Bully Best Friend Who Gets Possessive"Character: Fred Weasley x Y/N Fred used to be the best friend, always joking around with Y/N and pulling pranks together. They were inseparable. But after he started hanging out with Draco, Fred began teasing her more harshly, making jokes at her expense, and distancing himself from her. He enjoyed watching her squirm under his insults, but when someone else dared to cross the line, he snapped.Random student teases Y/N Fred shoves the student into a wall, fist clenched.“Say another word, and I’ll make sure you regret it.”Y/N: “Fred, stop—what are you doing?”Fred: “No one else gets to mess with you. Only me
Sorry for the long paragraph
Don’t worry, i actually like long paragraphs! And i hope you like it ~ ♡
Only Me .｡*･ﾟﾟ
Summary: You and Fred Weasley used to be two halves of the same chaos—best friends, prank partners, always laughing. But things changed when he started hanging around Draco Malfoy.
One day, you and Fred were sneaking dungbombs into Filch’s office and laughing so hard your stomach hurt. The next, he was leaning against the wall with Draco bloody Malfoy, smirking like he belonged there. Like he didn’t know you at all.
At first, you tried to laugh it off. Maybe it was just a phase. Maybe he’d get bored of Malfoy and come back to the way things were. But the jokes changed. The pranks stopped. And instead of defending you, Fred started joining in—aiming the sharp edge of his wit at you.
It hurt in a way you couldn’t explain.
Especially because he knew you. Knew your tells, knew when you were faking a laugh, knew when you were about to cry but biting it back.
And he still did it anyway.
You sat with Lee and Angelina more. You avoided eye contact in the corridors. You told yourself it didn’t matter. But it did.
It mattered when he walked past you and called out, “Careful, Y/N, don’t trip on your own clumsiness again,” loud enough for everyone to laugh.
It mattered when you’d find a prank planted near your bag—something you used to do together, now weaponized against you.
It mattered every time you remembered the way he used to look at you, like you were the only one in the room.
It came to a head on a Wednesday. The corridor was packed after Charms, and you were trying to squeeze through when it happened.
“Oi, careful, klutz,” some fifth-year boy muttered, bumping your shoulder too hard on purpose. “Didn’t think they let trolls into Hogwarts.”
You stopped dead, blinking at him. He grinned like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Before you could say anything, someone grabbed the kid by the collar and shoved him hard against the wall.
You blinked again—hard—because Fred Weasley was standing in front of you, chest heaving, jaw clenched, eyes blazing.
“Say another word,” Fred growled, voice low and dangerous, “and I’ll make sure you regret it.”
The fifth-year stuttered, eyes wide, hands raised. Fred didn’t punch him. Not really. But he didn’t let go either.
“Fred, stop—what are you doing?” you asked, voice trembling.
He didn’t look at you. Not right away.
“No one else gets to mess with you,” he said, quietly this time. His grip loosened, and the kid ran off. Fred finally turned to you. “Only me.”
You stared at him, stunned.
“Do you want me to be grateful you’re the only one allowed to make me feel like shit?” you said, too tired to be angry.
He winced.
“Y/N—”
“No,” you interrupted. “No, don’t. You don’t get to act like you care now.”
“I do care,” he said, stepping closer.
“Then why?” you asked. “Why’d you change? Why’d you start hanging around people like him? Why’d you start treating me like I was just another joke?”
His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
You shook your head, brushing past him.
He followed.
“I was scared,” he said, barely above a whisper.
You stopped. “Of what?”
“Of how much I liked you,” he admitted. “Of how easy it was to just… feel everything when I was with you. So I messed it up. I tried to bury it. I thought if I could just laugh it off, push you away a bit, maybe it wouldn’t feel so real.”
You turned to him slowly, eyes burning. “Well, it was real for me.”
“I know,” he said. “I know, and I was a bloody coward. But I never stopped caring, Y/N. I just—got so caught up in pretending I didn’t, I forgot how to show you I did.”
You didn’t say anything.
Not right away.
And then, quietly, you asked, “What are you going to do about it?”
Magical Rivals with a Hidden Crush Character: Draco Malfoy x Y/N Draco and Y/N always clash in class—sarcastic comments, magical duels, constant competition. But behind the rivalry, Draco’s hiding a huge crush. He acts annoyed but secretly watches out for Y/N, gets jealous when others get close, and one day finally blurts out, “Merlin, do you ever stop being perfect?
I hope you like it ~ ♡
Do You Ever Stop Being Perfect? .｡*･ﾟﾟ
Summary: You and Draco Malfoy have clashed since first year—bickering, bantering, always trying to one-up each other in class. But what you don’t know is that behind Draco’s sarcasm and eye-rolls hides a very real, very overwhelming crush. And it’s only a matter of time before it boils over.
That’s what Draco told himself every time you raised your hand in class just a second faster than him. Every time you rolled your eyes at his sarcastic comments. Every time you challenged him to a duel during practice or muttered something clever under your breath when he passed by.
He hated you.
Except, of course, he didn’t. Not even a little.
He just liked to pretend he did. Because it was easier to scowl than to stammer. Easier to tease than confess. Easier to pretend that the twist in his stomach whenever you laughed was irritation and not the stupid butterflies that had been fluttering since third year.
You weren’t exactly innocent either. You loved getting under his skin. There was something satisfying about the way his jaw clenched every time you corrected him, something thrilling about the fire in his eyes when you beat him at a charm. You couldn’t explain it. You just knew it felt fun. Like a game only the two of you knew the rules to.
And the rest of the school? They were watching.
“Are you two ever not fighting?” Blaise asked one day in the common room, raising a brow as you flounced past Draco, accidentally-on-purpose knocking his books off the couch.
“No,” you said at the same time Draco said, “She started it.”
You grinned. “Only because you’re so easy to provoke, Malfoy.”
His eyes narrowed. “One day, Y/N, I’m going to hex that smug little smile off your face.”
You blew him a kiss. “You’d miss it too much.”
Blaise groaned. “This is exhausting. Just snog and get it over with.”
You choked on a laugh. Draco went silent. Dead silent. His ears turned pink.
He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “in your dreams” and stalked off toward the stairs, muttering about needing to study.
It wasn’t just class. It was everywhere. The tension followed you like a magnetic storm. In the library, you argued over table space. In the hallway, he bumped your shoulder every time you passed. At meals, you tried to out-snark each other with passive-aggressive comments about the food, your grades, your friends—nothing was off limits.
You didn’t know when it shifted. Maybe it was during that one rainy afternoon when you were stuck in detention with him for arguing mid-transfiguration. You’d thought it would be another shouting match, but instead, he sat next to you in silence, watching the rain hit the window.
“I like the quiet,” you murmured without looking at him.
He nodded. “Me too.”
You didn’t say anything else, but when Filch finally let you leave, you both hesitated in the hallway.
“I don’t actually hate you, you know,” you said softly.
Draco stared at you for a second too long. “Good.”
After that, things changed—but only a little. He was still sarcastic. You were still sharp. But the heat was different now.
He started watching you in class. Not in a creepy way, just… attentive. You caught him more than once glancing your way when you were focused on your work, a slight crease between his brows like he was trying to figure you out.
When you flirted with a Hufflepuff boy during Care of Magical Creatures, he snapped at you afterward for “embarrassing the House,” but you saw the flicker of jealousy in his face. The way his fists clenched. The way he avoided your eyes for the rest of the day.
And you? You liked it more than you should’ve.
You pushed it further. More compliments to other boys. More laughter at jokes he didn’t tell. He grew more sour. More quiet. More broody.
Until one day, it broke.
You were paired up in Potions (again—thanks Snape), and you were squabbling about ingredient order.
“Maybe if you actually followed instructions, Malfoy, we wouldn’t keep exploding cauldrons.”
“Maybe if you weren’t so infuriatingly perfect all the bloody time, I wouldn’t be distracted!”
You blinked. “What?”
He froze.
Oh.
His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.
“Forget I said that,” he mumbled, turning back to the cauldron with flushed cheeks.
You smirked. “Distracted by what, exactly?”
He didn’t answer. He just shoved a pinch of lacewing flies into the brew a little too aggressively.
Later that night, you found him in the Astronomy Tower, leaning on the railing, staring at the sky.
“You can’t just say things like that in the middle of Potions class,” you said.
He didn’t turn around. “It was an accident.”
“But it wasn’t a lie.”
Silence.
You walked to stand beside him. The stars were faint tonight, but the moon was bold and bright, casting light over his pale hair.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he muttered, voice low. “With you. I’m not good at… emotions. Or feelings. Or whatever this bloody thing is.”
You leaned on the railing next to him, shoulder brushing his. “Me neither.”
He glanced at you. You were close. Too close. You didn’t move.
He sighed. “You’re brilliant. And annoying. And smarter than me. And Merlin, do you ever stop being perfect?”
You laughed. “No. It’s a curse.”
That made him smile. Really smile.
“I like you,” you said. Simple. Honest.
He looked at you like he didn’t deserve it. “Even though I’ve been a git for years?”
“Especially because of that,” you teased. “It’s part of your charm.”
He turned toward you fully, and before you could think too much, his hand found yours. Just a brush of fingers. Nothing more.
But it was enough.
“I still want to beat you in every class,” he said.
You grinned. “Good. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
And then, finally, finally, he leaned in and kissed you—soft and tentative, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him.
Love your writing !!! Can you do like when reader finds out they are expecting but post hogwarts? Sounds silly but I can’t help but think of how excited George would be thank you :3
Hellooo, thank you for the request and I hope you like it ~ ♡
(btw guys, i’m also taking requests for the Avengers now!)
Little Lights .｡*･ﾟﾟ
Summary: You and George Weasley have built a quiet life after the war, healing in your own way. But when you find out you’re expecting, everything changes — not just for you, but for George.
The house you and George had shared since the war wasn’t glamorous, but it was home. A little crooked, a little loud, a little cluttered — in short, very Weasley. The kettle was always slightly burnt at the bottom, your living room walls were lined with mismatched frames, and the sofa had a permanent dent where George liked to collapse after a long day at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.
You’d been living together for almost a year now — and dating even longer.
Sometimes, you missed the younger version of him. The louder George, the one who joked constantly, whose laugh bounced off every surface. But you loved this one too. The one who held you tighter in the middle of the night. The one who needed more quiet than before. The one who, despite everything, still tried to be okay.
He still talked about Fred sometimes. Not as often anymore, but when he did, his voice always dropped to a whisper. Like Fred was still somewhere nearby and might answer.
You let him grieve at his own pace. And you loved him at his own pace, too.
That morning, when you threw up for the third time in a week and nearly passed out at the smell of George’s breakfast sausage, something inside you clicked.
You didn’t panic. You didn’t even speak. You just slipped into the loo, your hands trembling slightly as you pulled out the test you’d picked up at the apothecary two days ago — just in case.
You didn’t expect to cry.
And yet there you were, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, positive result in hand, tears slipping down your cheeks.
Because this wasn’t just about you anymore. Or even about George. It was about someone new. Someone tiny. Someone who had no idea what kind of world they were about to come into.
When George came home that evening, he immediately noticed something was off. His brows furrowed, and he pulled you into a hug before saying a word.
“What’s wrong?”
You looked up at him — your freckled, tired, lovely George — and took a breath.
“I need to show you something.”
You didn’t speak as you handed him the test. He blinked. Once. Twice. The silence stretched. He sat down on the couch slowly, his hands still holding the test, eyes glued to the little symbol glowing on the surface.
“You’re pregnant?”
You nodded.
George said nothing for a long while. Just stared. You felt your heartbeat in your throat.
Then: “Bloody hell.”
You laughed, mostly from nerves. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”
He stood, running a hand through his hair — a habit that usually meant he was overwhelmed. You felt the first flicker of fear.
“Are you… are you okay?” you asked quietly.
George turned to you — and for a second, you couldn’t read his expression.
Then he crossed the room in two strides and wrapped you in his arms so tightly you thought he might break.
“You’re really having our baby,” he whispered against your hair. “Merlin, I… I don’t even know what to say. I didn’t think…”
He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes. His own were damp.
“I didn’t think I’d live long enough to have something this good again.”
Your heart broke and mended in the same breath. You cupped his face.
“You deserve this, George. We both do.”
He kissed you — slow and deep and shaky — like he was still trying to convince himself this was real.
The next few weeks were a whirlwind. George refused to let you carry anything heavier than a spoon. He made you tea every morning and sat next to you during every bout of morning sickness, looking pale and helpless.
Molly, when she found out, burst into tears and knit three baby blankets in the same week. Ron told George he was going to be the worst dad ever, which in Weasley-speak meant he was thrilled. Ginny grinned and started suggesting baby names.
But there were hard days too.
Nights when George would hold your belly with such reverence and whisper things you couldn’t hear. Mornings when he looked like he’d seen a ghost. You never pushed. You just held his hand and let him talk when he was ready.
One night, curled in bed, his fingers tracing light circles over your bump, he whispered, “Do you think Fred would’ve been a good uncle?”
You swallowed the lump in your throat. “The best.”
George nodded slowly. “I’ll tell them about him. Everything. I want them to know.”
“They will,” you said, kissing his shoulder. “They’ll know all the best things. Because they’ll see them in you.”
He didn’t answer, but you felt the way he held you tighter.
The day your child was born, it was raining — a soft, steady rain that tapped gently against the hospital windows.
George never left your side. Not for a second. His hand in yours, his eyes never leaving your face. He cried before you did. Big, messy, shameless tears when your baby — your daughter — let out her first cry.
You watched him hold her like she was the most fragile, precious thing he’d ever seen.
“She’s so tiny,” you whispered, exhausted.
“She’s perfect,” he whispered back, kissing your forehead and then hers. “She’s perfect.”
Summary:TonyStark is a genius, but even he can’t always read the room—especially when his wife is this close to either murdering him or devouring an entire chocolate factory. And when he asks the wrong question at the worst possible time, he learns the hard way that some battles are better left unfought.
The penthouse was quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that usually meant something was either about to explode or someone was contemplating explosions.
Tony, blissfully unaware, strolled into the kitchen, humming to himself as he fiddled with a holographic schematic floating above his wrist. He barely registered the sight of you curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket burrito, glaring at your phone like it had personally betrayed you.
“Hey, honey,” he called absently, rummaging through the fridge. “Have you seen my—”
“If it’s not chocolate, Advil, or a heating pad, I don’t know where it is,” you interrupted, voice flat.
Tony paused, finally looking at you. “Uh. You okay?”
You didn’t even glance up. “Peachy.”
He frowned. “You sure? You seem kinda…” He gestured vaguely. “Murdery.”
“Wow. Astute observation, Sherlock.”
Tony blinked. “Okay, yikes.” He shut the fridge and leaned against the counter, studying you. “What’s going on? Did someone die? Do I need to call a lawyer?”
You exhaled sharply through your nose. “No, Tony. No one died. Yet.”
“That… is not reassuring.”
You finally lifted your head, fixing him with a look that could melt vibranium. “If you don’t want a sarcastic answer, don’t ask a stupid question.”
Tony’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Okay, first of all—ouch. Second of all, what did I do?”
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Nothing. Literally nothing. That’s the problem.”
Tony stared. “I… don’t follow.”
“Of course you don’t,” you muttered, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself.
Tony hesitated, then—against his better judgment—pushed further. “Alright, seriously, what’s wrong? Did I forget something? Anniversary? Birthday? Did I leave the coffee machine on again?”
You let out a slow, measured breath. “Tony.”
“Yeah?”
“I am currently in the middle of an internal war where my uterus is attempting to stage a coup.” Your voice was eerily calm. “So unless your next words are ‘I brought you a hot water bottle and a cheesecake,’ I suggest you retreat.”
Tony Stark is a genius, but even he can’t always read the room—especially when his wife is this close to either murdering him or devouring an entire chocolate factory. And when he asks the wrong question at the worst possible time, he learns the hard way that some battles are better left unfought.
T'Challa—your best friend T'Challa, the one who’d seen you with food poisoning and still handed you water bottles with a straight face—was standing way too close.
“This is a bad idea,” you said, voice impressively steady for someone whose heartbeat could probably power a small city.
T'Challa tilted his head, all innocent confusion, like he wasn’t currently backing you against your favorite reading tree in the palace gardens. “What is?”
“This.” You gestured wildly between the two of you. “The—the looming. You’re looming.”
He had the audacity to smirk. “I’m standing.”
“You’re standing menacingly.”
A laugh rumbled in his chest, vibrating through the scant inches separating you. “The problem is,” he murmured, leaning in just enough that his breath ghosted over your lips, “if I kissed you, I don’t think I’d be able to stop.”
Your brain short-circuited.
This was not how best friends behaved. Best friends didn’t notice how soft each other’s lips looked in the sunset. Best friends didn’t memorize the exact shade of brown in each other’s eyes. Best friends definitely didn’t have this kind of tension unless someone was about to win a very intense board game.
“You’re cheating,” you accused.
T'Challa’s eyebrows shot up. “At what?”
“At friendship!” You poked his chest. “We had rules. No flirtation, no weird tension, absolutely no almost-kissing by the—mmph!”
The protest died in your throat as his lips finally met yours—soft at first, then insistent, like he’d been waiting years to do this (which, okay, maybe he had, but that wasn’t the point).
When he finally pulled back, you were definitely not breathless.
(She was breathless.)
T'Challa studied your dazed expression with entirely too much satisfaction. “So. Still a bad idea?”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then, with all the dignity you could muster: “…We should test the hypothesis further. For science.”
His grin was downright wolfish. “As my best friend, I’d be happy to assist with your research.”
And as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of fire, you came to a groundbreaking scientific conclusion:
Best friends made terrible kissing partners.
…Which was why you’d clearly need to try it approximately seven hundred more times to be sure.
Omg! I loved your Draco fanfics! I was wondering if you could write a Draco x muggleborn slytherin reader and she usually gets bullied quite a bit since she’s muggleborn, but she’s also top of her class and really smart and Snape pairs his two best students up for a project or something and they fall in love and Draco apologies for his behavior towards her?
Or maybe it’s like that scene in the forth movie and mcgonagall is teaching the Gryffindors to dance for the Yule ball, maybe something similar happens in slytherin so Draco and the reader and they end up having to dance together and it goes from enemies-friends-lovers?
I’m sorry if this is too long, and no pressure to do it! Again, love your work!
Helloooo, thank you for liking my work and i hope you like this one too ~ ♡
Better Than Blood .｡*･ﾟﾟ
Summary: Forced to work side by side, Draco Malfoy begins to see you for who you really are — not just a brilliant witch, but someone he might be falling for.
It was cold in the dungeons. Not just the usual Hogwarts chill, but the kind that seeped under your skin and stayed there — like the stares you got walking through your common room, the whispers when you answered questions in class, the laughter that followed every time someone muttered the word Mudblood under their breath.
But you were used to it. You weren’t here to make friends. You were here to be the best. And you were.
Professor Snape’s voice cut through the classroom with all the warmth of a guillotine.
“I will be assigning partners for your term project,” he announced, stalking past the rows of desks. “No, you do not get to choose. Consider it a lesson in cooperation, as some of you seem woefully lacking in it.”
Your quill paused.
Please not Parkinson. Please not Crabbe. Please—
“Y/L/N and Malfoy.”
You looked up sharply. Draco Malfoy turned in his seat to look at you, his lips already twisting into a smirk.
“Oh, brilliant,” he drawled. “Can’t wait to see how many muggle methods you bring into this.”
You didn’t reply. You refused to. He wanted a reaction, and you wouldn’t give it to him.
You simply gathered your books and walked over to the empty seat beside him, sitting down with a calmness that took effort.
“This project is due in four weeks,” Snape continued. “And if either of you dares to bring me substandard work, I’ll fail you both.”
Malfoy scoffed. “Don’t worry, Professor. I’m sure I’ll be carrying us.”
You turned toward him finally, eyes cool. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”
His brows raised just slightly, and for once, he didn’t have a comeback.
The first week was torture.
He was late. He didn’t read the assigned materials. He rolled his eyes when you corrected him and had the nerve to be annoyed when you got frustrated. But you didn’t back down.
You spent long evenings in the library together — not because you wanted to, but because you both knew you were too stubborn to let the other outshine you.
“You don’t have to act like you’re better than everyone else, you know,” you muttered one night, not looking up from your notes.
Draco snorted. “Why? Because I’m not?”
You sighed, rubbing your eyes. “No. Because you’re not fooling anyone.”
He went quiet at that.
You didn’t expect the silence that followed. Or the small flicker of something — was it respect? — in the way he looked at you as you continued working.
By the third week, things had shifted.
You’d caught him watching you more than once when you weren’t looking. And he actually showed up to work — on time, prepared, and almost… pleasant?
You laughed once when he tripped on a book bag and muttered something about it attacking him. And instead of snapping, he smiled.
Not smirked. Smiled.
“You’re different,” he said one afternoon, tapping his quill against the parchment.
“You mean muggleborn?”
He looked guilty. “No. I mean… not what I expected.”
You didn’t know what to say to that. So you just nodded.
“So are you.”
He blinked. “What, charming and devastatingly handsome?”
You rolled your eyes. “Tolerable.”
He chuckled. “High praise from you.”
The final night before the project was due, you met in the Potions classroom to do a final test of your potion.
It worked perfectly. You should’ve been thrilled. And you were — sort of.
But you were more distracted by the way Draco kept glancing at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice. By how his expression had softened over the last few weeks. How he didn’t call you names anymore. How he actually listened.
“How did you do it?” he asked suddenly.
“Do what?”
“Put up with us. The stares. The names. All of it.”
You shrugged. “Because I knew I was better.”
He looked down, jaw tightening.
“I was horrible to you.”
You looked at him.
“Yes,” you said honestly. “You were.”
He winced. “I’m sorry.”
You hadn’t expected that.
Not from Draco Malfoy. Not after everything.
And yet — you believed him.
“I know,” you said softly.
He looked at you like he wanted to say more. But instead, he just stood up and helped you pack your things.
You turned in the project the next morning. Snape gave it a rare, approving nod. You and Draco sat next to each other during the whole class — in silence, but not the awkward kind. It was… comfortable. Familiar.
After class, he walked beside you toward the Slytherin common room.
“Hey,” he said, stopping you before the door.
You turned.
“I know we’re not… anything. But I liked working with you.”
You smiled. “Me too.”
“Maybe we could do it again sometime.”
You raised a brow. “What, get paired together by Snape?”
He laughed. “No. I mean — something else.”
You didn’t answer, not directly. You just leaned forward and whispered, “We’ll see,” before walking into the common room, leaving him blinking after you.
And for the first time in a long while, you felt seen — not as a muggleborn, not as a target — but as someone worth getting to know.
