#cowboylikemac

MR.BRIGHTSIDE || F.W

pairing: fred weasley x reader

summary: A fiery rivalry with Fred Weasley turns into a secret romance filled with stolen kisses and hidden glances. When the truth comes out—first to Ron, then Molly—the fear fades, replaced by warmth, laughter, and the unexpected feeling of home.

warnings: none

word count: 5k

a/n: i am actually in love with this one bc i freaking love this song so why not romanticize it

The Gryffindor common room smelled of parchment, ink, and the faint char of someone’s failed spell. You leaned against the wall near the fireplace, arms crossed, your wand tucked into the sleeve of your robes. Fifth year was a pressure cooker—OWLs looming, Umbridge’s saccharine tyranny, and the constant buzz of Harry’s latest drama. But none of that was half as infuriating as Fred Weasley, who was currently sprawled across a couch, tossing a Fanged Frisbee in the air with that infuriating smirk plastered on his face.

“You’re going to take someone’s eye out, Weasley,” you snapped, dodging as the Frisbee whizzed past your head.

Fred caught it mid-air, his grin widening. “Only if they’re not paying attention, love. Which, clearly, you are. Always so… vigilant.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

“What? Love?” He sat up, all lean limbs and red hair catching the firelight. “Suits you. You’re so full of warm, fuzzy feelings.”

You scoffed, pushing off the wall to grab your Charms textbook from a nearby table. “Keep dreaming, Fred. I’d rather kiss a Blast-Ended Skrewt than deal with you for longer than I have to.”

George, lounging nearby with a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages, snorted. “Careful, Y/N. That’s practically a love letter coming from you.”

Ron, sitting at a table with a half-finished essay, groaned. “Can you two not start this again? I’m trying to focus.”

You shot Ron a sympathetic look. He was your closest friend in Gryffindor, the one who’d welcomed you into the fold back in first year when you’d been too stubborn to ask for help navigating the castle. You’d bonded over shared complaints about homework and his brothers’ endless pranks. But being Ron’s friend meant being in Fred’s orbit, and that was a problem.

Fred Weasley was chaos incarnate—brilliant, reckless, and infuriatingly charming when he wasn’t being a complete git. You’d been at each other’s throats since second year when he’d “accidentally” charmed your bag to spew chocolate syrup all over the Great Hall. He claimed it was meant for someone else. You didn’t buy it. Since then, it was a war of words, pranks, and glares across the common room.

“Focus on your essay, Ronald,” Fred said, tossing the Frisbee to George. “Y/N and I are just having a friendly chat.”

“Friendly?” you said, incredulous. “You charmed my quill to write backwards yesterday.”

“And you hexed my shoelaces to tie themselves together,” he shot back, eyes glinting. “Fair’s fair.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but Hermione, sitting across from Ron, slammed her book shut. “Enough! If I have to hear one more argument about who hexed who, I’m going to charm both your mouths shut.”

Fred winked at her. “You’re no fun, Granger.”

You rolled your eyes and stormed upstairs to the girls’ dormitory, your heart pounding with the familiar mix of irritation and something you refused to name. Fred Weasley was not worth your energy.

—

The Gryffindor common room was alive with music and laughter, a rare moment of rebellion against Umbridge’s suffocating rules. Someone had smuggled Firewhisky, and Lee Jordan had rigged a charmed gramophone to blast music loud enough to drown out the portraits’ complaints. The room pulsed with energy, students dancing and shouting, the air thick with the scent of butterbeer and something sweeter—freedom.

You stood near the drinks table, nursing a goblet of pumpkin juice, your robes swapped for a black sweater and jeans. Ron was beside you, ranting about Quidditch tryouts, his face flushed from a sip of Firewhisky he’d “accidentally” tried.

“You’re telling me Angelina’s making us run laps?” he groaned. “I’m not built for that.”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder. “You’ll survive. Just don’t trip over your own feet again.”

“Oi, that was one time!”

Your banter was interrupted by a loud whoop from the center of the room. Fred and George were demonstrating their latest invention—portable fireworks that spelled out rude words in midair. The crowd cheered as “UMBRIDGE IS A TOAD” fizzled out in sparks.

“Idiots,” you muttered, though a smile tugged at your lips.

Ron followed your gaze. “They’re mental, but you’ve got to admit, they’re clever.”

“Clever at causing trouble,” you said, but your eyes lingered on Fred. His hair was a mess, his sleeves rolled up, and the way he moved—confident, alive—made your stomach twist in a way you hated.

As if sensing your stare, Fred looked over, catching your eye. He smirked, raising his goblet in a mock toast. You scowled and turned back to Ron, who was now complaining about Snape.

But Fred wasn’t done with you. A few minutes later, he sauntered over, George trailing behind with a grin that promised mischief.

“Having fun, Y/N?” Fred asked, leaning against the table, too close for comfort.

“Was, until you showed up,” you shot back, crossing your arms.

George laughed. “You two are like a bad potions experiment—always exploding.”

“Only because she’s so volatile,” Fred said, his voice teasing but his eyes sharp, like he was studying you.

You bristled. “And you’re so insufferable.”

Ron groaned. “Merlin, just ignore each other for one night, yeah?”

Fred ignored him, stepping closer. “Come on, Y/N. Dance with me. Might loosen you up.”

You snorted. “I’d rather dance with a troll.”

“Harsh,” George said, clapping a hand to his chest. “Fred’s not that bad.”

But Fred’s grin didn’t falter. “One day, you’ll admit you like me.”

“In your dreams, Weasley,” you said, turning on your heel and heading toward the dance floor to escape him. The music shifted, a new song kicking in—a pulsing, electric beat that made your heart race. You didn’t know the name, but it felt like a storm, all jealousy and longing, the kind of song that made you want to scream and run and feel everything at once.

You danced with a few friends, letting the music drown out your thoughts. But Fred was never far, his laughter cutting through the crowd, his presence like a magnet you couldn’t shake. When you glanced back, he was dancing with Angelina, his hands on her waist, her head thrown back in laughter. Something hot and sharp twisted in your chest, and you hated it. Hated him. Hated yourself for caring.

—

Later, you found yourself back by the drinks table, catching your breath. The room was a blur of lights and bodies, the music still pounding. You were pouring yourself another drink when Fred appeared, alone this time, his face flushed from dancing.

“Still sulking?” he asked, grabbing a bottle of butterbeer.

“Still annoying?” you countered, not looking at him.

He chuckled, but there was an edge to it. “You’re jealous.”

You froze, your goblet halfway to your lips. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He stepped closer, his voice low, teasing but with something sharper underneath. “You were glaring daggers when I was dancing with Angelina.”

Your face burned. “You’re delusional. I don’t care who you dance with.”

“Right,” he said, smirking. “That’s why you’ve been watching me all night.”

You slammed your goblet down, turning to face him. “You’re so full of yourself. I wasn’t watching you—I was making sure you didn’t set the room on fire with one of your stupid pranks.”

He raised an eyebrow, undeterred. “Sure. And I’m Merlin’s long-lost cousin.”

You were inches apart now, the air between you crackling with tension. The music shifted again, that same stormy song from earlier, its beat sinking into your bones. I’m coming out of my cage, and I’ve been doing just fine… The lyrics weren’t clear, but the feeling was—raw, desperate, like something breaking open.

“You’re insufferable,” you said, your voice shaking with something you couldn’t name.

“And you’re impossible,” he shot back, but his eyes flicked to your lips, and your breath caught.

The argument spiraled, as it always did, a flurry of insults and jabs. But then he said something that stopped you cold.

“You act like you’ve got it all figured out, Y/N, but you’re all talk. Bet you’ve never even—” He cut himself off, his eyes narrowing as if he’d just realized something. “Wait. Have you never been kissed before?”

Your face went scarlet. You had been kissed—once, in third year, a clumsy, awkward thing that left you embarrassed and the boy in question avoiding you for weeks. It wasn’t something you advertised, but it wasn’t nothing. Still, Fred’s words hit a nerve, and you hated how exposed you felt.

“That’s none of your business,” you snapped, turning to leave.

But he grabbed your wrist, gently, pulling you back. “Hang on. I didn’t mean—Merlin, Y/N, I was just taking the piss. But… really?”

You yanked your wrist free, glaring. “I’ve been kissed, Weasley. Not that you’d know what a good one feels like.”

His smirk returned, but there was something softer in his eyes. “Is that a challenge?”

Your heart stuttered. The music pulsed, the crowd a distant blur. He was too close, his voice too low, his gaze too intense. “You wouldn’t dare,” you said, but it came out weaker than you meant.

“Wouldn’t I?” he murmured, stepping closer. And then, before you could process it, his hand was on your cheek, his lips brushing yours—soft at first, tentative, then deeper, like he was pouring every unspoken word into it. It wasn’t your first kiss, but it was the first that mattered. The first that felt like fire, like magic, like him.

When he pulled back, you were breathless, your mind a mess. The song was still playing, its jealous edge mirroring the chaos in your chest. Fred looked as stunned as you felt, his eyes wide, his usual bravado gone.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered. “That was…”

“Don’t,” you said, stepping back, your voice shaky. “This doesn’t change anything.”

But it did. And you both knew it.

—

The next week was torture. You avoided Fred, but every time you saw him—across the Great Hall, in the common room, joking with George—your heart did that stupid flip. He didn’t push, didn’t tease, just watched you with a look that made your skin burn.

One night, after a particularly brutal DADA lesson with Umbridge, you found him in an empty corridor, testing a new prank product. He looked up, and before you could bolt, he said, “We need to talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you said, crossing your arms.

“Bullshit.” He stepped closer, his voice low. “You felt it too. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

You wanted to deny it, to throw it back in his face, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you kissed him again, hard and desperate, and he kissed you back like he’d been waiting for it his whole life.

It was a secret after that—stolen moments in empty classrooms, hushed arguments that turned into kisses, your heart a tangle of fear and want. You didn’t tell Ron, couldn’t bear the thought of him finding out. He’d never understand why you, of all people, fell for his brother.

But secrets don’t stay hidden at Hogwarts. One night, Ron caught you and Fred in the common room, too close, too obvious. His face went from confusion to betrayal in seconds.

“What the hell is this?” he demanded, his voice shaking.

You froze, Fred’s hand still on your arm. “Ron, I—”

“You’re with him?” Ron’s eyes darted to Fred, then back to you. “After all the crap you’ve said about him?”

Fred stepped forward. “Mate, listen—”

“Don’t,” Ron snapped, storming out.

You stood there, heart pounding, the music from that night echoing in your mind. Fred squeezed your hand. “We’ll figure it out,” he said softly.

But as you watched Ron disappear, you weren’t so sure.

—

The Gryffindor common room was quiet, save for the crackle of the dying fire and the distant howl of wind against the castle walls. It was late—too late for anyone to be up, but you couldn’t sleep. Not after Ron had seen you and Fred, his face twisting from confusion to something raw and betrayed. You sat on the edge of a worn armchair, staring at the embers, your heart a tangled knot of guilt and defiance.

Fred was beside you, uncharacteristically still, his usual swagger replaced by a tense silence. He’d tried to follow Ron after the outburst, but you’d stopped him. This was your mess to fix—Ron was your friend, and you owed him an explanation. But what could you say? That the one person you swore you hated had somehow become the one you couldn’t stop thinking about? That every argument, every glare, had been hiding something you were too stubborn to admit?

The portrait hole swung open, and Ron stormed in, his face still flushed, his eyes blazing. He stopped short when he saw you and Fred, his gaze flicking between you like he was trying to solve a puzzle that made no sense.

“Ron,” you started, standing up, but he cut you off.

“Don’t,” he snapped, his voice low but sharp enough to cut. “Just… don’t. How long has this been going on?” His eyes locked on yours, and the hurt in them made your chest ache.

You opened your mouth, but the words stuck. Fred stepped forward, his hand brushing yours as if to steady you. “A few weeks,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “It wasn’t planned, mate. It just… happened.”

Ron laughed, a bitter sound that didn’t suit him. “Happened? You’re my brother, Fred, and you—” He turned to you, his expression softening just a fraction, but the anger was still there. “You’re my best friend, Y/N. You hated him. You told me a hundred times how much you couldn’t stand him. And now you’re—what? Sneaking around behind my back?”

Your face burned, the weight of his words sinking in. You were stubborn, independent, the girl who didn’t need anyone’s approval—but Ron’s disappointment hit harder than you expected. “I didn’t mean to lie,” you said, your voice quieter than you wanted. “I just… I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t even know what this was until it was too late.”

Ron ran a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps. “Too late? Merlin, Y/N, you could’ve told me. Instead, I find out by walking in on you two—” He gestured vaguely, his face twisting like he couldn’t even say it. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

Fred’s jaw tightened. “Ron, listen. I know you’re pissed, but this isn’t about you. It’s about us.” He glanced at you, and for a moment, the firelight caught the softness in his eyes, the kind he only showed when no one else was looking.

Ron stopped pacing, his shoulders slumping. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? It’s you, Fred. You’re my brother, and you’re… you. You prank people, you break rules, you leave a trail of chaos everywhere you go. And she—” He pointed at you, his voice breaking. “She’s too good for that. She deserves better.”

The words stung, not because they were true, but because they echoed the doubts you’d been fighting since that night at the party. Fred was chaos, a wildfire you couldn’t control. But he was also the only one who saw through your walls, who matched your stubbornness with his own, who made you feel alive in a way you hadn’t before.

Fred’s hand clenched into a fist, but his voice stayed steady. “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t spent every day wondering why the hell she’d even look at me?” He stepped closer to Ron, his height making him seem older, more serious. “But I’m not playing her, Ron. This isn’t a game.”

Ron stared at him, then at you, his eyes searching for something—reassurance, maybe, or proof that this wasn’t a mistake. You wanted to give it to him, but your own heart was a mess of fear and want, and all you could do was stand there, caught between the two brothers.

“I need time,” Ron said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t… I can’t deal with this right now.” He turned and headed for the boys’ dormitory, the portrait hole swinging shut behind him.

You sank back into the armchair, your hands covering your face. Fred sat on the armrest, close but not touching, like he wasn’t sure if you wanted him to. “He’ll come around,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

You looked up at him, your throat tight. “What if he doesn’t? He’s my best friend, Fred. I can’t lose him.”

Fred’s eyes softened, and he reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You won’t. Ron’s stubborn, but he’s not stupid. He just needs to get over the shock of his best mate snogging his brother.”

You laughed despite yourself, the sound shaky. “You’re awful.”

“And you’re stuck with me,” he said, his grin returning, though it was softer, almost hesitant. “Unless you’ve changed your mind.”

You met his gaze, the memory of that first kiss flooding back—the music, the heat, the way it felt like the world had tilted. “I haven’t,” you said, and the words felt like a confession.

He leaned down, kissing you softly, and for a moment, the world was just the two of you, the fire’s warmth, and the quiet promise of something real.

—

The next few weeks were a tightrope. Ron barely spoke to you, his silences heavy with unspoken hurt. You threw yourself into DA meetings, channeling your frustration into spells and strategy, but every time you saw Ron across the room, wand raised, his jaw set, guilt twisted in your gut. Fred, meanwhile, was a constant—slipping you notes in the common room, stealing kisses in the shadows of the library, his presence a reminder that you’d chosen this, chosen him.

The breaking point came during a DA meeting in the Room of Requirement. Umbridge’s decrees had tightened, and the group was practicing defensive spells, the air thick with tension and the unspoken fear of what was coming. You were paired with Ron, casting Protego against his Stunning Spells, but his aim was sloppy, his focus elsewhere.

“Ron, come on,” you said, lowering your wand. “You’re not even trying.”

He glared at you, his wand still raised. “Maybe I don’t feel like helping you and Fred play happy couple.”

The room went quiet, heads turning. Harry, standing nearby, raised an eyebrow but stayed out of it. You felt Fred’s presence across the room, his eyes on you, but you kept your focus on Ron. Fred gave everyone in the room a look reminding them to mind their own business.

“That’s not fair,” you said, your voice low but firm. “You’re mad, I get it. But shutting me out isn’t going to fix anything.”

Ron’s face reddened. “You lied to me, Y/N. You and Fred, sneaking around like I’m some idiot who wouldn’t notice. How am I supposed to trust you?”

Your temper flared, but you forced it down. “I didn’t lie. I just… I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t even know what I felt until it was too much to ignore.” You stepped closer, your voice softening. “You’re my best friend, Ron. I’d never hurt you on purpose.”

He looked away, his jaw tight, but you could see the fight draining out of him. “It’s just… weird. You and Fred. He’s my brother, and you’re… you. I thought you hated him.”

“I did,” you admitted, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Or I thought I did. Turns out, he’s not so awful.”

Fred, who’d been pretending not to listen, snorted from across the room. “High praise, love.”

You shot him a glare, but there was no heat in it. Ron looked between you, his expression softening, though he still looked like he’d swallowed a sour Bertie Bott’s bean.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” he said finally, his voice low. “Fred’s… Fred. He’s not exactly known for being serious.”

Fred walked over, his usual grin replaced by something steadier. “I’m serious about her,” he said, his eyes on Ron. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Ron studied him, then you, and something shifted in his gaze-acceptance, maybe, or at least the start of it. “Fine,” he said, exhaling sharply. “But if you break her heart, I’ll hex you into next week. Brother or not.”

Fred’s grin returned, full force. “Deal.”

—

The resolution wasn’t instant. Ron was awkward for days, his conversations with you stilted, but he stopped avoiding you. You caught him watching you and Fred sometimes, his expression a mix of curiosity and resignation, but he didn’t pull away again.

The real turning point came during a chaotic night in the Great Hall. Umbridge’s Inquisitorial Squad had raided a DA meeting, and you, Fred, and Ron ended up in detention together, scrubbing cauldrons under Filch’s gleeful supervision. Fred, predictably, turned it into a game, flicking soap suds at you when Filch wasn’t looking. You retaliated, splashing him with water, and soon you were both laughing, your hands brushing as you reached for the same sponge.

Ron groaned, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. “You two are disgusting.”

You froze, expecting another argument, but Fred just grinned. “Jealous, Ronniekins?”

Ron rolled his eyes, but he flicked a sud at Fred, and for the first time in weeks, the three of you were laughing together, the tension melting into something warmer, something familiar.

Later, as you walked back to the common room, Fred’s hand in yours, Ron fell into step beside you. “You’re still a git,” he said to Fred, but his tone was lighter.

“And you’re still a prat,” Fred shot back, but he squeezed your hand, his eyes warm.

Ron glanced at you, his expression softening. “You’re happy, yeah?”

You nodded, your throat tight. “Yeah. Really happy.”

He sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Then I guess I’ll live with it.”

—

The Burrow was a riot of warmth and chaos, its crooked walls humming with the energy of summer. The kitchen smelled of fresh bread and lavender, the garden buzzed with gnomes scurrying through the overgrown grass, and every room seemed to creak with the weight of Weasley family life. You’d been invited to spend two weeks here before sixth year, a gesture from Ron to mend the lingering awkwardness between you after he’d caught you and Fred together. But now, standing in the cluttered living room with your trunk at your feet, you realized this was going to be harder than you thought.

Keeping your relationship with Fred a secret from Molly Weasley was like trying to hide a Firework from Filch. She had a sixth sense for mischief, and you and Fred were walking a dangerous line. The plan was simple: act normal, no touching, no lingering looks, and definitely no sneaking off. Ron had made it clear he wasn’t going to cover for you if his mum got suspicious. “I’m not lying to her,” he’d muttered on the train ride home. “She’ll have my head.”

You glanced at Fred across the room, where he was helping George levitate a stack of old Quidditch Weekly magazines to clear space. His sleeves were rolled up, his hair a mess of red catching the sunlight streaming through the window, and when he caught your eye, he winked. Your stomach flipped, and you quickly looked away, your cheeks burning. Merlin, this is going to be impossible.

Molly bustled in, her apron dusted with flour, her wand tucked behind her ear. “Y/N, dear, you’re in Ginny’s room with Hermione,” she said, her voice warm but firm. “Boys, you’re all upstairs. No funny business, mind you.” Her eyes lingered on Fred and George, who both put on their most innocent expressions.

“No funny business here, Mum,” Fred said, his grin too wide to be trusted.

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, grabbing your trunk and heading for the stairs. Ron followed, carrying Hermione’s bag, his ears red as he avoided your gaze. “This is a terrible idea,” he muttered under his breath.

“Relax,” you whispered back, though your heart was racing. “We’ve got this.”

But you didn’t. Not really.

—

The first few days were a masterclass in restraint. You and Fred were careful—too careful. You sat at opposite ends of the dinner table, where Molly piled plates high with roast potatoes and shepherd’s pie. You avoided brushing shoulders in the narrow hallways. When Fred passed you the butterbeer during a game of Exploding Snap in the garden, his fingers lingered a fraction too long, and you yanked your hand back like you’d been burned. Ron noticed, rolling his eyes, but Molly was too busy scolding George for charming the cutlery to dance to see.

At night, though, the Burrow’s creaky floors and thin walls made secrecy a nightmare. You’d lie awake in Ginny’s room, Hermione’s soft snores beside you, and hear Fred’s laugh from upstairs, low and warm, carrying through the house. It was torture, knowing he was so close but untouchable. The memory of that party kiss—the heat of his lips—kept you restless, your heart a mix of longing and fear. What if Molly found out? Would she send you home? Lock Fred in his room until school started back?

On the fourth night, you couldn’t take it anymore. You slipped out of bed, tiptoeing down the hall to the kitchen for a glass of water—or so you told yourself. The house was dark, the only light coming from the moon spilling through the windows. You froze when you heard a floorboard creak behind you.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Fred’s voice was low, teasing, but there was something softer in it, like he’d been waiting for this.

You turned, your breath catching. He was leaning against the doorway, wearing a faded Weird Sisters T-shirt and pajama bottoms, his hair sticking up at odd angles. The moonlight made his eyes glint, and for a moment, you forgot how to speak.

“Keep your voice down,” you hissed, but your heart wasn’t in it. “If your mum catches us—”

“She’s snoring loud enough to wake a dragon,” he said, stepping closer. “We’re safe.”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “Safe? You’re about as safe as a Blast-Ended Skrewt.”

He grinned, closing the distance between you. “And yet, here you are.”

Before you could retort, he kissed you—soft at first, then deeper, his hands finding your waist. It was reckless, standing in the middle of the Weasley kitchen where anyone could walk in, but you melted into him, the world narrowing to his warmth, his heartbeat, the faint taste of peppermint on his lips.

A loud creak from upstairs made you both jump apart, your heart pounding. You held your breath, listening, but no one came. Fred chuckled softly, his forehead resting against yours. “Close call.”

“You’re going to get us caught,” you whispered, but you couldn’t stop smiling.

“Worth it,” he murmured, stealing one more quick kiss before stepping back. “Go to bed, love. Before I do something really stupid.”

You rolled your eyes but headed back to Ginny’s room, your pulse still racing. The Burrow felt alive with secrets, and you were starting to think you’d never survive two weeks.

—

It happened on the seventh day, during a chaotic Weasley family Quidditch match in the orchard. The sky was a brilliant blue, the air thick with summer heat and the shouts of Ron, Ginny, and George as they zoomed around on brooms. You were on the ground, ostensibly keeping score with Hermione, but mostly watching Fred. He was a blur of red hair and laughter, dodging Bludgers with effortless grace, his grin infectious as he taunted Ron mid-air.

“Nice dive, Ronniekins!” he shouted as Ron fumbled a catch. “Maybe try using your hands next time!”

You laughed, and Fred’s eyes flicked to you, his smile softening for just a second. It was a mistake. Molly, who’d been setting up a picnic table nearby, caught the look. You saw her pause, her hands stilling on the tablecloth, her eyes narrowing as they darted between you and Fred.

Your stomach dropped. “Hermione,” you whispered, nudging her. “She’s onto us.”

Hermione glanced over, her expression a mix of sympathy and alarm. “Oh no. Just… act normal.”

But normal was impossible when Fred landed a few minutes later, sweaty and grinning, and tossed you a water bottle. “Stay hydrated, love,” he said, the word slipping out before he could stop it.

Molly’s head snapped up like a hawk spotting prey. “Fred Gideon Weasley,” she said, her voice dangerously calm. “What did you just call her?”

The orchard went quiet. Ron, still hovering on his broom, looked like he wanted to sink into the ground. George snorted, clearly enjoying the chaos. You felt your face heat up, your stubborn streak urging you to stand your ground, but your heart was pounding.

Fred, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “I called her love,” he said, meeting his mother’s gaze. “Because that’s what she is.”

You wanted to throttle him for being so bold, but your heart did a stupid flip at his words. Molly’s eyes widened, then flicked to you, her expression a mix of shock and something softer—concern, maybe, or realization.

“Y/N, dear,” she said, her voice softening but still firm. “Is this true?”

You swallowed, your independence warring with the urge to hide. But Fred’s hand brushed yours, a quiet anchor, and you found your voice. “Yeah,” you said, lifting your chin. “It’s true.”

Ron landed with a thud, muttering, “Here we go.”

Molly’s mouth opened, then closed. She looked at Fred, then you, then back at Fred, her hands on her hips. “And you thought you could keep this from me? In my own house?”

“We weren’t sure how you’d take it,” you said, your voice steady despite the nerves. “Didn’t want to make things weird.”

“Weird?” Molly’s voice rose, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “You’re sneaking around under my roof, and you think that’s not weird?” She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Merlin’s beard, you two. I raised seven children—I know when something’s going on.”

Fred grinned, undeterred. “So you’re not mad?”

“Oh, I’m mad,” Molly said, pointing a finger at him. “Mad you didn’t tell me! And you—” She turned to you, her expression softening. “Y/N, you’re practically family already, but you’re still a guest in my home. I expect honesty. And no sneaking off to the broom shed, understand?”

Your face burned, but you nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Weasley.”

She huffed, then pulled you into a sudden, bone-crushing hug. “Oh, come here. If you’re going to be with my Fred, you’d better get used to this.”

Fred laughed, but there was relief in his eyes as he met yours over his mother’s shoulder. Ron, still hovering nearby, groaned. “Can we go back to Quidditch now? This is too much.”

George zoomed down, clapping Fred on the back. “Told you she’d figure it out. Mum’s got eyes like a Niffler.”

The rest of the day was a blur of Molly’s overbearing warmth—she insisted on setting an extra place for you at the table, as if you were officially part of the family now—and Fred’s teasing, his hand finding yours under the table when no one was looking. The Burrow’s chaos wrapped around you like a warm blanket, and as you sat in the garden that night, Fred’s arm around you, Ron bickering with George, and Molly’s laughter drifting from the kitchen, you realized you’d found something you hadn’t known you were looking for.

leave recommendations in my inbox and check out my masterlist .ᐟ

SWEET NOTHING || H.P

pairing: harry potter x reader

trope: friends to lovers, yearning

lyrics: ‘and the voices that implore, "You should be doin' more. To you, I can admit that I′m just too soft for all of it, ooh’

a/n: tomorrow is my first day of school, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK

It was always louder at night.

The castle, despite its sleeping portraits and snuffed torches, seemed to hum in the quiet — the whisper of wind pressing against the old stone, the echo of footsteps that weren’t yours, the murmurs of whatever your mind wanted to replay when you should have been resting.

You should’ve been in your dorm. Instead, you were barefoot on the cold floor of the Gryffindor common room, curled into the end of the couch, knees tucked to your chest. The fire had burned down to embers, casting an orange wash over the room.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

You get startled. Harry’s voice was soft, almost amused, like he’d known exactly where you’d be. You glanced up to find him in the doorway, his glasses crooked from whatever half-dream he’d been dragged from. He wasn’t wearing his uniform — just a faded jumper and sweats, hair sticking up worse than usual.

“Guess not,” you said, your voice barely above the crackle of the fire.

He padded closer, hands stuffed into his pockets. “Me neither.”

It wasn’t unusual, the two of you finding each other in the small hours. The weight of the world sat differently on Harry’s shoulders, but you felt it too — not the prophecies or the danger, but the constant expectation. The people who wanted him to be something, to do something, to win.

And you… well, you were just here. In the quiet parts of his life.

He flopped into the other end of the couch, stretching his legs until his socked foot nudged your shin. You gave him a look, but didn’t move.

“What’s keeping you up?” he asked.

You shrugged. “What’s keeping you up?”

He smiled faintly, leaning his head back against the couch. “Fair point.” His eyes closed, the shadows under them deep.

You watched him for a moment, the way the firelight softened his features. How even in exhaustion, he made space for you — not in grand gestures, but in little ones. He’d never say I’m glad you’re here, but you could hear it anyway.

“D’you ever feel like everyone wants something from you? Like your just to soft for all of it?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

His eyes opened, meeting yours instantly. There was a flicker there — recognition, maybe, or relief that someone had said it first.

“All the time,” he said quietly. “Feels like if I stop for a second, I’m letting someone down.”

You nodded, chewing the inside of your cheek. “Yeah. Same.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The fire popped, and you pulled your blanket tighter around your shoulders. Harry shifted, and then his hand — tentative, warm — brushed against your knee.

“You don’t have to do more for me,” he said, so quietly you almost missed it. “You don’t have to be anything. You can just… be.”

Something in your chest went loose. You stared at him, unsure what to do with the sudden weight of the moment.

“I could say the same to you,” you managed.

His lips curved, just slightly, and then he moved closer — not touching you fully, but close enough that your knees bumped.

“Reckon I like it better here,” he said, voice softer now. “When it’s just us.”

The room felt heavier after that, like you’d both admitted something you weren’t supposed to.

You shifted so you were facing him fully, the blanket slipping from your shoulder. His gaze followed it for half a second before flicking back to your face.

Your knees pressed together again, and this time neither of you moved away.

“Harry—”

“Y/n—”

You both laughed, too quiet, and the sound was almost dizzying in how normal it felt.

“You go first,” you said, even though part of you wasn’t sure you wanted to hear whatever it was.

But Harry didn’t speak. Instead, he looked at you in a way that made your breath catch — steady, searching, like he was memorising you. And then he leaned forward.

It was slow enough that you could’ve stopped him. You didn’t.

His lips brushed yours — light, careful, almost like he was testing the weight of the air between you. Then he pressed in just enough to feel real.

It was warm. Softer than you’d expected. Your fingers tightened in the blanket, resisting the urge to reach for him.

He pulled back first, but only a little, his forehead nearly touching yours. His breath was unsteady.

“That was…” you started, then stopped, because anything you said might shatter it.

Harry’s eyes searched yours, and you could feel the question there, the one neither of you could ask.

You swallowed. “We should probably—”

“Yeah,” he cut in quickly, leaning back before you could finish. “Yeah, you’re right.”

The air between you felt different now. Fragile. Precious.

You stayed a little longer, until the fire was nearly out. When you finally left, you didn’t say goodnight — just gave him a small look over your shoulder before disappearing up the stairs.

Harry stayed behind, staring at the dying flames.

And in the quiet, he let himself think it — just once — before tucking it away where it wouldn’t ruin things.

I think I’m in love with you.

leave recommendations in my inbox and check out my masterlist !

FALSE GOD || F.W

Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: You and Fred Weasley have been sneaking around Hogwarts, pretending it’s just physical until one night makes it too real to ignore. When you get caught, Fred finally confesses the truth it’s always meant something. And this time, you stop pretending.

Warnings: explicit content, smut, fluff, no major character death

Word count: 1.4k

You’re not supposed to be here.

“You’re gonna get us caught,” you whisper, breath hitching as he pulls your shirt down over your shoulder, exposing skin like he’s unveiling something sacred.

Fred grins against your collarbone, warm breath making you shiver. “You always say that. Right before you pull me into another room.”

You want to argue. You want to say he’s wrong— that it’s him who finds you every time, him who lights the match but then his tongue runs a slow line up your neck and the thought vanishes.

It always does with Fred.

Because Fred Weasley touches you like you’re a religion. Like he’s kneeling at an altar and you’re the only holy thing left in the world.

—

It started months ago. A party in the common room. Too much Firewhisky and not enough space. You were dancing, laughing and then his eyes were on you. Heat. Hunger. Worship.

He kissed you in a hallway that night, back pressed to stone, hands threading under your jumper. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t want to.

And now, here you are, again and again. Worshipping something neither of you will name.

“This isn’t love,” you told him once, after a night in the Astronomy Tower when your knees were bruised from stone and your lips were swollen from his teeth.

He just looked at you and said, “No. But we still bow to it, don’t we?”

—

His hand slides under your skirt now, fingers trailing up your thigh, slow like he has forever. You whimper, quiet, and his grip tightens.

“You always wear these skirts just for me?” he murmurs, eyes dark, voice low.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

So you kiss him — hard, all teeth and heat and it only encourages him. His hands are everywhere, greedy and reverent all at once. The way he touches you shouldn’t feel sacred. But it does.

When his fingers slip past your underwear, you gasp, hips bucking. He drinks in the sound like a man starved.

“You’re always so ready for me,” he mutters, forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing as he speaks. “You act like you hate me in the daylight, but down here in the dark…”

“Fred—”

“I know,” he whispers, sliding one finger in, then two. “I know what this does to you.”

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. His mouth moves to your chest, teeth grazing your skin before he sucks gently leaving proof of you on him, and him on you.

You grind against his hand, moaning softly, and he groans at the sight of you — flushed, ruined, whispering his name like a prayer.

And it is a prayer, in some twisted way.

Because Fred Weasley isn’t safe. He’s temptation in a red and gold tie, a boy who never plays fair, and you’re on your knees for him anyway.

—

He lays you back on the cold desk, shrugging off his robes and unbuttoning his shirt with shaking hands. Your eyes trail over every inch of him — his flushed chest, the faint freckles scattered across his collarbone, the scar near his ribs from a failed prototype. You want to kiss all of it. Memorize him.

And he watches you the same way — like you’re made of something rare and breakable.

“You don’t have to be gentle,” you whisper.

He pauses. “Yeah, I do.”

Then he leans down and kisses your stomach, your hips, the inside of your thighs. Each touch a vow.

When he finally slides into you, slow and deep, you both gasp like your bodies recognize each other before your hearts are ready to admit it.

You wrap your legs around him, nails digging into his back, clinging like you’ll fall apart without him.

“I dream about this,” he breathes against your neck. “About you. The sounds you make. The way you feel.”

You whimper, hips meeting his as he moves, every thrust perfectly measured, like he knows exactly how to ruin you.

The desk creaks. Your breath stutters. His name falls from your lips like it’s divine.

And Fred? He looks at you like you’re the altar and he’s the believer.

“Look at me,” he says.

You do.

And in that moment, it feels like love. It feels like everything.

—

After, you’re both quiet. The air is thick with sweat and secrets.

Fred leans against you, forehead resting on your shoulder. You thread your fingers through his hair.

“You’re going to get tired of sneaking around,” you say eventually, barely above a whisper.

He lifts his head. “You think that’s all this is?”

“I think we don’t talk about it.”

He’s silent for a beat. Then, “If this is a false god, I’ll still worship it.”

Your heart aches.

You don’t say anything else.

But when he kisses you again slow, soft, careful and you let him.

And when you both walk back to Gryffindor Tower separately, like strangers in the hall, you still feel him everywhere.

—

The next morning, everything feels different.

Not because of the sex — you’ve done that before. Not because he kissed you afterward like it meant something. He always does.

But because you’re starting to think it actually does mean something.

And that’s terrifying.

You’re sitting across from him at breakfast, trying not to look at him. He’s got a smirk tugging at his mouth, like he’s remembering how your legs shook around his waist last night.

George elbows him and mutters something. Fred laughs, but doesn’t respond. He glances at you and this time, you do look back.

Big mistake. Your stomach flips.

You tear your eyes away and dig into your toast. You don’t see the way Fred’s face falls.

—

You avoid him the rest of the day.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re busy. Because you’ve got that Herbology essay. Because you need to focus on literally anything else besides how Fred Weasley made you feel like something sacred in a dusty classroom.

But you can’t stop thinking about it. About him. About how, for a moment, it felt like more.

You’ve just turned the corner toward the Astronomy Tower again, your hiding place of choice

when a voice behind you says, “You’re avoiding me.”

You close your eyes. “No, I’m not.”

Fred scoffs. “You haven’t spoken to me since last night.”

You turn. He’s standing there in his school robes, tie loose, hair tousled. His expression is unreadable.

“I didn’t think we talked,” you stated in an almost cold tone.

He flinches.

You didn’t mean to sound cruel. But it’s easier this way, right? Easier to pretend it’s still just a game. Still just late nights and false promises.

Fred steps closer. “What do you want me to say? That I like you? That I’ve always liked you?”

Your heart stutters.

He lowers his voice. “Because I do. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”

The hallway is silent. You’re sure he can hear your heart hammering.

Then behind you someone clears their throat.

You both freeze.

And when you turn around, of course it’s McGonagall.

—

Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing in her office, both of you flushed and silent as she paces behind her desk.

“Mr. Weasley. Miss Y/L/N I’d like to remind you both that Hogwarts is not a… playground for romantic entanglements.”

Fred mumbles something like “Yes, ma’am.”

You resist the urge to crawl under the floor.

“I will not be assigning detention,” she continues, stern. “But I do expect a level of decorum going forward. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Professor,” you both say in unison.

She sends you off with a pointed look. You practically run down the corridor.

Fred catches up with you near the stairs.

“Well,” he says, trying not to laugh. “That was horrifying.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “I’m never showing my face again.”

He gently pulls your hands away. “Hey.”

You look up at him. He’s not smiling anymore.

“Are you still going to pretend this doesn’t mean anything?” he asks.

You bite your lip. “No.”

He exhales, relief flooding his face. “Good.”

And then, without hesitation, he leans in and kisses you. Right there in the middle of the corridor, no classrooms, no shadows, no excuses.

When he pulls back, he grins. “Guess the secret’s out anyway.”

You laugh, breathless. “I’m still going to kill you for getting us caught.”

He throws an arm around your shoulder. “Totally worth it.”

And for the first time, you walk back into the common room together. No sneaking. No pretending.

leave recommendations in my inbox and check out my masterlist .ᐟ

a/n: i need fred weasley to false god me so bad (｡♡︎‿♡︎｡)

OPHELIA || D.M

pairing: draco malfoy x hufflepuff!reader

trope: unexpected, slight enemies to lovers, grumpy x sunshine

warnings: none that I am aware of !

a/n: i heard that there is a lack of fics on here so i came back and I MISS DRACOTOK SO BAD so happy august !

The air in Hogwarts carried a crisp edge, like the first breath of autumn had slipped through the castle’s ancient stones. You tugged your yellow-and-black scarf tighter around your neck, the Hufflepuff common room’s warmth still lingering on your skin as you stepped into the corridor. The lanterns flickered, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts across the walls. It was late—too late for a sensible Hufflepuff to be wandering the halls—but you’d left your Herbology notes in the library, and Professor Sprout’s quiz tomorrow was a beast you couldn’t face unprepared.

You didn’t expect to see him. Not here, not now.

Draco Malfoy leaned against a pillar just outside the library, his pale hair catching the torchlight like a halo gone wrong. His Slytherin tie hung loose, the knot half-undone, and his posture was all sharp angles—shoulders stiff, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. He looked like he was waiting for something, or someone, and the way his gaze snapped to you felt like a spell hitting its mark.

“What are you doing out here, Badger?” His voice was low, laced with that familiar sneer, the one that made your stomach twist in a way you couldn’t quite name. He always called you that—Badger—like your house was some kind of insult, a soft thing to be mocked.

“Library,” you said simply, refusing to let his tone burrow under your skin. You’d learned by now that Draco thrived on reactions, on the spark of irritation or the flush of embarrassment. You wouldn’t give him either. “Forgot my notes.”

He scoffed, pushing off the pillar with a grace that was almost annoying. “Typical Hufflepuff. Always scrambling at the last minute. Don’t you ever plan?”

You tilted your head, meeting his eyes. They were gray, like storm clouds, and just as cold. “Don’t you ever not lurk in dark corners like some kind of gothic novel villain?”

His lips twitched—barely, but you caught it. A crack in the armor. “Witty for a Hufflepuff. I’m almost impressed.”

“Almost?” You raised an eyebrow, stepping past him toward the library doors. “I’ll take it.”

He didn’t follow, but you felt his stare on your back, sharp as a quill’s point. Draco Malfoy hated you—or at least, he acted like he did. It had started in third year, when you’d accidentally bumped into him in the Great Hall, spilling pumpkin juice down his pristine robes. You’d apologized, of course, but he’d looked at you like you’d committed treason, hissing something about “clumsy Hufflepuffs” and storming off. Since then, it was like he’d marked you as a target for his disdain—snide comments in Potions, pointed glares in the corridors, the occasional hex that you always managed to dodge.

You didn’t hate him back. You couldn’t. There was something about him—something brittle beneath the venom, like glass pretending to be steel. You saw it in the way his hands fidgeted when he thought no one was watching, or how his eyes lingered on the Quidditch pitch after everyone else had left, like he was searching for something he’d never find. You weren’t sure why you noticed these things. You just did.

Inside the library, the air was thick with the smell of old parchment and ink. You found your notes wedged between two herbology textbooks, exactly where you’d left them during your frantic study session earlier. As you tucked them into your bag, you heard the door creak open behind you.

“Still here, Badger?” Draco’s voice slithered through the quiet, and you turned to find him leaning against a bookshelf, arms crossed again. He looked out of place among the dusty tomes, too polished, too deliberate.

“Thought you had better things to do than stalk me,” you said, keeping your tone light. You weren’t afraid of him—not really—but there was a tension in the air, like the moment before a storm breaks.

He stepped closer, his boots silent on the stone floor. “I don’t stalk. I observe. And you’re… an unfortunate subject.”

You laughed softly, surprising yourself. “Unfortunate? That’s a new one. Usually, it’s just ‘annoying’ or ‘useless.’”

His eyes narrowed, but there was something different in them tonight—something less hostile, more curious. “You don’t get it, do you? You’re not supposed to be here.” He gestured vaguely at the library, the castle, maybe the world. “You’re too… soft. Too sunny. It’s infuriating.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the honesty in his voice. “Infuriating? Draco, I’m just trying to pass Herbology. I’m not out here plotting your downfall.”

He snorted, but it lacked its usual bite. “That’s the problem. You don’t plot. You don’t scheme. You just… exist. All earnest and kind and—” He cut himself off, his jaw tightening.

“And what?” you prompted, stepping closer despite yourself. The library was silent except for the faint rustle of pages and the distant hum of the castle settling into night. You could feel the weight of his words, the ones he wasn’t saying.

He looked away, his fingers twitching at his side. “Forget it.”

“No.” Your voice was firm, surprising even you. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to throw out half an insult and then walk away. Say what you mean, Draco.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, and for a moment, you thought he might hex you. But then he sighed, a sharp, frustrated sound, and ran a hand through his hair, mussing the perfect strands. “You’re like… honey,” he muttered, almost too quiet to hear. “Sweet and warm and everyone loves you. And I’m—” He stopped, his expression twisting.

“You’re what?” you asked, softer now. You weren’t sure why your heart was pounding, why the air felt too thick.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he moved closer, close enough that you could smell the faint cedarwood of his cologne, see the faint shadows under his eyes. “I’m not like you,” he said finally, his voice low, almost raw. “I don’t get to be like you.”

You swallowed, your throat tight. “You could be,” you said, barely above a whisper. “If you wanted to.”

He laughed, but it was hollow, bitter. “You don’t know me, Badger. You don’t know what I’ve done. What I have to do.”

“Then tell me,” you said, and you meant it. You didn’t know why you cared, why you wanted to peel back the layers of Draco Malfoy when everyone else had written him off as a lost cause. But you did. You always had.

He stared at you, his eyes searching your face like he was looking for a trick, a lie. “Why do you care?” he asked, and for the first time, there was no sneer, no mockery. Just a question, raw and unguarded.

You hesitated, then decided to be honest. “Because I see you. Not the Slytherin prince, not the bully. Just… you. And I think you’re more than you let people believe.”

Draco’s breath hitched, and for one fleeting moment, you saw something unguarded in his eyes—something fragile, like a crack in a frozen lake. Then it was gone, replaced by the familiar steel of his defenses. He took a step back, putting distance between you, as if your words had burned him.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his voice sharper now, but it trembled at the edges. “You think you see me? You see what you want to see. Some pathetic, redeemable version of me that doesn’t exist.”

You didn’t flinch. You’d heard worse from him before, and you’d learned to let his venom slide off you like rain on a windowpane. “Maybe,” you said softly, holding his gaze. “But I’m not wrong about you, Draco. You’re not as cold as you pretend to be.”

He laughed, a jagged sound that echoed in the empty library. “You’re delusional. A proper Hufflepuff, through and through—thinking everyone’s got a heart of gold if you just believe hard enough.” He sneered, but it felt forced, like he was trying to convince himself as much as you.

You stepped closer, closing the gap he’d tried to create. “I don’t think you’re gold,” you said, your voice steady. “I think you’re… complicated. And I think you’re tired of pretending you’re not.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might turn and leave, disappear into the shadows like he always did when things got too real. But he didn’t. He stayed, rooted to the spot, his eyes locked on yours. The air between you felt charged, like the moment before a spell is cast, and you could hear your own heartbeat in the silence.

“Why do you keep doing this?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “Why do you keep talking to me like I’m… like I’m worth something?”

Your chest ached at the question, at the raw vulnerability he was trying so hard to hide. You wanted to reach out, to touch his arm, to ground him in this moment, but you didn’t. Not yet. “Because you are,” you said simply. “And I’m not afraid of you, Draco. I never have been.”

He stared at you, and for the first time, you saw something shift—something real. Not the sneering Slytherin prince, not the boy who threw insults like hexes, but just Draco. Tired, scared, and carrying a weight you could only guess at. His hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for something—maybe you, maybe something else—but he curled his fingers into a fist instead.

“You should be,” he muttered, but there was no venom in it. Just exhaustion. “You should stay away from me.”

“Maybe,” you said, echoing your earlier words. “But I don’t want to.”

The library seemed to hold its breath, the flickering lanterns casting soft light across his face. You could see the war in his eyes, the push and pull of wanting to believe you and the fear that he couldn’t. You didn’t know what he was running from—what secrets he carried that made him so sharp, so guarded—but you knew he was hurting. And you knew you couldn’t fix him, but maybe, just maybe, you could be there.

“Draco,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

He flinched, like your words were a spell he hadn’t expected. For a moment, you thought he might snap, might lash out with one of his cutting remarks. But instead, he let out a shaky breath and looked away, his shoulders slumping.

“You don’t get it,” he said, his voice raw. “There’s things I can’t tell you. Things I won’t tell you. I’m not… I’m not good, Badger. I’m not like you.”

You took a chance, stepping closer still, until you were close enough to see the faint freckle on his cheek, the one he probably didn’t even know he had. “I don’t need you to be like me,” you said. “I just need you to be honest. With me. With yourself.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and it felt like the world tilted. His eyes were stormy, full of things unsaid, and you could feel the weight of them pressing against your chest. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out, his fingers brushing against yours. It was barely a touch, but it sent a shiver through you, like a spark of magic.

“I don’t know how,” he admitted, his voice so quiet it was almost lost in the silence. “I don’t know how to be… anything else.”

“Then let me help,” you said, and you meant it. You didn’t know how, either, but you knew you wanted to try. For him. For the boy who hid behind sneers and sharp words, who carried a burden too heavy for his shoulders.

His fingers curled around yours, just for a moment, and it felt like a promise. Not a grand one, not a vow, but something small and fragile, like the first bud of spring. Then he pulled away, stepping back, his mask slipping back into place.

“Don’t expect me to go soft,” he said, his voice regaining some of its edge. “I’m still me.”

You smiled, a small, knowing thing. “I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was a flicker of something lighter in them, something almost like amusement. “You’re impossible, Badger.”

“And you’re stuck with me,” you shot back, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Now, are you going to keep lurking, or are you going to walk me back to my common room? It’s past curfew, and I’d rather not get detention because of you.”

He snorted, but he fell into step beside you as you left the library, the castle’s corridors stretching out before you like a maze of secrets. The silence between you was different now—not heavy, not tense, but soft, like the quiet after a storm. You didn’t talk much as you walked, but you didn’t need to. His presence was enough, the brush of his sleeve against yours, the way his steps matched your own.

When you reached the Hufflepuff common room, hidden behind a stack of barrels, you turned to face him. The torchlight painted him in gold and shadow, and for a moment, you thought he might say something—something real, something that would change everything.

Instead, he just looked at you, his expression unreadable. “Don’t get used to this,” he said, but his voice was softer than usual, almost teasing.

You grinned. “Too late.”

He shook his head, but there was a ghost of a smile on his lips as he turned to leave. You watched him go, his figure disappearing into the shadows of the corridor, and you felt something settle in your chest. Not love, not yet, but something close. Something like hope.

leave recommendations in my inbox and check out my masterlist!

pairing: james potter x fem!reader

summary: you and James find yourselves in an empty nook near the Gryffindor tower

warnings: explicit content, oral-receiving, praise

word count: 1k+

The castle is quiet, except for the distant echo of Filch’s footsteps and Mrs. Norris’s soft yowls somewhere down the corridor. You should be in bed. You should be studying for Transfiguration, but James Potter has a way of derailing plans. He’s got you pinned against the wall in a hidden nook near the Gryffindor tower, his body close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, his breath tickling your ear.

“Merlin, you’re trouble,” you whisper, half-laughing, half-scolding, your fingers curling into the soft fabric of his Quidditch jersey. He’s fresh from practice, still a little sweaty, his hair a beautiful mess of dark curls.

“Me? Trouble?” James grins, all teeth and mischief, his hazel eyes glinting behind his glasses. “You’re the one who followed me out here, love.” His voice is low, teasing, the kind of tone that makes your stomach flip. His hand slides down your side, fingers grazing the hem of your skirt, and you suck in a breath.

“Shut up,” you mutter, but it’s weak, and he knows it. His lips brush your jaw, soft at first, then firmer, trailing down to the sensitive spot just below your ear. Your head tilts back instinctively, giving him more access, and you feel his smirk against your skin.

“Make me,” he murmurs, and before you can respond, his mouth is on yours, searing, hot and hungry, kissing you like he’s been starving for it. You know your lipsstick has probably coated his mouth. Not that you cared. Your hands find his hair, tugging lightly, and he groans into your mouth, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

James Potter is a lot of things—cocky, loyal, infuriatingly charming—but right now, he’s a storm, all heat and urgency. His hands slip under your skirt, fingers brushing the tops of your thighs, and you gasp, breaking the kiss.

“James,” you breathe, half-warning, half-plea. The alcove is dark, but not dark enough. Anyone could walk by.

“Shh,” he soothes, dropping to his knees in front of you, and your brain short-circuits. His hands are steady, pushing your skirt up just enough, his eyes locked on yours, asking for permission without saying a word. You nod, barely, and his grin turns wicked.

“Good girl,” he says, and the words alone make your knees weak. He leans in, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another, higher, his hands holding you steady as you lean back against the wall. Your heart is pounding, loud enough you’re sure he can hear it, but he’s too focused, too intent on unraveling you.

His mouth finds you, and it’s like the world explodes into stars. He’s not gentle—James doesn’t do gentle when he’s like this, all passion and purpose. His tongue moves with devastating precision, teasing, tasting, devouring, and you’re gripping his hair tighter, biting your lip to keep from making too much noise. The stone wall is cold against your back, a stark contrast to the heat pooling in your core, and you’re trembling, thighs shaking as he works you over like it’s his only mission in life.

“James—fuck,” you gasp, voice barely a whisper, and he hums against you, the vibration making you whimper. He’s relentless, a man possessed, his hands gripping your hips to keep you in place as he licks and sucks, every movement deliberate, every sound he makes driving you closer to the edge. You’re unraveling, fast, too fast, and he knows it, the bastard. You can feel his smirk, feel the way he’s savoring every hitch of your breath, every muffled moan.

“Love the way you taste,” he murmurs against you, voice rough, and it’s too much. Your head tips back, eyes squeezing shut as the tension snaps, pleasure crashing over you in waves. Your legs buckle, but he’s there, holding you up, guiding you through it with slow, deliberate licks until you’re gasping, oversensitive and boneless.

He pulls back, lips glistening, eyes dark and smug behind his glasses. “Told you I’m trouble,” he says, voice low and satisfied, and you want to smack him, but you’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

“Arse,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it, and he laughs, standing and pulling you into him. His lips find yours again, softer this time, and you can taste yourself on him, which shouldn’t be as hot as it is. His hands slide up your back, warm and grounding, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you, the world outside forgotten.

“Worth it, though,” he whispers against your mouth, and you can’t help but smile, because yeah, it absolutely was.

leave recommendations in my inbox and check out my masterlist .ᐟ

a/n: hello gorgeous people!! how is everybody doingggg

a/n: i am honestly not sure how to feel about this but if you love it, i’ll end up loving it. Honestly its giving jeff buckley’s yearning.

summary: James Potter touches you like it means nothing. You feel it like it means everything. Best friends caught in the in-between. Too close to be casual, too scared to be honest. It’s all glances that linger too long, hands that almost hold, and words neither of you are brave enough to say. But how long can you keep waiting for someone who’s already halfway yours?

including: Slow emotional, mutual pining, angst, no explicit content or character death

word count: 2k+

James Potter always touches you like it means nothing.

An arm slung over your shoulder. A hand on your arm when he’s laughing too hard at Sirius. His chin on your shoulder as he reads your Herbology notes upside down. You’ve learned to breathe through it. To pretend your skin doesn’t buzz every time he’s close.

You’re best friends. You don’t ruin that.

But it’s hard.

Especially when he curls up next to you on the Gryffindor common room couch and falls asleep halfway through some dull Astronomy chapter you offered to read out loud. His head is on your chest, soft snoring, lips slightly parted. You don’t dare move.

You also don’t sleep.

You stare at the ceiling for two hours and wonder if he hears how fast your heart beats when he’s this close.

⸻

You get good at hiding it.

The longing. The way you look for him in every hallway, laugh a little louder when he’s nearby. The way you watch his hands, his long fingers, calloused knuckles, a freckle on his middle knuckle you once counted just to distract yourself.

He talks about girls sometimes. You pretend not to care.

“You think Smith likes me?” he asks one afternoon, sprawled on your bed eating half your chocolate stash.

You shrug. “Probably. You’re loud. People notice loud.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Do I?” you joked.

He throws a pillow at you. You throw it back.

⸻

One morning, he’s already at your table in the library when you arrive. There’s an extra quill waiting for you, your favorite fruit chews, and a note folded in half.

“Thought you’d forget your stuff. You always do.”

You roll your eyes but keep the note.

You tuck it in your pocket and read it again three times during History of Magic.

He never mentions it.

⸻

Sixth year feels heavier.

He’s taller. His voice is deeper. Lily Evans finally starts looking at him the way he’s always looked at her. It makes your stomach twist.

You hate that you see it. That he doesn’t seem to care as much anymore. Or maybe he’s just tired of waiting for her, the same way you’re tired of waiting for him.

You sit beside him in Transfiguration and pretend it doesn’t mean anything when your knees touch.

You lend him your scarf one day when he forgets his. He forgets to give it back for a week. When he does, it smells like him.

⸻

You tell yourself you’re fine with this.

This limbo. This almost.

He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you.

Because how could you? What would you even say?

“I think about kissing you every time you lean too close.”

or something even better

“I feel like I’m falling in love with someone who thinks of me like a place to rest, not stay.”

You’d sound crazy. Mental.

But worst of all— you’d lose him.

So you smile. Laugh. Let him get close, but never close enough.

You wait. And wait. And wait.

⸻

It changes one night in November.

It’s late. Past curfew. You’re both on the Quidditch pitch, lying in the middle of the grass after James dragged you out for “fresh air and perspective,” whatever that means.

You’re lying side by side, his fingers close to yours. Not touching. Just close enough to feel the warmth radiating like a furnace.

He sighs. “Everything feels like it’s moving too fast lately.”

You glance at him. “What do you mean?”

“I dunno. Lily. School. Life. Everything feels like it’s on the edge of changing and I can’t tell if that’s a good thing.”

You chew your lip. “Maybe it is.”

He turns his head toward you. “What if I don’t want it to change?”

You look at him.

And you say the bravest thing you’ve ever said “Then tell it to stay.”

James blinks.

You keep going, even though your chest feels like it’s caving in. “Sometimes… I feel like I’m standing still and everything else is moving on without me.”

He’s quiet.

And then he whispers, “Mine doesn’t move without you.”

You stare at him. His voice is low. Vulnerable. Like he’s saying more than he knows how to say.

“James—”

“I think about it,” he says suddenly. “Us. Sometimes.”

Your heart stutters. “Oh.”

He laughs softly. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “That you think about it too.”

You look down. “I think about it all the time.”

He’s still. Like he’s scared to move, scared it’ll break whatever moment this is.

But then he reaches out — slowly — and takes your hand.

Just that.

Not a kiss. Not a confession.

Just your hand in his.

And somehow, that’s everything.

⸻

After that night, nothing’s different.

And yet everything is.

He still jokes. Still ruffles your hair. Still falls asleep beside you with a book open in his lap. But now, his fingers find yours under the table. His arm lingers around your waist longer than it should. And when he smiles at you, it’s softer.

You still don’t talk about it.

Neither of you are ready.

But when you see Lily Evans look at him and he doesn’t look back, you feel something loosen in your chest.

You’re still waiting.

But it feels different now.

Like maybe — finally — he’s waiting too.

⸻

(James POV)

James Potter doesn’t know when it started.

Maybe it was fourth year, when you cursed Mulciber for hexing his broom and then shrugged it off like it was nothing.

Or maybe it was fifth, when you fell asleep on his shoulder in the library and slightly drooled on his robes and he didn’t even care.

Or maybe it was always there — this quiet ache that sat low in his chest every time you laughed and it wasn’t at something he said.

He doesn’t know.

He just knows it’s getting harder to ignore.

⸻

You’ve always been his soft spot.

He thinks he hides it well. He teases you like he teases Sirius. Shoves your shoulder in the hall.

But he notices things about you that he doesn’t notice about anyone else.

You chew your lip when you’re nervous, even though it annoys you. You hate coffee but drink it every morning needing anything to wake up. You sleep on your side, always facing the wall. You pretend not to care when people hurt you, but you always go quiet after.

He notices.

He wishes he didn’t.

⸻

When he talks about other girls, he watches you.

He doesn’t mean to — he just does.

Watches how your jaw tenses, how your eyes flick down, how you suddenly start organizing your bag like it’s the most urgent thing in the world.

And every time, he feels like the worst person alive.

Because he wants your attention, but not like this. Not through jealousy. Not through hurt.

But if he asked you — really asked you — what would you say?

⸻

He dreams about you sometimes.

He never tells anyone, obviously. Not Sirius. Not Remus. Definitely not you.

But they’re not always romantic. Sometimes you’re just… there. Laughing in the rain. Sitting on the Quidditch stands. Reading upside down with your foot tapping against his knee.

But sometimes, it’s more.

Sometimes, it’s your hand in his, your lips against his throat, your voice in the dark saying his name.

He always wakes up sweating.

⸻

When he finds you on the Quidditch pitch that night, something in him unravels.

He doesn’t plan on saying anything. Just wanted to be near you. That’s always been enough.

But the way you look at him — like you see him, not the version he pretends to be which only makes it harder to lie.

He says everything without saying anything.

“Everything’s changing.”

“I don’t want it to.”

“I think about us.”

And then your hand in his.

Just that.

It should’ve been too small to mean anything.

But it feels like the start of something he’s been running from for years.

⸻

He doesn’t kiss you.

Not because he doesn’t want to — but because he wants it to mean more than almost.

He wants to be sure. Not of you — he’s always been sure of you. But of himself. Of the version of him that’s not just the Quidditch captain or the loudest in the room or the idiot pining after Lily Evans.

He wants to be the version of him that’s worthy of your attention.

And maybe — just maybe — that version is already here.

⸻

Every time you’re near him after that, his whole body feels wired.

Like if you touched him for one second too long, he’d combust.

He doesn’t tell you this.

He lets his hand brush yours under the table. Lets his fingers rest on your knee when no one’s watching. Lets his shoulder bump yours when he sits beside you, like he can’t stand the inch of air between your bodies.

Because he can’t.

But he still doesn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

Not until you look at him like you know.

Not until he’s brave enough to say the thing he’s never said

“It’s always been you.”

⸻

(Readers POV)

It starts with a glance.

You’re in the corridor, laughing with Marlene, and James is passing by. He looks over his shoulder like he always does, like he’s checking you’re still there. Like he can’t help it.

But then Lily catches up to him and links their arms.

He doesn’t look back.

You laugh a little too loud after that.

Marlene notices. She doesn’t say anything.

⸻

Later that night, you’re curled in a chair by the fire, pretending to read. James flops beside you with a sigh and that familiar look — one part affection, one part restlessness.

“Evans thinks I’ve been distant,” he says.

You don’t look up. “Have you?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe.”

You flip a page. You haven’t read a single sentence.

“Do you want to be with her?” you ask, and it sounds calm, but your knuckles are white on the book spine.

James hesitates. “I thought I did.”

You nod, like it doesn’t cost you anything. “Well. Let me know when you figure it out.”

You stand.

He grabs your wrist.

“Wait—what does that mean?”

You don’t answer. You just look at him — really look — and see it: the confusion, the fear, the same ache you’ve been carrying all year.

“You don’t get to hover near me forever, James,” you whisper. “You don’t get to want me halfway.”

Then you walk away.

⸻

( James’s POV )

She’s pulling away. He can feel it.

Not all at once — no, that would be easier. But piece by piece. The long looks become quick glances. The silence between them stops feeling comfortable.

He misses her in the small ways first.

Misses how she always passed him a sugar quill when he fidgeted. How she said “you’re fine” every time he doubted himself — not in the loud, Gryffindor way everyone else did, but in a quiet, real way that actually worked.

He misses her voice.

He misses her attention.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Because saying something makes it real. And if it’s real, it can break.

⸻

Sirius elbows him one day in the courtyard. “You’re brooding. Stop.”

“I’m not brooding,” James mutters, lying badly.

“You look like you’ve just been dumped.”

James doesn’t reply.

Sirius raises a brow. “Wait—did you? Did you and Y/N—?”

“There was no me and Y/N,” James snaps.

But the words taste wrong in his mouth.

Because maybe there was. Just in a way he never had the guts to name.

⸻

That night, he finds her by the lake.

She doesn’t look surprised.

“I figured you’d show up eventually,” she says.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Can we talk?”

She stays silent.

“Only if you stop pretending you don’t know how I feel.”

James stares.

“I’ve loved you since fifth year,” she says flatly. “And I’ve waited. And waited. And you’ve spent every second dancing around it like it might ruin your perfect little world if you say something real.”

James feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him.

“I never wanted to ruin what we have,” he says.

“Well, you did anyway,” she says. “Congratulations.”

He steps closer. “That’s not fair.”

“No?” Her voice cracks. “You don’t get to hold my hand like it means something and then tell people you’re not sure how you feel.”

James opens his mouth. Closes it.

“I wanted you to say something first,” she says quietly. “Just once. I wanted it to be you.”

Silence.

Then James says, hoarse, “I think about kissing you every time I’m near you.”

She goes still.

“I think about how you smell like cinnamon and ink, and how you laugh when you think no one’s listening, and how I started waiting for you at breakfast even when I wasn’t sure why.”

He exhales. “I’ve been in love with you so quietly for so long I didn’t even realize it until I thought I lost you.”

She swallows. “Then why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I’m terrified,” he says. “But I’m more terrified of never trying.”

A painfully long pause.

Then, finally, she whispers, “Say it.”

“What?”

“Say it. Like you mean it.”

He steps forward. Takes her face in both hands.

I’m in love with you,” James says. “Not just in the way people say it. I mean in the way where you’re the first person I look for in every room. The one I can’t stop thinking about, even when I’m trying not to.

Then he kisses her.

And she kisses him back.

It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s everything they’ve held back for years pouring out all at once.

It tastes like relief. Like maybe they were always heading here.

Like they were always going to break just to fall into each other.

leave recommendations in my inbox and check out my masterlist .ᐟ

a/n: i wrote this a 6 in the morning…i am running on fumes

SPRING INTO SUMMER || F.W

pairing: fred weasley x reader

trope: slow-burn, friends to lovers, slight miscommunication

lyrics: ‘ I'm always, forever, runnin' back to you (you, ooh) Runnin' back to you (ooh) Runnin' back to you ‘

a/n: THIS IS LONG!! but first day back at school was successful but I am TIRED

“Hey,” Fred says, grinning, breathless, a smear of soot on his jaw like a misplaced thumbprint. “Fancy meeting you in my hour of triumph.”

“You mean your hour of detention,” you say, because ink still dries on the ceiling above the Transfiguration corridor declaring that ‘FLINCH CAN KISS BOTH CHEEKS’. It’s dripping, stubbornly, every time Filch tries to vanish it. The letters return, smell and all. Honestly, you can’t stand the man that much either, so you’re not in a hurry to snitch.

“I prefer the hero’s cut,” he replies, striking a pose that would be very dramatic if a flobberworm didn’t choose that moment to wriggle out of his pocket and flop to the floor.

“Heroic,” you deadpan. “You’re shedding.”

Fred bends, scoops the poor thing up, and hands it back to a second-year trailing behind him like a small duck, eyes shining with the kind of adoration only Weasley-level chaos can inspire. “Cheers, Tommy. Keep him away from the man. He will make you wash the entire trophy cabinet.”

The kid scurries off. Fred’s grin shrinks as he looks at you properly. You’ve known him long enough to watch that change: the way his mischief-sharp focus softens into something human when he’s with people he actually cares about. It’s like standing in sunlight that suddenly remembers how to be gentle.

“You all right?” he asks.

“Fine. You?”

“I’ve been better,” he says, and the corner of his mouth fights the truth. You see it anyway—the burn snapped across his knuckles, raw like he grabbed something too brave. You reach for his hand without thinking, tug him into the shadow of a stairwell where the noise of the corridor blurs. His palm is warm. You don’t look at the way your fingers slot against his; you look at the damage.

“You can’t keep using Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder and then act surprised when the lantern explodes in your hand,” you chide, fishing a small vial of murtlap essence from your bag. Always prepared. Always the one who remembers that fun still bleeds.

He blinks. “Is this why I keep you around?”

“Please. You keep me around because I’m a better chaser than you are a beater.”

“Lies,” he says, leaning back against the cool stone as you dab the ointment on. “Absolute slander. I’ve half a mind to beat you.”

“You’ve got half a hand at the moment,” you say, glaring up at him. “Hold still.”

He does. He always does when you ask. For someone who’s been trouble since before he could walk—Molly Weasley likes to hold up a scorched baby blanket and sigh—Fred is good at listening when it matters. You don’t say that aloud because it sounds too much like a compliment you’re not ready to own.

“Better?” you ask.

He flexes, winces, then smiles at you like you’ve given him a sunrise. “Better,” he says, and doesn’t move away. Neither do you. Somewhere, Peeves begins composing a limerick about toads someone else shouts while the castle hums with late-spring impatience. You and Fred make a small pocket of quiet.

His eyes drop to your mouth, just for a heartbeat. It is so quick you convince yourself you imagined it. You release his hand first. You always do.

“Try not to blow anything else up,” you say.

“No promises.”

“Detention?”

“Detention,” he confirms. “Worth it.” His grin flickers back. “Greasy face when the

words reappeared. Iconic.”

You snort. “Go on, then. Make your escape.”

He spins away but then—because he’s Fred—he looks back. There’s that fraction of a second where he could say something true. He doesn’t. He winks instead, a lazy throw of a coin you’ll overthink to pieces later, and runs.

You tell yourself that your heart doesn’t run, too.

☼☼☼

Gryffindor throws a party after the Quidditch win that wasn’t supposed to happen. You should be asleep—exams looming, stress moulting in the air like feathers—but the common room is a storm of bodies and music, and you are twenty paces into a bad decision before you know it. Someone levitates a tray of pumpkin pasties like a halo. Someone else starts a chant and you nearly drown in it—so loud, so alive, so that you can’t hear the small, cowardly parts of you that like quiet, that like him.

You escape to the roof. You’re not supposed to be there, obviously. But there’s a busted latch on a hatchway the twins found in second year, and the night is a long breath you didn’t realise you needed.

A minute later, the hatch door scrapes again.

“Thought I might find you here,” Fred says, hauling himself up, hair a mess like he lost a fight with it. He shrugs off his jumper and tosses it beside you, not quite a blanket, more of an offering. You sit shoulder to shoulder, pretending not to notice the way your body homes towards his like it’s been trained.

“Congratulations,” you say.

“We had good support,” he says, as if you being in the stands somehow changed the way the wind moved. He tips his head back and looks at the stars like he’s trying to learn their names anew. “All that noise,” he says after a while. “It’s good, but it’s not…everything.”

You glance over. In this light, you can read him like a map you’ve walked a hundred times. “What’s everything?”

“Depends on the day.” He swallows, throat working. “Sometimes it’s…this.”

“Illegal roofs?” you ask lightly, because jokes are safer than the place your pulse is going.

He huffs a laugh. “Illegal roofs. And being here with you.” It lands in the dark like a glass dropped on stone—soft, then shattering through you.

“Fred—” you begin, but he’s already moving like he’ll run. Like he always does when it’s too honest. His hands are braced on the tiles, ready to push up and away, when you catch his sleeve.

“Stay,” you say, too fast to be anything but real.

He stays.

You talk about nothing. About everything. About the way he and George want something beyond pranks and points—a shop, actually theirs, shelves and dreams and their mum pretending not to cry when she’s proud. About how you don’t know who you’re supposed to be when no one is watching—when there isn’t a test or a team or a catastrophe to fix. Your knee presses into his. Your names curl in the dark.

When the castle chimes midnight, he does it again—looks at your mouth like he’s memorising a spell.

“It’s late,” you whisper, and that is not what you meant to say.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Late.”

You don’t kiss. A moth flutters itself silly against a lantern and you climb down first, because leaving before you can break feels like control. He waits until your feet hit stone. You don’t look back.

☼☼☼

Summer looks like the Burrow if you squint. The garden is a riot. The house leans like it’s listening. You weren’t supposed to be there—you never are. But then Ron blurts something about “Mum said invite some of your lot!” and you get swept up by the tide. Molly Weasley feeds you. Arthur asks you questions about Muggles you scarcely know how to answer. Ginny drags you to her room to show you a stack of cursed batteries she swears are plotting her demise.

And then there’s Fred.

He appears in the doorway like a secret. The afternoon tries to turn him to honey and fails; he’s still sharp, still himself. He whistles low. “Look who broke into my family.”

“Should I leave?” you tease, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor while Molly performs alchemy with a stew pot.

He leans against the doorframe, watching you like he’s got time for it, all the time in the world. “Stay.”

A storm breaks and you end up inside for hours, playing Gobstones with Ginny until she’s bored of beating you, letting Arthur show you the names he’s given every plug in the house. The air thrums with the kind of contentment people write poems about. You don’t write any, but you let yourself feel it. When Molly turns on the wireless and something old-fashioned spills out, you end up at the kitchen table, tapping your fingers to the beat.

Fred appears beside you as if conjured. “Dance?” he asks, eyes bright with challenge that isn’t really a challenge.

“You dance?” you counter.

“Against better judgement.”

You go anyway, because saying no to him feels like refusing sunlight. He takes your hand. It’s a ridiculous, lopsided sort of waltz around the kitchen—Ginny throws a dish towel at you; Molly pretends to scold but her smile gives her away. Fred’s palm splay-warms at your waist, and you can’t look anywhere but at him. He spins you once, a neat little circle that opens something in your chest that will never close again.

“This is stupid,” you whisper, breathless.

“Very,” he agrees, mouth curved like it’s not stupid at all.

The song changes and so does the space between you. He’s looking at you the way boys in stories look at the girls they’re about to ruin or save. You should make a joke. You should drop his hand. Instead—

“We could make it not stupid,” he says. Soft. So soft you wonder if you’re hearing it from inside your own head where he lives far too often.

“How?” you ask, your voice doing that thing where it forgets how to be anything but honest.

“By trying,” he says simply. “By not pretending this isn’t—” He cuts off, jaw tight. You think you might be shaking. You think he might be, too.

George barrels into the kitchen with a bag of Fainting Fancies and a yell that could wake the dead. The moment explodes like a soap bubble—wet, pretty, gone.

You don’t talk about the almost. You help Molly with the washing up. Fred sneaks you a biscuit and a look that feels like a secret handshake you haven’t learned yet.

When you go home, he writes you exactly one letter. It’s two pages of rubbish and jokes and one sentence that isn’t either:

I think the shop is not just a joke, and you are not just—well. You know.

You do, and you don’t. You tuck the letter under your pillow. You dream of shelves.

☼☼☼

Back at Hogwarts, it’s autumn in a cruel, bright way. The lake goes dark at the edges like it’s thinking about freezing. You return to the noise, to classes that seem larger than your future. Fred returns like weather. He flirts with the girl from Hufflepuff with the glitter eyeshadow and he flirts with you without moving his mouth. You are deeply, profoundly annoyed by both.

It’s not that he’s cruel. He’s not. He’s Fred, which means his attention is a warm flood and then it’s pulled away by the moon. He has a thousand people to bounce off and you’re one of them and you hate that it still matters.

So you decide to sabotage yourself with someone else. An older Ravenclaw who reads poetry like he’s the one who wrote it asks if you want to take a walk to the greenhouses, and you say yes because it’s better than sitting in the common room pretending the doorway might conjure a Weasley.

You and Fred become polite. It’s excruciating.

In the corridors, you pass like ghosts who remember being alive.

“Hi,” you say one Thursday, and it physically hurts.

“Hi,” he says back, mouth smiling but not his eyes. “You look—” He stops. “You look.”

“Thanks,” you manage, furious with language for not helping. He nods and goes. You let the door close on the space you almost offered him. And then you think about him all through Herbology and hate yourself for it.

The problem with trying to outpace your heart is that you still live in your body. And your body knows what roofs feel like, and kitchens, and the shape of his name in your mouth. You break it off with the poetry boy because he doesn’t deserve to be a weapon. You tell yourself you are fine.

You are not.

He corners you after a Defense lesson where Umbridge smiled like a knife and tried to make you write sentences that ate your skin.

“Walk with me?” Fred asks. His voice is too careful. You should say no because you don’t know how to be his friend without wanting to be everything else, too.

You say, “Okay.”

He takes you the long way around the lake, boots crunching the kind of leaves you think might break your heart if you let them. For a while, you don’t speak. The quiet is weirdly not awkward. It’s the old kind.

“Are we all right?” he asks at last, so blunt you almost laugh.

“Why wouldn’t we be?”

He kicks a stone into the water. “Because I’m an idiot,” he says promptly. “Because I forget it’s not just me who has to live with my mess.”

You stop walking. “What mess?”

He throws his arms out. “This!” he says. “Me. The noise. The part where I pretend I’m not…not—”

“Not what?” you press, because you are tired of the cliff-edge.

“Not absolutely useless at this,” he bursts. “At you.”

There is a universe where you say: I know. Where you say me too. Where you say: try with me, then. But even now, even with him standing there telling you the truth, fear sits on your tongue like a coin you can’t swallow.

“Fred,” you say instead, and your voice cracks like a curse.

He takes a shuddering breath. He steps closer. He doesn’t touch you. “I want the shop,” he says. “I want to make people laugh because most of this is rubbish and people deserve to breathe. And I want—” He stops, shakes his head. “You. I want you. But I don’t know how to do it without breaking the parts of you that like quiet. Without breaking the parts of me that need the loud.”

Something inside you, small and stubborn and sixteen, starts to glow.

“Maybe we don’t have to pick,” you say softly.

He looks like you’ve just told him a secret about himself. He takes another step. The air feels like holding your breath for a miracle. He reaches up, thumb hovering near your cheekbone like he’s asking permission.

“Okay?” he whispers.

“Okay,” you whisper back.

He kisses you like a boy who has imagined it for months and still can’t believe it’s happening. It’s not fireworks. It’s not even roof-quiet. It’s something else—something steady, like a door opening to a room you didn’t know you had. You make a small, surprised sound at the back of your throat. He swallows it and smiles into your mouth. The lake goes on being a lake. The world doesn’t blink. You are not struck by lightning. You are, however, new.

When you pull apart, you’re both grinning like idiots.

“Hi,” he says, breathless.

“Hi,” you echo.

“Again?” he asks, already sheepish.

“Obviously,” you say, because you will choose the loud if he’s the one on the other end of it.

You’re halfway to kissing him again when Peeves drops a water balloon on both of you from nowhere and you shriek, drenched, and Fred laughs so hard he nearly falls into onto the ground.

☼☼☼

It is stupid to think you can keep something lovely without the world sniffing it out. You are careful; you are not careful enough. George knows almost immediately—he says nothing but gives you an obnoxious thumbs-up behind Fred’s back that you swat away. Ginny raises an eyebrow so high it could pass exams on its own. Ron remains aggressively oblivious, which is a mercy.

You and Fred find spaces. Library corners where Madam Pince is distracted by a cursed bookmark. Empty classrooms that smell like chalk and old spells. Once, disastrously, the stairwell to the Divination tower where a portrait clears his throat and informs you that your aura is “unhelpfully incandescent,” whatever that means. Mostly, it means this: you are learning each other in pieces.

He tells you about his fear that nothing he makes will matter. You tell him about the way you stand in front of mirrors and sometimes don’t recognise the person who stares back. He kisses your temple like you’re breakable and your collarbone like you aren’t. You learn the cadence of his laughter so well you can hear the crack forming a second before it does. He learns how to spot your spiral from the curve of your mouth.

It isn’t perfect. It isn’t even tidy. You argue about the twins skipping class to test fireworks. You argue about how many detentions one person can reasonably rack up without it meaning something else. You argue because you care and because this isn’t a joke, and you both know it.

And then spring crowds in again. The castle gets restless. Magic prickles in your fingertips like you’ve grown an extra sense for him. The twins start whispering in code about leaving—about a blaze of glory that will make everything tremble and, maybe, create a space for something real.

“What if you go?” you ask, the night before an exam you’re pretending to study for. The common room is midnight-close, everyone at that strange hum of nerves. Fred is sprawled sideways in an armchair, one ankle hooked over the other, quill tapping a rhythm you know he thinks is subtle.

“What if I go?” he echoes. He’s been circling it for weeks like a dragon around treasure. “What if I stay? What if we rot here trying to make sense of a system that writes detentions into children’s hands?”

“I know,” you say, and you do. You do. But wanting him to be brave and wanting him to be safe have never been the same thing, and you are greedy. “I’m not asking you not to. I’m asking what happens to us.”

He sits up. The entire armchair squeaks a complaint. “Us,” he repeats, like a taste he wants to chase. “I want you to come,” he says, then winces. “Not out—Merlin, not to leave school. I mean—after. Next summer. Weekends. When we’ve got the place. I want you there. You’re—” He touches his chest, frowns, as if the word is stuck. “You’re home, a bit.”

Your breath evacuates your lungs with no intent to return. “You can’t say things like that,” you whisper.

“I can, apparently.”

“You shouldn’t unless you—”

“Unless I mean them?” he says, soft. “I mean them.” A beat. “I mean you.”

It would be ridiculous to cry. You do not cry. You stand and lean over the back of the chair and kiss him quick, like a stolen sweet. He catches your wrist, pulls you around, and kisses you not quick at all. The noise of the common room falls away. The world is a red armchair and his hands bracketing your face and the terrifying, breathtaking fact that you can want something this much and not die.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says against your mouth. “Even if we’re stupid.”

“We’re very stupid,” you agree, smiling.

“Speak for yourself.”

☼☼☼

The day they go is a hymn you don’t know the words to. The twins raise chaos like a flag. Fireworks split the sky indoors, gleeful, ungovernable. Umbridge runs like angry jam. Everyone laughs. Everyone roars. You want to laugh, too. You want to climb into Fred’s pocket and go where he does and you want to keep him tethered to a school he’s already outgrown. Both things can be true. Both things are.

He finds you in the corridor that looks over the courtyard, smoke curling past the windows like the castle is a dragon finally exhaling. He’s electric, eyes bright with joy and something like terror.

“Come on,” he says, grabbing your hand. You go, feet pounding, until you’re outside, under a sky that claps with light. “We’re doing it,” he says, almost shocked. “We’re actually doing it.”

“I know,” you say, breathless for every reason at once.

He cups your face with both hands. “I’ll write,” he says, childish and sincere.

“You better.”

“I’ll send you the worst sweets for testing.”

“I will hex you if you do.”

He laughs, then swallows it, then leans in. The kiss is quick and fierce and tastes like smoke and sugar. “This isn’t running away from you,” he says, forehead pressed to yours. “This is running toward.”

“I know.” You don’t, not really, not yet. But you will.

George yells something about brooms and brilliance. The courtyard explodes with whistling rockets. Fred presses another kiss to your mouth like he’s memorising. “Spring into summer,” he says, half a joke, half a promise. “See you home, lovely.”

You nod, even as your throat closes. “Go,” you manage.

He goes. He doesn’t look back—he can’t—so you look for both of you. You watch him rise on a broom with his brother at his shoulder like they were made to be a matched set. You watch two boys become something more. You watch the sky hold them and think, with a terror that is also love: I will always, forever, run back to you. Even if it’s only in my head, even if it breaks me. Especially if it saves us.

☼☼☼

You wait. You study. You visit the joke shop before it’s properly a shop, just a half-painted space with boxes that might as well be promises. You stand in the doorway and he looks up from the counter, and it’s all there—relief and rightness and the stupid, giddy rush of seeing your person where they belong.

“Hi,” he says, softer than the first time he ever said it to you, like he re-learned the word.

“Hi,” you say, stepping inside, letting the bell above the door announce you like it matters.

He vaults the counter. You do not pretend you don’t know how his arms feel. He smells like sawdust and sugar and something that must be joy. He drags you across the room to show you a shelf where nothing is straight and everything is perfect.

“See?” he says. “This is the thing. I wanted it so badly I thought it would make me smaller when I got it. It didn’t. It made more space for…other things.”

“For us?” you hazard, bold because you’ve earned it.

“For us,” he says. He kisses your knuckles one by one like an idiot, like a prince, like a boy who’s figured out that wanting and having are different muscles that can be trained together.

“Fred,” you whisper, overwhelmed suddenly by how ordinary the moment is. A bell. A half-painted wall. A boy you chose who chose you back.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t forget to send Molly a chair for fainting in when she comes in here and sees your shelves aren’t level.”

He grins. “I love you,” he says.

You freeze. The words hang there like a dare. He goes red—truly red, not just hair, not just jumper. He looks, briefly, like he might bolt.

“I didn’t mean to—” he begins.

“I did,” you interrupt, eyes stinging. “I mean it, too.” You swallow. “I love you.”

He breathes out, a laugh tangled in it. “Good,” he says, shaking. “That’s—good.”

You kiss him against a box labeled PROTOTYPES—DO NOT OPEN, which you absolutely, definitely open with your back by accident, sending miniature fireworks skittering across the floor. You both yelp and you both laugh, and it’s ridiculous and loud and the happiest you have ever been.

Later, you sit cross-legged on the counter eating a pastry that George says was meant to be for “paying customers, you parasites.” Fred leans against your knees and talks about signage and suppliers and the way success scares him almost as much as failure. You talk about exams and essays and the shape of the future, which looks less like a road and more like a city you’ll learn together.

“What if we mess it up?” you ask into the comfortable hush.

“We will,” he says cheerfully. “And then we’ll fix it.”

“And if we can’t?”

“Then we’ll try again.” He nudges your ankle with his thumb. “I’m very persistent, you know.”

“I’ve noticed,” you say dryly.

“Also, you keep running back to me.”

“You keep giving me reasons.”

“Good.” He smiles, not the grin he gives the world but the smile he built for you. “Stay. As long as you want.”

“I will,” you say. “As long as you’ll have me.”

“Forever sounds like a laughably long time,” he says, eyes bright. “Let’s start with today.”

“Today,” you echo, and for once the word feels big enough.

☼☼☼

Years later, the first shelf you helped him level still refuses to be, and Molly does faint, and Arthur names the register. You are not always kind to each other; you are not always brave; sometimes the loud drowns you and sometimes the quiet scares him. You fight in whispers. You make up with tea and a hand pressed to the back of a neck. You run away and then you run back, and each time you make a new path between you, some small, stubborn trail that refuses to be overgrown.

On another spring night that leans into summer, you climb onto the roof you shouldn’t be on with the boy you’re allowed to kiss. He points at a star and tells you he’s named it something ridiculous. You shake your head and tell him the real name and kiss him anyway. He laughs into your mouth and you press your forehead to his and breathe like you didn’t know how before.

“Still want me?” he asks, unnecessary.

“Always,” you say, answering the question underneath the question. He nods like he knew but needed to hear it out loud. You keep giving each other that gift, over and over—a chorus you never tire of. You kiss him until the breeze changes, until the night smells like grass and hope and the first sweetness of summer fruit.

If your lives are a loop—spring into summer, summer into autumn, laughter into quiet into loud and back again—then this is the part where you choose again, and again, and again. Where you stitch the days together with silly things and earnest ones. Where he is the boy who leaves and the boy who returns, and you are the girl who waits and the girl who walks toward him, and the two of you meet somewhere in the middle with armfuls of fireworks and a steady match.

He slides his fingers between yours and squeezes once.

“Ready?” he asks, like there’s anything to be ready for except the next morning.

“Always,” you say, because some truths are supposed to repeat. Because you know you’ll spend a ridiculous, laughably long time running back to each other and calling it home.

leave recommendations in my inbox and check out my masterlist !

FRENEMIES || R.L

pairing: remus lupin x reader

summary: you navigate being frenemies with a certain Remus Lupin. After a teasing incident in Potions you are pushed to your limit

warnings: none

word count: 2k

a/n: i love requests they always encourage me to write so thank you for this! <3

The Gryffindor common room was alive with the crackling fire and the low hum of laughter, a typical Saturday night in late autumn. You sat sprawled across an armchair, your legs dangling over the side, a quill twirling lazily between your fingers as you half-listened to James and Sirius bicker about Quidditch tactics. Peter was hunched over a chessboard, muttering to himself, while Remus—that infuriating boy—lounged on the couch with a book, his amber eyes flickering up every so often to catch you in his line of sight.

You’d known the Marauders since first year, their chaotic energy weaving into your life like an unbreakable spell. James was the brother you never had, Sirius the mischievous uncle, Peter the quiet confidant—and Remus? Well, Remus was the thorn in your side, the one who could turn a perfectly good day into a battle of wits with a single smirk.

“Oi, Y/N,” Sirius called, snapping you out of your thoughts. “You’re spacing out again. Planning your next hex on Moony, are you?”

You shot him a glare, but your lips twitched into a grin. “Only if he deserves it, Black. Which, let’s be honest, is about ninety percent of the time.”

Remus didn’t look up from his book, but you caught the faintest curl of his lips. “Ninety percent? I’m flattered you think I’m that interesting, Y/L/N.”

There it was—the teasing edge to his voice that always set your nerves alight. It had been like this for years: a push-and-pull of sarcastic remarks and sly glances, a game neither of you would admit to playing. Frenemies, James called it, though lately, the line between friend and something more felt dangerously thin.

—

The trouble started a week later, during Potions. Slughorn had paired you with Remus, a decision you protested loudly until Sirius cackled and said, “Better you than me, love.” Remus had smirked, rolling up his sleeves as if he were about to duel instead of brew, and the class had begun.

It was going fine—well, as fine as it could with Remus muttering corrections under his breath—until he decided to take it too far. You’d been chopping moonstone with a bit more force than necessary, muttering about his “know-it-all” attitude, when he leaned over, his breath warm against your ear.

“Careful, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “You’ll turn the potion into a disaster—and then where will your pride be?”

You froze, the knife slipping slightly in your hand. The classroom seemed to shrink, the air thick with the scent of lavender and his stupidly close proximity. Before you could snap back, he reached over to adjust your grip, his fingers brushing yours, and something in you snapped.

“Sod off it, Lupin!” you hissed, yanking your hand away. The moonstone scattered across the table, and the potion bubbled ominously. Slughorn’s voice boomed from the front, but you didn’t care. Your cheeks burned as you stormed out, ignoring Remus’s stunned expression and the snickers from Sirius.

—

For the next few days, you avoided him. It wasn’t hard—Hogwarts was big enough to hide in if you tried. You skipped meals in the Great Hall, buried yourself in the library, and even endured Lily’s concerned looks without explanation. But the hurt lingered, a sharp ache in your chest you couldn’t shake. His teasing had always been a game, but this time, it felt personal. Like he’d seen too much of you and decided to twist the knife.

You didn’t expect him to notice. Remus was quiet, observant, but he rarely chased after anyone—least of all you. So when you heard the soft knock on your dormitory door late that Friday night, you assumed it was Lily or Marlene. Instead, there he stood, his hair mussed, his tie loosened, looking like he’d run all the way from the common room.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice rougher than usual. “Can we talk?”

You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Depends. Are you here to mock me again?”

He winced, and for once, there was no trace of that smug smirk. “No. I… I came to apologize.”

The words hung between you, heavy and unfamiliar. You stared at him, searching his face for the catch, but all you found was a flicker of guilt in those warm brown eyes. Against your better judgment, you stepped aside, letting him in.

—

The room was dimly lit by the flicker of a single candle, the air thick with unspoken tension. Remus sat on the edge of your bed, his hands clasped tightly together, while you perched on the windowsill, the cool glass pressing against your back.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he started, his voice low. “The teasing—it’s just… it’s how we’ve always been. I didn’t realize it’d gone too far.”

You looked away, out at the starry sky, your throat tight. “It wasn’t just the teasing, Remus. It felt like you were laughing at me. Like I’m some joke to you.”

He was silent for a moment, and when you glanced back, his expression was raw, unguarded. “You’re not a joke,” he said softly. “You’re… you’re everything to this group. To me. I just didn’t know how to say it without sounding like an idiot.”

Your heart stuttered, a warmth spreading through you despite the lingering hurt. “Then why didn’t you stop? Why keep pushing?”

He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit you’d noticed over the years. “Because it’s easier to tease you than to admit I’ve been half in love with you since fourth year.”

The confession hit you like a Bludger to the chest. You blinked, your mouth opening and closing as you struggled to process. Remus Lupin—scarred, quiet, brilliant Remus—was in love with you? The boy who’d spent years trading barbs with you, who’d made you laugh and cry in equal measure?

“Say something,” he pleaded, his voice breaking the silence. “Please.”

You slid off the windowsill, crossing the room until you stood in front of him. His eyes followed you, wide and hopeful, and for the first time, you saw the vulnerability beneath his calm exterior. “You’re an idiot, Lupin,” you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips. “A complete and utter idiot.”

He let out a shaky laugh, relief washing over his features. “I know. I’ll grovel if I have to.”

—

And grovel he did. Over the next few weeks, Remus was a changed man—or at least, a man trying to be. He brought you tea during study sessions, left little notes in your books with scribbled apologies, and even endured Sirius’s relentless teasing about his “lovestruck puppy” act. The Marauders watched with amusement, James clapping Remus on the back while Sirius made exaggerated gagging noises.

But it was the small moments that unraveled you—the way he’d brush his hand against yours in the corridor, the soft smiles he’d give you when he thought you weren’t looking. The slow burn of your friendship turned into something warmer, something that made your chest ache in the best way.

One night, after a particularly grueling Transfiguration lesson, you found yourselves alone in the common room again. The fire had died down to embers, casting a soft glow over his face as he sat beside you, closer than usual.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured, his knee brushing yours. “About loving you. I don’t expect you to feel the same, but—”

“I do,” you interrupted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I think I have for a while, too. I just didn’t know how to stop fighting with you long enough to figure it out.”

His smile was soft, almost disbelieving, as he reached for your hand. His fingers intertwined with yours, warm and steady, and for the first time, the teasing fell away, replaced by something real.

“Friends, then?” he teased lightly, though his eyes held a promise.

“More than that,” you replied, leaning in until your foreheads touched. You stayed like that for a moment before leaning in. Your lips meeting his in a soft and chaste kiss and in that moment, with the world outside forgotten, you knew the game was over—and you’d both won.

—

The next morning, the Marauders found you curled up together on the couch, Remus’s arm draped protectively around you as you slept. Sirius let out a dramatic gasp, while James grinned like a proud parent.

“About bloody time,” Peter muttered, and the room erupted into laughter.

And as Remus stirred, pressing a sleepy kiss to your temple, you knew this was only the beginning.

leave recommendations in my inbox and check out my masterlist .ᐟ