lav

"Honestly, if either of you would just— oh! There you are." She beams at you, setting her bag down across from your walls. "You don't mind if we join? I'm making them study whether they like it or not." She shoots a pointed look at the redhead slouching behind her.

Ron Weasley. You've exchanged maybe six words with him. He always looks at you like he's waiting for something, and you never know what, so you look at your books instead.

"Brilliant," he mutters, dropping into the chair farthest from you after you smile and nod at Hermione’s question. "Nothing says fun like a Saturday in the library with Hermione's scary Ravenclaw friend."

You blink. And then your face goes hot with shame. "I'm scary?"

Ron's ears go pink. "I didn't mean—I meant like… smart-scary. Y'know. Like a dragon that does homework."

Harry snorts. Hermione sighs.

You huff—almost a surprised laugh. A small, surprised sound, pressed behind your hand. You thought you’d be more offended. You weren’t. The way he said it so embarrassed and earnest made it seem like being compared to a dragon was a compliment.

Ron stares. His blush deepens, but a grin tugs at his mouth, slow and delighted.

"Hang on. You've got a laugh.” He says. “And here I thought you hated me." The ginger adds weakly.

Your cheeks heat again. You drop your eyes back to your essay. "I don't hate you. I'm just… quiet."

The weeks that followed back in your second-year were when you learned the most about Ron Weasley. He collected laughs the same way he collected Chocolate Frog cards. And you had easily become his rarest find.

It started small. A whispered comment about Professor Snape's greasy hair during double Potions. Fake back to back loud sneezes timed to interrupt a particularly long winded Flitwick lecture.

Then it escalated—a genuinely terrible impression in the library that made you choke on your water. Harry began placing bets with Hermione on how long Ron could keep it up before you cracked and started snorting. 

You're not sure when it happened, but somewhere between the terrible impressions and the way he lingered after study sessions, to him, "Hermione's quiet friend" became just Y/n. 

He says your name like he's been saying it for years.

You remember one day in third year where he watched you eat at lunch like he was solving a puzzle. You had spent the five minutes dissecting your shepherd's pie, excavating it with your fork like an archaeologist.

"You do that every day, y'know," he says. "I've been keeping track. You always eat around the... whatever that is." He points at a suspicious chunk. "Is it a mushroom? You allergic to mushrooms too?"

"Not allergic," you mumble, cheeks warming. If you were allergic you wouldn’t be eating that pie. You’d told him about your many allergies and reasoned that’s why you were a picky eater. "It's just... the texture."

Ron's eyebrows climb. "The texture." He says it like you've just told him you speak fluent Mermish. Then he leans in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Between you and me, my mum's cooking is about texture. If it's not crunchy, it's not real food."

A startled laugh escapes you before you can stop it. Ron's face lights up like a Christmas tree.

"Got it," he crows. "That's number forty-two."

"Forty-two what?"

"Laughs," he says, grinning. "I'm keeping count. My personal record for you is gonna be in the Hogwarts history books one day. Only git in the school whose gotten you to laugh."

You can't help it again—a laugh bubbles out of you, at the absurd thought of him counting your laughs, and your face feels like it's been held over a candle. You duck your head, hiding behind the curtain of your hair, but it's too late. Ron's already got that grin, the one that says he's won something.

"There is no way you’ve actually keep count."

Ron's grin widens. "Forty-two. Swear on my mum."

"You're making it up." You press, unconvinced.

"Am I?" He counts off on his fingers, unbearably smug. "There was the Snape one—that was a good one, that was, one of the firsts. The owl impression, that got a proper giggle. That time we were by the lake. I made you laugh before the twins could."

Your cheeks burn hotter. You press your lips together, trying to compose your face, but your eyes keep betraying you, crinkling at the corners.

Harry looks up from where he’s cramming for a Potions exam—the one Ron is currently ignoring by paying attention to you instead—exchanging a look with Hermione that you pretend not to see. Hermione's smile is small and knowing. She's been watching this unfold ever since the day you two met—the careful, quiet girl and the boy who collected her laughter like treasure.

Ron leans back in his chair, satisfied. "Anyway. You need to finally try a treacle tart at dinner. I’m telling you you’ll like it. No weird texture or anything you’re allergic to."

He says it so casually, like he's been planning your dinner menu and thinking about what you'd actually eat. The thought lodges somewhere warm in your chest, and you have to look away before he catches you smiling at him instead of laughing.

"Fine," you huff. You hated trying any food you hadn’t been eating since you were 7. But you agree because you hate saying no to him. "I'll try it."

When it’s finally dinner, Ron slides a piece onto your plate with the reverence of a man handing over something sacred. You take the smallest forkful, pushing up your glasses nervously, fully prepared to find a reason to put it down—but… it's warm and sweet, and there's no hidden texture lurking inside. It's... good.

Ron watches you take the second bite with barely contained glee. "Yeah? Good?"

"It's good…" you admit begrudgingly.

"Told you." He says it like he's won the Quidditch Cup.

Four years later, he still says it like that.

Now it's a cold Saturday in seventh year, and Ron's leading you through the crowded Three Broomsticks with a hand on the small of your back, steering you toward a corner table he's already scoped out. He pulls out your chair dramatically like a proper gentleman before flopping into his own, reaching for the menu.

"Right," he says, scanning it like it's a battle plan. "I dunno what’s exactly in this soup but I could ask Rosemerta for you. Hm. This pie has nuts. Oh, steak should be safe." He looks up. "Unless you fancy the roast?"

"I'm fine with Shepard's Pie, Ron.” You shrug sheepishly. He’s always like this when you two are eating together. To comfort him you add, "Last time Madam Rosemerta said she’d make a separate pie for me in case of cross contamination."

Last time you were here with him your throat had started itching a little. It was no big deal. You had taken your allergy meds right away. But Ron saw it as the opposite. Still, he gave in seeing the look on your face that said you weren't going to budge on this.

"Pie it is." He flags down Madam Rosmerta with practiced ease. "One steak and a Shepard’s Pie, no mushrooms? And sorry, habit—she's allergic to…” He goes on to list all your allergies.

Rosmerta nods, knowingly, scribbling notes. "I remember from last time, dearie. I'll make sure to make it separately."

Your face burns just a little. "Ron."

When she leaves he shrugs, unbothered. “What? It doesn’t hurt to make sure. Don’t want you dying on my watch.”

“You sound like my mum.” You mumble.

The pie arrives, perfect, no mushrooms. You eat more than half successfully before you slow down, pushing the plate away with a quiet sigh of defeat. Full. Ron glances at it, then at you, and wordlessly reaches over with a grin, dragging the plate toward him.

He always ate your leftovers. You loved it for it, hated wasting food.

You watch him eat your leftovers, red hair falling over his forehead, and something in your chest goes soft and warm. Five years ago you'd barely spoken. Now he knows your allergies better than you. And he always, always saved you the last slice of tart.

He catches you staring and pauses mid-bite.

"What?"

"Nothing," you say, with a grin.

He finishes the last bite of your pie and sets the fork down with a satisfied sigh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The treacle tart hasn't arrived yet and Ron's already eyeing the kitchen door like it owes him money.

From his side of the table, he watches you fiddle with the edge of your napkin, folding it into smaller and smaller triangles. 

He's got a whole catalogue of these, he realizes. The napkin folding. The way you press your lips together when you're deciding whether to say something. The way your eyes go bright and you hum then do a tiny dance in your seat when you take the first bite of something you actually like.

He does anything to see it. He knows this the way he knows his Quidditch plays, the way he knows the taste of his mum's treacle tart. He's spent years collecting those reactions, and he's never going to stop.

You look up and catch him staring. The same exact way you had been watching him eat your leftovers. Your face goes warm, and you immediately drop your gaze back to the napkin.

"What?" you ask, the word barely a mumble.

"Nothing," he says, which is a lie. It's never nothing. "Just—you've got a bit of..." He gestures vaguely at the corner of his own mouth.

Your hand goes up, patting at your face. "Where?"

"Got it." He leans across the table and wipes the corner of your mouth with his thumb. 

There's nothing there. You both know it.

His grin is unrepentant.

Your face goes impossibly warmer. You're about to say something, to scold him or hide or both, when Madam Rosmerta arrives with a plate of pie and his steak. Ron's whole attention snaps to the food like a compass finding north. 

He thanks her before declaring, "There it is! Eat up."

The fork's barely at your lips before the warmth hits—soft and buttery on the top, savory on the inside. Your eyes go bright and a soft hum escapes you, a sound you don't even register making, and do that little bounce in your seat without realizing.

Then you look up.

Ron's watching you with a grin so wide it's a wonder his face doesn't split, steak half chewed in his mouth. He's not even pretending to be subtle about it. The smugness radiating off him could light the whole village.

You raise a brow, the hum dying in your throat. "What?"

He swallows, wipes his mouth, and leans back in his chair with the self-satisfaction of a cat that's found the cream. "Nothin'. You just did that thing you always do. I was waitin' for it."

Your brows raise. "Huh? What thing?"

"That thing when you eat something you actually like. It’s cute. You know, the one where you—" He mimes a little wiggle in his seat, poorly and dramatically.

"Ron!" Your voice comes out strangled, half-mortified, half-laughing. "Stop."

"Never," he says cheerfully, and takes another huge bite of tart. Around the mouthful, he adds, "You're my favourite thing to watch eat. And that's saying something because I should be focusing on the food."

You open your mouth to retort, but the laugh escapes anyway. 

A week passes in a blur of NEWT revision and stolen moments. You spend most of it in the library or your dorm. You have your own room to yourself as Head Girl. It feels enormous when it's just you, and you find yourself thinking about a certain redhead more than you should while staring at Advanced Runes.

The knock comes Thursday night, after curfew. You don't even ask who it is—you just open the door, and Ron slips inside with a grin and a bottle of butterbeer he's clearly snuck in.

"Hullo, my favorite Ravenclaw Head Girl. Figured you need a break from all that studying," he says, setting the butterbeer on your desk.

Before you can retort you’re the only Ravenclaw Head Girl—he's kissing you—one hand cupping your jaw, the other finding your waist, backing you toward your bed. His mouth is warm and insistent, tasting faintly of the peppermint he always pockets from the Great Hall, and he kisses you like he's been saving it up all week.

"Missed you," he says against your lips.

You laugh against his mouth. “Ron— We saw each other at dinner 2 hours ago.”

“Exactly.”

You don't get a word out before he's kissing you again, deeper this time, walking you backward until your knees hit the mattress.

Oh. 

You’re quickly realizing which mood he’s in. 

You sink onto the duvet, and Ron follows, settling between your legs with a reverence that makes your breath catch.

He moves your oversized t-shirt up slowly—possibly one you stole from him—pressing open mouthed kisses along your stomach, your ribs, then the underside of your breast making your breath hitch. His hands map your skin like he's memorizing. Way more attention than he’s given any of his studies over the year, you think to yourself with amused disappointment.

"Been thinkin' about this all week," he says, voice gone rough. "About how you sound."

You make another embarrassing noise as his hands slide up your thighs.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your sleep shorts and drags them down your thighs. 

When he looks up at you from between your legs, there's that same delighted grin he gets when he sees a treacle tart—the one that says he's about to get exactly what he's been craving.

A whine escapes you before you can stop it. He eyes your panties, a wet patch having formed on them just from his sweet words and even sweeter kissing. 

Your hand flies up to cover your mouth as he finds your clit through your panties and rubs lightly. Ron pauses and looks up at you through his lashes. There's that grin. That bloody grin.

"Don't you dare," he says, low and bemused. "I've been waiting all week to hear you. You’ve been so busy, smart girl."

You shiver. You love when he calls you that, too. He presses a kiss to the damp cotton, deliberately slow, and your hips twitch. His hands slide up your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to hold you still.

He pushes the soaked fabric aside with his thumb. The cold air hits you and you gasp into your palm.

"Go on, then. Silence yourself if you want. But I'd much rather hear it."

He lowers his head and drags his tongue flat and slow through your slick folds, and your whole body jerks, the whine behind your hand turning into something broken and wanting. He hums against you, pleased, and does it again.

"Ron—" His name comes out as a whine, pitching high in the middle, and your hands find his hair. The soft, fiery strands slipping between your fingers like spun silk. You fist them, not hard enough to pull, just to hold on. Anchor yourself.

The silencing charm sits on the tip of your tongue, half-formed. The walls are thin, and the portraits in the halls of the girls dormitory definitely gossip. But Ron's mouth is doing something devastating to you and all coherent thoughts are currently abandoning you.

You manage it anyway eventually, a wandless Silencio and the room goes muffled—the crackle of the common room fire and the distant noise of the castle dropping away until there's only the sound of your panting and the wet sounds of his mouth.

Ron pauses. Lifts his head just enough to look up at you, lips slick, grin sharp with drunk delight, "Shame. Wanted everyone to hear the pretty noises you make too."

You want to retort at the crude insinuation, but he lowers his head again, and the thought evaporates. You make a sound louder than you'd ever let out before and Ron hums against your obscenely wet cunt like it's the best thing he's ever heard.

"There it is," he breathes, and the reverence in his voice makes your toes curl. "Keep makin' that noise for me."

He seals his mouth over your clit, and you stop thinking entirely. Your fingers tighten in his hair, your back arching off the duvet.

One particularly hard suck hits you like a hex—your whole body seizing, a cry tearing out of you as your thighs slam shut around his head, trapping him there.

"Sorry— sorry—" The apologies spill out of you in a breathless, broken string, mortification and pleasure tangled so tight you can't tell them apart. Your hands fly to his shoulders, trying to push him back, to give him air, to make him stop—or maybe to pull him closer, you're not sure anymore.

Ron doesn't move. He makes a low, muffled sound against you, and you feel his head shake—nose grinding against your clit, teasing, like he's saying no, I'm not going anywhere.

The vibration of it shoots through you like lightning. Your thighs clench again, harder this time, and a keening whine escapes your throat. You can feel his grin pressed against you, wide and unapologetic, and then he does it again—shakes his head slower, more purposefully, nose working against your clit, his tongue massaging your entrance leaking with honeyed arousal. Sounds of your slick feel the room. So incredibly lewd.

"Mmph—" he lets out against you, and the sound buzzes through your whole body yet again. "Always tastes s’good."

You're drowning. Your fingers are twisted in his hair, brows knitted, your legs shaking around his head.

"Ron!" His name tears out of you, broken and desperate. "It's— hah! It's too much!"

He hums against you, and this time that vibration alone nearly undoes you. Then his hands are moving, and you feel it—two fingers pressing inside with an ease that makes your eyes roll back. He curls them, easily finding the spot that makes your whole body jolt.

"S'okay." His voice is muffled against your mound. "I know you can take it. Ya always do. Just let yourself feel good, yeah?"

You want to argue. Want to tell him you can't—but he's already moving, fingers pumping in a rhythm that matches the lazy circles his tongue draws on your clit, and the protest dies in your throat. With every curl of his fingers, you hear a wet squelch that makes your body burn even hotter.

He works you like he's got all the time in the world, like he's memorizing every twitch and gasp, the way your hips chase his thick fingers, calloused from Quidditch. 

His free arm hooks around your thigh, holding you open, keeping you exactly where he wants you. You whine, feeling so exposed—too dazed to do anything about it. Not wanting him to stop.

"There you go," he says, and you feel him smile softly against you. "That's it. Let go for me."

The coil in your belly winds tighter and tighter, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps, eyes teary. Your fingers twist in his hair, heels of your feet digging into his back, and you're trembling everywhere, all at once, right on the edge. You can't stop whimpering and whining his name, all other thoughts gone.

"My smart girl's completely gone, hm?" He says, saccharine sweet words coming out hoarse.

It only takes one last curl of his fingers for your vision to white out as you cream around his fingers. The warning you usually give never makes it out. One moment you're teetering, the next you're gone—body bowing off the mattress as you clench around his fingers. Coming undone with a full body shiver with a sound that's half moan, half sob, cracked and raw in a way you'd be mortified about if you could think at all.

Overwhelmed to the brim, the tears finally spill over, sliding into your hairline and smudging the lenses of your glasses that you haven't even noticed sit awfully crooked on your face. You're trembling, thighs shaking around his head, fingers twisted so tight in his hair you're probably pulling it now.

Ron doesn't pull away. He becomes gentler, mouth softening to slow soothing kisses, fingers easing into a slow rhythm, pumping you through the aftershocks like he's cradling you through every wave. His free hand strokes your thigh, thumb rubbing small, grounding circles into your skin.

"That's it," he says thickly against you. "That's my sweet girl. You did so well, pretty."

You make a small content sound at the praise. Ron waits until your trembling slows, your thighs to relax, before he lifts his mouth away leaving one last kiss to the inside of your thigh.

He surfaces, licking his lips then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His face is flushed a pretty pink, eyes dark and soft. He crawls up the bed, settling beside you, and pulls you into his chest before you can curl away.

"Alright?" he asks, pressing a kiss to your temple. His voice is hoarse, pleased. "You with me?"

You hum in confirmation against his shoulder, breathing still shallow. You wrap your hands around his lean middle and you can feel a soft smile pressed into your hair.

"Good," he murmurs. "Because I wanna see you cum again."

You whine suddenly, shaking your head against his shoulder, the words tumbling out before you can second guess them.

"No— I can't. I just came. S'too much," You let out pitifully.

He softens instantly. When you look up at him, you see the eager heat in his eyes turn to something warmer. His hand comes up to stroke your hair, thumb brushing your temple. "Hey. That's fine Y/n. We don't have to do anything you don't want."

"Let me—" You swallow, the words you’ve been wanting to say for a while tumbling out as you hide your burning face against his chest again. "Let me suck you off."

Ron's eyes widen. His hand stills in your hair.

You look at him as you fix your crooked glasses nervously, pushing them up your nose, scared you said the wrong thing. 

He opens his mouth, closes it. There's a beat of silence where you can feel his heartbeat speed up under your cheek. "You've never— I mean, you don't have to?" He says quickly. "I've never minded, you— you know that."

"I know." Your voice is tiny but steadier than you feel. "But I want to. I’ve wanted to try for a while. You're always been the one doing things for me. I haven’t done anything for you yet…”

Ron lets out a slow breath. When he speaks, his voice is still rough but gentler than you've ever heard it. "Y/n. Look at me." You lift your head. His face is flushed, eyes softer, still blown. "You sure?" he asks quietly.

You nod.

He exhales, a shaky laugh escaping him, and leans back against the headboard, reaching down to palm himself through his trousers.

He's hard. He has been for a while. Seeing him palm the hefty bulge makes your stomach flip. "Alright. Just… go slow, yeah? No rush. And if you want to stop, you tell me, and we'll stop."

He doesn't move to undress himself, he just waits, letting you set the pace. His hand finds yours, squeezing once. He shifts back against the headboard as you sit up, giving you room. His hands stay loose at his sides, but his eyes are dark and watchful, drinking you in.

You're suddenly shy again as you reach for the button of his trousers. Your fingers fumble once, twice, and his hand covers yours—steadying you.

"Slow," he reminds, voice strained. "There's no rush, love."

You bite your lip. Slightly steadier at the reassurance, working the button of his trousers loose then tugging the fabric down his hips. He lifts his arse to help, a little awkward, a whole lot eager, and then you pull his boxers to follow.

When you free him, you completely freeze.

He's big. So big.

You gulp. You imagined he would be. Ron was tall, after all. Lean. Long limbs and long fingers that made you drool—of course it meant he was big down here too. But seeing it is different from imagining it.

He's longer than he is thick, curving slightly. Blue-green veins decorating his length. His tip is an angry red, slick with a bead of moisture. And it's pretty in a way that surprises you. Your mouth waters. You feel feral.

You stare at his cock for another moment too long. Ron's ears have gone scarlet, followed by his cheeks, then his whole neck. He shifts under your gaze like he doesn't know where to put himself.

"Y/n," he says, voice strangled. "You're starin'."

You can't help it. 

"You're—" You stop. Swallow. Whisper, "You're really big."

His blush deepens impossibly. "Yeah, well. S'pose that's— that's a good thing? Or—" He winces at himself. "Sorry. That was— I'm nervous too…"

That makes you look up, meeting his eyes.

Ron Weasley was nervous. Because of you.

Your hand moves before you think, fingers wrapping tentatively around him. He's warm, and he twitches alive in your grip, a shaky breath hissing through his teeth.

"Oh." You breathe out at the sight of him. "Okay?"

"Yes." He says too quickly. "Yeah, that's— very okay."

Your hand is small around him. You can't quite close your fingers. That gap feels intimate and telling. Before you can hesitate, you pump him experimentally, learning the weight and heat of him.

Ron's head falls back against your headboard. His eyes flutter shut, lashes pretty against his flushed cheeks, and a shudder rolls through his whole frame. A sound escapes him—low, punched out, barely a breath.

"Y/n," he groans, and your name comes out wrecked.

You like that. You like watching him fall apart under your hand, the boy who made it his mission to make you laugh. A strange, heady warmth blooms in your chest, and you feel your thighs press together—slick all over again, wet and wanting despite what he just did to you.

Your thumb drags over his tip, spreading the bead of pre there. His hips jerk, a broken noise catching in his throat. His hand finds your wrist—not to stop you, just to hold on, fingers trembling.

"S'good," he manages, eyes still shut. "That's— that's so good. Where'd you learn—" He cuts himself off with a shuddering exhale. "Never mind. K-Keep goin'."

His other hand finds your hair, fingers threading through it, and he guides you down. Not pushing, but a question. A gentle pressure that says please. When you lean closer, his breath catches, and his eyes open, dark and glazed and full of you. The stunning blue you know all but gone.

You let him guide you down with a soft smile on your lips. His hand is gentle in your hair, an invitation you choose to follow.

You inhale sharply, mouth wrapping tentatively around just his tip. He's warm and hard and the taste surprises you. It's not bad at all. Almost good. Salty, faintly musky, human and him in a way that makes your stomach flip with something between nervousness and want.

Ron's breath catches. His hips twitch, a barely restrained jerk, and his fingers tighten in your hair.

"Oh fuck," he breathes shakily. "Oh, that's—"

You don't move, just holding him there, tongue pressing flat against the underside of his tip, learning the texture. He shudders, whole body trembling. You feel a bead of precum on your tongue salty and sharp.

"Y/n," he says, wrecked, and the sound of your name, broken like that, sends a pulse of heat through you. Your thighs press together beneath you, slick and aching.

His hand strokes your hair, shaky. "You can— you don't have to—" He swallows. "If you want to take more, go slow. And if you don't want to, that's— that's fine too."

But his voice is thick with wanting, and the way he says your name makes you want to give him everything.

You answer with a hum, a muffled sound that vibrates through him. It's meant as a yes, a small one, but Ron curses loudly, the word punching out of him like a hex, his hips jerking against his own control.

Encouraged, you take him deeper. The stretch is sudden and overwhelming, his thickness pressing against your tongue and then the back of your throat. You gag, a reflexive spasm that makes your eyes water, and your hands fly to his thighs, gripping the lean muscle there to steady yourself.

And then you look up.

It's the first time you've met his eyes from down here, lips stretched around his cock, tears pricking at your lashes. Ron's head is tipped back, but the moment your gaze finds his, he drops his chin, and his eyes glazed with wanting—lock onto yours.

For a long second, neither of you breathe.

His throat works. His hands, fisted in the sheets at his sides, are white knuckled. You feel the shudder run through him, the barely leashed urge to thrust into your warm little mouth. His whole body strains toward you and holds itself back with visible effort.

"Look at you," he voices, wreck. "Lookin' up at me like that. You're so—" He swallows. "So good. So bloody perfect. Doin' so well for me, Y/n."

You hum around him again, your throat easing, eyes staying on his because you want to see all his reactions.

"That's it," he breathes. "That's my girl."

You bob your head slowly, a tentative rhythm building as you take him deeper, hold it, then breathe through your nose. Your eyes are teary, glasses starting to fog with the warmth of him. You can feel the sting of it, the ache in your jaw already settling in—but you don't stop. You clench your fists against his thighs, steadying yourself, and take him as deep as you can manage swallowing down the gags that threaten to choke you.

Ron's head falls back. A moan escapes him and then it breaks into something higher, almost a whine. The sound of it shoots straight through you like a spark. You've never heard him sound like that. Ron, who's always joking, always grinning—undone, because of you.

He sounds so pretty.

You look up again, through the fog of your glasses, and he looks even prettier—head tipped back, throat working, freckles stark against flushed skin, chest heaving under his rumpled shirt. His hands are fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, every line of him straining toward restraint.

"Y/n," he chokes out, voice cracking. "Y/n, I'm— I'm not gonna last—"

His hips twitch and he groans in frustration at himself, forcing himself still. His hand finds your hair again, trembling, stroking. You rub your thighs together, and hum wanting him to cum, trying to tell him it's okay through the look in your eyes.

He shakes his head, "You don't gotta—" He swallows hard. "If you keep doing that I'm gonna—" The sentence dies into a shuddering exhale.

You don't pull off. You answer with your mouth, bobbing deeper—a promise made of heat and salt and the ache in your jaw. Ron makes a sound like he's been struck, a broken, desperate noise that vibrates through him and into you.

"Y/n—" His voice is barely there. "I can't— I'm gonna—"

You hold his gaze, tears blurring your vision, glasses fogged, and you keep going. He thinks you look so unfairly hot like this. You take him as deep as you can, and hold, breathing through your nose, throat working around him. His hands find your hair, no longer gentle, gripping, trembling with the effort of not thrusting.

He fails.

His hips jerk, once, twice, and a shudder wracks his whole frame. "I'm sorry— I'm sorry—" he chokes, but you don't pull away. You hold him there, eyes wet and wide. You let him fall apart, still inside your mouth. His cock twitches on your tongue and then he's cumming. It's warm and salty and strange, flooding your tongue, and you swallow through the shock of it, gagging slightly, but you don't pull off, swallowing every drop.

You stay with him until his grip in your hair goes slack and his body sags against the headboard, chest heaving. You pull off of him gently and he hisses at the cold air hitting him.

For a long moment, neither of you move. Then his hands find your face from where you're resting on his stomach, cupping your cheeks, tilting your chin up as he catches his breath. You realize his eyes are wet too and you blush. His freckles are stark against the flush on his cheeks, and he looks at you like you've just handed him the whole world.

"Y/n," he breathes, hoarse, reverent. "You—" He laughs, shaky and disbelieving. "Merlin, I love you. I really bloody love you."

Both your eyes widen. The three words hang in the air between you. You watch the realization hit him in real time—the way his mouth opens, closes, the way the flush on his freckled face deepens to something close to panic.

"Shit. I didn't mean to say it like this—" He scrubs a hand over his face, mortified. "I meant— I was gonna do it properly, y'know. Candles, or— or a nice walk by the lake, or somethin'. Not—" He gestures vaguely at the state of you both. "Not like this."

Something in your chest aches helplessly. You wrap your arm around him, pulling yourself into his side, and your face is so hot that it feels as hot as his looks.

"I love you too, Ron." Your voice comes out hoarse, scraped raw from more than just what you just did. You say it before he can spiral any further. "I've loved you since second year."

He goes very still. Then he looks at you like you've just told him he's won the Quidditch World Cup, the lottery, and every last piece of treacle tart in the world all at once.

"Yeah?" he says, small, disbelieving.

"Yeah."

Ron's face splits into a grin so wide it's almost stupid, and he pulls you into his chest, burying his face in your hair, holding you so tight you can feel his heart hammering against your cheek. He laughs a disbelieving sound.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing your cheek, and the wonder in his eyes is the same as it was in the library four years ago—the boy who thought you hated him, who found out you were just shy, who's been trying to make you laugh ever since.

"Love you," he says again, deliberately, like he's testing the weight of it. "Love you, Y/n."

Your hurried footsteps echoed along the empty corridor, dampened by the screaming rain pouring from the thick blanket of clouds over the castle.

Fucking perfect, you thought, bitterly wiping tears and splattered rain from your cheeks. It was like the universe was taunting you.

Stood up by your boyfriend on Valentine's Day? Forced to walk back to Hogwarts in shame? Here, have some torrential downpour to really set the mood.

You still couldn't believe Jack stood you up. Left you looking like an idiot in the Three Broomsticks, alone and glowering into your fruity red drink, surrounded by pink streamers and heart balloons larger than your head. Completely humiliating.

Of all the shitty things he'd done to you over the last six months, this took the cake. And bizarrely, you felt like you deserved it for putting up with his bullshit for so long. You should have seen this coming from a mile away.

But you were too native, too stupid to see the red flags right under your nose. Well, that wasn't true. You saw them. You were just too scared to do anything about it.

Too scared to be alone. Too proud to admit you were wrong about him.

Merlin, George was going to be so fucking smug.

Your best friend, George Weasley, hated Jack. He hated Jack more than you'd ever seen him hate anyone. George had never had a problem with your past partners, albeit there was only two. But something about Jack brought out a side of George you’d never seen: vindictive, petty, mean.

Never directed towards you, of course, Jack and his friends bore the brunt of his wrath. It was enough that Jack steered clear of both George and his twin, who always matched his energy.

You knew George was just looking out for you, trying to protect you from, well, this. What you were feeling now. But you'd be damned if you gave him the satisfaction of being right.

Finally, the Fat Lady greeted you with a warm smile as you reached the top of the stairs. “Not out celebrating, lovey? Look at you, you're soaked!”

You sighed, looking down at your new dress, a babydoll in your favorite shade of pink, the fabric mottled with water and clinging to your skin. “Men suck,” you said.

The Fat Lady laughed. “They certainly do! What's the password, dear?”

You gave it to her, and she swung open, a waft of thumping music and the week of alcohol washed over you.

Shit. You'd completely forgotten about the Valentine's party tonight. While a drink sounded lovely, a drunken grind-fest was the last thing you wanted to participate in.

You pushed your way through the crowd, trying to make a beeline towards the girls dormitory. The crowd was thick, pushing and shoving, while music thumped loudly in your brain. Red hearts and cupids and streamers, were everywhere, a sheen of pink glitter starting to collect on your still-damp skin. Everywhere you looked, couples were all over each other, making out of dancing to the music, cuddled up on every available surface.

Tears burned behind your eyes again, and you tried pushing through with a little more force.

You popped out into a quieter area by the roaring fire, a circle of chairs occupied by the Quidditch team and a few others, which meant—

“Y/n?”

You looked up from your feet and locked eyes with George, who was hurriedly shifting a girl off his lap, ignoring her whine of protest while she grabbed at his white shirt.

The knife of hurt inexplicably twisted deeper in your gut, and you turned your back to him, pushing the other way through the crowd.

“Hey—wait!”

You made it to the stairs, but there was no outrunning those long legs—a lesson you'd learned countless times.

George snagged your wrist, turning you back towards him. “What happened?” The furrow between his brows deepened when he took in your tearful, soaked form. “Why are you wet? And where's the bilge-rat you call a boyfriend?”

You yanked your hand out of his hold. “Fuck if I know,” you snapped, trudging up the stairs, George on your heels.

“What do you mean? Didn't you have a date?” He asked, his tone getting angrier by the second.

You didn't respond, opening the door to your dorm and trying to slam it in George's face, but he caught it and pushed in behind you.

“Fuck, will you just tell me what happened? Are you okay?” He made an effort to soften his voice, catching your purse when you flung it at him.

“No, I'm not okay!” You cried, finally facing him, tears rolling down your cheeks. “Jack stood me up. He left me at the bar and—” emotion pinched your throat, cutting off your words.

You watched George cycle through the five stages of grief, frozen in the middle of the room. Then—

“Do you want me to find him?” He asked, voice a carefully measured calm.

“And do what?” You wiped at your cheeks, beyond frustrated. You couldn't decide if you wanted him to fuck off, or give you one of those big bear hugs he was so good at.

“Break his teeth in? Throw him in the lake? Set his hair on fire—”

“Stop it, George,” you muttered, sounding more defeated than angry.

He crossed the room to you, taking your trembling hands. “How can I fix it, love?” he asked, peering down at your pitiful, makeup smudged face.

You shook your head, avoiding his perceptive gaze. “Unless you have a time-turner to make me less of an idiot—”

“Oi.” George squeezed your hands, shaking you. “Don't talk about my girl that way. You did nothing wrong.”

You jerked your hands away, pushing past him and stalking over towards you vanity. “Please. You wanted me to leave him before we even got together. You made it abundantly clear how much you hated him.”

“Of course I did. He’s a prick—”

“So, clearly, you think I did something wrong by staying with him.” You angrily tugged your hair out of its style, wet strands tangled and getting frizzy, and started scrubbing off your makeup with a towelette. “Congratu-fucking-lations, you were right. You got what you wanted. Are you happy now?”

George looked like you'd struck him, hovering behind you in the mirror. You hated that he looked so handsome tonight in his white button down and dark wash jeans, his copper hair messy and flecked with glitter and heart-shaped confetti. It made it so much harder to be angry with him.

“You think this is what I wanted?” He asked. “The last thing I want is to see you hurting. Of course I'm not fucking happy that you're heartbroken. Even if it is over some limp-dick weasel.”

You scoffed, though you knew that was true, but it was easier to be angry right now. Easier to push him away than let him in.

George pressed on. “I'd like to hang him by the bollocks from the Whomping Willow for leaving you out in that storm, for all the shit he's done to you—”

“Just—go back to your party, George. I'm sure that doe-eyed girl is still waiting for you,” you hissed. It was a low blow, but you just wanted him gone so you could wallow in self-pity alone.

Suddenly, he was moving. His hands griped your waist, spinning your around and pressing you back into the vanity. His expression was severe. “Don't fucking do that,” he bit. “Don't act like I'm the bad guy when all I've wanted—” his voice caught in his throat, and he turned his head away, like he couldn't look at you.

His hands were burning through the thin fabric of your dress, his grip tight enough to ache, and you felt a long-suppressed heat kindle in your belly. George had manhandled you plenty of times: throwing you over his shoulder, dragging you by the hand through the halls, lifting you to retrieve a book from a high shelf. But this felt…different. Charged in a way you'd spent years trying to ignore for the sake of your friendship.

“What, George?” You asked, gripping the edge of the vanity so you didn't reach out to touch him.

He sighed. “When all I've wanted is to make you happy.” He looked at you again, his dark eyes filled with hurt and something warm, honeyed, that you refused to acknowledge.

Your anger crumbled into guilt. “I-I should have listened,” you croaked, tears rising once again. “I'm sorry, I—”

“No, no. None of that,” he shushed, bundling you into his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I just feel so…so stupid,” you whimpered, crying into the safety of his chest, enveloped in the spiced, slightly sweet smell of his cologne.

“You aren't stupid, love. Far from it,” he soothed, hand smoothing up and down your spine. “This is on him, not you. You don't deserve to be treated like this.” He rocked you gently while you cried, cooing softly in your ear and keeping you grounded with his touch, until finally, your sobs ebbed to sniffles, and you drew a full, shaky breath. “There you go,” he said. “Take another one—that’s it. I've got you.”

“Thanks, Georgie,” you sniffled into his shirt.

“No need to thank me. I'm sorry that your Valentine's was ruined,” he murmured into your hair.

“I'm sorry yours was ruined too,” you mumbled, your fists tightening in the soft fabric of his shirt, pulling him a fraction closer, unwilling to part just yet.

“Ruined?” He chuckled. “Got my Valentine right here.” He squeezed you a little tighter, the air wheezing for your lungs until you laughed.

“Since when am I your Valentine?” You asked, pulling back to look up at him, a traitorous stab of affection making your heart skip. Shit, you should not be feeling these things for your best friend. It was just your hurt feelings, the holiday—nothing more.

“Since second year when I gave you that heart-shaped box of chocolates,” he said, pretending to be offended that you didn't remember.

“The one that exploded pink powder all over my face?”

George grimaced. “I forgot it did that…sorry, by the way.”

You smiled, pinching his freckled cheek. “You're forgiven.”

He grinned back, glancing down at your wet dress. “C’mon, get out of this wet cupcake and meet me in my dorm, I have something for you.”

“Cupcake?” You rolled your eyes, finally stepping out of his arms, though his hand lingered on your waist until you were fully out of arms reach. “It's a dress!”

“If you say so,” he teased, perusing your legs as you walked away. “I prefer your bunny pajamas, but—”

You chucked your shoe at him. “Fuck off, I'll see you in a second.”

He held his hands up in surrender and slipped out the door, closing it softly behind him.

What on earth could he have for you? Probably his usual box of chocolates, you mused as you peeled off the soggy fabric. Hopefully the non-explosive variety.

You riffled through your trunk, searching for something oversized and comfortable. But to your dismay, nearly everything large enough was your boyfriends, and you absolutely refused to wear something of his.

But at the very bottom of your trunk, something familiar caught your eye. You pulled it out, unveiling an old Quidditch hoodie, the letters faded and fabric soft from countless washes. George had lent it to you before a particularly cold match, and Gryffindor won in a landslide. It became a good luck charm of sorts, one you wore to every game there after.

But when you started dating Jack, he'd gotten pissed at you for wearing it, and you'd hidden it at the bottom of your trunk, never quite ready to give it back to George.

It smelled of green grass and open sky, and you tugged it over your head, letting it's warmth envelop you. Then, you put on a pair of sleep shorts and fuzzy socks, and padded out of the room towards George's, knocking twice before letting yourself in.

Fred and George were standing by the window, arguing in hushed voices, and straightened abruptly when you walked in.

“Hey, gorgeous!” Fred said, crossing the room and pulling you into a back-breaking hug. He reeked of beer. “How are we?”

“Peachy,” you replied tightly, glancing at George over Fred’s shoulder. He was scratching the back of his head, looking sheepish.

“Naughty girl, lying to me.” Fred winked, and you swatted his shoulder. “But don't worry, love. The boys are on it!”

“The boys? Wait—Fred!” But he was already gone, the door swinging shut behind him. You glared at George, and he held his hands up.

“They were worried about you!” He said defensively. “We care about you, y’know…” his voice trailed off when his eyes landed on your hoodie. “You still have that?”

Heat creeped up your neck. “’Course I do.”

“I thought shit-for-brains made you—”

“He tried,” you replied, tension coiling around the two of you once again.

A smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. “My good luck charm,” he chuckled, and your heart leapt into your throat.

“So, what do you have for me?” You asked, sitting on the edge of his bed like you always did. But something in his eyes flashed, making your lower belly heat.

What was going on with him?

He pushed himself from the wall and walked towards his trunk, just to the left of you. He rummaged around, withdrawing a pink gift bag with heart-covered tissue paper sticking out from the top.

“Oh, George…you didn't have to do this,” you said when he sat beside you.

“I wanted to.” He shrugged, setting the bag on your lap.

Heart pounding in your chest, you carefully removed the tissue paper, finding a pile of candy: chocolates and gummy lips and heart-shaped lollipops. There were also a few sachets of your favorite tea, pilfered from the kitchen, you imagined, and a copy of the book you'd been eyeballing your last trip to Hogsmeade with him and Fred.

Your heart was so full you feared it may burst. “Georgie, this is so sweet, thank you—”

“There's one more thing,” he said, gently taking the bag from you. He stuck his hand all the way to the bottom, and withdrew a small, pink-wrapped box with a ribbon tied around it.

The air was sucked from your lungs, ears ringing with shock as you gingerly took the box from him. He fidgeted beside you as you slowly unwrapped the paper, fingers trembling. The energy was taught around you, practically humming with tension.

A velvet box fell into your palm, the most gorgeous shade of burgundy with a delicate golden latch.

You almost didn't want to open it, terrified of what this meant, but so giddy you could sing. George, the poor guy, looked ready to burst out of his skin with impatience.

Carefully, you opened the lid. Inside was a gorgeous chain bracelet, the metal polished to perfection, with two charms resting against the velvet pillow. A tiny heart with your initial etched onto it, and a small fox, George's favorite mischievous, red-haired critter.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, tears pooling on your lower lashes. It was the most thoughtful gift you'd ever received. “George, I—”

“And you can get more charms, there's a shop in Hogsmeade with loads, books and birds and stars--”

You flung your arms around his neck, cutting off his nervous rambling. “I love it, Georgie, thank you,” you murmured into the crook of his neck.

He relaxed, his arms looping around your waist. “Of course,” he replied.

You pulled back, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand, inspecting the little fox. It crossed your mind that if Jack saw this, he'd be livid, probably go so far as to threaten George, break off the precious little fox, and your smile fell.

“Hey, what happened?” George asked, shifting to kneel in front of you as you curled inward. “You don't like the fox?”

“No, no—” you tried to suppress the tears forcing their way up. “I love the fox. I just—”

George's expression hardened. “Jack won't like it,” he said, an edge to his voice. “You're not going to stay with him, are you?”

You shook your head. “No, I'm not. But we're technically still together—”

“That's bullshit,” George snarled, pushing to his feet and stalking away from you. “He fucking forfeited his right when he left you alone like that. You could have gotten hurt. He just fucking abandoned you and is probably off with some other bird—”

A sob broke free from your chest, and he halted his tirade, shoulders sagging.

“Do you want him?” George asked, crouching in front of you again.

You shook your head. “No, I don’t,” you admitted.

George reached out to cradle your face, catching your tears with his thumbs. His eyes were so sweet, so sincere, it made your teeth ache. “Do you want me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, but the words still felt like a punch through your chest.

Your mind was reeling. Of course, a part of you always wanted more with him, but… “I do, of course I do…but what if that ruins everything?” Your fingers curled into his shirt. “I don't want to lose you—”

“Never,” he said, shaking you so you met his eyes. “Never.”

“Relationships are different, though. What if we don't work like…that?”

His hands moved down to hold your neck, his touch gentle but insistent, your pulse thundering under his fingertips. “I’m still me, and you're still you. Are you going to look me in the eyes and tell me you haven't thought about it? That you haven't felt the pull?”

You don't reply, averting your eyes from his face.

“Not even when you're all alone, and Jack’s left you half-loved, tangled in your sheets…you don't think about me coming in there and taking care of you?”

Heat scorched your cheeks, your thighs clenching at the low purr of his voice, a pitch you hadn't heard before.

“Because I think about it all the time.”

You pussy throbbed and you gasped, shocked by the way your body was reacting to his words alone, your mind scrambling to keep up with this new reality you've stumbled into.

“Knowing I could treat you better, love you better—it keeps me up at night, baby. Imagining all the ways I could take care of you, make you happy, make you mine—”

Unable to stand it any longer, you yanked him forward and connected your mouth with his, cutting him off. He groaned, surging up to tackle you back onto his mattress, his lips hungry and rough against yours. Your whole body felt like it was on fire, his lips, his touch, his heat, burning you from the inside out.

No one has ever kissed you like that before, desperate, ravenous. With an eagerness that was palpable, his heart thundering against yours as he pressed impossibly closer to you.

He pried open your lips with his, his tongue plunging into your mouth with fervid strokes. One of his hands slid under your hoodie, caressing the bare skin of your hip and up your side, leaving tingles in the wake of his calloused palm. His other hand found the crook of your knee, lifting it up to hug his waist, opening your legs so he could press closer, harder…

“George!” You gasped when he rolled his hips against yours, the hard ridge of his cock straining against his jeans, your tiny shorts offering next to no barrier.

“Fuck, I've wanted to hear that for so long,” he panted, burying his face into your neck to kiss and lick at the sensitive skin. “Sound so pretty, baby.” He rolled his hips again, and your whole body arched closer to him, desperate for more as a weak whine spilled from your lips. The seam of his jeans caught your swelling clit just right, making your entire body hum with desire.

“Merlin’s fuck—what are you doing to me?” You keened, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, starving for the feel of his skin against yours.

“The bare minimum,” he teased, nipping at your earlobe. “You make it so easy to love you.” His hands squeezed at your flesh, his breath hot against your neck as he continued rocking your hips together. “So fucking sexy, so responsive. I knew you'd be perfect—” he grunted when you thrust your hips back up against him.

You finally managed to get his shirt off, pushing it over his shoulders and he tossed it onto the floor. The pale stretch of freckled skin on his chest made your mouth water, but you didn't get to admire him for long. He tugged your hoodie over your head, casting it across the room, and revealing the near see-through lacy red thing you'd selected for the evening and didn't bother changing out of.

A broken sound hissed through his teeth. Jealousy bloomed in his eyes, his jaw feathering with irritation.

You reached up to caress his cheek, drawing his eyes to your face. “He never got to see it,” you cooed, petting the hard line of his jaw and coaxing him to relax. “All yours now, yeah? No one else's.”

His eyes searched your face, anger melting into scalding desire. “Say it again,” he rasped.

“All yours,” you hummed, pecking his lips.

His hand spread across your collarbones, long fingers stretching nearly shoulder to shoulder, and he shoved you roughly back onto the bed. The next moment, his mouth was on your chest, hot and warm through the thin lace as he smeared open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His tongue lashed one peaked nipple, drawing a cry from your lips as he sucked the bud and fabric between his teeth.

Your hands flew into his hair, tugging and guiding his mouth where you wanted him, and he went willingly, eager for any and all contact, quick to repeat the tricks that made your breath hitch.

His hand slid down your stomach, beneath he waist band of your shorts, and he dragged his middle finger through your dripping slit, a high-pitched moaning making him smile against your chest.

“Merlin, you're soaked,” he purred, kissing up your neck and capturing your lips in a messy, top-lip kiss. His finger swirled around your puffy clit, applying just enough pressure to have pleasure radiating through your body. “You get this wet for him, baby?” He whispered, dipping his fingertips into your entrance, once, twice, before sinking down to the knuckle. “Little cunt sucking me right in. She was ready for me, hm?”

“G-George,” his name was a fractured whimper on your tongue, your mind going fuzzy when he curled his finger up, hitting a spot that you'd never felt before.

“Oh, you poor thing,” George cooed, adding a second finger and stroking the same spot again, your whole body hitching up the bed at the intensity of it. But his body weight held you down, his mouth painting gentle kisses along your skin to try and soothe you. “He never touch you like this? Never found that spot—fuck, right there, baby? That's it?”

You bobbled your head like an idiot, grinding your hips back into his hand as he started fucking his fingers into you more deliberately, the lewd, gooey smack of your pussy filling the dorm.

“Good girl,” he praised, propping himself up to peer down at you, eyes blown wide with lust as he took in your trembling, sweat-kissed skin. “How did I get so fucking lucky?” He asked, leaning down to kiss you again, all softness and affection, so different than the relentless way he was dominating your cunt.

You pawed at his jeans, tugging at his belt. “Mmph, please—need you,” you whined against his mouth, and he groaned.

“Fuck, you're killing me, love,” he grated, his hips bucking into your hand. “You want my cock that bad?”

You nodded, still struggling with his belt.

He pushed off of you and undid his belt, removing his jeans and shoes in record time, his flushed cock slapping up against his stomach. He grabbed you by the ankle and tugged you to the edge of the bed.

“You've got a slutty little thong under here, don't you?” He asked, toying with the waistband of your shorts.

“Maybe,” you said, half-distracted by his cock jumping at the sound of your voice, the tip slick with precum.

He glanced down, following your gaze, and chuckled. “My eyes are up here, pretty girl,” he chastised with a light slap to your inner thigh. He pushed your shorts down your legs, followed by the red thong your wore underneath. He tossed the thong onto his bedside table, instead of the floor with the rest of the clothes.

You raised an eyebrow at him, about to make some teasing remark, when he dragged his cockhead through your messy slit, and all thoughts tumbled right out of your brain, dripping from between your legs.

“For later, yeah?” He said, smirking when your eyes rolled back when he tapped your clit with the head. “So next time I see that fucker, I can show him exactly what he lost.”

“George—” you started to chastise him for being cruel when he notched at your entrance, sinking halfway into your willing pussy, and you both cried out. The fullness, the stretch, was mind-melting. Better than anything you'd felt in your life.

George braced his hand beside your head, sagging forward as he hissed a curse under his breath. “Fucking shit, love,” he panted, his muscles locked up so tight he was practically vibrating. “M'done for if you keep squeezin’ me like that.”

You moaned, lifting your hips to take him a little deeper, needing more even though you felt like he was ripping you apart at the seams. “Please, Georgie,” you whimpered, clawing at his skin. “Want all of you.”

“I know, honey. I know. Just give me a second.” He leaned further down, peppering kisses across your cheeks and jaw. “Don't wanna hurt you, gotta relax f’me.”

You took a few breaths, trying to get your muscles to relax as his lips moved over your fevered skin. You felt him slide a bit deeper, the stretch not quite as intense.

“Good girl, that's it. Just a little further,” he praised, his hand gripping the flesh of your hip as he started rocking into you, slow, rolling thrusts that got incrementally longer each time, until his pelvis met yours and you were a moaning mess, writhing beneath him, desperate for more.

George straightened, his hand on the bed shifting to your shoulder, and he snapped his hips forward, forcing a cry from your lips as pleasure struck you like lightning. He set a rough pace, fucking you deep and hard, his grip on your body keeping you locked in place.

You were lost in it, helpless to the pitch and roll of his ocean, completely adrift in the pleasure he was pulling from your body. You tried to fuck back against him, but your body refused to cooperate, dumb and boneless and cockdrunk.

“So fucking pretty like this. Tell me how pretty you are, baby,” he said, his hand leaving your hip to rub tight circles over your clit.

“Mmph—fuck, so pretty,” you managed, voice throttled with lust and desperation.

“Yeah, you are.” He grinned. “My pretty girl takin’ this cock so well. He fuck you like this? Have you a drooling mess for him?”

You shook your head, nails biting into his thighs as your release prowled closer, coiling tight in your belly. “No, never,” you keened, when ratcheted up the pace sensing your looming orgasm.

“That's right, all mine. Who does this pussy belong to? Who has your heart?”

“You, you! Fuck, George, I’m—”

“Go on, love. Come for me, I'm right there with you. Come on.” His thrusts grew rougher and sloppier as his own release approached, and with a final, punishing snap of his hips, you both went flying over the edge and into white hot bliss.

You screamed and he caught the sound with a kiss, fucked you through it as your pussy clamped around him. Wringing every bit of pleasure from you both until he sagged forward, his head falling into the crook of your neck as you both gasped for breath.

He kissed along the damp column of your throat, making his way to your lips, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your trembling thighs. “Did so good,” he murmured between lazy pecks. “I'm proud of you.”

You giggled, feeling almost giddy to have George in your arms, kissing you and praising you so sweetly. “That was amazing,” you breathed, and he smiled, giving one last thrust before withdrawing and using magic to clean you both up.

“You were amazing,” he corrected. “Like I said, you're easy to love.”

Butterflies rioted in your stomach. “So are you.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead before handing you your hoodie and shorts. You both got semi-dressed and snuggled into his bed, his bare chest under your ear, heart thumping steadily.

You grabbed the gift bag and took out the bracelet. “Will you put it on me?”

“Of course,” he beamed, carefully taking the the jewelry and clasping it around your wrist, kissing the tender skin of your pulse before releasing you. “Looks perfect on you,” he said, looking down at your smiling face as you turned your wrist this way and that.

“I love it, Georgie. Thank you.” You snuggled closer into his side.

“Always.” He dropped a kiss on top of your head, then grabbed the gift back from you, pulling out a handful of candy and popping one of the lollipops into his mouth. “Not as sweet as your pussy, but…”

You rolled your eyes and placed a chocolate truffle on your tongue, letting the deliciousness fill your mouth.

Bang! There was a fumbling outside of the door and George quickly yanked the curtain shut, just before what sounded like several people came tumbling into the room.

“Get the fuck off of me, Weasley—” Jack.

“Absolutely not, you're going to apologize,” Fred replied, his voice a little too chipper for the current situation.

George was up in a blink, his chest littered with the marks you gave you him, and pushed through the curtain. “Well, well. Seems you aren't dead, or maimed…so what exactly is your excuse for standing up my girl on Valentine's Day?” George asked.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you, I—your girl?” Jack hissed. “She's mine.”

George chuckled. “Love, would you like to come out here and set the record straight?”

“What?” Jack barked. “She's not here—”

You slipped out of bed and tried to right yourself before stepping out of the curtain and into the room. Fred and Lee had Jack by arms, dressed only in his boxers. Harry and Ron stood off to the side, watching everything unfold with mild amusement.

George was leaning against the bed frame, lollipop in his cheek, a triumphant smirk on his face.

“We're done, Jack,” you said, getting it over with. But strangely, you didn't feel any of the guilt from before. And you shouldn't. Jack was a prick, and didn't deserve your tears or empathy.

“I miss one date and you shack up with fucking Weasley?” Jack spit, and George's eyes darkened. “Fucking whore—”

Fred and Lee shook him roughly, yelling at him to watch his mouth, and you recoiled a bit. George seemed to stay surprisingly calm, until you saw him reach for his Beater bat beside the bed.

“George, wait—”

George jabbed the tip of the bat into Jack's sternum, and the boy went pale. “If I hear you running your fucking mouth about her again, I will smash your jaw to splinters. Clear?”

Your heart lost its rhythm. You'd never seen George like this, and you loved it. Loved being his.

Jack bobbed his head yes, trembling in Fred and Lee's hold.

Lee snickered. “Prick looks like he might piss himself.”

“Now get the fuck out,” George ordered.

“Wait, one more thing,” you said, and the boys all turned their attention to you. You sauntered up to Jack, and you saw a flicker of hope in his eyes.

Fucking idiot.

You thrust your knee up, nailing him right in the bollocks, and he howled so loud the other boys dropped him into a heap on the floor.

“Fuck you,” you spit, turning on your heel and stepping into George's open arms.

“That's my girl,” George cooed, taking the lollipop of his mouth to kiss you properly, the strawberry flavor sweet on his tongue. He waved at the others over your head as he deepened the kiss, and you heard them all file out, laughing and jeering as they dragged Jack behind them, the door swinging shut and locking.

“He deserved it,” you mumbled between kisses, giggling when George lifted you into the air, your legs wrapping around his waist.

“And now it's time you get what you deserve,” he smirked, laying you back down on the mattress and shifting down between your legs. “And I get my reward for absolutely crushing Valentine's Day.”

You burst out laughing, the sound shifting to moan as he licked a stripe through your slit. “You're right, best Valentine's Day ever.”

You're mind was wiped clean of anything but when did he get so hot?

The George Weasley you remembered was a beanpole, always a bit too tall for his slacks, arms a bit too long for his shirts. He was always exuberant, borderline manic with his endless pranks and games. Sweet, always sweet, but too eager.

Now, he was practically dripping with confidence. An ease about himself you definitely don't recall him having.

Now, you were the one fumbling over your words. Palms slick as you wiped them on your mini skirt.

“I've been good, really good—like, yeah, uh—how are you? How's the shop?”

“Can't complain,” he said, dipping his head down to hear you better over the din of the bar. His cologne wafted over you. Musky and warm. You noticed that the friends who dragged you out had abandoned you. “How’s McLaggen?”

His distaste was evident even all these years later. You couldn't really blame him. Cormac was an asshole more often than he wasn't.

You shrugged a shoulder. “Fine, I guess. We split a few months ago.”

“Oh, I didn't—I’m sorry.” And he actually looked it.

“It's alright. There's no hard feelings.”

His eyes flitted over your face. Searching for something. Then—“can I get you a drink?” He lifted a hand to flag down the bartender before you could answer, crooking two long fingers in the air.

You felt the gesture down to your toes.

“Espresso martini?” He glanced back at you.

“How'd you know?”

“I remember that match against Slytherin. You and your friends were drinking dorm coffee and vodka—”

“Oh my god, you do not remember that!” Heat scorched your cheeks.

He laughed, a sound like a summer storm. “Of course I do. You were drunk before you even made it out to the pitch. You used my broom like a walking stick.”

You groaned and hid your face in your hands, mortified.

Warm fingers circled your wrists, urging your hands back down. “Don't be embarrassed. Even sloppy drunk, you were still the coolest person in the stands.”

“Yeah, right—”

“I thought so.” Those eyes were molten, soft with sincerity, but something burning underneath. A kindling flame.

His crush on you had been apparent from the moment you stepped off the train that first year, and as far as you knew, never quite left him entirely, even when you started dating McLaggen in fifth year.

The breakup was most of the reason your friends had dragged you out tonight. They thought it was time for you to get back on the horse, so to speak.

And now, you were thinking it hadn't been such a bad idea after all.

The bartender set your drink on the bar, along with a frosty pint nearly as dark. You took a long drink, trying to rally your nerves. George did the same, watching you over the rim. His throat worked as he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, and you had to stop yourself from staring.

“Still do,” he added, setting his beer down, “if I'm being honest.”

You almost choked. Saints sake, you needed to get a grip. This was George Weasley. You've known him for more than a decade. Sure, he's like Adonis-level hot now, shoulders straining the seams of his shirt, forearms thick and tanned—

Get. A. Grip.

“You've always been honest, Weasley,” you teased. A feeble attempt at gaining some control of the situation.

You didn't think he could lie if he tried. It was a trait of his that once embarrassed you, the vulnerable, raw way he used to look at you. But now, after years of failed dates and fakes, you found it quite endearing.

He chuckled, eyes flinting. “And you've always made a fool out of me.”

“I think you managed just fine on your own.” You let your eyes wander over him now, hoping he caught your double meaning.

He did, his chest puffing up just the tiniest bit, and your heart squeezed.

Your friends and his chose that moment to descend upon you once again, filling in all the charged space between you with chatter and laughter. You let them buoy you away, but kept an eye on George as the night wore on. He did the same, your eyes meeting across the room countless times. Even when you looked away, you could still feel him watching, tracking you from the bar to the dance floor and back again. Like a cord had fastened you together, a connection that thrummed with energy even when you were physically apart.

The old George would have clung to your side, seeking any attention you could give him, but this George let you wander, let the distance stretch and pulse. Like he knew you'd find your way back to him when you were ready.

And you were about to do just that, anticipation quickening your steps, when some stranger stepped into your path.

“Hey, babe. Want to dance?”

This dude was greasy and reeked of light beer, and you didn't appreciate being physically blocked.

“No thanks.” You tried to move around him.

He blocked you again. “Aw, why not? I’ll be good to ya’—”

“I said no.” You shoulder checked him, pushing harder to get around him.

He grabbed your wrist, yanked you back around in a dizzying whirl. “Watch it, bit—”

“She said no.” A long-fingered hand grabbed around the guy's wrist, knuckles going white as it squeezed. George.

The guy cursed, releasing you immediately. George shoved him backwards. Put his body between the two of you. The stranger stumbled, then fell onto his ass. He muttered something unintelligible, then scurried away into the crowd.

Your head was spinning, heart pounding as you rubbed your wrist. The man hadn't exactly hurt you, but the echo of the unwanted touch burned.

“Come on, love.” George lifted his arm, and you tucked into his side without thought. Easy and familiar as settling into a favorite chair. He smelled like herbal tea and cinnamon, with something like gunpowder lingering on his clothes, and you wanted to wallow in it. “Are you hurt?” He asked once you made it to a quieter corner of the bar.

“No, no—thank you, George.” You looked up at him, and the spark of electricity that ignited nearly blinded you. The interaction from a moment ago completely forgotten.

God, had his lips always been so gorgeous?

“No need to thank me,” he said, eyes holding yours before flicking downwards. His tongue darted out, whetting his lower lip. “I, uh—”

“Hm?” You hummed, turning to face him. Bodies barely an inch apart. The racket of the bar fell away, drowned out by the thump of your hearts, shallow pants of breath.

“I always liked looking out for you,” he murmured, the arm around your shoulders slipping down your back. Bracketing your waist to pull you a bit closer.

“Yeah?” You lifted a bit onto your toes. Even in heels, you barely cleared his chest.

“Got detention once for wailing on that Hufflepuff that knocked your books out of your hands.” He shifted his weight forward. Your back bumped against the wall.

You leaned against it, gliding your hands up his chest. Fuck, he really has been working out. “I never knew that,” you said, breathless.

He melted into you, nose brushing along your temple, hands growing heavy on your hips. “Didn't want to embarrass you.” He nosed behind your ear, breath hot against your cheek. “I knew you didn't feel the same.”

Your heart panged. You cupped his jaw, lifting his face so you could look at him. Tried to push away the thought of how his stubble would feel scarping along your inner thighs.

George was—saints, it was like you were seeing him for this first time.

“George, I—”

“It's okay,” he reassured you with a soft smile. “You were always nice about it. It was a long time ago.”

He was always nice about it, too. Never once made you feel pressured, or uncomfortable, or like an object. His affection always seemed sincere, respectful, almost innocent.

Almost.

“D-do you still, um—” Your brain stuttered, struggling under the intensity of his gaze, the closeness of his body. Overwhelming you.

“Not sure I ever stopped.” The words fanned against your lips, honey-sweet.

You just had to taste them.

You pulled him in the final inch, pressing your lips to his in a slow, experimental kiss. He returned it eagerly, molding his lips to yours. Dizzyingly natural, like you'd been kissing for years, instead of seconds. Your mouths moved instinctively together, pressing and pulling, his tongue teasing along your lower lip, your teeth nipping back. His hands found their way into your hair, tilting your head back so he could kiss you deeper. Harder. Your body purred.

Kissing Cormac had never felt like this, and you actually had been kissing him for years.

George pressed closer to you, crushing you against the wall, and you squeaked, arching into him as his tongue finally plunged into your mouth. His left leg parted yours, thigh pressing up against your core.

The pressure zipped straight to your head. You gasped into his mouth. He smiled, breaking the kiss to nibble at your ear, down towards your throat.

“Even better than I thought,” he said.

You could barely hear him over the buzzing in your veins. “What is?”

“The sounds you make.” He sucked your skin between his teeth, biting a bit harder, and you moaned again, hips rocking involuntarily over his thigh. You could feel how soaked you were, and imagined leaving a damp spot on his slacks. A thrill ran through you at the thought of making a mess of him. Marking him.

He grabbed your hips again, dragging you forward, grinding his leg into your sensitive clit. Pleasure shot up your spine. Sparkled behind your closed lids. You dragged him by the hair for another kiss, teeth scraping together in your urgency.

You needed him. Now.

“Shop is up the street,” he panted.

You shook your head. “Too far.” You grabbed his hand and dragged him down the hall towards the bathrooms.

Together you stumbled into the ladies, startling two girls who were fixing their makeup. They were gracious enough to leave you be, and George locked the door behind them before tossing you up onto the counter. The chill bit into your heated skin, but did nothing to dampen the burn. His hands found your knees, pushing them apart as he dove in for another fervent kiss.

You moaned into his mouth. A lingering suspicion you'd had wormed its way into your addled mind—a rumor from your Hogwarts days. You dipped a hand between your bodies, fingertips grazing the thick bulge in his pants.

He hissed at the contact, his cock pulsing as you palmed it. Well, some of it.

Because he was fucking huge.

“Find what you're looking for?” He teased, a little breathless as you started to stroke him through the fabric. Mentally calculating just how big he was. Already, you knew he was bigger than anyone else you'd ever had. By a long shot.

Beater, indeed.

You hummed, popping the buttons of his slacks while guiding his hand between your legs. “Hard to miss.”

He chuckled, gliding his fingers over the soaked gusset of your panties. “All this for me?” He pulled the fabric up, drawing it tight against your aching clit, and you whimpered.

“I could say the same.” You pulled him free of his boxers, feeling the full heft of him in your palm. Your fingers just barely touched as you pumped him lazily. Precum smeared on the inside of your wrist. He was practically weeping for you. “The rumors were true.”

“Rumors?” The tops of his freckled cheeks tinged scarlet. From the pleasure or embarrassment, you couldn't tell.

“Yeah, that your Beater bat wasn't the only big stick you carried around…” A surprised moan swallowed the end of your sentence as his fingers dipped beneath your underwear, dipping into the pool of honey at your entrance before gliding up to your clit.

“You’ve already got me in the palm of your hand, love. There's no need for flattery—” You squeezed him gently at the base, and he grunted, thrusting once into your fist.

“True. You’ve been so patient, Georgie,” you cooed, dragging your hand up again and twisting the slickened head. Watched as his eyes started to glaze over. Lips parted as his jaw went slack.

He recovered quickly, though, and took your wrist, moving your hand away from his dick. “I have,” he said, catching your other hand from where it was fisted in his shirt. “So, you'll forgive me for wanting to enjoy myself.” He pinned your wrists to the mirror behind you, grip tight but not painfully so, and forced your back to arch upwards. Tits pressing hard against the fabric of your shirt.

He didn't waste a second. Diving down, his lips closed around one of your nipples poking through the fabric while he plunged one finger inside you. You cried out, writhing in his hold as he devoured you. Pleasure coursed through you, clenching your toes in your heels and making you arch even further into him. He quickly added a second finger, curling them just right to stroke the place that made your eyes cross.

“George—oh, fuck—” your head fell back against the glass as he coaxed you open. The wet sounds of his fingers fucking in and out your sopping pussy echoed around the tiny bathroom.

“So pretty like this,” he breathed, lifting his head to look over your body. All stretched out and heaving for him. The air was cold against the wet spots he'd left over your nipples, making them tighten even further. “Tell me how pretty you are.”

You just moaned in response as he did something with his thumb on your clit that made your legs start to tremble.

“Tell me.” He slowed, fingers still pressing against your g-spot, but no longer moving. A torturous high-note that he refused to break.

You squirmed, desperate for relief. “I'm pretty—so pretty—please—”

“Good girl,” he praised, resuming at an even faster pace before, and your pornographic cries were obscene even to your own ears.

You were unraveling at an unprecedented rate, and you didn't even care. Just wanted it—wanted him—so badly it hurt.

He released your wrists, bracing his palm flat against the glass. “Touch yourself,” he ordered, and you obeyed instantly, hand flying down to circle your clit while he finger fucked you into oblivious. “That's it, love. Squeezing me so tight I can barely move.”

“Close—” you whined, grabbing his shirt and dragging his mouth to yours for a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. This more dominant, confident side of him was going to be the death of you.

“Yeah? Go on, baby. Come for me.”

The knot in your belly wound impossibly tighter, static screaming under your skin, roaring in your ears until finally—

It burst like a dam, crashing through you in wave after wave of bliss. You convulsed in his arms, and he held you tight to his chest while he continued fucking you through it. You were drowning in it, gasping for air until finally, he withdrew his fingers to let you catch your breath. He peppered kisses anywhere he could reach, hand wet where it gripped your thigh, murmuring praise to guide you back to him.

Then, as the waters receded, you realized what had just happened.

“Oh my god—did I—” A hand flew up to cover your mouth when he stepped back to show you what happened. He was completely soaked to the wrist and at the waist. And grinning ear to ear.

“Make a mess of me? Yes, yes you did,” he said, smug as anything.

You had never squirted. Not once in your life, despite yours and Cormac's best efforts.

George managed it on the first fucking try.

“I—I’ve never—”

His whole expression changed, smugness dropping away instantly as he wrapped his arms around you again. “Oh fuck, really? Are you okay? Was that okay—”

You buried your head into his shoulder to hide your expression, unable to stop yourself from giggling as aftershocks quaked through you. “No, no, it felt—it felt really good.”

“Yeah?” He lifted your chin, eyebrows creased with concern. “You promise?”

You answered him with a kiss, slow and sweet. He relaxed, sighing contentedly against your lips.

Knock knock!

Someone banged on the bathroom door.

“We should get cleaned up…” George muttered between pecks.

“Mhmm.” More pecks. You didn't want this to end. This perfect little moment of bliss. Of relief. Of finally.

“…and then maybe I can take you out on a real date?” He pulled back to meet your eyes, a nervous smile tugging at his lips.

“How about breakfast?” You asked, dragging a finger down his abdomen.

His eyes lit up. “I know a place that makes some mean pancakes. Delivered to you in bed and everything—” he leaned down to kiss you again, though you were both smiling too big for it.

“Oh yeah? That sounds perfect.”

He cleaned you both up quickly, and you ducked out of the bar amid whoops and cheers from all your friends.

“You think they set us up?” You asked George over a plate of pancakes the following morning.

He paused while chopping strawberries. “You know, Lee was the one that convinced me I should go out last night.”

Huh. “…Lee's dating my best friend. She was the one that talked me into it.”

You met each other's eyes across the kitchen island and burst out laughing.

───♜⋆｡˚ Harry made a choking sound beside the two of you. Hermione pressed her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh as she pretended to continue reading her book

───♜⋆｡˚ Ron side eyed you with a sneer “That’s low.” “You left your knight vulnerable.” “It was bait.” “It was stupidity.” you teased back to your boyfriend who scoffed “It was a tactical sacrifice!” “You sound like Professor Trelawney trying to explain homework.” Harry outright snorted this time

───♜⋆｡˚ The Great Hall buzzed with life around your table owls swooping overhead, students talking loudly, forks clinking against plates but the four of you had become entirely absorbed in the match sprawled across the wooden table or more specifically Ron trying desperately not to lose his winning streak

───♜⋆｡˚ “You’re enjoying this far too much,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at your queen “I enjoy being right.” “That’s such a Ravenclaw answer.” “And yet you keep dating me.” Ron’s ears turned faintly pink Hermione noticed instantly “So predictable,” she sighed into her book Ron pointed accusingly at her. “You stay out of this.” “She’s winning,” Harry said helpfully. “I think you’ve got bigger concerns.” Ron looked betrayed at the two “You’re supposed to support me.” “I support entertainment.”

───♜⋆｡˚ This whole chess ordeal had started accidentally well mostly accidentally. Back in early autumn, Ron had made the mistake of loudly proclaiming in the library that nobody at Hogwarts could beat him at Wizard Chess anymore you, unfortunately for him, had overheard.

───♜⋆｡˚ The challenge had been immediate and how competitive Ron was he had accepted without hesitation. The first game lasted nearly an hour the second lasted longer by the third match, entire groups of students had begun lingering nearby just to watch the two of you argue over strategy

───♜⋆｡˚ “You’re distracting him on purpose,” Hermione had whispered once. “I’m literally sitting here.” “You keep smiling whenever he looks up.” You hadn’t denied it mostly because it was true Ron became horribly easy to distract once flustered

───♜⋆｡˚ Especially when you leaned over the board to inspect pieces or smiled after taking one of his bishops or rested your chin in your hand while looking at him like you already knew you’d win it drove him mad everytime

───♜⋆｡˚ “You’re evil,” Ron informed you one rainy evening in the library after you trapped his rook you looked delighted. “Thank you.” "That wasn’t a compliment.” “It sounded like one.” The matches slowly became routine some couples took walks around the Black Lake, some sat together studying quietly you and Ron? you battled over a chessboard like your relationship depended on it

───♜⋆｡˚ Nearly every evening, one of the Gryffindors could be heard shouting somewhere across Hogwarts “WEASLEY, THAT WAS A TERRIBLE MOVE!” Followed immediately by a loud exclamation of “YOU’RE CHEATING!” Fred and George found the entire thing hysterical. “Oh, he’s in deep,” Fred sighed dramatically one afternoon while watching Ron glare at a chessboard George nodded solemnly. “Never seen him this emotionally invested in tiny statues before.” “They insult me,” Ron defended while you smacked his hand lightly to show it was his turn

───♜⋆｡˚ One of his pawns pointed its sword toward your side of the board aggressively. Your queen rolled her eyes “You talk to the pieces,” you called out “They listen to me unlike someone" “Only because they pity you.” you said back while Ron gasped “You’re unbelievable!" “And you’re losing weasley”

───♜⋆｡˚ Today’s match had started after lunch now the sky outside the enchanted ceiling had deepened into evening blue, and somehow the game still hadn’t ended

───♜⋆｡˚ Students passed by occasionally, slowing when they noticed the board even sixth and seventh years sometimes watched (SIX SEVENNN im gonna jump) Mostly because the two of you were ruthless

───♜⋆｡˚ Ron played aggressively while you played patiently which only irritated Ron more because somehow you always saw his plans before he acted on them “You’ve been staring at the board for five minutes,” you teased lightly “I’m thinking.” “You’re panicking.” “I am not panicking.” “You’re doing the face.” Harry blinked. “There’s a face?” “There’s absolutely a face,” you confirmed Ron looked deeply offended. “I hate all of you.” Hermione finally closed her book “No you don’t.” “…Fine,” Ron grumbled

───♜⋆｡˚ A few moves later, your rook slid across the board one of Ron’s pieces shrieked dramatically as it was knocked aside then your queen moved forward smoothly “Checkmate.”

───♜⋆｡˚ The surrounding students immediately erupted a few Ravenclaws cheered loudly from farther down the table Fred cheered just to tease their younger brother “SHE’S DONE IT AGAIN!” George looked emotional. “Our boy’s been defeated.” Ron stared at the board in horror

───♜⋆｡˚ “…No.” you laughed softly “No?” “You distracted me.” “With what exactly?” Ron opened his mouth and paused then closed it again because he absolutely could not say your face in front of half the Great Hall

───♜⋆｡˚ Harry immediately caught on “Oh, Merlin,” he wheezed Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose “You’re hopeless." “I let her win,” Ron insisted stubbornly. “You say that every single time,” you reminded him “Because it’s true!” “Mhm.” “It is!”

───♜⋆｡˚ You stood slowly from your seat, smoothing your robes while Ron continued glaring at the chessboard like betrayal itself sat before him honestly, it was adorable especially with the faint flush creeping across his freckled cheeks

───♜⋆｡˚ You stepped around the table while Ron finally looked up at you still sulking, still stubborn, still ridiculously handsome your smile softened slightly “You’re pouting" you laughed quietly before reaching down, fingers brushing gently beneath his chin Ron froze instantly

───♜⋆｡˚ The entire table seemed to go silent even Fred and George stopped talking smirking at their younger brother as you tilted his face upward slightly in his seat, amusement dancing in your eyes “There’s no shame in losing to me, Weasley"

───♜⋆｡˚ Ron’s ears turned violently red Harry looked one second away from collapsing into a fit of laughter from seeing his best friends face then, before Ron could recover you kissed his cheek softly affectionate enough to completely destroy his ability to think

───♜⋆｡˚ “I’ve got Transfigurations in the morning I'm off to bed,” you murmured Ron continued staring at you wordlessly “Try not to challenge any first years while I’m gone,” you teased. “Wouldn’t want your ego bruised further.” “You’re evil,” he said weakly. “And yet,” you smiled, gathering your books, “you adore me and love me”

───♜⋆｡˚ Ron looked absolutely doomed. You leaned down one last time beside his ear “And don’t be a sore loser.” before walking off catching up to some of your friends to head towards your class

───♜⋆｡˚ Leaving the Great Hall buzzing behind you Ron watched until you disappeared through the doors completely only then did he finally slump backward in his chair dramatically

───♜⋆｡˚ Harry sat down across from him immediately where you originally were sat “So,” Harry started carefully, “you lost.” Ron touched the cheek you kissed absentmindedly “…Worth it.” Hermione rolled her eyes fondly “You’re pathetic.” “Probably.”

───♜⋆｡˚ Fred dropped into the seat beside him “She’s terrifying,” he announced George nodded. “Brilliant choice, honestly.” Ron grinned despite himself, still staring toward the doors where you’d disappeared moments ago

───♜⋆｡˚ The scoreboard didn’t matter not really because every time you smiled at him across a chessboard Ron forgot whether he even wanted to win anymore

When Dustin proposed the idea of attending the Ren Faire that had come to town as a one last get-together, of course the party would agree in excitement. They wasted no time planning out their outfits before even properly buying tickets, far too excited to go dressed as their D&D characters they spent so long developing for their campaign. Classic…Will was ready to bust out his old purple robe to bring the perfect vibes to the faire.  

When the day finally arrived, Mike had offered for the Wheeler house to be the meeting spot beforehand. The girls could get dressed in Nancy’s room while the boys could get dressed (more so, playfight) in Mike’s room. Nancy’s room was the perfect size for you, Max, and Jane to get ready in without the fear of bumping into each other every two seconds. 

You had first joined the party’s D&D campaign back in middle school, when you moved to Hawkins around the same time as Max. You became quick friends during the first few weeks at your new school and after she befriended Dustin and Lucas during a particularly rough arcade game, Max managed to drag you along to their meetings. It was nice, having a group of friends so quickly after moving, and a relief to Jane that she’d no longer be the only girl in the group. In classic 13 year-old style, you picked to be a princess when starting to create your character. 

“A princess isn’t a class,” young Mike had scolded you, sliding over a sheet of paper with the different character classes on it. To your dismay, ‘princess’ was in fact not listed. 

“But I want to be a princess,” you pouted as you slid the sheet back over to him. 

“You can be a princess as your backstory. But you have to pick something else! Just…be a warlock or a druid or something!” 

And that was that. You were determined to be a princess, but you let him pick your class for you. 

You were far too attached to your princess character after nearly 10 years, choosing to honour her as you put your costume together. And sure having your character be a princess was fun and all, but the pain of having to get into the complicated layers of clothing was insane. There was far too much lace and tulle to be considered comfortable for any if not all of the activities you’d be partaking in that day. Thankfully, today wasn’t the hottest day of the summer, but you just knew you'd be sweating your ass off the whole time at the faire as you tried to enjoy yourself. 

You slipped into your final piece for your costume, a corset, and had asked your friends to help you put it on correctly. Jane had adjusted it to what would be a comfortable position and Max was able to get it mostly laced, but trying to pull it together was proving to be difficult for her. She eyes Jane, beckoning the third girl over to try and attempt to get it tightened. They exchanged glances with a small smirk on each of their faces before Max sighed, informing you of her decision to get one of the boys to help before leaving you and Jane alone in the room. 

Max stepped down the hallway and approached Mike’s bedroom door, knocking aggressively on the wood.

 "Dipshits!” Max called out, knuckles leaving the door as it was opened by her loving boyfriend. “We need help. Can one of you help lace up a corset?" 

Lucas matched his smirk to hers, turning his head over his shoulder to look at the other boys in the room. Dustin and Will side eyed each other, seemingly catching onto the plan before Lucas quickly spoke up. “Mike, you should go.” 

“I’m still putting on my own costume!” the tallest of the group argued back. 

“Yeah, but you’re almost done compared to the rest of us,” Will piped up as he tried to pull his hair out of his hat. 

Mike rolled his eyes, sheathing his sword into his belt. “Okay, sure…” 

He followed Max to Nancy’s room, eyes widening slightly as he stepped into the room. Shit, he had to tie up your corset? To save him from embarrassment, he had hoped it would have been Max or Jane that wore the corset. It would have been less embarrassing! But if it were Max, he knew Lucas wouldn’t have passed up the chance to help lace her up…

It’s not like you were any more pleased with the situation than he was. You felt your heart stop beating as Mike’s clanking armor entered the room. Max…oh, she was so evil for this. 

Your fingers curled around the metal frame of Nancy’s footboard, bracing yourself. Was it to stabilize yourself as you were tightened into the corset? Or was it because your long-time crush was the one doing it? Your mind felt fuzzy as you heard his heavy footsteps approach, warm touch ghosting over your waist as he picked up the ribbons into his palms. 

"Let me know if anything hurts or if you can't breathe," Mike spoke with a slow tug of the ribbon, just strong enough to create enough pressure in the corset for you to feel it around you. You nodded with a small ‘okay’ before taking a deep breath as the boy behind you began to tug harder on the ribbons. 

You felt the corset beginning to feel snug around your body, slightly releasing the breath you’ve been holding to accommodate the new feeling. 

“Shit, too tight?” Mike stopped his motions quickly, fearing he caused you pain. 

“No, it’s fine,” you shook your head. “You can do it a bit more.” 

Mike obliged, wrapping the ribbon around his hands once more before pulling. 

Your grip on the footboard loosened. Finally, it would be over soon. Mike wouldn’t have to stand so close behind you with his hands basically all over your body. 

“I tie it up in the middle, right?” 

“Huh?” you snapped out of your thoughts, turning your head over your shoulder to peer at him. “Sorry, what was that?” 

He cracked a smile. “I need to tie it. In the middle, right?” 

You nodded. Shit, you hadn’t meant to space out like that. 

“There we go…” he mumbled under his breath as he tied off the ribbons. Mike took a step back and no, he totally wasn’t ogling you. He was admiring his work!

“Thank you…” you sighed softly, turning to look at the lace work in the mirror. Perfect. You looked around the room, noticing the lack of two figures who had been there just moments before. “Did…Jane and Max leave?” 

Mike blinked, his gaze also scanning the room. What the hell, guys! “Huh, guess so…I didn’t hear them leave.” 

It was a set up. You were convinced it was. 

You knew it was a mistake telling anyone about your feelings for the boy. 

It had started when you confided in Will shortly after you all graduated high school, figuring it made sense since Mike was his gay awakening after all. Will had picked up on it long before you ever confessed to him about it, recognizing nearly the same signs of liking Mike Wheeler in you as he had in himself. Will had then accidentally told Jane some time later under the assumption she already knew, who then told Max in excitement the next day, and then reached the ears of Dustin after overhearing Max spill the gossip to Lucas. 

Everyone seemed to know. 

Everyone but the one person who mattered. 

Max dropped hints to you several times that you were being obvious, Jane snickering each time you sat down next to him at a hang out. 

But no, somehow he still was yet to know. Maybe that was for the better, really. Long distance would have been hard since your respective universities were hours away and you knew life would get too chaotic to maintain a relationship after graduation. 

You had to keep your feelings at bay for now. 

You’ve done it for several years already- what's a few more? 

Pushing down your years-long dilemma, you stepped up to the vanity mirror with a smile on your face. You looked cute, felt cute, and looked so princess. You placed the last touch of your costume on your head; the cutest cone hat that Max and Jane helped you decorate. Tying the ribbon into a bow under your chin, you moved to dig around in your large bag that you disposed of your everyday clothes in, searching for your polaroid camera before motioning over Mike to the vanity mirror with your hand. “Since you’re here, come and take a picture with me.” 

“I’m not good with cameras, you should really ask Will or something,” Mike put his hands up in defense as he took a step closer. 

“No, Mike. With me. Not of me.” 

“Oh! S-Sure.” 

He stood behind you as you turned the camera on, positioning it right below your chest in hopes it would capture the both of you in the mirror. Mike looked a little dork with his bright smile and thumbs up beside your shoulder, but you tilted your head to the side and hit the shutter button anyway. You stuck your hand out for the film to slip onto as it came out the slot, watching as Mike’s hands snaked around you to pluck it out of your palm with his long fingers. 

The same fingers you imagined on countless sleepless nights, carding through the strands of your hair while watching a movie or laced through yours during a cute walk around the city. 

You tried to shake the images from your mind. Those fantasies were to be thought of when you were alone, not standing right next to him. 

You peered over at the developed film in Mike’s hand curiously, a smile spreading wide across your face as you got a glimpse of the two of you framed in the white square. “Awe, we look cute.” 

“We always look cute.” 

Oh? What strange words to come out from the lips of a boy of such stature. 

“That…is correct, yes,” you giggle, slipping the camera and the picture back into your bag as the two girls who left you alone in a room with your crush came bounding back in through the doorway as they laughed about something one of the boys had said. 

Mike wished he could have looked at the polaroid a little longer, commit the image into his memory. But alas, you plucked it from his boney fingers before he could give it a glance over for the third time. 

“So I’m just…gonna go back to my room. Finish getting ready…” Mike mumbled awkwardly and moved out the room as you gave him a nod to acknowledge his words. The second he was out of earshot, you closed the door and glared at your friends. “You two are actually evil for what you did!” 

“Admit it, it was a good plan,” snickered Max. “It was Jane’s idea.”

“Don’t be shy, we both know you liked having Mike’s hands on you,” Jane was quick to defend herself, adding on a little bit of more lipstick in the mirror. 

“I mean, yeah, yes I did! But come on, you two! I’m going to sweat through my costume before we even get to the fair. His hands were so gentle and he smelled so good and-” you stopped your rambles as you watched them side-eye each other, smirks growing on their lips. “DON’T LOOK AT EACH OTHER LIKE THAT!” 

“Oh honey, I fear you might just be a little hopeless…” If you could easily dispose of Max’s body, you absolutely would have in that exact moment.

“It doesn't matter! At all. It’s just a stupid crush!” you gathered your things into your bag to keep you occupied. They were being weird -silly, even- and had no need to continue to entertain their delusions. 

“Stupid, yeah-” You quickly cut Jane off with a glare before stomping into the hallway with a frustrated pout on your face. You had to get over him! 

But it didn’t help that you watched Mike come into the hallway as well, closing his bedroom door as Lucas, Dustin, and Will’s loud laughs filtered through the narrow space as they headed down the staircase. You jogged up to him, as fast as you could in your outfit and shoes, wrapping your hand around his arm. 

A princess and her paladin. How cute…

“The girls help you into the last parts? Or are the three of you all ready?” You craned your neck up to look at the boy as he spoke, nodding in reply as he led you down the steps. “Okay, cool.” 

With the other members of the party slowly crowding in the Wheeler home doorway, snickers and giggles became more prominent as you stepped down from the stairs. 

Dustin spoke up first, unable to keep himself from letting out a low whistle at the sight. "Damn Mike, you got yourself a whole princess."

Lucas smirked, eager to pipe on the teasing. "Looks like someone's upgraded from peasant to royalty."

“Oh please…” you rolled your eyes as you fixed the hem off your dress. “As if he could ever handle me.” 

“Don’t worry, he can barely even handle himself,” Max snorted, helping Jane put on her shoes. 

Mike knew he had to defend himself. He shook his head with a disappointed sigh. “You guys are acting as if you could handle her better. Besides, I'm doing alright so far." 

You wanted to give your own two cents about how Max and Jane would absolutely be able to handle you, but the brave red-head did so far quicker than you were able to speak. "Please, we all know Mike would go absolutely feral as a knight to a princess. He'd be ready to defend her honour with his life. Without hesitation." 

Dustin nodded with a smile on his face. "That's super true. Mike would probably go all 'I'll defend you with my life, m'lady!' on her, as seen per D&D sessions."

"Dude, he'd probably get down on one knee right now and vow eternal loyalty if he could," 

Lucas snickered.

Mike felt his face start to turn a faint shade of red, heat rising in his cheeks. Was he really that easy to read? He was getting pretty desperate for them to steer this conversation in another direction. Any other direction. 

Will had enough of their bullshit, fixing his cape as he spoke. “Can we just go? 

The others nodded in agreement. Thank god, you thought you’d have to go through an even longer embarrassment ritual. 

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

The smell of turkey legs and baked goods wafted through the air of the faire, the scent so strong you could easily pick up on it from the parking lot alone. People of all ages buzzed in excitement as they moved from stall to stall, buying knickknacks and watching performances like their lives depended on it. 

Because in a way, it did. 

Soft moments shared between loved ones filled with joy and laughter overlooked by a beautiful sunny day. 

Will and Jane immediately darted off to go look at vendor stalls, eagerly discussing what they wanted to buy. You knew Will wanted to buy himself a new leather-bound sketchbook, as he already filled up the one you got him for his birthday just months before rather quickly. Jane on the other hand would not shut up about buying herself any new piece of jewellery she could get her hands on. 

Dustin departed with Lucas and Max, all three of them eager to terrorize as many game booths as they could. Max was good at axe throwing and couldn’t wait to show up the two boys! 

You and Mike were left alone, as you were so many times this summer. 

Of fucking course. 

It’s like every time it happened, Jane and Max deliberately planned it down to the littlest detail. You didn’t want to make it awkward, turning your head up to look at him. “Do you want food?” 

“Oh, a turkey leg sounds so good right now. Yes, please,” Mike nodded, immediately leading you over to the food stalls. He hadn’t eaten breakfast that morning, nerves too jittery in his stomach to even want anything in his mouth. 

“Cool. Go find us a place to sit, yeah? I’ll get you a turkey leg.” 

Mike didn’t even have time to step in and say he’d pay before you wandered off. The boy sighed, his armour clanking as he found an empty wooden picnic table with benches under a shady tree, somehow the only one without groups of people trying to crowd too many sweaty bodies onto each of the benches. It was one of the better spots in the area- not too many kids running around. Perfect! 

You bought him the biggest turkey leg option the booth had and a cinnamon roll for yourself, turning to the seating area to see Mike waving you down with his hand. After cutting through the sea of people, you sat on the bench across from him and set the food down. 

“This turkey leg has been calling my name all morning!” he quickly reached out for his item, bringing it to his lips and savouring a big bite. “I could have paid for us, you know.” 

“Nah, it’s fine,” you shook your head, taking a bite out of your own piece of food. The cinnamon bun was warm, the dough perfectly moist and the frosting deliciously sweet. “Think of it as a thank you for lacing this shitty corset. I gave you an unprompted arm workout.” 

Mike glanced over as you took a bite of the cinnamon roll, the sweet smell of cinnamon and sugar making his stomach growl again despite not even having a chance to finish his turkey leg. He took another big bite before speaking. 

"Damn, that looks good too," he said between chews. "You gonna share any? Or is that a solo snack?"

“Want a piece…?” You didn’t hesitate to tear off a large piece from the bun in an area you didn’t yet bite, holding it out for him to take. Mike leaned in, taking the pastry into his mouth straight from your fingers. His gaze flickered to your face, noticing the small smile that played at the corner of your mouth as you fed him like some dog. “That's even better than the turkey leg, actually."

“Maybe, yeah…” you nodded as you finished the remainder of the cinnamon bun. It was a little pricey, but for the size and taste? Totally worth it. You grabbed a napkin to gently dab around your mouth so as to not make a mess of the lipstick you spent ages applying. 

As Mike continued to eat, you let your eyes wander around the neighbouring activities. The rest of your friend group was out of sight, but it didn’t mean you couldn’t do something fun to entertain yourself in the meantime. Your eyes landed on a booth a decent distance away, but still close enough for you to read the signs and see what was happening inside. 

“Look, there's a girl doing portraits…” Lifting a finger, you pointed over to the booth. “We should totally get our's done.”

Mike followed your gaze to the portrait booth, spotting where a woman was sketching an elaborate Renaissance-styled drawing of a couple dressed as knights. How cute!

"Yeah, that'd be cool," he nodded excitedly. The idea of having a proper portrait done with you in costume? Oh, that sounded just amazing! He stood up from his seat on the bench and rounded the table to you before offering you his hand. "Wanna go now? I’m done eating."

You nodded, taking him by the hand before rising from your seat as well. 

The two of you approached the portrait booth, admiring the beautiful drawings the artist had pinned up on the wall as examples. The woman at the booth smiled at the two of you, taking in your costumes.

"Oh my, what lovely attire you're both wearing today. Would you two like to get a portrait done?" she asked, leaning over the trashbin and shaving off the ends of her pencil with a small knife. 

Mike nodded eagerly, still holding onto your hand. "Yeah, that'd be amazing. How much does it cost?"

You didn’t even care about pricing as you pulled your hand from his, digging around in your purse for some loose cash. 

“20 dollars per person, but 30 if you wish to be drawn together.” 

Okay, a reasonable price. You handed the woman the needed cash as she motioned to her set up. “How would you like to be posed for your portrait? Standing, seated, or lying on our provided couch? I can also assist with posing if either of you are a bit rusty with your modeling skills." 

“The couch, maybe? Considering we’ll be posed for quite a bit…” Mike looked over to you, watching as you took off your purse. “If that’s alright with you.” 

You nodded. His logic made sense, after all. Plus, that couch looked so comfy. You sat down on it first, leaning back against the plush material before leaning your right arm against the plush armrest. Mike followed you, standing stiffly as he eyed the couch to figure out a pose. 

The woman sighed at his frustration, offering a soft smile as she stepped closer. “May I give a recommendation? You could sit on the floor, if your armour permits for you to do so, and you can lean your arm against her leg and look up at her.” 

He nodded, the tips of his ears pink as Mike sat down on the weirdly carpeted floor with a soft ‘oof’. He adjusted his pose to sit similarly to the way you were, but leaning his arm against your legs instead. Mike peered up at you, puppy eyes on full display to make sure you were as comfortable as possible. “This okay?” 

You were about to get on your knees and thank every deity that ever existed in that moment. But you kept your composure, nodding at his question. You received a lazy smile before he turned back to the artist. She stepped forward, using gentle hands to tilt Mike’s head up to look at you before moving over to you to fix any last minute adjustments. 

It felt all too romantic, especially for two friends who claimed there was nothing more between them. Best friends, even!  You felt the sweat pooling on the back of your neck, trying your best not to make eye contact with the paladin draped dramatically at your feet- so close yet so so far. 

The scratch of the artist’s pencil against the stained parchment was timed with the beat of your heart, both sounds pulsating through your ears as you tried your best to not look down. Unfortunately not much could have been done when you felt Mike shift slightly. 

“You look really pretty right now.” 

Right now? Boys were such simple creatures. You scoffed slightly, cheeks tinged with more pink than you had applied in the mirror just hours before. “I always look pretty.” 

“I mean, duh, obviously!” He laughed awkwardly, shifting just a bit once more. Mike could feel his cheeks burning, but really hoped you couldn’t see his face blooming in red. “But like, extra pretty.” 

“Thank you…I really tried today.” 

“Yeah, I can tell…” 

You wanted to bang your head against the wall. 

The sound of the pencil against the paper rang in your ears as you tried to distract yourself. It had to be over soon!! You were begging, at this point! The artist stepped back with a satisfied smile on her face and you knew it was over. Even though the little modelling session couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes, you felt like you sat there for hours. If it weren’t the proximity to Mike, it really wouldn’t have been that bad! 

The woman took the paper off the drawing board and turned it for the two of you to see, pencil lead etched into the parchment capturing the perfect moment. 

“Oh, it’s so pretty!” An excited squeal left your lips as you flung yourself off the couch to look at the sketch closer. “Look at us, Mike! We look so royal!” 

Mike’s armour clanked loudly as he pushed himself to his feet, waddling over to look at the sketch as well. He studied the picture, taking more time to admire it than he did with the earlier polaroid, eyeing the way your costumes and expressions had been marked on the page. Damn, they really did look good together…the fake version of you, he meant! Totally! 

"We do," he agreed, trying to keep his emotions at bay. "We look like... some regal power couple or something."

“Yeah…” you nodded in agreement as you watch the artist pack up the drawing in a protective tube. A regal couple…a power couple at that…oh gosh. 

Mike tipped the artist a few extra bucks before sliding the tube under his arm. “So, do you think we should go and find the others now? They’re probably wondering where we wandered off to.” 

“Yeah, we probably should at this point. It’s been a hot minute.” 

He looked into the fair grounds, staring at the hundreds of faces passing by. “Now where on earth could they be…” 

“Max and Lucas are probably off sucking face somewhere, but I'm sure Dustin, Will and Jane will be easier to find. They could have all already met up and we’re just the strays,” you searched the crowd as well; far too many people to be able to find your friends from a glance alone. 

"Yeah, probably. Doesn’t help that Lucas and Max are definitely making out behind a food stall somewhere. Those two have zero chill." 

“Do you blame them?” You shook your head in disbelief. “ If I had a bombshell like Max, I'd be even worse than Lucas-

Mike cut you off with a loud snort. “Dude. Oh my god. I mean... yeah? You're not wrong. Max is ridiculously hot and Lucas knows it. No one worships her like he does."

With a cheeky grin on his face, he looked down at you. "After you said that, it makes me wonder who you’d  be making out with behind a stall if given the chance..."

“Jeez, no one!” You spat back in disbelief. You didn’t do things like that, let alone let the thoughts fully form in your brain. Well, maybe…but he didn’t need to know that!

“Liar-” using his elbow, Mike nudged you in the side as you began to walk away from the booth. “There has to be at least one person you think is cute. It’s statistically impossible if you don’t.”

“Michael, oh my god-!” you shoved him with a groan. You absolutely were not in the mood to talk to him of all people about someone you found cute. 

He shut his mouth, opting to not tease you any further. Mike let you loop your hand through his arm once more as you began to scout out your friends in the crowd. In the distance was a Lumax spotting; Lucas tearing off pieces of a soft pretzel for Max as she ranted about something to him. Dustin, Will, and Jane were on the next bench over from them, showcasing their shopping spree items to each other. 

Will perked up as the two of you approached, locking eyes as he glanced up from Jane’s ramblings for just a second. “Where the hell have you two been?” 

“We were getting our portrait done!” You wasted no time in pulling the tube out of Mike’s arms and opening it up to show everyone. “Look, look!” 

The Party crowded around you to look at the portrait, a chorus of ‘ooh!’s and ‘aaah!’s being heard in reaction. Jane rested her chin on your shoulder as she giggled at the drawn figures. 

Lucas elbowed Mike in the ribs with a smirk on his face. “Dude, you two look good together…” 

You couldn’t hear the boy’s words from where you stood, but you could see Mike reaching up an arm to shove Lucas out of the corner of your vision. 

Will, wanting to stir the pot a little more, decided it would be time to comment as well. “The artist nailed your expressions. You two look so in love or something." 

Max and Jane exchanged glances, giggling behind their hands. 

Wow, everyone was really out for you today. 

“It’s not like that you guys, come on…” 

"Yeah, right. You two can't honestly deny that you look super cute together in that portrait," Max folded her arms over her chest as she spoke with a slight smirk. You were going to give her a piece of your mind later…

“I mean, yeah, sure, but-”

"Okay okay... maybe it looks a little romantic but..." Mike's cheeks turned pink as Max called them out. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, not sure how to respond to the group’s teasing. 

“That’s how the artist posed us, okay? Maybe she thought we were a couple or something,” you laughed loudly to ease the awkwardness and to calm the beating of your heart. 

“Oh, so that means you’re not? I could have sworn-” 

You were determined. 

You had to kill Max. 

If you hadn’t told Will about your pathetic crush, then Jane wouldn’t have known. And then Max wouldn’t have known. Or Lucas and Dustin, for that matter. 

You lunged at the red head, arms tight around her as you yelled. “MAXINE, I SWEAR TO GOD-” 

Lucas was quick to step in, not wanting to watch the inevitable death of his beloved girlfriend as he pulled you off of her. “Woah, woah, woah! Calm yourself!” 

Dustin howled in laughter as Will watched with a smirk. Oh, how entertaining this was!

“They’re just joking around,” Mike sighed loudly as he wrapped an arm around you to pull into his side. 

“Jokes are funny. This isn’t,” you huffed. 

“You think dating me would be a joke?” 

New target acquired. 

“Michael-” 

“Ouch, full name!” Dustin snorted. 

Mike’s laughter filled your ears as you tried to pull yourself out of his arms. He let go, allowing you to easily slip out. 

This was supposed to be a fun day with your friends. To blow off some steam before school started up again and you were stuck in the library running on stale pastries from the campus coffee shop. But instead, you were being relentlessly teased about your crush to the point where your crush had even joined in! 

How stupid. 

How truly, terribly stupid. 

“Would I be that bad of a boyfriend?” Mike leaned down slightly to be more on your level, trying his best to avoid being stabbed in the eye by the point of your cone hat. 

“I don’t know,” you shook your head. What an embarrassing question! You could feel the eyes of the party boring into your skin as you tried to avoid looking at any of them, including Mike. “Would you?” 

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” he shrugged. 

“Come to me when you have a good answer, then.” 

“Why not now, hm? You could see for yourself,” Mike rolled up the portrait back into its cylindrical shape to slip into the tube. No way was he going to let it get ruined!

Was he flirting with you? He had to be flirting with you. But then again, you’ve never seen Mike Wheeler flirt with anyone before. He had to be playing into the teasing…right? 

“Are you trying to ask me out, Wheeler?” You snorted out the question in disbelief, fingers reaching up to retie the ribbon under your chin from your cone hat to make sure it didn’t fall off. You felt it loosen, and in no way did you want to spend your time that evening washing off all the mud and dirt if it had fallen to the ground. 

“I’ve been trying since high school, but thanks for finally noticing.” 

Your jaw dropped so fast in shock that you could have sworn it wouldn’t have gone back to its original position of being closed.

“Mike…what?” 

You turned to look at the others for some sort of confirmation. Surely they must have known, or at the least be in on the joke. This had to be an elaborate scheme much like Max and Jane’s plan from this morning that could have been avoided if you just chose not to wear that damn corset. 

But from looking at their reactions, you could tell they were as equally shocked as you were. 

“I’ve been trying to ask you out since high school. Is that hard to understand? Do I need to reword it? Would ‘I like you, please go out with me’ work better for your feeble mind?” He folded his arms over his chest to protect himself from the potential rejection. 

“No. I-I understand what you’re trying to say…” regrettably, you did. You wanted to bash your head against the wall. 

“Cool. Let me know when you think of an answer.”  

Mike motioned for Lucas, Dustin and Will to sit down with him at the wooden picnic table, leaving you standing there in disbelief and Max and Jane pulled you to a table far enough away the boys wouldn’t have been able to hear you chat. 

“Holy shit. Holy shit. Did you two know about this? I’m going to flip out.” 

“Shhh, calm down…” Jane pushed you down by the shoulders for you to sit on the bench, using her hand to gently fan you. 

“Uh-oh, the damsel is in distress. Should we call her little paladin for rescue?” You shot a glare at Max for her words. 

“I was told by Will that Mike liked you, but I did not know anything more,” Jane admitted, taking the seat next to you. “He told me weeks ago.” 

Oh dear. 

“In all honesty, it was obvious as hell,” Max sat down across from you, leaning her back against the other picnic table with her arms across her chest. 

Was it really? You in no way picked up on it. Ever. 

“Horribly obvious. Seeing the two of you dance around each other for years was painful. I knew long before Will informed me about your feelings for each other, but I had my speculations previously,” Jane sighed. 

“But think about it! Isn’t it so romantic? Mutual pining but it’s two idiots who can’t even notice their feelings for each other…it’s classic!” leaning forward with her hands on her knees, Max focused her eyes on you. “Bards would be writing ballads about it.” 

“But it’s complicated, we go to universities hours away!” You tried everything to not believe it. It was a messed up prank and you were the unfortunate victim. 

“So…?” 

“My own best friends seem to be of no help,” with a huff, you grabbed the fabric of your dress and stood up to storm over to the group of boys. You waited too long for any sort of progress and refused to let the moment slip through your fingers. 

If it were a joke? You were going to be far away from everyone for the next few months anyway. You’d meet someone new and get over it, forever forgetting about the stupid boy. 

Yeah. That was a good plan. 

You grabbed Mike’s wrist without hesitation, pulling him to his feet and dragging him away from the group despite his pleas for you to slow down. You pulled him to a more secluded area of the benches, right by the trash bins. 

Ah, love was in the air. It totally wasn’t the smell of wrappers and decomposing food trapped in an overheating plastic bag. 

“Why, I think the princess has an answer for me, does she now?” You wanted to wipe that stupid smirk right off of his face. 

“Are…you being serious? About the whole date thing,” the amount of butterflies in your stomach was embarrassing. Not cool at all. 

“Super serious. Mega serious. Like, I’d give up my kidney serious-” of course Mike was rambling. 

“Mike.” 

“Right, ahem, sorry-” he cleared his throat, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. “Yes, I’m serious.” 

“Uhm, and what if I were to take you up on that offer?” please don’t back out of this now, please don’t back out of this now! 

Mike’s eyes lit up. Just slightly, but you’ve known him long enough to know that the look was sincere. “Really?” 

“Yeah, really. I’m free all day Wednesday. And then Thursday afternoon.” 

“Cool! Yeah, cool, cool cool,” Mike nodded in excitement. “Wait, no, shit. Not cool. I didn’t plan anything! I didn’t think I’d ever get this far-” 

You took his hand into your’s to calm him, both palms overly sweaty at the moment you both stopped being blind idiots. “Chill, we’ll think of something. There’s time.” 

“Right. Yes, think of something. We’ll figure it out!” 

Weird, bubbling emotions suddenly felt less scary with his hand in your’s, years of in-class daydreams and late night thoughts finally coming to a stop. And finally, after all this time, maybe you’d finally be able to call him your’s. 

It is my lady, oh, it is my love! 

© property of cherrieshalo 2026 - please do not steal or copy my work to post elsewhere or to train ai!

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sex was always a topic you’d treaded lightly around in your relationship. even a simple suggestive joke could make you fluster and stammer over your next sentence. not because you were uncomfortable or shy when it came to intimacy, but rather the opposite. your mind would get carried away and spin a joke about your boyfriend shoving his tongue down your throat into him dragging his tongue all over your body from head to toe.

mike was a guy, there was no escaping that, obviously. being around his friends felt like a constant test of your willpower and acting abilities. he’d make jokes about having a big dick, and you’d have to pretend like you weren’t imagining how it’d feel if you had it in you that very second.

of course, you weren’t sure if mike was all bark and no bite; the two of you hadn’t ventured far enough into that area of your relationship yet. but your body craved mike like it was one of your basic needs. water, food, shelter, and your boyfriend’s hands all over you, his skin pressed against yours, sticky sweat mixing between your bodies.

you sat on mike’s lap, your hands tugging his hair to tilt his head at just the right angle for you to slip your tongue past his lips. the two of you were breathing heavily into each other’s mouths, the kiss sloppy and heated and disgusting. it was all tongue with a side of lips.

you were acutely aware of mike’s hands on you, resting on your hips, fingers grazing the side of your ass. he gripped you so tightly, securing your body flush against his own.

the heat of him under you was all consuming. every point of contact your body had with his was both too much and not enough at the same time.

just when you were starting to feel dizzy and a dull ache in your jaw, you pulled back to catch your breath—just enough to where you could look mike in the eyes without going cross-eyed. nothing more, nothing less.

“…should we stop?” you offered. it was out of courtesy more than anything else, if you ignore the worries in the back of your mind about mike finding out the gross, perverted thoughts you have about him.

“i-i mean, we can stop if you want to.”

evidently, the both of you were not direct communicators. beating around the bush, always asking what the other person would rather do instead of just coming outright and saying ‘please, let me fuck you.’

it had gone this way more times than you could count now. stopping just before the threshold of taking off any clothes, the both of you chickening out before anything actually exciting could happen.

“i don’t really want to.” you hear yourself saying before you can really process it.

mike picks up on the hint of frustration and something akin to annoyance in your voice, and he nods with wide eyes. the way he does when he wants to fix things. “okay. yeah, yeah—alright. we can keep going. whatever you wanna do, baby.”

“i think i wanna have sex.” you blurt out. the ‘i think’ was only there to soften the blow. you knew damn well you wanted more. you wanted it all. you wanted it sloppy and messy and frantic and satiating.

if a deer caught in headlights made a wish to become human, it would’ve taken form in the boy you were sitting on. his eyes were wide, lips parted in shock, glistening with the mix of your spit on them and a pretty pink color that you wondered if it matched his tip.

“what? i mean, yeah, of course. let’s—let’s do it.” mike nodded his head, clearly trying to play it cool. you could practically see on his face that every alarm was going off in his head right now. or maybe there was nothing going on in his head cause all the blood had gone south.

the two of you sit in awkward silence for a couple seconds, before you break it by letting out a huff of a laugh. mike smiles up at you sheepishly, the both of you flustered and giddy as you move up the bed and shed your clothes.

mike sits against the headboard, pillows hastily thrown out of the way and onto the floor. the both of you are left in only your underwear, closer than you’ve ever been as you settle on his lap again. his pale skin stretches across torso and to his neck as he tilts his head to look at you. his eyes roam your bare skin, and he gulps thickly. “i think about this so, so much.”

“me too.” you admit, your heart pounding out of your chest. it feels like you’re gonna vibrate out of your own skin.

you can feel mike’s hard on between your legs more prominently than you ever have before. there’s usually more layers of clothes between you—jeans, sweats, you name it—but now, there’s only the thin cotton of your panties and his boxers.

he definitely had the bite to back the bark. not that you had no faith in your boyfriend, but skepticism is never misplaced when it comes to young men making jokes about their own dick.

experimentally, you rocked your hips slowly over the length of him, your jaw dropping as you sucked in air at the sensation. as you looked down where your bodies met, you could see the tip of him peeking out of the waistband of his boxers. the sight was so erotic, you could’ve come right there on the spot if he’d asked you to.

“oh my fucking god,” mike groaned out, his head tilting back against the headboard. his eyes were screwed shut so tightly that it almost made you pity him. “i’m not gonna last, i know it already—i’m so sorry, baby—”

“it’s okay, it’s okay.” you interject, taking a moment to calm down. you swallow the excess saliva in your mouth that definitely was a product of you literally drooling over your boyfriend. “me too. it’s not a big deal. we can just go again, or something.”

the casualness of your demeanor seemed to only have the opposite impact you intended for it to have. mike groaned again just at the thought of going more than once, nodding his head as he finally opened his eyes to look at you, fingers fumbling with the waistband of your panties.

“i can touch you, right?” he said in a breathy voice. you barely finished nodding before his hand slipped between the both of you, going straight between your legs.

the pads of his fingers pressed against your entrance through the soaked fabric of your panties, making both of your jaws drop. mike’s in shock, yours in pleasure.

“jesus, baby…” his voice was ragged and desperate, mirrored in his movements as he dragged your panties to the side to feel you without anything in the way.

the way he whined as his fingers dragged your slickness from your entrance through your slit and up until he found your clit, you would’ve thought he was the one being touched. your hips wasted no time in grinding down on his hand, alternating between rocking back and forth and making needy circles.

you leaned back, and mike bent his knees up into a makeshift backrest for you. he watched you in awe, his bangs already sticking to his forehead in sweat from the heat between you both.

in a burst of confidence, he slipped his middle finger past your entrance slowly. the slick that coated him made it an easy push, and his gaze darted between your face and the way his finger disappeared into you, like he wasn’t quite sure where to look.

“is—is it okay? it doesn’t hurt?” he breathed out, his other hand reaching out to push some of your hair back from your face.

you nod your head eagerly, hips tilting up ever so slightly to back up your words. “yeah, it’s good. really good. just kinda tight.”

“yeah, tell me about it.” he huffed out under his breath, his finger gently pumping in and out of you as he savored the way your body welcomed him in.

his finger was longer than yours by a lot, reaching deeper inside than your own could reach. you felt so exposed under his gaze, leaning back against his thighs as you sat on his lap, your legs spread wide as he worked you open.

you could see where his tip was still poking out from the waistband of his boxers, leaking onto the skin just below his belly button. it was flushed and angry—and behold, the same pretty pink of his lips. just like you’d imagined.

“more,” you manage to breathe out once you feel yourself getting used to the foreign intrusion, looking at mike.

he nods his head, beginning to work his ring finger into you as well. the stretch earns a gasp out of you, your body eagerly welcoming him in as he curls his fingers just right to search for the perfect spongy spot inside of you.

your hand comes down grab to his wrist, abruptly stopping his movements. he freezes instantaneously under you, worried eyes looking at your face as he opens his mouth to apologize and ask what’s wrong before you beat him to it. “not… not that.”

you take your hand from his wrist, gently placing your palm over his length. he inhales sharply at the slight pressure as if he didn’t expect it, even though he saw your hand coming down on him. he nods his head eagerly, getting the memo quickly.

his pulls his fingers out of you carefully and doesn’t even hesitate to bring them up to his mouth. he lets out a contented sigh at the taste of you, gaze drifting down between your legs like he’s mentally noting to come back to it later.

you roll off of him, and he wastes no time in tugging his boxers down. you go to do the same with your panties, and mike swats at your hands, making you jerk back in surprise.

“sorry—shit, sorry.” he profusely apologizes, like he’s just now realizing how that came off. “i just wanna do it myself. if you’ll let me.”

at this point, you’re so turned on that you felt like you could’ve moaned just from that. but you keep your head on straight and just nod your head instead.

mike seems relieved at your response, and he guides you to lay down on his bed, grabbing one of the previously discarded pillows to place under your head. he positions himself above you, simply looking at you under him for what feels like forever. but before you can hurry him along, his head drops to your hip, teeth taking hold of the waistband of your panties.

his hand taps your hip to signal for you to lift up, and your body obeys before your brain can even process what he’s doing. your breath hitches as he drags your panties down your thighs using his mouth, his big brown eyes keeping eye contact with yours the whole time.

when your panties get discarded somewhere on the floor, mike comes back up over you, but not before placing a brief kiss right on your clit. the contact makes your hips jerk, earning a flustered laugh from him. “sorry, i couldn’t help it.”

you don’t gratify his words with any in return. you’ve got other priorities right now. your hand comes down to his length, the weight of it solid and hot and heavy in your palm. you pump him once or twice before realizing it’s not going how you’d like it to, your lips turning into a slight scowl as you withdraw.

mike’s already saying something reassuring like you don’t need to do anything, but cuts himself off when you spit into the palm of your hand. he groans out when your hand wraps around his length again, dragging smoothly with the lubrication of your spit. “jesus christ, that’s good, really good—fuck—wait, wait, i don’t wanna come yet. i wanna do this properly first.”

it looks like it pains him to pull your hand away from his length, but the promise of better keeps the both of you going. he hovers over you, settling between your parted legs. he uses one hand to guide his tip to catch at your entrance as the other braces himself next to your head. he looks down at you, making sure you’re okay with it one last time before he sinks into you ever so slowly.

the both of you gasp in unison. your hands come down to grip his sheets tightly at the stretch of him, and his hands find a home on your hips as he leans back to watch himself sink into you.

“oh my god, you’re so warm. you’re doing really good, baby, just hang on.” his words spill out of his mouth, noticing your eyebrows stitch together.

he’s clear headed just enough to find some way to distract you once he bottoms out, panting heavily as he leans over you again. one of his hands finds your chin, thumb tugging at your bottom lip insistently. “open up. it’ll distract you, baby, i promise. just wanna help you.”

you’re in no position to protest as you open up your mouth. you’re looking up at him like you’re both anxious for whoever he has in store for you, while also pleading for the distraction simultaneously.

he bends down, his lips pulling together before they part just enough to drop a small dollop of spit into your mouth. your eyes widen in disbelief before quickly being overtaken by arousal that feels insatiable. your mouth quickly shuts, and you make a show of swallowing as you look up at him.

“fuck, fuck—you liked that? i could feel it.” mike sounds like he’s in shock himself, his hips twitching deeper into the pulsing heat of you reflexively. the quiet whine that escapes your lips doesn’t do anything to help his discipline.

one hand braces himself over you, the other gripping your waist tightly as his hips start rocking into you. actually, rocking is a generous word. he starts off choppy, his movements jerky and unstable as he tries to find a rhythm without hurting you. in a grunt of frustration, the hand on your waist comes down to your leg to hike it up against his own hip, shoving forward again experimentally.

you gasp under him at the altered position, and mike’s brain takes it and runs. he moves more assuredly, dragging himself in and out of you with ragged breaths and a tight grip on your thigh.

“fuck, you’re taking me so good. it’s better like this, yeah?”

“been thinking about this for so long—but this is so much better than anything i imagined. you feel so good, baby.”

“you’re so pretty under me, oh my god, wish you could see yourself. so pretty—so fucking hot.”

mike’s words become more self assured as his confidence grows, hips driving into you more insistently with every thrust. he tries rolling his hips once, and is shell shocked when your back arches up off the bed.

“right there—do that again, please, please.” your hands fly up to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin and leaving pretty crescent marks.

he nods his head, repeating the same roll of his hips, groaning out into your ear as he feels the tip of him brush against that same spongy spot he found with his fingers earlier. he does it over and over and over again, relishing in the sound of your breathless gasps and sporadic whines.

in a surge of newfound boldness, he leans up from you, taking your leg that’s wrapped around his hip and bringing it up to his shoulder, before mirroring the position with your other leg as well. “gonna make you come like this. it’s gonna feel so good, baby, i promise.”

you’re not quite sure whether you clamp down on him from his words or the new position. maybe both. his hands plant firm on your waist to hold you steady as his hips pick up the pace again, fucking in and out of you lewdly.

“mike, shit—just like that. don’t stop, i think i’m close.” you manage to gasp out, reaching down between your legs to help bring yourself over the edge.

one of mike’s hands yanks your hand back from yourself, pinning it down on the bed next to your head. your initial whine at the loss of stimulation turns into a moan of pleasure when he replaces your fingers with his thumb, quickly dipping between your folds to rub tight circles on your clit as his hips continue to roll into you.

“please, baby, do it. i wanna see it. let me feel it. i’m so close too—i’ll come with you, i promise.” he pants out above you, his pace eager even as it falters while he tries to hold out for you.

luckily, he doesn’t have to wait much longer until you’re gripping his hand tightly and coming undone under him. your brows knit together as your eyes flutter shut, hips squirming at the onslaught of pleasure. he follows you soon after, his hips stuttering as he draws back and empties himself onto your soaked folds with a choked out groan at the sight.

the both of you lay there in that position for at least a full minute, catching your breath. the grip you have on each others’ hand loosens without letting go, and his hand that was between your legs is now affectionately rubbing your stomach to soothe you.

“…you said we could go again, right?”

you lift your head off the pillows to look at him, before bursting out into quiet laughter, cutting through the thick tension in the room.

One noise of which you heard getting painfully stifled when you threw a hanger at his chest upon entering your bedroom.

He caught it in bed, huffing softly to himself as he watched you carry its hangee to your vanity. A dark flowing silk material pooled over your arm, trailing behind you like a cloak when you poured it onto the back of your seat. 

You’d recently bought the dress from Hogsmeade. Your wardrobe, after all these years it felt, had grown too bland for a night with girlfriends, and so naturally you dragged George to Gladrags and had him admire you in various different apparels until you found one that made his pupils dilate.

The one on your chair just so happened to be the one. 

“What time will you be leaving, love?” George murmured from the bed behind you. 

You took a few careful hands to your styled hair, glancing at your beloved in the mirror. 

“Around 8. We won't be gone for too long, if that's what you're worried about.”

“No, not at all. It's just…it's currently 6. And you're already getting dressed?”

Leaning back, you pulled a small bag from a drawer and sifted through the various eyeshadows and eyeliners inside.

You sniggered gently. 

“You underestimate the art of ‘getting ready.’”

George grinned. He could never say he was much for planning a look. He and Fred knew as much to dress alike, and even then, they’d mess it up 5 minutes before schedule. 

“I suppose I do.” He replied after so long, fiddling with the hanger in hand before tossing it aside. 

His eyes traced your moving shoulders and the reflection of your focused face applying mascara.

Soon enough, however, they zipped down to that idle dress, moving lightly with the breeze of an open window. The colour shimmered in the sunset, and all his mind could picture was that silk sliding down your legs. 

George could remember you walking out of that dressing room, still fumbling with the straps. He wasn't an expert in women’s wear but the way your dress managed to tighten over your hips and curve comfortingly around your breasts was enough to tell him that the designer knew what they were doing. 

And that he hasn't changed at all from that clumsy 7th year with a raging boner for his potions partner. 

He watched you closely as you finished up the last of your lipgloss, gaze never leaving you even as you stood up and stretched. 

You began to undress, and in a moment of humble muscle memory, George looked away. Staring at the wood plated floors, however, was much too boring for him, and he eventually looked up to see you already stepping into your dress and hiding your legs. 

He frowned, somewhat disappointed.

Oh, but the way you spun around and curled the straps over your shoulders. Your skin was smooth and illuminated by the vanity light in front of you, casting an amber aura around your entire body when you pulled the last of your top up. 

Your back curved, spine dipping down down into the waist of your dress, and George couldn’t stop ogling at the dimples above your ass. 

Merlin, you were beautiful. Your hair in its most perfect shape and a contented smile poised on your glistening lips. 

George’s mind wandered. Those hands of yours reaching back to tighten up the loose fabric, instead sliding down his front. Unbuttoning his shirt and pulling at his trousers. That mouth that spoke words he couldn't hear, instead wrapped tenderly around his cock. Sucking. Licking, and—

“Please, dear?”

He flinched. 

You were much closer to him now than you were before. Your back was facing him, exposing the open end of your dress. 

“I can't zip it up myself.” You added, your voice soft with trust. 

George stammered and straightened up in bed. 

“Sorry, what? You mean help?”

A grin spread on your face, followed by a giggle. “Well, yeah. Haven't you ever fixed up a girl’s dress before?”

Your boyfriend leaned in, only to feel a very humiliating weight on his thigh. He swallowed tightly, glancing down at his lap. He was already half hard and it seemed to be worsening with every breath he took. 

“Can't say I have.” He mumbled. 

Your head reached over your shoulder to glare at him; only when you did, he was scrabbling a pillow to his person. Particularly, over his crotch. 

Hesitantly, you spoke. 

“Georgie, you alright?”

“Of course, why wouldn't I be? I…just a little under the weather, is all.”

You turned around completely to place a hand on his forehead, brushing his ginger hair from his brow. He’d let it grow out since you last said you liked it lengthy. 

“Hm. You don't feel warm,” your brow furrowed, your hand dragging back down his face and palming his cheek, “I’ll buy some ginger while I’m out later. I could make you some tea.”

George reached up for your wrist, pulling it down easily, “I swear, I’m fine.”

With a doubtful click of your tongue, you nodded and turned back around. 

“Fine. Then just help me out here so I can show you the full outfit before I leave.”

His hands trembled slightly as they obeyed, reaching for your hips to pull you closer. His fingers splayed out across the smooth surface, squeezing subconsciously. All he could think about was how close you were, how vulnerable and open, and how long it's been since he’s had the chance to touch you. Really touch you. 

Clumsy fingers gripped the zip ahead of him, an even clumsier left hand flattening out the fabric so it would slide along the teeth with ease. 

George’s chest fell as he hid the last of your spine, patting softly when he’d completed.

“There we go.” He groaned. 

By now, he was painfully hard. He was in relatively comfortable trousers, yes, but he could feel the rest of his body heating up in unison. If he didn't do something now, he might just melt into the mattress. 

You double checked yourself in the mirror, twisting around in glee before striding back up to him to place a kiss on his head. 

“Thank you, darling.”

Pulling back to get your shoes, you felt his arms wrap around your torso, his face burying into your stomach. 

“Don't leave.” 

Oh. You froze immediately, hands dropping to his shoulders. You could feel his breath hot and heavy against your dress, a suppressed whine at the end of every heave. George’s legs slid off the edge of the bed, the pillow falling suit, until he was trapping you by one leg between his knees.

As you looked down, you saw a ruffled patch of red hair, a trembling man, and the outline of his cock in his trousers. 

There was a flutter in your chest, one that spilled all the way down between your legs, and you pet his head. 

“…Darling, I can’t now. I’ve got to leave in an hour.”

He whimpers. George whimpers, like a puppy. He nuzzles his face even more into your body, tilting his head up so that his chin rests just below your sternum.

“I’ll be quick. I’ll be so quick,” he pleads, “It's been so long, with you always at work. That's why I was so happy for you to have this night out, but…oh, please.”

You chewed your lip. The sun was almost done setting, and you watched as the hands on the clock above your door stretched nearer to 8. But he was asking so nicely, and he was…

He was pulling you closer by the thigh with his knees, his hips lazily dragging up in a desperate attempt at friction. He was trying to hump you. 

The last threads of inhibition snapped in your head and you directed all your focus to the mess you called sweetheart in front of you. Your knee buckled slightly, shifting forward to rock into George’s crotch, assisting him in his weak act of foreplay. 

“Yes. Fuck, thank you. Thank you.” He panted, grinding slower into your thigh. 

You were now dipping your weight into the bed, hands planted carefully still on his shoulders. His arms stayed wrapped around your body, his cheek now rested upon your collarbone. 

Unable to stop the smile that arose from your face, you giggled softly, kneeing a bit harder. 

“You’re so eager, George. Does it hurt?”

He nodded urgently, “Mhm. Y-Yeah…a lot.”

Your fingers curled around the hair at his nape, tugging his head up from your chest to see the way his chocolate eyes have glazed over. They were almost black in arousal. 

“You've really needed me that bad,” your voice is one of realization more than anything, but you turn back to your original taunting when you see him wincing, “what have you been doing the whole time I’ve been gone?”

George blushes even more than before. His eyes dart away, necked turned down as he tries to focus on how hard you’re pressing into his dick, and how much it's making him lightheaded.

“Erm. I-I was doing my own work. Alone.”

You nodded. Right. 

“Surely. Did your work have anything to do with this?” Your hand shot down, replacing your knee with your palm. You squeezed tenderly at the troubled shaft between his legs, and he moaned. 

“Ah…!”

George bucked in response, looking back up at you through his lashes. 

“That doesn't matter. You're here now, right?” he tried to stabilise his breath, “I’m here with you, finally. And it's really…really…oh, love.”

You’d started to stroke him up and down through the taut fabric, thumbing at the bump of his tip. You kissed his head again. 

“Lie back, dear.”

He listened. He always listened. 

George scooted his way back up to the headboard, arms trembling beside him. You crawled fully onto the mattress, not bothering to adjust the way your skirt rode up your thighs—it was making his cock twitch anyway. 

Teasing fingers walked up his lap and danced over the waistband of his trousers before tugging them down, the elastic bowing with ease. Now you could really see him in those trunks. The last of the material over his manhood was now stretched translucent, the drool of his precum not helping much in concealing his state of dishevelment. 

“Oh my. You seem to be very full of yourself.”

“Whuh–What?” George’s eyes darted up from your hands to your own gaze. 

“How long were you staring at me while you were like this? And you didn't tell me?”

His lips pursed as he swallowed, eyebrows knotting together, “If it's anything, not until recent, actually. And I didn't want to interrupt you while you were preparing.”

You lazily reached for his cock, rubbing down the length, feeling how hot and damp the fabric of his trunks have gotten. George tensed, his entire body jerking. 

“You didn't seem to mind interrupting just earlier. With your whole needy-boy act.” Your lips curled in such a sadistic way, it startled even you. 

The Weasley in front of you groaned, his hips lifting up off the mattress subconsciously.

“Yeah, well, you were the one who listened to me. That's rule one for anyone! Don't listen to me.”

Admittedly, you both laughed breathily at that. In his chuckling, weakened state, you managed George out of his underwear and into your inviting palm. He chewed the inside of his cheek whilst you marveled at him. 

He was thick, pink, and the underside of his shaft was so tense and prominent that it looked painful. Truthfully, it was. He wasn't the biggest man (though, reportedly, he was bigger than his brother), but he was enough for you. There was a faint scar on his shaft that marked his circumcision, and your thumb followed the line of him up to his tip. 

It was glossy and still darkening. You almost felt bad for even allowing him to see you in tonight’s getup. But this was much too great. 

You gave one, very faint stroke with the pads of your fingers, watching as the member before you swayed with life. George panted. His chest dipped deep in heavy breaths, filling back up only halfway with stifled air. 

He really needed this.

After so long of dragging him through agonizingly lazy motions, your hand squeezed around him. You could feel the beat of his blood against your palm. His stomach fluttered and George let out another whimper, biting it back with his teeth before letting it dissolve into yet another moan, this time, one of your name. 

He rocked gingerly into the cave of your hand, lips parted in trembling suffocation. Nails tugging at the bedspread, George sobbed.

“Faster. Please. Not enough.”

“Don't critique me.” You answered quickly. 

His noises puddled into something more obedient. When he’d gathered himself into a neat, quiet ball of contained pleasure, you picked up the pace of your wrist, wanking him now with a speed that made him yelp. 

“Merlin’s—! Oh, f-fuck…” 

George pressed a hand to his mouth, biting his knuckles when your thumb and index pressed at his cockhead. You watched the clear stream of pre-cum weep from there and down his shaft, the viscosity thickening each time you dared rub a thumb over his slit. 

His thighs flexed by your arm, knees pulling up and dropping back down again. He was close. If not for how much George’s body was stuttering, you could tell by the way he was biting his lip, eyes half rolled back into his lids. 

You purred, lips pressing experimentally to his tip. A curious tongue slipped out to taste that salty mixture, a heavy weight washing over you when you realized you were just as wet. You’d practically been humping the blanket beneath you this entire time. 

“You close?” 

George nodded quickly. 

“Use your words.”

Shivering, he croaked, "Yes. Yes’m…I’m gonna…gonna come, please…”

“Right. Here, baby…”

You lifted up on your haunches, using both hands now to work him apart. One focused at the base of his shaft while the other stroked smoothly along his head, causing tremors all throughout his body. 

“Love, I—” he could barely speak, only mumbling your name in swift breaths like a prayer before his head tipped back into the headboard. He bared his throat as a deep, guttural moan tore its way from his stomach. 

George shot lengthy and heavy spurts of cum across his stomach and down both your hands, his cock tightening in pulses as he emptied himself. He’d made a mess of the bed below him before he was diminished to the last few dribbles of release that slipped down onto your fingers, which you proudly withdrew from his person and placed into your mouth. 

Once he’d caught his breath and worked himself back into his trousers, he made an effort to clean up what he could. He had been discarding his shirt when you walked back into the bedroom, this time with heels and a bag, twirling about. 

“What do you think? Got it all put together still with 30 minutes to spare.” You spoke gleefully, finally able to showcase your entire outfit. 

George admired you with affectionate eyes, striding closer so that he could hold your face in his hands. 

“I think you look absolutely stunning,” he said lovingly, “you feel alright enough to go out?”

You nodded, patting his bare chest. “Yes, of course. I can take care of myself later.”

He let go when you kissed the tip of his nose, pecking his lips as an informal ‘see you later.’

Except, when you turned, you felt a hand slide up your back, fingers pulling down slightly at the zip of your dress. 

“You said you still had 30 minutes?”

Not properly.

Until Hermione changed that.

It happened outside the library.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had just finished a study session, though Ron claimed it was less studying and more "watching Hermione study."

"I don't know why you two come if you're not going to help," Hermione said, adjusting the books in her arms.

"We provide moral support," Ron replied.

"You ate biscuits."

"Exactly. Morale."

Harry laughed.

Before Hermione could argue, someone called her name.

"Hermione!"

Harry turned.

You were walking toward them, carrying a few books against your chest.

Hermione immediately smiled.

"Oh, perfect timing."

You smiled back.

"I brought the book you wanted."

"You actually found it?"

"Mhm."

You handed it over.

Hermione looked impressed.

"I've been looking for this for a week."

"I know."

Harry noticed that.

The way you said it.

Not proudly.

Not like you wanted credit.

Just like remembering things was normal.

Hermione looked between you and Harry.

"Oh!"

She suddenly seemed to remember something.

"Harry, this is Y/N."

You looked at him.

And smiled.

That was it.

Nothing dramatic happened.

No fireworks.

No magical feeling that shook the castle.

You simply smiled.

But Harry felt something shift.

Because you weren't looking at him like everyone else did.

You weren't looking at Harry Potter.

You were looking at him.

Just him.

"Hi, nice to meet you!"

Harry, who had faced dragons and Dark wizards, suddenly forgot how to respond normally.

"Harry- I mean, meet you.. Sorry, I meant Nice to meet you"

Brilliant.

Absolutely brilliant.

You didn't seem to notice his awkwardness.

Or maybe you did and were kind enough not to mention it.

Your smile remained.

Then Hermione began talking about homework, and somehow the conversation continued naturally.

Harry barely remembered what was said.

He only remembered your smile.

For the next few days, Harry told himself it was nothing.

Just a small crush.

That was all.

It happened.

People liked other people.

It wasn't a big deal.

Except...

He started noticing things.

Things he hadn't noticed before.

Like how nearly everyone knew you.

A first-year stopped you in the corridor to thank you for helping them find their classroom.

A Ravenclaw asked if you still had the notes you'd offered to share.

A Hufflepuff waved at you from across the Great Hall, and you waved back immediately.

Harry watched all of it with growing curiosity.

"You know everyone," he said one afternoon.

You looked surprised.

"Do I?"

Harry gestured around the corridor.

"Everyone says hello to you."

You laughed softly.

"I suppose I've talked to a lot of people."

"A lot?"

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"You helped Neville with his Herbology assignment."

"He was struggling."

"You stayed with Ginny when she was nervous before her first Quidditch match."

"She needed someone to talk to."

"You helped a first-year find their lost pet."

"they were scared."

Harry stared.

You looked genuinely confused.

"What?"

"You don't even realize you do it."

You tilted your head.

"Do what?"

"Help everyone."

For a moment, you were quiet.

Then you shrugged.

"I don't think it's anything special."

Harry almost laughed.

Because somehow, that was the most unbelievable part.

Everyone else saw it.

Everyone else knew.

You just didn't.

Harry started understanding why people liked you.

It wasn't because you were perfect.

you weren't.

You laughed too loudly sometimes.

You forgot where you'd placed your own books.

You once walked into a classroom five minutes late because you'd been distracted helping a portrait solve a crossword puzzle.

Ron found that hilarious.

"I can't believe you helped a painting."

You shrugged.

"The poor thing was stuck."

"It was a portrait."

"It was still stuck."

Harry laughed.

And he realized something.

You made people feel important.

That was your gift.

You listened.

You remembered.

You cared.

And somehow, without even trying, you made Hogwarts feel a little less lonely.

One evening, Harry found you sitting near the Black Lake with a book open in your lap.

The sun was setting, casting golden light over the water.

"Mind if I sit?"

You looked up.

And smiled.

"Of course not."

Harry sat beside you.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

And strangely...

It wasn't uncomfortable.

Harry had spent so much of his life feeling like he had to explain himself.

Who he was.

What happened to him.

Why people knew his name.

But with you, he didn't have to.

After a few minutes, you looked at him.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Do you ever get tired?"

Harry frowned.

"Of what?"

You hesitated.

"Everyone knowing you."

The question surprised him.

Most people asked about Voldemort.

Or Quidditch.

Or what it was like being famous.

Not this.

"Sometimes."

You nodded.

"I thought so."

Harry looked at you.

"Why?"

You smiled gently.

"Because everyone knows Harry Potter."

A pause.

"But not everyone knows Harry."

Something in his chest tightened.

Because you understood.

And you hadn't even known him long.

"I think..."

You looked down at your book.

"...everyone deserves someone who sees them properly."

Harry didn't know what to say.

So he smiled.

And for once, he didn't feel like he needed to.

Later that night, Ron caught him staring into the fire with a ridiculous smile.

"You like her."

Harry immediately looked away.

"I don't."

Ron raised an eyebrow.

"You do."

Harry sighed.

"Fine."

He paused.

"Maybe a little."

Hermione smiled from her chair.

"I knew it."

Harry frowned.

"How?"

"Because Harry..."

She looked amused.

"Everyone else figured it out too."

Harry groaned.

But secretly...

He wasn't bothered.

Because now he understood.

He understood why everyone smiled when you walked into a room.

Why people looked for you when they needed help.

Why your name was always spoken with warmth.

Everyone adored you because you made them feel seen.

And somehow...

Harry had become one of the many people who couldn't help but look for you whenever you entered a room.

And all because you smiled at him.

Just once.

Harry had thought admitting it to Ron and Hermione would make the feeling go away.

That was what usually happened, wasn't it?

Once something was said out loud, it became smaller.

Less embarrassing.

Less overwhelming.

Except it didn't.

If anything, it became worse.

Because now that Harry had admitted he liked you, he couldn't pretend he wasn't noticing things anymore.

Not that he had been very successful at pretending before.

"You know, you're staring again."

Harry immediately looked away.

"I was not."

Ron looked up from his breakfast.

"You were."

"I was looking around."

"At the (Your house) table?"

Harry opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Hermione calmly continued eating.

"You do realize she sits with other people, right?"

"I know that."

"Because you've memorized her schedule?"

Harry nearly dropped his fork.

"I have not memorized anything."

Ron grinned.

"You definitely have."

"I don't."

"You know she has Arithmancy on Mondays."

Harry froze.

Ron pointed at him.

"There. That face."

Harry sighed.

"That's not memorizing."

"What is it then?"

"...Observing."

Hermione looked over the top of her book.

"That is a very Harry way of saying memorizing."

Harry ignored them.

But despite himself...

He glanced toward your table.

You were laughing at something a friend had said, your hand covering your mouth as you tried to calm yourself.

Harry smiled.

He couldn't help it.

The strange thing was that Harry had always been used to people noticing him.

It was impossible not to.

Everyone knew his name.

Everyone had an opinion about him.

They whispered when he walked past.

They stared.

They talked.

But with you...

It was different.

They noticed you because you noticed them first.

Harry started realizing that everywhere he went, there was some small evidence of how much people cared about you.

A note left on your desk from a younger student thanking you for helping with homework.

A Hufflepuff saving you a seat at lunch because "you always forget to sit down."

A Gryffindor second-year proudly showing you the spell she'd finally mastered because you'd helped her practice.

You never acted like these things were important.

You always reacted the same way.

A smile.

A kind word.

A simple, "I'm glad I could help."

And somehow, that made Harry like you even more.

One Saturday morning, Harry found you in the library.

Not studying.

Not exactly.

You were surrounded by books, but you weren't reading them.

You were helping someone else.

A first-year sat across from you, looking miserable.

"I just don't understand it."

You looked at the parchment.

"Which part?"

"All of it."

You smiled.

"That's alright."

The boy frowned.

"It is?"

"Of course."

You tapped the page.

"Nobody understands everything immediately."

Harry paused nearby.

He hadn't meant to listen.

But he couldn't walk away.

Not when you were speaking.

"You know what helped me when I was struggling?"

The boy shook his head.

"What?"

"I stopped trying to be perfect."

The boy looked confused.

"But what if I get things wrong?"

"Then you learn."

You smiled.

"Getting something wrong doesn't mean you can't do it."

Harry stood completely still.

Because suddenly, he wasn't thinking about the first-year anymore.

He was thinking about himself.

About every time he'd felt like he wasn't enough.

Not powerful enough.

Not prepared enough.

Not good enough.

And here you were, saying something so simple.

Something he wished someone had told him years ago.

The first-year eventually left with a much happier expression.

Only then did you notice Harry.

"Oh."

You blinked.

"How long have you been standing there?"

Harry rubbed the back of his neck.

"Not long."

A pause.

"...Maybe a few minutes."

You laughed.

"I didn't even notice."

"I noticed."

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

You looked at him.

Harry immediately regretted it.

"Sorry, I just meant..."

He gestured vaguely.

"You help people a lot."

Your expression softened.

"Oh."

"Everyone knows."

"Knows what?"

"That you're always helping someone."

You looked down.

Harry expected you to smile proudly.

Or say thank you.

Instead, you looked almost embarrassed.

"I don't think I do that much."

Harry laughed quietly.

"You're the only person who thinks that."

Later that afternoon, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were walking back from the grounds when Ron suddenly stopped.

Harry nearly walked into him.

"What?"

Ron pointed ahead.

You were standing near the entrance hall, talking with Professor McGonagall.

Harry immediately worried something was wrong.

But then he noticed the expression on the professor's face.

She was smiling.

Professor McGonagall.

Smiling.

That alone was unusual.

"You've got to be kidding me," Ron whispered.

"What?"

"She even got McGonagall."

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Ron."

"No, seriously."

He lowered his voice.

"Have you ever seen McGonagall smile at students?"

Harry thought about it.

"...Not often."

"Exactly."

As if sensing them, Professor McGonagall looked over.

"Mr. Potter."

Harry straightened.

"Professor."

She glanced toward you.

"Y/N has been assisting me with organizing the first-year Transfiguration materials."

Harry blinked.

"She has?"

You smiled sheepishly.

"It wasn't much."

McGonagall looked mildly offended.

"It was very much."

You immediately looked embarrassed.

Harry noticed.

You hated being praised.

Not because you disliked kindness.

Because you never wanted attention for doing something kind.

That realization hit him harder than he expected.

You didn't help people so they'd admire you.

You helped because, to you, it was simply what people did.

That night, Harry sat in the common room while everyone else talked around him.

Fred and George were arguing about a new invention.

Ron was losing a game of wizard chess.

Hermione was reading.

And Harry was thinking.

About you.

About the way you smiled.

The way you remembered everyone.

The way everyone seemed to breathe a little easier when you were around.

Hermione closed her book.

"You know, Harry..."

He looked up.

"What?"

She smiled slightly.

"I think you finally understand why everyone likes her."

Harry looked toward the window.

Outside, snow had begun falling over the grounds.

He thought about it.

Then nodded.

"Yeah."

A quiet smile appeared on his face.

"I think I understand why everyone likes her."

You were liked because you made people feel like they mattered.

And Harry understood that better than anyone.

Because for someone who had spent so long feeling like he was just a name...

Meeting someone who saw him as a person was something he would never forget.

And maybe that was why his little crush hadn't disappeared.

Maybe that was why every time you smiled at him, his entire day felt better.

Maybe...

It wasn't such a little crush anymore.

Harry tried very hard not to let his feelings become obvious.

He really did.

The problem was that Harry had never been particularly good at hiding things from people who knew him well.

Especially not from Ron and Hermione.

"You know," Ron said one evening, watching Harry stare across the halls.

Harry immediately looked away.

"I wasn't looking at anyone."

Ron glanced behind him.

"You were looking at Y/N."

"I was looking in that direction."

"She is the only thing in that direction."

Harry frowned.

"You're annoying."

"Thank you."

Hermione didn't even look up from her book.

"You know, Harry, there's nothing wrong with liking someone."

Harry looked at her.

"I know."

"Then why do you keep acting like you've committed a crime?"

"I don't."

Ron raised an eyebrow.

"You once fought a basilisk, but you're afraid to tell a girl you like her."

Harry opened his mouth.

Then stopped.

"That is completely different."

"How?"

"I don't know."

Ron grinned.

"Exactly."

The truth was...

Harry wasn't afraid of you.

Not really.

You were possibly the least intimidating person he'd ever met.

That was almost the problem.

Because you made everything feel so easy.

And Harry had spent most of his life expecting things to be difficult.

You never asked him about the scar on his forehead

You never treated him differently after learning about his past.

You didn't stare at him like he was something extraordinary.

You just...

Talked to him.

You asked him what sweets he liked from Honeydukes.

You asked whether he preferred summer or winter.

You asked if he thought owls had favorite people.

Harry had laughed at that one.

"Why would they?"

You shrugged.

"They deliver letters all day. Surely they have opinions."

"About people?"

"Mhm."

"Do you think Hedwig has opinions?"

You considered this seriously.

"Definitely."

Harry smiled.

"She does."

"I knew it."

"You didn't even know her."

"I know enough."

And Harry believed you did.

The first time Harry realized he might actually be important to you was completely accidental.

It happened after Quidditch practice.

Harry was exhausted, muddy, and more than ready to collapse into his bed.

The sky was already dark when he returned to the castle.

He expected the halls to be nearly empty.

Instead, you were standing at the entrance of the Gryffindor common room, reading a book to pass by time.

Harry stopped.

"What are you doing here?"

You looked up from your book.

"Waiting."

Harry blinked.

"For who?"

"For you."

His heart immediately forgot how to behave.

"Me?"

You laughed softly.

"Yes, Harry."

"Oh."

Brilliant response.

Truly impressive.

You closed your book.

"Hermione said practice ran late."

Harry frowned.

"She told you?"

"Mhm."

"And you waited?"

You tilted your head.

"Of course."

"Why?"

The question came out quieter than he intended.

You looked at him as if the answer was obvious.

"To wait for you."

Harry stared.

"That's the reason?"

"Yes"

"But you didn't have to."

"No."

You smiled.

"But I wanted to."

And somehow, that was the thing that affected him most.

Not a grand confession.

Not a dramatic moment.

Just three simple words.

I wanted to.

Harry then started walking beside you

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The atmosphere was calm

The halls slowly emptied around you.

Eventually, you looked over.

"How was practice?"

Harry immediately began talking.

About the drills.

About Ron missing a save.

About a new move he'd been practicing.

And you listened.

Really listened.

Harry noticed.

You weren't waiting for your turn to speak.

You weren't pretending.

You cared.

When he finished, you smiled.

"You love flying."

Harry looked surprised.

"What?"

"You always look happier when you talk about it."

Harry thought about that.

Nobody had ever pointed that out before.

"I do?"

"Mhm."

You nodded.

"It's nice."

Harry smiled slightly.

"You think so?"

"I do."

The next morning, Ron was unbearable.

"So."

Harry sighed.

"No."

"I haven't even said anything."

"I know."

Ron grinned.

"You were with her last night."

"We talked."

"Alone."

"Yes."

"For how long?"

Harry paused.

"...An hour."

Ron looked at Hermione.

"An hour."

Hermione smiled.

"That's actually impressive."

Harry groaned.

"We were just talking."

"Exactly. I thought you would've stuttered to much and passed out"

Harry gave him a deadpan look

Ron pointed out dramatically.

"You like talking to her."

Harry stared.

"...Yes?"

"Harry."

Ron looked genuinely amazed.

"You hate talking to most people."

"That's not true."

"It is."

Harry considered arguing.

Then remembered most conversations with people usually involved them asking about Voldemort or him being the chosen one.

He looked away.

"Maybe."

Hermione smiled softly.

"I think that's why you like her."

Harry looked at her.

"Why?"

"Because she lets you be normal."

The words settled quietly.

Harry didn't answer.

Because Hermione was right.

You didn't make him feel like someone special.

You made him feel like someone ordinary.

And somehow...

That felt more special than anything else.

As the weeks passed, Harry noticed something else.

People didn't just like you.

They trusted you.

There was a difference.

A younger student came to you when they were nervous about exams.

A friend asked your opinion before making a difficult decision.

Even students from other houses, people Harry barely knew, seemed comfortable around you.

And Harry finally understood.

Being popular was easy.

Being trusted was different.

You had earned that.

Slowly.

Quietly.

One small kindness at a time.

Then came the day Harry realized he wasn't just watching you anymore.

He was looking for you.

There was a difference.

Before, he'd notice when you appeared.

Now...

He noticed when you weren't there.

The Great Hall felt strangely quiet when you weren't at breakfast.

The library felt emptier when you weren't somewhere nearby.

Even classes felt different.

And Harry hated how much he missed someone he hadn't even admitted he loved yet.

Because that was the terrifying part.

He was beginning to realize it wasn't just a crush.

Not anymore.

A crush was liking someone's smile.

A crush was enjoying their company.

A crush was thinking someone was pretty.

This was different.

This was knowing how you took your tea.

Knowing you preferred the window seat in the library.

Knowing you always tapped your quill twice before writing.

Knowing you smiled at portraits because you believed they deserved kindness too.

Harry knew you.

And somehow...

He wanted to know more.

Harry had always thought love was supposed to be obvious.

At least, that's what books made it seem like.

Grand gestures.

Dramatic confessions.

A single moment where everything suddenly made sense.

But Harry was beginning to realize that maybe that wasn't true.

Maybe sometimes it happened quietly.

Maybe sometimes it happened when someone remembered your favorite tea.

Maybe it happened when someone waited in the common room because they knew you'd have a long Quidditch practice.

Maybe it happened when someone smiled at you and, for a few seconds, you forgot about every difficult thing you'd ever faced.

Harry had spent months thinking he had a crush on you.

A small one.

A harmless one.

Something that would eventually disappear.

Except it hadn't.

It had grown.

Slowly.

Quietly.

Until Harry couldn't remember what his days felt like before you were part of them.

The realization came during dinner.

It wasn't even anything special.

No dramatic moment.

No spell.

No lightning strike.

You were simply sitting at your table, laughing with your friends.

Harry watched you for a moment.

Not in the way he usually did.

Not because he was wondering what you were doing.

Not because he wanted to find an excuse to talk to you.

He just...

Appreciated you.

The way your eyes brightened when you laughed.

The way you leaned closer when someone was telling a story.

The way you listened to people like whatever they were saying was the most important thing in the world.

And suddenly, Harry understood.

He didn't like you because everyone else did.

He didn't like you because you were kind.

He didn't like you because you were beautiful.

He liked you because you were you.

And somehow, that was both the simplest and most terrifying thing he'd ever realized.

"Harry?"

He looked up.

Hermione was watching him.

"What?"

She smiled.

Harry frowned.

"What?"

"You know."

He looked toward the (your house) table.

Then back at Hermione, and saw that smiled she had.

"Oh."

Hermione nodded.

"Yeah."

Harry sighed.

"Is it that obvious?"

"To everyone."

"Everyone?"

Ron nodded while eating.

"Mate, even Neville knows."

Harry stared.

"Neville?"

"He asked me if you and Y/N were going to the Yule Ball together."

Harry nearly choked.

"He did?"

"Mhm."

"Why?"

Ron shrugged.

"Because apparently you look at her like she's the only person in the room."

Harry went quiet.

Because maybe...

Maybe he did.

A few days later, Harry found you in the courtyard.

It had started snowing lightly.

Not enough to cover the ground.

Just enough to make the castle look peaceful.

You were sitting on a stone bench, reading.

Harry almost walked past.

Almost.

But then you looked up.

And smiled.

There it was.

The smile that started everything.

"Hi, Harry."

"Hi."

He sat beside you.

"You always seem to find quiet places."

You looked around.

"I suppose I like them."

"Why?"

You thought about it.

"Because everyone is always rushing."

Harry nodded.

"Yeah."

"So sometimes it's nice to stop."

Harry looked at you.

"You do that a lot."

"What?"

"Stop."

You blinked.

"How?"

"You stop for everyone else."

For once, you didn't immediately know what to say.

Harry continued.

"You notice when people need help."

Your expression softened.

"You notice when someone's upset."

A small smile appeared.

"You remember things people forget."

You looked down.

Harry smiled.

"And you act like it's nothing."

You laughed quietly.

"I suppose I never thought about it."

"I know."

He looked toward the snowy grounds.

"That's why everyone likes you."

You were quiet.

Then you smiled.

"I don't think everyone likes me."

Harry looked at you.

"They do."

"No."

You shook your head.

"People like feeling cared about."

Harry smiled.

"Exactly."

You looked at him.

And for a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then you laughed.

"What?"

Harry smiled.

"Nothing."

"No, what?"

"I just..."

He shook his head.

"It's funny."

"What is?"

"You spend so much time making sure everyone else feels important."

You tilted your head.

"And?"

Harry looked at you.

"I don't think you realize how important you are to everyone else."

The smile you gave him then was different.

Softer.

Almost shy.

Harry felt his heart skip.

Again.

After that day, things didn't suddenly change.

There was no dramatic announcement.

No moment where the entire school knew.

Harry still walked with you to classes.

Still laughed at your jokes.

Still listened when you talked about plants, books, and strange theories about owls having favorite people.

But something had changed.

Harry stopped pretending.

He stopped calling it a crush.

Because it wasn't.

It was something much deeper.

Something that had grown from hundreds of small moments.

From every time you smiled.

Every time you helped someone.

Every time you made him feel like he wasn't just a name everyone knew.

He was Harry.

Just Harry.

A few weeks later, Ron caught him smiling again.

"You're doing it."

Harry looked up.

"Doing what?"

"That thing."

"What thing?"

"The smiling."

Harry rolled his eyes.

"I smile."

"Not like that you don't."

Harry didn't argue this time.

Because he knew.

He was happy.

Really happy.

And when you walked into the Great hall a moment later, immediately greeting everyone you passed, Harry smiled again.

he finally understood.

Everyone adored you because you made the world feel a little kinder.

And Harry Potter, who had spent so much of his life searching for a place where he belonged.

Had found someone who made him feel like he already did.

Harry never told you when he first realized he loved you.

Not because he was embarrassed.

Not because he didn't want you to know.

He simply didn't know how to explain it.

How could he possibly put into words that it wasn't one moment?

It wasn't the first smile.

It wasn't the first conversation.

It wasn't even the first time he noticed how kind you were.

It was everything.

Every small moment that added up.

Every time you remembered someone's name.

Every time you stopped to help someone.

Every time you laughed at Ron's terrible jokes because you knew he was trying to be funny.

Every time you listened to Harry talk about something he thought nobody cared about.

Somewhere along the way...

You had become home.

The opportunity to tell you came unexpectedly.

Of course it did.

Harry had learned that the biggest moments in his life never happened when he was prepared for them.

They happened suddenly.

Like meeting Hagrid.

Like finding out he was a wizard.

Like being told he was a Gryffindor.

Like falling in love.

He found you after dinner, sitting outside near the Black Lake.

The evening was quiet.

The kind of quiet Harry had always liked.

You looked up when you heard him approaching.

"Harry."

Your smile appeared immediately.

And even after all this time, it still affected him.

"Hi."

You moved slightly, making room beside you.

Harry sat down.

For a while, you both watched the lake.

Neither of you rushed to speak.

That was something Harry loved about you.

You never made silence feel uncomfortable.

Eventually, you glanced at him.

"You're thinking."

Harry smiled.

"How do you know?"

"You have a certain look."

"A certain look?"

"Mhm."

You nodded.

"It's the same one you get when you're trying to solve something."

Harry laughed quietly.

"You know me too well."

The words came out before he could stop them.

But instead of feeling embarrassed...

They felt true.

You smiled.

"I like knowing people."

Harry looked at you.

"I know."

A pause.

Then he took a breath.

"That's actually what I wanted to talk about."

You turned toward him.

"Are you alright?"

Harry almost laughed.

Because even now...

Even when he was about to tell you something important...

Your first thought was whether he was okay.

"Yeah."

He smiled.

"I'm alright."

You waited patiently.

And somehow, that made it easier.

"I've been thinking about something."

"Okay."

Harry looked down at his hands.

"I think when I first met you, I thought I liked you because you were kind."

You smiled a little.

"That's a good reason."

"It is."

He nodded.

"But that's not all."

Your expression softened.

"I thought it was because everyone liked you."

You looked surprised.

"Everyone?"

Harry laughed.

"Yes. Everyone."

You shook your head.

"I don't think that's true."

"It is."

"Harry—"

"No, really."

He smiled.

"At first, I didn't understand it."

You listened.

"I didn't understand why everyone knew you. Why everyone trusted you. Why people always looked happier when you walked into a room."

A small smile appeared on your face.

"And then?"

Harry looked at you.

"Then I realized."

A pause.

"You don't make people like you."

Your eyes met his.

"You make people feel like they're worth liking."

For once...

You didn't immediately have a response.

Harry continued.

"And you did that for me."

The snow began falling softly around you.

Your expression became gentler.

"You treated me like I was just Harry."

A quiet smile appeared.

"And I don't think you know how much that means."

You looked down for a moment.

Then back at him.

"Harry..."

He waited.

"You make it sound like I said something amazing."

"You did."

"I didn't."

"You did."

You laughed softly.

"You know you're impossible, right?"

Harry smiled.

"Probably."

A comfortable silence settled between you.

Then you said quietly,

"I like you too."

Harry froze.

Not because he didn't expect it.

Because somehow, hearing it still felt impossible.

"You do?"

You laughed.

"Yes, Harry."

"Oh."

You smiled.

"That was your response?"

"I had a better one planned."

"You did?"

"No."

You laughed.

And Harry joined you.

Because that was the thing about you.

Even in moments that should have felt overwhelming...

You made them easy.

Nothing at Hogwarts changed overnight.

You didn't become the most talked-about couple in the school.

There were no grand announcements.

No dramatic celebrations.

Although Ron insisted there should have been.

"I spent months watching you two obviously like each other. I deserve some sort of reward."

"You deserve silence," Hermione told him.

Fred and George were much worse.

"Finally."

"We thought he'd never figure it out."

"You knew?"

"Everyone knew."

Harry groaned.

But he was smiling.

Because he didn't mind anymore.

Months later, Harry still sometimes caught himself watching you.

Harry had something everyone else didn't.

He wasn't just someone who admired you from afar.

He was someone who got to walk beside you.

Someone who got to hear your laugh whenever you found something funny.

Someone who got to listen to your thoughts at the end of the day.

Someone who got to remind you that you mattered too.

And sometimes, when you smiled at him, Harry still felt that same feeling he had on the first day you met.

That tiny, impossible moment where everything changed.

Except now he understood it.

It wasn't just a crush.

It never was.

It was the beginning of something that felt a little like magic.

And for Harry Potter...

That was saying something.

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I started writing this at around 7am and realized half way through that this was kind of cringe, but oh well😬 ┐(´～｀ˇ)┌