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opposite sides of the same... apple?

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Someone needs to impregnate Harry Potter. I volunteer me.

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The beginning (Grimmauld Roommates AU)

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little sum

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please tell me there's a harry potter fic written ENTIRELY from James' perspective in heaven.

James Potter And What The Fuck Did My Son Do This Year

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"comfort, a friend, and a voice in the world" — as internalised by one very dramatic toddler

FROM CHAPTER 8 OF SOULSTICE

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The beginning (Grimmauld Roommates AU)

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apple trend x tomarry

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quick late night outfit sketches for mr riddle

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they’re a package pls do not separate 😔🙏

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Could’ve Been, Should’ve Been

Synopsis: After the war, she died saving him. He never got to say goodbye.

Years later, Harry stumbles upon a cursed magical object—one that shows him the life he could’ve had if he'd chosen her. A peaceful life. Married. Laughing. Home by the sea. It becomes his secret addiction, a place where she’s still alive, still his. But every morning, he wakes to silence.

pairing: harry potter x ravenclaw!reader

cw: angst angst angst

a/n: this is my second story!! yey!! I will apologize in advanced if this hurts but yk I live for the angst

requests:open

The war ended, but not all the battles were done. It happened in the clearing just beyond Hogsmeade, a week after Voldemort fell. A rogue group of Death Eaters, desperate, furious, hunted Harry like a shadow. And you—you were always at his side. You saw the spell hurtling toward him. You didn’t think. You stepped in front of it.

The green light hit you first.

The world never quite righted itself after that.

---

Harry didn’t cry at your funeral. Not properly. He stood at the edge of the lake in silence, shoulders stiff, jaw tight. He spoke three words to the water and no one else: “She saved me.”

But it wasn’t just that.

You were the reason he “survived” the nights at Grimmauld Place. The reason he could sleep, sometimes, when war was heavy on his chest. You snuck books from the Ravenclaw common room. You brewed calming draughts in secret, whispered theories about Horcruxes, and challenged him to chess when his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You were his sanity. His safe space. His“what if”

And he never told you. Not properly. Not in words that mattered.

---

A year passed.

Then another.

He found it tucked in the back of a ruined shop in Knockturn Alley—a mirror, half-shattered, pulsing with quiet magic. The vendor didn’t know what it did. Just muttered, “Cursed, maybe,” and sold it cheap.

The first time Harry looked into it, his breath caught.

You were there.

Not just standing, but alive. Laughing. Hair windblown. A ring on your finger—his ring. A home behind you, ivy-covered and warm. A sea in the distance. Peace in your eyes.

He dropped to his knees.

---

He kept coming back.

Every night.

Each time he touched the mirror, the world changed. It showed a life where he'd chosen differently. Where he'd told you how he felt. Where he kissed you that night after the battle instead of brushing past you to check on the others. Where he let himself love you.

In the vision, you would wake up next to him and say, “You talk in your sleep, Potter.”

He would laugh. Not the hollow laugh he carried in reality. But something real. Something “whole”.

And then—he’d blink—and the vision was gone. Just the dusty attic again. Just silence. Just the hum of grief between his ribs.

---

The others noticed.

Ron asked why he looked exhausted. Hermione asked why he wasn’t eating. Neville invited him for dinner. Luna sent letters from Sweden. He ignored them all.

Because they weren’t “you” .

You were behind the glass. Smiling like you had everything.

And he had nothing.

---

One night, he broke.

He pressed his forehead to the mirror and whispered, “I should’ve told you.”

The reflection—you—stood across from him, a firelight glow in your eyes.

“I didn’t say it,” he choked. “And now—now you’re just a ghost in my head.”

You tilted your head. Said nothing. Because you weren’t really “you” Just magic. Just longing. Just pain.

“But I loved you,” he said.

He said it again. And again. Until the words collapsed under their own weight.

---

Sometimes, the mirror changed.

Showed your wedding. Your child in his arms. Your laugh in the garden.

He’d stay in those visions for hours. But it always ended the same.

He’d wake up in his flat. Alone. No footsteps. No humming. Just the echo of the life that never was.

---

It wasn’t just grief.

It was “guilt” .

He should’ve seen it coming—that final ambush. He should’ve taken the hit. Should’ve held your hand more often. Should’ve told you when you fell asleep beside him at Grimmauld Place, “You’re the only thing keeping me sane.”

But he didn’t.

He assumed there would be time. More battles. More fireside talks. More almost-confessions.

He never thought your “last words” would be “Move, Harry.”

---

One night, he dreamt you were there—truly.

You stood in the vision with your arms crossed.

“You’re not really living,” you said, voice sharp. “You’re chasing ghosts.”

He staggered. “You are my ghost.”

“No. I was your chance. And you missed it.”

The next morning, he smashed the mirror.

But it didn’t change anything. Because the visions were in him now.

He saw them when he touched your favorite book. When he walked by the bench at the Astronomy Tower where you once fell asleep on his shoulder. When he passed the potion shelves and remembered your voice saying, “Don’t you dare try to brew that without me.”

Every part of his life was haunted.

Not by your death.

But by the love he never gave you.

---

He wrote letters. Hundreds. Most he never sent.

One survived; “I see what we could’ve been every night. And every morning, I wake up to the silence of a life without you. And I don’t know which hurts more.”

---

Years later, he visits your grave. He kneels, fingers tracing the etched stone.

“Still talking to ghosts,” he murmurs. The wind brushes his face.

“Some things aren’t meant to stay unspoken, Harry.”

For a moment—just a moment—he swears he hears your voice.

But when he looks up, there’s only the trees.

Only the silence. Only the echo of a girl who made him want to live.

And a love that came too late.

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY JAMES POTTER YOU ARE SO LOVED BY ME

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I hate this guy 🤨

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Right Question

“Mister Potter! Over here! Can I get—”

“No.”

“I’m from Witch Weekly, can you—”

“No.”

“Mister Potter, I’ve heard you finished the Marauders’ Mischief. Unique name for a Youth Centre, don’t you think? Can you tell us the story behind—”

“No.”

“Do you think—”

“No.”

When the reporters quit trying, Harry smiled less polite and more smug before clearing his throat. “Lovely press conference, same time next month?”

————

“Never met someone so bloody difficult in my life.”

“You’d think from the stories that Potter would be nice, but he’s a right tool if you ask me.”

“I heard he made one of the Daily Prophet’s interns cry.”

“Ours too! Witch Weekly won’t even hire interns anymore because of it.”

“I could take him refusing to talk. I could even take his one-word answers, but it’s the damn smirk and passive-aggressive attitude that drives me mental.”

“I’m flooing in sick the next time my editor hands me another Potter assignment. Rather spend the night with Devil’s Snare than interview him.”

“Yeah, but don’t you like bondage, Pansy?”

“Shut up.”

—————

“Smith, you’re on the obituaries this week,” Glenn Bitterwood, chief editor for the Daily Prophet said.

“I was late one time! This is an unfair punishment.”

Bitterwood ignored him completely. “Ryland, you’re handling the sports section.”

“Oi! That’s my specialty.”

“Yeah, well next time don’t write about Gobstones. No one cares about Gobstones. So you get politics this week.”

“Parkinson, you get the gossip column again. Keep up the good work. Reader interest was high last week.”

Parkinson preened among the glares and Bitterwood had to wonder if she thrived on hostility.

“The rest of you still have work for tonight’s paper, so get to it.”

The way they scrambled would never not be amusing. “Hold up. I almost forgot. I need someone to interview Potter.”

The silence that followed was uncomfortable and no one would meet his eyes. 

“I suddenly remembered I have to take my kids to—well to something.”

“Parkinson, you don’t have kids.”

“I’m sick.” A cough and a fake sneeze followed before several people shouted that they too were sick.

“Look, I know he’s difficult—”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Keep interrupting me Smith and you’ll be on obituaries for a month,” Bitterwood threatened. “Potter isn’t the…friendliest but his name sells. His open house for the Youth Centre is in a few days and if we don’t get the scoop then someone else will.”

“Sir, with all due respect, we’ve never gotten the scoop when it comes to Potter.”

“If you like your job, one of you will volunteer and just maybe we can turn our luck around.”

“I’ll do it.”

Keep reading

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I really want to read a Harry Potter fanfic from the POV of one of Harry's primary school teachers where they hear and believe the Dursley's story about Harry's parents being addicts and the lowest of the low, seeing how "dumb" Harry is with his subpar grades and poor fitting clothes, the way that Harry broke rules and climbed onto the school roof...

Then the reveal years later of how Harry is actually the last person of some landed gentry family, Harry is in the newspaper with a photo of him shaking hands and being awarded some fancy medal by the queen for stopping the terrorist attacks happening all over the country and-

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tom riddle could only ever die the ways stars do:

burned up by his own brilliance; soul scattered in every corner of the cosmos; collapsed under his own weight

(there’s power in a name, you know)

he always burned too bright, and he’d go out that way too—

the husk of his potential, reduced to ash. folded in on himself: the writhing, rotting mass of his body set to swallow the world whole.

he always had his own gravity—inescapable—and they lined up to watch him

see the way he tore himself apart? the way his heart was made of hydrogen, the lightest thing in the universe?

they’ll see him streak across the sky, pale against the inkblot of time and space. stretching in every direction, trying to outrun his fate

(vol de mort—a fancy way of saying death was chasing, and he was born to flee)

in an infinitely expanding universe, nothing can live forever—but it can go on and on (and up in flames)

so he was born under pressure; bone white; blinding. with a grief that feels ancient, and a billion years worth of hunger, tom riddle was as cold as the great expanse of space

and now he’s left behind a hole in the sky. a gaping wound, left to fester

(death eaters, he called them—

so death licked its teeth, starving)

he gave everything just to be seen. to end up more myth than man; ashes to ashes; dust on the wind

(but they still tell the stories of the constellations

even thousands of years past the time they were written

in a way, that’s a little bit like immortality—

don’t you think?)

at his core, he is an echo. what remains when the light goes out. more beautiful—and tragic—for being finite

and even after all this time:

“look at the stars,” we say, pointing at the sky

and it all feels far away

(i can touch you now)

tom riddle got too close, is all

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I loveee your geom seongje fics so much!!! What about reader who hates smoking because either she doesn’t like it orr has breathing problems (you pickk) and seongje has an unspoken rule in the union that if someone smokes within 6ft of reader they’ll get…beaten up 🤗🤗

-🦕

+ SIX FEET OF SMOKE AND SILENCE

in which seong-je makes a rule in union to not smoke within six feet of his girlfriend, only for him to not follow it.

Geum Seong-je x reader

slight angst, fluff

Everyone in the Union knew one rule without needing it posted on a wall or barked across the courtyard:

No one smoked within six feet of Seong-je’s girlfriend.

There was no memo. No warning. But the message spread fast after one poor bastard lit up too close to her during lunch break behind the gym. He hadn’t even finished his first puff before he was on the floor, coughing blood and gasping through a broken nose. Seong-je didn’t say a word after. He just stepped over the guy, lit his own cigarette, and leaned back against the wall like nothing happened.

Since then, the six-foot rule was sacred.

She hated smoking. The smell. The burn. The heavy feeling it left in the air. It clung to her skin when she walked through the old wing where delinquents spent their time. And Seong-je—for all his stubborn chaos—smoked like it kept his pulse steady.

She didn’t ask him to quit. That wasn’t her way. But he knew how she felt. She never looked away from the truth, and when she wrinkled her nose or shifted just slightly away, he knew.

Today, the courtyard was empty, save for them.

She’d been looking for him, half-pissed, half-worried, when she found him under the awning behind the old practice rooms. A familiar white stick between his fingers, the faint hiss of fire at the tip.

He was already mid-drag when he looked up and froze.

Their eyes locked.

She didn’t speak. Just walked forward. Each step deliberate.

And Seong-je, for once, didn’t smirk.

The cigarette dangled loosely from his fingers, smoke curling lazily up like it wasn’t in trouble.

She stopped three feet from him.

He exhaled slowly. "I thought you were in the main hall."

She crossed her arms. "Didn’t realize that changed your personal radius."

He stared at her for a beat. Then, with a quiet breath, he flicked the cigarette to the ground and ground it beneath his boot. No dramatic sigh, no annoyed glare. Just a muted act of surrender.

She blinked. That…was new.

"You mad?" he asked, watching her expression closely.

She tilted her head. "You made a whole rule for me, Seong-je. But you can't follow it yourself?"

"That rule’s for everyone else," he replied, deadpan. "I make exceptions for myself."

She narrowed her eyes.

He hesitated.

Then his voice softened. "But I wasn’t thinking. That’s on me."

Silence stretched.

It wasn’t just about the cigarette. Not really. It was about the things that built up over time. How he always took care of her in his own violent, twisted way. How he respected her space, protected her name, and never let the world touch her with dirtied hands.

But still smoked like it didn’t matter.

"Why do you need it so badly?" she asked, arms still folded, but her voice quieter now.

His lips parted. He looked away, tongue running along his inner cheek.

"It shuts things up in my head," he said eventually. "Gives me something to do with my hands when I’m not picking fights."

A beat passed.

"You always seem calmer when I'm around."

He looked back at her.

"I am."

The silence grew thicker. Tension slipped in between them like static.

She stepped closer. Two feet now.

He didn’t move.

"Then maybe you don’t need it," she murmured.

His breath caught. Not from the words. From how close she was now. How she tilted her chin up, how the wind caught strands of her hair and lifted them between them like whispers.

"Maybe," he said, voice low. "But habits die hard."

Her eyes flicked down to his fingers—still twitching slightly, like they missed the cigarette already.

Then she did something that made him pause.

She reached into his pocket and pulled out the pack herself.

Seong-je blinked. "What are you doing?"

"Testing a theory."

She pulled one cigarette out, then held it up between her fingers like she’d seen him do a hundred times.

"You hate smoking," he said, stepping closer. Just inches now.

"I do."

"Then why?"

"Because maybe if you see me do it, you’ll stop."

He stared at her. Hard.

She was bluffing. He knew it. But then—

She raised the cigarette to her lips.

His hand shot out.

But instead of pulling it away, he held it for her. Between his fingers. Just like he always did.

"This is how you hold it," he murmured. His voice dropped, the space between them now non-existent.

His girlfriend didn’t move.

He brought the cigarette to her lips. She looked at him, stubborn but nervous. The kind of nervous she never let anyone see.

He lit it.

"Now inhale—slow. Then let it sit for a second. Then breathe it out."

She tried.

And immediately coughed, turning away, shoulders shaking.

He chuckled, low and smug. "Yeah, that tracks."

She glared at him with watery eyes. "Asshole."

"You tried to play cool. That’s on you."

She shoved him, but it was half-hearted. He caught her wrist.

"You hate it, don’t you?"

She didn’t answer.

His fingers curled around hers gently. "Don’t do that again."

"Then stop making me worry."

They stared at each other.

And something cracked open.

He raised her hand still holding the cigarette. Took it back between his fingers. Then brought it to his own lips.

Smoked.

Exhaled away from her.

Then tossed it aside.

He leaned in, close enough that she could smell the smoke clinging to him and feel the heat of his breath.

"I’ll quit."

She blinked.

"But only if you keep looking at me like that."

She shoved him again. He caught her around the waist this time.

Pulled her close.

"You really want me to stop?"

She nodded. Small. Honest.

He lowered his head, lips brushing her ear. "Then kiss me. And mean it."

Her breath hitched. She hesitated.

Then she kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t perfect. But it was raw, honest, and more addicting than any nicotine high he’d ever chased.

When they broke apart, her forehead pressed to his, he smiled. Not the usual arrogant smirk. Something quieter.

"Guess I found a better habit."

And for once, the air between them was clean.

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE + MASTERLIST

I hope you enjoyed <33 I love how everyone's making requests!! Also in case anyone's wondering how I am so quick at doing the request 😭 The exam gaps are the best motivation to do anything other than studying lmao.