#weasley x reader

You blinked. "Who wouldn't notice you? You and Fred have gotta be the loudest, most obnoxious-"

"Okay shut up," George deadpans, and you smirk as he rubs his neck nervously. "Look, I'll just go straight to the point. I need to make her jealous."

"Okay, and?"

"And I need your help." George gives a miniscule shrug, looking sheepish yet cheeky at the same time. How he does it, you have no idea. "Fake-date me."

"Wait," you paused, your hand in the air, homework forgotten as you frowned. "You want me to help you by fake-dating you?"

"Uhm... yes?" George said, watching as your eyes bulged slightly for a moment. And then you burst out laughing. "What?" he asked, looking at you weird as you cackled.

You paused, wiping a tear from your eye. "Wait- you're serious?"

"Yeah..."

"Georgie, it's never going to work."

George squinted, tilting his fingers to form a frame around your head. "By my calculations... I think it could." he smiled brightly. "C'mon, (name), we'll never know until we try. What is there to lose?"

"My dignity, for one." You throw back. "Plus, there's nothing in it for me."

"I'll buy you that book you've been eyeing."

You paused at that, mulling it over for a moment as you stared at George, who grinned at you like he already knew you'd agree.

"Oh, fine, you git. It's a deal."

You shook on it.

—

The next morning, you were surprised to see George standing by the staircase. You lazily combed through your hair, barely containing a yawn. "Oh, hello."

"G'morning. Did you sleep well, darling?" George greeted smoothly, a charming smile on his freckly face. You froze.

Oh right.

You quickly composed yourself, smiling back at him. "It was nice. Missed you in my bed, though."

This time, it was George's eyes who widened, and you smiled cheekily up at him. He'd almost forgotten why you've been his greatest rival — and best friend — for almost 4 years now. And he couldn't just let you have the upper hand, could he?

"Well," he drawled, slipping his hand on your waist as you walked towards the door. "I'll be sure to warm that side of the bed soon enough." He grinned smugly at the flush that adorned your face and the people gawking as the two of you neared the door.

"By the way," you hummed, tiptoeing to whisper in his ear with a sly smile. "You still haven't told me who the girl is."

George's ears turned a dark shade of red, and he nudged you. "I'll tell you later. She's here." he muttered. He briefly glanced at his right.

Oh, Katie! Your eyes lit up in understanding, and a wide smile spread on your face as you tightened your grip on George's arm. "Then by all means, darling, let's go have breakfast."

And the two of you left the room.

"What the fuck just happened?" Ron spluttered.

—

Fake-dating George was a cinch. You two were already very close before you decided to do this anyway, so all you had to do was sprinkle in some sweet words, throw back sugary, teasing compliments when George flirted with you, and occasionally lean yourself against him, topped with either a sly smile or a light laugh. It was also so easy, in fact, that you could've gone like this for ages.

Well until he tried to kiss you, that is.

"Uhm, George, what are you doing?" you'd whispered that night, leaning back as your best friend slowly leaned into you. You took a step back, flustered.

"I'm trying to kiss you," he hissed, opening one eye, and continued with his approach. You cringed, stepping back a little, and did the worst possible thing you could do.

You bolted.

And now, as you stared up onto the ceiling, the lights turned off and your roommates snoring, you turned around, buried your face into your pillow, and quietly screamed.

Why? Why did I run? You despaired, closing your eyes tightly in embarrassment. You could still remember George's stunned face right before you closed the door, Katie's curious face by the back of the room.

Tomorrow's going to suck.

—

Breakfast was strange.

You sat down that morning, staring at the piece of toast in your hand as your friends chattered away beside you. You couldn't stop your thoughts from racing, George Weasley being the center of that mental cyclone. No understanding came to you whatsoever, as you took a tentative bite out of the bread, about why in the world George would try to kiss you when you haven't even talked about that certain part of the plan yet, and worse — why you ran.

But, you supposed as you nibbled on the edge, maybe some part of you was scared that it'd become more real, silly as it sounded. After all, George had eyes for Katie, and you had eyes on that book in Flourish and Blotts.

You were so deep in thought that you hadn't even realized George taking a seat by your side. You froze, unsure of what to do or say. Luckily, he took the lead.

"Sleep well?" he said, as if absolutely nothing out of the ordinary had happened the other night.

You swallowed, deciding that playing along was best. All you had to do was wait for Katie to notice him, and you could both go back to your normal selves. "Could do with a little bit less of the cold, but yes."

George hummed, stealing the last bit of toast from you with a playful grin. You shot him a half-hearted glare. "Wanna claim my offer? I could keep you warm, you know."

And strangely, uninvited, your breath caught in your throat. "Soon, Weasley," you replied breezily, but you weren't exactly sure if he had caught the way you blinked for a stunned moment and replied half a beat later.

If there was any indication that he did, he didn't show it, merely throwing you a grin and continuing on with eating his breakfast. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

What in the world is happening to me?

—

You started to notice more things about George. Small things that you never really saw, even if he always seems like an open book. For one, he likes the strawberry jam on his toast instead of the blueberry. He dots his parchments with black ink whenever he's distracted during class. His right dimple always lights up before his left. He loves to play with whatever is in his hands, whether it was a pen, a quill, a new product of theirs, your fingers. When you slip your hand into his, your fingers twining together, he'd pull on them, massaging the knuckles with confident pulls and gentle pushes.

Today was a sunny day. You and the rest of the school were sitting on the Quidditch stands, spectating the Ravenclaw vs Hufflepuff match, which was currently at 140-130. You bundled up further; it was really quite cold as Christmas was approaching slowly.

Beside you sat George, who begged you to stay with him instead of your friends, and you begrudgingly agreed, rolling your eyes and telling yourself that it was all for the act, because it is. You shivered, your breath coming out in a small puff of air, and you briefly wondered if there was a chance snow would start to fall today.

Then, without a word, George shrugged off his coat, leaving him in only a light sweater, and gently draped it on you.

You flushed as he shot you a smile, turning back to the game without so much of a word. Dazed, you did the same, trying not to think too much about your heart beating faster, and how the coat smelled slightly of him.

You failed, however, to catch the small, soft smile creeping onto George's face as you burrowed almost instinctively into the leather of his coat.

—

Things began to change, and you noticed this. Less and less would George glance at Katie whenever she entered a room, instead continuing on with whatever conversation the two of you were having with each other. That charming smile on his face would appear more often as you joined him to walk to class, his hand automatically clasping yours as you strode along the hallway.

Your fingers just felt so- so natural whenever they lock with his, and you loved the way his thumb rubbed over your knuckles — a habit of his, you assumed.

And then one day, you realized something had changed.

Mornings, all you thought about was George. What you would do today, what he would say to make you 'blush', what you'd retort back that would make that beautiful smile of his adorn him. How he'd run the pad of his thumb gently across your knuckles, absentmindedly tracing comforting circles on your palm whenever you sighed on a particularly hard assignment. You sucked in a breath, almost giddy from excitement, and for some reason, you found yourself paying more attention to the outfit you were going to wear that day

And then you rushed down the stairs, a silly smile trying to break through your quivering lips. You burst out of the common room, ran up to George with a huge grin, and threw yourself at him in a hug.

A small, surprised puff of air escaped him as your bodies collided on impact. But you didn't really care. Well, that is until you realized just what exactly you were doing and froze.

You scrambled off him, beet red in embarrassment, and cleared your throat. "Georgie."

George smiled down at you, his eyes twinkling. "Sweetheart." he greeted back teasingly, watching as you flushed a deeper red.

"Oh, shut it, you." you smacked his chest lightly, already reaching for his hand. Ah, well, what an embarrassing blunder but you supposed that your plan would be just to play it off for the rest of the day. Simple, right?

—

The plan went to trash.

And now you were here, sitting beside George, feeling sick to your stomach as a girl strut over to him with a smirk, and threw him a sultry smile. "Hey, George," she greeted, her voice sweet and smooth.

She continued to flirt as your hand loosened from George's grip. She continued as your breath stuttered slightly. She continued as your jaw clenched mid-chew. And she continued as your shoulders slumped, as you slowly stood up, excused yourself, and left for your room.

The girl, oblivious, continued to flirt as George shot your retreating figure a dismayed frown.

—

Lying down on the bed, staring at the ceiling, you decided something.

"I'm ending it," you whispered.

As painful, as strange as it sounded when it was never even real, tears pricked the edges of your eyes. You were falling rapidly in love with George Weasley, and he was slowly breaking your heart in the process, you knew it. You weren't stupid.

And frankly, you didn't want that, at all. So you'd just avoid it. Perfectly simple. All you have to do is say a few parting words, shoot him a pained smile and a final hug, and distance yourself as he pursues Katie who'd been recently throwing him not-so-subtle glances anyway.

Yet, thinking of it brought a dull ache to your heart. You swallowed hard, hugging your pillow to your chest, and sighing through your nose. Oh, how you were going to miss him! Miss his charming smiles, his mischievous smirks, his hand massages. How his eyes light up seconds before he'd burst out laughing. How his dimple would slightly peek out when he found something amusing. How he'd grin at you, laying a gentle, respectful arm around your shoulder as you walked through the hallways, uttering, "Mclaggen looking particularly like an ogre today." Your laughter bubbling out of you as he shot you a secret glance, all melty eyes and soft smiles.

But you could do it, couldn't you? You had to. For both of your sakes.

—

"Hey, George?"

He hummed, "Yes, love?"

Your heart skipped a beat at that nickname, and you looked away, clearing your throat. You wanted desperately to play along, but your mind could not agree with your heart. Taking a deep breath, you opened your mouth.

"I think we should end this."

George froze in his steps. His eyebrows furrowed as he slowly turned to you, confusion evident in his eyes. "What?" he breathed, as if scared that talking any louder would further scare you away.

You gulped, looking anywhere but him. "I don't know, George. Don't you think that this has gone long enough? I mean, Katie's obviously interested in you now, and that was the whole reason for the plan, wasn't it? You got what you wanted, so I don't see the point in continuing this further." your hands squeezed your robes, nervous, and you silently begged Merlin to take it easy on you.

And then George looked at you. Really looked. He pursed his lips, wetting them lightly with the tip of his tongue. A small furrow appeared between his eyebrows, and he opened his mouth, only to close it again. Disappointment washed over his face, if only for a moment, and you were hesitant to believe that you weren't just imagining it.

A quiet, "okay," was all he said. "okay," and then he was off on his way to class with a smile at you, seemingly normal.

And then that was it. No more 'you and George'. Now it was just George, and just you.

Sadness spread across your chest, your lips turning down at the corners as you continued to walk to class.

I guess that's it, then.

—

One week later, you heard a tapping on your window.

"Pigwidgeon?" You whispered, incredulous. You recognized the small, brown, tawny owl as the twins used to send him countless times to send you letters during summer, and also because of the prominent spot right next to his eye, which you'd always found uniquely pretty. Pigwidgeon cooed at you as you gently stroked her head, taking the letter from her beak and opening it.

Dear (name),

Don't think I've forgotten to give you that book. I still owe you, love.

Meet me in Flourish and Blotts at 5 noon. I've got the fat, gold galleons here for my one and only best mate and her big, bookish dreams.

George

Uninvited, a smile crept on your face. You sighed, your gaze staying on the word 'love' longer than necessary. It was so much like George to send you a letter when he could just talk to you, really, that you played along and hastily wrote one back.

Dear George,

Thank you, you redheaded dimwit. I'll be expecting those round, golden coins. See you later.

(Name)

—

George was already at Flourish and Blotts when you got there. At first, he didn't see you, occupied with peering at a book in his hands. For a moment, you allowed yourself to stare at him, to imagine that this man — with those soft, honey eyes, the smile that wasn't quite a smile, the freckles that gently dotted his charming features — was yours.

You shook your head lightly, stamping down the light, fluttery feeling in your heart, and entered the shop. "Hey," you greeted softly as the wind chimes tinkled.

George startled turning to look at you. Up close, he was even more beautiful than you could ever imagine. "Hi," he breathes, a smile spreading on his lips.

You twiddled your fingers behind your back, awkwardly grinning. "So, um, letter-writing, huh?"

George rubbed his neck, chuckling. "Dunno. Remembered once you said you liked it when people send letters. Claimed it was more romantic."

You blinked, the fluttery feeling growing. "Didn't realize you were paying attention," you uttered quietly. In response, George gave a tiny shrug, that shy smile still on his face.

You reached out to touch the books in the shelf, smiling gently at the feeling of the rounded and solid spines. Taking a deep breath, you sighed, closing your eyes. "I love the smell of books." You continued to walk further down the aisle, gazing at the art and the crisp pages, humming every so often when you read the back cover's summary of a few books.

What you didn't realize, however, is while you admired the books, George was admiring you.

A few moments later, you gasped. "Found it!" You pulled out a thick book, lightly running your fingers over the cover in awe as you whispered, "Oh, I'm actually holding it, aren't I?" in disbelief.

"Yeah," George chuckled softly. "You are."

"I've been wanting to read this forever," you squealed quietly, hugging the book to your chest as you spun in a small circle. George almost died right there and then, forcing himself to keep up his composure. He cleared his throat, suppressing a huge grin, and took the book from you. The two of you walked towards the bookseller, George's heart racing, and you light on your steps.

"Thanks, George," you quietly mumbled, as the two of you walked back to Hogwarts after paying. He shrugged again, giving a small hum of acknowledgement.

"We had a deal," he says, shooting you a glance and looking quickly away.

You let yourself soak in the moment for a minute. Snow fell around the two of you, adorning George's hair with little specks of white, and faintly, you could hear cheerful carols playing in the distance. Laughter from students, children, and families alike echoed around Diagon Alley, and Christmas ornaments twinkled brightly at every corner, winking at the passersby. A thought briefly flitted through your mind.

Perhaps, in another life, this could've been a date.

—

After the bookshop, things only got harder.

You had a hard time looking at George in the eyes now, and even as his best friend, your relationship just wasn't the same anymore. Jokes sounded forced to your ears now and smiles awkward. When once you'd be content with staying with George for hours on end, doing nothing but staying in each other's company, now you could barely stay five minutes alone with him for fear of doing something stupid, or bursting into tears.

And it hurt. It hurt not to be with him. It hurt to see him talk with Katie with that smile of his. It hurt to think of the times when he called you 'love'. It hurt because he agreed to end it so quickly that you knew it really meant nothing to him in the end.

You felt so silly, too. Crying over a guy at night, who probably didn't even think about you as much as you did him, who was probably daydreaming about her now while silent tears and muffled sniffles were covered by your pillow.

You didn't know that, at this very moment, George's fingers were twitching, crossing and uncrossing over and over again in hope, as his mind filled with nothing but your radiant smile.

He missed those smiles; he missed the times when they were aimed towards him. Katie had nothing on him now, honestly, and he wasn't sure when exactly he realized — probably midway through the whole 'plan' — that all along, it was never the chaser but you.

He smiled sadly to himself, lovesick and lovestruck, as he remembered how your lips felt on his cheek, and decided subconsciously to himself that he would continue to wait for you no matter how long it would take.

—

End-of-year exams occupied you lots before you were able to start on the book. The moment you finished the last test — history of magic, which you knew you probably passed — you collapsed on your bed, reached across your bedside table, and opened the book.

“Candice was never one who believed in romance... until she met a man who changed her life, who saw her like she hung the moon and the stars for him. And if only Candice had told him earlier that she wanted to give it a chance, he wouldn't have given up and found another woman.”

Closing the book gently, four hours later, you wiped your tears.

Ridiculous. It was ridiculous that you were crying this much over a book, and yet. Something struck true in the story, a bell chiming lightly in your head like when you'd opened the door to Flourish and Blotts. You bit your lip, sniffling softly. Nothing ever rang truer than the thought that currently reigned over your head.

Candice was you. The man was George. And if you didn't do or say anything, try and give it a chance, you would lose him and inevitably end up in the tragic lovers' story.

Heart pounding in your ears, you stood up. As if in a trance, you burst out of your room, running down the staircase leading from the girls' dorms, your hair flying, and rushing to the one place you knew George would be.

Breathless, you slammed the door open to the Astronomy Tower.

And there he was. Standing by the edge, watching the view of the courtyard quietly while snow fell overhead in a brilliant shower of fluffy white.

"George," you whispered.

He turned to you, shock and confusion painting his features. "(Name)? You okay?"

"Yes!" you breathlessly said, walking wobbly over to where he was standing. He looked down at you, amusement and fondness twinkling in his eyes, and at that very moment you wanted very much to leap up and kiss him senseless.

"George," you repeated.

"Yes, love?" he said, the shy smile and his right dimple back on his face.

You crossed your fingers behind your back, George doing the same unbeknownst to you. You took a deep breath. This is it.

"I just wanted to say that uhm... I'm kinda in love with you. And that maybe I wanna give this a chance, if you'd give me a chance, if- if it's not too late. I hope it's not too late. Is it? You don't have to answer that. Just wanted to let you know. Uhm, that's all, goodbye!"

You turned on your heel, your heart beating out of your chest. But before you could run off from sheer embarrassment — why did you have to ramble like that? — George gently held your arm and pulled you to his chest. Your breath caught in your throat.

He hummed, smiling down at you. "‘That's all’, huh?" he teased, his breath tickling your face, his lips just inches away from you.

"Well, I kinda also really, really wanna kiss you. But yeah that's it." You whispered, looking up at him. Your heart fluttered as his smile slowly widened.

"It's not too late," he whispered, and then his mouth was on yours. Embarrassingly, you let out a small squeak the moment they touched. Yet, it only took you a beat before you leaned into the kiss, your fingers curling on his coat and pulling him closer as his hands settled gently on your waist. It was soft and gentle and wonderful, and it felt like everything. Cheesy as it was, you did feel the fireworks shivering up your spine.

You never wanted it to end, but he pulled away first, to your disappointment.

"Merlin," you whispered, looking up at George, whose eyes were all melty again as he looked at you.

"Yeah, Merlin," he chuckled, and you eagerly leaned in to steal another small kiss.

"How long?" you whispered once you pulled away. "I thought, Katie..."

George shrugged, smiling bashfully, beautifully. "I guess, somewhere midway I decided that I've been chasing the wrong girl. And then I just waited, and it all paid off in the end."

You smiled softly and he lightly pecked your nose, grinning. "I'm kinda, really in love with you, too," he admits in a whisper.

Eyes closed, you smiled, your forehead resting against his. Thank you, Candice.

Maybe fake-dating George wasn't such a mistake after all.

You don't know what to do or how to tell him, What will he do?All the questions racing though your mind.You just walk out of the bathroom and sit on the couch and grab your favorite book and try to distract yourself.

A few hours later Percy walkes though the fireplace.

" Good evening y/n," Percy says exhausted

" Hi Percy," You say quietlyPercy hung up his coat and turned to you

" Whats wrong love?" Percy said walking over to you

" Nothing is wrong ," You say a little too quickly.Percy neels down infront of you and takes your hands in his.

" If you had a bad day you can tell me," he said in a cheerful voice. You don't respond, you just look down.

" Hay, atleast your not pregnet!" He says a little more cheerfull.You feel tears well up in your eyes. Percy immediately noticed. You could practicaly see the geers turning before he lets go of one of your hands to cradle your cheek.

" Hay... It's ok," he said stroking your cheek with his thumb.

The only reason you and Ron became friends was because he turned up late for class after sleeping in and not wanting to have everybody’s eyes on him, he snuck into the closest free seat he saw, which just so happened to be right next to you. You had been annoyed since you knew exactly who he was and his abysmal academical reputation. You didn’t want to be stuck with a partner who was going to bring you down. But it turned out that he wasn’t as stupid as he looked and it helped that you found him mildly amusing. Just laughing at one of his jokes had egged him on and encouraged him to keep sitting next to you class after class.

You didn’t see much of him outside of lessons, what with being in separate houses and having other friends of course, but you’d came to grow fond of Ron during your classes. Those feelings had grown stronger at some point along the way but you couldn’t be sure when exactly that was. All you remembered was suddenly being more aware of how cute his smile was, your heart beating faster when he got closer to you and you perked up at the sound of his voice. Of course, you made sure not to let on to anyone about this. It would do you no favours.

In your eyes, Ron was already taken. You’d heard many many people say that he was harbouring a huge crush on his bushy-haired friend, Hermione. Whilst other people tended to not look her way, you could see that she was rather pretty, if a little snotty with a know-it-all attitude. She was slim, petite and girly, why wouldn’t Ron be interested in that. Ron definitely didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would want to be seen with you in a romantic setting. You were chubby and taller than most of the other girls in the year. Of course he wouldn’t be interested in you, why would he choose you over Hermione? Well, that’s what you told yourself anyways.

You didn’t see the way Ron glanced in your direction when you weren’t looking at him. You didn’t notice the way he always scooted that little bit closer to you on the bench just to feel nearer to you. You didn’t hear him inhale that little bit deeper to smell your perfume. You had no idea how often you ran through his thoughts on a hourly daily basis. He was enamoured with you but he knew you wouldn’t be interested in him. Apart from Luna, he didn’t know any Ravenclaw's who gave Gryffindor’s a second glance, nevermind a first date.

The bell rang and it was time for dinner, everyone rushing to gather their stuff and head out. You took your time, not wanting to hear any cracks about the chubby girl scurrying for food. You noticed Ron hadn’t ran to find his friends yet, just quietly and slowly packing his things next to you. Your brow furrowed in curiosity, “Aren’t you going to go with Harry and Hermione?” You said, watching as the two people in question were heading towards the door to leave. You saw Harry look back and give Ron a wide smile, tapping Hermione on the arm who turned around and did the same. Okay, what the hell? You raised your eyebrow, “What was that about?”

“What was what about?” Your deadpan stare didn’t get any words from him but you couldn’t help the smirk forming on your lips from how red his face was going. ‘He’s so easily embarrassed’ you thought. You shook your head, standing up, “Come on, let’s not just sit here, Snape will have our arses and people might start thinking you fancy me.”

The way his eyes widened and jaw dropped in what you took as pure horror, had your heart clenching. A few seconds later and not a word had left his mouth still. A scoff left yours, shaking your head, “Yeah exactly, wouldn’t that be embarrassing.” Your words trailed off and became more mumbled towards the end, walking away from him, picking up your pace a little not to seem like you were intentionally hurrying but fast enough he would struggle to catch up with you should he try. You decided to miss out on dinner tonight, spontaneously losing your appetite. Heading for the Ravenclaw common room, you spied Luna sitting on one of the benches outside. You stopped walking as you stood in front of her, “Not hungry Luna?”

You weren’t very close with the blonde girl but she was kind and sweet and you always spoke with her when you passed by. She just had this energy around her that improved your mood. Had it been anyone else, you would suspect them using some kind of spell but you knew that it was just the way Luna was. Luna hummed, speaking in her soft tone, “Not at the moment, I suppose you aren’t either?” You shook your head, moving to sit down next to her, resting your hands on the edge of the seat. “Nah, not really.” Of course at that very moment, your stomach decided to growl loud enough it felt like it was roaring in the silence of the corridor. Luna let out a small light giggle and your face flushed, “Oh alright, I’m avoiding someone.”

Luna hummed once more, “Why are you avoiding them?” You sighed, dropping your head down to look at your shoes, “It’s complicated.” Luna nodded, “I see,” that was another great thing about Luna, she was never one for prying. She knew if you wanted to tell her something you would tell her, like right at this very moment. You chewed on the inside of your cheek for a moment before spilling your guts, “Well there’s this guy who I partner with in class and I made a joke that if we stayed seated behind long enough people might think he fancied me and oh Merlin, Luna you should’ve seen his face! I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone more mortified. He looked like he was gonna be sick. It was so humiliating.” The crack in your voice at the end prompted Luna’s hand to gently place itself on your back, rubbing small circles. Your hand came up to wipe away the tears forming in your eyes, “I don’t care anyway, he’s a prat.”

Luna smiled, “It sounds like you do care, (Y/N), but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I would much rather feel too strongly than not at all. It would be rather boring to go through life not feeling any pain at all.” You smiled, classic Luna, “I wish I could see things the way you do Luna, it sounds a wonderful world to live in.” Luna smiled brightly back at you, “Come on, let’s go get something to eat.” You both stood and Luna grabbed your hand, walking side by side towards the Great Hall. Luna entered first, for which you were grateful. You saw that quite a few students had left already and you tried not to look over at the Gryffindor table, you really did, but you couldn’t help a little glance. Of course it was just your luck to immediately make eye contact with the Weasley boy plaguing your thoughts. You immediately turned away, cursing as you felt your cheeks flushing. With anger or embarrassment you weren’t sure.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him perk up, turning to face you as you walked over to your own seat at the Ravenclaw table, yourself and Luna creating a distance from the other students around you. You listened half-heartedly as Luna began on one of her long spiels about wrackspurts but it was hard to give her your full attention when it seemed to be taking all your focus not to look up at the ginger boy at the opposite table. You had a feeling that Luna knew that but was happy to keep filling in the silence on her own.

Ron groaned as you had yet to look in his direction, turning back to slam his head against the wooden table. Harry gave his friend a pitying look, whilst Hermione scoffed, "I mean really Ron, I honestly don't know how you managed to screw this up so bad." Ron lifted his head momentarily to glare at his only female friend, "Gee thanks 'Mione, that's really cheered me up."

"Heard about your pathetic attempt to get a girlfriend, Ronnykins," "Yeah, our brother's a real womaniser, tell me, how did you know that gormless was the new sexy?" The identical voices of his twin older brothers made him wish he was dead. This day really couldn't get any worse right now. His hands reached up from under the table to cusp his ears, trying to muffle their taunts.

"Fuck off, I'm not in the mood."

"From what we heard," "Neither was she." They both chuckled at their own joke. Ron stood up to face his brothers, squaring his shoulders even though he was noticeably shorter than Fred and George. "Just piss off will you!" His raised voice had more than a few heads turning in his direction, yours included. He could feel a heavy blush rushing to his cheeks, out of mostly anger at his brothers but also some embarrassment at being watched so intensely by the other students in the hall.

You and Luna looked between one another before glancing back at the Gryffindor table where Ron was being led out of the Great Hall by his brothers, one of them either side of the smaller ginger boy, holding onto his shoulders. You raised your eyebrow, 'what the hell was that about?' before going back to eating your food in front of you.

Ron huffed as his brothers dragged him away like some kind of toy. He hated it when they did that, being tugged around so easily only succeeded in making him feel fragile in his own masculinity. He ripped his arms away from his brother's hold once past the doors out of sight. George smirked as he held up his hands, "Woah, easy tiger." Fred crossed his arms over his chest, "And here we were coming to help out our dear brother, seeing as though you're unable to get a girlfriend on your own."

"And how am I supposed to know this isn't just some stupid prank where I look like an idiot yet again?"

"I don't think you need us for that Ronnykins." Ron's fists clenched and his cheeks grew pink with anger once again. "Now now, that's not a very attractive look, do you want to scare (Y/L/N) off for good?" Ron huffed, running his hands over his face in frustration, "Just tell me for merlin's sake! You two are driving me mental!"

Fred and George exchanged a look between themselves, their mischievous grins only growing the doubt in Ron’s mind. This was bound to be a terrible idea but he was all out of his own. At the very least, he just hoped the two of you could go back to being friends.

~~~

Three days. It had been three whole days without sight nor sound of Ron anywhere. Had it not been for the fact that his two best friends didn’t look even remotely bothered by their friend’s disappearance, you would’ve raised concern by now. You were still confused though, it was unlike Ron to hide from people. Spiders, sure. But you’d never known him to run and hide from his problems, it was one of the things you liked most about him.

A heavy sigh left your lips as you packed up your things from yet another Potions class with the seat next to you left empty. You swung your bag onto your shoulder before exiting, heading towards the Great Hall for lunch when you felt two hands grab both of your elbows. Immediately, you tensed up, trying to pull away before you recognised the two ginger mops of hair. Rolling your eyes, you looked up at Fred, then George, “What do you two want?”

George smiled, “Well now, that’s not very nice is it?” “Are we sure we’ve got the right (Y/N)? Ron told us she was supposed to be lovely.” Fred’s words brought heat to your cheeks even as you scoffed, dismissing the possibility, “As if, whatever you’re doing, leave me out of it. Ron already told me that you two are bad news.”

Fred pouted, “Well that just hurts our feelings, doesn’t it George.” “We’re very hurt.”

You rolled your eyes, “Merlin. Just tell me what you want and I’ll do it if it means you two will leave me alone afterwards.”

“Great. Follow us.”

They both spoke at the same time before linking their arms with yours, leading you away from the crowd of students heading to the Great Hall, taking you down a long corridor towards where you were sure the Gryffindor common room was. “Where are we going? What do you guys want? Did Ron put you guys up to this? Why aren’t you saying anything?!”

Their silence frustrated you to no end, along with their smirks and shared looks above your head. Just as you were about to pull out your wand to hex the twin brothers, they promptly let go of you, leaving you standing outside a the Gryffindor common room, like you suspected. “Here we are little bro,” “delivered as promised” were their last words before they scurried off to Merlin knows where.

Your brow furrowed in confusion as you stared out at the empty hallway until you watch as Ron appeared seemingly out of nowhere in front of you, bundling up a ball of fabric underneath his arms. Your mouth gaped open, “No way, is that what I think it is?” Ron rubbed the back of his head, “Yeah, i-it’s not mine, it’s Harry’s but he lets me borrow it sometimes.”

You raised your eyes to look at Ron, waiting for further explanation but he seemed to think his words were sufficient enough. “And why were you using it now?” Ron’s cheeks flushed, “O-Oh well, I know you’d probably not want to see me or try to leave if you knew I was waiting for you so I thought I’d hide.. sorry now that I’ve said it out loud it sounds pretty silly.” You felt the corner of your mouth twitch as you tried not to smile, but you couldn’t help it, he just looked so helpless. Like a lost puppy who’d been caught tearing up rubbish out of a bin and was trying to use his puppy eyes to make you feel sorry for him.

Unfortunately your resolve when it came to Ron was quite weak and you shook your head, a small smile gracing your lips, “You’re stupid you know that right?” Your teasing tone of voice made him grin, “Yeah I guess I am. Are we okay now? I miss you.”

“You’re the one who’s been AWOL for three days, numbnuts, but yeah, we’re okay. It’s been too quiet without your ridiculous jokes nagging at my ear in Potions.” Ron chuckled which made you let out a small laugh in return. “Now I’m hungry, I was on the way to the Great Hall before your brothers kidnapped me. You coming with?”

“Is that it?” Fred whispered next to George, the two of them peeking around the corner they were hiding behind, having listened to their every word. “Merlin, no wonder Ronnykins hasn’t had a girlfriend before, this is terrible.”

“I think he needs some help, don’t you George.” The two boys grinned at each other, “Oh absolutely Fred.” Fred was the first to pull his wand out, whispering a spell and pointing his wand towards your shoes that tied your laces together. George followed by angling his own wand at your back, aiming a small gust of wind towards it. They smirked, watching as you tripped forward, reaching out to hold something to balance yourself, which just so happened to be Ron’s shoulders. With surprisingly quick thinking, Ron stepped back on his right foot, taking both of your weights, but by doing so, brought his head down to be eye level with your own.

You lifted your head to thank Ron for catching you, eyes going wide as your lips pressed against his own. You found yourself thinking about how soft they were, before remembering what you were doing and pushing yourself off of him. “Ron I am so sorry I didn’t mean to do that, I don’t even know how I fell over, but I ju-” the rest of your sentence was cut off. Ron’s hands cradled the sides of your face, pulling you in to kiss you properly this time. The initial shock wore off, your eyes fluttering closed to relax into the feeling of his lips against your own. Your hand hesitantly came up to place it over his own. You felt Ron’s tongue swipe over your bottom lip, a silent ask for entrance and you had no reason to deny it. As your lips parted, his tongue swiped over your own, exploring your mouth until you both needed to breathe.

You pulled back to catch your breath, Ron lowering his hands, “Sorry, I just had to know what that felt like. I’ve wanted to do that since I first sat next to you.” Your eyes widened at his confession and you opened your mouth to speak but he wasn’t finished, “I think you’re really great, you’re pretty and funny and smart and I know that it’s unlikely for a Ravenclaw to want to do anything with a Gryffindor but I was hoping that-” Okay you were bored now. “Ron, whatever you’re going to say the answer is yes, now shut up.” His lips parted to speak again so you decided to shut him up yourself. You pulled on his tie, bringing him close enough to kiss him once again, feeling him smile against your lips.”

: Growing up, Ron would be used to the feeling of not having the limelight directed to him. The attention was always diverted to someone else usually being his sister Ginny or his one of a kind friend Harry. Even his own family would flock over Harry instead of him.

So when you and Ron started dating it felt unusual that you were spending all your time towards him (like what a good girlfriend does) It wasn't something he felt everyday.

Playing chess was something you did regularly, in the library, while Harry and Hermione were busy doing something that most likely involved books. "Wait..yeah, checkmate!" Ron smiles teasingly at you "I'm pretty bloody good aren't I?" He leans forward giving you a challenging smirk "Well, I suppose so..but I just made it easy for you" You were very competitive, as competitive as Ron. "Yeah right!" he said in a teasing tone. You loved that smirk of his, even if it annoyed you sometimes.

Your matches continued on for hours and Ron really enjoyed it. Deep down he liked how you were only focused on him, and him only. It felt weird at first but he's kind of warmed up to the idea of it.

At the courtyard it was almost evening, Ron has you in his arms into a tight hug, making you unable to get away or move. You've been there talking for hours and hours. But it seems like he just can't get enough of you. "Oh stop it! I have to go back to the ravenclaw tower, it's almost curfew!" You struggle "It's hard to breathe you know!" You tried to shake your arms but Ron just wouldn't budge. He liked watching you panic, you just did it in a very cute way in his deffense. "Shhhh" He put his finger on your lips, finally letting you go.

You made plans with him to go to hogsmede that weekend, together. "Pleaseee, I really want to spend time with you..We haven't been together all week!" You and Ron were in different houses so spending time and going on dates wasn't the easiest task to achieve.

After continuous nagging and begging, (He just was teasing you) Ron finally agreed with a sheepish smile and a blushing face "Er- sure, I mean if it's alright with you and you have no plans and-" You pulled Ron into a hug smiling into his chest, muffling something along the words of "Thank you, you idiot"

Ron liked how you didn't mind when he rambles about quidditch all day or when he talks about Viktor Krum. He found it weird how you never got tired of him and his constant nonsense, he was secretly scared that you would grow tired of him, but you never did. Your full attention was always on him and spending time together was garaunteed in your blossoming relationship. It was the first time that he was the center of attention. He loved it, but he loved you more. 🍪

please consider checking out my other works!

authors note : this is my first time writing but I loveee reading literature I just can't find any good ron weasley fluff so I was like, "why not write it myself lmao" so (்▿்)

by angelphie

edit : thank you all of the support!

6-6-7?

It was such a stark contrast to the way you’d grown up. The polished floors. The coldness that seemed to seep its way into the house even when the Russian winter was long behind.The soulless walls. Decorated only with oil paintings too valuable to look at for too long and silver mirrors that only ever reflected what your parents wanted to see.

Love had existed in your childhood home — but quietly. Sharply. In the way a blade might shimmer in the light. It cut more than it held.

Your mother kept everything under control. Her smile, her posture, her house, you. You were her project — a doll with real skin and inconvenient emotions. She was the kind of woman who only acknowledged excellence — and only once. Praise was rationed like medicine. The kind of woman who believed good behavior should go unnoticed because it was expected.

Your father… your father had loved you. You knew that. You never doubted that. There were days when he came home laughing, cheeks flushed with liquor, stories tumbling from his mouth like gold coins. And days he came home hollow-eyed and mean. You never knew which version you’d meet. And your mother — instead of shielding you — made you her mirror. Her outlet. Her weapon.

So you learned silence. You learned how to hold your tongue and your breath. How to keep your face blank when the voices rose and the furniture trembled. How to disappear even when you were right there, center stage.

You didn’t cry much. Not even when you were little.

And the older you got, the more you resembled them. Cold. Controlled. Capable.

You studied magic like it was survival. Not just charms and transfiguration — but theory. Deep, tangled spellwork, old texts your tutors tried to hide from you. Dark magic, they called it. Advanced, you’d said. And it was. But you weren’t drawn to it for power. Not really. You wanted to understand it. The parts people flinched away from. You wanted to hold the match to your palm and ask it why.

Maybe by understanding it, you would understand your parents. What made them what they are now, and how to avoid it.

You could have ended up like your father. In the worst ways. Sometimes you think you almost did.

It was a corrupted normalcy you had grown into. Disturbing, but still normal. Or at least that was the illusion the three of you had been under until a particular fight that changed it all. Even years later, you did not like to dwell on the memory too long — thinking about what would’ve happened if things hadn’t changed, and had escalated instead. Where would you be now?

It had not been a pretty fight, to say the least. It was a fight that had bled far beyond words. A door slammed. A spell misfired. Blood covering your vision, and the way your hand immediately went to cup your face. You had been seventeen.

Your father had seen something in your face that shook him that night. He didn’t say anything, just left you and your mother crying in the kitchen as he slammed the front door.

He checked himself into rehab that same week.

Not the magical kind, but rather the slow kind. The kind that took work, and effort, and countless amounts of tears. Tears you had never seen any man in your life shed. He relapsed twice, and the third time he didn’t. Your mother changed too, though not as loudly.

It was like a series of earthquakes. Your childhood home completely rearranged from its foundation. You found yourself often standing in the ruins of your childhood. Wondering how to go on, how to change along with them, or even if it was too late for you. You wondered what came next.

What came next was choice.

You saw, for the first time, how change could be real. Not immediate or cinematic, not even steady. There were still hard days, but the worst of them appeared to be far behind. Your father — who had once hexed a man for jostling him in a queue — now refused to cast anything beyond basic defensive charms unless he was calm enough to name his emotions first. He journaled. He drank tea. He apologized without being asked.

You had watched him fall in love with the man he was trying to become.

And so, you had tried too.

That’s why it stung, more than you expected, to hear Molly Weasley speak about people like your father as if they were born wrong. As if a single act, a single branch of magic, could define the rest of you.

Your fingers tightened on the edge of the table as the conversation circled morality. Light versus dark. Right versus wrong.

Charlie had known. Of course he had. You’d told him. Not everything. But enough.

So when he took your hand under the table, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist in slow, grounding circles, it was the only thing that kept you from going cold.

You didn’t argue for fun. You didn’t contradict to be clever. But you had to say it.

“I don’t believe there’s such a thing as ‘dark magic’ or ‘light magic.’ Not in the spells themselves,” you’d said.

Molly’s reaction hadn’t surprised you. What surprised you was how much it hurt.

Because she reminded you — without meaning to — that some people only knew how to measure others in absolutes. As though one wrong note meant the whole song was cursed.

She didn’t know you. She didn’t know your father. Didn’t know the years he spent studying healing magic to atone for the hexes he once reveled in. Didn’t know that when you held your wand, you held all of it — your bloodline — and still chose not to use it against the world.

So yes, you stood by what you said.

But it didn’t make you feel any more at home.

Later, when the table was cleared and the conversations softened into laughter in the other room, you slipped out the back door without a word. You stood in the garden, arms crossed, boots crunching in the grass, looking up at the stars as if they might offer a verdict.

You heard the door creak open behind you, and the soft pad of boots.

Charlie didn’t speak. Not right away.

Just came to stand beside you, shoulder to shoulder.

“She’s never met anyone like you,” he said at last. “And she’s afraid of what she doesn’t understand.”

You didn’t answer.

You restrained yourself from saying what you were currently thinking. Because Charlie was right. Molly was not a bad person by any means, she was just a product of her surroundings. A place where ‘purebloods’ often defended dark magic, and used it for their own benefits. Where the likes of people like you, were often associated with cruelty and arrogance.

You could not blame her.

But it was still hard —that even when you insisted on not seeing absolutes— most times it was all people could see when they looked at you. A pureblood doll, and all the labels that came along with it.

You wondered, not for the first time, whether you would ever be able to walk into a room without first being seen as a warning.

Your voice came quiet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it uncomfortable.”

Charlie held on to your wrists gently and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You don’t have to apologize. You stood for what you care about.”

You nodded once, and even though your throat still felt tight, you let him pull you into his arms. There, against the warmth of his chest, the coldness that was so rooted in you found a home.

You were staying in a borrowed flat, one of Charlie’s friends from the reserve who’d gone abroad for the season. The flat was modest — creaky floorboards, windows with chipped paint, a couch that sagged in the middle — but it was yours, for now. And after the Burrow, it was a welcome kind of quiet.

Charlie was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up as he lit the candles around the small dinner table. He had insisted on cooking — or rather, insisted on trying, which you found equal parts admirable and mildly concerning.

“Don’t let him near the garlic,” you’d warned Bill when he arrived.

“Too late,” Bill replied with a grin, stepping inside and ducking to avoid the low hanging doorframe. Fleur followed close behind him, radiant even in a rain-damp coat, and in her arms—

“Oh,” you breathed, soft and involuntary.

Victoire.

She was bundled in soft ivory wool, cheeks pink from the evening chill, a blue charm floating lazily above her head that kept the rain from touching her. Just a baby, not even walking yet — blinking up at the room like she was still dreaming.

You crossed the room before you even realized you’d moved.

“May I—?”

“Of course,” Fleur smiled, and passed her over with the kind of ease you hadn’t expected.

You held her carefully, like something sacred. And for a long moment, that was all there was. The weight of her. The tiny warmth. The quiet rise and fall of her breathing against your collarbone. You hadn’t held something so small in… maybe ever.

Even the baby dragons back at the reserve were already the size of a toddler when they hatched.

“She likes you already,” Fleur said softly, settling down into the armchair across from you.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not right away.

Victoire’s hand curled instinctively into your sleeve, and something in you folded in on itself — something old and long-buried. You blinked once, then twice, and forced the burn behind your eyes to settle.

Fleur watched you with a kind of knowing. A pause stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

After a minute, she spoke again — gently.

“Molly didn’t like me at first either, you know.”

You looked up, startled. Fleur’s expression was calm, her lips curled into the ghost of a smile.

“I’m sorry?”

“She didn’t. She thought I was too polished. Too proud. Too French, perhaps.” Her tone was light, but her eyes were sharp. “Too much.”

You huffed an unbelieving laugh. Because where you stood, Fleur was the blueprint of what a perfect daughter-in-law must look like. Soft around the edges, with just the right amount of sharpness in her eyes.

In some way, she was your antithesis. Sharp where you were soft, and soft where you were sharp. You had come to the conclusion that maybe that’s why Molly didn’t seem to like you at first. Even before your opinions on dark magic became clear. That had been the last drop.

“Yes,” she said simply, as if she was able to read your thoughts.

“I was too much for her,” Fleur continued, adjusting her sleeves, her voice not bitter — just honest. “And I didn’t try to be less.”

You swallowed, looking down at Victoire, who had gone heavy in your arms, tiny lashes fluttering as she dozed.

“She didn’t think I was good for Bill. Thought I was proud. That I would outgrow him. That I was…not quite one of them.” She tilted her head slightly, watching you with something like recognition. “And she was right, in some ways. I wasn’t like them. But I never tried to be.”

You said nothing. Just traced a circle with your thumb over the wool knit of Victoire’s blanket, her warmth seeping into your skin like light.

Fleur shifted forward in her chair, resting her elbows on her knees. Her tone softened. “But she came around. Slowly. Molly learns through observation, not persuasion. She needs to see who you are.”

You looked up, and the weight of Fleur’s gaze didn’t frighten you. “She’ll come around for you too,” Fleur said, gently but certainly. “Because you’re not going anywhere. And you shouldn’t have to shrink to fit into a house that’s already too full of love to notice when it spills over.”

You let out a slow breath. Victoire stirred, then curled further into your chest.

Then, from the kitchen — Bill’s voice, cheerful and far too loud for the sleeping baby: “Oi! Dinner’s ready.”

You saw him emerge from the kitchen and smile at the sight of his wife and you sitting on the couch.

A scream for his name came from the kitchen. Charlie—sounding a bit too panicked for your taste.

Bill sighed and turned to look at you. “Do you keep a first aid kit?”

The table was small, mismatched chairs pulled in from every corner of the flat. You took your seat next to Charlie, Victoire passed gently back to Fleur, who placed her in a floating bassinet charm that hovered beside her with the faintest glow.

Candles flickered. The windows steamed from the warmth inside. And for the first time in days, you weren’t thinking about the Burrow. Or Molly. Or what she saw when she looked at you.

You were here.

And that was enough.

Dinner, against all odds, was good. Burnt around the edges in places, yes, and Charlie had absolutely oversalted the mushrooms — but still. Good.

Bill told stories about Victoire — how she’d bitten George’s nose and then promptly charmed him into carrying her around the garden like a prince. How Ron, terrified of holding her, had sat stiffly with a pillow in his lap and looked like he might cry from fear when she smiled at him.

“Ginny’s the only one who didn’t flinch,” Bill said proudly. “She scooped her up like it was nothing. Victoire puked on her hair and she didn’t blink.”

“Gabrielle is obsessed,” Fleur added with a soft laugh, cutting into her roast. “She’s been reading all the parenting books in English, even though she is not even married. She calls herself ‘godmother in training.’”

“She’s got a whole bag of enchanted toys already and she’s only visited twice,” Bill added. “Victoire’s going to think she’s Santa Claus.”

You laughed and Charlie turned to look at you like he’d been waiting to hear that sound all night.

“What about you?” Bill asked, reaching for his butterbeer with a grin. “What’s it like, wrangling dragons all day?”

“You know…” you said, taking a sip from your wine. “Similar to having a kid in some ways. Very different in others.”

Victorie seemed to laugh at that as a cheering noise came along accompanied by her launching mashed potatoes with her little spoon.

You smiled at her as you watched Fleur clean her mouth.

The rest of the evening stretched in easy rhythm. The conversation wandered — Bill recounting near-catastrophes from Gringotts that had you snorting into your glass, Fleur speaking about her sister’s dramatic letters, and you, when pressed, telling them about the time two hatchlings had mistaken Charlie’s boots for food and he’d spent an hour chasing them barefoot across the reserve.

By the time plates were scraped clean and wine bottles stood empty, the candles had burned low, dripping wax in uneven pools across the table.

“Go on, leave the dishes to them,” Fleur said with a sly glance at Bill. “They’ll survive.”

Charlie shot her a mock glare, but he was already rolling up his sleeves. Bill smirked, clearly unbothered.

“Sit,” Charlie said firmly, brushing a hand across your shoulder as he passed. “We’ve got this.”

You didn’t argue. Not when Fleur settled beside you with Victoire, who had begun to fuss in her bassinet. Fleur lifted her gently, kissed her head, then placed her in your arms once more.

“She adores you,” Fleur murmured, brushing her own hair back from her face. “Babies… they feel when someone’s heart is safe.”

Something tightened in your chest at that.

You shifted Victoire carefully against you, her warmth sinking into your collarbone, and without thinking too much about it, you whispered a small charm to float soft notes of music into the air. Low, lilting — a tune your father used to hum when he was trying to make amends.

You rose slowly and began to rock, a small, instinctive sway that became a gentle circle. Victoire’s small fists opened and closed against your sleeve, her breaths falling into rhythm with the music.

Fleur stayed silent, watching from her chair, a knowing softness in her eyes.

The clink of dishes in the kitchen dulled, and when you turned in your slow orbit, you caught sight of Charlie standing in the doorway with a towel lazily slung over one shoulder and the softest of smiles on his lips.

His eyes were fixed on you — moving with his niece in your arms, the faint smile on your lips, the music filling the quiet. And for once, he looked utterly still. As though if he so much as blinked, he might miss something holy.

Bill brushed past him with a towel in hand, muttering something under his breath about soap charms, but Charlie didn’t answer. He just kept staring, the kitchen light spilling behind him.

The song faded when Victoire finally relaxed, a tiny sigh against your collarbone. Fleur rose, brushing your shoulder gently, and took her daughter back with a grateful smile.

They said their goodbyes not long after. Bill kissed your cheek, Fleur squeezed your hand, Victoire blinked owlishly up at you one last time before disappearing into the night wrapped in her parents’ arms.

You began clearing the table, throwing out the empty wine bottle and snuffing candles one by one. But before you could move more than a finger, Charlie was there.

No words. Just his hands, sudden and insistent at your waist, turning you before you’d even registered it. His mouth crashed against yours — not rough, not hurried, but deep. Like he’d been holding back all evening and had finally decided not to.

The bottle slipped from your hand onto the table with a muted clatter as he lifted you slightly, spinning you half a turn through the dim room.

You pulled back, breathless, your laugh cutting through the quiet. “What’s gotten into you?”

Charlie only grinned, pressing his forehead to yours. “You. Just you.”

You swallowed, eyes flicking to the dying light of the candles, to the half-cleared table, to the way his hair curled damp against his temples.

The laugh that escaped you this time was softer. Not because anything was funny, but because it was impossible not to.

“Put me down Charlie,” you said as you thrashed in his arms.

He decided to t¡do the exact opposite as he twirled you once more. You hung onto him for dear life, hiding your head in the nape of his neck.

He then threw you on the couch, his body following after, settling on top of you as he kissed you.

Your face was sore from all that smiling and laughing, but you couldn’t hold back.

“Charlie!” you squealed as his kisses started traveling down to your neck.

Charlie hummed in acknowledgement. His hands were on your waist, roaming up and down your body.

Your laughter came in short bursts, each one breaking against his mouth as he refused to stop kissing you. His lips chased every sound you made, greedy for it, as though laughter was as intoxicating to him as the wine.

You tangled both hands in his hair, tugging gently when he ducked lower, dragging his mouth along the slope of your jaw, down to the hollow of your throat. He nipped there, not enough to hurt, just enough to make you squirm and laugh all over again.

“Charlie—” You tried to sound stern, but it was hopeless. The way his curls slipped through your fingers, the way his stubble grazed your skin — it unraveled you.

He came back up to your lips suddenly, kissing you until you were dizzy, until the taste of wine on his tongue was all you knew. When he finally pulled back, you pressed your palms to his cheeks.

“What has gotten into you?” you asked again, your voice soft but breathless.

He looked at you like you’d just asked him to explain the stars. His grin was loose, giddy, his pupils blown wide, making his green eyes darker than usual.

You shook your head, lips curving despite yourself, and leaned forward to press a small kiss to the tip of his nose.

“Let’s have a baby,” Charlie murmured, drunk on wine and you, his smile impossibly unguarded.

You broke into startled laughter, dropping your forehead against his. “Charlie—”

But he was insistent, his lips already scattering along your cheekbones, your temple, the corner of your mouth. He kissed wherever he could reach, muttering against your skin between touches.

“I’m serious—” kiss “—a baby—” kiss “—you’d be—” kiss “—perfect.”

You tried to wriggle away but he held you easily, whining into your jaw as you covered his face with frantic little kisses in an attempt to stop him from talking. “You know we can’t do that,” you said between bursts of laughter, peppering his cheeks, his forehead, even the curve of his chin.

“Why not?” he whined against your skin, mouth finding the line of your jaw again.

You tilted your head back, a helpless giggle escaping you as his lips grazed your ear.

“You know why not.”

He nibbled at the shell of your ear, groaning dramatically, as if your reasoning was some great tragedy. His arms locked more securely around your waist, pinning you to the couch as he buried his face against your neck, mumbling unintelligible protests softened by how much he was smiling.

You bit your lip to stop yourself from laughing too loudly, but failed when he nuzzled into your throat like an oversized, insistent dragon demanding attention.

You let your fingers trace the nape of his neck, soothing where your tugging had left his hair mussed.

“Merlin help us if you’re like this after every dinner party,” you murmured, though you were smiling so hard it hurt.

Charlie only hummed, content and unwilling to move, lips still pressed clumsily against your skin like he’d forgotten how to stop.

The letter came folded in half, sealed with Molly’s tidy handwriting across the back. Charlie had plucked it from the stack of owl post and slid it across the kitchen table to you with an almost sheepish grin.

“Ginny’s birthday,” he explained. “Whole family’ll be there. She asked specifically that you come.”

You’d turned the envelope over in your hands, thumb dragging over the crease. You could already imagine the Burrow, filled with chatter and noise, Molly flitting about like the axis the whole house turned on. The last time you’d been there, your words on light and dark had landed like stones in water — ripples spreading further than you meant them to.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” you murmured, gaze fixed on the neat scrawl.

Charlie leaned back in his chair, arms folding loosely across his chest. He looked as though he wanted to say the perfect thing — the one phrase that would banish your hesitation — but instead he kept it simple. “I’ll be with you the whole time. If it gets… too much, we’ll leave early.”

That was how he won you over. Not with promises that everyone would love you, but with the certainty that he’d be at your side when they didn’t.

The Burrow looked much as it had the last time — roof patched in odd angles, garden wild with summer growth, the long wooden table stretched out across the lawn and draped in cheerful bunting. Laughter floated in the air long before you crossed the garden gate.

Ginny spotted you almost immediately. She jogged over, her hair catching in the sun like a living flame. “You came!”

You smiled, pulling the wrapped parcel from your bag. “I thought you might like this. It’s… not something you can get in England.”

When she tore away the paper and unfolded the black-and-white jersey, her eyes went round. The Sankt-Peterburg Swans crest gleamed on the front, and scrawled signatures crowded the fabric in silver ink.

“You’re joking,” she breathed, voice gone high and thin with disbelief.

“They’re the first all-female team,” you explained, a quiet pleasure curling in your chest at her reaction. “I had a school friend who went to play with them. She owed me a favour.”

Ginny’s squeal startled a flock of garden gnomes back into their holes. She clutched the shirt to her chest, nearly hopping on the spot. “This is… Merlin’s beard, I can’t believe this—thank you! You’re the best.” She flung her arms around you before you could brace for it, warm and fierce.

Charlie’s hand brushed your lower back as he passed, the small contact grounding.

You found Fleur in the shade with Victoire balanced against her shoulder, the baby’s blond wisps of hair haloing in the light. Fleur greeted you with the same composed warmth she always carried, and you bent to greet the little girl.

Victoire took one look at you and squealed — an unfiltered sound of delight. Her tiny arms stretched out, fingers splayed in demand.

Your chest loosened. “Oh, hello there, ma petite,” you murmured, stepping forward to gather her up. She came easily, nestling against your collarbone as though it were the most natural thing in the world. You cooed softly in Russian without thinking, little nonsense words that made her giggle and grab at the edge of your dark sleeve.

Fleur smiled, half-surprised. “She remembers you. She does not do that with everyone.”

Charlie chuckled low, leaning close enough that you felt his breath stir your hair. “She has good taste.”

From the kitchen window, Molly Weasley’s hands stilled on the rim of a mixing bowl. She had been ferrying trays of sandwiches to the counter all morning, her rhythm unbroken, her focus fixed on the party outside. But now she lingered at the glass, eyes drawn to the sight of her granddaughter happily nestled in your arms.

“She’s not bad, you know?”

The voice came from just behind her shoulder. Bill stood at the chopping board, a half-sliced cucumber in one hand, knife in the other. He didn’t look up, just kept working with the quiet ease of someone accustomed to Molly’s kitchens.

Molly frowned, the faint line between her brows deepening. “I didn’t say she was.”

“You didn’t have to,” Bill replied mildly. He sliced another piece, neat and even. “I saw the way you bristled last time. About the light and dark business.”

“That wasn’t—” Molly began, then broke off. Her gaze slipped back to the window. You were bouncing Victoire gently, murmuring something that made the baby’s laugh ring out like a chime. Charlie watched you with a softness that seemed to set his whole frame alight.

Molly exhaled through her nose. “She’s different.”

“She is,” Bill agreed, wiping the blade clean. “Different doesn’t mean wrong.”

For a long moment, Molly said nothing. Then she turned back to her work, hands steady as she pressed dough into the waiting tins. But when she carried the next tray out to the garden, her eyes lingered just a fraction longer on you before she set it down.

The day unfolded slow and lazily.

You’d expected the watchful stares, the hesitant pauses in conversation. And they were there — at first. But the longer you stayed in the Burrow’s garden, the more the weight shifted.

Fred and George had drawn you into some ridiculous banter about whether dragons could be trained to deliver mail, and you found yourself volleying their jokes back with sharp retorts. That seemed to win them over.

Arthur, delighted, pressed you with earnest questions about dragon physiology, wide-eyed as though you were reciting wonders from some long-lost manuscript.

You’d ended up between Charlie and Harry, though Ron had been leaning so far across the table toward you that his elbow kept dipping into the butter dish. Charlie noticed, of course. He noticed everything. Which was probably why his arm had stretched lazily along the back of your chair, hand brushing your shoulder as though it had every right to be there.

Harry asked the first question, half-shy, half-intrigued. “So… dragons. What’s it actually like working with them? Everyone makes them sound like untameable monsters.”

You smiled faintly into your glass. “They can be monsters, if you treat them like ones. But if you learn their habits, respect their space, and don’t try to force them into things… they’ll give you more than you expect. It’s not taming, really. More like… negotiating.”

Harry’s eyes lit with a quiet kind of respect. “That makes sense.”

Ron, on the other hand, was nearly vibrating. “But you’ve flown them? Properly flown them?”

Charlie chuckled next to you. “Of course she’s flown them.”

Ron’s jaw practically hit the table, but Charlie wasn’t finished. He tipped his glass toward you, a grin tugging at his mouth. “You’re looking at the reserve’s damage-control unit.”

You shot him a glance. “Charlie—”

“No, go on,” he said, nudging you with his shoulder. “Tell them what that means.”

You hesitated, aware of half the table’s eyes flicking toward you, and then sighed. “It means I get the dragons no one else wants to touch. Behavioral cases, mostly. Hatchlings that won’t bond. Mothers that reject their young. The ones that tend to lash out.”

Ron leaned in so far his plate tipped. “And you do what, exactly?”

“She calms them,” Charlie answered before you could. “When a dragon’s too far gone for handlers to manage, she steps in.”

“Cool,” Harry muttered-

“The coolest”, Charlie agreed as he squeezed your hand.

The tips of your ears warmed at the intensity in his voice. “It comes with the job,” you murmured.

“Tell them about the Black,” he said casually, though his grin betrayed him.

You stiffened. “Charlie—”

“No, come on,” he pressed, his voice picking up a note of mischief. “You’re underselling yourself.”

Your frown deepened. “That’s not—”

He turned to the boys anyway. “One of the interns at the reserve fell into the enclosure of a Hebridean Black last year.”

Ron nearly choked on his drink. “What?”

“What did you do?” Harry asked.

“Not me,” said Charlie. “Her.”

You closed your eyes, already covering your face with one hand. “Charlie—”

“She jumped straight into the pen,” he continued anyway, grinning like he couldn’t help it. “Didn’t even hesitate. Got up on its neck while it was thrashing, clamped her legs down like a rider, and jabbed it with a small dose of anesthesia. Not enough to knock it out, but enough to make it sluggish, docile enough to back off. She bought the intern enough time to be pulled out. No one else on staff could’ve done it. They would’ve been eaten alive.”

“Brilliant,” you heard Ron mutter, his voice having gone an octave higher than usual.

By the time the cake had been carried out and Ginny blew out her candles, you felt… not at ease, but less like a shadow pressed against the wall.

Which was why Molly’s voice from the kitchen doorway stilled you so completely.

“Would you mind helping me with the soup?”

The words landed like a summons. Your first instinct was to decline—graciously, politely, but firmly. And yet when your gaze darted toward Charlie, you found him watching you with steady eyes. No pressure in them, just a small nod.

You rose. Your hands felt colder than they should as you followed Molly inside.

The kitchen smelled of herbs and apples, the air warm with steam. A large pot simmered on the stove, and Molly handed you a wooden spoon without ceremony.

“Give it a stir,” she said.

You obeyed, focusing on the slow circles, the broth shifting and bubbling under your hand. Silence stretched. The kind that pressed at your ribs.

“May I…” Your voice caught, and you cleared your throat. “May I try it?”

Molly nodded once.

You dipped the spoon carefully, let the broth cool a fraction before tasting. The flavours were good—comforting, hearty—but you remembered something. A memory that was half scent, half sound: your mother humming softly as she stood over a pot, a few well-worn jars lined up on the counter beside her.

“If I may,” you ventured, cautious, “my mother always added black peppercorns, celery seed, and garlic to soups like this. She said it—brought the broth alive.”

For a moment, you wondered if you’d overstepped. Molly’s eyes were unreadable, her hands steady on the counter. Then, slowly, she gestured toward the spice rack.

“Go on, then.”

Your heart thudded louder than it should have as you gathered the jars, adding the seasonings with care before stirring them in. You dipped the spoon once more, then offered it to her, your hand steady despite yourself.

Molly tasted. Her face did not soften, not exactly. But she gave a small, considered nod. “Better,” she said simply. Then, after a pause: “You’ll have to come round more often. Teach me a few of these recipes.”

The words hit you harder than you expected. A small door opening in a wall you hadn’t thought would ever budge.

“I—” you stammered, heat rising in your cheeks. “I’d like that. Very much.”

A voice at the doorway cut the silence.

“Isn’t she the best.”

It came out more like a statement rather than a question.

Charlie leaned there, arms folded, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He crossed the kitchen, coming to stand behind you, his arms slipping around your waist with the ease of long practice. His chin brushed your shoulder as you stirred, the warmth of him a steady anchor.

Molly had already turned back to her work, flour dusting her hands as she rolled out pastry for an apple pie. She didn’t look over. But she didn’t need to.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, the wooden spoon still circling through the broth. Charlie kissed your temple, low and unseen, his voice a murmur just for you.