Dark Mark Diaries

The moment you stepped into the common room and locked eyes with two identical smirks, you knew you were being set up. A twin trap. A classic Hogwarts welcome.

“Y/n, right?” said the one on the left. “I’m Fred.”

“No, I’m Fred,” said the one on the right. “He’s George. You’ll figure it out soon enough.”

They both grinned. Cocky. Sure of themselves. And for good reason—every girl in Gryffindor tower seemed to melt when they walked into a room.

But you weren’t most girls.

You tilted your head, studying them. George’s tie was slightly looser. Fred had a freckle near his jaw you’d noticed once during breakfast. And George’s left shoe had a charmed dragon biting its own tail.

You smirked. “You’re Fred,” you said confidently, pointing at the right one. “And you’re George. Terrible attempt. Zero points for originality.”

Fred blinked.

George blinked.

You turned on your heel and walked away without waiting for a reaction.

And Fred—Fred didn’t stop thinking about you for days.

You were the first person who didn’t fall for it.

He hated how much he loved that.

The weeks that followed became a blur of accidental hallway run-ins and not-so-accidental stolen glances. You pretended not to notice that Fred Weasley had suddenly developed a habit of sitting closer to you in the common room, or how he always seemed to appear when Peeves locked you in a classroom or a stairwell decided to change mid-step.

Fred, for his part, was struggling.

He didn’t know how to flirt with someone who didn’t react the way everyone else did. When he teased you, you teased back—sharper, wittier, often winning. When he tried to get a laugh, you offered him a half-smile and returned to your book, leaving his heart racing and his ego bruised.

George had to physically slap him out of his daydreams at least twice a week.

“She doesn’t even like me,” Fred muttered one night.

“She doesn’t need to like you,” George said. “She sees you. There’s a difference.”

That was the problem, really.

You saw too much.

The turning point came during a Hogsmeade trip. The group was large—half of Gryffindor house bundled in scarves and gloves, heading for butterbeer and chaos. You and Fred had somehow ended up beside each other, your gloved hands occasionally brushing. Every time it happened, he tried to play it off like nothing. But you felt it. The tension. The spark.

“You alright there, Weasley?” you asked as he stumbled over a snow-covered root.

“Me? Perfect,” he said with forced bravado. “Just overwhelmed by your presence. It’s rather distracting.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitched.

“I’d offer to tone it down,” you said dryly, “but it’d be a lie.”

Fred laughed—head thrown back, full and unguarded. And you felt it. A real laugh. Not a joke, not a mask.

Just him.

Later that day, after too much butterbeer and a shared peppermint stick between you both (Fred offered the other half and you hadn’t even hesitated), you found yourselves separated from the group in Zonko’s.

He watched as you examined an enchanted snow globe that made soft music when shaken.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“I like quiet magic,” you said softly. “The kind that doesn’t shout to be seen.”

He stared at you like he was trying to memorize every syllable.

“I think I like that kind of magic too,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

He kissed you for the first time weeks later.

You were studying alone in the Astronomy Tower, the rest of the school either asleep or wreaking havoc below. He found you with a blanket wrapped around your legs, quill between your teeth, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, sitting beside you.

“You never do.”

“Not since I started thinking about you.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

You turned your head slowly, watching him.

Fred was all bravado and light—but his eyes were dark, earnest. He didn’t mean for it to sound like a confession, but it was. You both knew it.

He reached up and gently plucked the quill from your mouth.

“You’re the only person who ever looks at me like I’m not a punchline,” he said.

And then—slowly, carefully—he leaned in and kissed you. Soft. Unhurried. Like he was giving you time to pull away.

You didn’t.

You kissed him back, fingers curling into the collar of his jumper, the Astronomy Tower forgotten.

From that moment on, everything changed. But quietly.

He never made a show of it. He didn’t brag to the others, didn’t claim you like a prize. Instead, he touched you in soft ways—pinkies brushing in the corridor, a hand steadying your waist on the moving staircases, his scarf wrapped loosely around your neck when the wind got too bitter.

You caught him staring sometimes. During meals. During study. During Quidditch practice when he was supposed to be watching the Bludgers and not the girl with her nose in a book on the sidelines.

“What?” you asked one evening, catching him watching you as you read by the fire.

“Just thinking,” he said.

“About?”

“How you ruined my favorite prank,” he said with a grin.

You raised a brow.

“And how that somehow made me fall in love with you.”

Your stomach flipped.

And then flipped again.

You closed the book, set it down carefully, and leaned toward him.

“You don’t fall in love with skeptics,” you said.

“You do when they’re right,” he murmured, brushing his lips against your jaw.

You didn’t speak for a long time after that.

Words weren’t needed.

There were moments—quiet ones—that broke you open in the best way.

Fred writing you notes on stolen scraps of parchment and tucking them into your textbooks: “Page 394 is cursed. Proceed with caution.”

Fred carrying a second pair of gloves in case you forgot yours.

Fred whispering spells to warm your shoes before long walks to Hogsmeade.

Fred watching you walk into a room like he couldn’t not.

And then there were the moments you didn’t expect:

You, having a panic attack before your OWLs, pacing the library corridor with your fists clenched and tears in your eyes—and him, finding you without a word, wrapping his arms around you and resting his forehead to yours.

“You don’t have to do everything alone, love,” he’d whispered.

“I don’t like being seen like this.”

“You always see me. Let me see you.”

You’d cried into his jumper until the tears dried up, and he never once let go.

You were the one who kissed him next—under the archway by the lake, after a long day, your voice hoarse and your nerves worn thin. He pulled you close and rested his chin on your head.

“I used to think no one would ever really get me,” he whispered.

“Fred…”

“But you do. You saw through the act before anyone else even knew it was an act.”

You pulled back, kissed him hard, and tasted every part of the boy behind the jokes.

You didn’t say I love you that night.

But he knew.

And when he finally said it—weeks later, half-asleep, thumb brushing your knuckles as you dozed in his bed—you didn’t answer with words.

You answered by kissing the words into his skin.

Over and over again.

Fred Weasley wasn’t a boy made for stillness. He was mischief, magic, wildfire in motion.

But with you… he learned what it meant to pause.

To feel.

To fall.

And in the end, he realized—he didn’t need you to be like anyone else.

He loved you because you weren’t.

Because you saw him when no one else could.

And because the moment you saw through his twin’s game and looked straight at him… he never looked at anyone else again.

Your legs were tangled with his beneath the emerald-and-silver quilt someone had tossed over the lounge chair. His fingers, those cursedly beautiful hands, brushed mindless shapes across your spine, occasionally pausing when you guessed them right.

“Dragon,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

Mattheo hummed low in his throat, lips grazing your temple. “Too easy.”

“Then stop picking things you like to tattoo on yourself.”

“I only tattoo what matters.”

You didn’t ask if you mattered. He didn’t have to say it aloud—not when he needed to be touching you constantly, like his body didn’t know what to do in the absence of yours.

You didn’t expect it, the way he loved. Not from someone like him—sharp edges, cruel smiles, a legacy soaked in fear and fire. But beneath the snark, behind the dark eyes and wry humor, he ached for softness.

And you were the only place he’d ever found it.

It hadn’t always been this easy—this instinctual.

You remembered when it started. Fifth year. Cold evening, late October. You were sitting by the lake with a half-finished essay on Ancient Runes in your lap, wind biting your cheeks, knuckles red from the cold. You didn’t notice him until his shadow passed over your parchment.

“That's your handwriting?” he asked, cocking his head with interest.

You nodded, a little confused.

“It’s... pretty.” He’d said it like it tasted strange on his tongue. Like it was the first time he’d said something nice and meant it.

You didn’t know why he stayed that day. You didn’t know why he started sitting closer, why his hand always brushed yours when you passed him a quill, why his knees bumped yours under shared study desks like he couldn’t help it.

But you knew how you felt when he did.

Like fire, controlled.

Like something forbidden that tasted like fate.

Now, a year later, you were his favorite place to rest. Not even sleep—just rest. His body would go lax only when you were curled against it. Only then did the tension in his shoulders unwind, his eyes grow soft, his voice drop to that low, molten timbre only you ever heard.

“You’re thinking too loud,” you whispered one night, pulling his arm tighter around your waist.

“I can’t help it.” He exhaled into your hair. “You keep looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re going to forgive me for every bad thing I’ve ever done.”

You didn’t say anything. Just shifted until your nose brushed his collarbone, until your lips found the base of his throat and pressed a kiss there.

“I’m not here to fix you, Mattheo.”

“I know,” he said. “But you see me. That’s worse.”

He touched you like he needed proof.

A hand at the small of your back when you walked through the corridors. Fingers curling tight around yours in crowded hallways, almost possessive, like if he let go, the world would steal you. At night, when the castle was asleep and it was just the two of you, he’d trace soft, reverent lines over your skin as if memorizing a map only he had the right to know.

“I used to be so good at being alone,” he confessed once.

You glanced over your shoulder. He was sitting behind you, legs spread, you between them, his arms wrapped around your middle.

“And now?”

“Now,” he murmured, pressing his lips just behind your ear, “I don’t remember what that even felt like.”

There were things he couldn’t say. Parts of himself sealed behind wards even he didn’t fully understand.

But the way he loved you—showed you—was in the details.

The steaming mug of tea he’d place by your side when you stayed up late studying. The way he watched every interaction you had with other boys, jaw tight, gaze unreadable. The way he never left you alone in the Great Hall if he could help it—always finding a reason to brush your thigh beneath the table, to whisper something utterly unhelpful just to see you smile.

And then there was the drawing game.

It started as a joke. His fingers trailing across your back one night, you half-asleep, him far too awake, tangled in thoughts darker than the room around you.

“What are you drawing?” you had murmured.

He didn’t answer.

So you guessed.

“Snake?”

“No.”

“Crescent moon?”

“Nope.”

You rolled over, raising an eyebrow. “Tell me or I’ll hex you.”

He smirked, leaned in, and kissed you—slow, indulgent, maddening.

“Wrong answer. But I’ll allow it.”

Now it was a ritual.

Night after night, his hand would stroke patterns across your spine as you lay curled into his chest. If you got it right, he’d kiss you. If you got it wrong, he’d kiss you more.

“You’re just making up symbols to keep kissing me,” you muttered one night.

“Maybe.” His grin was wicked. “But you never complain.”

And you didn’t.

Because every kiss felt like him saying all the things he didn’t know how to say out loud.

One night, he woke you up without meaning to. His breath came in short bursts, his hand fisted in the blanket, sweat at his temple.

You turned to him, still groggy. “Nightmare?”

He didn’t answer right away. But when he looked at you—really looked at you—something in him cracked.

“I dreamt I couldn’t find you,” he rasped. “I searched the whole castle. Every room. You weren’t anywhere. You were just... gone.”

You reached for his face, thumb brushing the shadow of stubble along his jaw. “I’m right here.”

“I need to feel you,” he whispered. “I need to touch you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing’s wrong with you.”

He swallowed hard. “If I could keep you next to me all the time, I would.”

You kissed him—forehead, then cheek, then lips. You let your fingers trace his ribs, his chest, anchoring him back to the present.

“I want that too,” you whispered.

And he held you so tightly after that, you could barely breathe—but you didn’t ask him to loosen his grip. You wanted to be his anchor.

His reason to breathe.

On your birthday, he didn’t make a spectacle. No grand gesture. Just a quiet knock on your dormitory door and a note.

“Meet me where we don’t have to pretend. Midnight. -M.”

You found him in the Room of Requirement, the walls transformed into a soft, starlit dome—floating candles, pillows stacked in a nest of comfort, a fire flickering in a hearth you knew hadn’t been there an hour ago.

You turned to him slowly. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything about you,” he said, and he meant it.

You crossed the room and took his hand. He pulled you down into his lap, cradling your face between his hands, searching your eyes like they held answers to questions he didn’t dare ask aloud.

“I don’t need anyone else to know,” he said against your skin. “Not yet. Not if it means losing this. Losing you.”

“You’re not going to lose me.”

“You say that like it’s a promise.”

“It is,” you whispered, your breath hitching as he kissed your palm.

You woke up the next morning with your head on his chest, your hand over his heart, and a parchment folded neatly on the pillow beside you.

Riddle’s Drawing Game – Final Round If you don’t get this one right, I’m kissing you until you do.

You laughed softly to yourself and tucked the paper into your journal.

You didn’t need to guess.

Because the answer was always the same.

You were his.

And gods help the world if anyone tried to change that.

The first few weeks of dating him were… hard. Not the usual “he forgets your favorite drink” kind of hard, but the kind that lives in your chest and makes you ache for someone who never learned what softness felt like.

Mattheo was beautiful, dangerous, impossibly intelligent—and terrified.

Not of her, exactly.

But of what her love meant. Of what it asked of him.

Because to Mattheo, love came with strings. Expectations. Rules written in scars and moans and skin pressed too hard against his.

So when Y/n kissed him on the couch in the Slytherin common room—just kissed him, nothing else—he tried to tug her shirt up before he even pulled away.

“Mattheo,” she whispered, breathless but not giving in, her hands gently pushing his away. “That’s not what I’m asking for.”

He froze.

His eyes clouded, confused. “Isn’t it?”

“No,” she whispered. “Not tonight. Not now.”

He blinked like the words didn’t compute. Like he’d misread the entire language of touch.

And maybe he had.

Because for the first month they were together, he couldn’t even hold her hand without his fingers tightening, sliding up her wrist, trailing toward skin he wasn’t sure he had permission to crave.

It wasn’t about lust.

It was about instinct.

Mattheo had learned early that touch came with a price. That kisses turned into currency. That warmth always spiraled into heat until someone got burned.

Three months in, Y/n finally understood what it meant to love someone who didn’t know what safe felt like.

And he started to understand, for the first time, that maybe her touch wasn’t a spark begging to ignite him— Maybe it was a balm.

The moment it all changed wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t even a kiss.

It was a quiet Tuesday. Cold. Wind rattling the windowpanes of the castle.

Mattheo had just come back from detention—his jaw tense, knuckles red, eyes darker than usual. He walked straight past her in the common room, didn’t even meet her eyes, and disappeared into his dorm without a word.

Y/n waited ten minutes. Then fifteen. Then thirty.

When she finally climbed the stairs and pushed open the door to his dorm, she found him sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, shaking.

“Mattheo.”

He didn’t look at her.

“I—” He swallowed. “I said something to Professor Snape. I don’t even remember what. He asked why I was always angry and I—I couldn’t even answer him.”

She came closer. Slowly. Sat beside him, far enough that he didn’t feel caged.

“I think I’m broken,” he whispered.

“No,” she said simply. “You’re just bleeding.”

His throat bobbed.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he confessed. “Be… held. Be soft. I’ve never known a touch that didn’t want something from me.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” she murmured. “Just you.”

She held out her hand—not reaching for him. Just offering.

It took him three full minutes before he took it.

When he did, his grip was so light it barely counted. Like he was afraid he’d crush something delicate.

And then he didn’t let go.

Not even when they lay back on his bed, side by side, fully clothed, eyes fixed on the canopy above them.

He didn’t touch her the way he usually did.

His hand just stayed in hers. Still. Quiet.

And that was when he realized—maybe her touch didn’t mean fire.

Maybe it meant home.

Time didn’t heal him. She did. Slowly. With patience that most people didn’t understand.

The first time he let her cup his face without turning it into something more, he cried.

Not a lot. Not loud.

Just two tears that slipped down his cheeks as her thumb brushed over his jaw.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice wrecked.

“What for?”

“For only knowing how to take.”

“You didn’t take anything from me,” she said gently. “You gave me something. You gave me you.”

He shook his head. “I gave you ruins.”

She leaned in, kissed his forehead.

“Then I’ll build a home from them.”

It wasn’t all easy.

Some nights he still woke up with bruises under his eyes, heart pounding from nightmares he never talked about.

Some mornings he avoided her touch, afraid he’d forget again—that he’d grab her waist, pull her close, kiss her neck before asking if she wanted him to.

And she never punished him for it.

She just kept showing up.

Holding his hand for eleven minutes instead of ten. Laying beside him in the dark and reminding him that love didn’t come with conditions.

That she wasn’t a test he had to pass.

That he could love her with trembling fingers and still be enough.

The turning point came during Christmas break.

They were alone in the Slytherin common room, curled up on the sofa beneath a green wool blanket.

She was reading. He was sketching something in the corner of a torn-up Arithmancy book.

Y/n reached over, absently tucked a piece of hair behind his ear.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t tense.

Didn’t reach for her hips or slip his hand up her thigh.

He just… smiled.

And then, very quietly, leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“For what?”

“For teaching me how to want you… without needing to take from you.”

Y/n turned to him, heart aching, eyes wet.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said.

And gods, that broke him.

Because no one had ever said that before.

Not once.

He didn’t even realize he was crying until her hand was on his face again, thumbs brushing under his eyes.

“I love you, Mattheo,” she whispered. “In all the ways no one ever taught you you deserved.”

He rested his forehead against hers.

And for the first time in his life, he didn’t think of touch as foreplay.

He thought of it as safety.

As proof.

As love.

Fred came in, hair a mess, shirt wrinkled, that sleepy smirk on his face—the one that made your stomach tighten in all the best ways.

“Mornin’, gorgeous.” He kissed your cheek before stealing your mug for a sip. “Mmm. You really do make the best tea.”

“That was my cup,” you huffed, but your lips were already tugging into a smile.

“Exactly,” he said, cradling it in his hands like it belonged to him. Like you did.

And you did.

Fred Weasley was a walking contradiction.

He lived loud—always the first to laugh, the last to leave a party, the one who lit up any room with a spark in his eye and trouble on his tongue. He was chaos wrapped in kindness, sharp wit hidden beneath mischief.

But anger?

Fred wasn’t angry.

Not truly. Not the way some people snapped or fumed. His fuse was long. He shrugged off insults. Rolled with punches. He could be mocked, cursed at, even shoved—and he’d still grin like it was all a game.

There was only one thing that ever set Fred Weasley on fire.

You.

The thought of you hurt or afraid? It undid him. Peeled back something primal. Something furious.

It started at the Ministry gala—a sleek, post-war event meant to show peace had returned, though it still echoed with tension no one wanted to name.

You wore a midnight-blue dress that shimmered when you moved. Fred had stared the moment you stepped out of your room, blinking like he forgot how words worked.

“You… You’re going to kill me,” he’d said.

“Just for looking like this?”

He grinned. “No. For making it impossible not to.”

At the gala, Fred stuck close. Fingers brushing yours. Elbow bumping yours. Protective in the way a man is when he wants to keep you close, but still let you shine.

You’d just been talking to Angelina and George when it happened. Fred had ducked away to get drinks, trusting you were safe.

And for a while, you were.

Until a man in deep purple robes—older, smug, the kind of Ministry lifer who thought charm and cruelty were the same—wandered over. He smiled too widely, his eyes too sharp.

“I see the Weasley boy brought his… little project tonight.”

You stiffened.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t play coy. Pretty thing like you? I’m just saying, the war made desperate men settle early. Can’t imagine you bring much else to the table besides a pretty face.”

George moved first. “Hey. Back off.”

But the man only chuckled and turned toward you again. “Unless that’s the charm, of course. Is that it? A bit of fun before something better comes along?”

You opened your mouth—burning to respond—but you didn’t need to.

Fred was already there.

You didn’t see him coming, but you felt it.

Like heat. Like a lightning storm behind your back.

Fred’s voice came low and lethal:

“Say that again.”

The man turned, startled—but still smirking. “Weasley—don’t get yourself worked up. It’s just—”

CRACK.

Fred’s hand slammed the edge of the table beside them. Glass shattered. Conversations halted. The music stuttered and dropped into silence.

Fred didn’t shout. He didn’t even raise his voice.

But the look in his eyes was enough to make the entire room hold its breath.

“You want to insult me?” he said. “Do it. Take your best shot. I’ve heard worse.”

His voice dropped, dangerous and still. “But the second you talk about her like that? The second you reduce her to something small? We’ve got a problem.”

The man’s face paled.

Fred stepped closer, each movement coiled, his frame radiating restraint just barely holding.

“You don’t know a single thing about her,” Fred growled. “You don’t know how she held me together when I couldn’t breathe. How she wakes up from nightmares with a whisper instead of a scream. How she fits into my arms like magic, like she was built to fix every broken thing in me. So you’ll keep her name out of your filthy mouth—or you’ll find out how far I’m willing to go for the woman I love.”

No wand. No joke.

Just rage.

Quiet and shaking and terrifying.

You gently wrapped your fingers around his hand. “Fred.”

His head snapped toward you—and his expression cracked. The fury drained from his face in a slow, pained collapse.

His eyes roamed over you like he had to check—make sure you were whole. Safe. Breathing.

“Did he—did he hurt you?”

You shook your head. “No. Just made me feel… small.”

Fred turned back to the man. “Be grateful that’s all she said.”

He took your hand and led you away, not looking back.

It was nearly one in the morning by the time you made it back to the Burrow. The party dress was long gone, replaced by one of Fred’s shirts. He sat on the edge of the bed, jaw clenched, fists tight in his lap.

“I scared you,” he said.

“No.”

His voice cracked. “I scared me.”

You knelt between his legs, holding his hands, thumb stroking the freckled skin. “You were protecting me.”

“I’ve never felt like that before,” he whispered. “That kind of fury. Like I’d rip the world apart if it even looked at you wrong.”

“Fred…”

His gaze finally met yours. “I don’t want to become someone who reacts like that. Someone people fear.”

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his. “You’re not. You didn’t do that for power or pride. You did it for love.”

He exhaled sharply. “That man… the way he looked at you. Like you were something cheap. Like he could take what wasn’t his.”

“He didn’t. He couldn’t.”

Fred’s arms wrapped around you then, pulling you into his lap, his face tucked into your neck.

“I love you,” he whispered. “More than I ever knew I could love anything.”

You held his face in your hands. “And I love every part of you. Even the fire.”

That night, you fell asleep tangled together under the quilt, limbs twined like ivy. And before you drifted off, you whispered:

“Still angry?”

Fred kissed your shoulder. “Not anymore.”

“Why not?”

He shifted closer, voice warm against your skin.

“Because you’re here,” he murmured. “And he’s not.”

And that was all that mattered.

Because Fred Weasley wasn’t known for his temper.

But he’d burn the world down for you.

It was just… him. The way his presence fit around her like a favorite jumper—worn-in, comfortable, quietly claiming. His fingers would occasionally brush the ends of her hair, twirl a loose strand while he read over her shoulder or whispered dry sarcasm into her ear during Potions.

It didn’t matter that he rarely spoke about how he felt. He didn’t need to.

He said it in a million small ways.

Like how, at the Slytherin party that night, his eyes found her the second she stepped through the door. He was already sprawled across the dark green velvet couch like it belonged to him—legs stretched out, drink in hand, low laugh curling like smoke from his lips.

And then he saw her.

His drink hit the table. His expression didn’t change, not really—but the atmosphere did. People stepped aside. He held her gaze until she made her way over, unbothered by the stares.

She wasn’t two feet from him before his hand found her waist and pulled.

“Missed you,” he murmured against her temple, low enough for no one else to hear, as he guided her down onto his lap like it was second nature.

It was second nature now.

His arm curled around her middle, fingers splayed possessively across her stomach, and his lips ghosted a trail down her shoulder. She felt it in her bones—the way he softened around her, how his whole body leaned in like it had craved her all day.

“You saw me three hours ago,” she whispered, smiling despite herself as she rested her head on his chest.

“Too long,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

And somehow—it did.

Later, when the common room was littered with passed-out students and flickering candles, Mattheo still hadn’t let go.

They sat tucked into the corner of the couch, a half-empty bottle of Firewhisky on the table beside them. His thumb was tracing slow circles on her thigh. Her legs were draped over his lap, his cloak thrown over her shoulders.

“I like parties better like this,” she murmured. “Quiet. Just us.”

His hand paused.

Then he turned his face toward her, the firelight catching the sharp angles of his jaw, the softness in his eyes that only she ever saw.

“You make everything better,” he said, like it hurt. Like it terrified him how true it was.

Y/n blinked. Her heart stuttered.

“Mattheo…”

He cut her off with a kiss—gentle, slow, reverent. His fingers tangled in her hair, and she leaned into him like gravity wasn’t a choice anymore.

When they parted, his forehead rested against hers.

“I don’t say it much,” he whispered, “but I need you to know. I’m yours.”

She exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for weeks.

“I know,” she said softly. “I’ve always known.”

But peace at Hogwarts never lasted.

Rumors had a way of crawling out of shadows. And the name Riddle always carried a legacy.

The next morning, Y/n found a torn scrap of paper on her bed.

Does he tell you what he does at night? Do you know what he’s capable of?

Her stomach turned.

Mattheo never hid his darker tendencies. There were things he didn’t talk about. Things whispered in corners—his father’s name, the power he inherited, the choices he’d made before her. But he wasn’t him. Not anymore.

Still, that seed of doubt twisted inside her.

By the time she reached the courtyard, the sky bruised with storm clouds, she found him sitting on the stone bench, cigarette between his fingers, jaw tight.

“You got one too, didn’t you?” he asked without looking up.

Y/n’s breath caught.

“Yes.”

Mattheo nodded slowly. “They want you to be afraid of me.”

Her heart cracked. “I’m not.”

His eyes finally met hers.

Haunted. Fragile, beneath the mask.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you were,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “I haven’t exactly earned the benefit of the doubt.”

Y/n crossed the space between them and knelt in front of him.

“You don’t have to earn something that’s already yours.”

He stared at her.

She took his hand and placed it over her heart. “You’re in here, Mattheo. All of you. The soft, the dark, the scared, the furious. You don’t have to deserve love to have it.”

His hand trembled. Just slightly.

Then he broke.

The cigarette dropped from his fingers as he pulled her into his lap, arms locking around her like a lifeline. His face buried in her shoulder.

And for the first time in a long time, Mattheo Riddle let himself be held.

That night, no one questioned why Mattheo had Y/n tucked so tightly against his chest in the common room. Why his hand never left her back. Why he kissed her temple every time someone looked at her too long.

He didn’t need to say anything.

She was his, and he was hers.

Even in the silence, they spoke a language only they understood.

And no one dared interrupt it.

At first, it was subtle—the glances when he thought you weren’t looking, the way he gravitated toward the seat beside you even when the room was full. His friends teased him mercilessly, calling him whipped under their breath. Theo only answered them with a slow, impassive blink that said say another word and die.

Today was no different.

You sat cross-legged on the grass near the Black Lake, finishing an essay for Potions. Theo was sprawled beside you, an arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily twirling his wand between his fingers. His tie was undone, shirt slightly rumpled, and he wore the air of a king surveying a kingdom far beneath him.

“Tell me again why you think Felix Felicis is unethical?” you asked, chewing your lip thoughtfully.

Theo smirked, the slow, dangerous kind that always made your stomach flip. “Because it’s cheating, darling. You should know—I don't need luck to get what I want."

His gaze flicked to you pointedly. You pretended not to notice how his fingers stilled on his wand.

You shoved his shoulder lightly. "You're unbearable."

"And yet," he drawled, voice like molasses, "you’re still here. Fascinating."

You rolled your eyes, trying (and failing) not to smile. Theo noticed, of course. He always noticed. Every twitch of your lips, every glance, every heartbeat that stuttered in your chest because of him.

When you bent over your essay again, he leaned up on one elbow, studying you openly, shamelessly, as if you were something rare he was entitled to admire.

There was a sharp cry from across the lake—Pansy Parkinson, whining loudly at Draco about something. Theo’s eyes didn’t even flicker toward the sound.

Instead, he muttered, almost to himself, "Pathetic."

"Be nice," you teased, scribbling a line of notes.

"Why?" Theo said, deadpan. "They're exhausting. You, on the other hand—" He let his voice trail off deliberately, watching the way your cheeks pinked. "You're the only decent thing about this cesspool."

You lifted your head, laughing. "You’re ridiculous."

"And you’re naive if you think I'm joking," he said simply.

The thing about Theo wasn’t that he loved softly. He didn’t. He loved the way he did everything else—with deliberate, searing intensity. There was no hiding it, no masking it. It was in the way he stood too close, how his scathing remarks melted into almost reverent affection when they were aimed at you.

Theo loved shamelessly.

It was terrifying.

It was beautiful.

You packed your things as the sun dipped lower, golden streaks lighting up the lake. Theo watched you in that unbothered way of his, but you caught the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you.

Finally, he stood and offered a hand.

You took it without thinking.

His fingers closed around yours—long, calloused, unyielding—and for a second, the whole world faded into something simple and bright.

You stepped closer, so close you could see the faint freckles dusted across his sharp cheekbones, the careless tumble of dark hair over his forehead.

"You're staring," you murmured, breath catching.

"And?" he said, tilting his head like he dared you to call him out.

You shook your head fondly. Theo Nott had never cared about rules. He only cared about you.

Suddenly, his mouth curved in a slow, devastating grin—the one that always preceded some cutting comment that would destroy anyone else in his path.

"You're lucky you're pretty," he said smoothly. "Otherwise, I'd have crushed your spirit by now like I do everyone else's."

You laughed out loud, stepping into his chest without hesitation. His arms came around you immediately, fitting you against him like you were the one thing he'd protect in a world he otherwise found utterly worthless.

"You’re awful," you whispered into the soft cotton of his shirt.

He pressed a kiss into the crown of your head. "For everyone else," he murmured. "Never for you."

And that was the terrifying truth.

In a world Theo ruled with sharpened words and a superiority complex he wore like a second skin, you were the exception. You were the axis he spun on.

Everyone could see it—the way his eyes softened for you, the way he became almost reckless in his devotion. His protectiveness wasn't loud. It was brutal in its quietness.

Later that evening, you walked back to the castle, hand in hand. Several people stared—whispered.

Theo didn't blink.

He only lifted his chin higher, daring anyone to say a single thing.

No one did. They wouldn’t dare.

Because Theodore Nott didn’t fall for anyone. And everyone knew—he’d fallen for you so completely, he hadn’t even tried to catch himself.

Outside the charmed windows, the world is blanketed in snow, all soft whites and muted silvers. But inside, everything glows. The fire is nothing but embers now, but your heart is full.

Draco stirs behind you, his nose nudging into your hair. “Mornin’,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep and something slower—sweeter.

You hum, not opening your eyes just yet. “Still morning?”

“Barely.” A pause. Then softer, as if the words are sacred: “Stay with me.”

You roll over, heart aching in the best way. His hair is a mess, and there’s a crease on his cheek from the pillow, but his eyes—stormy and silver—look at you like you hung the stars.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

His lips twitch upward, and you feel him melt just a little. That’s how it’s been with him—melting, slowly, painfully, beautifully. The boy who once built walls so high you thought you’d never reach him now wraps himself around you like you’re the only thing tethering him to this earth.

And maybe you are.

“Do you ever think about how far we’ve come?” you whisper, brushing your thumb over his jaw. “How different things could’ve been?”

He nods, eyes fluttering closed. “All the time. And every time I do, I thank the stars for whatever twist of fate gave me you.”

You smile. It’s shy. It’s soft. It’s everything.

Draco leans in and kisses your forehead. “I used to think I needed so much to be happy. Status. Wealth. Revenge, even.”

“And now?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

His arms tighten around you. “Now I just need you. This. A Sunday morning. Your laugh in my kitchen. You, wearing my shirt and making tea like it's magic.”

You duck your head against his chest, overwhelmed. “I’m going to cry,” you mumble.

“Please don’t,” he says with a laugh, tipping your chin up to kiss your nose. “If you cry, I’ll cry, and then we’ll be two emotionally unstable puddles in bed, and the toast will burn.”

You giggle, nose scrunching. “There’s toast?”

“There will be. Eventually. If we ever get out of bed.” His gaze softens again. “But honestly? I could spend forever right here.”

And he means it.

You can feel it in the way he touches you, reverent and slow. In the way his eyes linger on yours, memorizing you like a favorite song. In the way he sighs, content and quiet, like this is the only place in the world he’s ever truly belonged.

The snow outside thickens. The fire stirs to life again with a lazy flick of Draco’s wand. But neither of you moves.

Because the morning belongs to you. To your quiet laughter and whispered I love yous. To the way Draco wraps himself around you like you’re the safest place he’s ever known.

“You saved me,” he says suddenly, voice low. “Not in some dramatic way. Not with a spell or a battle. Just... in all the ways that matter.”

Your heart aches with it. “You saved me too.”

And in the stillness, in the softness, in the sanctuary of tangled limbs and heartbeats, you both know: This is love. This is home.

Theo liked to pretend it annoyed him—huffing when you walked into his dorm wearing one of his favorite jumpers, grumbling under his breath about how he’d never see it again. But deep down, he liked it.

No, he loved it.

He loved seeing you wrapped in something that smelled like him, the sleeves always too long, the collar slightly stretched because you’d tug at it absentmindedly. He loved how his clothes clung to you in ways that were so entirely different from how they fit him, how they told the world in a thousand unspoken ways that you belonged to him.

And yet, he still put up the act—because it made you smirk, made you tease him, made you kiss him sweetly as if you were thanking him for something he hadn’t even protested in the first place.

It started on a cold winter evening in the Slytherin dorms.

Snow had blanketed the castle grounds, and the fire in the common room was flickering lazily, casting warm golden light against the emerald-draped walls. You were curled up on Theo’s bed, wearing your own uniform, shivering slightly despite the thick blankets.

Theo, who had been reading beside you, let out a long, exasperated sigh before tugging off the sweater he was wearing. He tossed it at you, expression flat but eyes gleaming with something warmer than the firelight.

"Take it," he muttered, feigning reluctance. "If you’re going to steal my things, you might as well do it while I’m watching."

You had grinned, tugging it over your head, inhaling deeply at the scent of him. "Oh, I’m definitely keeping this one."

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he pulled you into his side, fingers playing with the hem of the sweater as if memorizing the sight of it on you.

It became a habit after that.

Every time you stayed in his dorm after late-night study sessions, every time you dragged him away from his potions homework just to lie on his bed and talk, every time you snuck into his room under the guise of “forgetting something”—you left with something of his.

It was almost a game, at first.

Until it wasn’t.

Until Theo realized that he looked forward to it. That on mornings when he walked into the Great Hall and saw you sitting there, sipping your tea, wearing his sweater, something settled in his chest.

Possessiveness wasn’t the right word for it. It was something deeper than that.

It was his. You were his.

And no one could miss it when you walked through the halls wrapped in pieces of him.

One morning, after a particularly long night spent in his dormitory, you slid into your usual seat at the Slytherin table, still half-asleep.

You were wearing his deep emerald sweater again—the same one he had given you weeks ago, the same one you’d never returned.

The moment you entered, eyes flickered toward you, lingering for a beat too long. The realization hit slowly, like a flame catching onto parchment—the Slytherins knew exactly whose sweater that was.

And so did Theo.

He had been pouring himself tea when you sat down beside him, but the moment his gaze landed on you, his hand stilled. His jaw tensed, lips pressing together as he let his eyes drag over the familiar fabric draped over your frame.

You could see it—the way his grip tightened around the handle of his cup, the flicker of something dark in his gaze.

Draco, who had been lounging across from you, smirked. "You’re doing it on purpose now, aren’t you?"

You feigned innocence, tearing off a piece of toast. "Doing what?"

"Parading around in his clothes like a bloody banner," Blaise chimed in, sipping his coffee. "You do realize half the idiots in this school were holding onto the delusion that they had a shot with you, right?"

Theo still hadn’t said anything. He was watching you, waiting.

So you turned to him, tilting your head slightly. "Is there a problem, Nott?"

He exhaled sharply through his nose, setting his tea down with a little more force than necessary. Then, he leaned in close, voice dropping just for you.

"You don’t ask for them anymore," he murmured.

Your lips twitched. "Do I need to?"

His fingers brushed against the hem of the sweater where it rested against your thigh. His touch was light, barely there, but you felt it like a brand.

"You could at least pretend to give them back."

You grinned, reaching for your own tea. "And deprive you of the pleasure of seeing me in them? I wouldn’t dream of it."

Theo let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. But when he sat back, his arm stretched out behind you, his fingers resting lightly against the curve of your hip.

And that was it. No grand declarations. No loud possessiveness.

Just a touch. Just a look.

But it was enough.

Later that evening, you found yourself back in his dormitory, curled up against his chest as the winter wind howled outside the window. The sweater was still draped over you, and Theo’s fingers traced along the hem absentmindedly, his touch warm against your skin.

"You never actually get mad when I take them," you mused, shifting slightly so you could look up at him.

Theo sighed, carding a hand through his hair. "You do take them often."

"You give them to me," you corrected.

He didn’t argue. Instead, his fingers slid under the fabric, ghosting along your bare skin.

"You could just ask me for them," he murmured. "I’d give you anything you wanted."

Your breath hitched. He always said things like that—effortless, unguarded truths that made your heart stutter.

"Where’s the fun in that?" you teased, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

He made a low noise of amusement, his lips brushing against your temple. "Just promise me one thing."

You hummed, nuzzling against him. "What’s that?"

His hand splayed against your back, holding you closer. "If you’re going to keep stealing my sweaters," he murmured, "just make sure I get to see you in them."

Your lips curled as you tangled your fingers with his. "Always."

Theo sighed, but there was no exasperation in it this time—just quiet, content surrender.

Because you weren’t just wearing his sweaters.

You were wearing him.

And yet, there you were, tucked into the very front row, Fred’s old red and gold sweater drowning your frame, your hands clenched into the fabric as you watched him soar through the air like he was born for it.

You hated Quidditch. Loathed it. The dizzying speed, the crashing bodies, the way your heart jumped every time a bludger narrowly missed Fred’s head. The games were long, the crowd was loud, and frankly, you had a thousand things you’d rather be doing.

But you loved Fred Weasley.

And Fred Weasley loved Quidditch.

You watched as he grinned mid-air, swerving past a Slytherin Chaser with a level of recklessness that made your stomach twist. He was all confidence, all ease, the golden boy of Gryffindor with mischief in his eyes and trouble in his veins. And then, between the chaos, the yells, and the bludgers flying at ridiculous speeds, he looked at you.

Just for a second.

A split moment where he searched for your face in the sea of screaming students, and when he found you—watching, waiting, there for him and him alone—he smirked. That stupid, cocky smirk that made you want to both kiss and hex him.

Then, with one final, showy move, he sent the Quaffle flying straight through the hoop, sealing Gryffindor’s victory.

The crowd exploded.

Your stomach unclenched.

You watched as he celebrated with his team, as the Gryffindors around you went mad with excitement, but you stayed still, watching, waiting. Because you knew—no matter how many cheers or slaps on the back he received—Fred Weasley was always going to come to you first.

And he did.

Before the victory chants had even settled, Fred was running toward you, hair windswept, cheeks flushed, still in his sweaty Quidditch gear. You barely had time to react before he scooped you up, spinning you in the air as you shrieked in protest.

"Fred! You’re disgusting—put me down!"

He only laughed, spinning you once more before setting you back on your feet, his hands sliding to your waist as he grinned down at you. "You love it, darling."

You scowled, trying to shove him off, but he held firm. “You smell like a broomstick and sweat. It’s revolting.”

"And yet, you're still here," he mused, tilting his head. "Still sitting through an entire match, watching me be brilliant, all because you love me."

Your face heated. “You’re insufferable.”

Fred leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, and just like that, all your irritation melted. “And you’re my favorite person in the world.”

Your heart clenched.

Because Fred Weasley noticed things.

Noticed the way you endured the games despite your hatred for them. Noticed the way you never complained, never made him feel guilty for loving the sport, even though he knew you hated every second.

And because he noticed, he never let you feel like your efforts went unappreciated.

As the celebration roared on around you, he pulled you closer, lowering his voice. “Tomorrow’s all yours.”

You blinked up at him. “What?”

He smiled, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. “Tomorrow. No Quidditch, no flying, no rowdy Gryffindor nonsense. Just you and me doing whatever you want.”

Your chest tightened, warmth blooming beneath your ribs.

"You mean that?"

Fred’s expression softened. "I always mean it when it comes to you, love."

The next morning, true to his word, Fred met you outside the common room looking as far from a Quidditch player as possible. Instead of his usual uniform or training gear, he wore a cozy sweater, hands stuffed into his pockets, a lazy, easy smile playing on his lips.

“I am officially at your mercy today,” he declared, pressing a dramatic hand to his chest. “I, Fred Weasley, solemnly swear to participate in whatever god-awful, non-Quidditch-related activities you desire.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Even if it means being dragged through a six-hour book-shopping excursion?”

Fred grinned, slipping his fingers through yours. “Even if it means suffering through your overly dramatic book obsessions.”

And that was how you found yourself wandering through the cozy, quiet aisles of the bookstore in Hogsmeade, Fred trailing behind you like a lost puppy, occasionally picking up the most ridiculous books he could find just to make you laugh. Instead of bludgers, he dodged your playful shoves. Instead of a roaring crowd, it was just you and him, tucked away from the world, his hand never straying far from yours.

And at lunch, when you sat together at The Three Broomsticks, he listened intently as you rambled about your latest book obsession, nodding along despite the fact that he had absolutely no idea what you were talking about.

Because Fred Weasley made an effort.

Because he never let love be one-sided.

By the time dinner rolled around, the Great Hall was buzzing, students chatting excitedly about yesterday’s match. But as always, Fred didn’t care about any of it. He sat beside you, the rest of Gryffindor still riding the high of their victory, but his attention was only on one thing—making sure you had food before he even thought about his own.

You watched, warmth spreading through your chest, as he grabbed your favorites first, piling your plate high before finally grabbing his own. It was instinct for him, something so small yet so telling.

The little things.

The way he paid attention.

The way he always made sure you were taken care of, always put you first, even when you didn’t ask him to.

You swallowed, nudging his thigh beneath the table. "You really don’t have to do that every time, you know."

Fred simply shot you a look, as if the mere suggestion was absurd. "Course I do. You think I’d let my girl starve?"

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. "You’re ridiculous."

Fred leaned in, brushing his lips against the shell of your ear. "Ridiculously in love with you?"

You sighed, shaking your head, but your smile gave you away.

Loving Fred Weasley was easy.

Because when he loved, he loved completely.

And he made sure you never, ever forgot it.

His fingers had long since abandoned the pages, instead threading themselves into your hair, twisting a few strands absentmindedly around his fingers. You’d lost count of how many times he had done it now—curling and uncurling, a quiet, tender fidget that made warmth curl in your stomach.

"You’re not even pretending to study anymore," you murmured, tilting your head just slightly, just enough that his knuckles brushed against your cheek.

Theo didn’t look up from his book, but the corner of his mouth quirked. "And yet, I’m still the smarter one in this relationship."

You scoffed, elbowing him lightly, though it only made him smirk. He was impossible sometimes—infuriating, sarcastic, brooding. He’d perfected the art of being distant, of making himself seem untouchable.

Except with you.

With you, he was always close.

Your knee brushed against his under the table, and rather than pull away, he shifted—casually, deliberately—so that his thigh pressed flush against yours. The warmth of him bled through your uniform, seeping into your skin, into your bones.

"You know," you said, drumming your fingers against the table, "if you wanted to spend time with me, you could've just asked. No need to pretend you're interested in my Arithmancy notes."

Theo hummed, flipping a page. "Oh, I have no interest in your Arithmancy notes."

You rolled your eyes, but before you could retort, he did something that made your breath hitch.

His arm, lazy and unhurried, draped over your shoulders. Just like that—like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His fingers skimmed against the nape of your neck, barely there, but enough to make shivers dance along your spine.

You glanced up at him, heartbeat quickening. "What are you doing?"

"Keeping you warm," he said smoothly, eyes flicking to yours with an expression that was entirely too innocent.

You narrowed your gaze. "Theo, it’s the middle of spring."

"Mm." He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your temple. "How fortunate for you that I don’t require an excuse to touch my girlfriend."

Damn him.

Damn the way he always did this—turning you into a flustered mess with nothing more than a well-placed touch, a murmured word, a slow, satisfied smirk.

You swallowed hard, willing yourself to sound unaffected. "You’re insufferable."

"And yet, you adore me."

You did. You really did.

Theo was sharp edges and silver-tongued wit, but underneath it—underneath all the brooding and sarcasm—was something devastatingly soft.

Something that only you got to see.

And Merlin, did he show it.

It was in the way his fingers curled around your wrist when you reached for your quill, the way he traced slow, absentminded patterns against your skin like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

It was in the way he tugged you closer—not just enough to touch, but enough that you could feel the steady, unshakable rhythm of his heartbeat against your arm.

And it was in the way his hand drifted lower, fingertips skimming over your thigh beneath the table.

Your breath caught, heat creeping up your neck, but Theo—Theo just kept reading, entirely unbothered.

You placed your hand over his, stilling his movements. "You are incredibly distracting, you know that?"

His lips twitched, but he didn’t move his hand. "I’ve been told."

"By who?"

He turned the page with his free hand, voice smooth as ever. "Mostly by you."

You groaned, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. "I hate you."

His laughter was quiet, barely more than a vibration against your skin. "No, you don’t."

You sighed, defeated. "No, I don’t."

A beat of silence. Then, quieter—softer—he murmured, "Good."

Your chest tightened.

Theo didn’t say things like that often—not in words, at least. But you had learned to listen to him in other ways.

The way he touched you, like he needed the connection as much as he needed air. The way he kept you close, always within reach. The way he kissed your temple, your forehead, your shoulder—like he didn’t even have to think about it.

Theodore Nott wasn’t soft. Not to anyone else.

But with you?

With you, he was something else entirely.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

His hands curled into fists, the book in his lap long forgotten, pages bent under his grip. Across the room, perched on the armrest of the sofa, you were laughing at something another guy had said.

Not just any guy.

Some nameless Ravenclaw he hadn’t paid attention to until now—until he saw the way he was looking at you.

Like he thought he had a chance.

Rage burned low in his stomach, coiling like a serpent, tightening with every second that passed. He knew he was being irrational. He knew he had no right to feel this way.

But fuck, he felt it.

He wasn’t the jealous type. At least, he hadn’t been until you.

Until he realized that loving you meant knowing that everyone else saw you too.

It wasn’t just that you were beautiful—though you were, painfully so. It was the way you existed. The way you moved through life with effortless warmth, drawing people toward you without even trying.

He had no doubt that half the castle wanted you.

And that terrified him.

Because he wasn’t like you. He wasn’t effortless.

His love was fire—possessive, consuming, too much if you weren’t careful. And every single day, he fought the fear that one day, you’d wake up and realize you deserved something easier.

Something safer.

Someone who didn’t get jealous over nothing.

But then the guy reached out.

His fingers brushed your wrist—barely a touch, fleeting, insignificant.

Except it wasn’t insignificant.

Not to him.

His entire body went rigid. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, drowning out all reason, all restraint. He was standing before he could stop himself, the scrape of his chair loud against the floor.

You didn’t notice.

Not at first.

But the moment he crossed the room, steps slow and deliberate, the energy shifted. The guy noticed him immediately, straightening slightly, an edge of wariness creeping into his posture.

Smart.

You looked up at the last second, eyes widening slightly.

“Hey,” you murmured, your voice lined with understanding.

Because of course you understood.

Of course, you saw right through him.

But it didn’t stop the storm raging inside him.

He ignored your greeting, his focus locked onto the other guy—silent, unmoving, looming.

The message was clear.

Back the fuck off.

The guy swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. “I should go.”

That was the first smart thing he’d said all night.

He barely noticed when the Ravenclaw left, barely registered the murmurs around the common room. All he could focus on was the way you were staring at him now—lips pressed together, gaze unreadable.

And just like that, the tension cracked like lightning between you.

You sighed, standing up. “Really?”

His jaw clenched. “What?”

“That.” You gestured vaguely toward the space where the guy had been. “Was that necessary?”

The words were calm, measured. But there was an edge to them.

An edge that told him you weren’t going to let this go.

His throat felt tight. “I don’t like it.”

Your expression didn’t change. “I know.”

He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “It’s not that I don’t trust you.”

“Then what is it?”

He hesitated. Because the truth was ugly. The truth made him feel weak.

But you waited, patient and unwavering, and fuck—he had never been able to lie to you.

“I don’t like seeing other guys think they have a shot with you.” His voice was rough, uneven. “I don’t like knowing they look at you and think, why the hell is she with him?”

Your lips parted, something flickering in your eyes—hurt, maybe. But you didn’t interrupt.

So he kept going.

“I don’t want to lose you.” The confession ripped out of him, raw and aching.

And there it was. The fear he never spoke aloud.

Because if you ever realized that you deserved better, he wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

You stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, you reached out, fingers wrapping around his wrist.

“You’re not going to lose me.”

He swallowed hard. “You don’t know that.”

Your grip tightened. “Yes, I do.”

He scoffed, bitter. “How?”

“Because I love you,” you said simply.

The words shouldn’t have shocked him. You’d said them before, whispered them against his skin, pressed them into his lips like a vow. But every time, they hit him like a fucking tidal wave.

And then, before he could argue, before he could tell you that nothing was ever certain, you reached up, fingers threading into his hair, tugging lightly.

It wrecked him.

Completely.

His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, grounding himself in you. Your lips brushed against his jaw, featherlight, but it was enough to make his heart stutter, to make him feel like he was going to come undone right there in your arms.

“I don’t care how many people look at me,” you murmured. “I don’t see them. I see you.”

His breath hitched.

“I choose you,” you whispered. “Every time. Always.”

His hands tightened on your waist, his forehead pressing against yours, breathing you in.

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he muttered.

You smiled. “Good.”

That startled a hoarse laugh out of him. “Good?”

“Yes,” you said, lips quirking. “Because I want you just as much.”

And then you kissed him—slow and sure, like a vow, like a promise.

And for the first time that night, the jealousy faded.

Because if the whole world wanted you, fine.

As long as you still chose him.

“Five,” George corrected, grinning.

“Five!” Fred exclaimed, slamming his hand on the table for emphasis. “I nearly passed out from laughing. You should’ve seen his face—”

“I wish I had,” Lee Jordan cut in, shaking his head in admiration.

“Should we do it again?” George asked, elbowing Fred.

Y/N, who had been quietly listening beside Fred, exhaled through her nose. Of course they wanted to do it again.

Fred turned to her, that boyish grin still stretched across his face, cheeks flushed with adrenaline. “Love, what do you think? One more round? Maybe this time with some—”

“No,” she said simply.

Fred blinked.

George immediately cackled, slapping the table. “Oh, you’re done for now, mate.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow at Fred. “You’ve been bouncing off the walls for the past hour. Just breathe for a second, yeah?”

Fred opened his mouth to argue, to charm his way out of it, to spin some clever response that would let him off the hook—but then he caught the look in her eyes. It wasn’t scolding. It wasn’t disappointment. It was just… knowing. Steady. Patient.

And just like that, all the energy buzzing through his body—the rush of a successful prank, the endless loop of ideas for the next one, the laughter still ringing in his ears—settled. His shoulders dropped slightly, his knee, which had been bouncing beneath the table, stilled.

Only she could do this. Only she could cut through the hurricane inside him without even lifting a finger.

George nudged Lee. “This is my favorite part. Watch—he’ll fold like a cheap umbrella.”

Fred scowled. “I do not fold—”

Y/N merely tilted her head at him, fingers brushing his beneath the table. The effect was immediate. He sucked in a slow breath, his pulse steadying at the mere press of her fingertips.

Oh, he was absolutely done for.

“Alright,” Fred murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine.”

George gasped dramatically. “Oh, Merlin! He’s actually listening to someone! Alert the press!”

Lee smirked. “Truly historic. The taming of Fred Weasley.”

Fred glared at them both. “I’ll hex you.”

But his voice lacked its usual bite, his attention already shifting back to Y/N. He turned in his seat, studying her, as if trying to solve a puzzle he’d never quite figure out.

She was calm, effortless in the way she looked at him, like she had all the time in the world. The storm inside him always wanted more—more movement, more sound, more chaos—but with her, he found himself wanting less. Wanting quiet.

“Alright,” Fred murmured again, this time softer. “No more pranks today.”

George clutched his chest in mock agony. “Fred Weasley voluntarily stopping a prank? Who are you?”

Fred ignored him. He had bigger problems at the moment—like how Y/N was still holding his hand under the table, like how her thumb was tracing slow, idle circles over his skin, like how he suddenly felt ridiculously warm despite the cool autumn air drifting through the hall.

“I’d do anything you ask, you know,” he said, voice low enough that only she could hear.

Y/N’s lips quirked. “Oh?”

He nodded, tilting his head slightly, leaning in so close she could feel his breath against her cheek. “Anything. Want me to carry your books? Done. Want me to sneak into the kitchens and bring you dessert at midnight? Say the word. Want me to start a full-fledged rebellion in your name? Consider it handled.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” Fred grinned, “you love me.”

Madly. Deeply. Without question.

She didn’t say it out loud, but Fred could see it. He saw it in the way she looked at him, the way she was still tracing those slow, hypnotizing patterns over his palm, the way she had effortlessly anchored him without even trying.

Y/N leaned in, brushing her lips against the shell of his ear. “That I do, Weasley.”

Fred swallowed, hard. “Merlin.”

George groaned. “OI. Some of us are trying to eat.”

Fred barely heard him. He was still looking at Y/N, still feeling the ghost of her words against his skin. For once, he wasn’t thinking about his next prank, wasn’t plotting, wasn’t bouncing off the walls.

For once, he was just here.

And it was enough.