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- gets a little snippy when you spend too much time with any of his brothers but Beel. he still feels bad about the whole... murder thing and he worries about you caring more for them. reassure him with cuddles and head rubs

- he hates being apart from you for more than a few hours. he gets antsy, and usually forces himself asleep to pass the time until you get back from RAD, or your outing with Asmo

- most dates take place in the planetarium, the two of you taking turns playing your favorite human world or Devildom movies, or just talking into the late hours of the night

- likes to pretend to be asleep so you baby him, though it usually ends up with him actually asleep, which means he didn't get to fully enjoy your affection so.... round 2!

- he notices when you're feeling bad before you even start to feel it. he'll pull you into his giant nest of blankets to hold you close to fend off the bad thoughts before they even get to you

- likes to lie on his stomach, have you draw pictures and words on his back, and every time he guesses correctly he gets a kiss

- will wrap his tail around you when he's in demon form, wanting you to play with the end. its a little scratchy, not as soft as it looks, but certainly not unpleasant

"Did you see that in class?" George looks to his brother as they follow the swarm of black cloaked students leaving their Charms class. Everyone was rushing to exit what was an unusually boring lecture and set their sights on more interesting things, such as the dance that was encroaching upon them. 

"Gideon's new hair? Yeah, mate," Fred nods, weaving through a group of Durmstrang boys. "Bowl cut looks horrendous on him."

"I think one of the house elves cut it," George snickers before regaining himself, backtracking to the point he meant to make. "Wait- no. I mean to say, she was looking at me in class."

Fred had heard of this crush of his day and night, long and often. "Congratulations, so did Flitwick, now you have a pick."

"Listen- I'm not joking. She was looking at me, and I looked back, so she looked away. That means something, right?"

"It means she's scared of you."

"Oh, yeah, terribly funny you are," George says, narrowly escaping a collision in the sea of classmates.

"And you are the last to notice this." Each day Fred thought George was over you was another day he was proven wrong. George had liked you since their third year, when you sat at the table beside him in potions. He could easily talk anyone's ear off, but he hadn't spoken a word to you- he was much too shy, and every time he tried, the words had caught in his throat before they could reach you.

There was a lot that he liked about you; your pragmatic way of speech, how well you suited your house colours of blue and bronze, he thought you gentle when explaining things to your friends, and your laughter light as air. Most of all, he loved the way you smelled- the scent of vanilla body spray, rose water face cream, and some sweet-smelling lip gloss. It had overwhelmed him completely in the process of making Amortenia.

He was haunted by the melody of your voice answering questions in Charms.

His thoughts stop entirely as a scene plays out before him and Fred. A Durmstrang boy, tall and bulky as the minotaur, bends down and places a ginger kiss onto the hand of a Syltherin girl. She brushes a long dark strand of hair behind her ear using her free hand.

"Will you do me the honour of attending the ball with me?" He looks up at her through his brows. Her friends stand behind her, squealing for her to say yes.

"Yes," She nods eagerly, and the boy fights a grin on his face. 

"I look forward to it," He plants one more kiss on the back of her hand and leaves with the bow of his hat. His friends follow in tow, smacking him on the shoulder and hyping him up, striding right past the twins.

"Suppose we're meant to be finding a date," George says, watching the girls huddle amongst one another.

"I refuse to get on one knee; this is my last good pair of dress pants." 

"You don't own any good pairs of dress pants."

"What are you looking at then?" Fred challenges.

George's eyes rake him up and down, taking in the unruly appearance of his brother, whose uniform was not completely there. "I'm looking at a git with a tear on his knee."

Fred looks down immediately and surely finds a small rip in the black fabric of his leg. He groans, "Great, now I've got to ask mum to mend them."

"What a death sentence." His eyes follow a couple with their hands clasped, laughing amongst themselves. "Who are you taking to the dance?"

"I'll ask Angelina."

"Angelina?-

"And I don't need to ask who you want to take," He winks playfully. "Haven't made a move yet, from what I've heard. Have you spoken to her at all? That's a good place to start."

"We have spoken," George retorts. While it wasn't a lie, it seemed to stretch the truth. He had spoken to you, sure, but the conversation consisted of you asking if he had any spare parchment and George quickly handing it over while a jumble of incoherence fell from his lips.

"Go on and ask her out, then." Fred gestures to the happy syltherin girl before them.

"I can't," He shudders, "Not publicly like that, risk a lifetime of ridicule and a possible head injury.

Fred cast him a sideways look. "And yet, somehow, I think you'd survive. You've been pining for years, Georgie. If embarrassment hasn't killed you yet, rejection won't either."

George groaned, raking a hand through his hair. "I'm not pining."

"You are pining. You, brother, are a pine tree shedding your pinecones all over me.

"Alright, blimy, I get it."

"Then do it!" Fred urges.

George considers the possibilities. You could accept his invitation, and the two of you would have a great night. You might deny him such pleasure and send him into a deep spiralling depression that petrifies him upon the notion of asking another girl out. "How?"

"How?" Fred repeats, sputtering and looking around to be sure George was speaking to him. "How? Well, of course, you are going to keep avoiding her and never speak a word and graduate, then years later hear of someone else marrying her."

George frowns, "I don't like the sound of that."

"Then man up, do something, please." Fred gives his brother a firm slap on the shoulder.

"I'm manly enough as I am." George shrugs Fred's hand off him. 

"Only because you look like me, you're sort of piggybacking off my masculinity."

"You're piggybacking off my grades."

"I'm co-opting."

"That's the same thing."

"Not the point," Fred waves him off. "You ought to pluck up some courage and ask her out before someone else does. I will not be sharing my date with you when you wallow."

He turns his head, eyes trailing back down the hall to his charms class. For a moment, he juggles with the potential outcomes and finally draws to one conclusion: "Tomorrow, I'll catch her before we leave class."

જ⁀➴

George had not caught you before he left class. In fact, you had left before it even ended, being tasked with aiding preparations for the Yule Ball. Now he was rushing through his assignment as if it would make the class end faster. 

He was still running off an adrenaline high from the fantasies he projected in his mind the night prior to how swave he may be whilst asking to accompany you to the ball. In that head of his, he was a proper gentleman, and you accepted his invitation with eagerness. 

"Oi," Fred nudges him, his voice a low whisper, "What are you buzzing for?"

"I'm going to ask her out," He states, quill shaking against parchment.

Fred swivels his head, looking amongst the rows of students stuffed in hardwood chairs. "Mate, she's not even here."

"Well, yes. I know this, but I'm going to go find her." 

"Sounds... dangerous on her end," Fred mutters.

"Dangerous?" George furrows his eyebrows down at his ink-soaked sheets of scribbles. "Elaborate."

"You're wound awfully tight, wouldn't want to see you unravel. Are you sure this isn't another one of your delusions?"

"Just yesterday you were in full support of my delusion."

"Who said I was opposed to it?" Fred asks, "I think it's brave of you."

"Alright, taunt me now, but you'll be sorry when I've got the best looking date."

"Right, and are you aware how close that is?"

"You're not helping."

"I'm motivating," Fred corrects, eyes glinting with mischief. "Besides, we both know you'll choke the moment she looks at you. You'll forget your name, or worse, hers."

George drops his quill and stares blankly at the parchment in front of him. "She knows my name."

"Does she?" Fred tilts his head in mock sympathy. "Remind me, which of the Weasley twins do you think she thinks you are?"

"Fred."

"I'm only saying," he shrugs, "if she thinks she's been smiling at me all this time, that's bound to get awkward."

George exhales sharply through his nose, eyes narrowing. "You're insufferable."

Far off, Flitwick babbles of something, all George catches is his sentence, "That concludes the lesson today-

George shut his book closed in an instant, jamming his papers inside, quill and ink tucked into his pocket. He stood fast while Flitwick floundered upon the sight, he had seen George eager to leave class, but never so hungry to cross the threshold of his lesson.

"Mr. Weasley- 

Flitwick began, but George was long gone, long legs carrying him fast away from his studies and hopefully to you. 

Geore's shoes thumped against marble floors, his bag bouncing against his hip, quill ink bleeding faintly through his pocket. He barely heard Fred's cackling fade behind him before he was halfway down the corridor, heart hammering like a snare drum.

He could still see it all in his mind's eye: your startled but delighted smile when he asked; the way you would maybe laugh softly, say, tell him you would love nothing more. It was all so clear that he nearly crashed straight into a group of Hufflepuffs rounding the corner.

"Sorry! Terribly sorry- coming through, urgent romantic business!" he called over his shoulder, not slowing in the slightest.

A first-year squeaked as he leapt over her dropped quills, narrowly missing a Filch bucket brimming with murky water. 

He took the moving staircases two at a time, scanning every landing for a glimpse of blue and bronze. "Where would she be? Decorations... ribbons... sparkly things..." he muttered under his breath, skidding into the next corridor.

"Mr. Weasley!" Professor Sinistra's sharp voice rang out as he burst through the door of the Astronomy Tower classroom. The students turned mid-lesson to watch him freeze in the doorway, panting.

"Er- wrong floor. My mistake. Carry on!"

He gave a half-hearted salute, backing out as Sinistra's eyes narrowed.

"You could knock, you know!" she snapped, but he was already gone again, sprinting down the steps, muttering apologies to anyone he passed. "Ten points from Gryffindor!" She called after him as he took another quick exit. He had lost his house hundreds of points in his years, what was ten more?

He caught sight of Angelina halfway along the corridor and nearly collided with her.

"Oi, have you seen-" he panted, "-you know, Ravenclaw, helps with decorations, bit shorter than me, smells like- er-never mind. The dance committee business, where's that at?"

"Hell would I know?" Angelina frowns at him, dark eyebrows knit.

"Right- thanks," George continues on his pursuit, his pace a rigid strut. George nearly collides with the doorframe as he skids to a stop, chest heaving from the sprint through the castle. The placard beside the door reads Authorized Students Only. He knocks anyway, too impatient to care about protocol.

The door swings open, and there stands Hazel, sleeves rolled to her elbows and a clipboard tucked under her arm. She raises a brow. "Oh, you," she steps partly into the doorway like a guard at a gate. "You're not supposed to be in here. We're very busy."

"I just need a word," George says quickly, his grin lopsided and breathless. "Just a moment, promise. Won't take long."

"We've got enough volunteers-

"Erm, no-" George cranes his neck to peek over her shoulder. "I'm looking for a girl, Ravenclaw, I think she's helping-

Hazel tightens her grip on the clipboard and squares her shoulders, blocking his view. "Everyone in here is helping, Weasley."

"Yes, yes, that's all very noble, but I really must-" He ducks to one side, spotting a flash of familiar hair near the back of the room- you, bent over a table, carefully charming the candle arrangements to float in even lines. His stomach tightens.

"There!" He points, the word bursting out before he can stop it. "That's her! I'll be two ticks, just let me-"

Hazel plants a firm hand on his chest. "Out," she says, in the same tone McGonagall uses when he's crossed the line at last.

"Hazel, please-"

"Rules are rules," she says primly. "Manage your time better, mate."

"But-"

She shuts the door in his face, and George is left to stare at the spruce panel before him. He wanted to bang again, but that wasn't a very good look. What would you think of him then? With his head hung low, all courage vanished, he takes this one as a loss and at a normal pace peruses back down the hall. 

 Hazel struts back over to your table, continuing on sorting through dozens of ornaments, all golden, white, and silver- seemingly ancient. You thought they must've been used for dances centuries ago with the thick layers of dust on them.

As Hazel settles back into her task, you fight the words to ask, but your nosiness once again gets the best of you, "What did he want?"

She looks up at you, face indifferent, bored even. "He was looking for you, actually."

You froze, the candles you had charmed to levitate dropping and rolling off the table, hitting the ground with a thump. "Me?" 

You had long had a crush on George. In your mind, you always assumed George didn't care for you. He and his brother were both impossible, extroverted, and you thought that you kept to yourself a bit too much for his liking.

On the off chance you tried to speak to him, you were either outright ignored or shut down in an instant. You had gushed to your friends about him while they booed and told you to move on, less supportive of this specific endeavour. You knew well the heart wants what it wants and that your crush on George would not be going anywhere, anytime soon.

"Yeah," Hazel says, eyes focusing back onto her mission, "I told him you two can sort it out later."

"You didn't think to tell me?" You press.

Hazel shrugs, "He's just being a bug, he's always going off on some kinda stunt." That's why you liked him, he seemed so easygoing, oddly the calmer of the two Weasley twins, despite all the ruckus he still falls into.

"Well, I care to know," You abandon your candles, wand clutched in hand, you storm across the room. Maybe he was still waiting outside. This was eating you alive. 

When you push the door open, there is no tall ginger boy waiting outside for you, only students rushing to make it to their final classes of the day, some stroll leisurely without a care for being late. You take a step out and let the door shut behind you, walking down one length of the corridor before turning and going down the other. You give up hope and slink back to the committee room.

જ⁀➴

The sky above Hogsmeade was a muted grey that brought with it a strange sense of comfort while students and residents bundled up in their warmest clothes to visit the shops. The cold air carried through the scent of cinnamon and firewood. George elbowed Fred, who was cackling already at the string of jokes his brother had spoken. Just when he prepares to make another one, his words falter, stopped in his throat completely as his eyes fixate on one spot.

"Fred."

Fred kept walking, clutching his ribs to aid the pain of laughter as it fizzled out. "What?"

"Fred."

"What?" 

George grabbed his sleeve and spun him around so abruptly that a passing third-year nearly dropped their butterbeer. "Look," George hissed, pointing toward the window of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

You stood in front of a velvet sofa, your friends all fawning at the sight of you, the shopkeeper fussing over the hem of a dress that shimmered like fresh cream under candlelight. It wasn't flashy, no sequins, no sparkles, but it fit you, soft and simple, and when you smiled, twirling slightly to show the movement of the flouncy skirt, George thought he might actually be sick.

"Oh, bloody hell," Fred muttered. "You've got that look."

George didn't even hear him. His expression was all wide eyes and parted lips, "Fred, I might be ill."

"I'm ill, that's certain," He grumbles. 

George's smile falters upon the realization that you were trying on a ball gown. "She's trying that on for the ball. She's got a date then, does she? Oh- blimey, Fred, what if someone's asked her out already?"

"Then you missed your million chances to do it yourself."

George groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "I'm doomed." Inside the shop, you twirled once in the mirror, the skirt catching the light. You laughed at something your friend said, speaking animatedly, and George swore his knees went weak. One of your friends, Hazel, follows you into the dressing room to help you take off the intricate garment as Madam Malkin slips away to ring you up. 

Fred let out an exaggerated groan that startled nearby birds. "Alright. I've had it. You're pathetic."

George tore his gaze from the shop window. "What?"

"You heard me," Fred said, already marching toward Madam Malkin's. "I'm not spending another afternoon watching you yearn from behind glass like some pervert. You're going in there."

"I most certainly am not!" George protested, tripping after him. "Fred, don't you dare-"

"Oh, I dare," Fred tossed back over his shoulder, pushing open the door with the force of a man on a mission. "You're buying a tie."

"I don't need a tie!" George hissed, trying to plant his feet.

"You do if you're taking someone to the ball," Fred said cheerfully. "Now come on, before you burst into tears."

The shop bell jingled as they entered, warm air wrapping around them, thick with the smell of fabric and lavender polish. Madam Malkin looked up from behind the counter, blinking at them through her half-moon spectacles.

"Back again, Mr. Weasley?" she asked.

Fred grinned. "Ah, you remember me."

"Hard to forget," She shrugs.

George shot his twin a glare. "We're just looking-"

"-for a tie!" Fred interrupted, slapping a hand on George's shoulder. "My brother here's desperate for one. Something elegant, if you will."

Madam Malkin raised a brow. "Colour preference?"

Fred pretended to think, tapping his chin. "Something to match the dress that dress, I reckon." Fred narrows his eyes, pointing past the racks of fine-tailored clothing to where you stood just outside the fitting room, the dress you had on, now folded neatly in your arms.

"Oh! Are you two going together?" Madam Malkin's face softens, her voice drawing your attention. You lift your head up, staring dead at the twins, trying to make sense of the situation

Your gaze had found him- properly found him- and in that moment, every clever, charming word he'd rehearsed in his head for weeks turned to smoke as his body fell rigid.

"Go on, lover boy," Fred whispered through a grin that could rival a Cheshire cat. "Here's your big moment."

George's voice came out an octave too high. "No, no, we're not- I mean- not yet- I mean- not ever- well, possibly- I mean- it depends-"

You blinked. "What?"

Fred slapped a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Madam Malkin, entirely oblivious to the mortal crisis unfolding before her, smiled pleasantly. "Well, she does look lovely in that gown."

George's heart thudded in his throat. "Yes! I mean- she does. You do. Look lovely. In general. Not just- not that you don't always-" He winced, feeling his soul leave his body. "Shit."

You bit your lip to hide a laugh, eyes flicking shyly down. "Thank you," you say, just as nervous as George, only more composed. 

Fred was beaming, rocking back on his heels like he was front row at a play. "My brother was actually just saying he's been dying to-"

"Is that the dress?" Hazel peeps up from the couch. "We need to head back soon if we want to meet McGonagall on time."

"Oh- right," You snap out of your George-induced trance, "I suppose it is."

Hazel was on her feet before George could summon another word, snatching your parcel from the counter and thrusting it into your arms with practiced precision. "Perfect! You've tried it, loved it, bought it, and now we've got to fly," she announced, tone brisk and final.

Your other friends gathered their things in a flurry of chatter and wool scarves, all too preoccupied to notice the way you lingered, your eyes darting toward George, who looked about two seconds away from melting into the floorboards.

"Wait- Hazel-" you started, clutching the parcel to your chest, voice small beneath the bustle.

Hazel didn't slow. "Come on, Professor McGonagall will have our heads if we're late." She gave a polite nod to Madam Malkin, ignored Fred's smirk, and began steering you firmly toward the door.

George panicked, his brain short-circuiting as you turned halfway back to him. "I- um!" he blurted, stumbling over his own feet to catch your attention. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

You stopped for a heartbeat, halfway out the door, your cheeks pink with either embarrassment or the cold. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, a soft smile on your face. "I've actually had something I've been meaning to ask."

It was that smile, your eyes as sharp as knives and your face softer than snow, he would've asked you right then had Hazel not tugged your sleeve sharply. "We're going, now," she hissed under her breath, shooting George a look that could've curdled milk.

And just like that, you were gone, swept into the swirl of chatter and laughter as the door swung shut behind you, the bell chiming its little goodbye.

For a long moment, the only sound was the quiet swish of fabric and the creak of floorboards as George stood frozen, staring after you like someone who'd just witnessed a miracle slip through his fingers.

Fred crossed his arms, a grin spreading wide. "Well," he drawled, "you nearly had her, mate."

George blinked, dazed. "Did I?"

"No."

જ⁀➴

The snow had fallen thick overnight, a new layer of sleet adorning the already frigid castle. The courtyard glimmered beneath the winter sun; it was quiet as everyone trailed down to Hogsmeade aside from two ginger boys, bathing in their muffled laughter. 

"Alright, watch it with that bit." George says, shoving Fred's hand away, "Be gentle, it's not Ron." George ordered, holding up the lopsided middle section of their snowman as Fred attempted to balance the top.

"I'm incredibly gentle. Why, I am so gentle I don't even leave footprints in the snow."

"I always knew we had an invisible triplet," George shakes his head at the large tracks they had left in the snow.

"Mum never told you?" Fred teases. "Clearly, she has a favourite."

"And it's Ginny," George answers.

"Maybe you'd be the favourite if you weren't sighing and moaning every five seconds."

"I am not sighing or moaning. I am simply mourning the loss of what could've been the greatest love of my life."

"You are sighing," Fred said. "Loudly. I'm not enjoying this. It's like building a snowman with Snape, and he's long given up on life."

George scowled. "Maybe I have."

Fred stilled, half-smile fading into something quieter. "You really think she's going with someone else?"

George shrugged, reaching for a stick to use as an arm. "She was trying on a dress, Fred. What else would that mean? I took too long. Someone else probably got there first."

Fred leaned on the snowman, arms folded, watching his brother jab twigs into the figure's sides. "You're assuming a lot, you know."

"I'm being realistic."

"You're moping around like you've been dumped and you still haven't even talked to her."

"I'm much too melancholy to; she'll smell the sadness on me and run away." 

"I doubt she'll smell it over your natural stench."

They fell quiet for a bit, focusing on the snowman and letting their twin telepathy speak for them. Fred would like to say the snowman was taking shape, but in truth, it wasn't. It was crooked, snow patched on in odd spots to keep its structural integrity.

"Wow," George says, "Looks ghastly."

"And I think he's going to get a date before you."

George opened his mouth to make a retort when a snowball hit him square in the shoulder, and all he said was "Ow!" He froze, turning slowly as a splatter of white slid down his coat. Fred was already laughing before George could say anything.

"Oh, that's stunning," Fred wheezed. "Didn't even see it coming-"

Another snowball sailed through the air and clipped George right in the back of the head, and then one into Fred's chest.

That did it.

"Oh, now it's war," George said, brushing snow out of his hair and scanning the castle's arched windows. His eyes narrowed. "Where'd that come from?"

Fred cupped his hands around his mouth and called out toward the high stone walls. "Show yourself, coward! You've angered a Weasley!"

A third snowball whizzed down and hit Fred in the face, cutting off his laughter with a splutter.

George frowned. "Guess they don't like gingers."

Fred wiped snow off his nose. "Go avenge me."

George was already headed toward the entrance of the castle. He remembered the exact window balcony he was a snowball was propelled from and he was headed right for it. He climbed the steps two at a time, boots squeaking on the stone, and slipped through the heavy oak door into the corridor.

Cold air followed him in, leaving a trail of melting snow behind as he scanned the hallway. The tall windows framed the courtyard below, the perfect vantage point for a snowball ambush. He crept forward, listening for movement. The muffled sound of giggling reached his ears before he saw anyone. Peering around a corner, he caught sight of three girls ducked below the sill, hands full of half-formed snowballs.

You were among them, all laughter and wool sweater. You were covering your mouth to stifle a laugh, cheeks pink from the cold, a stray snowflake still caught in your hair. "Hi." You squeak, smile still wide. George's breath caught in his throat. For a second, he forgot why he was there at all.

George folded his arms, feigning his most serious expression, though not one person believed it. "I'm afraid this is a grave matter," he said solemnly. "You've assaulted a student, defied a prefect in spirit, and damaged a snowman of great national importance."

Your friend snorted, "You built that lumpy thing."

"Watch your tone," George shot back, pointing at her. "Or I'll double your sentence." You were laughing now, trying to hide it behind your scarf, but the slight shake and muffled giggles gave you away. George turned back to you, lowering his voice. "You especially, miss. You're the prime suspect."

"Oh, am I?" you teased, matching his tone, lilt light with laughter.

"'Fraid so," he said, stepping closer. "And I take these things very seriously. So, if you'd come with me, we can discuss your punishment privately."

You stand up, swiping some snow off your trousers and following George, your heartbeat quickening with every step. The hallways fell quiet once you rounded the corner away from all of the chatter. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ignore how loud his heartbeat was in his ears. "I must admit this was mostly for dramatic effect. I'm not going to arrest you."

"What a relief, I don't have a lawyer."

"I do need to ask why you are assaulting me and my well-loved snowman."

"Well, I've heard a rumour," You say, coyly despite all the nerves that stood on end.

"A rumour? Do tell."

"I couldn't; it may shatter you."

"Then you must tell me. What?"

You bite your lip for a moment, grinning, "That you really, desperately want to ask me out."

George froze. For once, his mouth, usually so quick and full of quips, betrayed him entirely. His freckles stood out stark against the pink rapidly creeping up his face. "I- er- well, that's a bold rumour," he managed, his voice cracking halfway through.

You laughed softly, tilting your head. "No denial?"

He blinked at you, caught between a smirk and panic. "Well, I'd hate to spread misinformation. Doesn't follow my family values." You grinned, and the sight of it seemed to knock what little sense he had left right out of his head. "Alright," he started, rubbing the back of his neck again, "maybe there's... a bit of truth to that rumour. A small bit. A rather enormous bit, if I'm honest."

You took a step closer, close enough that he caught the faint scent of snow and something warm- like cinnamon and parchment. "I really thought I would have to suffocate you with snowballs to get a confession."

"Please don't," he said quickly, though he was smiling now, lopsided and flustered. "I'm trying very hard to be suave right now."

"Suave?" you teased. "You just threatened me."

"Ah, yes, part of my charm. I'm going for intimidating yet approachable."

You laughed again, soft and airy. The flakes of snow rested gently on your head, and it made him all the more sure of his decision that he had made years ago. He liked you, terribly, desperately, hungrily. He couldn't dare ask another to the dance because he knew there would be no replacement for you. 

"Alright, then," he said, quieter this time. "Since we're on the topic of confessions, and I've already humiliated myself thoroughly, would you... Want to go to the ball with me?"

You pretended to think for half a second, tapping your chin. "Hmm. I'll have to consult the lawyer I don’t have."

"Very funny."

"I mean," you added, letting your grin soften, "if you're asking nicely..."

He straightened, mock formality returning for a moment. "Miss," he said with an exaggerated bow, "would you do me the great honour of accompanying me to the Yule Ball?"

You dipped in a tiny, teasing curtsey. "I'd love to."

He blinked, then lit up like the castle itself had turned on all its candles at once. "You- really?"

"Really," You confirm. 

"You're joking," He says, dumbfounded.

"I never joke," You shake your head.

"So, honestly, you'll go with me?" His tone is earnest, eyes widened in disbelief.

"Are you high?" You laugh, furrowing your eyebrows.

harry rolls his eyes, stealing the scarf back from you. "well, can't you ever bother hermione? your actual friend? or ron? why is it always me?" harry complained as he dodged another attempt at you taking his scarf. "they're not as fun to mess with," you whine, crossing your arms. hermione giggles, giving ron a knowing side-eye that he returns.

you narrow your eyes at their exchange. "what?" you ask them. hermione looks over her shoulder at you with the same smug expression before turning away and giggling again. "hermione," you warn her, uncrossing your arms. she just keeps laughing, only making you more suspicious. "nothing, [y/n]," she tells you sarcastically, shaking her head.

"yeah, mind your business, [y/n]," harry interjects. he flinches when you turn to look at him, making you laugh. "yeah, that's what i thought, potter," you say triumphantly, reaching for his scarf once more.

"seriously?" you ask harry as he takes yet another piece of food off your plate. he's holding back a laugh as he quickly eats it, giving you a devious look. "i asked if you were hungry and you said no! now keep your grubby fingers off my plate," you playfully scold him, pulling your plate closer to you. ron and hermione laugh, giving each other that same knowing look.

"oh i'm not hungry, i just know you hate people taking your food." harry says with a smirk, reaching his hand out again before you smack it away. "ow!" harry exclaims, holding his aching knuckles. "really? you steal my food all the time!"

you're the one smirking this time as you say, "yeah, but it's funny when i do it." taking another bite of your food, harry narrows his eyes at you. he waits for his chance and quickly sneaks another piece of food, successfully stealing it away as you try to stop him. "ha!" he laughs with his mouth full, pointing at you. you give him a look, which makes hermione laugh harder.

"you two are ridiculous," she sighs, taking a bite of her own food. "oh, come on, he started it!" you say with a hand pointed at harry. he pretends to bite your finger and you narrow your eyes at him, reaching to grab the glasses off his face. "no, no, no," harry warns you, frantically grabbing for the glasses to take them from your hands as you lean away from him. "ha!" you repeat after him, pointing at him as you continue pulling away from his grasp. harry leans across the table and nearly falls before he successfully snatches the glasses from your fingers. "ha!" he says again with a cocky smile, sitting down and placing them back on his face.

ron rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his drink. "i agree with hermione. ridiculous." he says with that same knowing smile. harry scoffs, giving ron a look. "whatever," he shrugs him off. "she started it," harry repeats after you, nodding in your direction as he tries to hide his smirk. you roll your eyes at him, but you're hiding the same devious smile.

"late again, ms. [y/l/n]?" harry asks you in a teasing voice as you walk down the hall towards the room of requirement. you rolled your eyes at him. "shut it, potter. just be glad i came." you snap back, giving him a smirk as you pass through the doorway.

harry followed you in, making sure no one was watching behind him. he began the meeting thanking everyone for coming back for yet another round of training for dumbledore's army, and wanted to go over defense tactics again. as he started reviewing all the different spells and wand movements from the week prior, he asked everyone to partner up and work on practicing them again.

the session was going really well, and harry was helping people individually to get the motions perfect. he was just working with a first year student when he heard a yell from behind him, followed by a crash and a crowd of gasps. harry spun on his heel to see hermione running from across the room, dropping her wand in the process. this immediately worried harry more.

he made his way to the gathering crowd in the corner when he heard hermione say your name in exasperation. harry's pace picked up and he pushed himself through the crowd of students urgently.

he found hermione kneeling at your side, blocking his view of you. only your converse-covered feet littered with rubble and dust were visible from his angle. harry quickly rushed to your other side, his stomach dropping at the sight of your unconscious body, freezing completely when he notices blood coming from under your shirt. hermione was checking your breathing and heartbeat and trying to wake you up. harry's shock flipped into anger within a second, turning to the crowd that had gathered around you.

"who did it?" he asked, his tone rough and impatient. everyone stayed quiet hearing how upset harry was. they had never seen him be anything other than shy, kind, and timid.

"well? who was her partner? huh? who the fuck hit her?" harry yells the last part, causing a few students flinch.

"harry. it was an accident." hermione snaps towards him, causing him to look back at her. he's breathing heavily, staring into hermione's narrowed eyes as she holds your hand in hers.

harry's anger subsided, if only for a moment, seeing your shirt start to stain with blood. his anger was replaced with concern, dropping to one knee and picking you up in his arms. "harry," hermione tries to stop him, but harry interrupts her. "i'm taking her to the infirmary now. i'll make up something on the way. send everyone home." he tells hermione in a rushed voice as he carefully adjusts you in his arms, your neck limp as your head falls into harry's chest.

he rushes out of the room, ron holding the doors open for him, giving him a tight smile with worried eyes. "she'll be alright, mate," ron tries to reassure him, but harry's already practically jogging to the hospital wing.

a few hours later the sun has long since set, and you open your eyes to a dark room lined with windows showing the stars outside. you try to sit up in the bed you're lying in and you're immediately hit with an intense wave of pain, making you groan and wince. you notice movement to your right and turn to see harry's sleeping body on a chair pulled up beside your cot. you hadn't even seen him at first, so you were a bit surprised, letting out a gasp at his sudden presence.

this wakes him up, his eyes snapping open towards you and standing from his uncomfortable sleeping position to come to your side. "[y/n]," he says softly, his voice still groggy, hands resting on your shoulders to lay you back down again. you groan again as you lie back, your face twisted in pain. harry winces just the same, moving the pillow under you to better support your neck.

"i know, it's okay, you're okay," he coos. you look at him weirdly, never experiencing this caring side of him so intimately. "what happened?" you ask, glancing at the IV machine attached to your arm. "am i in the infirmary?"

harry sighs, his eyes searching you carefully for any discomfort. "yes, you are. your bloody first year partner hit you with his stupefy and nearly killed you." harry informed you, his voice gradually getting angrier before stopping himself to take a deep breath. "sorry. i didn't mean that. all you got was a concussion, and a nasty scar on your stomach. but, he could've hurt you worse," harry tells you, the anger returning any time he mentions your partner. "i swear to you, [y/n], he's never coming to another practice again. and i don't care if he tells the whole school, that kid is finished."

you can't help but chuckle at how riled up harry is, earning a confused look from him. you shake your head weakly. "it was probably just an accident, potter. no need to pitch a fit." you tell him with that same smirk as always. harry's body relaxes, breathing a sigh of relief at your nonchalant reaction and usual sarcasm making its return. though he wants to roll his eyes at how unaffected you are learning about your injuries, he's too concerned to even pretend to joke.

"wait, how did i get here? i don't even remember walking in," you say in confusion, trying to recall the afternoon. harry awkwardly shifts his weight beside you. "yeah, um, well, i had to carry you." he tells you. you shoot him a look full of confusion, shock, and humor. "you? you carried me across the school?" you ask with an incredulous chuckle. "you were unconscious! and bleeding! i had to get you here quickly." harry defends himself, throwing his arms up.

you laugh and shake your head again, rubbing your face. "since when have you started caring about my well being, potter? i thought i was just a pest to you," you inquire, cocking an eyebrow at harry. he nervously blinks and looks away from you, clearing his throat. "you were under my supervision, didn't want you to sue me or anything." harry says with a smirk, still awkwardly shifting his weight back and forth with his hands in his pockets.

"right," you scoff at him jokingly.

harry sighs, pulling his seat closer to your bed so he can sit down again. "look," he says, his eyes still not quite meeting yours. "i know we joke around a lot, and, y'know, you may even actually annoy me a bit sometimes…" he trails off, chuckling to himself. you lightly slap his leg closest to you, holding back your own laugh.

"but, seeing you like that on the ground, seeing the blood, i was terrified. i didn't know if you were okay and that killed me. i don't know what i would've done if…" he trails off again, his voice caught in his throat.

you give harry a sympathetic smile, studying his tired face. he was looking towards the ground, his hair disheveled, glasses hanging low on the bridge of his nose. he looked upset as his eyebrows furrowed together in thought.

"did you stay here all day?" you asked him softly. harry looks up at you with surprise, his eyes studying yours. "yeah," he says simply. you look to your left towards a grandfather clock and see it's nearly 3 in the morning.

you give him another curious look. "harry," you start to say, but you're at a loss for words. he chuckles again, his eyes still studying yours intently. "i wasn't leaving. the nurses nearly fought me multiple times." he tells you bluntly. you laugh, wincing at the pain it causes you, but can't hold back. "harry, you didn't have to do that."

harry gives you a half hearted smile. "i know," he shrugs.

you return the smile. "well, thank you, then. for waiting and for bringing me here." you thank harry genuinely, causing him to blush and wave you off. you reach out to poke his sides in attempt to tickle him. "and i guess you really do care, hm?" you tease him.

You let out a giggle, reminiscing the why you had been punished to clean the Room of Requirement. Which, yes, it is as stupid as it sounds. The great idea for such a useless task had been of the defence against the dark arts professor, who hates both you and Scorpious.

“At least it was fun.”

“Yeah,” he replies, a smug smirk on his face, probably just as proud of you about your mischief. “It is always fun until the punishment comes, and you find yourself cleaning a room this damn dirty.”

“Well, at least we’re together,” you say sweeping the floor.

The silence makes you turn to Nathaniel. You find him staring at you, a shy smile on his lips. “Yes, that’s nice,” he confesses to your surprise. “Until I remember it’s your fault we’re here.” Oh, yeah - that’s more like him.

You instantly open your mouth exaggeratedly, pretending to be offended, but you know him all too well to know he is not serious. 

“That is rude, Malfoy. Very rude.” You take advantage when he shakes his head smiling to throw your broom at him. 

“Ow! You absolute idiot.” He starts to chase you, so you take off running as you both laugh. “Come here, Lovegood.”

You keep running, out of breath, until you see a door. You sprint to it and close yourself inside the room it takes to. 

You hold the door when your friend begins banging on it.

“You can try to hide,” he said in between laughs. “But you won’t be able to escape me. Let alone this punishment.” 

“Shut up, you are crazy.” Lucky you, you find a locker in the door. You are quick to seal yourself in the room. And once you are safe, you turn to watch the place. 

A big trunk catches your attention. “Oh, there is stuff here,” you yell so he can hear.

“Really?”

“Yes, and it looks old. I will investigate.”

“Investigate, or avoid cleaning?”

“Aren’t they synonyms?” you ask letting sarcasm run your words.

“When you get out of that room, I will try every transformation spell on you,” he threatens, but you can feel the smile on his face.

“I look forward to that,” you reply, sitting down in front of the trunk, and inspecting it. 

“I give you fifteen minutes, Y/N,” he says, and then he's gone. 

You have no mind to thank him, you are solemnly lost in the uniqueness of the trunk. You slowly move your hands to it, careful when you try to open it. But of course, it’s locked. 

“Alohomora.” 

You peek into its contains and, “Oh…” You don’t hesitate into taking the odd collar that’s inside. “A time-turner?” you ask yourself, which you usually do, so you are not surprised when no reply comes.

But the answer is obvious and simple. And it’s right in front of you, making it difficult to resist your curiosity.

You had never been much of a planner, or prudent, or cautious person. Yes, that had gotten you many problems, like being punished here today. But, that thought doesn’t seem to matter much when your fingers turn the ring of the old collar. 

You don’t really know how these work, but you guess you are about to find out. However, you grow more lost on its functioning when the room changes, and changes, and keeps changing. Finally, the time-turner stops turning, and so does the room. 

“What?”

You swiftly get up and walk to the door, but, when you open it, it’s not Nathaniel that’s there. 

“Bloody hell! Harry, look at this!” a boy yells at the sight of you.

“It’s not a ‘this’, Ron. She’s a girl,” a young blonde girl says, and her voice is so soft and tender it reminds you of your mom’s singing. “A beautiful girl,” she smiles.

That smile… 

“Who are you?” A boy's voice snaps you back to reality, and you look up — no way. 

“Who are you?” you ask, taken aback by- 

“Harry Potter,” he replies plainly. “But I asked first; who are you? I’ve never seen you in Hogwarts before.”

“But she’s wearing the uniform,” a girl next to him adds. 

“Slytherin uniform… We’ve told no Slytherin about Dumbledore’s army.”

“Neville,” the nice girl says quickly, as if he had said more than he should.

“Dumbledore?” you mumble. “You are - wait. You are Harry Potter,” you sate, ordering the thoughts in your mind. “And these - you all - are the famous Dumbledore’s army. The rebellion formed to prote-”

“Famous?” Harry asks worried. “Who more knows about us? Are you spying on us and telling people?”

“What? No. No. I am not. I really am not. It’s... difficult to explain.”

“Well, it must be easier of an explication than simply appearing magically here,” the red haired boy speaks again. 

“Well… mmmm…” you try, but you are not sure if it’s a good idea telling them you are from the future. God, you really should have planned this before you turned that collar.

”You are scaring the girl, Harry. Intimidating won’t make her talk,” the sweet girl says, and you watch as her words make Harry’s face turn guilty. “I’m Luna. Will you tell us your name?”

No way. Luna Lovegood?

This woman is your great-grandmother. 

“Luna?” you say.

“You have the same name,” Ron tells in surprise. 

“No, you idiot,” a girl whispers as she hits him playful with her hand.

“No, I’m Y/N. But…” you breathe deeply, trying not to faint. “You are Luna, what? What's’s your last name?”

She gives you a surprised giggle before answering. “Lovegood. Luna Lovegood.”

Oh.

“A-al-right. Great! Well. I - I…” you mumble nervously.

“What is wrong with her?”

“- I have to go, bye.” And you start walking, almost running, to the door you came in. But there is no door anymore. “What? Where is the door?”

“Over there,” Ron points with his finger to another door, and you can smell his confusion from here. You know you are acting very strangely in their eyes. But how could you tell them you come from the future? That Dumbledore is dead? That Voldemort was defeated? That that that - so many facts from the future that would alter the timeline. 

You don’t know much about how the time-turner works, but you know that one must not play with time. You know that you must be careful, and thus, come back to your time. And you also know a handsome boy is staring, looking at you as if you were the most curious thing in the world.

“Hello,” he says, showing you a friendly smile. 

Harry Potter is smiling at you. 

“Hi,” you say, not knowing what game is this. 

“You can’t go. I can’t let you go tell the professors about this.”

“But I will not; I have no ill intentions.” He stops to think, turning to his friends for help. “I swear,” you reassure. 

“Alright… Y/N,” he says at last, and the way he says your name… 

“Harry Potter,” you whisper, lost in his gaze, and realize a beat later you've said it out loud.

“What?”

“Nothing. Nothing.”

His eyebrows furrow as he assesses you and your bizarre behavior. “Where are you going?” he asks, but it’s not accusing anymore, he’s just interested. 

“I’m not su-”

“Sorry,” he interrupts and turns to the rest of the curious students. “You continue with the class, Hermione.”

“But I’m not the professor. You are,” she replies. 

“Hermione, please,” he asks in a plea. But she only cocks her head, confused. It is only when Ron walks to her, and turns her with his hand, giving Harry a knowing grin, that she finally begins the class. 

“We’ll take it from here,” his friend tells Harry, giving him a wink and sparing you a quick glance after. 

And that’s Harry’s cue to turn back to you. It is relieving to not have so many eyes on you anymore. But it is not so much to have Harry Potter’s gaze on you, watching you so close. 

“I’m sorry,” he says shyly, scratching the back of his head. “What were you saying?” 

“I- I was saying that I don’t really know where I’m going…”

“Oh,” he breathes. You shift from foot to foot, unable to meet his gaze as his frown deepens. “And where do you come from? You can surely answer that.” 

His friendly smile tells you he’s just as kind-hearted as legend tells. Harry Potter, you can still not believe it. The Hogwarts’s young boy with glasses and the-

Oh my - his scar.

He finds you staring at his forehead and rises an eyebrow, “You -  you want to see?” he asks with trembling voice. You guess you have made him so uncomfortable with your weirdness, poor boy, all blushed. 

But you stop thinking about that when he brushes his dark hair away from the scar. You are lost in it, in the many tales you have heard about it, about him and his braveness and power. 

But no tales had given much description on how beautiful he was. You trace his features with your eyes, only stopping when they meet with his eyes. 

He is even more blushed than before, not even bearing your gaze now. You have to get out of here, stop disturbing the boy. 

“Now,” he starts, finally facing you. “I really need you to explain… all of this. Because it’s weird, and suspicious. You surely understand.”

“I do, but… it’s still difficult to explain. I would love if you just believed me when I tell you - I really mean no harm. I will tell no one about this. I just entered here on accident.”

He assesses you silently for long seconds, taking in your words. “Why would I believe you?”

You ponder about your answer; you really have to convince him with your words, so you have to choose them wisely.

Then you know exactly what to say. Finally the history lessons about Dumbledore's army helped you.

“Because I believe you.” His head tilts to the side as he frowns "I believe Voldemort is truly back.”

He blinks a few times, slowly, as if hoping that with each blink, the disbelief will clear. “You do?” You nod. “Oh… Then… I think it’s only fair I believe you in return.” His lips curve upward softly.

His childish smile makes you tremble.

“It's better if I leave…” you mark, already walking to the door with trembling legs, knowing you can't linger longer here.

“Already?” he asks, and you hear his footsteps following you. And then you are grabbed by your arm. His hold on your skin is gentle, but it still makes your heart skip a beat. 

You turn to him, moving your gaze from his hand to his eyes. When he sees your embarrassment, he swiftly lets go. “Sorry,” he blurts out. “I just don’t want you to go…”

“Oh,” is all you can slip past your lips. 

“I think you should stay for a while, see what we do here. Maybe you like it…”

“You mean, joining Dumbledore’s army?” you question breathless. 

“Well, you can see if you like it, first. See if you are willing to take the risk of being here. But I would love if - I mean - we all would love if more people joined us,” he mutters, as he coughs nervously. 

You are speechless. Totally out of words. And the boy hurriedly adds, “No - but you clearly don’t - you are probably busy - I’m sorry… I’m being very annoying. You can of course go.” When he senses your hesitation, he timidly adds, "Unless, you want to join..."

Merlin - is he cute. And… nervous?

Definitely not as much as you are at the thought of joining them. You clearly want to, but… it feels wrong, you don’t belong in this time. What if you messed up the timeline… No, you couldn’t. Definitely, surely and utterly you should say no.

“Yes.”

-Characters by J K Rowling

a/n: im actually so proud of this fic. and i hope you enjoy it aswell loves. again, i will at some point post the harry potter masterlist, probably soon. and i would very much appreciate if you send request for harry potter, really :))

ps: if you enjoy this one, i will hundred per cent write a second chapter, since im so excited for the idea. and i will probably post it nonetheless :))

ps (part 2): yes. i kept the lovegood last name even if it usually comes the father's first. but Lovegood is too iconic of a last name to not use it as the main one. so that's that.

“—and that brings us to the Q3 deliverables,” your boss continued, oblivious.

You forced a nod, trying to keep your face neutral while Dick slowly lowered himself into a full split on the floor, then rolled into a smooth back handspring. He landed silently, shot you a cheeky wink, and immediately launched into a series of pushups on your kitchen counter.

Your cheeks burned. You muted your microphone for a second and hissed under your breath, “Dick, I swear—”

He blew you a kiss, walked over to the door of the room, and did a one-armed pull-up on the doorframe, shirtless back muscles rippling. The audacity.

You unmuted just in time to answer a question about timelines. Your voice was steady, but your leg was bouncing under the desk. Dick noticed and grinned wider. He dropped down and started doing slow, deliberate push-ups right in your line of sight, counting them out silently while maintaining eye contact with you.

One… two… three…

You were going to kill him.

After the meeting dragged on for another fifteen agonising minutes, you finally closed your laptop with a sigh of relief. The second the camera turned off, you spun in your chair.

“Dick Grayson, I am going to murder you.”

He was mid-handstand again, grinning upside down. “But you looked so cute trying to stay professional. I couldn’t help it.”

You stood up, crossing the room. He flipped down gracefully and caught you around the waist before you could swat him.

“You’re impossible,” you grumbled, but you were smiling despite yourself. His skin was warm from the exercise, and he smelled like citrus soap and that faint scent of sweat that always made your brain a little fuzzy.

“I was lonely,” he said, nuzzling into your neck. “You’ve been in meetings all morning. I missed my favourite coworker.”

“You’re not my coworker,” you laughed, letting him pull you closer. His hands slid under your work blouse, palms warm against your bare back. “You’re my very distracting boyfriend who almost made me blush on camera.”

Dick’s grin turned mischievous. “Almost? Damn. I’ll have to try harder next time.”

You swatted his chest, but he just laughed and lifted you effortlessly, spinning you once before setting you on the kitchen counter. He stepped between your legs, hands resting on your thighs.

“I’m serious,” you said, poking his chest. “I have another meeting in thirty minutes. Behave.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Thirty minutes is plenty of time for me to behave… or misbehave. Your choice.”

You shivered at the low tone in his voice. His hands slid higher on your thighs, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just under the hem of your skirt. The touch was teasing, affectionate, full of promise.

“You’re going to be the death of my productivity,” you murmured, but you were already tilting your head to give him better access to your neck.

He kissed the spot just below your ear, soft and lingering. “Worth it.”

For the next twenty minutes, Dick was the perfect distraction — sweet kisses, gentle touches, whispered compliments that made your cheeks warm. He never pushed too far, always checking in with soft eyes and a playful smile. When your next meeting reminder pinged, he groaned dramatically but stepped back, hands raised in surrender.

“Fine, fine. Go be responsible. I’ll be here, waiting patiently.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Patiently?”

He grinned. “Mostly patiently.”

You kissed him one last time — quick and sweet — and returned to your desk. The rest of the day passed in a blur of meetings, but every so often you’d catch Dick doing something ridiculous in the background just to make you smile: juggling oranges, balancing on one hand while reading a book, or doing slow, dramatic somersaults across the living room.

By the time you finally closed your laptop for the day, you were exhausted but happy. Dick was waiting on the couch, arms open.

“Come here,” he said softly.

You crawled into his lap, letting him wrap you up in a warm hug. He kissed the top of your head, then your temple, then your lips — slow and sweet, like he’d been saving it all day.

“I love you,” he murmured against your mouth. “Even when you have to work and I have to be patient.”

You smiled, nuzzling into his neck. “I love you too. My very distracting, very acrobatic boyfriend.”

He chuckled, hands stroking your back. “I’ll take that title.”

The two of you stayed like that for a long time — tangled together on the couch, the city humming far below, the afternoon light turning golden through the windows.

Dick Grayson might be the golden boy of the Titans team, the charming Wayne boy, the hero who saved everyone else.

But with you, he was just Dick — the man who did handstands in the living room to make you laugh, who waited patiently when you had to work, and who loved you with a bright, unwavering joy that never dimmed.

And you?

You were exactly where you wanted to be.

With your favorite distraction.

The bright camera flashes shuttered rhythmically. Pop, pop, flash. The blinding bursts of light bounced off the polished marble floors of the Wayne Foundation Gala, a constant reminder that in Gotham, privacy was a luxury even the grandest fortunes couldn't entirely buy. It was something you and Dick Grayson had been dealing with since you were both children.

As the eldest adopted son of Bruce Wayne, Dick was Gotham’s golden boy—blessed with a devastating smile, effortless charm, and the kind of liquid-gold wealth that made high society look normal. You were his mirror image under a different family crest. Born into old Gotham money, wrapped in silk, and taught how to navigate the complex social hierarchies of a charity gala before you were old enough to speak, you were the city’s darling.

It was an unspoken law of the universe that two children raised under the suffocating weight of such massive legacies would either become bitter rivals, competing for the scraps of the spotlight, or inseparable confidants. You both chose the latter. You had traded stolen hors d'oeuvres under grand banquet tables at eight, shared a mutual, silent loathing for classical piano lessons at twelve, and protected each other's deepest vulnerabilities as the years grew heavier and the city outside grew darker.

Tonight, you stood near the edge of the sprawling ballroom, where the heavy velvet drapes offered a modicum of shade from the oppressive glare of the chandeliers. A crystal flute of champagne rested loosely between your fingers, the amber bubbles rising and popping unnoticed while you politely nodded along to whatever Mayor Hill’s wife was saying. Your family’s name carried just as much weight in this metropolis as the Waynes', which meant your entire life had been a carefully curated series of choreographed public appearances, impeccably tailored outfits, and the suffocating expectation of absolute perfection. One wrong look, one slouch of the shoulders, and the tabloids would dissect it by morning.

"Oh, look at you. You know, you and Richard would look so good together if you two finally made it official,” Mrs. Hill sighed, her eyes darting past your shoulder with a knowing, matchmaking gleam that every high-society matron seemed to weaponize. She tapped her manicured fingers against her fan, leaning in closer. "Speak of the devil. You two truly are the crown jewels of this city's youth. It is simply a matter of time."

Before you could even begin to turn, a warm hand settled on the small of your back, the heat of his palm cutting straight through the fine fabric of your evening wear. The familiar, comforting scent of sandalwood and expensive cologne washed over you, instantly lowering your guard. Dick effortlessly slid into the empty space beside you, his broad shoulder brushing yours in a familiar, comforting gesture. He looked maddeningly handsome in his tailored midnight-blue tuxedo, a single, stray lock of dark hair falling perfectly across his forehead in a way that looked entirely accidental but was devastatingly effective.

"Mrs. Hill, you're looking lovely as always," Dick Grayson’s voice was smooth, dripping with that trademark Romani charm that Gotham couldn't get enough of. It was a cadence that could disarm a room in seconds, a perfect blend of high-society polish and genuine warmth. "Mind if I steal my favourite dance partner? I promise to return them in one piece, though I might try to hoard them for the rest of the evening."

"Oh, Richard, go right ahead!" Mrs. Hill gushed, waving her hand dismissively as a sly smile broke across her face. "We were just saying how absolutely darling you two look together. Honestly, it’s a crime you haven’t made it official yet. The press would have a field day, and quite frankly, you would make the most beautiful couple this city has seen in a generation."

You offered a practiced, polite smile, the kind you had perfected in front of bedroom mirrors by the age of twelve— pleasant but utterly vacant of your true thoughts. "You're too kind, Mrs. Hill, but Dick and I are just—"

"The best of friends," Dick finished smoothly, cutting in with a flawless sense of timing that kept the conversation light. He flashed his trademark smile, the one that usually left even the toughest political reporters completely tongue-tied, and wrapped a casual arm around your waist. With a subtle pressure, he drew you just a fraction closer against his side, letting your hip rest against his. "I’d hate to ruin a good thing by forcing her to put up with me full-time. I'm afraid my charm wears off after the third hour."

Mrs. Hill let out a delighted, tittering laugh, completely enchanted by the display. "Oh, nonsense! True love always starts as friendship. Mark my words, children, it's inevitable. You can't fight a match written in the stars." With a final, knowing wink that suggested she knew far more than she was letting on, she drifted back into the swirling sea of silk and diamonds on the ballroom floor.

The moment her cloying perfume faded from the air and she was safely out of earshot, the polite, rigid posture you both held melted away. You let out a small, dramatic groan, letting your head drop against the steady expanse of Dick's shoulder for a brief second.

“If I have to hear one more socialite tell us we'd make 'the most beautiful babies’ for one more second, I'm going to fake a medical emergency,” you muttered into the fabric of his lapel, your voice a hushed, exasperated whisper. “I mean it, Dick. I’ll fake an allergy to the caviar and demand an ambulance.”

Dick let out a low laugh, a rich sound that vibrated right through his chest and against your side. His hand remained comfortably resting on the small of your back, his long fingers splaying over your waist as he began to guide you away from the crowded center of the room and toward a quieter area of the Gala.

"Oh, come on. Mrs. Hill means well," he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a wicked, playful glint as he looked down at you. "She’s just obsessed with the idea of a grand Gotham dynasty. It’s the ultimate high-society sport." He paused, a slow, roguish grin spreading across his lips as he leaned down slightly. "And to be fair... we would make beautiful babies," Dick murmured, his voice dropping into a low, smooth purr right against the shell of your ear, sending a sudden shiver straight down your spine.

You froze in your tracks, your heart giving a violent, erratic thump against your ribs before you recovered and playfully shoved his chest. “Shut up, Grayson!" you laughed, though you could feel heat rushing to your cheeks, something that had very little to do with the stuffiness of the crowded ballroom. "Don't let the media hear you say that, or the Gotham Gazette will have our wedding registry published by tomorrow morning. They’ll have us married off at Wayne Manor before the weekend."

Dick didn't even stumble from the shove. He just absorbed the hit with that effortless, athletic grace of his, a soft, amused chuckle echoing in his throat. His hand slid seamlessly from your waist down to your hand, his long, calloused fingers lacing through yours with practiced ease. He squeezed your hand gently, a reassuring, familiar gesture that instantly relaxed you, as he led you toward the ornate, glass terrace doors.

"Let them print it," Dick murmured, his voice softening as he pulled you into the shadowed alcove near the exit. His thumb did a slow swipe across the back of your knuckles, his touch entirely too warm. "Think of the perks, Y/N. We’d get a great discount on a blender, and Bruce would probably finally buy us that ridiculously overpriced espresso machine we've been eyeing for the penthouse. We could spin it into a charitable tax write-off."

"You're entirely ridiculous," you sighed, letting out a soft breath as the cool night air began to bleed through the cracks of the terrace doors.

Yet, despite the exasperated words, the smile pulling at your lips was entirely genuine now. The stiff, suffocating mask you had been forced to wear all evening had completely evaporated the moment he stepped into your space. It always did. No matter how bright the camera flashes were, or how heavy the expectations of your families became, Dick was the only person who could make you feel like yourself in a room full of strangers.

"It’s part of my charm," he replied smoothly, pulling open the heavy glass door and guiding you out onto the sprawling stone terrace.

The transition from the stifling, perfume-heavy air of the ballroom to the crisp, cool Gotham night was instantaneous. The distant hum of the city’s traffic and the faint lapping of the river below replaced the classical orchestra with a peaceful sort of quiet. Out here, the paparazzi's flashes were nothing but a faint, ambient glow behind the tinted glass.

You walked over to the balustrade, resting your hands against the cool stone. You closed your eyes for a brief second, letting the breeze wash over your face and soothe the burning heat on your cheeks his comment had left behind.

Dick leaned against the balustrade next to you, mirroring your posture but keeping his body turned slightly in your direction, his shoulder brushing against yours. He reached up, his fingers working to loosen the silk bowtie at his collar. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dress shirt, taking a deep, unhurried breath of the cool air.

For over a decade, you had been each other’s safe harbour in a city built on quicksand. When his world had shattered as a boy, you were one of the few who didn't look at him with pitiful charity or morbid curiosity. When your own family's scandals had threatened to crush you under the weight of public scrutiny, Dick had been the one to drag you out of your house in the dead of night, forcing you to eat greasy diner food in your finest clothes until you laughed so hard your ribs ached.

"Seriously, though," Dick said, his voice dropping into a softer, more grounded register. The playful billionaire facade he put on for the likes of Mrs. Hill faded completely. He stepped up beside you, leaning his forearms against the stone railing and looking out over the manicured lawns of Wayne Manor and looming city ahead. "They're not entirely wrong, you know," he said quietly, his gaze shifting from the distant city skyline back to your face.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden drop in his tone. "About what? Mrs. Hill's terrifying obsession with our future lineage?" You tried to keep your voice light, but your heart was still racing against your ribs.

"About us," Dick murmured as he shifted, his body completely blocking out the glowing warmth of the ballroom doors behind him, creating a small, intensely private corner just for the two of you on the dark terrace. He reached out, his hand wrapping around yours where it rested on the cool stone. His fingers laced through yours, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the back of your knuckles.

"We've been playing this game since we were teenagers," Dick continued, his brilliant blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the cool night air feel suddenly very warm. "Every time someone says we'd make a good couple, we laugh it off. We tell them we’re just friends, or like family. But..." He paused, his grip tightening as he gathered the courage to finally say what he’d always wanted to say to you. "Every time they say it, I find myself wishing I didn't have to lie about it."

Your breath hitched in your throat. The ambient noise of the gala—the live orchestra, the clinking of glasses, the low roar of conversation—all of it faded into static. "Dick..."

"I'm serious," he said, taking half-step closer until the faint, clean scent of his cologne enveloped you completely. "I know everything about you, and you know the worst parts of me. You've been my anchor in this city for as long as I can remember. I don't want to be just your childhood friend anymore. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life pretending that’s all we are."

The sheer honesty in his voice was staggering. Dick Grayson, the man who could charm the entire world with a flash of his teeth, was standing before you entirely stripped of his armour. There was no playboy performance left in his eyes. Only the raw, terrifying honesty of the boy who had once promised you, in a diner booth at three in the morning, that he would never let this city swallow you whole. 

"Dick," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly as your eyes darted down to his lips, then back to his eyes. "Do you have any idea what you're saying? If we cross that line..."

"I don't want to keep pretending anymore," he interrupted gently. He took another step closer, his chest nearly brushing against yours, effectively trapping you between his broad frame and the cold stone of the balustrade. The warmth radiating from him was a sharp contrast to the biting breeze. Slowly, Dick lifted his free hand, his long, calloused fingers brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. His fingertips lingered on your jawline, his knuckles lightly brushing against your cheekbone in an agonizingly tender gesture.

"I’ve spent half my life pretending to be exactly who people want me to be," Dick murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to lock with yours. "I put on the tuxedo, I smile for the cameras, I play the charming, carefree son. But the one lie I’m utterly exhausted of telling is the one where I pretend I don’t look at you and see my entire world. Every time someone looks at us and says we belong together, I don't see a society joke anymore. I just see what I want. I see you."

A breathy, stunned laugh escaped your lips, your hands instinctively rising to rest against his chest, clutching the fine fabric of his tuxedo jacket just to keep yourself anchored. "You're insane, Grayson. You choose a Wayne Enterprises gala, surrounded by three hundred of the nosiest people in the tri-state area, to tell me this?"

"Hey, I've always had a flair for the dramatic," he teased softly, though the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth was entirely tender, a private expression reserved only for you when the rest of the world was locked outside. His thumb traced a slow, soothing path along your cheekbone. "But I mean it. I’m done waiting for the 'right time.' There is no right time in a city like this. There’s just us. Right here, right now."

"So, what do you say?" Dick whispered, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of hope and his signature, playful charm. "Want to give Gotham society something real to talk about?"

Looking at him—the golden boy who had always held your hand through the madness of your worlds—the answer was suddenly the easiest thing in the world. Your hands tightened their grip on the lapels of his tuxedo, holding him close.

"You're sure about this?" you asked, giving him one last chance to take back his words. "There's no going back from this, Grayson."

"I don't want to go back," he murmured, his face tilting down toward yours as you squeezed his hand back. "I've been moving toward you my entire life."

When his lips finally met yours, it was slow and gentle, a dam breaking after years of carefully maintained boundaries. He tasted like champagne and mint, his hands shifting from your jaw to wrap securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. 

When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was shallow, but a brilliant, genuine smile lit up his face in the moonlight as he stared down at you.

"You're going to ruin my reputation," you whispered, another breathless laugh breaking through your shock.

"I think I'm improving it," Dick countered, his voice dropping into a low, affectionate purr.

He leaned down and kissed you again. This time, it was deep, possessive, and filled with the fierce intensity of years of unspoken longing. His arms tightened securely around your waist to pull you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly until your toes barely brushed the marble floor. Your hands slid up his chest, tangling in the soft, dark hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as the last of your defences completely dissolved. Every shared glance across a crowded ballroom and every midnight escape to a greasy-spoon diner converged into the rhythm of his lips against yours.

When he finally allowed you to breathe, his eyes crinkled at the corners with that signature, devastating charm. "Well," he whispered, his chest heaving slightly against yours. "The paparazzi are definitely going to notice we've been gone for twenty minutes."

You let out a soft laugh, wrapping your arms securely around his neck and feeling lighter than you had in years. "Let them notice. For once, let's give them exactly what they want to talk about."

The prospect of you being around more often makes him giddy but you meeting his family makes him a little nervous. 

They are going to love you, he knows because Dick loves you. The problem was that he would most likely never have alone time with you ever again. 

"I will let them know about us while you are gone so they can be eased into it." Dick decides aloud. 

You give him a smile that makes him feel like he just won the lottery, "I am excited to meet them and the other Lanterns probably want to give you a shovel talk, especially Guy and Hal."

Dick can't help but roll his eyes at that, "They can't scare me, I'm not even scared of Batman."

"Maybe but they feel the need to so don't laugh at them too hard." You laugh and kiss his cheek.

Once you have left with the rest of the lanterns, and Hal and Guy have threatened him sufficiently, he decides to begin the process of telling his family. 

Dick tells Bruce first, knowing his mentor would appreciate not being kept in the dark. He stays behind one night after patrol when everyone else is gone. Bruce calls him out on his constant fidgiting and Dick tells him the truth.

He gets a hum in response. Usually it would be a grunt of acknowledgement or something like that but instead he gets a hum that sounds extremely skeptical. 

Dick narrows his eyes at him and doesn't call him out on it, just files it away for later.

One by one he pulls his family aside to tell them about you and each time he is either looked at with confusion or, in Jason's case, laughed at hysterically for ten minutes. 

He doesn't know what is going on. Are they collectively pranking him? Have they all gone insane? Has he gone insane? 

You are still off world so he feels particularly down as he stands on a rooftop over looking Gotham. He feels terribly like Bruce as he broods while the city moves below him. 

"Nightwing." Bruce greets as he lands on the rooftop, followed by Jason and Damian.

Jason gives him a two fingered salute while Damian nods in his direction. 

"Batman, Red Hood, Robin." Dick greets. "What do you need from me?"

"We need your help on a case-" Bruce starts and Dick immediately crosses over to their side of the roof, ready to help.

Bruce goes to continue talking but a bright streak of pink light illuminates the night sky. 

Dick is almost knocked over by how fast you hug him, it knocks some of the air out of his lungs. As soon as he registers what is happening he hugs you back.

"Baby!" You float a little off the ground as you hold him. "I missed you so much!"

"I missed you to." Dick says with a soft smile.

You release him and he remembers that Bruce, Damian and Jason are still there. 

Dick's smile turns to a self satisfied smirk. 

"This is my partner." He looks smug as they all are in various states of shock.

"Hi!" You wave cheerfully at them, unaware of his uphill battle of getting his family to believe him.

"I thought you made it up Richard," Damian regains his ability to speak first. "She is very out of your league."

Dick groans in frustration while you hold back laughter. 

He wishes he never told his family about you.