evie

With a smile, you tilted your head, spotting Harry walking over. Stopping beside you, he looked into the distance.

“Hello.” You beamed, observing his face. Patting the spot next to you, you murmured, “Sit.”

Harry obliged, slowly sitting next to you. You sniffed, smelling fresh linen and clean laundry.

“Were you cleaning?” You asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Harry scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, I helped fold your clothes. Well, tried to.”

You laughed, leaning your head on his shoulder—a few birds scattered in the light orange-blue sky, chirping as they weaved.

Harry’s hand brushed against yours. Unhurriedly, you intertwined your fingers with his calloused ones.

“I was thinking we get a dog.”

“A dog?”

“Yup. A golden retriever. Or a Labrador.” Harry shifted a bit. “Good for a family.”

Your heart melted. Imagining Harry with a dog was a sight worth seeing.

“A bunny wasn’t enough?” You inquired. 

Shaking his head, he muttered, “They eat too much.”

You giggled, watching the bright yellow sun rise slowly, as if it were being lassoed higher and higher.

Harry would absolutely make a great father.

He was gentle, patient, and understanding. Never rushed anything—always enjoyed the moment as it was.

Not to mention, Harry truly cared for the people he loved.

He cared about you. Immensely.

You smiled to yourself as you immersed yourself in thoughts about him, the silence being filled with the long grass rustling against each other from the breeze. 

“What’re you thinking about?” Harry mumbled after a moment. 

You shrugged. “Us.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhm.” 

“What about us?”

“Our future. Especially the names of our children.” You lifted your head from his shoulder and faced him. 

Harry’s corners of his lips turned upward. “Think of anything you’d like?”

“No…not yet.” With a frown, you looked back into the distance.

Harry tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “What about your middle name? It’s pretty.”

That idea sparked something in your brain. “Hm. I actually kind of like that.”

“Yeah?” Harry leaned forward a bit, grazing his fingers on your cheek. Chills went down your spine at his touch–the ghost of his fingertips on your delicate skin.

“Yeah.” You looked at him with innocent eyes, then flickered to his lips. As you fluttered your eyes shut, he took that cue to kiss you.

A passionate, soft kiss that engulfed your senses with warmth. 

The taste of sweet Carolina cherries from the garden in your backyard filled your mouth; you could feel Harry’s thumb skimming across your cheekbone.

Hesitantly, you defiantly pulled away from his touch.

Harry raised his eyebrows in confusion. “Did I do something wrong, baby?”

“You didn’t say ‘I love you’ before kissing me.” You furrowed your brows. “You always say it.”

He grinned, kissing the tip of your nose. “I love you. Better?”

With a hum, you leaned in again, kissing him lightly. Harry reciprocated, deepening the feathery kiss into a meaningful one. 

You soaked into it–the touch, the loss of breath, the knot in your stomach yearning for more.

Every inch of you loved Harry. You really did, and it would never change.

You couldn’t wait to spend the rest of your life with him.

The words came out sharper than he intended. Sharper than he'd ever spoken to you. You flinched—just slightly, a flicker at the corner of your mouth—and he hated himself for it immediately.

"Teach me," you repeated, and your voice only wobbled a little, which he had to give you credit for. "To kiss. Properly. I have a date with Adrian Pucey on Saturday and I don't want to look like a complete idiot."

Fred stared at you.

The torchlight in the Charms corridor was doing that thing where it made everyone look slightly haunted. Shadows jumped and flickered across your face. Somewhere in the distance, Peeves was singing a rude song about Umbridge and her Educational Decrees, something about toads and bureaucratic overreach. The castle settled and groaned, ancient and indifferent to the fact that Fred's internal organs were currently rearranging themselves into new and uncomfortable configurations.

"Pucey," he said finally, and his voice came out almost normal. Almost. If you didn't know him. If you weren't you. "Adrian fucking Pucey. Former Slytherin Chaser. Graduated last year. That Adrian Pucey."

"He's visiting. Marcus Flint invited him for the Hufflepuff match."

"Flint. Of course. The hemorrhoid brothers, reunited at last." Fred crossed his arms, leaning against the stone wall with a casualness he absolutely did not feel. "What do they even talk about? The proper way to gel your hair into a helmet? How to be a walking contraceptive advertisement?"

"Fred."

"I'm just saying. Pucey once tried to hex his own broom. Lee told me. Lee doesn't lie about things that pathetic."

"He thought it was jinxed."

"It wasn't jinxed. It was a normal broom. He was just shit at flying."

"Fred."

"Fine. Fine." He held up both hands in surrender. "Pucey. Saturday. Kissing. You want me to teach you." He paused, and something flickered behind his ribcage. "Why me?"

The question came out quieter than the rest. Less armored.

You looked at him—really looked—and Fred felt that familiar sensation of being seen, actually seen, by the one person who'd always been able to do it. You'd walked into his train compartment first year and asked if you could sit down because everywhere else was full, and Fred had taken one look at you and forgotten how to form a complete sentence. He'd been forgetting how to form complete sentences around you ever since.

"Because you're the only person I trust," you said. "To be this bad at something in front of. To not make me feel stupid about it."

Fred opened his mouth. Closed it.

That wasn't—he'd expected a joke. A deflection. Something he could volley back with a quip and a grin and minimal damage to his internal organs. Not honesty. Not that.

He recovered badly. "So this is a pity request. You're exploiting my well-documented inability to say no to you."

"Is that well-documented?"

"It's extensively documented. There are charts. Graphs. A particularly damning pie chart involving the time I let you practice Stinging Hexes on me in fourth year."

"You complained the whole time."

"I complain because I care. It's my love language." The word love slipped out before he could catch it. He steamrolled forward before you could notice. "Fine. Yes. I'll teach you. On one condition."

"What?"

"When Pucey inevitably starts droning on about his glory days—and he will, he's constitutionally incapable of not—you hex him somewhere creative. Nothing permanent. Just memorable."

You laughed. The sound did what it always did—wrapped around Fred's ribs and squeezed until his lungs forgot how to work.

"Deal."

"Right. Tomorrow night. Room of Requirement. Seventh floor. Left corridor across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. Wear something comfortable." He pushed off the wall, walking backward down the corridor. "We might be at this a while. You're starting from absolute zero. Tabula rasa. A blank canvas. A lump of clay waiting to be molded by my expert—"

You threw a Stinging Hex at him. He dodged it easily, laughing.

But the laughter died the moment he turned the corner.

He stood in the dark corridor, alone, and pressed his forehead against the cold stone wall. The chill seeped into his skin, grounding and unpleasant. His hands were shaking. His heart was doing something arrhythmic and concerning. And somewhere deep in his chest, in the locked box where he kept all the feelings he wasn't allowed to have, something had started to crack.

Three years, he thought. Three years of loving her, and she asks me to teach her how to kiss someone else.

If that wasn't some kind of cosmic joke, he didn't know what was.

LESSON ONE

The two days between the corridor and the first lesson were a special kind of hell.

Fred was useless. Genuinely, catastrophically useless. He set his cauldron on fire in Potions—actual fire, flames licking up toward the dungeon ceiling—and didn't notice until Snape was on top of him like a particularly greasy bat, deducting points and assigning detention with a sort of grim pleasure. He walked into a suit of armor outside the Great Hall and apologized to it. He stared at his breakfast for so long without eating that George started pelting him with toast crumbs to see if he'd notice.

He didn't notice.

"You're doing the thing," George said at dinner on Thursday, sliding onto the bench across from him.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you're having a crisis but pretending you're not having a crisis by making more jokes than usual. It's very convincing. I'm sure no one else has noticed." George paused. "Except everyone. Everyone has noticed. Angelina asked if you'd been Confunded."

"Angelina should mind her own business."

"Angelina's the team captain. Your mental state is her business. You flew into the goalpost twice at practice yesterday."

"I was testing its structural integrity."

"You were staring into the middle distance and forgot the goalpost existed." George leaned forward, dropping his voice. "It's about her, isn't it. The favor."

Fred's jaw tightened. "I don't know what you're—"

"Freddie." His twin's voice was uncharacteristically serious. "Whatever you're doing—and I know you're doing something, because you've got that look you get right before you do something monumentally stupid—just. Be careful. Yeah? Some things you can't joke your way out of."

Fred looked at his twin—his other half, the person who knew him better than anyone on the planet—and felt something splinter behind his sternum.

"I'm always careful," he said.

George snorted. "You've never been careful a day in your life. That's the problem."

The Room of Requirement was on the seventh floor, in the left corridor across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy attempting to teach trolls ballet. Fred had paced in front of it for a solid fifteen minutes, trying to work up the nerve to go inside. His palms were sweating. His heart was doing something complicated and painful. He'd changed his shirt three times before coming up here, which was embarrassing and which he would take to his grave.

This is fine, he told himself, for approximately the fortieth time. This is educational. You're helping a friend. Perfectly normal friend activity. Nothing to lose your mind over.

The door materialized—smooth wood, iron handle, completely unremarkable except for the fact that it hadn't existed thirty seconds ago. Fred pushed it open.

And stopped dead.

"Oh, you absolute bastard," he said to the room.

The Room of Requirement had outdone itself. There was a sofa—deep burgundy, squashy, positioned in front of a crackling fireplace. There was a rug thick enough to sink into. And there were candles. Dozens of them. Hundreds, maybe. Floating overhead like lazy, judgmental stars, casting warm golden light across the entire scene. It looked like the sort of room where someone got proposed to. Or seduced. Or both, possibly in that order.

"Subtle," Fred told the ceiling. "Really subtle. Why not just conjure a heart-shaped bed and be done with it? Maybe some rose petals? A string quartet?"

The room, being a room, did not respond. But Fred could have sworn the candles flickered in a way that was vaguely smug.

He was still glaring at the ceiling when the door opened behind him.

"Sorry I'm—oh." You stopped in the doorway, staring at the candlelit wonderland. "Oh, wow. That's... a lot of candles."

"The room has opinions," Fred said, turning around. "Apparently it thinks we need—"

He stopped.

You were wearing a jumper that kept slipping off one shoulder. Your hair was loose, still slightly damp at the ends like you'd rushed through a shower to get here on time. Your cheeks were pink from the climb up seven flights of stairs. You looked nervous and determined and completely, devastatingly beautiful, and Fred forgot how words worked for approximately three full seconds.

"Need what?" you prompted.

"What?"

"You said the room thinks we need something."

"Right. Yes. Mood lighting. Apparently." He shook himself, gesturing toward the sofa. "Sit. Make yourself comfortable. This is going to be very clinical and professional."

"Is it?"

"Fuck no. Not even slightly. But I'm going to pretend it is for the sake of my sanity." He dropped onto the sofa beside you, close enough that he could smell your shampoo—something floral, something that reminded him of summer and the Burrow's garden and every good thing he'd ever felt. "Okay. Kissing 101. First things first: what do you already know?"

"Nothing. That's why I'm here."

"Nothing? You've never—"

"No. Never."

"Not even spin the bottle? Truth or dare? That time in fourth year when Angelina dared everyone to—"

"No, Fred. I've never kissed anyone. That's the entire point."

Fred stared at you. He'd known, theoretically. You'd said as much in the corridor. But hearing it again, here, in this aggressively romantic room with the candles and the fire and the way you were looking at him with that mixture of trust and nervousness—it landed differently.

He was going to be your first kiss.

Not your first real kiss. Not the one that mattered. That would be Pucey, or someone after Pucey, or someone who wasn't Fred. But technically, chronologically—his lips would be the first ones you ever kissed.

The thought made him feel slightly insane.

"Right," he said, shoving the feeling into the pit where he kept all his other inadvisable emotions. "No pressure on me, then. I'm popping your kissing cherry. That's not terrifying at all."

"My lesson cherry. Not my anything else."

"Lesson cherry. Yes. That's a normal thing people say." He shifted to face you properly, and his knee brushed yours. Neither of you moved away. "Okay. First rule: kissing isn't a performance. It's not something you do at someone. It's something you do with them. If you're in your head worrying about technique, you've already fucked it. You have to be present. Actually there, in the moment, paying attention."

"Paying attention to what?"

"To them. To how they're responding. What they're doing. What they seem to like." His voice dropped slightly, unbidden. "You can't follow a script. You have to listen with your whole body."

"That's very philosophical for someone who set a toilet on fire last week."

"The toilet provoked me. And I contain multitudes. Depths. Occasional profundity." He reached out before he could stop himself. "Give me your hand."

"What?"

"Your hand. I'm demonstrating something."

You hesitated for half a second. Then you placed your hand in his. Your fingers were cold. Fred's pulse kicked up approximately forty beats per minute. He ignored it with the practice of long experience.

"Hands matter," he said, placing your hand on his shoulder. He curled your fingers into the fabric of his shirt. "Everyone forgets about hands. They just let them dangle. Don't do that. Touching someone—really touching them—is half the kiss. It changes the whole shape of it."

"Shape?"

"Kissing has a shape. Don't look at me like that, it's a real thing." His own hands settled on your waist—light, careful, barely there. He could feel the warmth of you through your jumper. Could feel the slight tremor in your muscles. "See? Now we're connected. It's more... intimate."

The word hung between you.

"Right," you said quietly. "That makes sense."

"Next." Fred's voice came out rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat. "You don't just crash into someone's face like a battering ram. You lean in slow. Give them time to meet you. It builds anticipation."

"How slow?"

"Like this."

He leaned in.

It was supposed to be a demonstration. A clinical, educational demonstration. He watched your eyes widen slightly. Watched your lips part. Watched you unconsciously mirror his movement, leaning toward him like there was a magnetic pull you couldn't resist.

"And then?" you whispered.

"And then..." His gaze dropped to your mouth. Back to your eyes. "You stop thinking. And you let it happen."

Your eyes fluttered closed.

Fred took one more second. One more second to memorize the way you looked in the firelight—trusting him, waiting for him, your lips slightly parted and your fingers tightening on his shoulder. One more second to pretend, just for a moment, that this was real.

Then he kissed you.

The plan was simple: brief contact, pull back, deliver a witty remark about technique. Maybe a joke about how you weren't completely hopeless. Something light. Something casual. Something that wouldn't betray the fact that his heart was currently attempting to claw its way out of his chest.

The plan did not survive contact with your mouth.

Your lips were softer than he'd imagined—and he'd imagined, fuck, he'd imagined so many times, late at night with the curtains drawn, hating himself a little more each time. They parted under his, surprised and sweet, and your hand slid from his shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, and Fred made a sound he definitely hadn't authorized. Something low and involuntary and wanting.

His hands tightened on your waist. You made a sound in return—a small, surprised, wanting sound—and the kiss deepened without either of them consciously deciding it should. His tongue brushed your lower lip. You gasped. He swallowed the gasp. The hand on your waist slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer, and you came willingly, your fingers fisting in his hair, and for one endless, perfect moment Fred forgot that this was supposed to be a lesson. Forgot that you were practicing for someone else. Forgot everything except the way you felt against him, warm and real and here.

Then reality crashed back in.

He pulled away like he'd been burned.

You made a small noise of protest—a tiny, breathless sound—that you immediately tried to cover with a cough. Your eyes opened slowly. Dark. Dazed. Something flickering in them that Fred refused to identify.

"Like that," he said, and his voice came out absolutely wrecked. He cleared his throat. "That's... that's the general idea."

Your hand was still in his hair. His thumb was still tracing absent circles on your hip. Neither of you moved.

"That was..." you started.

"Basic," Fred said, too quickly. "Very basic. Entry level. Wait until we get to the advanced stuff."

"There's advanced stuff?"

"Oh, darling." The endearment slipped out before he could catch it. He covered it with a leer he didn't feel. "That was me on a very tight leash. You haven't seen anything yet."

You stared at him. Your lips were slightly swollen. Your cheeks were flushed. There was something in your expression—confusion, maybe, or disappointment, or something else entirely—that Fred didn't stick around to decode.

He stood up so abruptly he nearly knocked over a side table.

"Same time tomorrow. We'll work on rhythm. Don't be late." He was already backing toward the door. "Homework: think about what you learned. Five feet of parchment on the importance of hand placement. I expect citations."

"Fred—"

"Citations!"

He was out the door before you could finish.

In the corridor, alone, Fred pressed his forehead against the cold stone wall and tried to remember how oxygen worked. His lips were still tingling. His hands were still shaking. Every nerve ending in his body was standing at attention, screaming her her her in a chorus he couldn't silence.

Three years, he thought. Three years, and you agreed to teach her how to kiss someone else. You absolute fucking moron.

He didn't punch the wall. He wanted to. But he didn't.

It was a near thing.

LESSON TWO

He didn't sleep.

That was becoming a pattern. He'd lie in his four-poster with the curtains drawn, staring at the canopy, replaying the kiss on a loop. The way you'd sighed against his mouth. The way your fingers had felt in his hair. The way you'd arched into him like you'd been waiting for it, like you'd wanted it as much as he did.

It doesn't mean anything, he told himself, at 3 AM, at 4 AM, at 5 AM. She's practicing. She's going to use everything on Pucey. You're a teaching aid. A warm body. A means to an end.

By the time the sun came up, he'd almost convinced himself.

George cornered him at breakfast. "You look like shit."

"Thank you. I woke up like this."

"You didn't sleep again."

"Observant. Ten points to Gryffindor."

George shoved a plate of toast toward him. "Eat something before you keel over. And then tell me what's actually going on, because you've been weird for days and I'm running out of jokes to cover for you."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Bullshit." George dropped his voice. "Is it the favor? The thing you're doing for her?"

Fred's silence was answer enough.

"Freddie." George's voice went uncharacteristically gentle. "Whatever this is—you know you don't have to do it, right? You're allowed to say no. You're allowed to protect yourself."

"She asked me." Fred's voice came out rougher than he intended. "She asked me, George. What was I supposed to say?"

"'No' would've been a good start."

"I can't say no to her." He stared at his untouched toast. "I've never been able to say no to her. Not since the day we met."

George was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed, the sound heavy and resigned. "You're in love with her."

It wasn't a question.

"Since fifth year," Fred said. "Maybe longer. I don't even remember anymore."

"And she asked you to teach her how to kiss someone else."

"Yes."

"Fucking hell, Freddie."

"I know."

"That's—that's proper tragic. That's Shakespearean. That's the kind of thing they write operas about."

"Thank you for that. Very helpful."

"I'm serious. This is going to destroy you."

Fred finally looked at his twin. "It's already destroying me. But I'd rather have pieces of her than nothing at all."

George didn't have an answer to that.

Neither did Fred.

The second lesson was, impossibly, worse.

Same room. Same sofa. Same fucking romantic candles, which seemed to have multiplied since yesterday. You were already there when Fred arrived, sitting cross-legged on the ridiculous rug, and you looked up when he entered with an expression that made his stomach drop.

"Hi," you said.

"Hi." He dropped onto the sofa, keeping a careful distance. "Ready for round two?"

"What are we learning tonight?"

"Rhythm." He rubbed his palms on his thighs. "Kissing isn't static. It's a conversation. A back-and-forth. You have to find a rhythm that works for both of you."

"Like dancing?"

"Exactly like dancing. Which you're terrible at, if the Yule Ball was any indication."

"I stepped on your toes one time."

"Three times. I counted." He shifted to face you. "But that's because you were in your head about it. Same problem. You have to stop thinking and just... feel."

"Easy for you to say. You're good at everything."

"I'm good at most things. Everything is pushing it. I'm shit at Potions. And Divination. And keeping my mouth shut when Umbridge is being a fascist." He paused. "And apparently I'm shit at saying no to you, so add that to the list."

You smiled, but it didn't quite reach your eyes. "You could have said no."

"No, I couldn't." The words came out more honest than he meant them to. He covered quickly. "You'd have pouted. It would've been unbearable. I'm doing this for purely selfish reasons."

"What selfish reasons?"

Because I'll take any excuse to kiss you. Because I'm pathetic. Because I've been dreaming about your mouth for three years and this is the only way I'll ever get to touch it.

"Because I get to boss you around," he said. "It's very satisfying. Now shut up and let me demonstrate."

He leaned in. Kissed you. Slower this time—deliberate, controlled. He let the rhythm build. Soft, then deeper. Soft, then deeper. A tide. A pulse. You followed his lead effortlessly, your hand finding his jaw, your fingers tracing the line of it like you were memorizing him.

"Now you try," he said, pulling back. "Lead. I'll follow."

You kissed him. Hesitant at first—then bolder. You set the rhythm and he matched it, and it was so good, so unbearably good, that Fred had to physically restrain himself from taking over, from deepening it, from showing you exactly how much this wasn't a lesson to him.

He pulled back. Breathing hard. "Good. That was good."

"Then why do you keep stopping?"

Because if I don't stop, I'm going to say something I can't take back. Because this is killing me. Because every time I kiss you, I'm imagining you kissing him, and it makes me want to put my fist through a wall.

"Because you've got it," he said. "No need to overdo it. Same time tomorrow."

"Fred—"

"Final lesson tomorrow. Then you'll be ready for Saturday."

The word Saturday landed like a hex. He saw you flinch—just slightly. Or maybe he imagined it.

"Right," you said quietly. "Saturday."

He fled before you could say anything else.

LESSON THREE

Saturday morning arrived grey and cold, the way February mornings at Hogwarts always did. Frost on the windows. Drafts in the corridors. The kind of cold that settled into your bones and refused to leave.

Fred woke up on the common room sofa, still in yesterday's clothes, with a crick in his neck and a weight in his chest that had nothing to do with the firewhisky George had poured into him the night before.

Today was the day.

He had one more lesson to teach you. And then tonight, you'd be with Pucey. Pucey's hands on your waist. Pucey's mouth on yours. Pucey getting to have everything Fred had been dreaming about for three fucking years.

"You look like death," George said cheerfully, dropping into the armchair across from him.

"Warmed over. Shit. Take your pick."

"I'll take all three." George studied him for a moment. "Last one tonight?"

"Last one."

"And then what?"

Fred didn't answer. He didn't have an answer. He'd been so focused on surviving the lessons that he hadn't let himself think about what came after. The aftermath. Watching you with someone else. Pretending to be happy for you. Pretending his heart wasn't being slowly ground into dust.

"I don't know," he said finally. "Get drunk. Set something on fire. The usual."

"Healthy coping mechanisms."

"I'm a very healthy person."

The day crawled by like something wounded.

Fred attended classes in body only. His mind was elsewhere—in the Room of Requirement, in the Charms corridor, anywhere you were. He caught glimpses of you across the Great Hall at lunch, surrounded by Hermione and Ginny, and your eyes met his for just a moment before you looked away.

You looked nervous.

Good, Fred thought viciously. Then immediately: No, not good. I don't want her to be nervous. I want her to be happy. That's all I've ever wanted.

Even if it's not with me.

The thought was a knife between his ribs.

The Room of Requirement had escalated.

Fred stood in the doorway, staring at the scene before him. Same sofa. Same fireplace. But the candles had multiplied exponentially—there were hundreds of them now, floating in elaborate patterns, casting constellations of light across the ceiling. Rose petals on the rug. Actual rose petals. And music, soft and slow, coming from everywhere and nowhere.

"You're taking the piss," Fred told the room. "This is—you're actually taking the piss. This isn't subtle. This is the opposite of subtle. This is a seduction scene from a trashy romance novel."

The candles flickered. Smugly, Fred could have sworn.

He was still glaring at them when the door opened behind him.

"Sorry I'm—" You stopped. "Oh. Oh, wow."

"The room's gone rogue. I have no control over it. I apologize on its behalf."

"It's..." You stepped inside, looking around at the candles, the rose petals, the firelight. "It's kind of beautiful."

You're beautiful, Fred didn't say. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and you're about to go kiss someone else, and I'm going to have to smile and pretend it doesn't kill me.

"You look nice," he said instead, because you did. You'd made an effort—a green dress he'd never seen before, your hair done differently, color on your lips. For the lesson, you'd said. To practice the whole experience.

"It's not too much?"

"No. It's..." He swallowed. "You look beautiful."

Your smile was bright and pleased and completely oblivious to what it did to him. "Thanks. So. Final lesson?"

"Final lesson." He crossed the room slowly, stopping in front of you. Close enough to touch. Close enough to count your eyelashes. "Everything we've covered. Putting it all together. Show me what you've learned."

You stepped into his space without hesitation. Your hands found the back of his neck. Your eyes met his.

And then you kissed him.

No hesitation. No uncertainty. You kissed him like you'd been thinking about it all day, like this was the only thing you'd wanted, like you'd forgotten this was supposed to be a lesson at all. Your body pressed against his, your fingers in his hair, your mouth opening under his with a sound that short-circuited his brain entirely.

His hands found your waist. Your hips. The small of your back. He backed you against the wall without conscious thought, and you arched into him, and he groaned against your mouth, and somewhere in the back of his mind a voice was screaming this is a lesson this is practice this is supposed to mean nothing—

But it didn't feel like nothing.

It felt like everything.

Your fingers traced his jaw. Your teeth grazed his lower lip. You made a sound—soft and wanting and surprised, like you hadn't known you could feel this way—and Fred broke.

He kissed you deeper. Harder. Desperate. Like you were oxygen and he'd been drowning for years. His hands slid under the hem of your dress, just barely, just enough to feel the warmth of your skin, and you gasped into his mouth and pulled him closer.

"Fred—"

"Is this—"

"Don't stop. Please don't stop."

So he didn't. He kissed you until his lips were numb and his lungs were burning and his heart was a drumbeat against his ribs, and when you finally broke apart, gasping, forehead to forehead, your lipstick smeared across both your mouths, he almost said it.

The words were right there. I love you. I've loved you for years. Don't go. Don't kiss him. Choose me. Please. Please choose me.

"You're ready," he said instead.

Something in your face shuttered. "Ready?"

"For tonight. For Pucey." The name tasted like poison. "You've got it all down. The technique, the rhythm, the—" His voice cracked. "He won't know what hit him."

"Right." You stepped back, smoothing down your dress with hands that trembled slightly. "Tonight."

You walked to the door. Paused with your hand on the frame. Looked back at him.

"Fred?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For..." You gestured vaguely at the room, the candles, him. "This. All of it. I know it was probably weird for you."

Weird, he thought. Weird is one word for it. Agonizing is another. Soul-destroying is a third.

"What are friends for?" he said.

You left.

Fred stayed in the Room of Requirement until the candles burned out, one by one. Until the fire died to embers. Until the room went cold and dark around him.

He pressed his fingers to his lips and tried not to think about how they were still tingling, still warm, still tasting faintly of you.

You met Adrian Pucey at the portrait hole at seven o'clock sharp.

He was already there when you arrived—leaning against the wall with the practiced casualness of someone who knew he looked good and wanted to make sure everyone else knew it too. Dark hair, expensive robes, the kind of smile that had probably charmed a hundred people before you.

"Right on time," he said, offering his arm. "I like that."

Fred would have made a joke about being late, you thought, and then immediately pushed the thought away.

"Thanks for inviting me," you said, taking his arm.

"My pleasure. I've been wanting to ask you for a while. Just never got the chance before I graduated."

The walk to Hogsmeade was cold but clear. Pucey talked the whole way—about his job at the Ministry, about his family's connections, about the Quidditch match he was here to watch. You made appropriate noises at appropriate intervals. Nodded. Smiled. Tried to focus on the words coming out of his mouth instead of the way his hand felt on your arm.

It wasn't a bad hand. It was a perfectly nice hand. Warm, dry, appropriately placed.

It just wasn't Fred's hand.

Stop it, you told yourself. Stop comparing. This is a date. A real date. With a handsome older man who actually wants to be here. Be present.

The Three Broomsticks was warm and crowded, full of the Saturday night chaos of students and villagers alike. Pucey found a table in the corner—"I know the owner," he said, as if this was impressive—and ordered two Butterbeers without asking what you wanted.

Fred always asked what you wanted.

Stop it.

"So," Pucey said, leaning back in his chair with the easy confidence of someone who'd never been uncertain about anything in his life. "Seventh year. How's it going? Dumbledore's Army still running? Umbridge still being a nightmare?"

"Both, yes. Though we're not supposed to talk about the DA."

"Right, right. Secret society. Very mysterious." He grinned. "I always knew you were the interesting type."

"I'm not sure interesting is the word most people would use."

"What word would they use?"

You thought about it. Thought about Fred, and what Fred would say. Brilliant. Stubborn. Terrifying. The only person who's ever made me forget my own punchline.

"Quiet," you said. "Most people would say quiet."

"Quiet can be good. Mysterious. Keeps a man guessing."

Pucey talked for another hour. About Quidditch. About the Ministry. About his plans to "move up quickly" because he had "connections." You drank your Butterbeer and nodded and tried to pay attention, but your mind kept drifting.

Fred would have asked about your day. Fred would have made you laugh until your stomach hurt. Fred would have stolen sips of your Butterbeer and then denied it even with foam on his upper lip.

Fred. Fred. Fred.

The name was a drumbeat in your head.

By the time Pucey suggested a walk, you were exhausted from the effort of pretending to be present.

"Cold out," he said, stepping closer as you left the pub. "Here, let me."

He draped his cloak over your shoulders without waiting for an answer. It smelled like expensive cologne. Nothing like Fred's jumper, which always smelled faintly of smoke and cinnamon and something you could never quite identify.

"Thanks," you said.

"My pleasure." He stopped under a streetlamp, turning to face you. The light caught his features, sharp and handsome. "I had a really good time tonight."

"Me too," you lied.

"I'd like to see you again. If you're interested."

You opened your mouth. Didn't know what to say. Didn't know what you wanted. Before you could formulate a response, Pucey leaned in.

The kiss was... fine.

Technically proficient. His hand found your jaw—Fred's lesson, the jaw thing, you'd done this exact move in the Room of Requirement—and his lips pressed against yours with appropriate pressure. He tasted like Butterbeer and mint. There was tongue, a little too much, just like Fred had predicted.

And you felt absolutely nothing.

Pay attention, Fred's voice echoed in your head. Be present. Listen with your whole body.

You tried. You really tried. You closed your eyes and let him kiss you and tried to feel something—anything—other than the growing certainty that this was wrong. That he was wrong. That the hands on your waist weren't the right hands and the mouth on yours wasn't the right mouth and the body pressed against yours wasn't the right body.

You thought about Fred.

The way he'd kissed you in the first lesson—careful and controlled, like he was holding himself back. The way his hands had tightened on your waist like he couldn't help himself. The way he'd made that sound, low and wanting, like you'd surprised him. The way he'd looked at you in the firelight, something raw and vulnerable flickering behind his eyes before he covered it with a joke.

That's the one, you thought. That's the one you're supposed to feel.

Pucey pulled back. Smiled. "Not bad, right?"

"Not bad," you echoed.

"Definitely want to see you again. Next Hogsmeade weekend, maybe? Or I could come up to the castle sooner. Flint can get me in."

"I'll... let you know."

He walked you back to the castle, still talking. You made sounds of agreement at appropriate intervals. Your mind was elsewhere. It had never left the Room of Requirement. It had never left Fred.

At the portrait hole, Pucey kissed you again—brief, confident, a promise of more to come. "Owl me," he said. "I'll be waiting."

And then he was gone, and you were climbing through the portrait hole, and you were thinking: I've made a terrible mistake.

The common room was nearly dark.

The fire had burned down to embers, casting long shadows across the furniture. Everyone had gone to bed—it was past midnight, you'd been walking around the grounds for an hour trying to clear your head—and the only sound was the soft crackle of dying flames.

And Fred.

Fred was in his usual armchair. Still dressed. Still awake. Waiting for something, or nothing, or you.

You stopped just inside the portrait hole. Your lipstick was smudged. Your hair was mussed from the wind. Pucey's cloak was still draped over your shoulders—you'd forgotten to give it back.

Fred's eyes went to the cloak immediately. His jaw tightened.

"Hey," he said, and his voice was perfectly casual. Dangerously casual. "You're back late. Or early. Depends on your perspective."

"Why are you still up?"

"Couldn't sleep." He didn't stand. Didn't move. Just looked at you from his chair with an expression you couldn't read. "Nice cloak."

Your stomach dropped. "It's Pucey's. I forgot to give it back."

"Generous of him. Lending you his cloak. Very chivalrous." The word came out like an insult. "What else did he lend you? His tongue, apparently. You've got—" He gestured vaguely at his own mouth. "Lipstick situation."

You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand. "Fred—"

"So how was it? The date. The big night. Did Sir Adrian live up to expectations?" He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Come on, I've been sitting here for hours. Entertain me."

"It was fine."

"Fine." He nodded slowly. "Just fine? That's all I get? Three days of intensive instruction, and the review is 'fine'? I'm going to need more detail than that. For quality assurance purposes."

You crossed the room. Stopped in front of his chair. Looked down at him. "Why are you being like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like—" You gestured at him, frustrated. "Sarcastic. Mean. You're being an arsehole."

"I'm always sarcastic. It's part of my charm." He stood up, and suddenly he was too close, and you had to tilt your head back to look at him. "But fine. You want me to stop being sarcastic? Let's be direct. Did he kiss you?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"What?"

"Where did he kiss you? Outside the pub? On the walk back? At the portrait hole? Be specific."

"The walk back. Under a streetlamp. Very romantic." Your voice dripped with something you didn't quite recognize. Anger, maybe. Or guilt. Or both.

"And did you use what I taught you? The hand placement? The rhythm? Did you pay attention to his responses like a good student?"

"Fred—"

"Because I've been thinking about it all night. Sitting here. Waiting. Wondering if my lessons were effective. If you knocked him dead like I told you to." He stepped closer. His eyes were dark, unreadable. "So. Final exam. What was the verdict?"

"He used too much tongue."

"Knew it. Called it. Pucey's a tongue guy." Fred's voice was sharp-edged, a blade wrapped in a joke. "What else?"

"He talked about Quidditch for two hours. He didn't ask me a single question about myself. He ordered my drink without asking what I wanted." You were listing grievances now, the words spilling out. "He lent me his cloak like I was some damsel who couldn't handle a little cold. And when he kissed me—"

You stopped.

"When he kissed you?" Fred prompted. His voice was quieter now. Dangerous.

"When he kissed me, I felt nothing."

The word landed like a stone in still water.

"Nothing," Fred repeated.

"Nothing. It was technically fine. He did everything right. But I felt—" You swallowed. "I felt nothing. It was empty. It was like kissing a wall. A handsome, arrogant, Slytherin-shaped wall."

"Tragic."

"And the whole time—" Your voice cracked. "The whole time, I was thinking about you."

Fred went very still.

"The way you kissed me," you continued, and now the words were coming faster, unstoppable, a dam breaking. "The way your hands felt. The way you pulled me closer like you couldn't help yourself. The way you looked at me in the firelight. I kept comparing him to you, Fred. Every single second. Every single kiss. And he didn't even come close."

"Don't," Fred said hoarsely.

"Don't what?"

"Don't do this." He stepped back. His hands were shaking. He shoved them in his pockets. "Don't stand there with his cloak on your shoulders and his lipstick on your mouth and tell me you were thinking about me. That's not—" He stopped. Swallowed. His jaw was so tight you could see the muscle jumping. "That's not fair."

"Fair?" You laughed—a sharp, humorless sound. "You want to talk about fair? You've been acting strange all week. Cutting lessons short. Avoiding me. Looking at me like I was hurting you and then pretending everything was fine. You kissed me—you kissed me like that—and then you told me to go be with someone else. And now you want to lecture me about what's fair?"

"I was trying to protect myself!"

"From what?"

"From this!" He gestured between you, wild and desperate. "From standing here while you tell me you thought about me while another man had his hands on you. From hoping for something I can't have. From—" His voice cracked. "From loving you for three fucking years and watching you choose someone else."

The words echoed in the silence.

"Three years?" you said.

"Since fifth year. Since that quidditch meeting where you stood up to that Slytherin prick who was giving me shit. You didn't even hesitate. Just stepped in front of me and told him to fuck off. I knew then." He laughed, bitter and broken. "I've known ever since. And I've been pretending ever since. Every joke, every prank, every time I made you laugh—it was all just... trying to be close to you. Trying to be something to you. And then you asked me to teach you how to kiss someone else, and I thought—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I thought I could do it. I thought I could be selfless. But I can't. I can't fucking do it. It's killing me."

You stared at him.

This boy—this ridiculous, brilliant, infuriating boy—who'd been your best friend for seven years. Who'd made you laugh when you wanted to cry. Who'd sat with you in the hospital wing when you'd caught that weird flu in third year. Who'd hexed anyone who looked at you wrong and then denied it. Who'd kissed you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered and then told you to go be with someone else.

"You absolute fucking idiot," you said.

"I'm aware."

"Three years?"

"Give or take. I lost count around year two."

"And you never said anything?"

"What was I supposed to say?" He dragged a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. "'Hey, I know we're best friends and you trust me implicitly, but I'm actually completely gone on you and have been for years, hope that doesn't make things weird'? That would've gone over brilliantly."

"It would have gone over better than this!"

"Would it?" He stepped closer again, and his voice was raw, scraped open. "Would it really? Because you just spent an entire evening with another man. You kissed him. You wore his cloak. And you came back here and told me you thought about me the whole time. But you're still standing there, and you haven't told me what you want."

"Because I didn't know!" The words burst out of you. "I didn't know what I wanted. I didn't know what any of this meant. I've never done this before—any of it. I didn't know that kissing someone could feel like nothing or like everything. I didn't know that the person I wanted was right in front of me the whole time. I didn't know."

"And now?" Fred's voice was barely above a whisper. "Do you know now?"

You looked at him. Really looked. At his rumpled clothes and his tired eyes and his jaw that was still tight with tension. At his hands that were still shaking, shoved in his pockets like he was afraid of what they'd do if he let them free. At the boy who'd been your best friend for seven years and in love with you for three.

"Yes," you said. "I know now."

Fred didn't move. Didn't breathe. "And?"

"I don't want Pucey. I don't want anyone else." You stepped closer, close enough to touch. "I want you. I've wanted you since the first lesson. Maybe before. I don't know. I just know that every time you kissed me, I forgot it was supposed to be practice. Every time you pulled away, I wanted to pull you back. Every time you made a joke and pretended it didn't matter—" Your voice cracked. "It mattered to me. You matter to me."

Fred stared at you for a long moment. The firelight flickered across his face, catching the gold in his eyes, the slight tremor in his lower lip.

Then he moved.

His hands came out of his pockets and cupped your face—gentle, so gentle, like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. His thumbs brushed your cheekbones. His forehead pressed against yours.

"Say it again," he said hoarsely. "Please. I need to hear you say it again."

"I want you, Fred Weasley. You. Not Pucey. Not anyone else. You."

He kissed you.

Not a lesson. Not practice. Not holding back. Fred Weasley kissed you like he'd been waiting his whole life to do it—desperately, reverently, like you were the answer to a question he'd stopped letting himself ask. His hands slid from your face to your waist, pulling you against him, and you fisted your hands in his shirt and kissed him back with everything you had.

"Three years," he murmured against your mouth. "Three years I've been wanting to do that."

"Then don't stop now."

He didn't.

He kissed you until you were both breathless, until your lips were swollen and your heart was racing and the cloak—Pucey's stupid cloak—had slipped off your shoulders and pooled on the floor, forgotten. He kissed you like he was trying to memorize you, like he was making up for lost time, like he was terrified this was a dream and he'd wake up any second.

When you finally broke apart, gasping, his forehead still pressed against yours, he laughed—a real laugh, surprised and joyful and slightly hysterical.

"What?" you asked.

"I'm just—" He shook his head. "I'm having a moment. This is a moment. I'm allowed to have a moment."

"You're allowed to have a moment."

"I've been imagining this for three years. Three years. And the reality is—" He pulled back to look at you, and his expression was so open, so vulnerable, so completely unguarded that it made your chest ache. "You're so much better than anything I imagined. It's not even close."

"That's a very smooth line."

"It's not a line. I don't have lines. I'm emotionally compromised. My defenses are down. You're seeing the real Fred Weasley, and the real Fred Weasley is a complete fucking disaster who's been pining over his best friend for the better part of a decade."

"The real Fred Weasley is kind of cute when he's honest."

"Cute? I'm going for devastatingly handsome. Rugged. Mysterious."

"You just admitted you're a disaster."

"A rugged disaster. A mysterious disaster. There's a difference."

You laughed, and the sound was bright and real and full of something you didn't have a name for yet. Fred's arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, and he buried his face in your hair.

"I love you," he said quietly. "I know it's fast. I know we haven't—I know this is new. But I've been holding it in for three years and I can't—I need you to know. I love you."

Your heart stuttered. "Fred—"

"You don't have to say it back. I'm not expecting—"

"I love you too."

He pulled back to stare at you. "What?"

"I love you. I think I've loved you for a while. I was just too stupid to realize it." You cupped his face in your hands, mirroring his earlier gesture. "I'm sorry it took me so long. I'm sorry I kissed someone else. I'm sorry I asked you to—"

"Don't." He covered your hands with his. "Don't apologize. You didn't know. I didn't tell you. If anyone should apologize—"

"Don't you dare. You were trying to protect yourself. I get it. I get all of it." You went up on your toes and kissed him, soft and brief. "But from now on, no more protecting. No more hiding behind jokes. No more pretending. Deal?"

"Deal." His grin was back—the real one, the one that crinkled his eyes and made him look like he was up to something. "But I'm still going to make jokes. It's a core part of my personality. I can't just turn it off."

"Wouldn't expect you to."

"Good. Because I have several prepared. Starting with the fact that Pucey's cloak is on the floor and I'm going to take that as a metaphor."

You glanced down at the crumpled cloak. "What kind of metaphor?"

"He's beneath me. Literally and figuratively." Fred's grin widened. "Also, I'm going to owl it back to him tomorrow with a note saying 'thanks for keeping her warm, I'll take it from here.'"

"You absolutely will not."

"I absolutely will. It's already written. In my head. The prose is devastating."

"You're impossible."

"And yet you love me."

"And yet I love you," you agreed.

He kissed you again—softer this time, sweeter, full of promise and relief and something that felt like coming home. When he pulled back, his eyes were bright.

"So what now?" you asked.

"Now?" He glanced around the empty common room, at the dying fire and the dark windows and the castle settling into silence around them. "Now we go to bed, because it's two in the morning and I'm running on approximately six hours of sleep for the whole week. And tomorrow—" He paused. "Tomorrow I'm taking you to Hogsmeade. Properly. As a date. I'll buy you a Butterbeer and ask you questions about yourself and not talk about Quidditch at all."

"That sounds perfect."

"It does, doesn't it? I'm very good at this boyfriend thing already."

"Boyfriend?"

He had the grace to look slightly nervous. "Too fast?"

"No." You smiled, reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of his eyes. "Not too fast. Just right."

He walked you to the stairs to the girls' dormitory. Paused at the bottom. His hand found yours, fingers interlacing like they'd been doing it for years.

"Goodnight," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Fred."

You were halfway up the stairs to the girls' dormitory when you heard it—barely audible, muttered under his breath like a curse he couldn't quite swallow.

"Fuck that pussy."

You stopped dead. Turned on the step. "OI, FRED, I'M NOT DEAF—"

A pause. Then, from the common room below, utterly unrepentant: "Ah. Well."

It’s pretty obvious how in love the two of you were with each other and you’ve become a viral sports couple in the media. The fans adore your dynamic, dubbing James the cheeky loverboy and you the shy sweetheart, which were pretty accurate titles. Their support and love for your relationship made you wonder why you both were so worried about becoming public in the first place, granted there were a few bad eggs here and there but the majority accepted your relationship and you couldn’t be happier. However, you do wonder whether the reason why your relationship became public added to that positive reception or not. 

The moment James came over and claimed you as ‘his girl’, it went viral on social media. Many people reported on the incident, made multiple edits of it and some even scoured through videos of past games James played in to try and spot you in the crowd, just to speculate on how long you’ve been together. With all of that, the two of you quickly overtook some of the current famous celebrity couples in popularity. It was quite a romantic way of announcing your relationship, especially when James had the reputation of being the playful goofball of the team through interviews and such; seeing him get aggressive outside of the sport was surprising.

It didn’t help that, on one of your spontaneous dates with James was clipped by Sirius and sent circulating everywhere online. 

James had asked for access to the rink so he could practice some moves in his free time and you tagged along with lunch whilst Sirius and Remus came for company and fun. Soon enough, it turned into you and James just having fun on the ice. You’re a clumsy, first-born fawn on skates but James was always there to steady you with his sturdy frame and strong arms so you had more fun skating than you typically would on your own. The two of you were giggling and joking about, just being the sweet couple that were and being so incredibly cute that Sirius couldn’t find it in himself to tease you two about it. Instead, Sirius merely captured the moment James lifted you in his arms - the typical princess cary - and took you for a lap around the ice on video and posted it on his instagram story. There was no audio to overshadow the laughter you and James shared before you cupped his cheek and kissed him deeply. The lighting, the moment and the chemistry between you two couldn’t be denied and you went viral again. It was a lot of attention, mostly good but some bad too. 

Trust Sirius to give the fans what they want, seeing as how you and James still try to stay private about your relationship on social media. It wasn’t too much of an issue though since he always asked before posting anything, this particular post though, was the only exception. 

Nevertheless, you couldn’t be happier because, now, you can freely support your hard working boyfriend without having to hide under baggy hoodies. Sometimes you dressed up in a cute dress, sometimes you dressed down into one of James’s spare jerseys, proudly showcasing his name and number. It’s a secret but he loves it most when you wear his jersey. It’s also a secret that you wear his jersey whenever you want him to take you home early with no plans of leaving the bed for the night and most of the following morning. He treats you so well. 

In this particular game, you had made something special for James to wish him more luck and comfort. It wasn’t much but you wanted him to have something that’ll remind him you were always close by. You also wanted to give him a real good luck kiss before the pre-game warm ups started. James had expressed to you the night before that his nerves were more sensitive than usual because the team they were up against were quite formidable. He knew it, his team knew it and the fans knew it so the seats were packed for the game tonight - it was nerve-wracking. Tonight would be the perfect time to give him the gift.    

On the way to the locker rooms behind the rink, you were a little unsure of which changing room James was in because you wanted this to be a surprise and didn’t ask for any further information. 

“Oh, hello there,” A man with a black and yellow jersey greets you as he walks out the locker room door you were contemplating knocking on or not, previously unsure of which team was in which but immediately went warm in the cheeks upon realising the mix up, “how did you get down here, pretty lady?” he flirts, making your breath stutter. It didn’t feel right for any other guy to address you so endearingly if they weren’t your James.

“I’m so sorry,” you quickly regain yourself and clutch your small present in your hand, “I mistook which locker room to go to,”

“No worries,” he leans down in an effort to level with your height and meet your eyes more directly, “but I am a little disappointed that you aren’t here to see m-” he’s cut off when you catch a glimpse of James over his shoulder and run the distance to his figure outside the locker room further down the hall. 

“James!” you run into his arms with a grin, completely forgetting the man you had just encountered, who was now in a silent death-stare exchange with your boyfriend. Running up to him, you miss James muttering something under his breath, eyeing the figure past your own. 

“Number five…”

“Look James, I made this for you,” you present the gift, “for good luck,” the excitement in your voice gradually fades with the influence of your bashfulness. 

James kept the opposing player, who had not left yet, in his peripheral as he turned his attention to the soft face towel you were offering him. His heart swells when, in the corner, he spots neat stitches of yours and his initials surrounded by cutely embroidered hearts. You’re really so cute, he can’t fathom how he ever got so lucky. His heart softens further when he takes in your timid but adorable form, looking up at him with curious eyes, gauging his reaction. 

“Thank you, sweetheart,” James says, his voice purring more than usual. He has full confidence that despite the opposing player displaying clear interest in you, never leaving and still eyeing up your form, James knows that you will always be his and him, you. Your focused eyes solely trained on him, your sweet smile only for him to see and your cute way of dressing only for him to undress later, it’s all for him and it’s all he needs to know that you are his forever, “I love it,”

“Reall-” he cuts off your excitement by pressing his lips against yours, throwing your gift to rest on his shoulder so he can have both his hands free to trace your silhouette down to your cute butt and give a possessive squeeze. Like clockwork, you squeal into his lips and give perfect access for his tongue to ravish yours. It’s a very heated and possessive display. James wants everyone who sees you two to know that he’s the only one who can have you like this and you’re the only one who can make him like this.  

Lost in each other, time quickly passes and when you two eventually pull away, the other player is gone. Good riddance, James scoffs in his head, his telling smirk giving away his thoughts. You could see it all. Being his girlfriend, you knew exactly why James behaved like that but you weren’t complaining; you got one hell of a kiss out of it and there was no violence, nobody was hurt. What he needed was for you to anchor him. And you did, by gently taking your gifted face towel off his shoulder and pressing it to the perimeter of his face. 

No words needed to be spoken, James could see it all in your eyes. You knew him too well to let his actions slip past like that, however, knowing that your response was only to reassure him with a tender touch and loving actions rather than berate him, his love for you grew even more. He loves you so much. Soft and with a comforting ache in his chest, James hugs you and lifts you off the floor. He tucks his face into your neck and whispers his apology into your skin.  

“I’m sorry…I didn’t hurt you did I?” he asks, face still nuzzling your neck as you bury your own into his unruly, dark curls. 

“You didn’t hurt me, Jamie…”

“Good…I’m sorry for being so forceful and…possessive,” still in his arms and with your feet off the floor, he gives you a small squeeze.

“...I love you,” was your only reply; your own way of forgiving him.

“God…” James sighs dreamily, pulling back to and press a tender kiss onto your lips, “I love you more,”

You giggle and kiss him again, “I love you most,”

“Impossible,”

When the game finally started that night and you had properly kissed your boyfriend ‘good luck’, James became a prominent instigator on the ice. His plays were more violent and aggressive, especially to a particular player wearing the number five. It was pretty bad and you were getting worried, not just for James but for the other team’s number five. 

Half time comes and James is seen getting a visible talk down from the coach, there was tension in the air but the excitement for the game still too precedence, shaking the air with an infectious vibration. Before the game starts its second half, James makes a quick visit to your front seat for his usual kiss past the glass. This time, however, he wasn’t being a goofball and worried you but his tense figure visibly relaxed after the pseudo kiss, much to your relief. The second half of the game, he wasn’t as violent but became the top scorer, earning point after point after point.

Suffice to say, James’s team was the clear winner and you had much to celebrate his victory on the ice in the bedroom.  

NAVI.

A/N : this was one of my unexpectedly really popular timestamps, thank you all for the support! hopefully you darlings like this addition just as much as the first. i've taken the liberty of adding additional tags who expressed their interest in the first timestamp if you lovelies don't mind

He had his arm up as he leaned against the wall with his complete focus on you. Knowing their friend, the two boys could see James straining himself from reaching out to touch you somehow. 

James had all of his attention on you as you told a story from work that involved Remus and a nasty customer. They had never seen him pay attention so adamantly. 

Before you left, James made it his mission to get your number. He said it was to add you to the groupchat, which he was going to do, but he also wanted it for himself. 

James leaned back in his chair at the bar when Emmeline brought up a different point, which Lily also disagreed with. He rested his arm on the back of your chair like he always did. 

“What do you think?” he asked. 

“I mean, Lily’s right on the first part,” you said. 

Lily didn’t hear you. Sirius was yelling to have his opinion heard. 

James put his free hand over his heart. “Ugh, you wound me, love!”

“Not my fault you’re painfully pure blooded sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” he scoffed. “Not knowing that that, that… that plastic thing was money is not my fault!”

“Credit card,” you said with a laugh. 

James had made himself your “shopping buddy.” He had texted you a few days after that first meeting. You weren’t expecting anyone from the group to text you individually, so you were floored when you saw the text was from James. 

<bored. u doing anything?>

You told him you were running errands and he asked if he could come with. You said if he really wanted to. He did really want to. 

“Sorry if my text was out of the blue. I really enjoyed talking to you the other night and I wanted to see you again,” James said as you walked out of the first store. 

“It was unexpected, but it’s… nice to not be shopping alone,” you said, missing his flirtation and trying to cover how nervous you were that James would be secretly judging everything you were buying. 

A later store that you visited was a muggle established and, therefore, you paid with muggle currency via your credit card. He had never seen one before. That was wild to you. Surely, Lily had one. 

Apparently James had such a good time that he wanted to go shopping with you again. And again. Each time he went with, he carried your bags and held open doors. Sometimes he tried to pay, but you usually said no. You didn’t need James to pay for your things. 

Then it started shifting into hanging out. He’d text you, asking if you were doing anything. If you weren’t, you’d say that he could come over if he was bored. Not even ten minutes later, there’d be a knock on your door. 

James was always a quick responder when it came to your texts. He’d be fully immersed in a conversation, hear your text tone, and drop the person he was with. 

/kitchen light is out, can you fix next time you come over?/

Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock at your door with James holding flowers. 

“Flowers? I need a light bulb,” you said, a little teasingly. 

“Another thing to brighten your kitchen,” he said with a wink. 

You would’ve kept the flowers on your counter far longer after they died, but as soon as they started to wilt at all, James brought another bouquet. And when that one started to wilt, he appeared with another. 

Another time you had shown up to play cards at the boys’ house early. You came straight from work, knowing you wouldn’t have had enough time to go home and eat dinner. 

“Bosses and their last minute meetings,” you said disgruntledly. “Crisps are dinner, right?”

You said it as an offhand comment. You were perfectly fine with munching on the snacks that were on the table. 

But James had already stood up. “I’ll make you dinner.”

Then he disappeared into the kitchen. You thought he was kidding. Or maybe he’d come out with a soup bowl full of snacks. You were chatting with Peter and Remus so you didn’t notice how much time passed until James returned with one of your favorite meals. 

“James!” you gasped. “You really didn’t have to!”

“I’d do anything for you,” he said with a gentle smile. He was waiting for you to take a bite and give him a review. 

Peter and Remus exchanged a glance, both knowing that James wasn’t joking about that. 

A little more than a week before your plans to meet at the bar, the group made plans to go to Diagon Alley. James spent a good chunk of the day getting doors for you, as he always did, and being told to not buy you things. He didn’t see why you shouldn’t have the things you wanted, but if you said no, he didn’t buy it.

The group split up as James, Sirius, Remus and Peter all wanted to go into a small joke shop and you and Lily were dragging Marlene into a jewelry store. Surprisingly, you were done first and told the other girls you’d wait outside. James saw you looking at the display window in the shop next to the jewelry store. He had half a mind to go join you. 

Not even five minutes later, there was a thud from the neighboring shop and the boys could see two drunk wizards stumble out into the street, pulling out their wands. James was immediately heading for the door to make sure you didn’t get in the way of the fight. Not that you couldn’t defend yourself. He was just making sure. 

He barely had time to yell your name before he sprinted across the street and pushed you into the opening next to the shop. The duelers barreled past you. It took you both a second to realize the position James had you in. 

Back against a wall and pressed against James. Really pressed against James.

He was breathing heavily and your heart rate was skyrocketing. If you were any other girl and the others saw you in this moment, they’d assume they interrupted something rather intimate. But this was you and James. So it wasn’t. 

“Are you okay?” James asked, letting the pressure off of you. 

“I-I think so?” you said. You looked past James. “What was that?”

“Drunkards.”

“Oh.”

James put one hand on your shoulder and used the other to turn your chin towards him. 

“You’re sure you’re okay? I didn’t grab you too hard? I just wanted to make sure you were out of the way and-“

“James, I’m okay,” you said, immediately shutting him up. 

You were trying to keep your thoughts straight as neither you nor James moved. You swore his eyes dropped to your lips. You figured you imagined it as immediately after he cleared his throat. 

“They’re gone, so I suppose it’s okay…”

“Right,” you croaked, and then proceeded to clear your own throat. 

Seeing the two of you emerge, both with noticeable blushes, your friends assumed that James had finally kissed you. He didn’t have to tell them that he wanted to. With how you were, they just knew it hadn’t happened yet. 

But when you didn’t hold hands or do anything out of the normal for the rest of the day, they weren’t sure if it had happened. Surely something would’ve changed if he had kissed you. 

“Anyone else need a refill?” you asked, standing up from the table with your empty glass. 

James scanned the table. “I think we’re good, love.”

You nodded and headed up to the bar. Only once you’re gone did he let his arm fall from the back of your chair. 

“So, you two official yet?” Lily asked once you were out of earshot. 

James sighed. He was watching you walk away. 

“She doesn’t fancy me.”

Half the table started laughing. You wished you hadn’t looked back at the noise. Several of them were looking your way. Were they laughing at you?

“I can tell you for a fact that she does,” Remus said. 

“She tells you who she fancies?” James asked disbelievingly. 

“Well, no, but it’s the most obvious thing in the world.”

“She doesn’t object to you being all over her,” Marlene pointed out. 

“I’m not-“

“Your arm lives on her shoulder!” Peter said. “And didn’t she have her feet in your lap last week?”

That was after cards had finished and you were lingering at the boys' house. James had turned on the television. You got comfortable. Could you be blamed?

“Don’t forget when he moved her hair out of her face for her!” Lily added. 

“I’ve moved Sirius’ hair out of his face,” James said. 

Sirius barked a laugh. “We were smashed. Doesn't count.”

James shook his head. 

“I don’t see how that proves she fancies me. If she did, wouldn’t she have-“

“Called you every day after work this week? Yeah, she did do that,” Remus said, cutting him off. 

One of your coworkers was being a full-on bitch and you needed to rant. Who else were you going to rant to?

“Well, I don’t know how to be more clear that I like her without literally spelling it out. I like being around her so I’m not going to go spilling my heart to her if there’s a chance she’ll take it poorly.”

“You lot are ridiculous,” Emmeline said. She waited until you got back to the table before asking, “Y/N, loo?”

“Um, yeah. Sure,” you said, setting your drink down next to James and then following her into the restroom. 

You stayed out by the sinks while she went into a stall. 

“So, you and James, huh?” 

You blinked, staring at the closed stall door. 

“Me and James what?” you asked. 

“You’re properly dating, aren’t you?”

You let out a startled laugh. “I wish!” Then you covered your mouth, not that Emmeline could see. “Don’t tell him I said that!”

There was a flush and then Emmeline came out to wash her hands. 

“He seems pretty smitten with you. Didn’t you come together?”

James did ditch the boys to walk with you from your flat to the bar. 

“Yeah, but he doesn’t like me like that.”

“No?” she asked, looking at you through your reflection in the mirror. 

“How could he? He’s…” You flourished your hand in front of you. “All that. Always has a joke or a story, love the attention on him, you know? And I’m a one comment here and there. I would rather die than be the center of attention.” You capped it off with a shrug. 

“Opposites attract.”

“With magnets, maybe. But think about it. Sirius? Just as crazy as James. Marlene and Lily too.”

Emmeline had started to go for the door but stopped. She turned around and gave you a look that was almost pitiful. 

“If you’re thinking that James couldn’t fancy you because he once fancied Lily, forget that. There’s a reason it didn’t work out,” she said. 

After that, you started overanalyzing everything James did. The way he held open the door for you when you were leaving.  The way he walked on the road-side of the sidewalk. Asked if you were all good before he went home himself, offering his late-night chef abilities. 

“Okay if I come round tomorrow? Flowers are looking a little… droopy,” he said from your doorway. 

“You’re always welcome, James.”

He pulled you in for a hug and rested his chin on the top of your head. He wanted to spend the night. He’d sleep on the couch, on the floor, wherever you deemed fit, just so he didn’t have to leave. You didn’t want him to leave either, but you couldn’t say that. 

Over a week passed. You found yourself staring at the flowers. James had replaced them again and you swore the bouquet was larger this time. It was stunning. 

You could pretend the calls and texts were friendly. Him going shopping with you was because he was bored. You hung out all the time because you were friends. Emmeline thinking you were dating? That sat in your mind. And the flowers… You couldn’t explain those away. 

Your phone buzzed. 

<eaten yet?>

/no/

<good. I want to try a new recipe. Be there in 10>

You laughed softly at your phone. He was coming to your flat to make dinner. You were capable of going to his place, but he had once said it was nice to get away from the boys. A change of scenery. 

When James arrived, he had arms full of groceries. 

“What are you making?” you asked, taking a bag from him. 

“Found it on the inter-web. But also picked up some things for you…”

You looked into the bag you had taken. It was filled with some items you always kept on hand and were actually running low on. 

“Did you look in my cupboards last night or something?” you asked. 

“I go grocery shopping with you. I know your list,” he said with a shrug. 

“Uh-huh.” 

It didn’t quite explain how he knew you’d be running low. You didn’t buy these every week. Had he noticed when he was here last? You weren’t sure. 

James got to work cooking and you turned on the radio to a low volume. You knew he would hum along to the songs he knew. You leaned back against the counter to watch him at work. 

Merlin, he was so pretty… 

“You alright, love?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“You’ve just been… staring. Not that I mind. I know I look good,” he said, flexing at the end. 

“I just… I… Do you like me?” 

He chuckled softly and smiled at you. “I only spend all of my time with you.”

“Sorry, silly question…” you said with your voice barely louder than a whisper and then turning to walk out of the kitchen. “Of course you like me. We’re friends.”

There was a tinge of bitterness to the word friends and James caught it. Once again, he thought his answer was clear. He thought that you had maybe caught on that he really liked you. 

He reached out for your arm. 

“Friends if that’s all you want to be,” he said. He swallowed. “Cause I’m willing to be whatever you want me to be.”

You slowly put your hand on top of his. 

“If you want things to stay as they are, I’ll do my best to stomp out any feeling that’s more friendly than you want. But if you-“

“James,” you whispered. 

You squeezed his hand and then removed it from your arm so you could properly hold it and turn around. 

“Yes?”

“Would you, kiss me?” 

Part of him wanted to say that he thought you’d never ask. But that gave you time to change your mind and in that moment, James wasn’t risking that. Not when he had wanted to kiss since the day Remus got to join the group. 

James cupped your face with his free hand and kept holding onto your hand with the other. He kept the kiss brief. Even if you did ask him to, he didn’t want to do too much. When he pulled back, he kept his hand on your face, gently rubbing his thumb across your cheek. It was as soft as he had imagined. 

“Did that really just happen?” you whispered. 

“You asked me to,” he said, voice just as soft. “Did it feel like a dream for you too?” 

“Yeah.”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” James said before pulling your face towards his again. 

- i’m getting high school sweethearts or warehouse era when you started dating

- somewhere in between that maybe

- you knew of each other but you’d never really interacted before

- some of your friends were friends with his friends, you would go to parties and see each other, had some classes together

- you didn’t really start interacting until one of his friends started dating your best friend

- your friend groups started to merge more and you got to see each other more

- first conversation was at a house party someone threw

- your friends were mingling and you were in the kitchen grabbing a drink when he came in

- “hey, i’m alfie. never really introduced myself before” you introduced yourself in response

- started chatting and got to know the other

- you REALLY hit it off

- you knew what he was like and you didn’t have a opinion on him, just that he was one of the nicer but rebellious kids at your school

- but you both enjoyed the same things and had a similar music taste

- exchanged numbers and when you wanted to leave, he offered to walk you home xx

- he told you it was on his way (it wasn’t, his house was in the opposite direction)

- sooo awkward in the ‘this is my first time doing this’ kind of way but sooo cute

- halfway through your pinkies brushed and he made the move to hold your hand (he blushed his whole walk back)

- made sure you got into the house okay and greeted your parents when the opened the door

- they already liked him for walking you home and that he wasn’t drunk while doing so

- you know how the conversation went with the parents

- “who’s that?” “no one, mum” “is he a friend?” “i’m going to bed”

- at first it was just hanging out at school, lunch breaks and studying, but then you asked him out one day

- it happened while you were studying and it just slipped out

- he was shocked for a little bit because he obviously wasn’t expecting it before he said yes

- that night you both when to your designated group chats and talked

- dates started and were filled with pink cheeks, stolen glances, the fingers brushing, and it ended with you two being official

- life consisted of school, hanging out with your friends and AB, dates and cuddles on the couch, and family dinners at the others house

- his family absolutely ADORES you ❤️

- thinks you’re polite, respectful, kind, and could teach him a lesson

- you don’t take his shit 💅

- you obviously joke around but you shut things down before it gets too far

- very emotionally mature for your age (the girls who get told that club #me)

- before he gets his car you pick him up after his shifts at the warehouse and get takeout together

- he tries to pay for the gas, you refuse, but let him pay for the food ❤️‍🩹

- fully supporting him with his gym and social media journey and being there through the whole thing

- even though he works out most of the week, he ALWAYS makes time for you

- you loved him as he was, but it was nice seeing him beef up 😋

- more reason for him to be bigger spoon

- and his waist is the perfect size for you to wrap your arms around it and lean on him

- easily forgets his size and accidentally man handles you (you don’t mind)

- when you go to uni you do long distance when you don’t have time or energy to make it back home

- surprises you when he can ❤️

- since he’s gotten more money from being online he tries to spoil you more but you fight it as best as you can

- you don’t want him to think you’re there for the money, but he doesn’t think that at all

- AB WANTS to spoil you

- takes you with him to all the trips he goes on with the boys whether that’s to monaco or camping for a podcast

- when you’ve graduated from uni and a little too old (in your opinion) to be living in your parents house, he asks you to move in with him in the grotto

- you obviously do xx promising you’ll pay your share of rent (you don’t know this but he takes the money you give him for rent and puts it back in your account)

- you guys make it your own little home 🏡

- plants and a garden outside, pillows and blankets strewn across the couch, your books piled on the floor, it’s lived in

- always makes jokes complaining about things you do (mostly leaving stuff around)

- “the misses always leaves her shit around the gaff making it look like a mess, it’s not me, blame her” (he overreacts)

- always just cute side comments that he doesn’t think much about but the fans do

- “yeah, she taught me this” “she called me last night to check up on me, make sure i’m not dyin’” “she’s staying at the gaff while i’m gone, makin’ sure no riff raffs break in”

- you aren’t at ratatouille level cooking skills but you make decent meals

- your skills are used to keep AB alive and not filled with just chicken nuggets and monster

- have to be careful with what you make though because your man eats like a 12-year-old

- if anything has sauce, you take it out and makes sure only yours has it

- you have made some progress in that area though, getting him to try basic things like fries with gravy and (some) pasta sauce

- with dating AB, you’ve helped him expand his food palate and he has helped you exercise more

- it wasn’t like you didn’t exercise, you did once or twice a week, but now he’s got you going hiking together 🌲

- randomly deciding to go hiking all the time

- “hey, you wanna go on a hike?” “where” “i don’t know” “. . . sure”

- you’ve definitely swam in your underwear/skinny dipped before in a lake or something

- very thrilling and peaceful actually

- sucked walking around in wet underwear but it was worth it

- camera roll is full of scene views, photos of you and AB hiking, and pictures you’ve taken of him

- he also takes pictures of you when you aren’t looking and had a folder he keeps them in (puts one he likes as his home screen ❤️)

- as well as hikes you two also drive around a lot, there’s not much to do in how small your area is

- late night drives in the defender with music BLASTING

- having a playlist made together for these

- ABSOLUTE CLASS of a playlist

- (you know naive is in there more than once)

- letting him drive (he’s only let you drive it once)

- #passengerprincess 🎀

- staying with him in those campout videos though you prefer yourself out of frame if possible

- although he’s a pretty outgoing guy, nights together in the gaff are pretty calm

- cuddled up in the couch or bed, show playing while you play with his hair

- sometimes you’re talking, others you’re reading a book and he’s scrolling on tiktok or editing

- as much as you love the energetic nights, these ones are your favourite

- you get to see a side of him not many others do

- stealing his clothes all the time

- whether you miss him, want to have oversized clothes, or just lazy, doesn’t matter

- practically acting as a walking billboard for YoungLA

- doesn’t matter if you are short or tall, they swallow you since AB is such a tall and beefy man

- you’ll just show up in the back of a stream and is AB wasn’t there, people would think it’s him from the clothes

- you’ve been caught off guard because hell forêt to tell you sometimes and you’ll have your headphones in so you don’t hear him

- just show up in the room and stop when you see the stream 🧍‍♀️

- sometimes you’re caught in the back of the stream but alfie (usually) lets you know when he’s streaming so you won’t be caught off guard

- he prefers to keep his relationship private

- like people know about you and he’s talked about you, but both of you don’t like you being on camera and you try to stay off of the internet as much as possible

- have a private instagram/facebook so you can post pictures of you, family, friends, AB, without having to worry about people watching your every move

- he respects your privacy and relationship soooo much ❤️

- you guys are out (hanging out or on a date) and a fan wants a picture? “maybe later, mate”

- he’s also not too touchy in public

- he tries not to do it a lot because you aren’t a big fan of people noticing you, he doesn’t overdo it, but he just NEEDS to be touching you

- you ground him, make him feel normal and remind himself that he’s okay and not alone

- he’ll hold your hand, arm around your waist or shoulder, regular PDA

- he gets really touchy when you guys are alone or with friends

- he’s a big softie 🧸

- you guys can be opposites with certain things sometimes but you work out so well ❤️

yourusername

liked by user1, arthurtv, and 21,077 others

yourusername recents

view all 86 comments

user1 body teaa

taliamar pretty pretty girl

↳ yourusername miss you tals 😢

arthurtv fit

↳ yourusername 🤨

↳ arthurtv you are beautiful m’lady

↳ yourusername better 💋

user2 SHE HAS THAT MAN ON A LEASH

user3 you never miss

livvydimartino gorgeous girl

↳ yourusername pretty girl x

user4 can arthur fight??

user5 cutiee

yourusername

liked by arthurtv, user3, and 28,973 others

yourusername loungin’

view all 101 comments

user1 you are glowing ⭐️

user2 how did arthur bag her??

livvydimartino obsessed with youu

↳ yourusername me with you 😍

user3 leng

arthurtv why did i not get blessed with this outfit?

↳ yourusername you were out 🤷‍♀️

↳ arthurtv well i want to see it again

user4 he can’t fight all of us

sabinablair_ hot

↳ yourusername 😉

user5 😍😍😍

yourusername

liked by user2, arthurtv, and 40,374 others

yourusername laced up xx

view all 124 comments

user1 hottie 😍

livvydimartino show up to that in my house and i’m not saying no

↳ yourusername coming now 😉

user2 mommy

user3 holy moly

arthurtv i’m horny

↳ yourusername behave in my comment section, keep that private

user4 body goals

sabinablair_ sexy girl

↳ yourusername 😘😘

theburntchip @arthurtv your girlfriend is seducing my girlfriend

↳ arthurtv it’s what she does mate

user5 can’t believe i’m straight when she exits 😭

on the bach and arthur podcast . . .

view all comments

user1 he’s actually so upset 😭

user2 never thought i’d see the day where arthur crashed out from jealousy

user3 i stand by my words. can you fight?

user4 she’s so fit though, he had to expect this

user 5 bach just sitting and staring at him like 😦

user6 wonder is this is how she feels when we all slut for arthur

yourusername

liked by arthurtv, user2, and 50,973 others

yourusername eyes & heart only for you🫀

view all 135 comments

user1 “no i have a chance!” i yell as i get dragged back to the asylum

taliamar what about me?

↳ sabinablair_ and me?

↳ livvydimartino and me !!!

↳ yourusername 🤫 there are exceptions to every rule

user2 and she still ate

user3 cutiesss

user4 is that him taking photos for you?

↳ yourusername my personal photographer xxx

arthurtv finally some credit

↳ yourusername so very sorry 😔

livvydimartino you are so cute 😚