The Burrow was louder than usual, and that was saying a lot.
Spring had finally nudged winter out of the way, and the Weasley house was overflowing with life: windows flung open to let in sun and air, garden gnomes yelping as they were tossed over the fence, and Molly Weasley humming as she chopped vegetables for dinner.
Fred, however, was sweating bullets.
He wasn’t supposed to be here today. Or rather, she wasn’t. Y/N Malfoy — a name that had no business blending into a place like the Burrow — had dropped by under the most casual, innocent excuse: returning a charmed pocket-watch he’d left behind after their last Hogsmeade trip. She’d planned to apparate in, hand it off, and be gone before anyone even noticed.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
The plan started unraveling the moment she arrived. Fred had barely stepped out into the yard to meet her when the unmistakable pop of Apparition echoed from behind the house — and in true Weasley fashion, George rounded the corner almost immediately.
Fred barely had time to stuff the watch into his pocket when George’s voice rang out.
“Oi, Mum says get your lazy arse in for dinner —”
He froze mid-sentence, his eyes landing on Y/N. She stood perfectly still, looking only slightly less panicked than Fred, like a cat caught in a beam of lumos.
Y/N, to her credit, recovered first. She raised a single brow, cool as ever. “Evening.”
George looked between them, his mouth twitching slightly as he took in the scene: Fred looking like a kid caught stealing biscuits, and Y/N Malfoy standing in the Burrow’s backyard like she belonged there.
“Evening,” George echoed, tone dangerously casual. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Y/N tilted her head, giving the faintest hint of a smile. “Returning something Fred left behind. Thought I’d spare the owl the trip.”
George let the silence stretch for a beat too long. His sharp brown eyes flicked from her to Fred and back, piecing things together with uncomfortable ease.
“Well,” he said at last, “I hope whatever it was is worth all the trouble.”
Before Fred could muster even a half-baked excuse, Molly’s voice rang out from the kitchen window.
“Fred, who was that at the door?”
Fred cringed. Y/N, knowing the jig was up, lifted a hand in silent farewell and Disapparated with a soft crack, leaving behind only the faint scent of lavender and the sound of Fred’s stomach sinking to his shoes.
“Friend from school!” Fred called back, a little too loudly, turning to find George still staring at him.
George folded his arms. “Friend, huh?”
Fred sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, look. I was going to tell you. I just… didn’t.”
George snorted. “You think I’m daft? The way you looked at her just now, mate — Merlin’s beard, you might as well have been carrying a banner that said ‘I fancy her.’”
But George just clapped a hand on his shoulder, and his voice, when it came, was surprisingly gentle.
“Malfoy, though? Bloody hell. You don’t half make things interesting.”
Before Fred could respond, the kitchen door banged open. Ginny poked her head out, squinting into the evening light.
“Who was that? Thought I saw someone standing with you.”
Fred froze. George, bless his soul, didn’t miss a beat.
“Just some owl delivery. Wrong house.”
Ginny frowned, clearly suspicious but not invested enough to argue. She disappeared back inside.
George turned back to Fred with a smirk. “You’re lucky I’m good under pressure.”
Fred let out a laugh, more nervous than amused. “I owe you one.”
“You owe me more than one, mate,” George said, tapping his temple. “But you’d better tell the rest of the family before someone else catches her here. You know Mum’s got eyes like a hawk.”
Fred never got the chance to come clean on his own terms.
Two days later, it happened. Spectacularly.
It was a Sunday. Sundays at the Burrow meant two things: laundry flapping on the line, and the entire house crammed around the table for Molly’s roast dinner. Fred had managed to go about the day with relative calm, though the memory of Y/N’s visit still sat sharp in his mind.
After the plates were cleared, Arthur decided to fiddle with his latest Muggle gadget: an old two-way mirror he’d enchanted to work like a Muggle “video phone.” Everyone took turns poking at it, half-bored, until George, grinning devilishly, swiped it from Percy’s hands.
“Let’s see if this thing can make prank calls,” he joked, tapping the side of the mirror as if dialing.
But the mirror, apparently still linked to its last user, flickered to life on its own.
Fred froze the moment the glass brightened. There, clear as day, was Y/N — sitting comfortably in her room, brushing her hair. The golden “M” crest on the bedpost behind her was unmistakable.
She hadn’t noticed the connection yet, humming softly to herself, until Arthur, squinting, leaned in.
Y/N glanced at the mirror, blinked, and then her face went from curious to horrified in half a heartbeat.
Fred buried his face in his hands.
Y/N, ever the composed Slytherin, straightened her posture and gave the mirror an unflinching, if slightly resigned, smile. “Well. I suppose the secret’s out.”
There was a long, long pause.
Molly was the first to speak, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re dating a Malfoy.”
Fred looked up sheepishly, ears burning. “Yeah. I am.”
For a moment, no one moved. Then, slowly, George leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head, whistling low under his breath.
“I knew it,” he muttered, more proud than surprised.
Ron’s mouth opened and closed like a gaping fish, Hermione beside him looked vaguely scandalized, and Ginny wore an expression that landed somewhere between “disappointed sister” and “impressed troublemaker.”
Arthur, bless him, only adjusted his glasses and gave Fred a measured look. “She seems polite.”
Molly, on the other hand, looked like she needed to sit down, which she did, rather heavily.
“Of all the girls in Britain, Fred,” she said, shaking her head, though her voice was more baffled than angry. “A Malfoy?”
Fred rubbed the back of his neck, shifting in his chair like it was covered in spikes. “She’s not like them, Mum. I swear. She’s smart, and funny, and — I don’t know. She’s different.”
Y/N, still visible in the mirror, raised a brow at the understatement but said nothing, waiting.
Arthur cleared his throat, glancing between his wife and the mirror. “Well, dear, it seems Fred’s already made up his mind. And if the girl’s willing to put up with this lot, she must have some patience.”
Molly looked at her son, then at the girl in the mirror. Mauve held her gaze, calm and unapologetic. Finally, Molly exhaled a long, slow breath.
“I suppose I’ll have to meet you properly then, won’t I?”
Y/N smiled, sharp but sincere. “I’d like that, Mrs. Weasley.”
When the mirror blinked dark again, the room buzzed back to life, half the family talking over each other, and Fred sat there, still stunned but oddly lighter.
Later that night, Fred found George leaning against the back garden fence, hands stuffed into his pockets.
“You’re braver than I gave you credit for,” George said without turning around. “Not for dating her — for hiding it from Mum.”
Fred chuckled, joining him, the night cool and soft around them. “You’re not angry?”
George shook his head. “Nah. I figured it out the second I saw you two in the yard. Malfoy or not, I haven’t seen you this stupidly happy in years.”
Fred smiled, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders. “It’s serious, you know.”
“I know,” George said simply. “And I’m glad.”
The two of them stood there a while longer, watching the stars blink awake in the darkening sky.
And for the first time in weeks, Fred knew — really knew — that everything was going to be alright.
