#gryffindor!reader

summary: draco malfoy? smash. except you say those words a little too loud. wc: 0.9k+

Immersed in the magazine in front of you, you only caught bits and pieces of the conversation Harry, Hermione and Ron were having around you, the great hall otherwise mostly empty. It wasn’t everyday the three of you had free periods together, but when you did, the conversations were always entertaining.

Especially when Harry started complaining.

You halted your focus on the magazine at the sound of Harry’s sassy and oddly loud voice. It was as though he wanted himself to be heard. Hermione scoffed from in front of the boy and you pulled the corner of your page up slowly, pretending to still be immersed in your reading.

“At this point, Malfoy is just following in his fa-” “Malfoy?” You asked, humming apprehensively, “Smash.”

From the slytherin table, sat right behind you, Draco’s head snapped backwards, his mouth parting in surprise before he forced his features into a confident smirk. Theo, Pansy, Mattheo and Blaise held matching looks at the bombshell you dropped so shamelessly.

A silence overtook your three friends at your comment, jaws slack and faces frozen in shock. “What!?” Harry spluttered. You flicked over to the next page, shrugging your shoulders as you scoffed carelessly. “Yeah, you can complain about him all you want, but that is one attractive man.”

“If you felt so strongly about the matter, you should’ve spoken sooner.”

Your head shot up and you slammed your magazine shut at the familiar voice, your eyes widening in panic. Ron, who sat facing you, grimaced at you softly. Clearing your throat, you spun around on the bench, kicking your legs over its side. Leaning your elbows back on the table cooly, you replied “Why would I have spoken sooner if you weren’t around to hear it?”

Draco grinned and you cocked your head to the side, holding eye contact, challenging him to keep your gaze. It was silent as you stared at each other, apart from Theo’s loud exhale and Mattheo’s chuckle before he turned his attention back to his cup of tea. Finally, Draco gulped thickly, eyes momentarily flickering to look back at his friends.

Humming apprehensively, you stood up, tucking your magazine under your arm and slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Makes sense you’re not a gryffindor,” You started, eyes trained on Draco as he stiffened up. You leaned closer to him, bringing your voice down to a whisper. “Find me when you’re brave enough to do something about it, Malfoy.”

And with a toss of your hair over your shoulder, you strutted out of the great hall, grinning as you heard a clatter of things behind you. Draco rushed to catch up to you, tripping over his feet as he followed you all the way from the great hall to the girls’ bathroom you dragged him into, pushing him against the wall and pressing your lips to his.

Draco groaned, immediately flipping your positions around so he had you cornered between his body and the stone wall, and he separated himself from you momentarily to ask you “What was that you said earlier?” before moving his kisses down your neck and instantly sucking on your skin to leave bruising hickeys that Harry will most definitely question.

“What? Find me when you’re-”

“No, before that.”

“Um, smash?” Draco chuckled against your skin, trailing his kisses back up your neck and towards your lips. “Would you let me take you on a date before that?” You felt your cheeks go hot at the embarrassing whimper that escaped your lips at his question, but nodded your head nonetheless.

Draco pushed himself off you with a satisfied smile, smoothing his uniform down as he stated “Good. Now, I believe you have a lesson.” You gasped deep in your throat at the realisation that he was correct, hearing the halls outside fill with chatter as students were released from their classrooms.

“Sunday. Hogsmeade.” He told you, pushing the door to the bathroom open and walking past the group of girls who were coming into the room, giving him judgemental looks as he passed them. But then they turned to you, and they were immediately gasping at the revelation of you and Draco being together. You giggled nervously, slipping out of the bathroom when they turned to look at each other, the gossip already beginning to spread.

Meanwhile, in the great hall:

Harry’s jaw dropped lower than he believed possible as he watched Draco stumble to reach you. He shook his head “We cannot let that happen.” Hermione scoffed, “Oh yes we can, and we will. I want all the details when they’re done.”

At the sounds of disgust both Harry and Ron expelled from their mouths, Hermione sighed disappointedly. “Right. I forgot you’re not girls.”

“Hey, Granger!” Hermione turned to the voice that had called out her name and she stared back nervously at Pansy Parkinson, who had a surprisingly welcoming smile on her face. “You can come discuss it with us, if you’d like. I’m a girl, and you’d think they are too based on how much they love the drama.” Hermione laughed whole-heartedly as Pansy nodded her head towards the boys around her with a joking roll of her eyes.

“Will that work if we’re getting different sides of the same story?” Hermione questioned, crossing her arms over his chest in mock rivalry. Pansy hummed, standing up and gathering her belongings. “I get his side of the story, you get hers, then we exchange?” Hermione grinned.

“Perfect. But I think she’ll want to join.”

Pansy winked. “Even better, I want all the filthy details.”

Study Break

💌 Fred Weasley x Reader

💭MDNI: Smut, cock warming turns to riding, semi public sex (no one catches them), Fred’s a snug little shit

A/N: The Weasley twins def deserve more content, I have another Fred fic I’ll be working on later, I LOVE writing for him

—

It starts, as these things usually do, with the soft scratch of your quill and the faint rustle of parchment—textbooks stacked like fragile towers around you, each one opened to a different chapter you’re convinced will be on the exam.

You’ve claimed the farthest corner of the library. Not because it’s the quietest, though it is. But because he always finds you here.

And sure enough, you feel him before you see him—warm breath at your neck, the barely-there graze of knuckles dragging down your spine as he leans over you like he belongs there. Like he owns the air around you.

“Studying again?” Fred purrs, voice low and full of something that makes your stomach flutter. “Shame. I was hoping you’d be doing something fun.”

You don’t look up. You don’t have to. He’s grinning. You can hear it. That insufferable little smile that always comes before trouble.

“You’re distracting me,” you murmur, eyes locked on the same sentence you’ve read four times.

“That’s funny,” he says, slipping into the seat beside you. His thigh presses against yours, firm and deliberate. “I was about to say the same thing.”

You don’t grace him with a reply. You just dip the quill back into your inkwell and resume writing—your script a little messier than before, your pulse a little louder.

Fred doesn’t move away.

If anything, he settles in, arm slung behind your chair like he’s lounging on a sofa in the Gryffindor common room and not wedged into a desk barely meant for one. His fingers toy with the end of your braid, slow and lazy, twirling it like he has all the time in the world.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice low and honey-slick, “I read somewhere that physical closeness actually helps with concentration.”

You scoff under your breath, flipping a page with more force than necessary.

“Really?” you say flatly. “Is that why you’re pressed against me like a clingy kneazle?”

“Exactly,” he says, completely unbothered. “I’m only trying to help. Besides…”

His hand drifts. Not far. Just a touch lower—his knuckles grazing your waist, thumb resting just under the curve of your ribs.

“Thought it might be nice,” he continues, a smirk curling in his voice, “if we found a way to meet each other halfway. You get to study. I get to be inside you.”

Your quill halts mid-stroke. Ink pools into the corner of the parchment like blood.

You stare down at the words that no longer make sense. And then, slowly, you lift your head to look at him.

Fred Weasley looks entirely too pleased with himself.

You exhale through your nose, steadying yourself like you’ve just been hit with a gust of cold air and not an indecent proposal in the middle of the library.

Fred watches you, waiting. Not pushing, not quite. Just lingering—close enough that you can smell the faint trace of peppermint on his breath, feel the heat radiating off his body like a second skin.

You set your quill down with quiet precision. Fold your hands atop your notes. And turn your head just enough to meet his eyes.

“I’m not going to let you fuck me in the library,” you say, evenly. “That’s absolutely insane.”

His smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens, like he was counting on that exact answer.

“Didn’t say anything about fucking,” he replies, all innocent mischief. “I just want to sit.”

You arch a brow. “Sit.”

“In you.”

You blink at him. Once.

He leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “I won’t move. Promise.”

It’s the way he says it—soft, breathy, conspiratorial. Like a dare disguised as a favor. You hate how your thighs clench at the idea. Hate even more how easily he picks up on it.

“I’ll be quiet,” he whispers. “You won’t even notice me.”

That’s a lie, and you both know it.

But your body is already betraying you—heat curling low in your belly, your skin prickling where he touches you, your resolve bending in the weight of his attention like wet ink on a fragile page.

You glance down at your notes. Then at the empty aisle between the stacks. Then back to him.

“Five minutes,” you mutter.

Fred grins like you’ve just handed him the bloody crown jewels.

He doesn’t say a word.

Just shifts in his seat.

His hand slides lower, resting at the curve of your hip, fingers splayed wide. Possessive. Warm. He watches your face like he’s testing for hesitation—and finds none. Not anymore.

You pretend to keep your eyes on your notes. Pretend to stay still. But you don’t stop him.

He tugs, gently.

Not hard, not urgent—just a subtle pull, guiding you from your chair onto his lap like it’s nothing. Like you belong there.

Your skirt rides up immediately. Of course it does. The way you’re straddling him now—knees pressed to either side of his thighs, spine perfectly arched to keep your balance—it leaves you scandalously bare beneath the table. No barrier but him.

And he’s already hard.

You feel it—thick and heavy beneath you, his breath catching the moment you settle your weight into his lap. It makes your cheeks flush, even though you knew exactly what you were agreeing to. He keeps one hand on your waist, steadying you, and the other drifts—lower, bolder.

“Still want to study?” he asks, voice like velvet dragged over skin.

You swallow. Nod once.

Fred hums. You feel him shift again, hips tilting just slightly as he reaches down, the motion masked by the way you press in close, like lovers sharing a secret. Or a sin.

A moment later and some clothes shuffling, he’s inside you.

Thick and slow, inch by inch, and the stretch makes your mouth fall open in a silent gasp you don’t let out. Your hands grip the edge of the table like it’ll save you.

Fred groans softly against your shoulder, voice barely a whisper.

“Fuck, love. You’re always so warm for me.”

He bottoms out, then stills. Just like he promised.

And you—gods help you—you try to breathe.

You pick up the quill with shaking fingers.

Ink drips like sweat down the stem as you try to find where you left off—something about defensive charm layering, maybe. You’re staring at your notes, reading the same line again and again, and it still refuses to stick.

Fred hasn’t moved.

Not really.

But he shifts, ever so slightly—adjusting his grip on your waist, fingers spreading wider, anchoring you down. And then—

He flexes his hips.

Just once.

A deep, slow roll, barely an inch of motion—and it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. Your entire body goes taut, the quill scratching a long, jagged line across the page as your mouth parts in a sharp, involuntary gasp.

You bite it back immediately. Clamp your teeth down on your lip and squeeze your thighs around him like that’ll stop the trembling.

Fred hums, the sound reverberating low in his chest.

“That wasn’t a sound, was it?” he murmurs, lips grazing your neck like a ghost. “Because you said you could handle it.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He’s pulsing inside you, hard and hot and perfectly still again, but your body is aching—clenching around him like it wants more. Like it’s begging.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Open them. Force yourself to focus on the textbook, the words swimming like murky water. You pick up your quill again, start writing:

“Counter-spell applications rely on—”

Another roll of his hips.

Deeper this time. Slower.

Your pen jerks mid-stroke. The line splinters. Your breath stutters.

Fred chuckles, soft and sinful.

“You’re shaking, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Need me to stop?”

You can feel the smirk without looking. You know damn well he’ll keep doing it until you crack. And the worst part is—you’re not sure you want him to stop.

Your fingers tighten around the quill like it’s the only thing anchoring you to this plane of existence. You scribble out the half-sentence you just butchered and try again, jaw clenched, back stiff.

“Do that again,” you hiss under your breath, “and I will hex you.”

Fred’s lips brush the curve of your ear, lazy and amused.

“You’d have to say the incantation out loud, darling.”

You freeze.

The bastard is right.

You whip your head toward him, eyes narrowed, face flushed. “I swear to Merlin, Fred—”

But the rest of the threat chokes off when he flexes his hips again—another slow, deliberate push upward, grinding just right, and your breath catches so hard it makes your vision blur.

He groans, low and quiet, like he’s savoring you. His hands grip your waist tighter now, thumbs stroking circles just beneath your ribs.

“Fuck, I love when you talk like that,” he mutters, nipping your jaw. “So bossy. So mean. Like you’re not soaking for me right now.”

You make a strangled sound in the back of your throat—one that would’ve been a moan if you hadn’t bit it down just in time.

The parchment in front of you is ruined. Your handwriting is illegible. Your thighs are trembling with the effort of staying still while he isn’t.

You grit your teeth and look straight ahead, breath coming in shallow pulls. “You’re such a smug little shit.”

Fred grins against your skin. “And you’re still sitting on my cock. Funny, that.”

You don’t respond.

You can’t.

Because right now, your body is trembling—coiled so tight with heat and frustration you’re not sure whether you want to slap him or sob into his shoulder.

Fred’s breathing hasn’t changed. He’s not panting. He’s not desperate.

He’s enjoying himself.

Smug, unhurried, infuriatingly calm as he brushes your hair aside and presses a kiss to the back of your neck like this is some sweet little moment and not a full-blown test of will.

You’re still trying to focus—gods help you, you are—but every word looks the same. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t remember what the difference between an incantation and an invocation is, because he’s so deep inside you and every tiny twitch of his hips sends lightning straight to your core.

Another flex.

Another gasp you barely bite back.

Your quill drops.

Fred notices.

“Mmm?” he hums, nuzzling your jaw. “Something wrong, sweetheart?”

You suck in a breath, reach for the parchment again with shaking fingers—and he rolls his hips, slow and deep, just once.

It punches a whimper straight from your throat.

“Please—”

The word slips out before you can stop it.

Barely audible. Raw. Desperate.

Fred stills.

You go rigid.

You hadn’t meant to say that. You hadn’t meant to say anything.

And Fred?

He smiles.

Wide. Wolfish. Victorious.

“Please what?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Go on, love. Use your words.”

You press your thighs tighter around him, like that’ll somehow dull the ache—stop the pressure building and building with every slow, sinful shift of his hips. But it only makes it worse. Makes him feel bigger. Deeper.

He hasn’t even started moving properly, and you’re already unraveling.

It’s pathetic.

And he knows it.

Fred’s breath ghosts over your jaw, smug and slow, waiting for you to answer. His cock twitches inside you, thick and perfect, and you swear your vision goes white for half a second.

You clench around him, a broken little twitch you can’t stop, and his fingers dig just slightly deeper into your waist.

“Please what?” he whispers again.

You hate him. Gods, you hate how much you want him.

The quill is long forgotten. Your parchment’s a lost cause. There’s ink on your fingers, your thighs are shaking, and your arousal is slicking his cock so thoroughly he could slide in and out with nothing but your own desperation.

And maybe that’s what finally breaks you.

Because when you look at the mess of your notes, when you hear the smirk in his voice, when you feel him shift again, dragging against that aching spot inside you with slow, agonizing precision—

You lose.

Your breath shudders out of you, and your hips rock down helplessly.

“Just move, Fred,” you whisper, desperate and cracked. “Please. I can’t—fuck, I can’t focus.”

The silence afterward is deafening.

You feel him still. Hear the pause in his breath. And then—

“Atta girl.”

He doesn’t wait for another invitation.

Fred doesn’t give you a second to brace.

His hips draw back—slow, torturous—and then snap forward, driving up into you with a force that punches a moan right out of your throat.

But before it escapes—

His hand is on your mouth.

Firm. Gentle. Possessive.

Like he knew you’d be too loud. Knew you’d give yourself away the second he started fucking you properly.

“Shhh,” he murmurs against your ear, lips brushing the skin just below it. “Can’t have anyone hearing how sweet you sound, love. We’re still in the library, remember?”

You do not remember.

You can’t remember what you were trying to write.

His hand on your hip pulls you back into every thrust, setting a pace that’s deep and deliberate—none of the teasing now. No slow grinding. Just the heavy, wet slap of your bodies connecting, over and over again, obscenely quiet beneath the table, hidden in the shadows of the back corner.

It’s filthy.

And somehow, the way he holds you there—one hand muffling your moans, the other guiding your hips like you’re something he owns—makes it even filthier.

Fred’s mouth doesn’t stop moving.

“You’ve been so good for me,” he breathes, voice rough and aching with how much he wants you. “Taking me so well. Stuffed full of cock while pretending you’re still the smartest little witch in the room.”

You whimper against his palm. He groans, deep and desperate.

“Bet you like this more than studying, don’t you?”

You shake your head. You nod. You don’t know anymore.

All you know is the thick, relentless press of him inside you, the slick heat between your thighs, the way your body trembles every time his tip kisses that one perfect spot, again and again.

“Gonna make a mess of these notes,” he whispers, teeth catching your earlobe. “Gonna have you dripping all over your parchment.”

And you will. You know you will.

You’re already there.

His pace picks up—still measured, still careful, but harder now, more urgent. Like he’s chasing something. Like he knows you’re close and wants to bring you with him.

You’re panting against his palm, your moans muffled and raw, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how intensely it’s building inside you. It’s not just the pressure—it’s the heat, the stretch, the words. Fred is still in your ear, voice low and wrecked.

“Gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he breathes. “So tight around me—fuck, I can feel it. You’re close, I know you are.”

You nod helplessly, trembling in his lap, hips rocking without rhythm now. Your thighs are shaking, your vision’s gone hazy, and you’re so close—one more thrust, one more whisper, one more anything—

He groans into your neck, his grip on your hip tightening as he drives into you with one last deep, devastating roll.

“That’s it,” he groans softly. “Come with me. I’ve got you.”

And you do.

You fall.

Hard.

Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave breaking over stone—violent, full-bodied, unstoppable. Your head tips back onto his shoulder, mouth falling open against his palm as you moan into his skin, thighs clenching around him as your body convulses with pleasure.

Fred comes right behind you, with a choked, guttural sound buried in your hair. You feel him twitch inside you, thick spurts of heat filling you as his whole body shudders beneath yours.

You’re both breathing hard, slumped together in the chair like melted wax. Your notes are crumpled beneath your knees, parchment spotted with ink and who-knows-what else. The table is skewed. One of the books is halfway to the floor.

Neither of you moves.

For a long, perfect moment, the only sound is your breathing.

Then Fred shifts slightly—just enough to press a soft kiss behind your ear.

“Well,” he murmurs, smug and completely unrepentant, “that’s one way to motivate you.”

You elbow him in the ribs.

He just laughs, arms wrapping around your waist like he has no intention of letting you go.

You groan softly, still slumped against him, every limb boneless, every nerve still buzzing with aftershock.

Fred doesn’t move.

If anything, he shifts his hold on your waist, snugging you closer like he didn’t just completely ruin your ability to walk in a straight line.

You squirm.

Bad idea.

He’s still inside you—softening, but not by much—and the movement pulls a tiny, wrecked gasp from your throat.

“Don’t move,” you mutter, breathless.

Fred chuckles, lips brushing your temple. “You’re the one squirming, love.”

You reach back blindly and slap his arm. “Let me up.”

“Mm. You sure?” he asks, far too pleased with himself. “I quite like it here. Warm. Cozy. Smells like sex and ink.”

You shove at his chest until he reluctantly lets you go. Pulling off of him is a mess—literally—and the way he groans as you do it makes you shoot him a look so sharp it could flay a lesser man.

But Fred Weasley is not a lesser man.

Still seated, flushed and smug, he watches as you tug your skirt back down and reach for your wand with slightly shaking hands.

“Scourgify,” you whisper, casting a quick cleaning charm on your thighs, the chair, the floor—everywhere the scene of the crime might’ve left a mark.

You glance at your notes. A mess.

Ink stains, quill snapped, one page with a streak that could only be described as biological.

You flick your wand again. “Tergeo.”

Fred lets out a low whistle. “Look at you. So responsible. So neat.”

You turn to glare at him, cheeks burning. “You’re not helping.”

“I never help.” He stands, stretches like a smug bastard, and zips himself up with a flourish. “But I do inspire, don’t I?”

You don’t answer.

You’re too busy mending your crumpled parchment with Reparo, gathering the remains of your dignity and the notes you now barely remember writing.

Fred slides in beside you again, arm slung lazily around your shoulder, head tilted like he’s admiring your work.

“Back to studying, then?” he asks, as if he didn’t just rail you through a library chair.

You don’t look at him.

SUMMARY: You were a Gryffindor, he was a Slytherin — and somehow, that was supposed to mean something. But between shared silences, late nights in the library, and conversations under the stars, you and Theodore Nott begin to realize that maybe houses were never meant to define people. Based off of this request.

You had been at Hogwarts since first year — best friends with Harry, Ron, and Hermione, and part of every dangerous adventure they dragged you into. You were also close with Neville, Ginny, and the Weasley twins, often helping Fred and George perfect their wildest pranks before they left school. Brave, loyal, and quick to defend your friends, you were a proud Gryffindor through and through.

In sixth-year Potions, Professor Slughorn clapped his hands together with enthusiasm. “Today we will be brewing the Draught of Peace! A delicate, complex potion that requires precision and a steady hand. I haven't paired you in any particular order — let’s see some excellent teamwork!”

Your stomach dropped when he announced your partner: Theodore Nott.

Theo kept his expression blank, but internally he wasn’t pleased. Draco scoffed loudly from across the room. Mattheo grinned at Theo like Christmas had come early. The rest of the Slytherins had been paired with fellow Slytherins — only Theo got stuck with a Gryffindor. Ron looked absolutely flabbergasted, staring at you with wide eyes as if you’d been paired with a Death Eater.

Everyone began moving to their partners. You stayed at your table, exhaling quietly as you gathered your ingredients. You weren’t thrilled either — but you weren’t about to make a scene over it.

Theo walked over after a second, setting his cauldron and supplies down across from you with a controlled sort of care. “Looks like we’re working together,” he said, voice even.

“Looks like it,” you replied, already measuring out powdered moonstone. After a brief pause, you added, “Let’s just… not mess this up.”

Theo raised an eyebrow slightly, something almost amused flickering in his eyes. “I could say the same to you.”

The potion began in quiet focus rather than tension. You worked efficiently, occasionally exchanging short, practical comments. It wasn’t warm — but it wasn’t hostile either. Hermione, paired with Lavender, kept glancing over at you every few minutes, clearly expecting something to go wrong. Nothing did.

When the class finally ended, Theo spoke without looking up from his notes. “I’ll finish the written assignment.”

You shook your head, closing your book. “No. We’ll do it together. Library, six o’clock.”

There was no bite in your tone — just certainty. Theo glanced at you properly for the first time, then gave a small nod. “Fine.”

You grabbed your bag and left with Hermione, who immediately leaned in with a hundred whispered questions. Theo watched you go, something thoughtful settling behind his usual indifference.

Mattheo, Blaise, Enzo, and Draco immediately started in on him as they left the dungeons. “A Gryffindor, Theo? Really?” Mattheo laughed. “This is going to be entertaining.” Theo didn’t respond. But he didn’t look annoyed anymore either.

Later that evening, you arrived at the library exactly at six. Theo was already there, several books laid out neatly across the table, notes half-written in his precise handwriting. The sight made something in your chest ease slightly.

You sat down beside him without a word. For the first twenty minutes, you worked in silence — not uncomfortable, just careful.

Then you both spoke at the same time.

“Wait—”

“This measurement—”

You paused, glancing at each other. You pointed at the page. “This can’t be right. It would make the potion unstable.”

Theo leaned closer, scanning quickly. “You’re right. It should be two counterclockwise stirs after the hellebore, not three.”

You blinked, surprised. “So the textbook’s wrong.”

“Looks like it.”

A small, shared understanding passed between you — quiet, but real. From there, the conversation came easier. Not fast, not effortless — but natural.

By the time you finished, the library was nearly empty. You checked the clock and froze. “We’re past curfew.”

Theo followed your gaze, then stood smoothly. “Then we’d better move quietly.”

You snuck through the corridors together, steps light, voices low. At one point, you both paused in the shadows as Mrs. Norris passed, her eyes glowing faintly in the dark. Your sleeve brushed his as you shifted closer without thinking. Neither of you moved away.

When you finally reached the staircase where your paths split, you stopped.

“Thanks,” you said, a little softer now. “For… not making that unbearable.”

Theo’s lips twitched faintly. “High praise.”

You hesitated, then added, “You’re not what I expected.”

He studied you for a moment. “Neither are you.”

The next Potions class felt different — not friendly, exactly, but easier. “Did you get caught?” Theo asked quietly as he stirred.

You shook your head. “No. You?”

“No.”

A small pause.

You handed in your potion and assignment at the end of class, and he gave you a single nod before leaving the class. You didn't exactly like how you were almost looking forward to the next Potions class, but you didn't dislike it either. You found your gaze drifting to Theo's work station often, everyone working individually this time, when the bell rang, Slughorn clapped his hands, the vials of the Draught of Peace all placed carefully on his table, he call your name and Theo's, “Excellent work! Best in the class!” Slughorn beamed.

You and Theo exchanged a brief, genuine smile outside the class before you turned away — but then—

“Wait.”

You stopped.

Theo hesitated, like he wasn’t entirely sure why he was speaking again. “…If you’re free later,” he said, quieter now, “we could look over Wolfsbane.”

You blinked. That wasn’t even in your syllabus. But something in the way he looked at you made you nod. “Six?”

“Six.”

From then on, it became routine. Library sessions turned into longer conversations, and conversations turned into something quieter, deeper. Eventually, you stopped meeting in the library altogether.

Instead, you ended up on the Astronomy Tower after midnight, passing a joint between you, the night stretched wide above.

“You trust people too easily,” he said, almost absentmindedly.

You glanced at him. “And you don’t trust them enough.”

Theo huffed softly, but didn’t argue.

It wasn’t until later that the conversation shifted.

“My mum—” you stopped, teeth worrying your bottom lip.

He didn’t rush you.

“…I can see Thestrals because of her.”

He nodded slowly. “Me too.”

That made you look at him.

“And it's sad,” you added quietly. “how people expect it to… hurt less over time.”

Theo let out a soft, humorless breath. “They always do.”

Silence settled between you. Not empty. Not awkward. Just understood.

“I’ve been thinking,” you said eventually, voice soft against the night air. “This whole Gryffindor and Slytherin thing…”

Theo leaned back slightly. “What about it?”

“It’s stupid,” you said simply. “We’re sorted at eleven and expected to carry that for the rest of our lives.”

He nodded once. “Houses are just labels.”

You glanced at him. “We’re not that different, you know.”

Theo was quiet for a moment. Then, softer than before:

“No. We just pretend we are.”

The stars stretched endlessly above you, the castle quiet around you. For the first time in a long while, Theo felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest — something steady.

And you felt it too — that quiet understanding, the kind that didn’t need to be explained.

After Hogwarts, none of it would matter. Not the rivalries. Not the house colors.

Just this.

Just the way you understood each other — without trying, without forcing it.

Opposite sides of the same coin.

And somehow, finally facing the same direction.

THICKER THAN A BROOMSTICK | O.W

summary: Quidditch is brutal, but nothing compares to Oliver Wood’s hopeless attempts at flirting—too bad the only person who doesn’t realize he’s asking you to the Yule Ball is you.

wc: 2.1k+

cw: oblivious!reader, reader is on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, down bad Oliver.

A/N: Thanks for requesting!! MWA!

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

The Gryffindor locker room always smelled vaguely of sweat, leather, and a little too much pride. You were used to it by now—Quidditch came with its fair share of bruises and bad cologne. And Oliver Wood, your relentlessly intense captain, was the embodiment of both. He was also currently staring at you from across the room, looking at you as if you were a goddess.

“Okay, team! Good practice today!” he barked, a bit too loudly for someone whose voice cracked halfway through the sentence. “Except for you, Bell—next time, aim for the actual goalpost, not my nose.”

You stifled a laugh and sat down on the nearby bench. “In her defense,” you said, removing your glove with your teeth, “your nose was in the way.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Oliver muttered, mostly to himself. You were fairly certain he'd lost all his mental stability somewhere between the third and fourth practice this week.

“So,” he said suddenly, too casually to be natural, “let’s say—hypothetically—you were going to ask someone to the Yule Ball.”

headcanon time; first or second year, before he knew his friends, he was like this wimpy little kid that got bullied a whole lot (especially by slytherin kids) and that's why he plays pranks on people.

but but! a request maybe of reader liking james before he got popular, but they never made it known because they're the quiet type. but as james became popular, reader stayed the same and they never really really crossed paths again. but there was a time where reader did something small for james back then which he remembered all those years and then they kiss kiss fall in love.

you can you whatever pronouns you want again for reader !!

- 🌱

took the liberty of making the reader a gryffindor hope thats ok

i know you james potter x shy!reader

summary: you have an unexpected night with james, a childhood friend that you're surprised still remembers you ⊹ 2.8k warnings: intoxication (not reader or james), unsolicited flirting from random guy, james is taller than r, gryffindor!reader, introvert!reader, no specific pronouns for reader used

· ─ ⋆⋅✶⋅⋆ ─ ·

Secluded in a quiet corner is where you feel most comfortable at parties. Your fellow Gryffindors are a boisterous bunch, and that's never been your style, making it much easier to watch events like these from the sidelines.

This doesn't make you the most popular student in your house. It's not as though people don't like you, but they don't really know you. If they had to, the vocabulary they would use to describe you would be limited to quiet, nice, and… quiet.

pairing :: james potter x fem!reader (implied girly!reader)

warnings :: mentions of getting laid (no smut), fluff!! please mind that english isn’t my first language. 1.5k words

james was truly smitten. he couldn’t not ogle at you at any given moment, heart eyes following you around every single room or corridor, sighs of pure admiration leaving his lungs whenever you would talk to him at breakfast or lunch while his head rested on his hand, dreamy eyes trying to catch yours.

but who was to blame him? you were just so pretty, your hair swaying lightly as you rushed to class, your hand accidentally brushing his as you stepped past him.

Apple Cider Donuts

summary: “Tell you what. You bring apple cider donuts next time, and I’ll let you have another chance at beating me.” characters: draco malfoy x gryffindor! reader warnings: none! word count: 630

The crisp autumn air swept over the Quidditch pitch, carrying with it the scent of hay, wet leaves, and something sweeter. You were already perched on your broom, hair wind-tossed, cheeks pink from the chill, when you heard Draco Malfoy’s familiar drawl echo across the field.

“Merlin’s beard, it reeks of apples over here.”

You whipped your head toward him, glaring as he sauntered closer, broom slung casually over his shoulder. His pale hair caught the light, all smug angles and smirks.

summary ─ it was meant to be another normal year at hogwarts, until rafe made it clear that “normal” didn’t exist when he was around. content ─ toxic tension, argument, unhealthy dynamics, obsession undertones. notes ─ hi! this is my first time writing on here it took me awhile but im not sure if i like it. there's still lots of editing to be done and my grammar sucks but i hope you guys enjoy it! paring ─ slytherin!rafe x gryffindor!reader

a new term had begun at hogwarts, the bittersweet haze of summer slowly fading into autumn. the bright green of the leaves was giving way to deep burgundy and burnt orange. you slowly had gotten used to the idea of the world of magic being your reality... along with the stares, the whispers of ‘halfblood’, the looks of others—the ones that made your skin crawl. you refused to let them pull you from what truly mattered. though, if you were honest with yourself, you still hadn’t quite figured out what that was.

it was another one of those chill ridden days at the castle, when the golden glow of the sconces flickered against the stone walls as fog swept through the open corridors, brushing along your skin. classes had been dismissed early, many of the students were scattered about, some warming up in their respective common rooms, others making their way towards hogsmeade. only the faint murmur of conversation and the scuff of shoes echoed through the corridors.

it was like any normal day for you. you left the library with your arms piled high with books, your book bag slipping off from your shoulder, and your shoelaces half undone. it was a spectacle in itself, a juggling act that you prayed no one would notice along the way to the gryffindor common room.

then, there in the corridors, he had appeared.

rafe cameron.

leaning against a stone pillar as though he had nothing better to do with his time, his honey blond hair caught the dim torchlight, his ocean blue eyes sharp and assessing, he was dressed more plainly than normal—a sweater and jeans that seemed well worn than most of his clothes and of course, that infuriatingly permanent confident smirk curling at the corner of his lips. even out of uniform, he carried himself effortlessly and it never failed to infuriate you even more.

you froze for a fraction of a second, blinking at him before tightening your grip on the books, trying to fix the balance of your bag along your shoulder. against your will however, your heart somehow jolted achingly and irritation flared hot and bright, along with the horrible knowldege that he looked…no. you couldn’t allow yourself to think of such a thing, especially about rafe cameron.

“cameron,” you replied, your voice coming out calmly but sharp, all while tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. “what is it this time—blocking the corridor for sport? or are you simply here to watch me collapse beneath the weight of my own textbooks?” you didn't wait for his response as you continued on your way. you wouldn't allow him to have the satisfaction of him seeing you flustured in your current state and embarrassed.

rafe's smirk had slowly deepened at the defiant tilt of your chin. he liked that about you, grudgingly. most people gave in to him, but you were a force to be reckoned with. he lived for the encounters like these, knowing somehow, someway it would end with you storming off with rosy pink cheeks and your breathing heavy.

after a moment, he simply shrugged, not moving an inch to let you pass. “maybe i just like the sight of you struggling under all those books,” he said, voice annoyingly monotone, which ticked you off even more than before.

your grip tightened on the books, grounding yourself against the urge to burst right there in the corridor, jaw clenching at his words. he was baiting you, as he always did, and it was taking all your patience not to rise to it. so you met his gaze evenly, refusing to be cowed.

“funny, cameron…” you said, your voice hinting at the obvious sarcasm. “i thought you’d be too busy staring at yourself in the mirror to notice anything around you.” you attempted to sidestep him as you continued along the corridor, but he easily caught up behind you, matching your pace.

his gaze was fixed on your figure as he followed, hands casually shoved into his pockets. “i can multitask, you know. appreciate myself and enjoy riling you up at the same time,” he said casually, making you cringe silently at his words.

you rolled your eyes, not bothering to look at him. irritation coiled in your chest like a snare. his arrogance, effortless confidence, the way he seemed perfectly at ease in his own skin—it all grated on you. you approached the grand staircase as quickly as you could, desperate to leave him behind.

“spare me,” you shot back. “you probably spend more time looking in the mirror than actually studying, cameron.”

rafe scoffed, low and quiet, matching your pace as if it cost him nothing. he leaned slightly as the stairs shifted, never losing balance somehow always in control.

“study? please,” he said with a lazy tone. “i don’t need to bury my nose in books to know i’m better than most. but you? carrying half the library like that… either you’re overcompensating, or you’re hoping someone’ll notice how dedicated you are.” he tilted his head, eyes studying all over you. “which is it...y/n?” he used your first name deliberately, softly, (which was unlike him, but a tactic to confuse you just as much) just to see if you’d flinch.

that caused you to shoot him a look that would make most flinch. but not him. “better than most?” you scoffed in disbelief. “you’re deluded, cameron.” your books were practically a shield against him, though you didn’t bother hiding the anger threading through your voice. every inch of him—smug grin, perfect hair, that maddening voice that haunted you—made your skin crawl. you hated him. hated the way he thought he owned the world, hated the way he dared speak your name like it meant something, hated how he could infuriate you with a single look.

“or maybe it’s because i like reading. maybe i like knowing more than a pompous little slytherin who thinks his father’s name makes him untouchable. and for your information? i don’t need your smug approval, cameron. you’re not worth my attention.”

for a moment, his expression faltered—just a flicker, like a shadow passing over the torchlight. your words hit closer to home than he cared to admit, especially the one about his father. his eyes darkened, turning sharper than before.

but then after a moment of silence, he just nodded slightly, the silence filling the space between you. he took one slow step forward, closing the distance you’d tried to maintain. tall, broad shouldered, he let his presence press just enough to make you feel it without touching you at all.

“untouchable?” he repeated softly, which was not like him whatsoever. “funny… you keep acting like i want to be.” his voice dropped, laced with something raw beneath the venom. “and yet here you are...looking at me like you want to hex me…” (you did infact hex him several times before.)

he tilted his head mockingly, acting as if he really wanted to understand you but no matter how hard you tried to keep that wall of indifference up. he knew you. through and through. “if i really meant nothing to you… why do you care so much?”

you shot him a glare that could cut stone, stepping close enough to meet his blue eyed stare without flinching. your hands gripped your books even tighter as if they were weapons of some sort, knuckles white. “care?” you hissed, voice trembling with controlled fury. “do not flatter yourself, cameron. i don’t care about you. i don’t want anything to do with you. you’re just a walking reminder of everything vile about the slytherin house, and every time you open your mouth, it proves charm isn’t intelligence. and don’t think for a second that your father’s sins excuse you! you’re just another spoiled little cameron, playing at danger while the world suffers because of your name.” you leaned slightly forward, voice dropping low, sharp. “you think i care if you’re untouchable? i want nothing from you...not a glance, not a smirk, not your pathetic attempts to make me flustered. i loathe you, cameron. every smug grin, every step you take thinking you’re superior. you’re horrible. you’re reckless. you’re—” you swallowed a sharp breath, letting the weight of your words hit him, “—a constant reminder of everything i despise, everything i've lost. so stop pretending this is a game. i’m not scared of you, i’m not intimidated either, and i will not let you worm your way into my mind.”

you watched the way his jaw clenched as you spoke, the words landing like physical blows. every one of your accusations felt like a punch to the chest, and he felt his anger rising, bubbling into something hotter than irritation.

he didn’t back down. instead, he stepped even closer, face now just inches from yours, breath warm against your cheek, his nose almost brushing against yours, his voice coming out as a low dangerous rumble even as every part of him screamed to step back, to leave you in peace. he was never one to listen anyway...

“funny, because the only person you seem to loathe more than me...is yourself.”

you froze for a fraction of a second. staring up at him like you couldn't stop yourself from looking into his eyes, stomach twisting in a unfamilliar way, your heart throbbing against your chest for unexplainable reasons as his words cut sharper than any hex you've learned. your jaw tightened, hands gripping your books so hard your knuckles ached. him, saying something like that, as if he could see inside of you, unraveling every thought you’d worked so hard to hide… you hated it. you hated him.

without another word, you simply scoffed in response and spun on your heel, feet pounding against the stone floor as you forced distance between you. your sweater brushed against your arms, books pressed to your chest like armor, but even as you moved, his voice lingered...low, condescending, dangerous—and it echoed in your head long after you rounded the corner. he always finds a way, you thought, teeth gritted. no matter what i do, no matter how angry i am, no matter how much i hate him… he’s always there. in my head. in my blood. that realization made your pulse race, though you’d never admit it aloud. he had a way of getting under your skin, twisting every word, every glance, every confrontation into something that left you off balance—and infuriatingly aware of him even if the aching memory of the past made it all the more unbearable.

but deep down, you knew it was just the beginning of another very long year...