Holy smoke I just found ur account and there's something about ur writing that feels so real and true ..idk how this sounds sorry.. big fan of the free stuff and I'm excited to see what you have planning for part two... you're too good at this I mean like ur characters are just kinda too real....ur too cool for me to wrap my head around I think ..
i'm gonna be honest, it's bc i'm a teenager. gotta write what u know âïžđ€ (young adult cringe)
i add a little stupidity to my fred fics bc ya know... it's fred weasley... i try my best to interpret him (sometimes).
âȘ âââ warnings: havent read or watched bnha in centuries = maybe ooc bc i only have concepts of a plan, not a lot of x reader hcs, rather random ones (as a pro-hero, kid and student), sfw, swearing, mentions of ocd, barely suggestive piercing one, americans, brief mention of religion, santa claus, the uk
âȘ âââ a/n: i miss u ground zero...
âȘ âââ word count: ~800
There are only 4 contacts that bypass his do not disturb settings
His mom (she gets real pissy if he doesn't see it or respond soon)
His dad (he doesn't even text Katsuki that much, most of it is communicated through Mitsuki)
His therapist (that he lowkey doesnât talk to but his parents insisted having one just in case)
You
The type to not make contact names or profile pictures
Memorizes the area code and the last 4 digits
When he started liking you, your contact info upgraded (first name, first initial)
Once you guys started dating, you unlocked a pfp pic + it turned into just your first name
After a year together, you might get an emoji (most likely related to your quirk)
Your pfp is probably the most atrocious photo ever taken, but he refuses to change it
If heâs busy studying, eating, cleaning, working out, etc, and someone texts, he will absolutely ignore it and reply tomorrow (or never)
Especially if itâs his mom trying to remind him to do something
If itâs you, then heâll respond within 30 minutes if itâs moderately interesting or important
Only made social media accounts so agencies could scout him and so people could admire his quirk
Rarely looks at his feed
Only follows pro-hero accounts and maybe one cooking blog
Tried to block all his classmates
Posted one video of him playing the drums and then had to turn off his DMs
Likes the concept of edits
Did NOT like when people said he was their hear me out after the Sports Festival
Only likes the nonsexual edits of him
Secretly enjoys the ones of you though
If the class is having dinner together in the dorms, he will choose the farthest seat possible
If he's alone, he will watch something on his phone while eating
Lowkey good at drawing
Doesn't keep a sketchbook, so it never became a serious hobby
Likes to draw you in class (and then singe it off of his paper because nobody can know)
Used to draw demonic entities as a child to scare his friends and classmates
Had a phase where he would only draw dragons
Vacationed to the UK once with his parents, and he absolutely hated every single second of it
Used to be a backpack leash kid, but then he would just burn off the straps
Only drinks water
Thinks sparkling is a disgusting abomination
Thinks people who believe in conspiracy people are insanely stupid
Hates musicals
Especially Cats and Into the Woods
Loves Agust-D
Likes desserts with mung beans
Fucking hates ube and taro
Secretly wishes he was taller (at least 6â)
Didnât get what he wanted for Christmas one year and figured out Santa Claus wasnât real
Around ages 6-8
Definitely told his classmates Santa wasnât real just to laugh and watch them cry
His mom yelled at him after a few phone calls from the teacher
Definitely watched Fight Club when he was 13 and made it his personality for a few months
Hates American tourists
Will bluntly ignore them if they try to ask him for directions or interact in any way (especially if they make anime references)
(As a pro-hero, it took a lot of PR training to make him stop)
If you guys are together, he drags you away before you can offer help to a lost tourist
Doesnât like any barber, so he cuts his hair in the bathroom himself
When he was younger, he would throw insane tantrums during professional haircuts, so his mom had to wrangle him and do it herself in the garage
She's gotten bitten a lot
Started doing it himself at around 12
His mom tied dental floss around his loose tooth to yank it out
It got the job done, but he felt severely betrayed
His parents didn't bother with the Tooth Fairy charade after the Santa Claus incident
Stupidly fast metabolism but never takes advantage of it, because he "doesn't want to put a lot of junk in his body"
He's very healthy
But he occasionally fiends for Takis or Flaming Hot Cheetos
Hated science with a passion in middle school
His parents tried to make him do Kumon (it did not work out)
Knows a lot of English
Probably learned through rap songs
Katuski is an athiest
His dad is Buddhist
His mom believes in her husband and son
He used to be scared of divine punishment/karma, but he quickly outgrew that when he got his quirk
Thought people who collected shoes, bags, Hello Kitty items, etc. were imbeciles until someone said that collecting All Might merch was basically the same thing
Didn't have any cousins growing up
Has a very intense case of Only Child Syndrome
Snapped at people who asked to share his toys and snacks
His grandparents spoiled the shit out of him
Got a cousin when he was like 12 and absolutely hated them, because all the attention was off of him
Loves gatekeeping artists
Will purposefully listen to niche bands, rappers and singers
Used to hate on K-Pop groups a lot
Hates jazz with a deep passion
Watched Lego Ninjago nonstop as a child
Tried to mix his explosions with spinjitsu
Loved Power Rangers (he wanted to be the red one)
Really enjoyed Avatar: The Last Airbender
But his childhood was ruined when people started comparing Todoroki to Zuko
Personally resonated with Azula and hated Katara
Had a crush on Mai and June
Tans easily
Mildly allergic to shellfish but he eats it anyway
Only eats oysters when they're grilled
If he's awake really late and super hungry, then his midnight snack is a slab of salmon sashimi with nothing on it
Hates poetry
Offers you his leftovers
It's happened so often that you question whether or not he knows how to cook the right portions (he was offended and very defensive)
You then realized that he's straight up just making you food but doesn't want to admit it
Prefers to give you bites of his food rather than you steal them
He's okay with sharing snacks with you without question
You asked him if he'd ever get a piercing
He never thought about it, but he grew suspicious when you suggested a tongue one
(He considered and researched it)
(He might get one to appease you)
Had mild OCD
Very adamant about keeping things clean and organized during middle school
Was obsessed with making his bed perfect every morning (would wake up early so he had time to do it right)
His hair caused him a lot of angry stress during puberty, and he had a very specific routine for it
Fred accidentally falls in love with this mysterious girl in his class through awkward meetings.
âȘ âââ warnings: u are âshortâ bc fred is a giant (i believe in a big!fred), nonchalant!odd!reader but fredâs lowkey into it, goth!or emo!reader (described as wearing blackâimagine whatever u want), nonchalant/unexpressive!reader, swearing, parents are morticia and gomez = u r American (sorry), unspecific house!reader, bsf luna mention, acquaintances to lovers, medium slow burn, high school fight + injuries, 2nd/3rd person omnipotent but fred orientated, âBritish slang,â mild mentions of racism, 7th year, no y/n, no war au, teen cringe, very brief mention of alc, slice of life, swearing, poc!reader (maybe youâre adopted idk), unmeasured but small timeskips
âȘ âââ word count: 9.4k
âȘ âââ a/n: i really wanted to make this a oneshot bc im worried if i make it multi-part then the chances of me continuing are lower but like i need to split this up or else it'll never be published bc itâs been rotting since mayâŠ
Thereâs this girl in Fred Weasleyâs class; no, he doesnât fancy her or anything, but heâs heard much about this infamous Addams character. Heâs seen her silently floating around school, practically gliding down halls in shiny heaps of black fabric. Sometimes, Fred can make out the soft jingle of jewelry when she approaches.
Her parents, supposedly, are vampires that own giant crematoriums with bakery fronts that they use to incinerate their victims, and her family is devoted to the darkest of artsâ all according to little Colin Creevey (but it sounds kinda like Sweeney Todd).
This girl apparently feeds off of fear, has a pet tarantula and sleeps in a coffin. The last two rumours were sourced from one nervous Ronald Weasley, so Fred didnât take it too seriously.
âYouâre lucky you never had to share a class with her,â Ron murmured pensively. Three vibrantly redheaded brothers (Fred, George, and Ron) had cornered themselves into a window alcove, trying to cram in some meek conversation before the bell rang. âI heard that sheâs a bat animagusâ,â
George nudged Fredâs arm. He wiggled his bushy brows and smirked. âWouldnât that be cool?â George implored his twin.
Fred shrugged, lightly considering the thought with a slight bob of his head. âWould be pretty badass,â Fred agreed.
Ron scoffed at his older brothers. âLavender swears she didnât see a reflection in the lavatory mirrors the other day,â Ron pressed.
âYou know, humans can actually learn echolocation,â George chided.
Ron frowned, âOh, piss off.â
âNo no, itâs true,â Fred said with an affirming nod. âWe can only do it through snaps.â The twins simultaneously shut their mischievous eyes, tilted their chins up, and held out their hands to snap in unison.
âShut up,â Ron grumbled, folding his arms atop one another. He eyed the curious glances their peers were charitably donating. âQuit itâ people are looking at us,â Ron snapped. He kicked the closest brother (which was George) as an attempt to silence them.
Fred and George give him a little peek, as their snaps fell out of sync. They snickered and eventually stopped, amused and satisfied with the damage theyâve done to Ronâs social standing.
Ronâs shoulders were hunched and tense; his voice was an exasperate whisper, which only drew in Fred and George for his words to be heard. âHer father went to Durmstrangâ the school that Malfoy wanted to attend,â Ron indulged dramatically.
Fred wrapped an arm around Ron, pulling him closer. âYou sure it wasnât Pigfarts?â Fred joked in a feathery tone.
âHeadmaster Rumbleroar rules with an iron fist,â George added humorously.
âMore like a furry one,â Fred corrected. He squeezed Ronâs arm affectionately. âHeâs a lion,â he clarified.
Ron weaseled out of Fredâs degrading hold with a hefty huff. âMerlin, you guys are insufferable,â he stated, nostrils flared and eyes aflame.
âMate, she gets picked on enoughâ we donât need to add to it,â Fred rebutted.
The younger (but taller) boy adjusted his messenger bag sardonically, prepared to abandon the oafish twins. âSheâs one scary girl,â Ron decided before striding away, passionate about his beliefs.
âWhatâs she ever done to you?â Fred called out. He received no answer; he simply watched Ron disappear into the crowd of students.
The Potions classroom was smelling⊠fishy; it was pungent, vile, and evidence of hardworking students. The ridiculous concoction Professor Snape assigned would take two to three class periods to fully brew. Two to three classes; thatâs outrageous! The instructions alone are four pages long, the list of ingredients merely half!
All of this for a 50 point assignment! Fred scowled. His nose scrunched with vexation, as he reluctantly flipped through the directional pamphlet.
With a pestle and mortar, grind up acorn barnacle shells into a fine dustâŠ
Add 27 grams of sheepshead wrasse scalesâŠ
Boil zooplankton until thick pasteâŠ
Fred scoffed and rolled up his sleeves. âAbsolute rubbish,â he mumbled before picking up the mortar. He examined the bowl for another potionâs leftover residue, and when he determined it was clean, he grabbed the small burlap satchette of chicken bone powder (Snape had premade it for the class out of the âkindnessâ of his slimy black heart) and loosened the tie.
Austin (Fredâs lab partner) adjusted the heat on the Bunsen burner with a scarred hand. âItâll boil in a few minutes,â the lad announced, peering into the small cauldron. He picked up his copy of the instructions. âIâm gonna collect some of the other ingredients,â he added.
âAlright,â Fred nodded, as Austin approached the supply table across the classroom. There was a decently sized line wrapping around it, as their peers were carefully apportioning themselves the right ingredients.
Fred observed the small cloudy bubbles forming at the mouth of the cauldron. What did the directions say? Wait until the water was boiling to pour stuff in?
He glanced at the papers. Eh⊠itâs probably fine; he dumped the bone powder in and grabbed a wooden ladle to briefly stir. The greyish dust dispersed and started to equally spread throughout the warming liquid.
He folded his big arms over his chest. Now, heâd have to wait however long it takes Austin to get through that line; he had no other ingredients to lazily mix in.
His eyes, full of impatience and impertinence, studied the broth foam and quietly pop, as bubbles were pushed to the surfaces like bouncing balls.
This is dreadful.
Fred slowly lifted up his chin. He scowled at Snapeâs greasy helmet of hair. Curse you, he mentally casted. Curse you!
He irritably sighed, but then his attention found you, one table to the right away from his, humbly plucking off the yellow petals of a marsh marigold. He watched you sprinkle the velvety corolla into the steaming pot, as your lab partner (some irrelevant bloke) gossiped with his friend.
The green stem and white spidery roots remained. You held them up at eye level; you broke off a few dead stocks and tossed them into the bin. You proceeded to place them in a small glass vial of blue fluid to steep. You checked up on your boiling cauldron and then decided to add the chicken bone powder.
You did it all so⊠gracefully.
This is the girl that sleeps in a coffin? Yeah, right⊠Fred peered at his empty wooden chopping board. She doesnât look scary, Fred thought. Well, a little intense or deathly bored sometimes but not intimidating. Who would be scared by someone three apples tall?
âHer only friend is Looney LunaâŠâ
Fred didnât look up; that was the trick to collecting drama and miscellaneous intelâ be nosy without acting like it⊠pretend the conversation wasnât even happening⊠Fred grabbed the instructions and pretended to read them.
â⊠probably escaped a circus together,â a different voice sniggered. It sounded like that Seymour kid; he used to be Percyâs friend⊠I think, Fred vaguely recalled.
Your lab partner, unoccupied and who Fred knew as Brody (frosted tips, brown roots, brown eyes, very plain looking), responded, but his pitchy words were incoherent at this distance. Fred licked his lips and pretended to nod at himself comprehensively. Ah, yes, wolfsbane, known for its plant qualitiesâŠ
âShe should go back where she came from,â Seymour whispered.
Fred frowned indignantly. Percy would never be friends with someone like that.
At the edge of his peripheral vision, he noticed the two teenagers ogle at you derisively.
âShut up,â Brody grumbled. âSheâs literally right there.â
They hit each other in the arm, huffing and snickering, daring themselves to make it more obvious.
The chicken bone broth was boiling. Fred turned down the temperature, as Austin returned with a wooden tray full of capsules and ceramic dishes.
Brody kicked Seymourâs leg and glared at the boyâs wild black coils. He glared at Fred, eyeing him dismissively. He tightened his tie uncomfortably. âSorry,â he lamely retorted.
Austinâs neutral demeanor was quickly displaced by Fredâs sudden shift in attitude. The tall redhead seemed⊠tense⊠his jaw was taut and his brows firmly narrowed.
âBut we werenât talking to you,â Seymour spat out dryly.
âWhatâs happening?â The strawberry blond shyly beseeched Fred.
Brody smacked his friendâs lower back. âShut the fuck up,â he hissed.
âI donât care,â Fred shrugged, consequently ignoring Austin. His feet shifted beneath him, subtly parting til they were shoulder-width apart. âWhy are you even saying stuff like that?â
Seymour rolled his eyes, âItâs none of your bloody business; piss off.â
âI think it is,â Fred refuted through gritted teeth. âIf you didnât want me getting involved, then you shouldâve kept your stupid mouths shut.â
Naturally, you were curious as to what the raucous was about.
Brody was idly standing across from you, his friend Seymour was closing in on Fred. Wide-eyed Austin ineptly pretended he wasnât third-wheeling an argument and started to grind up barnacle shells.
You found it severely unimpressive and resumed potion brewing.
He pointed at them accusingly. His lips practically snarled. âI know how to have basic respect; you guys struggle to be decent human beings,â Fred criticized.
Brody was baffled. âMe too?â He stupidly questioned.
âIsnât this sweet?â Seymour mocked, gradually approaching Fred and Austinâs lab station. âPoor olâ Weasleyâs in love with the freak,â Seymour snidely observed.
âAs if youâd be able to identify âlove.â Didnât your mum leave you as a baby?â
Professor Snapeâs attention had been dully notified. His pupils wouldâve thinned into slits like a canine on the prowl if it were possible.
âBoys!â He proclaimed annoyedly. âResolve this issue before points are docked!â
Seymour was bemused. His hands shook with fury. âDonât talk about her like that!â Seymour shouted, balling up his fists.
âOh,â Fred purred wickedly. âYou can be protective over someone you dunno but I canât?â
WHOOSH! THWACK!
Snapeâs feet stuck the ground like lightninig. âGENTLEMAN!â The professor screeched.
Fred hissed, âYou little piece of shit!â He tenderly massaged his jaw, and his face hardened with indignation. He curled up his fingers and launched a punch at Seymourâs face.
CRACK!
His nose was gushing blood.
Seymour leaped toward Fred, grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him onto the ground.
The two boys grunted, long arms flailing and feet hopelessly kicking.
All academic pursuits had been haltedâ for decently good reason.
âDETENTION! BOTH OF YOU!â Snape proclaimed, drawing his thin black wand from his robe.
Their classmates ogled in disbelief (in your case, it was subtle intrigue).
Glittering ropes of blue magic warped around the two bodies and then tore them apart.
âEnough with this nonsense!â Snape declared, as Fred was hauled into the air.
Seymour was withering on the ground. âIâm gonna kill you!â He shouted.
âIâd LOVE to see you try!â
The heat in Snapeâs face couldâve lit his greasy bowl of hair. His nostrils were flared and eyes aflame with disgust. He waved his wand again and Fred fell onto his knees.
âThatâs one hundred points from Gryffindor!â He condemned, grabbing napkins from a nearby lab table. He yanked Seymour up from the floor and shoved the napkins into his hands. âMcGonagallâs Office. NOW!â
âHe threw the first punch,â Fred glowered, pointing at the perpetrator.
âOne more word, Mr. Weasley, and thatâs another fifty points!â Snapeâs deadly black eyes fell upon the class. âBehave yourselves!â The man seethed. Snape snatched Fred and Seymour by the elbows and briskly escorted them out; his cape billowed behind him like a storm cloud.
âIâve never seen a dead man look so alive,â George mumbled noncommitedly.
âMumâs gonna kill you,â Ron warned.
âI can already hear the Howler,â Ginny astonished.
Fred tried to roll his good eye (one of them was swollen), as he shakily brought the ice pack to his temple. The Weasley twin was placed at one end of the infirmary, face heavily bruised and shoulders sore. Seymour was at the other end with Madame Pomfrey treating his broken nose.
George shook his head, âConsequences of playing hero.â He tried not to chuckle at his brotherâs weakened state.
ââHeroâ?â Ginny echoed. âWhy dâyou say that?â
âHeâs here, because he was defending some girl,â George dismissively clarified.
Ginny frowned, slightly taken aback. âThatâs not what I heard,â the young girl stated.
âDoesnât matter what you heard!â Fred groused curtly at his siblings; they were huddled around his bed the way vultures circled a corpse. He solemnly touched his cut lip, which stung from the slightest pressure. âI did what I thought was rightâ,â
Ron snorted at the remark. âMumâs not gonna agreeâ,â he interjected.
âWho was he defending?â Ginny implored, cutting both her brothers off. âI think itâs rather romantic,â Ginny said half-jokingly.
Fred blushed, almost missing the humour. âIt was not!â He protested.
âThe Addams girl,â George solved.
Ronâs jaw dropped in dismay. âYou DIDNâT!â Ron gasped.
âOoooh, he did.â
âWhatâs wrong with that?â Ginny inquired.
âNothing!â Fred responded (âEverything!â Ron replied).
Ronâs face scrunched with horror. âDid Seymour give you a concussion too?â
âGinny,â Fred huffed. âThereâs absolutely nothing wrong with that girl.â
âIs she the one always wearing black?â
âYes,â said George.
âShe is a little weird,â their sister softly thought aloud.
âShe is not!â
âSheâs a beauty⊠but a funny girl,â George offered.
âI still donât understand why youâre so defensive about this,â Ron griped, providing his two cents.
âI did it to prove that somebody was on her side! You, Seymour and everybody in this school isolate her and act like sheâs some deranged zoo animal. Itâs absolutely ridiculous; sheâs done nothing.â
âŠ
âŠ
âŠ
âŠ
âI think you did a very noble deed, Fred,â Ginny said, gently touching his shoulder (he winced and she quickly moved her hand to the metal bedframe). âSorry,â she murmured bashfully.
âI agree,â George concurred with a nod. âA âif not you, then whoâ type of... call to action, letâs say.â
Fred smiled a little. His lips were dry and slightly crusted with blood, but he was content.
Until he slowly peeked up at Ron. Fred swapped the ice pack into his free hand (his fingers were growing numb).
Ron was reluctant. âI guessâŠâ Ron trailed off shyly. âI guess I forgot she was still human.â
George shrugged, âGryffindors are pretty stubborn.â
âBut if you plead your case,â Ginny began.
âIf you play your cards right,â corrected George.
âMum might go slightly easier on you,â Ginny deduced.
Fredâs eyes hesitantly drifted over Ginnyâs shoulder; someone was standing in the doorway to the infirmary, silently watching from afar and cloaked in onyx.
Fredâs heart began to palpitate, and he managed to sink in the stone-hard mattress. His siblings noticed the change in behavior, and without missing a beat, they turned to see what the fuss was all about.
Ginny and George cocked their heads to the side, pleasantly surprised by your presence (thought Ginny did feel a chill tickle her spine). You had made no indication whether or not youâd actually approach them. You were like a phantom, awaiting the moment to mysteriously disappear.
Ron was about to foam at the mouthâ in his head, your humanization was partially admitted as verbal manifestation; he did not NOT see you as Beelzebub reincarnate (say her name three times and she shall appear!). But⊠exposure therapy was a first step in growth, so Ron tried to stay as quiet as possible (despite shaking in his boots).
You advanced towards the Weasleys with footsteps as quiet as a mouseâs. Your posture, your urgency and expression were so aggravatingly neutral and annoyingly unreadable to the redheaded family (Ron really wanted to scream and see if youâd react). You stopped at the end of the bed (short of half a meter) and stared directly at the injured boy.
Fredâs siblings expectantly turned back to him. He sniffled and nervously spoke first. âHello,â he bunglingly greeted.
âIâm not gonna thank you for participating in a fight, because I donât condone delinquency,â you bluntly said. Your hands laid at your sides. They didnât seem to fidget or naturally sway. Fredâs mind went blank, but before he could form coherent thoughts, you added, âI prefer more structured violence, like sword fights. But I will admit⊠I am impressed by your chivalry. I personally donât care what people say about me; Iâm used to it, but no oneâs ever made an effort to firmly stand by their morals⊠at least in front of me.â
All of their jaws dropped, including Fredâsâ and it felt like a thousand needles were stabbed into the bone. Fred Weasley was speechless, mainly because he was suddenly and extremely void of breath. Heâd never actually heard you speak before; surprise didnât just take him aback, he had completely surrendered to it.
âI acknowledge what you did today.â In the blink of an eye, you were instantly standing on the right side of Fredâs bed, empty of his circling brothers and sister. âBut if you have to do it again, make sure itâs in a colosseum and to the death.â
You stuck out your hand.
Despite being known for having a stomach of steel, Fred almost threw up and fainted. He ogled at your hand, unsure what to make of itâ
She wants a handshake.
Fred reached out, palms damp and cold. You didnât have a noticeable or visceral reaction; yours were more frigid than his.
You promptly retracted after a few seconds. âI also overheard most of your conversation with your siblings,â you announced.
George cringed, and Ginny jabbed Ronâs arm, as he flushed red with embarrassment.
You carefully considered their responses. âDonât worry. My opinion of you all hasnât dramatically changed.â Your attempt at reassurance didnât hit the mark; the siblings were disturbed.
You gave each Weasley an attentive look of acknowledgement. Your voice remained unwavering and confidently firm. âHeal soon,â you demanded from Fred crisply, before finally departing.
When you were far enough, Ron whispered, âBloody hell.â
âA beauty but a funny girl,â Ginny commented, reiterating Georgeâs prior observation.
A pulse in Fredâs chest continued to tense up and release precisely with each soft step you took.
Yeah⊠Fred thought.
The world doesnât revolve around Hogwarts; that was something Fred Weasley struggled to perceive. The twee village of Hogsmeade shared the same 24 hours as the rest of the population and operated independently as its own society.
They had their own unreliable postage system, a crumbling old schoolhouse, and crooked cobblestone paths. Their community was equipped with gated neighborhoods and abandoned projects at the outskirts of town.
Mid fall and very late summer in the Scottish highlands made the roads damp and muddy with soggy moss growing in the cracks. The streets are lined with buttery daffodils, pale mountain-avens and sweet bluebells (the mark of a public gardener trying to revive the townâs soul).
Fred tried to keep his spirits high, as he walked on the cracked sidewalk, squished between Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell, who were vibrantly talking over his presence.
Quidditch season started its first game earlier that evening. The suspenseful match resolved with Gryffindorâs victory over Ravenclaw, so prideful Captain Angelina Johnson rounded up all her teammates after they hit the showers and swept them off to a celebratory dinner at The Mooncalf: Bistro & Brasserie.
It felt... wrong for Fred to be here. Yes, he did in fact play, but that was because Angelina absolutely refused to put in Andrew or Jack as his substitute (they were utterly incompetent).
She had seen the swelling in his eye lessen, but completely ignored the fact his shoulders were totally incapable of properly swinging a bat! Fred looked like an absolute idiot, relying heavily on George to take the hits and make all the shots...
Well, there's no reason to relive it.
The restaurant took on the facade of a countryside inn. The roof was tiled with terracotta slabs with three thin gable dormers protruding in the front. The exterior walls were primarily the color of sand with the exception of growing vines and dead branches. The Mooncalf offered wrought iron table and chair sets for outdoor seating
It was a lovely place all in all. George had remarked to Fred about potentially starting up a small joke shop in Hogsmeade, but Fred rejected the ideaâ Diagon Alley was where success awaited them.
To the right was Alvarâs Bazaar, a dank and depressing vintage outlet for local vendors that sold bleached animal bones, haunted furniture and illegally smuggled foreign artifacts. Fred left with mysterious scratches on his back, and he had no interest in revisiting anytime soon.
To the left was Nifflerâs Keep, a hippy thrift store that carried crystals, fake turquoise jewelry and vegan leather handbags. Fred had visited it once with his twin; it reeked of cheap incense and lemongrass. The Weasleys escaped as quickly as they could, before they could further investigate the merchandise.
The Mooncalf was fairly busy this Saturday evening. The spicy aroma flooding the restaurant was heavenly; the small team quickly filed into the entryway (a few slipped into the waiting area where two pairs of lovers were already seated).
There was little lighting in there; the ambiance heavily relied on the white candles sitting upon the mahogany tables and low hanging lanterns. There was a bar off to the right and maroon colored booths and circular wood tables that carried tiny flower vases, condiments and salt and pepper shakers in ceramic duck bottles.
Angelina confidentially approached the tall reception stand, and Fredâs heart almost stopped.
You were the hostess in a grey pinstriped black button up and long dark pants. He hadnât noticed your nails were painted dark burgundy until now, as a tawny owl swooped in (there was an open window above the door).
The copper bird was clutching a pale rolled up piece of parchment; its scaly claw held out the paper to you, and you considerately took and unfurled it.
Wednesday 6pm
Barton M. - party of 4
You picked up a tortoise shell fountain pen and flipped through the thick calendar book. The sharp silver tip hovered over empty time slots until it landed on the requested date. Fred watched you jot it down, grab a green stamp and press it against the letter.
Reserved.
You rolled the letter back up and handed it to the tawny owl, who hooted and cooed before turning and flying out the restaurant.
You looked up at Angelina expectantly, setting the pen aside. You asked politely with matte eyes, âDo you have a reservation?â
The beautiful captain shook her head. âNo,â she answered. âWhatâs the wait time?â
âAbout twenty minutes,â you retorted. âIs that acceptable?â
Angelina nodded with content. âWe have ten people,â she said.
âIâll add you to the queue.â
Feeling satisfied and after having secured the team a spot, Angelina gestured for the large group to take a seat on the cushioned benches or lonely ottomans in the waiting area.
Fred, on the contrary, felt unnervingly restive and irked by your unanticipated presence, as if someone had pinched the tubes of his aorta closed for a second.
What the hell is she doing here?
Fred, George, Harry and Ron crammed themselves into the window alcove shoulder to shoulder (Ginny snagged an ottomanâ lucky).
The Mooncalf of all places?
The transparent pane had the large white lettering and iconic logo. The outline of the long necked and bug-eyed creature stared down at Fredâs messy hair.
âMan, Iâm starving,â Ron quipped, legs crossed and arms crudely pushed into his lap (he was trying to become as small as possible).
Harry rolled his emerald eyes. âWeâre all hungry.â
Fred was⊠fortunate enough to be packed next to Ron, who shimmied his pointy elbow to get his elder brotherâs attention.
âSheâs everywhere,â Ron whispered to Fred very conspicuously (there was absolutely no bloody way you didnât hear it). âHaunting the narrative, huh?â he joked.
Fred frowned and kicked Ronâs vulnerable ankle. âShh.â
A boy appeared, assumably another host judging by his similar attire; he was tan, a curly blond and had tapped you cautiously on your shoulder. Like an alert corvus, your head snapped towards the boyâs direction. Your eyebrows twitched, but your hands were still frozen on the calendar book.
Fred interpreted this reaction as your own special way of expressing surprise.
âPolly wants you to roll up silverware,â he told you.
âYouâll take my spot here?â You entreated sternly.
âYes,â he confirmed.
You didnât nod or say anything else, but perhaps that hard blink was your response. You slipped away from the reception lectern like a snake in weeds.
Fred glanced around and stood up. âToilet,â he announced, when Angelina glowered at him, silently daring him to be stupid on her watch.
Conveniently, the bathrooms were in the direction you were headed, so he outrightly followed youâ past the dining families, the first dates and giggling friends, past the enchanted jazz instruments playing themselves on a raised stage.
You ended up at an empty booth lodged in the back of the restaurant that was occupied by two giant plastic boxes. One was full of clean cutlery and the other of rolled up silverware; the black napkins were piled in a neat tall stack.
Fred slid into the seat opposite of you. âSince when did you work here?â
You took out your wand and gently waved the slender twig. The reflective utensils floated out of the scratched-up box, as the thick napkins levitated and wrapped themselves around trios of forks, knives and spoons.
âI started a few weeks ago,â you aloofly said. Your gaze remained in the air, wand rhythmically flicking to magic the cutlery into simple sets. âI work mostly weekends.â
Fred hummed, drumming the soft pads of his fingers on the smooth table. Yep, that makes sense, he thought. Not a lot of free time at Hogwarts.
Your wand, Fred realized, was nothing extraordinary; it was a smooth crooked stick of a bocote tree that had been carefully sanded and coated with varnish.
He chuckled, âWouldnât Alvarâs suit you a little more?â
You were unfazed by his opinionated humour. âYes,â you agreed casually, listening to the clinks and soft thuds of the rolled of napkins. âBut my parents encourage me to step outside my comfort zone. They think uncomfortable learning experiences are more constructive than complacent ones, so I applied here.â
Fred couldnât argue with that logic; there were dozens of times his parents forced him to do something unfavorable (like apologizing for the spider-related trauma inflicted on Ron or cleaning out the unaired attic), but he wasnât certain that they encouraged him to be a better personâŠ
âIs the pay good?â Fred blurted. He wasnât considering applying to The Mooncalfâ although he could use a real source of income (the more funds for pranks, the better).
âItâs minimum wage, and we split the tips at the end of the night,â you explained briefly. Your wand halted and all the ornaments hung in the air frozen. You ran out of napkins. You swished your wrist and the remaining cutlery flew back into the plastic box and you stood up, slid out of the booth and grabbed the stash of rolled up utensils.
Fred sprang out from his seat too, eager to shadow and continue talking. âYou werenât at the Quidditch game tonight, right?â He followed you into a busier section, lingering behind as you began to set down silverware rolls on freshly cleaned tables.
You had set down the box on an empty chair and thoughtfully laid out four sets at a square table. You moved onto the next vacant placements. âLike I said,â you restated, as you positioned six rolls. âIâm only interested if itâs a battle to the death; Iâm not keen on school sports.â
Fredâs nose wrinkled. âI think thatâs illegal nowadays,â he scoffed.
âYouâd be surprised by who and how people still practice it,â you indulged. âDonât you remember the Triwizard Tournament? Pitting a bunch of teenagers against each other whilst risking all their lives for socially perceived glory?â
A small smirk managed to form on your lips. The emotion was overwhelmingly uncanny to Fred. It may have been subtle, but any change to your impassive facade was like a boulder crashing into a lake: noticeable.
âI was in the first row for all the rounds,â you added with satisfaction. âIt was the most exciting thing to happen at Hogwarts. I only wish I was old enough to enter.â
Fred beamed at the notion and accidentally punched your shoulder in excitement (he didnât notice the error, but you were inconspicuously shocked by the physical contact).
âSo did my brother and I!â Fred exclaimed happily. He sighed mournfully, âIf the tournament had taken place a few months later, you wouldâve seen me fighting off that Hungarian Horntail!â
Although you were evidently more focused on your job, you spared Fred just enough attention to entertain the conversation. He could see you constantly contemplating whether or not to shoo him away or not.
âIâm assuming you skipped out on the Yule Ball?â Fred shyly threw out. He tried to imagine it: you with ridiculously tall heels, glittery eyeshadow and glossy pink lips. The idea was quickly shot down when he realized he had envisioned an entirely different person.
You rolled your eyes; you thought it was a stupid thing to ask. âObviously,â you sassed. You were now holding a box empty of silverware rolls. You sharply turned to finally face Fred properly. âIâve been to more sophisticated galas. I didnât want to waste my time at subpar dances.â
The blond boy from earlier crept past like a spider on its wispy web, taciturn and calculated. The people he was guiding, however, tromped around like an angry horde of elephants.
âFelt like we were waiting forever,â Ginny commented annoyedly.
âHope the service is snappy,â Ron added.
âI could eat a horse,â Harry grumbled. He received a jab to his bicep.
âMedium rare?â Ron jested.
âDo you think they give out breadsticks?â George innocently asked.
âIâd eat a handful of salt right now,â Alicia sighed.
Fredâs attention snapped towards the gradually passing team; his eyes met Angelinaâs first, who was at the front of the small crowd. Her dark almond shaped eyes narrowed.
Angelina roughly coughed, unamused to find him bothering The Mooncalfâs staff. âFred,â she sternly warned. âWhatâre you doing?â
âJust chatting,â he replied quickly with a shrug. He watched you sheepishly. âIâll, uh, see you later,â Fred concluded with a curt nod.
You ignored him and floated to the front of the restaurant.
Ginny and George shared a tentative glance, as he joined the rowdy Gryffindor herd. They were led to two rectangular tables that had been pushed together to accommodate the party size.
The blond host began to hand out the laminated pamphlets, and the team hurriedly sat down to flip open the menus.
âYour server will be with you soon,â was the last thing the boy said before leaving.
As always, Fred sat with George on his right, Ron on his left, Alicia at the end, and Ginny, Harry, Jack and Andrew opposite them. At the heads of the table were Angelina and Katie.
Ginnyâs flittering eyes skimmed the menu and suddenly landed on a short list at the bottom. âOh, they have savory crepes,â Ginny pointed out, nail tapping on the printed out names.
âThat sounds so good, but the real question is: do they have vegetarian ones?â Katie mumbled absentmindedly.
âWho the hell likes French onion soup?â queried Ron, baffled at its inclusion.
âDad sure loves it,â George answered, laying out a black napkin on his lap.
âI might get the steak frites,â Ron said, ignoring his brother.
Angelina called out, âAre we all just getting gillywater?â
Harry turned to the sound of her voice. âI want a butterbeer!â
Ron leaned forward and peered at the end of the table. âMe as well!â Ron chirped.
âSame!â Fred bellowed.
âWhoâs eighteen?â Andrew inquired boldly.
Angelina furrowed a brow. âI am. Why?â
He beseeched, âCan you order me a Dragon Scale?â
Angelina was aghast by the suggestion. Her eyes were ablaze and she scoffed. âAbsolutely not!â The girl proclaimed.
âWhen you actually score a point, sheâll buy you a drink,â Fred teased loudly.
Sunday mornings were reserved for toasted scones, fluffy scrambled eggs, and last minute copying of homework answers. Fred drowned his pancakes in thick sugary syrup, as he loaned Lee his potions lab report to... base his original and unique analysis off of.
The boy, with one hand carrying a fork and the other a beat-up quill, was furiously writing down chemical reactions he had certainly not noticed during class. To imagine they'd continue brewing tomorrow!
"Thanks, man," Lee absentmindedly spluttered. He poked the prongs of his fork into a greasy sausage. Lee tried to bring the link to his mouth but missed and smeared the sausage onto his cheek.
Fred nudged Lee's writing arm, which accidentally made the 'd' in 'caused' to be printed a little crooked. "You got a little somethin' there," Fred teased, gesturing at his own face.
"Totally forgot we had this dumb assignment," Lee grumbled, flipping to the next page. His eyes briefly scanned the instructions, before he turned to the same paragraph in Fred's documents. "Why didn't he just give us the packet at the end? Ridiculous!"
George spread a thin slab of butter onto his golden brown toast. "We would've forgotten all the info by then," George shrugged. He brought the slice to his lips: crunch.
"I doubt he's gonna even look at this tomorrow," Lee huffed. His penmanship was getting sloppier and sloppier. G's became y's, r's sank into n's, and i's were short l's.
"Then why bother making it look like you did it?" Fred snorted, cutting his pancake into bite-sized chunks.
"Why bother getting into a fistfight for some random?" Lee refuted abrasively.
Fred rolled his eyes; Snape sentenced him to a three detention with Stupid Seymour that afternoon. "You're lucky I'm giving you my answers," Fred reminded him haughtily.
Lee slammed his quill down and pushed the papers aside. "I already gave my thanks," he recalled. He finally ate the sausage link and started cutting up his lukewarm omelette. "Super grateful."
"Uh huh..."
George finished his buttered toast and scooped up a handful of fresh blueberries. "Fred, I've got an idea," he drawled out, popping the small fruit into his mouth.
Fred raised a mischievous brow; that was the one sentence he loved hearing most. "Yes, brother?" Fred theatrically answered.
"People cry when they eat chocolate, don't they?"
Fred picked up his glass of orange juice, he swirled it around, pretending it was wine. "Perhaps they do," Fred said in a snooty accent. "But I've never partaken in such activities. What are you suggesting, old sport?" He took a long sip and made sure to slurp loudly.
"Well, old sport," George picked up his own drink (apple juice) and eddied it, "I'm suggesting we create chocolates that have an emotional kick to them, one that stirs the waterworks and funds profound sentimental and corny displays."
"And we could call them... Tear at First Bite." Fred shook his head at himself. "No, Heartstring Sweets," he corrected.
"Because they tug at your heart!" George nodded approvingly. "You're quite clever, brother."
"Hear hear!" Fred placed his cup down. "But how on earth do you suppose we make these spectacular chocolates, hm?"
"Umm..."
From the open awning windows came flocks of owls, swooping low over the tables and dropping brown packages, parcels of sweets or tied-up envelopes. The nocturnal birds hooted and twittered, as their wings propelled them back into the air after a swift delivery.
Students ripped open candy bars and tore out folded up letters. A muggleborn's parents were considering buying her a car for her 17th birthday, a boy's step uncle was recently engaged, and someone's grandma had taken ill.
"Someone's got themself a Howler!" Seamus cried out, enthusiastically pointing above their heads.
The Gryffindors (and a few members of other Houses) followed the direction of his pale hand to find a Great Grey owl carrying a vibrant red envelope. It swooped down from the rafters with little grace, teetering to the side slightly with its legs kicking out anxiously.
Fred squinted at the feathery blob. He dropped his fork and knife, "Oh shit."
Errol the ancient bird almost collided into Fred's head, but in the process had conveniently surrendered the Howler into the ginger's possession.
"I think we know what that's about," Ron sighed, inching away from Fred.
Fred's stomach rumbled with anxiety; he meticulously slid his thumb nail under the patterned wax seal, letting it lift just enough, so he could open it.
Fred gaped at the letter for a second and then peeled the front flap open; the red envelope shot out of his hands, fervently animated and unfolding itself into a hissing mouth. The pale parchment inside crinkled into sharp jagged teeth, a burgundy ribbon lashing out like a snake's tongue.
The papers ruffled slightly. "FREDERICK GIDEON WEASLEY!" it exclaimed in their mother's voice.
"Here it comes..." George's hands flew up to his ears, ready to shield them from the scornful lecture. He offered a pitiful smile to his twin, whilst also scooting away.
The Howler snarled wickedly, "I AM ABSOLUTELY FURIOUS!" Its paper forked tongue flicked at Fred's nose like a whip; he winced and covered his face. "YOUR FATHER AND I EXPLICITLY WARNED YOU TO BE ON YOUR BEST BEHAVIOR; THIS IS YOUR LAST YEAR AT HOGWARTS, AND YOU ARE OFF TO A BLOODY TERRIBLE START."
Hermione lent Ron her ear as he leaned in, shaken by haunting memories. "I remember when Mum sent me one," he whispered to the frizzy haired girl.
She scoffed at him, pushing his shoulder. "And you deserved that," Hermione said facetiously.
"I RECEIVED A LETTER FROM PROFESSOR MCGONAGALL ABOUT THE NEED FOR DISCIPLINARY ACTION FOLLOWING A FIGHT DURING CL--," the Howler suddenly drooped like a limp balloon, it bent down as if it was listening to something. Mum's voice became hush, "-- what, dear?"
Fred was boggled by the interruption; it must've been Dad! Coming to his rescue? But if good ol' Dad had saved Fred's hide, then the letter wouldn't have been sent in the first place... right?
"Let me see that!" The Howler made a shuffling noise. "I see," it murmured. Mum cleared her throat tentatively, and the red envelope straightened up.
A deeper (and more calm) voice spoke, "We've received a letter from the Addams."
The Gryffindor table almost choked.
"You're kidding!" Ron gasped.
"They've expressed their sincere gratitude and point of view," their father continued in a dignified tenor. "We understand you were merely trying to do the good thing--"
"But doing the RIGHT thing doesn't require getting involved in a FIST FIGHT!" Mum obstructed loudly. "You are almost an ADULT, Fred Weasley, and I expect you to outgrow this-- this-- this delinquency!"
Dad ungracefully coughed. "But we are, hm..." the man trailed off.
"Disappointed that this situation wasn't handled differently!" Mum finished.
"But we love you! Mum and Dad!"
Having delivered its message, the Howler began to shred itself into confetti, and a few pieces landed in Fred's syrup soaked pancakes.
Fred's hand slid onto his forehead in dumbfounded shock. "Oh my God," the boy emitted.
"He survives another day," George noted.
"A real miracle that was..." Harry chuckled.
A week following the Potions Incidentâą, Fred tried his very very best to be on his best behavior for the sake of his parents. This new effort included making it to class on time, actively listening to his professors, and taking notes-- which may sound like normal student behavior, but it wasn't normal for Fred Weasley.
He was a smart in his own right, but all this sitting around, staring at slideshows and reading boring textbooks... Ugh! Fred highly preferred hands-on activities: he had taken Enchanted Pottery I and II last year, and it was phenomenal.
Yes, he gifted his Great Aunt Muriel a flower vase that replenished its water. Yes, he gifted his mum a magically chilling butter dish that he made. Yes, he gifted his dad a beautiful ceramic plate that could keep its contents warm.
And that was why he got better Christmas gifts that year.
But the past few days, Fred Weasley has been extra nice to his peers. He helped find Luna Lovegood's shoes, he volunteered to go shopping with his sister, and he personally trained Andrew during practice.
Fred had depleted his secret stash of midnight snacks (mostly biscuits, granola bars, and crisps), and he was absolutely starving tonight. The hunger pushed him out of his bed, out of the Gryffindor Common Room, and towards the kitchens.
He deserved some mischief, right?
Well, he'd hardly call this mischief; this was a matter of survival. Fred Weasley was surely about to die if he didn't eat something soon.
It wasn't unusual for Fred to wander around the castle at night, but he was often accompanied by his other half. In Christmas pajama pants, a zip-up that was most certainly George's (his initial was on the inside tag) and a moth-eaten rock band shirt (the logo was incredibly faded, but a good eye can make out the name Wilmot and the Banshees), Fred ventured off towards the kitchens, guided by the abundance of moonlight.
With a school as big as Hogwarts, it was incredibly easy to avoid Filch's lackluster security measures. Most, if not all, the paintings he passed were sound asleep; the figures were passed out, leaning against props, hiccuping and snoring.
Fred's stomach rumbled like waves of thunder, as the delicate pitter patter of his slippers echoed against the cold stone walls.
The kitchens (for convenience and practicality) were in the same corridor as the Great Hall. Warm streams of light escaped through the gap beneath the heavy door, along with metallic clangs of pots and pans. The House Elves were still clocked in it seems. Fred could sniff the faint scent of bread; perhaps they were preparing for tomorrow's breakfast?
Fred's warm palm unhurriedly grasped the long iron doorhandle. He twisted and pushed it open marginally, just enough to peek inside-- on a small stepladder was an elf organizing the spice shelf, another was scrubbing dirty plates at a sink, one was tending to the brick oven, and others were sweeping or mopping the floor.
Coast was clear; Fred enlarged the door opening enough for his entire body to be revealed. His view of the kitchens were much clearer now; he saw giant drying racks, butter churning barrels, large jars of dried herbs, cabinets upon cabinets, the Addams girl, rows of low wooden tables--
Wait.
It's you.
In the kitchen.
In the dead of night.
"What-- what're you doing here?" Fred blurted. His voice, despite being so tender in nature, cut through the air like a playing dart. He caught your attention and a earned a few glances from the working elves.
You were sat criss-crossed on the floor at a table facing the entryway, arms folded over your chest assuredly. "Waiting for the oven to finish baking the cake," you bluntly reacted.
Fred stepped into the room and let the door shut behind him. He was bewildered at such a notion. "You eat cake?" he investigated, hesitantly approaching.
"Yes." You were puzzled by his confusion. "Why is that surprising?"
Fred sheepishly shrugged. "You don't seem like you'd have a sweet tooth." He abashedly sat down on the floor across from you.
"It's my grandmother's yew berry chocolate mousse recipe."
Fred furrowed his brows. "Aren't those poisonous?"
"Not entirely." You looked at the elf wearing a blue headscarf and matching tunic. "Cosa knows how to replicate it perfectly, so I occasionally request for her to make it."
The aforementioned elf was waiting by a brick oven. One of her hands was gloved with a thick mitten, which she used to open the iron door of the oven. Inside were three short trays of chocolate cake.
"It's almost done," Cosa stated, after closing the door. "Cosa will grab the yew berries and the mousse from the icebox," she informed. She snapped her fingers and disappeared with a pop.
Your shrewd eyes dragged themselves across Fred's hunched frame. "What're you doing here?" you echoed back at him.
"Looking for a midnight snack."
"You're welcome to try some of my grandmother's cake recipe," you politely offered.
Fred shook his head, "I couldn't."
You stared at him. "I insist."
"Maybe a little," Fred compromised, feeling somewhat unnerved by your persistence.
Pop!
Cosa magically returned carrying two bowls, one with the tiny red fruit mildly covered in frost and the other full of thick airy chocolate mousse. She set both of them on empty counter space. Cosa grabbed the three chocolate layers and set them out to cool on a metal rack.
"Cosa make more mess for Lenny to clean!" cried a particular House elf who was scrubbing burnt leftovers from iron pots. He pointed furiously at the cake pans.
"Lenny doesn't have to clean that!" Cosa snapped back snootily. "Cosa will take care of it!"
"Lenny is highly skeptical," he grumbled, holding up a pan. He squinted at the black residue sitting in the dish. "Cosa forgot to clean up after making French toast..."
Fred couldn't help but watch the two elves bicker. It was an unusual sight-- they had no eyebrows, but their wrinkly eyes narrowed, their lipless mouths pinched into frowns, and their large ears twitched with irritation.
"The Mooncalf is hiring, if you're interested," you said, ignoring the nearby argument.
"Huh?" Fred hummed involuntarily (he had very much heard you loud and clear).
His eyes slowly moved to your pallid yet serene face, fully expecting a reaction of exasperation or disapproval, but your nature stayed neutral.
"They're looking for more servers," you added, unfazed by his absentmindedness.
Fred frowned, "I might be too busy with Quidditch." Time management wasn't an advanced skill of his, but the temptation of income was decently strong. Having a job would make him seem more mature in the eyes of his family though... "I'll think about it," Fred concluded.
Topics of conversation ran out like water in a drought. You and Fred sat in silence, listening to the House elves work. The ginger grew antsy, uncomfortably writhing with restlessness; the awkwardness practically lit his heart ablaze! You, however, seemed unaffected, as Fred struggled to plunge into his head for topics.
A joke! Tell her a funny story or something! ANYTHING!
Fred licked his lips. "What's red and bad for your teeth?" He impulsively initiated.
You studied him for a few seconds before realizing he wanted some sort of signal to keep going. "What?" you indulged him.
"A brick."
You didn't laugh, and Fred choked on his spit. He only grew more anxious and, maybe for the first time in 7 years, embarrassed.
Embarassed. Fred Weasley doesn't get EMBARRASSED-- not in front of anyone with a pulse! Well, you were debatable...
"Tell me another one."
Fred paled. What's that supposed to mean? Was it so bad she's GIVING ME A SECOND CHANCE TO BE FUNNY? How HUMILIATING!
Fred gulped and tried to scrounge up something. Think, Fred, think! Ugh, I'm trying!
"Why was the frog late for work?"
"Why?"
"His car got toad."
"Funny."
NO, IT WASN'T! YOU'RE NOT EVEN BLOODY SMILING. THERE'S NOT A SEMBLANCE OF AMUSEMENT IN YOUR ENTIRE BODY!
Fred leaned the side of his head into his palm and allowed his fingers to mask his eyes. "Don't patronize me," he pathetically grumbled.
"I wasn't trying to."
The House elf had magically cooled down the cake to room temperature. "Bon appetit!" Cosa declared, passing out two forks and small plates to the students.
Oh, thank, Merlin, a distraction...
They each received a perfect slice of chocolate mousse cake, laying on its side, drenched in a thick yew berry infused ganache.
Fred's emotional turmoil had completely derailed his sense of hunger but seeing the dessert before him... his stomach moaned in anticipation, and he quickly cut off a corner piece and shoved it in his mouth.
Each layer was perfectly moist, the chocolate not too bitter, and the fruit not unbearably tart. The whiplash threw Fred's heart into a tornado-- he had braced the fiery storms of hell seconds ago, but now he was eating chocolate!
"'Let them eat cake!'" Fred quoted, trying to rejuvenate his ego and reputation.
"Marie Antoinette didn't actually say that."
His confidence plummeted like a wave crashing onto a beach.
Fred didn't want to-- Fred really really REALLY didn't want to attempt to read your tone, but he just could NOT for the life of him understand you! An enigma of a human specimen! An unopened Pandora's box!
"But I understand what you're saying," you added. "Do you like it?" you interrogated.
"Yes, it's amazing actually," Fred confessed truthfully.
"Grandmama first made this for my father's birthday dinner a few years ago. We had spent the evening playing games and singing."
"What kind of games...?"
"Pin the Snake on the Chimera, Murder in the Dark, Russian Roulette..."
Why did I even ask?
His cowardice reluctantly shooed itself away, and his light-colored eyes bore holes into your downturned head. You appeared frightfully normal when eating cake; Fred personally believed it was the result of two subjects canceling each other out.
One Very Interesting and Unique Individual
- The Activity of a Midnight Snack
= Average
Fred wanted to rip your hair out (not in anger, but the way a child ripped open a present), peel back the thin layers of skin (like an onion), dismantle your skull (similarly to a puzzle), and poke at your blobby brain. Fred had morally promised himself not to use the W-word, but it was all he could think of; you were explicitly and unapologetically weird.
People are always surprised to hear that Fred Weasley does his homework. It may not always be of the highest quality or worth much merit, but theyâre usually done on time. His classmates stay vigilant when it comes to potential boobytraps and pranks, but they turn a blind eye to the hours spent studying and researching.Â
If they spared a moment looking for his academic efforts, theyâd realize he spends just as much time scheming as he does plotting. Schemes are more elaborate than most assume; there are mechanics that Fred and George must engineer and perfect before deploying their art into the world.
âMate, I think weâre gonna have to retire the singing pasta idea,â George reluctantly conceded. His feet dangled above Lee and Fredâs heads, his back lying flat against the thickest branch of the crooked oak.Â
Fred scoffed, hitting his twinâs leg, âNo, come on, weâre onto something here!â In his lap was a sketchbook, one currently full stringy noodles with faces and giant mouths agape. There were a hundred arrows, a thousand captions and a million diagrams.
âMerlin, we already asked Flitwick, and none of those bloody charms have worked,â George reminded him. He swung the toe of his shoe at Fredâs head. He missed.Â
Fred tutted, âNo, you suck at casting them.â He sprang up from his crossed-legged position below the tree, cast aside his book, and looked up at his brother. âIt couldâve worked if you just let me try on one bowl!â Fred claimed defensively.Â
Lee crumpled up an old note and chucked it at Fredâs face. âOh, shut up! You guys already wasted 5 plates of good spaghetti!âÂ
âYou said they were overcooked!â said George, jumping down from the tree.
âI was hoping youâd leave it be, so I could EAT!â Lee revealed irritatedly.
"Was eating all the garlic bread not enough for you?" Fred complained.
Lee snapped back, "Can't a man just be hungry?" He rose to his feet and met George the Giant beside him, still inches taller.
"I think we should try charming the noodles before and right after they're finished boiling. The sauce is probably messing us up," Fred theorized, waving his hands passionately about. "If it works, then we need to find a way to make it dormant, so we could sell magical noodles that sing when you cook them!"
George and Lee's approval was a gradual thing to win over; they understood what Fred suggested but--
"How the hell do you suppose we make a singing spell dormant? On spaghetti?" George questioned.
"We add a spell to make boiled water trigger it," Fred fired back.
"But it'd be funnier if it appeared normal and then started singing at the dinner table," Lee argued.
Fred crossed his arms, tolerably peeved. "If you're gonna recommend something, at least have a solution to it. I can't come up with all of this by myself," Fred spat.
He watched for their reaction, but none came. George and Lee fully stopped listening; their attention honed in on some stupid bird or conversation behind him.
Fred frowned and wrinkles appeared on his forehead. "Hello?" he pressed vexedly.
With a calloused hand, Lee loosely gestured for Fred to spin around.
"Merlin's beard!" Fred gasped, stumbling with electrified shock. His ears prickled with warm blood at the sight of you, impervious to his consternation. "Sorry," Fred murmured, eyes scanning you up and down. "I wasn't expecting-- uh, you. Hello," Fred waveringly smiled.
"Hello," you greeted.
Fred licked his chapped lips and eyed the terracotta pot you were carrying. "And you have a plant?"
You held out the bush for him to better observe. "Yes, I do."
Its leaves were dark green, almost black, and toothed. Pinkish-white bulbs frequented its beige stems with a few fuchsia colored blossoms.
"This is Byron's Bleeding Heart. It's a rare shrub native only to Turkey," you informed.
Fred awkwardly glanced at George and Lee (they shrugged). "That's nice..." he affirmed uncertainly.
"A week ago, I overheard you discussing with your brother the need for an emotional stimulant for an upcoming prank."
"Oh... okay, um--"
"Let me finish," you deadpanned. Fred gulped and sucked in his cheek. "The petals of this flower don't quite achieve what you're looking for, but they get pretty close," you continued briefly. "When consumed, they trigger the amygdala to release hormones that cause overwhelming nostalgia and sadness."
Fred's knees weakened under his weight, and he felt extremely top heavy all of a sudden.
Merlin's beard! If Fred wasn't frozen in ineffable awe, he'd clutch the imaginary pearls around his neck-- he'd probably kiss your feet or ascend into heaven! Maybe even skip and dance!
Fred Weasley was aghast and getting disgustingly sweaty.
But you! An angel in black that left him speechless! Oh my God!
"Bloody hell," Lee sighed.
"Is he swooning?" George snorted quietly.
"You're amazing," Fred blabbed dumbly.
You extended your arms further out. "I know," you smiled with aplomb.
Fred's heart fluttered; she SMILED! His hands shook, as he reached and accepted the plant graciously. "But why?"
"It's a gift. Those don't need reasons," you replied coolly. Your fingers twitched at your sides, and you began to pick at your nail beds. "Water it once a day, and don't touch the leaves. They sting."
Fred held the clay pot in one arm and wiped his clammy palm onto his pants. He casually laughed and shrugged. "Yeah, shouldn't be too hard."
"Take good care of it."
"I will. Promise," Fred solemnly swore, pressing his right hand over his chest.
"Goodbye."
Goodbye.
Fred blinked; he hadn't returned the farewell.
"Uh, I-- goodbye!" he sputtered.
Fred watched you leave like black smoke dispersing in the wind. His eyes stared at the imprints you left in the dirt, actively replaying the last few minutes over and over (nails: dark aubergine) and over (shoes: muddy) and over (sleeves: rolled up) and over--
"What the actual fuck was that?" Lee inhaled. "Was that a marriage proposal?"
Shut up.
Byron's Bleeding Heart had spicy undertones to its uniquely floral scent.
"He's always been a ladies' man," George joked.
A large blossom began to unfurl and bloom.
"I think we just witnessed Fred fall in love."
The tiny furnace in the middle of the room was grumbling, chewing up wood, and simultaneously keeping everyone warm. It must've been a full moon, as Fred could make out the somber howls and yelps of a werewolf in the Forbidden Forest.
George snored and huffed in his sleep, Kenneth had restless feet, and Lee was basically dead.
Fred's quilt (his 14th birthday gift from Mum-- it matches with George) was pulled halfway up to his torso, and his hands were clasped together on his stomach, as he stared at the mystifying and allusive shapes the darkness made on his bed's canopy. He imagined figure skaters dancing, warped faces chatting and animals skittering across chaparral plains. And then he began to think about you.
Fred secretly hated and regretted something in every interaction he had with you.
"I'll, uh, see you later" at the restaurant-- no DUH, she works there, AND we have class together.
Plus those terribly lame jokes in the kitchen! Kill me!
He never knew he was such a bumbling idiot. Fred had never been like this; not even when he fancied Angelina! He couldn't pinpoint a prior time where he actually cared if he was perceived ridiculous or not; but the type of stupidity he's been portraying was beyond the Weasley Twin brand.
So why does he care?
Why?
Why?
WHY??
First of all, youâre not intimidating. Heâs got nothing to be scared of. You didnât seem like the type of person to be harboring some terrible secret, in fact, if Fred just found the right questions, youâd probably confess willingly.Â
You're rather harmless despite your preference for violent sports and activities. Youâre a lot smaller than he is, he could definitely take you in a fight (not that heâd want to beat you up), but there was a daunting characteristic about you.Â
The way you carried yourself and spoke⊠youâre so⊠poised and proper, almost sophisticated.Â
You acted as if nothing could affect you. Events barely rippled or stirred your brow; you were an immovable object.
"Is he swooning?"
Fred rolled his eyes at the sound of George's voice echoing in his head. I was NOT swooning! That was an involuntary moment of weakness!
"I think we just witnessed Fred fall in love."
Oh, BULLSHIT! He shifted onto his side, flipped over his pillow, and pressed his cheek against the cold surface. She caught me by surprise. I wanna see YOU keep your cool when a pretty girl gives you a gift!
Byron's Bleeding Heart sat on the windowsill above Fred's bedside table. A small plastic watering can sat besides it, and both were illuminated by the moon's silvery glow.
Thereâs this girl in Fred Weasleyâs class; no, he doesnât fancy her or anything, but heâs heard much about this infamous Addams character. Heâs seen her silently floating around school, practically gliding down halls in shiny heaps of black fabric. Sometimes, Fred can make out the soft jingle of jewelry when she approaches.
Her parents, supposedly, are vampires that own giant crematoriums with bakery fronts that they use to incinerate their victims, and her family is devoted to the darkest of artsâ all according to little Colin Creevey (but it sounds kinda like Sweeney Todd).
This girl apparently feeds off of fear, has a pet tarantula and sleeps in a coffin. The last two rumours were sourced from one nervous Ronald Weasley, so Fred didnât take it too seriously.
âYouâre lucky you never had to share a class with her,â Ron murmured pensively. Three vibrantly redheaded brothers (Fred, George, and Ron) had cornered themselves into a window alcove, trying to cram in some meek conversation before the bell rang. âI heard that sheâs a bat animagusâ,â
George nudged Fredâs arm. He wiggled his bushy brows and smirked. âWouldnât that be cool?â George implored his twin.
Fred shrugged, lightly considering the thought with a slight bob of his head. âWould be pretty badass,â Fred agreed.
it's gotten really long so i'm splitting it into 2 parts. i'll publish part 1 when part 2 is almost done so the chances of me completing it are higher (i have commitment problems đ)
you vent in your diary, and, one day, fred weasley âaccidentallyâ reads some entries and tries to nonchalantly return it.
âȘâââ warnings: friends to lovers, established friends, teenage feelings/hormones, cringe diary entries, swearing, medium paced burn, 1 time use of y/n, u being a theater kid minor subplot, follows fred for a bit, unimportant background characters, fred has acid reflux, bsfâs hot older brother trope, vaguely 6-7th year btw, casually ripped!fred, happy ending
âȘâââ word count: 3.7k probably
part one
Dear Notecard,
Sunday
I lost my diary.
Iâve scavenged the ends of the earth, and I simply cannot find it. My life is over. Iâm moving to America, because the things Iâve said in there are vile. Maybe. I donât remember (which is a problem).
I JUST NEED IT BACK. OH MY DAYS. ITâS OUT THERE IN THE WILD FOR ANYONE TO SEE.
I genuinely donât know what Iâm to do. Should I ask Ginny and Abby to help me find it?
WHAT IF SOME KID HAS IT?
WHY DOES IT GO MISSING AFTER I MAKE IMPORTANT REVELATIONS? COINCIDENCE? I THINK NOT!!!!
Iâll probably have to burn this card later to prevent any further journal leakage.
Dear Notecard #2,
Monday
Ginnyâs on the lookout for my diary. I really shouldâve charmed it to appear invisible to unauthorized eyes or something. GOD, WHY DIDNâT I THINK OF THAT SOONER? IâM SO FUCKING STUPID. ALL OF THIS COULDâVE BEEN PREVENTED IF MY IQ WAS 10 POINTS HIGHER.
What if Peeves has it? He wouldâve said something by now, right? Probably wouldâve taunted me by waving it in front of my face⊠everything seems normal.
Will saying âAccio Diaryâ pull it out of whomeverâs grubby hands itâs currently in?
I miss you, Diary. Please come back to me.
Dear Notecard #3,
Tuesday
I genuinely donât know what Iâm supposed to do. I might give up, because Hogwarts is big and the amount of people that go here is even bigger, so itâs really a lost cause. I donât think I wrote anything disgustingly intimate in there⊠besides you know what, but like that stuff is normal to a degree⊠my life is so over.
I need to get my mind off it. Iâll see if Ginny wants to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend, but tonight I gotta organize and clean out a bunch of stuff for Hugo.
Fred Weasley could not stop reading your journal entries. He mentally promised that the one accidental log would be it, but Fred Weasley was born nosy. Sticking his big nose in other peopleâs business was a guilty pleasure, and when the gossip came to him, practically served on a silver platter, Fred Weasley could not resist temptation.
For the first two days, right after picking you up from the library and a chatty dinner, heâd retreat to his dorm, flip to a random page, and start reading. Fred had learned a lot about you, more than he could ever imagine uncovering through regular conversation.
The guilt showed up as acid reflux on the third day; he hadnât formulated a plan on how to safely return the journal, but being in possession of it was causing⊠minor distress to both parties.
Your eyes tended to wander into peopleâs backpacks and fly into every stack of books, hopeful of locating the missing diary. You jumped at the sound of your name, because you were agonized by the thought that someone knew something.
Paranoia, thatâs what it was; but your intuition was following a breadcrumb trail, because that someone was Fred, and he knew way too many âsomethings.â
I need to get rid of it, Fred ruminated. He anxiously looked around the Common Room; he was alone thankfully, but regretfully alienated in this particular endeavor.
The little black journal was hidden away in the messenger bag he clutched in his lap. Perhaps I can throw it into the lake or toss it into the fire! Watch my sins burn away! Fred bit down on his pointer fingerâs nail; he felt it bend beneath his tooth and eventually tear away. He huffed and flicked it out of his mouth.
The portrait of the Fat Lady swung wide open with a pitchy squeal (from the painted subject, not the door), and Fredâs ginger head snapped towards the sound expectantly, but only found a short blonde carrying a folded up easel. Unfortunately, Fred couldnât quite label that tanned face (um, perhaps Agatha? Or Sophie?), but he knew she was Ginnyâs roommate.
He straightened his posture and peered over the couch. âHey!â He called out. The girlâs eyes swept across the room, which was very empty, so she turned to Fred, curious. âDâyou know where my sister is?â He asked.
She shrugged, âI dunno.â She pointed at the staircase to the Girlsâ Dormitory. âBut I can check, if you want.â
âYes,â he nodded. âPlease.â
A minute or two later, Ginny emerged with rows of pink curlers rolled up in her long fiery hair and a thin layer of green goo on her face.
Fred coughed with frazzled eyes at the sight of his sister. âWhatâs with the getup?â
âSelf-care day,â Ginny bluntly answered. She cautiously tapped her cheek, checking the dryness of her clay mask. She begrudgingly crossed her arms. âWhatâd you want, Fred?â
âHave you seen Y/N?â
Ginny made an indescribable face (to Fred it was a mix between common suspicion and sisterly speculation). She shrugged; her irked brow stiff from the clay. âI donât know⊠maybe check the Drama Club? Rehearsals are usually after schoolâ,â
âWhat now?â Fred sputtered, standing up from the ancient couch. Since when did you do theater? How come he never heard about this?
His sister rolled her eyes. âDrama Club. Rehearsals. After school,â she repeated, as she turned back to the stairs.
Ginny had only taken a few steps towards colloquial freedom, before Fred blathered on, âWe have one of those?â
Ginny kept ascending towards the dormitories. âYes,â she reluctantly called out.
Fred frowned and his forehead creased with displeasure. You had never mentioned attending auditions or even considering joining the Drama Club to him! Nor did you even write about it in the diaryâ well, his brows furrowed, he wasnât reading the entries chronologically.
Fred slid the thick strap of his bag onto his shoulder. He looked at wooden backings of the portrait-way. Drama Club it is then.
This was all messed up, Fred was firmly aware, but now he knew you reciprocated his feelings! The ends justify the means, right? Good things can come from Fredâs invasive and intrusive behavior!
Fred paled, as he pulled the painting open. Oh God, this is gonna end terribly, he concluded.
The Fat Lady watched him exit the stale Gryffindor Tower. She held out her crystal wine chalice. âWhere you off to, troublemaker?â She mused lightheartedly.
The boy threw over his shoulder, âJust, uh, gotta fix some stuff.â
Her thin brown eyebrows quirked mischievously. âFix?â She echoed, placing her drink down. She cackled and clapped her pink hands. âThatâs new!â
âYeah, yeah, yeah, Iâm constantly evolvingâ puberty and whatnot,â Fred waved his hand dismissively, and he ventured off deeper into the cold castle.
Fred passed through galleries, overhearing lower class men twittering on about bogus tarot readings and overdue assignments. Laggard complaints from Ravenclaw Quidditch players about the upcoming match drowned out the soft thuds of his footsteps.
No one knew he had your diary. Not even George.
Fredâs hand subconsciously patted the cracked leather skin of his bag (which was a hand-me-down from Charlie). He felt the rectangular shape press against his palm, affirming to him of its consistent existence.
When he passed by the library, he realized he didnât know where the Drama Club was.
Shit.
His trainers squeaked when he came to such an abrupt halt. His stomach churned and his throat stung; he squinted down the long empty corridor. A figure was quickly approachingâ one tall with long flaring black robes, stiffly squared shoulders and a snobby upturned nose.
âPercy!â Fred exclaimed, lightly jogging up to him.
It was the first time Fred appeared⊠happy when seeing his elder brother.
Downturned lines appeared on Percyâs elvish face. The Prefect was always displeased when seeing a Weasley twin.
âYes?â Percy snootily answered, uncomfortably shifting weight on his feet.
âWhereâs the Drama Club?â Fred inquired.
It was Percyâs big eyes that squinted this time. He crossed his skinny arms. âWhy do you need to know?â Percy pressed.
âI need to drop something off for my friend.â
As a dignified Prefect, he was naturally inclined to answer. But as a human with a working memory, Percy was skeptical and reluctant to inform his brother.
The younger redhead automatically sensed the hesitancy. âIâm not lying, Percy,â Fred told him. âI honestly need to return a book.â
âSince when did you read?â
âJust tell me where,â Fred begged.
Percy rolled his eyes. âYouâre not gonna stink-bomb their practice are you? Iâll write you up if I hear anyâ,â
Fred shook his head vigorously. He waved his hand, almost trying to erase the thought from his brother. âNo no no,â Fred said. âIâm serious this time. I have to return something.â
Percy sighedâ no, he huffed and scratched his eye in disdain. âThird floor, right across Professor Prentissâ room,â the Prefect grumbled.
Fred tried not to eagerly smile. This might be the only time he was genuinely grateful for Percyâs birth. Fred clapped a hand on Percyâs shoulder. âThanks,â he chirped, before swiftly brushing past.
The Drama Club room was hot. Everyone had shed a few woolen layers and taken the liberty of tying up hair or rolling up their sleeves. The windows were all popped open and atmospheric charms were cast maybe a billion times, but absolutely nothing worked. It was grotesquely humid and mildly sweaty to your chagrin.
You were scavenging through the bulging chests for old itchy costumes, as student volunteers dug through the piles of handmade foam props and stage furniture. You had come across earthy colored smocks to flared nylon pants. There were faux golden circlets, Viking helmets, steampunk goggles, fur hats, and snake wigs all crammed into various boxes.
You pulled out a long silver robe, thematically vague to its time period, but sheer and sparkly with dozens of diamond buttons down the front. You stood up and pressed it against your body.
You looked down at the glittery fabric and held out a large Marie sleeve. âWould this work for the Lady of the Lake?â You curiously threw out to the room.
Hugoâs attention flew over. The club president pushed up his little spectacles with one hand (the other was holding a tape measure). Hugo hummed, âYes, thatâll do.â
âI wish it was longer; itâd be more whimsical,â Loretta mused from her wooden stool. Hugo motioned for her to hold out her arms. Loretta wordlessly complied, and the boy assessed the appropriate lengths for a new outfit. âCan my dress be blue?â
âItâs gonna be green,â Hugo snapped, before jotting down a few numbers into his notebook.
Hugo rolled his eyes, âItâs a sensible color for Morgan.â
âBut Iâm so pale, itâll wash me out and make me look sickly.â
Hugo gestured for her to step off the chair. âEven better!â He mocked.
âHow about pink?â She offered.
âAbsolutely not.â He looked at you and your newfound cloak. âLet me see that,â Hugo said, nodding for you to come hither. You brought the garment over, and the black haired boy scrunched his nose. âIt might be too big; Iâll have to bring in the waist.â He turned to the whole room. âDid anyone find the crowns?â
âYes, theyâre on the table by the window,â you immediately answered. You pointed in their general direction, and Hugo spotted Desmond carefully checking the tiaras.
âIâll take this off your hands,â Hugo said. You handed over the robe, and he continued, âThere should be a moonstone crown. Youâll wear that one, alright?â
Desmond, looking at the aforementioned diadem, interrupted the two with a wince. âHalf the gems fell off actuallyâŠâ Desmond grumbled.
Hugoâs hand slapped his forehead. He groaned, âWhat about the star one then?â
Loretta stopped pairing old shoes. âOh, I wanted that,â she sighed sadly from the floor.
Desmond reached across the table, picked it up, and gently turned it around in his large calloused hands. âIt looks fine.â
Hugo turned back to you, âStar one it is.â
Knock knock knock.
The abrasive sound lured in everyoneâs notice, but with the door already ajar and an infamous freckled face clearly peering in, the club president grew vexed.
âWeasley, get out!â Hugo barked. His long legs strode over to the door in seconds. He attempted to shoo Fred away, but the mischievous Beaterâs eyes locked onto yours, and he motioned for you to meet him in the hall.
âWe donât need any production delays!â Hugo proclaimed exasperatedly, as you stepped around open crates and hopped over fake swords and lanterns.
âIâll see what he wants,â you mumbled to Hugo, who averted his gaze and sniffled in satisfaction.
You pressed a warm hand against Fredâs firm chest and pushed him out of the Drama Club room. âWhatâre you doing here?â You asked him, once the door was shut.
The back of Fredâs throat stung, and he tried his best not to gag with his stomach acid partying. âHey,â he sheepishly croaked. You raised a brow, and his hand shakily reached into his bag. âYou forgot this in the library the other day,â Fred added, before presenting to you your very own diary.
You screamed and snatched it out of his hands.
He gave no fight, and your face paled before it began to burn with bewilderment. If it were possible, your face would be blue with humiliation.
âDid you read it?!â You screeched, clutching the diary close to your chest.
Fred stared at you dumbly. âNo,â he said.
You gawked at him, speechless. Oh my God. He totally read it, you internally shrieked. Oh my God. Oh my God. Itâs over. Itâs all over.
Fred shrugged, âI just found it.â
LIAR! LIAR. LIAR. LIAR!
You stuttered breathlessly, âDid youâ did you justâ,â you gulped and sucked in a hasty breath. You shook with fury and cried, âDID YOU JUST HAVE IT THIS WHOLE TIME?!â
Fred cringed; his ears prickled at the shrill timbre of your voice. âYes,â he admitted ashamedly.
You gasped, âWHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!â
âIâm sorry,â Fred managed to muster.
You smacked his arm with the journal, âWhat did you read? HUH? WHAT DID YOU READ?â
Fred yelped and clutched his âinjuredâ bicep. You continued thwacking him. He hunched over, knees slightly bent and upper half concave. He tried to protect his head from the abuse. âIâm sorry! I am! Iâm SO sorry!â Fred pleaded.
âAre you confessing to it?â You indignantly replied. With the warmth of the castle and the heat of your adrenaline, sweat pooled above your furrowed brow. âYou STOLE and READ my diary?â You whacked the back of his head.
Fred squealed and flopped onto his stomach. He pushed himself onto his hands and knee and scampered out of your aim like a confused rat. The boy, cheeks flushed with eyes full of comedic fear, defensively held out his arms and stumbled onto his feet.
He yawped, âYES! I DID! You donât have to forgive me; I definitely wouldnâtâ,â You raised the book, ready to launch at his head, but Fred intuitively ducked before spewing, âPLEASE, DONâT THROW THAT AT ME!â
âOh my God,â you defeatedly weeped. You lowered the diary, deflated of purpose and reason (Fred tried not to audibly sigh with relief, but he was very grateful it wasnât becoming a flying projectile).
Another friendship ruined, you thought, this was practically betrayal. It didnât hurt as much as Nelina, but, God, it was weirdly barbaric. You couldnât find it in yourself to look at himâ you wanted to (really really wanted to), because you secretly yearned for relishing in his guilt, but his youthful charm and gorgeous looks were sure to inadvertently sway whatever verdict you had in mind.
Fred watched your empty hand cover your eyes with dramatic dejection. âItâs not that bad,â Fred timidly suggested. He boldly took a half step closer, foolishly hopeful youâd let him console you.
You crossed your arms, diary tucked under an armpit. You glared at him, âI didnât ask for your opinion, Weasley.â
Last name. Ouch. If this were under⊠normal circumstances, heâd jokingly wipe a tear from his cheek, but he knew, for certain, doing so would send him to a very early grave.
âLook on the bright sideâŠ?â Fred meekly proposed.
âDonât tell me how to feel,â you spat.
Fred weighed all his limited options; he hypothesized all the outcomes (he had imagined them on his walk to the Drama Club), but none were sufficient enough.
Fred frowned and took a few more steps toward you. âListen, Iâm truly sorry about this whole thing,â he sighed.
âThanks,â you retorted, in your iconic sarcastic tone.
He apprehensively gauged your reaction (which obviously wasnât pleasant; you were ready to punch him). âBut youâd never have told me all that stuff on your own,â Fred stated.
âI donât want to ruin what we have.â
He awkwardly used his fingers to comb through his hair, before he offered a pained, small, idiotic but boyish smile. âThen youâd never know what we could,â Fred reasoned lightheartedly. âAnd youâd never find out that I like you back.â
You stared up at him, impressively boggled, and possessed by thorough uncertainty. A surreal emotion burst in your chest like a water balloon. âWhat?â You whispered, as unannounced joy oozed into your veins.
âYeah,â he reaffirmed, softly gazing down at your face. âYouâre lucky Iâm so invasive. I mean, if I wasnât, itâd save me a few head injuriesâ,â
You laughed, and your heart fluttered. It spun, danced and somersaulted. Oh my God. âLucky? Me?â You rephrased, baffled.
He nodded with a coy smirk on his blushing lips. âYeahâ youâre also lucky that I play Quidditch. Any other guy wouldâve been knocked out from your blowsâ but what Iâm saying is that weâd never have this conversation without me finding that little diary of yours.â
You scoffed, âAm I supposed to thank you?â
âI wouldnât be opposed.â
You cackled, âOh, you are vain!â
âYouâre into it, and we have written evidence!â Fred defended.
You sighed wistfully, âOh my daysâŠâ
âCâmon, talk to me; Iâm right here.â
Being the person in Fredâs fixed observation was a strangely heavy burden to carry. Your eyes darted to the Drama Club room. As much as you loved the revelation, âI have things to do,â you reminded him. âIâve already been out here a while. Hugoâs gonna be pissed.â
He rolled his eyes. âReal convenient.â Fred flexed his arms subtly (he wouldnât be surprised if he found some bruises later), as they intersected over his puffed up chest. âWeâll talk later then. No use in hiding; I know where you usually go.â
You nodded (and tried to hide your amusement, for his confidence and ego was certainly unmatched). You put a hand over your heart. âScoutâs honor,â you pledged. âNow, GO AWAY!â
Dear Diary,
Wednesday
Thereâs a lot to process. Like A LOT a lot. You go missing for three days and my whole life unravels and almost collapses inward⊠crazy stuff. Hugo was a little annoyed since I talked to Fred for so long, whatever (they also heard me assaulting him in the hallway⊠Amber was scared, no big deal), sorted out my costume (got the shoes, dress, crown, sword yada yada) BUT THIS THING WITH FRED WEASLEY. He is TRIFLING. Absolutely TRIFLING.
I donât know if you know this, but you were BOOKNAPPED by that redheaded SCOUNDREL. He kept you for THREE DAYS and thinks he can waltz into play prep to return you without any consequences. If it wasnât a crime, I wouldâve murdered him. And if I didnât have compromising feelings.
The craziest detailâ besides the fact he casually READ MY FUCKING DIARYâ is that he also FANCIES ME. He tried to emotionally manipulate me into believing this whole charade was beneficial (it kinda was), but that doesnât excuse the fact he BROKE my TRUST and INVADED my PRIVACY.
He was my friend before he was some lame love interest, so naturally I already set some standards for him to follow; standards that him and most of my other friends were issued. Standards that he totally DEMOLISHED in three days.
I donât even know if I wanna go into further detail. What if I lose you again? What if the next peeping tom prints my entries in the newspaper? For the whole world to see?
Iâll have to ask Hermione for a concealer spell to ensure this NEVER happens again. I need to put a tracker inside the cover or hex the pages to burn when opened by a stranger. I need to do SOMETHING.
I hate knowing that he read stuff and has opinions about opinions I didnât share with him. He knows too much about me now. He couldâve misinterpreted a bunch of things and think Iâm mad. What am I gonna do???
You were gonna talk to Ginny; thatâs what. It was the most logical course to take, because 1) she was in on the search and 2) her scheming redheaded brother was the red-handed culprit.
With paranoia at an astronomical all-time high, the little black journal made its way with you to Ginnyâs dormitory. It carried within its thin leaflets the same giddiness, reluctancy, and indifference you felt, as you rapped on the door.
âGinny,â you greeted, when the dewy face emerged. You lightly gasped at her bright appearance. âYour hair!â You awed.
Delicate strawberry locks rolled onto Ginnyâs confident shoulders like waves. She giggled and pretended to toss her hair flirtatiously. âJust wanted to try something new,â she said.
âI like this look,â you approvingly commented. âYou shouldâve done this for the Yule Ball!â
âThanks, but the back is a bloody mess,â Ginny lightheartedly indulged with a regretful head shake. She snorted at herself, âI didnât have enough fashion sense back then.â
She waved you into the room. âWhatâs up?â Ginny casually asked, before sitting down on her bed.
You shut the door (which was thin, so it didnât do much) behind you and rotated a nearby desk chair around til it faced her. Your eyes theatrically closed, and you placed a tender hand on your chest. You sucked in an exhausted breath and stashed your diary flat on the table.
Ginny chuckled at the sight. âOh boy.â
âGood news is,â you began, slowly peeling your eyelids open. Your friend perked up with anticipation. âI found my diary,â you continued in a whisper-shout.
Her jaw dropped, and she straightened, as her eyes darted to the desk. âNo way! Where was it??â
âUghhhh,â you grunted. You annoyedly laughed at yourself and leaned your head against the top of the chair. âYouâre actually never gonna believe me. Itâs so bad.â
âTell me!â Ginny urged.
You craned your head and stared her in the eye. âFred stole it.â
Her face dropped. âNo bloody way.â
âYes, way.â You leaned forward, âHe had it this whole time, Ginnyâ,â
âNo!â
ââ he read my entries, Ginny.â
âNO!â
âI was furious.â
âIâm furious for you,â Ginny huffed. She tautly folded her arms below her bosom and crossed her legs. âHowâd you find out?â
âHe showed up to play prep, gave it back, and tried to tell me it wasnât a big deal.â
âThatâs why he asked me where you were,â Ginny realized. She lamented, âHeâs so stupid. Heâs so stupid.â She flopped backward into her mattress. âOh Merlin. What the bloody hell is wrong with him?â
âBut itâs fine,â you said, to which Ginny bolted up, gawking at you. âI beat him up,â you added triumphantly. âHe had it coming.â
âHe had it comingâŠ!â Ginny echoed with astonishment. Straight out of, uh, what did Hermione call it? It was like a long version of a wizard photographâ muggle picture? No⊠a motion picture.
âI wish I was there to see it,â she declared earnestly. âIt sounds like a novel.â Admittedly, she mostly wanted to see her brother withering in pain.
The remaining undisclosed information was the most enticing. You leaned toward Ginny and held out an open palm, practically sparking with explosive anticipation. The innocuously took it in her own and gave you her ear.
âYou know what he tells me right when I stop hitting him?â You rhetorically questioned.
âNoâŠ?â
âHe says that if he wasnât a little snoop⊠Iâd never find out that he. liked. me. back.â
As if your hand was a burning blob of coal, Ginny released it with a terrified scream. She sprang onto her feet.
âWHAT?! WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?â Ginny wheezed, as if sheâd been electrocuted. âHeâ youâ Fredâ YOU FANCY HIM? MY BROTHER?â
âYes!â
Ginny paced and ruminated in wobbly ellipses. âAND HE FANCIES YOU?â
âYES!â
Her toned arms went akimbo with curls bouncing like springy coils, she was manufacturing her own personal understanding of the situation.
She grumbled incoherently (along the lines of Fred âdying a virginâ (you tried not to laugh)). Ginny occasionally shared a few strings of words (âhis hygiene has been too good,â âoverdoing lame jokes,â âshowing off at practiceâ).
But her mental math wasnât adding up. You + her brother = in love apparently? How did this happen under her nose? Where was she this whole time?
Her pacing came to a slow halt. âSo⊠are you guys dating now?â Ginny inquired cautiously.
âNo, am I supposed to ask for your blessing or something?â You harmlessly joked.
âIf anything, it would be Georgeâs.â She rolled her eyes right before she knelt down and grabbed dirty articles of clothing from the floor. âIâm totally fine with you guys dating, but heâs bloody insufferable sometimes, so you need to be prepared for that.â
A shy snicker managed to escape your glossy lips. âHeâs not that bad,â you haggled, before picking up your diary. You carefully stood up and stretched your dormant arms with a cautious crack. âI probably should find him now; he wanted to have a proper talk.â
Ginny grinned, âHeâs a procrastinator, so better start planning the wedding now.â
You lightly pushed her shoulder, âOh, stop it!â
The cold doorhandle met your warm palm, and right before you left, Ginny hastily added, âBy the way, my parents said theyâd love to have you over for Easter. And I just got my learnerâs permit, so I could totally take us to the beach in the flying car!â
Logically, the first step in tracking down the elusive Fred Weasley was to check the dormitory. While the stairs to the girlsâ quarters were enchanted to contort into a slide if a boy stepped on it, there was no consequence vice versa. A few conflicting feelings brewed in your head about the overall concept, but who were you to complain, if it was beneficial right now?
The long narrow hallway smelled of smoke, dust, and minty pest repellant (which was unsurprising to you, given the nature of Gryffindor guys). Crooked nails had been drilled deep into the grey brick wall, a simple assistant to the heavy medieval tapestries hanging.
The floorboards squeaked beneath your soles (or maybe it was anxious mice), but through the thin dark doors, you could make out distant boisterous talking, some rigorous quill scratching or mellow music by The Beatles or Jarvey and the Mandrakes (one of Ginnyâs favorite bands; she was very upset when she couldnât see them on tour last year).
On each door was a golden plaque inscribed with all its âtenants.â You carefully strolled through, trying to spot an F. Weasley in boxy font.
Plan A: If Fredâs alone, you guys will have a heart-to-heart chat (or as close as Fred can humbly get). Whatever the verdict is, you promise to outwardly be civil. You knew, most definitely, that youâd be forever heartbroken if he didnât want anything serious.
Plan B: If Fredâs not alone, then youâll try to pull him out to talk somewhere else. This option was more likely; thereâs not a lot of places to go after school and club activities.
At the very end of the corridor on the right, second plaque from the bottom, was F. Weasley. There were 3 other nameplates, you already knew he roomed with his twin and Lee Jordan, but you werenât certain on K. Towler. You raised a balled up fist, ready to knock,
âOH! BLOODY HELL!â A shrill voice interjected (you became⊠perplexed). âAre you sure youâre applying the same amount of pressure??â He whined through gritted teeth (it was the man of the hour, Fred Weasley, you realized).
Lee dropped something on a wooden surface and barked back mockingly, âShut up, you big baby! Maybe you shouldnât have gotten your ass kicked.â
âThat injury is completely irrelevant to this!â Fred snapped back.
âYou willingly play as a Beater, and youâre complaining about THIS? This is NOTHING!â
âWe couldâve been done twenty minutes ago, mate,â George quipped.
Enough eavesdroppingâ you politely struck your hand against the door.
âGo get that, George,â Lee commanded.
The other redheaded Gryffindor Beater appeared, unnecessarily tall and watery-eyed. He had ridden himself of his sweater and tie, and the top of his button-up was unfastened.
He had opened up just enough space to fit his large stature in the entryway; you could barely see into the room.
George raised a brow at your sudden appearance.âSomeoneâs here to see wee olâ Freddie?â George teased gently.
You propped yourself onto your toes and peered over the boyâs shoulder. At the same time, Fred had craned his neck and spotted the top of your hair.
He was lying on his bed, hands behind his head (one was pressing an icepack against his skull), and very very shirtless. Lee sat on a stool, hunched over, holding a chopstick that had a needle taped at the end. On the nightstand was an ink cartridge, alcohol wipes and tissues.
Fred blushed and your feet fell flat on the ground. George moved, letting you brush past him, before he shut the door. A dormant furnace occupied the middle of the room, and in each corner was a red canopy bed (half were neatly made). Fred and Lee were set up on the far end of the dorm, right next to the big window.
Lee stopped poking Fred with the makeshift tattoo gun. âDid you want one as well?â He asked you.
âHow many have you done?â
George snorted and leaned against a waxy post at the end of Fredâs bed.
âFirst time actually,â Lee answered.
At least he didnât do Nelinaâs. âNo thanks, Iâm good,â you sheepishly rejected. âI just wanted to check up on him,â you added, vaguely gesturing towards Fredâs direction.
You cautiously stood on Fredâs left, directly across from Lee and wary of interfering with his âwork.â Peering over Fred to see his in-progress tattoo was unexpectedly difficult for you, because he was⊠distractingly built.
You didnât want to objectify him, but oh my God. You always thought Fred was on the leaner side, but apparently the Hogwarts uniform concealed a lot.
Fred was rather stocky for someone his height. His arms were subtly flexed and bulging with muscles considering his current position. Bloody hell, his chest was big and his stomach was perfectly tonedâ you wanted to poke and prod at him, especially his Apolloâs belt.
Your eyes darted to the small strip of skin (below his right armpit, on the side of his ribs) where Lee was inking. There was a blue template of words he was outliningâ only âMischief Manâ was completed so far.
ââMischief Managedâ?â You lightly questioned.
Fred licked his lips and uncomfortably shifted his legs. âGeorge and I are getting matching ones,â he explained.
âCute,â You approvingly nodded. You glanced at his brother, who cheerily winked.
âHow about me?â
There was a light copper happy trail leading into his waistband. Now, you desperately wished you two were alone.
âDonât push it,â you blurted.
Lee and George gave each other a look.
âYou said we needed to talk,â you said.
âWe can talk now,â Fred offered.
âPretend Iâm not even here,â Lee mumbled, intensely fixated on the small tattoo.
âWe arenât here,â George corrected.
You stood up straight, hands casually hidden behind your back. âI dunno about that.â
âHow about after my tattooâs done?â Fred suggested. âMax fifteen minutes? You can just hang out with us for a little bit.â
Once Lee wiped away the excess ink, Fred sat up, grabbed his dress shirt, as George was taking off his own.
Fred raised his arm and inquisitively looked down at his new tattoo. He grinned at his twin, âMum cannot find out, or weâre so dead.â
âWhatâs she gonna do?â George rhetorically scoffed.
âGet Charlie to sear it off,â Fred retorted playfully. He got out of bed and tenderly grabbed your arm with his unoccupied hand. He guided you towards the door with faithful nudges, as he weaved his arms through the sleeves.
Both of you went out into the hallway, and it suddenly felt a lot more narrow than before. âLetâs talk,â Fred said quietly, crossing his arms.
âAlright. Where do we start?â You chuckled, leaning against a scratched doorframe.
He shrugged meekly, âWe like each other. Thereâs only one plausible option.â
Fred hadnât bothered to fasten any of the buttons, giving you a premium viewing of his torso. You swallowed and tried not to ogle. âI guess so; itâs worth a shot,â you agreed.
âI promise Iâll make it worth every second,â Fred cockily smirked. He unwittingly licked his soft pink lips. âYou coming over for Easter?â
Your voice wavered with reluctant uncertainty. âMy parents will probably be okay with it, so yeah. Most likely.â You giggled, âThis is like the millionth time someoneâs asked me.â
âVery popular girl,â he mused teasingly. âHopefully mine starting today?â Fred giddily urged.
Your heart fluttered, and all you could muster was a shy nod in consent. âYeahâŠ,â you quietly confirmed.
Fred pulled you close by the shoulder; he tilted your chin slightly and introduced his warm mouth to yours. It felt like lightning the way it was so spontaneous and had completely lit up your face.
Fred pulled away slowly and smiled. The hand on your shoulder slithered onto your neck affectionately. âYou can go write about this later,â Fred whispered. You scoffed. âDear DiaryâŠâ he began.
You attempted to frown (how can you be mad at that face?). âIâm never writing again, as long as youâre alive,â you said.
His eyes stayed locked on yours. He added wistfully, â⊠I almost drooled when I saw Fred Weasley shirtless today.â
You pushed him. âIâm gonna kill you.â
âI couldnât stop gawking at his rippling muscles!â
âOh, stop it!â You groaned, âI would never say that!â
âBut it happened, donât deny it.â Fred laughed and kissed you again.
you vent in your diary, and, one day, fred weasley accidentally reads some entries and tries to nonchalantly return it.
âȘ âââ warnings: mentions of petty teenage drama (not that important), diary entries are overdramatic (pent up rage) and cringe bc itâs a teen diary, established friends, friends to lovers, medium paced burn, swearing, brief mentions of sex + mentions of a past crush, have not read or seen the movies in like 50 yrs, this reminds me of that old tiktok trend âu left ur diary at my houseâ, made up friend group w/non important ocâs, bsf w ginny, soft!fred(?)
âȘ âââ word count: 3k-ish (wish tumblr had a wc đ)
part two
Dear Diary,
Monday
NELINA IS A FUCKING LIAR. I KISSED LIAM ONCE. ONE FUCKING TIME ON HALLOWEEN, BECAUSE THE FEELINGS WERE MUTUAL AND THIS STUPID CUNT IS TELLING PEOPLE WE HAD SEX IN THE PREFECT LAVATORY.
I HAVE NEVER EVEN HELD HANDS WITH LIAM. HE WAS A CUTE HALLWAY CRUSH TO GET ME OUT OF BED AND TO CLASS. I LIKED HIM BUT I DIDNâT PROPERLY FANCY LIAM. WE KISSED, PASSED A FEW NOTES, STOLE A FEW GLANCES, BUT WE NEVER EVER HAD SEX. OH MY DAYS. SHE IS INSANE.
I FUCKING TRUSTED HER. IT WASNâT A BIG DEALâ ITâS JUST A KISSâ BUT SHEâS MAKING IT ONE. YOU KNOW HOW I FOUND OUT? BECAUSE NELINA TOLD ABBY, AND ABBY TOLD ME. IâM GONNA KILL HER. I HATE HER AND HER STUPID SISTER. I SEND PLAGUES ON HER HOUSE. CURSE HUFFLEPUFFS. THEY ARE ALL EVIL. NEVER TRUST A HUFFLEPUFF.
Dear Diary,
Tuesday
Whatever, itâs fine. Iâm sure my peers are competent to decipher that RUMOURS arenât FACTS. But thereâs always IDIOTS who believe ANYTHING.
I donât even know if itâs worth clearing my name, but I asked Liam if he heard anything about it. He did⊠from his friends... I almost died, but I knew it was important to clarify some things. It wasnât a big deal to him, but he promised to confront Nelina tomorrow. Weâll see. I donât want to deal with her; she better stay out of my way.
Ginny suggested voting her out of the friend group. Sheâs always been problematic; I think weâve just normalized her behavior. I highly doubt something will be done about Nelina. Ginny, Abby and I are going to Hogsmeade this weekend. Obviously, a certain somebody wasnât invitedâ wasnât even toldâ and weâd like to keep it that way. I am guiltless and ready to splurge. I need new stationary and some sweets.
Dear Diary,
Wednesday
SHE THINKS SHEâS COOL WITH HER STICK AND POKE TATTOOS. IT GOT INFECTED AFTER TWO DAYS, AND I WAS THE ONE THAT OFFERED OINTMENT FOR IT.
âOh, your tattoos are so beautiful! What does it mean?â
âWow, I canât believe you didnât get it professionally done; it looks mint!â
ITâS THREE TINY FUCKING DAISIES. THEREâS NO MEANING. ITâS JUST STUPID FUCKING FLOWERS. YOU CAN ABSOLUTELY TELL THEY WERE DONE IN THE SCHOOL LAVATORY. THEY ARE ALL BLOWING SMOKE UP HER ARSE. IF I HEAR SOMEONE COMMENT ON THOSE ABOMINATIONS ONE MORE TIME, I AM BLOWING UP HOGWARTS.
Iâm so done with her; I donât care, truly, I donât. Iâve always helped her with Divination and Charmsâ sheâs never said thank you or acknowledged my efforts, because students then ask her for assistance, and she tells them that itâs all in the book. Books she didnât obviously read, because Iâm the one doing the work. Never again; Iâm never helping her. Iâd rather have a Horntail burn off my skin and leave me alive than be in the same
âThere you are,â a honeyed tenor voice mused. The words swam from soft lips to your ear so delicately that you almost tuned him outâ Fred, endlessly freckled, with his arms crossed in lighthearted disbelief, was observing you. Shoulders tensely hunched, mad black scribbling, quill ready to snap beneath your fingers⊠you looked insane.
His presence had prickled your overly passionate rumination and burst whatever frothing train of thought you had. The emotions, however, still lingered strongly, or you assumed so, because Fred anxiously glanced down at your bouncing leg. Seeing him was peculiar, not because he was in a library, whereâs heâs been notoriously blacklisted, but because none of Ginnyâs siblings ever sought you out.
You relaxed your hand and dispatched the quivering quill. âYou were looking for me?â You asked him. Your fingers began throbbing.
Fred casually shrugged. He enveloped his large pallid hands into his trouser pockets. âGinny drafted George and I to help find you,â he answered. âYouâve missed dinner three times this week, mate. She was getting a little worried⊠something going on?â
âHuh?â You blinked away the automatic response. Your brain quickly processed his inquiries, and you suddenly felt a mild dowse of embarrassment. You nervously licked your lips. âNo, sorry. I was just caught up with, uh, revising,â you sheepishly explained.
You werenât lying. The first two hours spent in the library were dedicated to studying (reminder: arithmetic test tomorrow!). Coincidentally, the following break was the ever time consuming therapeutic journaling.
âYou sure?â Fred pressured. He began to inch closer, and you swiftly pulled loose papers over your diary. His back leaned against the adjacent desk. It creaked beneath his shifty weight. âI wonât tell my sister if thatâs what youâre worried about.â Fred added with a reassuring smile, âI have six siblings. Trust me, I know how to keep a secret.â
âI promise you: Iâm fine,â you invariably said. âI simply lost track of time!â
He earnestly accepted your answer with a nod. âWell,â Fred began. âIf you hurry, you might be able to catch a bite or two,â he finished with a humble, tight-lipped smile.
Your leather messenger bag was like the mouth of a tornado, fiendishly sucking in parchment. âThanks, Fred,â you orated, as you mismatched papers to notebooks and hurriedly stashed writing equipment into a pouch.
The lanky ginger shrugged nonchalantly. âDonât mention it. Iâll tell Ginny I found you in the libraryâ just head down to the Great Hall, alright?â
âThank you,â you repeated, swinging the swollen bag over your shoulder.
Dear Diary,
Friday
Nelina found out weâve been hanging out without her; at first, she showed no sign of aggression. This was TERRIBLY wrong to assume. She reported Ginny and I for BULLYING, and McGonagall sat us down after lunch to discuss. It was embarrassing to explain that she was the one spreading rumors about ME. McGonagall didnât realize the full extent and promised to further investigate before she takes any action.
Ginny mustâve told her brothers, because later that day, during Charms, Fred (I thinkâŠ) came up to me. Said he felt bad, blah blah blah. I said it was fine, he made a dumb joke to lighten the mood, and offered me gum. I did NOT eat it for my safety.
Dear Diary,
Saturday
I just checked the past few entries, and Nelina The Devil truly has consumed my life. Iâm gonna attempt to limit mentions of her (mostly petty inconveniences she causes), but Iâll record major updates.
Iâm debating whether or not I should audition for the play. Thereâs not a lot of info, but I donât really wanna approach any of the members⊠I wasnât aware Hogwarts even had a funded Drama Club⊠how much does the Ministry of Magic give to us? Why do we only have one janitor? No offense but one janitor isnât efficient enough to keep a CASTLE clean. Iâm pretty sure he canât even do magic. What is he paid to do??
Dear Diary,
Sunday
My parents sent me sweets!! (And a letter: very thoughtful.) I received a parcel full of fizzy dummies, foam strawberries and bonbons!!! Iâm gonna have to ration these.
Wizard sweets are fun and all, but I donât always want steam blowing out my nose or my skin turning green. Muggle candy may be âboringâ (according to Fred and George, as they were there when I opened the package), but itâs straight to the point, sensible, and I donât want too much happening in my mouth. Ginny got Elephant on a Bicycle candies from Ron for us to try. I am not too keen on the roaring or squealing. Did not enjoy.
Dear Notecard,
Monday
Nelina Satan hexed my shoes to self-walk into walls and people. Iâve collided into a window, Professor Trelawney, Luna Lovegood, and Cedric Diggory. Fred is loaning me his Quidditch sneakers. They absolutely do not fit, so Iâm writing this as Fred is shoving extra socks into the insole.
âHere we go,â Fred mused tenderly. He stayed crouching but held up the brown waxy trainers for viewing. You were lucky the Boysâ Locker Room was on the way to Arithmancy, and you were lucky Fred was being so generous.
âYouâre just like a cobbler,â you joked, sliding off the loggia railing. You accepted the sneakers graciously. âThank you so much. Youâre a life saver!â You gushed, pocketing the sticky note.
Inside the shoes were two pairs of bunched up socks, crammed against the toe with âpaddingâ around the heel. It was a decrepit and juvenile attempt at tailoring but still much appreciated.
Fred nodded in agreement. âI am,â he restated happily. His arms naturally found themselves akimbo. âGo on, Cinderella, try them on!â He teasingly urged.
Carefully, you placed them down on the cracked stone tiles and cautiously slid your clothed foot inside. The weight was entirely foreign to your ankle; you gently rolled it side to side, testing the waters and finding the extra cushioning beneficial. In went the other foot, so you took baby steps and a small jump. The soles clapped against the hard floor like thunder.
Fred laughed and covered half his face with a large freckled hand. He sighed softly, âBut Iâll need them back by the end of the day. I have practice after school.â
âOf course.â You fished out the sticky note and turned it onto the blank side. âIâll meet you here?â You offered, extracting a pencil.
Fredâs gaze wistfully drifted into the courtyard. âSure,â he shrugged. He cockily added, âYou might as well stay and watch my athletic feats.â
You wanted to roll your eyes but settled for a judgmental side glance instead. âWeâll see,â you retorted before scribbling a footnote.
REMINDER: RETURN SHOES AND GLUE THIS INTO DIARY.
âButâŠâ Fred leaned against a column and crossed his arms. You instinctively looked up at the sound of his voice with innocuous anticipation. âItâs the least you can do.â He added suggestively, âI did you a solid favor after all.â
Your attention rightfully returned to the flimsy sticky note, unknowingly pending on a verdict. You gave him no response, but you included in your To-Do list: QUIDDITCH PRACTICE.
Dear Diary,
Monday (officially documented)
Theyâre already halfway??? through (unashamedly forgot about my âpromiseâ to Fredâ I really needed to finish up that Potions essay), but itâs a lovely day out. Ginny gave me an old pair of trainers.
Is it better to arrive late rather than leave early? Doesnât really matter, I guess, because I cleared out a lot of homework. Iâve brought foam strawberries to snack on.
Theyâre flying so fast and so far awayâ itâs hard to identify whoâs who.
Fred MIGHT be #6. I donât knowâŠ
Iâve attended one Quidditch game, the student turnout was very high, but I highly doubt itâs replicated every match.
EEEEEEEEP! was the shrill battlecry of the silver whistle. With great fervor, training officially concluded, and the whole Gryffindor team cheered for a job well done.
A small sprinkle of Slytherin Quidditch players had watched practice (solely to scope out the competition), but they immediately disbanded. Members of the Oliver Wood Fan Club were quickly dispersing from the stands into the arena, hopeful that theyâd catch a closer look at the overworked captain.
Proper practice attendee etiquette was unclear. Were you to simply leave? Or should you meet up with a certain redhead to give compliments and inputs?
All the players swooped down to the ground and swiftly dismounted their flying broomsâ all except one.
Fred Weasley flew up to the rickety bleachers with hair thoroughly tussled by wind. He had peeled the dark goggles off his brow til they hung loosely around his neck. âDidnât think youâd actually show,â he grinned teasingly. Perspiration collected on his face, but his cheeks were red as if roses had kissed them.
âDidnât know if I should,â you sallied, as you stood up.
âYou think it was worth it?â
You shrugged and rested your arms atop the railings, âSure.â
He furrowed his dark brows and cackled. âYou donât follow Quidditch, do you?â Fred asked.
âThese are a lot of questions, Weasley. Where was this energy in class?â
âNever too worried about it,â Fred boasted. With the back of his hand, he swept away the accumulated sweat off his face. He earnestly added, âAt least I got you out of that dingy old library.â
Dear Diary,
Tuesday
I can tell who is who when theyâre separated (somehow, I donât know, but I also donât address them by name just in case), but theyâre rarely ever alone, so I NEVER know who is who. Iâm 95% sure that itâs Fred whoâs been talking to me⊠We have some classes together without George, so Iâm 1000% affirmative for those moments.
I overheard Ron saying someone requested the elves to make Italian tonight. Weâll see if that request was honoured. I need some cheesy lasagna.
Also, I fixed my shoes.
Dear Diary,
Wednesday
Fred stopped by yesterday to remind me about dinner againâ I got there just before food was served! I squeezed in between Hermione and Angelina.
Tonight, I had some chickpea curry, roasted potatoes, and pork chops. It was heavenly. Ginny, Fred and George sat before me. One of them (Iâm unsure who) flung a chickpea at me, which deflected OFF OF MY FOREHEAD and landed on Hermioneâs plate. Surprised is an understatement; Hermione was BAFFLED.
Dear Sticky Note,
Thursday
NELINA âACCIDENTALLYâ POURED A MYSTERIOUS CONCOCTION ON ME. I DONâT FUCKING KNOW WHATâS IN IT, BUT MY SKIN STARTED TO STING, SO IâM WRITING THIS IN THE BATHROOM. SNAPE SAID I SHOULD GO TO THE INFIRMARY, BUT I REFUSE TO SHOW WEAKNESS.
Dear Sticky Note #2,
Still Thursday
I got 2nd-3rd degree burns, and Nelina got detention. Her parents are being contacted according to Fred (who just came to visit me). He witnessed the whole incident and felt sorry for me. Nelina got 100 points deducted from Hufflepuff. Madame Pomfreyâs making an herbal ointment to apply to my stomach.
Dear Diary,
Friday
Ginny and Abby felt terrible and have officially excommunicated Nelina from the friendgroup. I wasnât there for the break-up, because I had to tell Prof. Sprout my account of the âaccident.â Sheâs getting suspended for 10 days. My parents heard about it and sent more sweets. Ginny gave me red velvet cookies (I donât know where they were sourced, but it was delicious). Life is good.
Dear Diary,
Saturday
I think I know the physical difference between Fred and George. Fredâs nose is a little straighter, while Georgeâs got a slight curve to it. Itâs not very helpful, because itâs only visible in their side profiles. Ginny said Georgeâs eyes are a little bit bigger, but I donât see it.
Fredâs been coming to the library everyday. When he has Quidditch practice, he immediately showers after. He must be aggressively lathering himself up with soap, because I can smell him before heâs in view.
He always walks me down to the Great Hall, weâve gotten pretty close. Who knew Fred Weasley was allergic to pistachios? I wonder what weâll talk about today.
Knock knock.
âIâm comforted by the fact youâre a creature of habit, but disturbed by your lack of socialization,â Fred mused airily. He retracted his balled up fist from the wood desk and crossed his muscled arms. âWriting anything interesting, Shakespeare?â
You dramatically groaned, shut your journal, and leaned back into the chair. Your arms were stretched high above your head and you yawned obnoxiously. âNothing youâd understand,â you said.
Fred sarcastically rolled his eyes and pulled out a seat. âThen it must be rubbish,â he accused. âYou know Iâm one to indulge in high literary merit.â
âDo I?â You rhetorically tested. You scooted your chair outward to face Fred properly. He mimicked you before crossing his legs. âHave you ever read Beowulf?â
He scoffed and pretended to wave the question off. âI know all there is about werewolves,â he said.
âBeowulf isnât about werewolves,â you giggled.
He exaggeratedly frowned, but the small curves of his lips couldnât resist smiling. âIs that one of your muggle books?â
âYes,â you confirmed.
âAny good?â
You shook your head. âAbsolutely not.â
Dear Diary,
Saturday night
âFred, whyâve you been so hygienic recently?â Ron asksâ his mouth is absolutely crammed with food. Heâs like a chipmunk. We only understood this sentence, because Hermione made him repeat it properly after swallowing.
George gives Fred this weird look and then looks at me.
âYou only think itâs âsoâ because you barely maintain yourself, mate,â Fred quips.
We werenât laughing AT Ron, but it was funny. Ron blushes, âWhatever.â
The previous and following conversations donât really matterâ itâs this specific moment that bothers me for some unknown reason. Georgeâs glance at me feels unwarranted. He knows something that I donât. Itâs making me paranoid.
Does he think I smell? DO I SMELL?? I only shower at night, because I donât want to go to class with wet hair. Should I be showering twice???
Dear Diary,
Sunday
I took a shower this morning AND THEN I RAN INTO FRED. Iâll give a very brief summary of our⊠interaction.
I exit the washrooms holding all my toiletries, dirty clothes and damp towel. I bump into Fred, whoâs heading to the showers, also holding a bunch of things. We awkwardly apologize and then
Fred: are you doing anything later today?
Me: no, why?
Fred: do you want to go to Hogsmeade with me?
Me: just you?
I thought this was an appropriate question to ask, but Fred makes a weird face.
Fred: yeahâŠ
I take a second too long to think and he makes another strange expression.
Me: sure
Fred: after lunch?
Me: yeah, sounds good
And then we part ways.
Iâm gonna get changed. Iâll record how it went if anything notable happens.
Dear Diary,
Sunday night
I need time to ruminate in silence.
Dear Diary,
Tuesday
We went to Madame Puddifootâs for coffee. It wasnât a date, I know it wasnât, but it just felt so⊠nice? I donât know. Everything we did felt like something a couple would do. Maybe. I mean, Madame Puddifootâs is THE hotspot for dates, but I donât think Fred meant it like that.
I might just be tricking myself or overanalyzing things, but the concept of, I guess, dating Fred just kept haunting me the whole day.
I FEEL GROSS. THATâS MY BEST FRIENDâS BROTHER. BUT I CANâT HELP IT?? MAYBE?
Like⊠what if? You know? What if I just want him to smile at me? Or hold my hand? And take me on dates?
I think Iâm just super lonely.
BUT HEâS CUTE? AND I MIGHT HAVE A CRUSH ON HIM?
Heâs so tall and handsome; heâs athletic and charming and heâs so thoughtful and sweet. He doesnât need to get me for dinner, but he does. Ginny doesnât even do that, and weâre closer friends (this isnât a diss, just Iâm old enough to know better and to take care of myself but heâs just considerate enough to show up anyway?). He definitely didnât need to give me his trainers nor did he need to help me un-jinx mine. BUT I DONâT KNOW? It feels wrong, but thereâs logistically no reason for it to⊠right?
Dear Diary,
Wednesday
I donât want to fancy him. I CANNOT LIKE HIM. Heâs just not my vibe. Iâm practical, and heâs very⊠flamboyant. Plus, it would make things between Ginny and I strangeâ especially if Fred and I broke up. I come over to The Burrow on holiday all the time, so things would get bloody awkward seeing an ex at a sleepover.
We probably wouldnât get along romantically. Our sense of humour is a little different. Iâm not too big on pranking people, and thatâs the twinsâ whole thing. Fredâs so creative, he and George invent, design, and create their own products for their future business. I donât have the capacity to even begin a project like that. Heâs too confrontational for me. He smells so sharp and of spice. Every inhale makes my eyes water and sting. Iâd prefer someone more subtle and likeminded, maybe a little more introverted and organized.
Yesterday, during Transfiguration, he asked if he could share my ink cartridge. I canât date someone whoâs unprepared for school (I said yes but that was out of courtesy). AND THEN HE ASKED IF HE COULD BORROW MY NOTES. Not only is he inattentive in class, but heâs DOUBLE unprepared. Iâd probably go insane if I had to deal with that⊠(I gave him the notes).
In hindsight, these things werenât big deals. In the moment, I didnât even care, so I have no clue why Iâm so worked up about it after the fact. I donât want to have a crush. Especially on Fred. Iâm gonna try my best to act normal.
Since the weekend Hogsmeade trip, your mental and physical ecosystem had been thrown off its balance. Your thoughts moved laggardly, which unfortunately transferred to your work ethic, but History of Magic with dastardly ancient Professor Binns was always dreadfully languid and painstakingly dull.
The lined sheets of paper were starved of productive note-taking today. A few bullet points followed an unenthusiastic âChapter 12â headline. The margins bore no outrageous doodles or caricatures of wizards past, and Professor Binns was prattling endlessly about the muggle-fought World Wars. Who knew the Great Depression also affected Wizarding Society? You didnât, because you werenât paying attention.
âWe began observing the Soviet Unionâs attempts to placate the steep decline in the economyâŠâ
Blah blah blah blah. You might as well have been sleeping with your eyes wide open.
â⊠the democratic socialism had more regulations on businessesâŠâ
The dilapidated grandfather clock in the corner was nowhere close to lunchtime. Its bony iron fingers trudged along the slim white face inconspicuously. Forty more minutes of thisâ absolutely awful!
âWhy⊠you⊠all⊠waysâŠhat?â
âdistribution of wealth⊠electoral politicsâŠâ
A warm pointed elbow nudged your slouching arm. You eyed the white scribbles on the blackboard, which was easy to decipher when your professor is see-through. âHuh?â You looked at your table mate, Fred, who had taken Nelinaâs seat since her suspension.
He snickered at your cluelessness. âWhy do you always do that?â Fred repeated in a whisper.
âWhat do you mean?â You retorted quietly. You instinctively picked up your pen and dipped it in the ink well.
âHow do you justâŠâ Fred wetted his lips, as words failed him momentarily. He chuckled to himself. âHow do you disappear like that?â
You began scratching words onto the lackluster parchment. âThereâs always something cooler to think about,â you mumbled lightheartedly. It was your turn to nudge his arm now. âEspecially when youâre in this class, donât you think?â You quipped.
The two of you shared a look at the ghostly apparition of a teacher. How Binns even picked up chalk piecesâ you didnât know. The translucent man was drawing a timeline, appropriately adding notches for years following the First World War.
Fred leaned his head backward, resting it on the straight ledge of the chair. âI might explode if we donât move on from the Soviet Union,â Fred grumbled, as his hands dragged down his face.
You tried to copy down the timeline, but boredom possessed your hand, and you stashed your quill away. âDreadful,â you agreed.
âYou coming over for Easter holiday?â Fred whispered.
You perked up at the notion of vacationâ but it was sooooooooo far away from today. Your spirits fell as quickly as they were raised. You answered solemnly, âI donât think so. Why?â
Fredâs soft features were puzzled into confusion.âI thought Ginny wouldâve invited you to The Burrow.â
âI mean, she suggested it, but she never actually asked your parents,â you explained. You hushed up, when Professor Binns turned to face the class, trying to provoke student participation.
âWhat was the Ministryâs affirmative action plan called? Anyone?â The old man wasnât expecting much of a response (he usually never received one), but the deadly silence that followed was unnerving even to a ghost. A few awkward seconds passed, and Binns answered himself. âMAGES: Mitigation Aid and Gain Enhancing Support.â
Once he turned around, you pensively lowered your voice, wary about catching the professorâs attention. âI just donât want to show up unannounced,â you murmured.
Fred hadnât caught what you said and was inclined to lean in closer. He smelled like cinnamon and amber, and his body heat radiated off of him like sunlight. âSorry?â
You scooted towards him, bringing your lips to his ear. âI donât want to show up unannounced,â you clarified.
He looked at you dumbfounded and with red cheeks. âHarry and Hermione are over all the time. They never tell us theyâre coming half the time,â Fred sputtered reassuringly. âMy mum and dad would love to have you,â he added softly. âI mean, I certainly will.â
You couldnât help but blush.
Dear Diary,
Friday morning
I GOT UP EARLY TO SHOWER AND YOUâRE NEVER GONNA BELIEVE THE CONVERSATION I EAVESDROPPED ON.
FRED WEASLEY HAS A CRUSH ON SOMEONE. I AM RELEASED FROM THIS PRISON. NO MORE SILLY CRUSHES.
I was trying to be quiet, careful not to disturb anyone, but in the corridor I hear these 2 girls whispering. Naturally, like the snoop I am, I stop short of entering their peripheral and stand there to listen. Itâs really creepy, I know, but Iâm so intriguedâ BUT NOT ONCE DID THEY MENTION WHO IT WAS HE FANCIED.
The one CRUCIAL detail was left out (because they didnât know BUT STILL).
Itâs none of my business... but I just like knowing stuff and hoarding information. Whatâs the problem with that? Maybe I can play matchmaker.
Dear Sticky Note,
Friday
The thought of him with someone else is making me physically unwell. I almost threw up after lunch. Who could he possibly like? I am DYING to know.
Dear Diary,
Saturday
I like my best friendâs brother. I like Ginnyâs BROTHER.
I like the color of his hair and the way he parts it. I like his little freckles and the shape of his lips. Heâs got a scar above his eyebrow. I generally just enjoy looking at his faceâ heâs got a nice neck and pretty toned arms, though I rarely get to see them, but his hands are always available, and theyâre so long and smooth.
This little crush has lingered in the doorways he held open for me. Itâs made me hallucinate reciprocation in his smile and fidgeting hands. He talks so softly and is more gentle with me than anybody else.
I swear to Merlin that this is real; I just DONâT KNOW HOW TO PROVE IT. Iâm not going mad! Iâve been going through all the stages of griefâ denial, anger, depression, bartering, and now acceptance. SOMETHING IS HAPPENING. I KNOW IT IS. HEâS EITHER THE DEVIL INCARNATE AND THIS IS A FOUL PRANK, OR MY INTUITION IS UNLIKE ANY OTHER. All I know is that
I FANCY FRED WEASLEY.
FUCK.
Fred wasnât nosy per se, but, at times, he found himself insatiably curious. George and he have spent dozens of hours dissecting the ingredients of Zonkoâs candies (some masters are unwilling to take on apprentices; the Weasley Twins will make their own nameâŠ). And the greasy slime-ball that is Snape would never admit it, but Fred and George had the art of potions down to a tee. It was their reticent professor who inadvertently assisted the creation of their Ton-Tongue Toffee and Canary Creams.
But if there was one question he desired answered, it would be about you. What was going on in that little head of yours? Your very existence was a paradoxâ those scintillating eyes of yours were always askance, always drifting off to lala land, but watchful and keen enough to be overly critical. Your head may perpetually be in the clouds, but your ears persisted in their function; they picked up enough detail for you to seamlessly integrate yourself into conversation and activity, but you had a debilitating (yet charming) awkwardness that struck down nonchalance.
Regardless of where he was coming from, Fred could show up to your usual corner of the dusty library and find you writing in the same black leather journal. He knew you were a diligent note-taker (most days) and (evidently) a passionate academic, but this little book consumed all your attention. Judging by its lack of highlighting, doodles, graphs and timelines Fred presumed you were drafting a novel�
He never asked.
On Monday, it was the same usual charade: heâll emerge from the bookshelves, crack a witty remark, and patiently watch you scramble for your belongings. Youâll glide past him without sparing him a glance, because you knew he would always followâ but, today, he hesitated. Because when you first caught him in your peripheral, he noticed you had quickly stashed the black leather journal into a stack of withering library books. And when you had packed up all your things, you forgot to retrieve itâŠ
So he took it.
Fred pulled it out from the pile, lodged it into his own bag, and caught up to you before you realized how far behind he was.
Did he know it was wrong? Potentially, but he highly doubted that it contained any sensitive information. Fredâs intentions were innocuous; was it a crime to want to know what caught your interests?
After dinner (which consisted of woeful discussion about the Transfiguration test results, spicy lamb stew and vegetable roasts), Fred retreated to the Boysâ Dorms for some⊠investigative journalism. As his roommates were heading off the showers, Fred landed on his bed, stomach first, and whipped out the waxy-covered tome.
Fred ran his thumb across the smooth paper edges; judging by the thickness of the written sections, you mustâve been knee-deep in your novel.
Should he start from the beginning? Nah, whereâs the fun in that? Books rarely interested Fred; the flowery paragraphs spent on developing the setting and scenery were disgustingly boringâ action sequences and brilliant battles were what he sought.
So he flipped to the latest entryâ
I like my best friendâs brother.
Oh. This was gonna be one of those fluffy romance books.
Fred tried not to frown; romcoms werenât really his thing, but it was hard to decipher what you did and didnât like sometimes (girls had always been aloof enigmas; his specialty was pranks, not flirting). Reading your story could probably help him learn more about you.
I like Ginnyâs BROTHER.
Wait a minuteâŠ
His eyes glanced at the top of the page.
Dear Diary,
Fredâs heart stopped.
HOW ON EARTH DID HE MISS THAT? THIS WASNâT A DRAFTâ THIS WAS A BLOODY DIARY! HE WAS IN POSSESSION OF YOUR DIARY OF ALL THINGS!
âOh fuck.â
He looked at the last few squiggly lines.
I FANCY FRED WEASLEY.
FUCK.
He didnât know whether to laugh or sigh with relief, but âfuckâ was rightâ Fred Weasley was gonna be in huge fucking trouble for seeing this.
âWhatâre you reading?â
âBLOODY HELL!â Fred slammed the diary shut.
George initially winced at the shrill shriek, but then cackled at his twinâs plight. âSomething dirty, Iâm assuming?â George mused, âYour face has gone all redâ!â
Fred leaped out of the bed and seized Georgeâs shoulders.
Georgeâs straight brows narrowed furiously. âWhatâs wrong with you?â He exclaimed. He grabbed Fredâs arms, trying to peel his grasp away.
âGeorge, listen to meâ,â
âI am!â He withered.
âSHHHHH!â Fred hushed, pressing a finger against his brotherâs lips. âI wasnât reading anything, okay? I donât read. I donât like booksâ,â
George looked down at the journal, sitting innocently on the bed, âSo it is something dirtyâŠ?â
âNO! I WASNâT READING ANYTHING!â
âWhat the bloody hell is wrong with you?â George asked, as his twin pushed him away. The boy stumbled backward and tenderly massaged his bicep, where Fred had aggressively grabbed him.
Fred pointed an aggravated finger at George. âYou didnât see anything, alright?â He hissed.
George scoffed, âMerlinâs beard, fine! I didnât see anything! God, whatâs up your arse today?â
we need more weirdo!readers, the freaky, just straight up odd readers, cause not everyone who reads x reader fics are normal people (not even close), theyâre rarely the type we see in official romance media (books, tv, movies), so why pretend?
you and isaac go on the annual spring camping trip with your school and slowly realize friendship isn't what you guys want.
you and isaac make sâmores and talk about the stars.
âȘ âââ warnings: slow burn, denying the romance, established best friends relationship, healthy relationship w a mom and dad, brief mention of British ppl, u believe in astrology, friendly banter, u like burnt marshmallows + are a white chocolate hater, teenage cringe, ooc isaac bc we technically have never seen him in love âïžđ€, mild swearing, minor grammar mistakes probs
âȘ âââ word count: 1.8k+
âȘ âââ a/n: let me know if u wanna get tagged!! i promise i donât bite
Da Vinci students were pointed out by their talkative teachers to perky counselors, hopeful to recruit telekinetic helping hands to assist building the bonfire. The structure wasnât as extraordinary or impressive as the pyre created for Foundersâ Day. It wasnât the traditional raven, the mascot of Nevermore, but of a massive horse, reeling on its muscular hind legs with a toothy mouth agape. On its sturdy back was its renowned headless rider, the mythological and misunderstood Vanisher. The year prior, it was an edifice of the elusive Mothman, and before, the underestimated harpy.
A small handful of students teamed up with the counselors, eager to work, since their powers have been fallow since departing campus. No one was brave enough to approach Isaacâ not that he wouldâve agreed to help; he ardently believed his powers should be used for more scientifically advancing projects.
Nobody had to be well acquainted with Isaac to know he wouldnât freely lend aid. Isaac Night doesnât offer pencils to his unprepared classmates. He doesnât bat an eye when someone stumbles in the hall. He discreetly smirks when girls reject proposals and silently revels in othersâ humiliation.
Earlier in the year, Gomez, mirthfully naive, approached Isaac with a preposition, a harmless hypothetical about romance. The next day, Isaac paraphrased the entire scenario to you but remained ominously vague about the said hypothetical. Instead, he rambled on and on and on about his annoyance and the inconvenience. You took your questions to Gomez who worded it in a similar ambiguous manner, but apparently Isaac had told him to âstop berating his ears with nonsensical thoughtsâ and to âmind his own damn business.â Isaac isnât colloquially friendly; heâs blatantly impudent.
One time, Gomez tried bartering with Isaac, desperate to use his roommate as a resource and desperate for answers on their physics assignment. Isaac could solve rotational motion equations in his sleep, so he promptly stood up and left without a word. Isaac Night never extends help under any circumstance, because that is willingly beleaguering himself.
You decided to test your luck on Move-In Day⊠nothing to lose during senior year, right?
Not only was the foyer a raucous of parents weaving in and out of hallways and students scampering up stairwells with boxes; it was boiling, primarily because it was one of the âdead zonesâ in the AC system. The heavy doors were propped open in a weak attempt to invite reticent zephyrs inside. The checkered marble floor tiles had accumulated muddy footprints and towers of luggageâ one collection belonged to you, actually.
You had two maroon steamer trunks, mostly bulging with clothes, a few books, some shoes, and a buttload of CDs. They probably weighed a million pounds each, so there was no caution for theft; plus, with you sitting on one, you acted as a natural watchman.
Directly in front of you, however, was a shiny vanity table made of mahogany. With a large ornate oval mirror, three cleared drawers, and floral-sculpted shelves, this antique was to replace the vanity you brought to Nevermore as a ninth grader. Sophomore year, one of the legs collapsed and you spent two years vanity table-less.
Merely transporting these items from car to foyer winded your tenuous lungs. You were innocuously catching your breath, as your parents appropriately directed a family to The Quad.
âWe were in Madrid on holiday,â you overheard the woman say. She mustâve been British, judging by her curt cadence and word choice. âSimply missed Orientation Day,â she laughed.
âWeâre absolutely lost,â her wife added, clearly astounded by the colonial campus.
âItâs a big school,â your mother agreed ingratiatingly.
You tuned them out in order to gaze at your reflection. Your countenance appeared mildly uncouth, considering the sheer heat and manual labor. Sweat collected like morning dew above your cheekbones, but the pinkish tint paralleled rosebuds blooming beneath your skin. You werenât a narcissist or anything of the sort, but you did enjoy admiring yourself in the mirror. But in the corner of the looking glass, you spotted a familiar ghost, clad in black and swiftly descending the stairs.
âIsaac,â you addressed, swiveling around on the leather trunk. You subconsciously wiped your brow and offered a scintillating smile, âHi, Isaac.â
The boy was placid in his pale face, but the subtle tension in his broad shoulders told you enough. Isaac was hoping to go unnoticed, but, oddly enough, was carrying a rolled up tarp and a black trash bag, which (in your opinion) would warrant a question or two. He had stopped in his tracks, silent, but clearly gave you his attention; that was enough for you.
âCould you help me bring this table to my dorm?â You inquired, vaguely gesturing to the vanity. You watched his eyes slowly drift from your face to the said antique. The giant brown irises couldâve been mistaken for a deerâsâ not in a âblinded by headlightsâ way but an âawaiting impending doomâ manner.
âWhy?â
âBecause you have magic powers,â you answered. You thought it was fairly obvious, but Isaac stared at you, ineffably bewildered by your audacity and naivety.
He snickered and shook his head a little, baffled youâd ask such a thing of him. âAbsolutely not,â he said.
You werenât necessarily embarassed or surprised, but it was undoubtedly awkwardness that infiltrated the crackling air. A second beat barely passed, before your father conveniently called for you. You excused yourself with brief pleasantry and subsequently left the austere Isaac Night.
When you returned to the foyer, the beautiful vanity and your astute classmate had disappeared. The first emotion to greet you was confusion, but for your parents, it was panic. You advised them to cease the worrying and instead bring up the present luggageâ investigations can proceed afterward.
The first steamer trunk and two small suitcases were brought up first (begrudgingly, because youâve never learned to pack lighter), and to your surprise, the vanity was found in your dormitory perfectly unscathed. The old thing was sat in the middle of the room, exactly where it wouldâve ended up if you and your parents had transported it.
âHowâd it end up here?â Your mother panted. She set one end of the trunk down (your dad followed in pursuit; he tenderly rubbed his lower back) and approached the table apprehensively.
The peculiar mystery was easily solvable in your mind; it was none other thanâ âIsaac,â you mumbled quietly. Not quiet enough, because your mom caught it.
âIsaac who?â She asked.
âIsaac Night, Gomezâs roommate,â you clarified.
âAh, the funny-looking one,â your dad mused, crossing his hairy arms.
You cried out, âHeâs not funny-looking!â
His beloved wifeâs brows knitted together, as her jewelry-decorated arms went akimbo. âYouâve met him?â
âUm, no, but Iâve seen him. In the yearbook,â he clarified sheepishly.
The next day, you attempted to give thanks for his contradictory gesture. Isaac pretended not to see you; you decided not to mention it ever again.
Moral of the story: regardless of how nonchalant and obstinate Isaac acted, he possessed the smallest range of kindness. Although it was a very narrow and slippery slope and hard to predict, it was a tolerable feature to find in a friend.
Since Isaac had an aversion to school spirit and detested community service, he gleefully strung you along back towards the docks. Isaac enjoyed finding refuge in dismal solitude (âepiphanies were [are] clearer in that stateâ he once claimed), but he seemed to enjoy sharing it with you a little more.
The dark lake wasnât far from the rustic amphitheater (which consisted of a semicircle of wooden bleachers surrounding a giant stone fire pit), so you two were within shouting earshot of fellow campers.
Youâd taken off your shoes, leaving your feet to dangle above the earthly water. Isaac kept his own sneakers on, wary of the spindly water spiders and bloodsucking mosquitoes. Ripples echoed throughout the pond, whenever your toe struck the surface; a few dragonflies burbled by cattail congregations and distant laughter bristled the atmosphere. As peculiar and contradictory as it sounded, night was dawning on the rural makeshift society. Fireflies were the local comets, orbiting around white puffball dandelions, and slowly blazing across the green lawn
Jericho was fortunate enough to produce moderate light pollution, but the true natural beauty of the night was still lost to many inhabitants. But nestled between Somewhere and Over There, Camp Sleepy Hollow had ample space to stargaze.
Isaac appeared pastier than ever in this lighting; he was borderline transparent and faded at the edges. Despite the reluctant boyish curls, his hair had a porcupineâs edgy quality to it.
âThe Moon and Mars will be in conjunction tonight,â Isaac appealed coolly.
Actually, Isaac Night reminded you of a Tim Burton character, Vincent Malloy. He was a tormented 7 year-old with bulging bugish eyes and wispy black locks. The details were fleeting, as you saw the short film as a child, but the resemblance (or maybe vibe) was evident.
You followed up skeptically, âWhy do you know that?â The tone came off more caustic than youâd prefer, but you were unnoticeably amused.
Isaac offered a quick, âIâm well-read,â before propping one knee up to his chest. He sat far from the splintering edge of the dock, but close enough to dangle his foot above the water.
âI shouldâve known,â you playfully corrected, leaning backwards on your straightened arms.
âTheyâll be in the west,â Isaac continued, overlooking your jest. âWe could see Jupiter tomorrow night.â
âAre you into astrology?â
Isaac squinted at you, trying to discern something unreadable. âI think you mean astronomy.â
âI know the difference,â you claimed defensively. âAm I not allowed to have a train of thought? To mentally play word association?â
âHmm.â Isaac pondered your first question. He didnât reveal much thought about your tense assertions; he believed in your intelligence and knew better than to test your corrosive tendencies. âNo,â he admitted. âI think itâs bullshit.â
âOh okay.â
He raised a brow. âThat sounds like you believe in zodiac nonsense.â
âI mean,â you tried to puzzle your thoughts together without sounding too⊠corny. âItâs nice to think thereâs some divine plan we can detect in the sky,â you meekly shrugged.
âYes,â Isaac falsely acquiesced. He reached to you with his elbow. âBecause when Venus is in Virgo, youâre gonna meet the love of your life,â he mocked, nudging your arm. He waved his hands around. âSaturn is in the tenth house! The stock marketâs gonna crash!â He accosted humorously.
âOh, shut up!â You scoffed, pushing him away. âI meant that humans are scared of the unknown!â
âIt's all bullshit,â he repeated. âThere's no evidence,â he laughed.
âScientific facts are based on repeated tests having invariable results.â Your citation received a pitiful eye roll. It was like teaching the alphabet to an English teacher; he was unimpressed. âThe consistency is what qualifies it to be true. Do you know how many times astrology has been accurate?â You demurred.
âAre you gonna tell me that since my Jupiter is in Sagittarius, Iâm predisposed to being faithless?â Isaac accused indifferently. The coy relaxation of his shoulders, the amiable curvature of his pale lipsâ his opinions were unassailable, but he was tangibly amused.
You frowned (and to which he smirked), âI donât know that stuff off the top of my head.â
âWell, I compared our chartsâ,â
âMy god,â you snorted. âOf course you did.â
âAnd according to âthe stars,ââ he emphasized the last phrase with harsh air quotes. âWe make unsuitable friends.â Isaac grimaced as the words stumbled out. He tried to smile, to act unmarred, but he was translucent. âI am fastidious and austere; you are affable and reticent,â he said. âWe may be structured, but I am impulsive and you are compliantâ,â
âAre you sure this is still about astrology?â You blurted.
Isaac bit his querulous tongue and winced silently. Whether your blunt question was rhetorical or not, you didnât even know, and you didnât regret it.
He let both his feet dangle above the water. His own lankiness was uncomfortable, as seen in the shifting of his placid eyes and fidgety hands. âYes,â he answered.
Isaac, at a snailâs pace, was emotionally absconding from the conversation (or at least whatever thought that seemed to be tormenting him).
âA million things fail every single day, Isaac,â you scrupulously offered. âAstrologyâs gonna be one of them. Itâs just pattern recognition.â
Isaac thoroughly considered your opinion. He languidly turned towards you, âSo you honestly believe it?â
You shrugged, âOnly some; the good parts.â
He scoffed.
âYouâre a man of science,â you smiled teasingly. He perked up at your sudden fondness, and you proposed, âWould you rather trust a god you canât see or a celestial body you can observe?â
âIâd trust whatever you tell me,â Isaac answered.
Counselor Daisy, in all her burgundy-dyed hair glory, had shiny wood bongos nestled between her knees; Timber sported a massively ancient guitar in his lap, and Mavis was on the plastic purple kazoo. You did a double take on the last instrumental addition, but regardless of the odd trio, the quality of music was wonderful. Most of the songs fell foreign to your ear, as the teachers were pressuring them to perform numbers from the early 70s and late 60s. You did, however, recognize Elvis Presley (âFor I canât help falling in love with you~â) and ABBA (âMama Mia, here we go again!â).
The amphitheater was barely at full capacity; it seemed ill-proportioned to the rest of the camp, but the large clearing it was situated in heavily contributed to the illusion. Long wooden benches rose up from the ground in a semi-circle around a giant stone pit, where fire attempted to lick the bruising sky.
Hot flakes of ash rained from the sky, as you gravitated towards a picnic bench stocked with graham cracker boxes, Hershey dark chocolates, and bags of marshmallows.
In your hand was a stick, which was sanitized by holding it close to the open flames, because there were limited amounts of steel prongs. An orderly line of peers assembled at the table, awaiting their turn to grab a marshmallow.
âYouâre not one of those white chocolate apologists, are you?â Isaac inquired absentmindedly, as he inspected his metal skewer. That said evaluation morphed into him lightly pricking his finger. He looked puzzled at the dullness.
You wrinkled your nose, turning your stick over and over in your hands. âGod, no, theyâre disgusting,â you disdainfully indulged.
Isaac abruptly huffed. It landed between âamused chuckleâ and âsilence filled.â âToo sweet?â He suggested pensively.
âTheyâre not even chocolate.â
âNo need to get too defensive: I share your opinion,â Isaac retorted contently. âBut I usually donât indulge in candy,â he continued, approaching the bagged supplies.
Isaac politely handed you a marshmallow; you accepted it and stabbed the gelatinous white blob with your skinny tree branch.
âOnly for special occasions?â You considered. You both proceeded toward the bonfire and held out your sticks to roast.
Isaac shrugged meekly, âSomething like that. My sister bakes a lot.â
Francoise was occasionally paired up with you for cooking projects, but you seldom talked about anything outside of the class.
You hummed in reverie, âOh yeahâ we were in the same culinary class last year.â
There were a few days where sheâd indulge you on her star-crossed love life (she was seeing a normie boy) or asked you to review her draft for the school newspaper (she tends to forget commas). But besides that, you didnât know much else about Francoise.
âI like a good sweet treat every now and then,â you added.
âI know,â Isaac said with a snicker. âYour teeth are gonna rot out of your head.â
You furrowed your brows, poking your skewer into the orange hot flames. âIâve never gotten a cavity,â you informed him proudly. Your marshmallow caught on fire.
Isaac grimaced. The burning was pungent.
You brought the blazing ball close and blew it out. âCrispy,â you mused, inspecting the newly charred black layer.
Isaac furrowed his brows; he looked back and forth between you and the coal lump. âBurnt,â he corrected.
âPerfect,â you insisted.
âCancerous,â he said.
You were unperturbed by his vehemence. Heading over to the sâmore preparation table concluded your roasting. You grabbed a small paper plate, laid out two graham crackers and one square of chocolate.
Isaac quickly joined you and ripped off his golden brown marshmallow. He presented it to you for viewing, âThis is what a normal oneâs supposed to look like.â
You squinted with conceit before sandwiching yours between the cinnamon crackers. âYours seems a little lacking in the wow factor.â
ââWow factorâ?!â Isaac repeated, truly boggled by your audacity. âThatâs⊠questionable,â he mumbled.
You collected your plate and looked over at Isaac; he assembled his own sweet sandwich swiftly. âYouâre not a candy connoisseur like I am,â you announced haughtily, before heading over to the benches.
Isaac pulled a face, one that evidently revealed his disagreement. âIâm pretty sure itâs not considered candy, when you burnt off the sugar,â he said flatly.
âWell, thatâs why Iâve never gotten cavities,â you smoothly shot back.
Straight planks werenât the most comfortable seating (no cushioning or back support), but they had to make do. You climbed up a few steps and planted your feet one set of bleachers below, creating enough of a perpendicular slope to safely lay your plate atop your lap.
Isaac mimicked your stance, before chomping into his own sâmore. He couldnât do so without side-eyeing you in a sedated combination of genial intrigue and judgement for the mentally askew, as the sable flakes broke off and crumbled to the ground.
âHappy?â Isaac questioned.
âVery.â
The country music gradually strummed to a gentle halt, as an older counselor (perhaps mid 20s) stood up. Her arms were considerably tattooed with oceanic themed sleeves and ruggedly toned with muscle; her thick hair was braided into bubbles, and she had silver oval glasses perched upon her nose.
âEVERYBODY!â Her voice was clear like a bell, and she caught the coterieâs attention with a few claps. âYou can continue eating,â she chuckled, noticing a few students completely frozen in their tracks. âJust lend me your ears,â she continued. âTomorrow morning, meet at the flagpole at FOUR AM SHARP!â
A few kids groaned, and Professor Aparico hissed, âNone of that!â
They promptly silenced themselves.
âWeâre going on an early nature hike to catch the sunset on the mountain!â The counselor said, pointing to a large green mound in the distance. âItâll take an hour tops but super duper worth it!!â
Timber piped up, âSo dress accordingly and please get to bed on time!â
âWe know what your age group gets up to,â Daisy added (most, or maybe one particular person, glared at Gomez and Morticia). âDonât ruin this for everyone, understood?â
âUnderstood,â the group reaffirmed.
Your polka-dotted towel was draped over your shoulders, ready to catch the cold droplets of water before they splattered onto the ground. You had just returned from the showers, freshly changed into plaid boxer shorts and a mismatching top. Your bed pathetically squeaked as you sat down on the firm mattress.
Fortunately, air conditioning existed in the cabins. The small unit was established in the corner. A rather modern commodity, but the humidity wouldâve made sleeping unbearable.
Lights officially went âoutâ half an hour prior, but waiting for an available shower stall and prepping for bed took much longer than the time slot allowed. Nonetheless, the lights were âout.â The curtains were drawn over all the windows, and a singular lamp was dragged into the center of the cabin. Despite its fairly short wire, it was tasked with providing âevenâ lighting, as Blythe helped blow-dry Yasminâs hair and Makani was fully passed out.
The handheld machine whirred loudly, but Yasmin tried to speak above it. âYou guys love me,â she ominously stated.
Blytheâs forehead wrinkled with suspicion. âYesâŠâ she slowly nodded.
âOh no,â you blurted. Blythe swiveled towards your direction, puzzled and wondering what you knew.
âEnough to cover for me?â Yasmin suggested playfully.
The vampireâs jaw dropped in realization. âNo!â She exclaimed, âNo way!â
The three of you instinctively turned to Makani, sleeping with her back facing the room. A soft snore escaped her pinched nostrils, and Blythe quickly unplugged the handheld machine.
âWeâre here for two days, Yasmin,â Blythe whisper-shouted. She held up her pointer and middle finger. âTwo days!â She repeated scornfully.
âBut I had a whole prophecy and everything!â She moaned, flopping onto her bed, face down.
âAnd you saw yourself having sex with a counselor?!â Blythe hissed, smooth hands plastering themselves upon her narrow hips.
âWell, no,â Yasmin said, turning onto her side. She twirled a thin lock of her hair. âI donât know who it was, but I hope it was meâ and it wasnât even sex! Just a cute little kiss under the stars, you know?â
âOh my god,â Blythe sighed. âYou areâ,â
Plink!
Yasmin sat up on her forearms. âDid you hear that?â
âDo you hear yourself?â Blythe spat out. âBecause you sound insane!â
Plink!
She gasped. âNo, there it was again!â
âYasminâ!â
âNo, shh!â
You carefully peeled the damp towel off your shoulders, scared that the slightest movement would disrupt their⊠âinvestigation.â You felt the coarse ends of your tangled hair and placed the cloth at the foot of the bed.
Plink!
âWait, I heard it too,â you whispered.
âItâs the window,â Blythe deduced, pushing up her glasses. The floorboards creaked and ached as she slowly approached the opposite wall.
âWeâre gonna die,â Yasmin portended with a wail.
âShh! No, weâre not!â Blythe scoffed. She turned her ear towards the left, trying to localize the inauspicious sound.
Plink!
She turned to the right, hand stretched out hesitantly. She grabbed the pale cotton sheet and pulled it back.
Her anticipation pushed her onto her heels. âWhat is it?â Yasmin asked.
âWho,â she corrected with a snort. Blythe vaguely looked over at your direction. âI think itâs for you.â
âMe?â You languidly joined Blythe, who pulled the curtain back farther, making space for you to peer out the window.
Yasmin sat back down in her bed solemnly. âAw man,â the psychic whined.
You deadpanned at the sight. âDude,â you exasperatedly grumbled.
It was Isaac Night, throwing small pebbles at the glass in long flannel pajama pants and a fraying band shirt of The Cramps. His curls glistened with water and stuck to his forehead like scraggly webs.
âWhat do you want?â You mouthed at him.
He lifted up his right hand and pointed his scarred finger at the door. You rolled your eyes and expected your gaze to land back on Isaac, but you caught him scrambling towards the entryway. You gave your friends a skeptical look over your shoulder; they supplied no explanation, for they were just as unknowable as you.
You opened the door to an awkward Isaac with the small collection of pebbles heâd used in his right hand.
His big eyes idly drifted from the rickety porch to the thin railing, to the neighboring windowsill to your shoulder. Behind him, there was only eerie darkness and merging shadow. Fragile moon rays spotlighted a mystical innocence that unnerving terror wouldâve claimed. The fidgeting beanstalk in front of you also contributed to the lightheartedness.
âIsaac.â
âHey,â he answered, tossing the rocks behind him. He looked down at you expectantly (at your nose specificallyâor somewhere adjacent at least).
âWhatâre you doing here?â
He scrunched his nose, his face contorting the way pain would manipulate it so. His long eyebrows crinkled like a caterpillar mid-inch. Isaac scratched his chin. âJust wanted to see you,â he shrugged. He suddenly winced, as if jabbed in the rib. âTo see if you wanted to, um, Mars.â
Um? Isaac Night doesnât say âum.â Heâs never stuttered in his entire life. What the fuckâs wrong with him?
âMarsâŠâ you drawled cautiously.
âJust go!â Yasmin sighed.
You blinked, then suddenly, Isaac grabbed your arm, telekinetically picked up your flip-flops, and pulled you out of the cabin.
