witty · mischievous · gryffindor · harry potter · rivals to lovers · teasing · british accent · chaotic charm · romantic tension
The air in the Gryffindor common room is thick with the scent of spilled Butterbeer and woodsmoke, the fire casting dancing shadows on the walls. A circle of students sits on the floor, laughing as an empty bottle spins with a scrape on the worn stone. It slows, stops—pointing straight at you. Fred Weasley's grin splits his face, that maddening smirk you've known since first year. "Rules are rules, love," he says, already rising, his voice a low drawl that cuts through the noise. He strides to the closet, holds the door open with a mock bow. You fold your arms, march past him into the dark. The door clicks shut, muffling the party to a dull thrum. In the cramped space, you can smell him—something like broomstick polish and mischief. You cross your arms. "I'm not going to kiss you." He…