#hufflepuff! reader

“Pinterest board?” Draco scoffed from his spot on the couch, nursing a glass of cider. “You mean chaos. The ceiling nearly caught fire twice.”

“It was controlled chaos,” Mattheo defended, grinning wider when you laughed. “Besides, Theo said we needed ambience.”

Theodore Nott was sprawled in an armchair, sleeves pushed up, looking far too comfortable. “I said candles, mate. Not an inferno.”

Blaise, leaning lazily against the mantel, lifted his glass in salute. “Regardless, it’s perfect. Almost makes me sentimental.”

“You?” Enzo teased, emerging from the kitchen with an armful of plates. “That’ll be the day.” He set them down and gave you a smile-soft, a little shy, the kind that made your heart skip. “You made it just in time. We were about to start without you.”

You gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

Mattheo pointed his spoon at you, mock-serious. “You were late, Hufflepuff. Tragic, considering you’re the moral center of this operation.”

“Oh, because you lot clearly can’t function without me?” you said, moving past him to peek at the table. It was overflowing-mashed potatoes piled high, a questionable turkey, charmed gravy boats, and more desserts than dinner. You smiled softly. “You actually did all this?”

“Mostly,” Enzo said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Mattheo may have threatened the house-elves.”

“Politely negotiated,” Mattheo corrected.

You laughed, the sound bubbling bright and warm. “Well, it’s perfect. Really.”

-

Dinner was… loud. Beautifully, hopelessly loud.

Mattheo told stories that made everyone laugh until they choked, gesturing wildly and knocking over his cider twice. Theo’s quiet chuckles carried over the clatter of plates; Blaise hummed along to the record spinning lazily in the corner-a jazz tune he’d insisted “set the vibe.” Enzo kept sneaking extra rolls onto your plate when you weren’t looking, and Draco, despite his protests, smiled more than you’d ever seen him smile.

It felt like family.

After dinner, the room dimmed into soft candlelight. Someone- probably Enzo-had charmed the fire to burn gold. You sat cross-legged on the rug, surrounded by half-empty plates and sleepy laughter.

“Alright,” Mattheo said suddenly, leaning back on his elbows. “One rule. Everyone has to say something they’re thankful for. Hufflepuff’s orders.”

“My orders?” you giggled.

He shrugged, eyes glinting. “You’re the heart of the group. Pretty sure that makes you Head of Gratitude.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Fine. But you start.”

Mattheo looked thoughtful-uncharacteristically so. He fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve, then said, softer, “I’m thankful for this. For the group. For… a place that actually feels like home.” He glanced at you when he said it, and your stomach did a little flip.

Theo cleared his throat next. “Thankful for quiet moments,” he murmured. “And people who don’t need to fill them.” He didn’t look up, but you caught the small, private smile tugging at his lips.

Enzo went after him. “I’m thankful for laughter,” he said simply. “Especially yours.” His gaze caught yours for just a second too long, and your face went warm.

Draco swirled his cider, pretending to think. “Thankful for second chances,” he said finally, voice low. “And for people who see the good before the rest of the world does.” His eyes flicked your way too, just for a heartbeat.

Blaise sighed dramatically when it was his turn. “I’m thankful,” he said, “for fine wine, good music, and-” He paused, smirk softening. “Friends who make even the dungeons feel like sunlight.”

They all turned to you.

You hesitated, smiling at the five of them-your chaos, your comfort, your found family. “I’m thankful,” you said, voice thick with warmth, “for you. For the noise, and the quiet, and the food that’s somehow still edible. For this-being together.”

The room went quiet for a heartbeat, golden and full.

Mattheo grinned first, nudging your shoulder. “Alright, Hufflepuff. You’re gonna make us soft.”

Theo murmured, “Too late for that.”

You laughed. They laughed. The candles flickered. Outside, snow began to fall in lazy spirals against the lake glass, and inside, five Slytherins and one Hufflepuff sat tangled in the kind of warmth you never wanted to end.

-

Later, when the plates were cleared and the music slowed, you found yourself sitting between them on the couch-Enzo draped half-asleep on one side, Theo and Draco arguing softly on the other, Mattheo and Blaise tossing popcorn at the fireplace like overgrown children.

And you thought: If gratitude had a shape, it would look like this-messy, loud, full of laughter and love.

You were already kneeling among the sprawling pumpkin patch when he arrived, hair tucked behind your ears, a smudge of soil on your cheek, and a smile that made the late autumn sun seem unnecessary.

“Ah, the great Berkshire,” you said cheerfully, looking up from the vines. “Sentenced to hard labor. Tragic.”

“Laugh it up, Puff,” he grumbled, grabbing a pair of gloves. “This is cruel and unusual punishment.”

“You’ll live.” You patted the ground beside you. “Come on, it’s not so bad. The pumpkins are practically ready for harvest. All you have to do is help me lift them.”

That should have been simple. It should have been. But nothing with Lorenzo ever was.

One poorly aimed spell later, and the biggest pumpkin in the patch swelled like a balloon, glowed an alarming shade of orange, and exploded with a wet pop, splattering seeds and pulp across the garden like shrapnel.

For a heartbeat, silence.

Lorenzo stood frozen, dripping with orange goo, staring at the carnage. “...In my defense,” he said flatly, “that was not supposed to happen.”

You blinked at him-and then burst into laughter so bright it curled through the air like music. You doubled over, clutching your stomach, tears prickling your eyes as you gasped, “You-you look like a pumpkin yourself!”

His scowl deepened. “Glad my humiliation amuses you.”

“Oh, it does,” you managed between giggles. You plucked a string of pulp from his sleeve. “But look-there’s still plenty left. We can salvage this.”

Somehow, “salvaging” turned into the two of you lugging chunks of pumpkin back into the kitchens, flour dusting your hands as you worked side by side. Your laughter didn’t stop-not when he fumbled the rolling pin, not when he tried (and failed) to crack eggs one-handed, not even when he accidentally got cinnamon in his hair.

By the time the pie emerged from the oven, golden and steaming, the kitchen smelled like warmth itself. You set the dish between you on the table, cheeks flushed from laughter and heat.

“See?” you said softly, slicing into it. “Not a total disaster.”

Lorenzo watched you take the first bite, the corner of his mouth tugging despite himself. “I blew up a pumpkin. You called it funny.”

“It was funny.” You handed him a slice, your grin as warm as the pie between you. “Besides, if you hadn’t, we wouldn’t be eating this now.”