#della’s inbox 𐙚⋆°🦢｡⋆♡

[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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

babe i just had to comment on the way youve written that english isnt your first language on all yours fics and not to mind your grammatical errors. bc like

your writing is PERFECT

it's so good. don't undermine yourself for english not being your first language bc genuinely you write so well

Aww Mina, my lovie, you have no idea how much this means to me—seriously, I’m hugging my pillow and kicking my feet right now like I’m in a YA romance movie! 😭💋💋

Thank you so so much for your sweet words, darling. I truly wasn’t expecting this level of kindness—you’ve fluffed up my heart like a marshmallow in hot cocoa. That said, I have to put that little note about English not being my first language because I’m a certified overthinker (paranoia is basically my side hustle at this point). I reread everything like a hawk, hunt for synonyms like I’m searching for buried treasure on Google, and double-check every sentence like I’m defusing a bomb. It’s all part of the charm, right? 😔🙌🏻

Writing’s just a hobby for me—a cozy lil’ cottage in my brain where I get to polish my storytelling and pretend I’m a poetic wizard. But your comment? It made me feel like I already have a seat at the big writer’s table. 😭💗💗💗

Thank you, thank you, thank you, angel. You’ve just made my whole week brighter. Sending you all the virtual hugs and a basket of fictional boyfriends! 💋💋💋

Forever grateful,

Your slightly paranoid but very smitten writer girl,

Della 🧸

P.S. I’m genuinely honoured to receive this message from you—like, have you seen your writing? It’s the chef’s kiss of all chef’s kisses. Literal goals.

[godricgryffinsnore]

BTW....

I once wrote a poem appreciating Mr Regulus Black......

And you say you don’t like Reggie?! 😭🤌🏻🤌🏻🤌🏻

Please feel free to share the poem babe!!! 💋💋💋

[godricgryffinsnore]

An anon had sent me a message in my inbox about “When will I be posting James Potter or Harry Potter fics.”

Patience, queen. They are currently in the editing process, soon they will be served to you in a golden platter 😌🛐🙌🏻

[i accidentally deleted that message btw, that’s why I am directly posting about it]

[godricgryffinsnore]

Are we getting that Harry fic Tommorow?

Not tomorrow but definitely day after tomorrow!!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

Hope you guys like it <333, especially you, V… since it was your request 💋💋

[godricgryffinsnore]

Dellaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Do you write long fics?

I have a crazy idea.

Yours,

✌︎︎

Babe, I DO!!!!

Please please please send requests. I would appreciate it so much <333

[godricgryffinsnore]

So, I have been going through your blog and I know, for a fact, you love James Fleamont Potter.

So, uhm, I have a funny incident to share.

A year ago, in April, I had tried to make my bestfriend read Harry Potter and the Philosopher's stone. (Alright, I forced her)

Not even two pages in, when she came across the line...

When she read “and her good for nothing husband” she went like “yeah, like your future husband,”

And I blushed and I grinned goofily and I was like, “if it's James Potter, I accept him.”

Your most annoying follower,

ʕ⁠っ⁠•⁠ᴥ⁠•⁠ʔ⁠っ

First and Foremost : I would like to change something from the above thoughts. “Your most annoying follower” has to change to “Your most wholesome follower!!” 💗💗💗

And second of all, YES YES YES

Yes, I would accept ANYTHING if it’s for James Fleamont Potter.

He’s good for nothing? Oh not a problem at all, he is good for me 😔🫶🏻

I NEED JAMES POTTER IN MY LIFE 🥹🙌🏻

[godricgryffinsnore]

took me way too long to realise this, but both our pfps are lana now

VEGA PLEASE 😭 it took you THAT long?? we’ve been spiritually synced this whole time and you’re just now clocking it?? two lana pfps isn’t a coincidence it’s fate. we’re literally entering our mutual heartbreak n cigarettes era. 💋💋💋

[godricgryffinsnore]

Do you think HP would work well as an animated series?

Totally, lovie💋. I think an animated HP series could be so dreamy—like imagine the magic, the colors, all those little cozy details they could bring to life? It’d be perfect to binge with you, cuddled up on the couch, snacks in hand. 🥹💗

[godricgryffinsnore]

omg della, genuinely, you deserve every single one of the followers you have and so much more💗💗

your writing is some of the realest, most soulful writing i have read in a long time, and you're able to capture an atmosphere so effortlessly. keep writing darling, it only gets better from here

xoxo,

mina💗💗

Oh, Mina, my heart 🥺💗

This message means the absolute world to me—I don’t even know where to begin. Thank you, truly, from the deepest corners of my soul. Knowing that my writing resonates with you in such a real, soulful way? That’s everything I’ve ever wanted. You’ve captured in words exactly what I hope people feel when they read my work—and to hear it from you, someone I admire and adore so much, just makes it all the more special.

You have no idea how much your encouragement fills me with hope and warmth. I’ll carry your words with me on the hard days, the empty-page days, the "maybe I'm not good enough" days. Thank you for reminding me why I write.

I’m sending you the biggest hug and all the love in the world. 💗💗 Forever grateful for you, always.

xoxo, Della ✨💌

[godricgryffinsnore]

🫶🫶🫶 here because U R THE SWEETEST GIRL EVER

Awwww Tally, my darling angel—you just made my whole heart do a happy dance! ❤️❤️

Thank you, lovie, you’re the sweetest cupcake in the bakery and I’m hugging you with my soul right now. 🍰💋

You’re pure sunshine wrapped in stardust, sweetheart—don’t ever forget how loved you are! 💎💎

I adore you always! 💗💗

[godricgryffinsnore]

OMG i just found out that you're a filo marauders fan too and it made me so happy cus it's rare makahanap ng filo fans 🤭🤭 UY PILIPINS!! 🇵🇭🫶

Aww, sweetheart!! That message made me smile so much—thank you, darling!

I’m not actually from the Philippines, my love, but I’m so incredibly happy and honored to be your friend!! Truly! And yes—yes yes yes—I absolutely adore Filo Marauders fans with all my heart!! The love, the creativity, the passion? It’s everything, darling, and I feel so lucky to share that joy with you!!

Let’s scream over Sirius in Taglish together, yeah? Mahal kita, bestie—let’s be Marauders soulmates forever!! 🇵🇭💗