know.” He shrugs stiffly. “That maybe you were staying away because of me.”
“That’s not— Harry…” You swallow. “I wasn’t avoiding you.”
He finally looks at you.
His eyes, green and so startling in the sunlight search yours, trying to read the truth from your silence.
“I thought you hated me,” he says softly. “After last year.”
You feel the courtyard tilt for a moment.
You inhale.
“No,” you say. And it’s the clearest thing you’ve said all year. “I never hated you.”
Harry blinks. Once. Twice.
Then something vulnerable flickers across his face, unguarded for just a heartbeat.
“I’m sorry,” he says. The words are rough, uneven, like they’ve been scraping against him for months. “For how I acted. Last year. In the courtyard. I was… scared, and stressed, and I handled it horribly.”
Your throat tightens.
You want to say the words don’t matter, that it was silly teenage awkwardness, that it never hurt as much as it did, but they would be lies.
So instead, you say:
“Thank you.”
Harry exhales, shoulders lowering just a bit.
The sun dips lower. The courtyard glows. Students laugh from nearby windows as the world slowly rights itself.
And somehow — after a year of distance, of silence, of cold hallways and missed glances — you and Harry sit together as though nothing is broken.
Or maybe more honestly:
As though something broken is finally beginning to mend.
He nudges your shoulder gently with his own. It’s awkward, an attempt at casual that lands somewhere tender instead.
“You want to… walk for a bit?” he asks.
Your heart stutters.
Slow burn, you remind yourself.
But you nod.
And as the two of you walk slowly around the courtyard — side by side but not touching — you feel something quiet blossom in your chest:
The first warmth of a second chance.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The summer passes differently this year.
Not easier, nothing feels easy after the threat of Umbridge. But quieter. Thicker. Heavier in some places, strangely hopeful in others.
You keep busy.
You throw yourself into chores, into books, into anything that keeps your mind occupied. But despite your best efforts, your thoughts keep circling back to Harry — back to the courtyard, to the way he’d looked at you when he apologized, to the strange softness in his voice when he said he noticed your absence.
You tell yourself it was nothing.
You tell yourself it was closure.
You tell yourself that the warm flutter you felt meant absolutely nothing.
And yet…
Some nights, when you’re lying awake with a book pressed to your chest and the summer air warm through your curtains, you find your thoughts drifting stubbornly toward him.
What he’s doing.
If he’s thinking about his friends.
If he’s thinking about you.
You try not to hope for too much.
Meanwhile, in a far gloomier house on Grimmauld Place—
Harry is spiraling. Quietly. Pathetically. Teenage-boy-ishly.
He sits at the kitchen table, chin in his hand, staring at a mug of tea like it personally offended him.
“You’re doing it again,” Hermione says, sliding into the seat across from him. Her tone is gentle. Suspicious. Deadly accurate.
“I’m not doing anything,” Harry mutters, stabbing the tea bag with a spoon.
Ron plops down beside him and steals a biscuit. “Mate, you’re brooding so hard the wallpaper’s peeling.”
Harry scowls. “I’m thinking.”
Hermione raises an eyebrow. “About a particular someone?”
Ron perks up. “Ooooh. That face. That’s the ‘I’m thinking about Y/N’ face.”
“It is not—” Harry nearly chokes on his tea. “I don’t— I wasn’t— she’s just—”
“A girl you’ve been thinking about nonstop for three weeks,” Hermione finishes, flipping open a book without needing to look at him.
Harry flushes scarlet.
Ron smirks. “Can’t blame you. She’s nice. Cooler than most of the Hufflepuffs.”
“Ron!”
“What? She is!”
Harry groans and drops his head onto the table with a soft thud. “I just said sorry to her. That’s all. We talked. It was — nice. But it’s not— nothing’s— I’m not—”
Hermione hums. “You’re doing that thing where you string words together because you don’t want to admit something.”
“I’m not—!”
She lifts her eyes over the rim of her book. “Harry. You smile when someone mentions her.”
Ron adds: “And you stare at the window after owls fly by like you’re expecting post.”
Harry goes silent.
Because… okay.
He had been staring at the window a lot.
It wasn’t weird. Lots of people stare out windows. ALL THE TIME. COMPLETELY NORMAL.
Hermione softens. “You like her.”
Harry’s ears burn. “I don’t— I mean, I just—”
Ron interrupts, matter-of-fact: “He does.”
Harry slumps back in his chair, defeated.
“Fine,” he mumbles. “Maybe. A little.”
“More than a little,” Ron says around another biscuit.
Harry buries his face in his hands, wishing the floor would swallow him.
Because he has been thinking about you.
Far more than he should.
Far more than makes sense.
He thinks about the way you looked surprised when he apologized, like you didn’t expect kindness from him anymore.
He thinks about the careful warmth in your eyes, the way you listened, the way it felt sitting beside you without tension for the first time in ages.
He thinks about how you weren’t in the DA and somehow that matters. He thinks about how you’ve always been a quiet constant in the background, and how he never noticed you properly until he did — and now he can’t stop.
He thinks about the Yule Ball
(but that memory hurts in a different way).
He thinks about that courtyard last month
(but that memory feels like a new beginning).
He thinks about you during breakfast, during dinner, during late-night wand-cleaning, during the moments when the house creaks and his grief gets too loud.
And he hates that he misses you.
Misses someone he’s barely allowed himself to know.
“How am I supposed to—” he mumbles into his hands. “We’re not even… anything.”
Hermione smiles softly. “Not yet.”
Ron claps him on the back. “Just don’t be weird about it.”
“I’m never weird!”
Both Ron and Hermione give him identical, pitying looks.
“…Okay, maybe a little weird.”
Meanwhile—
You are being weird too.
Your mum catches you staring out the window more often than you’d like. And sometimes, when you’re reading, you suddenly realize you’ve read the same sentence twelve times because your brain is too busy imagining someone with messy black hair and a terrible habit of apologizing with his whole heart.
You don’t write him.
You don’t know how to.
You don’t even know if he’d write back.
But you think about him.
About his smile in the courtyard.
About the strange lightness you felt around him.
About the possibility — tiny, fragile, impossible — that maybe he wasn’t the only one who noticed something that day.
And it scares you.
Because hope feels dangerous.
And Harry Potter feels…like something you could very easily fall into without trying.
One warm evening, you open your window and lie on your bed, listening to the distant hum of summer insects. You close your eyes and let the memory of his voice brush against you like a breeze.
“I never hated you.”
Why did that line stick in your chest so stubbornly?
Why did thinking about him feel like stepping toward the edge of something shaky and new?
You sigh and bury your face in your pillow.
You are in trouble.
Harry is in trouble.
Everyone knows it except you two.
And summer stretches on, bittersweet and slow, quietly weaving something between the two of you — something unspoken, something tender, something neither of you quite knows how to name yet.
But it’s there.
Growing.
Waiting.
And when the Hogwarts Express whistles again in September, you both already know:
This year will feel different.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The Hogwarts Express hisses in front of you, steam curling around your ankles like eager hands. Students chatter, owls hoot, trunks clatter — and yet everything feels strangely muted.
Maybe because you haven't set foot near Harry Potter for two months.
Maybe because you spent that entire time pretending you weren’t thinking about him.
Maybe because deep down, you know this year is going to feel different, and you’re bracing for it.
Your friends are already halfway down the train corridor when you pause at the doorway, your hand resting on the warm metal frame. The late summer air hums against your skin.
You’re not nervous. You just feel… weird. A different weird from last year.
Which is worse.
Someone behind you bumps your shoulder gently.
“Sorry!”
You turn, expecting just another student rushing past, but your breath catches.
Harry stands there.
A little taller.
A little more serious.
A little softer around the edges, like the summer scraped something away and left him rawer, truer.
His hair is a disaster.
His glasses are slightly crooked.
His expression is frozen between surprise and something you can’t name.
His eyes land on you.
And Harry’s brain completely stops functioning.
Harry (internally short-circuiting):
Oh no.Oh no.Why does she look like that?Why does she look older? Different? Amazing? Why am I thinking the word amazing?Why can’t I breathe?
He tries to smile.
It comes out strange. Too quick. Too nervous. Too earnest.
“Hi,” he blurts.
You blink once. Twice.
“…Hi.”
There is an awkward pause so thick it could physically suffocate both of you.
Harry swallows hard. “You, um… summer good?”
Fantastic, idiot. Very articulate.Hermione is going to murder him if she ever learns this is the best he could come up with.
You shift your grip on your bag. “It was… okay. Quiet.”
Safer, you don’t add.
Lonely, you don’t dare think.
He nods too many times. “Yeah. Mine too.”
Another pause. Students brush past, oblivious to the static thrumming between the two of you.
Harry fiddles with the strap of his backpack.
“You look—” He stops. Swallows. Restarts. “Different.”
Your heart does a dangerous little flip you absolutely did not give it permission to do.
“Different good,” he adds quickly. “Like— better. I mean, not that you weren’t— you just— it’s fine. I’m messing this up.”
You bite back a tiny, startled smile.
“So are you,” you say quietly.
Harry blinks. “I—what?”
“You look different too.”
You don’t say good.You don’t need to.
Your tone gives it away.
Harry’s ears go red. He opens his mouth, probably to say something catastrophically awkward, but Hermione’s voice suddenly rings out from the train.
“Harry! Honestly, you can’t wander off—”
She appears, mid-scolding, Ron behind her, both armed with snacks and expressions that shift instantly when they see you.
Hermione pauses.
Then one eyebrow rises slowly, deliberately.
Ron looks between the two of you like he’s watching a Quidditch match and hasn’t picked a favorite team yet.
“Oh,” Hermione says. “Oh.”
Harry glares at her. “Don’t.”
“You two should sit with us,” Ron blurts, because God bless him, subtlety has never once shaken his hand.
You step back. “Oh, I don’t— I mean, I usually sit with—”
“You can sit with us,” Harry cuts in, too fast, too hopeful.
All three of them stare at him.
You stare at him.
Harry looks like he wants to die.
“I mean— only if you want. Obviously. Or not. Completely fine. I’m— I’ll just stop talking now.”
Your heart stutters in a very annoying, very revealing way.
You should say no.
You should retreat to safety.
You should remember how lonely last year was.
Instead—
“I… yeah,” you say softly. “Okay.”
Harry beams.
Actually beams.
A real smile. The kind that lights up his whole stupid, earnest face.
Hermione smirks knowingly. Ron looks delighted. Harry looks like he’s just been handed his first birthday present ever.
You follow them into the compartment, your pulse a little too loud in your ears.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
You sit across from Harry.
He pretends he’s not stealing glances at you.
You pretend you don’t notice.
Hermione notices everything and quietly kicks Ron every time he tries to stare openly.
Harry asks about your summer.
You ask about his.
Slowly — awkwardly — delicately — you fall into conversation.
It feels almost normal.
Almost easy.
Almost like there’s something fragile and new sparking to life between you.
You catch him smiling at one of your comments.
A real smile, small and private.
Your stomach wobbles.
Hermione shoots you a tiny approving nod.
And for the first time in a long time—
You don’t feel like the forgotten Hufflepuff.
You don’t feel like the third wheel.
You don’t feel like the girl who wasn’t chosen.
You feel… noticed.
Seen.
Wanted.
Harry rubs the back of his neck, cheeks flushed, and asks if you want a chocolate frog. You take it. Your fingers brush his.
Both of you jerk your hands back like you’ve touched fire.
Ron snorts. Hermione sighs fondly.
Harry pretends he isn’t dying inside.
You pretend you aren’t.
And when the train whistles and Hogwarts looms into view—
You realize something terrifying and wonderful:
You missed him.
He missed you.
And no matter how hard you try to deny it—
The story between you and Harry Potter
is starting again.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The castle feels… lighter.
Maybe it’s because the world isn’t crumbling at the edges this year. Maybe it’s because Hogwarts itself is alive again after the summer, each corridor humming with the quiet urgency of new beginnings. Or maybe it’s just the way your chest flutters when Harry Potter is somewhere within sight.
You sit at the back of the classroom, parchment in front of you, quill hovering, pretending to take notes on Ancient Runes. You’ve been back in classes for nearly a week, and the rhythm of lessons, homework, and early autumn sun spilling through the windows should feel comforting—but all it really does is make it harder to focus on anything other than him.
Because you know he’s in the same castle.
And, somewhere in the labyrinth of Gryffindor corridors, he’s thinking about you too.
The first time it happens, you’re walking toward the Charms classroom. The corridor is crowded with students shuffling to their next lesson. You’re keeping your head down when a flash of green eyes catches yours.
It’s Harry.
He’s carrying a stack of books precariously in his arms, robes flaring as he dodges a group of first-years. He’s smiling. That easy, ridiculous, half-embarrassed, completely him smile that makes you want to lean forward and never let go.
You almost drop your own books. Instead, you manage a tight, almost-practical smile.
He raises a single eyebrow.
You raise one back.
The world tilts for half a heartbeat. And then the crowd swallows him, and he’s gone.
Your chest feels simultaneously warm and hollow.
And you realize you’ve been waiting for that moment all summer.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Classes are formal and structured. Everyone has their seating, their lessons, their work to do. You sit with your Hufflepuff friends, laughing quietly, answering questions, occasionally glancing at the front where the professor drones on about enchanted objects or potion reactions.
But every time the classroom door creaks, every time someone shifts, every time a chair squeaks against the floor… your head flicks instinctively to the entrance.
And almost every time, he isn’t there.
But when he is — oh, when he is — your pen slips. Your notes falter. Your mind races.
He doesn’t walk over to you, not yet. He doesn’t need to. But when his eyes meet yours across a crowded room, something shifts.
A tiny spark. A twitch of acknowledgment. A silent, shared smile that says I see you. I missed you.
It happens in the library one afternoon. You’re searching the shelves for a reference book on magical creatures, reaching up when a shadow falls across the spine of a particularly stubborn tome.
“Need a hand?”
You freeze. Of course you do. It’s him. Harry Potter. Carrying his own pile of books, looking impossibly casual. His hair is messy again, the kind of messy you think only looks charming on him.
You frown, but the corner of your mouth twitches. “I can manage.”
“You look like you can manage,” he says, smile teasing but soft. “I’m just offering my services. Dangerous to be caught alone in here with a mountain of books, you know.”
Your laugh is quiet, almost a whisper. “I’m very intimidating.”
“Not at all,” he says earnestly, eyes meeting yours. “You’re terrifyingly clever.”
You roll your eyes, hiding the heat creeping into your cheeks. He grins, a half-smile that seems to light up the entire aisle. And then, just as suddenly, he’s gone—slipping to another row of shelves, leaving your pulse hammering and your thoughts scattered.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
In the Great Hall, the tables are abuzz. Friends chatter, trays clatter, and the autumn light streams through the windows in golden streaks. You sit with your Hufflepuff group, pretending not to watch as Harry slides into his usual seat in Gryffindor.
But when his eyes flick to you, just for a second, your stomach twists. And somehow, across the crowded hall, he smiles.
Not a full grin. Not a ridiculous, over-the-top grin. Just a subtle tilt of his lips, a flicker in his green eyes that says: I see you. I’m thinking about you. You matter.
You smile back, and the hall might as well have disappeared around you.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Later, the castle quiets. You emerge from your last class, wrapping your scarf a little tighter around your neck. The sun is low, gilding the walls with amber light. You’re heading to the Hufflepuff common room when a familiar voice calls your name.
“Y/N.”
You glance up. He’s leaning against the stone wall near the stairwell, arms crossed, looking… strange. Vulnerable. Uncharacteristically unsure.
“Potter,” you say cautiously.
He shrugs. “Just… wanted to see you before the day ends.”
“Really?” You raise an eyebrow.
He hesitates. “Yeah. I… missed seeing you this morning. During classes.”
A flutter runs through you. It’s subtle, almost dangerous. You clear your throat. “I… missed it too. I guess.”
He steps a little closer, just enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him without touching.
A shared silence. A quiet acknowledgment.
No words are needed. Not yet.
He smiles again. That small, nervous, entirely Harry smile, and your chest tightens.
“See you tomorrow?” he asks softly.
You nod. “See you tomorrow.”
And as he disappears around the corner, you realize that the year, your sixth year, has already begun.
The castle may be crowded, classes may be relentless, and your schedules may pull you apart — but something delicate has shifted between you.
Something soft, growing, unavoidable.
And both of you know it, even if neither dares say it aloud.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
He’s never been more aware of the thickness in his chest, or the heat in his palms, than the moment he tips the last drop of golden liquid into his mouth.
Liquid luck.
A tiny whisper of a potion that promises courage. Confidence. The impossible made slightly more… possible.
He swallows and immediately feels the surge. It’s like walking through the castle in slow motion, where every turn seems preordained, every person just a blur in the periphery, and every step is purposeful.
Time to find her.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
He leaves the Gryffindor common room with a determined stride that somehow manages to teeter between heroic and absolutely ridiculous.
First stop: the library. Surely she’s buried in a book.
He tiptoes past students as if he’s a secret agent on a mission of the utmost importance. He nearly collides with Professor McGonagall.
“Potter!” she says.
“Nothing to see here!” he blurts, flashing the cheesiest grin he can muster and wobbling past her.
Smooth, he tells himself. Felix Felicis, don’t fail me now.
Library: empty. You’re not there.
Next, the courtyard. Maybe she’s taking a breath of air. He nearly slides on a puddle, smacks his head on the stone fountain, mutters a string of curses, and keeps going. Every stumble, every minor humiliation… somehow feels fated.
Finally, he hears it.
A soft laugh, just at the edge of the stairwell, and his chest twists. There she is.
“Y/N,” he calls softly, almost unsure if he’s aloud. But the potion is guiding him. The courage is unstoppable now.
You turn, startled. You’re perched on the steps, hugging a stack of books to your chest, and your heart does that little flip you’ve learned to recognize.
“Harry?”
He strides forward. Not too fast. Not too slow. Perfectly… impossibly, ridiculously bold.
“I… uh… I needed to find you,” he blurts, hands twitching as if he wants to hold you but doesn’t quite know how. “I—look. This is probably going to sound mad, but I—”
He stops, swallows. “I took—uh—liquid luck.”
You blink. “Felix Felicis?”
“Yes!” he says, relieved you know, and horrified at how ridiculous he must look right now. “I decided… I’d finally… finally tell you… how I feel.”
You stare at him, and your chest is tight. Your mind is screaming finally, while your heart pounds in your ears.
“And maybe… kiss you,” he adds, muttering the last part so quietly it almost seems shy.
You laugh — soft, incredulous, trembling. “Harry Potter, you really did take luck potion to tell me how you feel?”
“Yes!” he says, arms flailing slightly in earnest. “And I can’t… I can’t wait any longer. I mean… I shouldn’t. I— You—”
He steps closer. You feel the heat of him, the pulse of his heartbeat, and your knees threaten to give way.
“Harry,” you breathe, reaching out instinctively to touch his arm. “You don’t need magic to tell me that.”
He freezes for a second, eyes wide, and then like some dam breaking, he pulls you gently but insistently toward him. Your hands are on his chest; his on your waist.
“Then why did I need this potion?” he whispers against your hair, lips almost brushing yours.
“Maybe you just needed an excuse,” you murmur, and the heat behind your words makes his knees go weak.
The first kiss is tentative. Soft. Testing.
Then… it’s not.
Hands tangling in hair, fingers tracing along neck and back, mouths hungry in a way that makes the silly, ridiculous potion almost irrelevant. His laugh mixes with a groan as he presses closer.
“Finally,” he mutters against your lips, his voice low, thick, and so him.
You cup his face, tilting your head, exploring, tasting, the last months of longing and stolen glances and unspoken words spilling out with every brush of skin.
His hands roam, tentative at first, then bolder, discovering every inch you allow, memorizing the curve of your shoulder, the dip of your waist. You gasp softly when he presses closer, letting him feel just how desperate you’ve been for this too.
Time distorts. The castle is gone. Classes, rules, everything—gone. Just you. Just him. Just the heat, the pulse, the connection.
He pulls back for a breath. Forehead against yours.
“I’ve wanted… this… for so long,” he murmurs, voice ragged and trembling.
“Me too,” you confess, wrapping your arms around his neck. “More than I realized.”
He laughs, a little shaky, and presses another kiss to your temple. Then your lips again, deeper, slower, savoring the moment you’ve both been building toward all year.
Hands clasping, hips pressing, breaths mingling, the world shrinks until it’s just you and him and a fire neither of you can deny.
For once, there is no awkwardness, no hesitation, no distance.
The castle hums behind you. Students shouting, laughter bouncing off the walls, the clatter of dinner trays and the last bit of chatter from the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables blending into one constant, happy chaos.
But you and Harry don’t hear it.
You’re running.
Literally running.
Hands intertwined, hair flying, robes flaring around you, and the cool night air brushing across flushed cheeks. You don’t know where you’re going—doesn’t matter. The stairs, the corridors, the secret corners you know only because you’ve spent years wandering—everything feels like yours in this moment.
Harry is laughing breathlessly. “We— aren’t even— supposed to be out here!”
“Who cares?!” you shout back, voice ringing with reckless delight.
You press a little closer as he pulls you along, weaving through shadows and moonlit hallways. Every brush of his hand, every brush of his chest against yours, sends a delicious thrill through you.
He’s not just Harry Potter tonight. He’s your Harry Potter.
Brave, wild, reckless — and completely, wonderfully focused on you.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
synopsis: growing up next door to your dads' best friends, you've become best friends with their son, harry potter. as predicted by your parents, you finally become a couple, which only makes life more interesting for the group of best friends. ft. jily & wolfstar
meet wolfstar!daughter!reader
𝐡𝐨𝐠𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐫𝐲 𝐞𝐫𝐚
✩ last minute - r! discovers she has feelings for her childhood best friend in the middle of cramming homework (❀𖤐)
✩ sev's essay - maybe you shouldn't have left your summer homework for the last minute. at least you're not the only one though... (𖤐)
✩ don't move - when harry learns that you’re skipping class due to your period, he decides to give you some friendly (?) company (❀)
✩ do a flip!- harry tries to find out who your crush is, and you give him a negotiation: you'll tell him if he tells you his. you're confident he doesn't have one, having been dumped only three weeks ago. he proves you wrong. (❀♡)
✩ come play mermaids - harry potter is a distracting menace. but it's okay, because he's hot, and you just want to kiss him. (❀♡)
✩ shadowed shed - when you go look for a lamp to bring outside whilst your and harry's families have dinner outside, harry sneaks away to find you. you both get a little distracted. (❀𖤐)
✩ disgustingly cute - sirius walks into his living room to find you asleep on your boyfriend's lap, trapping him in place. (❀)
✩ i can fight - sirius and remus aren't happy to see their daughter's party outfit, and when bf!harry comes to pick her up, they question him about it. his only response is "I can fight." (❀𖤐)
✩ how to act - for some reason, when you go over to the burrow for a lake day, you aren't expecting to see ginny weasley, a resident of the burrow, but more importantly, your boyfriend's ex. (꩜𖤓)
✩ make it up to you - when harry accidentally makes a comment comparing you to his ex, you get understandably upset. he just has to make it up to you. (꩜𖤓)
✩ humiliated - when harry gets overstimulated from the feeling of the shirt clinging onto his skin whilst he’s helping his dad with chores outside, he forgets a very crucial detail before deciding to take it off. (𖤐)
✩ cheater - when the potter and lupin parents’ morning coffee is interrupted by loud arguing from upstairs, they fear the worst. but luckily for them, it’s not what they think… (꩜𖤐♡)
𝐡𝐨𝐠𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜 𝐞𝐫𝐚
✩ uncle reg - when sirius gets his weekly letter from his brother, he knows life in the lupin household will change forever, because you all learn that uncle reg is coming home. (❀)
✩ the dock of the bay - twas the night before you leave for hogwarts university. you and harry reminisce on moments from your day - moments from your life. (❀)
synopsis: when you accidentally meet harry's parents for the first time, they quickly learn that you're a very sweet girl, but you have a very complicated family. slytherin!reader
this list is arranged in chronological order, here are the fics in order of posting date
meet concussions and interruptions reader
✩ concussions and interruptions - You aren’t expecting to meet Harry’s parents for the first time while you share an intimate moment in the hospital wing after he sustains another quidditch injury (❀𖤐)
✩ who is she - your friends watch how affectionate you are with harry from across the courtyard, and briefly wonder if they've ever seen you so comfortable with a boyfriend before. (❀♡)
✩ after curfew - you and harry seem to forget his godfather is doing rounds when you sneak out after curfew (❀𖤐)
✩ my fault - harry feels as though you haven't been putting equal effort to get along with his friends, but the truth is that you're just sick and jealous of seeing him with hermione. (❀𖤓)
✩ nothing to say - even after all these years, there are still firsts for you to experience with your best friend. your best friend pansy, duh. (❀𖤐)
✩ tell me about him - daphne is the first of your friends to seriously ask you about your boyfriend, except you don't know where to start, and you also have a secret audience. (❀)
✩ stay the night - a small note with six words perhaps changes your entire relationship with harry overnight. (❀)
✩ it's a date - when harry and his parents see you in diagon alley, they are surprised to see the sudden change in behaviour you have at your parents' presence. but that won't stop harry from getting his kiss. (❀𖤓)
✩ heavy dresses, tight corsets - in the guise of having a sleepover with daphne, you go over to harry's house, where you can finally take this stupid dress off. (❀♡)
✩ the giant squid - harry and his friends find out you're afraid of the giant squid (❀𖤐)
✩ the glass room - you bring harry and his friends to meet your friend group in the glass room, hidden in the depths of the slytherin common room. (❀𖤐)
✩ people are watching - it seems that you begin to care less and less who gets to see the true side of your parents. and apparently, so do they. (❀𖤓)
✩ forgotten dance - harry doesn’t care what you drag him to do at his first slytherin party as long as he’s with you. (❀♡)
✩ the talk - when james potter catches you and his son making out in his bedroom, he excitedly goes to tell his wife. but he isn't expecting her to call you both down for a talk no one can take seriously. (❀𖤐)
✩ in his arms - harry had been right when he told you not to go back home after graduation. but how could you not when your entire history laid there? (❀𖤓)
✩ my girl - after you failed to show up to dinner with the notts, your parents give a poor excuse as to why you aren’t there. but theo spreads the message to your friends, and they all become a little suspicious of what may have truly happened. (❀)
✩ hands full - sex with harry potter makes you lose your ability to think, even when his mother is speaking to him on the other side of the locked door. (❀꩜)
✩ pass the wrench - when james enters his living room and can't find harry to help him fix something, he decides you're fit to help with the job. after all, you're practically already his daughter in law. (❀𖤐♡)
✩ be my baby - another night at the potter household reveals that you love one of harry's least favourite songs, a.k.a his dad's all time favourite. (❀)
✩ baby fever - there are too many cute babies in diagon alley, and their innocent smiles and babbling voices make it difficult for you to focus on Lily Potter's story (❀)
✩ after noon - sirius and james are left at the potter household while lily, remus and harry are at hogsmeade. when you wake up from your peaceful slumber, they suggest a fun way to spend the day, but there’s one flaw to their plan: you can’t ride a bike. (❀)
✩ shopping spree - harry insists to see what you bought from your little shopping spree, even if it means getting a little worked up before dinner (❀)
✩ fitting room - fortunately for your shopping addiction (and unfortunately for your bank account), harry only seems to enable you whenever you go shopping. maybe a little too much. (❀)
Summary: The Boy Who Lived and Draco Malfoy are known to hate each to the core, but what about another Malfoy loving Harry Potter with the same intensity? It’s good that Harry likes the colour red and that he’s a Gryffindor, because there’s no way that he would actually get out of the ‘Harry Potter Wears Lipsticks’ situation without a bit of his smugness. The second best thing is Draco’s expression, after he finds out his darling sister dates his nemesis…
Pairing: Harry James Potter x Malfoy!fem!reader
Warnings/Tags: None?? I guess that the beginning could have some suggestive content, but nothing serious; No Voldy Au; EVERYONE IS ALIVE! Yippee; Reader is mentioned to wear makeup! It’s important for the plot!; comment if I’ve missed anything!; I made a character for the plot, but it’s alright ;)
Word count: 2.1k
A/n: Woohoo! Happy start of Flufftober! This is going to be a very long month, but lovely nonetheless.
Flufftober ‘25
‘Harry- Stop it!’ Quiet chuckles of delight and laughter echoed through the old castle, every crooked and twisted brick soaking up the sound and bottling it up like a secret.
The ancient wall was cold and slightly damp against your back, and you hoped that it wouldn’t stain your robes. You didn’t need the paintings whispering behind your back in a hush, nor did you need Snape’s disapproval. In the end, his patience could only handle this much…
The boy with raven black hair just smiled against your neck, his hands grasping your waist while his glasses bumped into your chin.
‘Shh! You’re being too loud, people will find us..’ He chuckled and, with one last kiss, pulled away, looking at you with sly eyes.
You both were horribly late for your class, and you knew that you’d have to sprint and put your ankles at stake if you wanted to arrive at least forty minutes into the class.
You looked into Harry’s eyes and felt the corners of your lips begin to tug upwards.
‘Can you blame me? You were assaulting my neck with your lips-‘ You tried to argue before he gently kissed you on your mouth, closing his eyes and relishing the sensation.
It’s been so horribly long since you have seen your secret boyfriend, it was almost painful. Scratch that, it was unbearable. You had no more glares to spare, shooting them recklessly at every girl who tried to approach your lovely boy.
Before you started dating, you never noticed the fan club, the so called girls that swooned at everything Harry said. But now that you were secretly seeing him, it was unbelievable. They really were bold, and you could see the resemblance of Godric Gryffindor’s bravery in their attitude.
A compliment on Harry’s new coat? They covered that as soon as he left the common room, draping themselves over his shoulders, slowly dragging him to the ground.
A compliment on his haircut? They dare to touch his head!
Sometimes you wanted to stand up from your table and stride up to him, yell into everyone’s face and glare. Then, after everyone’s shock has settled down, straddle Harry’s lap and make out while flipping everyone off, but you couldn’t! Why? Because apparently it wasn’t okay for a Slytherin to date a Gryffindor. Wasn’t alright for a Malfoy to “betray” their roots by kissing a very handsome Potter.
‘You’re very mean.’ You glared at him half-heartedly while your hands made their way to his shoulders, kneading the tense muscles. His shoulders sagged immediately, a deep sigh breaking into a grin.
‘And you’re a saint, sweetheart.’
‘What class are you late for?’ You asked, completely blasé and as though you wouldn’t get detention. Maybe you could get off the hook, judging by the fact that Professor Snape actually tolerated you, but not everyone could say the same.
‘History,’ He mused and made no attempt to move, as if Professor Binns wouldn’t absolutely skin him for missing out on Troll Rebellion. (‘It’s stupid! We already covered that topic ages ago!’)
‘Ahh.. good old history. Aren’t you supposed to be the example of a proper student? How come you’re skipping classes, Potter?’ You teased and popped the P for good measure.
‘Oh so now a Slytherin is scolding me for missing classes? Now I’ve seen it all, Snape can officially take me.’ Harry rolled his eyes playfully, still keeping you pressed against the wall before enveloping you in the warmth of a hug.
‘Oi, don’t say that. I still need you for my teasing.’ You murmured, though your expression lacked its usual playfulness.
‘Aww, cmon..’ He chuckled, but his laughter quickly faltered.
‘You do know that you’re not getting rid of me, right? Not your brother or anyone will get me away from you..’ His words were reassuring and smooth, and he put his palm to your cheek. His skin was rough and had calluses, no doubt from the restless Quidditch practices he had. You leaned into it, the gentleness and warmth of his skin making your cold cheek tingle.
‘Speaking of brothers,’ Harry began, and you looked up from your little shelter that was his chest.
‘Have you already talked to him about..’ He gave you a pointed look, his lips pressed into a thin line that made his face incredibly silly. Though you didn’t really feel like smiling.
‘Harry-‘
‘I know, I know, right. I’m sorry, I just thought that maybe..’ He sighed through his nose, and you felt the cold shiver of regret seep down your spine.
You knew it wasn’t fair towards him, you knew that his people would easily accept you. They knew that Harry saw people, they knew that he wouldn’t bring someone unworthy.
But how were you supposed to explain to your brother, who was literally jumping at the sheer mention of Harry Potter, that you were dating him? What would your house say? And your parents? That was just stupid.
‘I just- I don’t know how to mention it, or explain.’ You murmured, your fingers reaching for his hand in comfort.
‘I’ll figure it out. Or we’ll figure it out. Now come here..’ You smiled and gently tugged him by his tie before inevitably pressing your lips together.
He always felt so nice against your mouth, his lips were slightly chapped, but it was just enough to feel natural.
His palms held your lower back, pressing you against his chest while your fingers carded through his hair.
‘You really need to think about cutting your hair, it’s getting ridiculously long!’ You giggled when you parted for air, but before you could make another snide comment, his mouth shut you up.
‘Maybe I like it long. Trying to look more like Sirius.’ Harry mused while once again chasing your lips, though time was cruel and had its own plan.
Grand doors slammed open, and every student spilt out from their classrooms, the paintings surrounding them starting chatting up, and with haste you jumped off Harry.
‘Shit, did we really miss everything..?’ You panted softly, shaky and still hot hands fumbling with the buttons of your shirt.
‘I guess,’ Harry mumbled and tried to straighten out his hair that looked horrible either way. Was horrible the word? That’s surely what Draco would use.
‘Well, see you after dinner..?’ Harry mumbled, and you smiled and leaned over to peck his lips again.
‘Do I look good?’ You asked, trying to look plausible and not so messed up.
‘Always.’ Harry grinned, showing off his dimples, before lighting up into a blush.
‘Then yeah, see you.’ With a smile, you turned around and left your little and dark shelter.
The castle was bustling, with some random first years bumping into your legs while mumbling half-assed apologies. While the building was cold, the sun spilling through the windows made your face ticklish, playing tricks with the lighting.
The marble floor was polished clean and your shoes began to click, every hush of a conversation carrying through the air to every nook. You reached a point where you could lower your speed and where the students would only peek in and out, so you finally took your time to stand in front of a window, checking the lipstick you definitely smudged.
‘Looking so beautiful,’ A lovely voice cut through the silence, and soon enough you were staring at a pair of silver lips that curled up into a grin on the glass.
‘Why, thank you, Lady Window.’ You smiled at the face that soon enough appeared in front of you, silver eyes twinkling and winking at you.
‘Who were you with, if I can ask? I’m sure it’s that Slytherin guy from seventh year, he’s been making eyes at you since fifth year..’ The enchanted face spoke, following you and jumping from window to window as you passed by, rolling your eyes half heartedly at the curious spirit that haunted the castle.
‘No way I’m telling you anything, I know you’re friends with the Fat Lady, so my mouth is sealed shut.’ You quipped and a shrill giggle made your ears twinge.
‘Oh so it’s a Gryffindor guy, is it? Oh this is going to be interesting. I’ll ask Plump Lady if she saw anyone walking into the common room. See you through the windows!’ The enchanted window suddenly became clear, no signs of the haunting silver eyes that were just there a mere second before.
The thought was unnerving, her finding out that you and Harry dated. Gossip and Hogwarts was a sweet treat and a good mark combined. It gets snatched and torn apart before you can even get to see it, and that’s why people rarely dated. Or at least didn’t make it too obvious.
‘Oh and by the way.’ The face once again appeared. ‘Plump Lady doesn’t like to get called Fat Lady.’ She winked.
-
‘I’m telling you, mate! Binns was acting like crazy! Where the bloody hell were you? You missed out on EVERYTHING!’ Ron was ranting for the whole past hour, laughing about the way Binns was ignoring Hermione and getting angry over the fact that they were writing a test for which he didn’t study.
Harry was sitting and eating silently, his golden cutlery clicking softly against the plates, his mind only half dedicated to Ron’s words.
He did, in fact, get detention for skipping class, but in his opinion it was worth it, and he didn’t really regret anything. His mind felt bliss and light, so what could be worse-
‘OI, HARRY! WHO IS BULGARIAN'S SEEKER?!’
‘KRUM-!’
‘Oh so now you’re listening..’ Ron pouted with a soft glare, though it quickly vanished after his side of the table rattled with the weight of falling books.
‘Ron! Did you really not hand in your essay on Transfiguration?! McGonagall is going nuts!’
‘Hello to you too, Hermione..’ Ron sulked into his goblet.
‘Don’t you understand how important education is? Don’t you have goals in your life?’
‘In comparison to your phenomenal dedication to everything, I guess not, Spew Girl.’
‘It’s not spew, it’s S.P.E.W! How many times do I have to say it-‘
Harry turned to his barely touched food, not phased by the now very common interactions. He just wanted to know how much he still had to do for his homework. Could he possibly see you this night at the astronomy tower? That would be nice-
‘Hey, Potter! Nice lipstick! Mind sharing your lip combo?’ Huh?
‘Yeah, Potter! Applied it without a mirror, it seems!’ How fascinating is it that the same blood, the same genes, can make such different kinds of people?
‘What do you want, Malfoy?!’ Hermione squeaked, her frizzy hair sticking up like an angry cat’s.
‘Mate, why do you have lipstick on?’ Ron put a hand on Harry’s shoulder and stared at his face, eyes widening in realisation that Draco was indeed right.
Hastily reaching out for a napkin, he started to rub the excess product off his mouth, the once white and soft fabric rubbing Harry’s lips sore.
‘Yeah, Potter! Scrub it clean! But really, what colour do you use? Got to make sure to avoid it!’ Pansy giggled, and so did the rest of his house. You were nowhere to be seen.
‘Oh I don’t know! Gotta ask Draco’s sister! Since she knows better about how to apply lipsticks for the both of us! Cherry flavoured! Bet you wouldn’t have known that!’ Harry yelled through the endless hall, his words echoing painfully. Pulsing through his veins. That felt good, to be honest!
‘..what?’ Draco blabbered, his jaw hanging low in disgust, one single piece of hair falling out of his perfectly tailored and gelled head.
‘Yeah! Eat that, Malfoy! I get to see your sister every night-‘
‘Shut your dirty mouth!’
‘Be happy that it’s me and not some kind of a dirty sleazy Slytherin-‘
‘YOU DON’T GET TO CALL ME A SLEAZE!’
‘What is going on?!’ You entered the Great Hall, standing in between the two tables like in a battlefield. Hissing snakes on one side, ready to strike, while the opposite one was crowded with fierce lions.
‘You’re shagging this dude?!’
‘You told him?!’ You screeched at Harry, whose face turned red like his tie.
‘No! He figured it out! I didn’t say anything, I swear!’
‘Answer my question!’ Draco rose from his seat and you took a tentative step back, holding your bag tightly with both of your hands.
‘If you catch me first..?’ You murmured meekly before grinning, suddenly breaking into a sprint while your brother chased you down.
‘Get back here!’
Maybe some things really don’t change. The good old times of “tag, you’re it” at the Malfoy manor were a little escape from the usual boring life. So why not relive it once again?
⟢ pairing. cedric diggory x fem!reader ⟢ summary. one night, you caught yourself in a mess you hadn’t quite planned—a forced blind date your friend had planned out. problem is, a certain prefect was out on duty and you sure weren’t on your dormitory this late at night. ⟢ he fell first, he fell harder. grumpy x sunshine. friends to lovers. cedric being jealous. ⟢ wc. 1,7k ⟢ masterlist!
you couldn’t quite place how you’d gotten into this mess. it was half past 10 and instead of being snuggled up on your bed, snoring soundlessly, here you were out on the castle grounds with justin, sneaking your way in back to where you should’ve been.
it was stupid, really. your supposed “friend” lavender has had the thought that what you really needed right now was a boyfriend. “you seriously need to go on a date to take your mind off of things. i’m telling you, it’s such a stress reliever!” or whatever lavender said.
you tried. once, twice, hell you declined the offer tens and thousands of times, but did she ever back down? no. it was pretty clear to you that no matter how many times you’ve turned the offer down, she’d still pester you about it. and so, as much as you wanted to tape her mouth down and shout at her face, you reluctantly agreed, with her agreeing that if this date thing didn’t work out, she’d never bother you for another.
just one date. one night. one hour.
you drowned your own head with those thoughts. from the moment you got dressed, down to the moment where he attempted to peck you—which, obviously you dodged. and right after that awfully awkward moment, the two of you spoke less than before, though you never really spoke to begin with. all he ever managed to muster up with that mouth of his was bragging about how he survived being petrified.
“so.. saturday, same place, same time?” justin asked with a flush, keeping his voice low as possible as he stood near the foot of the stairs of the entrance hall. clearly he enjoyed tonight, unlike you. “yeah, sure.” as much as you didn’t want to, you couldn’t bare saying no to him, your guilt only pushed even further when all of a sudden, a bouquet of flowers, carried with a tiny note inside, appeared on his left arm.
“for you,” he grinned shyly. “i hope you like them.”
you froze, blinked, then quickly quickly pasted on the most polite smile you could manage. “oh, wow! thank you, this means a lot to me.” chuckling awkwardly, you held the bouquet at arms length, gripping it tightly than you should’ve. neither of you spoke for a few moments, letting the awkward atmosphere pass through.
“well, i s’pose it’s getting late, isn’t it? we should really head back to our dorms.” he finally spoke, breaking the silence, as he clasped his hand. “oh, yeah, right.” you didn’t even know what time it was, but the way the hall stood deserted made it clear you should’ve been back in your dorm ages ago. your heart sunk just by the mere thought of being caught by filch.
“would you like me to walk you to your room? if that’s what you would like, of course.” he asked, scratching the back of his hair out of nervousness.
oh, god. now you felt even more guilty. he’s genuinely such a nice person, you couldn’t possibly turn him down.
“it’s alright, thanks.” you smiled softly, to which he gratefully returned, before he set off in a completely different direction, off to his own dormitory.
the walk to your dormitory felt like hours, you didn’t remember your dormitory being this far off. occasionally, you heard murmured voices and faint footsteps echoing through the halls, each one making your heart skip as you pressed closer to the shadows.
and at last, you settled through a corridor in which you go through everyday. a great sense of relief washed over as you quickened your pace, knowing your room was edging nearer with each step you took.
your little moment of relief, however, was cut off shortly when all of a sudden, a voice you recognized echoed down the corridor—calm, low, and far too amused for your liking. you needn’t turn around to know who it was.
“out awfully late, aren’t we?” cedric’s baritone carried easily through the quiet hall, and your stomach dropped. out of anyone, literally anyone, it just had to be him. of course he was on prefect duty tonight.
turning around with a scowl, you were met with cedric diggory himself, wearing that awfully, annoying, charming smirk, as he inched closer towards you. mumbling a word you shouldn’t have out of frustration, you quickly hid the bouquet behind your back.
“why, hello, isn’t it mr prefect,” you drawled. “i was just heading back to my dormitory, so if you don’t mind..” you shifted, attempting to slip past him, when in a blink of an eye, he was now in front of you, again, blocking your path.
“oh, but just hold on a minute,” his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “care to tell me what you’re doing this late at night?” he arched a brow, the corner of his lips twitching slightly as he eyed you up and down suspiciously.
“i was..” you traced off, scrambling for any possible excuse. “you were…?” his tone equal parts patient and infuriating. the faint smirk tugging at his lips told you he already knew he had you cornered. “i was just off from the library. you know, for the—uh—exams tomorrow?” you blurted, portraying the most innocent looking face you could.
he let out a low and warm chuckle, “going to the library with a set of bouquet in your hands? that’s a new one.” you rolled your eyes. so he did notice. “did you really think hiding it behind your back was a clever idea?” he teased, his grin never faltering. now that you did think about it, it was ridiculous to hide this massive bouquet behind your back in attempt to hide them.
“whatever,” you huffed, gripping the bouquet tightly as you swept past him. and to your dismay, he fell into step beside you with ease, his long strides effortlessly matching yours. “you know,” he said, hands shoved casually into his pockets, “most people would at least thank me for not docking points.”
you shot him a look. “right, and most people don’t go sniffing around after curfew waiting for someone to slip up.” you spat. “well, it is my job after all.” and again, he let out that same infuriating chuckle.
unbeknownst to you, however, his eyes had been lingering on a certain object for far too long. at last, he cleared his throat.
“so, uh.. those flowers,” he began, forcing a casual tone as his gaze flickered down to them once more. “sorry, i mean.. were you on a date, or..?” the question hung in the air, wrapped in false nonchalance. he mentally cursed himself for asking such a ridiculous question.
“i’m sorry, you don’t need to—”
a grin cracked across your lips. “yeah, i was out on a date.” you replied casually, adjusting the bouquet in your arms. “why?” you so innocently asked, raising a brow at him.
for a moment, his easy smirk faltered—just barely, before he recovered, shrugging like it didn’t matter. “no reason,” he said smoothly, though the way his jaw clenched said otherwise.
after a brief moment of silence, he asked—again.
“so, who was it, then? dean? harry?” the names rolled off his tongue casually, folding his arms in attempt of acting completely cool.
“oh, please,” you scoffed, the corners of your mouth tugging upward. “don’t you have any better guesses? it’s justin. you know him, right?” you delivered the words offhandedly, still not grasping the situation you were currently in.
“justin? you mean the hufflepuff justin? him?” he breathed, disbelief slipping through as his jaw tightened; his tongue darted across his lips. you lifted your bouquet for him to see, “he was really lovely, you know. he even bought me these.”
he then mumbled something under his breath, too low for you to catch. “those aren’t even your favorite, he should’ve known better.”
“what was that? you’re speaking at a mouse-level noise.” you narrowed your eyes at him just as the two of you rounded a corner. “what? oh, nothing.” he replied, way too quickly. “last question, so, like—are you two dating, or..?” he scratched the nape of his neck awkwardly once he’s realized the ridiculous amount of questions he’s asked you.
you scoffed playfully. “don’t be stupid, of course not. he just took me out on a date once, that’s all.” and at that, he felt the knot in his chest finally loosen. “that’s great! he blurted, far too quickly—then faltered, clearing his throat. “wait—sorry, i meant.. i see.” his ears flushed just slightly.
“and what is that supposed to mean?” you asked offendedly, furrowing your eyebrows. fortunately for him, he didn’t get the chance to answer: the two of you had stopped before the doors to your common room.
“right then, thanks for not telling on me and walking me to my dormitory. very kind of you.” although your voice dripped with sarcasm, he smiled softly anyway.
and you hated it.
hated the way he would laugh.
hated the way he could be so infuriatingly perfect.
“well, i suppose this is where we say goodbye, then?” he said quietly, voice steady but softer than usual. he stayed just a step back, hands loosely at his sides, eyes fixed on yours. “thank God, it is.” he could only laugh lightly at your response, and oddly, you caught a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
after you had given the door your answer, you carefully stepped inside, still fully aware that of cedric’s gaze that never left yours. “goodnight.” was the last thing you heard from him that night before you completely shut the door behind you.
heading up for the girls’ dormitory, you felt a light warmth spreading through you, and you didn’t know why. didn’t want to know why. you just felt so. perhaps, it was the feeling people got right after a date? you couldn’t quite place what the feeling was, but you didn’t care.
ever since you were a child, you and scaramouche have been best friends. however, as of late, he's been acting.. weird around you. especially when the class 'weirdo' lohen starts being.. oddly romantic.
fluff. crack. scaramouche x fem!reader x lohen.
PART ONE. PART TWO. PART THREE (idk yet)
" you shoulda made some plans with me, you knew that i was free ! "
" and now you won't stop calling me, i'm kinda busy ! "
" girls scream my name like it's going out of style — teach me how to scream, teach me, teach me how to scream ! "
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
summary: sex with harry potter makes you lose your ability to think, even when his mother is speaking to him on the other side of the locked door.
1.3k words of basically pure filth. porn and no plot. cw: almost getting caught? kind of?
concussions and interruptions au - can be read as a standalone
The oxygen in the room was heavy, barely making its way into your lungs with every slow shove of his pelvis into yours, your skin dragging upwards in a pinch with the force of Harry’s moving hips, rolling over the bones of yours with bruising potential. Moans were fluidly tumbling out of your lips, like a chant, a prayer of some sort that no one could prevent.
Harry’s hair tickled the skin of your neck, his hot breath pulsating against the layer of sweat coating you. He murmured sweet words, lips brushing the shell of your ear. It was half for himself, half for you. “Oh, you’re doing so good for me, sweetheart,” That one got a particularly loud keen from your, your hips bucking up to meet his as you clenched around his cock. “My perfect girl” He added with a moan.
“You feel so good.” You whimpered with your own praise, nails dragging across the wet skin of his back. His muscles contracted under your harsh touch, everything else about the situation so sweet and gentle. One of Harry’s big hands reached down to curl underneath your thigh, pulling it up to mirror your other leg, folded up with your foot flat against the sheets. He manhandled your limbs, spreading your legs wider for him to reach deeper crevices of your cunt, constantly leaking around his erection to encourage his movements.
Harry didn’t pry anything out of you; one glance your way had him confirming that you were too deep in pleasure to respond to anything he had to say. A particularly loud moan flew between your lips, Harry’s cock reaching just that much further into you, nearing your cervix. Harry groaned as your hand snaked into his hair, massaging his scalp. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, though he continued to lazily thrust into you.
The atmosphere in the room completely stilled for a moment, both of you pausing to ensure you heard the same thing - a knock on the door.
“Harry, you in here?”
Harry rose off you, and his cock plunged further into you. You bit your lip, a noise of pleasure vibrating in your throat at the feeling. Your boyfriend’s eyes widened, and he pressed a strong hand over your mouth, shooting you a panicked look. “Yeah mum! In here!” Harry shut his eyes briefly, pulling his hips out again at a sluggish pace, but he saw the effect it had on you when his eyes fluttered open again; head digging into the pillow, your mouth parting beneath the palm of his hand.
“Is y/n here?” She asked, pressing her ear to the door to hear your responses from inside. Harry gasped quietly, inhaling deeply as he pushed back into you, calling out “Yeah, she’s here!” Giving you a pointed look, Harry withdrew his hand from over your mouth, and you gripped his wrist to ground you, saying loudly “Hi!” It was all you could muster.
The door handle rattled as Lily Potter tried entering her son’s room, eyebrows furrowing when it didn’t open. “Well, let me come in and say hi!” Harry’s hand returned to your mouth as he leaned his weight on you again, praying that his mum would get the hint and go away. “I can’t open the door, my hands are full!”
“Let y/n open the door then.” Oh, she was clueless. Harry groaned, a mix of pleasure and frustration. He saw your eyes widen in shock, one of your hands over the one he had on your mouth, keeping him in place. You shook your head as well as you could. Harry huffed into the crook of your neck. “Mum,” He began with an obviously annoyed whine, “She can’t open the door, her hands are also full.”
The startled “Oh” that came from the other side of the door was barely audible to you, because Harry had decided to silence himself by sucking on the skin of your neck. Unfortunately for you, it just made it more difficult to stay quiet, your hips twitching upwards at the added friction. Harry kept an ear out for his mother’s subsiding footsteps before finally whispering filthily “Yeah baby, I know you want to cum.” And luckily for you, he removed the hand from your mouth — now coated with saliva — and used two fingers to rub harsh circles on your clit, immediately making your legs twitch around his torso.
“Can you try being quiet?” He peeked up from the dark crook of your neck where he was hidden, grinning when you nodded quickly, eyebrows furrowed as you chewed on your bottom lip, trying your best not to make any noises. Your breathing was heavy, and your hands moved to grasp each of Harry’s biceps, nails digging into his supple skin as he continued working you towards your orgasm.
“Harry” You whined, trying to turn your face towards him, trying to communicate to him that you were close. “Oh, I know baby, I know.” He whispered, separating his lips from your neck to bring you into a kiss. You gasped loudly, back arching off the mattress, pushing your chest into his as one of your hands returned to grip his hair, pushing him further into the kiss. Harry’s cock twitched inside you and you were grateful to know you weren’t the only one nearing your orgasm.
Harry forced his tongue into your mouth, tongue gliding against yours. Your brain took too long to communicate with your body from the exhaustion, and you were barely able to kiss him back, but Harry took control of the messy kiss, revelling in the rare sloppiness you kissed him with. Fuck, he was turned on by merely knowing the effect he had on you.
“Gonna cum, Harry.” You warned in a shaky whisper, tilting your head back to make space between your lips and Harry’s. “Cum for me, baby.” His rough fingertips on your clit drove you past the edge, body stiffening in a storm of white-hot pleasure, washing over you with a force you couldn’t explain if you tried. But now, you submitted to the pleasure of your orgasm, hearing Harry’s guttural moan in your ear as his head dropped down to rest on your shoulder, cock driving into you to the hilt, his entire body freezing with the exception of his hips, stuttering into you while he emptied his load into you.
“I love you.” Harry moaned loudly, his body going limp on top of yours, chest to chest with you as your legs fell flat on the bed around his torso. It took you a while to come back to your senses, fingers brushing Harry’s hair away from his face as you finally replied “I love you too.” Your boyfriend’s cheeks flushed hotly at the realisation that he had admitted to loving you balls-deep inside you. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, but the hundreds of other times these three important words had been said were all while fully sober, not drunk on pussy.
“I need to go say hi to your mum.” At the mention of his mother, Harry felt his cock soften inside you, and he pulled out with a groan, flopping next to you on the bed. You turned your head to the side, pressing a kiss on Harry’s cheek before struggling out of bed. “I’m gonna take a quick shower, then go say hello.”
Harry perked up, pushing himself up on his elbows, his gaze following your naked body across his room. “Shower?” He repeated, a silent question lingering in the air. You rolled your eyes playfully, a smile tugging at your lips as you opened the door to his bathroom. “Yes, you can join.”
Harry scrambled up, leaping over the other side of his bed so he could catch up to you before you shut the bathroom door in his face.
