karacaroldanvers

[karacaroldanvers]

over the influence — remus lupin x reader

summary: remus lupin is not your boyfriend, but he sure knows how to act like he is.

contains: friends to lovers, friends trying really hard to be lovers, fluff, mutual pining, lovesick oblivious remus, drunk!reader, modern!au, rugby!james cw implied fem!reader, reader wears a skirt, alcohol consumption.

note: um welcome to my first ever remus fic!? if I’m being honest I have no idea if it’s good but I’m posting it anyway yolo

fem!reader 2.9k words

You’re plastered when Remus finds you. Absolutely hammered.

He can tell because you’re giggling madly at one of Sirius’s jokes, which you never do, because Sirius’s jokes are awful and you thankfully have a good sense of humour. But, you’re a giggly drunk, who finds just about anything anyone says absolutely hilarious. It’s adorable, usually. But right now, it’s blowing Sirius’s ego out of the water.

Remus dives in to save you as Sirius roars with laughter at his own joke.

“Dove,” he says, clasping your shoulder. You’re slumped into the sofa, your head lolling against the cushions. “There you are.”

You twist to look who it is, your face all scrunched up as you take him in. You blink very slowly. Then, just as slow, your face lights up.

“Remus!” You gasp happily. “Hi, baby. I was wondering where you went!”

Baby. Remus’s face burns and his heart does a triple backflip. You’re drunk, he reasons. Super drunk.

“Are you okay?” He asks you, bending at the waist so you can hear him better. It’s loud, the music and the people and Sirius, especially.

“I’m perfect,” you say, words all slurry and sticky and ending in a sort of ditzy hiccup.

Well, you’re not wrong about that. Remus takes the seat next to you and your droopy eyes follow him down.

“How much have you had to drink?” Remus asks, trying for curious but coming out a bit concerned. “What did you even drink?”

You shrug and hiccup again. “I don’t know.” Your shoulders drop and so do your lips, a sort of confused frown washing over your features. “Sirius made me some weird concoction … it was kinda gross, Rem.” You look at Remus very seriously, your eyelids low. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

Remus laughs and pretends to zip his lips. “Your secret’s safe with me, babe.”

Chances are it’s not, and Remus will mock Sirius about it endlessly. Not tonight, though. Tonight he’s mainly focused on making sure you don’t touch another cup of anything other than water.

You’re giggling again, though Remus isn’t sure what at. You’re just gazing at him and giggling your head off like a maniac.

“What’s so funny, pretty?” He asks fondly, a grin tugging at his lips. He knows you don’t have a chance of remembering any of this by tomorrow morning. Hence the pet names.

You stop laughing abruptly. It’s alarming and then not, because your big grin stays put. You lean in close, your chest pressing into his side. Remus smells all your smells, your perfume and your hairspray and the mystery drink you’ve definitely had too much of.

“You’re pretty,” you say, completely ignoring his question.

Remus flushes. You’re never this forward. It’s driving him nuts, the way you’re looking at him. How close you are. The way your scents wash over him and make him feel almost as drunk as you are.

“Whatever you say,” he says, brushing off your compliment because what the hell is he supposed to say to that? “I think you need some water.”

Remus gets up but you catch his wrist before he’s fully standing, your soft fingers pressing into his skin.

“Wait, don’t leave!” You sound desperate and you look the part, too. Your pretty eyes are blown wide as saucers.

Remus falters. “I’ll be five seconds, dove. M’just getting you a glass of water.”

You pout in such a way that makes Remus want to kiss you silly. “Take me with you, then?”

Remus finds he physically cannot say no to that look. He hauls you up by the forearm and you cling happily to his arm. Remus makes his way to the kitchen with you attached to his arm like a barnacle, your fingers pressing into the crook of his elbow, your thigh brushing his as you walk far too close to him. It’s dizzying, and Remus is surprised he’s managing to walk in a straight line.

In the kitchen, it’s much quieter but you’re not any less drunk. You detach yourself from Remus and skip over to the kitchen island. Before Remus can stop you you’re hauling yourself up onto the bench, so unsteady on your feet that you almost topple right off. Remus catches you by the elbow just before disaster strikes.

“Oops,” you giggle, breathless and totally out of your mind. “Sorry.”

Remus’s heart stops racing with worry and instead races with infatuation with you. Even in your drunken state.

“S’fine,” he says kindly, patiently, because you’re too sweet for your own good. You almost went toppling to your demise and you’re apologizing. “Just be careful. Please.”

You nod and sit pretty while Remus retrieves a glass and fills it with cold water from the fridge. When he turns back you’re making grabby hands for the glass. Remus looks at you, your wobbly state and your clumsy hands, and holds the condensation-ridden glass closer to his chest.

You pout and drop your arms. “Remus.”

“You’ll drop it, honey,” he says, as kindly as he can without sounding like he’s babying you. He is babying you, actually. Not that he’s gonna tell you that. “Let me.”

You let him. He brings one hand to rest at the small of your back, his fingers brushing the strip of skin just shy of your skirt’s waistband. He tries not to think about it as he brings the glass to your lips.

You drink like you’ve been stuck in a desert for six days, gulping like your life depends on it. Remus is grinning fondly until you finish and dip your head backwards. Your neck is bared to the kitchen lights and your chest is heaving dramatically, and Remus feels so lightheaded he actually has to grab the counter.

You notice, because of course you do, even in your tipsy state. You frown and put your hand on Remus’s where it’s gripping the counter for dear life.

“Remus? Are you okay?”

Remus blinks rapidly, hitches a grin onto his face. “I’m fine,” he says, fake grin at work. “Do you want more water?”

You think about it for a second. Then you look at Remus like you’re about to deliver the worst news of his life. “I need to pee,” you say solemnly.

Remus almost laughs. Almost. “Well, c’mon then.” He sets your empty glass down and grabs your forearm. “I’ll get one of the girls to take you.”

“No!” You say desperately. You throw your arms around Remus’s neck and tug him into you, and Remus is so startled he doesn’t have time to think about how close you are. You push your face into his neck. “No,” you say again, quieter this time. “I don’t want them to look after me. I want you.”

Your closeness catches up with Remus in a rush of heat all over his body. Your thighs press into his sides and your arms are like a vice around his neck. His heart thrums and his chest burns and it takes him a while to figure out what he’s saying.

“Dove,” he says gently. He pries himself off of you, albeit reluctantly, and puts his hands over your biceps, squeezing lightly. “I can’t take you to the bathroom.”

You frown. “Why not?”

Remus stutters. “Well, because. I’m- I’m not—”

“Please?” You beg, looking awfully cute when you clasp your hands together between yours and Remus’s chests. “You can just stand outside the door and wait. I’ll be fine.”

Half of Remus thinks it’s a bad idea, you might trip on your own feet and whack your head on the bathtub. The other half of him can’t ever say no to you, not even when what you’re proposing is totally dangerous and an awful idea. He’s not exactly proud of himself when he nods.

“Yeah, alright then,” he says, and you beam. “Come on.”

Remus ends up looking after you for the remainder of the night, you’re so drunk. He drives you home not long after your bathroom break. Sobers you up with some tea which you barely touch, and more cold water which you skull like you’ve been deprived of it for days.

He deposits you in your bed and you’re already half asleep by the time he does it, but you manage a sleepy, “Thank you,” that’s so sweet Remus feels his chest ache. He leaves you fast asleep in the comfort of your bed, ignores the urge to crash on your couch, and double checks he’s locked your doors on the way out.

Not that anyone’s asking, but he’s maybe just had the best night of his life.

-

Remus gets a call from you the next day and his heart skips. He thinks, stupidly, that maybe you’ve decided you hate him after last night. He picks it up anyway, because he misses you.

“Remus,” you say, as soon as the phone’s on his ear. You sound somewhat anguished. “Was I awful last night?”

He laughs, surprised. “What?”

“Was I awful to look after?” You ask like it’s obvious. “I barely remember anything. James said I was clinging to you for half the night.” You’re moaning like it’s a bad thing. For Remus it wasn’t. “And I’m sure I said some weird shit, I was so loopy off that stupid drink Siri gave me. I—”

Remus saves you before you fall into a self-deprecating waffle.

“Y/N,” he interrupts your rambling. “What’s gotten into you, dove? You were fine. It was fine.” I like looking after you, he doesn’t say.

“But—”

“You’re being ridiculous.” Remus tries not to laugh because you are being ridiculous, but you also really do sound quite worked up about it. “It’s fine. I wasn’t about to leave you to the crows.”

You giggle, thankfully. When you speak again you sound much happier. “‘The crows’ as in Sirius?”

Remus snorts. “Yeah. The crows as in Sirius. I think I’ll have a word with him about the drinks he passes around.”

You huff, and Remus can picture your pout. “Please do. I’m never drinking with him again.”

Remus laughs, a mixture of amusement and fondness and agreement. You’re much more yourself this morning, perky and a little dramatic and a bit of an over-thinker. Though admittedly, Remus didn’t mind loopy you last night.

“Are you going to James’s game tonight?” You ask, a smile evident in your voice.

Remus snaps out of his lovelorness long enough to reply, “Are you?”

“Yeah, why?”

“‘Cos I’m only going if you’re going.”

You laugh loud and the heat in Remus’s cheeks only grows. He loves making you laugh more than he’d like to admit.

“That’s mean, Remus,” you scold, with less heat than a block of ice. “Don’t you want to support your friend?”

“Friend isn’t really the right word,” Remus jokes. He’s happy to make you laugh at James’s expense. He’s sure James can take it.

You laugh again, and Remus knows you know he means it jokingly.

You’re still giggling when you talk again, breathless and adorable. “Alright, well. Would you mind picking me up?”

Remus agrees far too quickly to be normal, with far too much eagerness. He gets off the phone after agreeing on a time to pick you up, and knows he’s a total goner.

-

Remus isn’t your boyfriend. He’s your friend. And yet here you are, sitting very close to him in the stadium stands while you watch James’s rugby game. Only last night, he’d looked after you and driven you home when you got too tipsy. He’d also, at your request, given you a ride here, telling you all the while that you were the only reason he’s coming to the game at all. So maybe he’s closer to being your boyfriend than you think.

You watch James score a try and your row of seats erupts into cheers, Lily’s the loudest. The big screen above the field shows the camera panning to a close up of James. He whoops and pounds his fists in the air and blows a big smacking kiss in the general direction of your group of friends.

“He’s such a show off,” Remus drawls into your ear. You can hear him smiling.

You giggle and twist in your seat so you can look at him. He looks extraordinarily pretty tonight, in dark brown pants and a forest green t-shirt, his dark hair (in need of a cut) windswept and going in every direction possible. You want to kiss him so bad your chest burns. On the way here, he’d had his hand on your thigh for half the drive and you didn’t say a word the entire time. You think maybe you’re unhealthily obsessed with him.

“What?” Remus asks curiously, lips parted, and you realise you’ve been staring too long.

Heat washes over your cheeks. “Nothing,” you say as nonchalantly as you can.

“Have I got something on my face? You’re staring at me like I’ve grown two heads.”

The way he says it is like he knows exactly why you were staring at him. Desperate for an escape, you stand before you even know what you’re doing.

“I’m going to get more popcorn,” you declare to your friends in general. You purposefully avoid looking at Remus, afraid you’ll keel over and die. “Anyone want more?”

You get a few yes’s and one “I’m coming,” from Remus, which completely ruins the point. You’d tell him so but that would mean admitting you’re sickeningly obsessed with him. You allow him to tag along.

Sirius gives you a look as you leave with Remus, eyebrows raised like he knows exactly how much you like his friend. You’re sure he does. He doesn’t miss much, that boy. And he’s been giving you looks ever since you arrived. You flip him off behind Remus’s back.

Once at the popcorn stand, Remus insists on paying. It’s irritating, really, how sweet he is.

“Remus,” you groan, swatting his wallet away. “I can pay for myself.”

“I know you can, dove,” he says. “I’m just trying to be nice.”

And he gives you a smile so staggering that you let him pay for the popcorn. You’re still grumbling about it on the way back to your seats.

“You’re too nice,” you tell him, plonking down in your seat with a frown. “Stop being so nice, I’m sick of it.”

Remus laughs, really laughs, the kind that has you fighting a smile even though you’re annoyed at him. He’s got a lovely laugh.

“Sorry,” he says, sounding the opposite. He’s got a smarmy grin on his mouth, all teeth. You’d pummel him if he wasn’t so pretty. “Do you want me to be mean instead?”

You glare. “You’re mean to everyone else,” you say, which is entirely true and you both know it. He wouldn’t look after a drunk Sirius like he did you if his life depended on it.

To your surprise, Remus flushes. “Well, I—“

He’s interrupted by a yell of his name from Sirius, and then you realise they’re all calling your name, too. Shouts of “Remus!” and “Y/N!” and “Look!”

You twist in your seat, confused.

“What—?”

And then you see it. The kiss cam is on the big screen, colours and words blazing. And just your luck, it’s your face blown up ten times as big on the screen, your eyes wide and your lips parted as you stare back at yourself, caught mid-sentence. You think maybe you’re dreaming, because right next to your face is Remus’s. He’s just as shocked as you.

You turn to look at the real Remus, just as he turns to look at you. Your friends are having a field day, shouting, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

You ignore them.

“I …” You’re not sure what to say, your mouth filling with nothing but silence. You want badly to kiss him. You’ve always wanted to kiss him, and you think everyone but Remus knows it.

“We don’t have to,” he says quickly, mistaking your silence for unwillingness. “It’s just a stupid kiss cam.”

But you do have to, because he’s Remus, and maybe this stupid kiss cam is the only chance you’re ever gonna get. You swallow the nerves that are building up in your throat and ignore the fact that Sirius is practically screaming at the two of you from three seats down.

“I want to,” you say quietly, too quietly, and Remus doesn’t hear you over the hubbub. So you try again. “I want to.”

Remus goes very still, his lips parted and his chest heaving. Suddenly it feels like it’s just the two of you. He stares at you like you’re made of gold and your heart does somersaults.

Then he smiles. “Me too.”

He brings his hand to your jaw and you barely have time to bask in his touch before he’s kissing you. Really kissing you. He tastes like butter and sugar and he smells exactly like he always does. His hands are soft but sure where they cup your face and your chest is on fire, your heart is punching and kicking and you worry you might pass out in his arms you’re so giddy.

Your friends are screaming bloody murder, Sirius the worst of them all, and you’re sure the kiss cam has probably panned away from you by now but you can’t stop kissing him. You kiss him and kiss him and kiss him until you can’t breathe anymore. You’d go on forever but you’re losing breath and you really do think you’re lightheaded now.

You pull away before you pass out from lack of oxygen. Remus looks as frazzled as you feel, pink in the cheeks and his lips all swollen and his eyes are bright and burning and holy shit, you just want to kiss him again.

You almost do, but then Sirius and Frank and Lily appear and clap your backs, shout words you can barely hear and Sirius is so happy he looks like he might burst into tears. You laugh, half-delirious and sick as a dog in love with Remus, and somehow your hands end up tangled with his in his lap and your thigh is crushing his and he’s looking at you like he wants to kiss you again.

Lucky you, he does kiss you again. And many more times after that, no kiss cam needed.

thank you for reading! feedback & reblogs are appreciated 🤍

[karacaroldanvers]

[karacaroldanvers]

Never Planned | F.W.

summary: you and fred had been friends for so long that it never occurred to the both of you that everyone thought you were dating.

pairing: fred weasley x gryffindor!reader

includes: fluff, the both of you being mischievous, kissing, cursing, the two third years being wingmen when they don’t even know it

a/n: officially working on requests the second this gets posted!

You and Fred had the same routine every Sunday night after dinner. The routine was simple and familiar—so familiar that even the younger students knew it all too well. Every Sunday evening, you would typically read the Daily Prophet or do final touches to your essays while Fred would find a way to bother you until you finally gave into him and give him attention. That’s how Sunday nights would always go.

Except for tonight. For some reason, today felt off and neither of you could place a finger on it. The evening started off normal, but the longer you ignored it, the more the feeling intensified.

You were supposed to be working on your Charms essay, but all you could think about was the small feeling nagging at the back of your mind. You were so absorbed with the thought that you didn't realize you were biting the tip of you quill until Fred pulled your hand away from you, propping his feet up on your lap.

"What's with the face, Faucett? Need help with your Charms essay?" Fred asked, pouting dramatically when you snapped out of your trance and pushed his feet off your lap. "You hate me."

You scoff and roll up your parchment, placing it away on the side table. "I do not hate you, Fred."

“You do.” He teased and angled you to face him, pulling your legs to lay over his lap instead. He watched you rest your head against the cushions of the couch, making him tap your knee in concern. “What’s wrong?”

You huff and play with the threads of you sweater that Molly had made you this past Christmas, meeting his eyes that were filled with more emotion than you could place. “Nothings wrong with me, but it feels like something in this room is, you know?”

Fred looked over at the other people in the room. There were hardly any people in the Gryffindor Common Room on Sunday evenings. Everyone was out either making use of the last few hours of freedom they had before classes started the next day or in their dorms, trying to cram for any surprise quizzes.

The only people that were in the Common Room were a group of first years comparing notes, some fourth years playing exploding snap, and a pair of third years conversing quietly in a corner, tucked away from prying eyes and voices—such as Fred Weasley himself.

Fred raised a brow at the two boys who looked away quite quickly when they met the older boy's gaze. He turned back to you for a quick second, replying quietly to your previous comment. “Maybe…”

You crease your brows and look over at the pair of boys as well, “What—?”

“Oi!” Fred hollered at the two third years, making the entire room snap their heads over at the sudden boom of a voice. You blew a piece of hair away from your face in exasperation, giving the other students apologetic looks for the commotion.

“What are you blokes whispering about?” He called out, making the third year on the left burn bright red.

You poke Fred's arm when you saw the poor boy's face, not deterred by all his muscles underneath his own sweater. “Fred, stop bothering them."

The same boy looked away from you two, swallowing thickly while his friend pursed his lips in an effort to not laugh at the current situation. While the rest of the room went back to what they were doing, Fred continued to watch the pair, waiting for a response from either one of them.

Finally, after the two boys whispered back and forth—for Godric only knows how long—one of them spoke up, making the red-head beside you perk up instantly.

“Nothing important.” The teen on the right said for the sake of his friend, waving a dismissive hand in your general direction. “Just trying to figure out how to ask this girl out."

The second you both heard those words come out of the boy's mouth, you looked over at Fred who was already looking back at you with a grin that could only be described as smug.

You sighed, knowing you couldn't do much to stop whatever Fred planned on doing. “Freddie, don’t—“

He stood from his spot on the couch, hands placed on his hips like he suddenly knew the answers to everything in the universe. “Luckily, you’ve come to the right man—“

“—Boy—“ You quipped from his side as you followed him to ensure he wouldn't do or say anything stupid.

“Shut up.” Fred half-heartedly pushed you to the side, still catching you when you stumbled over your feet. He stuck his thumb in the other teen’s direction, “Anyway, who does he fancy?”

You roll your eyes at his antics and give them a warm, reassuring smile, hoping it would take their minds off whatever foolishness Fred has in plan. “First, what are your names?”

“I’m Oliver, and he’s James.” The boy on the right said tentatively, the one on the left—which you both now knew was James—nodding in agreement.

Fred clasped his hands together and nodded mindlessly, keeping his eyes trained on the boys. “Alright, I’m Fred and she’s the pain in my arse—“

“Can you focus?” You groan and shove him to the side, laughing loudly when he threw you over his shoulder to get you to stop interrupting—although the two of you knew it was hopeless.

“Oliver, who does James fancy?” Fred asked, ignoring your calls and protests.

You continued to wiggle yourself free from his grasp, huffing when he held onto you tighter. At that point, the rest of the Common Room gave you odd looks, making you flush a bright pink in slight embarrassment.

Oliver opened his mouth to speak, hesitantly as he stared at you and Fred in concern and confusion, unsure what to do in the situation. “Uhm… He fancies this girl in Hufflepuff named Lila—“

You gasped and hit Fred hard in between his shoulder blades, earning a groan as he dropped you from his arms. You spun around and gave James a soft look, knowing exactly who Lila was. You had tutored her last year in Potions—and based on your five minute interaction with James—the would be the perfect pair.

“She’s really bright and gifted in Herbology.” James says softly, making your heart ache at how he spoke about Lila in adoration.

“Have you tried to ask her out before?” You ask and watch him fidget with his hair.

He shakes his head, eyes darting away from your face toward the ground. “I’m too nervous.”

After recovering from you sudden attack, Fred clapped his hand on James’ back, ruffling his hair when the boy looked up at him. “Don’t be, you look handsome and clearly you’ve got the brains for it.”

In an instant, you saw an increase of confidence in the thirteen year old, making you grin at the sight. Maybe Fred being nosy in other students’ conversations wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

You watched for another second before murmuring something to Fred about finally finishing your Charms essay, giving the two boys one last smile. Before you left for the couch, Fred subconsciously pressed a kiss to the top of your head, knowing you were leaving even though he barely listened to you as he continued to speak to the younger students.

“Ask her out to a picnic by the lake or in one of the outdoor gardens—Not Hagrid’s, of course. That would be a nightmare.” Fred clarified with a small smirk decorating his face, leaning back on one of the armchairs behind him as the boys listened intently.

“Thanks, I’ll ask her tomorrow after class.” James replied with a new found determination in his voice.

Finally snapping out of his small trance, Oliver switched his gaze from Fred to your spot on the couch, tilting his head with a raised brow. “How did you ask your girlfriend out?”

Fred copied his facial expression, turning his head to follow the boy’s eye line when they landed on you. He poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue before clearing his throat, waving a dismissive hand in the air.

“Oh, we’re not dating.”

“Sure seems like it.” Oliver crossed his arms and raised both brows this time, judging Fred like he was a liar. “You can’t give out advice about dating without having a girlfriend yourself.”

“My advice is fool proof!” Fred blurted, almost baffled that a thirteen year old accused him of spreading false information—though he has done that multiple times before to everyone he knew

“Then how come you don’t have a girlfriend?”

Fred opened his mouth and shut it, putting his index finger up toward the boys before turning and walking over to you. He stood in front of you with his hands in his front pockets, waiting until you finished your thoughts on the essay before speaking.

“Did you know people think we’re dating?” He said quietly, earning a wide-eye look from you. Based on your reaction, you probably didn’t know either. “Yeah, weird. Those two boys thought we were dating.”

“That’s the weird feeling I was getting in this room.” You say as you twirl your golden charm necklace between your fingers, looking over at the two boys who suddenly looked guilty and mischievous at the same time. You raise a brow and look back at Fred with a small smirk, making him grin back.

“Can you imagine the shock on their faces if they believed it took you two seconds to land a girlfriend?”

Fred bent over by the waist, lips mere centimeters from yours. “And what do you have in mind, Faucett?”

Your smirk widens before you pull him in by the collar of his sweater, lips meeting his faster than anyone could have expected it. As if someone flipped a switch in Fred’s mind, he quickly reciprocated, hands coming up to cup the back of your neck and cheek.

For a second, the two of you were completely immersed in each other that you didn’t realize that—once more—the Gryffindor Common Room stared. This time, they stared only for a brief moment before looking away. It seemed like everyone expected it since the moment you both walked into the Common Room together on any Sunday evening.

You separate after the kiss that lasted longer than you both thought it would last, the two of you slightly out of breath, but still wearing eat-shitting grins at fooling the two third years in their small corner. Fred glanced at them from the corner of his eye, winking at Oliver specifically when he stared with a gaped mouth.

“That’ll be the best piece of advice they’ll ever get.” You laugh quietly as Fred plops down beside you, resting his chin on your shoulder and wrapping his arm around your abdomen, warm against your skin under the sweater. “You’re not going back to those two boys?”

“Nah, it’ll ruin the fun.” He drawled and looked up at you with his pretty brown eyes, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder unexpectedly. You looked down at him and raised a brow, waiting for an explanation from the one Weasley you liked a little more than the others.

“So, you? Me? Next weekend? Hogsmeade?” He asked with a confident smile, twirling a piece of your hair in between his index and thumb.

You bite back a smile and pat his cheek, his own smile never wavering. “You really know how to make a girl feel special, Weasley.”

“Is that a yes?” He questioned, looking between your eyes.

“You did this on purpose, didn’t you?” You say as you go back to finishing your essay, not caring for the blush that rose to your cheeks.

You and Fred have been friends since first year, but it never crossed your mind that you could ever be in the relationship everyone assumed you were in. Not until this year. It felt like you clung to every single word he spoke to you this time, and it felt so different.

All the pranks he would plan with Lee and George was always relayed to you, every gift he planned to give to his family members went through you—you were practically his without officially being his.

“I plan for many things, Faucett.” Fred moved to sit properly and dragged your legs back on top of his lap, messing with the embroidery on your jeans. “But I never planned on someone like you kissing me just to mess with two thirteen year olds.”

“You went along with it.” You clarify, knowing damn well that he also wanted to prank the two teens. Besides, it’s not like it was your first time kissing Fred. Not at all.

Your gaze meets his, “So what, you actually want to take me out on a date now?”

“Yep.” He continued to grin and trace the embroidery.

You carefully tuck away your Charms essay once more, continuing to hide the smile that came with the thought of going out with Fred Weasley. “I guess I’ll go on a date with you.”

Fred didn’t even know his grin could get bigger, but it did. He pulled you as close to him as he could, arms wrapped securely around your waist as he tilted his chin down to meet your eyes. “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

“You are bad news.” You laugh and melt into him when he pressed a kiss to your forehead. You raised a brow at him, “Never planned huh?”

“Nope.” He popped his syllables with a smile so bright you swore the sun would shake in it’s presence. “Never planned.”

©lqveharrington - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms

[karacaroldanvers]

Amortentia

Fred Weasley x FemGryffindorReader

You and Fred get paired up for potions class, and today’s assignment? To brew the most powerful love potion in the wizarding world. Amortentia. What could possibly go wrong?

———————————————————————-

If there was one thing you were sure of by sixth year at Hogwarts, it was this: Potions class with the Weasley twins was a dangerous game. Explosions, transfigured cauldrons, and spontaneous glitter clouds were just your average Tuesday morning. Today you were brewing Amortentia - the most powerful love potion in existence. How teaching a bunch of hormonal teachers how to essentially make a love-drug was part of the school curriculum was beyond you, but here you were.

You raised a skeptical brow at the twin stirring beside you. “You’re measuring that wrong.”

Fred didn’t even glance up. “I’m measuring it precisely as the book says.”

“Snape literally threatened to evaporate George’s eyebrows because he sneezed in the general vicinity,” you said flatly. “If that’s enough to mess up the potion, your heavy hand is going to completely dunk my grade into the depths of the black lake.”

He grinned, eyes glinting with amusement as he leaned a little closer over the bubbling cauldron. “Oh come on, love, what’s the worst that could happen? We accidentally fall madly in love with each other?”

You rolled your eyes, hard. “Trust me, I’d need more than a potion for that.”

But your heart thudded like a snitch in a jar.

Fred, who was annoyingly attractive and your best friend, snorted. Thankfully he didn’t notice the slightly breathless tone in your voice. His sleeve brushed against yours as he leaned in again to sniff the now-swirling liquid in the cauldron.

You caught it before he spoke. That twitch of his nose. The way he froze.

His eyes flicked to you, suspicious. “That’s…weird.”

“What?”

“You’re right. We must’ve messed it up. I don’t think it’s working at all.” He wrinkled his nose and slumped into the stool next to you with a dramatic sigh and absolutely zero awareness of personal space. “Merlin’s pants, I don’t think anyone’s got it right. This whole classroom smells like a perfume factory exploded.”

You didn’t glance at him. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“Can’t help it, love,” he said, reaching into his bag. “I’m naturally theatrical. Besides, I think your floral monstrosity is giving me a headache.”

You shot him a look. “Excuse me?”

Fred grinned sideways at you, freckles shifting with the motion. “You know, that overbearing honeysuckle thing you wear? Smells like someone bottled sugar in a greenhouse and punched me in the face with it.”

“I’m not even wearing perfume today, you absolute twit.” You dismissed him with a waved hand, leaning over the cauldron to take a long sniff of the potion only to come up with nothing. You couldn’t catch a whiff over the strong scent of lit fireworks, candy, and cinnamon. “I don’t know what you’re on about, but I can’t smell anything over your damn stench.”

“Hey! I don’t have a stench!”

“Yes you do! It’s like you just set off a whole carriage of fireworks in honeydukes!”

“Well I didn’t work on any products today” he fired back.

There was a beat. You both froze. He straightened. You did too. Eyes widened in realisation.

“Oh,” you said.

“Oh,” Fred echoed, voice going suddenly hoarse.

The heat between you flared - awkward and electric and far too real. A silence settled, thick as the steam rising from the cauldron.

You took a step back. Fred didn’t say anything. For once in his life, he was quiet.

Snape’s voice cut through the air with all the charm of shattering glass. “Clean up your stations. Bottles sealed.”

You’d never been so grateful for Snape’s surly timing.

———————————————————————

You didn’t talk to Fred for the rest of the day. But that wasn’t to say you hadn’t tried.

You sat next to him at lunch like usual, only for him to suddenly remember something urgent he had to show Lee. He ducked out of dinner. He skipped walking to Transfiguration with you. You didn’t see him in the library, which you guessed wasn’t what suspicious because Fred Weasley never voluntarily went near books unless you dragged him there.

Nevertheless, it was driving you mad.

You were confused. You were embarrassed. And worst of all, you were disappointed. You’d spent years throwing sarcastic jabs at Fred, hiding the fact that sometimes he looked at you in a way that made you forget how to breathe. But this! This awkward, suffocating silence was worse than any rejection.

When you entered the Gryffindor common room that night, you spotted Fred sitting near the fire, arms crossed, head tilted back against the sofa with a frown on his face.

You hesitated at the threshold and weren’t the only one. Everyone else was starting to notice the cold war. You sat down in a corner chair. Alone.

George looked between the two of you, unimpressed. He let the silence drag on for exactly thirty more seconds before standing dramatically and throwing his hands in the air.

“For Merlin’s sake, will you two just snog already?!”

You jumped. Fred jolted. The entire common room turned.

You froze. “I…what?”

George pointed between you with theatrical flair. “Oh, spare me. I’ve been watching this ‘will they, won’t they’ drama unfold for years. You both smelled each other in the love potion. Each other. Why you haven’t said a word to each other since is a bloody mystery! Maybe because you’re both absolute morons. But everyone knows, and I’m tired of watching you two act like someone killed your kneazle.”

You turned crimson. “George!”

Fred looked horrified. “Mate, you’re not supposed to—!”

George rolled his eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I ruin your mutual pining and painful silence routine? My deepest apologies. Now kiss! Or talk! Just… do something!”

Fred shot to his feet and for a moment you thought he might punch George straight in the face. Then the tension left his shoulder and he walked over to your armchair, scratching the back of his neck nervously.

Then he said, in a quiet voice only you could hear, “Can we talk? Outside?”

You simply nodded and followed him out, stomach churning with nerves.

The air was cool under the castle archways, but your skin burned with anxiety. Fred stood beside you, scuffing his shoe against the stone floor.

“I’m sorry I acted weird today,” he said finally.

You turned to look at him, heart racing. “Me too.”

He let out a breath, head tipped toward the night sky. “So. That potion…”

“Smelled like you,” you said softly.

His eyes flicked to yours. “And for me it smelled like you.” He rubbed the back of his neck once more - a nervous habit. “Or whatever that marvellous stuff it is you use to make yourself smell like sugared flowers.”

You laughed under your breath. “It’s just perfume, Fred.”

“Right. Well. I guess I’m just in love with your perfume then.”

You blinked. “Fred…”

He looked back at you. “Or maybe I’m just in love with you. And I didn’t know how to say it until that stupid potion tried to rat me out.”

All your teasing, all your biting words, all the ways you tried to cover the way your heart ached every time he smirked at someone else…It all melted away under the weight of those eight words.

Or maybe I’m just in love with you.

“I’m in love with you too,” you said. It felt like exhaling.

Fred’s grin was crooked. Hopeful. “Really?”

You nodded, barely containing your smile.

“Well, that’s a relief,” he said, stepping closer. “Because you know George smells like fireworks and candy too.”

You laughed, and then he kissed you. It tasted like mint and mischief and months of almosts.

And when you pulled apart, breathless and flushed, he whispered, “And you said it’d take more than a position to fall in love with me.”

You bumped your shoulder into his. “Yeah, well I was already there.”

———————————————————————

Tag list: @ellouisa17 @wisp1q @divineani

[karacaroldanvers]

Still Annoying?

Fred Weasley x FemReader

Fred Weasley has never liked Ginny’s annoying little friend. But maybe she’s not so annoying - or so little - anymore.

———————————————————————

The Burrow in summer was always alive, buzzing with bees around the herb garden, gnomes shrieking as they were flung from the flowerbeds, and laughter echoing across the paddock. But this summer, it was absolutely unbearable.

Fred Weasley stood at the top of the staircase, arms crossed, lips twisted in displeasure as he peered down into the kitchen. It was late morning, sunlight dripping through the crooked windows and pooling golden across the floorboards.

In the centre of the chaos stood Ginny and her new best friend. The one who’d arrived three days ago with a trunk full of mismatched socks, a voice like a wind chime caught in a gale, and an energy level that could rival a Firebolt on a sugar high.

“Do you think,” Fred muttered to George, who was leaning lazily on the railing beside him, “if we threw her out the window, she’d bounce?”

George raised a brow. “Dunno. Only one way to find out.”

“I’m being serious. Y/n’s everywhere. Woke me up this morning singing about Flobberworms.”

George shrugged. “It was sort of catchy.”

Fred gave him a scandalized look. “Traitor.”

Down below, the girl in question darted past the kitchen table, eyes wide and glittering, sunflower-print hat askew on her head. She was giggling uncontrollably, clutching a bottle of exploding bonbons that popped and crackled in rainbow bursts with every step.

“GINNY!” she shrieked, “Catch! It’s gonna blow!”

Ginny, laughing just as hard, turned mid-sprint and caught the bottle, but not before it let off a loud BANG! and showered the room in pink and purple sparks.

Fred flinched as the smell of strawberry and ozone drifted up the stairs. “She’s a menace,” he hissed.

“She’s eleven,” George deadpanned. “You were blowing things up at eight.”

“Yeah, but I was cool about it.”

“Were you?”

Before Fred could argue further, she came charging back across the kitchen, her hat now completely backwards, half her hair in her face, and sticky sugar on her chin. She stopped when she saw him on the stairs, clutching the banister with one hand and panting like a pixie-drunk Puffskein.

“Oh!” she grinned up at him, eyes sparkling wickedly. “Hi Fred!”

Fred blinked at her, expression unreadable. “You’ve got a bit of…explosive sugar…on your nose.”

She crossed her eyes trying to see it and missed entirely.

Fred turned to George. “I’m leaving.”

“No you’re not,” came Mrs. Weasley’s voice from behind them as she walked by with a basket of laundry. “You’re helping your father de-gnome the garden. And be nice, Fred. She’s a guest.”

“She’s a plague,” Fred mumbled under his breath.

“You’re just mad she’s better at practical jokes than you,” George said, grinning as he ducked to avoid a swat from Fred’s elbow.

Below, she turned to Ginny and whispered something that made Ginny burst out laughing. The two of them darted out the door again, trailing giggles and flower petals like confetti.

Fred’s gaze followed them out into the garden, where they promptly tried to vault the garden bench - Ginny cleared it, but her friend caught her foot and went down in a dramatic tumble.

“Idiot,” Fred muttered.

“Did you see that roll, though?” George said. “That was kind of impressive.”

“She’s going to break something one day and it’ll somehow be our fault.”

Fred trudged down the stairs, dodging a floating spoon and stepping over an exploded sugar quill wrapper.

Later that evening Fred was slumped into a worn lawn chair in the backyard, legs stretched out, a butterbeer in hand, and soot smudged across one cheek from a prank gone mildly wrong. The sun was dipping low, casting the sky in ribbons of orange and violet, and for once, the garden was peaceful.

Until he heard her voice. “Fred.”

He groaned. “No.”

Ginny’s friend flopped into the chair beside him, absolutely filthy - grass stains on her knees, streaks of dirt across her arms, her sunflower hat missing entirely. Her hair stuck out in a dozen directions and there was a leaf in it.

She grinned at him like they were best mates. “I heard you tried to prank Percy this morning and blew up the laundry line instead.”

“I don’t remember asking for your commentary.”

“That’s not a denial.”

Fred shot her a look. “You’re the loudest person I’ve ever met.”

“I have strong vocal cords.”

“You ruined four of Mum’s saucepans.”

“Technically, they’re better now. One of them sings opera.”

Fred stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head in disbelief and looked away, muttering, “Mental.”

She kicked her legs up onto the table, mimicking his posture, despite being half his size. “You know, you’re kind of boring when you’re not blowing things up.”

He snapped his head back toward her. “I am not boring.”

“Prove it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t tempt me.”

Her smile widened as she leaned back and placed her hands behind her head. “I’m challenging you.”

George passed by a moment later, catching the strange, charged tension between them - the annoyed glares, the reluctant proximity, the smirking.

He raised an eyebrow. “You two look cozy.”

Fred looked horrified. “We are not—”

“I’m just here to admire the sunset,” she interrupted sweetly, smirking as she leaned closer to Fred just to mess with him. “Fred says it brings out the red in his hair.”

George choked on his drink. Fred turned beet red. “You’re going to regret that.”

“Promises, promises.”

———————————————————————-

It started with a scream. Not a horrified one, but one that spiraled upward through the castle like a charm gone wrong - high-pitched, echoing, and followed by the unmistakable sound of rushing footsteps and someone yelling “RUN, GINNY!”

Fred Weasley, halfway down the fourth-floor corridor with a bag of Dungbombs slung over his shoulder, froze. “Oh no,” he muttered. “Not again.”

George popped out from a nearby alcove, wand tucked behind his ear. “Did you hear that?”

“I’ve been trying not to for weeks.”

As if on cue, Ginny and y/n came flying around the corner - robes askew, faces flushed with laughter, and very clearly running from something. Behind them, a stream of slippery green slime was slithering along the stone floor like an eel on a mission.

“MOVE!” Ginny shouted, skidding past Fred.

Her friend barreled after her and nearly collided with him.

Fred caught her by the elbows. “What the hell did you do?”

“Slime charm. Improvised. In the Hufflepuff common room,” she grinned breathlessly, brushing a piece of parchment out of her hair. “You would’ve loved it.”

Fred looked past her at the approaching magical goo. “I don’t think they did.”

With a sigh and a muttered “Finite,” Fred grabbed his wand and flicked it.

The slime fizzled out mid-slither, giving an offended squelch before vanishing into mist.

Ginny flopped dramatically against the corridor wall, panting. “That was close.”

Her best friend turned to Fred with a triumphant smirk. “See? You do care.”

“I care about not having to hear Filch rant about ‘tiny vandals’ for the next month.”

She just smiled wider. “Well, thanks anyway, hero.”

He frowned. “Don’t call me that.”

“Okay, Captain Saviour.”

“Stop.”

“Commander of Slime Control?”

Fred stared at her, deadpan. “You’re unbearable.”

“And yet you’re the one who’s still talking to me.”

George, who had been silently enjoying the scene, finally chimed in, nudging Fred’s shoulder. “It’s cute, how she follows you around.”

“I do not!” she shouted, scandalized.

Fred gave her a dry look. “Please. You haunt me.”

She folded her arms. “You’re not worth haunting. You’re barely worth hexing.”

Fred arched a brow. “Oh really?”

“Really!”

Ginny, sensing where this was going, backed up with a grin, but they were already dueling. Wands out, eyes locked, the corridor cleared. Fred cast first - nothing serious, just a harmless jinx to make her shoelaces knot themselves.

She yelped as her feet tangled and nearly fell backward, but twisted mid-air and shouted, “Expelliarmus!”

His wand flew out of his hand and clattered down the corridor.

“Oh, that’s how we’re playing it,” Fred muttered, impressed despite himself.

He dove for his wand as she sent another spell his way - this time a Tickling Charm that missed by inches and hit a tapestry, causing the house-elf in it to start giggling hysterically.

Fred ducked behind a suit of armor, popped up, and hit her with a jelly-legs curse. She staggered, caught the edge of the stairs, and righted herself with a hand on the railing, cheeks flushed, eyes shining.

“You’re better than I thought,” he admitted, a little breathless, eyes tracking the way her hair had fallen out of its braid.

“I practice,” she said, grinning. “Also, I hate losing.”

Their standoff was cut short by Professor Flitwick’s voice in the distance.

“Footsteps!” she hissed.

“Don’t worry,” Fred said, already grabbing her hand and pulling her up the nearest staircase. “You get used to that.”

They reached a higher corridor, laughing as they collapsed against the banister. Her jelly-legs gave out completely and she sat right there on the stone floor, still giggling.

Fred leaned against the railing, arms crossed, breathing hard. “You’re insane.”

She beamed up at him, the afternoon sunlight catching on her lashes. “So are you.”

He looked away quickly. “You’re still annoying.”

“Better than boring.”

That got his attention. He turned back to her, raising one brow. “Did you just call me boring?”

She smirked. “You tell me.”

He stepped closer, casting a shadow over her as he looked down with mock menace. “Keep talking, and I’ll jinx your eyebrows off.”

“I’ll grow them back better.”

“Not a chance.”

There was a silence between them then - brief, charged - and Fred blinked like he was suddenly aware how close he was standing, how she was looking up at him now with her chin tilted defiantly and her eyes too bright for twelve.

He cleared his throat. “You’re lucky you’re Ginny’s friend. Otherwise, I’d have turned you into a toad ages ago.”

She grinned again, slower this time. “What makes you think she didn’t stop me from turning you into one first?”

Fred stared at her for a beat, then turned and started walking away.

“…Where are you going?” she called after him.

He raised a hand in a wave, voice echoing down the corridor. “Anywhere you’re not.”

———————————————————————

The Quidditch World Cup was meant to be the highlight of the summer. Flags waving in the wind, enchanted tents pitched in wide, dew-soaked fields, laughter drifting through the air like campfire smoke. It would’ve been perfect. If she hadn’t come along.

Fred glared across the tent as Ginny’s best friend flopped onto a chair in the dining space, humming obnoxiously and wearing socks that blinked in tune with the Cannons’ team chant.

“Why is she here again?” he muttered to George, who was digging through their snack stash.

“Because Mum likes her. And Ginny threatened to hex your left eyebrow off if you said anything.”

“I could file a formal complaint.”

“Do it,” George said lazily, “and she’ll just talk to you more.”

Fred looked up again just as she raised her sunglasses dramatically and shot him a grin like she knew he was annoyed. He scowled. She winked. Merlin help him.

The field was alive with tents of every color and shape - some magically expanded, others playing team anthems or spewing colored smoke. Children ran by with toy brooms and face paint, and the Weasley family (along with y/n, Hermione, and Harry) was sprawled across their large tent in varying states of excitement.

Fred had been almost relaxed until y/n started trying to light fireworks with some kind of muggle contraption that sparked fire.

“Put that down,” he snapped as she aimed a spark at one of his experimental firecrackers.

She turned to him innocently. “I’m helping.”

“You’re endangering lives. That one hasn’t been tested.”

“Well,” she said, rolling the firecracker between her fingers, “what better time than the present?”

Fred lunged and snatched it from her hand. “Do you want your eyebrows singed off?”

“Better than dying of boredom.”

“Then go read a book. Or knit. Or do whatever it is people like you do.”

“People like me?” she repeated with mock offense, hand on heart. “What, witty? Charming? Unafraid to speak truth to Weasleys?”

George snorted from nearby. “This is better than the match.”

Fred ignored him, eyes narrowing. “You’re infuriating.”

“You’re a cranky git.”

They were inches apart now, both flushed from sun and irritation and the electric current that always surged when they got too close.

“You two need to cool off,” Ginny drawled and before either of them knew it, a bucket of cold water had been dunked over their heads. Left sopping wet, they had no choice but to walk away from the argument, needing to get changed into dry clothes before the game.

Later that night, not even each other’s presence could keep the smiles off their faces. The match had been nothing short of legendary - leaping leprechauns, Veela dazzling the crowd, cheers so loud the ground shook. Everyone was riding the high as they stumbled back to the campsite beneath a sky painted with post-match fireworks.

Fred was still flushed from Ireland’s win, hair tousled, eyes wild with adrenaline. “That was unreal, did you see that last dive—?”

“—When Krum nearly snapped his own spine? Yeah,” she cut in, eyes sparkling. “Best part.”

Fred blinked. “Wait. You actually had fun? Even though your team lost!”

“I’m not a total heathen, Fred. Of course I enjoyed it,” She rolled her eyes.

They were both laughing, slightly breathless, tripping over their words in that post-match buzz. For a moment, the bickering wasn’t biting - it was a language all their own.

And then, the screaming started. At first, it didn’t register. A shout, somewhere distant. A tent collapsing. Then another. Panic, crashing like a wave.

People were running outside, faces twisted in terror, spells flashing in the night. Fires sparked across the field, and high above the trees, the Dark Mark bloomed in a sickly green swirl.

“The Irish are really going hard,” George giggled, confusing the chaos for celebration.

“That’s not the Irish,” Arthur Weasley quickly corrected, his face going pale.

They didn’t have any time to gather their things before they were being ushered out of the tent and into the stampede of evacuating wizards and witches.

Arthur shouted for everyone to get back to the portkey, leaving Ginny and y/n in Fred and George’s hands before he drew his wand and vanished into the crowd. Ginny clutched y/n’s arm, eyes wide with fear. Harry, Hermione, and Ron had already disappeared. The field was flooding with masked figures.

“Come on,” Fred barked, grabbing y/n’s hand with no warning, nearly yanking her off her feet. “Run.”

She didn’t argue. Just followed, fast and stumbling, her fingers tight in his.

George warned, wild-eyed and panting, “Tents are going up in flames - we need to move now.”

Fred shoved the girls between him and his brother, eyes flicking over the chaos, calculating. “Stay close,” he ordered.

“I can handle myself,” y/n protested, breathless.

He shot her a look so sharp it cut through the panic. “Not this time.”

They moved fast. Ducking flying spells, dodging collapsing poles and flaring tents. Someone fired a hex their way and Fred threw up a shield without thinking, keeping her behind him.

Her voice was hoarse when she spoke. “Thanks.”

He didn’t answer. Just reached back, found her hand again, and didn’t let go until they found safe ground far from the site. Ginny was asleep against George, and y/n sat beside Fred, hair wild with smoke, cheeks smeared with soot, eyes distant.

“You okay?” He asked her.

She nodded, a bit too fast. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t believe her.

“You were…kind of amazing back there,” she added, not looking at him.

Fred raised an eyebrow. “Don’t say nice things. You’ll ruin your brand.”

She glanced sideways, cheeks pink. “Doesn’t mean you’re not still a cranky git.”

“Good. I was worried I’d lost my touch.”

A quiet beat passed. He looked at her sideways, and for the first time in three years, she didn’t look like a loud-mouthed pest in a sunflower hat.

———————————————————————

The Room of Requirement pulsed with warm, golden light as spell after spell lit the air. Dumbledore’s Army had become more than just a rebellion. It was a movement. A heartbeat. A promise that Hogwarts wouldn’t fall silent under Umbridge’s iron rule.

Fred Weasley stood at the far end of the conjured training room, twirling his wand idly between his fingers, watching her.

Not watching her watching her. Just…observing. Casually. Not intensely.

Okay. A little intensely.

She was laughing with Ginny and Luna near by fireplace, her hair pulled back in a loose braid, the sleeves of her robes rolled to the elbow like she meant business. There was a quiet confidence about her now - less sugar-rush chaos, more wildfire simmering beneath the surface.

Still annoying, obviously. But it was…evolved annoyance.

“Oi,” George nudged him. “You gonna duel her or just eye-stalk her into submission?”

“I’m not—” Fred began, then cut himself off. “Shut up.”

Fred shoved him and made his way across the room. “Oi, Mini Menace,” he called out.

She turned, raising an eyebrow. “Talking to me, you great big git?”

“You up for a duel?”

Her smirk spread slow. “What, no one else wanted to lose today?”

Ginny let out a low whistle and backed up dramatically. “I want no part of this.”

She stepped onto the dueling platform, wand in hand, eyes locked on his like a challenge. “Oh, and Freddie? Try not to cry when I embarrass you.”

“Right back at you,” The twin smirked, already looking too cocky for his own good.

The DA crowd formed a loose circle, muttering bets and nudging each other with knowing grins. They bowed.

“Ready?” Harry called from the side.

Fred grinned. “Ladies first.”

Her wand whipped up so fast he barely ducked the Disarming Charm.

“You little—!” He fired back a Tickling Hex that she blocked easily, laughing as it rebounded off her shield and hit Neville in the shin.

Fred advanced, wand dancing in his grip. She twirled out of the way, hair flying, robes flaring as she dodged and parried. “Protego!”

“Rictusempra!”

“Expelliarmus!”

Fred’s wand skidded across the platform. She pointed hers at his chest, triumphant. “Say it.”

Fred smirked as he reached to retrieve his wand. “You’re cheating somehow.”

“You’re losing as gracefully as always,” she corrected.

“You’re still annoying.”

“You’re still a git.”

They were too close now. Laughing, flushed, breath tangled between them in the heated air of the Room of Requirement. Her eyes sparkled with adrenaline and pride. His chest heaved with the effort of not staring at her mouth.

Harry declared y/n the winner. Everyone clapped.

And Fred? Fred just shook his head in mock defeat and wandered toward the refreshments to lick his wounds and avoid whatever that moment had just been.

As the rest of the DA disbanded, she stayed behind. She often did now, helping clean up spell residue or talk with Hermione about wand theory. Tonight, Fred lingered too.

He found her alone near the collage of photos on the mirrored wall, tugging on her sleeve absentmindedly as she packed up.

And that’s when he saw thin, red lines along the back of her hand - half-faded, but distinct. Carved in that cruel, precise way. Fred stilled.

“What…is that?” he asked, voice low, rough.

She blinked, confused, then followed his gaze.

“Oh.” She pulled her sleeve down quickly. “Nothing. I mean…it’s just from Umbridge. Detention.”

Fred stepped forward. “She made you write lines? With that cursed quill?”

She hesitated. “…Yeah. How’d you know about the quill?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Fred’s hands clenched at his sides. “She shouldn’t get to do that. It’s disgusting.”

She looked up sharply, surprised by the steel in his voice. “It’s fine. Really.”

“It’s not,” he said. “We shouldn’t have to pretend it is.”

And then, without thinking, he reached out and gently took her wrist, pulling her sleeve back. His thumb brushed just below the words.

I must not speak.

The letters were faint now. But they were there. Fred’s jaw ticked.

She swallowed hard, cheeks red. “I didn’t want anyone to see…”

He glanced up at her, eyes softer now. “You should’ve told me.”

“I didn’t think you cared,” she said, voice small.

Fred let out a breath. “You’re still annoying.”

She smiled faintly. “You already said that.”

“But you’re also brave,” he added quietly. “And smarter than most people I know. Even if you do drive me mental.”

Her breath caught. Just for a second. And then she was smiling. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Fred rolled his eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

They stood there for a moment, too aware of the quiet around them. Her wrist still resting in his hand.

Then she gently pulled it back, tucking her hair behind her ear. She was blushing now, cheeks warm, eyes shining, but Fred didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t say anything.

“We should head back before curfew,” he said. “Or that great big toad’ll have more lines for us to write.”

She nodded, biting back the smile still tugging at her lips. “Night, Fred.”

He paused, just at the door. Then, without turning around, he added, “You’re not as annoying as you used to be.”

She grinned.

———————————————————————

The Burrow had never looked like this. Everything shimmered. From the floating golden lanterns to the enchanted rose petals drifting lazily in the air, to the laughter and clinking glasses and spell-spun silk fluttering across the garden. It was surreal. Beautiful.

Fred Weasley was vaguely aware of it all. But mostly, he was trying to stay away from Aunt Muriel and refill his champagne without getting dragged into more family gossip.

He stood near the punch bowl, adjusting the collar of his dark green dress robes, hair a little messier than it should’ve been, tie slightly askew. He didn’t care. It wasn’t like anyone had caught his attention tonight.

And then she walked in. And for the first time in what might have been his whole life, Fred forgot how to breathe. She was radiant. Her deep wine-colored dress clung gently to her figure, the sleeves sheer and glittering at the wrists. Her hair was pinned half-up, loose curls falling around her shoulders, framing her face in a way that was both graceful and maddening.

And she walked like she knew it. Chin high, posture strong, eyes sweeping the room with quiet confidence. Fred stared openly, mouth parted slightly.

George appeared beside him and muttered, “Well, damn.”

Fred blinked. “Is that…?”

“Yep.”

“…She’s taller.”

“She’s still a few heads shorter than you.”

“She’s might not be annoying anymore.”

George snorted. “Give her five minutes.”

Fred didn’t move. Just watched as she chatted with Ginny and Luna, her laughter a little lower now, her smile slower and more poised. He barely noticed himself walking toward her.

“Look who’s finally out of hiding,” she said as he approached, that old glint of mischief still sparking in her eyes.

Fred’s brain took a moment to reboot. “You clean up.”

She raised a brow. “That was barely a compliment.”

He smirked. “Wouldn’t want to inflate your ego.”

“Too late,” she said, spinning slightly on her heel. “Ginny says I look ethereal.”

“You look—” beautiful nearly slipped out, but Fred swallowed it. “—like someone who’s up to something.”

She grinned. “And yet you still walked over here.”

“You’ve grown,” he said without thinking.

She looked at him, amused. “That’s what happens when time passes.”

“I mean, grown up. Not just in height.”

She tilted her head. “You don’t usually notice things, Weasley. Should I be concerned?”

He chuckled under his breath. “Maybe.”

They stood awkwardly for a beat, the music from the band floating around them.

“Why hasn’t anyone danced with you yet?” Fred blurted.

She blinked. “Maybe they’re scared I’ll hex their feet.”

He stepped forward, offering his hand. “I’m not scared.”

She hesitated only a second before taking it. “Good. Because I do know a foot-freezing jinx.”

They took to the floor together and surprisingly she danced well. Poised but playful, one eyebrow raised as he led their movements with an ease he didn’t even know he had.

“You’ve gotten…less terrible at this,” she teased.

“Dancing?”

“Everything.”

Fred twirled her gently. “You’re still short.”

“I’m (your height)!”

“You say that, but I don’t see it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re glowing.” She blinked. His words had come without thought. He covered quickly. “Could just be the lanterns, though.”

She didn’t call him out. Just smiled, until the moment was punctured by a bright blue light and the deep voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

“The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”

The wards cracked like thunder. Guests began panicking - robes whipping in the wind, chairs crashing, sparks flying through the air.

Fred pushed her behind him instantly, wand drawn before she’d even grasped what was happening.

“Death Eaters,” he said tightly.

The tent was erupting in chaos. Hexes firing, people screaming, shadows cloaked in smoke. Ginny ran towards them through the crowd.

Y/n grabbed her friend’s hand and shouted, “Where’s everyone?!”

“Dad’s trying to get the guests out. Fred—” Ginny turned, but Fred had already stepped in front of them again, eyes scanning the crowd.

“Stick with me,” he told them. “Don’t argue.”

Someone hurled a hex toward the trio and Fred deflected it with a sharp flick. “Stupefy!”

The Death Eater dropped. Y/n stepped closer to Fred. “We can fight.”

Fred glanced at her - at the hard set of her jaw, the way her wand was already raised, how her hands weren’t shaking.

“…Alright,” he said. “But stay in my eyeline.”

They moved like a unit, dueling through the smoke and wreckage, spells lighting the garden. She stunned a cloaked figure just before he reached Ginny, and Fred looked at her with something like awe.

They found her parents on the edge of the field, huddled near the edge of the anti-Apparition line.

“Go!” Fred barked. “Take her. Take both of them.”

Her mother grabbed her arm, pulling her toward safety. She turned, chest heaving, eyes locking with Fred’s. “Fred—”

“Go!” he shouted. “I’ll find George!”

The last thing she saw before they Disapparated was Fred, smoke swirling around him, a glowing ring of light from a Shield Charm spinning around his silhouette.

———————————————————————

It was like the castle was breathing its last breath. Smoke twisted through shattered stone, every corridor crackling with spells and screams and the metallic tang of fear. The walls trembled with each impact, rubble crashing down like thunder. The battle had fractured time itself. Everything blurred and broke around the edges.

And through it all, y/n ran. She was barely thinking, her wand a blur in her hand, her heart punching through her ribs with every corner she turned. She had lost sight of Ginny ten minutes ago, but she had no time to find her again. Not when death eaters were storming the passageways of Hogwarts, trying to get in through sealed rubble.

Her wand moved as an extension of her, throat dry from the spells rapidly shooting from her mouth as her tired brain tried to keep up.

“Hey! Mini menace!” An all too familiar voice yelled out, and she whirled to see multiple heads of red hair. Fred, George, and Percy were all facing off against death eaters. Some of whom y/n recognised. One especially as he’d escaped from Azkaban - Augustus Rookwood.

“A little help here?” George called out but she was already joining the fray.

Together they managed to dispatch two of the three attackers, and knowing he was next, Rookwood smiled cruelly and aimed his wand at the roof.

“Move!” Y/n warned but Fred was directly beneath the blast.

As a sparking beam of light emerged from Rookwood’s wand, y/n rushed forwards instead of backwards. Grabbing Fred’s hand to pull him down with her, she screamed, “PROTEGO TOTALUM!”

A silvery shield of air erupted just as the ceiling blew apart, stone and dust collapsing down upon them. Y/n squeezed her eyes shut, half expecting the spell to have not been enough. But when she opened her eyes she found she and Fred both still breathing, encapsulated in a protective field, buried beneath the rubble that would otherwise have crushed them.

“Blimey!” Fred cursed loudly. “You saved my life.”

“You’re welcome, you idiot,” she said, breathless, coughing the fine debris from her throat. The pile above them groaned. More rubble teetered, glowing unstable. “I can’t hold it for long!”

“Fred! Y/n!” Fred and Percy’s worried voices sounded from the other side of it all.

“We’re okay!” She yelled back. “Won’t be for much longer if you guys can’t get us out of here though.”

“Hold still, we’ll get you out!” George called back, and he and Percy got to work on clearing the rubble.

Meanwhile Fred was staring at her - like really staring. It hit him all at once, like a Bludger to the gut. She wasn’t just brave. She wasn’t just clever. She wasn’t even annoying anymore. She was…magnificent.

“You’re bleeding,” she said, reaching gently for his face.

Fred caught her wrist. “You’ve got soot all over you. Can’t have you messing up my money maker.”

She huffed. “We’re literally in a warzone, Fred.”

He didn’t let go. His thumb brushed over the back of her hand, right where Umbridge’s old scars had once lived. There was a pause. Everything around them screamed and fell and fought, but right here, it was just them.

“…You’ve grown,” he said hoarsely.

Her brows raised faintly. “We’ve been over this.”

He shook his head. “No. I mean really. You’re…not the little girl who used to set off exploding bonbons in the garden.”

She smiled softly. “And you’re not the boy who used to call me a plague.”

Fred chuckled once, low and breathless. “No. You’re worse.”

“Still annoying?”

He looked at her then, eyes dark, intense, devastated by everything they hadn’t said. “…Not even a little.”

Thankfully Percy and George managed to shift the stones enough for them to crawl out of the space before her shield charm gave out.

All three brothers embraced tightly and y/n stood back, watching with a soft smile on her face.

“Come here, you’re practically one of us,” George held out his arm, ushering her forward and she joined them with a warmth growing in her chest.

The castle had gone quiet. The sound of spells and explosions replaced by sobs and cries of mourning. “Is it over?” She asked, hopeful.

———————————————————————

The Burrow hadn’t seen this much life in…well, since the wedding.

Every table in the crooked old house was covered in plates of food and levitating candles. The air buzzed with voices - loud, overlapping, full of stories and bursts of laughter that tried to drown out everything they’d all survived.

The party had spilled out into the garden by sundown. Golden fairy lights tangled in the trees. Paper lanterns floated lazily above dancing couples. Someone had conjured a wireless, and Celestina Warbeck was singing a swing version of Magic Works.

Fred stood off to the side, arms crossed over his chest, nursing a Butterbeer and ignoring how much his shoulder still hurt when he laughed too hard.

“Oi,” George nudged him. “Stop brooding.”

“I’m not brooding,” Fred replied.

“You’re absolutely brooding.”

Fred didn’t answer. Because he was already watching the front porch. She had just arrived. And Merlin’s hairy arse, did she look good.

She wore a deep midnight-blue dress, simple but flattering, her hair pulled back loosely with little white flowers woven into it. She wasn’t flashy - never had been - but she walked into the garden like she belonged in it. Like the war hadn’t dulled her fire, only forged her sharper.

She smiled at Mrs. Weasley and hugged Ginny, who squealed about her earrings. George muttered something cheeky about “distracted, aren’t we?” but Fred didn’t even hear it. Because she laughed, eyes bright, and looked right at him. Fred blinked. Then smiled, slow and sure.

She made her way over through the crowd, careful not to step on any gnome holes in her heels.

“Hey,” she said, voice soft but familiar.

“Hey,” he returned, clearing his throat as if that could make his heart stop sprinting.

“You’re still here. Thought you and George might have ducked back to the shop by now.”

“Disappointed?”

She rolled her eyes. “Mildly.”

There was a pause, heavy with what wasn’t being said.

“You clean up,” Fred finally said. “Really well.”

Her cheeks flushed a soft, pretty pink. “You already said that. At the wedding.”

“Yes, well now it’s getting harder to ignore,” he said, stepping a little closer.

She laughed, lower now, more grown, and it hit him square in the ribs.

“You wanna dance?” he asked, holding out his hand like it was nothing, hoping she’d take it.

She looked up at him, brow arched and for a moment he was scared she’d turn him down. Until she took his head and pulled him over to the makeshift dance floor.

They moved slower this time. No twirling, no teasing. Just a sway, her hand resting lightly against his shoulder, his fingers brushing the small of her back.

“You always hated dancing,” she whispered.

“I didn’t hate it,” he said. “I just never had the right person.” Her breath hitched. He tilted his head, studying her. “You’ve changed.”

“So have you.”

“I mean it. You’re…” he trailed off, his voice going quiet. “You’re not so little anymore.”

“Yeah?” she whispered, pulse fluttering under her skin. “What else am I?”

He looked at her like she was the only real thing in the world. “Someone I can’t stop thinking about.”

She stilled. Fred waited. Heart hammering. Joking had always been easy. This wasn’t. And then, her lips curved.

“Well,” she said. “Took you long enough to admit it.”

And they kept dancing. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. But Fred’s hand stayed exactly where it was, her fingers rested exactly where they shouldn’t feel so natural, and everything else melted away in the starlight.

They danced together until the crowd thinned. People began to gather plates, yawns fighting for sleep. Even when everyone else had left she stayed and helped clean up, sleeves rolled, wand in hand, laughing with Ginny and Hermione as they herded gnomes out of the drinks tray.

Fred leaned in the kitchen doorway watching her.

George came up beside him. “You’ve been staring. Again.”

“Was I that obvious?”

“Yes.”

Ginny walked past and muttered, “Finally,” before disappearing with a smug smile.

Fred ran a hand through his hair and tried to keep cool. “I think there’s…something there.”

George clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Yeah, mate. We all knew. You were just late to your own story.”

Fred grinned slowly. “Not too late, though.”

———————————————————————

The sun hung low over the trees, casting golden ripples across the lake’s surface. Dragonflies buzzed lazily over reeds, the scent of honeysuckle heavy in the warm summer air. The field was scattered with towels and empty firewhisky bottles, and the Weasleys were loud, half-submerged in water or tossing an old Quaffle.

Fred was pretending to read a book on a blanket near the shore. He wasn’t fooling anyone.

George swam past him and called, “If you squint any harder at her, mate, your face might stay that way.”

Fred didn’t answer. He was too busy watching her.

She was waist-deep in the lake, barefoot, her summer dress hitched up slightly in one hand. The fabric spread around her, floating through the water like a halo. Her hair was damp, curling around her shoulders, and her laughter floated across the water like music. Ginny was splashing her, shrieking with every wave, but Fred only saw her - elegant, radiant, sun-drenched.

When she tossed her head back, laughing with her eyes squeezed shut, Fred actually forgot how to breathe.

“I’m going in,” he muttered.

George smirked. “Don’t drown.”

Fred kicked off his boots and waded through the reeds, shirt unbuttoned halfway down, pants rolled to his knees. She looked up just as he approached, water swirling gently around her thighs.

“Well, well,” she said, eyes glinting. “Fred Weasley, willingly entering a body of water. Am I hallucinating?”

“Just wanted to see what all the shrieking was about,” he replied smoothly.

“Ginny started it.”

Fred nodded solemnly. “That tracks.”

There was a moment where neither of them spoke. The lake lapped softly around them, and the trees rustled like they were listening in.

“You looked happy,” he said finally. “Just now.”

She shrugged lightly, hair sticking to her neck. “I am, I think. For the first time in…what feels like forever.”

Fred swallowed. “Yeah.”

She tilted her head. “Why’d you really come out here? You hate lake water.”

He moved a step closer, hands in his pockets. “I missed your voice.”

Her brow arched. “I’m sure you did.”

“It’s quieter now,” he added, teasing. “Almost pleasant.”

She splashed him. Fred yelped, staggering back and laughing.

“You’re still a menace,” he said, wiping water from his face.

“And you’re still the boy who called me a gremlin.”

“You were a gremlin.”

“And you were a smug git with dumb hair.”

Fred smirked. “It’s iconic, thank you.”

She grinned at him, sunlight dancing across her cheeks. “So go on, then. Why’d you follow me out here?”

He stepped closer again. Close enough now that he could see droplets clinging to her lashes.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “About how things used to be.”

She went still. “Yeah?”

“I hated how much you talked. How you always had to be in every joke, every game.” Fred continued. “You were loud. Relentless. Competitive. You never let me win.”

“Builds character. You’re welcome.”

“But you were brave. And clever. And way more fun than I wanted to admit.” He looked at her fully now, serious for once, no mischief in his smile. “And the truth is…” He exhaled. “Maybe I didn’t not like you because you were annoying. Maybe I didn’t like you because I liked you differently, and I didn’t understand it.”

Her lips parted slightly in amusement. “Why did you think I was annoying you all those years?”

Fred blinked at her, not quite understanding.

“Because I liked you,” she said quietly. “Obviously.”

His heart stumbled in his chest.

“I used to go home from the Burrow every summer and swear I’d stop liking you,” she added, eyes flicking to the water. “But then you’d say something stupid or laugh at something I did and I’d be doomed all over again.”

Fred stepped even closer, water lapping at both of them now. “We were really awful to each other.”

“We were,” she whispered. “It was kind of perfect.”

He looked at her like he never wanted to look away again. Then - softly, like a secret - he said, “Can I kiss you?”

She leaned in. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Their lips met - finally, breathlessly, fully - in the middle of the lake with sunlight filtering through the trees and the world slipping away behind the sound of rippling water and held breath and everything that had ever built between them over years of arguments, nicknames, and almosts.

When they finally pulled apart, Fred was grinning like an idiot.

“So…” she said, flushed and breathless, “Am I still annoying?”

Fred shook his head slowly, brushing a damp curl off her cheek. “No,” he said. “Now you’re just mine.”

From the shore, there was a distant roar of clapping and cheering - Ginny, George, Ron, even Percy, who looked confused but proud.

Fred groaned. “Bloody Weasleys.”

She just laughed and kissed him again.

[karacaroldanvers]

The Girl Who Hates Quidditch

Fred Weasley x FemRavenclawReader

When Ginny introduced Fred to her friend who hates quidditch, none of them expected Fred would make it his personal mission to change her mind. He might not achieve his goal, but he might just fall for her in the process.

———————————————————————

The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with post-dinner warmth. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a golden glow across the familiar scarlet banners and deep armchairs, while the sounds of Exploding Snap echoed from one corner. Somewhere near the portrait hole, a third year was being lectured about curfew by an older sibling. The unrestrained chaos might have been typical for the Gryffindor common room, but to y/n, it was amazing. A long way away from the far more quiet, orderly atmosphere of the Ravenclaw Tower. But she found she surprisingly enjoyed the lively nature of the space.

She sat curled up with her newest friend, Ginny Weasley, near one of the windows. The younger girl animatedly recounted a story about a spell they’d been practicing in their most recent DA meeting. The two had met when y/n joined the DA along with Cho Chang and some of the other Ravenclaw students. Y/n swiftly grew fond of the fiery redhead, and a close bond had formed as they partnered up to practice new spells together.

“And then it just absolutely incinerated it!” Ginny finished, her eyes wide.

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s a pretty tricky spell to master, Gin. Well done.”

Ginny grinned. “You should’ve seen Fred’s face when it happened.”

“Speaking of—” came a voice from behind the armchair. Fred Weasley’s flaming hair popped into view, followed immediately by George’s.

“—Ginevra, what’s this?” George asked, looking the Ravenclaw girl up and down in mock confusion. “You brought a Ravenclaw into the lion’s den?”

“You’re in enemy territory,” Fred added, squinting dramatically.

She didn’t even flinch. “You do realize Ravenclaws have the highest percentage of inter-House friendships, right? Probably because we don’t judge people based on colour coordination.”

“Ooh,” George said, placing a hand to his heart. “She’s got a sharp tongue.”

“She’s got a name, too,” Ginny said dryly. “This is y/n.”

“I know, I’ve seen you at the DA meetings. You’ve got a wicked impedimentia jinx,” Fred extended a hand, ever the showman. “Fred Weasley. Professional mischief-maker, master beater, part-time heartbreaker.”

She took his hand warily. “Is there a support group for people who’ve had to hear that introduction more than once?”

“Only one member so far - me,” George muttered, earning a nudge from Fred.

“Don’t worry, he’s mostly harmless,” Ginny said, stretching out her legs. “Where have you two been? You missed curfew.”

“We were giving Ronikins some pointers,” George answered, jumping over the couch to plonk himself down on a plush cushion. “After our loss to Slytherin last week, he sure needs it.”

“Ugh, can we not talk about that,” y/n wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“Ah, a woman of taste. So you’re supporting the red and gold this year too?” Fred winked at her, dropping down on the couch right next to his brother.

“No, she just hates quidditch.” Ginny grinned and Fred gasped like someone had cursed his broomstick.

“She what?” Fred looked personally offended. “You can’t just hate Quidditch. It’s like saying you hate flying. Or fun. Or sunshine!”

“I don’t hate sunshine,” she replied calmly. “Just aerial chaos involving flying weapons and ridiculous safety standards.”

“Flying weapons?” Fred sputtered. “It’s a game! A beautiful, noble game steeped in centuries of tradition!”

“And concussions,” she added, folding her arms. “Last year alone there were five broken collarbones, two arms snapped mid-air, and a dislocated jaw. You lot are just one Bludger away from a ward in St. Mungo’s.”

Fred turned to George. “She’s been reading Witch Weekly, hasn’t she?”

“Or she’s just clinically joyless,” George whispered back.

“I heard that,” she said.

“Merlin’s beard…” Ginny hid her face in her hands. “She does volunteer work in the hospital wing. Most of the time, it’s her patching up the players after a game.”

Fred leaned closer, hands moving animatedly to support his cause. “Alright, then. You hate Quidditch. I respect your right to be utterly, tragically wrong.”

“Chivalrous of you.” Y/n arched a brow, unimpressed by the Gryffindor beater.

“But,” he continued, voice rising with purpose, “I propose a challenge. A wager. A bet, if you will.”

She gave him a look that said she was already tired. “Do I get a say in this?”

“No,” George said helpfully. “But it’ll be entertaining, so go on, Fred.”

Fred pointed at her like a man announcing a duel. “By the end of this season, you will not only tolerate Quidditch, you will love it.”

She laughed. “Not happening.”

“If you do,” Fred said, ignoring her, “you’ll come to a Gryffindor match, wear our house colors, and admit - out loud - that you enjoy it.”

“And when I don’t?”

“I’ll…restock the hospital wing shelves for you. Manually. No magic. I’ll even wear one of those sad little volunteer aprons.”

The Ravenclaw girl leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, studying him. “Alright, Weasley. I’ll play along. But only because you’ll need a miracle to make me like quidditch.”

Fred grinned, the corner of his mouth quirking up in that confident, careless way. “Oh no. All I’ll need is my roguishly good looks, natural endearing charm, and ‘til the end of the year.”

“I’m going to regret this,” she muttered.

“Oh, you will,” Fred said. “But not for the reason you think.”

And just like that, the bet was on.

———————————————————————

The library was quiet, at least by Hogwarts standards. A low murmur of whispering voices, the gentle scratch of quills on parchment, and the occasional thump of a book closing made up its usual background hum. In the far back corner, nestled between the Charms section and a draughty window, y/n was buried in a heavy tome on healing hexes, her parchment covered in neat, flowing handwriting.

She had just finished diagramming the wand movement for a particularly complex nerve regeneration spell when something thudded beside her elbow. Then another thud. And another.

She blinked, then looked up.

Fred Weasley stood in front of her, dropping a final book onto the growing stack with an air of triumph. He looked far too pleased with himself, arms crossed and eyebrows raised like he’d just solved some great mystery.

She narrowed her eyes. “No.”

“No what?” he asked, pulling out the chair across from her with a loud scrape.

“I don’t know what you’re doing, but whatever it is, no, I don’t like it.”

He ignored her and sat down anyway, spreading a roll of parchment between them like a general laying out battle plans. “We’re studying.”

“I was studying,” she said pointedly. “You are…intruding.”

Fred leaned forward, tapping the parchment. “Correction: we are studying the majestic, thrilling, occasionally bruise-inducing art of Quidditch.”

She stared at him. “In the library?”

“Where else?” he said brightly. “You Ravenclaws worship at the altar of academic rigor. I figured if I wanted to convert you, I had to meet you on sacred ground.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but paused when he unrolled a crudely drawn diagram of a Quidditch pitch. The broomsticks were labeled. The hoops had sparkles. There was even a tiny stick figure with wild hair and an arrow that read ‘Me (legend)’.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am very serious,” Fred said, flipping open a book titled Quidditch Through the Ages. “To love the game, you must understand the game. So. Crash course.”

She sighed, setting down her quill. “Fine. Amuse me.”

He beamed. “Right. So, seven players per team. Three Chasers, who handle the Quaffle - that’s the red ball, moves like a hot potato with an ego. Two Beaters, who smack Bludgers away from teammates using bats. That’s arguably the most important role, which is, of course, why I’m a beater. One Keeper, like a goalie, and one Seeker - you know, the lunatic who flies at the speed of sound to catch the Golden Snitch.” He jabbed the diagram for emphasis. “And the game ends when the Seeker catches the Snitch, which is worth-”

“One hundred and fifty points,” she said flatly, arms crossed. “Which often makes everything else in the game irrelevant.”

Fred looked simultaneously offended and surprised that she knew. “It adds drama.”

“It adds reckless, high-speed trauma.”

He grinned. “Speaking of, did you know the first recorded Quidditch match was played on a marsh in 1050, and ended with two players being swallowed by the pitch?”

“I did. And I also know that in 1675, a Keeper lost three fingers and a chunk of his ear in a match against the Heidelberg Harriers.”

Fred raised his eyebrows. “Oh? So you’ve read about it.”

“I read everything,” she said primly, picking up her quill again. “But understanding doesn’t equal liking. You don’t see me forcing you to read about the structure of blood-replenishing potions.”

Fred leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand. “I don’t need to. You light up when you talk about it.”

Her quill paused in mid-air. She gave him a long look. “Is this your tactic, then? Flatter me into enjoying bodily harm disguised as sport?”

“I told you I’m serious about this bet.”

“And I told you you’d need a miracle.”

“Well,” he said, sliding the parchment toward her with his charming, maddening grin, “we’ve covered theory. Now comes the practical portion.”

She groaned. “Fred—”

“Come to practice,” he said. “Just to watch. An easy introduction. No stakes. No Bludgers. Just drills, formations, and most importantly, watching me look magnificent.”

She hesitated. The idea of watching a real practice did intrigue her, if only to point out its many flaws. And despite herself, she was a little curious to see Fred in his element. Not to mention, the longer he talked, the harder it was to tell if she wanted to hex him or grin at him.

She sighed. “Fine. But if anyone loses a limb, I’m leaving.”

He stood up with a victorious fist-pump. “Excellent. I’ll bring my very best form.”

As he turned to go, she called after him, “You do realize this is only going to prove my point, right?”

Fred looked over his shoulder, that same confident glint in his eye. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure. You might surprise yourself.”

She shook her head as he disappeared behind the bookcases, leaving behind the smell of ink, parchment, and something far more dangerous: a small smile on her face.

———————————————————————

When she arrived at the pitch, the sun was just beginning its descent behind the Forbidden Forest, casting long, golden rays over the Hogwarts grounds and tinting the sky a soft lavender. Most students were trickling inside for dinner, but she stood at the top row of the stands, arms folded over her Ravenclaw jumper and expression set with careful neutrality.

She wasn’t here because she wanted to be. She was here because she had a point to prove.

That, and because Fred Weasley had somehow embedded himself into her brain like a persistent jinx. A loud, grinning, ginger-haired jinx.

It had been a lot easier to notice him now - making trouble in the halls, performing spells in DA meetings, working admittedly impressive mastery, and trading in a black market of spelled sweets. And it was a lot harder to ignore him too.

The locker room doors cracked open below, and the Gryffindor team began to spill onto the pitch in a flurry of broomsticks and warm-up chatter. She scanned the group quickly. There was Angelina Johnson at the front, her voice already raised, barking out instructions. Behind her, Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell trotted along, swinging their brooms and laughing about something. Of course, there was Harry Potter himself.

And then came Fred and George.

Even at a distance, it was surprisingly easy to tell the twins apart. George’s gait was smoother, quieter, his smirk a little more reserved. Fred, on the other hand, had the swagger of someone who knew he was good. He bounced on the balls of his feet, already teasing one of his teammates, and then he saw her. Fred’s eyes found hers through the stands, and without missing a beat, he winked exaggeratedly.

She rolled her eyes immediately, but it didn’t stop the slight flutter in her stomach. Nor did it stop the chain reaction it caused: George nudged him, Angelina paused mid-sentence to glance toward the stands, and someone - one of the Chasers - leaned over and asked loudly, “Oi, who’s that?”

She couldn’t hear Fred’s reply, but whatever it was had George nearly choking on laughter. Still, she didn’t leave. She settled on the edge of the seat and pulled out a small notebook from her satchel. Not because she was trying to distract herself, of course. She just wanted something to do with her hands. Definitely not because Fred looked…well, admittedly very at home in midair when he kicked off moments later and soared upward in a fluid, effortless arc.

She half-watched them warm up, half-defending to be interested in her notebook. But the Gryffindor team was…coordinated. Tight-knit. Angelina Johnson ran the team like a drill sergeant with a broomstick, barking instructions and narrowing her eyes with terrifying precision. And yet, even within the structure, there was room for antics.

Especially from Fred. He weaved through the drills with practiced ease, shooting past George to steal a pass mid-air with a grin, then looping under Katie Bell to flick her broom tail with a cheeky tap of his wand. The team groaned in mock annoyance while Angelina shouted something about “less flirting, more flying!”

George gave Fred a flat look as they hovered near each other, and Fred grinned like he’d just earned a medal.

From the stands, she watched him - watched all of them - but her eyes kept drifting back to Fred. She noticed the way he adjusted his grip on his broom when he turned sharp corners, how his eyes flicked from player to player a second before each move. He had a loud mouth and a louder laugh, but his strategy was quick and sharp and smarter than she’d expected.

She also noticed how his shoulders flexed every time he threw the Quaffle, which was a completely unnecessary observation. Academically.

Still. The drills made sense. There were patterns, formations, real thought behind the flying chaos. She found herself frowning, leaning forward, following the Chasers’ diamond formation and Angelina’s signals.

When practice wrapped up, the team circled low over the pitch before landing in a casual tangle of brooms, gear, and triumphant chatter. Fred peeled away from the group and started toward the stands with an all-too-familiar smirk on his face.

“Don’t say it,” she said, descending the last few steps to meet him halfway.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he said innocently, falling into step beside her as they started walking toward the castle. “But since you brought it up…”

“I didn’t.”

“…I’ll just ask how much fun you had watching me fly like a majestic ginger bird of prey.”

She snorted. “More like a hyperactive kestrel with a sugar problem.”

“Ouch,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest. “Sharp words from someone who stayed the entire time.”

“I was waiting for it to get interesting.” She lied.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

She didn’t answer right away. The grass squelched gently beneath their feet as they moved up the hill, the towers of Hogwarts silhouetted against the twilight.

“Maybe I didn’t absolutely hate it,” she said finally, too low for him to gloat.

But Fred caught it anyway. “You didn’t hate it,” he echoed with delight. “High praise from a known Quidditch cynic.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I didn’t say I liked it. Just that it didn’t make me want to rip my own eyeballs out of their sockets.”

He grinned and bumped her shoulder with his own. “What a shame that would be, love. I quite like those pretty eyes of yours.”

Her stomach flipped, but there was barely enough time for her to process her own reaction or respond to his jarring comment before George was joining them.

“So, what did you think?” The other Weasley twin question, hooking his arm around her shoulders.

“I think with the two of you, Angelina seems to have her hands full. Do you ever not make a joke out of everything?” She shot back.

“What’s life without a little laughter, love?” Fred shook his head, his arms coming around her as well. Now she was flanked by both the Weasley twins on their way up to the castle.

“You Ravenclaw are always far too sensible for your own good,” George added on in agreement.

“Do you even know any Ravenclaws well enough to back up that statement?” She challenged, knowing full well that neither of the Weasley twins had interacted much with anyone from her house.

“I’m hoping you might be the first to prove us wrong,” Fred winked at her again, and her brows drew together in a slight frown at the effect it had on her heartbeat.

As they approached the stone steps, Fred glanced sideways at her, something softer behind his grin now. “So,” he said casually, “Now that you’ve survived a practice, what about the real deal?”

“We’ll see.” She arched an eyebrow before walking off, leaving the Weasley boy staring after her with a grin platted on his face.

———————————————————————

The Room of Requirement had taken it’s usual shape of a practical dueling hall: soft mats padded the floors, torchlight flickered in sconces along the walls, and a long mirror ran the length of the far side, reflecting students practicing their spellwork with varying degrees of success.

“Alright,” Harry called out, voice clear and sure despite the noise. “Get into pairs. Let’s stay focused on our wand movement and intent. Remember, Expelliarmus isn’t just about brute force.”

The group shuffled into motion. Wands were drawn. Spells began to echo off the stone walls.

“Looks like we’re together,” Ginny said cheerfully, turning to y/n with a grin.

Before she could respond, a drawling voice from just to their right cut in. “Try not to let Ginny disarm you too quickly. She learned from the best, after all.” Fred Weasley twirled his wand lazily in his fingers, standing beside George, who gave them both an amused look.

“As if,” Ginny shot back. “You spent half of last practice flat on your back.”

“That was strategy,” Fred said confidently. “Lure the enemy into a false sense of superiority.”

“Of course,” Y/n replied dryly, stepping into position across from Ginny. “That’ll send the death eaters running.”

Fred turned to her then, eyes gleaming. “Care for a little duel?”

“I’d hate to embarrass you in front of your brother,” she said sweetly, raising her wand.

“Oh, please, go ahead,” George muttered with an amused smirk, his eyes flickering between the two with a knowing glint of mischief.

Fred grinned wider, moving to stand across from the Ravenclaw with his wand drawn. “What do I get when I win?”

Y/n barely let him get the question out before her own wand flew through the air. “Expelliarmus!” she snapped l.

Fred’s wand jerked sideways in his grip, but didn’t fly out.

“Oho! Cheeky. Playing dirty already, are we love?” he crowed, and her stomach fluttered at the nickname. “You’re quick, I’ll give you that, but not strong enough.”

“Wouldn’t get cocky if I were you, Weasley,” she said, squinting as she adjusted her footing. “A ravenclaw doesn’t make the same mistake twice.”

He gave a theatrical gasp. “Merlin, is that a threat? Expelliarmus!”

Their duel was fast-paced and full of mischief. She dodged a too-flashy flick of his wand that sent sparks flying, and countered with a clean disarm that nearly knocked him off balance, and laughed when Fred exaggerated the stumble with a dramatic groan.

“All right, all right,” Harry eventually called. “Let’s circle up for a moment.”

Wands lowered. Spells ceased. The crowd gathered in again, flushed and laughing and buzzing with the kind of energy that only came from learning magic they weren’t technically supposed to be learning.

“Nice one,” Ginny murmured to her, nudging her shoulder. “He’s impressed.”

She kept her face neutral. “He’s impossible.”

Ginny grinned like she knew better.

As the group began to disperse - students heading out in pairs, some lingering to thank Harry - Fred suddenly jogged up behind her.

“Oi! Don’t suppose you’re planning to vanish into the library again?”

She turned around slowly, eyeing him. “Why?”

He looked…oddly hopeful. “Thought you might come hang out in the common room with us for a bit.”

“You trying to convert me now, Weasley?” she asked, a little suspicious but also - if she was being honest with herself - a little pleased.

Fred just smirked and shrugged. “You’ll have to come and see.”

Ginny gave her an encouraging glance as she passed, but y/n still hesitated. Then nodded. “Fine. Just for a bit. Umbridge will have my head if she finds me breaking curfew.”

The Gryffindor common room was already bustling when they climbed through the portrait hole. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a golden glow across the scarlet armchairs. Someone was playing a game of wizard’s chess near the stairs, and the wireless in the corner was crackling faintly with the warble of Celestina Warbeck.

“C’mon,” Fred said, steering her toward the far side of the room. “We’ll grab a corner.”

He pulled over a low table near the fireplace, kicked aside a footstool, and rummaged through his bag. She sat down, eyeing the sudden flurry of parchment and books he began piling onto the tabletop.

“…What are you doing?”

Fred grinned, cheeks pink from the walk and ears just slightly red - either from excitement or firelight, she couldn’t tell. “Lesson number two,” he said proudly, opening a folder labeled Professional League Stats: 1994–1995 Season in bold, scribbled ink.

Her stomach dropped just a little. “Oh,” she said, trying to mask the disappointment in her voice. “This is…another Quidditch thing?”

Fred looked up, surprised. “Well, yeah. You’ve gotta understand the stakes before you really feel the games.”

“Right,” she stated dryly, watching as he unrolled a color-coded map of the teams and their home stadiums. “This wasn’t exactly the what came to mind when you said ‘hang out’.”

Fred paused. His smirk faltered for a moment. “I mean, we are hanging out,” he said with a sheepish shrug. “Just…with spreadsheets.”

She blinked. “Did you make spreadsheets about Quidditch?”

He turned the parchment around proudly. “Fred’s Highly Scientific Player Performance Index. With doodles.”

She stared at it. There was a tiny cartoon of a Harpies Chaser kicking a Quaffle into a hoop with the caption Catriona McCornwell is a goddess among mortals. Fred had even attempted stick-figure broom velocity lines. It was ridiculous.

And endearing.

She sighed and tucked her legs beneath her. “Fine. Impress me.”

His grin returned full force. “Right, so. There are thirteen professional teams in the British and Irish League. You’ve got your legendary powerhouses - the Holyhead Harpies, Puddlemere United, the Chudley Cannons - though don’t let their current standing fool you, they were excellent in the 1890s.”

She held up a hand. “Fred. I thought we established that knowledge doesn’t equal fondness. In fact, I’d wager I know more about quidditch than you do.”

He leaned in closer, eyes gleaming with challenge. “Try me.”

Her lips twitched. “Fine. Did you know the average life expectancy of a Beater in the Kenmare Kestrels is ten years shorter than other teams due to Bludger-based concussions?”

“Actually, I didn’t know that. But worth it,” he said smugly.

“Thirteen Harpies have broken their collarbones since 1991.”

“I call that character building.” He commented but that didn’t stop the impressed tone from creeping into his voice. And the hint of surprise.

She shook her head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

She didn’t answer that. Instead, she leaned over the map as Fred launched into a passionate explanation of why the Wimbourne Wasps were overrated and why Viktor Krum’s style of Seeker play was dramatic but ultimately impractical. To her own horror…she actually listened.

His hands moved when he talked - wide gestures and tapping fingers and the occasional quick doodle on the parchment. His enthusiasm was infectious, his jokes absurd, and even when he got overly dramatic (“And this is the legendary Cannons keeper who once caught a Quaffle in his teeth! Don’t fact-check that.”), she found herself smiling despite herself.

It wasn’t what she expected ‘hanging out’ with Fred Weasley would be like. And it was even…kind of fun?

———————————————————————

The air in Umbridge’s classroom was thick enough to choke on.

It always felt like this - cloying and false, as though the scent of her rose-scented perfume was meant to smother any thoughts of rebellion. The lace curtains, the doilies, the shrill, saccharine tone in which she addressed her students…all of it masked the fact that they were learning nothing useful. Just pages upon pages of theory. No wandwork. No defense. No real preparation.

It was a mockery. And it made her skin crawl.

Y/n sat stiff-backed in her chair, knuckles pale around her quill, jaw tight as Umbridge’s syrupy voice slithered across the classroom once more. Until she couldn’t handle it any longer and her hand shot straight into the air.

“Now, Miss Y/l/n,” Umbridge simpered, her teeth bared in a parody of a smile, “perhaps you’d like to share with the class exactly why you felt the need to interrupt?”

Her voice was pure sugar. Her eyes were arsenic.

“I didn’t interrupt,” the reader said evenly, forcing calm into her voice. “I wanted to ask a question.”

Murmurs rippled through the room. Fred, two rows back, sat straighter. He could see the way her shoulders were drawn tight, could practically feel the tension radiating from her spine.

Umbridge’s eyes narrowed, the bow of her lips twitching. “And what question, pray tell, was so important it warranted disrespecting the order of my lesson?”

Y/n didn’t blink. “You said we wouldn’t need to learn practical shielding spells. I wanted to know what we were meant to do in the event of an actual attack.”

Gasps. Sharp, involuntary. Someone sucked in a breath.

Fred leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the desk, and watched Umbridge closely. The woman’s smile never slipped. But something far crueler flickered in her gaze.

“Detention,” she said sweetly. “Monday night. Six O’clock with me in my office.”

A long pause. Her pen scratched the parchment. “…And perhaps,” she added, almost absently, “you might spend that time considering your place.”

Y/n didn’t respond. Didn’t flinch. But her hand curled tighter around her quill. Her mouth pressed into a line.

Fred watched her, heat rising in his chest - not from the confrontation, but from the way she endured it. Silent. Strong. Refusing to give Umbridge the power of seeing her upset.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. And by the time class was dismissed, Fred had already packed away his things and made a beeline for the Ravenclaw girl.

The corridor outside Defense Against the Dark Arts was a rush of footsteps and bitter muttering. Students poured out like floodwater escaping a dam, eager to breathe freely again.

Fred didn’t hesitate. He caught up with her in three strides. “Oi,” he said gently, reaching out and brushing his hand against her wrist to catch her attention.

She didn’t look at him at first. Not until he tilted his head, gaze warm with concern. Her eyes met his, fierce and unguarded, but tired.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, the words clipped and hollow.

“I know,” Fred replied, low and steady. “Doesn’t mean you need to be.”

She blinked at that, just a flutter of surprise. But she didn’t pull away. Fred’s brows furrowed. His fingers, still barely grazing her wrist, lingered only a moment longer before he withdrew.

“She’s a miserable cow,” he muttered. “A hypocritical, fluffy pink tyrant.”

That earned him the ghost of a smile, dry and thin. “Careful,” she said. “She’ll give you detention next.”

He leaned in, smirking. “Not the worst thing I can think of if it means more time with you.”

She exhaled, something close to a nervous laugh escaping her lips. Fred caught it. Memorized it. His shoulder found the wall beside hers, casual and close. Their bags hung side by side, inches apart.

“She’s never going to answer your question,” he said. “Because the only thing she’s more afraid of than rebellion is admitting she’s wrong.”

Her lips twitched. But her eyes flicked to the floor. Fred nudged her boot lightly with his. “So.” She looked back up. “There’s a match this weekend,” he said. “Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff.”

Her brow furrowed. “I don’t go to matches.”

He nodded, unconcerned. “Right. I remember. You hate Quidditch with the passion of a thousand cursed bludgers.”

She folded her arms. “I do.”

“Well then.” He flashed a grin. “What better way to unwind from a soul-sucking lesson than to channel that rage into watching your house clobber a bunch of loyal badgers?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re just trying to win your bet.”

“Obviously,” he said, unfazed. “But also…maybe you could use a bit of fun. Just for an hour or two.”

She hesitated. The corridor buzzed around them - students passing, chattering, brushing by - but the air between them was still.

Soft.

Charged.

She didn’t answer.

Fred shifted his weight and tilted his head. “Look, meet me at the north exit before the game if you decide to come. I’ll be there waiting.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re that confident?”

He shrugged. “No. But I am that stubborn.”

She huffed, almost fond. “I didn’t say I’d come.”

He grinned. “I know. But you didn’t say you wouldn’t, and that’s good enough for me.”

And with that, he pushed off the wall and walked away, hands in his pockets, wild hair bouncing with each step, his back warm with the weight of her gaze as she considered his proposition. She supposed spending an evening with Fred Weasley wasn’t the worst way to spend her time.

———————————————————————

Fred stood just beyond the castle’s North exit, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the hem of his scarlet-and-gold scarf fluttering in the crisp afternoon breeze. His watch was flicked open in his hand, thumb running over the dial absently. The Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw game was due to start in fifteen minutes, and despite his usual laidback attitude, Fred was…fidgeting. He wouldn’t admit it aloud - especially not to George - but he’d been pacing the corridor for ten minutes already, fully convinced she wasn’t coming.

He sighed dramatically and started to close his watch when—

“There you are.”

His head snapped up. She was there. She stood with her arms folded and an amused arch to her brow, dressed in a Ravenclaw scarf that contrasted the slight flush on her cheeks from walking briskly across the castle. Her hair was a little windblown, eyes gleaming, and Merlin, Fred lit up like someone had set off a firework in his chest.

“You came!” he practically beamed, pushing off the wall like he hadn’t just been about to give up and sulk in the stands alone.

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t look so surprised. I didn’t want you bragging for the next month about how I’d chickened out.”

He grinned, already walking beside her, just close enough that their shoulders occasionally bumped as they headed down the slope to the Quidditch pitch.

“Oh, you wound me,” Fred gasped, pressing a hand to his heart like she’d stabbed him right through the chest. “Here I was, pacing the floor, dramatically torn between hope and despair, and you think I’d brag?”

She snorted. “Fred, you literally bragged for two straight hours when you figured out how to levitate two dungbombs with one spell.”

“That was innovation, not bragging.”

Their banter fizzled into warm silence as they approached the stadium. The towering stands loomed ahead, and the golden sunlight filtered through the structure in slanted beams, casting Fred’s hair in a reddish blaze that somehow made her stomach flutter. She told herself it was the walk. Just the walk.

He led her up a spiral staircase, winding higher and higher into the Gryffindor section until they reached a spot that was, admittedly, brilliant: close enough to make out faces, high enough to see the whole field in motion. She was catching her breath when Fred pulled something out of his bag with a flourish.

“Well, madam, for your viewing pleasure,” he said dramatically, unveiling a carefully packed cloth satchel. “Snacks from Honeydukes, handpicked by yours truly.”

She blinked. “Is that…are those grape sugar quills?”

He smirked, cheeks a little flushed. “Course they are. Your favourites. I do pay attention.”

Her brows arched. “You pay attention?”

“Guilty.” He popped a chocolate frog into his mouth like it wasn’t a big deal, like he didn’t just casually admit he’d been noticing the tiniest things about her. “You always sneak them into study hall.”

She stared at him for a long beat. “That’s oddly specific.”

Fred gave her a cheeky smile, but there was something behind it that wasn’t all mischief. “I’m a very observant bloke. Especially when it comes to certain Ravenclaws who have a habit of invading Gryffindor airspace.”

Her cheeks warmed, but before she could conjure a clever response, the crowd began to stir. Players zoomed onto the pitch with cheers echoing through the stands. Blue and yellow banners flapped in the wind as Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff took to the air.

Fred leaned toward her, close enough that she could feel the brush of his shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, eyes crinkling in amusement. “This one’s gonna be friendly. Hufflepuff plays cleaner than a house-elf with OCD.”

She eyed the pitch warily. “I’ll believe that when I don’t see anyone falling off their broom.”

As the game kicked off, she found herself watching more closely than she’d anticipated. It wasn’t quite the chaos she expected. The movements were fluid, almost graceful. She began to recognize the formations, the deliberate placement of Chasers, the split-second strategy behind Beaters’ swings. She caught herself leaning forward at one point, eyes narrowing in concentration.

Fred nudged her softly with his elbow. “You’re getting into it.”

She huffed. “I’m observing. There’s a difference.”

“Right, right,” he said, grinning. “You observed your house score a beautiful goal and didn’t even grimace.”

“That doesn’t mean I like it.”

He turned to her with exaggerated offense. “You wound me again. Do you enjoy stabbing me repeatedly, woman?”

“I’ll knit you a patch for your ego later.”

Fred chuckled, and in a moment that felt more intimate than expected, he brushed a stray hair away from her face, his fingers lingering near her cheek a second too long.

Her breath caught. And he knew it.

“You know,” he said lowly, “I’m starting to think there’s something you’re scared of even more than quidditch.”

She arched a brow. “Oh? And what’s that?”

He leaned in, grinning, voice a mischievous murmur against her ear. “I think you’re afraid of how much you enjoy my company.”

She turned to him slowly, eyes locking. “You’re absurd.”

“And you’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You so are.”

She was. A little. Maybe. But before she could argue further, the final whistle blew. Ravenclaw had won. The game was over, and to her shock, no injuries. No concussions. Just a few windblown players and smiling teammates.

Fred stood and stretched, then held out a hand to help her up. She hesitated, then took it.

He didn’t let go right away.

“See?” he said as they descended the stairs. “No blood, no broken bones…and you had fun, right?”

“Maybe,” she admitted with a reserved tone.

“So you liked the game!” He grinned widely.

She looked up at him. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

He smirked again, eyes full of mischief. “So you’re saying it wasn’t the Quidditch that was fun?”

“Exactly.”

“So then it was my company that you enjoyed so much?”

She didn’t answer right away. Then, with a tiny smirk playing at the corner of her lips, “You’re not entirely unbearable.”

Fred stopped walking, hand still in hers, and gave her the most infuriatingly smug smile she’d ever seen. “I’ll take it.”

———————————————————————

It started with one practice.

Then one game.

Then two.

By the end of the month, she’d somehow carved out a permanent spot on the edge of the Gryffindor section of the pitch. She claimed it was for ‘scientific observation’. A kind of long-form thesis on why wizards still subjected themselves to glorified aerial combat. But Fred saw right through her.

The practices became something of a rhythm. One she never officially committed to, but always showed up for. She’d drift into the stands just before drills began, a Ravenclaw scarf knotted loosely around her neck, hair tossed up in a casual bun, ink still smudged on her fingers from her last library visit.

Fred would spot her every time.

And every time, he lit up like Christmas at the Burrow.

Some days, she sat in her seat with a book open in her lap, pretending not to watch. But Fred would always catch her eyes flicking up from the page, usually right as he did some absurd stunt or shouted something deeply inappropriate mid-drill.

Other days, she’d sit beside Angelina Johnson during cooldowns, politely asking about rotations and chasing tactics. Angelina quickly clocked her growing interest. Not just in the game, but in the redhead who kept offering her cauldron cakes and the best seat on the bench.

“You’ve got a good eye,” Angelina told her one afternoon, sweat still beading on her brow. “You ever thought about playing?”

She scoffed, but didn’t deny it. Not really.

Because truthfully…once upon a time she had. It had been years since she’d even stepped foot on a pitch, but she could still see it all. The loops, the triangle formations, the subtle shift in a Keeper’s weight before a dive. She could anticipate the swing of a Beater’s bat a second before it happened. And when she shyly suggested Gryffindor stagger their Chasers instead of clustering near the hoops?

They scored four more goals than their previous season-record in the next match.

Games quickly became events in her calendar. When Gryffindor wasn’t playing, Fred always found her in the library with a half-smile and a hopeful question. “Game today. You coming?”

Sometimes she teased him. Sometimes she claimed she was too busy. But she always ended up by his side, somewhere in the stands, usually yelling at a bad referee call or muttering about someone’s lack of defense.

And she always wore her Ravenclaw scarf.

Always.

Fred, of course, made a scene every time.

“You’re a traitor,” he’d say with a grin when she clapped for a Ravenclaw goal.

“And you’re a hopeless show-off,” she’d shoot back when he cheered too loudly for the opposite team anyway.

But when her hands clutched the edge of her seat during close calls, or she shouted “bludger, left flank, LEFT FLANK” during practice like she was in the game, Fred would glance over and feel that strange, floaty thrill in his chest. Like flying. Like falling.

One night after practice, she and Fred walked back to the castle under a dusting of early snow. The kind that dusted his shoulders and curled at the ends of her hair.

She nudged him with her elbow. “You’re lucky I’m a Ravenclaw, you know.”

“Oh?” He smirked. “How’s that?”

“Because if I was in Gryffindor, Angelina would’ve recruited me, and you’d be benched.”

Fred gasped, hand to his heart. “You wound me, strategist.”

She smiled without looking at him. “And yet you keep coming back for more.”

“I’m nothing if not loyal.”

The snow crunched softly beneath their boots as they walked in silence for a few seconds. Then Fred gently reached out, brushing a speck of frost from the back of her scarf.

“You’re not so bad at this Quidditch thing,” he murmured.

“I still hate it.”

“Of course you do.”

And she smiled. Because somewhere along the way, the lines between friendly competition and flirtation had all blurred. And she had started to enjoy being part of this wild, high-speed, sky-chasing world. Not because of the brooms or the bludgers…but because of the way Fred looked at her when she understood something he hadn’t even said.

Or when he looked at her like she’d always belonged there. Like the pitch wasn’t quite right without her on the sidelines.

———————————————————————

The Gryffindor common room crackled with warmth and firelight. The low hum of conversation threading through the haze of late-night laziness. Fred had his legs draped across the rug like he owned it, sprawled in front of the hearth beside her with a sugar quill half hanging from his mouth. George lounged in one of the armchairs, feet propped on the table. Ginny sat cross-legged on the couch with a pillow hugged to her chest.

It had become routine, her being here. A Ravenclaw in enemy territory, as Fred had once called her, though there was nothing hostile about the way he leaned toward her when he laughed, or how he always saved her a spot by the fire. There was just…comfort.

Even when they were collectively complaining.

“Umbridge is getting too close,” Ginny muttered, eyes narrowed toward the dancing fire. “She’s sniffing around like a bloodhound. I swear, if she finds the Room of Requirement—”

“Harry’ll blow something up,” George finished, deadpan.

“Or Hermione will,” Fred added, smirking. “You’ve seen how serious she is about the DA.”

“That pink toad is handing out detentions like Honeydukes samples,” Ginny grumbled. “Colin Creevey got one just for asking if the rules on club meetings had changed.”

“Lee got one for breathing too loud,” George offered, shaking his head.

“Filch is practically salivating at the thought of catching people,” Fred muttered. “It’s disgusting.”

“Filch has always been like that. Umbridge just enables it,” y/n’s laugh came a second too late, too tight around the edges. She was staring at the fire, fingers drifting to the back of her left hand like a reflex. Slow, absent, like scratching at an itch that wouldn’t go away.

Fred glanced down at the movement and caught sight of her rubbing the spot just beneath her knuckles, like she didn’t realize she was doing it. His brow furrowed.

“What’s that?”

She blinked. “What’s what?”

“Your hand.” He sat up straighter, voice sharpening with sudden alertness. “What’re you—?”

She quickly tucked it beneath her thigh, but he was faster. Fred reached over, gentle but insistent, catching her wrist before she could hide it. He turned her palm over and his breath caught. There, faint but unmistakable even in the glow of the fire, were the angry red words etched into her skin: I must not question authority.

“You—” His voice came out hoarse. Then louder. “She didn’t.”

She tried to pull away. “Fred—”

“That hag did this to you?” he spat, his voice rising as he glared at the wound like he could burn it off with fury alone. “Are you…? What the hell! Why didn’t you tell me?”

George had risen out of his chair, his eyes narrowing. Ginny had gone still, her grip on the pillow tightening.

“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,” she said softly.

Fred stared at her, incredulous. “A big deal? She carved you.”

“There’s nothing to do about it,” she said, curling her fingers over the scar again. “It’s done. It’s not permanent. Just, drop it. Please.”

“No, no, we should go to McGonagall,” Ginny cut in, voice cold with controlled rage. “She has to know.”

“McGonagall’s got enough going on with the staff performance reviews,” y/n said quietly. “Besides, she can’t do anything about it either. Not when Umbitch has Fudge’s support.”

Silence pulsed in the space between them. The fire crackled, throwing shadows over Fred’s clenched jaw.

She offered the smallest, tired smile. “Let’s talk about something else.”

George exchanged a tense glance with Ginny, but it was Fred who finally sighed, low and reluctant, and leaned back again beside her. His hand hovered a little closer to hers now, resting against the rug.

“Fine,” he muttered. “New topic. Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff. Saturday.”

George perked up. “You coming to see us win, or what?”

“She’s never been to a Gryffindor game,” Ginny said slyly, cutting her a look. “Strange, considering she goes to every practice these days…”

“I’m not missing study time for a game,” she said, a little too quickly.

“Game ends at noon,” Fred said with a tilt of his head. “Plenty of time to study after.”

She looked away, fiddling with the end of her sleeve. “It’s not about the game.”

George raised a brow. “Oh?”

She hesitated. “I just…don’t want to watch Hufflepuff win.”

Fred laughed. “Oh ye of little faith, you wound me.”

“You’re not worried about us losing,” George said with a grin. “You’re worried we’ll get flattened.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re worried we’ll get hurt,” Fred filled in, blunt and knowing.

She didn’t deny it. Her cheeks were dusted pink now, and her eyes stayed on the fire like it would save her from the teasing.

Fred’s smirk turned warm. “So what you’re saying - or rather, not saying - is…you care.”

She groaned. “Don’t start.”

“Too late.” George was grinning. “It’s out there now.”

Fred nudged her lightly with his knee. “Admit it, strategist. You like us.”

“You’re alright,” she muttered.

“Alright!” He echoed in mock offence, gripping his heart like she’d stabbed it.

Ginny snorted into her sleeve. Fred leaned closer, voice dropping into something that made her chest flutter. “You know, if you are coming to the match, I’ll reserve you the best seat in the stands.”

“You don’t get to reserve seats.”

“Don’t need to. I just threaten to hex anyone who tries to sit there.”

She rolled her eyes, rising before she could smile too much. “It’s nearly curfew. I should go.”

“Don’t make me walk you,” Fred said, already standing. “You know I will.”

“I can survive a walk to Ravenclaw tower, thank you.”

He smirked, but his gaze lingered just a second too long, like he wanted to say more. “See you Saturday?” he asked.

She hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly around her books.

“…Maybe.”

———————————————————————

The afternoon sun was low over the Quidditch pitch, casting long gold shadows across the grass and staining the sky in hues of soft orange. The air still carried the buzz from Saturday’s Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff match - a fair, but difficult affair that ended in narrow victory. Katie had taken two near-misses from a Bludger, George had a scuffed shoulder, and Angelina’s voice had gone hoarse from screaming.

Now it was Tuesday, and they were back on the pitch. A post-match practice to tighten up what had gone wrong and polish what had gone right.

Y/n hovered near the edge of the stands, arms folded across her chest and scarf wrapped around her Ravenclaw uniform like armor. It wasn’t where she usually stood. Normally she was on the field’s edge with a notebook or crossed arms, calling out ideas and running commentary, offering observations that always - somehow - helped.

But today, she was quieter. Kept a little distance. Fred noticed. So did the others.

“Oi,” Katie Bell shouted mid-pass, gliding toward the sidelines. “Where were you Saturday? You promised you’d come!”

“I didn’t promise,” she said, shading her eyes. “So Fred and George shouldn’t have said I did.”

“You basically did,” George called out from across the field, swinging his bat and sending a Bludger soaring. “You’ve been at every practice for weeks, talking tactics. We thought you were a convert.”

“She’s still scared Fred’s going to break every bone in his body,” Ginny teased from the stands behind her, wand in hand for mock-commentary.

Fred flew past above them, looping in the air with an exaggerated wobble. “It’s very likely,” he called. “I am tremendously reckless!”

She rolled her eyes, ignoring the rush in her stomach. “You lot didn’t need me,” she called back. “You won.”

Fred angled into a sharp descent, landing near her with all the grace of someone born to broomsticks. He was flushed from flying, hair windswept and cheeks tinged pink. He grinned at her, broad and stupid.

“But it wasn’t the same without our favourite Ravenclaw strategist,” he said, brushing back imaginary tears. “We missed your constant sass and judgment.”

“Didn’t miss your dramatics.”

Fred’s eyes twinkled. “I think you did.”

She huffed. “As if I don’t get enough of that off the pitch.”

He beamed. “See? She likes me.”

“No, I—”

But then Angelina blew the whistle again, and Fred winked before kicking off and soaring back into the air with a wild flourish, looping through a passing drill like he hadn’t just spent half of it teasing her.

She shook her head, hiding a reluctant smile.

The next twenty minutes were routine: Chaser drills, Beater coordination, Keeper defence. Everyone was sharp and focused. Even Fred, despite the obvious effort he was putting into cracking jokes mid-pass. The ball zipped back and forth across the pitch, and she could see him keeping one eye on her even from a distance.

Fred launched forward to catch the Quaffle from Katie, but instead of taking the pass cleanly, he twisted midair, gave a loud grunt, and tumbled off his broom.

It happened so fast she barely registered the fall. One moment he was aloft, and the next, his body hit the grass with a thud, rolling with a convincing groan. He didn’t get up.

Her stomach dropped.

“Oh my God! Fred!” She sprinted across the pitch before she could think, feet flying over the grass, scarf billowing. Her heart thundered in her chest, panic pushing adrenaline into every step.

He was lying facedown, groaning softly, one hand twitching by his side.

She dropped to her knees beside him, breath catching. “Fred? Hey, hey, what hurts? Can you hear me? Can you turn over?”

He groaned again, face still pressed to the grass. By now Ginny was behind her and the rest of the team were touching down on the field.

“Oh my god! Don’t move. Merlin, did you land on your head? We need to get Madam Pomfrey!”

And then he turned his head. And grinned.“Gotcha.”

Dead silence met him. Dead, thick silence.

“You absolute git,” she breathed in a combination of relief and hurt as her horror passed by.

Fred blinked innocently up at her from the grass. “What? You were worried?”

“I was worried because I thought you’d shattered your bloody spine—!”

He pushed himself upright, still chuckling. “I just wanted to see if you’d run to my rescue.”

“You—” She shoved him. “You idiot! You utter arse—!”

“Hey, you were the one who denied caring about our wellbeing,” he said, laughing, brushing grass off his robes and leaning back on his hands. “I was just…confirming it.”

Her fists were clenched, cheeks flushed with rage and humiliation. “Do you have any idea how terrified I was?” she snapped. “I thought you cracked your skull open!”

“But now we know, if I ever do, you’ll be the first one on the scene.” His grin grew wicked. “To kiss it better. Maybe nurse me back to health.”

She stared at him. And then smacked him on the arm.

“OW—! Okay, maybe no kissing then—!”

“You’re unbelievable,” she snapped, standing up and brushing off her robes. “Completely unbelievable. You think this is funny? I was genuinely scared.”

Fred froze. The laughter died in his eyes. “Hey…I didn’t mean to…Look, I didn’t think it’d really scare you.”

She took a step back. “Well next time, don’t pull some ridiculous stunt just to make a point.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and stormed off the pitch, boots kicking up grass, hair flying behind her.

Fred watched her go. His mouth opened. Then closed. “Y/n, wait!” Ginny called out after the girl, hurrying to try catch up.

George landed beside him, blinking. “Well, you messed that one up.”

Fred ran a hand down his face. “…Yeah.”

———————————————————————

It started the morning after practice.

Fred waited for her outside the Great Hall, leaning against the stone wall with a casual smirk and a single Chocolate Frog in hand. A peace offering.

“Oi, Ravenclaw,” he said as she walked past with her books hugged to her chest. “I come bearing bribes.”

She didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t even blink.

Fred’s grin faltered. “Too soon?”

She turned a corner and was gone. He stood there, alone, Chocolate Frog melting slightly in his palm.

A few days later, he tried again. This time in the library.

He spotted her at a back table, parchment spread out, quill flicking in sharp, irritated strokes.

Fred walked in with a crooked smile and a folded up piece of parchment under his arm - a “Very Official Study Guide to Quidditch for Stubbornly Brilliant Ravenclaws,” complete with doodles of brooms, bludgers, and stick figures he would insist were very accurate drawings of her throwing things at him.

He dropped it on the table. She looked at it. Then at him.

And then very slowly, deliberately, slid the parchment back over to him without unfolding it, and returned to her notes.

His throat felt dry. “Right,” he muttered. “Cool. I’ll… just be over there. Not interrupting.”

At dinner in the Great Hall, he tried to catch her eye across the tables.

She laughed at something Luna Lovegood said. She looked even more beautiful when she laughed, Fred thought. He watched her as she shifted her weight. Brushed her hair behind her ear. Never once looked his way. Even when he dropped a levitating pumpkin pasty in front of her plate.

It hovered. She didn’t flinch. It floated back to him like a defeated puppy.

By the time the weekend rolled around, the rest of Gryffindor House had caught onto her mysterious and sudden absence.

“She hates you,” George said cheerfully, flopping onto the common room couch beside Fred. “It’s actually impressive.”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, well, what did you expect after that stunt you pulled?” Ginny asked, biting into an apple as she joined them. “Mum always said you had the emotional intelligence of a troll with a head cold.”

“I didn’t think—” Fred started, running a hand through his hair. “It was a joke. A harmless joke.”

“Doesn’t seem so harmless now that she’s not talking to you, does it?” Ginny said bluntly.

Fred looked at her, jaw tight. He didn’t reply.

Ginny let out a long sigh, “You know what, let me help you out here. Only because you look so pathetic right now moping over her.”

“I’m not moping,” Fred scoffed.

“Admit it Freddie, you are moping,” George shook his head in disagreement. “You miss her. We can all see it. I think someone has a little crush.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” The older of the two twins protested, though the flush on his cheeks said quite the opposite.

“Come off it, Fred. Admit that you like her and I’ll tell you exactly where you went wrong,” Ginny bargained. “It’s really a wonder you haven’t figured it out for yourself.”

A muscle in Fred’s jaw feathered as he clenched it. He was tempted to tell Ginny where she could stick her wand but then he thought better of it. After all, he had missed y/n. He’d missed her smile and the sound of her laugh. He’d missed her quiet presence in the common room and the sparkle in her eyes when they met his. But what he missed most of all was the feeling that bloomed in his chest whenever she was around - warm and comforting and exhilarated all at once. The idea of never getting to experience that again left a hollow feeling in his stomach. So, swallowing his pride, he turned to his sister.

“So maybe I do like her,” he admitted. “So, spill. What is it?”

“Do you know why she hates Quidditch?”

Fred looked over, eyes shadowed in the candlelight. “Because she’s allergic to fun?”

Ginny didn’t smile. “No, Fred. Her dad? I’m guessing you’ve never connected the names?”

He frowned. “What? Y/l/n?”

Ginny nodded. “Her dad used to play professionally. For the Montrose Magpies. He was one of the best Chasers the league had. Fast. Sharp. People said he could outwit a bludger mid-match.”

Fred’s breath caught. He had heard the name. In old game tapes and collector’s cards. Y/l/n was a legend. He couldn’t quite remember what had happened to the guy, just that his name wasn’t around anymore.

“What happened?”

“Final game of the season,” Ginny said. “Against the Wimbourne Wasps. A Bludger hit him wrong - back of the head. Mid-air. He fell about thirty feet. Broke his back. Spine never healed right.”

Fred’s face paled.

“She was there,” Ginny added, voice low. “She was seven.” Silence fell between them like a dropped wand. “She watched the game from the stands. Watched him fall. Watched the medics run out, her mum scream. He was in St Mungo’s for months. He still can’t walk properly. Definitely can’t ride a broom.”

Fred stared at his hands, at the way they curled into helpless fists. “Merlin, I’m an asshole.” Fred’s chest ached.

All her sharp retorts, her anxiety in the stands, the way she chewed her lip watching drills…it all clicked. The reason she could see patterns in plays, why she knew every injury in league history, why she wouldn’t come to games. It wasn’t because she hated the sport. It was because she loved someone who lost everything to it.

And Fred had made a joke out of it. A joke that pulled that old, raw fear right back into her chest.

He stood up abruptly, blood rushing in his ears.

“Fred—” Ginny started.

“I have to fix it.”

Ginny sighed. “How’re you gonna do that?”

He didn’t reply. He just turned and walked out, the guilt coiled tight around his ribs like a bludger straight to the heart.

———————————————————————

The Owlery was nearly empty, save for the soft rustling of feathers and the scent of straw and parchment. Wind whistled gently through the open arches, tugging at the edge of her robes as she tied a letter to one of the school owls.

Behind her, boots scuffed against stone. She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. She was familiar with with the sound of his steps, with the pattern of his gait, and the feeling of his presence.

Fred.

He cleared his throat, awkward and quiet - two words no one ever really used to describe him. Not until now.

“Hey,” he said gently.

She didn’t reply. Just stared ahead at the misty hills beyond the castle, where the sun was starting to dip toward the treeline, gilding the sky in gold.

Fred stepped closer, hands in his pockets, voice soft. “I know I’m probably the last person you want to see right now.”

She still didn’t look at him, but she didn’t walk away either. He took that as a small mercy.

“About that stupid prank,” he said. “I didn’t understand. I just thought…I don’t know what I thought anymore. Maybe that it would be funny? A stupid joke? A chance to get you to pay attention to me?”

The silence stretched, brittle and heavy. Fred exhaled slowly. “I never meant to make you feel like that - to scare you like I did.”

She flinched at that. Not visibly, not much. But enough for him to notice.

“I didn’t think about what watching someone you care about get knocked out of the sky would feel like.”

Now she turned. Just a little. Enough to look at him from the corner of her eye, guarded.

Fred met her gaze, voice steadier now. “Ginny told me. About your dad. About what it did to your family.”

A beat passed.

“I’m not him,” he added, quieter. “And I’m not asking you to pretend it didn’t happen. I just…I just want you to know I’d never want to be the cause of that kind of hurt. Not to you.”

Her breath caught, barely audible, but she didn’t turn away from him. Her sharp eyes stayed trained on his, and that was enough to keep his heartbeat racing.

“I care about you,” he said. “More than I’ve let on. More than I probably should, considering I’ve spent the last week being hexed by your glares.”

That pulled a flicker at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile. But something close. He took a small step closer, tone gentler now.

“I miss you, alright? I miss our bickering and your eye-rolls and the way you always correct my Quidditch stats. I even miss you calling me out for being an idiot, which - let’s be honest - is pretty often.”

She looked away, heart thudding too loud in her chest.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” Fred said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just needed to say it. All of it.”

Still, she did not speak. Couldn’t bring herself to.

“I’m sorry.” He lingered a moment longer, like he was hoping for something. A word. A glance. A sign. But she said nothing.

And after a beat, he turned and left her there, alone with the owls and her thundering heart.

———————————————————————

The next morning, y/n sat by the lake, bundled in her cloak as the wind rippled across the water. Her fingertips kept brushing over the scarred words on her hand.

She never expected to fall for someone like him. Someone loud and unpredictable and reckless. A Quidditch player, no less.

She’d promised herself - after seeing what it did to her mother, after watching her father disappear into a hospital bed and never really come back - that she’d never let herself get involved in anything so dangerous.

But Fred wasn’t just a Quidditch player. He was stupidly kind. And funny. And so painfully sincere when it mattered.

And the thought of him hurting because of her? That was a weight she hadn’t expected to feel.

“You’re brooding,” Ginny said, plopping beside her on the bank, tucking her knees to her chest.

“I’m thinking.”

“That’s just silent brooding with a fancier name.”

She snorted despite herself.

Ginny nudged her shoulder. “You saw him, didn’t you?”

She nodded.

“He’s miserable without you.”

“I’m sure he’ll survive.”

Ginny gave her a look.

“Fine,” she muttered. “He seemed sincere.”

“He is sincere. He hasn’t been this quiet since Mum threatened to move the family ghoul into his bedroom in second year.”

That made her laugh. Really laugh, the sound catching on the breeze like music.

Ginny smiled. “He likes you, you know. Really likes you.”

She looked down at her hands, fingers fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. “I don’t know if I can do this, Ginny. I promised myself I’d never fall for a Quidditch player. Never let it…take up space in my life. Never let it cause that kind of grief again.”

“But you already have,” Ginny said gently. “You fell for him, didn’t you?”

“I think I have…” Y/n admitted in a small voice, as if afraid of the words themselves. “Is that weird to you? Me talking about your brother like that?”

Ginny gave a small shrug. “Doesn’t bother me. But I think…if there’s one thing Mum always says about Dad, it’s that she never regretted falling for him. Nothing else that they’ve gone through ever mattered more than getting to love him.”

Her eyes stung, just a little.

“And for what it’s worth,” Ginny added, bumping her shoulder, “he’s completely destroyed without you. Like, extreme levels of mopiness. He’s reached all new levels of melodramatic. It’s almost impressive.”

That pulled another soft laugh from her, and Ginny smiled, triumphant. But the laughter faded into something heavier. Because the truth was: she didn’t know if she could allow herself to open up to him. But she wanted to. And maybe that was the first step.

“Next game’s on Sunday. Gryffindor’s playing Slytherin,” Ginny reminded her before standing and dusting her hands off on her pants. “Something tells me you’ve got a lot to think about before then.”

———————————————————————

The late November air had a bitter edge to it, the kind that stung your nose and numbed your fingertips. A wind cut across the Quidditch pitch, tugging at scarves and cloaks as students filtered into the stands. Among them was a splash of unexpected colour - scarlet and gold - looped loosely around the neck of a Ravenclaw girl.

She didn’t wear it high and proud like the Gryffindors around her. It wasn’t wrapped tightly to ward off the cold. It hung loosely, uncertainly, like the decision she’d finally come to only hours before.

Ginny spotted her immediately. “You came,” she said with a hopeful grin, sliding onto the bench beside her. Luna was already there, humming to herself with her lion hat perched lopsided on her head.

Y/n nodded once, her eyes scanning the pitch nervously. “Don’t read into it.”

Ginny smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But Ginny’s gaze flicked to the Gryffindor locker room tunnel with unmistakable meaning. And sure enough, moments later, the red-robed team came bursting onto the pitch in a roar of noise and wind and energy. The crowd erupted, but the world stilled for her.

Fred was there. Helmet under one arm, broom in hand, grinning lazily as if none of this mattered. But she saw it. The way his eyes scanned the crowd, how his steps faltered for half a second when they landed on her. She barely had time to react before the whistle blew.

His gaze was still locked on her when the bludger nearly took his head off.

“Oi!” George barked, dragging Fred down by the sleeve just in time. “Focus!”

Fred blinked, as if waking from a dream, and then, grinned. That was when she knew.

The fear that twisted inside her was different than the one she remembered watching her father fall. This one was sharper, messier, tangled up in affection and anger and wanting to leap out of her skin. She gripped the rail in front of her as the game roared to life.

Slytherin was out for blood. It was instantly brutal. Bludgers aimed not at brooms but heads, shoulder checks that bordered on illegal, and jeering chants from the green-and-silver section. Y/n felt herself flinch every time Fred dipped or swerved too close to a hit.

He was reckless. Of course he was. She hated him for it, and loved him all the same.

“You alright?” Ginny asked, frowning as y/n went still after a particularly hard and fast bludger sent Fred spinning midair.

“I’m fine,” she lied. She felt her stomach lurching as though she were about to be sick.

But she wasn’t. Not when Fred pulled out of the dive gripping his side. Not when his broom sagged slightly, and he drifted off toward the sidelines.

“Madam Hooch’s calling a timeout,” Ginny muttered, already standing. “Something’s wrong.”

Y/n didn’t even think. She was halfway down the stands before anyone could stop her.

By the time she reached the edge of the pitch, Fred was sitting on the ground, one glove off, squinting at Madam Hooch as she shone the glowing tip of her wand over his left rib cage. The look on his face - sharp but edged in pain - scared her more than any curse could.

She shoved past the barricade of people. “Move! Fred!”

His eyes flicked toward her, confused. “You came.”

“Why are you smiling? Are you…? Don’t tell me you’re joking again—”

“I’m not,” he said softly, wincing. “I’m actually a bit knackered.”

She sank beside him, eyes scanning his face. His cheekbone was grazed from the scratch of a broom tail as he’d flown too close. And the way he sat clearly gave away an injury at his side where he’d been struck.

“You absolute idiot,” she whispered.

“I missed you too.”

Despite the worry, the fury, the ache she’d carried for weeks, her heart fluttered stupidly.

Madam Hooch stood and gave him a curt nod. “Nothing appears to be broken. You can finish the game.”

Fred made a move to stand but faltered, and she caught his arm instinctively. “I thought you didn’t like Quidditch,” he said as he leaned closer, eyes locked onto hers.

She hesitated for a beat, heart pounding, before a swell of confidence overcame her. The wind tugged at her hair, and the roar of the crowd faded beneath the rush in her ears.

“I don’t,” she said. “But I like you.”

Then she grabbed the collar of his flying robes and yanked him forward.

He didn’t need more than a second. His lips found hers like they were made for it. Burning and soft and clumsy all at once. She could feel the grin in his kiss, the way his fingers hovered at her waist like he couldn’t believe this was real.

Somewhere above them, Lee Jordan’s voice cracked over the magical megaphone. “AND IT SEEMS…YES, FOLKS, IT SEEMS FRED WEASLEY HAS JUST BEEN KISSED SENSLESS BY WHO MY SOURCES TELL ME IS A RAVENCLAW IN DISGUISE, IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE STADIUM! MERLIN, SOMEONE GET THAT BOY A TROPHY!”

Laughter erupted around them, but Fred only pulled away slightly, forehead resting against hers. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

Her voice trembled. “You’re going to win, right?”

His grin stretched, cocky and wild. “For you? Always.”

And with that, he straddled his broom and shot back into the sky, chasing a Bludger and leaving her breathless on the ground. One hand still clutched her scarf, the taste of wind and honey lingering on her lips.

She turned and walked back to the stands, cheeks flaming, heart racing.

Ginny was already smirking when she sat back down. “I guess you weren’t lying. You’re not into Quidditch, huh? You’re just into my brother.”

“Shut it.” But she didn’t stop smiling. Not once, not even when Fred scored the winning goal and pointed straight at her from the air.

This time, she cheered the loudest.

———————————————————————

The Gryffindor common room was glowing. Literally. Lanterns had been charmed to flicker gold and crimson, casting the whole space in a warm, celebratory hue. Firewhisky (procured through highly suspicious means) sloshed in mugs, music played from a bewitched gramophone in the corner, and someone had strung Gryffindor banners between the beams of the ceiling.

Y/n pushed through the portrait hole, the same Gryffindor scarf she’d stolen from Ginny still knotted loosely around her neck and a nervous energy trailing behind her like steam. The room erupted into cheers the moment someone spotted her.

“There she is! The Ravenclaw with the kiss of the century!” bellowed Seamus, raising his drink in her direction.

“Did you see her grab him? Poor bloke didn’t even have time to prepare!” added Parvati, giggling from her perch on the arm of a squashy chair.

“Who cares about him! Did you see Umbridge’s face? She looked like she’d swallowed a blast-ended skrewt!” Padma exclaimed.

Y/n flushed, her expression flickering between embarrassment and amusement as she murmured greetings and edged through the crowd.

“Looking for someone?” Ginny asked, sidling up beside her with a smirk and an all-too-innocent tone.

“Maybe,” Y/n answered, trying not to smile. Her eyes scanned the crowd, but there was no sign of Fred. “Have you seen him?”

Ginny raised a brow. “I might have,” she said cryptically, before disappearing into the crowd, leaving y/n blinking.

She spotted Neville next, sipping a butterbeer and looking entirely overwhelmed by the crowd.

“Neville,” she said warmly, touching his elbow.

“Oh, hello! Merlin, you were brilliant!” he blurted, then went beet red. “I mean, not in the game, obviously, but with Fred, and the kiss, and all.”

Reader laughed, tension easing slightly. “Thanks, I think.”

She continued through the crowd, waving to Lavender and dodging a butterbeer spill, searching every corner. No Fred. It was only when she spotted George leaning against a wall near the hearth, chatting with Angelina, that she zeroed in. He saw her coming and grinned.

“Looking for a certain ginger?”

“If you’re referring to yourself, no,” she quipped.

George chuckled and casually slipped a folded piece of parchment into her hand, before turning back to Angelina without another word.

Curious, she stepped aside and unfolded the note.

If you’re reading this, you’re looking for me. Which is good, because I’ve been hoping you would. Come find me. Just follow the hall behind the tapestry of the drunk troll (you know the one). I promise it’s worth it.

– F

Intrigued, she tucked the note into her pocket and slipped out of the common room unnoticed, heart drumming faster than she liked to admit.

She ducked behind the tapestry Fred had referenced - one depicting a troll singing off-key with a mug in one hand and a lute in the other - and found the narrow corridor just as he’d promised.

It was like stepping into another world. Candles floated gently along the walls, their golden light flickering against stone. The floor was dusted with soft rose petals and the air smelled faintly of cinnamon. At the far end, standing sheepishly beneath a hovering bouquet of enchanted peonies and a few nervously blinking fairy lights, was Fred Weasley.

Y/n stopped in her tracks, lips parting in disbelief. “What is all this?”

Fred rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks tinged with red. “So…I might’ve gone slightly overboard. But in my defense, you did kiss me in front of the entire Quidditch stadium, and I figured I should try to live up to that.”

She folded her arms, the corners of her mouth twitching. “This isn’t exactly your usual style, Weasley.”

“Well,” he said, stepping forward, “neither is falling for a Ravenclaw who once told me Quidditch was the root of all evil and that I had the attention span of a flobberworm.”

She laughed. “I stand by both those statements.”

“Fair,” he grinned. “I guess you did win the bet. I couldn’t make you like quidditch. Merlin, you still flinch when someone so much as nudges a bludger.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but he held up a hand.

“But you came to every practice. You brought ideas. You even wore that scarf.” He pointed to the Gryffindor colors still around her neck, the edge of it frayed from overuse. “So if you didn’t do it all for quidditch, then that means you did it all for me.”

“I…” she began, but he stepped closer.

“And I know what you’re going to say. That maybe I’m a bit too much like your dad. That Quidditch is dangerous and selfish and a bit idiotic, and honestly? You’re right again. But you also can’t live your life afraid of the what ifs.”

She went still.

He took a breath. “So if you’ll have me, I’ll promise to always be careful. I’ll promise to never pretend I’m injured again, because, bloody hell, I was a right idiot for that. And - this is the most important part - I’ll never ask you to love Quidditch. Not ever again.”

She smiled slowly, heart aching in that soft, terrifying way that meant it was real.

He hesitated. “So…what do you think? Are you willing to give us a shot?”

“I think,” she said, stepping into him until the flickering candlelight danced across both their faces, “that you talk far too much.”

Then she kissed him again, gently this time, like the first breath after a long dive underwater.

Fred made a soft sound of relief and kissed her back, one hand moving instinctively to her waist, the other brushing her cheek with surprising reverence.

When they pulled apart, his eyes were alight. “That means yes?”

“That means yes,” she confirmed. And nothing - not even quidditch - had ever made Fred Weasley’s smile shine brighter.

[karacaroldanvers]

Academic Rivals

Fred Weasley x FemRavenclawReader

Fred Weasley was somehow your greatest academic rival, and you had no idea how. How - when all he does is slack off - is it that he keeps matching your grades? You’re determined to get to the bottom of whatever his (undoubtedly nefarious) secret is.

———————————————————————

The air in the Transfiguration classroom was stifling, even in late autumn. The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall mullioned windows in golden strips, casting long shadows across the rows of desks and dust particles that floated like glitter in the light. Quills scratched. Parchment rustled. Somewhere near the back, someone sneezed.

And still, the only sound she could hear was the frantic thrum of her heart pounding in her ears. She hunched over her desk, the nib of her quill racing across parchment like a broomstick in a storm. Her fingers ached from the grip. The muscles in her hand screamed. But there was no time to ease up. Not when McGonagall’s countdown to the end of the timed essay hovered around two minutes.

She dipped her quill swiftly in ink and began the conclusion: In sum, Animagus transfiguration, while complex and regulated, functions as an exemplary case of intent-driven magical theory, particularly in contrast to involuntary or accidental transformations—

A faint laugh from across the aisle. She didn’t even need to look up. She didn’t need to see him to recognise it was him.

Fred Weasley was leaning back in his chair on two legs, arms crossed behind his head, looking as though he hadn’t a care in the world. His essay - if it could be called that - was folded into an origami dragon, already finished, resting on his desk smugly. He was smiling to himself, one leg swinging casually under the table, as if Transfiguration Theory and Application was merely a light suggestion in his day rather than a critical O.W.L.-level subject.

Her eye twitched.

“I will not let him tie with me again,” she hissed under her breath, attacking her parchment with renewed fervor.

It had become routine, the two of them. Every class where they shared a syllabus, she ended up sharing the highest mark too. Always a tie. Always announced with a faint, vaguely amused smile from the professor. And always followed by a smug glance from Fred Weasley, who somehow achieved her level of success despite doodling on his parchment and spending most of his class time whispering jokes to Lee Jordan or trying to make paper birds attack George.

And he had the audacity - the gall - to look relaxed while she was fighting for her academic life.

“Time’s up!” Professor McGonagall announced.

Quills dropped. Parchments flew to the front in a neat enchanted shuffle, stacking themselves on the desk beside her. She finally let her fingers relax, flexing the ache out of her knuckles as her breath came out in a slow, deliberate exhale. She didn’t even dare look across the aisle yet. But Fred spoke first.

“Well, that was invigorating,” he said, stretching like a cat, arms over his head. His shirt tugged slightly up from his belt, and she forced herself not to look at the sliver of skin that flashed.

Instead, she rolled her eyes and muttered, “You didn’t even try.”

“I’ll have you know,” Fred said, swinging his legs out into the aisle and resting his elbows on his knees, “I used a very advanced studying technique.”

“Oh, this I’ve got to hear.”

He leaned in conspiratorially. “I dreamt the entire essay up last night. McGonagall was wearing a top hat and shouting theories at me while juggling ferrets.”

She blinked at him.

He nodded solemnly. “Very informative.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“And yet, I’m a smart idiot,” he said with a wide grin. “Which makes me, technically, your equal.”

She gave a short, humorless laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I don’t need to,” he said with a wink. “McGonagall does it for me when she announces our mutual top marks.”

That did it. Her jaw clenched. Her arms crossed. Her whole posture radiated thunderclouds.

Fred’s smirk faltered slightly. “Wait…are you actually mad?”

She glared. “You think this is a joke.”

“Isn’t it?” he asked, raising a brow. “A fun little back-and-forth? Bit of friendly competition?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Do you want to know what I did last night while you were probably charming your shampoo to sing backup vocals or whatever idiotic things it is you get up to?”

He snorted. “That actually sounds brilliant.”

She plowed on. “I stayed up revising every single sub-category of Animagus law. I re-wrote my notes. Color-coded my citations. I practiced conjuring six different species of feather. Do you know how hard it is to get magpie plumage exactly right?”

Fred blinked. “I thought that was just…you being thorough.”

“No, Fred,” she hissed. “It’s me trying not to lose. To you of all people.”

He tilted his head, still not quite grasping it. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is when you don’t even care. You just show up, half-awake and smug, draw little creatures in the margins, and still walk away with the same grade I do!”

“Look, I study—”

“When?” she snapped. “Between setting off peeves and blowing up fireworks in the stairwell?”

Fred grinned faintly. “I have excellent time management.”

She nearly combusted. “I hate you.”

His grin widened. “No, you don’t.”

She huffed and shoved her books into her satchel, the leather flap snapping with finality. Her cheeks were burning, a deep flush spreading across her skin. Part rage, part embarrassment, and maybe a little part of something else.

He was too damn calm. Too charming. Too…unbothered. It drove her insane.

The class emptied around them as students poured into the corridor, chattering about the weekend’s Quidditch match. She stepped quickly, not wanting to share the hallway with him. But of course, Fred easily matched her pace, hands in his pockets, long legs catching up in two strides.

“Say,” he said, as if their conversation hadn’t just ended in emotional arson, “since we’re obviously so academically compatible—”

“Don’t you dare say we should study together.”

“I was going to say duel for the affection of Hermione’s cat, but now that you mention it—”

“I will hex you.”

“I’d let you,” he said, grinning, “but only if you promise to bandage my wounds afterward.”

She stopped mid-step. Turned. Glared up at him. “You think this is all a game.”

Fred’s smile faded a little. “I think you’re brilliant. And it’s fun keeping up with you.”

She didn’t know what to do with that. Her heart stuttered. “I have to go,” she muttered, turning on her heel.

———————————————————————

It started with a smirk.

A small one. Barely a twitch of the lips, really. But on Fred Weasley, it was never just a smirk. It was a declaration. A flare in the sky. A banner that read: I know something you don’t, and I’m going to enjoy it.

She knew that smirk too well. She had seen it across the Great Hall when Marcus Flint got locked in the broom cupboard with a howler that screamed in French for ten minutes. She had seen it when Lee Jordan tried to tell a joke and Fred finished it louder and better. And she had definitely seen it every time a professor announced a tie for highest marks in a class.

“Quiet down, everyone,” Professor McGonagall said as she entered, robes sweeping behind her like a storm cloud. She waved her wand, and the stack of freshly graded essays floated into her hands. “I’ve marked your last assignments. Some of you showed significant improvement. Others—” her eyes flicked toward Lee, who visibly wilted, “—may need to reconsider their priorities.”

The classroom buzzed with low-level tension. Desks creaked. Students sat a little straighter. Fred leaned back, arms folded behind his head like he was in a hammock. She felt it then, that tight coil in her stomach, like something was coming.

McGonagall began handing out the essays one by one. Her name hadn’t been called yet. Neither had his. She swallowed hard.

She knew she did well. That was the best damn essay she’d probably ever written for this class. Her arguments were structured, she used sources from the restricted section, and she had even added a footnote on shifting transfiguration theories in ancient Egypt. She had revised until her candle burnt down to its waxy nub and left a scorch mark on her desk. There was no way Fred Weasley could have outdone that.

McGonagall stopped at her desk, offered a nod, and handed her the parchment.

She took it, flipped it over, and froze. 98. She blinked. Checked again. Still 98. That was…still an excellent mark. Outstanding. Almost flawless. And everyone knew McGonagall never gave out full marks, so it was almost as perfect as perfect could get for a Transfiguration grade.

“Mr. Weasley,” McGonagall said next, placing his paper on the desk with a flick of her wrist. “Congratulations. A well-earned 99.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Fred gasped, loud and theatrical. “OH NO. NO WAY.”

George cheered. “HE BEAT HER!”

Lee Jordan, from two rows back, clapped like they’d won the bloody Quidditch Cup. “It’s a Hogwarts miracle!”

Fred stood up, arms raised like a champion. “Ladies and gentlemen, it brings me great joy to announce: I am now the superior Transfiguration scholar in this room.”

McGonagall muttered something about decorum under her breath, but didn’t stop him. She stared at her parchment, numb.

He beat her. By one point. One. But still. He’d beat her.

Her quill snapped in her hand. A sharp crack that made the students around her flinch. Ink bled onto her palm like a burst vein.

Fred turned toward her, clearly trying not to laugh. “Come on, love, it’s only a point—”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, standing so abruptly her chair scraped loudly against the stone floor.

The classroom went awkwardly quiet.

Fred blinked. “Right. Okay.”

She snatched up her bag, stuffing her parchment inside with sharp, angry movements. Her chest felt too tight. Her skin was burning. She didn’t even wait for the end of class. She stormed out of the room, footsteps echoing in the corridor behind her.

She didn’t know how long she walked. Just that she needed distance. From that classroom. From those cheers. From him.

When she finally ducked into a narrow corridor behind a forgotten tapestry, the silence hit her like a weight. She leaned against the cold stone wall, clutching her broken quill in her hand, and tried to breathe.

It wasn’t just the grade. It was the injustice of it. The impossibility. The way it felt like all her effort meant nothing.

He hadn’t studied. She knew he hadn’t. She watched him spend that whole period doodling dragons and teasing her.

So how? How could he possibly have done better?

Unless…Unless he cheated.

The idea bloomed slowly, but once it took root, it was all she could think about.

Fred Weasley wasn’t completely stupid - no, far from it - but he wasn’t serious either. Not about school. Not about studying. What if he wasn’t doing it all himself?

Maybe he had a secret tutor. Someone feeding him notes. An older student who took the class last year. Maybe he’d charmed McGonagall’s desk to read her answer key. Maybe he was bribing the portrait of some retired transfiguration master who whispered answers to him after dark.

It would explain everything. The way he never seemed stressed. The fact that he never revised. How he joked his way through every lesson and still kept up.

Her stomach twisted with indignation. He was mocking her. All this time, he’d been mocking her. Letting her believe their marks were an even match. Letting her believe their rivalry was mutual. That he was somehow naturally on her level. When really, he had a trick.

And she was going to find it.

———————————————————————

That night, she sat in the corner of the library under a green-glass reading lamp, chewing on the end of her replacement quill and watching the hourglass tick down.

She was convinced Fred Weasley was cheating. She just had to prove it.

She scribbled a list into the margins of her notes:

Possibility #1: Private tutor. (Who? Where?)

Possibility #2: Gets essays from older students. (Bill? Percy (unwillingly given)? Charlie?)

Possibility #3: Magical cheating device?

Possibility #4: Bribery/blackmail. (Far-fetched. Still possible.)

Possibility #5: Polyjuice Potion?? (Okay, that’s extreme, but who knows with him.)

She underlined #1 three times. If he was sneaking off for secret study sessions…she needed to catch him.

She’d follow him. Discreetly, of course. She’d tail him after classes, find out where he went, who he spoke to. Maybe he had a classroom stashed away with enchanted textbooks that explained why he could quote magical theory in between fart jokes.

Whatever he was hiding, she was going to uncover it. And when she did, she was going to march right up to him, throw the evidence in his annoyingly handsome face, and reclaim her rightful position at the top of the class.

Fred Weasley had started this war. But she was determined to end it.

———————————————————————

The library was cloaked in the sort of silence that didn’t exist during the day. No whispering students. No flickering torches. Just the steady tick of the enchanted hourglass at the back of the room, and the warm golden glow of the single lamp still burning above her head.

She sat tucked behind a pillar, the last student still inside, clutching a freshly signed permission slip in her ink-smudged fingers.

Madam Pince had pursed her lips so tightly when she’d asked for the form, it looked like they might disappear entirely. “You’ll return to your dorm the moment the clock strikes eleven, or I will inform your Head of House,” she’d warned.

“I just need to revise,” she’d said innocently. “You know how behind I feel.”

Which wasn’t technically a lie. Because she had been doing something academic. It just happened to involve planning on stalking Fred Weasley like a hawk stalking a very loud, very smug mouse.

She gathered her bag and slipped out through the towering library doors just as they closed behind her with a hollow click.

The castle at night was a different place. Shadows stretched long and strange. Suits of armor seemed to lean a little too far into her path. The torches flickered lower, their flames subdued to a whisper. Her footsteps echoed far more than she liked.

She wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders and took the stairs down toward the corridor near the Ravenclaw tower.

But then, somewhere off to the left, she heard laughter. Two voices. Low. Mischievous. Snickering.

Her spine straightened. She knew those voices. Fred and George.

She ducked behind a pillar instinctively, heart racing. They were supposed to be back in Gryffindor Tower. Lights out had passed. And if they were out now, of all times…maybe this was it.

This was when he snuck off to see a tutor. Or receive some forbidden study notes. Or charm answers out of a locked away paper stashed in a teacher’s office. Whatever it was, she was going to find it.

She crouched low and crept down the hallway, keeping to the shadows. Her shoes made the faintest whisper against the stone floor, but the twins were laughing too loudly to hear her anyway.

“Honestly, I thought she was going to levitate her quill and stab me with it,” Fred was saying.

“That was your own fault,” George replied. “You couldn’t just beat her. You had to gloat.”

“You would’ve gloated.”

“Yes, but I have subtlety.”

“You threw a chocolate frog at McGonagall last week. That’s not subtle.”

“It was a gift.”

She rolled her eyes silently and followed as they turned down a lesser-used corridor. One she recognised vaguely as leading toward the fourth floor.

They moved quickly but not quietly, speaking in excited, low tones. Occasionally, one would cast a charm to illuminate the hall and she had to duck behind statues or alcoves to stay hidden.

Then they reached it. A tapestry. A hideous one, actually, of a unicorn wearing an ugly old hat. The unicorn winked as they approached.

“Got the fireproofing charm right this time?” George asked, brushing his fingers along the edge of the tapestry.

“We’ll find out,” Fred replied cheerfully.

They slipped behind it and disappeared. Her heart leapt into her throat. This was it. The lair. The headquarters. The secret crime scene.

She crept toward the tapestry, pulse pounding in her ears, and waited a beat before pulling it gently aside. Behind it was a dark stone passageway. Lit and long.

She swallowed and stepped through, keeping close to the wall as the warmth of torches bathed her face in orange light. The walls were lined with odd hooks and scratches, like this place had once been used for storage, or hiding things.

After about twenty feet, the hallway curved sharply. She squinted but kept her footsteps light, her pace even, until she heard voices and…bubbling?

Peeking around the corner, she froze. They weren’t studying. They weren’t meeting some secret tutor. They were…brewing? She mentally outlined theory number five in her head - Polyjuice potion seemed like the most likely suspect now.

The room opened into what looked like a secret lab. Cauldrons of all sizes lined the stone counters. Parchment blueprints hung from the walls, covered in inked diagrams and spell annotations. One section of the room held enchanted objects like trick wands and whispering mirrors. Fred was bent over a bubbling cauldron, carefully pouring a shimmering blue powder into the mixture while muttering a charm.

George was testing out a pair of sunglasses that kept rotating lenses over his eyes like a kaleidoscope. “Nope,” he muttered. “Still makes me look like a beetle.”

“Try changing the lens enchantment from ‘chromatic shift’ to ‘spectral flicker,’” Fred said absently.

George blinked. “When did you learn that?”

Fred shrugged. “Ran into Flitwick last week and asked about spectrum illusions. Said I could borrow an old thesis of his.”

She blinked. Flitwick had a thesis? Fred borrowed it? He read it?!

She was stunned. Her eyes drifted to the diagrams pinned around the room. These weren’t just prank ideas. They were complex magical formulas. Layered enchantments, rune stacks, modified potion-brew sequences. She spotted at least three sixth-year level transfigurations and a theoretical Arithmancy formula she’d only seen referenced in textbooks.

This wasn’t just playing around. This was work. Difficult, advanced, academic work.

Her foot accidentally knocked into a stack of boxes. They clattered to the floor with a noisy thud.

Fred and George both froze. Then Fred slowly turned and his eyes locked onto hers.

“Ah,” he said, a smile curling at the corners of his lips. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Miss Obsessed-With-Me.”

Her face burned. “I—I am not obsessed with you!”

“You followed me through who knows how many floors, a unicorn tapestry, and a hidden tunnel system.” Fred pointed out, casually walking toward her. “What would you call it?”

“I was investigating,” she snapped, stepping fully into the room. “I thought you were up to something and I was right! I knew it! I knew you had some secret project, but I thought…I thought you were cheating! Not…this!”

Fred arched a brow. “You thought I was a cheat?”

“I am so…so…angry!” she fumed, stalking up to Fred. “You don’t even try. You sit in class tossing ink pots at people and you still beat me because you’re, what? Secretly a genius?”

“A genius? Fred?” George snickered. “Now who’s telling jokes?”

“I’m serious!” she fumed. “I’ve been working myself half to death all year, and somehow you, with your, you know, jokes and ink-spitting quills and origami during exams, still managed to beat me!”

Fred raised a brow. “You’ve been this upset the whole time?”

“Yes!”

“You’ve been genuinely mad at me?”

“For months!”

George took a polite step back. “And that’s my cue to test our Sneezing Sparkles outside the blast zone,” he said cheerfully, grabbing a vial and vanishing through the opening behind her.

Fred looked stunned for a second. Then he laughed. “I thought you knew this was just fun! A bit of friendly rivalry. Flirting, even!”

“Flirting?!” she shrieked.

“I mean…yeah?” he blinked. “All the snide remarks, eye rolls, dramatic declarations of academic superiority? Kind of textbook, really.”

She gaped at him, stunned. “I spend hours in the library. I revise, I annotate, I stay behind to ask questions, and you, with your bloody fireworks and ‘I dreamt the answers’ attitude, manage to keep up with me effortlessly. And you think that’s fun for me?”

Fred looked genuinely bewildered. “I thought this was, you know…mutual tension. The kind that ends with us eventually snogging in a broom cupboard.”

Her jaw dropped. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re angry.”

She flushed - out of rage, she told herself. Definitely rage. She crossed her arms, refusing to cry in front of him. “I thought if I followed you, I’d catch you cheating. Instead, I find you doing high-level potion transmutations and spell enhancements. I work so hard,” she said, her voice rising. “I miss meals. I skip Hogsmeade trips. I’ve turned down actual friendships to keep up with coursework. And you, you breeze through classes, then disappear to make laughing lollipops!”

“They also induce involuntary levitation now,” Fred offered helpfully.

“I don’t care! It’s—” her voice broke slightly, “It’s not fair that you get to be brilliant and lazy.”

Fred was quiet for a moment. Then he said gently, “Do you want to see what we’re actually working on?”

She frowned. “Why?”

“Because it’s not lazy. And maybe if you really saw it, you’d stop thinking I don’t take things seriously.”

She hesitated, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her pulse pounded in her throat. “…Fine,” she said through gritted teeth.

He walked her through the workspace like he was guiding her through an art gallery.

He explained how their Self-Writing Quill had three layered enchantments. One to mimic the user’s handwriting, one to interpret shorthand, and one to censor swear words if used during school hours. He showed her their latest product in development. A potion-infused chocolate that gave people a five-minute confidence boost using a highly calibrated variation of a cheering charm.

He showed her diagrams, trials, failures. And she was absolutely floored.

The twins weren’t just pranksters. They were inventors. Engineers. Creators. Their jokes were crafted from theory and testing and applied spellwork far beyond the average Hogwarts student. And Fred - who she had accused of coasting at the top - was at the heart of it all.

She watched as he expertly adjusted a stirring charm, his brows furrowed, lips pursed in thought. The flame glowed under the cauldron, turning blue as the potion shifted to the right shade.

He was focused. Intent. And, damn it all to hell, brilliant. When he turned and caught her staring, she looked away quickly.

“So?” he asked, sliding beside her, voice teasing but softer now. “Impressed?”

“…Maybe,” she muttered. He smiled and she sighed, arms folding again. “You do deserve your grades.”

Fred leaned in slightly. “Would you say…even more than you?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Let’s not push it.”

He chuckled. “So what now, my sweet nemesis?”

She hesitated. Her brain felt scrambled. She wasn’t sure what surprised her more: the complexity of their work, or the fact that she…actually admired what they were accomplishing. A lot.

Fred Weasley. The class clown. The disaster-in-a-tie. The genius behind a joke shop. He was looking at her now, not smug, but hopeful.

So she cleared her throat and said, “You can call it a truce.”

He grinned. “I’ll take that. And I’ll raise you…a date.”

She blinked. “What?”

“A proper one,” he said, tilting his head. “You know, since our rivalry’s taken a romantic turn.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“I beg to differ,” Fred said. “But tell you what: if you’re too intimidated by my intellectual prowess to say yes—”

“I’ll hang out with you,” she interrupted, flustered. “Only to apologise for calling you a cheat. That’s not a date.”

He lit up like a child who’d just stolen Christmas. “A not-date it is then. See you Saturday?”

———————————————————————

She wasn’t nervous. The butterflies in her stomach were definitely from some dodgy pudding she’d eaten the night before.

The sweater she was wearing - deep navy, soft at the sleeves - wasn’t chosen because it brought out her eyes. And she definitely hadn’t spent twenty minutes trying to flatten the flyaways in her hair. And if her heartbeat quickened a little every time she thought about seeing Fred Weasley outside of school uniform and prank-potion fumes…well, that was probably just lingering adrenaline.

It wasn’t a date. Just a hang out. A perfectly normal, completely platonic hangout with the boy who had driven her to the edge of academic insanity, casually beaten her by a single point, and then smiled like it was the most charming thing in the world.

She told herself, as she tightened the scarf around her neck and checked her hair for the third time in the hallway mirror, that this was absolutely not a date. Again.

Not a date. Not a date. Not a date.

So why did it feel like one?

Her hands were sweating.

By the time she reached the gates of Hogwarts, the November wind had whipped colour into her cheeks and turned her breath to mist. Students streamed toward Hogsmeade in chattering groups, scarves fluttering, boots crunching against the frosty path.

And there, standing slightly apart from the others, leaning against a low stone wall with his hands in his pockets, was Fred.

He looked irritatingly good. His tie was loose. His coat slightly wrinkled. Hair wind-tossed like he’d just rolled out of bed and it had somehow worked. He spotted her and straightened immediately, a crooked grin curling onto his face.

“You showed up,” he said, voice warm as ever.

“I said I would.”

He offered her his arm, mock-chivalrous. “Shall we?”

She raised a brow at the gesture. “Still not a date.”

Fred grinned wider, retracting his hand. “Right. Just two highly competitive classmates on a weekend stroll through a romantically quaint wizarding village.”

“Exactly.”

“Who may or may not end up snogging behind Honeydukes.”

She elbowed him in the ribs, cheeks flushing pink. “Fred!”

“Sorry. Too soon?”

“Try never.”

He clutched his side like she’d cursed him mortally. “You wound me.”

“And yet, I feel no guilt.”

They started with the shops. Zonko’s was their first stop, predictably. Fred tugged her inside by the wrist, eyes alight, launching into an animated explanation of which products inspired theirs (“Our Sneezing Sparkle? That right there is practically the prototype!”) and which they were currently trying to outdo (“Our line of Nose-Biting Teacups will obliterate these sad excuses for chaos”).

She tried not to be impressed and failed miserably at it. It was genuinely thrilling to watch him in his element - his eyes glowing, hands flying as he explained small enchantments, the way he lit up when something sparked his brain. There was something vital about him. Like he ran on joy and creativity and sheer nerve. And the more she watched…the more she liked it.

When he accidentally set off a joke wand that made her hair float five inches above her head, she nearly hexed him. Until he offered to fix it with a charm of his own creation, and cast it so gently that his fingers barely brushed her temple. Her stomach did a very unexpected flip.

Next was Honeydukes.

Fred declared it was their ‘refuelling station’. She pretended not to laugh at that.

They wandered between the shelves, sugar glittering in the air, chocolate frogs croaking from glass boxes. Fred bought one of everything they both reached for at the same time.

“Split custody,” he said, handing her half of a bag filled with Sour Scribblers and Peppermint Bark.

“You’re bribing me with sugar.”

“I’m investing in our future.”

“I’m going to hex you if you keep talking like that.”

“Kinky.”

She tried not to snort. Tried harder not to notice how good his laugh sounded bouncing off the candy jars.

They took their bags outside and walked slowly through the village, passing the tea shop with heart-shaped windows, past Derwish and Banges where Fred pointed out the exact spot Lee Jordan once got stuck in a levitating bathtub.

Her nose was pink from the cold, hands rubbing together to try and create friction. Fred noticed, then wordlessly offered her his gloves. She hesitated.

“Just take them,” he said. “My hands are particularly warm. Comes with the red hair.”

She rolled her eyes. “Naturally.”

But she took the gloves and her fingers did feel much better. With all the walking, they ended up at the Shrieking Shack overlook.

The hill was empty, dusted with frost and silent but for the soft whistling wind. The shack loomed in the distance, crooked and weathered, framed by bare trees and the cloudy winter sky.

They stood side by side, shoulders brushing, looking out over the view in a rare moment of calm. For the first time, there was no teasing. No banter. Just quiet.

“I never asked,” he said softly, “what makes you so competitive.”

She didn’t look at him. “You didn’t have to. You just assumed it was flirting.”

“Fair,” he admitted. “But still. I’m asking now.”

She was quiet for a moment, then said, “My family.”

“Strict?”

“Not really. Just…accomplished. Everyone’s good at something. Exceptional, even. My sister was Head Girl. My brother played Quidditch for a national youth team. I… have achieved nothing.”

Fred nodded slowly. “Pressure?”

She shrugged. “I guess I thought if I could be the best, then I’d matter. Then I’d be noticed.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. He just said, “You matter anyway.”

Her head turned toward him and their eyes met. For once, she didn’t have anything clever to say. Her heart simply fluttered at his acknowledgment.

“…What about you?” she asked, voice softer now. “Why start a business instead of, I don’t know…just coasting through Hogwarts like everyone expects?”

Fred’s gaze returned to the horizon. “Because I want to prove them wrong,” he said. “Everyone thinks we’re just trouble. That we’ll joke our way into some dead-end job. But we’re building something. Something real. With the way the world is going, we’re going to need a little more joy. And if I can make people laugh, and still beat the smartest witch in the year,” he glanced sideways at her, “Well, that’s just a bonus.”

She was quiet for a long time until a broad smile broke free across her face. “Second smartest.”

Fred gave a scandalized gasp. “Who passed you?!”

She turned to him fully now. “You. By one point. Remember?”

He smirked. “Oh, right. That was glorious.”

She shoved him lightly. “I hate you.”

“You keep saying that but I think I believe you a little less each time you do.” Fred leaned in slightly, not quite touching her, but close. So close.

For a moment, she wondered what it might be like to close the distance - what it might be like to kiss him. But then she shook the thought away.

They walked back to the castle slower than necessary. The sun dipped below the horizon as the first evening stars pricked the sky. Hogsmeade glittered behind them, lanterns glowing gold, smoke curling from chimneys. The cold air nipped at their cheeks, but neither of them seemed to notice.

Fred was still carrying her sweets bag. And she hadn’t given his gloves back.

When they reached the Ravenclaw common room entrance, they stopped under the archway, the castle quiet around them.

Fred rocked on his heels. “So. That was…”

“A truce,” she said quickly.

“A truce?” he repeated.

She nodded. “Academic rivals no more.”

“Right,” he said slowly, eyes twinkling. “Except, it wasn’t a date. And yet—”

“Don’t.”

“You still haven’t called this not-a-date a ‘not-a-date’ out loud.”

She crossed her arms. “It wasn’t a date.”

He leaned in. “But it was good, wasn’t it?”

She paused. “…It was.”

Fred smiled. “Good enough for a third date?”

She blinked. Her mouth opened. Then she tilted her head and smirked. “You mean a second date.”

His grin widened. “So you do admit this was the first.”

She stood on her toes, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, then stepped back. “Ask me again tomorrow,” she whispered, eyes glittering.

And then she vanished behind the common room door, leaving Fred standing there stunned, touched cheek pinker than the other.

[karacaroldanvers]

Fred Weasley - Masterlist

One shots:

- Poetry

Ginny is upset about Harry’s reaction to her valentine poem, and y/n assures her a poem is a very romantic gesture, When Fred hears this, he gets an idea.

- Rivalry

Fred Weasley and y/n y/l/n have been at each other’s throats on the quidditch pitch for years, until one rogue bludger finally has them by each other’s side.

- The One Time She Said Yes

All of the times Fred Weasley asked y/n to marry him. And the one time she said yes.

- Bet On It

Fred and y/n have been friends since First Year. The Yule ball is fast approaching and Fred guarantees that he’ll be able to get a date before she can. She begs to differ. Enter, the bet. Who will win?

- Three’s A Charm

When y/n receives three Dwarf Valentine’s before lunch, she’s convinced this has to be a prank. Only, for once, Fred Weasley didn’t mean to be funny.

- Dance With Me

There’s nothing like some good old fashioned jealousy to push two people together.

- Figure You Out

Cedric Diggory was a good boyfriend. He was loyal, and kind, and handsome. He was smart, and thoughtful, and hardworking. He was a great boyfriend, even. Just not for you.

Fred is insistent that the two of you simply aren’t a good fit. He doesn’t know your favourite things, his hobbies don’t align with yours, and…well, he just can’t seem to figure you out. Not the way Fred has.

- Academic Rivals

Fred Weasley was somehow your greatest academic rival, and you had no idea how. How - when all he does is slack off - is it that he keeps matching your grades? You’re determined to get to the bottom of whatever his (undoubtedly nefarious) secret is.

- The Girl Who Hates Quidditch

When Ginny introduced Fred to her friend who hates quidditch, none of them expected Fred would make it his personal mission to change her mind. He might not achieve his goal, but he might just fall for her in the process.

- Still Annoying?

Fred Weasley has never liked Ginny’s annoying little friend. But maybe she’s not so annoying - or so little - anymore.

- Verituserum

Fred, George, and Lee have been avoiding you all day and you’ve had enough. When you blackmail your way into the Gryffindor common room to confront them, you don’t expect Fred to start bombarding you with strange compliments. You definitely don’t expect what comes next.

- Amortentia (coming soon)

You and Fred get paired up for potions class, and today’s assignment? To brew the most powerful love potion in the wizarding world. Amortentia. What could possibly go wrong?

- Freaky Friday (coming soon)

You and Fred Weasley hated each other. And not for any good reason. Mostly because he was a Gryffindor and you were a Slytherin. Or maybe it was because he was a Weasley and you were a Malfoy. Or maybe both. Whichever it was, it was simply natural for you to hate each other. Until walking a week in each others’ shoes (literally) makes you realise maybe he’s more than a Gryffindor and a Weasley, and he finds out you’re more than a Slytherin and a Malfoy.

- A Twin Thing (coming soon)

When Fred Weasley meets an extraordinary girl he thinks it was love at first sight. Until their second meeting throws him off kilter. It’s almost like she’s a different person entirely.

- Clueless (coming soon)

Y/n was pretty much a textbook Ravenclaw. Studious, intelligent, and creative. Unfortunately for her, she was also quiet, reserved, and went completely unnoticed. Fred Weasley was the exact opposite. Loud, chaotic, and always in the public eye. Maybe that was why he was failing transfiguration. Nevertheless, Fred needs a private tutor, and in exchange y/n wants him to teach her how to stand apart from the crowd. Unfortunately for them, they are both entirely clueless when it comes to each other.

- Reconciliation (coming soon)

You and Fred Weasley had been together for years. Your lives were so well meshed, it was almost impossible to tell where he ended and where you began. So when you arrive back at the apartment you two share, the last thing you expect him to say is ‘we need to talk’.

- The Swap (coming soon)

When the Weasley twins ask you and Angelina to the Yule ball, the two of you are ecstatic. Until you start to realise maybe you preferred Angelina’s date over your own.

- His Dream Girl (coming soon)

No one believes Fred when he insists the girl he sees in his dreams is real. Then again who would?

- Rule #1 (coming soon)

Being best friends with Ginny Weasley was the easiest thing in the world. Or, at least, it had been at the start. The two of you had three simple rules.

#3. Always save each other a seat.

#2. Never lie to one another.

#1. Ginny’s brothers were off-limits.

It was rule #1 that you found yourself currently in contempt of. But how were you meant to know when you’d made that promise that a few years down the track everything would change?

- Foresight (coming soon)

You’ve always known how people die. The first time it happened, you were six years old. Since then, every glance is a countdown. Every connection is a risk. You’ve made peace with the curse, befriending those with the shortest threads, leaving behind warmth before the world goes cold.

Then Fred Weasley walks into your life with too much laughter, too much heart…and a death you can’t bear to watch. You never planned to fall for him. But when fate marks him for a violent end, you do the unthinkable. You break the rules and change the story. And fate demands payment.

Multi-part:

- Penpals - Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

What happens when Fred’s new owl accidentally sends a letter meant for George to the wrong person? The mysterious recipient might just write him back. And it might end up being the best mistake Fred has ever made.

- Hogwarts’s Resident Goth Girl - Part 1, Part 2,

Hogwart’s resident goth girl y/n was unfriendly at best and completely unapproachable at worst. In fact, in all his six years at the school, Fred Weasley had never heard her speak once. When George dares him to ask her to the Yule Ball, all of that is about to change.

[karacaroldanvers]

Three’s A Charm

Fred Weasley x FemReader

When y/n receives three Dwarf Valentine’s before lunch, she’s convinced this has to be a prank. Only, for once, Fred Weasley didn’t mean to be funny.

———————————————————————

Valentine’s Day wasn’t usually a school-wide celebration at Hogwarts. Sure, you’d seen the odd notes being passed in class, or a private display of affection in the great hall at mealtimes. But Valentine’s Day this year? Well, Professor Lockhart had outdone himself. The castle was drowning in pink. Hearts floated on every available surface, and the unmistakable scent of overused perfume wafted down the corridors. Worse than that were the singing dwarves Lockhart had personally hired as “Valentine messengers.” Each one was short, extremely hairy, dressed in frilly cupids’ attire, and utterly relentless.

Now, you didn’t usually consider yourself a Valentine’s-Scrooge. You liked the holiday well enough, but that was until the dwarves seemed to make harassing you their personal mission.

You were mid-way through Ancient Runes, attempting to translate an inscription about magical contracts when the door slammed open with theatrical flair.

“Valentine for a Miss Y/N!” a dwarf bellowed, wobbling in on stubby legs.

You froze.

Professor Babbling sighed but gestured wearily. “Make it quick.”

Rounding the corner came what could only be described as Lockhart’s most deranged creation yet: a dwarf - short, round, and rosy-cheeked - stuffed into pink tights and silver wings, his hat askew and glitter falling off him like dandruff.

The dwarf approached your desk with purpose, cleared his throat dramatically, and began in a nasal, off-key voice. “Your eyes are bright as phoenix flame, your laugh a charm I couldn’t name. My heart does flips like a pancake, true, every time that I see you.”

A snort burst from behind you - Alicia Spinnet, no doubt. You buried your face in your hands to hide the flame from beneath your cheeks as the class erupted into laughter.

“Oh Merlin’s trousers,” you whispered, wanting nothing more than the floor to open and swallow you whole. “That didn’t just happen.”

It took several minutes for the waves of laughter to die down, and finally, you thought it might be over. One accidental embarrassment, maybe a misdelivered dwarf. Surely no one would willingly send something like that.

———————————————————————

The next strike came in Care of Magical Creatures. You were trying to get a hinkypunk to stop puffing smoke at your face when another dwarf toddled down the slope from Hagrid’s hut, determined as ever.

A small smirk tugged at your lips as you awaited the valentine messenger to single-out one of your class mates. At least you wouldn’t be the only one to be utterly embarrassed today.

Until…“Valentine for Miss Y/N!” he chirped and the entire class turned to watch.

Your heart dropped into your shoes.

“Delivering with love from a mystery soul!” he bellowed, his lute strumming completely out of tune.

“Oh, for the love of Merlin—”

He cleared his throat dramatically and began: “You’re brighter than a Niffler’s hoard. You’ve left me hopeless, adoring, floored. If I were braver, I’d hold your hand, but dwarves will do what I can’t stand.”

You were absolutely scarlet. Lee Jordan howled with laughter, and Angelina Johnson had to lean on Alicia for support.

“I’m going to crawl into a dragon’s mouth,” you muttered. “And ask it to chew slowly.”

Lee Jordan doubled was still doubled over. “I swear I’ve never seen someone look more like they wanted to commit a murder and cry at the same time.”

———————————————————————

You were headed to Potions when the third attack hit.

The usual rush of students was slowed, eyes darting to corners, whispers fluttering like moth wings. A fifth-year Hufflepuff passed by, looking equal parts entertained and disturbed. And then you heard it. The sharp twang of a lute, followed by—

“VALENTINE FOR A MISS Y/N!”

Oh no. Not again.

You instantly began trying to push your way through the sea of students who had gathered around to watch.

“No. Nope. Absolutely not,” you protested, but the halls were too thick with students, and you spotted a large group of your classmates also on their way to the dungeons who’d stopped to pay attention.

The dwarf ignored your plea, marching up to you with the intensity of a war general. Then that horrid lure began to play once more. “I see you in my dreams at night. Your face, your laugh, the sweetest sight. If I were braver, I’d confess, but dwarves, alas, must do the rest!”

This time, someone actually applauded, loudly hooting and hollering. You tuned to see it was none other than George, flanked by Fred and Lee. The former of which had a rather awkward smile stretched over his lips. George’s cheers were soon joined by the rest of the corridor, leaving you the deepest shade of red you’d been all day.

“You’re someone’s entire muse, y/n. You should feel honoured!” George called out, slinging his arm around your shoulders as the crowd dispersed, leading you with them to Snape’s classroom.

“I feel nauseous.”

———————————————————————

By lunch, you’d tried to hide in the Great Hall, seeking refuge at your usual spot on Gryffindor table beside George, Fred, Lee, Angelina, Alicia, and Katie. Your friends had already started taking bets on how many dwarves you’d receive before curfew.

“Three dwarves before dinner,” George said, ticking invisible tally marks in the air. “That’s got to be some sort of Hogwarts record.”

“I’m being hunted,” you replied dramatically. “They’re predators. Musical, glittery predators.”

Lee grinned. “You’ve got to admit, it’s impressive.”

“I’ll be impressed when they leave me alone,” you added, stabbing your fork aggressively through a chunk of grilled chicken.

Angelina leaned in, teasing. “Come on, Y/N. There must be someone you hope it’s from?”

You scoffed. “What, and reward this kind of behavior? No. Absolutely not.”

Katie giggled. “But it’s kind of romantic…”

You shook your head. “It’s horrifying. Like a love-struck Howler. I swear, if I get another one of those blasted poems, I will drown myself in this bowl of pumpkin juice.”

Lee grinned wickedly. “Bit dramatic, Y/N. What if your admirer’s someone devastatingly charming?”

“Then they’re clearly brain-damaged. Have you heard the poems?”

George leaned back with a grin. “My heart flips like a pancake,” he repeated dreamily. “Poetic genius, in my opinion.”

“More like nauseating nonsense,” you grumbled. “Who even writes that rubbish?”

That’s when Lee spoke, far too smug for his own good. “You’ll have to ask Fred.”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

George whipped his head around. “Lee—”

Lee coughed, suddenly looking very alert. “I mean - not Fred - Frog. Definitely said frog. Devious creatures. You can never be too sure what they’re up to.”

Fred, across from you, went completely pale and promptly elbowed Lee so hard he dropped his fork. “OW! What was that for?!”

Fred cleared his throat loudly. “Choking hazard.”

But you were already laughing in relief. “Oh my God, Fred, was that you? Thank God it wasn’t serious. You really committed! The pancake line really topped it all off.”

Fred didn’t laugh. In fact, he looked…tense. You noticed the twitch in his jaw just before he stood up abruptly, muttering, “Yeah. Hilarious.”

And then he walked away, out of the hall without a word. The laughter died in your throat. You frowned. “Wait…Fred! Where you going?”

George sighed deeply, like someone had just spilled potion on his homework. “Lee, you absolute walnut.”

“He likes you, you idiot,” Angelina whispered, eyes wide.

Your brain stalled. You stared after him, mind whirling like a broken time-turner. “I—what—no. He can’t. That was—those were the cheesiest poems I’ve ever heard!”

“But he meant it,” Katie said gently.

Alicia gave you a nudge. “Go after him!”

You were already on your feet.

“Run!” Lee barked. “Before he throws himself off Gryffindor tower!”

You grabbed your bag and sprinted out after Fred, heart thundering in your chest like a rogue Bludger.

———————————————————————

You found Fred standing by the edge of the Black Lake, where the icy breeze skimmed across the water’s surface. The sky was a tapestry of low-hanging clouds, streaked with hints of soft rose and gold. It should’ve been beautiful. Instead, it felt like your heart was trying to crawl out of your chest.

Fred was standing under one of the tall trees lining the shore, hands shoved into his pockets, staring out at the glassy surface.

You approached slowly, as though he were a Hippogriff who might fly off. “Fred?”

He didn’t turn, but his shoulders tensed. You took a few steps forward, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Can we talk?”

He sighed, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “You don’t have to say anything. I get it. It was pretty funny.”

You winced. “It wasn’t. I mean, it was. But only because I thought it was a prank. That’s what you do. It’s not like you’re ever serious.”

Fred let out a short breath, finally glancing at you over his shoulder. His eyes weren’t angry. They were just…disappointed. Embarrassed, even. “Yeah. I mean, I thought maybe if I made it funny, it wouldn’t be that terrifying. I didn’t know you’d think it was that funny.”

“Terrifying?” You echoed, brows meeting in confusion.

Fred exhaled, raking a hand through his messy red hair. “You’re you. Smart. Stunning. Brave. You fly circles around everyone and ace exams and don’t even flinch when Lee sets magical creatures loose in the common room. You’re amazing, and one of my best friends, and I didn’t know how else to tell you.”

Your heart flipped over. That dwarf might say it was quite like a pancake.

“I thought you were taking the mickey at dinner,” he continued. “And then you laughed. And it felt like the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”

You stepped in front of him. “I didn’t laugh because I thought it was stupid. I laughed because I thought it was just a prank.”

“It wasn’t.”

“I know that now.”

He finally turned to face you fully. His cheeks were flushed, from embarrassment and probably nerves. Fred Weasley, of all people, looked nervous.

“So, you actually wrote those poems?” You asked tentatively, carefully about your wording. You didn’t want to say anything else that might hurt his feelings even further.

“I wrote better ones first, but George said they were too sappy and Lockhart said he’d edit them, so blame him for the pancakes.”

You giggled, but then stopped yourself. “Sorry. I’m not laughing at you. I just…I didn’t think you’d ever feel that way.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “What way?”

You swallowed. “The way I feel.”

That caught him off guard. His lips parted, then closed again.

You stepped closer, looking up at his surprised face. “I thought the whole thing was just…another ridiculous Weasley stunt. If I’d have known you were serious, I would have told you that I really like you Fred.”

He looked stunned.

“I like the way you brighten up a room, and the way you make me laugh. I like how you’re loyal to your friends, and you look out for your little sister. I like how smart you are, even if not everyone sees it. I like your creativity, and your dedication, and the way you like to make others happy. I like you, Fred Weasley.”

You didn’t really have anything planned. No grand romantic gesture. No poem. You just looked at him, heart in your throat, and hoped he’d believe you.

Fred blinked. Then he smiled, so slow and bright, and so Fred it made your stomach flip.

“So the dwarves did work,” he murmured, stepping closer.

“I wouldn’t give the dwarves all the credit,” you laughed, “But yeah. I guess they kind of did.”

His hand found yours, warm and a little tentative. A loud whooping broke the moment.

You turned to see George, Lee, Angelina, Katie, and Alicia all huddled behind a bush - not even hiding well - cheering like lunatics.

“GET IN THERE, WEASLEY!” Lee shouted. “GET YOUR FOUR-DWARVES-WORTH!”

“Four dwarves?” You repeated, wondering if you’d somehow miscounted.

Fred groaned loudly. “I’m going to murder them.”

You smiled, eyes still on him. “Before or after you kiss me?”

His eyes widened, then gleamed. “Oh, definitely after.”

And so he did. The cheers behind you grew louder as Fred dipped down to press his lips against yours. The moment was perfect. The lake shimmered, sunlight catching the ripples like glass.

“YEAH! USE YOUR TONGUE!” George screamed and a laugh tore itself from your throat, coming out in a snorted sound as you and Fred broke apart.

“Oh my god!” You clamped hand over your mouth, shocked at the noise.

Fred squeezed your hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll get them all back for this.”

You raised a brow. “Even George?”

He grinned wickedly. “Especially George.”

———————————————————————

Later that evening, the Gryffindor common room glowed gold with firelight and warmth, full of laughter and low chatter. The storm of Valentine’s Day had passed, but its embers still crackled through the air - sweet, teasing, and full of that charged energy only Hogwarts could create.

You were nestled on one of the plush armchairs closest to the fireplace, curled securely into Fred’s lap, his arms draped loosely around your waist. Your back pressed into his chest, where you could hear the low, lazy rhythm of his heartbeat beneath the soft wool of his jumper.

He smelled like cinnamon and fireplace smoke. His chin dipped occasionally, nuzzling into your hair, the faintest hints of his breath brushing your ear as he whispered things like ‘Do you know your smile could put a veela’s to shame?’

And…

“If I’d known all it took was dwarves, I’d have started my own valentine delivery service in second year.”

“Second year? That’s how long you’ve liked me?” Your eyebrows rose in surprise.

Each word of his sent a fluttering bloom down to your stomach, your cheeks burning pleasantly, but you never stopped smiling.

Nearby, Angelina was blushing furiously as George leaned close to whisper something you could only guess was highly inappropriate by the way her eyes widened and she elbowed him in the ribs. Alicia and Katie were cackling at something Lee was acting out with grand, sweeping gestures, punctuated by ridiculous sound effects.

That’s when the common room portrait door creaked open.

Everyone turned - half-expecting a Prefect or maybe McGonagall herself at this time of night - but instead, through the frame came the telltale glittery disaster that had haunted your day.

Another dwarf.

He huffed dramatically through the archway, feathered wings bobbing and a scroll clutched in one pudgy hand.

The whole room groaned in unison.

“Oh no,” you muttered, ducking your head against Fred’s shoulder. “Not another one—”

Angelina burst out laughing. “Oh this is perfect.”

George pointed. “Oi, y/n, your secret admirer’s at it again!”

Fred, still twirling a strand of your hair around his finger, leaned down and murmured into your ear, “Don’t move. Just wait.”

His voice was a touch mischievous - too calm. You looked up at him, brows knitting. “Wait for what?”

The dwarf stopped in the center of the room, cleared his throat with operatic grandeur, and unrolled the parchment.

“Ahem! I have a double Valentine—”

The room collectively lost it.

Lee spat out his pumpkin juice. “What?!”

But the dwarf was already launching into his poem, voice echoing with all the misplaced confidence of a cursed sonnet. “With pranks and tricks and a head so wide, you strut through halls with too much pride. Your jokes are loud, your brains…well, less. But you still cause your friends distress.”

There was a beat of silence. Then George made a strangled noise. “Wait—”

“This ode is shared, for two such clowns. Both are foes to those who wear frowns. Together you’re a menace, this is true, but also dashing, through and through!”

The room exploded in laughter. Fred’s arms tightened around your waist as he buried his face in your shoulder, absolutely howling. You felt his chest shake behind you.

George, scandalized, leapt to his feet. “WHO DID THIS?!”

Lee looked like he was debating whether to cry or dive out the window. “I swear to Merlin if this is about the butterbeer fight in Hogsmeade—”

The dwarf, oblivious to the growing chaos, continued undeterred. “Lee and George, a charming pair. Too much ego, too much hair. But hearts of gold and minds so quick, just maybe try to be less thick.”

Fred wheezed, wiping his eyes. “I haven’t felt this alive since we enchanted those snowballs to fly into Quirrel’s turban!”

You leaned back, still laughing. “So this is your revenge?”

Fred smirked. “Let’s call it…poetic justice. I did have an extra dwarf, after all. Just had to slip him a new poem.”

Lee dove for the dwarf, who squealed and made a surprisingly agile escape out the portrait hole, feather boa flapping wildly.

Everyone collapsed into fits of laughter again, including Angelina, who had tears streaming down her cheeks, and Katie, who had to hold onto Alicia to keep from tipping over the back of the couch.

George flopped back down dramatically. “Right. It’s war now.”

Lee nodded. “Agreed. The next poem you get, Weasley, will rhyme ‘twit’ with ‘armpit.’”

Fred just looked entirely too pleased with himself, his hands returning to your waist. “As long as I still get to kiss my girl afterward.”

The room whooped. You buried your face in Fred’s jumper, laughing, warm to your bones. You liked the sound of that. Fred Weasley’s girl.

[karacaroldanvers]

The One Time She Said Yes

Fred Weasley x FemReader

All of the times Fred Weasley asked y/n to marry him. And the one time she said yes.

Warnings: Angst, Canon Character death

———————————————————————

The Burrow always smelled comforting. Like cinnamon and sun-warmed grass.

It was a golden afternoon in late summer, and the mismatched garden behind the Burrow buzzed with dragonflies and laughter. Well, had buzzed, until about ten minutes ago, when a small girl with grass-stained knees and a pout bigger than the sky had been told by Charlie and Bill that “this game’s for big kids, sorry.”

Now she sat beneath a sagging old apple tree, chin in her hands, eyes watery and red-rimmed. Her little floral dress was wrinkled and half her hair had come loose from the ribbon her mum had carefully tied that morning.

That’s how Fred found her.

He’d only come out to tell her that Molly said it was time for juice and treacle tart, but when he saw her sitting there all small and sad and scrunching her fists like she was about to cry again, everything else kind of melted away.

“Hey,” he said softly, crouching down beside her. “D’you wanna play with me? We’ve got a dress-up box. George says he wants to be a prince, but princes are boring.”

She sniffled and looked over at him, lashes wet.“You don’t think I’m too little?”

Fred scrunched his nose. “You’re not little. You beat Percy at Exploding Snap twice last week.”

That earned the tiniest smile. “Okay,” she mumbled.

They trailed into the Burrow hand in hand. Molly barely blinked at the trail of glitter, mismatched fabrics, and toy swords they left behind as they rummaged through the dress-up box. By the time they reemerged, Fred was wearing a wizards hat and an oversized waistcoat that dragged behind him like a cape, and she wore a tulle skirt over her clothes and a flower crown that slipped too far to one side.

“You be the fairy queen,” Fred said importantly, striking a pose with a crooked plastic wand, “and I’ll be the wizard knight who saves you from the goblins.”

“But I don’t need saving!” she said proudly, puffing up.

Fred grinned, a little gap in his front teeth where one had fallen out last week. “Alright, then I’ll be the goblin.”

They ran around the garden for ages, casting spells, banishing invisible trolls, and laughing until their cheeks hurt. Eventually, breathless and tangled in old tulle and the buzz of imagination, they collapsed onto a patch of soft grass near the gnome-warren.

Fred was quiet for a moment. Then, with the kind of sudden gravity only a six-year-old like him could muster, he turned toward her and asked, “Will you marry me?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Marry me. Like Mum and Dad. I’ll build you a castle with fairy lights, and we’ll eat chocolate frogs for breakfast.”

She giggled, the sound sticky-sweet and sunlit. “That’s silly, Freddie.”

“Is not!”

“You can’t marry people when you’re six.”

He frowned, pouting. “Why not?”

“Because we’re too little,” she insisted, like it was obvious. “But…ask me again when we’re big. Maybe I’ll say yes then.”

Fred beamed. “Okay. I will.”

And he meant it.

———————————————————————

The living room at the Burrow looked like a battlefield.

Dice lay scattered across the rug like fallen soldiers. Game cards were stuck under couch cushions. The air smelled like biscuits, old books, and the distinct electricity of a thunderstorm rolling in beyond the hills.

They’d been playing for hours. The rest of the Weasley siblings had already given up and moved on to different activities, but not y/n and Fred.

Fred sat cross-legged across from her, his nose wrinkled in concentration as he narrowed his eyes at the board between them. She was chewing the end of a sugar quill, gaze locked onto her final move.

“Don’t do it,” Fred warned dramatically, throwing out an arm. “It’ll end in tears.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re losing.”

“I’m saying that because I’m about to lose, and I can feel it in my spleen.”

“You don’t even know what a spleen is!” She giggled, eyes bright with triumph as she placed her final piece.

The board groaned, a puff of confetti burst from the centre, and the enchanted scoreboard flashed her name in dancing letters that sparkled obnoxiously in pink and gold: GRAND VICTOR: Y/N!

Fred fell back with a loud groan, covering his face with both hands. “NOOOO. Not again!”

“That’s three games in a row,” she said smugly, twirling the sugar quill like a wand. “You said you were going to crush me this time.”

Fred peeked between his fingers. “I still won though.”

“In what universe?”

“Because you played with me. You know, I won in a romantic sense.”

She froze, blinking.

Fred immediately sat up, flushing as if he only just realized what he said. His ears were turning pink, and he picked at the frayed hem of his jumper like it might offer him a way out.

“Wha…what does that even mean?” she asked slowly.

“I dunno,” he muttered. “Just…y’know. I still have fun playing with you even when you beat me at everything.”

“You’re weird.”

Fred puffed out his chest. “My dad says the best people are.”

She rolled her eyes and stood to start packing away the pieces. Fred helped, quietly at first, then asked, not quite casually, “D’you remember that time I asked you to marry me? When we were little?”

She looked up from folding the scoreboard. “Yeah. In the garden. You said we’d eat chocolate frogs for breakfast.”

“Still a solid plan,” he grinned. “So. I was thinking…now we’re older, maybe I should ask again.”

She blinked, startled. “Wait, now?”

Fred shrugged one shoulder, gaze flicking up but not quite meeting hers. “You’re my best friend. And if I’m gonna marry anyone someday, I want it to be you.”

There was no laugh this time. She studied him for a beat too long, then broke into a grin. “Fred, we’re ten.”

“I know. I’m not actually proposing! It’s just…practice. Y’know. For future proposals. Gotta start somewhere.”

“Well then you need to practice losing,” she teased, flicking a game piece at him. “That was the worst proposal I’ve ever heard.”

Fred clutched his chest like she’d mortally wounded him. “You wound me.”

“You dramatic toad,” she said, sticking her tongue out. “But fine. Ask me again when you’re much older. Like seventeen.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Seventeen?”

“Yeah. You’ll be all tall and mature by then, right?”

Fred’s mouth quirked. “Debatable.”

“Then we’ll see,” she said, already turning away.

Fred watched her go, chest fluttering, and whispered under his breath to the empty room, “Seventeen it is, then.”

———————————————————————

The summer sun was blistering, a relentless orange blaze overhead that turned the Weasleys’ backyard into a sweltering arena of cracked grass, scattered broomsticks, and discarded jumpers. The garden smelled like honeysuckle and sweat, mingled with the distant aroma of smoke from the kitchen. Molly must’ve started dinner.

Y/n’s family was visiting again, as they always did during the summer. Except now, y/n also got to see the Weasley children at Hogwarts, where they all attended school. She and the twins were in their third year now, and little Ron had also just finished his first year at school. He was nowhere to be seen now, though. Probably off writing a letter to his new best friend, Harry Potter.

Y/n and the twins had taken their time to play a rather long game of quidditch in the field. Fred hovered above the makeshift pitch in a lazy loop, sweat matting his hair to his forehead, his broom handle warm beneath his palms. Below him, George was shouting something incoherent about cheating, but Fred wasn’t listening.

His eyes were on her. She rocketed across the sky like a streak of starlight, her clothes clinging to her frame in the wind, hair whipping in all directions. She leaned into her turn, cut through the air, spun hard, and smack! The Quaffle went sailing straight through the middle hoop like she’d done it in her sleep.

“HA!” she shouted triumphantly, fists thrown in the air as her broom dipped and coasted toward the ground.

Fred’s jaw dropped.

George groaned. “That’s it. I’m done. I’m retiring. I can’t keep being destroyed like this.”

“You’re just mad she’s better than you,” Fred teased automatically, still watching her as she touched down, cheeks flushed from exertion, eyes sparkling with pride.

“Better than you, too,” she said, turning to him with a smug look. “I believe that was my fifth goal.”

“I wasn’t even keeping score,” Fred said, half-defensive, half-in-awe. “It’s hard to count when I’m being dazzled.”

She arched a brow, brushing sweat-damp hair out of her face. “Dazzled?”

He swallowed, suddenly aware of how dry his throat was. “Yeah. By your…uh. Aerodynamic excellence.”

George made a gagging noise somewhere behind them. “I’m going inside. Mum! They’re being weird again!”

The door slammed behind him. They were alone now. The wind had picked up slightly, brushing warm air across the field, fluttering the edges of her sleeves.

Fred cleared his throat and kicked at the dirt with one scuffed trainer. “You were really good today.”

She glanced at him sideways, suspicious. “What do you want?”

“Nothing!”

“Liar.”

“Okay, maybe I do want something,” he admitted, grinning.

She smirked and leaned against her broom, letting it rest across her shoulders like a bat. “I’m listening.”

Fred took a step closer, the sun catching on the reddish highlights in his hair. “I just…was thinking. You’ve got killer aim, a terrifying poker face, and you’re possibly the coolest person I know.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the compliment hidden in his joke. “Fred—”

“And,” he cut in quickly, fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt, “I think you should marry me.”

There it was. Out again.

She snorted. Loud. “What?!”

“C’mon,” he said, shrugging one shoulder but watching her closely. “Just imagine it! Quidditch every weekend, breakfast food for dinner, and I’ll let you win every board game if you say yes.”

She gave him a look, eyes narrowed, but there was a twitch at the corner of her mouth. “You’d let me win?”

“I always let you win,” he said, deadpan.

She took a slow step forward, letting her broom fall to the ground as she closed the distance between them. “You’re an idiot.”

Fred grinned. “So that’s a yes?”

“No,” she said, laughing now, shaking her head as she walked past him. “It’s a you’re-an-idiot. When are you going to stop joking about that?”

He turned to follow her, something flickering in his chest. “Who says I’m not being serious?”

She paused, just for a second. It was the kind of pause that lingered longer than it should’ve. Like maybe the words had landed deeper than either of them expected. Her gaze met his, and he couldn’t read it this time. There was something guarded there. A flicker of something just out of reach.

Then she smiled, crooked and careless. “Because you never are. You joke about everything.”

Fred watched her walk away, barefoot and fearless, as the wind lifted her hair from her shoulders.

He wanted to call out after her. Tell her that he would never joke about her.

He didn’t.

———————————————————————

The night hung heavy and velvet-black above the castle, stars scattered across the sky like spilled secrets. It was late - long past curfew - but the Astronomy Tower had always been their place. The highest point at Hogwarts, cloaked in quiet and cool wind, forgotten by prefect patrols too lazy to climb that many stairs.

She pushed the wooden door open with a creak, the chill night air slipping over her skin as she stepped out onto the stone platform. Fred was already there, perched on the edge of the low wall with one leg swinging carelessly into the dark. A half-empty bottle of Firewhisky dangled from his hand, glinting amber in the starlight.

“Nice of you to show up,” he slurred, grinning when he saw her.

It wasn’t odd for her to find him up here. It was one of the only times she’d see him at school without George by his side. It also didn’t surprise her to see the bottle of grog in his hand. It had been a stressful year, after all. Umbridge had made sure of it. In fact, if the witch were to catch them up her she was sure they’d be severely punished. Maybe even expelled.

“You said it was urgent,” she replied, arms crossed, voice dry. “I thought one of your inventions went wrong. Not that you’d climbed onto the roof with contraband.”

Fred wiggled the bottle invitingly. “Not just contraband. Premium bad decisions.”

She sighed, stepping closer. “How much have you had?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Enough to finally be brave, I think.”

“Brave or stupid?” she muttered, taking the bottle from him and setting it down safely on the stone ledge.

Fred didn’t answer. He was looking at her with a softness that made her stomach twist - eyes half-lidded, hair wind-tousled, face flushed from the Firewhisky and the cold. “George and I are leaving. Tomorrow. We’re not coming back. Can’t put up with that vile toad anymore.”

She pursed her lips as something in her abdomen churned uncomfortably. “I was wondering when it would finally happen.” She admitted. She’d noticed that the twins were at their wits end lately. Really it was only a matter of time before they took off, leaving her behind.

“You should come with us.” Something behind his gaze almost begged her.

“You know I can’t. I need to finish school,” she shook her head. But she wished she could say yes. He nodded, taking another solemn swig from the bottle.

“Y’know,” he said quietly, “you look like the moonlight’s in love with you.”

She blinked, caught off guard by his borderline nonsensical words. “You’re drunk.”

“Drunk. Not blind.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she fought to keep her voice steady. “Okay, that’s it. You’re going to bed.”

Fred reached out, caught her wrist before she could move away. “Wait.”

She stilled. His fingers were warm. His grip gentle. Hesitant.

“D’you remember,” he said slowly, “that summer when we were ten? We were playing board games and I asked you to marry me. You told me to wait til we were seventeen.” Fred smiled, boyish and unsteady, but somehow painfully sincere. “So…am I tall and mature yet?”

She didn’t speak right away. Her heart beat against her ribs like a trapped snitch.

“Fred…”

“I’m serious,” he said, eyes locked on hers now. “I know I joke all the time, but I’m not joking now. I want…I want to marry you someday. Properly. I’ve wanted it since we were five. Since that stupid game in the garden. Since always.”

Her throat tightened. “You won’t even remember this tomorrow.”

“Yes I will,” he insisted, voice rising with stubbornness. “I will. I’ll write it down. I’ll carve it into the back of my hand if I have to.”

She laughed, but it came out watery. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not,” he whispered. “Not about you. Never about you.”

She swallowed the ache in her chest and slowly crouched in front of him, tucking a windblown curl behind his ear. Her fingers lingered there longer than they should have. “You’re drunk, Freddie.”

“But I love you,” he said, quiet and sure.

She closed her eyes for half a second. Just one half-second of weakness. “I know.”

Silence hung between them like breath before a kiss. And then, she shook her head.

“You’re going to bed.”

“No—wait, please—just—”

She tugged gently on his arm, helping him down from the ledge. He stumbled a bit, and she caught him, letting his weight lean into hers as they started the slow descent from the tower.

His voice, sleepy now, mumbled against her shoulder. “You said…seventeen…”

“I know what I said.” She didn’t let him see the way her eyes burned, the way her lip trembled.“I just didn’t think you’d be asking me when you could barely stand upright.”

Fred let out a soft breath, something like a laugh. “Still gonna ask again. Next time maybe you’ll say yes.”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t tell him that part of her - maybe most of her - wanted to say yes right there. Had wanted to for years. But not like this. Not with whisky on his breath and wobble in his knees. Not when she couldn’t trust that he still meant it. Not when he was leaving tomorrow and she would be stuck here at Hogwarts. Not when she had no idea where either of them would be this time next year.

She got him to bed, helped him out of his shoes, brushed the hair from his forehead as he blinked up at her with glassy eyes and a crooked, hopeless smile.

“You love me too,” he whispered.

Her heart cracked. She leaned down, pressed a kiss to his forehead, soft and shaking. “I do.”

But he was already asleep.

———————————————————————

The Burrow had never looked so magical. Golden lanterns floated like fireflies above the garden, casting a warm, flickering glow over rows of white-draped tables and dancing guests. Strings of enchanted fairy lights tangled around tree branches around the floating marquee. Fleur looked radiant, Bill dashing, and everything - the laughter, the wine, the music - felt like the start of something instead of the end of a world teetering on the edge.

She stood near the fringe of the celebration, a half-full glass of champagne in hand and the soft hum of the wedding band playing behind her. Her dress was a deep shade of emerald that made her skin glow in the candlelight, her hair pinned up with little sprigs of baby’s breath.

It was one of the few moments in recent memory where she didn’t feel like a war was looming just beyond the trees.

And then—

“Merlin’s beard,” came the familiar, amused voice from behind her, “they let you into a place like this looking that fancy?”

She turned. Fred Weasley was standing there. Clean-shaven, hair wind-tousled as always, a slightly askew bow tie hanging loose at his collar and a glass in his hand that was suspiciously not his first. He looked older than the last time she’d seen him, but then again, he was. His smile was crooked, but his eyes were soft, and they scanned her like she was a memory made real again.

“Fred,” she said, her breath catching a little.

“Hello, gorgeous.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that curved her lips. “Still as full of yourself as ever.”

“Absolutely,” he said proudly. “Although, I’m still trying to recover from the emotional trauma of seeing you walk in tonight. I mean, bloody hell, you’ve grown up.”

“I’m not sure whether to be flattered or insulted.”

“Oh, flattered,” he said easily, stepping closer, his gaze lingering on her just long enough to make her cheeks warm. “Definitely flattered.”

A moment passed, too long to be casual. Then he tilted his head toward the dance floor. “Wanna dance?”

She hesitated. Not because she didn’t want to - she did, and desperately so - but because her heart had spent too many years pretending it didn’t still skip at the sight of him.

But she nodded anyway. “Yeah. I’d love to.”

He offered his hand with an exaggerated bow, and she took it, letting him lead her into the sea of swaying bodies and floating lanterns. The music was soft and old-fashioned. A violin wept gently above a lilting piano. He held her hand in his and settled the other lightly against her waist. They fit together like a memory.

“So,” he murmured, “Healer, huh?”

“So you’ve been keeping track?” She smiled up at him. “St Mungo’s. Spell damage ward. Long hours. Screaming patients. You know, glamorous.”

He grinned. “Saving lives and breaking hearts, I imagine.”

She nudged him with her hip. “And what about you? I hear Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes has lines out the door.”

“Oh, we’re wildly successful,” he said dramatically. “Money. Fame. Adoring fans. It’s exhausting, really.”

She laughed, and his smile softened.

“I’m glad,” she said quietly, after a pause. “That you’re happy. You and George…you deserve it.”

Something flickered in his expression. “Yeah. We’re lucky.”

The song slowed. The light caught in her hair. And for a long moment, neither of them said anything.

Then, “I missed you,” he said softly.

Her throat tightened. “I missed you too.”

“I thought about writing,” he added, his voice low. “But I figured you were busy becoming a real adult and didn’t have time for a clown like me.”

“You’re not a clown,” she said. “You’ve never been.”

Their eyes met. There it was again, that same pull, that unspoken thing that had been dancing between them since they were seventeen and drunk on the Astronomy Tower.

“We should’ve tried,” he said suddenly. “Back then. When we had the chance.”

“I know,” she whispered.

His hand slipped lower on her back, his forehead nearly brushing hers. “We could try now.”

Her heart stumbled. “What?”

“There’s still time for you to marry me.” It wasn’t a joke.

There was no teasing grin, no punchline waiting. Just Fred, holding her like she was something fragile and burning, saying the words like they’d been waiting in his mouth since they were kids.

“Fred…” she whispered.

“I mean it.” He gave a breathless laugh. “Look at us. You’re stunning, and I’m…well, at least I’m charming. That’s gotta count for something.”

She stared at him, mouth parting to answer. And that’s when it happened. A bang cracked through the garden, loud and unnatural. The music stopped. People screamed.

A silver otter Patronus shot across the air, swirling above the crowd. “The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”

Gasps broke the quiet. Plates clattered to the ground. Wands were drawn. And then, before anyone could move, black figures began to appear at the edge of the clearing - hooded, masked, radiating menace.

“Death Eaters!” someone screamed.

Fred pulled her behind him without thinking, wand out in an instant. “Go!” he shouted to her over the panic. “Get out of here!”

“No! Not without you—”

“I’ll be fine,” he lied. “Just go—”

A jet of green light sliced the air between them.

Fred flung a shield charm, but the blast knocked them apart. She hit the ground hard, vision spinning. In the chaos - spells flying, guests screaming, tables flipping - she caught one last glimpse of him, red hair flaming under the dark sky as he dueled back-to-back with George, fearless.

She shouted his name. He didn’t hear her.

And as another curse exploded far too close, she was yanked backward by Charlie Weasley, who wrapped an arm around her and Disapparated them both out into the cold, dark night.

———————————————————————

The air was thick with smoke and fear. Spells lit the night like lightning. Screams echoed down every corridor. The world was ending one brick at a time, and she was tearing through the rubble like a ghost in search of a tether - desperate, driven, breathless.

The last year had been hard on everyone. War had torn families apart, sent people into hiding. Y/n had been on the run, fleeing death eaters left and right, there had been no time for anything else but surviving to fight another day. She hadn’t seen the Weasley twins - hadn’t seen Fred - since Fleur and Bill’s wedding.

Her feet pounded across the flagstone floor of the Entrance Hall, boots soaked in something too dark to name. She ducked behind the crumbling statue of Gregory the Smarmy, heart hammering against her ribs like it wanted out, like it needed to find him too.

Fred. She had to find Fred.

The war was deafening, duels flaring all around, bodies falling in corners she didn’t let herself look too closely at. All she could see, all she could feel, was his face the last time they were both here. That sleepy grin from the Astronomy Tower. The way he said, “You love me too.”

He was right. And she was going to tell him.

“MOVE!” she yelled, pushing past a stunned first-year being ushered toward the Great Hall by a terrified Hufflepuff prefect.

A shockwave rattled the windows as something exploded above the grand staircase. Dust rained down like ash. Somewhere in the chaos, she heard Bellatrix Lestrange laughing, and her skin went cold.

But then she caught sight of Molly Weasley, stood near the base of the stairs. Her wand was raised, her hair wild with battle and her robes scorched at the hem. Her chest heaved with exhaustion, but when she turned and saw y/n, her face crumpled in sudden relief.

“Oh, thank Merlin—” Molly surged forward, grabbing her into a fierce hug.

“I came back to fight,” she gasped into Molly’s shoulder. “I couldn’t stay away.”

Molly pulled back, cupping her face in both trembling hands. “Of course you did, love. Brave girl.”

“Where is he?” she demanded, her voice sharp and panicked now. “Fred. I need to find Fred. I need to tell him—”

Molly paused, and something gentle came into her expression. Something knowing. “Oh,” she breathed, eyes shining.

She nodded rapidly, too choked up to speak. “I can’t wait anymore. I just…I love him. I always have. And I can’t…if something happens before I—”

Molly wrapped her arms around her again, tighter this time. “You go, darling. You go tell him. He and George were defending the Room of Requirement - the passageway to Hogsmeade. He’ll be there.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, eyes wet, throat tight.

“Go,” Molly said, tears in her voice. “Go get our boy.”

She didn’t hesitate. She took off running again, weaving through chaos, through bodies and broken glass and echoing cries. The castle was bleeding. Its stone walls cracked and scorched, its staircases broken, its portraits either vacant or weeping. But she kept going, dodging curses and dodging death, clutching her wand tight to her chest like a compass pointing north.

Fred. Fred. Fred.

That was her mantra.

The Room of Requirement was near. She could hear shouting - his voice, unmistakably loud even under duress.

She rounded the corner just in time to see him. He stood in front of the shattered stone doors that led to the Room of Requirement, wand at the ready, George beside him and blood streaking his cheek. His chest rose and fell in sharp bursts as he cast spell after spell, holding the line like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Even now, even covered in dust and sweat and blood, he looked like home.

She stumbled forward, heart in her throat. “FRED!”

He turned at the sound of her voice. Their eyes locked across the broken corridor, over the sea of chaos.

BOOM.

The world went white. A violent spell tore through the stone above them, and the ceiling exploded. The wall beside the Room of Requirement collapsed inward. Screams erupted. A flash of heat, of light, of fire.

“No. NO!” she screamed, sprinting forward as the debris settled, a thick cloud of dust rising like smoke from a pyre.

George’s voice rang out first, raw and panicked. “FRED?!”

She dropped to her knees, hands already digging through the rubble, ignoring the searing pain in her arms, the gash on her temple. She ripped at the stones, pulled away wood and plaster and whatever else had buried him as George’s wand went to work doing the same.

“Please,” she sobbed, fingers bloody. “Please, no, not like this—”

A hand, still warm, reached out through the rubble.

“Fred, Fred, I’ve got you. Don’t move—” She uncovered his face, half-buried beneath broken stone. His eyes fluttered open, and the ghost of a smile touched his lips. She let out a strangled sob, brushing the dust from his cheek, her hands trembling. “Don’t move. I’m getting help. Madam Pomfrey…someone—”

“No,” he whispered, catching her wrist with what little strength he had left. “No time. Just…stay. Please.”

She shook her head violently, blinking tears from her eyes as she tried to clear more debris from his chest, from his legs, from the place the wall had caved in and crushed him. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay, I swear—”

“Look at me,” he rasped. She froze. His eyes were unfocused. But they were on her. “Don’t kid yourself,” he said, voice quiet, slurred with pain. “You know I don’t have long. I just…I just wanna look at you. One last time.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

Fred blinked slowly. “Told George you’d show up…didn’t believe me…”

She cradled his face in her palms, brushing the blood away, the tears falling freely now. “You idiot. You absolute idiot. You don’t get to die before I tell you.”

“Tell me what?” he rasped, barely audible.

“That I love you.” Her voice cracked. “That I’ve always loved you. That I was waiting for the right time, and I was wrong. There’s never a right time. I should’ve told you when we were kids, when you asked me again and again and I kept saying no. I should’ve said yes.”

Fred smiled through the pain. “Finally. You know I’ve got to ask—”

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head again, tears falling freely now. “Don’t you dare…don’t you dare say it.”

“I have to,” he insisted, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth where blood was bubbling past his lips. “It’s tradition.”

“Fred—”

“Please,” he said softly. “Let me ask one last time.”

And then, through the pain, through the blood, through the smoke of a burning world, he looked at her like he always had - like she was the only real thing that had ever existed - and said: “Will you marry me?”

It shattered what was left of her heart, the shards puncturing her lungs and stealing her breath.

All the years. All the laughter. The stolen glances. The nights spent side-by-side pretending not to feel what they both did. The almost-kisses. The failed timing. The jokes that weren’t really jokes at all.

He had always meant it. And she had always loved him.

“Yes,” she whispered, lowering her forehead to his, tears falling onto his shirt, her hands cradling his face. “Yes. I’ll marry you. I love you.”

Fred let out a soft sound, half a laugh, half a sigh. “Took you long enough.”

His hand found hers, fingers tightening with the last of his strength. His eyes stilled. And the warmth left his fingers.

Her breath caught. Her body locked. She stared down at the boy she had loved since childhood, the boy who had asked her six times - and the one time she’d said yes, the war had already taken him.

The castle was still imploding around them, but all she could hear was silence. She pressed her lips to his forehead. Her tears dripped onto his skin.

She didn’t scream. There wasn’t any breath left in her.

She just leaned into his chest and sobbed in silence. Not because she didn’t want anyone to hear her grief, but because no sound in the world could hold the weight of losing him.

Nothing could pull her mind away from replaying those final moments. Not when George - shaking and crying - pulled her away from him. Not when the fighting stopped. Not when they carried Fred’s body back to the great hall. Not when Molly hugged her and broke down. Not when George and her fought side by side until Dawn broke. Not in the hours after the battle ended. Not for days. Weeks. Months.

Even years later she would never forget Fred Weasley. He was always hers. Until the day they would finally meet again.

[karacaroldanvers]

Verituserum

Fred Weasley x FemReader

Fred, George, and Lee have been avoiding you all day and you’ve had enough. When you blackmail your way into the Gryffindor common room to confront them, you don’t expect Fred to start bombarding you with strange compliments. You definitely don’t expect what comes next.

———————————————————————

It started at breakfast.

You were late. You’d overslept after a long night studying, your robes slightly askew, one sock barely matching the other. Your hair was still damp from a rushed spell, but you didn’t care, because you spotted them instantly.

Fred, George, and Lee. Your best friends since First year.

They were clustered near the middle of the Gryffindor table, heads bowed together in hushed laughter over something probably dangerous and definitely not approved by any adult with a brain. It was your favorite thing about them, really. The way chaos seemed to orbit around them like they were made of gravity and trouble. It made life interesting.

Your feet were already moving toward them before you realised.

Fred looked up just as you reached the bench, mid-laugh, his eyes bright. Something about that made your stomach flutter in that embarrassing way it always did when he looked at you like that. You’d harboured a very secret crush on the boy since Fourth year when he’d sent you a Dwarf-Valentine.

You’d been upset that no one had been interested in giving you one, so to cheer you up he’d gotten you one telling you what a great friend and excellent witch you were. The thoughtfulness and unexpected sweetness of the gesture had you falling head over heels in no time. You’d been a goner since then.

You smiled and slid onto the bench. “What’d I miss?”

Fred blinked, mouth opening like he had something to say - then he glanced to George. George’s eyebrows twitched once, a silent message passed between brothers in a blink.

“Actually,” George said, shooting upright and clapping his hands together, “we’ve got to go.”

“Go?” you echoed, laughing lightly. “Where?”

“Greenhouse,” Lee added, already pushing back from the bench.

“Heard something’s exploding,” George said quickly, grabbing a cold slice of toast like it was a getaway snack. “Don’t want to miss it!”

Before you could blink, they were out the doors, laughing again as they vanished. You sat there, alone on the bench, staring at their empty seats.

Weird.

You stabbed your spoon into your porridge with a little more force than necessary, but it wasn’t enough to set off alarm bells just yet. After all, the boys were always hurrying off to execute elaborate pranks.

Later that day, after double potions, was when you started to notice something might be amiss.

Snape had been especially vicious that day, stalking around the room like a bloodhound with something to prove. Fred had dropped a beaker. It had exploded. Snape’s robes were still faintly steaming. And then Fred had the gall to tell Snape his hair was looking particularly greasy today, which earned him a detention and a deduction of 10 points from Gryffindor.

Still, the class had ended. And you’d hoped - expected - you’d walk to Care of Magical Creatures with the boys like always. You’d been paired with a Hufflepuff this time in class, but you packed up fast and trotted after the trio as they left the dungeon.

You caught them in the hallway just beyond the staircase. “Oi! Wait up!” you called.

Lee turned, smile flickering across his face. “Hey! That was brutal, yeah?”

“Snape nearly swallowed his tongue when your beaker shattered,” you teased, nudging Fred.

The Weasley boy laughed, but it was tight. Shorter than usual. His hand scrubbed through his hair like he didn’t know what to do with his limbs.

“Actually,” George said suddenly, “we need to check on something.”

“In the greenhouse,” Lee said smoothly, already pulling Fred’s arm.

You frowned. “Didn’t you just go there? At breakfast?”

George nodded, too quickly. “Y-yeah, but, different thing. Something with the…mandrakes.”

“Mandrakes?” you echoed skeptically. “What could you possibly need with those? They scream bloody murder when you touch them.”

“Right,” George said. “So we have to touch them very carefully.”

Fred gave you a quick, apologetic look - eyes darting down, cheeks flushing a little - and then let himself be pulled away again.

You watched them disappear around the corner, your chest tightening, your breath catching on a question you couldn’t quite ask.

———————————————————————

You didn’t plan to stalk them.

You just happened to overhear Fred telling Angelina that he’d be in the library during free period doing ‘research’.

Fred Weasley? Research? As if.

It was obviously a lie. Or a cover. But part of you still clung to the hope that maybe it was all in your head and they weren’t avoiding you.

You brought a few books to make it look casual. Waited outside the doors, leaning against the wall, ear tilted toward the hushed shuffle of pages and whispers inside. You stared at the flickering torchlight against the stone and reminded yourself not to be weird. Not to be clingy.

They’d come out. You’d walk together. Like always.

Then, movement. You spotted them sneaking out a side entrance.

All three of them - Fred, George, and Lee - hunched over like they were avoiding Filch himself, looking side to side before scuttling toward the Charms corridor.

Your heart sank. They hadn’t seen you. And you didn’t call out.

You just stared as their silhouettes faded into the shadows, something cold settling in your throat. It was obvious they were up to something, which was not the usual part. The usual part was that the four of you were always up to something together. So why had hey left you out?

Your fingers clenched around your books so tightly the parchment covers creased.

Later that afternoon in Transfiguration was the worst one yet. That was when you finally admitted to yourself that they were actively avoiding you.

You were sat at your usual desk, which you normally shared with Fred. You were pretending to study while the classroom filled up, but you couldn’t focus on any of the words your eyes skimmed over.

You felt…off. Like you were waiting for something you couldn’t admit to wanting.

You heard the door swing open again and your head snapped up, too quickly.

Fred stepped in, scarf askew and hair wind-blown, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. His eyes landed on you - on the empty seat beside you waiting expectantly for him to occupy it - and he froze. The hope that had bubbled up in your chest fizzled out instantly.

He looked guilty. Not surprised. Not excited. Not even sheepish. Guilty.

“Hey!” you said, forcing cheer into your voice, trying not to sound too eager. “I’ve been looking for—”

“He forgot something!” George shouted from beside Fred, louder than necessary.

“What?” You frowned.

He turned to Fred, patting his arm. “Right? You forgot something important!”

Lee immediately stepped forward, grabbing the older twin’s. “Yes. Very urgent. Explosion-related.”

They turned and ran. Actually ran.

You sat there, your skin prickling with heat. Your face felt like it had been slapped. Not dramatically. Not cruelly. Just…dismissed. Like you didn’t matter.

You stood up slowly, your vision stinging. Anger pulsed beneath the surface - hot, fast, desperate. This wasn’t a coincidence anymore. This had to be on purpose. Something cracked inside you, and you’d already started scheming up a little plot of your own.

It took you less than five minutes after Transfiguration to find Neville Longbottom. The last person who’d made it into the Gryffindor common room had done so through him, so it only made sense for her to start there as well.

“AHHH!” Neville thrashed against her hold like he’d just been attacked by an acromantula.

She hushed him as she dragged him into the nearest broom closet, shutting the door behind them with a slam. “Shut up!”

Neville just kept screaming.

“Calm down, Longbottom. No one’s dying!” You soothed, though there was an edge of annoyance in your tone. “Well, maybe I am. Of frustration.”

Neville finally stopped yelling for help and blinked at you in confusion.

“I need access to the Gryffindor common room.” You explained.

“You’re not even in our house!”

“Technically no, but I’ve been in there loads of times.” You justified your intrusion.

“Then ask one of your friends to let you in,” Neville reasoned.

“No, they’re the reason I need to get in. They’ve been avoiding me, and I want to know why.” You explained, but that didn’t seem to even remotely set Neville’s mind at ease.

“I’ll get in trouble—!”

You leaned in close. “Let me put it this way. If you don’t help me, I will casually mention to Professor Sprout that you’ve been growing screaming fungi under your bed again. Oh yes, Lee told me all about that.”

Neville paled. “You wouldn’t.”

You smiled. “Try me.”

———————————————————————

The corridors of Hogwarts were never easy to navigate when one was flustered and humiliated. But you didn’t care about getting caught out after curfew anymore. Not tonight. Not when your pride had already taken enough of a beating.

Your legs carried you at an angry pace through the darkened castle, one hand gripping your wand and the other dragging poor, wide-eyed Neville Longbottom along behind you by the wrist.

“Honestly, I didn’t think you were this mean,” Neville whimpered.

“I’m not mean,” you snapped, hair wild and heart pounding. “I’m just…desperate.”

When you reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, you planted your feet and stared down the guardian with narrowed eyes. “Let us in.”

“She’s not a Gryffindor,” the portrait sniffed.

“She’s got more nerve than me, that’s for sure,” Neville muttered.

“Password?” she said curtly.

You looked to Neville and the boy muttered weakly, eyes cast downwards, “Treacle Tart.”

The portrait scowled, scandalized, but opened anyway with a disapproving glare.

You stormed into the common room, boots thudding against the carpet, heart hammering in your throat.

There they were. Fred, George, and Lee. All three lounged on the couches by the fire, laughing about something, heads tilted back like they didn’t have a care in the world.

Until they saw you.

George’s laughter died mid-cackle. Lee froze with a Bertie Bott’s bean halfway to his mouth. Fred’s eyes widened like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Oh, look,” you said, voice dripping with venom. “The Three Musketeers. How cozy.”

“…Oh no,” George muttered.

You crossed the room with purpose, arms crossed tightly over your chest, eyes blazing. Fred looked like he wanted to melt into the cushions. Lee glanced sideways, calculating escape routes. And George did that thing where he rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish and guilty and trying not to laugh at the same time.

“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve tried to hang out with you lot today?” you snapped, each word slicing through the thick tension like a well-aimed hex. “Every time I show up, you vanish. At breakfast? You suddenly need to tend to a greenhouse explosion. I try to sit with you at lunch? You’re nowhere to be seen. You even skipped out on Transfiguration! McGonagall was furious!”

Fred looked like he was being interrogated under magical duress. You didn’t realize how pale he’d gone until now.

“I thought maybe I was imagining it,” you went on, breath trembling. “That I was reading too much into it. But I’m not stupid. You’ve been avoiding me. All of you. So, what is it? Did I say something? Do something? Did I get too…what? Too annoying? Too clingy?”

Fred’s jaw flexed. George winced. Lee actually lowered his head like a puppy in trouble. None of them answered.

“I thought we were friends!” your voice cracked. “If I’m such a bloody problem, then just say it to my face! Be men and say it!”

Silence followed, punctured only by the crackling fire.

And then Fred opened his mouth, and what came out was the last thing you expected to hear. “You look so hot when you’re angry.”

You blinked. “What?”

Fred’s eyes widened in horror. “I said you look hot. When you yell. It’s doing something weird to me. Merlin’s beard, did I say that out loud? I did. Didn’t I?”

Lee groaned and covered his face. George let out a strangled “Oh, blimey.”

“I also think your hair looks like something out of an oil painting,” Fred continued, voice rising in panic. “And you’ve got this little frown line when you’re concentrating that makes me want to kiss you stupid.”

You stared, heart hammering in your chest, partially frozen in shock. “You’re joking,” you breathed. “You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m not! I wish I was!” Fred blurted, struggling now as Lee shoved a hand over his mouth.

You took a step back, face flushing now for an entirely different reason.

George raised his hands defensively. “Okay. Listen. We can explain.”

“I’d love for someone to start doing that!”

George winced. “We dared Fred to break into Snape’s private stores. You know, for fun.”

“Of course you did.”

“And…he nicked some Veritaserum.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You gave him Veritaserum?!”

“No!” Lee said, eyes wide as he struggled to keep Fred from licking his palm to escape. “Well, yes, but we all had some! It was for a game of truth or dare. We upped the anti. Thought we were only taking a micro dose. He had too much. Turns out it was like, a full dose and a half.”

You gaped. “So…he can’t lie?”

“More like he can’t stop telling the truth,” George said grimly. “It’s been hours. It’s…gotten worse.”

You could hardly believe what they were saying, because that meant everything else Fred had just blurted out was true. “Prove it.”

Lee looked at Fred, then smirked. “Oi, Fred. Remember that time you got stuck in the girls’ toilets in second year? Why were you in there?”

Lee removed his hand to allow Fred to speak, the boy confessed, “Because I wanted to find out if Angelina had a boyfriend!”

“OH MY GOD,” you muttered, horrified and delighted. You’d always suspected that he’d followed you and Angie in to eavesdrop but he’d never admitted it before.

Fred groaned, flopping backward into the couch and covering his eyes with both hands.

Your thoughts spun. If everything he said - about you, your hair, wanting to kiss you - was the truth. You swallowed thickly, feeling your stomach stir with emotion. “Oh.”

George raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

You turned to him. “Why were you hiding him from me, then? Specifically?”

The boys glanced at each other and Lee swiftly clamped his hand over Fred’s mouth once more. No one answered until Fred bit down on Lee’s hand. Lee yelped and it gave Fred enough wiggle room to jerk away and blurt out quickly, “Because I’m scared of what I might say to you!”

George lunged with a pillow and slammed it over Fred’s face. “Shut UP.”

Lee added a blanket for good measure. Fred’s muffled voice still came through,” You smell really good too, by the way! Like all the time. Makes me wanna—”

“OKAY THATS ENOUGH!” George attempted to talk over his brother, drowning out what Fred was trying to say

You stood there, cheeks flushed, utterly speechless. “…Right,” you muttered. You turned to Neville, who was still frozen in place like he’d witnessed a murder. “Neville. Sorry for the…attacking, and dragging, and threatening, and all.”

He nodded numbly. And without another word, you turned and walked out. As you disappeared out the portrait hole, Fred sat up again, pillow askew. “I said too much, didn’t I?”

George and Lee groaned in unison.

———————————————————————

The next morning, you seriously considered skipping breakfast.

You’d hardly slept a wink after last night’s emotional ambush. Your heart still hadn’t fully recovered from the fact that Fred Weasley - the same Fred you’d been crushing on for years - had not only complimented you in front of half the Gryffindor common room, but had apparently consumed so much Veritaserum that he couldn’t stop doing it.

You kept replaying it in your head, over and over:

“You look so hot when you’re angry.”

“You’ve got this little frown line when you’re concentrating that makes me want to kiss you stupid.”

“Because I’m scared of what I might say to you!”

Was that real? That happened, right? You didn’t hallucinate it? You gripped your bag a little tighter and stepped into the Great Hall.

The scent of warm bread and roasted tomatoes hit you immediately, but your eyes went straight to the Gryffindor table. There they were. Fred, George, and Lee. Almost exactly where they’d been yesterday.

Fred was talking animatedly - too animatedly, actually. George and Lee sat on either side of him like guards flanking a volatile prisoner. Every time Fred opened his mouth, they both twitched.

You hesitated. You could turn back. Pretend you forgot something. Sit with the Ravenclaws or maybe join Angelina and Alicia further down.

But then Fred looked up. And his eyes locked on yours like he’d been waiting for you. And he lit up.

That was the thing with Fred Weasley. When he smiled at you, it was like the whole bloody ceiling of floating candles turned a little warmer. Brighter.

He practically stood to wave you over. You swallowed hard and crossed the hall on slightly shaky legs, avoiding every other pair of eyes you felt watching you.

“Morning,” you said, managing something between polite and painfully awkward.

“Good morning,” Fred said, tone suspiciously sincere. “You look radiant. No, actually, radiant’s not enough. You look like if the sun and Aphrodite had a baby and raised it in a faerie grotto.”

Lee choked on his pumpkin juice. George’s head hit the table with a soft thunk.

You blinked. “What?”

Fred kept going. “Honestly, I don’t know how you manage to look that good this early in the morning.”

You sat slowly, stiff as a cursed statue as George shoved a croissant in Fred’s mouth.

“Eat,” he commanded.

Fred chewed obediently, eyes still on you like you’d hung the stars yourself.

You stared down at your plate. “I’m guessing the Verituserum is still in effect?”

“Yeah,” Lee said flatly. “We have no idea when it’ll wear off.”

“Is he…okay?”

“Other than an irresistible inclination to spilling whatever is running through his head, it seems so,” George shrugged.

“I’m absolutely mortified actually,” Fred said through the croissant. “Also, you smell incredible. Like vanilla and warm sugar and—ow!”

George had elbowed him.

“Umm,” you said cautiously, picking up your spoon, “how long does this usually last?”

“Veritaserum usually wears off in twenty-four to forty-eight hours,” Lee muttered, flipping his sausage over like it had offended him. “Unless, of course, you chug it like a lunatic.”

“How was I supposed to know it’d turn me into a sappy git!” Fred said indignantly.

“You were already a sappy git, now you’re just a sappy git with no filter!” George hissed.

You tried not to laugh, but it snuck out. A quiet, amused chuckle, followed by the tiniest smile you couldn’t hold back.

Fred’s eyes widened like he’d won the Triwizard Tournament. “She smiled,” he said, almost reverently.

Lee pointed his fork at Fred. “Don’t.”

“You know how I love it when she does that,” Fred added. “It’s beautiful. Makes my insides all warm and fuzzy.”

George groaned and shoved a spoonful of scrambled eggs in his brother’s mouth.

You looked at them - all three of them - and the knot in your chest began to loosen. There were still questions. Still nerves and embarrassment and chaos swirling in your chest like a stirred cauldron.

But Fred’s eyes - soft and unguarded and fixed entirely on you - held no joke. No teasing. He couldn’t lie even if he wanted to. You nudged your toast and tried not to overthink the blush crawling up your neck.

“So,” you said, eyes flicking to Fred’s. “What else are you dying to tell me that you haven’t yet?”

Lee immediately smacked his forehead. Fred swallowed the eggs and leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “That your laugh makes me feel like I’m not about to completely combust. Which is impressive, because I’m nearly always about to combust when I’m around you.”

George tackled him. Literally tackled him sideways onto the bench. Everyone in the vicinity turned to look. You burst out laughing.

Fred - flattened under his twin and with a piece of bacon in his hair - groaned at his own confession. “I hate this! Get me out of here!”

So Lee and George did. They hurried him out of the great hall like a fire was at their heels.

———————————————————————

You should’ve known better than to think Potions class would be anything less than a disaster today.

For starters, Snape already looked murderous before anyone had entered the dungeon. His robes flared like bat wings as he prowled between the desks, eyes narrowed, mouth twisted into his usual expression of ‘I hate all of you equally’.

The only good news was that he’d paired you with Fred again. The bad news was also that you were paired with Fred again.

Still under the effects of Veritaserum. Still unable to lie. Still completely incapable of shutting up. You’d barely opened your textbook before he leaned closer.

“You look like someone who should be immortalized in stained glass.”

You choked on air.

He was sitting next to you, casual as anything, chin in his palm, elbow on the desk, watching you like you were the most fascinating part of the room - which you were sure you weren’t. There were literally flames under cauldrons around you, and still Fred was looking at you like you were the only thing burning.

“Fred,” you hissed, glancing around. “Not now.”

“You smile with your whole face,” he whispered. “It’s devastating.”

“Oh my god.”

Snape swept past your table, his cloak snapping dramatically at his heels.

“Mr. Weasley,” he said, in the tone one might use for stepping in dung. “If you insist on breathing loudly, do it elsewhere.”

Fred snapped upright. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. You’re more intimidating than usual. Though still just as much of a git.”

The room froze. A Hufflepuff dropped their pestle and it clanged on the flagstones.

Snape turned very slowly. “Excuse me?”

You kicked Fred under the desk before he could say anything else but it wasn’t enough to stop him. He flinched. “I wish I could say I didn’t mean that. But, well, I did.” He clamped his mouth shut, face red.

Snape narrowed his eyes. “Ten points from Gryffindor.”

“But it could be a compliment!” Fred tried. “You’re very…committed to your aesthetic? Of course it wasn’t a compliment—”

You were going to die here. Your body would be found slumped over a cauldron and people would whisper, she died because Fred Weasley called Snape a git during Veritaserum detox.

You grabbed Fred by the wrist and hissed, “Shut. Up.”

“I’m trying! But you’re right here, and it’s really hard to be normal around you when you smell like dessert and…and you keep tucking your hair behind your ear like you don’t know what that does to me. But of course, I guess you don’t know what it does to me but I can tell you it does a lot.”

You dropped your ladle and it splashed green liquid across the desk.

“Ms. Y/l/n,” Snape drawled. “Would you like to join your partner in detention?”

“No, sir,” you said through clenched teeth. “Desperately not.”

Snape stalked off, muttering about incompetent teenagers.

Fred turned to you, very quiet for once. You risked a glance. He was biting his lip, face flushed, clearly fighting the urge to say anything else. He picked up the ingredients list and started grinding roots with unnecessary intensity.

You stared at the way his forearms flexed as he moved. You were losing your mind at the way his veins were defined by the tense muscles running all up his arm. You were suddenly very thankful that the boys had kept you out of their after hours truth or dare game. Otherwise you were entirely sure you’d be in a worse predicament than Fred.

You forced yourself to focus on the recipe before you and collected a handful of eels eyes. The crack of someone’s cauldron exploding across the room caused you to jump, the eyes scattering from your palm and across the floor. You swiftly hurried to collect them before Snape could notice. Only, the moment you bent down Fred let out a loud, barely contained groan.

“Merlin, you look good when you do that. Makes me wanna—”

Your spine instantly straighter, stomach clenching to meet Fred’s eyes. His face was screwed up in effort, teeth digging into his bottom lip to stop himself from completing his sentence. He looked like the restraint was killing him.

“Shit, shut up, shut up, shut up,” he murmured under his breath, turning his head and refusing to look at you as his fists clenched.

You forced yourself to clear your throat, ignoring him and going on with rushing the eel eyes to stop yourself from doing something impulsive. Like grabbing his tie and kissing him over a bubbling cauldron.

———————————————————————

It was late.

The corridors were nearly silent, the kind of quiet Hogwarts only ever managed in the deep belly of evening, where most students were tucked away in their dorms, and even Peeves seemed to be sleeping - or plotting.

You’d just left the library, arms full of books you weren’t really reading, head still spinning from a few days of emotional whiplash and truth bombs you hadn’t asked for.

Fred had been avoiding you again after the potions fiasco, but not in the way he had before.

Now it was more like he was dodging danger. Like he was terrified he’d open his mouth and say something truly nuclear. So every time you entered a room, George or Lee shoved him behind a curtain or distracted you with a stupid prank or practically dragged him into another hallway by the scruff of his neck.

And honestly? It was driving you insane.

You were tired of the avoidance. Of the interruptions.

So when you turned a corner and he was there - alone, just walking with his hands jammed into his pockets, looking like he’d been pacing - you jumped on the opportunity.

Fred looked up and instantly stopped walking. His face was pale, like he’d been holding his breath since the morning. His eyes went wide. “Oh no.”

“Hi,” you said slowly, lowering your stack of books. “What are you doing?”

“Trying not to have a breakdown.”

“Charming.”

Fred looked down at the floor, then back at you, and you saw the exact second he gave up trying to be subtle.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

You blinked. “Do what?”

“This. Not telling you. Or, I guess I have told you, I guess, in a very roundabout way. But that was all by accident and now it’s wearing off, and my brain keeps screaming at me to shut up and I can’t because I’ve already said too much and not enough, and…Merlin’s balls, you’re looking at me like that and it’s making it worse.”

You stared at him, stunned. “Like what?” you managed.

“Like you might kiss me if I say the right thing.”

“Well, try it and we’ll find out.”

Fred let out a weak laugh, raking both hands through his hair until it stood on end.

“You make me nervous,” he said, almost breathless. “That’s the problem. You always have. Not in the bad way. Like, the good kind of nervous. The butterflies-so-loud-I-can’t-think kind. The ‘don’t screw this up, Weasley’ kind. The kind where I’m terrified of saying the wrong thing because you’re the first person who makes me want to get it right. And I’m scared that as soon as this wears off, I won’t be able to say it anymore so I need to get it out now.”

You swallowed hard, heart thudding somewhere in your throat.

He stepped closer. “I’ve had a million chances to say this when it would’ve mattered more. When it would’ve been easier. But I blew it. Because I was afraid of saying too much. And now, thanks to that bloody potion and my own bloody stupidity, I’ve already let it go too far without finishing it, and I don’t know if I ruined it or not.”

His voice cracked. “I like you. So much I don’t know what to do with it. It’s not just a crush, or a joke, or something I can charm my way through. It’s real. And terrifying. And I’d rather get hexed by Snape than spend another day pretending it’s not killing me to keep this in.”

You didn’t realize you’d moved until you were in front of him.

So close you could see the pink flush across his cheeks, the frantic flick of his gaze between your eyes and your mouth, the tight tremble of his fists at his sides like he didn’t trust himself not to grab you.

“Say it again,” you whispered.

He blinked. “What?”

“Say it again. Plainly. No verbal gymnastics.”

Fred swallowed. “I like you.”

“Like I’ve never liked anyone before,” Fred cleared his throat. “I mean I’ve liked people before, but it’s never been like this. Like, ‘thinking about you before I fall asleep’ kind of like. Or ‘writing jokes in my head just to tell you later’ kind of like.”

You leaned in and his breath hitched.

“I like you so much it hurts,” he whispered. “You’re smart and sharp and you see through all my jokes and you call me out and you make me laugh when I don’t want to and I hate how much I love it.”

Your brain was short circuiting, and you could t hold yourself back anymore. You surged forward and kissed him.

He made a sound - half gasp, half relief - as your fingers curled into his jumper and his hands finally flew to your waist, tugging you impossibly closer.

It wasn’t perfect. It was frantic and messy and desperate in a way that only years of longing could create. But it was honest. Unfiltered. Completely, breathtakingly real.

When you pulled back, breathless, your forehead still resting against his, Fred whispered, “I like you too Fred, and I don’t need Veritaserum to admit it.”

Fred’s smile widened. “You do?”

You flushed. “I mean, you’re obnoxious and loud and constantly in detention, but yeah. I do.”

“Oh COME ON!” Came a loud yell in unison, and both you and Fred whirled to see George and Lee skidding around the corner, both panting.

“We’ve been hiding him from you for days,” George gasped. “We even hand fed him yesterday like a newborn owl!”

“And all of that was for nothing?” Lee groaned, tossing his hands in the air. “He told you anyway!”

Fred just grinned. Smug. Glowing. Like he’d just won the House Cup, the Quidditch Cup, and your heart all in one go. He reached down, laced his fingers through yours.

“Actually,” he said, eyes never leaving yours, “I’d say it was worth every damn second.”

———————————————————————

Tag list: @ellouisa17

[karacaroldanvers]

heavy handed | remus lupin x fem!reader

summary your debut as the marauders’ new guitarist doesn’t exactly go to plan when remus gets handsy with you on stage.

warmings bassist!remus x guitarist!reader, singer!sirius, drummer!james, on stage anxiety, stage fright, remus being hot, light hurt/comfort, completely consensual touching but people get the wrong idea [wc 2.5k]

<3

"What if they don't like me?" you ask. 

It's so loud on side stage that you might as well have whispered, but Remus seems to hear you fine. 

"They will," he says. 

You still can't believe you're here. When Remus had called and said they were opening auditions for a second guitar player now that they'd fobbed off Peter, you hadn't quite believed it. 

And then, when your former friends from college had actually been impressed with your playing and asked you to do some test runs, you'd pinched yourself. 

But this was unreal. 

You can hear the crowd. Marauders, Marauders, Marauders, in your spine, their cheers and screams loud enough to send vibrations through the entire venue. You mess with the tie around your neck. 

"Do I look stupid?" you ask. 

Remus smiles, the smile you remember from school. "You look awesome," he says.

You aren't so sure, looking down at your black ensemble; a miniskirt with a flaring hem, a satin top that showed a daring amount of cleavage, your silly red tie. You feel like you're playing dress up. You feel stupid. 

Remus had made it very clear that you could wear whatever you liked, a black bag, if you fancied it. But you wanted to be cool and you wanted their fans to like you, so you'd let Sirius dress you up. 

The boy in question appears with James in tow, the first in his usual rock star get up, the latter missing his shirt. The defined plains of James' dark torso explain why he's a fan-favourite. 

You bite your lip and look down at your shoes, a brand new pair of original converse. Simple. Sweet, a gift from Remus. He'd spelled, 'Welcome to the band,' in white paint pen across the side of your left shoe. You take a deep breath. 

"It's gonna be fine, jezebel," Sirius says, all shark tooth grin and eyeliner. 

"I mean," James begins, "it might not be. People are sexist." 

You wince, your worst fear said aloud. Remus rolls his eyes and throws a bare arm over your shoulder, looking a little less punk rock than the rest of you in a cream-toned Metallica t-shirt and olive green trousers that hug his thighs in a way that makes your heart skip. 

"Don't listen to him," Remus says, hugging you close so his words float straight into your ear. "I promised everything is gonna be fine, didn't I?" 

You nod but can't look at him. He had made you that promise a week ago, before the tour buses and airports, before the first paparazzi pictures and interviews. You'd called him in the middle of the night. 

"I don't think I can do this," you'd confessed, staring down at the magazine in your hand. You'd been announced as their new guitarist and people had a lot of opinions. Bad and good, you worried about living up to expectations. 

"You can, dove." 

You'd laughed bitterly, throat burning. "I'm not a- a rock star."

"And I am?" he'd asked, laughing with much more lightness. 

The tears had started then, and you'd covered your mouth. Remus had listened for a moment, and then he'd made his promise. "I know you can do this. I know you can, and better, I know you're gonna love this. Really, dove." You'd taken a ragged exhale and he'd doubled down. "I promise, everything is going to be fine. It's gonna be amazing. You just have to trust me." 

"Are we ready?" somebody asks, someone important that you should know but don't. 

The three boys look to you. "What?" you ask, startled. 

"Are you ready?" Sirius asks. 

You can't believe you're making decisions. You can't believe any of it, but you know they're gonna look after you out there. You nod before you can stop yourself. 

Remus swings his bass on. You let a pretty girl who smells distracting help you into your guitar. There's so many wires and microphones and packs clipped to you and you're already sweating despite being so scantily dressed. 

Sirius runs out first. The crowd is deafening. James is quick to follow, drumsticks already thudding against his thigh. Remus is signalled to make his entrance, but he waits. 

"Good evening, London!" Sirius screams. 

You look at Remus with wide eyes. "What are you doing? Go!" 

"You're after me, yeah? Don't freeze, don't look at the crowd if you don't want to. Find your footing first, and we'll manage everything else after, okay?" he says, a rush of words, his brown eyes lightened by adrenaline. 

You nod, a little listless. He grasps your shoulder hard enough to ache and walks on stage, just as Sirius says, "We have a treat for you guys tonight, as you're all well aware by now- no, not him! Fuck that guy. Where's our best girl?" 

And that's your cue. 

You try to walk exactly as Remus had. Despite his warning, the first thing you do is look out at the crowd – how could you not? It's blinding, thousands of people, cameras and flashing lights and noise, an overwhelming cacophony of screaming and whooping. You smile your best ditzy smile, the one you'd been practicing in the mirror all week, raising your hand to give a little wave. Another roaring of sound. 

You go a little deaf for a while, messing with the ear-piece tucked over your ear and then the microphone taped to your cheek. 

James sits at the back, hands messing with his cymbals, with foot pedals, back muscles moving as he bends over. Sirius is a ball of energy walking from one side of the stage to the other, then down the small catwalk. Remus stands stationary at the edge of the stage next to an amp the size of you. You don't want to impede on anyone's space and so you hover in the middle ground, pick shaking in your fingers. 

"There she is! Everybody, give our girl a warm welcome!" 

If you weren't deaf before you are now. Something in the uproar lifts your heart, and you find yourself looking toward the front row, making eye contact with audience members pressed bruisingly into the metal barrier. 

"Yeah! Give it up, and if you think she's something now you won't want to wait to hear her play." 

The next cue. Remus starts to play and receives another gratuitous uproar of sound. You feel mildly dizzy. 

The introduction of their first song is long, slow, allowing you a few seconds to remember that you're supposed to be playing as well. 

Sirius continues his chattering when he's supposed to be singing and Remus handles it well. You follow his lead. 

"We had a lot of things happen this summer that we never expected," a cascade of boos. James scowls in memory and Sirius laughs at the crowd. "Right, right. We thought, fuck? What the fuck are we gonna do? We need to find someone who can keep up with me, of all people." 

James laughs wolfishly, drumsticks beating his leg still. Poor boy. 

Remus makes a signal at Sirius to wrap it up. Sirius ignores this, and so Remus clears his throat. "We needed to find someone who fit," he explains.

"Right, someone who fits," Sirius agrees. 

"And he almost didn't allow it!" James shouts, mostly joking, to your knowledge. 

"Well, I wouldn't-" Sirius starts. 

"When we asked Y/N to come on with us, Sirius was reluctant," James talks over him. 

"Why?" an audience member shouts. 

"Because," Remus says seriously, "now he's not the prettiest girl in the band anymore." 

You flush from head to toe and your fingers slip. You don't think anyone besides Remus notices, and he smiles at you apologetically. 

"I'm not sure I'd say that," James jokes. 

"Fuck everybody except James. Let's play something already, Jesus, Moons, what are you doing?" Sirius asks, mock annoyed. 

Everybody laughs, yourself included, and it freaks you out to hear your own giggling projected wide. 

It gets easier as you stand there. You know how to play, and what's more, you're good. You can keep up, you can do everything that Peter did and you can do it better. Sirius sings how he talks, erratic, moving from rough to smooth to soothing, jumping when you need to jump; he keeps the crowd enthralled. 

It's about halfway through the planned setlist where things start to deviate. You're not as sure of yourself as you thought. You falter. The adrenaline makes your hands shake and you skip over chords you know like the back of your hand, amateurish. 

You can feel yourself sinking, wandering over wires and tape and rogue bottles of water to stand by Remus' side. He looks at you, plays the bassline expertly anyways, head inclined. You okay? 

You nod. A complicated mess of a solo is coming up, and you're getting jumpy. You focus every bit of energy and attention you command on making it through, chin pressed to your chest, lips pouting, eyebrows creased. Weirdly, you feel like you might die. 

You make it through and struggle to catch your breath. The lights grow lower for the next track, a blistering mesh of sounds that you'd practiced over and over and over together in the last few months. 

You gasp. Your microphone is off for now, and the only person who can hear it is Remus. You can't seem to catch your breath, leaning back to strum along, so lost that not even his unflinching playing can help you out. 

Remus gets this look on his face that you don't know. He finally moves from the spot he'd been standing in all night to slink up behind you. 

You feel the hot body of his bass press into your back, feel his breathing on your neck. 

"You're okay," he says. "Steady, dove." 

You nod mindlessly and play well. The bass line drops out as his hands fall away from his instrument, so hot they're branding. He pushes one over your shoulder and one under your armpit, careful to allow you your range of movement. 

He hugs your back to his chest, face pressing into your shoulder. 

"Calm down," he says into your skin.

He smells like sweat and amber and woodsmoke. Everypoint of contiguity is alight with chills. 

You miss a strut, pick it up, feeling something akin to safety as his arms tighten around you and his hands brush your naked, stagelit skin. His fingers spread and his pinky finger ghosts your breast and everything is white noise and screaming as you let yourself lean back into him. He breathes with you. Long, unending seconds of his skin on your skin and his careful breaths in your ear, hands soothing. He's dizzying. 

"You got it?" he asks softly. 

"Yeah," you say, eyes shining with tears from the bright lights. Your heartbeat is loud, but you can breathe, and it's enough for him. 

He brushes his thumb over your skin and slowly pulls away, lips touching lightly to the nape of your neck. He brings his bass back into his hands and plays like nothing happened. 

You look back to where you know James will be with questioning eyes. 

"What?" he mouths, confused by your attention. 

You shake your head at him, exasperated. What does he mean, what? Didn't he see that? 

He smirks. "Do I look hot right now?"

"Boiling!" you mouth back indulgently. 

He tips an open bottle of water over his head, pecs and abs shining, black hair dark and sticking to his face. 

You're pretty sure someone faints, James is that attractive. Still, for some reason, you find your eyes drifting back to your bass player, find some strange need to stare at the back of his head, how his shoulder blades move under his shirt. Watch his hands slide over strings and flinch back to the minutes before, where his hands had been all over you. 

You meet eyes with a girl in the front row. She's sweating and singing her heart out, and she smiles at you like it's the best night of her life. You smile back, and play pretty damn well after that. 

"I'm sorry," you say, when it's all done and you're sweaty and aching in line for the tour bus shower. James lies in his bunk, Sirius leans against the bathroom door. "I know I was a mess." 

Sirius makes a face of disgust. "Babe, you were fucking amazing." 

"I choked." 

"Everyone chokes. But let me know if we're taking turns with the on stage fondling," he says, winking, "I have pretty big hands." 

You feel heat rise to your face. "Was it bad?"

"The tabloids can't decide whether to paint him as a charlatan or a sexual predator," James informs you, dropping his phone against his chest. 

"He barely touched me," you say, shocked, "it was a hug." 

"It was a very heavy handed hug," Sirius snorts. 

"Lily wants to talk to you about it," James says, a whipped smile on his face at even the mention of your social manager. 

"About what?" 

Sirius looks at James and shakes his head, and the ever shirtless boy falls quiet. You look between them  with a pit in your stomach, glaring daggers. "About what, guys?"

There's a small silence. 

"Your stage performance," James says finally. 

"Saving poor Moony's reputation," Sirius furthers. 

"Right?" You look at James and know he knows more than he's saying, privileges that come with being Lily's almost boyfriend. "James." 

"She wants you to pretend to fall in love…on stage. So people don't get the wrong message." 

You climb into your bunk. Sirius offers you his pillow. You hold it over your mouth and scream. 

"Feel better?" 

You scream again. 

<3

𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍

thanks for reading ❤️

marauders taglist @marimorena06 @glimmering-darling-dolly @siriuslystfu @thatblackravenclaw @lupinlust @touchdeprivedwh0re @vi0letblu3s @mooncalvin @gaysnowrose @thatonecomfyjumper @set-myself-on-fire @decafcoffew @mischiefmanagers @cordiformity @froggyy06

[karacaroldanvers]

𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞 —send me a shy!reader request for any character (with a plot) and I'll write a >1k drabble

sirius/james introducing shy!reader to remus. and shes just like quiet and in awe, but remus loves it.

luveline's 40k party ☆ tysm for requesting! remus x shy fem!reader

James is used to your personality after months of being your lecture neighbour, unperturbed by your quiet. "It's going to be fun," he promises, handing you a cold glass of cranberry vodka. "They're nice, okay? I won't let anyone irritate you." 

He's hosting a party and had the generosity to invite you round early. He's easing you in, so to speak. It took him two weeks of steady Hellos for you to work up the courage to say Hi back, another two weeks for small talk, a month before you felt comfortable speaking to him first. If you're that shy, a party is basically torture.

"It's not about irritating me," you say. 

"I know, I'm messing." James lists his head to the left. A second later, there's a knock at the door. "Aha. Wait here, shortcake, there's someone I want you to meet." 

"James," you say after him, wet from your glass leaking down to your sleeve, "what?" 

"I asked him to come early and say hello! He's quiet and handsome and you'll love him, just don't stare at his nose." 

What's wrong with his nose? you think, alarmed. 

James opens the door. Two new voices emerge, one scratchy and a little high, the other smoother. "I need to pee so bad," the scratchy one declares, followed by bounding footsteps up the stairs. 

"You alright?" the smoother asks.

You think there's patting, a hug, "I'm brilliant! You smell really nice, Remus, like a garden." 

"Lovely."

"In a good way! Come and meet my Y/N, you remember I told you about her nice gel pens?" 

James leads the smooth-voiced Remus into the living room. You hurriedly put down your drink and stand, wiping your wet hands in your shirt. You cringe at the darkening fabric but hide your grimace as they stop in front of you. 

"Remus, Y/N. Y/N, Remus," James introduces you both. 

Remus has a scar across his nose that seems cruelly cut. There's another beside it that starts in his upper lip, both of which end in his eyebrow. You know how self-conscious it feels to be looked at, so you manage to smile and offer your hand without too much of it. He's handsome with his scars, a nice nose with a ridge and brown eyes the colour of caramelised sugar.

"Hello," Remus says, shaking your hand. His is big enough to make yours feel small. 

"I invited her early because she's more fun than the rest of our lot," James says, throwing himself down on the sofa and kicking his legs out on the coffee table. 

Remus taps your elbow very gently as if to usher you to sit and sits down beside you, enough space to be casual but too little to stop the rampant nerves that blossom in your stomach. 

Remus asks about your life. What you're studying, where you're from, if James is being nice to you. While James is touchy in the rough older brother way, scrunching your shoulder and shaking you when you're not expecting it. Remus is touchy in a different way, you find, almost as if he doesn't know he's doing it. His shoe bumps your shoe, his hand falls down between his outer thigh and your own, his knuckles touching your jeans very lightly. He spins in his seat to talk to you. 

You don't notice other people arriving, nor the scratchy-voiced friends return. All you can do is look up at Remus with wide eyes. Your nerves meld to something warmer. 

"And what do you do?" you ask him. 

He smiles like you've wandered into a secret. "I'm trying to write a book." 

"He's being a bit much," Sirius says to James, the two now loitering in the doorway with matching beers. You and Remus chatter on, unaware of their running commentary.

"It's a very strong reaction. I knew she'd like him, but I didn't think she'd like him like that." James takes a sip of his drink. Remus asks you a quiet question. You duck your head, playing with your sleeves, and Remus, the bastard, ducks his head to follow your gaze, smiling at you all the while. 

James almost chokes, pointing his bottle toward you both as though Sirius isn't already looking. "He's eating it up. I forgot how flirty he is."

"She'll be nice to him, won't she?" Sirius asks, like it's a done deal. To be fair, Remus seems enthralled with you. 

"Definitely. She's very nice. Oh, look, that's sick, she's gonna pass out." James winces as Remus takes your arm into his hand. 

Remus wouldn't do anything cruel, but James wasn't joking when he told Remus that you were exceedingly, achingly shy. He's about to step in and rescue you, but you turn into Remus' touch and pull your leg up on the sofa to make yourself comfortable. Your voice is animated, if quieter than the average person's.

"Woah," James says, beaming.  

Remus flirts almost as a defence, like he wants to get the rejection over and done with so he can move on. You've yet to reject; you're looking up at him in moderate awe, your lips quirked into an easy smile. 

"Boo!" James calls, flicking his bottle cap at Remus, who brushes it away. "Took me three weeks to get a smile out of her," he mutters. "What a dick." 

[karacaroldanvers]

the struggle between choosing if i want to go into film/tv production (i went to drama school to be an actor for half a school year but dropped out due to anxiety and the fact the school wasn’t very good) or becoming a paramedic

it’s like there’s a devil and angel on my shoulders except they’re cheering for both options 💔

[karacaroldanvers]

Five Hundred Times

[Adrian Chase x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: He’s always the one who comes back bleeding, but this time, it’s your heart on the line {GIF: @tinalbion}

WC: 1855

Category: Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Blood + Injuries {TW: Adrian being… well, Adrian. Which includes, but is not limited to: emotionally-stunted love confessions, gore-related quips, and bleeding on your furniture like it’s a love language}.

I may or may not have a new obsession 👀

『••✎••』

You smell blood before you see it.

Not the kind that reeks of death or sterile gauze, but something faintly metallic, woven into the sweat on his skin like it's been there long enough to get bored of being noticed. You don’t register it fully at first — too distracted by the scrape of keys against the door, the quiet grunt he makes when he shoulder-checks it open because one of his arms isn’t working.

And there he is.

Adrian Chase, dressed in blood and bulletproof nylon, wearing that same boyish smirk like a band-aid on a gaping wound. One eye is puffed and half-shut, there's a cut above his brow that’s still wet, and he's limping like someone took a crowbar to his knee.

But he grins like it’s funny.

"Babe," he drawls, stumbling into the living room like this is just another Tuesday. "So, weird story. Turns out, you can get stabbed in the same shoulder three times and still do a somersault over a moving car. Science."

You freeze in the kitchen doorway, a half-empty mug of tea cooling in your hands. You’d made it for him. Stupid, you think. Stupid, like warm drinks fix bullet wounds.

Your heart’s hammering behind your ribs—panic, fury, the kind of cold, sharp fear that makes you feel like your bones might splinter from the inside. He sees it, you think. Sees all of it and keeps walking.

He doesn’t sit. Just drops his mask on the floor like it was dirty laundry and starts pulling off the top half of his suit, fingers clumsy with dried blood. There’s a spreading stain on his side, dark and sluggish.

You haven’t moved. Your throat feels tight.

"Adrian," you say, and it comes out too soft. Not angry. Not even surprised. Just small.

He glances up, and there’s a flicker in his expression—guilt, maybe, or something adjacent to it. But it passes like a cloud over the sun.

"Hey, it’s fine. Just a little... hole." He gestures vaguely to his side. "Think I’ve had worse papercuts, honestly."

You exhale sharply, jaw twitching.

"A papercut?"

"Yeah, y’know—big, aggressive paper. Like, militant origami."

His words are candy-coated, tossed out like a deflection grenade. You can feel the heat crawling up your neck, not from anger this time, but from something deeper. Rawer. The kind of helpless grief that’s been piling up like unspoken words between the cracks of each visit, each stitched-up night, each half-lie he’s smiled through.

He keeps talking — something about the guy who did this, how he "kind of respected his dedication to stabbing," how he managed to make a pun mid-fight that he was really proud of — and you snap.

Not loud. Not violent. But something in you gives.

You set the mug down with shaking hands. Walk over slowly. Kneel in front of him. Not to patch him up. Not yet. Just to look.

His hand is resting on his thigh. You touch it, and he flinches — barely, like his nerves can’t quite decide if they’re online — but he lets you. You lift his fingers. Blood under his nails. Calluses from the last time he shattered someone’s jaw.

"You’re not okay," you whisper. It’s not a question.

Adrian stares down at you. The air is too still. You wonder if he’s going to say something flippant, some callback to a joke from two nights ago — "Define okay," or "Baby, I’m invincible." But he doesn’t. Not yet.

You continue. Voice tight.

"You keep coming back like this. And I keep pretending it’s fine. Because you pretend it’s fine. But I’m—I can’t keep doing it, Ade. I can’t keep watching you bleed and smile like it’s a sitcom punchline."

His jaw tightens. There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s still considering the punchline. But he doesn’t say it.

So you keep going. You have to.

"You laugh through pain like it’s a party trick. You get stabbed and joke about origami, and I’m here—every time—I’m just waiting for the time you don’t come back. Or the time you do, but you’re not you anymore. Just pieces of you. And I don’t think I can survive that, Adrian. I don’t think I’d even want to."

You don’t cry. Not really. You just press your forehead to his uninjured knee, breathing, shaking against the fabric of his suit.

Silence.

Then—

"You worry," he says.

It’s quiet. Not a question. Not even a thought, really —more like something that slipped out before his brain had a chance to process it.

His eyes are on you, but not in the way they usually are—no teasing, no deflection. Just that wide, strangely boyish sort of look, like he’s seeing you for the first time and it’s short-circuiting something inside him.

"You worry… about me."

He blinks slowly, as if the sentence is taking up more space in his head than he knows what to do with.

"I mean," he adds, rubbing the back of his neck with his good hand, "I knew you cared, obviously. You're here, you make tea, you patch me up when I’m leaking red stuff—very loving, very Florence Nightingale." He gestures vaguely, trying to play it cool, but his tone is all over the place—like he's trying to match what he thinks he should sound like and completely failing. "But this? This is like… real-deal worry. Like, emotional distress. Because of me."

He lets out a low, breathy laugh, barely holding together. "That’s wild."

You stare at him, stunned. The emotional rawness is still boiling just under your skin, and he’s over here having a mild existential revelation about the fact that someone loves him.

He leans back slightly, breath catching as it pulls at the wound on his side. Still smiling. Not the cocky kind—no, this one’s soft and stunned and almost… reverent.

"You love me," he says again, like he’s trying it out in different lighting. Like it might taste different if he says it slower.

You pull away, just enough to meet his eyes head-on. "Adrian, you’re bleeding."

"I know," he says, bright and breathless. "And you’re devastated about it."

His voice hitches on a laugh, and you don’t know whether to shake him or scream. Maybe both. Because this-this thing he’s doing, this delight in your suffering—he doesn’t even realize it’s breaking you.

"Why is that a joke to you?" you ask, quieter now. Fragile.

And that stops him.

Adrian’s grin falters, like someone blew out the candle behind his eyes.

"I’m not joking about you," he says, and it’s honest—plainspoken in a way that sounds strange coming from him. "I’m just… I didn’t think anyone could feel that way about me. Not really. Not past the first couple dates, anyway."

You blink, the words hitting you somewhere low in the chest. "You think I’m still here out of politeness?"

"I don’t know," he says, voice low. "I guess I thought you just had a hero thing. Or a kink. I don't know, man, it's confusing. I've never been loved before."

The words hang in the air, awkward and too heavy for how simply he said them, like a punchline that forgot to land.

He doesn’t meet your eyes now — just stares a little past you, past the room, past himself maybe. His breathing is shallow, and not just from the pain in his side. There’s something deeper in it. That quiet, jittery type of fear that has nothing to do with knives or bullets.

You blink at him. Slowly. Like, if you do it too fast, the weight of what he just said might tip you over completely.

"You... seriously think that?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper. "That I’m here because I have a kink?"

“I said maybe,” he mutters quickly, defensive in that dumb, knee-jerk way of his. “Could be. I mean—come on, have you seen me in this suit?”

Your expression doesn’t change.

His smirk flickers. Dies as he exhales, looking away again. "Sorry. That was—yeah. Not the time."

A beat passes. You sit back on your heels and stare at him, arms limp at your sides. Not because you’re angry anymore. You’re not even sure what you are. Hollow, maybe. Bone-tired.

"I thought you knew," you say, finally. "That I loved you."

"I mean, yeah. Kind of. You say nice things sometimes. You look at me like I’m not completely insane. You make soup." He gestures vaguely toward the kitchen, then winces. "But I didn’t know it meant something. Not like this. Not in a 'you break down when I’m bleeding' way."

You shake your head slowly. "Adrian… love is that. It means that. It’s not just soup and looking at each other. It’s being scared out of your mind because the person you care about walks into your house full of holes like it’s a joke.”

He doesn’t answer.

You glance down at his side. Blood is still seeping through the half-unzipped suit, slower now, but enough to make your stomach turn. You reach for the med kit on the table beside you, pull out gauze with shaking fingers, and move closer.

He watches you quietly, for once not narrating every second of it.

"I don’t want you to change who you are," you say softly as you press gauze against the wound. He hisses between his teeth but doesn’t pull away. "But I need you to stop acting like your life is disposable. Like it’s fine if you don’t come back one day."

Adrian swallows hard. "It’s not that I think it’s fine. I just… I don’t think about it."

"That’s the problem," you say, your voice breaking at the edges. "I think about it all the time."

He’s silent again. The tension in his jaw twitches under the weight of whatever he’s holding back. You tape the gauze in place and sit there for a long moment, hands still hovering over his ribs.

"I don’t want you to die thinking you’re unloved," you whisper.

That gets him. Visibly.

His fingers curl around your wrist, not hard, just enough to make you look up at him. His mouth opens, then closes. His eyes—glassier now—search yours like he’s trying to memorize this moment, every sharp, fragile bit of it.

"I won’t die," he says, voice cracking in a way he clearly hates. "Not without telling you that I love you too. Probably, like, five hundred times. In a row. In increasingly bad accents."

You huff out something like a laugh, watery and aching.

"I’m serious," he goes on. "You’re gonna get so tired of hearing it. Like, 'Shut up, Adrian, I know you love me, you’ve said it in an Irish accent and a pirate voice and while bleeding out in my kitchen—'"

"Ade."

He stops.

You lean forward, gently pressing your forehead to his. His breath catches.

"I love you," you say, quiet but sure.

And when he says it back—rough and soft and a little terrified—you know he means it.

No punchline. No mask. Just Adrian. Still bleeding, still broken.

But real.

And finally, finally—loved.

[karacaroldanvers]

OH MY CLARK!!!😭😭💞💞😍😍

I don't have words to describe what I am feeling. This is THE NERDIEST CLARK we ever got. He literally tumbled out of comics.

[karacaroldanvers]

I hope avatar writers come back when this movie comes out omg 😭🥲