#hufflepride

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Once more y/n was in the air, and once more Fred Weasley was heckling her. Today wasn’t even a Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff match. Today, she was playing Slytherin. But that didn’t stop the older of the Weasley twins from yelling at her from the stands. There he was in red and gold, screaming advice over the cheers of the crowd like he was her personal coach. More like her personal nuisance.

“Hit harder next time! You swing like a Kneazle with a toothache!”

“It’s not your game, Frederick!” she called back, spinning her broom and chasing after the Bludger that was aimed at their Chaser.

He just grinned, saluted with two fingers, and leaned back lazily like he had nothing better to do than shout unhelpful things. She didn’t hear from him again. Not during the next twenty six minutes of fast-paced, brutal gameplay. Slytherin was being extra dirty today, too. Elbows were thrown, near-collisions were had, and more Bludgers were aimed at heads than usual.

That was when a Bludger came sailing toward the Hufflepuff Chaser, and she dove, bat raised. She struck it - very cleanly, if she did say so herself - and didn’t see the object hurtling towards her until it was too late. A bludger, not the one in play but a second one, came rocketing in from the opposite direction.

The impact hit her hard in the ribs, knocking the wind out of her and sending her spiraling on her broom. She tried to force her fingers and thighs to squeeze around the broom, wishing herself not to fall off, but the pain echoing through her torso made her flinch and the wooden structure slipped away from her. Her breath rushed from her lungs and the pain wouldn’t allow her to draw in another. The last thing she saw before she blacked out was green robes and a smug Slytherin smirk.

———————————————————————

She drifted in and out of consciousness. The hospital wing was quiet. Her side hurt like hell. Madam Pomfrey was muttering about her cracked ribs and dangerous idiots who treated Quidditch like warfare.

“Reckless,” the nurse muttered. “Absolutely reckless. Two Bludgers at once, one of them aimed while the other was already in play. I don’t care if Bole claimed it was a mistake.”

Y/n winced, her head spinning as she tried to prop herself up. If the searing pain that exploded through her side wasn’t enough to send her back down onto the mattress, Madam Pomfrey’s stern voice was.

“Lie down!” Pomfrey barked, appearing at her bedside like she’d teleported. “Don’t make me charm the bed to hold you there. Every week I have another quidditch player in here taking up space in one of my beds. Such a dangerous sport…”

Pomfrey‘s tangent went on, but y/n didn’t have it in her to listen. She was almost dozing off again when a commotion broke out near the wing’s entrance.

“No, I don’t care if she’s awake. Visiting hours are over, and you’re not injured.” The nurse was chastising someone. Refusing them entry.

“But I am injured!” The other voice protested. “See! I busted my hand! What kind of a nurse would you be if you let a student-”

“There is nothing wrong with your hand! I don’t care! Unless you were somehow trampled by a Hippogriff, Weasley, get out!”

It was unmistakably a Weasley twin’s voice, pitched in a tone of furious pleading. Fred. It had to be. She couldn’t see why George would be fighting so hard to get into the hospital wing. He probably wanted to rub it in her face or correct her form when falling out of the sky.

“It’s a bruise at worst, you can fix that up with some ice. Now get out!” Madam Pomfrey was refusing to budge.

“Come on, she got blown out of the air! I just need five minutes! I brought her a card!” he insisted, voice muffled by the door.

Fred Weasley brought her a card? She blinked, trying not to laugh. It was too painful.

“You can deliver it in the morning, during visiting hours. Goodnight, Weasley!”

Something thumped against the door. A frustrated groan. “You tell her…tell her she’s a bloody idiot on the pitch, but this one wasn’t on her, alright? That Slytherin’s not going to be walking properly for weeks.”

“Don’t you have to get to detention, Weasley!”

“Yeah, yeah!”

At hearing that unceremonious ending to the conversation, y/n did laugh, and instantly regretted it when a burning sensation shot through her side.

———————————————————————

The next time y/n woke up it must have been deep into the night because the hospital wing was dark and empty, save for her. And the suddenly occupied bed beside her. Turning her head just enough to look at the person who was sat up and digging into a box of chocolates, she managed to catch a glimpse of red hair.

Fred Weasley turned to smile at her, noticing she was awake. He had a bandage around his knuckles, his other fist enclosed in a box of Honeydukes’ finest chocolate, and a sheepish expression that almost didn’t suit him. “Fancy seeing you here,” He rasped, smirking.

“Did you seriously find a hippogriff to trample you just so you could annoy me?” She shot back, arching a brow at the boy whose mouth was full.

“Of course not, under further inspection, Madam Pomfrey decided my injury was indeed severe enough to be hospitalised.” He flashed her his wrapped hand as if it were a trophy. “Four broken knuckles.”

“How’d you manage that?” She snorted. “Did you invent a bone-breaking biscuit or something for the occasion?”

“Nah, Bole was practically begging for a round two,” Fred’s lips pulled into a lopsided grin, pointing out a station with drawn curtains on the other end of the room. “He’s in the bed all the way at the end.”

Y/n blinked at home for a long moment, processing the information. “Did you seriously beat up Bole and break your hand just to…What exactly was your reasoning?”

“Well, I was going to bring you flowers, but I’m not made of galleons, so I brought you chocolate instead.” He tilted his head and she glanced at the half eaten box he was currently working through. As if he read the look on her face, he swiftly offered her one. “Want one?”

“No thanks,” She sat up, wincing at the pain that bloomed across her side. Though it was significantly dulled compared to the day before. “I’m still stuck on the fact you punched Bole. He’s like, three times your size.”

“I’ll have you know, I introduced several parts of his ugly face to my right hook,” Fred said, far too casually. “He’s didn’t even get a shot off.”

“You get detention for that?”

“Three nights. Worth it, though.”

She stared at him. “Why?”

“Because he hit you with a second Bludger while you were busy. That might not exactly be cheating, but that was intentional. He was trying to hurt you. And don’t roll your eyes at me—”

“I’m not!”

“You were about to. Don’t forget I know all the subtle tells of your face. I’ve spent long enough watching you pull it at me.”

She did roll her eyes, then she winced again. “Ribs, Weasley. Don’t make me laugh.”

Fred shifted to face her, shoving the half-eaten chocolates to the side table. “I didn’t like seeing you fall like that.”

Her brows furrowed. “Wow. That almost sounded like you care.”

He looked suddenly…serious. Not in the way Fred Weasley was usually serious about a prank or a scheme. But the real kind of serious, a kind he rarely showed.

“I do care,” he said and was met with the dead silence of her surprise.

She blinked at him. “Okay, what…? Did you break your personality along with your knuckles? I thought your thing was annoying me into madness.”

“Yeah, well, it was. Until it wasn’t.” He shrugged, as though trying to convince himself it wasn’t a big deal.

She stared at Fred in confusion and he groaned. “Alright, listen. I don’t know when it happened. Maybe during that match last term when you caught that Bludger one-handed and flipped me off with the other. Maybe when you started calling me ‘Frederick’ every time I got cocky. But somewhere in there, I realised that I wasn’t just looking forward to playing against you because you’re good.”

She blinked, heart skipping a beat.

“I was looking forward to seeing you.” He looked away for a second, like it took effort to say it. Like it cost him something. “And yesterday? When you went down?” His voice dropped a bit. “I thought I was going to be sick.”

Her throat tightened. She didn’t know what to say so she just let him keep on talking himself into a deeper hole.

“I didn’t know what to do with that. I don’t really…feel like that about people. Not often.” He let out a breath. “But I like you. A lot. And I kind of had to do something to get in here and tell you that before I lost my nerve. And if you’ll let me…I mean, if you’re into Quidditch-obsessed pranksters with a tendency to get into fights on your behalf…then maybe I could take you out sometime?”

She was silent for a moment, wide-eyed, stunned, then she snorted. “You’re unbelievable.”

Fred blinked. “Uh—?”

“You waited until I had multiple cracked ribs to finally admit you have a crush on me?”

He scowled. “Well excuse me for not scheduling the Bludger attack myself.”

She reached for the chocolates he set down and unwrapped one. “Fine. You can take me out. But only if you promise not to maim the next guy who aims a Bludger at me. That’s kind of part of the game.”

He grinned, stepping closer. “No promises.”

She smiled, wincing again, and patted the side of the bed. “Come. Sit. Tell me what happened after I passed out. But don’t make me laugh again.”

He swung his legs over the side of his bed and made his way over, taking a seat on the edge of her mattress carefully. “So…just to be absolutely clear, does this mean you like me back?”

She rolled her eyes, then softened. “I’ve been arguing with you for two years. You really think I’d waste that kind of energy on someone I don’t like?”

His smile grew and for once, the teasing melted away. There was just something warm, honest, and new in the air between them.

You don’t spend your time chasing after Quidditch stars or whispering gossip in the Great Hall. You’re not one for the spotlight, or even the tempting flicker of it. 

Hogwarts is loud, especially in the Hufflepuff common room where its warmth often means a certain kind of chaos; but you’ve always preferred the quieter corners of the castle. 

Windowsills with a bit of sunlight, empty classrooms filled with dust motes and echoing stillness, nooks in the library no one else bothers with.

You exist in a softer space, gentle, unnoticed, and you were perfectly content with that.

You’ve always done well in school — not flashy, but dependable. Your name never gets called out in classes unless you raise your hand first (which you rarely do). You’re polite to everyone, helpful when asked, but you’re not the type people turn to instinctively. 

You’re… background. Reliable, but not remarkable. And that’s fine.

Then there’s Harry Potter.

His world is a whirlwind; something burning and spinning and impossible to pin down. Even if you weren’t keeping to yourself, you doubt you’d cross paths. 

He’s Gryffindor. He’s always surrounded by Ron and Hermione; like the three of them orbit one another tightly, barely leaving space for anyone else. 

His life seems like a constant surge forward — detentions, Quidditch, curses, danger, and the weight of things no seventeen-year-old should have to carry.

You don’t envy him. You don’t idolize him either. You see the exhaustion in his eyes when he walks into class late. The twitch in his jaw when someone mutters The Chosen One under their breath. The way he hunches in on himself when he thinks no one’s watching.

But you are. Watching, that is. Not in a weird way… you just notice things. You always have. You pick up on how people carry stress in their shoulders, how their handwriting changes when they’re anxious. You notice the pauses in their voices when they’re too tired to finish a sentence.

And Harry Potter, you’ve realized, is almost always too tired to finish a sentence.

Still, your lives don’t touch.

He doesn’t know your name, and why would he? You’ve never been assigned to the same group project, never been paired in class, never even stood next to each other in line for meals. If you’ve passed him in the hallway, you doubt he noticed. You’re part of the blur. A face he’s never needed to remember.

So when it happens,  when the moment comes that tethers you to him in a way neither of you expected, it’s not with a bang or a declaration. It’s quiet. Like everything else in your life.

You find him curled up in the Astronomy Tower. Alone.

You’re not sure what made you go there that night. You just needed space,  a break from the common room, from the endless scribbling of essays and the way people kept laughing way too loudly around you. You had a headache. Maybe that was it. Or maybe something else was pulling you towards him.

Whatever it was, when you push the creaky wooden door open and step into the moonlight, you don’t expect to see Harry Potter sitting against the far wall, knees drawn to his chest, fists clenched into the sleeves of his jumper, face pale and tight like he’s trying very hard not to cry.

You freeze. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t even acknowledge you.

You could walk away. You probably should. This isn’t your business.

But then, you see his shoulders tremble. Just once.

You swallow the lump in your throat, your voice is very soft when you speak. “Are you… okay?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes in deeply and lets it out slowly. His head tilts slightly toward you, but his gaze stays fixed on some distant point past the railing.

Then he mutters, “Not really.”

And that’s where it starts.

That’s the moment everything changes.

Not with sparks. Not with fireworks.

But with a quiet offer — a quiet presence.

You sit down beside him, and neither of you says anything more.

You don’t know it then, but this will become a pattern. A rhythm. A strange sort of sanctuary. Not a friendship. Not yet. Not really.

But something close.

And Harry… Harry will start to look for you.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

It’s three nights later when you find him again.

You weren’t looking for him, but you weren’t not looking either. Something had tugged at your thoughts all day, a whisper of a memory of that quiet night on the Astronomy Tower. The way he hadn’t spoken much, just sat there like the silence was the only safe thing left in the world.

You hadn’t expected him to return. Harry Potter didn’t seem like someone who repeated himself. But when you creaked open the tower door again,  half out of habit, half out of instinct, you weren’t all that surprised to see him there.

Same spot. Same posture. Same exhaustion sunk into the curve of his back.

He didn’t look up when you walked in.

But his shoulders eased.

That’s how you knew it was okay to sit down again.

This time, he spoke first.

“Ron and I fought.”

You didn’t press for details. You didn’t ask why. You just waited.

After a minute, he added, “I said something I didn’t mean. He said something he did mean.”

You nodded once, slow.

He kept staring out over the ledge, at the navy sky bleeding into black.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered.

You glanced over at him. He didn’t seem to be talking to you, not really. Just to the air. To himself. Maybe to the stars.

“Do what?” you asked.

“Any of it. Be who they want. Save people. Pretend I’m fine.” His voice cracked like a branch under weight. “I’m tired all the time, and no one ever notices.”

You did… But you didn’t say that.

Instead, you reached into your robe pocket and quietly pulled out a tiny wrapped chocolate. One of the peppermint kind you’d kept on you since third year — comfort sweets, tucked away for emergencies. You held it out hoping he’d be interested.

He looked at it like it was a portkey. Something magical. Something kind.

He didn’t say thank you. Just took it. Unwrapped it. Popped it into his mouth.

The silence that followed was softer this time. Not heavy, like the first night. Just… full. Like something understood had passed between you.

When he finally stood to leave, he looked down at you for the first time.

His eyes were red, but clearer.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

You told him.

He nodded. “Right. I’ll remember that.”

You weren’t sure you believed him.

But the next week — when you stumbled into the greenhouse for early study hours, cheeks flushed from running late,  Harry Potter was already there.

And when he saw you, he said your name like it was something he’d practiced.

Like it mattered.

Like maybe, somehow, you mattered.

To him.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

The fifth night, he doesn’t wait for you in the tower. He follows you.

You don’t notice him at first. You’ve grown used to your evening walks—wandering through the hushed corridors after curfew, careful to avoid Filch, letting your thoughts settle like snowflakes. You make your way up the spiraling stairs, same as always, your footsteps featherlight on the stone. And then—

“Hey.”

You startle.

He’s leaning against the wall just outside the Astronomy Tower entrance, arms crossed loosely, as though he’s been standing there a while. Waiting.

“I didn’t know if you’d come tonight,” he says. His voice is soft, hoarse. “But I was hoping you would.”

You blink, heart catching in your throat. “You were… waiting for me?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t just cracked open something delicate between you. “I didn’t want to be alone.”

You don’t say anything. You just open the door.

He follows you inside.

It’s a colder night than the last two. The wind whips through the open arches, and the moon hangs lower, fuller. You pull your cloak tighter around your shoulders as you sit, curling your knees up beneath you.

Harry sits a little closer this time.

Only a little. But you notice.

“I had a nightmare,” he says after a long silence.

Your head tilts toward him.

He’s not looking at you, still staring out at the dark sky, but his jaw’s tight and his hands are clenched again.

“I’ve been having them a lot lately,” he admits. “Some of them are… memories. Some are worse. Things that haven’t happened yet but feel like they already have.”

You nod, unsure what to say. Words are rarely enough, you’ve learned. Especially for grief. Especially for someone like him.

“I woke up in a sweat and couldn’t breathe,” he continues, voice low and raw. “And Ron was asleep, and I didn’t want to wake him again, so I just…came here.”

To you.

The words hang in the air, unspoken but understood.

You shift slightly, your shoulder brushing his.

He flinches, not from discomfort, but like the contact pulled him back to the present.

“I don’t know why I keep talking to you,” he says suddenly, a small breath of a laugh. “You don’t say much. You don’t ask questions. But it helps. Just… sitting here with you. I feel like I can breathe.”

You don’t reply. You just offer him the smallest smile.

He glances down at his hands, then over at you. Really looks this time.

“You always bring peace with you. It’s strange.”

Your chest tightens at that. A different kind of ache.

He shifts beside you, hesitates, then reaches out, slowly, and lets his fingers graze yours, just barely, as your hands rest side by side on the stone floor.

You freeze.

Not because it’s too much. But because it’s new.

That light, tentative pressure of his pinky finger brushing yours, like he’s testing the air between you. Like he doesn’t want to scare you off.

Your breath comes quiet and careful.

And then..he hooks his pinky around yours.

That’s it.

No grand gesture. No hand-holding or pull-you-into-a-hug moment.

Just that small, grounding touch.

“I hope it’s okay,” he murmurs. “I just — needed something to hold onto.”

You don’t pull away.

Your fingers stay linked, light as breath.

The stars wheel above you, and somewhere in the world, there’s a war waiting.

But here, in the tower, in the hush of night, Harry Potter sits beside you, steadying himself on your presence.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

You don’t speak of the tower during the day.

It’s a silent rule. One neither of you ever voiced, but both instinctively understand. Whatever exists between you and Harry in the quiet of the Astronomy Tower doesn’t follow you into the sunlit corridors or crowded Great Hall.

And yet, something’s changed.

The first time it happens, you’re leaving Herbology, soil still clinging to your nails. Your head is bowed slightly, a book clutched to your chest, when you feel it — a flicker of pressure at the edge of your awareness.

You glance up.

Across the courtyard, Harry’s standing with Ron and Hermione. He’s laughing at something Ron says, or at least pretending to, but his eyes are on you.

You look away quickly.

You’re not used to being seen. Not in that way.

Not in broad daylight.

Not by him.

The second time, it’s in the library. You’re buried behind a stack of books, halfway through rewriting your Ancient Runes notes, when you hear a chair scrape softly against the floor. Someone sits a few tables over. You barely look up… until you catch the edge of a familiar voice.

“Do you have any ink, Hermione? I forgot mine.”

You don’t mean to eavesdrop, but it’s hard not to when he’s right there.

And at some point, while Hermione scribbles and Ron yawns beside her, you glance up, and there it is again.

Harry. Looking your way.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t nod. He just watches you for a second too long.

Long enough that you feel it behind your ribs.

When you leave the library twenty minutes later, your chest is buzzing. Not with nerves, but with something quieter. Stranger.

Confusion.

Because the thing is… he still doesn’t know you.

Not really.

Not your favorite subject (Charms), or the way you always twirl your quill when you’re thinking. Not the fact that you hate pumpkin juice and love thunderstorms. Not how you grew up in a tiny house on the edge of a field, where magic was always quiet, gentle, and practical,  none of the grand, wild stories the rest of the world expects from witches and wizards.

He doesn’t know that you like reading about magical flora more than people, or that you’ve never had a best friend, not really, and that you’ve always preferred it that way.

He doesn’t know your middle name.

Your birthday.

Your laugh.

He knows only the part of you that exists in the dark —  the girl who waits on cold stone floors, who offers chocolate and listens without asking too much.

And maybe that’s all he wants.

But then, one night,  maybe the sixth or seventh,  when the tower is still and Harry is quiet, too quiet, you ask a question. One you’ve been holding back.

“Do you ever wonder why it’s easier for you to talk to someone you barely know?”

His eyes flicker open. He was leaning back, staring at the ceiling. “What do you mean?”

You pick at a thread on your sleeve. “You always come to me when you’re hurting. But you’ve never asked me anything about myself.”

He sits up slowly, blinking.

“I guess… I didn’t want to ruin it,” he says finally. “You never ask anything of me. You don’t expect me to be ‘Harry Potter’ when I’m here.”

You nod, eyes down.

“I like who I am when I’m with you,” he adds, voice softer. “But you’re right. That’s not fair to you.”

There’s a long pause.

Then, his voice again, low and almost shy.

“What’s your favorite spell?”

You blink.

You glance up.

And for the first time since this strange pattern began… he’s trying.

To know you.

Not just use your comfort as a balm.

And somehow, that tiny, awkward question means more than anything.

You smile, barely.

“Orchideous.”

Harry furrows his brow. “The flower one?”

You nod. “It’s simple. Beautiful. And it never hurts anyone.”

He watches you like he’s trying to memorize that answer.

And when he leaves that night, he says your name again. But this time… he says it like it belongs to him.

Like he’s afraid to forget it.

——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——

It’s raining the night you don’t show up.

Not just drizzling, but pouring. The kind of storm that drowns the castle in wind and sound. The Astronomy Tower windows blur with water, and the corners leak from long-forgotten cracks in the stone. Harry waits anyway.

At first, he assumes you’re late.

You’re never late.

Then he thinks maybe you fell asleep, or got caught in a hallway talking to someone,  not that you ever stop to talk to anyone unless they need help.

But an hour passes. Then two.

And the ache in his chest grows louder than the rain.

He doesn’t realize how much he’s come to need you, not until the moment you aren’t there.

Not until the silence feels wrong without you in it.

Not until it’s your absence that’s pressing on his ribs, not his pain.

So, for the first time, Harry gets up and goes looking.

He checks the library first — your favorite corner. Empty.

Then the Hufflepuff common room, waiting awkwardly near the portrait, hoping someone will slip in or out and he can sneak a glance. No one comes.

Finally, he finds you.

In a corridor just past the greenhouses, under a crumbling arch of ivy that smells like wet earth and bitter roots. You’re sitting on the stone floor, knees pulled to your chest, cloak soaked through. Your face is buried in your arms.

He stops.

Not because he doesn’t want to approach, but because he doesn’t want to ruin it,  the solitude, the smallness of your sadness. He recognizes it. He’s lived it.

Then you shiver.

And that’s all it takes.

He kneels slowly beside you, careful not to startle you. “Hey.”

You look up, and the sight of your face breaks something in him. Your eyes are glassy, lashes stuck together with rain. But it’s not the storm that made you cry.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Why?” he says, voice hoarse. “You’re allowed to fall apart, too.”

You let out a breath that sounds more like a broken laugh. “You weren’t supposed to see me like this.”

“You’ve seen me like this.”

“That’s different.”

“No,” he says firmly. “It’s not.”

He takes your hand.

Not just a brush this time, not just a pinky linked under moonlight. He wraps his fingers around yours, warm despite the rain, steady despite the storm. Your breath catches.

“I didn’t realize how much you held me together,” he says, eyes searching yours. “Until I felt what it’s like to worry about you.”

You don’t know what to say.

So he speaks for both of you.

“I used to think I came to you because I didn’t want to be seen,” he says, voice low. “But maybe I kept coming back because I wanted you to see me. Just… me. Not the Chosen One. Not the hero. Just a boy who doesn’t know what he’s doing most days.”

You swallow hard, eyes stinging.

He moves closer.

“I don’t know a lot about you,” he admits, “but I want to.”

You blink. Slowly. Carefully.

“Why?”

“Because I feel more like myself when I’m with you,” he says. “And I think… maybe I could help you feel that way, too.”

For the first time, you lean in.

And for the first time, he’s the one offering quiet.

He’s the warmth.

He’s the stillness in the storm.

He holds you, not tightly — not possessively — but like he’s making space. For your pain. For your quiet. For your entire, gentle existence.