#della 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

[godricgryffinsnore]

James Potter × insecure!reader.

Ft. What makes you beautiful by One Direction.

You may have to listen to it to write this one.

[can't believe that I am asking this. Like. James Potter× reader.

Like...

Me: Harry, is your father available?

Him: Uh. Didn't you love me?

Me: The question remains the same Mr]

The Way You Shine ♡ : A James Potter Fan Fiction.

pairing : James Potter x fem!insecure!reader

summary : James Potter falls harder for the girl who can’t see her own worth—and he'll do anything to help her believe it.

warnings : Insecurity, self-doubt, emotional vulnerability, mild angst, intense fluff, passionate kissing, cheesy songwriting, and chaotic Marauders banter. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's note : I was deeply honored (and slightly unhinged) while writing this fic. The angst, the fluff, the chaotic songwriting session—I had way too much fun. James Potter deserves an award for Dramatic Romantic of the Year, and I’ll be accepting it on his behalf. Thanks for reading, and may your hoodies always be cozy and your Marauders always mildly unhinged. 💌

word count : 1.8k

main master list <3

banners : @cafekitsune and @dollywons

“Oi! Where’s my jumper?!”

James’s voice echoed through the Gryffindor common room like a badly-tuned trumpet. Sirius poked his head over the back of the couch, where he’d been braiding his own hair while Remus read a dog-eared copy of Wuthering Heights, and Peter ate something suspiciously green.

“You mean the one you draped dramatically over that chair two hours ago like you were in a bloody Shakespeare play?” Sirius deadpanned.

“That one, yes!” James whirled around, hair already a mess from panicked searching. “I was planning on wearing it to Hogsmeade. It’s—it's my fit jumper. The good one. The one that makes my arms look... armier.”

“You have other jumpers, Prongs,” Remus said without looking up. “And your arms always look like overfed noodles.”

“Overfed sexy noodles,” James replied, striking a ridiculous pose in the mirror.

But his tone shifted the second he spotted you walking down the girls’ dorm stairs. His eyes softened instantly, his whole frame going still like he was bracing for a windstorm made entirely of stars.

You.

In a simple jumper and jeans, hair tucked behind your ears, holding your bag like it might vanish if you let go.

You—his favorite view in any room. But gods, you didn’t know.

“Hi, James,” you said shyly, not quite meeting his eyes. “Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re early, darling,” he said, grinning wide. “I just missed you.”

Sirius fake-gagged. “You’re a menace to modesty, Potter.”

“Let him flirt in peace,” Remus added. “It’s been three days since their last date. He’s in withdrawal.”

You flushed deeply and looked down, tugging on your sleeve, and James noticed immediately. His brow furrowed just a little, his smile faltering like a flickering candle.

He noticed everything about you. That was the problem—and the gift.

── .✦

The Hogsmeade trip was beautiful. The snow had begun to melt, revealing soft, muddy paths and little crocuses blooming bravely through the frost. But you couldn't shake the ache in your chest.

James held your hand like it was his religion. He swung it between you both as you walked, peppering your cheeks with random kisses, drawing hearts in the condensation on the windows of shops you passed. You laughed softly, playing along.

But something gnawed at you.

Everywhere you went, you saw her.

Clarissa Banks.

All high cheekbones and perfect lashes and hips that swayed like they had their own music. She waved at James. He waved back politely.

And your stomach dropped.

You weren’t like her. Not even close.

“I—I’m going to go to the loo,” you muttered, untangling your fingers from his.

He blinked. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just give me a minute.”

But you didn’t go to the loo.

You sat behind Honeydukes. Alone. In the cold. Hugging your knees.

Because what if he looked at you, every day, and just... settled?

You didn’t have her legs. Or her laugh. Or her confidence. You weren’t the girl everyone turned to look at when you walked into a room.

You were... just you.

Unextraordinary.

Forgettable.

── .✦

“Mate, where’d she go?” James was pacing outside the Three Broomsticks now, hands flailing. “She said she was going to the loo and never came back. It’s been forty minutes. Forty. Who takes that long to wee?!”

“I mean, you did last week,” Sirius chimed in, “but you were trying to get a spider out of your pants.”

“That was war,” James hissed. “This is different. Something’s wrong.”

“Go find her,” Remus said gently. “We’ve got this. Peter’s already on his third Butterbeer. He won’t even notice you’re gone.”

Peter gave a sloppy thumbs-up, foam on his upper lip.

James didn’t hesitate.

── .✦

He found you behind Honeydukes, shivering.

Looking so small, so sad, so far away.

“Darling,” he breathed, dropping to his knees in front of you. “There you are.”

You looked up, startled. “James? I—what are you doing here?”

“What am I—what are you doing here?!” His voice cracked, full of panic and something deeper. “You vanished. I thought you got kidnapped by Honeydukes gnomes or a—a jealous Slytherin, or—or the bloody wind!”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, voice soft. “Just needed... space.”

“From me?”

Silence.

His face fell.

“Oh, sweetheart...”

And then you whispered it. Quietly. Like it might shatter the world: “I just don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

You looked at him, finally. Tears clinging to your lashes. “Why you like me.”

The words hit him like a slap. His mouth opened, then closed again.

“I mean—look at you,” you continued, voice cracking. “You’re James Potter. You’re handsome and charming and funny and everyone likes you. And me? I’m... nothing. I’m not funny. I’m not pretty. I’m not—”

“Stop.” He leaned forward, both hands cupping your cheeks now. “Stop right there.”

You blinked at him, startled.

“Every bloody day,” James whispered fiercely, “I look at you and wonder if I’m dreaming. I wonder how the hell I got so lucky. You think I don’t see the way you wrinkle your nose when you’re focused? Or how you light up when you talk about books? You think I don’t notice the way you always give the house elves a little smile, or how you listen when someone talks, like they’re the most important person in the world?”

You sniffed. “But I’m not—”

“You’re everything.” His voice broke. “You walk into a room and I swear to Merlin, my heart trips over itself trying to get to you. I love you so much it aches, and I’m not going to let your mind lie to you like that. Not while I’m here. Not while I’m in love with you.”

Your breath caught.

“In love...?”

“I’d scream it from the Astronomy Tower if I thought it would help. I’d carve it into the damn sky.” He gave a broken laugh. “Merlin, I do love you. Madly. Ridiculously. Hopelessly. All of it.”

And he kissed you.

Fierce. Tender. Worshipful.

His lips pressed against yours like a promise. His hands tangled in your hair as you melted into him, all fear unraveling like smoke.

You weren’t perfect.

But to James Potter—you were more than beautiful.

You were his.

── .✦

Back in the common room, Sirius raised a brow as James strutted in with his jumper half off his shoulder, cheeks flushed, and your lipstick smeared across his mouth.

“Merlin’s balls, did you make out behind a candy shop?”

“Shut it, Padfoot,” James said, completely unbothered.

Remus smiled into his book. “He’s glowing.”

Peter blinked. “I’m just glad no one died.”

James sat beside you on the couch, pulling you into his lap without hesitation.

And there you stayed, wrapped in his arms, letting him kiss the self-doubt from your bones.

Because you’d finally started to believe it.

Maybe, just maybe—

You were beautiful.

And James Potter was never going to let you forget it.

── .✦

“Alright, what rhymes with ‘freckles’?”

“...Speckles?” Sirius offered, peering over James’s shoulder.

“Speckles?” James repeated, turning to glare. “Speckles? Really, Pads?”

“I’m sorry,” Sirius said, snorting, “but you’re the one trying to write a love song that includes the words ‘eyebrow twitch’ and ‘shy hoodie girl.’”

James groaned dramatically, throwing his quill down. “It’s impossible. I’m trying to write about how beautiful she is and how much I love her even when she doesn’t see it—and all I’ve got is: ‘Your smile’s a spell, you trip me well... uh, I fell?’”

“That... is a mess,” Remus said from his seat, not looking up from his book. “Trip me well? What are you, a cursed shoe?”

“WHY IS NO ONE SUPPORTING MY MUSICAL GENIUS?”

“Because you’re writing a ballad and calling it The You of You,” Sirius muttered. “That’s not a title. That’s a riddle.”

Peter was sitting nearby, chewing through a massive bag of crisps. “I think it’s romantic.”

James slumped forward onto his parchment, dragging his hand down his face. “I just want her to know. I want her to feel it. That I love her—every weird little thing she hates about herself. Her awkwardness. Her hiding behind her sleeves. Her silence when she feels not enough. I love all of it. And I don’t know how to say it loud enough.”

The common room went quiet.

Sirius nudged him. “Maybe stop trying to say it perfect. Just say it real. Like you do when you’re with her.”

“That’s shockingly wise of you,” Remus said, eyeing him.

“Thank you,” Sirius said, flipping his hair. “I read one of your poetry books by mistake. It was traumatic.”

── .✦

Behind them, at the bottom of the staircase, you stood frozen.

You’d meant to come down for your forgotten scarf.

But you hadn’t expected to find your boyfriend declaring war on rhymes in your name.

Your heart beat wildly in your chest.

He loved you.

Not just the polished bits you tried to present to the world. Not the smiles you practiced or the clever lines you thought made you worth something.

He loved your silences. Your fears. Your hoodie sleeves and all the tiny things you tried to hide.

The you of you.

Merlin, what a terrible title.

And yet—you’d never heard something more true.

── .✦

James sat alone now. The others had wandered off, and he was still scribbling, muttering under his breath. He didn’t hear your footsteps.

“Hey.”

He jumped. “Buggering—you scared me!”

You smiled softly, sitting beside him. “Sirius let it slip.”

“Bloody traitor.”

You touched his parchment gently. “You’re writing me a song?”

James blushed scarlet. “It was supposed to be a surprise. A really romantic one. But it’s a total disaster. I’m not good at... poetic declarations.”

“You literally called my smile ‘a spell.’”

“It is a spell,” he said, suddenly serious. “You don’t see yourself, sweetheart. You walk into a room and change the air. You look at me like I’m something worth keeping. You make me want to write songs even if I’m rubbish at it. You’re magic, and you don’t even know it. That’s what kills me.”

You blinked rapidly.

“James—”

“No, let me finish.” He shifted closer. “You always get quiet when someone compliments you. Like you’re scared to believe it. But darling, I mean it. Every word. I love every cracked edge of you. I love your overthinking. Your second guesses. Your everything. And I’ll keep telling you until it gets through that stubborn, beautiful head of yours.”

And then—softly, tentatively—he began to sing.

── .✦

The Ballad of Beautiful You (terrible title, lovely lyrics)

You hide behind your hoodie strings, But I see stars in little things— The way you mumble, look away, How you still blush when I say— You’re magic made of quiet storms, Of half-said thoughts and nervous forms, But oh, my love, you steal my breath, You’re beauty dressed in tenderness.

── .✦

Your lip trembled.

“Say something,” he begged.

You didn’t.

You kissed him.

Hard.

Deep.

A make-out that stole the air from both your lungs.

Your fingers in his hair, his hands on your waist, lips moving like he was writing the song across your skin.

When you finally broke apart, you whispered against his mouth, “I love you.”

His forehead pressed to yours, voice wrecked with emotion.

“Then let me spend the rest of forever proving why you should.”

[godricgryffinsnore]

The Jumper Chronicles ♡ : A James Potter Fan Fiction.

pairing : James Potter x fem!reader

summary : When James lends you his jumper on a rainy day, he doesn’t expect to fall helplessly in love every time you wear it—but the heart wants what it wants, and sometimes, it wants its favorite girl in its favorite jumper.

warnings : Intense pining, Secondhand embarrassment (from James being a lovesick fool), Excessive fluff, Friends-to-lovers tension, Mischievous teasing by close friends (The Marauders doing what they do best), Possible risk of swooning due to James Potter in love. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della’s note : Guess what? I am in a writing spree. Not complaining though!!! 😏🤌🏻

word count : 0.7k

main master list <3

banners : @kodaswrld and @cafekitsune

James Potter was in love.

Not the kind of love you slip into gently, like easing into a hot bath. No, James had fallen like a meteor—crashing, burning, utterly destroyed and reborn in your orbit.

And all it took was his jumper.

To be fair, it was a really nice jumper. Gryffindor red, slightly oversized, frayed a little at the sleeves from Quidditch training and the many detentions he'd served with it scrunched beneath his head. It smelled like mischief and cinnamon and something almost boyishly comforting.

You had borrowed it one October morning after a surprise downpour soaked your robes. James—drenched as well, glasses fogged, hair looking like it had been electrocuted—had peeled off the jumper with a cocky, “Don’t say I never gave you anything, darling,” and draped it over your shoulders.

And you never gave it back.

He didn’t ask for it either.

Because the moment you pulled it tighter around yourself, burying your fingers in the sleeves, his soul left his body and hovered somewhere near the ceiling of the common room, whispering, That’s it. That’s my wife.

You wore it everywhere. In the library, curled up on the window seat; on Hogsmeade weekends, the hem hitting just above your knees; at breakfast, where James could barely eat because you looked so stupidly adorable sipping pumpkin juice in his jumper. It was hell. Beautiful, soft, jumper-scented hell.

── .✦

“You’ve got to tell her,” Remus said over breakfast one Saturday, not looking up from his book. “Before you combust. Or cry. Or both.”

“I’m not crying,” James said firmly.

“You were tearing up over your eggs, mate,” Sirius pointed out. “You whispered ‘she even sleeps in it’ like a man watching his true love marry another.”

James stabbed his toast. “She’s warm. I mean—it’s warm. The jumper. She’s probably just cold.”

“You enchanted the jumper to stay warm all the time,” Peter muttered, sipping his tea.

“Shut up, Wormtail.”

── .✦

The breaking point came on a quiet Tuesday evening. You were in the common room, sitting cross-legged by the fire, hair a little messy, nose in a book, sleeves of the jumper covering your hands entirely.

And then—you sneezed. Just a little one. A tiny, adorable thing.

James dropped his quill and nearly passed out.

“Okay,” he mumbled, standing up. “I can’t live like this.”

You looked up, blinking. “Live like what?”

“Like—this.” He gestured at you. At the jumper. At everything. “You. In that. Looking like—like you’re mine.”

You tilted your head. “But I’m not?”

“I mean—no! I mean—yes? Or—Merlin’s pants.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I don’t want it back.”

You blinked. “The jumper?”

“No. Yes. Yes to the jumper, no to me wanting it back. It’s—yours. It's always been yours. Or maybe it was mine until you wore it and now I can’t stop thinking about how you look like home and I’m—oh no, I'm rambling, aren't I?”

You stood, walking toward him, firelight painting your face gold.

“James?”

“Yes?” His voice cracked. He sounded thirteen again.

You smiled softly, brushing your fingers along his hand. “Do you want to kiss me, or declare ownership over all my future clothing?”

He blinked. “Is both an option?”

You laughed. And it was the kind of laugh that made angels consider quitting their jobs.

And then you kissed him.

It was warm and awkward and perfect. He smiled into it like a complete fool.

── .✦

The next morning, you came down wearing his pajama shirt.

Sirius fell out of his chair.

Remus choked on his tea.

Peter went redder than a tomato.

James strolled in behind you, smug as anything. “Morning, lads.”

Sirius: “Is it? Or is it the End of Days? Did the world tilt slightly on its axis last night? Because that’s not just the jumper. That’s your Quidditch pajamas.”

Remus: “I’d like to die. Can I die?”

Peter: “You’re unbearable now, aren’t you?”

James just grinned, wrapping his arm around your waist and kissing the top of your head. “Get used to it, boys. She’s keeping the jumper—and me.”

── .✦

And from that day on, James Potter never got his jumper back. And he never wanted to.

[godricgryffinsnore]

The Photo In His Wallet ♡ : A Sirius Black Fan Fiction.

pairing : Sirius Black x female!reader

summary : When a picture of his girl falls out of Sirius Black’s wallet, Remus and James seize the opportunity of a lifetime—and Sirius? Well, he doesn’t go down without screaming. And you? You grab the perfect opportunity to tease the shit out of him.

warnings : Fluff overload, Secondhand embarrassment, Sirius Black being a hopeless romantic (and dramatic menace), Mischievous Marauder teasing, Mentions of laminated photos, Light language and chaotic energy, Excessive cuteness and mutual pining. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

word count : 2k

main master list <3

banners : @uzmacchiato and @cafekitsune

It started with a perfectly innocent game of Exploding Snap.

At least, that’s what Sirius would tell you later, when he’s lying across your lap dramatically, whispering about “the betrayal of brotherhood” and how “even James turned on me, my dearest heart, the pain—the agony—you can’t possibly understand.”

In reality, it started with Sirius refusing to lose.

“Just give it up, mate,” Remus said, smirking as he laid down a perfect pair. “You’ve only got two cards left, and I can see the panic in your eyes.”

“I never panic,” Sirius huffed, slapping a card down with such force that it ricocheted off the table and nearly set Peter’s sleeve on fire. “I’m Sirius Black. I am the panic.”

James raised an eyebrow. “You okay, Pads? You’ve been weird ever since we got back from Hogsmeade yesterday. You’re not still swooning over her in that new dress, are you?”

Sirius went very still. “I wasn’t swooning. I was… appreciating.”

“You tripped over a display of pumpkin pasties because you were too busy staring at her,” Remus added helpfully.

“Pumpkin pasties are a hazard to us all,” Sirius replied solemnly.

They all laughed, Sirius included. And just when things seemed like they’d settle into a normal rhythm again, Sirius pulled out his wallet to settle a bet—and that was the moment. The moment the earth stopped spinning.

Something fluttered to the floor. James bent down to pick it up.

And then… the silence.

It was too quiet. Dangerously quiet.

James stood slowly, holding something between two fingers. “Sirius.”

Sirius blinked. “Yes?”

“What is this?”

Remus leaned over. His face split into a slow, delighted grin. “Oh, no.”

“No, no, give it back, give it back right now—”

Because in James Potter’s hand was a photograph. A small, well-worn Polaroid of you sitting in the Gryffindor common room. Your legs were tucked beneath you, hair spilling over your shoulders, and you were laughing—at something Sirius had said, no doubt, because the way your eyes sparkled was the same way he looked at you.

And worst of all? In the photo, Sirius was next to you, mid-way through tucking a lock of your hair behind your ear.

You both looked… soft.

Dangerously, disgustingly soft.

James’ jaw dropped. “You CARRY THIS with you?!”

“It’s laminated,” Remus added, peering closer. “Oh my Godric, did you laminate it?”

“FOR PROTECTION!” Sirius yelped, leaping across the table with the grace of a drunk Hippogriff. “SHE’S VERY PRECIOUS TO ME, OKAY?”

James was howling. “Pads, you’re whipped. I mean, we knew, but this? This is evidence. This is proof in a court of law.”

“Shut your mouth, Potter—”

“Do you talk to it when she’s not around?” Remus asked, utterly serious. “Like, do you take it out before bed and whisper, ‘Goodnight, darling, I miss your smell’?”

Sirius turned scarlet. “I DO NOT—well, not out loud!”

James fell off the chair.

Sirius finally managed to snatch the photo back and cradled it to his chest like it had been wounded. “Don’t listen to them, love,” he whispered to it, with a glare at the boys. “They don’t understand us.”

“You know we’re telling her, right?” Remus said, already pulling out a quill.

“You wouldn’t dare—”

“Actually,” James grinned, “I think she’d find it adorable.”

“She’d die of secondhand embarrassment,” Sirius groaned, hiding his entire face behind the wallet.

But when he saw you later that day—when you smiled at him like he hung the moon, and kissed his cheek and called him "my handsome boy", and tucked your hand into his coat pocket where he was still clutching that damn photograph—he thought, maybe... maybe the teasing was worth it.

Even if Remus and James greeted him that evening with synchronized kissing noises.

── .✦

You knew something was up the moment you walked into the common room and James Potter looked at you like Christmas had come early.

“Oh, hey there,” he said far too casually. “Funny thing happened earlier. Wanna hear it?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Not particularly.”

“No no, I insist,” said Remus, sliding onto the arm of the chair beside you like this was premium entertainment. “It’s about a certain someone. And a certain object.”

You blinked. “Is this about Sirius? What did he do now?”

James grinned. “Oh, nothing. Just carries you around in his wallet like a 1950s milkman’s sweetheart.”

You stared.

Remus nodded solemnly. “Tiny photo. Worn around the edges. Laminated.”

“I—what?!”

And then—then—you spotted him.

Sirius Black, standing frozen at the top of the boys’ staircase like a deer caught in a very romantic set of headlights.

He held his wallet in his hand. He made brief eye contact with you. Then he did the only logical thing:

He turned around and bolted back upstairs.

“Oh my GOD,” you gasped, launching up from the couch. “He did not—SIRIUS BLACK, GET BACK HERE!”

“No you don’t!” came his panicked yell from somewhere above. “YOU CAN’T SEE IT—I’LL DIE—YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND, SWEETIE—”

James was wheezing. “He’s GONE. He’s GONE feral.”

You thundered up the stairs two at a time and flung open the dorm door to find Sirius mid-dive onto his bed, clutching the wallet like it was the Marauder’s Map and you were Filch.

“Sirius Orion Black,” you said, arms crossed, breathless from the chase, “do you or do you not carry a photo of me in your wallet like a lovesick lunatic?”

He peeked over the edge of his blanket. “Lovesick gentleman, actually. Big difference.”

“Let me see it.”

“No.”

“Sirius.”

“…No.”

You stepped forward.

He whimpered.

Finally—finally—with a deep sigh and a dramatic flop onto his back like he was sacrificing his soul, he handed it over.

And there it was.

A tiny, slightly faded Polaroid of you. Laughing, sunlight on your face, your hand tangled in his hair. Laminated. Well-loved.

You looked at him.

He looked utterly destroyed. “It’s for morale,” he whispered, staring at the ceiling. “You’re like… a good luck charm. Or emotional support. Or a Patronus. You’re my Patronus, darling.”

Your heart turned to mush.

But you kept your face straight. “So you laminated it?”

“For protection!” he cried, sitting up. “You don’t understand, my love—James keeps gravy packets in his wallet. I wasn’t about to let you mingle with beef stew residue!”

You burst out laughing, full and loud and bright. And Sirius—sweet, ridiculous, hopelessly gone Sirius—just looked at you like you were the only thing in the world.

“Hey,” you said softly, climbing onto the bed beside him, wrapping your arms around his waist. “You know you could just ask me for another one, right?”

He blinked. “A photo?”

You nodded. “Or better yet…” You kissed his cheek. “You could just look at me.”

He grinned, slow and smug and utterly Sirius. “I do. All the time. That’s why I walk into furniture.”

You laughed again, burying your face in his chest. “God, you’re lucky you’re pretty.”

He kissed your temple. “I’m the luckiest man alive.”

── .✦

You weren’t planning on him finding out.

It was meant to be a quiet little secret. Something soft, something yours. A folded-up photo of Sirius—just his profile in sunlight, caught mid-laugh, probably making fun of James—and it sat right behind the emergency chocolate bar and next to your spare quills. A talisman. A comfort.

You took it out on bad days. When classes were dragging or the world felt too heavy or you missed him more than you could say aloud.

But Sirius Black was many things, and snooping-proof was not one of them.

You’d left your bag on the floor for five minutes. Five. That’s all it took.

"Darling?" his voice called from across the common room, the kind of cautious that meant he’d either broken something, found something, or was preparing to dramatically confess something. You turned, only to see him holding your wallet open with an expression like he’d just discovered ancient treasure.

"What's this?" he asked, holding up the folded photo like it was evidence. His own face stared back at him from the picture. He looked younger, a little softer, sunlight in his lashes. You’d kept it since fifth year.

You blinked. “...That’s private.”

“PRIVATE?!” he shrieked, his voice cracking. “You’ve been carrying me around in your wallet, sweetheart?!”

You walked over, nonchalant. “Yeah. What about it?”

Sirius stood there like you’d just proposed marriage. “I—You—You keep a picture of me on you? Like I’m—like I’m a lucky charm or something?”

You smirked, plucking it from his fingers. “I thought it was only fair. Since you keep one of me.”

“That’s DIFFERENT,” he gasped, pressing a hand to his heart. “Mine is—mine is chivalrous. Yours is criminally adorable and I’m having a crisis.”

You leaned in, lips twitching. “Having trouble breathing, love?”

He nodded solemnly. “Yes. Also blinking. Also standing. I might need to sit down.”

You nudged his shoulder with yours and tucked the photo back where it belonged. “You look good in that picture. It always makes me feel better.”

Sirius made a noise like a wounded animal and flopped backward onto the couch, arms flailing. “I am going to DIE. This is the best day of my life and I’m going to die and I will not be reborn because nothing will top this.”

You sat down beside him, tugging his arm until he curled into your side like the absolute drama queen he was. “You’re such a baby.”

“I’m your baby,” he said smugly, nose brushing your jaw.

“You’re a pocket-sized baby,” you replied sweetly. “Fits right in my wallet.”

“Unholy words,” he groaned. “Say it again.”

You kissed the tip of his nose. “My pretty boy.”

He visibly short-circuited.

You grinned, victorious, and tucked your legs over his lap.

And that was it. He was a goner.

── .✦

It started, as most Marauder disasters did, with ego.

Specifically, Sirius’s ego.

You caught him staring at your wallet photo again. He tried to play it cool, of course, with that smug little smirk and a head tilt like he hadn’t literally gasped when he saw it for the first time.

But you saw the twitch in his jaw. The unspoken challenge in his eyes.

And then, the next day… it began.

You were in the common room, halfway through a cup of tea, when James’s voice carried across the room:

“Pads, why is your wallet thicker than Peter’s entire textbook collection?”

Sirius—cool, collected Sirius—looked far too innocent. “What? I just like being prepared.”

Remus reached over, yanked the wallet from his hands, and opened it.

And snorted.

James peered in. Then cackled. “NO. You didn’t.”

You raised an eyebrow as Sirius’s face went red. “What’d he do now?”

James turned the wallet around.

You blinked.

There were photos. So many photos. Every single one was of you. Laughing. Reading. Sleeping. Eating toast. One of you with a spoon on your nose.

You choked. “Sirius?!”

He sat up proudly. “Well, sweetheart, if you’re going to keep one photo of me, I figured I’d keep a few of you.”

“Seven is not a few!”

“Oh, that’s not all,” Remus added, flipping through the slots like a catalogue. “This one’s labeled ‘sunlight angel’. And this one—oh my Godric, he put a HEART STICKER on this one—”

Sirius snatched it back, scandalized. “It’s artistic expression!”

“You’ve got one tucked into your wand permit,” James added, eyes wide. “Pads, be honest… are we gonna find one under your pillow?”

“I’m not a monster,” Sirius huffed. “That one’s laminated and goes in my boot.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Sirius. You’re a menace.”

He leaned over with a grin. “I’m a menace in love, sweetheart.”

You tried not to smile. You failed miserably.

“You’re completely ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he whispered, brushing a kiss against your cheek, “I’m still your ridiculously handsome, wallet-stuffing, picture-hoarding idiot, yeah?”

You looked at him—utterly smitten, utterly Sirius—and sighed.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “You’re mine.”

He beamed, all sunlight and smug satisfaction.

Until a photo slipped out of the back of the wallet and fluttered to the floor.

Remus picked it up.

It was of you, with a very noticeable smear of toothpaste on your chin.

You froze.

James gasped, delighted. “He laminated it.”

Sirius’s face turned crimson. “IT’S CANDID, OKAY?!”

You smirked.

“...You’re not getting any new ones for a week.”

Sirius groaned. “Worth it.”

[godricgryffinsnore]

The Heart On The Map ♡ : A Harry Potter Fan Fiction.

pairing : Harry Potter x fem!reader

summary : Harry’s secret affection for you quite literally glows, and a certain map reveals more than just footsteps. It's cozy, romantic, and sprinkled with the perfect amount of mischief.

warnings : Extreme fluff (like heart-squeezing, kiss-you-softly fluff), Secondhand embarrassment (Harry being adorably awkward), Teasing from friends (Ron and Hermione’s chaos), Magical PDA (glowing hearts on enchanted maps 💘), Slight possessiveness (in the “you’re mine and I worship you” way), Uncontrollable grinning and swooning may occur (reader beware). Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

word count : 1.1k

main master list <3

banners : @dollywons and @saradika-graphics

There were many things Harry Potter kept secret.

Like how he added double sugar to his tea when Hermione wasn’t looking. Like how he practiced his “relaxed, totally cool” smile in the mirror every time he passed you in the corridor. And most sacred of all—more than the passwords to Dumbledore’s office or the secret of the Chamber—was the Marauder’s Map.

But not for the reason you might think.

You see, somewhere between sixth year’s chaos and seventh’s slow-burning hush, Harry Potter had done something rather... sentimental. And completely irrational, if you asked Ron (which Harry never did).

He’d charmed a heart—small and shimmering—onto the very parchment the Marauders created, and it glowed, ever so softly, around one specific dot. Yours.

Not Ginny. Not Cho. You. The girl who laughed like a spell misfiring. The girl who once beat Malfoy at chess and made it look like art. The girl who borrowed his quill and returned it with tiny daisies drawn all over the feather.

And worst of all—or best, depending on how you looked at it—the girl who had no idea.

── .✦

It started on a Thursday.

A rainy, sleepy sort of Thursday, where the windows of the common room wept soft silver trails and the fire crackled with just enough drama to be comforting.

You flopped beside Harry on the couch with a groan that could’ve summoned a Healer.

“I’ve written ‘henceforth’ six times in this essay. Is that even legal?”

Harry laughed, setting the map aside (too quickly, if anyone were watching).

“You could say 'thus' instead,” he offered, but you shook your head.

“No. I’m reclaiming henceforth. It’s powerful. It’s poetic. It’s—” You paused, eyes narrowing. “Wait… was that the Marauder’s Map?”

Harry went rigid, like someone had hit him with a mild Petrificus Totalus. “Um. No?”

You arched a brow.

He sighed. “Yes.”

And before he could think—before his brain could outrun his heart—you were leaning over him, plucking the parchment off the cushion like it owed you answers.

It opened easily in your hands, revealing the winding paths and pulsing names. You blinked.

“Wait. Is that… a heart?”

Silence. A heartbeat. A single crack from the fire.

Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, Hero of the Light, Slayer of Serpents and Secrets, turned beet red.

“I—it’s just… it’s not a big—okay, yes, it’s a heart,” he mumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s dumb, I know. I can remove it—”

“Don’t,” you said, suddenly soft.

He peeked at you through his fingers.

You were staring at the heart-shaped glow, your own name twinkling in its center like stardust caught in moonlight.

“It’s cute,” you whispered. Then smirked. “Slightly stalker-ish. But cute.”

He groaned, flopping backward dramatically, his glasses askew.

“Why am I like this?”

You leaned closer, your hair brushing his shoulder, voice low and warm.

“Because you’re completely whipped for me, Potter.”

He made a strangled noise. “I am not whipped.”

You gently tapped his chest. “Then explain the heart on the ancient, priceless magical document.”

“I just… like knowing where you are,” he muttered. “So I can walk you to class. Or sit near you at lunch. Or save you a seat in the library.”

You bit your lip, your heart doing acrobatics. “That’s… very sweet. And sort of terrifying. But mostly sweet.”

Harry looked up at you then, every ounce of Gryffindor bravery burning in his stupidly green eyes.

“I like you, you know,” he said, breathless. “Really like you. Possibly dangerously. You make me forget how to speak in complete sentences sometimes.”

You smiled, slow and blooming.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I like you, too.”

And then, in the hush of the firelight and the steady tap of rain, you leaned down and kissed him. Soft. Honest. Like a promise and a poem had collided into lips.

Somewhere beneath the couch, the Marauder’s Map pulsed. The heart glowed brighter.

Harry Potter, for once, didn’t care who saw.

── .✦

It had been three days since the Marauder’s Map incident.

Three days since Harry had declared his undying affection with a magical glowing heart. Three days since you’d kissed him and made his brain short-circuit like a faulty Remembrall. Three days of absolute, uninterrupted, lovesick bliss.

Unfortunately, three days was also about as long as it took Ron Weasley to notice anything.

── .✦

"What's that glowing on the map?"

It happened during a perfectly innocent evening in the common room. You were working on homework. Harry had pulled out the map for “patrolling purposes” (translation: to check where you were every seven minutes). And Ron, bless his nosy soul, had leaned over his shoulder mid-yawn.

Harry froze. The map, sprawled open across his lap, was very clearly displaying your name, outlined in the shape of a fluttering, glowing, pulsating heart.

“Oh,” Ron said. “Oh. Oh?”

Harry panicked.

“That’s—nothing. A bug. A map bug. One of those… cartographical hexes.”

“Mate,” Ron deadpanned. “There is a literal love heart glowing around her name. What sort of maps have bugs shaped like affection?”

Hermione, already suspicious, looked up from her book. “What love heart?”

Ron grabbed the parchment and pointed like he’d discovered Atlantis.

“This! Look! Look at it twinkling, Hermione. Twinkling! Like it’s in love!”

Hermione took one look and broke into the most insufferable smirk this side of the Black Lake.

“Harry,” she said sweetly, too sweetly. “Did you… customize the Marauder’s Map?”

Harry buried his face in his hands. “I didn’t mean for anyone to see it!”

“Oh my God,” Ron said, now thoroughly scandalized. “This is worse than when Fred used the map to track Angelina’s bathroom schedule.”

You, meanwhile, were trying (and failing) not to laugh. “So… I’m twinkling now?”

Hermione was grinning. “Darling, you’re radiant. You have a magical beacon of Harry Potter’s undying affection around your name.”

“UNDYING AFFECTION?!” Harry squeaked.

Ron looked personally betrayed. “You put a heart on the map and didn’t tell me? What happened to bro code?”

“Ron, you nearly hexed yourself trying to flirt with a portrait last week.”

“That portrait winked at me!”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Honestly, you’re both hopeless.”

You leaned into Harry’s shoulder, cheek pressed to his robe, and murmured, “You can keep the heart, by the way. It’s cute.”

Harry turned red. “Yeah? You like it?”

“Really,” you hummed. “Might make one for your name next time.”

Ron clutched his chest like you’d stabbed him with a Cupid’s arrow. “I swear, if I see two glowing hearts, I’m transferring to Durmstrang.”

“Can’t,” Hermione said without looking up. “They’d never survive your emotional constipation.”

“Oi!”

── .✦

The heart stayed on the map. You added a star next to his name the next day. Ron did, in fact, see it and screamed into a pillow. Hermione stole the map once just to annotate it with color-coded bookmarks.

And Harry?

He just looked at you every time it glowed, whispered “she’s mine”, and blushed so deeply even the Fat Lady giggled.

[godricgryffinsnore]

fred weasley x gf!reader who’s actually incredibly smart. and fred fucking loves to listen to her ramble abt something new she learned, all dazed looking, with a big grin on his face as he stares at her lips move. and when he gets cuteness aggression, he’ll grab her face and kiss her all sloppy, no matter where they are. his favorite thing ever is watching his super smart gf become incredibly dumb when he fucks her. (she doesn’t have to be ravenclaw, she’s just smart kinda like hermione)

Brains and Bedhead ♡ : A Fred Weasley Fan Fiction.

pairing : Fred Weasley x fem!reader.

summary : A playful and passionate look into Fred Weasley’s love for his brilliant girlfriend—where wit meets worship, rambling turns to romance, and being smart has very unexpected consequences.

warnings : Suggestive content / implied sexual activity, Light smut (no explicit scenes, but strong innuendos), Mild language, Overwhelming fluff and humor, Fred Weasley being absolutely feral for his genius girlfriend. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's note : Anon!!! Your request was so good, I almost finished the entire fiction in one night!!! IT WAS SUCH A CUTE FIC TO WRITE AND MY BRAIN WAS SCREAMING WITH LINES AND IDEAS. THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING, ANON!!!!

word count : 0.6k

main master list <3

banners : @seldomstardom and @saradika-graphics

There was something almost divine about the way her mouth moved when she was excited about something. Fred Weasley didn’t quite believe in religion—unless you counted Quidditch or pranking professors—but when his girlfriend started talking about something she’d read, or theorized, or revolutionized in her pretty little head, he stared at her like a man at church. Worshipful. Dazed. Slightly drooling.

She was currently mid-ramble, pacing their shared dorm room with parchment tucked under one arm and her dressing gown half-falling off her shoulder—hair in disarray, wand stuck in it like a quill forgotten behind a poet’s ear.

“And if you apply vector transfiguration to a binding hex, you could theoretically reverse it—Fred, are you even listening?”

He wasn’t. He was staring. At her lips.

At the way they curved, pursed, twitched with thought. She was all bright-eyed brilliance and he was the dumb puppy who’d been hit by Cupid’s Howler.

“You’ve got the prettiest little mouth, you know that?” he murmured, leaning against the wall, hair a mess and shirt half-buttoned.

She blinked. “That’s not relevant to the theoretical implications of—mmf!”

He launched. With a gleam in his eye, he crossed the room in three long-legged strides, grabbed her face in both hands, and smashed a kiss to her lips—sloppy, breath-stealing, completely derailing.

“Fred—!” she gasped mid-smooch, but he just kept kissing her, chuckling between breaths.

“You’re too bloody smart for your own good, sweetheart,” he murmured against her mouth. “Makes me wanna kiss you stupid.”

And Merlin did he mean it.

She melted instantly—speechless for once, brain gone fuzzy like someone cast a silencing charm on her intelligence. She clung to his shoulders like they were anchors, and Fred felt the smug grin curl on his lips.

“Was that a theory on transfiguration or just dirty talk?” he teased, pulling back only an inch.

“I—I don’t remember,” she mumbled, dazed, eyes glazed over.

Fred beamed.

── .✦

He loved how clever she was. Really, he did. The way her mind worked was poetry with teeth. She could predict potion reactions like chess moves and memorize spells faster than anyone in the year.

But his favorite thing?

His absolute favorite thing was when that big, brilliant, overachieving brain of hers turned to mush.

Because when he had her in bed—her limbs tangled in sheets and her pretty lips parted with breathless gasps—his genius girlfriend became the most delicious, mindless, babbling mess he’d ever seen.

“Oh, fuck—Fred, I can’t—I can’t think—”

“Yeah?” he rasped, dragging his lips down her neck, utterly pleased with himself. “That clever little brain all scrambled now, love?”

She nodded, glassy-eyed, and he nearly groaned with how hot that was.

“You’re so good at everything, except thinking when I’m inside you, huh?”

Her only reply was a whimper.

── .✦

The next morning, he found her in the library, hair tied up again, glasses perched on her nose, and seven books stacked in front of her. She looked like a war general preparing for an academic siege.

Fred leaned over the table and whispered, “Still recovering from last night’s brain damage, darling?”

She flushed a deep crimson but didn’t look up.

“Shut up, Weasley.”

“Oh, that’s Mr. Weasley, certified IQ destroyer, to you.”

She shoved a book in his face, but he could see the smile tugging at her lips.

Fred kissed her temple and whispered, “I love you, brainiac.”

She rolled her eyes, muttering something about dopamine receptors and oxytocin, but he swore he saw her blush reach her ears.

And as he walked away, he turned and whispered, “Same time tonight?”

She didn’t answer. But she did bookmark her page with trembling fingers.

[godricgryffinsnore]

Like Hell You’re Flirting with Her ♡ : A Sirius Black Fan Fiction.

pairing : Sirius Black x fem!reader

summary : A hilarious, heart-melting moment unfolds in the Great Hall as Sirius Black’s feelings come to a head—complete with mischief, fluffy confessions, and a whole lot of teasing from his fellow Marauders.

warnings : Mild Jealousy/Possessiveness (Sirius gets very territorial—but it’s all fluffy and loving), Excessive Fluff (seriously tooth-rotting levels of affection), Public Displays of Affection (clingy Sirius alert!), Strong Language (light cursing, e.g., “like hell” and “damn”), Heavy Teasing/Banter (from James, Remus, and Peter—Sirius gets roasted, lovingly), Minor Embarrassment/Secondhand Embarrassment (poor Hufflepuff boy), Unhealthy Levels of Handsome Sirius Black Energy. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

word count : 0.6k

main master list <3

banners : @kodaswrld and @cafekitsune

The Great Hall was bursting with golden light, chatter bouncing off the enchanted ceiling. Laughter spilled from the Gryffindor table like honey—sweet, endless, sticky. You were sitting between Remus and a charming Hufflepuff boy, one leg tucked under the other, laughing softly at something that boy—James thought his name was Owen?—had said.

Sirius Black was not okay.

He was sulking. No, worse than sulking. He was brooding with a vengeance, stabbing at a poor piece of toast with such venom it crumbled under the pressure.

“She’s laughing,” he muttered darkly. “She never laughs at my jokes like that.”

James, chewing on a mouthful of eggs, barely glanced up. “Maybe because your jokes aren’t funny, Pads.”

Peter snorted into his pumpkin juice.

Remus, very serenely, turned a page in his book. “You’ve told her the one about the goblin and the cactus twelve times. And you always forget the punchline.”

“I don’t forget the punchline,” Sirius hissed. “I build suspense.”

“Oh, is that what you’re building?” James said sweetly. “Because it looks a lot like irrational jealousy.”

Sirius dragged a hand through his already wild hair. “She’s mine.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “You do realize you’ve never actually told her that, right? You just... follow her around like a very pretty, very loud dog.”

“Yeah,” Peter added, “A possessive one. Like a kneazle with abandonment issues.”

Sirius didn’t even blink. “I am not possessive.”

James pointed toward the Hufflepuff boy—now holding your wrist to admire your bracelet.

Sirius stood up so fast his bench screeched backward. “Like hell you’re flirting with her.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Remus muttered, half-laughing as he shut his book.

The Great Hall fell into a hush as Sirius strode—yes, strode, as if his boots were fueled by fury and forbidden poetry—toward you.

You blinked up, halfway through a giggle. “Sirius?”

He stopped just in front of you, jaw clenched, storm in his eyes, the kind of storm that made you want to open your arms and drown in it. He looked you up and down, looked at the poor Hufflepuff’s hand still lightly holding yours, then very deliberately slid his arm around your waist.

He turned to the other boy with a dazzling, razor-edged smile.

“She’s taken,” Sirius said smoothly. “Thanks for admiring what’s mine.”

The Hufflepuff blinked. “Oh. I didn’t—”

“Mine,” Sirius said again, to be clear, tugging you a little closer until you were practically in his lap.

You felt your cheeks bloom with heat, but your heart was already hammering a giddy rhythm. “Sirius—”

“You’re mine,” he repeated, softer this time, to you and not the world, voice like silk dipped in honey. “You always have been.”

You should’ve teased him. You meant to tease him. But the way his eyes bore into yours, all firelight and unspoken poetry, it cracked your ribs open a little.

“I know,” you whispered. “So are you.”

The table behind you erupted.

James was howling. “He said it! He actually said it!”

Remus looked delighted. “Took you long enough, Padfoot.”

Peter started miming dramatic kisses behind Sirius’s back.

Sirius didn’t care.

He tucked his face into your neck, arms wrapped tightly around you like he’d waited a thousand lifetimes for this, like your laugh was a song only he had the lyrics to.

“Mine,” he murmured again, and this time, it wasn’t a warning or a claim—it was a promise, etched in starlight, whispered into your skin like a vow.

── .✦

Later that night...

“Sirius?” you asked, curled in the Gryffindor common room, his head on your lap as he traced idle patterns into your knee.

“Mhm?”

“You know I only laughed at that guy’s joke because he had broccoli in his teeth, right?”

Sirius blinked. “You what?”

You laughed. “He had no idea.”

He stared at you, then collapsed into your lap with a groan. “I ruined his life for no reason.”

“Jealousy looks cute on you.”

“You look cute on me,” he muttered into your jumper, and you could feel the pout.

James passed by, grinning. “Oi, don’t forget to snog your property goodnight, Pads!”

Sirius flipped him off without lifting his head, but you kissed his hair anyway.

[godricgryffinsnore]

Dellaaaa hi my loveeeeee! Hope you are well and hope you've been having a great day so far!! Just wanna drop an idea here, up to you to write it out - but I've been thinking a lot about professional Quidditch player James and reader is interviewing him. He's all friendly and flirty with his answers and I just - swoooon at the thought of him giving out flirty answers to interviews.

Sending you lots of love, angel! mwaaa~

Bludgers and Butterflies ♡ : A James Potter Fan Fiction.

pairing : James Potter x fem!reader

summary : When a charming Quidditch star meets a shy but witty journalist during an interview, playful banter turns into something far more magical—proving that sometimes, all it takes is one conversation to change everything.

warnings : Extreme fluff, Mild suggestive flirting, Excessive charm from James Potter, Heart-melting romantic declarations, Potential swooning, (Proceed with caution—side effects may include giggling, blushing, and uncontrollable smiling.) Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's note : I am utterly delighted to write about Professional Quidditch Player James Potter—because honestly, who wouldn’t be?! The man’s got that messy hair, golden-boy charm, and enough flirt energy to power the entire Hogwarts castle. Writing this felt like sipping hot cocoa while being serenaded by a broomstick-riding flirt with a heart of gold. Huge thanks to Miko for requesting this—you’ve sparked a very fluffy daydream and filled it with smirks, blushes, and a whole lot of James Potter magic. 💫💛 Hope you enjoy, my love <3 and THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING!!!

word count : 1k

main master list <3

banners : @uzmacchiato and @cafekitsune

The lights of the press room glared down like a thousand eyes—unblinking, expectant, and annoyingly hot. James Potter leaned back in his chair with the practiced ease of someone who’d spent a lifetime being watched, admired, and occasionally tackled mid-air by Bulgarian Beaters.

And then she walked in.

Not the league president, not the publicist, not even the press coordinator with his eternal clipboard. Her. The interviewer.

She wasn’t wearing anything extraordinary—just a smart set of robes, ink-stained fingers, and the softest little smile. But Merlin, did she shine. Like a Snitch in sunlight. Like a poem whispered at midnight. Like the exact kind of trouble James would gladly fall headfirst into without a helmet.

He straightened up at once.

“Mr. Potter,” she greeted, offering her hand, her voice a melody dipped in honey and ink.

“Call me James,” he said, shaking it and wondering if she could hear the way his heart was currently conducting a Quidditch match in his chest. “Or future love of your life, if you prefer.”

She blinked. Laughed. Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Are you always this forward with journalists?”

“Only the ones who look like they walked out of my daydreams.”

Merlin’s pants, was that too much? He cursed internally. But she just gave him that shy little smile again—the one that felt like a bludger to the ribs.

They sat, and she brought out her quill. “Let’s begin. How does it feel to be the youngest Chaser to ever win the British-Irish League?”

James pretended to ponder. “Honestly? It feels like the world is conspiring to impress you.”

She let out a snort, quickly masked by a cough. “Stick to the sport, Mr. Potter.”

“Fine,” he said, grinning. “It feels good. Like scoring the winning goal while your mum’s in the stands and your dad’s pretending not to cry.”

She scribbled something down, cheeks tinged pink. “And what motivates you during high-pressure matches?”

“You.”

She looked up.

“Alright,” he amended with a smirk, “you and the sheer fear of getting smacked in the face by a rogue Quaffle. But mostly you.”

“I’m going to write that down, you know,” she warned, though the blush on her cheeks betrayed the storm he was starting in her heart.

“Please do. I want future generations to know that I fell for the girl who asked me about high-pressure matches and accidentally stole my soul.”

The interview continued, filled with professional questions answered with entirely unprofessional charm. She tried to remain composed, she really did. But James watched her fidget with the edge of her parchment, bite the tip of her quill, smile without meaning to.

By the end, she was flustered, flattered, and more than a little amused.

“Well,” she said, packing her things. “That’s all for today.”

James stood with her, his hand grazing hers by accident—or fate.

“Wait,” he said. “Before you go. Can I ask you something completely un-sport-related?”

She tilted her head. “Go on.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, his voice dropping just a little. “Can I have your number?”

She laughed—really laughed this time. And then, with a sigh that sounded like it carried every secret wish she’d ever had, she handed him a tiny piece of parchment with her name and contact information. A soft, shy smile bloomed on her lips.

James stared at it, then at her, as if he’d just been handed the map to every dream he didn’t know he had.

“This is it,” he said softly, to no one and everyone. “This is the woman I’m going to spend my entire waking life with.”

Her eyes widened. “You just met me.”

“I know,” he said, already breathless with devotion. “But I’ve caught Snitches in storms and played with broken fingers. And nothing has ever felt more right than you standing in front of me with ink on your hands and that smile on your lips.”

She smiled wider, a little dazed, a little delighted, and before she could reply, he stepped back like he’d fall even deeper if he stayed a moment longer.

── .✦

Later that night, James flopped onto his bed and pressed his enchanted mirror to his lips.

“Sirius.”

It took three seconds before Sirius Black’s face appeared, his hair a mess and his expression suspicious.

“Did you get hexed again?”

“No,” James said, a smile creeping onto his face, softer than clouds and warmer than Butterbeer. “I met someone.”

Sirius blinked. “What, like a fan?”

“No. Her.” James stared at the ceiling, dreamy and dazed. “She interviewed me today. And I swear, Pads, it was like flying without a broom. I’ve never felt something like this.”

“You’ve known her for five minutes,” Sirius deadpanned.

“I know, but—her smile, mate. It could unseat gravity. I made her laugh. She blushed. She gave me her number. And the second she did, I just knew. I want to be by her side. I want to see that smile every day. I want to be the one she talks to when she’s tired and when she’s happy and when her tea’s gone cold.”

Sirius stared at him like he’d been confunded.

“You’re not joking.”

James shook his head. “I never believed in love at first sight, but just one glance at her, and I felt like—like I’m home.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Sirius grinned. “You’re completely gone.”

James sighed, lovestruck. “Completely.”

And for once, Sirius didn’t tease. He just nodded.

“Then go get her, mate. Go find your home.”

[godricgryffinsnore]

Hi Della!

I've been going through and reading all your one-shots recently and I absolutely adore them, so I was wondering if you would mind writing one based on this prompt:

James Potter falling for a Hufflepuff he just keeps happening to 'run into' in the kitchens. Ice-cream kisses and quiet evenings <3

Strawberry Kisses and Stolen Spoons ♡ : A James Potter Fan Fiction.

pairing : James Potter x fem!hufflepuff!reader

summary : In the quiet of late-night Hogwarts, sweet treats and chance encounters stir up something unexpectedly magical between two students who just keep bumping into each other. 🍓✨

warnings : Excessive giggling, blushing, Marauders being insufferable, reader falling hard, James Potter being ridiculous in love. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's notes : UGH BABE!!! THIS ASK WAS SOO CUTE I COULDN'T RESIST WRITING THIS IN A SINGLE DAY. And while plotting, I was hopelessly falling in love with James Fleamont Potter more and more. I mean? Who can even resist him..? Definitely not me.

word count : 1k

main master list <3

banners : @uzmacchiato and @cafekitsune

It started—like all catastrophes and love stories do—in the middle of the night, and with a stolen spoon.

The Hufflepuff kitchens were silent, bathed in the golden warmth of sleepy candlelight. You tiptoed in with your cardigan slipping off one shoulder and your hair in a sleep-mussed mess, craving nothing more than a scoop (or five) of the house-elves’ infamous strawberry ice cream.

And then you heard it. A crash. A clatter. A very loud “BUGGERING HELL—!”

You spun around and came face-to-face with a wild-haired James Potter, one socked foot tangled in a tea towel, holding an ice cream tub as if it were sacred.

“Oh—uh, hullo,” he said, eyes wide behind his glasses. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“You’re holding my strawberry ice cream,” you deadpanned, pointing an accusing spoon at him.

“I am,” he nodded gravely. “And I’m very sorry, I didn't realize I’d stumbled into a crime scene.”

You laughed, completely helpless against the lopsided grin he flashed you. Merlin, he was cute. In a manic, over-caffeinated kneazle sort of way.

That night, you shared the ice cream and laughed into the soft silence of the kitchens. He kept offering you more than your fair share, and when your spoon accidentally brushed his, he gasped like he’d just touched a ghost.

You didn’t know it then, but James Potter fell in love with you the moment you snorted ice cream out of your nose.

── .✦

Night Two.

He was already there. Sitting on the counter, legs swinging like a child, waiting with two spoons and an ice cream tub so cold it fogged his glasses.

You raised an eyebrow. “Stalking me, Potter?”

James clutched his chest. “Is it stalking if it’s destiny, darling?”

You rolled your eyes, but sat beside him anyway. He scooted closer. Your knees bumped.

"You're absurd."

“And yet you’re here,” he grinned.

── .✦

From then on, it was every night. Sometimes he brought treacle tart. Sometimes you brought pumpkin pasties. Once, he attempted to bake cookies and nearly set his sleeve on fire. (You saved him, and he called you his “goddess of confections” for a full week.)

He started telling stories. Ridiculous, exaggerated tales of Quidditch practice, Remus getting a love letter from Snape, Sirius hexing McGonagall’s chair to meow every time someone sat on it. You giggled until your sides hurt.

And then there were the kisses.

It started with whipped cream on your nose. He leaned in, eyes sparkling, and pressed his lips to the tip of your nose like he couldn’t help himself.

“Got it,” he whispered.

The next night, it was chocolate sauce on your lip. A slow lean. A breath between you.

And then—soft. Sugary. Sweet.

Ice cream kisses. Like stolen stars in the quiet dark.

── .✦

Meanwhile, in the Gryffindor dormitory:

“I swear to Merlin, he smells like strawberries,” Sirius muttered, sniffing James’s collar.

Remus looked up from his book. “Again?”

“He’s obsessed,” Peter added. “All he does is mope and write bad poetry.”

“I AM A POET, PETER,” James bellowed dramatically from his bed, quill flying. “SHE HAS SUNLIGHT IN HER LAUGH AND HONEY IN HER SMILE—”

“You’ve got ice cream in your soul, mate,” Sirius snorted. “And whipped cream for brains.”

── .✦

You noticed the change too. The way he started walking you to class “accidentally,” popping up beside you like an overly excited golden retriever.

“Funny seeing you here,” he’d say every time, without fail. Even if you were in the Hufflepuff common room.

He always carried a spoon. “Just in case.”

You laughed until your cheeks hurt. Blushed until your neck warmed. He was relentless in the most ridiculous, charming way.

And you were falling.

Slowly. Steadily. With every late-night dessert, every spoon duel, every time he looked at you like you were magic made real.

── .✦

The Night It All Fell Apart (And Then Fell Together):

You didn’t show up.

James waited. For two hours. Ate half a tub of mint chocolate chip in despair.

When he returned to the dorms, Sirius looked up and said, “She’s probably busy, mate.”

“Busy?” James wailed. “Busy?! We are meant to be! I’ve had dreams about our wedding! The cake is strawberry. You’re all wearing yellow suits.”

“You’ve lost it,” Remus said fondly.

“I’m in love, Moony,” James declared. “Do you know what that means?”

“It means he’s going to write another terrible sonnet,” Sirius whispered to Peter.

── .✦

You showed up the next night.

His hair was a mess, eyes tired, tub of rocky road in hand like a sad little offering.

“Hey,” you said, breathless. “Sorry I missed yesterday. Had an Arithmancy essay.”

James blinked.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” he said, and tackled you into a hug so tight you almost dropped your spoon.

You laughed, head tucked into his neck, and whispered, “You missed me?”

“Like a dementor misses souls, love.”

“That's…dark.”

He pulled back to look at you.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he said, suddenly serious, fingers brushing your cheek. “I know I’m an idiot. And a bit dramatic. And I eat too much sugar. But I—Merlin—I’m head over heels for you.”

You didn’t say anything. Just leaned forward and kissed him.

He tasted like rocky road and hope.

── .✦

Bonus: Gryffindor Common Room, the next morning.

“He’s glowing,” Sirius hissed. “Glowing, I say.”

“Strawberry lipstick stain,” Peter added, pointing at James’s collar.

Remus looked up from his essay. “How many tubs of ice cream have you shared now?”

James, eyes dreamy, replied, “Seventeen. And a half.”

Sirius groaned. “That’s seventeen brain cells lost.”

“Worth it,” James sighed, kicking his feet. “She called me sweet last night.”

“You are sweet,” you said, poking your head into the common room. “Especially when you’re flustered.”

James’s head whipped around so fast, he nearly fell off the couch.

“See?” he said, beaming. “She loves me.”

And Merlin help you, you did.

Even if he still brought a spoon everywhere.

[godricgryffinsnore]

Heyyyyyy Della!

I have a request, go on if you want.

Here it goes:

Y/n is a transfer student from any random country/magic school and her and Hermione are immediate friends because of shared traits.

The thing is- Harry and her have a 'I love you but I will pretend I hate you' relationship.

If you actually write it — I am goddamn excited.

Yours,

V ;༊

She Came in Like Thunder ♡ : A Harry Potter Fan Fiction.

pairing : Harry Potter x fem!reader

summary : A fiery transfer student shakes up Hogwarts, instantly bonding with Hermione and clashing with Harry in a whirlwind of witty insults, stolen glances, and unresolved tension. Amid snowy chaos, glittering banter, and accidental confessions, two love-struck idiots slowly realize that maybe “hate” was just their favorite disguise for love.

warnings : Light profanity, Mild magical mischief, Flirty insults / teasing, Excessive pining and fluff, Secondhand embarrassment from two idiots in love, Truth potion chaos, Mentions of blushing, kissing, and heart-thumping feelings. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's note : I was giggling and laughing the entire time when I was plotting out this request. I hope you do enjoy it <3 AND THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING!!!

word count : 0.9k

main master list <3

banners : @fawndollie and @saradika-graphics

Hogwarts had seen its fair share of chaos: trolls in bathrooms, flying cars, Quidditch riots, and Fred and George Weasley’s existence in general. But it was woefully unprepared for you.

You arrived on a rainy Tuesday morning with wind in your coat and fire in your stride, eyes sharp as phoenix flame. A transfer from Castelobruxo, the Brazilian wizarding school nestled in the jungle—where students tamed magical beasts before breakfast and performed wandless magic with the grace of dancers.

You were thunder wrapped in charm.

Hermione Granger liked you immediately.

“She reads three books a week and corrects professors when they misquote theory,” she whispered in awe to Harry at breakfast. “We’re practically soulmates.”

Harry, whose spoon had been halfway to his mouth, dropped it and scowled.

“Brilliant,” he muttered. “Another overachiever. As if one wasn’t enough.”

Ron blinked. “Jealous much?”

“No,” Harry snapped too quickly. “She just… looks like she’d hex someone for sneezing too loudly.”

“She saved Neville from a rogue Bludger yesterday.”

“She also called me ‘Scarboy Supreme’ in the library.”

Hermione hummed. “Yes, but she smiled when she said it.”

And that was the problem.

Because every time you tossed a smug quip Harry’s way, you smiled like a secret. And Harry, poor boy, kept falling for it.

── .✦

You were infuriating.

You hummed while working, corrected his wand grip without asking, and once said, "Your disarming spell is cute. Like a kitten trying to roar."

You left feathers in his inkpot. Charmed his robes to sing Celestina Warbeck when he got too cocky. You always looked too amused, too untouched by his scowls.

And the worst part?

You were brilliant. Better than him in Charms. Equally sharp in Defense. Fast on a broom. And you laughed like the sun got caught in your throat.

Harry couldn’t stand it.

He also couldn’t look away.

── .✦

“She’s annoying.”

“You’re in love with her,” Hermione said simply, not looking up from Advanced Arithmancy.

Harry sputtered. “Excuse me?”

“Anyone with a functioning brain can see it,” she added, underlining a line. “You hate her like a Victorian poet hates the moon—loudly, obsessively, while penning love sonnets behind a curtain.”

Ron choked on his biscuit. “He what?”

“I do not write sonnets!”

“Please,” Hermione said dryly. “You literally wrote ‘Her eyes are like bottled lightning’ in the margins of your Transfiguration notes.”

Harry turned red.

“That was metaphorical!”

“Sure, Potter.”

── .✦

And then came the snowball incident.

It was the first snowfall of December. Students frolicked. Couples kissed under enchanted mistletoe. Hogwarts looked like a greeting card. And you were perched on a bench in the courtyard, scarf draped like you were posing for an autumn fashion catalogue.

Harry was watching you again.

He didn’t mean to. His eyes just gravitated toward you like they were bewitched.

You were reading—of course you were—and twirling your wand in that dangerous way that made boys stupid and girls swoon. He scowled.

You looked up.

Smirked.

And flicked your wand.

BAM—a snowball slapped him directly across the face.

Harry sputtered. You grinned.

“Oh dear,” you said sweetly. “Did I hit something important?”

He stomped over, red-cheeked, snow in his hair. “You are a menace.”

“And you are terrible at ducking.”

“You did that on purpose.”

“I know,” you said, too brightly. “Because I like seeing you flustered.”

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it. Considered his life choices.

And then, before he could talk himself out of it, he flung a snowball at you.

It missed.

You laughed.

God, that laugh.

Harry swore his heart was no longer his own.

── .✦

Later that evening…

“You’re smiling,” Hermione said, her eyes not leaving her book.

“No, I’m not.”

“Snow in your hair. Glitter on your robes. And you’re humming. Harry, be serious.”

Ron nodded solemnly. “Only two people make you this weird: Cho Chang and Butterbeer. And you don’t look sticky.”

Harry buried his face in his arms. “I hate her.”

“You love her.”

“Do not.”

“She called you pretty.”

“She called me a sentient broomstick.”

“She also asked you to walk her to the Owlery.”

Harry groaned. “She made me walk her to the Owlery. Said I had ‘stalker energy’ and might as well make myself useful.”

“And you went.”

“…Shut up.”

── .✦

Confession came by accident.

Well, by accident and a rogue Truth Charm gone wrong during Slughorn’s New Year’s Party.

“Tell us your deepest desire,” Seamus challenged Harry with a giggle, waving the glittering vial.

“Don’t drink that—” Hermione warned.

But it was too late.

Harry, flustered, dramatic, utterly cursed, downed the potion like an idiot.

“I’m in love with her,” he blurted.

The room froze.

“Merlin’s pants,” Ron whispered.

Harry looked horrified. “I mean, I hate her. Violently. With feelings. That live in my chest. Like traitors.”

You—standing nearby—blinked.

Then walked right up to him.

And kissed him.

It was soft. Hot. Terrifying.

Like finally touching fire you’ve stared at too long.

“God,” you whispered. “You’re so slow, Potter.”

“You knew?” he asked, dazed.

“I've been in love with you since you tripped over your shoelaces and called me a 'hex-hazard.'”

Harry smiled.

He was doomed.

He was delighted.

── .✦

The Aftermath

You still called him Scarface. He still charmed your books to hum. But now, there were stolen kisses in hidden alcoves, smirks behind held hands, and whispered “I love you” spoken like dares.

“I still hate you,” he said once, breathless, forehead against yours.

“I hate you more,” you replied, kissing him again.

And somehow, that meant forever.

[godricgryffinsnore]

To My Favorite Victim, With Love ♡ : A Fred Weasley Fan Fiction.

pairing : Fred Weasley x fem!reader

summary : A poetic, heartwarming story filled with laughter, mischief, and growing affection as Fred Weasley turns pranks into love notes—and chaos into something unexpectedly tender.

warnings : Light prank-related chaos, Secondhand embarrassment (mild), Excessive fluff, Teasing banter, One (1) very flirty redhead, No major triggers—just a magical whirlwind of soft humor and affectionate mayhem. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3. This is a drabble, i.e., an extremely short fan fiction.

della’s note : Guys, I am really sorry if it’s bad.. I had to write in a hurry, since I had classes the next day. I had started this fan fiction last night, and finished it in 3 hours. This is the fastest I have ever written, lmao. Had these ideas flowing in my mind and had to type it out in a hurry.. Also, I haven’t rechecked anything, so please excuse if there are any grammatical mistakes or spelling mistakes. I promise the next fiction will be thoroughly checked and properly delivered. Thank you for your patience. <3 Again, hope you enjoy <333

word count : 0.6k

main master list <3

banners : @anitalenia and @cafekitsune

The first time it happened, you thought it was an accident.

Your quill burst into violet ink mid-Charms class, painting a constellation of splotches across your essay—and your forehead. You had sputtered and gasped, wiping at your face with the hem of your sleeve. Professor Flitwick, bless his tiny heart, gave you a handkerchief and a sad, sympathetic smile.

But tucked under your textbook, you found it. A tiny square of parchment that read, in curling, careless handwriting:

“To my favorite victim, Consider it art. Love, Fred.”

You’d blushed so hard, you could’ve ignited the entire Ravenclaw common room.

And that was just the beginning.

── .✦

Week by week, prank by prank, Fred Weasley turned your days into mayhem dipped in sugar. Your morning scrolls would unfurl with whoopee cushions. Your socks would chirp if you walked too fast. One time, a bouquet of tulips in Herbology screeched “Marry Me!” every time you touched them.

Each time, the same note:

“To my favorite victim, I’ve missed you. Love, Fred.”

── .✦

“Why me?” you groaned one evening in the library, picking green glitter out of your hair. “Why not Lee Jordan? Or one of your brothers? Or literally anyone else on this godforsaken planet?”

Fred, sitting across from you and pretending to study (he was clearly drawing a dragon wearing glasses), grinned.

“Because,” he said, not even looking up, “you make the best expressions. Like a tragically beautiful pigeon being startled mid-flight.”

George snorted from beside him. “He’s lying. It’s because he’s in love.”

Fred kicked him under the table.

You choked on your tea. “Excuse me?”

Fred didn’t even blink. “He’s clearly projecting.”

“On what?” George asked. “Her lips?”

Fred kicked harder.

── .✦

You tried to resist him. Oh, you did.

But it was hard not to smile when Fred’s pranks began shifting from harmless chaos to heartfelt mischief. A scarf that tightened when you were sad—just enough to hug. A chocolate frog that sang your favorite lullaby. An enchanted journal that doodled little hearts when you wrote his name (which you definitely did not do intentionally, thank you very much).

And always, those notes.

“To my favorite victim, Don’t disappear. Love, Fred.”

── .✦

The moment of surrender came on a Saturday morning.

You stepped into the Great Hall and were immediately bombarded by soft, floating bubbles. Not just any bubbles—each one contained a snapshot of you. Laughing. Reading. Twirling your hair in the library. Staring dreamily out a window. All moments you hadn’t known anyone else noticed.

And in the center of the room, standing tall on the Gryffindor table, wand raised like a conductor, was Fred.

The hall erupted with laughter and a few “awww”s, but all you could see was him.

His grin faltered just slightly when he saw you weren’t running away or turning red.

You walked right up to him, climbed onto the bench (to a chorus of “oooohs”), and stood level with his face.

“Fred Weasley,” you whispered. “I’ve been plotting your downfall for weeks.”

He leaned in, lips a breath from yours. “You’ve been plotting mine? Sweetheart, I’ve been writing poems about yours.”

You kissed him.

Right there. Among bubbles and giggles and floating, glowing moments of your own joy.

── .✦

Later that evening, he handed you one final note.

No glitter. No ink trap. No prank.

Just parchment that smelled faintly like cinnamon and honey:

“To my favorite victim, You were never the punchline. You were the reason I started laughing again. Love, Fred.”

── .✦

And this time, you wrote one back.

“To my favorite mischief-maker, I love you too. But if you dye my hair purple again, You’re sleeping outside with the garden gnomes.”

[godricgryffinsnore]

Regulus Black trying to explain why divinationstudent!reader sees nothing but water in his future (he can't tell her the plan and make her a liability) angst and a lot of trying to distract her with other things... 💗

Where the Water Takes You ♡ : A Regulus Black Fan Fiction.

pairing : Regulus Black x divination!student!reader

summary : Years after Regulus Black’s death, a Divination student who once saw nothing but water in his future uncovers a hidden letter explaining the truth behind his sacrifice. As memories resurface and grief crashes over her like a tide, she finally understands the boy who died with her name in his heart—and the ocean in his fate.

warnings : Canon character death, Grief and mourning, War themes and aftermath, Emotional manipulation (through secrecy), Mentions of drowning, Intense angst, Survivor’s guilt, Poetic but heavy emotional language. Please let me know if I missed any <3

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's note : Okay so this? WOW, the request had me shook. I cried the entire time writing this because Regulus Arcturus Black has had a painful death and he did not deserve any of it. But thank you so so so much for requesting. I hope you enjoy <3

word count : 1.5k

main master list <3

1st picture credit goes to @panchashire!!! 💗💗💗

banners : @omi-resources and @cafekitsune

The first time you saw it, it shimmered blue and endless—an ocean folding in on itself, soft and infinite.

Water.

Not fire. Not war. Not darkness.

Not death.

Just water.

You looked into the bottom of your teacup, the leaves swirling like whispers caught in a storm, and all you could think of was him.

“Regulus,” you murmured, blinking slowly, “I think something’s wrong with your future.”

He looked up from his Potions textbook with that maddening, aristocratic calm. One elegant brow arched like he’d been summoned by a question far too trivial to be worth his time.

“Is that so?” he asked, all silk and thorns.

You swallowed. “I keep seeing water. Only water. Nothing else.”

── .✦

He came to every divination session after that. You hadn’t invited him. He simply… began to appear. Draped in his Slytherin uniform like it was war armor, with his hair combed perfectly back, lips smirking in subtle disapproval of the incense curling around him.

“I find tea revolting,” he’d murmur, sipping anyway. “Like drinking perfume. But I suppose, for you, I’ll endure.”

You rolled your eyes, and he smiled.

But when you peered into his cup again—

Water. Water. Always water.

“Could mean you're going on a cruise,” he said dryly. “Perhaps a romantic elopement with someone tall, charming, and much less emotionally unavailable than I am.”

“Stop deflecting,” you said, your voice low. “This is serious.”

Regulus tilted his head. “You’re far too charming when you’re trying to worry about me.”

“Regulus—”

“You should be more worried about yourself,” he whispered, brushing your cheek with knuckles cold as marble. “Being near me is a liability.”

── .✦

He never told you.

Not when he kissed you by the Black Lake like he was afraid the moment would drown him. Not when he held you in the Astronomy Tower, whispering constellations against your collarbone like prayers. Not when he said, “If there’s ever a future where I’m not in it… I want you to keep looking for stars.” Not even when you begged to know why you saw nothing but water in the crystal ball.

He laughed it off with charm that cracked at the edges.

He told you to try reading his palm instead, “At least then you get to hold my hand.”

He told you, “Maybe I’ll become a mermaid. My hair would suit the aesthetic.”

He told you everything and nothing, like a boy trying to build a dam against a flood he’d already chosen to drown in.

── .✦

The night he left, the cup shattered.

The water spilled across your floor. Your fingertips trembled with the cold.

You knew.

Oh, you knew.

You tore through the common room in bare feet, screamed into the fire in the Slytherin dorms, begged Kreacher at the edge of the kitchens—but Regulus Black was gone.

── .✦

And under the cave, in the silence of the Inferi’s water, he died alone.

He drank poison until his hands shook too hard to hold the locket. He gasped for air that wasn’t there. He cast spell after spell, but the dead pulled him down, saltless and blind, arms like anchors. And as the darkness closed over him, he did not scream. He thought of your eyes. He thought of your tea leaves. He thought of how you always called him stubborn, how you never saw a future with him in it—only water.

And then he was gone.

Just like that.

── .✦

You found his journal years later. Stuffed behind a charm textbook in Grimmauld Place.

“I couldn’t tell her. She’s the one good thing I’ve done without being told to.” “She deserves a future I can’t give her. But I hope she finds one where I’m not just another ripple.” “If she sees water, I hope it’s a lake where she swims, not one where I drowned.”

── .✦

You never drank tea again. You hated the taste of perfume.

But every year, on the day he vanished, you filled a cup and poured it into the sea.

And you whispered,

“I saw the ocean before you fell into it, Regulus. I just didn’t know I was already drowning.”

── .✦

The letter which Regulus wrote before his sacrifice:

To You, My Light.

If you are reading this, I’ve already walked into the water.

I wish I could say I walked away from you instead, but I didn’t. I carried you with me. Every breath I took, every lie I told, every moment I pretended I was still a boy who had a chance at something like forever.

But the truth, darling, is that I never belonged in the future you saw. I was always meant to disappear beneath it.

There’s a locket.

A cursed one, black as sin and bright as betrayal. It belonged to the Dark Lord. It's a piece of his soul—yes, his soul. He tore it apart and hid it in trinkets like trophies. He thinks it makes him immortal.

I found one. I planned to take it, to destroy it. And I knew that doing so would destroy me too.

I didn't tell you. Not because I didn't trust you—but because I did. Too much. You would have followed me. You would have burned your wings to drag me out of that cave.

And I couldn't let you die for a future I already ruined.

The water you saw, in every cup, every crystal—it wasn’t a symbol, it was a map. The lake. The Inferi. The place I chose to end it. Not for glory. Not even for redemption.

But for a chance. For a real one. For Harry. For the war. For you.

I hope the war ends with someone braver than I am standing in the light. I hope you laugh again. I hope you fall in love again, though I know I have no right to hope that. I hope, when you look at the water now, you see the sky reflected in it. Not me.

But if you do see me—

Just know I never regretted loving you.

Not for a second.

Not even while drowning.

Forever yours, Regulus Arcturus Black (Your fool, your ghost, your greatest liar)

── .✦

The house still smelled like dust and ghosts.

You hadn’t stepped inside Grimmauld Place since the war ended—since Harry had claimed it by blood and sorrow. Even then, you'd kept away from the drawing room, the library, the staircase with that one step he always skipped.

You couldn’t look at this house without seeing him. Without smelling the ink he used. Without hearing his voice curl around your name like a prayer he wasn’t allowed to say out loud.

But today—today you let yourself in.

Not to remember. To let go.

That was the idea, anyway.

You wandered through the study on accident, really. Your fingers brushed old spines, parchment, and corners of shelves that had memorized his silhouette better than you ever could. You weren’t even sure what you were looking for—until you found it.

Tucked behind a worn copy of Secrets of the Darkest Art and a shattered inkwell.

His journal.

You recognized the emerald thread binding it. The neat handwriting on the spine. The way the corner was slightly torn—he’d torn it himself, in a fit of frustration, the day he got blood on the page and couldn’t stand the imperfection.

It fell open on its own. Almost willingly.

And nestled between the pages, folded like a secret never meant to be found—

The letter.

The seal crumbled under your thumb. The wax broke like a curse releasing itself into the air. Your hands trembled. You tried to laugh, to curse, to breathe.

And then you read it.

Line after line. Word after word. Ink bleeding into the cracks of your soul.

“If you are reading this, I’ve already walked into the water…” “There’s a locket…” “You would have followed me.”

You sank to the floor. No ceremony, no grace—just knees hitting wood like you were praying to something long dead.

“Regulus,” you whispered. His name. That name. “You absolute, arrogant, beautiful fool.”

You pressed the letter to your chest. Held it like it could beat for you. Like it could speak the words he never did. The ones he took to the bottom of that cave.

And then the tears came.

Not the quiet kind. Not the dignified, war-hardened sobs you’d trained yourself to release behind bathroom doors.

This was grief raw and childlike. This was ten years of silence collapsing inside you.

He loved you. He always had.

He died for the world. But he left you behind in it.

You crawled toward the hearth and fed the fire with your sobs, staring into the flames like they might give you a vision again—some final glimpse of him.

But there was only water in your eyes. Only echoes in your chest.

You took his journal. Clutched it like a relic. And when you left Grimmauld Place, you didn’t look back.

But you whispered one thing into the wind, just in case the ghosts were listening.

“I forgive you. But I’ll never stop waiting by the shore.”

[godricgryffinsnore]

Harry and YN building up their dream home.

[a random 4 am request]

Blueprints, Blunders, and Butterbeer ♡ : A Harry Potter Fan Fiction.

pairing : Harry Potter x fem!reader

summary : A whimsical and heartwarming tale of Harry and his love building their dream home from scratch—complete with laughter, mishaps, and magic—proving that the best kind of home is one built together.

warnings : Pure fluff and domestic chaos, Light comedic injury (hammer vs. thumb), Excessive use of charm, puns, and enchanted vegetables, May cause uncontrollable smiling and the urge to redecorate with your partner 🧱💫. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's note : Currently only focusing on emptying my inbox. Please feel free to send more requests <3. Hope you enjoy!!

word count : 0.8k

main master list <3

banners : @anitalenia and @cafekitsune

🪄✨

You’d always thought building your dream home with Harry Potter would be a romantic whirlwind of soft music, shared paintbrushes, and spontaneous kisses under newly installed doorframes.

It was not.

It was chaos.

“I thought you said you knew how to use a hammer,” you muttered, arms crossed, staring down at your boyfriend, who was currently sprawled on the floor with a bruised thumb and a look of betrayal.

“I do!” Harry insisted, looking deeply offended. “Just… not when the nails are acting like Slytherins.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What does that even mean?”

“They keep dodging my strikes and judging me.”

You snorted. “Pretty sure the nails aren’t judging you, sweetheart.”

He looked up at you mournfully. “They definitely are.”

🧱

It all started with an ancient cottage on the edge of Ottery St. Catchpole—ramshackle and vine-choked, with more personality than practicality. You and Harry had fallen in love with it immediately. It needed “a bit of work,” which you now understood to mean: it needed everything.

Day one had been about demolition.

“I don’t know if this wall is load-bearing,” you’d said.

Harry, wand in hand, beamed. “There’s one way to find out.”

Three loud cracks, a puff of plaster, and a very angry gnome later, you had discovered it was, in fact, load-bearing.

“We’ll fix it,” he’d promised sheepishly, brushing dust off your head and kissing your temple.

Day five was the plumbing disaster.

Harry had insisted on trying a Muggle method, “just to learn.”

You were still not over the geyser that had burst from the kitchen sink, soaking you both and leaving you looking like wet rats huddling over a how-to YouTube video. He handed you a cup of tea afterward, his hair still dripping. “I think we invented a new water feature.”

You almost hexed him.

But then he grinned, wide and hopeful, and you forgave him again.

🖌️

By week three, things started coming together.

You painted the bedroom a warm, golden hue, and Harry spelled the ceiling to look like the night sky, complete with a little enchanted shooting star that zoomed by every hour.

“I named that one after you,” he said one night, pointing at a sparkling star near the center.

You looked up at it, breath catching. “Really?”

“Yeah. It’s the brightest. And slightly chaotic.”

You smacked him with a pillow, and he cackled.

🌱

The garden was your pride and joy. You planted wildflowers and grew your own vegetables (or tried to).

“Why are the carrots floating?” you asked, peering over the raised bed.

Harry scratched his head. “I may have used Wingardium Leviosa instead of fertilizer.”

“HARRY.”

He dropped the carrot mid-air. It bonked him on the head.

He pretended to die dramatically in your freshly planted dahlias.

“I’m not helping you up,” you said, but you were laughing too hard to sound convincing.

🎶

Then came furnishing day.

You discovered Harry had absolutely no taste in furniture. He wanted beanbags in the living room. Bright orange ones.

“Why orange?”

“They’re like the Chudley Cannons!”

“They also look like pumpkins that lost their will to live.”

After a passionate debate that may or may not have involved you threatening to transfigure them into literal pumpkins, you compromised: one sad orange beanbag in the corner—“The Timeout Chair”—and a proper sofa you picked together.

He sulked dramatically in the beanbag for an hour and only came out when you made hot cocoa and told him he was your favorite wizard, even if his interior design skills were suspicious at best.

🔥

The final touch was the fireplace.

Harry insisted on building it by hand.

“I want us to have a place we sit by in the winters,” he said. “Where I propose. Where our kids fall asleep with cocoa mustaches and Christmas jumpers too big for them.”

You blinked, trying not to cry.

That was how you found yourself handing him bricks and biting your tongue every time he placed one crookedly.

“Are you crying?” he asked one evening as you both sat in front of the finished (and slightly uneven) fireplace.

“No,” you sniffled, tucking your face into his jumper.

He pulled you into his lap, kissed your forehead. “You’re thinking about the cocoa mustaches, aren’t you?”

You nodded.

“I’m thinking about our kids stealing biscuits before dinner and blaming the dog.”

“We don’t have a dog.”

He looked very serious. “We’ll need one. For the blame, obviously.”

🎇

The first night you stayed in the cottage, it still smelled like paint and plaster, and half the wardrobe doors were missing. But you were curled in bed beside Harry, wrapped in a blanket, his arm tucked tight around your waist.

“Think it’s perfect,” he whispered, brushing a kiss against your shoulder.

You looked around your slightly crooked dream home—your scratched floorboards, your starry ceiling, your half-working plumbing—and smiled.

“It is.”

He grinned, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Just wait ‘til I install the quidditch pitch in the backyard.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Too late, already drew the blueprints.”

You rolled your eyes and kissed him anyway.

After all, it was your dream home.

And it was filled with love, laughter, magic—and one very determined, hammer-incompetent Harry Potter.

[godricgryffinsnore]

Rainy Day Cuddles ♡ : A James Potter Fan Fiction.

pairing : James Potter x female!reader

summary : On a rainy day at Hogwarts, James Potter finds the perfect excuse to be over-the-top romantic, pulling the reader into his warmth and silliness—all while the Marauders add their signature banter in the background. It’s cozy, chaotic, and full of love.

warnings : Excessive fluff, Overdramatic James Potter antics, Mild language, Light teasing and playful banter, Extreme secondhand embarrassment (courtesy of the Marauders), Tooth-rotting sweetness, Use of Y/N. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

word count : 1k

main master list <3

banners : @cafekitsune and @dollywons

The storm outside raged with a fierceness that could rival a Hungarian Horntail, the heavy rain hammering against the windows of the Gryffindor common room. Inside, the fire crackled merrily in the hearth, sending dancing shadows across the cozy room. The warmth from the fire was a stark contrast to the cold, dreary world outside, and as you settled into an armchair near the window, a content sigh escaped your lips. You were surrounded by piles of homework, but somehow, the sight of the rain made it all feel less pressing.

James Potter, however, was less concerned about homework and far more preoccupied with a different task: how to make this rainy evening as absolutely perfect as possible. His eyes flickered to you from across the room, where he had been pretending to study. But in reality, he was waiting for just the right moment to do something utterly ridiculous and over-the-top, as he often did.

And of course, his timing was impeccable.

“Y/N!” James called dramatically, sweeping over to where you sat, arms wide like a hero from a Shakespearean play. “My fair lady!” he proclaimed, a wide grin spreading across his face. “I have come to rescue you from the dreadful, dreadful cold! My heart aches to see you in such discomfort.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused by his antics. “James, you’re so overdramatic.”

“Overdramatic?” he gasped, eyes wide in mock outrage. “I am but a humble servant of love, a knight in shining armor, risking life and limb to save you from the very chill of the heavens themselves!”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you patted the seat next to you. “Alright, Sir James, come sit then. I don’t think I can handle all that heroism standing up.”

James lowered his voice to a whisper as he dramatically flopped down beside you, his body practically falling across yours with a sigh. “Alas, my noble heart is but a slave to your company.”

The Marauders, who had been lounging nearby, couldn’t help but overhear the spectacle. Sirius Black, who had been reading an ancient issue of Witch Weekly, looked up, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“Please tell me you’re not going to pull this ‘knight in shining armor’ act every time it rains,” Sirius drawled, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “You’ve got more dramatic lines than an entire play at the West End.”

James grinned, unabashed. “Oh, Sirius, you’re just jealous. Not everyone is blessed with the talent to sweep a lady off her feet with a single glance.” He gave you an exaggerated wink, which only made you laugh harder.

“Really, James? The only thing sweeping me off my feet is your inability to do your homework,” you teased, nudging him gently.

“Well,” James began, adopting an overly thoughtful expression, “if I had any homework, I would certainly attempt it. But alas, my dear Y/N, the burden of your beauty has rendered my brain utterly useless.” He placed a dramatic hand on his forehead, pretending to faint against your shoulder. “It’s all too much!”

Remus Lupin, who had been quietly sitting by the fire with his nose buried in a book, finally looked up, shaking his head with a soft smile. “You’re lucky she’s used to your nonsense by now, James,” he said, his voice steady and calm as always. “If this were the first time, I’m sure she’d run off screaming.”

“Ah, but you’re wrong, Moony,” James replied with a sly smile, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. “The beauty of my charm is that it grows on you. Slowly, like a vine, wrapping itself around your heart until you can’t escape. And then—POOF—before you know it, you’re madly in love with me.” He grinned at you, his eyes sparkling mischievously.

“Is that so?” you asked with a playful smirk. “Because right now, I’m pretty sure you’ve only managed to tie my heart in knots from laughing at your ridiculousness.”

James raised an eyebrow. “Not just laughing, though, right?”

You rolled your eyes, still grinning. “No, not just laughing.”

He leaned in a little closer, his expression softening. “That’s right. Because I know you love me,” he whispered dramatically, as if it were the most important thing in the world. “But I won’t hold it against you... for now.”

Sirius snorted, his voice thick with sarcasm. “If you two lovebirds don’t stop, I’m going to hurl.”

“Not everyone has such exquisite taste in romance,” James replied, winking at you. “But don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ve got enough love for all of us.”

You let out a quiet laugh, reaching over to grab the blanket from the back of the couch and draping it over the both of you. As you did, James immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer, his chest warm against your side.

The Marauders continued their banter in the background, but the sound of the rain outside and the warmth of the fire, combined with the comforting weight of James's presence, made everything feel just right.

"You know," James murmured softly, his voice no longer theatrical but warm and sincere, "I could stay like this forever. Just you, me, and the rain outside."

You smiled up at him, your heart full as you tucked your head against his chest. “I think I’d like that, too,” you whispered.

From the fire, Remus gave a soft chuckle. "I think we should leave them alone before it gets even more embarrassing.”

“You’re just mad no one’s writing you poetry,” Sirius teased, earning a slap on the shoulder from Remus.

“Alright, alright,” James said loudly, lifting his head from where it had fallen onto yours. “Enough of this sweet, poetic nonsense. Let’s get to the real important stuff.” He grinned and pointed towards the pile of homework on the table. “Who wants to help me write a love letter to Y/N? I need some inspiration!”

You groaned, but at least this time it wasn’t because of the rain.

“I’ll help you, but only if you promise to stop with the Shakespearean speeches,” you said, your smile barely contained.

James winked again. “Deal, my fair lady. But know that I shall still declare my undying love for you every day, in whatever ridiculous way I see fit.”

And with that, he buried his face in your hair, his arms tightening around you, and the Marauders continued to bicker in the background—life at Hogwarts, it seemed, was always better when you were wrapped in the warmth of a rainy day with James Potter.

[godricgryffinsnore]

neville longbottom x fem!reader who helps patch him up after a particularly bad punishment from the carrows. and they’re talking abt the upcoming war, and neville says something like “it doesn’t matter if i die, nobody needs me.” and reader’s just like “i do, i need you.” (yes, this is inspired by katniss and peeta in catching fire) and it’s just superrrrrr angsty 😞

Ashes Don’t Breathe, But You Do ♡ : A Neville Longbottom Fan Fiction.

pairing : Neville Longbottom x fem!reader

summary : In the shadow of war, a quiet bond grows between two hearts learning to hold on. When the world threatens to fall apart, they find refuge in each other—and the strength to keep going when hope runs thin.

warnings : Graphic depictions of injury, War themes, Emotional distress / PTSD undertones, Mentions of death, Angst with comfort, Mild language, Canon-typical violence, Healing after trauma. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's note : UGH!!! ANON! You really did send me a request to play with my mind. This was really hard to write, since i still tear up every time the Hogwart's war is mentioned. So, I really hope you enjoy reading this. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE REQUEST, BEAUTIFUL!!! I am honored to write for you, honey.

word count : 1.8k

main master list <3

banners : @uzmacchiato and @roseschoices

The Room of Requirement had never been quieter.

Even in its strangest shapes and sacred spells, it had always hummed with life—muttered laughter, whispered rebellion, snatched kisses between trembled fingers. But tonight? Tonight, it was a tomb, and Neville Longbottom sat like a ghost inside it, bleeding on the floor.

You knelt beside him, breath shaking with more fury than fear, your wand pressed lightly against the deep gash along his side. His shirt had been shredded—Carrow work—and the angry red blossomed in slow, defiant waves. Blood had dried under his fingernails. His lip was split. There was something jagged about his breath, as if his lungs were apologizing for still trying.

“You’re lucky I found dittany,” you murmured, your voice trying not to crack as you healed him, even though your fingers trembled with fury. “You’re luckier I didn’t go after Amycus myself. I was two seconds away—”

“Don’t.” Neville winced, but the warning in his voice wasn’t from pain. “If something happened to you…”

“You’d what? Sit here and brood dramatically in a blood-soaked shirt?”

He almost smiled. Almost. But then his eyes grew dark again.

You could see it—the quiet kind of grief. The kind that doesn’t scream but seeps like rot into the bones. The kind that whispers this is all I’ll ever be. And Merlin, you hated it.

“They’ll kill you next time,” you whispered. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. Simply. Quietly.

There was silence again. Thick and ugly. The air in the room turned heavy, like it had lungs of its own and they were collapsing.

Neville looked down at his hands. “It doesn’t matter if I die.”

You froze.

He kept talking, as if the words weren’t a blade. “No one needs me. I’m not Harry. I’m not smart like Hermione, or brave like Ron, or—hell—even Luna can see the world in a way that’s... beautiful. I’m just... here. Doing what I can. And when I go—” his voice cracked—“when I go, nothing changes. The war doesn’t stop. The world doesn’t mourn.”

You slapped the bandage against his side a little too harshly. “Ow—bloody hell!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you snapped, standing up with your fists clenched. “Was that painful? Did it hurt? Because you know what hurts more than a cracked rib, Longbottom? Listening to someone I—someone who matters—tell me that his death doesn’t.”

He looked up at you, stunned. Soft brown eyes wide, confused, guilty.

“Nobody needs me,” he whispered again. Childlike. Broken.

“I do.”

The words silenced even the air.

Neville blinked. “What?”

You sank back down to your knees, your breath a fragile thing. “I need you, Neville. I need you to laugh when things feel like dying. I need you to remind me that there’s courage in being kind. I need you to live. For me. For all the kids hiding under their blankets praying tomorrow isn’t their last day. For the ones who are too scared to fight. For the ones who will come after us and never know what you did—but will be alive because you did it.”

You reached for his hand, brushing your fingers against his bloodied knuckles. “Don’t you dare say you don’t matter. Not to me. Not to anyone who’s still breathing because you took the hit instead.”

He stared at you, jaw clenched like he was trying not to cry.

“...But I’m not enough,” he whispered.

“You’re everything,” you said, voice trembling. “Neville, you’re the heart of this castle. And when the war ends—when the dust settles—it’s your name they’ll remember. Not because you were perfect. But because you were good. And you stayed.”

He looked away, biting his lip. “You sound like Dumbledore.”

“I sound like someone in love with a stubborn Gryffindor who doesn’t know how to stop getting hurt.”

That made him laugh—just a little. A weak, battered chuckle. “I’m really not very good at the whole ‘hero’ thing, am I?”

“You’re terrible at it,” you teased, leaning your forehead gently against his. “But you’re mine.”

His hand found yours, squeezing like he’d drown without it. “You really need me?”

“I need you like air, Neville Longbottom. I need you like the world needs the sunrise after too long in the dark.”

And when he kissed you—soft, trembling, desperate—it didn’t taste like victory. It tasted like survival.

And for now, that was enough.

── .✦

The Great Hall had become a battlefield of bones and breath.

Smoke curled through broken windows like dying prayers, and blood smeared the floor in ghostly patterns, dragging along the stone like it was trying to spell out the names of the dead. There were bodies—too many, too young—and somewhere between the crumbling staircases and the shattered walls, Neville Longbottom was bleeding again.

But this time, you weren’t there to stop it.

He stumbled against a pillar, clutching his side. A curse had torn through him, jagged and ruthless, and he could feel the life sliding out, pooling at his feet like some kind of quiet betrayal. Every breath was a war. Every blink, a surrender.

“You’re not done,” he whispered to himself, voice raw.

You weren’t anywhere in sight. The last he’d seen of you was your silhouette against green fire, wand drawn, face fierce and terrified all at once. Then the dust swallowed you whole, and he’d lost you.

Maybe forever.

He sank to the ground, body folding like parchment, and for a moment—just a moment—he let himself think it might be easier to let go. Just sleep. Just drift. The battle would go on without him. It had to.

And then—

Your voice.

In memory. In heartbeat.

“I need you like air, Neville Longbottom.” “I need you like the world needs the sunrise after too long in the dark.”

He let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. Of course. Of course you'd come back to haunt him when he tried to give up.

“I remembered,” he whispered, to the air, to the blood, to you. “I remembered you said you needed me.”

He clenched his jaw and forced his fingers to curl around his wand. His knees screamed in protest, but he pushed himself up. Stand, Longbottom. Stand because she told you to live.

There was fire again—screams and spells and the high, cold laugh of something ancient and cruel. But Neville didn’t run. He stood.

And then you appeared, sprinting through the smoke with your robes torn and your hair matted to your face, your eyes wide with a kind of panic he’d never seen in you before.

“NEVILLE!”

He barely had time to breathe before you collided into him, arms wrapping around his shoulders, your breath hitching against his neck.

“You’re alive,” you gasped, touching his face like you couldn’t believe it.

“You—” he choked out, pulling you closer. “I thought—God, I thought you—”

“I’m fine,” you whispered, brushing tears from his cheeks, not even knowing when they’d fallen. “You’re the one who looks like you lost a fight with a mountain troll.”

He tried to laugh. It came out a wheeze. “I nearly did.”

And then his voice cracked. “I wanted to give up. Just for a second. And then I heard you. In my head. You saying you needed me.”

Your lips trembled, and you pressed your forehead to his, just like before. “I meant it, Neville. I still do. I always will.”

There was a beat of stillness in a world of noise. A sacred silence where love lives despite the ruin.

And then—through the flames and fear—Neville kissed you again. Not like before. This time, it was fire meeting fire, defiance carved into lips that refused to say goodbye.

When he pulled back, his eyes were burning. “If I die tonight, it’ll be for you.”

“No,” you said fiercely, gripping his collar like a lifeline. “You don’t die tonight, Neville Longbottom. You live. Because I’m still breathing. And I will always need you.”

And somewhere, far above the ash and agony, a piece of the sky broke open with light.

── .✦

It’s quiet again.

But this time, it’s the good kind. Not the silence of a battlefield, but the hush of early morning—the kind that cradles you instead of burying you.

The war is over. The castle still breathes in broken bricks and scattered glass, but somehow, miraculously, so do you. And so does Neville Longbottom.

He’s kneeling in the greenhouse, sleeves rolled up, soil clinging to his skin. There’s a stubborn little sprout in the middle of his palm, and he’s coaxing it into life like it’s a miracle. Like he’s not the boy who held a sword. Like he’s just a boy, now.

And you—you're watching from the doorway, arms wrapped around yourself, unsure how to step into peace after years of war.

He looks up.

Smiles.

And that’s when you cry.

Neville drops the trowel immediately, hands dirty and shaking, and rushes to you.

“Hey—hey, love,” he whispers, cradling your face in those soil-stained hands, as if you were a flower just as fragile. “What’s wrong?”

You choke on a laugh, even as the tears fall. “Nothing. Everything. You. Me. This. The fact that we’re still here.”

He swallows, something heavy caught in his throat. “I didn’t think we’d get this far.”

“I did,” you say. “Because I couldn’t let you go. Not when I needed you.”

And then, like the moment demands it, you press your lips to his—gently, reverently. No rush. No war. Just a breath shared between survivors.

When you pull away, his eyes are damp.

“I used to think love was something meant for other people,” he murmurs, voice hoarse with old wounds. “I thought I was just a name on a list, another boy with dirt under his fingernails and a target on his back.”

“You were never just anything,” you whisper fiercely. “You were the one who stayed. When the others fled. When hope bled out. You were the one who stood in front of the fire and said ‘not today.’ And then you came back to me.”

He chuckles softly. “Covered in blood, probably concussed.”

“And still the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

Neville leans forward until your foreheads touch again. It’s become your sacred gesture—your way of saying we’re still here.

“You still need me?” he asks, quieter than before. Like he’s asking the stars for permission to believe.

You nod. “More than ever. Not because I’m broken. But because you’re the place I heal.”

He exhales shakily and wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. You stand there, tangled in each other, while the greenhouse warms with morning light.

Outside, the first daffodil of the season unfurls its yellow head, unaware of what the world’s just been through.

Inside, you and Neville bloom again.

Together.

[godricgryffinsnore]

Snowflakes & Scowls ♡ : A Regulus Black Fan Fiction.

pairing : Regulus Black x female!reader

summary : Snowflakes and Scowls captures a playful moment between the reader and Regulus Black as she ventures into the snow despite his protests. What starts as a grumpy attempt to keep her warm turns into a fun snowball fight, revealing Regulus' softer, protective side.

warnings : Fluff, Humor, Mild playful violence (snowball fights), Mild teasing. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

word count : 1.8k

main master list <3

banners : @anitalenia and @cafekitsune

The chill of the crisp winter air swept through the corridors of Hogwarts, as if the castle itself had taken a deep, frosty breath. Regulus Black had never been particularly fond of the cold, but he had to admit that there was something... enchanting about the first snowfall of the year. The flakes drifted gently from the heavens, settling on the windowsills and turning the world outside into a beautiful, soft wonderland.

But he wasn’t out there. No, Regulus was much too busy... glaring out the window.

"Light, are you really planning on going outside in that?" His voice was laced with disdain, but also something softer, an undercurrent of concern that he couldn’t hide, no matter how hard he tried.

You were standing by the door, your arms crossed as you eyed the scene outside. The snow looked inviting, and you weren’t going to let a little chill ruin your mood.

"I’m going out for a walk. Don’t you like the snow?" you asked, turning to face him with a teasing grin.

Regulus’ eyes narrowed slightly, his sharp gaze flicking to the snow, then back to you, as though he were studying the situation like a particularly complicated potion. He wasn’t exactly angry, but there was a definite unease in the way he fidgeted with the hem of his Slytherin scarf, which had been draped over his shoulders more for display than for warmth.

"Of course I like it," he muttered. "It’s... it’s just snow." He paused, then added, "You’ll freeze out there, Little One."

You raised an eyebrow, amused by his sudden protectiveness. "Regulus, it’s not that cold—"

"It’s freezing," he cut you off, his voice suddenly sharp. "You’ll catch your death."

He wasn’t really angry, but something in the way he said it made your heart flutter. There was something endearing about his overprotectiveness, as if he’d rather hoard you away from the world than let you get even the slightest bit cold.

You leaned against the doorframe, trying to hide your smile as you crossed your arms. "If I do catch my death, I suppose it’ll be your fault for not letting me enjoy a little snow."

Regulus' lips twisted into a frown, but his eyes betrayed him, softening with affection. He had never quite figured out how to navigate his feelings for you, but one thing he knew for certain: he wasn’t ready to let you out of his sight. Not today. Not when you looked so... utterly unbothered by the impending cold.

You were his treasure. His little star, so carefree and bright.

Before you could even react, Regulus had crossed the room in a few swift strides and was now standing right in front of you. His hands were already reaching for his thick Slytherin scarf, wrapping it around your neck with meticulous care, as if he were trying to make sure you were fully wrapped up, completely insulated from the cold.

"Regulus..." you began, but he shushed you with a determined look.

"Don’t start," he muttered, adjusting the scarf with a frown. "You’re not going out there without this."

You giggled softly, watching as his hands moved with precision, the warmth of his fingers making you feel like you were being cocooned in his care.

"You’re so dramatic," you teased, still smiling despite his grumpy attitude.

Regulus shot you a withering look, but there was a softness in his eyes. "I’m not dramatic. I’m... protecting you. My little treasure," he added, as if he had to remind both of you of his role in this careful arrangement.

"Mm-hmm, sure, whatever you say, Beloved," you teased, stepping back with a playful glint in your eyes. "I’m pretty sure I can survive a few snowflakes."

Before you could make another move, Regulus’ hand shot out, grabbing your wrist with an almost possessive grip. You raised an eyebrow at him, but his expression was anything but playful.

"You’re not going out there," he insisted, his voice firm. "I won’t let you."

You tilted your head, genuinely curious. "And why is that, Regulus? Do you think I’m fragile?"

He looked at you for a long moment, and just as you were about to say something else, he spoke. "No," he said softly, his voice unexpectedly gentle. "I think you’re perfect, but I’m selfish, Little One. I want to keep you to myself. You’re my star, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you warm."

You blinked in surprise, and for a moment, everything seemed to fall quiet — as if the whole world had stilled just to let you two exist in this tiny, perfect moment.

"You’re being ridiculous," you whispered, your voice almost a laugh. "But I think you’re adorable when you’re jealous."

He glared at you, but there was no real heat behind it. "I’m not jealous," he huffed, though his face was betraying him. "I’m just... protective."

"Mm-hmm, right," you smirked, finally relenting as you let him pull you towards the couch, wrapping you up like a little bundle of warmth. "You just don’t want to share me with the snow."

Regulus smirked back, his hands gently brushing a stray hair from your face. "You’re mine, Light. Always mine."

"Always?" you teased, leaning into his chest. "We’ll see about that, Beloved."

And in the quiet of the moment, with the snow falling outside and Regulus holding you close, you couldn’t help but think... maybe he was right.

Maybe he was exactly what you needed.

── .✦

Despite Regulus’ best efforts, you were determined to step outside and enjoy the snow. The fluffy white world outside called to you — and nothing, not even his brooding looks, was going to stop you.

You slipped out of the common room, wrapped up in his scarf, and practically skipped down the corridors, your boots crunching on the snow-covered ground. The cold air nipped at your cheeks, but it only made you smile wider, filling your lungs with the crisp winter scent.

You weren’t gone for more than ten minutes when Regulus found you.

Of course, he did. He wasn’t about to let you wander around in the snow, alone, after all. But by the time he reached the courtyard, you were in the middle of building the most ridiculous-looking snowman imaginable.

You were having far too much fun.

“Light!” Regulus’ voice rang out, slightly strained, as he appeared in the doorway, looking like a disgruntled ice king. His dark hair was dusted with snowflakes, his Slytherin scarf wrapped even more tightly around his neck than before, and his usually immaculate robes were now speckled with bits of snow.

You looked over your shoulder at him, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. “Regulus!” you called out sweetly, waving a gloved hand. “Come look! I made a snowman!”

He walked closer, his eyes narrowing in disapproval as he took in the lopsided mound of snow you had carefully assembled. It wasn’t just any snowman — oh no. This was a masterpiece.

The snowman had a crooked carrot nose, eyes made of shiny black pebbles, and an oversized scarf that was clearly too big for its shoulders. It looked more like a snow creature than a snowman, with a lopsided grin that made you burst into laughter every time you looked at it.

Regulus stared at it, then back at you, and sighed dramatically. “This is... what you spent all your time on?” he asked, his tone dripping with incredulity.

You giggled, brushing a few flakes from your nose as you walked over to him. “It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

“It’s a travesty,” Regulus muttered, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips despite his best efforts to remain unimpressed.

“Well,” you said, brushing the snow off your gloves, “if you think this is bad, wait until you see my next creation.”

Regulus’ eyebrows shot up in alarm. “What? What do you mean, your next creation?”

“Oh, nothing.” You grinned deviously and suddenly lunged at him, scooping up a snowball from the ground.

Before he could react, you tossed it directly at his chest.

Regulus froze, a look of utter shock on his face. Snowflakes were still drifting through the air, and he stood there, blinking at the pile of snow on his chest, as if it were some kind of betrayal.

You took one look at his incredulous face and burst into laughter.

“You little brat,” he muttered, brushing the snow off his robes with an exaggerated sigh. “You are absolutely insufferable.”

You didn’t give him a chance to retaliate. Instead, you quickly bent down and scooped up another snowball, hurling it at him with a mischievous giggle.

This time, he was ready. With a swift move, Regulus reached down and grabbed a handful of snow, shaping it expertly into a perfect snowball. You didn’t even see it coming.

The snowball hit you square in the chest.

“Ha!” Regulus couldn’t help but smirk, a glimmer of victory in his eyes.

“Oh, you are going to regret that, Beloved,” you warned, narrowing your eyes.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he said, but the challenge in his voice made it clear that he was ready for whatever you threw at him.

The two of you spent the next few minutes pummeling each other with snowballs, your laughter filling the air. Regulus, despite his grumpy demeanor, was surprisingly agile, ducking and weaving with ease, his cloak billowing behind him like some kind of dark prince. You, on the other hand, had no intention of being outdone.

You were quick, dodging his throws and launching your own with impeccable precision. Every time you hit him, you couldn’t help but laugh even harder, watching as he scowled, his pride wounded but his amusement undeniable.

Finally, you took a break, both of you breathing heavily, your faces flushed with the cold and the exhilaration of the snowball fight. Regulus stood there, arms crossed, his lips pursed as if he were still pretending to be annoyed, but there was a soft look in his eyes that gave him away.

“Well, that was... tolerable,” he admitted reluctantly, glancing at you with a raised eyebrow. “But you’re still insufferable.”

You grinned at him, completely unrepentant. “You love it.”

He scoffed, but you could see the corner of his lips twitch. "Maybe."

Without warning, you threw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest. The snowflakes that had settled in his hair were now melting, and you found comfort in his warmth, in the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek.

"You're mine, Light," he murmured softly, his voice low and gentle. He hesitated for just a moment before wrapping his arms around you. "And I’ll protect you from the snow. Even if you are a brat."

You smiled against his chest, your heart swelling with affection. "I’ll never get tired of you, Regulus Black."

And in that moment, as the snow continued to fall around you both, you knew this was exactly where you belonged — in his arms, laughing, teasing, and warming each other against the cold.

[godricgryffinsnore]

Braids And Butterbeer ♡ : A Remus Lupin Fan Fiction.

pairing : Remus Lupin x female!reader

summary : Remus Lupin finds himself tasked with helping Sirius Black with a rather ridiculous request—learning how to braid hair. As the Marauders engage in their usual banter, Remus ends up trying his hand at braiding your hair, leading to a hilarious and tender moment between you two.

warnings : Mild humor and lighthearted banter, Fluff and affectionate teasing, No major conflict or intense themes, just good-natured fun, use of Y/N, reader has hair long enough to braid. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

word count : 1.2k

main master list <3

banners : @pngblog and @cafekitsune

It was a typical morning in Gryffindor Tower. The sun was just beginning to filter through the thick curtains, casting warm golden rays over the mess of half-done homework and misplaced socks that was the dorm room.

You, of course, were trying to be productive. You had your Transfiguration notes spread out before you on the desk, quill in hand, and a soft sigh escaped your lips as you tried, and failed, to focus on the page in front of you.

Remus Lupin, always the good student and always far more focused than you, was sitting across from you, his own books laid out perfectly, as though they were a reflection of his calming presence. But today, something about the way his gaze kept flicking to you wasn’t quite the usual.

“Remus,” you said, dropping your quill with a dramatic sigh, “I can’t concentrate. It’s the second day of the week, and I’m already burnt out.”

He smiled softly at you, the corners of his lips lifting. “You’ve been at it for hours, darling. Maybe you need a break?”

“Not a break,” you groaned dramatically. “I need something to distract me. Something fun and unproductive.”

“You came to the right place,” Remus replied with a grin, stretching his arms over his head. “I’m always available for a distraction. You know that.”

“Is that so?” you teased, narrowing your eyes at him in mock suspicion.

He raised an eyebrow, his voice soft and mischievous. “Yeah. So, what do you have in mind, dove?”

The sound of footsteps in the hallway interrupted your response, followed by a very loud and very animated Sirius Black bursting through the door, a cheeky grin plastered on his face. “Oi! Remus, I need your expertise. Now, mate. You owe me.”

Remus groaned and rolled his eyes, but it was hard to stay annoyed with his best friend when he was clearly trying to suppress a smile. “Sirius, I’m in the middle of something with (Y/N),” he said, throwing a glance at you, eyes warm. “I’m busy.”

Sirius crossed his arms and gave a dramatic, over-the-top pout. “You can’t leave me hanging like this, Rem. I’ve had a rough night, mate. Help me out.”

You couldn’t help the giggle that escaped your lips. “What happened, Padfoot? Did you get into another prank war with James?”

“Worse,” Sirius said, a melodramatic sigh slipping out. “James tried to braid my hair.”

Both you and Remus blinked at him.

“I... beg your pardon?” Remus asked, looking thoroughly confused.

“It’s true!” Sirius insisted, sitting down on the edge of your bed with an exaggerated slump. “He saw me in the mirror, looked at my hair, and decided it would be funny to try and braid it. And now, I look like I’ve been caught in a breeze from hell.”

You burst into laughter, clutching your stomach as you collapsed back onto the bed. Remus, for his part, gave a long-suffering sigh, a fond smile on his lips.

“I’ll never understand you lot,” he muttered, shaking his head. “But fine, Sirius. What do you need me to do?”

“Remus,” Sirius said, his voice lower and far more serious now, “I need you to teach me how to braid hair.”

The sight of Remus looking at Sirius with a mixture of disbelief and amusement made your heart skip a beat. You couldn’t help but love how ridiculous the Marauders were—especially when they had no idea how to be anything but completely themselves.

“I’m not teaching you how to braid hair, mate,” Remus said, lifting his chin, clearly done with this conversation.

“Please,” Sirius whined. “For the love of Merlin, Remus, help me.”

You sat up in bed, wiping your tears of laughter away, and looked between them. “I’ll do it,” you said, still grinning. “It’s not hard, really. You just need patience. Maybe Remus can help you practice on me.”

At this, Remus’ face flushed slightly, and you smirked, knowing exactly what you were doing. He tried to hide it, but you could see his fingers twitch at the thought of touching your hair.

“Oh?” Sirius asked, suddenly too curious for his own good. “You think Remus can braid? I thought he only had time for reading and potions. I didn’t know he had a secret talent.”

Remus rolled his eyes, though there was no real annoyance in his gaze. “I don’t, actually. But fine,” he added, finally giving in. “(Y/N), sit down. I’ll try my best.”

You grinned, sliding to the edge of the bed. “If you mess it up, I’ll never let you hear the end of it.”

Remus chuckled softly as he sat behind you, taking a few strands of your hair in his hands, his fingers a little clumsy at first. “I’ll do my best, love,” he said, and you could hear the affection in his voice. “But don’t expect a masterpiece.”

You smiled, letting your head fall back against his chest as he started to weave the strands together. The light touch of his hands on your hair was somehow both tender and surprisingly gentle, and you let out a contented sigh.

“Not bad,” you murmured, feeling a warmth spread through you. “I might even start coming to you for all my hair needs.”

“Really?” Remus asked, his tone full of mock-surprise. “I thought I might be the last person you’d trust with your hair.”

“You’re the only one who’s not made my hair look like a nest of pigeons,” you teased, grinning as you felt his hands freeze for a moment. He was always so easy to fluster, and you couldn’t resist. “You’re doing great, darling.”

Sirius snorted from across the room, but he didn’t interrupt. He was too entertained by watching Remus fumble with your hair, his typically reserved friend looking far more vulnerable than usual.

It took Remus a little longer than he’d like to admit, but eventually, he finished, and you stood up to look at yourself in the mirror. “Well?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

Remus stepped behind you, his hands on your shoulders. His eyes softened as he looked at the braid. “It’s not perfect,” he admitted with a quiet laugh, “but it’s... better than I expected.”

You smiled, turning to face him, brushing your fingers through the braid. “I think you’re my new personal hairstylist, Remus.”

He smiled back, shaking his head fondly. “You’re making fun of me, aren’t you, love?”

“Only a little,” you said, your voice softening as you gazed into his eyes. “I’m very impressed, darling.”

“Good,” he murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead, his fingers gently brushing through your hair. “You’re worth all the effort, my love.”

Sirius, rolling his eyes dramatically, stood up from his spot on the bed. “If you two are done being soppy, maybe we can grab some butterbeer in the common room? I’ll buy.”

You and Remus both looked at each other before nodding in agreement.

“Sounds good,” you said, a soft smile still on your lips. “But only if I get to sit next to you, Remus.”

“Deal,” he said, his voice low and full of affection as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close.

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Honestly, you two make me sick.”

You couldn’t care less though. Nothing could ruin this moment with Remus, especially not a grumpy Sirius. You were his, and that was more than enough.