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heartthrobin · 1 month

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all's fair in love and war (2)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 7.87k

warnings: enemies to lovers, still so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, archie being my fav oc, cheese fest

an: literally fell asleep on my laptop last night editing this, i was so exhausted from school so i’m sorry it’s late !!! but i had the most fun in the world writing this and i hope everyone enjoys :)) don't forget to comment and repost your favourite writers

summary: Oliver is still impossibly miserable, maybe more uncooperative than before, except now when you look at him: you can't think of much else beyond how sweet his lips tasted.

part one

You can’t sleep.

You're not sure you'll find sleep ever again.

“I knew it, I knew it—“ Cherry had bounced the whole way to your dormitory, howling into your ear. “I knew it!”

The image of Oliver’s fluttering eyes swum around your brain as you blinked into the darkness of the poster bed. The taste of his tongue and his words still right against your lips.

It was a riddle of a calibre that you can’t seem to detangle. More than anything, you try to remember how strong has he tasted of Firewhisky - was he so drunk to really dismiss it to nothing at all?

You lingered on it all weekend.

Cherry didn’t help at all — he’s been in love with you forever, that’s literally so obvious — and Enzo even less so once he’d been filled in: Oliver doesn’t seem a bloke who let’s alcohol make his decisions for him, something about Scottish genetics I think.

The interaction plagued you: digging a wide hole in the base of your stomach. You mourned the thought that you may never have the opportunity to kiss those soft lips again, more than anything: preparing yourself for the feud between yourselves to worsen.

There’s barely enough time to make sense of your situation before you’re racing down over the grassy hills of the grounds, bag swinging violently over your shoulder and extraordinarily late for your Herbology lesson in the greenhouse.

Your morning alarm had rung right into one ear and out the other, a product of the tossing and turning you’d been doing for the last two nights.

When you swing the greenhouse door open, panting and face flush from the beating sun, the whole room turns to you. Sprout pauses where her hands are flailing in explanation.

“Sorry I’m late professor,” you wheeze, readjusting your strap over your shoulder.

Cherry is smirking at you from her bench, sidled up with Jane Emmet.

It hadn’t escaped you that you’d be sharing the lesson with the Gryffindors, but you’d precious little time to worry about it in the five minutes you had to pull a robe over your head and stick a toothbrush into your mouth.

Your eyes are purposeful in not looking over the room. Scared to catch the wrong eyes.

“Not a problem peach, we’re just repotting some Fire-Seed Bushes.” She brings a stubby hand to her chin, “uhm … well, Mr Kumar there in the corner doesn’t have a partner. Go join him by his pots.”

Archie has a lopsided smile on his face when you approach, a thick black curl drooping over his left eye.

“Hey.” He nudges gently.

You set your bag down and grab a pair of gloves, chuckling. “Hey Archie.”

The soil is warm when you stick your fingers into the dirt, shifting it gently enough not to mess over the edge of the bucket. There’s a Fire-Seed Bush sitting tentatively at the end of the bench, spitting sparks and emitting smoke.

“So …” Archie speaks first, the back of his hand bumping yours between the black soil. “How was your weekend?”

It’s a veiled question, a poorly veiled one at that. The question draws a laugh from the base of your stomach.

You shrug, adamant on missing the point. “It was alright, I guess. How about yours?”

He shrugs right back. “Wasn’t the greatest. Penelope Clearwater rejected me for Percy Weasley.”

You don't mean to, you really don't, but it draws another bout of laughter out of you - you clap your hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry—“

“No, I get it. Percy bloody Weasley?” His brow is creased, dirt-stained hands rising messily from the soil to swipe at a fallen piece of hair in his face. “Dead sure that bloke's own mother can't say he’s handsome. I’m better looking than him, surely?”

There’s the hanging insinuation that it was rhetorical, but you reply anyways: “you’re definitely more handsome than Percy Weasley, Archie.”

His head cocks down at you, stained paws finding his waist and pressing black fingerprints into the red jumper. “You really think so?”

“Without a doubt.”

Archie smiles, bumping your side against his. You think he might be blushing. “You’re very charming. I understand what Oliver sees in you.”

You jolt involuntarily, spilling some black soil over the edge of the pot.

Swiping at the mess lazily, you play the comment off with another crumbly chuckle: hoping it convinces him more than it does yourself. “Oliver sees in me what a bull sees in a red cape.”

Archie’s reaching timidly for the Fire-Seed Bush, lifting it off the counter and holding the dangerous botanical at arm’s length. “Not true. The boy’s half in love with you.”

This conversation is getting awfully uncomfortable awfully quickly. It picks at your curiosity nonetheless.

“He said that?”

He’s quick to shake off the question, eyes still trained on setting the roots of the bush into the gap in the soil. “Oliver doesn’t have to say anything. He spends practically every fucking mealtime mooning over at your table, and he talks about you way more than necessary—“

“That’s just because I work on his nerves. Oliver doesn’t love me, he barely tolerates me.”

The boy turns on you, confusion set in his brow. “Why is this news? Last I saw you, your tongue was halfway into his stomach.”

Zachariah Smith and his Gryffindor partner look up at that. Your face goes hot all over - Archie doesn’t seem to notice.

“We were drunk.” You say softly, eyes stuck on a loose leaf crackling against the wooden counter.

There’s a special kind of fear that's crawling into your heart where you stand. The fear of putting too much faith into the words of Archie Kumar.

That it’s an elaborate ruse. A set-up, canons of confetti and a banner screaming “you’ve been fooled!” if you were to indulge his words. The danger of allowing your mind to drift too far off into the possibilities of a world wherein Oliver Wood doesn’t hate you - at least not as much as he lets on.

Archie looks at you out the side of his eye, you can feel it, but says nothing. He hands you a miniature yellow-handled spade.

Instead you fill the space. "I heard Isla Flynn has a crush on you."

He perks: "really?"

Across the room, Oliver is bumping elbows with Poppy Davis.

"Ow!"

A loose spark has evidently landed on her exposed arm. The sparks that Oliver was supposed to be watching for, the ones that he is intent on ignoring with the constant glancing back over his shoulder to where you and his best mate are in the corner of the room fucking giggling at each other like toddlers with a box of matches.

“Oliver — can you just focus for five seconds!” Poppy isn’t impressed.

Oliver isn’t either, with the situation as a whole. The pads of his fingers are blistered from the repotting of the bush and Poppy’s careless bumps and his general indifference to the task at hand.

It eats at his brain. What are you guys talking about? Is it about him?

You laugh again and it’s loud enough that it draws his shoulders all the way taut. There’s another snap of a spark and Oliver feels where it lands at his wrist, but he doesn’t react.

“Just pass me the bloody spade.” He grumbles.

The lesson passes more slowly than Oliver could swim shoulder-deep through molasses.

It feels like years later when he tosses his gloves into the box with the rest, when the class shuffles to return tools and begin slinging half-open bags over their shoulders.

Oliver doesn’t think he’s ever packed up faster - Poppy is still scowling at him, he doesn’t care - before he’s knocking through yellow and red tied students to find Archie’s head of curly black hair.

“Hey!” He catches him by the wrist, tugging on it like a dog with a bone. Archie jumps, eyes winding down to find his friend. “What did she say?”

You’re far ahead, Oliver can make out the back of your head: hips bumping with Cherry’s up the hill towards the castle.

Archie grins. “She said Isla Flynn has a crush on me.”

Oliver groans, “Not about that, you prat. About— wait, really?”

"Yeah!" He hikes his bag higher on his shoulder. "Can you believe it? She's got that hot Irish accent and everything."

Oliver nods, "Yeah ... yeah. Good on you, mate."

He's trying desperately not to steal this moment from his best friend, but he's fucking itching to know what else you and Archie had been giggling about.

"Did she ... say anything else?" He presses, more gently than his character usually allows. "Like about me?"

Archie shrugs without looking down. "I asked her, but she seemed tense about the whole thing."

"Tense?"

"Yeah, she said something about a bull and a cape, and went like all quiet when I told her you like her--"

At that, Oliver's stomach leaps up into his throat. He grabs his best friend by the arm, jolting him to a short stop. Some Hufflepuff bumps into their halted figures, grumbling before shuffling around them.

"You told her what?" His eyes flare erratically.

Archie shrugs, an innocuously confused look painting his features. "Well I said Oliver's half in love with you, or something like that and she looked all confused about it--"

Oliver's grip on his friend's wrist tightened to a degree that a ring was sure to form on his dark skin. "You fucking pinhead! You told her I liked her?"

Pulling his arm violently from his grip, Archie has the nerve to look affronted. "You don't?"

The morning sun shining over Oliver's head feels like it's growing hotter by the second, there's a dribble of sweat running down his spine.

"That's -- that's not the point. Even if I do, which I'm not saying is the case, she doesn't need to know that."

"Were you two obliviated in your sleep last night?" Archie's eyebrows are pressed down against his eyes, slouching down to meet his friend's face. "I caught you two making out like the world was ending less than three days ago! Surely she has to figure that you feeling something for her, she's not stupid."

Oliver struggles between his thoughts, worse around his words. "That was ... we'd been drinking. For all I know, she only kissed me back cause she was trollied off Dragon-Barrell--"

"She said that, too."

Eyeing him, Oliver's hands find his hips. "Said what, exactly?"

"That you were drunk, I mentioned the kiss and she said we were drunk."

A sensation he can only identify as closest to guilt seeps up into Oliver's chest from his stomach. "She thinks I kissed her just cause I was drunk?"

Archie's hand finds Oliver's shoulder. "You should probably talk to her, mate."

He sighs, eyes drifting over the silhouette of the castle in the distance. He shakes his head like it'll rattle the plaguing thoughts loose. "We're gonna be late for Transfig."

"I mean, Archie is his best friend." Cherry is trying to rationalise the whole story. "I don't see why he'd lie about it?"

You shake your head, knocking shoulders with a Ravenclaw girl trying to pass through the corridor. "I'm not entertaining it, Cherry."

"Come on," she sighs, practically skipping to keep up with the furious pace you've set. "Would it be so terrible if he likes you?"

"Yes." You don't look at her.

The redhead's eye-roll is practically audible, "Let me rephrase, would it be so terrible if he likes you back?"

You meet her eyes for the first time since you'd entered the corridor.

She sighs, "we're gonna see him in Muggle Studies in five minutes. I think you should say something."

"Forget I said anything, Cherry." Heat flares at your neck again, prompted by the embarrassment of even imagining how such a conversation might go.

The rest of the walk is quiet, but you feel Cherry's gaze warming the side of your face.

Burbage's classroom is over-populated with Gryffindors by the time you drop your bag against the marbled floor beside your desk. In the corner of your eye, your brain has already fixated on Oliver's silhouette leaned against the edge of his own desk. You flush hot all over again, as if your thoughts were transcribing into subtitles and floating above your head for the whole class to read.

The click of Burbage's heels prompt the lingering students to find their seats, "Please take out your copies of Muggle Wars: Cause and Effect. We left off on page eighty-seven--"

You suddenly regret snapping at Cherry. Wishing for the comfort of her presence, your eyes glazing over where she's perched in the first row of desks closest to the chalkboard.

Unusually, the class trickles on without disruption. There's a few glances over at your direction, like everyone is waiting for another outburst from the grade's most volatile duo. They're sure to be let down, you're adamant to not even breathe in the direction of Wood.

Burbage comments on it, too, nearly ten minutes from the bell.

"It's suspiciously quiet in your corner today, captains." she looks down through her fingerprint-smudged frames, brushing over you and then Wood three seats away. "Something the matter?"

You shrug, refusing to acknowledge the boy. He seems to be doing the same: completely unfairly, the thought that he wouldn't look at you made the hair on your arms stand straight. "We can start up if you'd like, professor?"

Her face contorts into that irritated look that you'd grown accustomed to when Professor Burbage addresses you. "You're flirting dangerously with another session of detention, miss."

"She's just answering your question, professor."

Nobody in the class seemed more surprised than Burbage, although that in itself was a feat. The two Gryffindor boys in the row ahead of you swivel all the way around in their seats to look at Oliver, who'd just spoken.

You fight the twitching urge to look at him.

"Detention for two, it seems. I'll be seeing you both Friday afternoon."

A calm air settles again over the class, as if order had been restored. You and Wood had lost the interest of the room and students shift back to the board where WHAT IS A PRIME MINISTER? is sprawled across it in chicken-scratch handwriting.

Sighing, your eyes find the clock against the wall. Eight minutes left.

You pick at the end of your quill irritably: electing to dip it into the ink at the edge of the desk and entertain yourself quietly by drawing a miniature snowman at the corner of your page, trying not to think about another Friday afternoon in too close of a proximity to Oliver Wood. There's a soft whir, barely audible if you weren't so focused on outlining pebble eyes, and a tiny paper-airplane whizzes quietly from under your desk: landing squarely on the nose-less head of your snowman.

Fear prickles at you. You don't look up for the source, lest a suspicious sideways glance earns you another weekend with the party-animal Charity Burbage.

Instead, you carefully undo the intricately folded wings of the plane. It's barely big enough to fit into your palm once open, the top of the little note marked in black ink.

It was the same handwriting that marked the sign-out sheet for equipment in the Quidditch storage rooms down at the pitch.

'Thanks for that one, smart-mouth.'

Your eyes flicker up to Burbage, who's back is turned, before you dip your quill into the ink and scribble out a response. In your peripheral, Oliver is leaned back in his stool: biceps folded over each other. There's an unexplainably airy-fairy, fuzzy feeling warming your rib cavity.

'Believe this one was your fault, dickhead.'

You quietly refold the creased edges, before tapping it lightly with the end of your wand: then watch how it takes off the airstrip of your page and zips quietly under the cover of desks to land back in front of the sender.

There's a long pause - enough for Burbage to draw out a whole flow diagram of something called "parliament" - before the edge of the paper wing grazes at your calf again. It lands quietly again.

'Maybe.

We good?'

There's a gentleness to the sentence. Like you can hear it from Oliver's mouth, like he's avoiding your gaze when he whispers it.

You hunch over the note again.

Oliver's knuckles are turning white, twisting his wand in his hands under the table. He shouldn't have said anything. He's regretting the whole fucking idea of the stupid paper-plane now.

He's trying not to watch you write, not to notice how long you stared at his writing before you picked up your own quill. He does anyways.

When the airplane flutters down into his palm, Burbage is already excusing the class. Stools are scraping against cold tile, the clutter of textbooks being crammed back into bags.

'Never :)'

His eyes run over the word once, twice, three times over. A smile is tugging at the edge of his lip, he forces it taut - but his eyes are still shining unusually brightly when Archie knocks his shoulder to his.

"What you looking so damn happy about?"

Oliver tucks the note into the pocket of his robes. "Don’t know what yer talking about."

"But professor, why can't Hufflepuff take Saturday?"

"Well, Hufflepuff already gave up our practice days for Gryff--!"

Hooch sighed so deeply she almost melted back into her armchair. "The decision is made, Oliver. The pitch is being cleaned out on Wednesday, your team can take Saturday for any extra training."

He could practically hear the smile creeping onto your face, the smug crossed-arm look he'll no doubt find when he turns to you.

Irritation bubbles up in his throat, a familiar companion in your presence, and just as he prophesied: you are grinning.

In the weeks that followed that day in Burbage's class, it seemed that both parties decided that the topic of their shared kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room was best left undiscussed.

The arrangement is working. At least Oliver thinks so.

You still bait him and he still snaps, rising to your taunts. He still finds himself in detention more Fridays than he spends free, and his body ripples with anger when you roll your eyes at him.

But it was in moments, like this now, where your little self-satisfied grin doesn't quite vex him to the degree it once did. It's now harder to find a retort, to snap at you with a sharp-edged comment. Not when amusement crinkles at the corners of your eyes where your black lashes kiss so prettily.

Hooch swivels in her chair to find a document between one of her cluttered drawers, you take the opportunity to stick the tip of your tongue out childishly at him.

Oliver draws a tight breath, he hopes his face is still taut in annoyance, because his heart has slipped like a stone down into his stomach. That's the other issue, the tiny little obstacle in these recent weeks: he can't stop looking at your mouth. It's distracting, disarming - paralysing at the best of times.

He strips his gaze away, before he can be outed by anyone in the room. "Whatever." He mumbles.

You seem disappointed in his lack of a real response, but it passes quickly - like a shadow - over your face.

"Thanks professor." You grab up your roster from her desk and turn to the door, practically skipping out into the corridor.

He huffs.

Somehow, you and Archie have become fast friends. Mornings around Fire-Seed Bushes and Venomous Tentaculas in the heat of Greenhouse Three seems to do wonders for a friendship.

It prickles at Oliver's nerves when you pass in the corridors, when you perk up with a high "hey Arch!" and he grins down from his towering height right back at you: "hey Y/n!"

You don't look at Oliver. He's notably sour the rest of the walk.

Alright, maybe the whole arrangement wasn't really working. You were a distraction to him before, no doubt, but somehow your powers of beguilement had tripled. Especially since you seem to be behaving perfectly normal: like you hadn't given Oliver the best snog of his life outside the Ravenclaw common room that night.

Maybe it was just alcohol, maybe he is the only one plagued by the knowledge of the other's taste.

The castle has turned impossibly colder, the bitter bite of winter stinging at the loose cuffs of his robes on walkthroughs of the corridors. He can't imagine how cold the air above the pitch is going to be on Sunday when Hufflepuff faces off Slytherin for a spot in the finals.

It's all Hooch has been going on about for the last two weeks.

Oliver's had to shift around at least four practices - Roger almost twice as much, he's a pushover - to allow for you and Marcus to have more time on the pitch. His complaints fell on deaf ears, Hooch dismissed him with a wave of her bony hand and a "your time is coming, Wood."

You prance into dinner late most evenings, hair in every direction and face flush with sweat: sticking it out like a bumblebee in those awful yellow quidditch robes.

Oliver only notices because, annoyingly, he's found that he is frequenting the bench at the Gryffindor table that faces over to the Hufflepuff's. His eyes drift over the yellow-tied heads to where you clump up with Enzo and Cherry, watches you talk around mouthfuls of toast lazily, giggle behind your napkin: head rolling back to showcase that smooth neck, how it runs down to the soft slopes of your shoulders: disappearing down into your button-up.

Archie has noticed, he's sure, but hasn't done more but allude to it with teasing glances or suggestive comments.

"The Hufflepuffs up to something particularly interesting over there, Ollie?"

The speed with which Oliver's eyes snap to his peas is almost comical. He shrugs and mumbles like a child. "Don't know."

On Sunday morning, you don't go to breakfast.

There's an uncomfortable gurgling in your midriff, like a snake is slithering between your organs and you're sure even just the smell of eggs on toast would bring up your dinner.

Instead you find yourself at the pitch a whole hour before the game is set to start. Marcus is running laps around the grass, something he's done since you've known him.

He offers a curt wave, face set like cold stone.

It reminds you of Oliver a little bit, the distraction in his eyes.

Oliver is never all the way there, wherever he is, you think. His eyes mist over like he's halfway between this world and another. You know it's Quidditch: he dreams it, eats it, sleeps it.

But lately he's foggier than usual.

You think it's your imagination, brush off the idea as you have all the millions of others you'd had in the preceding weeks about the surly brute that was Oliver Wood. He plagues you.

Just the vibrato of his unimpressed huff when you get your way, when you quip something purposely annoying at him. It's addictive, the feel of his sugar-brown eyes glaring a hole through you.

Lately, his reactions have been closer to underwhelming. Allowing for only a moment of eye contact: gone are the quick-witted retorts, the Scottish-laced "princess" usually attached. The thought makes you wince in embarrassment, knowing that you've been pressing him harder lately: like a seven-year old jabbing at a claw machine, outwardly desperate for that brown plushy on the top of the pile.

Maybe he's over it. So deathly mortified of your shared kiss that he doesn't want to know you anymore, much less take the effort to hate you. Your chest pinches tightly.

You dress into your match robes slowly, taking your time with the loops of your shoelaces and the buttons down the sweater you're wearing underneath everything. Oliver Wood should be at the bottom of your list of priorities, normally, but now more than ever.

The team filters into the change-room, exhibiting varying degrees of nervousness. Cedric is practically green, but Herbert looks like he's about to go down a water-slide he's waited over an hour in line for. Beyond the swinging doors, you can hear the crowd shuffling loudly into their seats.

Before your wits are completely about you, Hooch is rapping on those same doors. "Onto the pitch, Hufflepuffs!"

You muster up your best excuse for a captain's speech for what might be the last match you ever play as one. The team seem satisfied, you figure it's easy to find solace before a game when you know it's not your last. As the only seventh year, comfort doesn't come so easily to you.

The crowd is deafening when yellow robes take to the sky: Marcus looks over, offering another nod, not unlike the one he'd given you earlier. You can tell he's feeling the dread of finality too.

There's a whistle blow and the quaffle flies past your face with a speed that nearly evacuates your nose from your face. Lee is announcing in the distance and the rumble of adrenaline forces your fingers over the handle. It tilts and you dip, disappearing into the sky of players.

The winter air at Hogwarts was biting enough roaming the corridors, but thirty metres off the ground is something wholly unnatural. Your face was burning crisp from the icy wind, the feeling in your cheeks and nose lost to the Scottish cold.

Foggy white clouds puff out with each heavy breath. Cedric zooms past and Jane loops around his moving figure to knock a stray bludger in the opposite direction.

Your eyes flash between them and the fast approaching Malcolm, he tosses the quaffle at you with a grunt and you catch it at the tips of slippery, ice-frozen fingertips.

Shooting forward again, you duck under Marcus who is hurtling through the sky at you: gone is the look of friendly fondness from his eyes, replaced with a hunger for the leather-bound ball in your grasp.

Just missing the grasp of his meaty hand, the ball passes onto Heidi.

"Another ten points to Hufflepuff," Lee's voice echoes as if from heaven. "That brings the score to ninety for Hufflepuff and eighty for Slytherin!"

It's been nearly ninety-five minutes of sitting on your broom growing colder, and you're not alone.

Around you, the team is descending into frost-induced exhaustion: Jane's nose is as bright red as a Christmas ornament and Cedric has been peeping over the top of his thick woollen-scarf for at least the last half - barely enough to catch a glance of the whizzing canary and emerald robes, much less of a tiny golden snitch.

You sigh out another white breath, letting your eyes drift over the stands. It's saturated with moving heads of faces you can't make out and yellow and green swaying banners. Your gaze lingers on the top left, in the corner facing the castle. It's where Cherry and Enzo park themselves during every match, where you know they're screaming in support, clenching their teeth at every quaffle handover. You can feel them, even when their faces blur into the crowd.

Unintentionally, you think about how Oliver's mixed in there too. Somewhere between your peers. If you had been granted another moment, if the quaffle wasn't mid-air between two Slytherins just under your nose and you'd not taken the opportunity to snatch it from them, you would have meandered into the trap of hoping that deep down in his chest - even if it was core of the earth deep - he was rooting for you, too. That he seethed at a missed goal or clenched a tight fist at his side in celebration when a Hufflepuff makes a beautiful play.

Meanwhile in the stands, Oliver has decided that the desire to play his allegiances in secret has since disappeared from his heart.

He'd played it light in the first few minutes. Mumbling under his breath at a fumbled pass or a slimy move from the Slytherins, but by the forty-fifth minute he'd found himself on his feet.

"Diggory!" His hands waved in front of him, "it was right there you fucking git--"

A Hufflepuff third year a row ahead looked at him askew, but he paid her no mind.

Archie had taken the hint early. As soon as Oliver was out of his seat, so was he. Despite being Oliver Wood's best friend, Archie had somewhat limited knowledge of the game himself and eyed Oliver's reactions to find the appropriate moments to whoop and cheer. Oliver didn't say anything, but he appreciated it more than he could verbalise.

His eyes tracked you more than anything, when you were flying between players or just floating in place: eyes like a hawk, watching over the game. His heart swelled and his pride fell to the wayside.

Just short of the two hour mark, there was a rise in the crowd.

"The seekers have caught sight of the snitch!"

Oliver's stomach rose into his throat.

"They're diving for it, Malfoy and Diggory head to head-- and Slytherin grabs the snitch, winning by 140 points!"

It sank back into place, like a stone to the bottom of the river. He watched how you froze, how you twisted over your shoulder to find Diggory's figure lingering at the bottom of the field. You shoulders sagged, hanging in the air as the others dropped to the ground.

"Slytherin have made it into the finals against Gryffindor for the quidditch cup, back here at the pitch next month!"

After a long moment, the last in the sky, you followed them down.

The raucous cheers from the Slytherins were hard to drown out, he wasn't even sure Archie heard him toss a "i'll find you at the castle" before he found himself pushing through the masses of people.

He fought against the wave moving to find the stairs, eager to return to the warmth of their dormitories, but Oliver was markedly more motivated than the majority. He stomped on some toes and nearly tossed a first year off the stands to race down the stairs.

Only once his feet had found the mushy grass of the pitch, did he pause to consider that he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say. What was the rush for? To comfort you, tease you for your loss?

The latter option was definitely what he could do, what he could say. What was expected of him, if he was being honest. Recently, however, he's found it harder and harder to come up with remarks to hurt your feelings. Found that he quite prefers that little smile that tucks into the corner of your mouth when he says something unexpectedly fond. How your eyes practically gleam.

There's shoving from all sides of him -- get out the way, bloody hell -- and the teams pass ahead of him. Leading the march, despite it being nothing more than a slow trudge, is your figure: squashed between those of who he recognises to be Cherry Stretton and Enzo Musa's.

Their arms wrapped over your shoulders, talking animatedly into your ear on each side. Enzo tips his head to meet yours, a small touch of comfort.

Oliver sighs. He has nothing to say and no comfort to offer, wondering for a moment what he could possibly bare to hear in his own final moments as captain. He thinks that anything from your mouth would work.

So he waits, parks himself beside the stairs and waits for Archie: watching the six-legged figure disappear up over the hill.

You're not at dinner.

He knows because he's been watching the door for the better half of an hour. Archie pushes his plate at him, "Eat something there, Ollie."

Begrudgingly, Oliver brings his drumstick up to his mouth. "She's not eaten a thing since breakfast, it's almost eight."

Archie passes a sympathetic look over him. "Her friends are here, I'm sure she'll be by soon. There's no use you joining her on a hunger-strike."

He's right. Cherry and Enzo and some others that frequent your circle are talking around the table, around the spot that you usually fill. But dinner goes on and students leak steadily out towards bed without your return.

Eventually Oliver huffs, like an irritated bulldog, and grabs for the nearest napkin: unfolding it out in front of him.

"What are you doing?" Archie asks thickly, spitting bits of rice at him.

Oliver reaches for two chicken skewers, placing them neatly on the white square: alongside a dinner roll and a pumpkin pasty.

He wraps them over, double wraps it with another napkin too.

"What does it look like, Arch."

Placing it carefully into the deep pocket of his robe, Oliver goes to stand - lacking the patience it takes for Archie to answer, or for his inevitable teasing. "I'll find you back in our room."

He's halfway out the hall when Archie's voice calls out to him, "You don't even know where she is!"

Oliver shakes his head, brandishing a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "I know where she is." He mumbles for only himself to hear.

You’d watched close to twenty-one quidditch matches from the stands at the pitch on Hogwarts grounds: played in almost half of them.

The seat is still slightly too small, just uncomfortable enough to make a person shuffle. Beyond the rim over the other end of the pitch you can see the orange sun dipping behind the horizon, drawing to darkness over your moment alone.

By now you're sure the party in the common room has long since found momentum. The one you'd been promised by the team, "it's your last game, cap, we need to celebrate!". You're sure someone somewhere is looking for you, bracing a plastic cup of Firewhisky with your name on it, but you can't find it within yourself to face it all just yet.

The silence of the evening is enough, you only wish you'd been fast enough to retrieve your broomstick that's somewhere off with Enzo. Just for one last lap.

The serenity of your loneliness doesn't persevere, however. You can hear shuffling up the steps, you're tempted to look but the sunset is slipping so quickly out of your hands that it's not worth the time wasted.

It's only when the footfalls draw closer, stopping when a body slumps into the seat beside you. The seats are so cramped that his knee brushes yours, the figure long since identified from the corner of your eye.

"Come to gloat?" You ask, eyes never leaving the sky.

He shrugs. "Not today."

You nod. His smell drifts on the breeze under your nose, like peppermint and soap and Oliver.

There's a long silence. Your robes crease against the fist sitting in your lap, you've yet to change out of your quidditch uniform, you know it will be the last time.

"You missed dinner."

"Does it matter?"

Despite your avoidant gaze, Oliver's is warming the side of your face. The evening air cools the same spot.

There's a shuffling that finally draws your eyes. Oliver is still in his robes too, and his hand emerges from a deep pocket with a folded napkin square. "Figured you'd be hungry."

He places it onto your lap with a gentleness you're coming to find more of in him. Something frighteningly warm erupts in your chest and your hands come up to it, pulling apart the napkin to find picky bits inside.

You're fighting between smiling and starting to cry. You do neither.

"You carried this in your pocket the whole way from the hall?"

His eyes flicker between the food and your face before he shrugs. "Yeah."

By now, you were fighting a losing battle and the smile pulled up at the ends of your mouth so tightly that your cheeks started to hurt. "Gross."

You pick up a chicken skewer regardless, biting into it and facing the sky again. You offer him the other one and he looks for a moment like he's going to argue but takes it quietly in the end.

The chicken is tender and only after you'd swallowed the first bit did you realise how hungry you'd actually been. You finish it without a word, going to tear the pasty in half and offering a piece to your companion.

You're picking at the roll now, tearing tiny bits off and feeding it piece by piece to yourself like a bird. "Last game."

He nods. "I know."

"What could someone say to you after your last game, Wood?" You pick at him, eyes flittering between him and the now nearly black sky. "You know, to make you feel better?"

Oliver shakes his head, leaning back and rolling his shoulders: as if the thought itself unsettled him.

"Nothing, probably. I'd probably just walk into the Black Lake and drown myself."

You think he's joking, but with Oliver Wood that was hardly a sure thing.

"You wouldn't."

"What's there left to live for?" He says it with an airy chuckle.

Shrugging, your head falls against your shoulder. "You'd have to figure it out, because I'd go marching in right after you. Carry you out if I had to."

Oliver stills, eyes wide and blinking at you. Your chest goes tight, the ghost of a smile pressing at your face.

"Bridal style and everything ..." You add quietly, stifling your chuckle.

He seems to come back to himself, nodding. "We should get back. Been a long day."

The napkin crumples in your hand, shoved down into the depths of your own pocket. You walk ahead, the pathway to the steps is only narrow enough for one person at a time, and he trails behind.

By the time you've hit the steps, Oliver moving down beside you, you're brewing around an apology. A way to thin the air, to ease where your chest is tight: swirling around well done, now you've made things awkward you git. It's halfway up to your tongue when skin brushes against the back of your hand.

Warm fingers explore your knuckles to find your cool ones, slipping to knot between them.

You work not to look down, because Oliver's skittish like that. From the corner of your eye, you can see he's concentrating his gaze ahead.

His hand tightens against yours, palm callous from years wrapped around the wooden handle of his broomstick. It's a little sweaty and sticky but you're smiling so hard you're about to be sick.

You dare to look at him, Oliver's smiling too.

Oliver hasn't been sleeping.

His last few days of seventh year are slipping like water through his calloused hands and he can feel it. Every hour that passes, shadowy and fleeting.

Classes feel shorter than before, the terrible jokes Archie bombards him with over dinner sound funnier than he ever remembers them being and the glimpses he catches of you in the corridor never feel long enough. The ceiling of his poster bed flashes with moments of the day that's passed, feeling like a dream you'll be jolted out of as soon as it gets good.

Even over all his hours of broody contemplation, none of it makes the final whistle any easier to swallow. It hits him like he's been smacked with a bludger in the chest.

"Gryffindor has won the quidditch cup, two-hundred and thirty points to twenty!"

He can hear the crowd's roar, the whoops of the twins floating somewhere below him. Harry's standing on the grass of the pitch holding up his tiny golden trophy. The pitch is red all over: Oliver won.

He won.

Every moment building up over the last seven years culminated into the final blow of the whistle. The wind is whipping at the hair over his forehead: Oliver thinks this might be the happiest moment of his life, but he's not entirely sure.

He never realised that it would all be so fucking soaked in sadness.

It's over. He's leaving the castle empty handed. His engraving will live on the Quidditch Cup in a dusty cupboard for years to come, yes, and he might have a frame up in his future apartment somewhere, reminiscing on the old days. That's all.

He's struck with the devastating fear that in a few short years, nobody will remember him. More than anything, he can't believe he hadn't come to this overwhelming conclusion before right now. Before Angelina is yelling to him, waving a frantic hand and sporting the biggest grin in all of Scotland, before he was seconds from taking the prize he's held in his mind for so many years into his very hands.

Will you forget him?

It nearly knocks him off his broom. He finds that it scares him the most, more than the thought of the dust-caked trophy or the lonely corner at the back of his cupboard where his Hogwarts robes will no doubt live until eternity.

He won't forget you, he thinks. He knows.

You're just so damn annoying. And beautiful, fucking whip-clever and hilarious sometimes--

The handle of his broom is tilting down to the earth now, the crowd zooming into a blur on either side of him. He hits a shaky landing, broomstick abandoned on the grass behind him as he's pulled into the arms of his team and well-wishers.

A golden trophy passes over the heads of the twins and it's shoved into his sweating hands. It's cool to the touch and so much heavier than he thought it ever could be, but he can't seem to keep his mind on the situation long enough to realise any of that. His mind is racing around the castle wondering where you might be and what's the fastest way to get there.

His eyes are racing over the heads of the roving crowd. "Wood, Wood! Speech!"

Shadowing over everyone is Archie's tall figure standing at the back, grinning down at him. The team watches expectantly.

This is it. The moment for the speech he's been practicing in his bathroom mirror since he was seven.

"I--" he looks down at the cup for the first time, his face reflecting up at him in glimmering gold. He finds he can't remember any of the words. "I need to go find someone."

There's a buzz of confusion, but Oliver doesn't linger: shoving the Quidditch Cup into Harry's arms.

"That's the shortest speech Wood has ever given." He hears Angelina quip, but he can't be arsed to turn. He's already flying, moving through the crowd at such a pace he might just have been on his broom.

The sea of students had long since started moving up to the castle, particularly the non-gryffindors: trying to beat the stampede of scarlet that is no doubt to come. Oliver's legs carry him over the smooth green hill up towards Hogwarts, head craning over students to find your side profile somewhere in the mass.

He catches few oy, watch it!'s and congrats, Wood!'s but he doesn't turn, doesn't stop running. Students bespeckle the grass like ants lining up for crumbs, and he's all the way up into the stone corridor leading to the Great Hall when he spots Cherry's velvet red curls over the crowd, and sure enough, he finds you're knocking her shoulder with your own.

It only takes one shout of your name and you turn to peek curiously back, by which time he's taken both your shoulders into his hands and steered you to the wall of the corridor.

"Wood! What are you do--"

His hands squeeze around the plush at your upper arms. "Oliver. My name is Oliver."

Your eyes are wide in surprise, the window behind you showcases the gardens and the pitch in the distance. Sunlight forms a halo over the crown of your head.

With a head tilted in confusion, you nod slowly. "Alright ... what are you doing, Oliver?"

He can feel the eyes of Cherry and Enzo burning a hole through the side of his head, but doesn't bother with it. You're blinking up at him, gentle and benign in your features. He wonders when it became like this, when you'd lost the tight brow and the frown every time you looked at him.

"I won the Quidditch Cup." He says blankly.

You nod, a small smile tucked into the corner of your lip. "I saw. Congratulations."

Oliver only nods back at you. "I wanted to tell you. I wanted to come shove it in your face."

He's shuffling closer to your figure, and he's more than pleased to discover that you aren't cowering from it.

"Of course you did, because you're a prat." But you're smiling so hard now that it's impossible to take your jab to heart. "Is that all, Oliver?"

A warm sensation is spilling into his rib cavity and his fingertips are buzzing with electricity when they come to find either side of your face.

"No." His forehead is nearly touching yours and your hands have wrapped around his wrists. "I came to ask you out on a date. A sappy, disgustingly romantic date where I bring you flowers and pay for your hot chocolate. You'd hate it."

"That truly sounds horrible." Your smile is so wide he can barely see the whites of your eyes and it pumps more adrenaline through Oliver than any argument you'd ever shared over the last seven years.

"So, is that a yes?"

You're bouncing on your toes a little bit, bumping your nose against Oliver's clumsily. The babble of passing students and gawking onlookers has practically fallen mute to him.

"Depends, are you going to kiss me goodnight after?" You whisper it, like it's a secret between just you and him.

He nods slowly, "pretty desperate to kiss you right now, if I'm being honest princess--"

You don't wait for him to finish, thank Merlin you don't wait for him to finish, and push up onto your toes: crashing against his mouth. You're kiss is as dizzying as he remembers, but softer this time. You kiss like you know he's not running away, hands pressing softly over his neck.

It's nothing like your kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room: where that one was desperate and hot and angry, this time it's born from longing and tenderness and acceptance.

It leaves him just as fucking breathless as the first time.

Somewhere behind him, he hears wolf-whistling (he's sure it's Cherry) and when you pull your lips off his, your face is flush with embarrassment.

"I will go on a date with you, Oliver."

He takes your hand into his, curling his fingers between your own. You lean up to peck him softly and bat your eyelashes at him, grinning innocuously when you whisper: "If you treat me like you did with Delilah, I'm throwing your broomstick into the fireplace."

don't forget to comment and repost if you enjoyed :)

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apparentlytheproblem · 1 year

Text

s w e a t e r w e a t h e r

fandom- Harry Potter

pairing(s)- Draco Malfoy

a/n: so this one is based on a situation I've been in which had me bawling, crying and literally dying. I also saw something similar on Pinterest and I thought why not? requests are always open, love, teddy

requested- yes

warnings- none i hope

You found yourself in the edge of the black lake sprawled on a fuzzy blanket with all sorts of delights, giggling and laughing with a blonde Slytherin over something absolutley preposterous, the idea or to be more specific, the rumors between you and a Malfoy.

The evening was crisp already, the last of sunset just a fading pale stripe in the sky. Evening shadows deepened into blue and purple. the wind was icy and withering, it sent chills down your back.

"c'mon, its almost time for bed luv"

love. love? did he just call me love? am I okay?

"yeah, let's head back" you assented.

a cold wind swept past the both of you, Draco's eyes bumped together in a scowl and his nystagmic eyes hadn't missed anything. All he was waiting for was an ask and maybe a pretty please too.

"would it be alright if i borrow your sweater?"

their eyes my god, as if I'd say no, fuckin damn

"it would be more than alright sweetheart"

fuck. sweetheart? is he tryna kill me? what does he want? oh god

His fingers gripped the ends of the sweater covering his abdomen and quickly pulled his sweater of green and silver and handed it to her.

it was loose to say the least, but you loved it almost as much as he loved seeing you in it. it smelt of mahogany apples which he loved so much.

Draco towered over, trying to roll the sleeves for you, and grabbed your palm and began to walk as if he wasn't absolutley panicking inside.

"it smells like you"

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writing-wh0re · 7 months

Text

“Read it to me, darling.”

♥ pairing: george weasley x fem!reader

♥ summary: Based on this ask “you're reading a book and its so good, you dont notice george back from pratice. So he wants to test how much you love the book. ”

♥ warnings: smut 18+, oral, male performing oral, smut book (?), fingering, pussy eating, smut with little to zero plot.

♥ wc: 1090

♥ masterlist & taglist

You were surprised how quickly you were getting through this book. Determined and excited to start the third instalment in the series.

George had been out for hours, you had noticed the rain softly washing against the window, wondering when he would pop back in to see you again. Although it wouldn’t surprise you if he kept practising in the rain.

You eyes skim over the words, a small smile on your face as Archer and Astrid, the two main characters finally shared their first kiss. You continue to read ahead, pulling the strawberry lollipop from your lips as you turn the page, excitement filling your body. You place the sweet back in your mouth, sinking down into the bed a little bit more, knowing your coming up to the juicy part of the novel. Small butterflies fill your stomach as Archer and Astrid pine over each other, both taking their relationship to the next level, solidifying their love.

“Love?”

“Sweetheart?”

Your book falls into your lap, your face a slight tint of pink, eyes adjusting to the man in front of you. Slightly wet with rain and sweat, his shirt off and on the end of the bed. Your eyes rake over his body, your mind wandering back to your book as you rub your thighs together, which doesn’t go as unnoticed as you thought.

“Sorry.” You shake your head, pulling the blanket up your body, feeling a slight shame for being caught with smut.

George smirks, taking the lollipop from between your lips, slightly glossy with sticky strawberry residue and spit. He places the sweet in his mouth, his hand under your chin. Tilting your face to look up at him.

“Love, don't tell me I’m losing you to your book boyfriend.”

You pout slightly, before you can speak the lollipop is back against your lips. You frown, swirling your tongue around the sweet, watching George’s eyes lock onto your actions as the bed dips under his weight, him resting on his knees in front of you.

“Please keep reading.” He insists, a swift wink sent your way. Moving the blanket off your legs.

A gasp falls past your lips, your fingers gripping the stem of the lollipop to ensure its safety.

“George, I don’t-”

He places his hand around your throat, his face inches from yours, the sweet smell of strawberry wafting between you.

“Shh, darling, I simply can’t take you away from this book, I’ll occupy myself.”

George grabs the book from your lap, his eyes quickly skimming the words, a small smirk on his lips. He tuts, shaking his head before, his fingers tracing down the top of your thighs, slipping between your legs, tracing the outside of your panties.

“Ah, no wonder your panties are wet.”

Blush creeps across your face, your eyes slightly wide as the embarrassment of him reading the smut washes over you. You bury your head in the book, wishing it would swallow you and help you escape this shame.

George chuckles, laying down on his stomach, his lips kissing up your thighs, biting the soft skin with every second kiss.

“I want to know who you prefer by the end.”

His fingers hook inside your panties, pulling them down your legs.

“Me or your fictional man.”

You roll your eyes, your heart hammering in your chest.

“Don’t be like that.” You mumble, his warm breath fanning against your folds.

“If you stop, I stop.” His tongue softly licks up and down your slit, an eruption of butterflies soars through your stomach.

“George.” You whisper moan, heat filling your body.

“Don’t stop love, I'm enjoying this.”

You sigh, picking the book up and resuming where you left off. George kisses your folds, his tongue slipping back between them, circling your clit while you re-read the same sentence.

Fuck, this is harder than it seems.

“Yes.” You moan, your grip on the book tightening, your hips rocking slightly.

“Read it to me, darling.”

“Uh.” The sound falls from your lips as his wraps around your clit, sucking on the sensitive bud. Your eyes lock with his as he softly drags his tongue up your slit.

“Enlighten me, I won’t ask again.”

You nod, quickly picking the book back up and finding where you left off while George continues to play with your pussy. You clear your throat before reading aloud to him.

“Archer gripped Astrid's hair, his hand pulling the strands around his palm. He liked the contrast between her red locks and his skin. He continued to thrust into her with heated passion- Fuck George uh.”

George chuckles against your clit, his fingers now slowly pulling in and out of you.

“Astrid moaned something that caused Archer to slow his thrusts, wanting to hear- fuck just like that - wanting to hear more of what she could offer him. He knew if he kept it at this pace she would beg, a situation Archer only dreamt of. Astrid rocked her hips back, Archer's grip tightening on the strands of hair, pulling her back against his chest, his hands falling from her fiery red locks and groping - George Oh- her bo- Yes, Yes, uhh - her boobs.”

Your head tilts back, George's pace picking up both his fingers and his tongue. The book falls on your chest, your finger tangling in his hair, chasing your hair. You rock your hips against his lips, his hands slipping under you and squeezing your ass, helping to support your slightly elevated angle.

“I’m close.”

George simply responds by humming against your clit, his fingers curling inside of you. Your back arches off the bed, your book falling off your chest and onto the floor with a small thud.

“C-cumming” You moan, your vision blurry as you squeeze your eyes shut.Your teeth biting against the strawberry lollipop as it shatters in your mouth. George slows his actions, small aftershocks shooting through your body, your legs twitching. You release a deep sigh as George pulls his fingers out of your pussy, his lips glistening with a mix of your wetness and cum.

He reaches for the lollipop stick between your teeth. You simply open your mouth showing him the shattered remnants as he smirks, leaning forward and capturing your tongue in his mouth. Intertwining his with yours and savouring the strawberry flavour before pulling away with a lick of his lips.

“You should read to me more often.”

You simply blush, hiding your face in your hands and pulling the blanket back up over your legs.

Taglist: @horrorxweasley @maybesandohnos @skarlettmikaelson @mathletemadison @wahooyahoo17 @zagreusdaughter @alina02 @addymartinsstuff @rebeldotty88 @peterpan-neverfails @thehumanistsdiary @anonreaderas @i-love-scott-mccall @sunshinemunchkin @themoonis-beautiful-tonight @veryspookybatbabe @uwiuwi @anythingandeverything97 @fckve @darling2800

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belqva · 14 days

Text

₊˚⊹౨ TAKE ME TO CHURCH [T.M.R.] ৎ ₊˚⊹

warnings: domestic violence, mentions of murder (it’s tom riddle are we even surprised?)

summary: At the hour of the owl, driven by anger and hurt, you left your dorm and wandered towards the Black Lake. There you encounter Tom Riddle. Your enigmatic conversation with your academic rival took an unexpected turn, leaving you with more questions than answers as you headed back to the castle.

pairing: tom riddle x ravenclaw fem!reader

word count: 2.8k

a/n: this is a draft that I didn’t plan on posting but I’m so busy atm I don’t have time to write anything else 🥲 again english is not my first language so sorry if there are any mistakes! as always my inbox is open and I’m happy to hear any criticism or requests as long as you are polite 🤍 not incredibly proud of this but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless <333

It was the hour of the owl when you left your dorm room. Strictly forbidden, yes, but as a prefect—even if off-duty that evening—you were willing to risk detention. Quite unusual for an obedient Ravenclaw like yourself, but here you were, sneaking out like a thief in the night.

“Oh, bloody hell,” you muttered, consumed by anger that clouded your thoughts. Hatred and adrenaline coursed through your veins. The Ravenclaw common room was empty; everyone else was already in bed, even those who usually stayed up late. No one would see or question your departure. It was nearly three in the morning, dark and silent.

You made your way across the empty common room and down the stairs of Ravenclaw Tower, not entirely sure where you were going, but driven by a need to escape everything. The ancient Hogwarts castle was cold and empty, its walls whispering secrets. Some might find the silence unsettling, but you found it oddly comforting. The cool evening breeze was soothing against your warm skin, though you would likely regret leaving your sweater behind later. Dressed in your usual uniform—a skirt, a white button-up, and the silver-blue tie— you moved carefully through the deserted halls, avoiding even the faintest creak.

The castle felt unimaginably vacant. Your anger had begun to ebb, replaced by a gradual calmness. The walk and fresh air had helped. As you meandered through the halls, you decided to venture outside the castle. It wasn’t entirely safe, but you had your wand and weren't afraid of the dark anymore. The stars shone brightly above, and your worries seemed to drift away.

Heading towards the Black Lake to clear your mind, you noticed a figure on the shore. Your heart raced with fear. Quickly gripping your wand, you crept closer, only to recognize the familiar figure of Tom Riddle. His jet-black hair, piercing dark eyes, and imposing stature could not be mistaken. The sight of him was both intimidating and oddly magnetic.

“Riddle,” you called, your voice cutting through the quiet. As he turned, his wand aimed at the ready, you saw his defensive stance relax.

“Y/L/N,” Tom said, his tone sharp as ever. “It is rather uncouth to approach someone unannounced.”

You had never liked him, and the feeling was mutual. What began as a snarky rivalry in your first year had escalated into a fierce competition. Each of you tried to outdo the other, pushing boundaries and limits, reveling in victories and defeats. Despite your mutual animosity, there was an undeniable, if twisted, connection between you. Tom was not like other boys; he was cold, calculating, and ruthless. Yet, he maintained a facade of the humble, ambitious scholar. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and though you would never admit it, you found his intensity compelling.

“Well, that certainly wasn’t my intention, Riddle. My apologies,” you replied sarcastically.

As you approached, you noticed Tom’s irritated expression and the cigarette he had dropped. He took out another one, lit it with his wand, and took a drag before addressing you.

“I should be asking you the same thing, Y/L/N,” he said, ignoring your remark. “It’s never easy with you, is it?”

“You’re the one to talk,” you retorted. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

Tom’s unimpressed glance betrayed his indifference. “Well, I’m delighted to catch you off guard.”

The sight of him indulging in such a muggle habit was unexpected. Given his staunch pureblood beliefs, it was surprising. But you supposed it made sense, considering his upbringing in a muggle orphanage. Where he got the cigarettes from was another mystery.

His reaction to your mention of muggles was intense. “I have nothing to do with those filthy creatures. The mere idea is offensive. Muggles are obsessed with pleasure, indulgence, and waste. They are nothing but animals in disguise.”

Tom’s passionate tirade was one of his defining traits. His ability to articulate his disdain with such fervor was both disturbing and strangely admirable. You had learned to disregard his over-the-top responses, focusing instead on his more genuine moments.

“Merlin, Riddle, calm down. It was just a question,” you said, trying to remain unfazed.

“And I am just answering you,” he countered, his demeanor quickly reverting to his usual composed facade. He took another drag of his cigarette, and a heavy silence settled between you.

After a moment, he broke the quiet. “So what is an obedient Ravenclaw like yourself doing out at this hour? I thought breaking the rules wasn’t your style.” His smirk was maddening.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, the earlier anger fading, replaced by an uncomfortable shudder of vulnerability. Tom noticed the change in your demeanor and his expression grew serious. His perceptiveness was unnerving, a reminder of why you found it hard to trust him fully.

“Well, it’s stupid really. Foolish,” you admitted, defeated.

Tom raised an eyebrow, puffing smoke as you locked eyes. A silent understanding passed between you, a mutual recognition of the truth. You began to speak, revealing the turmoil behind your nighttime escapade.

You sat on the edge of your bed, struggling to focus on your assignments late into the evening.

The room was quiet except for the sound of your quill scratching parchment and the occasional rustle of pages. All your dormmates were out at a Gryffindor party celebrating their victory over Slytherin in the Quidditch match. You weren't worried about their early return; it was Friday, and with no classes the next day, they were likely to be out until afternoon, lost in firewhisky or other indulgences. They'd tried to drag you along, but you'd claimed a severe headache and a need for rest. None of them believed you, dismissing your excuses with rolled eyes and playful jabs.

As they left, one of them teased,

"Have fun trying to turn rubbish into a raccoon dog," and they all laughed.

You rolled your eyes, knowing their words were harmless. You were close friends who respected each other deeply; this was just part of your dynamic.

Just as you were settling into the quiet, a sudden interruption shattered the peace. Someone opened your dorm room door, and annoyance flared at the disruptive noise. "Jane, is that you? Because I swear on my mother's-" you began scolding as you turned, but your words faltered when you saw the dark mop of slicked-back hair. It was your boyfriend, Wiglaf Siggurdson.

"Sorry to disappoint," he chuckled, closing the door behind him with a soft click. You were relieved it wasn't one of the girls, but his presence did little to uplift your mood. You liked Wiglaf; he was smart, confident, and everything a girl could wish for. Yet, you often questioned if you truly loved him, if you loved him enough to be with him. He was the one who had asked you to be his girlfriend, and being the polite person you were, you had accepted. He came from a wealthy family, had impeccable manners, played Quidditch, and was almost perfect in every way. But you appreciated him more as a friend and couldn't bring yourself to admit it. You tried hard to convince yourself that he was the one, but your heart wouldn't comply. He was kind, brought you flowers, carried your books, walked you to classes, and treated you like the most special girl on earth. Yet, his presence stirred a surge of irritation.

"I was studying, you know, before you decided to interrupt me unannounced," you said stiffly, turning back to your work. Wiglaf stood in the middle of the room, unsure of how to proceed.

"So, no greeting? No 'Hello, my dear boyfriend who decided to ditch a party to come and see me'?" he remarked sarcastically. "And it's not like you're not always studying.

Nothing new really," he muttered under his breath. The tension in the room was palpable.

"Well, I didn't ask you to come see me," you said matter-of-factly without turning around. His frustration was evident as he moved closer to you.

"And not all of us have a rich father to secure a job at the Ministry as soon as we graduate, you know," you said, tone sharp. He sat beside you and sighed heavily. Dressed in a blue sweater and casual dress pants, he looked dejected.

"You know I didn't mean it like that," he said softly. You still refused to look at him. "Sure," you mumbled, uninterested.

"And anyway, if you marry me, you won't have to worry about things like that," he added, beaming with self-satisfaction. You froze, trying to process his words. "Excuse me?" you said, clearly offended. It wasn't unusual for women not to work after graduation, but you had made it clear that you intended to. His casual joke about it now was hurtful. You had hoped he understood you better. Even if you did marry him, you wanted to work and maintain your

independence. You didn't want to rely on anyone, especially not someone you weren't sure you truly loved.

"What's up with you?" Wiglaf groaned. "You're always so wound up and offended by everything I say.

You're always busy studying, and it's always some excuse for why you can't go or can't do this or that. You never actually want to spend time with me." His voice rose with anger. "So far, I'm the only one putting any effort into this relationship It's supposed to be a two person job.”

You frowned and buried your face in your hands. "Wiglaf, I'm not in the mood for this right now. I want to study and go to sleep. Can we please save this lecture for another time?" you said wearily.

"No!" he thundered unexpectedly.

"You don't get to do this. You don't get to treat me like some dog on a leash," he hissed. You sighed, exasperated. "Oh, come on, stop acting childish, Wiglaf," you said, rolling your eyes as you began packing up your papers. You had no intention of continuing this argument; all you wanted was to go to bed.

"I come here, ditching all my mates to spend time with my girlfriend, who doesn't even bother to greet me, and now I'm the one acting childish?" He stood up, his frustration reaching a crescendo. "Oh, please," you muttered, standing up as well. As you tried to gather your papers, they slipped from your hands as Wiglaf gripped your wrists. The sudden contact shocked you, and your eyes widened in surprise.

"I think you need to be taught a lesson," he said with a dangerous glint in his eyes. You could see the lust taking over his gaze. "Wiglaf, let go of me. I'm not in the mood right now," you said, your patience fraying.

But he was too enraged to listen. He pulled you closer, his grip painful.

"Wiglaf, let go! You're hurting me!" you protested, struggling against his hold. Instead of relenting, he pressed himself against you and forcefully kissed you, gripping your face and preventing you from breaking free. In a desperate attempt to escape, you kicked him in the shin. The contact caused him to release you, and he hunched over in pain. You stood there, stunned by your own actions while he grunted, recovering from the kick.

The room was silent except for his pained breathing.

When he regained his composure, his eyes burned with rage. "Wiglaf, I-" you started, but before you could finish, he slapped you across the face.

The force of the blow left you reeling, and you felt the sting and warmth of blood on your lips. Wiglaf stood there, stunned, as if he couldn't fully grasp what he had just done.

Your fight-or-flight response kicked in, and you pushed past him, fleeing the room. He didn't try to follow you.

After a few moments, he collapsed on the floor, staring at the floorboards as he grappled with the gravity of his actions.

As you ran through Ravenclaw Tower, a whirlwind of emotions swept through you: shock, shame, disgust, guilt, sadness, and finally, red-hot seething anger. The only thought that brought you any comfort was the imagined cold, lifeless body of Wiglaf.

How could he do this after everything you had shared? It was unfathomable.

And that's how you found yourself sitting beside Tom Riddle on the shore of the Black Lake.

...and then I just left," you finished quietly. A heavy silence followed your explanation, and Tom's features darkened. You chuckled at the irony of it all. "Well, I suppose that's what l get for thinking that I-"

You didn't get to finish your sentence as Tom interrupted you. "I'm going to kill him." He stated plainly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You flinched at his violent intentions.

"What?" You quaked hoarsely. He couldn't be serious... could he?

"You heard me." Tom's eyes were sharp as he took a few steps closer. But you never knew Tom Riddle to be the type to joke about things like that.

"He dared lay a hand on what's mine, and now he's going to pay for it." His tone was cold.

What's his? By day, you were nothing but an academic rival to Tom Riddle, but by night, you were suddenly his treasured possession? What a twisted mind indeed. You sighed at his words, rubbing your temples, trying to make sense of everything. "Tom, you can't just-"

"Yes, I can and I will. Because tell me, do you not think about me when he's inside of you, when you touch yourself, when you wake up in the morning? You don't love him, Y/N. We both know it. And don't try to deny it. I see right through you." His voice was dark. "And don't tell me what I can and can't do. That's not for you to decide."You were stunned, your mind blank.

Tom Riddle was a confusing enigma.

One moment he hated you, the next he was willing to kill for you. For him, it was all the same. Wiglaf would just be another addition to his growing collection of Horcruxes. It was a win-win for him: a Horcrux, the removal of an annoyance, and you-all in one plan. Three birds, one stone.

Tom's body was now facing yours, and his cold hands brushed a stray hair from your forehead. "Don't waste your mind on people like him. I don't even know why you're with that dimwit..." he muttered quietly. His fingers traced the curve of your lip and the bloody spot Wiglaf's assault had left. As he touched you, the fire in your body reignited, and the magic you only felt around him came to life.

You never felt this way around Wiglaf.

With Tom, it was like you were alive for the first time. You burned for him.

You loved him. He knew it, and you knew it. Yet both of you understood it could never work. Your ambitions were far too... different.

You let your head rest on his palm, closing your eyes for a moment, letting all your worries fade away. Dreaming about a world in which Tom was capable of loving you. Or perhaps a world in which you were able to go against your moral compass and accept his twisted mind. You kissed his palm gently and then pulled away.

"I ought to get back to the castle before someone catches us. We'll both be in trouble." You cleared your throat and spoke.

Tom simply hummed in response.

Reluctantly, you moved away and started for the castle. Before you got too far, you turned to speak softly so he could hear you. "Good night, Tom."

His gaze was on you, but he didn't reply. You continued your way back to the castle, his eyes following your retreating form. When you were far enough away that Tom was sure you couldn't hear him, he spoke softly,

"Good night, my love."

The next morning, you didn't see Wiglaf at his usual spot at the breakfast table. You approached one of his mates to inquire about his whereabouts, wondering if he was hungover or something. But as you spoke to him, a look of concern crossed his face, and he regretfully explained that Wiglaf had ended up in the hospital wing the night before. No one knew how or why.

You felt a pair of eyes on you and turned to the Slytherin table. There they were: two onyx eyes staring back at you, deep into your soul, letting you know that once again, he had emerged victorious.

SHARING THIS, ANY OF MY OTHER WORKS OR A TRANSLATION OF THEM WITHOUT CONSENT ON THIS OR ANY OTHER PLATFORM IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN !!!

THE PLOT OF HARRY POTTER OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS DO NOT BELONG TO ME THIS IS JUST A WORK OF FANFICTION !!!

tags:

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incorrectquotesharrypotterv · 2 years

Text

George: Are you talking to yourself?

Y/n: Yes.

Y/n: It's the only way I can have an intelligent conversation in this school.

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neytirisheaven · 11 months

Text

HARRY POTTER MASTERLIST ் ༘

[ ↷ m. masterlist ]

[ ❏ legend , ]

✿ fluff ! ☁︎ angst ! ★ smut !

♥︎ personal favorite ! ✓ complete !

ᝰ currently writing !

marauders era ──

❛ james potter ❜

𓄼 oneshots 𓄹

ᝰ | tell me that i'm all you want:

( afterglow, taylor swift )

☁︎✿

IN WHICH lily's sudden attraction to james has him thrown for a loop, and you're not sure if you have his heart any longer

ᝰ | been about three years since i dated you:

( broken clocks, sza )

☁︎✿

IN WHICH your breakup with james was already beginning to hit its three year mark when he shows up at your doorstep

𓄼 mini-fics 𓄹

tba

❛ sirius black ❜

𓄼 oneshots 𓄹

✓ | i can't lose when i'm with you:

( snooze, sza )

✿

IN WHICH sirius is so desperately in love with you, and the rest of the marauders help him execute his extravagant plan to ask you out

ᝰ | i'm so proud i got to love you once:

( sugarplum elegy, niki )

☁︎

IN WHICH it's the first wizarding war and you're visiting your ex, sirius, in his apartment

𓄼 mini-fics 𓄹

tba

❛ remus lupin ❜

𓄼 oneshots 𓄹

ᝰ | i can't stop thinkin' 'bout you:

( thinkin bout you, katie )

✿

IN WHICH your little hallway crush on one of the infamous marauders, remus lupin, turns into something more

ᝰ | do you feel the love?:

( double take, dhruv )

☁︎✿

IN WHICH remus is as oblivious as they come, and you're tired of dropping all those hints that never get picked up

𓄼 mini-fics 𓄹

tba

❛ regulus black ❜

𓄼 oneshots 𓄹

✓ | she's all i wanna be so bad:

↳ ✓ | how could i ever compete with that?

( she's all i wanna be, tate mcrae )

☁︎

IN WHICH being best friends with regulus black isn't all that great, especially when your feelings get thrown away for some new transfer student from beauxbatons

ᝰ | i've spent the night crying on the floor of my bathroom:

( good 4 u, olivia rodrigo )

✿

IN WHICH your breakup with your best friend's brother leaves you sobbing in the bathroom, and you're not as quiet as you think you are when regulus bursts in

𓄼 mini-fics 𓄹

tba

lightning era ──

❛ harry potter ❜

𓄼 oneshots 𓄹

ᝰ | i'll keep it a secret:

( secret, stemo & rich kim )

✿

IN WHICH you tell harry about a little crush you have

ᝰ | why you gotta be like that?:

( y u gotta b like that, audrey mika )

☁︎

IN WHICH it's nearing the yule ball, and harry completely disregards your existence . . . like he always does

𓄼 mini-fics 𓄹

tba

❛ fred weasley ❜

𓄼 oneshots 𓄹

ᝰ | i'll disconnect and keep the heart safe:

( love is (not) easy, chase atlantic )

☁︎

IN WHICH fred, as always, flirts with you, his best friend, and you can't take it anymore

ᝰ | don't be dishonest:

( don't, bryson tiller )

☁︎✿

IN WHICH you've barely just picked up the pieces of your heart and pieced them back together, and when word gets out that you like fred, it all falls apart once again

𓄼 mini-fics 𓄹

tba

❛ george weasley ❜

𓄼 oneshots 𓄹

ᝰ | burning photos:

( die for you, joji )

☁︎

IN WHICH george broke up with you for angelina after fred's death, and you're finally beginning to let go of him

ᝰ | i need love and affection:

( loveeeeeee song, rihanna & future )

✿

IN WHICH george has been a bit distant recently, with preparations for his joke shop with fred, and you ask for just a bit more attention

𓄼 mini-fics 𓄹

ᝰ | you ain't my boyfriend:

( boyfriend, ariana grande & social house )

☁︎✿

IN WHICH both you and george need a little help getting your crushes jealous, so you turn to each other for assistance

❛ draco malfoy ❜

𓄼 oneshots 𓄹

ᝰ | i can give you love for free:

( escort, chase atlantic )

✿

IN WHICH draco's incessant teasing has an underlying motive

ᝰ | so long as we keep this lowkey:

( lowkey, niki )

☁︎✿

IN WHICH draco asks you to keep your newly established relationship under wraps from his parents and friends, and you're fine with it until it finally clicks

𓄼 mini-fics 𓄹

tba

❛ mattheo riddle ❜

𓄼 oneshots 𓄹

ᝰ | tell me that you love me and prove it:

( 7pm, lizzy mcalpine & lilacs. )

☁︎✿

IN WHICH you begin to toss and turn at mattheo's newfound fondness of toxicity towards you and your relationship, and the sight of him with another girl is the final straw

ᝰ | maybe this is just lies:

( love affair, umi )

☁︎

IN WHICH your dynamic with mattheo is built off of what you believe is trust, but what he knows as lies

𓄼 mini-fics 𓄹

tba

❛ theodore nott ❜

𓄼 oneshots 𓄹

ᝰ | she said "don't get too attached":

( heaven sent, tevomxntana )

☁︎

IN WHICH theodore begins to fall for you and your witty and sarcastic personality, but when you told him to not get attached, you meant it

ᝰ | chase two girls, lose the one:

( cardigan, taylor swift )

☁︎✿

IN WHICH you're one of the two girls that theodore can't keep his eyes, hands, nor mind off of, but as they say, "chase two girls, lose the one"

𓄼 mini-fics 𓄹

tba

❛ others ❜

𓄼 oneshots 𓄹

tba

𓄼 mini-fics 𓄹

tba

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isthisimportant · 2 months

Text

Trust

Fandom: HP

Pairing: George Weasley x GN! reader

Word count: I don't really know.. I'm sorrryy but it's really short. Trust me. ;)

A/N: I don't support J.K.R's views. If you don't wish to, then please don't read ahead. This is merely a self-indulgent fic.

******

“Don't you trust me?”

“Absoutely not”, you blurted out a bit too quick for either of your liking. Seeing his face drop(very subtly), you tried to explain. “George, of course I trust you. I just-“

“Ah ah”, he waived your excuse away, clearly back to his original cheery mood, and plopped down on one of the bean chairs nearby. You noticed an unlabelled box in his hand. It was like the kind of box you would normally find sweets in. Or in the Weasley twins’ case, probably something along the lines of puking pastilles.

You shook your head vigorously. “Oh now I really don’t trust you.”

George laughed softly and made a show of looking around. Probably checking the room for witnesses. Your eyes followed his and you realized the common room was mostly empty. And for a moment, you felt right at home: sitting by the window, doing school work late into the night, only one or two paintings keeping you company, the stars twinkling behind you and the moon casting soft light on your ink, the blues of the carpets blending well with the silver shining through the window, it was all, to put it in the most plain way, magical. And, of course, around Christmas, the castle would be much less populated anyway, so that tonight, there were only a few students in here apart from you and George.

Now don’t start wondering how George got into the Ravenclaw common room. It’s obvious, isn’t it? He’s George Weasley. Well, that and he snagged the password from you occasionally. It was common practice for students to give other students common room passwords. Sure, it would lead to some unfortunate accidents and serious accusations on and off but it was worth it. There was something personal about giving someone else your house password. Some sort of childish excitement would course through you as you whispered it in their ear, watching out for people of both your houses. It was all innocent fun, afterall.

Now you’re probably wondering why we’re giving George Weasley our passwords occasionally. Well, it’s because we’re friends. And we enjoy each other’s company. And he’s really good at transfiguration. The first time you did it, it was because somebody in your house had a horrible accident with one of the twins’ products. He’d been able to reverse the damage, but he needed to get into the common room. Then, it just sort of evolved from there. He’d offered to give you the Gryffindor password loads of times, but your anxiety would have never let you just waltz into the Gryffindor common room, anyway.

Besides, as it turned out, the Ravenclaws had the best ideas for the twins’ products and even helped them with particularly difficult pieces of magic. Some really good inventions were born in the Ravenclaw common room in the middle of school nights. You were proud to say you’d had a hand in one or two of them yourself. And George would just beam at you with something more than mischief glittering in his eyes.

You found that same look in his eyes tonight as he calmly held the box in one hand as if it weighed nothing. Maybe it had nothing inside. “Oh come on, L/N.” He dragged himself forward until he was right by your table with his elbow propped up on it. “When have I ever done anything-“ he placed the box between the two of you, “to break your trust in me?” He held you with a gaze that had you almost melting.

You chuckled and shook your head. “Honestly, George, sometimes I just wonder how it's possible for someone to be so sure of themselves like you are.” You ignored his appalled look and went back to your essay. You tried to get your work done early this year and stop procrastinating for once, at least.

“Hey”, he whispers and taps the back of your hand. His tone had lost a bit of the cheeky nature and he sounded... sincere. “Won’t you close your eyes for me? Just for a bit?”

You blinked at him for a few seconds, taking in his features. They were soft and no longer childish. Something felt different. Biting the inside of your cheek, you put down your quill and nodded, a small smile of defeat playing on your lips.

“Alright, but I swear George Weasley, if I wake up tomorrow with a large goitre at the end of my neck...”

He shook his head and took your hand in his. “I promise. You won’t wake up tomorrow with a large goitre at the end of your neck.”

The specificity of the promise threw you off. “George...”

You looked around again, uneasy. The two other occupants of the room were far beyond the realm of consciousness. One was sprawled across a settee, and the other had their head atop a large book, their snoring audible from where you were sitting. You couldn't blame them. It was well past midnight, and there was no burden of schoolwork for good fee days. And the moonlight really did make the room look more serene than it already was.

George squeezed your hand. “Just... relax, Y/N. Nothing bad’s going to happen.” He sounded like he was reassuring himself more than you. Still weary, however, you closed your eyes and let yourself breath. He wouldn’t do something entirely horrible to you now would he? Admittedly, you two did have very different understandings of the word.

You felt him shift in his seat, not letting go of your hand. In a moment, you felt his hair brush against your forehead and you nearly jolted before his lips grazed yours slightly. You felt your breath hitch and your hand shake slightly. You didn’t want to open your eyes.

You hadn’t always harboured feelings for George. When you first heard of the twins they had barely registered in your mind. With time though, you found them charming and friendly. George had been friendlier and more observant. He’d noticed you awkwardly standing there with your friends as they waited in line for a pygmy puff or a canary cream. You’d tried the canary cream once upon your friend’s insistence and you found that you actually enjoyed that short minute of avian freedom.

That’s what pushed you to go help with the makings of other products. Your skill at charms proved particularly useful. And in those little moments when you’d figured out something and you’d do a little bow and a dance and George would hug you so tight you couldn’t breath and you’d catch Fred eyeing the two of you mischievously, you couldn’t help but wonder...

So now, with his face inches away from yours, how could you open your eyes and break that wonderful bubble you were in? Instead you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his, mustering all the confidence you can find. You feel him sigh(was he nervous???) and happily return the kiss.

Once you broke away, you found his hand still tightly clutching yours and you couldn’t help but find that adorable. You looked up to meet his eyes. A sheepish smile on his face, he looked at you expectantly. “Kept my promise, didn’t I?” He got out in a bare whisper and you couldn’t help but laugh.

Then, you remembered. “But what was the box for?” You reached out to it and opened it. It was empty. Your jaw dropped. You looked back at him and he was rubbing the back of his neck shyly. “Would you believe me if I told you that it’s a new product that’s invisible?”

You stared at him until it dawned on you what the box was really for. In all your years, you’d have never thought George Weasley would be nervous about something. You simply took his hand in yours again.

“George. I told you, I trust you completely.” You said with a glint in your eyes. He simply relaxed under your touch and with new confidence bubbling inside him, he leaned forward to kiss you again. And you did, of course, trust him. That is, until the next morning when you opened your window to let in a canary that immediately turned into George sweeping you up in a hug with a hasty ‘Good morning!’ before class. You really didn’t know what to expect with him but you knew that it was always something that you looked forward to.

#george weasley #george weasley x reader #fred weasley #ravenclaw #hp fanfic #george weasley fanfic #weasley twins #fluff #george weasley being shy because it's the cutest thing ever bless him #i am just realizing how much this parallels harry and ginnys scene in the room of requirement ahhh whyyy

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lidiasloca · 14 days

Text

you get caught up in george's mischief

george weasley x you

fluff

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄☆

You loved George. You really did. Truly and madly. But sometimes, it was hard to love him. Just sometimes! And that is because he would often put you in the most embarrassing moments of your life with his mischief.

You could bear jokes among his family. You even had grown accustomed to his mother scolding him and Fred, which used to be uncomfortable in the beginning. And you even laughed when the mischief involved the whole family as the target. Hell, you very much appreciated that they didn’t prank you.

George had been very adamant on that with his brother. He drew the line on you. That didn't mean he didn‘t make any jokes on you. But all of them were soft and lovely. “Apt for my Y/N,” he’d told you once.

However, he was not so thoughtful to warn you before one of their jokes exploded in school. Sometimes even literally exploded. And that left you in the middle of a chaos.

“Miss. Y/N. Do you know anything of this,” professor Snape asked you accusingly. The twins had just flown around the great hall, throwing candy to everyone. Creating a bit of a mess of chaotic kids trying to take candy falling from the sky.

You could only mumble shyly, “Nothing at all.”

But George and Fred were nowhere to be seen. And you knew what that meant for you. Snape raised an eyebrow, suspicion and accusation clear in his next words. “You’ll come with me nonetheless. You’ll tell me what you know.”

And you had to spend the following 40 minutes with angry Snape trying to get something out of you. Of course, George hadn’t had the courtesy to, not only warn you, but to make you know something about where they were.

“I don’t believe a word you are saying.” Snape was both exhausted and irritated. And the funny thing was, this was far from the first time he had to integrate you because of the twins. You knew the plan by memory, and though you wanted to scold George, you were exited by what came next.

“I’m telling you the truth. I know nothing.”

Snape run a hand though his face. It was odd being the only one to see him so… like this. It was also fun. “You-”

And an explosion. Contained and light. But a damn explosion.

“What?” the professor barked, and turn to you before running to where the sound of the explosion came. “You stay here,” he commanded. But then he was gone, and you were most definitely not staying there.

Sneaking out of the room was easy. Snape had left the door unlocked, so you only had to quietly walk an

You screamed instantly as unknown arms grabbed you from behind, one hand muffling your noise.

“Stay quiet,” a voice whispered in your ear. George’s voice.

“G- gor- mhh,” you tried, but his grip on your mouth was tight. So you decided it was justified to kick his leg from behind as he kept you moving.

“Ow! What was that for, sweetheart?” he asked, but once he realized he still had his hand enabling you to talk, he let go. “Oh - right, sorry,” he laughed.

“That,” you said weekly, trying to breathe properly again. “Was for trying to kidnap me-”

“I wasn’t-”

You hushed him. “And not only that. You are also responsible for Snape kidnapping me into interrogation. So two kidnappings in a day.”

“What a great day for you,” he smiled a dazzling smile. But you were not so happy.

“Why couldn’t you warn me, you stupid stupid-”

“Don’t say stupid again, please,” he pleaded playfully.

“Stupid.” You watch his face turn into a pout. “George, we had talked about this.” And when he hears your tone is serious, he stops playing.

“I know. I know. And I’m sorry. After we got out flying, I looked for you. That was the plan, getting you out with me. But you were nowhere to be seen. Then Fred told me Snape had taken you. And well - this was the new plan.”

“An explosion?!”

“Well,” he replies grinning, as if proud of the idea. “It worked.”

You shake your head, not helping to return his grin.

“Eeeh, so… you are not upset?” he asked, moving his eyebrows up and down in question.

You cocked your head to the side, watching joy show in his eyes. How could you be mad at him?

“You set an explosion to come and rescue me. How could I be anything but honored?”

He let out a laugh, carefree and contagious.

“Exactly. What a gentleman that I am, huh?”

“Don't push it,” you remarked, trying to wipe that smug smirk. “You idiot…”

He takes a step to you, trying to intimidate you. “You are so mean, sweetheart.”

You chuckled, about to express your disagreement. But Snape has other plans.

“Mr. Wesley!” You both quickly turn to the professor's voice. “Miss. Y/N! Come here. Now. Both of you.”

George and you both turned to look at each other. And the new new plan was clear.

“Run!”

-Character by J K Rowling

yess im finally writing for george weasley im so happy, hope u like it. and i will be soon posting the harry potter masterlist :))

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shelbgrey · 1 year

Note

Hey, sweetie! Could you do something for “Being Harry Potter's twin sister?”. You know... Their whole trajectory, their discovery of Sirius and Remus (who might be her godfather). She has an unusual friendship with Neville and the Weasleys (especially the twins and Fred, who she has a crush on and is fully reciprocated with). Thanks for the attention 🌷🩶.

Being Harry Potter's Twin sister Headcanons:

Paring: Fem!Reader x Brother!Harry Potter, Fem!Reader x Fred Weasley.

Summary: your life as the chosen one's sister.

A/n: so I might split this up with each year. Sorry this took so long and it's not edited.

🧡Master List 🧡Potter MasterList

So I feel like you and Harry would be totally different, and it might sound stereotypical, but you look like your mom with your dad's eyes.

Also you do have a scar, I looks like Harry's but it's on your wrist.

Most muggles and wizards forget your twins beacuse you look nothing alike.

With Harry I think he trusts adults a little too quick, with the treatment the Dursly's caused I think you'd have major trust issues. You only really trust Harry.

Harry is almost extremely over protective of you and sometimes thinks he's the older brother because he happens to be taller and five minutes older. “you know I'm five minutes older than you, right?”

“why does that bloody matter?”

Harry would do anything to keep you safe from Dudley and the other Dursley, I think Petunia would be harsher on you because you remind her so much of Lily and Dudley just think it's a game to terrioz you.

“keep your hands off her!” Harry shouted and pushed your cousin off you aching body.

People Don't know how relieved you were to get your Hogwarts letter.

Year one:

Like I said before you don't trust people as easy as Harry does, so when Hagrid came to rescue you two you were very reluctant and let Harry do most of the talking.

I'd say the Dursly's treatment causes you to be jumpy and very much aware of your surroundings, meaning you were hiding behind Harry when Hagrid came by.

But you learned to trust him during the trip to Digon Ally, he got Harry an owl and you a Ferrett named Seeley.

You also discovered your wand was related to The 'murder' Sirius Black's wand.

The first person you'd actually meet first is Fred and George, Hagrid had taken you to a candy shop in Digon ally and you both were after the last box of all flavor beans.

“you go ahead” he smiled when he saw you flinch back. “no, you” you respond.

Fred shook his head with a smile and handed you the colorful box. “no, you shouldn't take things from a pretty lady” that made you blush and take the box nervously.

And saved by the bell wizard, Harry called your name. “I got it go... Bye”

He didn't even get your name. Fred watched you run away with hearts in his eyes. George looked at him confused when he saw no candy in his hands.

“Georgie, I think I'm in love” he smiled like an idiot.

George, not knowing how to respond smiled.

When you got to Hogwarts you met Neville Longbottom and Draco Malfoy.

You had found Neville's Toad Trevor and was the one to return him. I think Neville would be star struck with you, your kindness to him and how pretty you were, he definitely had a crush on you immediately.

With Draco he just had infatuation, with Fred and Neville it was actual attraction(Neville more at the time) but with the Blonde Slytherin he saw you as someone he could get back at his parents with. The daughter of Lilly and James, Lucicus hated them and his eyes it would be a perfect opportunity to rebell a little.

You saw right threw him, you may not trust people immediately, but you do like to get to know them before you pass judgment. Draco lost your judgment as soon as he disrespected Ron and the rest of the Weasleys.

“listen you little Ferrett, leave Ron and his family alone”

I don't think the twins would take you being teased lightly, Fred didn't really care what Draco thought about him but him saying something about you or George is usually the last straw.

Anyway, the sorting hat didn't know what house to put you in. He was stuck between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. “your a lot smarter than people give you credit for...your also brave, maybe even braver than your brother”

The hat did consider your feelings, he didn't just put you in Gryffindor because you were afraid to be separated from Harry, he did because he wanted to prove how brave and strong you were.

Gryffindor was ecstatic to have both Potters, especially Fred and George. They both cheered with the rest of their house mates and gave you the empty spot next to them.

With that I think you'd have your own trio, you are very close to Hermione and Ron both, but your defently best friends with the twins.

Your also close with Neville, people might think your a body guard and would even teas him for it, but you actually love Neville company and think he's tougher than he relizes.

Some people might not realize you got on the Quidditch team beofer Harry, you became a Chaser.

During your first game the twins wouldn't leave your side, Fred was afraid you'd get hurt. I think the whole team was considering you were a first year.

Harry's broom was the only one that was supposed to get jinxed but you got in the way. You got swang around like crazy while the twins and Oliver tried to help you. It drove Harry crazy he couldn't help you, but he had his own jinxed broom to deal with too.

Ron and Hermione of course thought it was Snape, but it wasn't. He was concentrated on helping you... Even more than Harry.

You remind him of Lily... like a lot, so I think it would make him less biter towrds you. Yeah it'll hurt him to see you at first, but I think he wouldn't be harsh on you like he is Harry.

During the holiday we know Harry saw your parents in the mirror of erase, but as much as you loved your parents I don't think that's what you saw. You can't change the past, so you just wanted some kind of family. So when you looked in the mirror you saw the Weasleys.

You and the twins had been extremely close, especially Fred. During the holidays Molly sent you a sweater with your initial and Fred got you a paracord bracelet with a heart charm. He and george had matching ones(minus the heart) so at the time it was friendship bracelets.

When you went to see the mirror by your self Professor McGonagall cought you, she really liked you and thought you were a bright student. You don't get to show it much because Hermione always beats you too it.

Speaking of professors and Hogwarts staff, I think Hagrid would help you discover your love for animals and magical creatures. Which ment you were pissed when Draco ragged about Hagrid's baby dragon.

Your love for magical creatures also helps you and the golden trio get passed Fluffy the three headed dog.

You and Hagrid bonded over talking about animals and you guys grew closer because of that.

It still bewilders Ron how you saw innocents in the dog and though he was cute.

You didn't want to go back to the Dursly's, but with the events that transpired this year you were afraid to stay at Hogwarts too, but you couldn't help but love the place, as dangerous as it was it was also safe and full of wonderful people.

Year two:

So for starters I think Doby would annoy the hell out of Harry's sister and I think she would be pissed off he was at the Dursly's warring them instead of Ginny or Hermione or even Colin.

So when you got back from Hogwarts you and Harry did have to share Dudley's second bedroom, it was cramped and always hot, but it was better than living under the staircase.

So, remember when the Dursly's tried to stop Harry from going to the Burow with the Weasley's? Well Harry did get in their little blue Angler, but when he did Vernon grabed you causing Fred to jump through the window and get you.

Molly would be so happy to see you again and even kinda embarrassed Fred. “y/n darling, I'm so glad your hear... Fred hear wouldn't shut up about you all summer”

“mom!” Fred look embarrassed while George was trying to cover his laughter for his brother's sake.

The burow is big but it's also cramped at times, so you and the twins share a room, your best friends and your comfortable with each other. Your just kids right now and there's no dirty thoughts to it just three best friends having a sleep over.

Thoses night Fred found out about your nightmares, George is a heavy but one night you woke up Fred when you were tossing and whimper beacuse of them. You only remember your parents death in your dreams and currently your adventures from last year.

Fred comferted you through out the night. He didn't make you talk about it, just held you. George teased you guys when he woke up the next morning and saw you guy cuddling. You guys let it slide since he didn't know the situation.

But, During your stay I think you'd grow closer to George, your both the quieter of the twins and are usually the followers. You would tell him you hated all the attention being Harry's sister brings.

Fred would get jealous, really jealous but he loves you both too much to bring it up. George knows how much Fred cares about you and your relationship with George is strictly Platonic.

George knows Fred like the back of his hand and he told him that. “you know we're just friends, right? I'd never hurt you like that”

Speaking of friends, since it's ginny's first year you and the twins are all pretty protective, which ment you were about to kick Draco's teath out when he was hassling her at the book shop in Digon ally.

“touch her and it'll be the last thing you ever do”

You also despise Lockheart, You and the twins spend most of the year messing with him. Especially when it comes to quizes about himself.

“my favorite smell isn't the ass of a hairless dog!” Lockheart yelled after reading our answers.

You broke your arm during the Quidditch match where Draco and Harry we're going add it. The people and the teams were too busy watching your brother to realize you got knocked off your broom.

Fred cought you before you could hit the ground and he took you to madam Pomfrey with George and Hagrid's help.

That day you realized since you weren't the chosin one like Harry you weren't that inresting. But that didn't matter to your closest people. To Fred you were the greatest thing to ever enter hogwarts.

He stayed with you the entire time and helped you with assignments till you got better.

You weren't part of this year's adventure. You were too worried about taking care of Ginny and Hermione.

Years 3:

So after the whole blowing up aunt marge incident you went to the Burow(in this universe you go straight there).

You told the twins about aunt Marge and they couldn't stop laughing. You now call it "the incident" and it kinda became inside joke, Ginny getts annoyed with not knowing what it means.

“you keep saying 'the incident'! What doses that mean?”

You did find about Sirius black and that he was Harry's godfather. You would think he'd be yours too but really it was never confirmed since Lilly wanted Remus to be the godfather.

Remus told you about the once playful argument that James and Lily had about that. I think you'd grow really close to Remus.

He's the first adult you trusted immediately. You tell him everything and he becomes the first ever real father figure you've ever had.

Aurther is kinda of a father figure but you don't want to see him that way since your in love with his son.

Anyway, you find out about Remus being a werewolf just beacuse you were wondering around on a full moon, you weren't scared like a normal person should be which suprised him. You promised to never say anything.

It got annoying when Hermione kept asking werewolf questions when she started to have her suspicions.

You were relieved when you found out Sirius didn't actually kill your parents. You found out Sirius was really fun to be around. While Remus was a shoulder to cry on or sortof a body guard, Sirius was c comedic relief and learned how to make you and Harry laugh.

Year 4:

Your fourth year is when Fred and you really started to act on your feelings. When you went to the Quidditch world cup, Fred kissed you after your favorite team won.

Since death eaters showed up it was short lived and you guys didn't really speak of it till later.

You didn't try to get your name in the goblet of fire like your two best friends, nor was your name put in there.

It was bizarre... You wanted to do it just to prove you were just as brave and important as Harry. Fred helped you relize how important and loved you were during the last two summers, but since your name didn't get put in there like Harry's you felt pushed to the side lines again.

Fred was a little bit upset at your mindset. He didn't want you thinking you were useless but he also didn't want you in danger.

“why would you want to! It's dangerous, I don't know what I'd do If you got hurt!”

Then it turned into an argument. “I want to do It because I'm tired of being in his shadow I want to prove I'm just as strong! And why dose it matter if I was in the tournament or not?”

“beacuse I love you! The Wizarding world might not have chosen you but I do... And I know we're just kids but I do know that I love you”

Your heart melt and if felt like all your walls came crashing down. You knew you were important to him, but it finally clicked that you were is first choice from the beginning. No Harry, no chosin crap, he just wanted you.

You had your first real kiss in mouths. A rough but passionate kiss. He poured so mush love and emotion in it, he wanted to prove he wanted you and only you.

Then you became a couple, a few side problems kinda showed up. Hermione and Krum, then you and Neville... He wanted to asks you out so bad but then he finally had the confidence to ask you out he found you and Fred kissing.

You knew when something was bothering Neville, he became stand-offish and wouldn't really talk to you. When he confronted you all his emotions came out. He told you everything and even end his rant that he rather have you as a friend than not having you at all.

“but then I realized our friendship means more to me than anything, I'm happy for you and Fred but I don't want to lose my best friend”

“You won't...”

The Yule Ball was so much fun, you of course went with Fred and everything was perfect.

Having Cedric die was hard, you wernt close to him but having him die made you appreciate you brother again. You two became distant since you felt put on the side lines, but when you thought about Harry dying you couldn't help but cry.

“you and me against the universe” Harry said after you talked about it to him. “I'll always protect you and I'm sorry if you felt like I pushed you away”

Harry really did feel bad, but he felt even worse when he found out about you and Fred. He's been so busy he didn't even know you have a boyfriend for like three months.

He was happy for you both, he trust you'd be treated right and didn't feel like he had to put up an over protective brother facade.

Year 5:

So Remus is defently over protective and put the fear of murlin in Fred, but he knew Fred was a good guy.

You and Fred also worked hard to get Tonks and Remus together. You knew how much he loved her but he wouldn't act upon it.

Also with Voldemort back you were eager to join the order of the Phoenix, even if you weren’t old enough. And you better believe Fred would be right behind you.

“I'm in” you said.

“NO!” Remus and Sirius both said at the same time.

Okay so it's your fith year and Fred's last year, it's kinda of upsetting but it just encourages you guys to make the most of the year.

You love helping the boys sell their products and even help come up with some new ideas.

Rather the product are safe or not your usually the one to sell the product to fellow classmates, especially the females. George says to can sell a drowning man water.

The year was great... Till the pink monster showed up and started changing everything.

She got under Fred's skin like crazy and Umbridge knew it, he didn't really care what she did to him, took away one of his prank toys he doesn't care he'll just make a new one but what he didn't lightly is when you had to endore one of her detentions.

You didn't want the boys knowing or worry Fred and Harry. He accidentally found out when he grabed your soar hand the wrong way.

“I'm gonna end her!”

You had to grabe him and convince him if he did anything he'd get kicked out of school... Which he didn't care.

You knew about them dropping out and you even help plan their excape.

After they left Fred wrote to you almost every day, filling you in about the shop and telling you about the success.

You couldn't be more proud of them and even planed on working there that summer but the end of there made you forget about it.

Sirius had died protecting you, Bellatrix was about to use the same spell on you that she used on Mr. And mrs. Longbottom. Neville tried to protect you but Sirius bet him to it the only cost was his life.

During the summer you mostly stayed with the twins and worked at the shop, things got better and Fred worked hard to cheer you up.

He loves spending most of his time with you and doesn't really care if people see.

“your not supposed to get handsy with the staff” you joked.

“I won't tell if you want”

Year 6:

Not Much happened... That concerned you at least. You spent most of your year hanging out with Neville and Luna.

Harry and the other two were to busy worrying about Draco and you just didn't have the energy to care.

You quite the Quidditch team after an acadent last year so you usually helped Luna or who ever narrat the game.

You did worry about Draco though, he looked so alone and no one really cared, all Harry cared about was proving he was doing something wrong.

He grew so much respect for you when you found him crying, you didn't judge him like he expected... Just let him cry.

You filled Fred and George in about the closet stuff and how the school is going down hill.

After the school year you went home with the twins after Dumbledore's funeral, as awful as it might sound you weren't too affected by his death. You felt like Dumbledore never really cared about you or your brother.

Year 7:

So you spent most of the Summer paining and decorating for Billy's wedding, it was a good distraction.

During the battle of the seven Harry's George protected you because the death eaters would expect you to be with Fred, George got his ear blown off because he was protecting you.

After the wedding got ambushed you ended up going with the golden trio, Fred tried to go after you but Charlie stoped him I'm fear for his brother.

You spent most of the time listing to the radio with Ron, making sure George or Fred's name isn't mentioned.

During the battle of Hogwarts the twins didn't leave your side.

“you okay freddie? Y/n?” George asked.

“I'm scared” you admitted. Fred pulled you to his side and held you while George held your free hand. “I won't let anything hurt you”

When things got really heated during the battle you got separated from the two, you and George ended up meeting up in what used to be the charms room.

You started to panic when you didn't see Fred. “Wait, where's fred”

George couldn't stop you and ran in search for him, before you could even register what was happening Fred shielded you from a killing curse.

Even if your brother won the battle you lost the love of your life, you didn't really want to see anyone except George and even that hurt... Looking at his face and seeing the same eyes and freckles.

George promised if anything happens to Fred he'd make sure you'd be alright.

Super mega happy ending:

So if you chose this ending Fred didn't die, you guys got betten up but that's all.

A year later you guys got married and you worked as the care of magical creatures professor at the school, during the summer you worked with your husband and brother-in-law.

You had twins, a boy and a girl. Fred cried when he found out you'd he having twins.

George and Angelina were of course the god parents.

You are very protective of your kids, always making sure they're okay and on the anniversary of your parents death your twins sleep with you.

Your daughter is just like Fred, a total minnis in the best way possible, your son is the quieter one... Much like you and George.

Your twins joined the Quidditch team and got sorted into Gryffindor like every other Potter and Weasley.

You couldn't be more happy or proud of your family.

#Harry Potter #harry potter headcanon #Harry Potter headcanons #Sister!reader X Harry Potter #Hogwarts #Gryffindor #sirius black #Remus Lupin #Fred Weasley #George Weasley #Neville Longbottom #Slytherin #Draco malfoy #Ravenclaw #chamber of secrets #Sorcerer's stone #prisoner of azkaban

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nadinebrooks · 2 years

Text

Here is the link to my masterlist.

This one is a little long because I didn't divide it up into 2 parts, but I hope everyone enjoys! Do you prefer them to be shorter or a little on the longer side?

You Get Jealous

Harry: Gryffindor, halfblood, same year

I hate her. I hate her. I hate her.

I know hate is a strong word, but it was the only emotion I was feeling at this moment. I hate her perfect flaming red her. I hate her perfect freckled complexion. And I hate her perfect personality. She had Harry wrapped around her perfect little finger. She didn't even have to do anything. She just existed and he was obsessed.

After I had to play in that Quidditch match for Harry, Oliver Wood wanted me to start coming to practice. I was learning the roles of the other positions. He explained that he wanted to have me around just in case. I was not looking forward to playing Quidditch in front of a crowd again. I hope nobody on the team needed me.

On the way to the field for an afternoon practice on Saturday, Ginny spent the entire time flirting with Harry. She was the team's new Chaser. It was as if he actually enjoyed the attention.

I mean who wouldn’t. There were guys who would go to detention for an entire month with Snape if they got a chance just to talk to Ginny Weasley.

She was absolutely perfect. I hated that I felt this way because I liked to consider Ginny one of my closest friends.

I tried not to scoff as I watched Ginny talking to Harry. She was batting her eyelashes and giggling. She would touch his arm and he leaned into her touch. Harry was laughing at things that she was saying, but I couldn’t hear what the conversation was about. I knew that Harry wasn't faking his laughter. Ginny was a funny person.

During practice I sat in the stands and took notes on the different positions. The only position that I think I would have liked besides Seeker would be Beater. I think I would imagine the ball as Ginny's head.

While I was watching practice, I was thinking about how I was so happy that I wasn't actually practice. It was a grueling one. Oliver told us that he wanted to win the championship this year and he wasn't playing.

He was making sure that this team was ready for anything and everything. I did appreciate him for that, but I would much rather be curled up in the common room with a good book.

That sounded much better than watching Ginny and Harry flirt. Anything sounds much better than that.

She looked absolutely perfect while she was flying around on her broom. She wasn't sweaty at all. There wasn't a single hair out of place on her head.

"You're scowling. What's wrong?" Hermione asked from beside me. She decided that come down to the quidditch pitch to hang out with me since she was done with all her homework for the day.

"I'm not scowling Hermione." I grumbled tearing my eyes away from Ginny so that I could look at her. I was happy to have her here.

"You’re definitely scowling (y/n). You don’t have to talk about what's wrong to me, but don't keep all your emotions bottled up inside. It's not good for you." She calmly replied.

Hermione had always been good at reading me. I knew that she knew what was wrong with me. She wasn't going to force me to say anything, but she knew what was going on in my mind.

"I know Hermione. I just get so..." I trailed off not really sure how to explain to her how I felt.

"Jealous." Hermione shrugged as if it wasn't that hard to explain. It wasn’t really. I just didn't want to admit it out loud. "I don’t think you have anything to worry about (y/n). I know Harry likes you.”

"Nothing to worry about?" I rolled my eyes at her. "Ginny is perfect. She is absolutely perfect and I'm just me."

"Please don’t say that about yourself (y/n). You're perfect too. You just don’t see yourself the same way that we see you."

That didn't ease my anger at all. Not even a little bit. Ginny had been making these googly eyes at Harry all practice and I couldn’t take it anymore.

Once practice was finally over, I angrily shoved into her making sure that I bumped into her shoulder. Hard. She stumbled backwards and fell onto the ground. I smirked as I stomped off towards the castle.

I needed to go somewhere where I knew that I could be alone. I needed to be alone. I barely made it to the Room of Requirement before I collapsed onto one of the couches sobbing.

I pulled my knees into my chest and rocked slightly to sooth myself. There was absolutely nothing but silence in the room. The only thing I could hear was the sound of my sniffles.

Was I not enough for him? I mean I knew I couldn’t compete with her, but that didn't mean he had to rub it in my face. I just needed to accept the fact that I wasn't Ginny Weasley and I never would be.

"What the hell is wrong with you (y/n)?" Harry practically shouted storming into the room. His angry face was replaced with concern when he saw me balled up on the couch. I tried to respond to him, but I started crying again.

He slowly walked over to me and sat down. I could hardly see him through my tears. I couldn’t catch my breath.

"Please tell me what's wrong." He tried to pull me into his arms, but I pushed him away. I didn’t want him touching me right now.

"Am I just a game to you?" I asked as I angrily wiped away the tears.

"No (y/n). I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry."

"Then why?"

"I just wanted you to know how I felt when I saw you kissing Oliver."

"You mean to tell me that you toyed with my emotions because you're still stuck on something that happened over a year ago?" I was furious. He leaned forward to comfort me, but I pushed myself away.

"Yeah." He awkwardly reached up and scratched the back of his neck. "It sounds stupid when you say it like that, but I didn’t think you were going to get so upset over me talking to her."

"You weren't just talking to her. You two were all over each other." I muttered shaking my head. "I was very jealous. I know it sounds kinda stupid, but I didn't like it."

"Nothing you say sounds stupid. I'm sorry for making you feel that way."

"You better not let it happen again."

Ron: Ravenclaw, muggleborn, year above

Ron and I had always been close ever since I slapped him. I knew that I shouldn’t have a crush on him. I couldn’t lose him. Nor could I stand his rejection. I was almost positive that he had a thing for Lavender.

The thing was, he didn’t seem as into her as she was into him. I liked to think that he didn't really like her. He was just being polite. That would be the best case scenario, but life never worked out like that for me.

After some time, I wasn’t so sure. Seeing the two of them together was a constant reminder of my feelings. I tried to push those feelings away, but it was hard. It was really hard.

"Hey Ronnie." Came that annoying voice. It was Lavender. "I have a lot of work left for History of Magic. I was wondering if you could help me."

"What's in it for me?" Ron raised an eyebrow at his fellow Gryffindor.

"Whatever you want." She suggestively grinned at him causing my jaw to drop. "We can decide on something later tonight."

Ron sheepishly grinned and began gathering all of his belongings. He quickly shoved them all into his backpack and practically ran behind Lavender out of the common room.

"Gross." Hermione shuddered before gathering all of her things and heading out of the common room as well. That left me and Harry to talk about all the random things that had gone on in our lives this week.

Harry and I were no means that close, but I did spend a decent amount of time in their common room because of Hermione. We had become extremely close over the past year. I was proud to say that she was one of my best friends.

"How do you feel about Ron and Lavender?" Harry asked. I had a feeling that he had been wanting to ask me that for a while.

"Are they like together together?" I asked testing the waters. "If I'm going to honest, Lavender is not the type of girl I saw him with. I figured him and Hermione would be together by now."

"Him and Hermione argue way too much for any sort of relationship. Lavender did come out of the blue for me too. I think he's with her because he's trying to get over another girl, but you didn’t hear that from me."

The following week I managed to catch up with Ron when we both had a free period. Since we weren't in the same year it could be hard to get some time together, but we did have the same free period on Thursdays.

"How's it going with you and Lavender?" I asked as we stepped outside. We would usually walk around the grounds taking in all the scenery.

"What do you mean?" He looked confused.

"Lavender Brown? I thought the two of you were together now."

"Oh, I wouldn’t go as far as saying that we're together. It's nice to have something warm to snuggle up with in the common room, you know?"

"Ron Weasley." I stopped walking and grabbed both of his shoulders so that he could look me in the face. "You can't lead her on. That isn't fair. Especially when she thinks that your relationship could be going somewhere."

"I wouldn’t call it leading on (y/n). Besides, I think she's in the same headspace as me. We're not looking for it to go anywhere." He let out a small sigh. "I've been interested in this other girl for a while, but I don’t think she wants anything to do with me."

He had to be talking about Hermione.

"That can't be true Ron. Any girl would be lucky to have you. You're a great guy." We started back walking on the path through one of the courtyards.

"Thanks (y/n)." He darkly chuckled. "I think she just sees me as a friend though. She's never done or said anything to make me think that she was interested."

"Maybe she's nervous." I suggested. "Or she gets a little shy around you."

"I don’t think so. She's never nervous or shy around me. It's quite the opposite. Maybe it's time that I move on, you know? Maybe I should try pushing it a little harder with Lavender."

"No." I immediately shook my head. Ron turned to look at me with wide eyes.

"No what?" He raised an eyebrow.

"No. You shouldn’t move on."

"Is there something you want to tell me (y/n)?" He smirked.

"No." I grumbled.

"It's okay. You can say it. You can say that you were jealous."

"I wasn't jealous Ron." I calmy addressed. "I just don’t think it's fair to Lavender to drag your fling out when you can clearly see that she has feelings for you. You don’t want to lead her on when you have feelings for someone else."

"Hmm you're right." Ron nodded. We went back on talking about random things for the rest of the walk. Lavender hadn’t been brought back up. We headed back towards the castle when it was time for me to go to Charms class.

"Bye Ron." I gave him a little wave as I started heading up the stairs.

"Oh and (y/n)?" He called out to me before I had gotten too far away. I turned around raising my eyebrows to let him know that I was listening. "It's okay to be jealous."

Draco: Ravenclaw, pureblood, year below

This was new to her. She had taken one too many shots of fire whisky and now she was dancing on top of one of the common room tables.

(y/n) was not used to all the attention, but in this moment she had all eyes on her. Nobody was complaining though. It was nice to see the girl who was usually so shy and tame having a little bit of fun.

Tonight everyone was celebrating the end of OWLS. Even though it was only the 5th years that took them, everyone got to enjoy the perks of the parties.

Little did (y/n) know, Draco was paying very close attention to her. He had never seen her drunk before so this was new to him as well.

Draco didn't dance. Not one bit. So he had found a spot in the corner of the room where he would be able to watch (y/n).

Her hips swayed to the music and it looked as if she was having a really good time. Watching her dance on an elevated surface was something Draco could get used to.

He sat there for a while sipping his drink and enjoying the show. He didn't really like being the center of attention so this was perfect for him. Everything about this night had gone perfect. That was until he saw Pansy Parkinson making his way towards her. He tried to look away from her, but she managed to catch his gaze.

Pansy sat down on the couch beside him and tried to smile seductively at him. Sure, Pansy was a pretty girl, but he had absolutely no interest in her.

"How's your night going Draco?" She sweetly asked.

"It's going fine." He replied. He wanted to be short with his responses, but still polite. "How is yours going Pancy?"

"Mine is going really well. Thank you for asking."

"That's good Pansy."

"I don’t understand why (y/n) thinks it's a good idea to dance on the table. And then she's got that tiny dress on. It’s like she wants everyone to look at her."

"You know (y/n) isn’t like that." Draco coldly replied. He wasn’t going to let Pansy disrespect her. "She's just having a little bit of fun. She deserves it. Especially after all those hours she spent helping us study for OWLS. She didn't have to do that."

Pansy started talking, but Draco zoned out. He didn’t really care what Pansy had to say about (y/n). He was just happy that she was loosening up a little bit. As he was watching her, he noticed her eyes angrily narrow at Pansy.

Was that jealously he detected? He didn't think that (y/n) would ever be jealous of Pansy. She had absolutely no reason to be. But he knew that face. It was the face he made whenever he saw (y/n) talking to Ron Weasley.

It was the face of jealously. Maybe he could use Pansy to his advantage to see if (y/n) felt the same way about him.

He knew that he had (y/n)'s attention when she stopped dancing and had her gaze firmly fixed on the two of them. He leaned into Pansy acting as if he was extremely interested in what she had to say. He would make sure to touch her and chuckle at everything she was saying. Draco knew that he had (y/n)'s undivided attention.

(y/n) reached up and began weaving her hands through her hair. Her hips were swaying perfectly with the music as she maintained eye contact with the blonde. She ran her hands down her body making sure that the dance was more sensual than it had been before.

Damn, Draco could get used to seeing a drunk and jealous (y/n).

Pansy placed her hand on his forearm. He wanted to shake her away, but he noticed that (y/n) had hopped down from the table and was now making her way over to the two of them.

"Come dance with me Draco." She had her hands firmly placed on her hips. Even though it was a request, she wasn’t asking.

"Can't you see that he's a little busy?" Pansy spoke up.

"I want to dance Draco." (y/n) was speaking to Draco, but she was looking at Pansy. Pansy stared right back at (y/n). She wasn't just going to back down.

"Your wish is my command." He sheepishly grinned and wrapped an arm around (y/n)'s waist pulling her to the middle of the common room. They left behind a stunned looking Pansy.

"What was that (y/n)?" He smirked as her spun her around and she pressed up against his body. The two of them began moving to the music. The both of them knew that Pansy was watching so they wanted to give her a good show.

"I didn’t like the way she was all up on you." (y/n) huffed.

"Hmm do I detect a hint of jealousy?"

"No. You detect a lot of jealousy."

George: Slytherin, halfblood, same year

Once the sound of clanging pots and pans drifted up to my bedroom, I knew it was time to get out of the bed. I was never awaken this way at my house, but I came to love the sounds at the Weasley household.

As I got out of bed and tried to make myself look more presentable, the smell of bacon began wafting up the stairs. There was no food in the word that came anywhere close to Molly Weasley's cooking.

I finally climbed out of the warm bed and slipped a hoodie on over my tank top. I headed downstairs to see that I was the last one to make my way to the kitchen. Everyone else had gathered in the living room to wait for Molly to finish up cooking.

"Good morning sleeping beauty. Nice of you to join on." George joked looking over in my direction.

"You were up there so long I thought you had died." Fred added on. I rolled my eyes and flipped off the twins. The first time I did that, the twins didn't understand the gesture. It came from my Muggle side. Once they learned what it meant, it was something we did to each other all the time.

When breakfast was done cooking, Molly called all of us into the kitchen. I got ready to sit down beside George, but not before Hermione could slip into the seat before I could. I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion.

I always sat in this seat beside George. I shrugged it off and took the seat across the table from him which was beside Ron. I didn't mind sitting by Ron at all. It was just weird because she was the one who usually sat by Ron.

Hermione and Ginny instantly began talking about celebrities from the Muggle world. Hermione had brought pictures to show Ginny. I mostly just listened to their conversation, but I would give some input every now and then. I think a lot of people forgot that my mom was a Muggle, so I was familiar with a lot of these things.

"So Hermione," Ginny gushed, "What are you looking for in a partner?"

"I've always wanted someone who could make me laugh. They need to be a kind person as well. You know that I'm not obsessed with looks, it's more about personality for me. But it wouldn’t hurt if they're nice to look at, you know? I would also like them to be taller than me which shouldn’t be too hard since I'm not the tallest person."

"Hmm sounds like you just described me." George interjected bringing all the attention to him. Hermione clearly blushed and looked away from the beaming redhead.

I felt my fist clenching and I had to force myself to finish the rest of my breakfast. If I didn’t, Molly was sure to ask what was wrong. I didn’t feel like explaining to her that I was jealous of another girl who I would be living with for the next couple of weeks.

Once breakfast was over, the boys and Ginny decided that they wanted to play Quidditch. It was snowing outside so it was pretty cold. I made sure to put on extra socks. I hated when my toes got cold.

Hermione made her way over to a spot on the porch so she could read a book she had just gotten, but still pay attention to the game happening above. I would be the referee for their little match.

They had been playing for a little while and I watched as George flew down and landed beside Hermione. He said something to her, but I was too far away to hear. They exchanged a couple of words and George quickly ran inside. After a couple of moments, he came back out with one of his knitted sweaters that he always got for Christmas.

It was one of the signature knitted sweaters from Molly. Why was he giving it to Hermione? She immediately pulled it on over her head and gave George the biggest smile ever.

I felt myself shaking with rage. He didn't even ask if I was cold. I told everyone that I had to go to the bathroom and headed towards the house. George called after me, but I just kept walking.

I tried to quickly walk upstairs to the bathroom, but I was no match to his long strides. I managed to get to the bathroom and almost slam the door, but he caught ahold of it.

"What are you doing?" I hissed trying to pull it shut. "I need to use the bathroom."

"Not before you tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing is wrong George. I just need to pee."

"You've been pouting all morning. Something is clearly wrong with you."

"I'm fine." I said trying to keep my voice from rising. I didn't feel like explaining myself to him. He cocked his head to the side studying my face. "What?" I questioned.

"I just want to know what is going on in that pretty little head of yours."

"What is going on between you and Hermione?" I blurted out before I could stop myself.

"Nothing is going on between us." He threw his head back and laughed.

"What about the conversation this morning? About you claiming to be her type and then getting a sweater for her. You could've gotten her any sweater, but of course you get her one with a G on it. As if you were claiming her."

"If you want me to claim you darling, all you have to do is ask." He smirked causing my face to heat up under his gaze. "I was trying to get a rile out of you this morning and about the sweater, she was just cold. You don’t have to worry about anything. I only have eyes for you." He leaned down and planted a kiss on my forehead. "Have a nice pee."

He turned away from me and walked back down the hallway. I had forgotten all about going to the bathroom.

Fred: Gryffindor, pureblood, 2 years below (same as Trio)

"I just heard that Hannah Abbott is going to Hogsmeade with Fred tonight." Hermione angrily ran her hands through her thick hair. She was practically ranting to Harry and I. "I don’t understand what he sees in her. I mean he's got a perfectly good girl who is practically in love with him, but he doesn’t care. Not one bit. I mean what does he even see in Hannah? She can’t even hold a candle to you (y/n)."

"Hold on Hermione. Let's take a minute and think about what you just said. I'm not in love with Fred." I jokingly rolled my eyes at her. Sure, I was a little hurt. I thought that Fred and I had something going on, but maybe he decided to move on because I hadn't expressed my feelings towards him.

"It's okay to admit your feelings (y/n). I see the way you look at him. Please don't make the same mistake as me and take too long to say how you feel." Hermione lovingly placed a hand on top of mine. I knew that she had been feeling a little down lately.

I had a feeling that Fred was teasing me. We had been playing this game of cat and mouse for years. But what could I say to him? If I said what I really wanted to say, I had a feeling that he would laugh in my face and leave with Hannah on their date.

I decided that I needed to tell him. I would regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t. I was tired of being this jealous girl who was scared to admit her feelings. When he came down the stairs to leave for his date, I stopped him.

"Where are you going?" I stood in front of him blocking his path. I was done with this silly little game the two of us had been playing for the past couple of years.

"I'm just going out with a friend. Why? Is there something you need (y/n)?"

"No." I shook my head trying to figure out exactly what I wanted to say to him. I awkwardly rocked back and forth on my heels. I should have thought about this before I corralled him in our common room. "I was just wondering. I heard you were going on a date."

"I mean, I guess you could call it a date. Look (y/n), I can see that something is on your mind. Can we continue this conversation when I get back? I've got to meet her and I don't want to keep her waiting."

"Sure Fred. Have fun." I nodded stepping out of his way so that he could walk around me. I have him a small wave as he quickly walked out of the common room. Every fiber in my being was screaming for me to stop him. To tell him that I was right here waiting on him. I didn’t want him to go on that date with Hannah. It should be me that he was taking out on a date. I slowly walked back over to my seat on the couch.

"I'm sorry Hermione." I mumbled as tears were threatening to tumble down my cheeks. "I just froze. I didn’t know what to say to him.

"You don’t have to apologize to me. I froze so many times when I wanted to tell him how I felt. You could always wait until he comes back and talk to him."

"I just don’t know what I would even say. What if he hates me?"

"He could never hate you (y/n)." Hermione gave me a supportive smile before standing up and leaving me on the couch to think about what I wanted to say when he came back. I only sat there for about an hour or so until Fred got back.

I had been going over how I expected this conversation to go in my mind. Let's just say that my guesses of how this conversation was going to go weren't very good.

"Hey, (y/n)." I heard Fred say as he walked in. I had decided that I was just going to go for it. I had nothing to lose at this point. "I didn’t forget that you wanted to talk about something." He walked over to the couch and plopped down beside me. He casually tossed an arm on couch beside me. "So what's up?"

"Well how was your date?" I asked trying to ease into the conversation.

"It was okay." He shrugged. "It was nice to get out of Hogwarts for a little while, but it wasn’t anything spectacular."

"Who was the date with?"

"It was with Hannah Abbott. I think you know her."

"I do know Hannah." I sadly nodded. She seemed perfect for Fred to go on a date with. I'm sure they had an amazing time and he was just saying these things to keep my feelings from being hurt.

"Did you ask her? Or did she ask you? Or was this more of a mutual thing?"

"I mean she instigated it, but it was a pretty mutual thing. Is everything alright (y/n)?"

"Yes."

"No it isn't. I can tell by the look on your face that everything isn't okay." He gently took my face in his hands so that I could look him in the face. "You know you can talk to me about anything, right?"

"Yes I know." I shyly looked away. "Honestly Fred, I didn't want you to go on a date with Hannah."

"Why not?" Fred raised an eyebrow.

"I think you know why." I mumbled.

"Please enlighten me." He was grinning now. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Now he was just teasing me. He knew exactly why I didn’t want him on that date. This might be my only chance to say something. But at the same time, I didn't want to be a game to him. "Just say it (y/n)."

"Okay fine." I stood up so that I could run away if I needed to. "Please don’t go on another date with Hannah Abbott. Actually Fred, I don’t want you to go on a date with anyone else."

"Were you jealous (y/n)?" He smirked.

"You’re really going to make me spell it out for you." I grumbled rolling my eyes.

"No, I don't need you to do that. I'm going to honest with you, the date wasn't that good. So uh, (y/n), would you like to go on a date with me? I would hate to see you jealous again. Even though you were pretty cute."

Cedric: Hufflepuff, muggleborn, same year

For this one can we please pretend that Cedric didn't die during the Triwizard Tournament. Please and thank you.

I was furious. I had never been the jealous type, but lately Cedric had me feeling emotions that I had never felt before. My eyes narrowed at the very pretty Ravenclaw who was straight up flirting with Cedric. It’s not like I could be upset or anything. I wasn't even dating the guy.

So why did I feel envious when I saw them talking? I was bitter and spiteful. Cedric was someone who bounced between the line of friendly and flirtatious. I wanted to walk right over to him, grab his tie, and force my lips onto his.

At times it felt like he was interested in me. And at other times it felt like he just saw me as a friend. Why were boys so confusing? If you want me why wouldn’t you just say so? It’s not that hard.

After winning the Triwizard Tournament, Cedric became even more popular at Hogwarts. He had all these girls throwing themselves at him, but Cedric was not someone who liked to play with girl's emotions.

I knew that he was really busy with all the interviews he was having to do after winning. He was having to be extremely careful with any girls that he was seen talking to. Cedric told me that's why he had distanced himself from me these past couple of weeks.

We were very good friends and he didn't want the Daily Prophet or Rita Skeeter to turn our relationship into something it's not. Rita Skeeter had done enough digging into his personal life.

I appreciated Cedric for wanting to protect me, but would it be so bad if people did think we were together in that way? I mean maybe that would keep a certain raven-haired beauty from touching all over my man.

Well, he didn’t know that he was my man, but he was my man.

Cedric was obviously trying to keep Cho Chang at a distance from him. He was looking at her as if she was only a friend, but she wasn't taking the hint. Cedric was too much of a gentleman to do much about it though. He graciously accepted her compliments and politely smiled when she flirted with him. I wanted to scream.

I had seen enough of this and they were both going to hear about it from me.

"How desperate can you be Chang?" I grumbled walking by her. I didn’t stop walking. Instead, I kept walking by her as if I hadn't said anything. She scowled looking towards me. Cedric chuckled and gave me this amused looked.

"Is there something you want to say (l/n)?" She spat. I didn't expect her to respond and I whipped around glaring at her.

"Not really, I was just trying to give you some advice. You're a pretty girl, but even you can't make desperation look good."

"Oh please don't tell me that you've caught feelings." She threw her head back and laughed.

"No." My eyes narrowed at her. "I just know an attention seeking whore when I see one."

"(y/n)." Cedric scolded and lightly began dragging me way from her. "That wasn't very nice of you."

"Oh well." I shrugged grinning at the look on Cho Chang's face as we left.

"I've never seen you like this (y/n)." He stopped walking and stared down at me.

"Seen me how?" I raised an eyebrow. My expression told him to tread lightly.

"Jealous." He instantly replied.

"I was not jealous. I just wanted Chang to have more respect for herself. She was practically begging for you to take her upstairs to your bedroom."

"It was harmless flirting (y/n)." He chuckled.

"It was anything but harmless."

"I really like this jealous side of you. I hope to see it again." He jokingly pinched my side.

"I won't be so nice to her next time." I grumbled swatting his hand away.

"And I wouldn’t have it any other way."

#harry potter x you #harry potter x reader #harry potter preferences #harry potter imagine #harry potter masterlist #ron weasley x ravenclaw reader #ron weasly x reader #draco malfoy x slytherin!reader #draco malfoy x reader #george weasley x reader #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley imagine #cedric diggory #cedric diggory x female reader

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incorrectharrypotterblog · 2 years

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*Harry and Ron arguing*

Ron: imagine waking up and the first thing you have to grab is a pair of glasses

#harry potter x reader #harry james potter #harry potter #hogwarts #hermione granger #draco imagine #draco x reader #draco malfoy #ron weasley #ron weasly x reader #fred weasley #george weasley #hufflepuff #ravenclaw #slytherin #gryffindor #incorrect quotes #incorrect harry potter quotes

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heartthrobin · 2 months

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the hate game (1)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 13.3k

warnings: enemies to lovers, so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, super grumpy!oliver, oliver's scottish accent (it's a warning in itself), alcohol consumption, super! duper! cheesy! (sorry not sorry)

an: just survived the worst two weeks of my life, but the fic is finally here! this fic was originally a full 50 chapter fic i had planned for wattpad like three years ago but i found my draft for it recently and decided it needed a revival. so enjoy it, and don't forget to comment and repost to support your favourite writers :)

summary: the only thing more grating than Oliver's foul moods and his permanent scowl, has to be the fact that he's so damn pretty. you fucking hate him for it.

part two/final part

Movies, as is their premise, glamourise plenty of things - high school, politics, tiny Greek islands - but none more than the classic sucker-punch.

The teeth-crunching, blood-spitting moment where skin meets skin in a satisfying thump that sends an unsuspecting victim to the floor. Music plays and the hero grins, grabbing the girl round the waist: dipping low to kiss her.

What’s consistently (conveniently) left out is how bloody painful it is to be on the sending end of that fist.

The first, and only, time you’d ever punched someone was in second year.

It had seemed like a great idea in the moment, quickly succeeded by the mind-numbing pain that shot up your arm where knuckle met face.

You’d aimed for his jaw, but as it turns out: in addition to painful, punching someone wasn’t a particularly accurate sport for a beginner and your slippery skin found a round-tipped nose instead.

A collective gasp and a month’s worth of detention waited for you on the other side of your act of rage.

And sure, while afternoons in Snape’s classroom every Friday sucked: it was all worth it.

Every purple knuckle that throbbed with the slightest brush, the points lost to Hufflepuff, the pages and pages of Hogwarts Does Not Condon Physical Violence you’d been forced to write was worth seeing the trickle of blood running down from Oliver Wood’s nose.

To see that smug fucking look wiped clean from his face. To watch how he doubled over in pain, grappling onto his friend for balance.

“Tyler fancying you? Any bloke would rather snog a goblin.”

His little comment had earned him a broken nose.

It had been the start of a five year long feud.

It’s the reason - now - why the ground is racing up to meet you, the nose of your broomstick pressed down towards it and wind whipping so hard against your face it draws tears. You knock into the ground, catching yourself on wobbly legs. A few feet away, Oliver Wood has done the same.

He’s marching towards you with the same ferocity that’s curdling in your chest:

“Tha’s blatching and you know it!” His accent is ringing, thick and blistering with heat like it always is when he talks to you. At you, rather.

The accusation is crystal clear, and loud despite the echoing din of the quidditch stands above. From the field where you're parked, you can hear the chatter and the cheers and the boos all conglomerating into a fuzzy uproar.

There’s still twelve brooms floating in the air, spewing irritated shouts from players in both yellow and red:

Just let it go, Wood!

Come on, Cap, can we just finish the match please!

You promptly ignore them. Oliver follows suit.

“What?” You scoff, face hot as a kettle on a lit stove. “As if Laurel and Hardy haven’t been elbowing my girls all game!”

It goes without saying that you’re referring to Gryffindor’s red-head twin-set of beaters.

“Bullshit.” He seethes, it’s purposefully quiet enough that McGonagall’s approaching figure doesn’t pick it up.

She, unlike yourself, is less patient and knobby vein-webbed hands come out to knock you both against your chests: widening the gap to a safe enough distance between the opposing captains.

“You two are exhausting.” And she sounds it too. Her glasses tremble at the edge of her nose, sun shining down on her aged face. "If one more match this season is interrupted because you two can't control your tempers, you will both be stripped of captainship and you will not fly until you graduate. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

But Oliver isn't looking at her. His eyes are focused on yours over her cloaked shoulder.

He's taking the predictable route of not replying first.

"Crystal clear, Professor." You resign to speaking first, skewing a grin at his anger-sewn face.

It’s another long boring moment before he cuts his gaze from yours, kicks up a patch of grass and grits through his teeth.

“Yes, professor.”

As can be imagined, things between you and Oliver Wood have been tense since the day he’d hobbled up to the hospital wing with a palm over his face and blood dripping down over his already red tie.

But with age, came ferocity, and what started as passing glares in the corridor melted into anger-drowned faces and sharp words flung with intent to scar.

Things got infinitely worse when you were elected captain of the Hufflepuff quidditch team in the same year Oliver was made captain for Gryffindor. It stoked the already sizzling embers that made moments around him warm and stuffy and hard to breathe.

The murky history swirled with what should be friendly competition, instead frothing into a bubbling pot of annoyed teammates and exasperated teachers and more sessions of detention than you would have ever had if you'd never met the son of a bitch that is Oliver Wood.

It's what puts you in situations like the ones you find yourself in the middle of before you even know how you got yourself there.

"You two," Professor Burbage had never held you in particularly high favour. It was just your luck that Oliver received the same courtesy. "One more word out of either of you and I will be seeing both of you this afternoon for detention in my classroom."

It was even unluckier that she'd sat you two barely three wizards away from one another and one fly-away comment had blown out into another heat-filled exchange. It always does.

"But professor--" you try.

"Right then. I'll see you both at five o' clock."

Oliver sighs, hands running up over his head between chestnut locks: "Fucking perfect. Thanks, big-mouth."

"Would you like to make it two days, Mr Wood?"

He huffs like an angry dog, tightening the grip on his writing-feather but says nothing else.

The end of the lesson doesn't come soon enough and when it does, Oliver is first out of his seat. You're grateful for it.

Cherry bumps you in the shoulder where she throws her bag over it. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"

You grin, despite the sunken feeling hollowing your chest with the acknowledgment that you're gonna be spending yet another afternoon at the mercy of an under-paid staff member alongside the hothead that was the Gryffindor captain.

"Come on, that wasn't my fault and you know it."

Her tight red curls dance when she shakes her head. They match her blood red tie. "Somehow it never is."

To your dismay, but not surprise, Enzo shares Cherry's views when he waltzes into step beside you in the corridor between Muggle Studies and Divination. His arm drapes over your shoulders and his tall frame shakes when he laughs.

"You know," his voice is thick and gravelly. "You two are gonna have to fuck it out eventually."

You roll your eyes, shoving him off you with a chuckle. The sentiment isn't anything new. "Oh, shut up."

The day folds blurrily between classes and lunch and greenhouse visits that by the time you look up it's just about five o clock.

Burbage's office door stares down at you.

The corridor is ghostly all the way behind you and it's emptiness means it's easy to make out Oliver's heavy footsteps down the stone floor. They're not slow, in an arrogant strut, neither quick like he has somewhere to be.

He trudges. Like the weight of the world is strapping him to invisible pins in the floor. It's easy to figure that your existence doesn't lighten his load any.

You don't turn. He simply falls into place beside you, keeping a good foot distance between your tightened shoulders.

The door opens.

Charity Burbage is insufferable in the way that she forces you and Oliver to sit almost on top of each other behind a scratched up desk where she can watch you under the curtain of her ratty blond hair.

You inch the chair dramatically away from Oliver's.

She's set a stack of pages by him and a wet stamp. "Stamp these and sign the date."

Additionally, she's dropped a stack of envelopes under your nose. "Tuck and seal. When you're done, you can leave."

You eye the papers. There must be hundreds.

To Whom It May Concern,

Hogwarts would like to remind all parents and guardians that the third-years will require prior permission before being allowed to visit the nearby village of Hogsmeade--

You jump when Oliver's elbow knocks yours (more violently than what was really necessary). He holds the first page out to you silently, face dripping with impatience.

When you take the page, his thumb brushes yours.

The paper is delicate in your fingers where you fold it. You tuck and seal, and by the time you've set it aside Oliver is offering the next page to you again.

His thumb brushes yours for a second time.

You find that it does for every letter that's passed on.

It's hard not to watch him out the corner of your eye. Oliver has this dark brown, nearly black, hair that's thick and almost too long and untamed all over. It's matched by bushy eyebrows and speckled freckles over the bridge of his nose.

If you didn't hate him as much as you did, you might think he was pretty. You might think that anyway.

Time stretches until the sun is setting the classroom afire with golden light and it's boredom that causes it, or possibly a desire to hear his voice at such tight quarters, but you speak.

"You know," it's soft enough that Burbage doesn't look up from her Witch Weekly magazine. "Even if - in some act of God - Scotland qualifies for the semi-finals, Luxembourg is gonna flatten them. I mean, think about it unemotionally, Wood: they have Luca Schmit as seeker. It's really a no brainer--"

"Are y’really just stupid or are you purposefully trynna start another argument?" His gaze flickers up to eye Burbage's desk warily, she still doesn't react.

Maybe it's both. After all, the subject of the Quidditch World Cup had been what put you both there in the first place.

You shrug, unfazed by his scathing remark.

"I'm just trying to make conversation."

"Well don't."

His hand brushes yours again.

Every second Friday, generally at the tail-end of lunch, Hooch's grey barn owl swoops low over your head and drops a smaller-than-average white envelope right into your mashed potatoes. Cherry yelps in surprise every time.

Then you watch the bird drop the same over the Gryffindor, Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables.

Good afternoon,

Reminder of Captain's meeting this afternoon in my office. Six o' clock, don't be late.

Regards,

Madam Hooch.

The letter says the same thing it has since you became captain and it's a wonder you still take the effort to break the seal on the envelope.

But come six o' clock, you're traipsing towards the west end of the castle. Lavender streaks caress the sky under the last impression of sunlight through the ornate stone arch of the corridor windows and an autumn chill creeps up your arms where your sweater isn't thick enough.

Hooch's office is in a quiet alcove, nearly impossible to find if you didn't know where to look, and the lamps are lit. Beyond the door, you can hear voices: you grin.

The door creaks noisily where you push it open. Inside it's cramped and cluttered with shelves of quidditch equipment - broken brooms, punctured quaffles and loose kits draping every open surface - but it's warm and smells like leather and is maybe your favourite little room in the whole castle.

The quidditch legend herself, Rolanda Hooch, has her legs kicked up on her desk and the boys are standing ahead of it locked in animated chatter.

She's laughing at something they said, and smiles when you enter.

"Sorry I'm late, coach."

It's nothing new and she waves you in with a smile. "Come in, poppet."

"Merlin," Marcus' shoulder finds yours and the force of the bump nearly sends you off your feet. "You'd be late to your own funeral hey, Puffers?"

You laugh, shoving him back with as much force as you can muster against the giant brute that is Slytherin captain Marcus Flint. It barely nudges him but he barks out a laugh, rough like tractor tires over crumbly concrete.

"I'm worth the wait." You quip back, leaning around Marcus to wink at Roger Davies. "Isn't that right, Rodger?"

He flirts back, "Always, sweetheart."

Roger is the antithesis of Marcus: all pale skin, blue eyes and short blonde hair. Easy on the eyes.

Oliver lingers just behind him, the tallest of the captains. You catch his eye, face slipping into something more serious, and nod. "Hey, Wood."

He nods in return, curt like how a ministry wizard's might be.

"Right," Hooch sits up straight in her high-back chair. "There are just a couple things we need to get through tonight, we won't be long."

The dynamic between the captains would be easy, if not for Oliver.

You're the only girl and that made for tough beginnings. Marcus is naturally brash and brutish, but - as you found - easy to impress with a couple showy tricks on the broom. A single promise to show him how to pull off a Woollongong Shimmy had him eating out your hand: the favour of a couple Slytherins was generally hard to buy and invaluable to a plushy Hufflepuff such as yourself.

Roger popped out the womb with a wink at the nurse. Impeccably charming and impossibly negotiable. Beyond being slightly dim, it was hard to say a bad thing about the Ravenclaw captain

On the other hand, Oliver was … well, Oliver.

Hooch tapped the sharp end of a writing feather rhythmically at a spot on her desk, eyes roving her clipboard.

"Next week we're doing a clean up of the supply room down by the pitch. I've set you each up on days, the whole team needs to be down to help unless they're excused by a teacher: I want a written letter."

She offers a piece of parchment without looking up.

"As you all know, it's the Slytherin versus Ravenclaw game next week."

You bump your elbow to Marcus'. He looks down and grins a mouthful of crooked teeth before turning to Roger. "Ready, pretty boy?"

Roger rolls crystal blue eyes, but he's smiling too. "Bring it on, tough-shit."

"Oy," Hooch interrupts them with a cool sigh, "The last thing, you all submitted your autumn practice requests for the pitch: Roger, Marcus, you have the days you want--"

They nod. Your shoulders stiffen.

"--Oliver, Y/n. You both want Wednesday afternoons. Monday afternoon is open, I'll let you two decide between each other who is gonna move their practice. I want a decision before tomorrow night."

Marcus is sniggering under his breath. The edges of your mouth sink into a frown, of course he wants the same day as me.

You can feel the heat of Oliver's eyes on the side of your face. You don't indulge him, keeping your gaze settled on Hooch's face.

"We'll figure it out, coach."

"Unlikely." Roger's quip is barely a whisper but you catch it.

"Alright." Hooch doesn't. "You're dismissed, go get some dinner kids."

The office door bounces back off the stone wall where Marcus tosses it carelessly open, echoing all the way down the empty corridor.

Frosty air chases over your face and the boys start down towards the Great Hall. Roger is complaining about a potions essay he hasn't started and Marcus is shrugging him off with a suggestion that includes something along the vein of blackmailing a sixth year into doing it for him but you can't focus long enough to follow.

"Oliver." Irritation is prickling at the surface of your skin. It flares into an almost rash when he stops walking, glancing over his shoulder with an unconcerned expression. "Who's giving Wednesday up?"

His arms fold against his chest. You're working extremely hard not to look down where his biceps stretch the seams on his Hogwarts jumper. "Well, you obviously."

Marcus barks another laugh, he calls down the corridor: "We'll see you kids at dinner."

"Yeah, don't kill each other! It's only practice!"

You huff in disbelief, unconcerned with the running commentary.

"Uh," you mirror Oliver by folding your own arms. "no it's not. Come on, we can negotiate like civil people can't we?"

Thick caterpillar eyebrows disappear beyond the overgrowth hiding his forehead. "Negotiate? I'm the one who wasted three hours of my life in detention last week thanks to your big fat mouth. Wednesday is mine."

"That was a joint effort, twat." You can feel where your throat is flush with rising anger. It wires your jaw tight. "Are you really so bloody difficult that we can't even come to a simple agreement?"

"Difficult?" His arms have shifted from his chest to perch against his hips. "Just because I'm not giving you what you want? Cry me a fucking river, darling. Sorry Puffers, but I'm not your precious Marcus or Roger. I'm not gonna fold just cause you bat yer pretty little eyelashes at me."

Pretty?

You blink in surprise. It's brushed quickly aside for more pressing matters. Your hands scrunch into fists at your side:

"Well. I'm not giving it up. I want Wednesday."

"Neither am I."

"Fuck you."

"In your dreams."

Oliver collapses loudly into the open spot at the Gryffindor dining table. His callousness knocks Archie's goblet of pumpkin juice across the shiny wooden surface between dishes of sausages and peas and roast potatoes.

"Bloody hell, what's got you in a mood?" He's patting down the table with a serviette, transforming it into a orange lump under his palm.

Shaking his head, as if it would joggle the thought of you loose, Oliver stabs a chicken drumstick from the top of a nearby pile with his fork. He doesn't respond.

"Wait, let me guess." Archie presses the elbows of his red jumper into the still wet surface beside his plate. "Something to do with your little Hufflepuff sweetheart?"

Oliver grunted around a mouthful, looking annoyed. "Not mine and not a sweetheart. A fucking brat."

Archie seems to find something funny, leaning back on the bench with a haughty laugh. "Right. What she do this time?"

"Wants the pitch the same day as me for practice." He's mumbling around a mouthful of chicken, tipping forward to shove a spoon teetering with peas alongside it. "Refuses to give in, despite the fact that she put me in detention last week with Burbage."

Shifting to the edge of his seat, Archie leans around Oliver's frame to find your figure across the Hall at the yellow-lined table. He nods, seemingly finding you. "Yeah, she don't look too happy either."

"I don't care."

Oliver is trying very hard not to give into the itch to look back.

"Whatever," Archie's gaze finds his again. "in better news ... I spoke to the twins just before dinner. They're still on for tomorrow."

He's twitching in his seat, eyebrows dancing and grinning around his words like a kid who's found a matchbox.

Right. The twins.

Specifically, Daisy and Delilah Dawson: two Ravenclaw sisters a year below Oliver.

They're peng, Archie had reasoned, you need a little fling to get your mind off quidditch. You're too strung up, mate.

And sure, they were, but Oliver had more important things to do than gallivant across Hogsmeade attached to the hip of some sixth year who just wants to earn her I Kissed The Quidditch Captain! badge.

He'd groaned and whined and glowered at the prospect. Was it petulant? Naturally, but spending five sickles on subpar hot chocolate and making false conversation with some Ravenclaw was a waste of precious time in Oliver's humble opinion.

His priorities are, as they've always been, crystal clear in his mind.

1. Win Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup 2. Refer to point (1)

There was little wiggle room for the introduction of girls into any spot on that list.

You're the only one who came almost close to the tight list. Only because if there had to be a third priority, "shove winning the cup in Hufflepuff's face" might just crack it. He thought about you significantly more than any other girl in the castle and maybe that might mean something if he thought about too long about it, but fortunately, he refused to.

Regardless, Archie was adamant and more than a little pathetic when he mentioned that Daisy only agreed to see him if he had a date for Delilah. It was all settled very quickly.

And it's in this show of loyalty to his dearest friend that Oliver finds himself walking the cobblestone path down into Hogsmeade on a crisp Saturday morning.

The little village is bustling with students - it normally is - and the crowd has him knocking shoulders with Delilah who's walking in step beside him.

He's uncomfortable to find that she's staring dreamily up at the underside of his jaw.

On Oliver's other side: Archie is talking Daisy's ear off, making another pitiful attempt at holding her hand. He doesn't quite manage it and Oliver can't tell whether it's because she genuinely doesn't notice or she just can't be arsed.

"So," Delilah's voice is light and sweet. Delicate. "You mentioned that you take Arithmancy? I've heard it's tough."

Oliver nods airily. "Yeah ... yeah, it's difficult."

He tightens his jacket closer over his frame. The wind is whipping between their bodies and he thinks that maybe she didn't hear him over it's howling if her confused expression is anything to go by. He finds he's not bothered enough to repeat it.

The entrance of Madam Puddifoot's comes into view at the end of the walkway.

Oliver’s relieved. It's freezing out here and maybe he'll be more in the mood for flirtatious conversation once he's gotten some food in his stomach (Archie had insisted they skip breakfast: we have to order something to eat, so we can sit longer).

There's a jingle of a bell overhead when Archie pushes the door open, standing awkwardly aside to let the ladies in first.

Inside the shop, it's more than busy: powdery blue walls barely visible beyond the sea of Hogwarts couples crammed around tiny circle tables and waiters in red uniform knocking the back of their chairs with wobbling trays.

There's music coming from ... somewhere, it sounds like The Weird Sisters and at the sound, Oliver can't imagine how this morning could possibly go any worse.

Oh wait, yes he can.

You could be sitting at a table right by the door across a too-small-table knocking knees with some Slytherin prick. Like you are right there right now.

Delilah tugs on his wrist, it's gentle and he almost doesn't feel where he's being lead between tables towards an open booth across the room. He falls unceremoniously down against the torn leather, eyes never leaving your table.

You haven't noticed his presence, he knows because your lips are stretching around a giggle he can't hear but can already imagine. You don't smile around him, that's for sure.

Oliver's stomach is frothing and bubbling and he's trying really hard to tune back in where Archie's knocking a menu into his hand.

Of course you're there. To ruin his mood and his day, because you're just bloody perfect at it.

"So, am I seeing you girls at the Quidditch match on Saturday?" Archie's voice carries somewhere over his head.

Delilah laughs. Or maybe it's Daisy, Oliver doesn't look.

"Maybe," she says, "Depends if Oliver's gonna be there. You're gonna be there, right?"

He feels a hand nudge at his forearm. Definitely Delilah.

His gaze floats back over the table to offer a fraction of eye contact, he nods. "Oh, uh ... yeah. Sure, definitely."

Archie saves him by speaking again and your table finds Oliver's attention just in time for him to watch the boy sitting across from you swipe away a smudge of hot chocolate over your cheek. You smile, looking bashful and a little bit flushed.

A suffocating, searing heat rushes from the soles of Oliver's feet up between his every organ and over every tendril of hair on his head. His jaw tightens.

Of course he recognises the pratt across you.

Ryo Yoshida.

Every girl in the castle's wet dream, if the rumours he's heard are anything to go by. With his fucking sleek black hair and his Japanese accent that had witches flocking to him in the dozens.

He doesn't wonder why you're here with him.

Oliver is a proud man, but even he could admit that you're beautiful. Albeit reluctantly.

With your wide wet eyes that make him a little sick in a way that turns his stomach warm and the way you do your hair and those fucking dangly earrings that clink when you loose your cool on him.

That's without even mentioning the sound of your laugh - the one he only ever overhears - and your legs in the school uniform skirt and the way you look when you're diving on your broom under the light of a sunny day.

Alright, maybe he couldn't admit to all of it ... but you were okay.

Okay enough to crack a date with Ryo Yoshida or any other schmuck in the castle if you wanted.

"Anything good to eat here, Oliver?"

He pretends he doesn't hear her at first, but the kick at his shin under the table is harder to ignore.

Archie is glaring at him across the table. Dude, don't fuck this up for me.

Oliver's eyes find Delilah. She's scooted up close under his elbow and, to be fair to the poor girl, she was pretty too. Red lipstick smeared across her smiling lips, painted nails edging closer to his arm and perfectly styled hair sitting over her shoulder.

He nods, reaching for the menu: "Yeah. Actually, last time I had the Merlin Meal and it was pretty good."

She perks up, cherry red smile widening at his reply. "Oh, I thought that looked good!"

Training his eyes on the menu, Oliver wills himself not to look back at you. You're already souring his mood and you haven't even said a bloody word.

It's just what you do. What you do to him: infuriating him with the threat of an argument around any and every corner.

The waiter comes by and Oliver finds himself generous enough to gift Delilah with an arm draped over the back of her seat. She giggles and he pretends he doesn't notice when she mouths something that looked suspiciously like 'he's so hot' to her sister across the table.

Archie seems pleased too. Daisy has granted him, finally, her hand and his arm bends at an awkward angle to maintain the grip in hers under the table. He's positively beaming.

But despite Oliver’s best efforts to stay engaged, he still catches himself - only when it's too late - and his eyes are already glued to watching the way your jeans are hugging your thighs where you shift in your seat.

Your table is sat by the door. The chime of the bell calls for his gaze every time it tolls and every time he finds you let off a violent shiver in your seat as the autumn crisp rolls over your shoulders.

The door shuts again and you still.

Oliver can feel where the tips of his ears are burning red and his bones are itching: Ryo’s black suede coat is hanging over the back of his chair.

You’re still talking - hands rubbing together, fighting for warmth - he’s leaned over with his chin in palm to listen and his jacket sits unused behind his shoulders while you fucking shiver in the breeze.

It’s pathetic, really. He’s not sure whether he’s referring to himself or you: but Oliver is still looking and you’re still shaking like a leaf and he’s halfway to flipping tables to get to you and just give you his own fucking coat so you’ll stop shaking and stop annoying him—

“Oliver was just telling me about wanting to join the Hogwarts Choir.” He turns again to find Archie waiting with an expectant face, it's laced in a little bit of smugness: caught you. "Weren't you, mate?"

When he looks back you’re gone.

There's a short pile of sickles abandoned on the table and he hopes that Ryo at least had the good sense to pay for your drink after forcing you to sit in the freezing cold.

He shakes the thought off. Who cares.

In fact, he hopes you catch a cold.

The day passes like swimming through molasses: slow and sticky and exhausting.

It's nearly seven when Oliver presses a sympathy kiss into Delilah's cheek - Daisy allows for no such thing from Archie - and the two sisters skip off down the west wing corridor with a wiggle of their fingers over their shoulders at the boys.

"I think that went well." Archie's grinning, hands on his hip and glasses edging down his brown nose.

It's the first thing that genuinely brings a jolt of life out of Oliver all day. He teeters back on his heels, hands gripping his stomach where he laughs. Laughs like a madman.

"I think you need to get yer fucking head checked, mate."

The tail end of his outburst is simmering down, now barely a breathy chuckle, when a voice washes over him from down the other end of the corridor. "Wood!"

He'd recognise that voice anywhere. From the dead of sleep or the depth of the ocean.

He's slow when he turns on his heel, the remnants of his smile dripping all the way off the edge of his jaw until he's nearly frowning.

You're jogging, scarf bouncing at your shoulder with the movement, and coming to a stop right under his chin.

"What?"

There's a sharp edge to his tone - there always is - but he really hopes you haven't noticed how the syllable wobbled at the end. Now that you're right beneath his frame and not across the room, it's harder to ignore the lashes kissing at the corner of your eyes. You're wearing lip gloss and he knows it's for Ryo.

His stomach is churning and your face is twisting into something he is struggling to recognise.

"I--" your hands wring, eyes flickering behind to where Archie's watching curiously (you wave awkwardly). "You ... you can have Wednesday."

It's not what Oliver is anticipating. He almost takes a full step back in surprise.

"Why?"

Your eyes roll in a comfortably familiar way, "Because Hooch wants an answer tonight and one of us had to be the bigger person."

His brow tightens, eyes roving down the stitching of your sweater. It's cute. He's quiet.

"You not gonna argue?" You throw your words quickly, snatching them back before he can answer: "Perfect. I'll send her an owl before bed."

You're marching back down the corridor before he has chance to say anything else and he's watching your retreating figure with the hope - that he’s not gonna address - you’re not going to cozy up somewhere in the Slytherin dorm room.

“Well.” Archie’s running a hand over his thick black curls. “That was unexpected.”

Oliver huffs. “It’s been a weird day.”

An uneasy air has settled over Hogwarts.

It came in like a storm front, drifting in on the wind that dropped the article at the door of the castle.

The same copy of The Daily Prophet has been doing the rounds between dormitories and class rooms all week: Sirius Black, Azkaban’s most infamous prisoner and recent escapee, has been sighted in Dufftown by an astute Muggle, The Daily Prophet reports.

Dufftown. A barely twenty minute ride by carriage from Hogwarts bridge.

It’s got the castle on edge, it’s got you on edge. Creeping around the castle like Sirius Black is gonna jump out from around any corner.

Dumbledore stationing dementors at the edges of the castle was the tipping point for the cold drip of trickling fear in your chest that's become easy to ignore in daylight - when Cherry and Enzo are flittering around you between classes - but in moments like these, like now, when you’re on the tail end of a quidditch practice, grow like a poisonous black vine up around every nerve in your body. A Monday night, the team’s kit weighing heavy in your arms - broomstick tucked precariously in the bend of one elbow - and following the siren call of the dormitory showers.

You’d promised the team you’d get them to the house elves before the upcoming match on Saturday. The match against Gryffindor.

But for tonight, they’re gonna live in a pile at the end of your bed.

You’re exhausted: calves burning, sweat sticking loose hairs to your forehead and probably smelling like wet socks and broomstick polish.

The touch of night is suffocating the flicker of the corridor lamps. It’s long past the recently set curfew and you know that if McGonagall finds you out you’re likely in deep enough trouble to get you off Saturday’s match roster.

Despite the prospect, you don’t dwell on it. You find you’re more worried about escaped Azkaban convicts: the echo of your own footsteps setting you further on edge.

You’ve craned your neck over your shoulder enough times to form a knot there. Each time you’re relieved to find that Sirius Black hasn’t crept up behind you.

Suddenly, the squeak of your boots against the stone floor are un-alone.

Someone is marching and right in your direction. Your heart bangs wildly on the inside of your ribcage - blood turning to an icy slurry in your veins, but you don’t move.

The corner is sharp when the figure turns into the corridor you stand and the scream is halfway out your throat when your eyes find his face.

Absent is the matted black hair and sunken eyes you’re anticipating. Instead, warm brown rings reflect the fire of the lit torches.

Your broomstick clutters to the floor, warm relief flooding down to your fingertips. “Fucking hell, Wood.”

He looks just as surprised as you. Only for a moment, though, before his gaze is tightening in annoyance again.

“I thought you were Sirius Black.“

“Well that’s stupid isn’t it.”

You huff, shifting the weight of the team’s robes precariously between your arms: squatting to try scoop up your broomstick off the floor again. You’re halfway successful when it clatters loudly back against the stone floor.

“What are you even doin’ out here so late? You know curfew is passed, don’t you?” His voice curls with something that might be mistaken for concern if you didn’t know who you were talking to.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

You’re reaching down again. A robe on the top of the pile slips off, landing beside the broomstick.

“Aye right. Whatever, goodnight.”

He’s brushing past you.

In a movement neither of you anticipated, driven by the fear shooting up your spine again, your hand finds his wrist. “Wait—“

Oliver freezes: eyes dropping to where you’re connected. You rip your hand back, as if scalded.

“I …” the words mash and wrestle at the back of your throat. “Could …”

You glance down the darkened corridor awaiting you in the journey back to your dorm before meeting his face again. It’s unreadable.

His brow scrunches. “Yes?"

"Could you want me to walk my common room?”

Embarrassment sears at your cheeks. On a normal day, you’d sooner go dancing naked under the Whomping Willow before asking Oliver Wood a favour but that was before the image of Sirius Black swum behind your eyes everywhere you looked.

Oliver would be fairly useless if faced with the criminal, naturally, but at least you wouldn’t die alone.

“Please?” Your voice is quiet and you think it’s the gentlest word you’ve ever said to him.

There’s a long stretch of quiet. His eyes flicker between your face and the broomstick on the floor. It’s quickly stretching past the blurring boundaries of an appropriate time for consideration.

You’re practically melting in embarrassment now, electing to make the decision for him.

“Never mind.” You squat again, successful this time in sticking the broomstick back under your arm. The dropped robe is more difficult but you manage to replace it. “Forget I asked.”

Oliver’s moving before you’re stood straight up again. He’s reaching for your broomstick, you instinctively yank it back but he sticks you with a firm look and his thumb is unexpectedly soft where it caresses over your knuckle wrapped around the handle.

Your grip loosens and he perches the broomstick over his shoulder with ease. He surprises you again by taking half the load of laundry in your arms into his own.

“C’mon, before someone catches us out here. I’m not doing any more detention because of you.”

He’s already three feet ahead when blood rushes down to your legs, prompting them to chase after his figure. The movement is easier, lightened by Oliver’s surprise act of kindness.

You fall into step beside him, half-tempted to comment on his willingness to share your burden, but knowing him, one wrong word and he’d dump it all back into your arms.

It’s quiet.

You don’t make a move to talk and Oliver doesn’t look your way. It dawns on you that Gryffindor dormitory is in the other direction and you’re still deciding whether to feel guilty or flattered over the fact when Oliver speaks.

“Why’re you out here alone?”

You look, met with the side of his face: it’s still like he hadn’t said anything at all. There’s a tugging instinct to snap at him.

Why do you care?

But his tone is perceptibly gentle enough that you think maybe, just this once, it won’t end in an argument. You test the tepid waters.

“Uh …” your head knocks sideways, tilted as you speak. “I let the team come up early while I sorted the quaffles in the sports closet by the pitch. Didn’t want them walking up in the dark.”

You’re tempted to mention that it was his team last week that left it in such a mess. You don’t.

"And now you’re walking in the dark yourself? Smart move, princess."

Your breath hitches.

It’s not the first time he’s called you that. Princess. A couple times over the years, usually in the heat of a spiraling argument, but never so benign. While still ungentle, the tone is soft enough that it rings in your ears.

You choose not to succumb to the antagonization of his reply. Humming, you shrug. "Rather me than them."

His eyes flicker, almost barely, to the high apple of your cheek. You notice in the corner of your eye how his jaw twitches, like he wants to say something.

He seemingly decides otherwise because he focuses his eyes ahead of him and stays silent.

The overhanging ceiling art is sloping down, air going sticky with the scents of the kitchen the further you go: it’s the trademark of the approaching Hufflepuff common room.

Another two turns and it will be the end of your little journey with Oliver Wood.

"‘M surprised Ryo didn’t walk you up."

You're more surprised than you've been since finding him, eyes widening in confusion. He grants you another look out the side of his eye.

"How do you know about that?"

Oliver shrugs, shifting your broomstick to the other shoulder.

"The whole world saw your little date down at Madam Puddifoot's the other day."

Of course. Word travels faster through seventh year than a new Firebolt.

"Yeah. Well." You hum. "That's not gonna be happening again anytime soon.”

It had all been good and well. The rush of having Ryo Yoshida, Hogwart's most eligible bachelor, ask you out and - to be fair - the date had been fine. Ryo was funny and made good conversation but nothing near thrilling enough to daydream over and you'd allowed yourself to brush over a couple red flags because of it, until Cherry came bursting into your dormitory less than a day after your date relaying how he'd caught her between classes to ask her out to the same spot.

"Why's that?"

You're confused now, why Oliver cares or how he'd become curious enough to actually ask. You're even more confused as to why you decide to answer him. You shrug, "He asked Cherry out the very next day. She said no, obviously, but that was enough to let the whole thing go."

You expect him to say something malicious, quip something spiteful about What you did you think would happen? You're nowhere near in his league.

He doesn't.

"He's an idiot."

Not for the first time in the last five minutes, you're not sure what to say. You think this is the longest a conversation has gone without an argument. You sigh, "Yeah."

The stack-up of barrels comes into view. You dig into you the deep pocket on the inside of your robe, emerging with your wand.

Oliver stops, eyes flickering between the barrels and his shining black boots.

You step ahead, tapping the barrels in the rhythm that's become second-nature and the entryway opens.

Turning to him, you offer out an arm and he sets the robes back into your hands. The awkwardness is stifling. He leans forward, tucking the broomstick under your arm, hand wavering to make sure it doesn't fall again. The gesture makes the hold in your knees wobbly.

He nods. "Right. Goodnight."

You nod back, so quickly that you hear your earrings jingle. "Yeah, g'night."

Oliver turns, marching back the way you came and you watch him: biting your bottom lip so hard you're half expecting to draw blood.

"Thank you!" It leaps from your mouth before you have you moment to let it marinate on your tongue. You wince immediately.

He pauses, turning halfway on his heel. He smiles, it's not wide enough for teeth, but definitely wide enough to have your heart falling through your stomach. He nods again and then he's gone.

Saturday arrives gloomy and dripping.

It makes for good quidditch conditions, but the chill in the air is still hard to ignore when you step out into mushy grass under stadium lights. The roar of the crowd nearly deafens you, but it'll only take a couple minutes in the air for it to burn down to a soft hum.

In the middle of the stadium floor: Hooch is standing with a whistle to her lips, her figure blurred by the drizzle. Oliver stands beside her, and behind you, your team is clambering onto their brooms and rising into the air with the freshly washed kit over their backs.

You go to walk, but the icy glance Oliver is sending your way convinces you into a jog. He's always impatient before a game, itchy, antsy.

"On time as usual." Hooch hums when you land beside her.

"Got the whole bloody school waiting on her." Oliver mutters but Hooch shrugs him off, pulling the game coin out from inside her robes.

"Perfect." She positions it so we can see, "Gryffindor?"

Oliver straightens out, chest swelling: "Heads."

Hooch nods and before you can suck in another breath, the coin is in the air. She catches it with a skilled hand, flipping and revealing it to the set of captains.

"Hufflepuff, first ball!" She shouts loud enough that the floating players can hear. They nod, some groaning.

The coach turns back on the captains, "I want a fair game kids, no fighting."

"Me and Ollie? Fight?" You smile, "Never, coach."

Oliver rolls his eyes. "Yes, coach."

Suddenly you're above the pitch, sucking in breaths of wet air and struck with that familiar feeling like you could conquer the world on just your broomstick.

The quaffle flies and you stoop to catch it, twisting around Alicia Spinnet to snatch the ball before she's even noticed you're there.

Rain pelts on heads and the game goes on.

Oliver is shouting like a madman from his place in front of the goals behind you - you’ve long learnt to drown it out. He does it half to annoy his own team and half to distract yours.

You're spinning, flying, swooping and - as you predicted - the crowd has become a distant call, a blurring sight of yellow and red.

An hour passes and the game is already halfway into the next when there's a rise in the crowd. It's not the normal yells and whoops and hollers, but you still don't look up: you're calling over to Jane and Wyatt, your beaters.

“Get between the twins, and stay there!”

Below, Harry Potter and your own seeker, Cedric Diggory, are flying in circles around each other. The call of Cedric's name is on the tip of your tongue when there’s another ripple of sound off the crowd and this one draws your eyes. It’s there for a second before you find the army of figures descending on the pitch.

Your breath catches in your throat, freezing solid so you can’t swallow.

The dementors are even more ghostly this close. You'd never seen so many.

A darkness is permeating the air, the sight of the supporters in the stand dissipating into black. They’re floating in from every corner, drifting at a pace that’s too fast for you to make a move in any direction.

There’s a scream and your gaze finds the body falling through the sky: it’s Harry.

The ground is racing up to meet him and adrenaline drives your hand to tip your broom, to chase after his quickly disappearing shape when a blurry figure blocks your way.

Someone yells your name but you don’t hear it.

You’d never imagined examining a dementor, much less this up close, but even if you had: nothing your imagination could conjure up would ever come close to the harrowing darkness of its empty eye-sockets.

Its silhouette spreads over every corner of your vision, black like night and blocking the view of the sky. Your nose is so close you could tip forward and meet it's silken cloak.

A cold washes over your body like you've never felt, like you're freezing over: ice creeping up your fingertips, shoulders and face.

Your brain looses all grip on thought, replaced with a seeping dread. It barely acknowledges where a scabbed, decomposing hand is reaching out to you.

Charcoal fingertips brush your cheek when you're tugged back, all the way off your broomstick.

There's not even a last coherent thought to panic when you're engulfed in a warm chest, a hand stabilising around your waist onto a new broomstick. It dips and the green grass is reaching up to you.

The new heat engulfs you through to your bones. You grasp blindly for the expanse of a thick veined neck, wrapping yourself around him.

Digging your face into his shoulder, it takes one glance at the scarlet robes to know who it is. Oliver's panting, one hand holding you against him while the other steers the broomstick down to the floor.

You're trembling, no thought occupying any space beyond Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, Oliver--

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?"

The voice is distant, said against your temple but echoing as if from the end of a long corridor. You don't register where hot tears are wetting your cheeks, erupting over your face without being called.

His words prompt you closer: a tight arm furling over his shoulders and wrapping around him like a vine around an old tree.

"O-Oliver ..."

The hand over your waist tightens. "Sh ... it's fine. You're fine."

The broomstick lands shakily, Oliver's boots squelching into muddy grass. You barely realise you're back on ground when another hand is tugging you off, but you cling tighter to the sweaty red neck: shaking your wet face against his well-pressed robes.

"C'mon, princess ..." His calloused hands pry you from him, gently like you're a piece of china sitting on the very edge of a high shelf. "It's Pomfrey, she's gonna look after you."

You think you feel a kiss press into your hairline before you're being scooped up into a new set of arms. Madam Pomfrey is warm too, smelling like antiseptic and maple syrup.

There's another swell of noise erupting from the supporters above and you're being lead away.

Oliver watches your figure, slumped against the school nurse until you've disappeared into the medical tent.

His heart is going wild, slamming against the walls of his ribcage. Beside him his hands are shaking and he's sucking in thick gulps of air, he finds it still isn't enough oxygen.

There's another splatter where Angelina has landed a few feet behind him. She's panting too, tugging on the edge of his robes and pointing up into the sky.

"Wood!" She's frantic, "They won, Cedric caught the snitch!"

His mouth is dry when he swallows. Rain catches in his eye when he looks up, half the Hufflepuff team is no longer in the sky and the Gryffindors are all on their way down.

"I ..." feeling is returning to his fingertips, "is ... where's Harry?"

Angelina points in the direction of the medical tent. Above, the pitch is engulfed in a bright white light and Oliver catches the wispy end of a shining phoenix chasing between disappearing Dementors. It's a patronus. Dumbledore's, Oliver figures somewhere in his muddy brain.

"Is everyone else okay?"

Angelina nods. Her eyes flicker to the medical tent then back at him. "Is she?"

The image returns to him: the mass of darkness engulfing your figure in the sky. The terror that ripped through him like he was being torn apart from the inside, the whistle of the wind that stung over his ears and how it blocked out his mutterings of please, please, please--

He shakes his head. "She's too tough for her own good. She'll ... she'll be fine."

But it comes out like he's trying to convince himself more than Angelina.

Oliver doesn't see you for a few days.

Two, to be exact, and his skin itches the entire time. A deep itch, like it's coming from his bones.

It's only on Monday evening at dinner, with the Hufflepuff table whooping, that you come strolling back into the light of his eyes.

Your head is down, flushed with all the attention, and when you sit, kids are rising from their seats to tackle you into side hugs. He can tell you're embarrassed but he can't gather himself enough to care: the warm rush of relief flooding his stomach so much so that if he dared open his mouth it would all come rushing out.

You look fine. All limbs attached and smiling, it settles him.

He doesn't snap at Archie when he knocks his shoulder with a "you're staring" and his dinner suddenly looks more appetising when he peels his eyes off your figure down to his plate. He finds that he doesn't care as much as he usually does where Enzo's lanky arm is strung over your shoulder.

The week passes in a flurry.

While you share several classes, Oliver doesn't share a single word with you. It's hard not to notice that you're working very hard not to interact with him.

In Muggle Studies, you arrive late and keep your nose tucked deep into the pages of a textbook he knows you couldn't care less about. You're up and out of the classroom before he's even zipped up his bag. It's the same in Potions and Arithmacy.

While going days without talking to each other is not unusual, this time he can tell it’s on purpose. He pretends that he doesn't care.

The rain has cleared and when Friday arrives the sunset is red and orange and purple, granting Oliver with a rare enchanting view out his bedroom window where it's setting behind the East tower.

It's in this quiet, peaceful moment that Archie comes bouncing in with some news of a party happening in the Ravenclaw dormitory.

He's indifferent but Archie is nothing if not convincing.

"Come on, dude. You're literally a hermit crab." He sighs, falling back against his own poster bed across Oliver's. "There will be girls."

"There's girls everywhere, Arch."

His eyebrows wiggle, "And alcohol."

It takes a bit more pestering and the Weasley twins rushing in after him with the same news (and a far less patient approach) to get him up off his bed.

He digs in his cupboard for the last pair of clean jeans and a somewhat suitable purple jumper, tugging them on with a grumble, before he's being dragged by both arms - a twin on each side - across the castle to the West tower wherein resides the Ravenclaw population.

The common room is bustling with seventh years, he recognises them from all houses, and a table set up to the side with some trays of food. He's barely made himself comfortable when Katie Bell is shoving a red solo cup into his hand:

"It's Angelina's brew." She informs him.

He can believe that. The liquid is strong, burning down his throat followed by the barely there after-taste of pumpkin juice. Oliver downs the whole thing in one go.

The music swells louder and he's three cups of Angelina's concoction deep when you come tumbling through the entrance portal.

You're drunk yourself, he can tell by the way you're giggling and half leaning on Cherry Stretton. Bumping through people, not passing without leaning back to apologise to them tipsily, you head straight into the arms of Angelina and Alicia Spinnet. They smile in surprise, engulfing you in their arms.

Despite his and your long-held rivalry, it had done nothing to stop the rest of his team from sweetening up to you. The twins called you their favourite yellow tie at regular intervals and the girls found you nothing less than endearing. Oliver could lie and say he hated it.

Instead, he wrestles his way to where Katie is situated with more to drink, filling his cup and downing it.

The room is twisting in a flurry of colours and faces and it's the lightest you've felt in almost a week. You giggle against Enzo, his dreads tucked safely back in a bun while Cedric sets a Dragon-Barrel Brandy shot on fire and hands it carefully over.

Enzo's head knocks back, slipping the burning liquid down his throat with a wince. There's a cheer at his accomplishment, and suddenly Cedric's knocking your elbow: "you're next, Cap!"

After the match-gone-wrong, Madam Pomfrey had held you down in the infirmary until Monday morning. You were fed copious amounts of chocolate - in the form of bars and drinks and cakes and ice creams. By Saturday night you were - surely a couple kilograms heavier - and feeling fine, but Pomfrey was nothing if not paranoid:

"That was no light ordeal you went through, dear. I'm not letting you out of my sight until I'm happy with you."

In all honesty, you'd prefer if the whole school forgot it ever happened.

If Pomfrey didn't fret and your friends didn't come by every meal time and your team stopped sending you get better! letters and nobody mentioned it ever again.

More than anyone, you wished Oliver would forget. The ordeal, or maybe just you as a person.

You'd made a stupid decision under the heat of stadium lights and the influence of racing adrenaline, trying to chase for Harry, and he'd made a stupider decision coming to save you from yourself.

When it got quiet in the infirmary past dusk and Harry's shadowy figure was long since snoring in the bed across yours, you could feel Oliver's touch. Could feel it's strong hold wrapped around your waist and the voice against you the back of your neck and the lips at your temple.

You never reminisced long: for with his touch came the writhing, scalding fear burrowing a hole in your chest.

He could tease you, he will tease you.

Oliver had saved you from the clutches of a dementor moments from your soul being sucked out your body and you'd cried in his chest the whole time, refused to let him go in front of the whole school. It was a mortification you would never live down. And if Oliver decided he was going to use it against you, even once, you were sure you'd melt into the floor in shame.

It's what's made the Firewhiskey and Lemon squash concoction Cherry had handed you back in her room so easy to toss back. It stung and steam rose out your mouth where you'd panted for air. There was another ... and another, they went down the same.

The walk across the castle to reach the Ravenclaw Tower had been wobbly and you'd laughed with your friends loud enough to wake up the whole castle you're sure, but it dissolved the fear that clung to your bones. The fear that he was here, lingering between the people in the crowded blue common room.

Now the liquor is fading. Numbing to a dull buzz and you decline Cedric's offer at a burning shot, thinking about how proud you'll be of yourself when you wake up tomorrow morning in bed rather than wrapped around a toilet seat and hauling up guts into the bowl.

The party, not unlike yourself, is dimming.

Students are crawling away into all corners, each with their own excuse. I have a potions essay to do or No, dude, I'm too drunk for this or Flint wants us down at the pitch for drills at eight tomorrow morning, I gotta head to bed.

The crowd, though thinning, is beginning to clump into respective circles across the room. You glance annoyed at the fireplace where the flames crack merrily. Even with your short skirt and thin satin top, the heat of the common room is stifling.

Enzo is on his fourth burning shot, it's lost it's appeal to the crowd but he seems undeterred, knocking Cedric in the shoulder with the empty shot glass motioning: another! You yawn, playing mindlessly with the ruffled sleeve of your shirt.

"Oh no," A harsh tug at your hand draws you from the lure of sleep that's fogging your mind. "The night is young, no yawning!"

Cherry has your wrist in her grip, Enzo's in the other. He blinks blearily down at his friends.

"Huh?"

"Come on," Cherry's brown eyes roll far back in her head. "Fred says they're starting Seven Minutes In Heaven. Let's go join--"

"Seven minutes--?" you laugh between words, "Cher, are you mad?"

She whines, pouting like a kicked dog. "It'll be fun. Besides, when last did you have a good fucking snog? Too long, I say!"

Somehow, you're not only convinced across the room into a spot onto the floor in a circle of a couple others, but a drink has ended up in your hand and its contents quickly down your gullet.

For the nerves, you assure yourself.

Before you know it, Angelina - who's conveniently settled beside you - is topping up your plastic cup with a nearly empty bottle of Daisyroot Draught. "This is the good stuff. Katie stashed it in, her sister works at a brewery."

You smile nervously, nod, and take a tentative sip. The pre-existing buzz in your head convinces you it's not so bad.

In the circle is a couple Gryffindors you recognise, some giggling Slytherin girls, a Ravenclaw you can't name and three members of your quidditch team. There's an open spot on the side you don't take note of.

That is until Archie Kumar is steering a grumpy, visibly drunk Oliver Wood into the open place and collapsing beside him.

Your breath catches in your throat, heart sinking into your stomach like a stone. You're halfway off the floor, suddenly desperate for the loo, when Cherry - on your left side - drags you back down to the floor.

Maybe it's Katie's sister's brew, but you tumble too easily back onto your bum.

"Relax. Just don't look at him, okay?"

You suck in another breath, eyes trained on the white moon outline sewn into the rug. "Yeah ... okay."

It doesn't hold long and when you find the Gryffindor captain again, his gaze is trained on your face. It's stone cold. You gasp quietly and look away.

"Right!" George Weasley is on his feet, setting an empty Firewhisky bottle into the centre. "Who's first?"

Alicia shuffles forward on her knees, the first of the group to move, and the bottle goes spinning. It lands on the Ravenclaw boy. He grins and she does too: Fred wolf-whistles when they stand.

The "heaven" in question is a tall oak cabinet leaning against the back wall of the common room. The pair disappear into its depths and conversation rises again as the circle waits.

You sip your drink in large gulps, trying to hold conversation with Angelina against Oliver's hot gaze that's burning a hole through the side of your face. It's difficult: the Gryffindor girl is so drunk that she's talking with her eyes closed.

Seven minutes later, there's a chorus of "time's up!", Alicia and the boy emerge another ten seconds later. They're rearranging their clothes and Alicia is as scarlet as her quidditch robes. The boy is grinning like the cat who caught the canary. You're suddenly struck with the violent urge to throw up.

The game goes on like that, round after round. Lee Jordan and Jane Emmet (your beater), Katie and Wyatt (your other beater), Cherry and a pretty Slytherin girl you don't know - she's especially chuffed when she returns, red lipstick smeared over her chin.

You're working very hard not to look at Oliver, much less think about him, but it's proving difficult. Every time the bottle takes its spin, your stomach churns.

It had occurred to you during the time that Alicia and that boy were in the closet that there was a very real chance that Oliver could be called up when one of those pretty Slytherins take their turn at the bottle. The thought had made you down the last of your drink and immediately want to vomit it all back up into your cup.

The image of their slender arms curling around his criminally wide-set shoulders, Oliver pushing them back against the inside wall of the grand closet. Would he make noise? Would he sigh or groan against their lips or whisper something about how beautiful they looked tonight in their ears--

"Ollie, you're up mate."

You can't remember who said it, but the words stripped your gaze off Angelina and straight into the pooling brown eyes you'd been avoiding all week long.

He sighed, grumbling under his breath and only with a less-than-gentle nudge from Archie, did he lean up on thighs that flexed unfairly -- bloody hell, stop it! -- and wrap his hand over the neck of the bottle: it went spinning.

The only sound you could hear was the twist of the glass against the woven rug and the hum of your own blood rushing past your ears. It stopped.

"No fucking ways." Enzo cracked from two people down.

A hand landed on your shoulder, shaking you half off your arse: Angelina. "You're up, babe! Go!"

The bottle was pointing irrefutably at your little spot in the circle.

Oliver's face was as white as you'd ever seen it when you dared look up.

"I-I'm not going in with him--" It was the first thing that came to your mind and went spluttering out your mouth.

George was laughing so hard that he'd fallen all the way onto his back. The roar of the group was ear-splitting.

"There's no ways I'm going in with her!"

"Let's end this feud once and for all," Katie bellowed over their heads. "Captain versus captain!"

You're being knocked from all sides, hands crawling under your arms and lifting you off the floor. Across the circle, Oliver is experiencing the same and before you know it: the wooden doors of the cabinet are creaking open.

"Go on!" Lee's finger is piercing your side.

Oliver is beside you but you won't look. You take one last look over your shoulder at Cherry back on the floor, she does nothing but offer a sympathetic shrug and mouths "sorry, dear".

Your hand reaches before Oliver's, flinging the door open with maybe a little too much force. It bangs against the wall behind it.

"Let's get this over with." You mumble, only half concerned that he heard you.

You slouch climbing in, the top is low and the space is even more cramped than what you assumed. To your surprise, Oliver is stepping in after you. He takes his turn at slamming the door, shutting it this time.

It's dark inside, but not enough that you can't see. Light is peaking in through the cracks and he's leaned back against the opposite wall to you.

In the narrow space, your legs are twisting around each other to stand: his one knee situated between yours. In the dimness, he folds his arms and you notice for the first time the jumper he's wearing. The purple one, you recognise it as the one he's had for years. Time has taken its toll where the jumper is clinging to life around his frame, Oliver having grown at least three times wider while the jumper has remained the same size.

"Go on, Wood, give her a kiss!"

The voice is unrecognisable but it knocks your tongue back into your mouth where you'd been ogling at his torso.

His arms are folded, proffering you with a glare that could cut through steel. He makes no visible sign that he'd heard the shout at all. You mirror him, folding your own arms.

"I'm not kissing you."

His head cocks. "Oh, so you're talking to me now?"

You suck in a sharp breath. It's not the response you're anticipating. "What?"

"So we're playing dumb?" He leans just a fraction closer. You can smell the linger of alcohol on his breath, but it doesn't work hard enough to drown out the smell of peppermint that follows him around. "Doesn't suit you, princess."

"I'm not playing anything. I don't know what you're talking about." You double down. It's probably not sustainable but the heat of his body almost against yours and the thrum of liquor in your blood makes the decision for you.

"Y've been avoiding me all week."

"I haven't"

"You're a bad liar."

You swallow hard. Embarrassment is rising again, making your head spin. Oliver's chest is puffed up in anger, you can tell because you've had five years to learn the look like the back of your hand. Except, now - as it has been for a longer time than you care to admit - it's harder to focus on the waves of fury reflecting off of him when his face is just so ... beautiful. Nose scrunched and lips pulled tight into a grimace.

It's what makes you change tactics, you think.

"So what if I was? Why does it matter?"

His arms unfold, eyes rolling so far that his head knocks back against the wood of the cupboard.

"Why?" you press, "Did you miss me, Wood?"

"Maybe I did."

He's looking at you again. For what feels like the hundredth time just tonight, your breath escapes you in a rush and your lungs struggle to grasp back at it. Your face softens without meaning to.

You blink at him.

"You did?" It's a whisper.

His arms are still folded but something clement passes like a shadow over his features.

"No."

His face betrays his words, eyes soft and lip daring to curl up at the edge.

The air in the tight space goes cold. Or maybe it's your blood. It's more likely the look on Oliver's face: like he hasn't just turned your organs to slush. You're all the way sober now.

"I'm not kissing you." You repeat dumbly, but it's gentle.

Merlin, you want to kiss him so fucking badly.

"You mentioned." He's almost, almost, smiling. It's gentle too.

The space between you falls quiet. You're suddenly overly focused on the brush of his knee between yours. His swirling brown eyes catch on the split of light creeping in past the hinge on the door.

It stays like that until your voice creeps nervously out. "I was embarrassed. Am, I am embarrassed."

A thick brow tightens in confusion. "Why?"

You huff, almost annoyed. Your eyes train on a dark spot by your intertwined feet. "Come on, Wood."

"What, about the match?" The alcohol thickens his accent.

Your silence seems to answer his question. The apples of your cheeks are warming again.

"What was I supposed to do, leave you to have you bloody soul sucked out yer body?" His voice is rising, "No, princess, I'm not apologising for that."

It's an outpour that you're not expecting. Oliver's clearly in the mood to shock and surprise tonight.

Your lips tighten around the words that are all fighting for the spot at the tip of your tongue. Silence reigns while they argue, he's still watching you with exasperation set into the lines of his face.

"Princess." You settle.

His expression twists again. "What?"

"You always call me that. Why?" It's a question that you buried long ago. But his proximity, in conjunction with the night you've had, unearths it.

It's his turn to look surprised. He grumbles some indiscernable Scottish blabber before-- "It's because y'are a princess. Spoilt and bratty. Always gets her way."

There's no malice to his response, you find. It draws a chuckle from the depths of your chest.

"Aye, right." You mimic his accent and his quip, one he's used many times at you.

He laughs. It's not a sound you hear often and it's setting your whole nervous system alight like a tangled bunch of christmas lights. His whole body's shaking with it, head resting back against the wood again, and you really do think you might grab him and kiss him -- when the door flies open again: seeping his whole body in yellow light.

Alicia's standing at the opening, grin wide as night is wide and clearly expectant on catching you with your tongues down each other's throats.

If she'd given you another three seconds she just might have.

"Oh." She slumps in disappointment, looking back over her shoulder and shaking her head to the expectant crowd. They groan collectively. "Well, love birds, your time is up."

You'd almost forgotten where you were. Oliver clears his throat, the ghost of his laugh impossible to find on his face, and clambers over your legs out into the common room again. He doesn't pass without brushing his hand over yours.

It's nearly three in the morning when Enzo finally lets up.

His long legs are sprawled across the midnight blue couch in the middle of the common room. Fiona, a lovely Ravenclaw girl you'd met just tonight, shrugs at you: "Don't stress it. He can crash here tonight."

The party is long since dead. Seven Minutes In Heaven had looped another three rounds before everyone had gotten their chance in the dusty cupboard and began to grumble in boredom.

You'd avoided Oliver's eyes the whole time again, sure that if you looked he'd be able to read the fondness on your face.

It wasn't long after that the last of the students dissolved in the direction of their respective bedrooms. With your dear friend in good hands with the Ravenclaws, you loop your arm with Cherry - knocking against her side towards the portal.

You've barely pushed it ajar when she breaks off you, "Hold on, I need to get my Transfig notes from Jacob!"

"Cher, it's three in the morning?"

Alcohol is directing her legs in the opposite direction clumsily, "I'll wake him. If I fail another quiz, Mcgee's gonna have my arse."

She's gone before she catches your call: "I'll find you outside!"

The portal creaks where you shove it open again. The corridor is dimly lit and colder than the common room and a shiver chases up your exposed legs.

"Bloody hell." You run a hand over your forearms.

It's quiet too, and empty besides the Gryffindor captain leaning against the stone wall closest to the entrance you've just emerged from.

"Merlin," your eyes find his. "Not you again."

The flush over your cheeks is warding off the chill.

Oliver shrugs. "Me again."

An awkward silence permeates. Against better judgement, you shuffle forward, leaning against the wall beside him. He doesn't react, arms folded and staring into the inky abyss of the corridor leading out to the rest of the castle.

"Why're you out here?" You ask, tucking your hands between your back and the wall.

"Archie." He huffs out, voice wrapped in annoyance. "He's in there with Penelope. I gave him ten minutes."

Ah, Penelope Clearwater. She'd joined the game in the last round. A good thing too because Oliver's friend was looking more crestfallen as the bottle spun again and again, surpassing him each time. Penelope had taken the last turn, ending up with her hair in every direction and Archie's spectacles leaning half off his face when they emerged from the cupboard.

"You?"

The eddy of average conversation is strange, but you find you like it.

"Cherry." You hum. "Something about quiz notes."

He drops his head back against the wall.

"That what they calling it now?"

It startles you, head tilting to stare up at the side of his face with a grin: "oh, Wood’s got jokes now? I didn’t know it was possible for you to make a joke."

His eyes flutter shut, a twinkle of laughter bubbling out of his frame. Tucking his head down to his chest, he shrugs against his own light chuckle. "I have them. I just don’t share them with you."

You giggle back at him. "Right. Well then you better stop smiling there, someone might walk past and think we’re friends."

He shakes his head, the sound of his snicker fading but leaving behind the imprint of a smile. "Nobody’s gonna think that."

You lean back again, eyes drifting over the low ceiling. Quiet falls again - not uncomfortable - and you let it linger for a moment. A thought tugs on a loose string in your mind, not a new one, but one you’ve carefully buried over time.

It comes falling out your mouth. "You ever think about how it might be ... if things were different?"

The question grants you a look out the side of his eye. "Different?"

"Y’know," you shrug, the very last remains of alcohol are ebbing and unsureness is replacing where it stood. "If we … we had—"

"If you hadn’t suckered me in the bloody nose?" His words are unexpectedly fond.

You laugh at him, "If you hadn’t deserved to be suckered in the bloody nose."

He draws in a long breath, not answering. It prompts you.

"We could have been friends." You whisper, more to your chest than to him really.

But he hears it. "We would never be friends."

It stings sharper than it should. Your shoulders go stiff and the corners of your eyes sting inexplicably, turning the corridor blurry. A dying fire revives in your chest, blistering the cave, reminding you why Oliver Wood has been nothing but a stake in your side since you were thirteen years old.

"Of course. How stupid of me, for a minute I forgot what an absolute arsehole you are." You push off the wall, intent in going to dig out Cherry from the depths of the Ravenclaw dormitory. "Goodnight, Wood."

An arm wraps around your waist, not unlike it'd done a week ago in the air of the quidditch pitch, lurching you into him until you're pressed back against the cool stone of the corridor wall.

Oliver looms over you, crouched so that your nose bumps against his. "Don't sulk, princess."

It all happens at once: his hands grab onto the fat of your hips, digging in there like he really does hate you, and lips crash against yours like maybe he doesn't at all.

He stays there, unmoving for a second that feels a year long.

Where the inside of your brain had been buzzing with runaway threads of thought, ribbons streaking out in all directions: they disappear in a sizzling light. Oliver Wood is kissing me.

You melt against him, tipping up onto your toes and latch onto muscled shoulders. He seemingly takes that as his cue, pressing you closer against his body with his arm - lifting you half off the wall.

He tastes like the remnants of Firewhisky and pumpkin juice, the flavour setting every nerve ending in your body on fire. Lips soft but persistent while his hands grip onto you like you'd dissolve into dust if he didn't.

It's aggressive, but familiar in that way. Oliver is nothing if not hot-blooded and his touch, darting between your hips and your face is turning you tipsy again.

"If you want a friend," It's muffled when he speaks, punctuating his words with hot wet kisses, "go be friends with Ryo."

It's only in this moment, with his desperation mirroring in the glimpses of sugar brown irises you catch where he's fluttering his eyes over your face, that it dawns on you.

"Jealous much?"

He growls lowly and it makes you giggle against him, your hands slithering up into the hairs at the base of his neck. Oliver shakes his head against you, still huffing in disbelief.

"Shut up." It's accent-heavy and bleeds a hole through the bottom of your stomach. "You're such a fucking brat."

"And you're a fucking prick."

He huffs lowly, you press harder to him: solidifying the sentiment. Somehow the bickering makes it all sweeter, like you're dissolving cotton candy against your tongue where his swoops over it.

You'd just about forgotten where you were when a creak echoes down the corridor. Halfway to ignoring it in favour of Oliver's touch, your situation dawns on you in the same moment it does him.

Like you'd both licked the end of a live wire, you and Oliver jolt back a foot, hands diving to your respective sides.

Cherry is standing against the light of the common room behind her, a lanky Archie parked beside her. Their eyes are wide and Cherry's hand is against her jaw in shock.

"Oh my god." She mumbles against it.

Blood is rushing to your face and out the corner of your eye, Oliver is running a hand over the hair that's sticking in all directions from the influence of your fingers.

Cherry is laughing breathily, eyes still wide and white in surprise. "Oh my god."

Archie's eyes are flickering between you and Oliver.

"Sorry to interrupt." He says, a smirk curling onto his features.

It jumpstarts your entire system. You step forward, grabbing Cherry by the arm.

"Well," you nod at Archie and at Oliver, not daring to meet his eyes, "goodnight then."

You march with fervour, half-dragging her in the direction of the Hufflepuff common room until your figure disappears behind the next corridor.

Oliver stands with his hands hanging at his side dumbly. He swipes a finger of his bottom lip, still tasting the strawberry lip gloss you'd left there.

"Can't say I didn't see this coming, mate." A hand claps over his shoulder.

He groans, running both hands over his face, and Archie shakes him lightly.

"So ... how was it?"

With another groan, Oliver shoves Archie's hand off of him. "Bloody hell, Arch."

Archie throws his head of curly black hair back, laughing so loud it bounces off the wall. "That good, huh?"

(part two/final part)

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