ℍ𝕠𝕨 ℍℙ 𝕓𝕠𝕪𝕤 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕔𝕥

¹¹⁹ when you cry over a book

Includes:

Harry Potter

Ron Weasley

George Weasley

Fred Weasley

Neville Longbottom

Cedric Diggory

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—Harry Potter—

Harry didn't read much. He felt that his energy was better spent on other activities, so any reading he did was for assignments. He knew reading was something you enjoyed, often catching you and Hermione discussing different muggle novels on the great hall. He was completely taken aback when he found curled up in a corner of the library, sniffling quietly and wiping tears from your cheeks as you flipped to the next page. He thought you loved reading. How could you be so sad doing something you loved? "Y/n, darling, what is it?" He whispered, fearing madam pince would come and kick the both of you out if he spoke too loudly. "He reminds me of you, and-and-" you stammered over your words. "Take your time," he said gently, sitting beside you and wiping the tears from your face with his thumb. "He's just like you and this stupid author keeps hurting him," sighed,  choking back a sober. It was stupid to cry over, you knew that. You hadn't expected Harry to come to the library that afternoon. "He reminds you of me? The character?" He asked with a smile. He found that adorable, and as much as he hated to see you hurt, it made him realize how kuch you really cared for him. After you nod, he rips a bit of paper from a notebook and uses it as a bookmark for you before shutting the novel, and guiding you to your feet. "Why read about someone like me when you could just come to the lake with real me? I just came from the kitchens, stole some cupcakes. They're freshly made," he offered, and you noticed the small basket he'd set on the floor when he sat down with you, a checkered picnic blanket poking out the side. "I'd like that," you nodded, taking his hand and swinging your arms between you as you walk to the lake, your book in your free hand and the picnic basket in his.

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—Ron Weasley—

Ron never understood your love of reading, but he adored nights spent watching you page through your stories in the light of the moon, and being awoken at four in the morning because you finished a book and you desperately needed to talk to someone about the end. You were the only reason he would ever even fathom being awake the early. He was watching you affectionately from bed, admiring how the moonlight lit up your face and the pages in front of you, the soft page turns every few minutes and just your comforting presence was slowly lulling him to sleep, though he struggled against it, not ready to close his eyes and lose you from his sight quite yet. That was when he noticed a single teardrop rolling down your cheek, and the way your breathing went all shallow all of a sudden. "Y/n?" He grunted, rubbing at his bleary eyes. "I thought you were sleeping," you whispered, afraid that your voice would break with tears if you spoke any louder. "Nearly, is everything alright?" "I think my favorite one is about to die," you told him. His gaze softened, even more than it already had been. He reached up and closed the book, gently taking it from your grasp and earning an angry glare from you. "That sounds like a problem for tomorrow. Come lay with me," he insisted. You agreed, unable to refuse a request like that, and rested your head on his chest, his steady heartbeat slowly lulling you to sleep, "that's it," he hummed softly, rubbing circles into your back. "You're too pretty for tears tonight, my love." He continued to whisper to you until you fell asleep, and even after he repeated how in love with you he was until his own eyes fluttered shut and he began to snore softly, holding you close throughout the night.