with college starting in a week i might not be writing fics as often i do rn. i know i dont have very many people looking forward to my writing but, its better to keep everyone informed.
im also out of all fresh ideas and will take some time to develop new ones to post about. since i'd just started out i just dumped all the ideas i'd had in the past few weeks at once.
anyways peace guys, take care and i hope you have a fantastic day.
im shit scared for college, please pray i make friends.
warnings: angst, breakup, hurt/no comfort, mentions of blood and injuries, unhealthy self-sacrificial behaviour, emotional distress, crying, implied self-destructive tendencies, open ending
a/n: this was inspired by i thought i saw your face today by she & him. i had it on repeat, and with spider-man: brand new day coming out in a couple of days, it got me thinking about peter unexpectedly running into someone he loved after months apart.
again its written keeping tasm in mind but im pretty sure you can imagine whichever peter youd like <3
the subway car reeks of stale sweat and something sour. it's nearly midnight, and the fluorescents buzz that sickly yellow hum that makes everyone look like they're already dead.
you're leaning against the doors, shoulders curled inward, counting the stops until you can collapse into a bed that still feels too big.
you're not thinking about him. you've gotten good at that; at not thinking about him.
you've built entire routines around the absence of peter parker. you don't watch the news anymore.
you don't look up when sirens pass. you've deleted every alert from your phone that might tell you something you can't unknow.
you're fine. you're surviving. at least that's what you tell yourself.
and then the train on the parallel track pulls up alongside yours.
just a flash. two layers of scratched, grimy glass. brown hair. a gray hoodie with the hood down despite the cold. shoulders you've mapped with your hands, with your lips, with tears you never wanted him to see.
peter.
your body knows before your mind catches up. your heart doesn't skip — it detonates.
a full-body concussion of adrenaline that slams through your chest and leaves your fingers tingling. your spine snaps straight. your hand flies up, palm pressing flat against the cold window. it's involuntary, a reflex you haven't been able to kill even after all these months.
he's thinner. you can tell even through the hoodie. the hollows of his cheeks are sharper. there's a bruise fading along his jaw. his eyes are fixed on something in the middle distance.
that thousand-yard stare he gets when he's replaying every person he couldn't save.
your mouth opens. his name forms on your tongue. it would be so easy. one syllable. peter. you could shout it. you could bang on the glass. you could —
the other train pulls ahead. the tunnel swallows him whole.
and you're left staring at your own reflection. gaunt. exhausted.
hand still pressed to the window like a child reaching for something they can't have.
the woman next to you shifts away, uncomfortable. you can’t blame her.
your hand drops. your heart is still hammering, but beneath the adrenaline, something else is settling in. something cold and queasy and deeply, profoundly shameful.
relief.
you're relieved he didn't see you.
not because you don't love him. god, you love him. you love him so much it's ruined you for anything else. you love him like a sickness you can't shake, like a scar that won't fade.
but loving peter parker meant watching him die in slow motion.
every night. every fight.
every time he crawled through that window bleeding and laughed it off like his body was a tool he didn't care about breaking. and you were expected to just... hold the bandages. kiss the bruises. pretend it didn't kill you a little bit every single time.
you couldn't do it anymore.
so you left.
and now you see him on a train and your first feeling isn't longing. it's thank god i don't have to watch him bleed tonight.
the train lurches toward your stop. you grab your bag and you walk home on legs that feel like someone else's.
you don't cry until you're in the shower, where the water can wash the evidence away.
the first time you saw him really hurt, really broken, you threw up.
it was four months into the relationship. he'd told you about spider-man early — said he couldn't lie to you, couldn't keep you in the dark. you'd accepted it. you'd thought you understood what you were signing up for.
you didn't understand anything.
he came through the window at two in the morning with his suit shredded at the ribs and blood soaking through the fabric in a spreading dark stain. he was trying to smile, trying to make a joke — "you should see the other guy" — but his voice was thin and reedy and his face was the color of old paper.
you got him to the bathroom. you cut the suit off because he couldn't lift his arms. underneath, his torso was a ruin of purple-black bruises, and along his ribs there was a gash — deep and ugly, edges gaping, blood welling up thick and dark.
"it's not as bad as it looks," he said.
your hands were shaking so hard you dropped the gauze twice. "you need a hospital."
"no hospitals. they ask questions."
"peter—"
"i've had worse. seriously. this is nothing. just— the butterfly strips are in the cabinet, and there's a suture kit under the sink—"
"you have a suture kit."
he had the grace to look sheepish. "for emergencies."
"this is an emergency?"
"this is a tuesday."
you threw up in the sink. right there, while he watched, while blood dripped onto the bathroom tile. you heaved until there was nothing left, and then you rinsed your mouth with shaking hands and turned back to him.
his eyes were wet. not from pain — from guilt. "i'm sorry," he whispered. "i'm sorry, i shouldn't have come here, i should've just—"
"don't." your voice came out like broken glass. "don't you dare apologize for letting me help you. don't you dare."
you stitched him up with hands that steadied through sheer force of will. you cleaned the blood off his skin, gentle where the bruises bloomed. you helped him to bed and lay beside him, listening to his breathing, terrified that if you fell asleep it would stop.
in the morning, he kissed your forehead and said, "see? all better."
the bruises took two weeks to fade.
he was already collecting new ones by day four.
three weeks. maybe four. time has gone slippery since you left.
peter's at a twenty-four-hour supermarket in queens at one in the morning because aunt may needs eggs.
he's wearing sweatpants and the hoodie you used to steal. it still smells like you. or maybe he's imagining it. maybe he's been imagining it for so long that he can't tell the difference anymore.
tonight was bad. not the fighting — the fighting was easy. the fighting was the only part of his life that still made sense. no, tonight was bad because he got hit. a clean shot to the ribs from a guy with a steel pipe and something to prove. peter could have dodged it. he saw it coming. he had time.
he didn't move.
he doesn't know why. or he does know why, and he's not ready to look at it. so he took the hit, and he felt his ribs creak, and he finished the fight, and now he's here buying eggs with a fresh bruise spreading under his hoodie and something loose and rattling inside his chest.
he grabs the eggs. he grabs milk he won't drink. he's stalling. walking the aisles of this aggressively bright supermarket because going home means sitting alone with his thoughts, and his thoughts have teeth.
he turns into the cereal aisle and his heart stops.
you.
twenty feet away. holding a box of cheerios. frowning at the ingredients like they've personally offended you. your hair is different — shorter, he thinks, though he's scared he's forgetting what you looked like before. you're wearing the coat he bought you for your birthday, the blue one with the frayed cuff. there are circles under your eyes so dark they look like bruises.
he did that. he knows he did that. the weight of it settles in his gut like a stone.
his body reacts before his brain can catch up. his pulse kicks into overdrive. his fingers clench around the egg carton — too hard. he feels the shells give, a wet crunch, yolk seeping through cardboard. he doesn't look down.
because you haven't seen him yet, and he has a choice.
he could leave. right now. he could put the broken eggs on a shelf and walk out the automatic doors and let you live your life without the complication of him. that would be the right thing. the good thing. the thing a hero would do.
peter parker has never known how to do the right thing when it comes to you.
his feet move. he doesn't tell them to. they just... carry him forward, down the aisle, closer to you. he's in your peripheral vision now. he sees the shift in your posture, the slight tension in your shoulders, the animal awareness of being watched.
you look up.
your eyes meet his.
and peter parker, who has been thrown through walls and dropped off buildings and beaten within an inch of his life more times than he can count — peter parker feels something inside him crack wide open.
the third fight was the one that ended it.
it was three in the morning. he'd come home — home, your apartment, the one place in the world that still felt safe — with his left arm hanging wrong. dislocated shoulder. he'd popped it back in himself, on a rooftop in hell's kitchen, biting down on his glove to keep from screaming. but something was still wrong with it. it didn't move right. it clicked when he rotated it.
you were awake. of course you were awake. you were always awake now, sitting at the kitchen table with cold coffee and eyes that looked like they'd forgotten how to close.
"what happened." not a question. an exhaustion.
"nothing. i'm fine."
"your arm."
"it's just—"
"don't say it's nothing. don't you dare say it's nothing."
he stopped. he stood in the middle of the living room, still in the suit, mask clutched in his good hand, and he looked at you. really looked. the way you were gripping the edge of the table. the way your jaw was clenched so tight he could see the muscle jumping. the way your eyes were dry, because you'd cried so much over him that there was nothing left.
"okay," he said quietly. "it's not nothing. it's my shoulder. i dislocated it."
"again."
"again."
you stood up. slow, deliberate, like a bomb being defused. "that's the third time this month."
"i heal fast, it's fine—"
"you heal wrong." your voice cracked on the word. "you heal wrong and you don't care. you don't get it checked out, you don't rest, you don't even tape it properly. you just— you keep going. you keep throwing yourself at things that could kill you, and you don't care."
"of course i care—"
"no." the word was a gunshot. "no, peter. you care about other people. you care about the city. you care about strangers on the street. but you don't care about yourself. you treat your body like it's a tool you can just keep using until it breaks, and you don't care what that does to the people who love you."
"i'm fine. i'm always fine."
"you're not fine!"
the words ripped out of you, raw and ragged, and peter flinched like you'd hit him. you were shaking. your whole body was shaking, vibrating with a fury and a fear and a grief you'd been swallowing for months.
"you're not fine," you said again, quieter but no less devastating. "you come home bleeding and you say it's nothing. you come home with broken ribs and you say it's nothing. you dislocate your shoulder so many times you can't lift your arm above your head anymore and you say it's nothing. you have a suture kit under my sink, peter. you have a suture kit in my apartment. do you understand how insane that is? do you understand what it's like to be me? to love someone who treats their own life like it doesn't matter?"
"it matters," he whispered. "of course it matters."
"then why don't you act like it?"
silence. the refrigerator hummed. outside, a car alarm went off and died.
peter's shoulder was throbbing. his ribs ached where the bruises were still fading from last week. there was a cut on his thigh he'd sealed with superglue because he didn't want you to have to stitch another wound. he thought about telling you that. he thought about showing you the scars, all of them, the map of damage he'd accumulated in the years since a spider bite turned him into something less than human and more than a martyr.
but what would that prove? you were right. of course you were right. he didn't care about himself. he couldn't afford to. caring meant hesitating, and hesitating meant people died. uncle ben died because he hesitated. gwen died because he wasn't fast enough, wasn't good enough, wasn't enough. if he started treating his body like it mattered, like it was precious, like it was worth preserving — he'd slow down. and people would die.
better him than them. better his body broken than another innocent person buried.
he couldn't explain that to you. he'd tried, a hundred times, and the words always came out wrong. they sounded like a death wish when they left his mouth, even though he didn't want to die. he just... didn't care if he did.
and that was worse, wasn't it?
"i don't know how," he said finally. his voice was very small. "i don't know how to stop. i don't know how to care about myself when there are people out there who need me. i know it hurts you. i know. and i hate myself for it. but i don't know how to be different."
you stared at him for a long time. your anger had burned itself out, leaving something worse behind: despair.
"i'm not asking you to stop being spider-man," you said. "i'm asking you to stop trying to die."
"i'm not—"
"you are. maybe not consciously. maybe you don't wake up and think 'i hope tonight is the night.' but you fight like someone who doesn't expect to come home. you take hits you could dodge. you don't rest. you don't heal. you just keep throwing yourself into danger like your life is a currency you're trying to spend before someone takes it from you."
he couldn't meet your eyes.
"i can't watch it anymore," you whispered. "i can't sit in this apartment every night wondering if this is the time you don't get up. i can't keep finding blood in the bathroom sink. i can't keep stitching you up and pretending i'm okay when every single time i feel like i'm dying."
"then don't." the words came out before he could stop them. "don't watch. don't wait. don't stitch me up. i'm not your responsibility."
you recoiled like he'd slapped you. "is that what you think this is? responsibility?"
"i don't know. i don't know what this is anymore. i just know i'm hurting you and i can't stop. i can't be what you need me to be. i'm trying — god, i'm trying — but i'm not... i'm not built for this. i'm not built to be careful. i'm not built to come home safe. every time i try, someone gets hurt. someone dies. i can't—"
his voice broke. he pressed his good hand to his eyes, hard, trying to push the tears back in.
you didn't come to him. you always came to him, before. you'd hold him and tell him it was okay and stroke his hair until the shaking stopped. but this time you just stood there, arms wrapped around yourself, face a mask of grief.
"i love you," you said. "i love you so much it's destroying me. and you don't love yourself enough to stop."
"that's not—"
"prove me wrong." your voice was barely a whisper now. "please, peter. prove me wrong. stay home tonight. rest. let your shoulder heal. just one night. that's all i'm asking. one night where you choose yourself. choose us."
he wanted to. god, he wanted to. he wanted to take off the suit and crawl into bed and hold you until the sun came up. he wanted to be the kind of person who could do that.
but somewhere in the city, a siren wailed. and peter felt it in his bones — the pull, the duty, the sick compulsion.
someone was in trouble. someone needed him. if he stayed here, if he rested, if he chose himself, and someone died because of it... he wouldn't survive that either.
you saw the answer on his face before he said it. your expression crumbled.
"okay," you said. "okay."
"y/n—"
"no, i understand. i've always understood. that's the problem." you picked up your coffee cup, cold and half-empty, and poured it down the sink.
"i understand that you will always choose the mask over yourself. and i understand that i will always choose you over me. and one of us has to stop."
"what are you saying?"
"i'm saying i can't do this anymore. i can't love you and watch you die at the same time. it's killing me, peter. you're killing me, and you don't even see it."
he crossed the room. he reached for you with his good arm, and you let him, and he pulled you against his chest — careful of the bruises, always careful of the bruises you could see but never the ones you couldn't. you were crying now, silent and shaking, and he held you like you were the last solid thing in a world that was crumbling.
"i'm sorry," he whispered into your hair. "i'm so sorry."
"i know."
"i love you."
"i know that too."
he left when the siren wailed again. he couldn't not. that was the tragedy of it — he loved you more than he'd ever loved anyone, and it still wasn't enough to override whatever broken thing inside him made his own life feel expendable.
when he came back, hours later, with fresh blood on his knuckles and a new ache in his ribs, the apartment was empty. your keys were on the counter. your closet was bare.
and peter sat on the floor of the living room, still in the suit, and didn't move until the sun came up.
peter doesn't leave the supermarket.
he stands there with yolk dripping through his fingers and a carton of crushed eggs in his hand, and he can't make his legs move in either direction. forward is you — beautiful and tired and alive, so alive, standing right there in the cereal aisle like a miracle he doesn't deserve. backward is the exit, the cold night, the empty apartment, the rest of his life without you in it.
his chest is a riot. every heartbeat slams against his ribs — the bruised ones, the ones that still ache from the pipe he didn't dodge. he thinks about telling you that. he thinks about crossing the distance and lifting his hoodie and showing you the fresh damage, the proof that you were right, that he hasn't changed, that he's still the same self-destructive disaster you walked away from.
see? he imagines saying. see? you made the right choice. i'm still bleeding. i'm still breaking. you got out just in time.
but he doesn't say anything. he just stares at you, and you stare back, and the fluorescent lights buzz overhead like a countdown.
his feet carry him forward. step by step. he rounds the corner of the shelf. he's close enough now to see the details — the chapped skin of your lips, the way you're gripping the cereal box so hard the cardboard is buckling, the tiny scar above your eyebrow from the time he came through the window too fast and knocked over a lamp and you dove to catch it and —
he stops. he's close enough to touch you. he doesn't.
your eyes are locked on his. he watches the emotions cascade across your face like a storm front. shock first — the full-body jolt of it, the way your lips part and your eyes go wide. then recognition, intimate and terrible. then pain, raw and unguarded, the kind of pain he used to see on victims' faces before he learned to look away.
and then the wall.
he watches you build it, brick by brick, in real time. your expression smooths over. your jaw tightens. your eyes go flat and careful, and you look at him like he's a stranger, like you didn't spend a year memorizing every scar on his body, like you didn't once hold him while he sobbed and promised you'd never leave.
you set down the cereal box.
and peter feels his face crumple. he can't stop it. he's spider-man — he's taken punches from people who could crush concrete — and he can't keep his face from falling apart in the cereal aisle of a twenty-four-hour supermarket. the tears come hot and fast, blurring his vision, spilling down his cheeks, dripping off his jaw.
he's not crying because you're leaving. he's crying because you're right to leave. because nothing has changed. because his ribs are still bruised and his shoulder still clicks when he moves and there's a cut on his thigh that he sealed with superglue two hours ago because he didn't want to deal with stitches.
he's still the same. he's still broken. he's still choosing the mask over himself, over you, over everything that might have made his life worth living.
and you deserve better. you've always deserved better. he knew that the day he met you, and he knows it now, watching you turn your head away.
you don't say his name. he doesn't say yours.
you walk toward the checkout. your back is straight. your shoulders are set. you don't look back, not once, and peter watches you go with yolk drying on his fingers and tears cutting tracks through the grime on his face.
you didn't call out my name.
the thought circles his brain. he holds onto it. he holds onto it like a penance.
for you, the walk to the checkout is the longest journey of your life.
every step feels like wading through water. every instinct in your body is screaming at you to turn around, to run back, to throw yourself into his arms and say i don't care, i don't care if you break yourself, just let me be there when you do.
but you can't. you can't. because you do care. that's the whole problem. you care so much it's carved out something essential inside you, left you hollow and aching and barely functional. you can't go back to the sleepless nights and the blood in the sink and the constant, crushing terror of waiting for a phone call that might never come.
you saw him. you saw the bruise on his jaw. you saw how thin he's gotten. you saw the tears streaming down his face, and god help you, you wanted to wipe them away.
but you also saw that nothing had changed. he was still in the suit. he was still throwing himself at danger. he was still treating his body like a sacrifice, and you couldn't be the person who held the knife anymore.
you pay for your groceries with hands that only shake a little. you push through the automatic doors into the cold night air. the street is empty, glittering with frost under the streetlights.
you make it three steps before your legs give out.
you catch yourself on a lamppost, bags swinging, and you press your forehead to the cold metal and you sob. the ugly kind — gasping and heaving and snotty, the kind you've been holding in for months. you cry for the boy who was too good for this world and too cruel to himself. you cry for the girl who loved him and couldn't save him. you cry for everything you had and everything you lost and everything that could have been if he'd only learned to value his own life half as much as you did.
then you wipe your face, and you pick up your bags, and you walk home alone.
inside the supermarket, peter hasn't moved.
an employee approaches him — a teenager with acne and a name tag that says josh. "uh, sir? are you okay? do you need me to call someone?"
peter looks at him. the kid can't be more than seventeen. he looks terrified. peter realizes, distantly, that he must look insane — a grown man crying in the cereal aisle, holding a carton of crushed eggs, probably bleeding through his hoodie from the wound he didn't bother to stitch properly.
"i'm fine," he says.
the kid doesn't look convinced.
peter sets the eggs on a random shelf. he wipes his hands on his sweatpants. he walks out of the supermarket with his head down and his hood up and his chest a hollow cavity where something vital used to be.
outside, the city is loud and bright and profoundly indifferent to his suffering. he leans against the brick wall and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees stars.
she didn't call out my name.
he doesn't blame you. he's never blamed you. you did the thing he can't do — you chose yourself.
you chose survival.
you got out before he dragged you down with him.
he slides down the wall until he's sitting on the cold concrete. his ribs are screaming. his shoulder is a dull, persistent ache. the cut on his thigh has probably reopened; he can feel something wet against his skin. he should go home. he should clean the wound properly, use actual bandages, maybe rest for once in his goddamn life.
a siren wails in the distance. east side. maybe a fire, maybe a robbery, maybe just someone having the worst night of their life.
peter lifts his head.
his face is wet. his body is broken. every rational part of his brain is telling him to go home, to rest, to take care of himself for once.
he gets to his feet.
he pulls his mask from his pocket.
and he swings toward the siren.
because that's what he does. that's the tragedy. that's the whole damn problem.
later; hours later, days later, lifetimes later, you'll both be lying awake in separate beds in separate corners of the same sleepless city.
you'll replay the supermarket. the look on his face. the tears. the way he didn't call out your name either. you'll wonder if that was respect or cowardice or just the same exhaustion you felt. you'll wonder if he's still bleeding somewhere, if he's patched himself up or if he's just letting the wounds close on their own like he always did. you'll want to call him. you'll pick up your phone and put it down again seventeen times before dawn.
and peter, bleeding into sheets he hasn't washed in weeks, will stare at the ceiling and feel every bruise, every ache, every piece of damage he's accumulated. he'll think about what you said — you don't love yourself enough to stop — and he'll wonder if you were right.
he'll wonder if there's something fundamentally broken in him, something the spider bite couldn't fix. he'll wonder if he'll ever learn to value his own life, or if he'll just keep throwing it away until one day there's nothing left to throw.
neither of you will sleep.
neither of you will call.
and somewhere in the dark, a boy who gave up everything to be a hero will close his eyes and see your face, and he will whisper your name into the silence, and the silence will give him nothing back.
but his hand will drift to his ribs, pressing against the fresh bruise there — pressing hard, harder than necessary — and he'll think, distantly, that the pain is almost comforting.
at least he can still feel something.
at least the broken parts still work.
at least he knows he's still alive.
and somewhere across the city, you'll hug your pillow to your chest and remember the way his arms felt around you — careful, always so careful with you, even when he was so careless with himself.
and you'll cry, not for the breakup, but for the simple, devastating truth that you couldn't love him into loving himself.
that was always his fight.
and he's still losing.
a/n: requests open. also lmk if you wanna be added to my spiderman taglist <3
It’s actually really upsetting being accused of using AI when I’ve only just picked up writing again after years. Actual fucking years.
Because that’s how demotivated I’d gotten.
Writing is one of the few ways I cope, and finally finding the motivation to write again just to have someone reduce it to AI is honestly so disheartening.
And in all honesty? Yeah, my work might feel inspired because it probably is. We all read the same Tumblr posts. We all read the same fanfics. We all consume the same media and end up inspired by it.
So sue me. Sue me for writing.
But don’t accuse me of using AI when I sat up till 4 am staring at my laptop screen typing away a story I was so excited to post because I finally started writing again.
It’s 3 am where I’m at rn, if I really wanted to upload an ai fic I wouldn’t be working thru the night to put smth out there. Bloody hell.
Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader (implied gryffindor)
Setting: Hogwarts, 7th Year (Order of the Phoenix era)
Word Count: ~8.3k
Summary: You ask your friend Fred to teach you how to kiss before your date on Saturday. He agrees, even though he's been in love with you for three years. Three lessons. Three days of kissing you and pretending it means nothing. By the time you go on that date, you realize that your date isn't who you want to be kissing
A/N: Requests are open for Harry Potter characters and Spider-Man/Peter Parker! Feel free to send prompts, tropes, or scenarios. Please like, comment, and reblog if you enjoy <3
The thing about Fred Weasley was that he never shut the fuck up.
Words were his weapon, his shield, his sleight of hand. He talked so you wouldn't look too closely at his face. He joked so you wouldn't hear the things he was actually saying underneath the jokes. He'd spent seven years perfecting the art of being completely unreadable while giving the impression of being an open book. A magic trick. A misdirection. Look at the mouth, not the eyes. Laugh at the punchline, not the pause before it.
So when you cornered him after dinner in the empty Charms corridor, wringing your hands like you were about to ask him to help you hide a body, he'd already queued up half a dozen deflections before you opened your mouth. He was ready. He was prepared. He was Fred fucking Weasley, and nothing got past his defenses.
Then you opened your mouth.
"You want me to what?"
The words came out sharper than he intended. Sharper than he'd ever spoken to you. You flinched—just slightly, a flicker at the corner of your mouth—and he hated himself for it immediately.
"Teach me," you repeated, and your voice only wobbled a little, which he had to give you credit for. "To kiss. Properly. I have a date with Adrian Pucey on Saturday and I don't want to look like a complete idiot."
Fred stared at you.
The torchlight in the Charms corridor was doing that thing where it made everyone look slightly haunted. Shadows jumped and flickered across your face. Somewhere in the distance, Peeves was singing a rude song about Umbridge and her Educational Decrees, something about toads and bureaucratic overreach. The castle settled and groaned, ancient and indifferent to the fact that Fred's internal organs were currently rearranging themselves into new and uncomfortable configurations.
"Pucey," he said finally, and his voice came out almost normal. Almost. If you didn't know him. If you weren't you. "Adrian fucking Pucey. Former Slytherin Chaser. Graduated last year. That Adrian Pucey."
"He's visiting. Marcus Flint invited him for the Hufflepuff match."
"Flint. Of course. The hemorrhoid brothers, reunited at last." Fred crossed his arms, leaning against the stone wall with a casualness he absolutely did not feel. "What do they even talk about? The proper way to gel your hair into a helmet? How to be a walking contraceptive advertisement?"
"Fred."
"I'm just saying. Pucey once tried to hex his own broom. Lee told me. Lee doesn't lie about things that pathetic."
"He thought it was jinxed."
"It wasn't jinxed. It was a normal broom. He was just shit at flying."
"Fred."
"Fine. Fine." He held up both hands in surrender. "Pucey. Saturday. Kissing. You want me to teach you." He paused, and something flickered behind his ribcage. "Why me?"
The question came out quieter than the rest. Less armored.
You looked at him—really looked—and Fred felt that familiar sensation of being seen, actually seen, by the one person who'd always been able to do it. You'd walked into his train compartment first year and asked if you could sit down because everywhere else was full, and Fred had taken one look at you and forgotten how to form a complete sentence. He'd been forgetting how to form complete sentences around you ever since.
"Because you're the only person I trust," you said. "To be this bad at something in front of. To not make me feel stupid about it."
Fred opened his mouth. Closed it.
That wasn't—he'd expected a joke. A deflection. Something he could volley back with a quip and a grin and minimal damage to his internal organs. Not honesty. Not that.
He recovered badly. "So this is a pity request. You're exploiting my well-documented inability to say no to you."
"Is that well-documented?"
"It's extensively documented. There are charts. Graphs. A particularly damning pie chart involving the time I let you practice Stinging Hexes on me in fourth year."
"You complained the whole time."
"I complain because I care. It's my love language." The word love slipped out before he could catch it. He steamrolled forward before you could notice. "Fine. Yes. I'll teach you. On one condition."
"What?"
"When Pucey inevitably starts droning on about his glory days—and he will, he's constitutionally incapable of not—you hex him somewhere creative. Nothing permanent. Just memorable."
You laughed. The sound did what it always did—wrapped around Fred's ribs and squeezed until his lungs forgot how to work.
"Deal."
"Right. Tomorrow night. Room of Requirement. Seventh floor. Left corridor across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. Wear something comfortable." He pushed off the wall, walking backward down the corridor. "We might be at this a while. You're starting from absolute zero. Tabula rasa. A blank canvas. A lump of clay waiting to be molded by my expert—"
You threw a Stinging Hex at him. He dodged it easily, laughing.
But the laughter died the moment he turned the corner.
He stood in the dark corridor, alone, and pressed his forehead against the cold stone wall. The chill seeped into his skin, grounding and unpleasant. His hands were shaking. His heart was doing something arrhythmic and concerning. And somewhere deep in his chest, in the locked box where he kept all the feelings he wasn't allowed to have, something had started to crack.
Three years, he thought. Three years of loving her, and she asks me to teach her how to kiss someone else.
If that wasn't some kind of cosmic joke, he didn't know what was.
LESSON ONE
The two days between the corridor and the first lesson were a special kind of hell.
Fred was useless. Genuinely, catastrophically useless. He set his cauldron on fire in Potions—actual fire, flames licking up toward the dungeon ceiling—and didn't notice until Snape was on top of him like a particularly greasy bat, deducting points and assigning detention with a sort of grim pleasure. He walked into a suit of armor outside the Great Hall and apologized to it. He stared at his breakfast for so long without eating that George started pelting him with toast crumbs to see if he'd notice.
He didn't notice.
"You're doing the thing," George said at dinner on Thursday, sliding onto the bench across from him.
"What thing?"
"The thing where you're having a crisis but pretending you're not having a crisis by making more jokes than usual. It's very convincing. I'm sure no one else has noticed." George paused. "Except everyone. Everyone has noticed. Angelina asked if you'd been Confunded."
"Angelina should mind her own business."
"Angelina's the team captain. Your mental state is her business. You flew into the goalpost twice at practice yesterday."
"I was testing its structural integrity."
"You were staring into the middle distance and forgot the goalpost existed." George leaned forward, dropping his voice. "It's about her, isn't it. The favor."
Fred's jaw tightened. "I don't know what you're—"
"Freddie." His twin's voice was uncharacteristically serious. "Whatever you're doing—and I know you're doing something, because you've got that look you get right before you do something monumentally stupid—just. Be careful. Yeah? Some things you can't joke your way out of."
Fred looked at his twin—his other half, the person who knew him better than anyone on the planet—and felt something splinter behind his sternum.
"I'm always careful," he said.
George snorted. "You've never been careful a day in your life. That's the problem."
The Room of Requirement was on the seventh floor, in the left corridor across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy attempting to teach trolls ballet. Fred had paced in front of it for a solid fifteen minutes, trying to work up the nerve to go inside. His palms were sweating. His heart was doing something complicated and painful. He'd changed his shirt three times before coming up here, which was embarrassing and which he would take to his grave.
This is fine, he told himself, for approximately the fortieth time. This is educational. You're helping a friend. Perfectly normal friend activity. Nothing to lose your mind over.
The door materialized—smooth wood, iron handle, completely unremarkable except for the fact that it hadn't existed thirty seconds ago. Fred pushed it open.
And stopped dead.
"Oh, you absolute bastard," he said to the room.
The Room of Requirement had outdone itself. There was a sofa—deep burgundy, squashy, positioned in front of a crackling fireplace. There was a rug thick enough to sink into. And there were candles. Dozens of them. Hundreds, maybe. Floating overhead like lazy, judgmental stars, casting warm golden light across the entire scene. It looked like the sort of room where someone got proposed to. Or seduced. Or both, possibly in that order.
"Subtle," Fred told the ceiling. "Really subtle. Why not just conjure a heart-shaped bed and be done with it? Maybe some rose petals? A string quartet?"
The room, being a room, did not respond. But Fred could have sworn the candles flickered in a way that was vaguely smug.
He was still glaring at the ceiling when the door opened behind him.
"Sorry I'm—oh." You stopped in the doorway, staring at the candlelit wonderland. "Oh, wow. That's... a lot of candles."
"The room has opinions," Fred said, turning around. "Apparently it thinks we need—"
He stopped.
You were wearing a jumper that kept slipping off one shoulder. Your hair was loose, still slightly damp at the ends like you'd rushed through a shower to get here on time. Your cheeks were pink from the climb up seven flights of stairs. You looked nervous and determined and completely, devastatingly beautiful, and Fred forgot how words worked for approximately three full seconds.
"Need what?" you prompted.
"What?"
"You said the room thinks we need something."
"Right. Yes. Mood lighting. Apparently." He shook himself, gesturing toward the sofa. "Sit. Make yourself comfortable. This is going to be very clinical and professional."
"Is it?"
"Fuck no. Not even slightly. But I'm going to pretend it is for the sake of my sanity." He dropped onto the sofa beside you, close enough that he could smell your shampoo—something floral, something that reminded him of summer and the Burrow's garden and every good thing he'd ever felt. "Okay. Kissing 101. First things first: what do you already know?"
"Nothing. That's why I'm here."
"Nothing? You've never—"
"No. Never."
"Not even spin the bottle? Truth or dare? That time in fourth year when Angelina dared everyone to—"
"No, Fred. I've never kissed anyone. That's the entire point."
Fred stared at you. He'd known, theoretically. You'd said as much in the corridor. But hearing it again, here, in this aggressively romantic room with the candles and the fire and the way you were looking at him with that mixture of trust and nervousness—it landed differently.
He was going to be your first kiss.
Not your first real kiss. Not the one that mattered. That would be Pucey, or someone after Pucey, or someone who wasn't Fred. But technically, chronologically—his lips would be the first ones you ever kissed.
The thought made him feel slightly insane.
"Right," he said, shoving the feeling into the pit where he kept all his other inadvisable emotions. "No pressure on me, then. I'm popping your kissing cherry. That's not terrifying at all."
"My lesson cherry. Not my anything else."
"Lesson cherry. Yes. That's a normal thing people say." He shifted to face you properly, and his knee brushed yours. Neither of you moved away. "Okay. First rule: kissing isn't a performance. It's not something you do at someone. It's something you do with them. If you're in your head worrying about technique, you've already fucked it. You have to be present. Actually there, in the moment, paying attention."
"Paying attention to what?"
"To them. To how they're responding. What they're doing. What they seem to like." His voice dropped slightly, unbidden. "You can't follow a script. You have to listen with your whole body."
"That's very philosophical for someone who set a toilet on fire last week."
"The toilet provoked me. And I contain multitudes. Depths. Occasional profundity." He reached out before he could stop himself. "Give me your hand."
"What?"
"Your hand. I'm demonstrating something."
You hesitated for half a second. Then you placed your hand in his. Your fingers were cold. Fred's pulse kicked up approximately forty beats per minute. He ignored it with the practice of long experience.
"Hands matter," he said, placing your hand on his shoulder. He curled your fingers into the fabric of his shirt. "Everyone forgets about hands. They just let them dangle. Don't do that. Touching someone—really touching them—is half the kiss. It changes the whole shape of it."
"Shape?"
"Kissing has a shape. Don't look at me like that, it's a real thing." His own hands settled on your waist—light, careful, barely there. He could feel the warmth of you through your jumper. Could feel the slight tremor in your muscles. "See? Now we're connected. It's more... intimate."
The word hung between you.
"Right," you said quietly. "That makes sense."
"Next." Fred's voice came out rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat. "You don't just crash into someone's face like a battering ram. You lean in slow. Give them time to meet you. It builds anticipation."
"How slow?"
"Like this."
He leaned in.
It was supposed to be a demonstration. A clinical, educational demonstration. He watched your eyes widen slightly. Watched your lips part. Watched you unconsciously mirror his movement, leaning toward him like there was a magnetic pull you couldn't resist.
"And then?" you whispered.
"And then..." His gaze dropped to your mouth. Back to your eyes. "You stop thinking. And you let it happen."
Your eyes fluttered closed.
Fred took one more second. One more second to memorize the way you looked in the firelight—trusting him, waiting for him, your lips slightly parted and your fingers tightening on his shoulder. One more second to pretend, just for a moment, that this was real.
Then he kissed you.
The plan was simple: brief contact, pull back, deliver a witty remark about technique. Maybe a joke about how you weren't completely hopeless. Something light. Something casual. Something that wouldn't betray the fact that his heart was currently attempting to claw its way out of his chest.
The plan did not survive contact with your mouth.
Your lips were softer than he'd imagined—and he'd imagined, fuck, he'd imagined so many times, late at night with the curtains drawn, hating himself a little more each time. They parted under his, surprised and sweet, and your hand slid from his shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, and Fred made a sound he definitely hadn't authorized. Something low and involuntary and wanting.
His hands tightened on your waist. You made a sound in return—a small, surprised, wanting sound—and the kiss deepened without either of them consciously deciding it should. His tongue brushed your lower lip. You gasped. He swallowed the gasp. The hand on your waist slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer, and you came willingly, your fingers fisting in his hair, and for one endless, perfect moment Fred forgot that this was supposed to be a lesson. Forgot that you were practicing for someone else. Forgot everything except the way you felt against him, warm and real and here.
Then reality crashed back in.
He pulled away like he'd been burned.
You made a small noise of protest—a tiny, breathless sound—that you immediately tried to cover with a cough. Your eyes opened slowly. Dark. Dazed. Something flickering in them that Fred refused to identify.
"Like that," he said, and his voice came out absolutely wrecked. He cleared his throat. "That's... that's the general idea."
Your hand was still in his hair. His thumb was still tracing absent circles on your hip. Neither of you moved.
"That was..." you started.
"Basic," Fred said, too quickly. "Very basic. Entry level. Wait until we get to the advanced stuff."
"There's advanced stuff?"
"Oh, darling." The endearment slipped out before he could catch it. He covered it with a leer he didn't feel. "That was me on a very tight leash. You haven't seen anything yet."
You stared at him. Your lips were slightly swollen. Your cheeks were flushed. There was something in your expression—confusion, maybe, or disappointment, or something else entirely—that Fred didn't stick around to decode.
He stood up so abruptly he nearly knocked over a side table.
"Same time tomorrow. We'll work on rhythm. Don't be late." He was already backing toward the door. "Homework: think about what you learned. Five feet of parchment on the importance of hand placement. I expect citations."
"Fred—"
"Citations!"
He was out the door before you could finish.
In the corridor, alone, Fred pressed his forehead against the cold stone wall and tried to remember how oxygen worked. His lips were still tingling. His hands were still shaking. Every nerve ending in his body was standing at attention, screaming her her her in a chorus he couldn't silence.
Three years, he thought. Three years, and you agreed to teach her how to kiss someone else. You absolute fucking moron.
He didn't punch the wall. He wanted to. But he didn't.
It was a near thing.
LESSON TWO
He didn't sleep.
That was becoming a pattern. He'd lie in his four-poster with the curtains drawn, staring at the canopy, replaying the kiss on a loop. The way you'd sighed against his mouth. The way your fingers had felt in his hair. The way you'd arched into him like you'd been waiting for it, like you'd wanted it as much as he did.
It doesn't mean anything, he told himself, at 3 AM, at 4 AM, at 5 AM. She's practicing. She's going to use everything on Pucey. You're a teaching aid. A warm body. A means to an end.
By the time the sun came up, he'd almost convinced himself.
George cornered him at breakfast. "You look like shit."
"Thank you. I woke up like this."
"You didn't sleep again."
"Observant. Ten points to Gryffindor."
George shoved a plate of toast toward him. "Eat something before you keel over. And then tell me what's actually going on, because you've been weird for days and I'm running out of jokes to cover for you."
"There's nothing to tell."
"Bullshit." George dropped his voice. "Is it the favor? The thing you're doing for her?"
Fred's silence was answer enough.
"Freddie." George's voice went uncharacteristically gentle. "Whatever this is—you know you don't have to do it, right? You're allowed to say no. You're allowed to protect yourself."
"She asked me." Fred's voice came out rougher than he intended. "She asked me, George. What was I supposed to say?"
"'No' would've been a good start."
"I can't say no to her." He stared at his untouched toast. "I've never been able to say no to her. Not since the day we met."
George was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed, the sound heavy and resigned. "You're in love with her."
It wasn't a question.
"Since fifth year," Fred said. "Maybe longer. I don't even remember anymore."
"And she asked you to teach her how to kiss someone else."
"Yes."
"Fucking hell, Freddie."
"I know."
"That's—that's proper tragic. That's Shakespearean. That's the kind of thing they write operas about."
"Thank you for that. Very helpful."
"I'm serious. This is going to destroy you."
Fred finally looked at his twin. "It's already destroying me. But I'd rather have pieces of her than nothing at all."
George didn't have an answer to that.
Neither did Fred.
The second lesson was, impossibly, worse.
Same room. Same sofa. Same fucking romantic candles, which seemed to have multiplied since yesterday. You were already there when Fred arrived, sitting cross-legged on the ridiculous rug, and you looked up when he entered with an expression that made his stomach drop.
"Hi," you said.
"Hi." He dropped onto the sofa, keeping a careful distance. "Ready for round two?"
"What are we learning tonight?"
"Rhythm." He rubbed his palms on his thighs. "Kissing isn't static. It's a conversation. A back-and-forth. You have to find a rhythm that works for both of you."
"Like dancing?"
"Exactly like dancing. Which you're terrible at, if the Yule Ball was any indication."
"I stepped on your toes one time."
"Three times. I counted." He shifted to face you. "But that's because you were in your head about it. Same problem. You have to stop thinking and just... feel."
"Easy for you to say. You're good at everything."
"I'm good at most things. Everything is pushing it. I'm shit at Potions. And Divination. And keeping my mouth shut when Umbridge is being a fascist." He paused. "And apparently I'm shit at saying no to you, so add that to the list."
You smiled, but it didn't quite reach your eyes. "You could have said no."
"No, I couldn't." The words came out more honest than he meant them to. He covered quickly. "You'd have pouted. It would've been unbearable. I'm doing this for purely selfish reasons."
"What selfish reasons?"
Because I'll take any excuse to kiss you. Because I'm pathetic. Because I've been dreaming about your mouth for three years and this is the only way I'll ever get to touch it.
"Because I get to boss you around," he said. "It's very satisfying. Now shut up and let me demonstrate."
He leaned in. Kissed you. Slower this time—deliberate, controlled. He let the rhythm build. Soft, then deeper. Soft, then deeper. A tide. A pulse. You followed his lead effortlessly, your hand finding his jaw, your fingers tracing the line of it like you were memorizing him.
"Now you try," he said, pulling back. "Lead. I'll follow."
You kissed him. Hesitant at first—then bolder. You set the rhythm and he matched it, and it was so good, so unbearably good, that Fred had to physically restrain himself from taking over, from deepening it, from showing you exactly how much this wasn't a lesson to him.
He pulled back. Breathing hard. "Good. That was good."
"Then why do you keep stopping?"
Because if I don't stop, I'm going to say something I can't take back. Because this is killing me. Because every time I kiss you, I'm imagining you kissing him, and it makes me want to put my fist through a wall.
"Because you've got it," he said. "No need to overdo it. Same time tomorrow."
"Fred—"
"Final lesson tomorrow. Then you'll be ready for Saturday."
The word Saturday landed like a hex. He saw you flinch—just slightly. Or maybe he imagined it.
"Right," you said quietly. "Saturday."
He fled before you could say anything else.
LESSON THREE
Saturday morning arrived grey and cold, the way February mornings at Hogwarts always did. Frost on the windows. Drafts in the corridors. The kind of cold that settled into your bones and refused to leave.
Fred woke up on the common room sofa, still in yesterday's clothes, with a crick in his neck and a weight in his chest that had nothing to do with the firewhisky George had poured into him the night before.
Today was the day.
He had one more lesson to teach you. And then tonight, you'd be with Pucey. Pucey's hands on your waist. Pucey's mouth on yours. Pucey getting to have everything Fred had been dreaming about for three fucking years.
"You look like death," George said cheerfully, dropping into the armchair across from him.
"Warmed over. Shit. Take your pick."
"I'll take all three." George studied him for a moment. "Last one tonight?"
"Last one."
"And then what?"
Fred didn't answer. He didn't have an answer. He'd been so focused on surviving the lessons that he hadn't let himself think about what came after. The aftermath. Watching you with someone else. Pretending to be happy for you. Pretending his heart wasn't being slowly ground into dust.
"I don't know," he said finally. "Get drunk. Set something on fire. The usual."
"Healthy coping mechanisms."
"I'm a very healthy person."
The day crawled by like something wounded.
Fred attended classes in body only. His mind was elsewhere—in the Room of Requirement, in the Charms corridor, anywhere you were. He caught glimpses of you across the Great Hall at lunch, surrounded by Hermione and Ginny, and your eyes met his for just a moment before you looked away.
You looked nervous.
Good, Fred thought viciously. Then immediately: No, not good. I don't want her to be nervous. I want her to be happy. That's all I've ever wanted.
Even if it's not with me.
The thought was a knife between his ribs.
The Room of Requirement had escalated.
Fred stood in the doorway, staring at the scene before him. Same sofa. Same fireplace. But the candles had multiplied exponentially—there were hundreds of them now, floating in elaborate patterns, casting constellations of light across the ceiling. Rose petals on the rug. Actual rose petals. And music, soft and slow, coming from everywhere and nowhere.
"You're taking the piss," Fred told the room. "This is—you're actually taking the piss. This isn't subtle. This is the opposite of subtle. This is a seduction scene from a trashy romance novel."
The candles flickered. Smugly, Fred could have sworn.
He was still glaring at them when the door opened behind him.
"Sorry I'm—" You stopped. "Oh. Oh, wow."
"The room's gone rogue. I have no control over it. I apologize on its behalf."
"It's..." You stepped inside, looking around at the candles, the rose petals, the firelight. "It's kind of beautiful."
You're beautiful, Fred didn't say. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and you're about to go kiss someone else, and I'm going to have to smile and pretend it doesn't kill me.
"You look nice," he said instead, because you did. You'd made an effort—a green dress he'd never seen before, your hair done differently, color on your lips. For the lesson, you'd said. To practice the whole experience.
"It's not too much?"
"No. It's..." He swallowed. "You look beautiful."
Your smile was bright and pleased and completely oblivious to what it did to him. "Thanks. So. Final lesson?"
"Final lesson." He crossed the room slowly, stopping in front of you. Close enough to touch. Close enough to count your eyelashes. "Everything we've covered. Putting it all together. Show me what you've learned."
You stepped into his space without hesitation. Your hands found the back of his neck. Your eyes met his.
And then you kissed him.
No hesitation. No uncertainty. You kissed him like you'd been thinking about it all day, like this was the only thing you'd wanted, like you'd forgotten this was supposed to be a lesson at all. Your body pressed against his, your fingers in his hair, your mouth opening under his with a sound that short-circuited his brain entirely.
His hands found your waist. Your hips. The small of your back. He backed you against the wall without conscious thought, and you arched into him, and he groaned against your mouth, and somewhere in the back of his mind a voice was screaming this is a lesson this is practice this is supposed to mean nothing—
But it didn't feel like nothing.
It felt like everything.
Your fingers traced his jaw. Your teeth grazed his lower lip. You made a sound—soft and wanting and surprised, like you hadn't known you could feel this way—and Fred broke.
He kissed you deeper. Harder. Desperate. Like you were oxygen and he'd been drowning for years. His hands slid under the hem of your dress, just barely, just enough to feel the warmth of your skin, and you gasped into his mouth and pulled him closer.
"Fred—"
"Is this—"
"Don't stop. Please don't stop."
So he didn't. He kissed you until his lips were numb and his lungs were burning and his heart was a drumbeat against his ribs, and when you finally broke apart, gasping, forehead to forehead, your lipstick smeared across both your mouths, he almost said it.
The words were right there. I love you. I've loved you for years. Don't go. Don't kiss him. Choose me. Please. Please choose me.
"You're ready," he said instead.
Something in your face shuttered. "Ready?"
"For tonight. For Pucey." The name tasted like poison. "You've got it all down. The technique, the rhythm, the—" His voice cracked. "He won't know what hit him."
"Right." You stepped back, smoothing down your dress with hands that trembled slightly. "Tonight."
You walked to the door. Paused with your hand on the frame. Looked back at him.
"Fred?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For..." You gestured vaguely at the room, the candles, him. "This. All of it. I know it was probably weird for you."
Weird, he thought. Weird is one word for it. Agonizing is another. Soul-destroying is a third.
"What are friends for?" he said.
You left.
Fred stayed in the Room of Requirement until the candles burned out, one by one. Until the fire died to embers. Until the room went cold and dark around him.
He pressed his fingers to his lips and tried not to think about how they were still tingling, still warm, still tasting faintly of you.
You met Adrian Pucey at the portrait hole at seven o'clock sharp.
He was already there when you arrived—leaning against the wall with the practiced casualness of someone who knew he looked good and wanted to make sure everyone else knew it too. Dark hair, expensive robes, the kind of smile that had probably charmed a hundred people before you.
"Right on time," he said, offering his arm. "I like that."
Fred would have made a joke about being late, you thought, and then immediately pushed the thought away.
"Thanks for inviting me," you said, taking his arm.
"My pleasure. I've been wanting to ask you for a while. Just never got the chance before I graduated."
The walk to Hogsmeade was cold but clear. Pucey talked the whole way—about his job at the Ministry, about his family's connections, about the Quidditch match he was here to watch. You made appropriate noises at appropriate intervals. Nodded. Smiled. Tried to focus on the words coming out of his mouth instead of the way his hand felt on your arm.
It wasn't a bad hand. It was a perfectly nice hand. Warm, dry, appropriately placed.
It just wasn't Fred's hand.
Stop it, you told yourself. Stop comparing. This is a date. A real date. With a handsome older man who actually wants to be here. Be present.
The Three Broomsticks was warm and crowded, full of the Saturday night chaos of students and villagers alike. Pucey found a table in the corner—"I know the owner," he said, as if this was impressive—and ordered two Butterbeers without asking what you wanted.
Fred always asked what you wanted.
Stop it.
"So," Pucey said, leaning back in his chair with the easy confidence of someone who'd never been uncertain about anything in his life. "Seventh year. How's it going? Dumbledore's Army still running? Umbridge still being a nightmare?"
"Both, yes. Though we're not supposed to talk about the DA."
"Right, right. Secret society. Very mysterious." He grinned. "I always knew you were the interesting type."
"I'm not sure interesting is the word most people would use."
"What word would they use?"
You thought about it. Thought about Fred, and what Fred would say. Brilliant. Stubborn. Terrifying. The only person who's ever made me forget my own punchline.
"Quiet," you said. "Most people would say quiet."
"Quiet can be good. Mysterious. Keeps a man guessing."
Pucey talked for another hour. About Quidditch. About the Ministry. About his plans to "move up quickly" because he had "connections." You drank your Butterbeer and nodded and tried to pay attention, but your mind kept drifting.
Fred would have asked about your day. Fred would have made you laugh until your stomach hurt. Fred would have stolen sips of your Butterbeer and then denied it even with foam on his upper lip.
Fred. Fred. Fred.
The name was a drumbeat in your head.
By the time Pucey suggested a walk, you were exhausted from the effort of pretending to be present.
"Cold out," he said, stepping closer as you left the pub. "Here, let me."
He draped his cloak over your shoulders without waiting for an answer. It smelled like expensive cologne. Nothing like Fred's jumper, which always smelled faintly of smoke and cinnamon and something you could never quite identify.
"Thanks," you said.
"My pleasure." He stopped under a streetlamp, turning to face you. The light caught his features, sharp and handsome. "I had a really good time tonight."
"Me too," you lied.
"I'd like to see you again. If you're interested."
You opened your mouth. Didn't know what to say. Didn't know what you wanted. Before you could formulate a response, Pucey leaned in.
The kiss was... fine.
Technically proficient. His hand found your jaw—Fred's lesson, the jaw thing, you'd done this exact move in the Room of Requirement—and his lips pressed against yours with appropriate pressure. He tasted like Butterbeer and mint. There was tongue, a little too much, just like Fred had predicted.
And you felt absolutely nothing.
Pay attention, Fred's voice echoed in your head. Be present. Listen with your whole body.
You tried. You really tried. You closed your eyes and let him kiss you and tried to feel something—anything—other than the growing certainty that this was wrong. That he was wrong. That the hands on your waist weren't the right hands and the mouth on yours wasn't the right mouth and the body pressed against yours wasn't the right body.
You thought about Fred.
The way he'd kissed you in the first lesson—careful and controlled, like he was holding himself back. The way his hands had tightened on your waist like he couldn't help himself. The way he'd made that sound, low and wanting, like you'd surprised him. The way he'd looked at you in the firelight, something raw and vulnerable flickering behind his eyes before he covered it with a joke.
That's the one, you thought. That's the one you're supposed to feel.
Pucey pulled back. Smiled. "Not bad, right?"
"Not bad," you echoed.
"Definitely want to see you again. Next Hogsmeade weekend, maybe? Or I could come up to the castle sooner. Flint can get me in."
"I'll... let you know."
He walked you back to the castle, still talking. You made sounds of agreement at appropriate intervals. Your mind was elsewhere. It had never left the Room of Requirement. It had never left Fred.
At the portrait hole, Pucey kissed you again—brief, confident, a promise of more to come. "Owl me," he said. "I'll be waiting."
And then he was gone, and you were climbing through the portrait hole, and you were thinking: I've made a terrible mistake.
The common room was nearly dark.
The fire had burned down to embers, casting long shadows across the furniture. Everyone had gone to bed—it was past midnight, you'd been walking around the grounds for an hour trying to clear your head—and the only sound was the soft crackle of dying flames.
And Fred.
Fred was in his usual armchair. Still dressed. Still awake. Waiting for something, or nothing, or you.
You stopped just inside the portrait hole. Your lipstick was smudged. Your hair was mussed from the wind. Pucey's cloak was still draped over your shoulders—you'd forgotten to give it back.
Fred's eyes went to the cloak immediately. His jaw tightened.
"Hey," he said, and his voice was perfectly casual. Dangerously casual. "You're back late. Or early. Depends on your perspective."
"Why are you still up?"
"Couldn't sleep." He didn't stand. Didn't move. Just looked at you from his chair with an expression you couldn't read. "Nice cloak."
Your stomach dropped. "It's Pucey's. I forgot to give it back."
"Generous of him. Lending you his cloak. Very chivalrous." The word came out like an insult. "What else did he lend you? His tongue, apparently. You've got—" He gestured vaguely at his own mouth. "Lipstick situation."
You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand. "Fred—"
"So how was it? The date. The big night. Did Sir Adrian live up to expectations?" He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Come on, I've been sitting here for hours. Entertain me."
"It was fine."
"Fine." He nodded slowly. "Just fine? That's all I get? Three days of intensive instruction, and the review is 'fine'? I'm going to need more detail than that. For quality assurance purposes."
You crossed the room. Stopped in front of his chair. Looked down at him. "Why are you being like this?"
"Like what?"
"Like—" You gestured at him, frustrated. "Sarcastic. Mean. You're being an arsehole."
"I'm always sarcastic. It's part of my charm." He stood up, and suddenly he was too close, and you had to tilt your head back to look at him. "But fine. You want me to stop being sarcastic? Let's be direct. Did he kiss you?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"What?"
"Where did he kiss you? Outside the pub? On the walk back? At the portrait hole? Be specific."
"The walk back. Under a streetlamp. Very romantic." Your voice dripped with something you didn't quite recognize. Anger, maybe. Or guilt. Or both.
"And did you use what I taught you? The hand placement? The rhythm? Did you pay attention to his responses like a good student?"
"Fred—"
"Because I've been thinking about it all night. Sitting here. Waiting. Wondering if my lessons were effective. If you knocked him dead like I told you to." He stepped closer. His eyes were dark, unreadable. "So. Final exam. What was the verdict?"
"He used too much tongue."
"Knew it. Called it. Pucey's a tongue guy." Fred's voice was sharp-edged, a blade wrapped in a joke. "What else?"
"He talked about Quidditch for two hours. He didn't ask me a single question about myself. He ordered my drink without asking what I wanted." You were listing grievances now, the words spilling out. "He lent me his cloak like I was some damsel who couldn't handle a little cold. And when he kissed me—"
You stopped.
"When he kissed you?" Fred prompted. His voice was quieter now. Dangerous.
"When he kissed me, I felt nothing."
The word landed like a stone in still water.
"Nothing," Fred repeated.
"Nothing. It was technically fine. He did everything right. But I felt—" You swallowed. "I felt nothing. It was empty. It was like kissing a wall. A handsome, arrogant, Slytherin-shaped wall."
"Tragic."
"And the whole time—" Your voice cracked. "The whole time, I was thinking about you."
Fred went very still.
"The way you kissed me," you continued, and now the words were coming faster, unstoppable, a dam breaking. "The way your hands felt. The way you pulled me closer like you couldn't help yourself. The way you looked at me in the firelight. I kept comparing him to you, Fred. Every single second. Every single kiss. And he didn't even come close."
"Don't," Fred said hoarsely.
"Don't what?"
"Don't do this." He stepped back. His hands were shaking. He shoved them in his pockets. "Don't stand there with his cloak on your shoulders and his lipstick on your mouth and tell me you were thinking about me. That's not—" He stopped. Swallowed. His jaw was so tight you could see the muscle jumping. "That's not fair."
"Fair?" You laughed—a sharp, humorless sound. "You want to talk about fair? You've been acting strange all week. Cutting lessons short. Avoiding me. Looking at me like I was hurting you and then pretending everything was fine. You kissed me—you kissed me like that—and then you told me to go be with someone else. And now you want to lecture me about what's fair?"
"I was trying to protect myself!"
"From what?"
"From this!" He gestured between you, wild and desperate. "From standing here while you tell me you thought about me while another man had his hands on you. From hoping for something I can't have. From—" His voice cracked. "From loving you for three fucking years and watching you choose someone else."
The words echoed in the silence.
"Three years?" you said.
"Since fifth year. Since that quidditch meeting where you stood up to that Slytherin prick who was giving me shit. You didn't even hesitate. Just stepped in front of me and told him to fuck off. I knew then." He laughed, bitter and broken. "I've known ever since. And I've been pretending ever since. Every joke, every prank, every time I made you laugh—it was all just... trying to be close to you. Trying to be something to you. And then you asked me to teach you how to kiss someone else, and I thought—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I thought I could do it. I thought I could be selfless. But I can't. I can't fucking do it. It's killing me."
You stared at him.
This boy—this ridiculous, brilliant, infuriating boy—who'd been your best friend for seven years. Who'd made you laugh when you wanted to cry. Who'd sat with you in the hospital wing when you'd caught that weird flu in third year. Who'd hexed anyone who looked at you wrong and then denied it. Who'd kissed you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered and then told you to go be with someone else.
"You absolute fucking idiot," you said.
"I'm aware."
"Three years?"
"Give or take. I lost count around year two."
"And you never said anything?"
"What was I supposed to say?" He dragged a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. "'Hey, I know we're best friends and you trust me implicitly, but I'm actually completely gone on you and have been for years, hope that doesn't make things weird'? That would've gone over brilliantly."
"It would have gone over better than this!"
"Would it?" He stepped closer again, and his voice was raw, scraped open. "Would it really? Because you just spent an entire evening with another man. You kissed him. You wore his cloak. And you came back here and told me you thought about me the whole time. But you're still standing there, and you haven't told me what you want."
"Because I didn't know!" The words burst out of you. "I didn't know what I wanted. I didn't know what any of this meant. I've never done this before—any of it. I didn't know that kissing someone could feel like nothing or like everything. I didn't know that the person I wanted was right in front of me the whole time. I didn't know."
"And now?" Fred's voice was barely above a whisper. "Do you know now?"
You looked at him. Really looked. At his rumpled clothes and his tired eyes and his jaw that was still tight with tension. At his hands that were still shaking, shoved in his pockets like he was afraid of what they'd do if he let them free. At the boy who'd been your best friend for seven years and in love with you for three.
"Yes," you said. "I know now."
Fred didn't move. Didn't breathe. "And?"
"I don't want Pucey. I don't want anyone else." You stepped closer, close enough to touch. "I want you. I've wanted you since the first lesson. Maybe before. I don't know. I just know that every time you kissed me, I forgot it was supposed to be practice. Every time you pulled away, I wanted to pull you back. Every time you made a joke and pretended it didn't matter—" Your voice cracked. "It mattered to me. You matter to me."
Fred stared at you for a long moment. The firelight flickered across his face, catching the gold in his eyes, the slight tremor in his lower lip.
Then he moved.
His hands came out of his pockets and cupped your face—gentle, so gentle, like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. His thumbs brushed your cheekbones. His forehead pressed against yours.
"Say it again," he said hoarsely. "Please. I need to hear you say it again."
"I want you, Fred Weasley. You. Not Pucey. Not anyone else. You."
He kissed you.
Not a lesson. Not practice. Not holding back. Fred Weasley kissed you like he'd been waiting his whole life to do it—desperately, reverently, like you were the answer to a question he'd stopped letting himself ask. His hands slid from your face to your waist, pulling you against him, and you fisted your hands in his shirt and kissed him back with everything you had.
"Three years," he murmured against your mouth. "Three years I've been wanting to do that."
"Then don't stop now."
He didn't.
He kissed you until you were both breathless, until your lips were swollen and your heart was racing and the cloak—Pucey's stupid cloak—had slipped off your shoulders and pooled on the floor, forgotten. He kissed you like he was trying to memorize you, like he was making up for lost time, like he was terrified this was a dream and he'd wake up any second.
When you finally broke apart, gasping, his forehead still pressed against yours, he laughed—a real laugh, surprised and joyful and slightly hysterical.
"What?" you asked.
"I'm just—" He shook his head. "I'm having a moment. This is a moment. I'm allowed to have a moment."
"You're allowed to have a moment."
"I've been imagining this for three years. Three years. And the reality is—" He pulled back to look at you, and his expression was so open, so vulnerable, so completely unguarded that it made your chest ache. "You're so much better than anything I imagined. It's not even close."
"That's a very smooth line."
"It's not a line. I don't have lines. I'm emotionally compromised. My defenses are down. You're seeing the real Fred Weasley, and the real Fred Weasley is a complete fucking disaster who's been pining over his best friend for the better part of a decade."
"The real Fred Weasley is kind of cute when he's honest."
"Cute? I'm going for devastatingly handsome. Rugged. Mysterious."
"You just admitted you're a disaster."
"A rugged disaster. A mysterious disaster. There's a difference."
You laughed, and the sound was bright and real and full of something you didn't have a name for yet. Fred's arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, and he buried his face in your hair.
"I love you," he said quietly. "I know it's fast. I know we haven't—I know this is new. But I've been holding it in for three years and I can't—I need you to know. I love you."
Your heart stuttered. "Fred—"
"You don't have to say it back. I'm not expecting—"
"I love you too."
He pulled back to stare at you. "What?"
"I love you. I think I've loved you for a while. I was just too stupid to realize it." You cupped his face in your hands, mirroring his earlier gesture. "I'm sorry it took me so long. I'm sorry I kissed someone else. I'm sorry I asked you to—"
"Don't." He covered your hands with his. "Don't apologize. You didn't know. I didn't tell you. If anyone should apologize—"
"Don't you dare. You were trying to protect yourself. I get it. I get all of it." You went up on your toes and kissed him, soft and brief. "But from now on, no more protecting. No more hiding behind jokes. No more pretending. Deal?"
"Deal." His grin was back—the real one, the one that crinkled his eyes and made him look like he was up to something. "But I'm still going to make jokes. It's a core part of my personality. I can't just turn it off."
"Wouldn't expect you to."
"Good. Because I have several prepared. Starting with the fact that Pucey's cloak is on the floor and I'm going to take that as a metaphor."
You glanced down at the crumpled cloak. "What kind of metaphor?"
"He's beneath me. Literally and figuratively." Fred's grin widened. "Also, I'm going to owl it back to him tomorrow with a note saying 'thanks for keeping her warm, I'll take it from here.'"
"You absolutely will not."
"I absolutely will. It's already written. In my head. The prose is devastating."
"You're impossible."
"And yet you love me."
"And yet I love you," you agreed.
He kissed you again—softer this time, sweeter, full of promise and relief and something that felt like coming home. When he pulled back, his eyes were bright.
"So what now?" you asked.
"Now?" He glanced around the empty common room, at the dying fire and the dark windows and the castle settling into silence around them. "Now we go to bed, because it's two in the morning and I'm running on approximately six hours of sleep for the whole week. And tomorrow—" He paused. "Tomorrow I'm taking you to Hogsmeade. Properly. As a date. I'll buy you a Butterbeer and ask you questions about yourself and not talk about Quidditch at all."
"That sounds perfect."
"It does, doesn't it? I'm very good at this boyfriend thing already."
"Boyfriend?"
He had the grace to look slightly nervous. "Too fast?"
"No." You smiled, reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of his eyes. "Not too fast. Just right."
He walked you to the stairs to the girls' dormitory. Paused at the bottom. His hand found yours, fingers interlacing like they'd been doing it for years.
"Goodnight," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Goodnight, Fred."
You were halfway up the stairs to the girls' dormitory when you heard it—barely audible, muttered under his breath like a curse he couldn't quite swallow.
"Fuck that pussy."
You stopped dead. Turned on the step. "OI, FRED, I'M NOT DEAF—"
A pause. Then, from the common room below, utterly unrepentant: "Ah. Well."
Summary: When George insists that driving a muggle car "can't be that different" from a magical one, you decide to put his confidence to the test during his summer visit to your home. What follows is a chaotic afternoon of stalled engines, endangered rose bushes, and the discovery that your boyfriend—while brilliant at magic—is absolutely hopeless with muggle machinery. But watching him try (and fail) at everything from driving to operating the washing machine only makes you love him more.
Warnings: Mild language (British swearing), reckless driving (in a driveway), destruction of property (rose bushes), excessive fluff, George Weasley being charmingly incompetent
CW: None - this is pure fluff and humor! Light kissing/romance, but nothing beyond PG-13. Some secondhand embarrassment if you're sensitive to characters failing adorably at tasks.
Word Count: Just below 3k
The summer sun beat down on the quiet suburban street as you stood in your parents' driveway, hands on your hips, trying very hard not to laugh.
"Right then," George said confidently, circling your mum's ancient Ford Fiesta like it was a Hungarian Horntail he was about to tame. "How hard can this possibly be? Four wheels, an engine, some pedals. I've seen you lot do it. Even Percy could probably manage, and he gets winded climbing stairs."
"George," you warned, though you were already grinning. "Remember what we talked about at Hogwarts? About how muggle cars are different from magical ones?"
"And remember what I said?" He turned to you with that trademark Weasley smirk, the one that had made you fall for him in the first place. "I said, and I quote, 'Can't be that different, love. S'all just transportation, isn't it?'"
You'd been dating George Weasley for nearly a year now, and in that time, you'd learned that there were two types of situations: ones where George's confidence was endearing, and ones where it was about to become hilariously problematic. This was shaping up to be the latter.
"Okay," you sighed, opening the driver's side door. "Get in. But you're starting in the driveway. We're not going anywhere near actual roads until you prove you won't kill us both."
"Your faith in me is truly touching," George said, dropping a kiss on your forehead as he squeezed past you and folded his lanky frame into the driver's seat. "Has anyone ever told you that you look absolutely radiant when you're being a worrier?"
"Has anyone ever told you that flattery won't save you from a crash?"
"Worth a shot."
You walked around to the passenger side, already second-guessing this decision. Your parents were away for the weekend—visiting your aunt in Manchester—which had seemed like the perfect opportunity for George to visit. Your mum had been suspicious about your "friend from school" until you'd shown her a photo of George making a ridiculous face with a garden gnome. Somehow, that had won her over.
Sliding into the passenger seat, you turned to find George examining the interior with the intense focus he usually reserved for developing new Skiving Snackboxes.
"This is the steering wheel," he said, gripping it with both hands.
"Correct."
"These are... also related to steering?" He wiggled the gear stick.
"That's the gear shift, and please don't 'wiggle' it."
"Noted." He looked down at his feet. "And these are the pedals you mentioned. Three of them. That seems excessive, doesn't it? Magical cars just sort of... go."
"Yes, well, muggle cars require a bit more participation. The one on the right is the accelerator—that makes you go faster. The middle one is the brake—"
"Makes you stop, yeah, I've got that."
"And the left one is the clutch, which you need to press when you're changing gears."
"Bloody hell." He ran a hand through his red hair, making it stick up at odd angles. "And I have to change between them while also steering and watching where I'm going?"
"Now you're getting it," you said cheerfully.
"You lot do this every day? Muggles?"
"Some of us even do it while drinking coffee and listening to the radio."
George turned to you with something approaching awe. "You're all mental. Brilliant, but mental." He leaned over and kissed you properly this time, soft and sweet. "Especially you."
"Flirting will not get you out of this lesson."
"Are you sure? Because I've got loads more where that came from." He waggled his eyebrows. "You look lovely today, by the way. Is that a new shirt? Really brings out your—"
"George Weasley, start this car right now or I'm writing to Fred about how scared you are of a Ford Fiesta."
That did it. Nothing motivated George quite like the threat of Fred's teasing.
"Right!" He sat up straighter, hands repositioning on the wheel. "I'm ready. What first?"
"First, put on your seatbelt."
"My what?"
You reached over and pulled the strap across his chest, trying to ignore how aware you were of the warmth of him, the faint smell of cinnamon and fireworks that always seemed to cling to his clothes. His hand caught yours as you clicked the belt into place.
"Thanks, love," he said softly, and there was something in his eyes that made your heart skip.
"You're welcome," you managed. "Now, foot on the clutch—that's the left pedal."
George pressed it down.
"Good. Now turn the key in the ignition."
The engine sputtered to life, and George jumped slightly. "Blimey, it's loud!"
"It's a twenty-year-old car, George. Now, keep your foot on the clutch and move the gear stick into first gear." You pointed to the diagram on the knob. "That's up and to the left."
George stuck his tongue out slightly in concentration—something you'd noticed he did when working on particularly tricky inventions—and moved the gear stick. The car made a horrible grinding noise.
"Is it supposed to sound like that?"
"No, you need to—here." You put your hand over his on the gear stick. "Gentle. Like this."
"I'm always gentle," he protested, but let you guide him. The gear stick slid into place with a satisfying click.
"Okay, now slowly—and I mean slowly—lift your foot off the clutch while pressing down gently on the accelerator."
"The accelerator is...?"
"Right pedal."
"Right pedal, got it."
George lifted his foot. The car lurched forward like a startled hippogriff, then immediately stalled with a pathetic cough.
"Ah," George said into the sudden silence. "That wasn't supposed to happen, was it?"
You bit your lip to keep from laughing. "It's okay, it happens to everyone at first. You just lifted the clutch too fast. Let's try again."
Fifteen minutes and seven stalls later, George had managed to move the car approximately three meters down the driveway.
"This is humiliating," he announced, though he was grinning. "I've flown a car to Hogwarts, you know. An actual flying car. Through a magical barrier. At night."
"Yes, but that car was enchanted. This one requires actual skill."
"Are you saying I don't have skill?" He turned to you with mock offense. "I'll have you know I'm very skilled. Ask anyone. Fred says I'm the skilled twin."
"Fred says that about himself."
"Well, one of us is right."
You laughed, and George's expression softened. "I love that sound, you know," he said quietly. "Your laugh. It's better than magic."
Your cheeks warmed. "You can't just say things like that and expect me to focus on teaching you to drive."
"Can't I?" He leaned closer, and you could see the mischief dancing in his eyes. "What if I told you that you're the most beautiful person I've ever seen? That spending this week with you, in your world, meeting your parents, eating your mum's casserole—"
"You said you liked the casserole!"
"I loved the casserole, even though I'm seventy percent sure it was seventy percent potatoes. What I'm saying is—" He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "This has been the best week of my life. Even if I'm rubbish at muggle driving."
Your heart felt too big for your chest. "George..."
"Yeah?"
"You've moved us into the rosebushes."
"What?"
Sure enough, the car had been slowly rolling forward during his speech and was now gently nudging your mum's prized roses.
"Bollocks!" George slammed his foot on what he thought was the brake but was actually the accelerator. The car lurched forward, branches scraping the windscreen.
"Other pedal!" you shrieked.
George's foot found the brake, and you both jerked forward against your seatbelts.
In the silence that followed, a single rose petal drifted down onto the hood.
"Your mum's going to kill me," George said.
"Probably," you agreed.
He turned to look at you, hair even more disheveled than usual, a leaf somehow stuck to his shoulder, his expression somewhere between apologetic and terrified.
You burst out laughing.
"This isn't funny!" he protested, but he was laughing too. "I've just murdered your mum's garden! She's going to ban me from the house! I'll never get to eat mysterious casseroles again!"
"We can fix it before she gets back," you gasped between giggles. "We'll just... replant them or something."
"Replant them? Do I look like I know anything about muggle gardening? I barely know about magical gardening, and those plants literally tell you what they need!"
You wiped tears from your eyes. "Okay, okay. New plan. Back up very slowly, and we'll assess the damage."
"Right. Slowly. I can do slowly." George reached for the gear stick, then paused. "Which one is reverse again?"
"Bottom right."
"Bottom right, got it." He moved the gear stick, and the grinding noise returned.
"George, clutch!"
"Right, sorry!" He pressed the clutch, found reverse, and began to lift his foot.
"Remember, slowly—"
The car shot backward like a rocket, straight across the driveway.
"BRAKE!" you yelled.
George's foot slammed down, and the car stopped inches from your dad's shed.
You both sat in stunned silence for a moment.
"I think," George said carefully, "that I may have been wrong about the whole 'can't be that different' thing."
"You think?"
He turned off the engine and let his head fall back against the seat. "How do muggles do this every day? This is exhausting! My feet are doing three different things, my hands are doing two different things, and my brain is supposed to remember all these rules. It's like trying to juggle Fanged Frisbees while reciting the Twelve Uses of Dragon's Blood backward."
You couldn't help but smile at his dramatics. "It gets easier with practice."
"Does it, though? Or do you just get used to the constant fear?"
"Both, probably."
George turned his head to look at you without lifting it from the seat. His hair was a mess, there was a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead from concentration, and he looked absolutely exhausted.
He was also completely, utterly adorable.
"Stop looking at me like that," he said, but he was smiling.
"Like what?"
"Like you think I'm cute when I fail."
"I think you're cute all the time," you admitted. "The failing just adds character."
"Character. Right." He sat up and unbuckled his seatbelt. "Come on, then. Show me how it's really done. And maybe I can learn something by watching instead of, you know, destroying property."
You switched seats, and George watched intently as you smoothly started the car, reversed out of the rosebush area (with only minimal damage, thankfully), and drove in a perfect circle around the driveway.
"Show off," he muttered, but he was grinning.
You pulled back up to the starting position and turned off the engine. "See? Not so hard."
"You make it look easy. There's a difference." He leaned over and kissed your cheek. "My brilliant, talented, muggle-born girlfriend who can operate complex machinery without magic."
"And don't you forget it."
"Never." He paused. "So, be honest. On a scale of one to 'Ron trying to use a telephone,' how bad was I?"
You pretended to consider. "Solid eight."
"Eight! That's not too bad—"
"Out of five."
"You're mean."
"You destroyed my mum's roses!"
"They'll grow back! Probably! Don't plants do that?"
You laughed and took his hand. "Come on. Let's go inside and I'll teach you how to use the washing machine instead."
George's eyes widened. "The what now?"
"Magical people wash clothes by hand, right? Or with spells?"
"Mostly Mum does it with magic, yeah."
"Well, muggles have a machine that—"
"A machine that washes clothes? You're having me on."
"I'm absolutely not."
"What's next, you're going to tell me there's a machine that washes dishes too?"
You bit your lip.
"No," George said.
"We have one," you admitted.
"Bloody hell. You lot really will make a machine for anything, won't you?"
"Says the wizard who enchants toffees to make people's tongues grow."
"That's completely different! That's useful!"
You tugged him toward the house, still laughing. "Come on. Maybe machinery will be easier for you than the car."
It wasn't.
Twenty minutes later, you'd explained the washing machine three times, and George had somehow managed to put dish soap in it instead of laundry detergent.
"They were both next to the sink!" he protested as bubbles began to seep from the machine's door.
"George!"
"I'm sorry! They looked the same!" He grabbed a towel and tried to mop up the bubbles, which only seemed to make more appear. "How is it making MORE bubbles? Where are they coming from?"
You couldn't even be mad. He looked so genuinely bewildered, standing in your laundry room surrounded by expanding foam, that all you could do was laugh until your sides hurt.
"I'm a disaster," George declared, sitting down on the floor amid the bubbles. "A complete disaster at muggle things. You should probably find yourself a nice muggle boyfriend who knows how to drive and wash clothes."
You sat down next to him, not caring about the bubbles. "And miss all this entertainment? Not a chance."
He looked at you, bubbles in his hair, detergent on his shirt, and broke into that crooked smile you loved. "You're weird, you know that?"
"You're one to talk, Weasley."
"Fair point." He pulled you closer, and you rested your head on his shoulder. "Thanks for being patient with me. I know I'm rubbish at all this."
"You're not rubbish," you said softly. "You're just learning. And anyway, I was rubbish at magic stuff when I first got to Hogwarts. You should've seen me try to use Floo powder for the first time."
"Yeah?"
"Ended up in three wrong fireplaces and covered in soot. Fred and Hermione had to come find me."
George laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Wish I'd seen that."
"Wish I'd seen you try to drive before I agreed to teach you. Would've prepared myself better."
"Oi!"
You tilted your head up to kiss him, soft and sweet, tasting like laughter and summer and home.
"Tell you what," you said when you pulled back. "How about we fix this bubble situation, rescue my mum's roses with some creative replanting, and then I'll make us dinner. Something simple that requires no machinery."
"Can I help?"
"With dinner? Sure."
"Will there be sharp knives involved?"
"Probably."
"Maybe I'll just watch then. Supervise. Provide moral support and witty commentary."
You stood and pulled him up with you. "That sounds perfect, actually."
As George helped you clean up the bubble disaster (mostly by using magic when he thought you weren't looking), you felt that warm, settled feeling you always got around him. Yes, he was terrible at muggle things. Yes, your mum's garden was going to need some emergency work. Yes, you'd probably have to ban him from the car for the foreseeable future.
But he was here, in your world, trying his best and making you laugh and looking at you like you hung the moon.
Later that evening, after you'd managed to salvage most of the roses (with a tiny bit of Reparo that George swore he'd deny if anyone asked), and after you'd made pasta while George sat on the counter providing "supervision" that mostly consisted of stealing bites of tomato and making you laugh, you found yourselves on the couch.
The telly was on—some mindless game show that you were half-heartedly explaining to George—but mostly you were just curled up together, his arm around your shoulders, your legs tucked under you.
"Hey," George said suddenly.
"Hmm?"
"Thanks for this week. Really. I know having me here is probably stressful, what with all the explaining muggle things and making sure I don't accidentally break anything—"
"You did break the toaster."
"That was an accident! How was I supposed to know you couldn't use magic on it?"
You laughed softly. "George, having you here has been wonderful. Even the chaotic parts. Especially the chaotic parts."
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Next summer, you should come stay at the Burrow. Fair's fair. And I can watch you try to de-gnome the garden. Fred and I have a betting pool on whether you'll actually pick them up or just scream."
"I've done it before!"
"Have you though?"
"Once! Partially!"
"This is going to be brilliant."
You elbowed him gently, and he caught your hand, threading his fingers through yours.
"I love you, you know," he said quietly, and your heart stopped. You'd been together for almost a year, but he'd never said those words before. Neither had you, though you'd felt them for months.
You sat up to look at him properly. His expression was soft, vulnerable in a way George rarely allowed himself to be.
"Even though I'm rubbish at driving and washing machines and toasters?" he added with a small smile.
"Especially because of that," you whispered. "I love you too, George Weasley. Even though you're a disaster in the muggle world."
"A loveable disaster?"
"The most loveable disaster."
He kissed you then, deep and sweet and full of promise. When you finally broke apart, he was grinning.
"So," he said. "Want to try teaching me to drive again tomorrow?"
"Absolutely not."
"Smart woman. That's why I love you."
And as you settled back against him, his heartbeat steady under your ear, you thought about magic. Not the wand-waving kind that George knew so well, but the everyday magic of finding someone who made you laugh, who tried even when things were hard, who looked at your ordinary muggle world and found it extraordinary simply because you were in it.
That was the best kind of magic of all.
A/N: If you enjoyed this fic, please let me know! I love hearing which parts made you smile. Likes, reblogs, comments all welcome <33
A Spider-Man Fanfiction 🕷️ | Peter Parker x Reader
Summary: He spent three weeks pretending he didn't need her. She spent three weeks wondering what she'd done wrong.
Warnings: Graphic descriptions of blood and injury, medical procedures performed in a non-medical setting (wound cleaning, resetting a dislocated shoulder), intense emotional arguments and verbal conflict, themes of emotional neglect and abandonment, mild language throughout, depictions of anxiety and guilt, brief non-explicit nudity in a non-sexual context
Word Count: 8k
You can imagine any Peter you want, I just wrote this keeping Andrew in mind <3
You're already walking.
The November air bites at your face, cold and damp, carrying the promise of rain that hasn't decided whether to fall. Your breath plumes white. Your hands are shoved deep in your coat pockets, fingers curled around the spare key Aunt May gave you three years ago. You pass the deli on 23rd where you and Peter used to split sandwiches after chemistry club—he'd always steal your pickles, and you'd always let him, rolling your eyes while your heart did stupid things in your chest. The lights are off now. The metal grate is pulled down over the window.
Three weeks.
You pass the bus stop on 20th where Peter once told you he wanted to study Biochemistry. Not because he loved it—Peter loved physics, loved quantum mechanics, loved anything that let him trace the universe back to its smallest parts—but because he wanted to understand his own body now. How the spider bite had changed him at a molecular level. What it meant to be strong in ways that terrified him. He'd talked for twenty minutes, gesturing wildly, nearly hitting a streetlamp, and you'd listened and nodded and fallen a little more in love with him with every word.
Three weeks since he stopped sitting next to you in lecture. Three weeks since he stopped coming to your apartment after patrol, bleeding and apologetic, waiting for you to patch him up on your bathroom floor. Three weeks since he stopped answering your texts—not all at once, but slowly, like a faucet dripping dry. Can't make lunch. Rain check. Maybe next week. Then nothing.
You pass the tailor shop on 19th. The one with the old Italian man who always waves at you through the window. You remember the first time you walked past it with Peter, years ago, and you'd stopped to look at the sewing machines in the window. "I could do that," you'd said, meaning the careful stitching, the steady hands. And then, months later, you did—sitting on your bedroom floor at three in the morning, sewing his first Spider-Man suit by hand because he'd shown up at your window with a sketch on notebook paper and a desperate look in his eyes. Your fingers had bled from the needle. He'd apologized a hundred times. You'd told him to shut up and hold the fabric steady.
The Parker house appears at the end of the block. Porch light on. Garden overgrown the way it's been since Uncle Ben died—the rose bushes still blooming every summer even though no one tends them anymore. Flowers in the window boxes. Purple mums that refuse to die even as November closes in.
You stop at the bottom of the porch steps. Your hand goes to your pocket.
Family doesn't have to knock.
May had pressed the key into your palm with both hands, her fingers warm and dry. You'd cried. Peter had found you in the kitchen afterward and pulled you into a hug without saying anything. Held on until you stopped shaking.
The key turns in the lock.
The house is dark. May's knitting on the armchair—a half-finished scarf in deep blue wool. Peter's textbooks on the coffee table. A mug of cold coffee on the side table, half-drunk, abandoned. He always does that. Makes coffee, drinks half, gets distracted by something—a news alert, a text from Ned, an idea for a web fluid improvement—and forgets to finish it.
"Peter?"
Nothing.
You climb the stairs. The fourth step creaks—it's always creaked. You remember the first time you stayed over, years ago, and Peter warned you about it so you wouldn't wake May. You'd stepped on it anyway. May had called out, "Is that you, Y/N?" and you'd frozen like a deer in headlights, and Peter had laughed so hard he nearly fell down the stairs.
Photographs on the wall. Peter as a baby, gap-toothed and grinning. Peter and Uncle Ben on a fishing trip, both sunburned and happy. Peter at graduation, cap slightly askew, May beaming beside him with tears in her eyes.
There's a photo of you, too. Sixteen years old, at the science fair, holding the second-place trophy. His arm around your shoulders. Your arm around his waist. You look happy. You were happy.
His door is closed. You push it open.
The room is exactly the same. Textbooks piled on the desk. Periodic Table poster slightly crooked—it fell down last year and neither of you could find the tape. The science fair trophy still dusty on the bookshelf. You keep meaning to dust it. You keep not doing it.
The photo on his nightstand: you and him, sixteen, grinning.
You sit on the edge of his bed. The mattress dips under your weight, familiar and creaking.
You've sat here a hundred times. While he ranted about exams—gesturing wildly, nearly knocking over his lamp. While he stressed about patrol—some new villain, some close call, some innocent person he couldn't save. While he grieved Uncle Ben, and you held his hand in the dark, and you didn't say anything because there was nothing to say.
While he talked about Gwen—nervous at first, fumbling over his words, asking you if you thought she might like him back. Then later, excited, telling you about their first date, their first kiss. You'd smiled. You'd been supportive. You'd pretended your heart wasn't breaking, because that's what best friends did. They showed up. They were happy for each other. Even when it hurt.
Now you sit here alone, in the dark, waiting for someone who might not want to be found.
The anger rises. Hot and sharp. You've been carrying it for three weeks, letting it simmer, and now it's bubbling over.
You don't get to disappear. You don't get to decide I'm not worth an explanation. I've cleaned blood off your skin and sewn up your suits. I've lied for you. Covered for you. Stayed up until dawn waiting for you to come home.
I've earned more than your silence.
Peter is so fucked when he gets home.
And then the window explodes.
Glass shattering. Wood splintering. The heavy, sickening thud of a body hitting the floor—books rattling on the shelves, trophy wobbling, the photo on his nightstand toppling over.
You're on your feet before you can think.
His suit is shredded. Not torn—shredded. Red and blue fabric hanging in ribbons, soaked through with blood that looks black in the dim light. The spider emblem on his chest barely visible anymore. His mask is gone. His face is a mess of bruises—one eye swollen nearly shut, skin purple and black. A gash across his forehead still bleeding, blood dripping into his eye. His lip split and swollen. Blood dripping off his chin onto the floor, mixing with shattered glass.
His ribs are exposed where the suit has been ripped away—dark purple bruises spreading like spilled wine. His chest is a mess of cuts and scrapes and deeper wounds. One shoulder sits wrong. Dislocated. The joint angled in a way that makes your stomach turn. His hands are scraped raw, knuckles bloody and swollen, fingers trembling.
He tries to stand. Gets to his knees. Collapses. Catches himself on the edge of his desk, knocking over textbooks. The half-empty mug shatters on the floor.
He looks up. Sees you.
His face drops.
"What are you—you shouldn't be here."
You don't answer. Every rehearsed speech—gone. Nothing in your head but static.
You grab the first aid kit from under his bed.
You put it there years ago. After the third time he showed up at your window with injuries he'd tried to hide. A black eye from "falling down the stairs." A knife wound from "a broken bottle." You'd seen through every lie. Stocked the kit yourself—gauze, medical tape, antiseptic, sutures, painkillers, bandages in three sizes. Made him promise to use it.
The kit is still full. He hasn't touched it. He is an idiot who hasn't taken any care of himself.
Your hands shake. You don't let them stop.
"Y/N, stop. You need to leave. You shouldn't be here—"
You ignore him. Antiseptic. Gauze. Tape. Lined up on his nightstand with the precision of someone who's done this a hundred times.
"—it's not safe, if someone saw you come here, if they followed you—"
You haul him up. He's heavier than he looks—all that muscle and spider-strength, and he can barely support his own weight. You get him to the edge of the bed. Push him down.
"—please, I can handle this myself—"
"You can't even fucking stand."
You cut away what's left of his suit. The fabric comes away in strips, stiff with dried blood. His chest is a mess—fresh bruises, a gash along his side still bleeding, older scars you've memorized over years of patching him up. The one on his ribs you stitched two years ago. The burn on his shoulder. The thin white line on his forearm from his first year as Spider-Man.
There's too much blood. Too much dirt. You can't see what you're doing.
"You need a bath." you mumble.
"What?"
"You're covered in blood. I can't see the wounds. You need to get in the bath."
"I'm fine—"
"You're not fine. You're the opposite of fine." You grab his good arm and sling it over your shoulder. He's heavier than he looks—all that muscle and spider-strength, and he can barely support his own weight. His skin is slick with blood and sweat, and his fingers grip your shoulder with a desperation that tells you he's in more pain than he's letting on. "Can you walk?"
"...Maybe."
"That's not a yes."
"It's not a no either."
"Peter."
"I can walk. Just—just go slow."
You guide him down the hall. It's slow going—his legs are unsteady, and every few steps he falters, his weight pressing into your side. You can feel the heat of his body through your clothes, the damp of blood soaking into your sleeve. You don't care. You've had his blood on you before. You'll have it on you again.
The bathroom is small—pink tile from the 1950s, a clawfoot tub that's probably older than Aunt May, lavender soap on the sink that she buys from the organic market on 19th. You lower him onto the closed toilet seat. He sits heavily, his head drooping, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
"You with me?"
"...Yeah. Yeah, I'm—I'm here."
"Don't pass out."
"Wasn't planning on it."
"mhm I doubt it."
You turn on the tap. The pipes groan—they always groan, this old house, nothing works the way it should—and then water thunders into the tub. Steam rises, fogging the mirror, filling the small room with warmth. You test the temperature with your wrist the way May taught you years ago. Not too hot. Not too cold. Just right for damaged skin.
"Arms up."
He obeys, wincing as he lifts his good arm. His bad arm doesn't move at all—the dislocated shoulder keeps it pinned to his side. You peel the rest of the ruined suit off him. The fabric sticks to his skin, glued there by dried blood, and you have to work it loose with careful fingers. Down his arms. Over his chest. You have to kneel to get it past his hips, down his legs, over his feet. The suit comes away in pieces, leaving dark red stains on your hands.
He's in nothing but his boxers now.
You don't look. You're not looking. You're focused on the wounds—the gash on his side that's still oozing blood, the way his breathing is too shallow, the way he's shivering even though the bathroom is warm with steam. You catalog each injury with clinical precision. The laceration on his ribs. The bruising across his abdomen. The swelling around his eye. The dislocated shoulder. You've done this a hundred times. You know how to shut off the part of your brain that sees Peter and turn on the part that sees a patient.
But it's harder tonight. It's always been hard, but tonight it's harder.
"Get in the tub."
He pushes himself up with his good arm. His legs shake. You take his elbow—steady him—and he steps into the water. One foot, then the other. Then he sinks down, slowly, painfully, his body disappearing beneath the surface. The water turns pink immediately, then red, then a deep, murky crimson. He hisses as the heat hits his wounds, his jaw clenching, his good hand gripping the edge of the tub.
"Breathe," you say.
"I'm breathing."
"Breathe slower."
"I'm—" He takes a shaky breath. Lets it out. "I'm trying."
His head falls back against the rim of the tub. His throat is exposed—long and pale and vulnerable. You can see his pulse beating there, too fast, a frantic rhythm under his skin. His eyes close. His chest rises and falls. The water ripples with each breath.
You kneel beside the tub. The tile is cold and hard against your knees. You grab a washcloth from the rack—one of the soft ones, the ones May keeps for guests—and dip it in the water.
Start with his face.
Gentle here. Gentler than you've been all night. You dab at the cut on his forehead, wiping away the dried blood, revealing the wound underneath. It's not as deep as it looked. Head wounds always bleed more than they should. You clean it carefully, your touch feather-light, and he doesn't open his eyes but his breathing steadies. His jaw unclenches. The tension in his shoulders—the good one, at least—starts to ease.
You move the washcloth down his cheek. Wipe away the blood that dripped from his forehead. Clean the swelling around his eye—careful, so careful, because the skin there is tender and purple and painful-looking. The washcloth comes away red. You rinse it in the water. The water swirls with color.
"How long," you ask quietly, "since you took care of yourself?"
He doesn't answer. You didn't expect him to.
You move to his chest. The washcloth trails over his collarbone, dipping into the hollow at the base of his throat where his pulse still flutters too fast. Over his shoulders—the good one, then the bad one, as gently as you can manage. Down the planes of his chest, through the smears of dried blood and dirt and sweat. You're thorough. Methodical. You've done this before.
But you've never done it like this. You've never done it in a clawfoot tub in the Parker house with steam fogging the mirror and his breath the only sound in the room. You've never done it after three weeks of silence. You've never done it with your heart in your throat and your hands trembling and his blood still drying under your fingernails.
You're not thinking about his body. You're not thinking about the way his muscles shift under your hands, the way his skin feels warm and slick and alive. You're not thinking about the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the waterline, or the way his stomach tenses when your fingers brush a particularly sensitive bruise.
You're not.
"Sorry," you murmur, as he flinches.
"Don't—don't apologize." His voice is rough. "You shouldn't even be here."
"And you should be letting me help."
"I was trying—"
"Lean forward."
He hesitates. Then he obeys, shifting in the water, his back emerging from the pink-tinged surface. You move the washcloth across his shoulder blades, and your breath catches in your throat.
His back is worse than his chest. Deep purple bruises spread across his shoulder blades like spilled ink. A long scrape runs from his spine to his ribs—not deep enough for stitches, but painful-looking. The muscles are knotted with tension, even now, even when he's supposed to be relaxing. You've seen him shirtless before. You've seen him injured before. But you've never seen him like this—bared and vulnerable and completely, utterly still under your hands.
You clean the bruises gently. Your fingers trace the curve of his spine, checking for injuries you might have missed, feeling each vertebra, each rib, each shift of muscle under skin. The water laps against his waist. The steam curls around your face.
He shivers.
"Cold?" you ask.
"No."
"Then what?"
"...Nothing. I don't—nothing."
You don't push. You work your way down his back, then his arms—the good one first, then the bad one, as carefully as you can manage with the shoulder still out of place. The water has gone lukewarm now, the heat fading. The blood has washed away, revealing the full extent of the damage—bruises spreading like watercolor across his ribs, the edges already fading from purple to green as his accelerated healing kicks in. Cuts that are already starting to close. Scrapes that will be gone by morning.
He'll be fine. He's always fine. That's the problem.
"Time to get out."
He stands. Water sluices off his body, running in rivulets down his chest, his stomach, his thighs. His boxers cling to him, soaked through, leaving nothing to the imagination. You grab a towel from the rack—the biggest one you can find, soft and worn from years of use—and wrap it around his shoulders.
Your fingers brush his chest. Accidentally. Barely a graze of knuckles against damp skin.
His breath catches.
Your eyes meet. Just for a fraction of a second. Just long enough to see something flicker in his gaze—something raw and unguarded and terrified.
You look away first.
"Bedroom," you say. "Now."
He limps back, leaning on you, his good arm slung over your shoulders, his weight pressing into your side with every unsteady step. The hallway seems longer than it used to be—or maybe that's just the exhaustion, the adrenaline fading, the three weeks of silence and the past hour of chaos catching up with you both at once. His bare feet drag on the floor. His breath is warm against your hair. You can feel his pulse through his skin where his arm rests against your neck—still too fast, still racing from the fight and the pain and whatever he's not saying.
You lower him onto the mattress. He sinks into it with a grunt, his good hand gripping the edge of the bed, his bad arm hanging useless at his side. The sheets are still tangled from this morning—or yesterday morning, or whenever he last slept in this bed. You don't know. You weren't here. You haven't been here for three weeks.
The sheets will get bloody. You don't care. You've washed blood out of his sheets before—more times than you can count, actually. There's a bottle of hydrogen peroxide under the bathroom sink specifically for that purpose. You're the one who put it there.
You start wrapping his ribs.
Your arms reach around him, passing the bandage from hand to hand, your knuckles brushing his back with every rotation. The bandage is white against his skin, stark and clean, and you wrap it tight—tight enough to support, loose enough to let him breathe. You've done this before. You know the right tension by heart.
He's warm. He's solid. He's so close you can smell the lavender soap from the bath, the faint metallic tang of blood that still lingers, the something-else that's just him—the scent you've never been able to name but have always recognized. His breath is warm on your neck every time you lean close, and it hitches slightly every time your fingers brush bare skin. You can feel his eye on you, tracking your movements, watching your face. Neither of you speaks.
This is when you notice it.
Now that the blood is gone. Now that the dirt and grime have been washed away. Now that you know he's going to be okay—that the cuts are already closing, that the bruises are already fading at the edges, that he's not going to bleed out on his bedroom floor. Now that the fear has subsided and the adrenaline has faded and you're just a girl wrapping bandages around a boy she's known for seven years.
Now you notice.
The way his shoulders taper to his waist. The lean definition of muscle in his arms—even bruised, even battered, even with one shoulder still sitting wrong. The way his stomach tenses under your hands every time you tighten the bandage, the muscles shifting beneath his skin. The trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the towel still wrapped around his hips. The way his jaw looks in profile—sharp and strong and dusted with stubble he hasn't shaved in days.
You've seen him a thousand times. You've patched him up more times than you can count. You've seen him shirtless and bleeding and broken. But you've never let yourself really look before. You've never let yourself notice the way your pulse picks up when you're close to him. You've never let yourself acknowledge that the heat pooling in your stomach isn't just concern.
You look now.
You can't help it. After everything—the fight, the fear, the three weeks of silence, the confession that's still hanging in the air between you—you can't keep pretending you don't see him. All of him. The way you've always seen him.
He catches you.
His eye meets yours. His gaze is steady, unblinking, even with the other eye swollen nearly shut. There's something in his expression—something raw and unguarded and a little bit terrified. Like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. Like he's seeing you see him, and he doesn't know what to do with it.
"...What?"
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"I'm checking your bandages."
"You've been checking the same bandage for like a minute." His voice is rough, but there's something underneath it—something almost teasing, almost familiar. Almost like the Peter you knew before he disappeared.
"I'm being thorough."
"You're blushing."
"I'm not."
"You are. Your ears are doing that thing."
"My ears don't do a thing."
"They do. They always have." He shifts on the bed, wincing as the movement pulls at his ribs, but his eye doesn't leave your face. "They go all pink. First the tips, then the whole ear. It's how I know you're lying. They've done it since we were 17. Remember that time you told Smith you'd finished your essay on Shakespeare and your ears gave you away?"
"That was one time."
"It was at least four times. I kept count."
"Of course you did."
"I remember things." His voice softens. "About you. I always have."
The air between you shifts. Charged. Heavy. You're still holding the bandage. Your hands are still resting against his ribs. You can feel his heartbeat under your palm—steady now, no longer racing.
"Focus on your injuries," you say.
"I'd rather focus on—"
"Peter I will slap you."
"Sorry."
You finish wrapping his ribs in silence. Your movements are efficient, practiced, but your hands are trembling slightly. You hope he doesn't notice. He notices everything but maybe, for once, he'll pretend he doesn't.
The gash on his side is clean and closed. The bandages are secure. All that's left is the shoulder.
You step back. Take a breath. Look at him—really look at him—sitting on the edge of his bed with his ribs wrapped and his arm hanging useless and his one good eye fixed on your face.
"It's dislocated."
"...Yeah."
"I'm putting it back."
"...Do it."
"Just like that? Do it?"
"What do you want me to say?" His voice rises, frustration bleeding through. "What do you want? I'm trying—I've been trying all night—I don't know what you want from me."
"Anything! Something! You've been silent for three weeks, and now you're just—just sitting there like—"
"Like what?"
"Like this is normal! Like you crashing through windows and bleeding everywhere and pushing me away is just something I should accept!"
"I'm not asking you to accept it." He stands up—too fast, his ribs protesting, his face going pale. He sways on his feet but doesn't sit back down. "I'm asking you to reset my shoulder. That's all. Just—reset my shoulder, and then you can yell at me all you want."
"You think this is about yelling at you?"
"I think you're angry, and you have every right to be. So be angry. Shout. Throw things. I don't care." He gestures at his shoulder, frustration twisting his features. "But I can't—I can't think straight with this thing. I can't give you what you want when I can barely stand up."
"What I want is for you to stop running."
"I'm not running. I'm right here."
"For now. What about tomorrow? What about next week? What about the next time some villain decides to use me to get to you?"
"I don't—"
"You don't know. That's the problem. You don't know, and instead of figuring it out together, you just—you left. You decided for both of us."
"Because I was scared!"
"You keep saying that! You keep saying you were scared, like that makes it okay!"
"It doesn't make it okay! Nothing about this is okay!" He's shouting now, his voice cracking, his whole body trembling. "I know it's not okay. I've known it's not okay since the moment I stopped answering your texts. But I didn't know what else to do. I still don't know what else to do. Every time I try to—to let someone in—"
"You push them away first."
"...Yes."
"That's not protection. That's cowardice."
"I know." His voice drops. "I know what it is. I've always known."
"Then why do you keep doing it?"
"Because I don't know how to stop!" He turns away from you—stumbles, really, his bad shoulder throwing off his balance—and braces his good hand against the wall. His back is to you now. You can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his spine is rigid, the way his head is bowed. "I don't know how to stop being scared. I've been scared since the day I got bitten. Scared of what I can do. Scared of what I can't do. Scared of losing people. And you—you're the person I'm most scared of losing. So I thought—I thought if I pushed you away first, it would hurt less. If I was the one who left, I wouldn't have to watch you leave."
"I wasn't going to leave."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." You step closer—close enough to touch him, but you don't. Not yet. "I've been here for years, Peter. Through everything. Through the bite, through Ben, through Gwen, through every disaster this city has thrown at you. I've never left. I've never even thought about leaving."
"That doesn't mean you won't."
"It does, actually. It means exactly that." Your voice softens. "I'm not going anywhere. I've never been going anywhere. But you have to let me stay. You have to stop making decisions for me. You have to trust me enough to let me choose."
He turns. His eye meets yours. His expression is cracked open, raw and vulnerable and terrified.
"How?" he whispers. "How do I do that?"
"I don't know. But we figure it out together. That's the point."
Silence.
"Your shoulder," you say. "Sit down. Let me fix it."
He hesitates. Then he nods—just once—and lowers himself back onto the bed. You move to stand in front of him, positioning your hands on his shoulder. The joint is swollen and wrong under your palms, the bones misaligned. You've read about how to do this. You've never actually done it before.
You pause. Look at him.
"I helped you sew your first suit."
He looks up, confused. "What?"
"We stayed up until four in the morning. My fingers were bleeding from the needle. You kept apologizing, and I kept telling you to shut up." You hold his gaze. "Did you really think I didn't know what I was choosing?"
His expression cracks. His hand comes up—hesitates for just a moment—then rests on your hip. His fingers are warm through the fabric of your jeans. "...No. I guess I didn't."
"On three. One—"
You do it on two.
The joint slides back into place with a sickening pop. He cries out—a raw, broken sound that tears from his throat before he can stop it—and his hand tightens on your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. His forehead drops to your stomach. His whole body shakes. His breath comes in ragged gasps, hot through the fabric of your shirt.
"Fuck," he breathes.
"It's done."
"That—" He takes a shaky breath. Another. "That hurt more than the fight."
"Deserved."
He laughs—wet, broken, muffled against your shirt. It's not a happy sound. It's the sound of someone who's been holding everything in for too long and has finally run out of strength to keep doing it. His hand is still on your hip. His forehead is still pressed against your stomach. You can feel his breath through the fabric, warm and ragged, and the faint tremor that runs through his body every few seconds.
"You're still holding onto me," you say.
"...Yeah."
"Are you going to let go?"
"...I don't want to."
His hand tightens. His thumb traces a small circle on the fabric of your jeans—an absent, unconscious gesture, like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. Neither of you speaks. The silence is different now. Less angry. Less charged. Something softer.
"I love you," he says. His voice is muffled against your shirt, barely audible.
He lifts his head. His eye meets yours. And despite everything—the blood, the bruises, the broken window, the three weeks of silence, the argument that's still echoing off the walls—he smiles. A real smile. The one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look younger. The one you've loved since you were fifteen years old, even when you couldn't admit it to yourself.
He's still holding onto your hip. You're still standing between his legs, close enough to feel the heat of his body, close enough to count his eyelashes. The room is quiet. The broken window lets in the cold night air and the distant sounds of the city—a siren, a car horn, the rumble of the subway. The photo on his nightstand is still toppled over. The glass is still swept into a pile in the corner.
None of it matters.
"I love you too" you say. "In case that wasn't clear."
"It was clear. It was very clear."
He kisses you.
It's not gentle. It's not careful. It's not the kind of kiss you imagine when you let yourself imagine this—which you have, God, you have, more times than you'd ever admit. Those imaginary kisses were soft. Tentative. The kind of first kiss that happens after a confession, after years of waiting, after everything finally falls into place.
This is not that.
This is desperate. This is his good hand fisting in the fabric of your shirt, yanking you closer, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he doesn't hold on tight enough. This is his split lip catching on yours, rough and swollen, and the faint copper taste of blood on his mouth. This is his breath—ragged, uneven, half a sob caught in his throat—mixing with yours.
He kisses like he's drowning. Like you're air. Like he's been holding his breath for three weeks—for years—and he's finally, finally letting himself breathe.
His hand slides from your shirt to your jaw, his fingers trembling. They're cold. They're always cold after a fight, after the adrenaline fades and his body remembers it's supposed to be in shock. But his palm is warm against your cheek, and his thumb traces the line of your cheekbone like he's memorizing it, like he's been wanting to do this for so long he doesn't know where to start.
You lean into him, careful—so careful—of his ribs, his shoulder, the bruises spreading across his chest like spilled watercolor. Your hands find his face, your fingers brushing the edge of his swollen eye, the cut on his forehead, the stubble along his jaw. He flinches—not from pain, but from the gentleness. Like he doesn't know what to do with it. Like no one's ever touched him like this before.
His forehead presses against yours. His breath is warm on your lips. His hand is still on your jaw, still trembling.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—"
"Stop."
"I can't—"
"Stop apologizing."
"I don't know how else to—"
"Then don't. Just—" You kiss him again. Softer this time. Slower. Your lips brush his, and you feel him exhale—a shaky, broken sound—and his hand slides into your hair, and he kisses you back like you're the only thing holding him together.
An hour has passed.
You've swept up the broken glass. Found an old board in the garage to cover the window—you'll fix it properly tomorrow. You've made tea, your hands moving on autopilot, reaching for the mugs you've always used. The blue one with the chip in the handle is yours. Peter's is the red one with Minnie Mouse on it.
Peter is in bed. His ribs are wrapped. His shoulder is back in place. The bruises are already fading to yellow-green. He's been watching you move around the room.
"You should sleep," he says.
"I'm not tired."
"You've been up all night."
"So have you."
"I have accelerated healing. What's your excuse?"
"Do I really need one?"
You set down your mug. Walk over to the bed. He shifts to make room for you, wincing, and you climb in beside him. His head finds the curve of your shoulder. His arm drapes across your waist. His fingers find the sleeve of your hoodie—the one he left at your apartment last year, the one you never gave back.
"You kept it," he murmurs.
"Of course I kept it."
"It's been like a year."
"It smells like you."
"...That's either really sweet or really creepy."
"Shut up."
"Much more creepy than it is sweet though"
You laugh, and he laughs with you, and the sound fills the quiet room. The sun is starting to rise outside the broken window—pale grey light creeping over the rooftops of Queens.
"I love you," he says, already half-asleep.
"I know."
"The fuck is 'I know'? you have to say it back."
"I love you too, maybe" you smirk
"...Good. I can work with a maybe temporarily."
His eyes close. His breathing evens out. His hand relaxes on your sleeve.
"Still here," you murmur. "Not going anywhere."
His brow smooths. His grip relaxes.
You stay exactly where you are.
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed this, feel free to drop a comment; I'd love to hear your thoughts. I'm currently open to requests for Harry Potter characters (especially Fred, George, Harry, Ron, Cedric, Hermione and Draco) and Spider-Man (Peter Parker). If you have a prompt or an idea you've been wanting to see written, send it my way.
Summary: The sequel to Behind the Velvet Curtain. Because one confession doesn't magically fix six years of misunderstandings.
Pairing: Fred Weasely X y/n
Warning: Angst, emotional conflict, hurt/comfort, slow-burn reconciliation, arguments, jealousy, brief physical violence, minor injuries, Hospital Wing scenes, mentions of alcohol, and lots of feelings.
A/N : Heres Part 2! let me know your thoughts. I
Word Count : 12k
Heres Part 1
The common room was empty when you got there.
The fire had burned down to embers. The chairs were pushed back from their usual positions, evidence of the pre-Ball chaos that had filled the room hours earlier. Someone had left a pair of dress shoes under the table—polished black, probably Lee's, abandoned in a hurry. Someone else had forgotten a half-empty glass of pumpkin juice on the windowsill, the liquid gone still and flat. A single hairpin glinted on the rug near the hearth. The room smelled like candle wax and perfume and the faint, fading ghost of a hundred bodies pressed together in excitement.
The Ball was over. The night was done. And you were still standing.
George was sitting in one of the armchairs near the fire.
He was still in his dress robes. His tie was undone, hanging loose around his neck like he'd been tugging at it for hours. His hair was a mess—not the artful mess of someone who'd styled it that way, but the exhausted mess of someone who'd been running his hands through it over and over. His elbows were on his knees, and he was staring at the dying embers like they might contain answers to questions he hadn't asked yet.
He didn't hear you come in. Or maybe he did, and he was giving you space to decide whether you wanted to be seen.
When he finally looked up and saw your face, he stood immediately. No hesitation. No pause. Just movement—swift and certain, the way George always moved when someone he loved was hurting.
"Y/N." He crossed the room in three strides. The firelight caught his face as he moved, illuminating the worry lines around his eyes, the tight set of his jaw. "What happened? Are you okay?"
You opened your mouth. Closed it. The tears you'd been holding back since you pushed through the velvet curtain—since you'd walked away from Fred, since you'd walked through the dark corridors alone with your hand pressed against your mouth—finally spilled over.
You were still drunk. That was part of it. The firewhiskey was still humming in your veins, loosening your tongue, stripping away every filter you had left. You swayed on your feet, and George caught you before you could fall, his hands gripping your shoulders.
"I kissed him," you choked out. The words were muffled against his chest. "I kissed him and then we screamed at each other."
George's arms wrapped around you, solid and warm. One hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair. The other pressed flat against your spine, anchoring you to something steady.
"What did he say?"
Everything. Nothing. The words tumbled out of you in fragments, broken and disjointed—the way the fight had been, the way everything had been for the past two weeks.
"That he loves me. That he's loved me since fourth year. That he asked Angelina because she was safe and I wasn't. That he told you to ask me to the Ball because he was too much of a coward to do it himself." Your voice cracked. "And then we started fighting. He blamed me for never telling him. He said I hid behind being the good friend. He said I never asked for what I wanted and then got angry when people didn't give it to me."
George's hand stilled on your back. Just for a second. Then it resumed its slow, steady rhythm.
"What else?" His voice was carefully controlled—the voice of someone holding back something powerful.
"That he was jealous of you. So fucking jealous. He said he wanted to punch you every time you touched me. He said he's been watching us for weeks—watching me sit with you at meals, watching me laugh at your jokes, watching me lean on you instead of him." You pulled back, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. It didn't help. Nothing helped. "I told him he was selfish. I told him he didn't get to be jealous. I told him you'd been a better friend to me in two weeks than he'd been in six years."
"Good," George said quietly.
"He said I was right. He said you were better than him. He said I deserved someone like you instead of him. He said—" You laughed, a hollow, broken sound. "He said maybe I should have fallen for you instead. That it would have been easier for everyone."
George didn't say anything. But you felt his jaw tighten against your hair. His hand on your back pressed a little firmer, a little more deliberate.
"I told him I didn't choose who I loved. I told him I met him first. I told him he stole my toast on the first day of classes and made me laugh when I was scared and homesick, and I never stood a chance after that." Your voice cracked. "I love him, George. I've always loved him. And he finally loves me back, and it's not a fairy tale. It's not romantic. It's just two drunk people screaming at each other behind a curtain while the rest of the world goes on without them."
George guided you toward the armchair and sat you down. He knelt in front of you, his hands resting on your knees, his eyes searching your face. The firelight flickered across his features, illuminating the faint dusting of freckles across his nose, the slight furrow between his brows, the tired lines around his eyes that hadn't been there a month ago.
"You're still drunk," he said.
"I know."
"How much firewhiskey did you have?"
"I lost count. The bottle's still there. Behind the curtain. I dropped it when I kissed him."
"Okay." He squeezed your knees once—a brief, grounding pressure—and then stood up. "Stay here. I'm getting you water."
He walked over to the table by the window, where someone had left a pitcher of water and a stack of clean glasses. You watched him move—steady and deliberate, the way he always moved. No wasted motion. No hesitation. He poured the water, brought it back, pressed the glass into your hands. His fingers brushed yours, warm and solid.
"Drink," he said.
You drank. The water was cool and clean, cutting through the firewhiskey haze. You drained the whole glass, and George took it from you, setting it aside on the small table beside the armchair.
"Better?" he asked.
"A little."
"Good." He dropped into the chair across from you. The fire popped. Outside the window, the sky was still dark, but there was something at the edge of it—the faintest hint of grey. Dawn wasn't far off. "You don't have to figure it out tonight. You don't have to figure it out tomorrow. You're allowed to be angry and heartbroken and confused. You're allowed to take time."
"But what if I take too much time? What if he gives up on me?"
"If he gives up, then he doesn't deserve you."
"And if he doesn't give up?"
George's expression flickered—something you couldn't quite read. Something that was there and gone before you could catch it. "Then maybe he's worth a second chance. But that's up to you. Not me. Not him. You."
You stared at him. The firelight was catching his face, highlighting the shadows under his eyes, the tired lines around his mouth. He looked exhausted—not just from tonight, but from something deeper. Something that had been wearing on him for a long time.
"You look exhausted," you said.
"I am exhausted."
"Have you slept at all tonight?"
"No."
"George—"
"I couldn't." He shrugged, like it was nothing. "I kept thinking about you. About both of you. I saw him follow you out of the Ball, and I knew—I knew something was going to happen. I just didn't know what."
"You could have come after us."
"It wasn't my place. Whatever happened between you two—it needed to happen without an audience." He paused. "Was it bad? The fight?"
"It was awful. We said horrible things. He blamed me. I blamed him. We just—went in circles, kissing and screaming, kissing and screaming. It was like we couldn't stop hurting each other."
"Sometimes that's what needs to happen first. Before the good stuff can start."
"Is that from experience?"
"No. It's from watching you two be idiots for six years." He stood up and held out his hand. "Come on."
"What are you doing?"
"Distracting you." He wiggled his fingers. "Dance with me."
You stared at him. "George. It's four in the morning."
"And? The common room's empty. The fire's still going. There's no music, but I'm willing to hum if necessary. Badly. Very badly."
"You're insane."
"Probably. Is that a yes?"
You took his hand.
His palm was warm. His fingers closed around yours, gentle but secure, and he pulled you to your feet. The room swayed dangerously—the firewhiskey and the exhaustion and the crying all catching up with you at once—and you stumbled into him, your free hand bracing against his chest.
"Easy," he said. "I've got you."
"Everything's spinning."
"That's the firewhiskey."
"Are you sure? Maybe the room is actually spinning. Maybe there's a charm on it. A spinning-room charm. Fred and I were working on one of those last year—"
"There's no spinning-room charm."
"How do you know?"
"Because I'm sober." His hand settled on your waist—light, careful, giving you plenty of room to pull away if you wanted to. His other hand held yours, and he started to sway, slow and gentle. "Just follow me. I'll keep you upright."
"You're very confident about that."
"I'm very confident about most things."
"That's a lie. You're not confident about Potions."
"Nobody's confident about Potions. Snape makes sure of it."
You laughed. It surprised you—the way laughter could still exist inside all this pain, the way it bubbled up from somewhere you'd thought was broken. George's mouth quirked up at the corner, pleased with himself.
"See?" he said. "Distraction. I'm very good at this."
"You're very good at being an idiot."
"It's a family trait."
He started to hum—something slow and tuneless that might have been a waltz or might have been completely made up. It was off-key and wandering, full of wrong notes and uncertain pauses. His hand was warm on your waist, steady and sure. His other hand held yours like it was something precious.
You leaned into him, your head dropping to his shoulder, and let yourself be led.
"There's no music," you mumbled against his robes. The fabric was soft from wear, and it smelled like smoke from the fire and something else—something clean and familiar. Soap, maybe. Or just George.
"I'm providing the music."
"That's not music. That's noise."
"I'm wounded. Deeply wounded. I have an excellent singing voice."
"You sound like a dying cat."
"A dying cat with rhythm." He spun you once—clumsily, carefully, his hand firm on your waist—and when you came back to him, you were closer than before. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. Close enough to feel his breath on your cheek. "See? Rhythm."
"Absolutely no rhythm whatsoever."
"I'm trying my best."
"I know." You squeezed his hand. "That's what makes it good."
Something flickered in his expression—something raw and quick, gone before you could name it. But his smile didn't waver. His hands didn't shake. He just kept swaying, humming his tuneless waltz, leading you in slow, aimless circles around the empty common room.
The fire crackled. The snow fell against the windows, silent and white. Outside, the sky was beginning to lighten—just barely, just the faintest wash of grey at the edge of the mountains.
Your eyelids were getting heavy. The firewhiskey was pulling you under, the warmth of his shoulder, the steady rhythm of his humming. You stumbled again, and he caught you, his arm wrapping more firmly around your waist.
"Okay," he said. "I think you're done dancing."
"I'm fine."
"You're falling asleep on your feet."
"I'm not. My eyes are just resting."
George laughed—a real laugh, soft and surprised, the kind of laugh you didn't hear from him often enough. "Come on. Let's get you to the couch before you collapse and I have to explain to McGonagall why you're sleeping on the floor."
"I don't want to go to bed. I want to stay here."
"You can't stay here. You'll wake up with a crick in your neck, and McGonagall will find you in the morning and give you detention for being out of bounds."
"McGonagall likes me."
"McGonagall tolerates you. There's a difference."
You grumbled, but you let him guide you toward the couch. The worn velvet cushions rose up to meet you, and you collapsed onto them, the world tilting sideways. George was there, easing you down, his hand behind your head to keep it from hitting the armrest.
"I'm sorry," you mumbled, your eyes already closing. "For being a mess. For making you deal with this."
"You're not making me deal with anything. I'm here because I want to be."
"Is Fred okay? He's still there. Behind the curtain. Someone should go find him."
"Someone will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
You felt him pull a blanket over you—where had he found a blanket?—and tuck it around your shoulders. You felt his hand brush the hair back from your forehead, feather-light, barely there. A touch so gentle it could have been imagined.
"I'm glad you're here," you mumbled, barely conscious now. "Don't know what I'd do without you."
He didn't answer. But you felt him sit down in the armchair beside the couch, felt his presence settle into the space beside you, steady and constant. And the last thing you were aware of, before sleep pulled you under completely, was the sound of his humming—that same tuneless waltz, soft and low, watching over you until dawn.
You woke up in your bed.
The sun was bright through the window—too bright, midday-bright, the kind of bright that meant you'd slept through breakfast and most of the morning. Your head was pounding. Your mouth tasted like firewhiskey and regret. Your dress robes were gone, replaced by your pajamas, and you had no memory of changing.
There was a glass of water on your nightstand. A vial of Hangover Potion beside it, the liquid inside shimmering faintly. And a note, written in familiar, messy handwriting, propped against the vial.
Took care of the robes. Don't worry, I closed my eyes. Just kidding, Hermione took care of them. Drink the potion. I'll save you a seat at lunch.
— G
You stared at the note for a long moment. At the water. At the potion. At the careful, steady handwriting of someone who'd carried you to bed and tucked you in and left without asking for anything in return.
You drank the potion. The pounding in your head subsided to a dull ache. You got dressed slowly, your limbs heavy and uncooperative. And when you walked down to the Great Hall, your legs still unsteady, George was there—same spot, same steady presence—and he pushed the butter dish toward your hand before you even asked.
"Rough night?" he asked.
"You could say that."
"You're alive. That's what matters."
You looked down the table. Fred was there, hunched over an untouched plate at the far end, his hair a disaster, his tie crooked. He looked up. Your eyes met across the rows of students, across the floating candles and the clattering plates. For a moment—just a moment—the noise of the Great Hall faded away.
Then you looked back at George. "Not yet. I'm not ready."
"Okay."
"Will you—" You stopped. Didn't know what you were asking.
"I'm not going anywhere," George said. "I told you. I'm just making sure you survive."
You reached across the table and squeezed his hand—once, quick. He squeezed back. And somewhere at the other end of the Gryffindor table, Fred Weasley watched his brother hold the hand of the girl he loved, and he didn't look away.
Weeks passed.
January bled into February. The snow kept falling—thick and silent, blanketing the grounds in white, piling up on the windowsills and turning the castle into something out of a frost-covered dream. The lake froze over completely. The Forbidden Forest stood dark and still against the pale sky. Students trudged between classes with their collars turned up and their breath pluming white in the cold air.
You moved through it all like a ghost. Attending classes. Eating meals. Speaking when spoken to. Surviving.
You didn't speak to Fred. You didn't look at him. You sat at the opposite end of the Gryffindor table and kept your eyes fixed on your plate, even when you felt his gaze on you like a physical weight. You left rooms when he entered them—quietly, without drama, just slipping out the side door or finding a reason to be somewhere else. You walked different routes to class. You studied in different corners of the library.
He kept his distance. He didn't try to approach you. Didn't try to apologize. Didn't write you letters or corner you in corridors. He just stayed away—watching you from across rooms with eyes that were tired and sad and full of something that looked a lot like grief.
You should have been relieved. Instead, you felt hollow.
The quill he'd given you was still in your bag. The ridiculous one with the color-shifting feathers and the sparks that had nothing to do with your mood. You never used it. You never threw it away either. Some nights, when you couldn't sleep, you'd take it out and hold it in your hands and wonder what would have happened if you'd never kissed him. If you'd just stayed in the corner with George. If you'd let the night end without ever knowing what his mouth tasted like.
You never found an answer.
George stayed by your side through all of it. He walked you to class in the mornings, falling into step beside you without comment, matching your pace. He sat with you at meals, filling the silence with easy conversation about nothing in particular—Quidditch standings, the latest gossip from the Slytherin table, which professors were giving too much homework. He made dry comments that almost made you laugh. He waited outside the library when you studied late, not to rush you, just to walk you back to the common room.
He never pushed. Never demanded. Never made you feel like a burden. He was just there—steady and constant, the way he'd always been.
But you noticed things now. Things you hadn't noticed before.
The way he looked at you when you weren't looking. The way his hand hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—before touching your shoulder. The way he left the room when Fred walked in, not out of anger, but out of something else. Something that looked almost like pain.
You didn't know what to make of it. You were too tired to figure it out. So you filed it away, tucked it into the back of your mind, and told yourself it was nothing.
It wasn't nothing. But you weren't ready to face that yet.
The news came from Katie Bell, on a grey Tuesday in late February.
You were walking back from the library, your arms full of books—Transfiguration texts, mostly, heavy enough to make your shoulders ache. Katie fell into step beside you, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her scarf wound tight around her neck.
"Did you hear what happened?" she asked.
"Hear what?"
"About Fred. He got into a fight. A real one—not just hexes. He punched someone. In the corridor outside the Transfiguration classroom. McGonagall had to pull him off. Apparently the other bloke had a broken nose and two black eyes before Fred was done with him."
You stopped walking. Your books felt suddenly heavier. "Who was he fighting?"
"Some Ravenclaw. I don't know his name. Malcolm something. He's in the year above us." Katie's voice dropped, taking on that particular tone people used when they were about to say something uncomfortable. "Apparently he was saying things about you. Nasty things. About the Ball. About what happened. About you and Fred. About you and George."
Your heart was pounding. "What kind of things?"
"Just—rumors. You know how people talk. He was saying you'd been sneaking around with both of them. That you were playing them against each other. That the whole thing at the Ball was some kind of—I don't know, performance. Fred heard him in the corridor and just lost it. Went completely mental. McGonagall had to use a Binding Charm to pull him off."
"Is Fred okay?"
"His knuckles are a mess. Pomfrey had to regrow two of them. But he's fine. He's been walking around with bandaged hands for three days. You didn't know?"
You stared at her. The corridor was cold. Your books were heavy. Somewhere above you, a ghost was laughing—a high, thin sound that echoed off the stone walls.
"No," you said. Your voice came out strange, hollow. "I didn't know."
"Strange. I thought he would have told you. Or George. George was there—he helped pull Fred off before McGonagall got there."
"George was there?"
"He's the one who told me about it. I assumed he'd told you too."
"No. George didn't mention it."
Katie looked at you curiously. Then her expression softened into something like understanding. "Well. Fred's been speaking for you, apparently. Even if you didn't know it."
She squeezed your arm—a brief, sympathetic gesture—and walked away, leaving you standing alone in the corridor with your books clutched to your chest and something cracking open inside you.
You found George in the common room that evening.
He was in his usual armchair by the fire, the one he'd claimed years ago and never relinquished. A book was open on his lap—some worn paperback about Quidditch tactics—but he wasn't reading it. He was staring at the flames, his expression distant, his hands resting motionless on the pages.
You sat down across from him. "You didn't tell me."
He didn't pretend not to know what you meant. "I didn't know if you'd want to hear it."
"Of course I'd want to hear it. He got into a fight for me. He broke someone's nose for me."
"He got into a fight because someone was saying things that no one should say about anyone. You weren't the only reason." George's voice was quiet but steady. "But yes. It was mostly about you."
"What were they saying? Katie told me, but I want to hear it from you."
George was silent for a moment. The fire popped. A log shifted, sending up a shower of orange sparks. "They were saying you'd been sneaking around with both of us. That you were playing us against each other. That the whole thing at the Ball was some kind of game to you." He paused. "They were saying things about that night. About us. About the dance."
"The dance? In the common room? No one was there."
"Someone must have come down. A prefect, maybe. Someone who saw us through the door." George's jaw tightened. "It doesn't matter. The point is, Fred heard it, and Fred lost it. He didn't even use his wand. He just—hit him. Over and over. I had to physically drag him off."
"Katie said you were there."
"I was coming back from the library. I heard the shouting."
"And you helped pull him off?"
"Someone had to. He was going to kill the guy."
You stared at him. His face was open, steady, unreadable. But his hands—his hands were gripping his book too tightly, the knuckles going white.
"And the part about you and me?" you asked. "The dance. Was that—did they make it sound worse than it was?"
George held your gaze. "We danced in the common room because you were drunk and heartbroken and I was trying to keep you from falling apart. That's all it was. You know that. I know that."
"But people think it was something else."
"People think what they want to think." His voice was calm, but there was something underneath it—something tired, something sad. "They've been thinking things about the three of us for years. This isn't new."
"I didn't know."
"Because I didn't want you to know. You had enough to deal with."
You looked at him. At his tired eyes. At his steady hands. At the way he was holding himself so carefully, like someone carrying something fragile.
"You should talk to him," George said. "Fred. Not to forgive him. Just—he defended you. He didn't have to. He did it anyway. That matters."
"Does it?"
"I think so. But I'm not the one who gets to decide."
You didn't talk to Fred that night. Or the next day. Or the day after that.
You thought about it. You replayed Katie's words over and over—he's been speaking for you, apparently, even if you didn't know it—and you tried to reconcile the boy who'd screamed at you behind a curtain with the boy who'd broken someone's nose for spreading rumors about you.
They were the same boy. That was the problem. They'd always been the same boy.
On the third day, you found him by accident. You were heading to the library, and he was coming the other way—the same corridor, the same flickering torches, the same cold stone underfoot. You both stopped at the same moment, like you'd choreographed it.
His left hand was still bandaged. You could see the white of the wrappings peeking out from his sleeve, stark against his skin. His jaw was bruised—faint yellow marks fading into his skin, the remnants of a fight he hadn't started but had definitely finished.
He looked exhausted. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. He looked like he'd been waiting for this moment and dreading it in equal measure.
"I heard what you did," you said.
He didn't pretend not to know what you meant. "Who told you?"
"Katie. Three days ago. Then I asked George."
"Katie talks too much. And George—" He stopped. Shook his head. "I asked him not to tell you."
"Why?"
"Because I wasn't doing it for credit. I wasn't doing it so you'd feel grateful, or guilty, or like you owed me something. I wasn't doing it so you'd forgive me." He swallowed hard. His voice was rough, scraped raw. "He was saying things about you. About what happened at the Ball. About what I did to you. He was laughing about it. He was laughing about the worst night of your life, and he was making it sound like you were—like you were some kind of—"
He stopped. Pressed his eyes with his unbandaged hand.
"I couldn't let him," he said. "I couldn't stand there and listen to someone tear you down because of something I did. I know I hurt you. I know I said things I can't take back. I know I blamed you for my own fear and made you feel like you were the problem. I know all of that. And I'm not asking for forgiveness. I'm not asking for anything. But I wasn't going to let someone else hurt you because of my mistakes. Not while I'm still breathing."
You stared at him. His eyes were red-rimmed. His hands were shaking. He looked like a wreck—the same wreck he'd been on the night of the Ball, but different somehow. More honest. Less defensive.
"Thank you," you said.
"You don't have to thank me."
"I know. I'm doing it anyway."
He nodded. Shoved his bandaged hands into his pockets. "I should go. I'm supposed to be staying away from you."
"Fred."
He stopped.
"I'm not ready yet. To forgive you. I don't know when I will be."
"I know."
"But this—what you did—it matters. It matters to me."
Something flickered in his eyes. Hope, maybe. Or relief. Or something in between. "Okay."
"Okay."
He walked away. You watched him go—his shoulders hunched against the cold, his bandaged hands shoved deep in his pockets, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor. And the wall you'd built around your heart—the wall that had been solid and impenetrable for weeks—developed its first crack.
The crack widened in March.
It was a Quidditch practice. You were in the stands because George had asked you to come, and you'd run out of excuses to say no.
"Just for an hour," he'd said, leaning against the doorframe of the library. "You need fresh air. You've been in here for three days straight."
"The library has air."
"The library has dust and Madam Pince's glare. That's not the same thing."
"I like Madam Pince's glare. It's motivating."
"It's terrifying. Come watch practice. I'll buy you a butterbeer after."
"You don't have to bribe me."
"I'm not bribing you. I'm incentivizing you. There's a difference."
You'd rolled your eyes, but you'd closed your books and followed him out to the Quidditch pitch. The sky was grey and heavy, threatening rain. The wind was sharp and cold, cutting through your cloak. You sat in the stands, wrapped in your warmest scarf, watching the players zoom back and forth across the grey March sky.
George was solid at Keeper. He wasn't as flashy as some of the other players—he didn't do dramatic dives or gravity-defying saves—but he was steady. Reliable. He blocked three shots in a row, and you cheered loud enough to embarrass yourself.
Fred was in the stands too. You'd noticed him the moment you arrived—sitting a few rows above you, keeping his distance, not looking at you. He'd been doing that for weeks now. Staying close enough to watch, far enough not to intrude. You'd gotten used to it. You'd almost started to find it comforting, the knowledge that he was there, that he was still watching over you even when you couldn't bear to look at him.
You weren't paying attention to the game. You were thinking about Fred. You were always thinking about Fred.
So you didn't see the Bludger until it was too late.
It came out of nowhere—a black blur against the grey sky, struck by a Beater who'd miscalculated the angle. It should have gone toward the pitch. It didn't. It veered sharply left, straight toward the stands.
Straight toward you.
You didn't have time to move. You heard someone scream—it might have been you—and then the Bludger hit your shoulder with a sickening crack. The impact knocked you backward, off the bench, tumbling down the wooden stands. Your body bounced against the planks. Pain exploded through your shoulder, your ribs, your head. The world spun. Voices shouted—distant, muffled, like you were hearing them underwater.
And then Fred was there.
He was kneeling beside you, his face pale, his hands hovering over your shoulder like he was afraid to touch you. His mouth was moving, but you couldn't hear the words. There was a roaring in your ears.
"Stay with me." His voice cut through the noise, sharp and desperate. "Stay with me, Y/N. Don't close your eyes. Look at me. Just look at me."
"Fred—" Your voice came out weak, thready.
"I'm here. I'm right here. Someone get Pomfrey—George, go get Pomfrey—"
George's voice, somewhere above you: "I'm going. Keep her awake. Don't let her close her eyes."
And then George was gone, and Fred was still there, his hand finding yours, his fingers cold and trembling.
"You're going to be okay," he said. "You're going to be okay. I've got you. I'm not going anywhere. Just keep looking at me. Don't stop looking at me."
"Your hands are cold."
"I know. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry—"
"Not your fault. Bludger."
"Doesn't matter. You're hurt. You're hurt, and I—" His voice cracked. "I can't lose you. I know I already lost you. I know I ruined everything. But I can't lose you like this. Not like this."
You wanted to say something. You wanted to tell him you didn't hate him. You wanted to tell him you'd been watching him try for weeks, and it was working, and you were starting to remember why you'd fallen in love with him in the first place. But the world was going fuzzy at the edges, and the pain was fading into something distant and dull, and your eyes were so heavy.
"Don't close your eyes," Fred said. His voice was shaking. His whole body was shaking. "Please. Please don't close your eyes."
"Fred."
"Yeah?"
"You stayed."
"Of course I stayed."
The world went dark.
You woke up in the Hospital Wing.
The light was grey and pale through the high arched windows—late afternoon, maybe, or early evening. It was hard to tell. Time moved strangely in the Hospital Wing. Your shoulder was bandaged, the wrappings cool and slightly damp, probably soaked in some kind of healing potion. Your ribs ached with every breath, a deep, persistent throb. Your head was pounding—a dull, rhythmic pain that pulsed behind your eyes.
And Fred was asleep in the chair beside your bed.
He looked terrible. His hair was a disaster—matted and tangled, like he'd been running his hands through it for hours. His clothes were rumpled, the same clothes he'd been wearing at the Quidditch pitch. His bandaged hand—the one he'd injured punching that Ravenclaw—was wrapped around yours, loose and warm. He was slumped forward, his head resting on the edge of your mattress, his breathing slow and even.
You didn't wake him. You just lay there, watching the rise and fall of his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his hand in yours. He looked younger in sleep. Softer. The tension that had been carved into his face for weeks was gone, replaced by something almost peaceful.
The door opened. George came in, two cups of tea in his hands. He stopped when he saw you were awake.
"Hey," he said quietly. He crossed the room and set one of the cups on your nightstand, within easy reach. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a Bludger."
"That's accurate. Pomfrey said you'll be fine. Cracked ribs, concussion, bruised shoulder. You're lucky—if it had hit you in the head instead of the shoulder, you'd be in St. Mungo's right now."
"How long was I out?"
"About six hours." George glanced at Fred, still asleep on your mattress, still holding your hand. "He hasn't left. Wouldn't eat. Wouldn't sleep until about an hour ago, when he finally passed out from exhaustion. Pomfrey tried to make him leave three times. He refused."
"He stayed."
"Of course he stayed. He's been sitting there since they brought you in. Wouldn't even let Pomfrey look at his hand until she threatened to sedate him." George's mouth quirked—not quite a smile, but close. "He's stubborn. Always has been."
You looked at Fred. At his bandaged hand, still wrapped around yours. At the dark circles under his eyes, so deep they looked like bruises. At the way his brow was furrowed, even in sleep, like he was still worried about you.
"He's been trying," you said.
"He's been trying for weeks. Since the night of the Ball. In his own stupid, self-destructive way." George sat down in the chair on the other side of your bed. "The fight with the Ravenclaw. The way he's been watching you from a distance. The way he's been giving you space even though it's killing him. He's been trying."
"Is it enough?"
George met your eyes. His expression was tired—so tired—but steady. "That's not for me to decide. But I think you already know the answer."
"George—"
"I'm going to go." He stood up, picking up his tea. "Give you two some space. But I'll be back later. With more tea. And probably some of those biscuits you like from the kitchen."
"You don't have to—"
"I know. I'm doing it anyway." He paused at the door, his hand on the frame. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something else. But then he just nodded—once, brief—and was gone.
You turned back to Fred. He was still asleep, still holding your hand. You didn't wake him. You just lay there, feeling the warmth of his fingers wrapped around yours, and let yourself hope.
He woke up an hour later.
His eyes fluttered open, unfocused and confused. Then he saw you looking at him, and he sat up so fast he nearly fell out of his chair.
"You're awake. Fuck. You're awake." He was scrambling to his knees beside your bed, his hands hovering over you like he didn't know where to touch. "Are you okay? Do you need water? Should I get Pomfrey? Your shoulder—how's your shoulder? And your head—you hit your head pretty hard—"
"Fred." Your voice was weak but steady. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You got hit by a Bludger. You fell ten feet. You cracked your ribs and bruised your shoulder and got a concussion." His voice was shaking. "I saw you fall. I was too far away. I couldn't get to you fast enough. You were just lying there, and there was blood on your face, and I thought—"
"But you're here now."
"I'll always be here. Even when you don't want me to be. Even when you hate me. Even when you can't stand to look at me. I'll always be here."
You looked at him. His red-rimmed eyes. His shaking hands. His desperate, aching hope. He looked like a wreck. He looked like how you'd felt for weeks.
"I don't hate you," you said. "I never hated you. I was angry, and I was hurt, and I couldn't look at you without remembering what you said. But I never hated you."
"I know. I mean—I didn't know. But I hoped."
"And then you punched someone for me."
"He deserved it."
"You stayed in the Hospital Wing all night."
"Of course I stayed."
"You've been trying. For weeks. Even when I wouldn't look at you. Even when I wouldn't talk to you."
"I told you I'd wait as long as it took."
You reached out—carefully, mindful of your bandaged shoulder—and took his hand. His bandaged hand. He stared down at it like he couldn't believe it was real.
"I'm not ready to forgive you," you said. "Not yet. But I'm closer than I was."
His breath caught. "Really?"
"Really. You've been trying. I've been watching. And it matters. It all matters."
A tear slipped down his cheek. He didn't wipe it away. "I'll keep trying. However long it takes. I'll spend the rest of my life trying if that's what you need."
"I know." You squeezed his hand. "I'm starting to believe you."
Spring came slowly that year.
The snow melted in patches, revealing the dead grass underneath—brown and flattened, but alive. The lake thawed, the ice cracking and shifting with sounds like distant thunder. The grounds turned green in fits and starts, daffodils pushing up through the mud, the trees budding with pale green leaves. The days grew longer, the sun lingering past dinner, and the castle seemed to exhale, shaking off the long winter.
And you found yourself, almost without noticing, letting Fred back into your life.
It started small. So small you almost missed it.
He brought you tea in the library one evening—the way you liked it, milk and no sugar, in the same chipped blue mug you always used. He set it on your table without a word, next to your stack of Transfiguration books, and then walked away before you could react. You stared at the steam rising from the mug for a long moment. Then you drank it.
The next time, you said thank you. He smiled—a small, tentative thing, like he wasn't sure he was allowed to anymore.
He started walking you to class. Not every day. Not at first. But sometimes, when you were leaving the common room in the morning, he'd be there—leaning against the wall by the portrait hole, his hands in his pockets, like he'd just happened to be passing by. He'd fall into step beside you, keeping a careful distance between your shoulders. He didn't try to hold your hand. He didn't try to fill the silence with jokes or apologies. He just walked with you, matching your pace, present and steady.
The first few times, you didn't speak. You just walked in silence through the corridors, past the chattering portraits and the floating candles, past other students who stared and whispered because they'd heard the rumors and weren't sure what to make of this—Fred and Y/N, walking together again, not quite friends, not quite anything.
After a week, you started talking. Small things. Class. Homework. The weather. The way Snape had been even more unbearable than usual. The way Professor Flitwick had fallen off his stack of books during Charms and had to be rescued by a first-year. Fred told you about the latest Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes product he and George were developing—something involving Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder and a lot of explosions. You told him about your Potions essay and how you were fairly certain Snape was grading you harder than everyone else just out of spite.
It was stilted at first. Awkward. Both of you were too aware of everything that had happened, everything that was still unresolved between you. But it was something. It was a start.
One morning, when you reached the Transfiguration classroom, Fred stopped at the door.
"Thank you," he said. "For letting me walk with you."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I do. You didn't have to let me. You could have told me to fuck off."
"I thought about it."
"I know." His mouth quirked—almost a smile. "I'm glad you didn't."
"Don't push your luck, Weasley."
"I never do."
"You literally always do."
"True." The almost-smile widened into something real, something that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made your heart do that stupid flip-flop it had been doing since you were eleven years old. "See you at dinner?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe's better than no."
He walked away before you could respond. You stood in the doorway of the Transfiguration classroom, watching him disappear down the corridor, and realized you were smiling.
The first time you laughed at one of his jokes—really laughed, not the polite, distant laugh you'd been using for weeks—he stopped mid-sentence and stared at you like you'd given him a gift.
"What?" you asked.
"Nothing. I just—" He shook his head, a strange expression on his face. "I missed that sound."
"Don't get sappy on me."
"Too late. I'm extremely sappy. It's a side effect of being in love with you."
"Fred."
"Y/N."
You rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling. He grinned back, that crooked grin you'd known since you were eleven years old, and for a moment—just a moment—everything felt almost normal. Almost like before.
But it wasn't before. It would never be before. And maybe that was okay. Maybe this new thing, this fragile, tentative thing you were building together, was better. More honest. More deliberate.
You were choosing each other now. Not out of habit. Not out of years of unspoken feelings. But consciously. Carefully. Day by day.
George watched all of this from across the common room. From across the breakfast table. From the other end of the corridor.
He was quieter than he used to be. The sharp, dry humor that had always been his trademark was still there, but muted now. Subdued. He smiled less. He laughed less. He left meals early—always with an excuse, always delivered with that same steady, unreadable expression. Got homework. Forgot my book in the library. Lee wants to go over Quidditch formations. Plausible. Reasonable. Lies.
He was pulling away. Slowly. Carefully. So no one would notice.
You noticed.
"Are you okay?" you asked him one evening. You were in the library, the two of you, surrounded by books and parchment and the particular hush that only existed after dark. The lamps on the tables cast pools of warm yellow light. Outside the window, the sky was deep purple, fading to black.
"I'm fine." He didn't look up from his Charms essay. "Just tired."
"You've been tired for weeks. You've been pulling away. You leave meals early. You don't come to the common room anymore. You—"
"I'm giving you space." His voice was quiet, controlled. "You and Fred. You're rebuilding. You don't need me hovering."
"You're not hovering. You've never been hovering."
"I've always been in the middle." He almost smiled. Almost. "It's okay. I'm used to it. I've been the buffer between you two since we were eleven years old. This isn't new."
"George—"
"I'm fine. Really. Go." He nodded toward the door. "Fred's waiting for you in the common room. He's been pacing for twenty minutes trying to work up the courage to ask you to walk to Hogsmeade with him this weekend."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I know him. I know everything about him. I know the way he runs his hand through his hair when he's nervous, and the way he checks his watch every thirty seconds when he's waiting for something, and the way he's been staring at the portrait hole for the last hour hoping you'll walk through it." George picked up his quill. "Go easy on him. He's trying."
He turned back to his essay, the conversation clearly over. You sat there for a moment, watching him—the tense line of his shoulders, the careful way he was holding his quill. Then you gathered your books and left.
The Hogsmeade trip was a Saturday in late March. The weather was unseasonably warm, the sun bright in a cloudless sky. Students spilled out of the castle in a steady stream, their voices carrying on the breeze, their spirits high with the promise of butterbeer and Honeydukes chocolate and a few hours of freedom.
Fred met you at the entrance to the courtyard. He was wearing the scarf you'd bought him in fourth year—the slightly crooked one, blue and bronze, because you'd misremembered the Ravenclaw colors and he'd never bothered to correct you. He'd worn it every winter since.
"You kept it," you said.
"Of course I kept it. You gave it to me."
"It's the wrong colors. I didn't know what I was doing."
"I know. That's why I love it."
You walked to Hogsmeade together. He didn't try to hold your hand, but his shoulder brushed yours as you walked. He pointed out things along the path—the Shrieking Shack, the Whomping Willow, the spot where he and George had once set off a Dungbomb cascade that made three Slytherins faint. You listened. You laughed. You let yourself enjoy it.
At the Three Broomsticks, he bought you a butterbeer. You sat in a corner booth, away from the crowd, and talked for hours. About nothing. About everything. About the months you'd spent apart, the things you'd been too angry to say, the things you'd been too scared to admit.
"I wrote you letters," he said, halfway through his second butterbeer. "Dozens of them. Every night. I never sent any of them."
"Why not?"
"Because they weren't good enough. The words were never right. I'd write something, and it would sound like an excuse, or a defense, or—" He shook his head. "I didn't want to make excuses. I wanted to apologize. But I didn't know how."
"Apologizing isn't about the words. It's about what you do after."
"I know. That's why I've been trying to show you instead."
You looked at him across the table. His eyes were steady. His hands were wrapped around his butterbeer, still and calm.
"You have been," you said. "Showing me. For weeks."
"Is it working?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe's better than no."
You smiled. He smiled back. And somewhere in the warm, noisy bustle of the Three Broomsticks, something shifted between you. Something that felt almost like forgiveness.
Late night. The common room. Everyone else was asleep.
George was staring at the fire. He did that a lot now—sat alone in the dark, watching the embers burn down to nothing. The room was different at night. Quieter. The shadows deeper. The furniture seemed larger, more imposing. It was the only time he felt like he could breathe properly, without the weight of other people's expectations pressing down on his chest.
He looked exhausted. Not the ordinary tiredness of a late night studying, but something deeper—a bone-deep weariness that had settled into the lines of his face and the slope of his shoulders. He'd lost weight in the months since the Ball. He'd stopped finishing meals. He'd stopped sleeping through the night. His hands, always so steady, had developed a faint tremor that he hid by shoving them in his pockets.
Fred found him there.
He'd been looking for George all evening. He'd checked the library, the Quidditch pitch, the kitchen where they sometimes raided snacks after hours. Finally, he'd come back to the common room—and there was George, in his usual armchair, staring at the dying fire.
Fred dropped into the chair across from him. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled. Outside, the spring rain was falling—a soft, persistent drizzle that blurred the windows.
"She's letting me back in," Fred said finally. "Slowly. I walked her to Hogsmeade last weekend. We got butterbeers. She let me sit next to her for two hours."
"I know."
"She smiled at me. A real smile. Not the polite one she's been using for months. The real one. The one where her nose crinkles."
"I know."
"We talked about the letters. The ones I wrote and never sent. She said apologizing isn't about the words—it's about what you do after."
"She's right."
"I know she's right. She's always right." Fred paused. "She asked about you. At the Three Broomsticks. She said you've been pulling away, and she doesn't know why."
George didn't answer. His hands tightened on the arms of his chair.
"She's worried about you," Fred continued. "And honestly? So am I. You've been pulling away for months. You barely talk to me anymore. You barely talk to her. You leave the room when we're both in it. You're disappearing, George. Right in front of us."
"I'm not disappearing."
"Then what are you doing?"
"I'm giving you space. You and Y/N. You're rebuilding. You don't need me in the way."
"You've never been in the way."
George didn't answer. The fire popped. A log shifted, sending up a shower of orange sparks.
Fred leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "I know you, George. I've known you my whole life. Longer than that—I've known you since before we were born. I know the way you tap your fingers when you're nervous. I know the way you go quiet when you're upset instead of shouting. I know the way you've been looking at her when you think no one's watching."
George's shoulders locked. His hands clenched against his thighs. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do."
"Fred—"
"Are you in love with her?"
The question hung in the air, stark and undeniable. George's expression didn't change—not in any way most people would notice. But Fred wasn't most people. Fred had known George his entire life, had shared a womb with him, had spent every day of eighteen years learning the language of his brother's silences. He saw the way George's shoulders went rigid. The way his hands—always so steady, always so reliable—clenched against his thighs, knuckles going white. The way his breathing hitched, just once, a tiny fracture in his careful control.
"No," George said.
"George—"
"I said no."
"You're lying."
"I'm not lying." But his voice cracked on the word. Just barely. Just enough that Fred heard it.
"Look at me." Fred's voice dropped, softer now. "Look at me and tell me you're not in love with her."
George met his eyes. Held them. The firelight flickered across his face, illuminating the faint freckles across his nose, the shadows under his eyes, the tight set of his jaw.
"I'm not in love with her."
His voice was steady. Perfectly, carefully steady. His gaze was steady too—held Fred's eyes without flinching, without looking away. But his eyes themselves—his eyes were red-rimmed and exhausted and so fucking sad. His eyes were the eyes of someone who'd been grieving for years. Silently. Privately. Without ever letting anyone see.
And Fred saw.
"George," Fred whispered.
"Drop it."
"George—"
"I said drop it." George's voice was still controlled, still steady, but his hands—his hands were shaking. He shoved them under his thighs to hide the tremor, but Fred had already seen. "There's nothing to talk about. She's in love with you. She's always been in love with you. And you're finally getting your shit together. That's all that matters."
"That's not all that matters."
"It is. It's the only thing that matters." George stood up abruptly. "I'm going to bed."
"George—"
"I'm fine. I'm just tired. I've been tired for months. I need to sleep." He was already walking toward the stairs, his shoulders hunched, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "Make her happy. That's all I want. That's all I've ever wanted. Just make her happy."
"George."
George stopped at the bottom of the staircase. He didn't turn around.
"I'm sorry," Fred said. "For not seeing it sooner."
George's shoulders tensed. His hands, still in his pockets, curled into fists. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do."
A long pause. The fire crackled. Outside, the rain kept falling.
"Just make her happy," George said again. His voice was barely a whisper now. "Don't hurt her again. Don't make me watch her fall apart again. I can't do that again."
"You won't have to. I swear."
George nodded—once, a short, sharp jerk of his head. And then he walked up the stairs and disappeared into the darkness.
Fred sat alone in the common room, staring at the dying fire. His brother hadn't admitted it. His brother would never admit it. But Fred knew. He'd always known, maybe—he'd just been too blind to see it.
His brother was in love with the same girl he loved. His brother had been carrying this alone, in silence, for years. His brother had stepped aside—not because he didn't love her, but because he loved her enough to want her happiness more than his own.
And Fred had almost thrown that away.
He sat there until the fire died completely, and the room was dark, and the rain kept falling against the windows. And then he went upstairs, and he lay in his bed, and he stared at the ceiling, and he made a promise to himself.
He would be better. He would be the person George believed he could be. He would earn what his brother had given up.
Even if it took the rest of his life.
Late April. The castle was warm with spring. Flowers bloomed in the window boxes. Students lounged on the lawns between classes, their books spread out on the grass, their laughter carrying on the breeze. The end of the year was approaching, and with it, the promise of summer—long days, warm nights, a reprieve from the cold and the dark and the weight of everything that had happened.
You and Fred had been dancing around each other for weeks. Ever since the Hospital Wing. Ever since he'd held your hand and promised to wait as long as it took. Something had shifted between you. He'd been patient—god, he'd been patient. He'd brought you tea and walked you to class and sat beside you at meals without demanding anything in return. He'd made you laugh. He'd made you feel seen. He'd made you remember why you'd fallen in love with him in the first place.
But you hadn't kissed him again. Not since that night. Not since the fight behind the curtain.
You'd thought about it. More times than you could count. You'd thought about it when he looked at you across the Great Hall, his eyes soft and hopeful. You'd thought about it when his hand brushed yours reaching for the same book in the library. You'd thought about it when he said your name—just your name, nothing else—and your heart did that stupid flip-flop it had been doing since you were eleven years old.
But you hadn't kissed him. You weren't ready. You didn't know if you'd ever be ready.
And then, one evening in late April, you found yourself standing in front of the velvet curtain again.
You didn't know why you'd come. The evening had been ordinary—dinner in the Great Hall, homework in the library, a walk through the grounds to clear your head. But your feet had carried you here, to this dark corridor, to this forgotten alcove, to this velvet curtain that still hung heavy and dark, unchanged since the night of the Ball.
You pushed through it.
The storage room was exactly as you remembered. Small. Dark. Dusty. The shattered bottle was gone—the house-elves must have cleaned it—but everything else was the same. The stone walls. The cold air. The memory of his mouth on yours, angry and desperate and nothing like you'd imagined.
The memory of his voice blaming you. The memory of his jealousy. The memory of the way you'd kissed him and pushed him away and kissed him again. The memory of walking out and not looking back.
You stood in the center of the room, your arms wrapped around yourself, and tried to figure out what you were doing here.
The curtain rustled behind you.
"I thought you might be here."
You turned. Fred was standing in the entrance, one hand still holding the curtain aside. The torchlight from the corridor cast his face in shadow, but you could see his eyes—blue and steady and so full of hope it made your chest ache.
"George told you," you said.
"He mentioned you'd gone for a walk. I took a guess." He hesitated, his hand still on the curtain. "Do you want me to leave?"
You looked at him. His hands were shoved in his pockets. His shoulders were slightly hunched—not the defensive hunch of the night of the Ball, but something softer. Something almost nervous. He looked like he was bracing for rejection but willing to accept it if it came.
"No," you said. "Don't leave."
He exhaled—a shaky, relieved breath—and let the curtain fall closed behind him. "Okay."
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The darkness pressed in around you, the same darkness that had swallowed you both on the night of the Ball. But this time, there was no alcohol. No rage. No jealousy. Just the two of you, sober and exhausted and finally, finally ready to be honest.
"I've been thinking," you said. "About what happened here. About what you said in the Hospital Wing. About the last few months. About everything."
"Y/N—"
"Let me finish." Your voice was steady, steadier than you felt. "You hurt me. You hurt me more than anyone has ever hurt me. You blamed me for your own fear. You made me feel like I was the problem. You took the bravest thing I've ever done—telling you I loved you—and you threw it back in my face."
Fred's face crumpled. "I know. I know, and I'm—"
"But then you stayed." You stepped closer. "In the Hospital Wing. You stayed all night. You didn't move. You didn't eat. You didn't sleep. You just sat there, holding my hand, waiting for me to wake up."
"Of course I stayed."
"And then you kept staying. For months. You brought me tea. You walked me to class. You made me laugh when I'd forgotten how. You punched someone for me and didn't even tell me. You didn't push. You didn't demand. You didn't try to make me forgive you before I was ready. You just... waited."
"I told you I'd wait as long as it took."
"I know." You stepped closer. Close enough to touch him. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes. "And that's when I knew. You're not the same person who said those things behind this curtain. You're not the drunk, scared, jealous boy who blamed me for his own fear. You're the boy who stayed. The boy who came back. The boy who's been in love with me since fourth year and was too terrified to say it."
"I'm still terrified," he whispered.
"I know. So am I."
"Then what do we do?"
"We stop being terrified. Together." You reached up and touched his face. His skin was warm. His stubble was rough against your palm. He closed his eyes and leaned into your touch, a shaky breath escaping his lips. "I can't see you this hurt anymore, Fred. I can't watch you suffer. I can't keep pretending I don't love you when it's the truest thing about me."
"I don't deserve—"
"I don't care what you think you deserve." Your voice was fierce now. "I love you. I've loved you since the first time you stole my toast and made me laugh when I was scared and homesick. I've loved you through every prank, every Quidditch match, every disaster. I've loved you through the worst night of my life. And I'm tired of pretending I don't."
"Y/N—"
"Ask me," you said. "Ask me what you wanted to ask me the night of the Ball. Before you got scared. Before you asked Angelina instead."
Fred stared at you. His eyes were wet. His hands were shaking at his sides. He looked like he was standing on the edge of something enormous, something terrifying, something he'd been running from his whole life.
"Will you be with me?" His voice cracked. "Not as friends. Not as something we're both too scared to name. Will you be mine? Really, truly mine?"
"Yes."
The word hung in the air between you, bright and fragile and real.
"Yes," you said again. "I'll be yours. I've always been yours."
He kissed you.
It wasn't like the first time—desperate and angry and soaked in firewhiskey, all teeth and blame and two weeks of misery pouring out at once. It was soft. Careful. His hands cupped your face like you were something precious, something he was afraid of breaking. His lips moved against yours like he was asking a question and waiting for the answer, patient and reverent and so full of love it made your knees weak.
You answered.
When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was warm on your face. His hands were still trembling, cupping your jaw like he couldn't bear to let go.
"I love you," he said. "I love you, and I'm sorry it took me so long. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I blamed you. I'm sorry for every stupid, scared, jealous thing I said. I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you'll let me."
"You don't have to spend the rest of your life." You covered his hands with your own. "Just—stay. Be here. Don't push me away again. Don't run when it gets hard."
"I won't. I promise."
"Promise?"
"Promise." He kissed your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth. "I'm done running. I'm done hiding. I'm done being scared of the best thing that's ever happened to me."
"Fred Weasley, that was almost romantic."
"Almost? I'm offended. That was extremely romantic. I've been practicing."
"Practicing?"
"In the mirror. For weeks. George caught me once and didn't stop laughing for an hour."
You laughed—a real laugh, full and bright and surprised. Fred's face lit up like you'd given him a gift.
"There it is," he said. "I've missed that sound."
"Don't get sappy on me."
"Too late. I'm extremely sappy. It's a side effect of being in love with you."
"Fred."
"Y/N."
You kissed him again. Slower this time. Deeper. The darkness wrapped around you, the velvet curtain hanging motionless behind you. And somewhere in the quiet of that forgotten storage room, with the dust and the shadows and the ghost of the worst night of your life, something new began.
Not perfect. Not fixed. But real.
And for now, that was enough.
Breakfast. The Great Hall. The same enchanted ceiling—today a pale, cloudless blue, reflecting the spring sky outside. The same floating candles, drifting in their lazy orbits. The same toast rack refilling itself with a faint pop.
You were sitting next to Fred. His hand was resting on your knee under the table, hidden from view, a secret only the two of you shared. His thumb traced idle circles on your leg through the fabric of your robes.
It had been three weeks since the second curtain. Three weeks of learning each other again—the good days and the hard days, the laughter and the lingering hurt. Fred still looked at you sometimes with guilt shadowing his eyes. You still flinched when his voice got too sharp. But you were learning. Both of you.
"Toast redistribution," Fred said, snatching a piece from your plate.
"You absolute menace."
"It's a social service. I'm preventing toast waste."
"There's no toast waste. I was going to eat that."
"You were taking too long. I got hungry."
"You're always hungry."
"It's a medical condition."
"It's not a medical condition. It's greed."
"Same thing, basically."
You stole a piece of toast from his plate in retaliation. He stared at you, mock-offended, his hand pressed to his chest like you'd wounded him.
"Did you just—"
"Toast redistribution. It's a social service."
"I've created a monster."
"You've created nothing. I've always been like this."
"I know." His voice softened. "That's why I love you."
Across the table, George was buttering a piece of toast with methodical precision.
He'd been quiet this morning—quieter than usual. He'd arrived late to breakfast, his hair still damp from the shower, his tie slightly crooked. He'd smiled when he saw the two of you sitting together, but the smile hadn't quite reached his eyes.
"You're quiet this morning," you said to him.
"Just tired." He didn't look up from his toast. "Didn't sleep well."
"Anything you want to talk about?"
"No." He paused. Then, softer: "Nothing to talk about."
Fred's hand tightened on your knee. You glanced at him, but he was looking at George, his expression unreadable. There was something passing between them—something you couldn't quite catch. A conversation without words.
George pushed the butter dish toward your hand. He did it without thinking—the same gesture he'd been making for years. The same gesture he'd made at every meal since you were eleven years old.
"George," Fred said. "I don't say it enough. How grateful I am. For everything. For taking care of her when I couldn't."
George's hand paused on his toast. "You don't have to thank me."
"I know. But I'm going to."
For a moment, they just looked at each other. Something passed between them—unspoken, deep.
"You're my brother," George said. "I'll always be there. For both of you."
"I know." Fred's voice was quiet. "I know."
George nodded once. Then he stood up, gathering his bag. "I've got to go. Forgot my Charms book in the dormitory. See you both later."
"George—" you started.
But he was already walking away. His shoulders were slightly hunched. His hands were in his pockets. He moved through the crowd of students like someone who'd learned how to be invisible.
"Is he okay?" you asked.
Fred was quiet for a moment. His eyes were still fixed on the doors where George had disappeared. "He will be. Eventually."
"What does that mean?"
"It means he's going through something. Something he's not ready to talk about." Fred turned back to his breakfast. "We just have to be there for him. The way he's always been there for us."
George walked through the corridors without seeing them.
His feet carried him past the Great Hall, past the staircases, past the portraits who called out greetings he didn't hear. He walked until the noise of the castle faded behind him, until the corridors grew quiet and empty, until he found himself in a forgotten alcove on the seventh floor—a narrow space between two suits of armor, hidden from view, where no one ever came.
He leaned against the cold stone wall. Pressed his hands against his face.
And then, finally, alone in the dark where no one could see, George Weasley let himself cry.
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't loud. It was the quiet, exhausted weeping of someone who'd been holding himself together for years and had finally run out of strength. His shoulders shook. His breath came in ragged gasps. He pressed his fist against his mouth to muffle the sound.
He'd been in love with her for years. He'd never said it. He'd never let himself say it. And now she was with Fred—his brother, his twin, the person he loved most in the world—and they were happy, and that was good. That was what he'd wanted.
But it still hurt.
It hurt more than he'd ever let himself admit.
He stayed there for a long time—until the tears stopped, until his breathing steadied, until he could trust his voice again. Then he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, straightened his tie, and walked back toward the common room.
He was still here. Still showing up. Still pushing the butter dish toward her hand.
Summary: Y/N has been in love with Fred Weasley for six years. She's memorized the exact shade of his eyes, fixed his crooked tie a thousand times without being asked, and perfected the art of pretending her heart doesn't crack every time he looks at someone else.
So when Fred asks Angelina Johnson to the Yule Ball—and then suggests his twin brother George take Y/N instead—she does what she's always done. Smiles. Says she's fine. Falls apart in private.
What follows is two weeks of stolen glances, firewhiskey-soaked recklessness, and a slow-burn explosion that finally detonates behind a velvet curtain at four in the morning, where there's no one left to perform for.
Pairing: Fred Weasely X y/n
Warning: This story contains underage drinking, intense emotional arguments, and a relationship dynamic that is messy, painful, and unresolved. Fred says things he doesn't mean. The reader says things she does mean. No one comes out of this looking their best. If you're looking for soft, uncomplicated romance, this isn't that. If you're looking for two people who love each other destroying each other behind a velvet curtain at four in the morning, welcome.
A/N : This is the first time im publishing on tumblr, i have never really done it before. lets hope this works out. Please comment reblog or like i would love to hear your thoughts <3
Word Count : I lost track after i crossed 16k
The Great Hall smelled like toast and snow.
Not the snow itself—snow didn't smell like anything except cold, that particular sharp emptiness that crept into your lungs when you breathed too deep. But the wet-wool-and-frost scent of a Scottish December had settled into every corner of the castle, clinging to robes and tapestries and the ancient stone floors. The enchanted ceiling showed a sky the colour of old pewter, heavy with clouds that couldn't decide whether to snow or simply threaten it. Candles floated overhead in their usual lazy orbits, dripping wax onto tables where house-elves would vanish it before anyone noticed.
You noticed anyway. You always noticed stupid shit like that—the way the candles never quite lined up properly over the Slytherin table, the way Professor Flitwick's teacup sat exactly three inches from the edge of the staff table every single morning, the way the first-year Hufflepuffs always huddled together at the far end of their bench like a flock of nervous sheep.
Noticing things was basically your entire personality at this point. That and being in love with your best friend, which was a fucking cliché and you knew it was a cliché and that didn't stop it from being true.
The bench was cold through your robes. Someone had left a copy of the Daily Prophet open to the Quidditch section, and the Chudley Cannons had lost again—there was a surprise. Further down the table, a fourth-year was frantically finishing an essay while her friend charmed a spoon to tap-dance across a bowl of porridge. The spoon was doing a better job than the fourth-year, honestly.
Professor McGonagall paused on her way to the staff table and fixed the spoon with the particular expression of someone who had been dealing with magical nonsense for forty years and was very tired of it. The spoon stopped dancing. The fourth-year looked relieved.
You reached for the toast.
The toast was gone.
"You absolute fucking menace."
Fred Weasley grinned at you from across the table, your toast already halfway to his mouth, butter dripping onto his fingers. His tie was crooked—it was always crooked, had been crooked every single day since first year, and you'd fixed it for him approximately four thousand times without either of you ever acknowledging it. There was a smudge of something near his left eyebrow that was probably ink, or possibly gunpowder, or possibly both. With Fred, it was usually both.
"Morning to you too," he said, biting into your toast with theatrical satisfaction. "You took too long. Toast gets cold. It's a tragedy. I'm preventing tragedy. You should be thanking me, really."
"I should be hexing you."
"Semantics." He chewed happily. "You wouldn't hex me. You love me too much."
Your stomach did something complicated. You ignored it. You'd gotten very good at ignoring it over the years—the way your pulse jumped whenever he said shit like that, casual and thoughtless and completely unaware that those words hit you like a Bludger to the chest every single time.
"You're delusional," you said.
"I'm charming."
"You're a walking disaster."
"A charming walking disaster. There's a difference."
George slid onto the bench beside you, moving with the ease of someone who had sat in approximately the same spot since he was eleven years old. His hair was marginally less rumpled than Fred's, which meant he'd either woken up three minutes earlier or had given up on taming it three minutes faster. He glanced at Fred, then at your empty plate, then at Fred again, and his expression settled into something deeply unimpressed.
"She's going to hex you one of these days," he said.
"She's been saying that for six years. Empty threats."
"I hexed McLaggen last Tuesday."
"That was different. McLaggen deserved it. He was being a prat about Quidditch trials. I'm being delightful."
"Delightful," George repeated flatly. "Is that what we're calling breakfast theft now?"
"Toast redistribution. It's a social service."
The toast rack refilled itself with a faint pop. You grabbed two slices before Fred could intercept them, and the butter dish slid toward your hand before you could reach for it. George. It was always George who did the small things—pushing the butter, passing the salt, making sure your teacup was full. Fred was the one who stole your food and made you laugh and took up all the space in a room without even trying. George was the one who noticed when you needed something.
You'd never really thought about that before. You'd never really thought about a lot of things.
"Y/N."
Fred's voice pulled you back. He was looking at you with that particular expression he got when he was about to suggest something inadvisable—eyes bright, grin crooked, head tilted slightly to one side. He looked like a dog who'd just spotted a squirrel. A very tall, very ginger, very annoying dog.
"What?"
"I was saying we should test the new product on Filch during patrol tonight. George thinks it's too risky. I think George is being a coward."
"I think George has a survival instinct," George said.
"Same thing, basically."
"What's the product?" you asked, because you always asked, because you were part of this, the three of you, a unit that had functioned perfectly for six years.
"Fainting Fancies. New and improved. Supposed to knock you out for exactly thirty seconds, but we've been tweaking the formula and I think we can get it up to a full minute." Fred's eyes were practically sparkling. "Think of the chaos. Filch drops in the middle of the corridor, we raid his office, we're back in the common room before he even wakes up."
"That's the stupidest plan you've ever had."
"You said that about the Dungbomb cascade in the Slytherin common room."
"That was also stupid. You just got lucky."
"Luck is a skill."
"It's really not."
Fred leaned across the table, close enough that you could smell him—gunpowder and soap and something sweet, probably the cinnamon from the toast he'd stolen. "Come on, Y/N. Live a little. When's the last time you did something reckless?"
"When I agreed to be friends with you two."
"That wasn't reckless. That was fate."
"It was a lapse in judgment."
"It was the best decision you ever made."
His face was inches from yours. His eyes were very blue. You'd known that for six years—had memorized the exact shade, the way they crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the way they darkened when he was angry or excited or working on a particularly difficult bit of magic. You'd catalogued every detail of Fred Weasley's face like it was going to be on an exam, and it had never done you any good at all.
"Fine," you said, pulling back before you did something stupid like stare at him too long. "One test. If we get caught, I'm telling McGonagall it was entirely your idea."
"That's the spirit."
George was watching you. You could feel his gaze on the side of your face, steady and knowing and just a little too perceptive. George always noticed when you looked at Fred too long. George always noticed everything.
You didn't meet his eyes.
The toast was getting cold. You ate it anyway, not tasting it, your mind still stuck on the way Fred had leaned across the table, the way his voice had gone low and coaxing, the way he'd said *the best decision you ever made* like it was nothing, like those words didn't rearrange your entire internal landscape every time he said them.
He didn't know. Of course he didn't know. Fred Weasley was the most oblivious person on the planet when it came to anything that wasn't Quidditch or pranks or his own reflection. He could invent a product that made you vomit on command, but he couldn't see that his best friend had been in love with him for approximately five years.
Five years. Maybe six. You'd lost count.
"So," Fred said, reaching across the table to steal a sausage from George's plate this time, because he was an equal-opportunity thief, "the Yule Ball."
The words landed in your stomach like a stone. You'd been dreading this conversation for weeks. The Yule Ball. The fucking Yule Ball, with its dress robes and dancing and everyone pairing off like it was some kind of mating ritual. You'd been hoping—stupidly, pathetically—that Fred might ask you. Not as a date, necessarily. Just as friends. As the person he wanted to spend the evening with.
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
"What about it?" George asked.
"We should probably ask someone, shouldn't we? It's in two weeks." Fred was looking at his sausage with far too much concentration. "Seems like the sort of thing one does. For a ball. Asking someone."
"Astounding deduction," George said dryly.
"Thank you. I'm full of astounding deductions." Fred took a bite of the sausage. Chewed. Swallowed. His eyes flicked to you and then away, too fast to read. "Angelina was saying something about it yesterday. At Quidditch practice. She mentioned she didn't have a date yet."
Your fingers tightened around your teacup.
George glanced at you. You didn't notice, because you were busy staring at the toast rack like it contained the secrets of the universe.
"Are you going to ask her?" George said.
"Dunno. Maybe." Fred's voice had gone slightly too casual, the way it did when he was pretending something didn't matter. He was still not looking at you. "What do you think, Y/N?"
Don't. Don't ask me. Don't make me give you permission to break my heart.
"Sounds great," you said. "You should go for it."
It came out exactly right. Light. Casual. The opinion of someone who wanted her best friend to be happy. You deserved a fucking Oscar.
Fred's face did something complicated—relief, maybe, or disappointment, or some combination of both that you couldn't interpret. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Angelina's brilliant. You'd have fun."
"Right." He stood up so suddenly that the bench scraped against the stone floor. "Right. She's probably at breakfast still. I'll just—"
He was already moving. Long legs carrying him down the length of the Gryffindor table, past clusters of students and floating candles and the remains of a hundred breakfasts. You watched him go. Your teacup was still in your hand, halfway to your mouth, and you'd forgotten you were holding it.
"You're going to spill that," George said quietly.
You set the cup down. Your hands were shaking. Just slightly. Just enough that you noticed.
"I'm fine."
"I didn't ask."
"Don't."
"Y/N."
"Don't, George."
The silence stretched between you. The Great Hall continued around you—students laughing, plates refilling, the tap-dancing spoon making a comeback further down the table. Nothing had changed. Nothing at all.
Except Fred was standing at the end of the Gryffindor table now, leaning down to talk to Angelina Johnson, and her face was doing something pleased, and his ears had gone pink at the tips the way they always did when he was nervous.
He'd been nervous.
He'd been nervous to ask her, and he'd asked for your opinion first, and you'd told him to go for it because you were a fucking coward who couldn't say the words that had been lodged in your throat for half a decade.
"Fuck," you said, very quietly.
George didn't say anything. He just reached over and took the last piece of toast from your plate, very gently, as if he were handling something fragile. He didn't make a joke about it. He didn't steal it with the theatrical flair Fred would have used.
He just took it, and ate it, and sat beside you in silence while Angelina Johnson said yes to the boy you'd been in love with since you were eleven years old.
Fred didn't know why his chest felt tight.
He'd asked Angelina. She'd said yes. She'd smiled at him—that brilliant, confident smile she got during Quidditch matches when she knew they were going to win—and she'd said yes, and he should be happy. He should be fucking thrilled. Angelina was amazing. Angelina was beautiful and talented and she laughed at his jokes, even the bad ones. She was exactly the kind of girl he should want to take to a ball.
So why did he feel like he'd just made a massive mistake?
He walked back toward his seat, Angelina's yes still ringing in his ears, and he saw Y/N sitting there with her teacup frozen in midair and her face carefully, deliberately blank. George was beside her, saying something too quiet to hear, and the toast rack was empty, and something about the whole scene made Fred's stomach twist in a way he didn't understand.
She'd told him to ask Angelina. She'd said *go for it.* She'd smiled and sounded casual and acted like it didn't matter at all.
So why did he feel like he'd disappointed her somehow?
"You're back," George said as Fred dropped onto the bench. "How'd it go?"
"She said yes." Fred tried to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. It came out flat. "We're going together."
"Brilliant."
"Yeah. Brilliant."
Y/N was looking at her toast. Just looking at it, like she'd forgotten what food was for. There was marmalade on her sleeve, a small sticky smear near the cuff. She hadn't noticed. She always noticed shit like that—she was the most observant person Fred had ever met, could spot a loose thread on someone's robes from across the room—and she hadn't noticed.
"So," he said, because the silence was making his skin itch, "you'll need a date too, Y/N. Can't go alone. That's sad."
"I'll figure something out."
"Corner's been looking at you. Boot, too. And I think Macmillan might fancy you, he's always—"
"Fred." George's voice was quiet but firm. "Drop it."
"What? I'm just—"
"Drop it."
Fred opened his mouth. Closed it. George was looking at him with an expression he didn't recognize, something careful and controlled and just a little bit angry. George never got angry. Irritated, sure. Annoyed, constantly. But not angry. Not like this.
"Fine," Fred said. "Dropping it."
The rest of breakfast passed in a strange, stilted silence. Y/N didn't look at him. George didn't say anything else. The toast rack refilled itself and no one took any.
Fred didn't know why he felt like he'd broken something he didn't know how to fix.
He didn't know why he kept looking at Y/N and thinking about the way she'd said *go for it*, the way her voice had been perfectly steady, the way her smile hadn't quite reached her eyes.
He didn't know anything at all, apparently.
Charms was held in a classroom on the third floor that smelled perpetually of old parchment and the faint, ozone-sharp residue of too many spells cast in too small a space. The windows looked out over the cloisters, where students hurried between classes with their collars turned up against the cold, breath pluming white in the December air.
You sat in your usual spot. Third row from the front, second desk from the left. Fred to your right. George to your left.
This was how it had always been.
This was how it was supposed to be.
Flitwick was demonstrating the charm sequence for a particularly finicky variation of the Freezing Spell, his small form balanced on a stack of books, his voice carrying the particular enthusiasm of someone who genuinely believed that wand movements were the most exciting thing in the world. Usually you took careful notes, drawing small diagrams of the wrist flicks and muttering the incantation under your breath until you got the pronunciation right.
Today you were drawing spirals in the margin of your parchment.
They weren't very good spirals. Your quill kept catching on the rough edge of the parchment, leaving little blots of ink that spread outward like tiny black galaxies. You'd drawn seventeen of them before you noticed what you were doing.
He asked Angelina. He asked Angelina and she said yes and you told him to do it, you literally told him to do it, so you don't get to be upset, you absolute fucking disaster of a human being.
"Right," Flitwick squeaked, clapping his tiny hands together, "partner up and practice the incantation. Remember, it's Glacius Tardus, not Glacioos—the extra syllable is what slows the freezing. Otherwise you'll just end up with ordinary ice, and where's the finesse in that?"
The room erupted into movement. Lee Jordan turned to his partner with the expression of someone who had not been listening for the past fifteen minutes. Alicia Spinnet had already produced a perfect shimmer of slow-creeping frost across her desk.
Fred turned to you automatically. Muscle memory. Six years of pairing up without having to think about it.
You turned to George.
It was a small thing. A nothing thing. Fred turned one way, you turned the other, and for a moment the three of you sat there in an awkward triangle, the rhythm that had sustained you through six years of partnered Charms work suddenly stumbling over its own feet.
"Right," Fred said, recovering faster than you did, because Fred always recovered faster. "I'll just—Lee, you useless bastard, get over here—"
He grabbed Lee by the back of his robes and hauled him toward an empty desk, already firing off some joke about Lee's complete lack of Charms ability. His laughter carried across the classroom, bright and easy.
You'd heard him laugh like that this morning. When he'd asked Angelina. You'd been too far away to hear the words, but you'd heard the laugh.
"Glacius Tardus," George said, holding his wand over the desk between you. "You want to go first, or shall I demonstrate my complete lack of finesse?"
"I think Flitwick would prefer if someone with actual competence went first."
"That's a no to my demonstration, then."
You managed something that was almost a smile. George's wand moved in the precise pattern Flitwick had drawn on the board, and frost began to creep across the wooden surface of the desk, delicate and slow, forming crystalline patterns that looked like ferns.
"Your turn."
You lifted your wand. The movement felt strange in your hand, unfamiliar in a way it shouldn't have after six years of practice. Glacius Tardus. The incantation stumbled on your tongue. The frost that bloomed from your wand tip was patchy and uneven, melting almost as quickly as it formed.
"Again," George said.
You tried again. The frost crept a little further, but it was still wrong, still too fast, still ordinary ice rather than the slow-magic Flitwick wanted.
"Your mind's somewhere else."
"Brilliant observation. Ten points to Gryffindor."
George didn't rise to the bait. He just waited, wand held loosely at his side, his expression patient in a way that made you want to throw something at him and also, simultaneously, made you want to put your head down on the desk and not move for approximately six hours.
"He asked her," you said. The words fell out of you without permission.
"I know."
"I told him to."
"I know."
"What the fuck is wrong with me, George?"
The question hung in the air between you. George's expression didn't change—it rarely did—but something flickered in his eyes, something that might have been sympathy or sadness or something else entirely.
"Nothing's wrong with you," he said.
"I told my best friend to ask someone else to the Yule Ball because I was too much of a coward to tell him how I feel. There's plenty wrong with me."
"You were trying to be a good friend."
"I was trying to protect myself." The words came out bitter, sharp-edged. "I didn't want to hear him say no. So I made sure he'd never get the chance to say anything at all. That's not being a good friend. That's being a selfish fucking coward. How the fuck am I a Gryffindor?"
George was quiet for a moment. Across the classroom, Fred had successfully frozen Lee's eyebrows. Lee was swearing colourfully while Flitwick fluttered around him in a panic, and Fred was laughing so hard he had to brace himself against the desk.
"You're not a coward," George said. "You're scared. There's a difference."
"Not from where I'm standing."
"Then you're standing in the wrong place."
You looked at him. George met your gaze steadily, his wand still held loosely at his side, his expression open and unguarded in a way that Fred's never was. Fred hid behind jokes and laughter and chaos. George just... waited.
"Why are you being so nice to me?"
"Because you're my friend."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe that friendship was enough, that kindness was just kindness, that George wasn't looking at you with something softer than the moment deserved. But George had always been too perceptive for his own good, and you'd always been too oblivious for yours, and somewhere in the space between those two facts was a truth you weren't ready to examine.
"Again," George said, nodding toward your wand.
This time the frost came properly. Slow. Controlled. Beautiful, even, if you cared about that sort of thing.
"See?" George said. "You just needed to get out of your own head."
"Easier said than done."
"Isn't everything?"
Flitwick called the class back to attention. You turned to face the front. Your parchment was covered in spirals, and your ink was running low, and somewhere between the frost and the melting and the quiet weight of George's unspoken observations, the morning had slipped away from you without your permission.
Fred couldn't concentrate.
This wasn't unusual. Fred Weasley had been struggling to concentrate in classes since approximately his first day at Hogwarts, when he'd discovered that Transfiguration was significantly less interesting than figuring out how to turn his eyebrows different colours. But this was different. This wasn't boredom. This wasn't the usual restlessness that drove him to pass notes and make jokes and generally be a massive pain in the arse.
This was Y/N, sitting two rows over with George, her head bent close to his, their voices too quiet to hear.
She'd partnered with George. She always partnered with Fred—had always partnered with Fred, ever since first year, when she'd threatened to hex him if he didn't take Charms seriously and he'd threatened to turn her hair green and somehow that had become the foundation of their entire friendship. For six years, Fred had turned to her in Charms without thinking, the way he turned to George in Potions and reached for the salt at dinner and breathed air into his lungs.
Today she'd turned to George instead.
It shouldn't matter. It was one class. One partnered exercise. She was allowed to work with other people. She was allowed to have other friends. Fred wasn't some kind of possessive arsehole who couldn't handle his best friend spending time with someone else.
Except George wasn't "someone else." George was his twin. His other half. The person Fred trusted more than anyone in the world.
And right now, watching George lean close to Y/N, watching her say something that made his expression soften in a way Fred couldn't interpret, Fred felt something hot and ugly twist in his chest that he didn't have a name for.
"Mate." Lee was waving his hand in front of Fred's face. "You've been staring at the same spot for like five minutes. What's going on?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing. Right. Because people always stare into space with that particular 'I want to murder someone' expression when nothing's going on."
"I don't want to murder anyone."
"You sure? Because you look like you want to murder someone."
Fred forced himself to look away from Y/N and George. "I'm fine."
"You've said 'I'm fine' three times today. That's two times more than usual. Statistically, you're not fine."
"Statistics can fuck off."
"There it is." Lee grinned, apparently satisfied. "There's the Fred I know. For a minute I thought you'd been replaced by a pod person."
Flitwick called the class back to attention. Fred turned to face the front, but he could still see Y/N in his peripheral vision, still see the way she was sitting slightly closer to George than usual, still see the spirals she'd been drawing in the margin of her parchment.
She always doodled when she was upset. She'd been doing it since first year—little spirals in the corners of her essays, tiny flowers on the edges of her notes, abstract patterns that meant her mind was somewhere else entirely. Fred had pointed it out once, years ago, and she'd looked at him with an expression he still couldn't name and said, "You notice that?"
He'd said, "I notice everything about you."
He hadn't meant it the way it sounded. He'd just meant that he paid attention, that she was his best friend, that he'd spent six years cataloguing her habits the way other people catalogued Quidditch statistics. He knew that she took her tea with milk and no sugar, that she chewed on her quill when she was thinking, that she hummed off-key when she was happy and went completely silent when she was sad. He knew that her laugh got higher when she was nervous and lower when she was genuinely amused. He knew that she fixed his collar without asking and stole his gloves when her hands were cold and always, always saved him a seat at breakfast.
He knew everything about her.
So why did he feel like he didn't know anything at all?
The class ended. Students gathered their books and filed toward the door. Y/N walked past him with George, and she didn't look at him, and Fred felt that hot, ugly thing twist in his chest again.
"Y/N," he said.
She stopped. Turned. Her expression was carefully blank. "What?"
Why didn't you partner with me? Why did you tell me to ask Angelina? Why do I feel like I've fucked something up and I don't even know what it is?
"Nothing," he said. "See you at lunch."
"Yeah. See you."
She walked away. George glanced back at Fred once, his expression unreadable, and then he followed her out the door.
Fred stood alone in the empty classroom, his bag half-packed, his wand still in his hand, and tried to figure out why he felt like he was losing something he'd never even known he had.
The days between breakfast and the Yule Ball stretched out like something pulled too tight, like an elastic band about to snap.
You stopped sitting next to Fred in classes.
It wasn't a conscious decision—not at first. It was just that George was there, and George was easier, and George didn't make your chest feel like it was caving in every time he laughed or smiled or mentioned Angelina's name. You started gravitating toward him without thinking about it, the way a plant leans toward the only patch of sunlight in a dark room.
Fred noticed. You knew he noticed. He didn't say anything, but you'd catch him looking at you sometimes, his expression puzzled and a little bit hurt, like a dog who'd been kicked and didn't understand why. It made you want to scream. It made you want to shake him and say, *I'm doing this because I love you, you absolute fucking idiot, because I can't keep sitting next to you and pretending I don't.*
You didn't say that. You didn't say anything at all.
The three of you still ate meals together—that was habit, muscle memory, six years of sitting at the same spot at the Gryffindor table. But the rhythm had changed. Fred sat across from you now instead of beside you. George sat next to you, a steady presence at your elbow, and you leaned into him more than you meant to, more than was fair. He never complained. He never pushed. He just... stayed.
You hated yourself for needing him. You hated yourself for using him. You hated yourself for about fifteen different things, and none of that hatred made it any easier to sit across from Fred at dinner and watch him talk about Angelina.
"Angelina wants to do a group thing before the Ball," Fred said one evening, about a week after the breakfast that had ruined everything. "All of us meeting up in the common room, walking down together. She's got this whole plan worked out. It's very military."
"Sounds like Angelina," George said.
"She's got a schedule and everything. 'Eight o'clock sharp, Weasley, don't be late or I'll hex your eyebrows off.'" Fred grinned. "I think she means it."
"She definitely means it," you said. "Angelina doesn't make idle threats."
"Unlike some people." Fred pointed his fork at you. "You've been threatening to hex me for six years and you've never done it once."
"The year's not over."
"Is that a promise?"
"It's a warning."
He laughed, bright and easy, and your heart did that stupid thing it always did when he laughed, that little flip-flop that made you feel like a complete fucking idiot. You'd been in love with him for years. You should be immune by now. You should have built up some kind of tolerance, the way people built up tolerance to poison.
But Fred Weasley wasn't poison. He was just—Fred. And that was somehow worse.
"So," he said, still grinning, "you still haven't told me who you're going with."
The table went quiet. George's fork paused halfway to his mouth.
"I don't have a date yet."
"Seriously? The Ball's in less than a week. You need to get on that."
"I'm aware of how time works, Fred."
"I'm just saying." He leaned back in his seat, completely oblivious to the way your shoulders had tensed. "What about Corner? He's decent. Bit quiet, but he's good at Herbology."
"I don't want to go with Corner."
"Macmillan?"
"No."
"Boot? I've seen him looking at you in Charms."
"He's looking at my notes. He's shit at Charms."
"Still. You could do worse. He's not bad-looking. Bit of a chin situation, but nobody's perfect."
"Fred." George's voice was quiet, but there was a warning in it. "Drop it."
"What? I'm being helpful."
"You're being a prat."
"I'm being a helpful prat. There's a difference."
You pushed your plate away. The shepherd's pie you'd been eating had gone cold, and your stomach was churning, and Fred was looking at you with that bright, oblivious expression, and you couldn't do this anymore. You couldn't sit here and listen to him suggest other people, couldn't watch him try to hand you off to someone else like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"You could go with George," Fred said.
The words hit you like a punch to the sternum.
"What?"
"George. He doesn't have a date either." Fred shrugged, already turning back to his own plate. "You two get on. You've always got on. Go as friends. Better than going alone, right?"
George was very still beside you. His expression was unreadable, but his jaw was tight.
"Right," you said. Your voice came out flat. "Better than going alone."
"Problem solved." Fred grinned at you, clearly pleased with himself. "Knew I'd figure it out eventually. I'm a genius."
"Yeah," you said. "A fucking genius."
You didn't look at George. You couldn't.
---
Fred didn't know why he'd suggested that.
The words had come out of his mouth without permission, the same way he did everything—impulsively, recklessly, without thinking through the consequences. George and Y/N. Going to the Ball together. As friends. It made sense. It was logical. It solved the problem of both of them not having dates.
So why did he want to punch something?
He watched them from across the table. Y/N was pushing her food around her plate, not eating. George was sitting very still, very quiet, the way he always did when he was thinking about something he wasn't going to say out loud. They looked right together. They always had—George was steadier than Fred, more patient, more careful. He didn't steal her toast or drag her into dangerous pranks or say stupid shit without thinking. He was the kind of person who pushed the butter dish toward her hand before she asked for it. The kind of person who deserved someone like her.
Fred wasn't that kind of person. Fred was chaos and noise and bad decisions. Fred was the kind of person who asked Angelina Johnson to the Yule Ball without stopping to figure out why the thought of asking Y/N made his chest feel like it was full of broken glass.
Because you're scared, a voice in his head said. Because you've always been scared. Because if you asked her and she said no, you'd have to admit that she doesn't feel the same way, and you can't handle that, so you asked someone safe instead.
He pushed the thought away. He'd gotten very good at pushing thoughts away over the years—thoughts about Y/N, about the way she laughed, about the way she fixed his collar without asking, about the way his stomach dropped every time she looked at him with that particular expression that meant she knew exactly what he was thinking.
She knew him better than anyone. Better than George, even. Better than his own family. She knew when he was upset and when he was faking and when he needed someone to sit beside him in silence because words were too much. She knew the exact tone of voice that would make him laugh when he was in a shit mood. She knew how to calm him down after a prank went wrong, how to talk him out of his worst ideas, how to make him feel like maybe he wasn't just the chaos twin, the loud one, the one who broke things and made messes and never took anything seriously.
She saw him. The real him. And he'd asked Angelina to the Ball instead of her because he was a fucking coward.
"Fred."
George's voice pulled him back. The table was clearing—dinner was ending, students drifting toward the doors. Y/N had already gone, her plate still half-full, her exit quiet and quick the way it always was when she was trying not to show she was upset.
"What?"
"You've been staring at the door for two minutes."
"Was I?"
"You were." George's expression was hard to read. "You want to tell me what's going on?"
"Nothing's going on."
"Right. Nothing." George stood up, gathering his bag. "That's why you've been in a foul mood for a week. That's why Y/N keeps finding bloody excuses to leave the table early. That's why you just suggested I fucking take her to the Ball when you've been glaring at anyone who looks at her for the past three years. Nothing's going on."
Fred's jaw tightened. "I don't glare."
"You glower. It's very intimidating. Lee's terrified of you."
"Lee's terrified of everything."
"True." George slung his bag over his shoulder. "But that's not the point."
"Then what's the point?"
"The point is that you're being an idiot."
"Thanks. Very helpful."
"I'm serious." George's voice was quiet now, almost gentle. "You've been in love with her for years. Everyone knows it except you. And instead of doing something about it, you asked someone else to the Ball and then suggested I take her instead. That's not just being an idiot. That's being a coward."
Fred opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"Fuck you," he said.
"Maybe. But I'm right."
He walked away before Fred could respond.
The Great Hall was nearly empty now. The candles had burned low. The enchanted ceiling showed a sky full of cold, indifferent stars.
Fred sat alone at the Gryffindor table and tried to figure out when his life had gotten so fucking complicated.
That night, George found you in the common room.
It was late—past midnight, the fire burned down to embers, everyone else long since gone to bed. You were curled in one of the armchairs near the window, staring at the snow falling on the grounds, your Potions textbook open on your lap to a page you hadn't read in an hour.
"Thought you might be here," he said, dropping into the chair across from you.
"Couldn't sleep."
"You've been saying that a lot lately."
"I've been saying a lot of things lately."
George didn't argue. He just sat there, quiet and steady, the way he always did. You didn't deserve him. You didn't deserve the way he showed up for you, over and over, without asking for anything in return.
"I'm sorry," you said.
"For what?"
"For being a mess. For making you deal with it. For—" You gestured vaguely at yourself, at the situation, at the entire disaster of your life. "All of it."
"You're not making me deal with anything. I'm here because I want to be."
"Why?"
"Because you're my," George took a deep breath, “best friend”
The fire crackled in the grate. The snow fell against the window. You stared at your textbook and tried to find the words for what you were feeling.
"Fred suggested we go to the Ball together," you said. "You and me."
"I know. I was there."
"He just—he said it like it was nothing. Like the idea of me with someone else didn't bother him at all."
George was quiet for a moment. Then he said, very carefully, "Would it help if I told you he's been in a foul mood all week?"
"Fred's always in a foul mood about something."
"Not like this. This is different." George leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "He's jealous, Y/N. He doesn't know he's jealous—he's too thick to figure out his own feelings—but he is. I've known him my whole life. I know what he looks like when he's upset about something he won't admit to himself."
"Then why did he ask Angelina?"
"Because he's scared. Because asking Angelina was safe. She's not you."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"No," George agreed. "It doesn't. But that's Fred. He's never made sense. That's why you love him."
The words hung in the air between you. You didn't deny them. You couldn't.
"I'm not going to pretend I understand what's going on in his head," George continued. "But I know he's miserable. And I know you're miserable. And I know the two of you are both too stubborn and too scared to actually talk to each other about it."
"What am I supposed to say?" Your voice cracked. "'Hey, Fred, I've been in love with you for years and watching you with Angelina is making me want to throw myself off the Astronomy Tower'?"
"Maybe not exactly that."
"Then what?"
George was quiet for a long moment. The fire popped. The snow kept falling.
"Come to the Ball with me," he said.
"What?"
"Not like that." He held up a hand. "I'm not—I know you don't feel that way about me. I'm not asking for that. But you need a date, and I need a date, and maybe if Fred sees us together, he'll finally pull his head out of his arse and do something about it."
"That's a fucking terrible plan."
"Probably."
"Manipulative and stupid and likely to backfire spectacularly."
"Almost certainly."
"And you're willing to do it anyway?"
George met your eyes. His expression was steady, open, unreadable. "I hate seeing you like this," he said. "Both of you. You're my two favourite people in the world, and you're making each other miserable because neither of you will admit what you actually want. If going to the Ball together shakes something loose, even if it's just Fred finally getting angry enough to say something—then it's worth it."
You stared at him. The firelight flickered across his face, highlighting the faint dusting of freckles across his nose, the slight furrow between his brows.
"Why are you so good to me?"
"Someone has to be."
"George—"
"You don't have to say anything." He stood up, stretching his arms over his head. "Just think about it. Ball's in a few days. Offer stands."
He walked toward the stairs to the boys' dormitory. You watched him go, your chest tight with something that felt dangerously close to guilt.
"George," you called.
He paused, one hand on the banister.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. This plan might blow shit up in our faces."
"Still. Thank you."
He nodded once, and then he was gone, and you were alone in the common room with the dying fire and the falling snow and the feeling that you were standing on the edge of something you couldn't name.
On Thursday, exactly six days before the Ball, Fred gave you a Christmas present.
It wasn't Christmas yet. They'd be going home to the Burrow after the Ball, and presents were traditionally exchanged then, in the chaotic whirl of Weasley family festivities. But Fred had never been good at waiting. He'd never been good at following rules or observing traditions or doing anything the way it was supposed to be done.
You were in the library when he found you—your usual corner, the one you'd claimed back in third year and defended ever since. You'd been hiding there more and more lately, retreating between classes and meals, finding excuses to be alone. It was easier than sitting at the Gryffindor table, easier than watching Fred with Angelina, easier than seeing the knowing look in George's eyes every time you stared at his brother for too long.
"Found you," Fred said, dropping into the chair across from you. "You've been avoiding me."
"I've been studying."
"Same thing."
"It's really not."
He leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the table. Madam Pince glared at him from her desk; he ignored her completely. "What are you studying?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing. That's a fascinating subject. What's the textbook?"
"Fred."
"Y/N."
You looked at him. He was grinning, that crooked grin that always made your stomach do stupid things, but there was something off about it—something tight around the edges, something that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"What do you want?"
"I got you something." He pulled a package out of his bag, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a piece of string that looked like it had been repurposed from a Potions kit. "Saw it in Hogsmeade last weekend. Thought of you."
You took the package. It was lumpy and uneven, wrapped with absolutely no skill whatsoever. "You thought of me in Hogsmeade?"
"I think of you all the time."
He said it so casually. So thoughtlessly. Like those words didn't rearrange your entire internal landscape.
"You're staring," he said.
"I'm processing."
"Processing what?"
"The fact that you wrapped a present yourself. This is genuinely the worst wrapping job I've ever seen."
"I'm wounded. Deeply wounded. I spent at least thirty seconds on that."
"It shows."
"Just open the fucking thing."
You did. The paper fell away to reveal a quill—not an ordinary quill, because Fred Weasley wouldn't be caught dead giving someone an ordinary quill. This one had feathers that shifted colour every few seconds, cycling through a rainbow of hues that were probably going to give you a headache if you tried to actually write with it. The shaft was enchanted to emit tiny sparks whenever it touched parchment.
"It's hideous," you said.
"I know." Fred was grinning properly now. "It's brilliant, isn't it? The sparks are supposed to change colour based on your mood, but I think the charm's a bit dodgy because it just does the sparkles regardless. Very festive. Very Yule. You can use it to write your Ball cards."
"I don't have any Ball cards to write."
"You're going with George. That counts."
The words landed like a punch. You set the quill down carefully, very carefully, and tried to keep your face neutral.
"Yeah," you said. "I'm going with George."
"Good. That's—good." Fred's voice had gone slightly strange. "He's a good person. George. Better than me, probably."
"Definitely."
"He'll make sure you have a good time. At the Ball."
"I'm sure he will."
The silence stretched between you. Madam Pince was still glaring. The candles flickered overhead. The quill emitted a shower of purple sparks that had nothing to do with your mood, because if they had anything to do with your mood they'd be black.
"Fred," you said.
"Yeah?"
"Why did you ask Angelina?"
The question hung in the air. Fred's expression flickered—surprise, maybe, or guilt, or something else entirely.
"Because she's brilliant," he said. "Because she's on the Quidditch team. Because she laughs at my jokes."
"That's it?"
"What do you mean, that's it?"
"I mean—" You stopped. Started again. "Never mind. Forget I asked."
"No, what? What were you going to say?"
"Nothing."
"Y/N."
"It's nothing, Fred. Just—forget it."
He was looking at you with that particular intensity he got sometimes, the one that made you feel like he could see right through you. "You're upset."
"I'm not upset."
"You're doing that thing with your hands."
You looked down. You were twisting the wrapping paper into a tight spiral. You forced yourself to stop.
"What thing?"
"The thing where you twist things up when you're upset. You've been doing it since first year. You did it all through Charms last week. You've been doing it at dinner every night for the past month."
"You noticed that?"
"I notice everything about you."
The words hit you square in the chest. He'd said them before—years ago, when you'd asked him how he knew you'd had a bad day, how he'd known to find you in the Astronomy Tower and sit beside you without saying anything. *I notice everything about you.* You'd thought about those words for weeks afterward, had turned them over and over in your mind like a stone you couldn't stop touching.
"Then why didn't you notice this?" The words came out before you could stop them. "Why didn't you notice that I—"
You stopped. Swallowed. Looked away.
"That you what?" Fred's voice was very quiet.
"Nothing."
"Y/N."
"I can't. Fred, I can't—" You stood up, grabbing your bag, shoving the quill into it with shaking hands. "Thank you for the present. It's hideous and I love it. I'll see you at dinner."
"Y/N, wait—"
But you were already gone, fleeing between the bookshelves, leaving Fred alone in the corner with his feet still propped on the table and an expression on his face that you didn't stay long enough to see.
Fred sat in the library for a long time after she left.
He didn't move. Didn't gather his things. Didn't acknowledge Madam Pince's increasingly pointed glares. He just sat there, staring at the space where Y/N had been, replaying the conversation in his head.
Why didn't you notice that I—
Notice what? What was she going to say?
He knew. That was the worst part. He fucking knew, had known for years, had buried that knowledge so deep he'd almost convinced himself it wasn't there. Y/N was in love with him. Y/N had been in love with him since they were kids, since the first time they'd met on the Hogwarts Express and she'd told him his tie was crooked and he'd told her she was bossy and somehow that had become the foundation of their entire friendship.
She loved him. And he'd asked Angelina to the Ball instead of her.
He'd asked Angelina because Angelina was safe. Because Angelina didn't make his chest feel like it was caving in. Because he could dance with Angelina and laugh with Angelina and take Angelina to a stupid ball without having to confront the fact that the person he actually wanted to go with was Y/N.
Fuck.
He dropped his head into his hands. The quill—the one he'd bought for her, the one he'd seen in a shop window and thought of her immediately—was probably still on the table where she'd left it. He'd bought it because it was ridiculous, because it made sparks, because he'd known it would make her laugh that particular laugh she had when she was trying not to find something funny and failing.
He bought her stupid presents all the time. He stole her toast at breakfast and fixed her collar when it was crooked and waited for her after classes without thinking about it. He knew how she took her tea and what made her laugh and which books she'd check out of the library before she even reached the shelves. He knew her better than he knew anyone else in the world, including George, including his own family.
And he'd asked Angelina to the fucking Yule Ball.
He was an idiot. He was the biggest idiot in the history of idiots. He was going to go down in the record books as the stupidest person who ever lived.
"Fuck," he said out loud.
Madam Pince shushed him viciously. He didn't even care.
The night before the Yule Ball, Fred got properly, thoroughly drunk for the first time in his life.
It wasn't planned. He'd been sitting in the common room, watching the fire burn down to embers, trying not to think about Y/N, trying not to think about the way she'd looked at him in the library, trying not to think about tomorrow night and the Ball and the fact that she was going with George and he was going with Angelina and everything was fucked.
Lee had shown up with a bottle of firewhiskey he'd won off a seventh-year in a bet. "You look like you need this," he'd said, and Fred hadn't argued.
Now the bottle was half-empty and Fred was sprawled in an armchair, the room spinning gently around him, his thoughts slow and syrupy and slightly out of focus.
"I've fucked up, Lee."
"You've said that. Several times."
"I'm saying it again."
Lee took a swig from the bottle. "What exactly have you fucked up?"
"Everything. All of it. The whole—" Fred waved his hand vaguely. "The whole situation."
"The situation with Y/N."
"I didn't say it was about Y/N."
"You didn't have to. It's always about Y/N."
Fred closed his eyes. The fire crackled. The common room was empty except for them—everyone else had gone to bed, too excited about the Ball to stay up late. Tomorrow night, this room would be full of people in dress robes, laughing and flirting and pairing off. Tomorrow night, Y/N would be wearing something beautiful, and she'd be standing next to George, and Fred would have to smile and pretend he wasn't dying inside.
"I asked Angelina," he said.
"I know. I was there."
"I asked Angelina because I was scared."
"Scared of what?"
"Scared of—" Fred opened his eyes. Stared at the ceiling. "Scared of her. Y/N. Scared of what she makes me feel."
"And what does she make you feel?"
The question hung in the air. Fred thought about it. Really thought about it, for the first time in years.
"Like I'm not just the loud one," he said finally. "Like I'm not just the chaos twin, the one who breaks things and makes messes and never takes anything seriously. She looks at me and she sees—" He stopped. Swallowed. "She sees me. The real me. And I'm terrified of that. Because if she sees the real me, and she still leaves, then what's the point?"
Lee was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Mate, that's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"Fuck off."
"I'm serious. You're in love with her. You've been in love with her for years. Everyone knows it. Everyone. Even Snape probably knows it, and he doesn't know anything about human emotions."
"Snape doesn't know anything about bloody anything."
"True. But that's not the point. The point is that you're being a fucking idiot."
Fred didn't argue. He just stared at the ceiling, the firelight casting strange shadows across the stone.
"She's been sitting with George," he said. His voice came out quieter than he intended. "At meals. In class. Everywhere. She used to sit next to me. She used to partner with me in Charms. Now she turns to him like it's automatic. Like I'm not even there."
"Because you asked Angelina to the Ball."
"I know."
"Because you told her you were going with someone else."
"I know."
"Because you told George to ask her, and he did, and now you're jealous that your own brother is doing exactly what you told him to do."
Fred's jaw tightened. "I didn't think it would feel like this."
"Like what?"
"Like I've been replaced." The words tasted bitter in his mouth. "George isn't doing anything wrong. He's being a good friend. He's being a better friend than I've been. He pushes the butter dish toward her hand. He walks her to class. He sits with her when she can't sleep. And I just—I watch. I watch, and I want to say something, and I don't, because what the fuck would I even say? 'Stop taking care of her, that's my job'? I gave up that job. I handed it to him myself."
Lee was quiet for a moment. "You could tell her how you feel."
"And say what? 'Hey, Y/N, I know I asked someone else to the Ball and I know I told my brother to take you and I know I've been a complete fucking arsehole for the past two weeks, but actually I'm in love with you and I have been for years'?"
"I mean. Yeah. Basically."
"She'd hex me."
"Probably."
"She'd be right to hex me."
"Also probably."
Fred reached for the bottle. Took another long swallow. The firewhiskey burned going down, but it was a good burn, a cleansing burn. The kind of burn that made him feel like maybe he could actually say the words he'd been swallowing for years.
"She kissed me once," he said. "Fourth year. After the Quidditch final. We won, and everyone was celebrating, and she'd had too much butterbeer. She grabbed my face and kissed me."
Lee's eyebrows shot up. "What did you do?"
"Nothing. I froze. And then she pulled back and laughed it off like it was a joke, and I let her. I pretended I didn't remember the next day. She pretended too. We never talked about it."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because I was fucking terrified." Fred pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Because she was my best friend. Because I didn't know what it meant. Because I thought if I ignored it, it would go away."
"But it didn't."
"No. It didn't." He dropped his hands. "It's been there this whole time. Every time she laughs at one of my jokes. Every time she fixes my collar without asking. Every time she looks at me with that expression like she knows exactly what I'm thinking. It's been there, and I've been pretending it wasn't, and now I'm sitting here drinking firewhiskey alone while she's probably upstairs with George."
"She's not with George. She went to bed hours ago."
"You know what I mean."
Lee took another swig from the bottle. "So what are you going to do? Tomorrow. At the Ball."
"I don't know." Fred stared at the dying embers. "Watch her with my brother all night? Smile and pretend I'm fine while Angelina talks about Quidditch? Drink more firewhiskey than is medically advisable?"
"That's a plan, I guess. Not a good plan."
"I'm not good at plans."
"Then make one. Figure out what you want to say. Find her. Pull her aside. Tell her the truth."
"And what if she doesn't want to hear it? What if she's happier with George?"
"Mate." Lee's voice was gentler than Fred had ever heard it. "She's not happier with George. She's surviving with George. There's a difference. She's been in love with you since we were kids. Everyone knows that. Even George knows that. He's just been keeping her company while you pull your head out of your arse."
Fred laughed—a short, broken sound. "George is too good for both of us."
"Obviously. That's not new information."
"He's been the one taking care of her. While I've been—" Fred gestured vaguely at himself. "Whatever the fuck I've been doing. Being oblivious. Being a coward. Being so scared of my own feelings that I pushed her toward my own brother."
"You didn't push her. You were an idiot. There's a difference."
"Not from where I'm standing."
Lee handed him the bottle. Fred took it. Drank.
"Tomorrow," Lee said. "Tell her tomorrow."
"At the Ball."
"Very romantic."
"Or it'll be a complete catastrophe and she'll never speak to me again."
"That's also possible."
"Thanks for the encouragement, Lee."
"Anytime, mate." Lee grinned. "That's what friends are for."
You couldn't sleep.
It was the night before the Ball, and you were lying in your four-poster bed, staring at the canopy, listening to your dorm-mates breathe in the darkness. Hermione had gone to bed hours ago, exhausted from helping Viktor Krum prepare for the opening dance. Lavender and Parvati were whispering about dress robes and hair charms and which boys they hoped would ask them to dance.
You weren't thinking about any of that. You were thinking about Fred.
You were always thinking about Fred.
Tomorrow night, you'd be standing in the Great Hall in dress robes, and George would be beside you—George, who had been your anchor for the past two weeks, who had pushed the butter dish toward your hand and walked you to class and sat with you in silence when words were too much. George, who had asked you to the Ball not because he wanted something from you, but because he couldn't stand to watch you fall apart alone.
And Fred would be across the room with Angelina.
Tomorrow night, you'd have to watch them dance together. Watch him smile at her. Watch his hand rest on her waist the way it had rested on yours a thousand times over the years—casually, thoughtlessly, as if he didn't notice he was doing it.
You didn't know how you were going to survive it.
The quill Fred had given you was sitting on your nightstand. Even in the darkness, you could see it glowing faintly, cycling through colours that had nothing to do with your mood. You'd tried to write with it earlier, just to see what it felt like, and the sparks had been so bright you'd nearly set your Charms essay on fire.
He'd seen it in a shop window and thought of you.
He'd noticed you twisting things up when you were upset.
He'd said I notice everything about you like it was nothing, like those words weren't the most devastating thing anyone had ever said to you.
And then he'd asked Angelina to the Ball.
You rolled over, burying your face in your pillow. The firewhiskey from earlier had worn off, leaving behind nothing but a dull headache and the familiar ache in your chest that had been there for two weeks.
George's words echoed in your head: Come to the Ball with me. As friends. As the person who's going to make sure you survive the night.
He'd been so steady. So calm. So completely unlike his brother, who was all chaos and noise and bad decisions.
You didn't deserve George. You didn't deserve the way he'd shown up for you, day after day, without asking for anything in return. And tomorrow, you were going to walk into that Ballroom on his arm, and you were going to pretend you were fine, and you were going to try—really try—to give him at least one good memory from this stupid night.
Even if it killed you.
"Fuck," you whispered into the darkness.
Nobody answered. The snow kept falling. The castle settled into silence around you, ancient and indifferent and utterly unaware that you were lying awake, counting down the hours until the worst night of your life.
Tomorrow. The Yule Ball. George's arm in yours, Fred's eyes on someone else, the whole charade of pretending you were fine when you were falling apart inside.
You closed your eyes and didn't sleep.
The Yule Ball began at eight o'clock, and by eight-fifteen you already knew you weren't going to survive it.
Not literally. You weren't being dramatic—or you were, but quietly, privately, the kind of dramatic that happened entirely inside your own head while your face remained arranged in something that approximated pleasant anticipation. You were sixteen years old. You'd been waiting for this night for weeks. You had a friend beside you who had known you long enough to understand exactly what kind of evening this was going to be.
You were going to survive it. You just weren't going to enjoy it.
The Entrance Hall was crowded with students in dress robes, everyone's voices pitched slightly too high, everyone's laughter ringing slightly too bright. The champions were lined up near the doors, waiting to make their grand entrance—Harry looked like he was facing execution, Cedric looked serene and handsome and irritating, Fleur was radiant, Viktor was stoic. Parvati Patil was adjusting Harry's robes with the air of someone who had already accepted that her evening was going to be a disaster. Hermione stood beside Viktor, and she looked so different that you'd walked right past her before recognizing her.
"You're staring," George said, appearing at your elbow.
"I'm not staring. I'm observing."
"You're staring at Hermione's robes like they've personally offended you."
"They haven't. She looks beautiful. I'm just—processing."
"Processing."
"It's a lot of periwinkle."
George snorted. He'd cleaned up well—his hair was actually brushed, his dress robes were only slightly too short in the sleeves, and someone had convinced him to wear a tie that was approximately the right shade of scarlet. He looked like himself, which was comforting. George always looked like himself, even in formalwear.
"You look nice," you told him, because it was true. He was your friend. One of your best friends. And he'd stepped up when Fred had been too oblivious to notice you were drowning.
"So do you." His gaze was steady. "You're going to be fine."
"I know."
"I mean it. It's just a dance. A few hours. Then it's over."
"I know."
"And if you need to leave early—"
"I won't."
"—we can leave early. No questions asked."
"George." You turned to face him properly. The Entrance Hall was full of people, full of noise, full of the particular chaos that preceded formal events. Somewhere behind you, Fred was laughing at something Angelina had said, his voice cutting through the crowd with the precision of a knife. "I'm fine. Really. It's just the Yule Ball. I'm not going to fall apart because my best friend brought someone else."
George looked at you for a long moment. He knew you were lying. You knew he knew. But he also knew better than to push.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay."
"Just so you know, though." He adjusted his tie, a small, almost nervous gesture. "You don't have to be fine. Not with me."
Something tightened in your chest. "I know."
"Good."
"Good."
The doors to the Great Hall swung open. The champions began their procession. The crowd surged forward, and you let yourself be carried along, George's hand resting lightly on your elbow, steering you through the crush of bodies toward the glittering, candlelit cavern of the Great Hall.
The night had begun.
You were going to survive it. You just weren't going to enjoy it.
The first hour was the hardest.
The Great Hall had been transformed into something out of a fairy tale—ice sculptures glittering in the corners, fairy lights woven through the evergreen boughs, the enchanted ceiling reflecting a perfect winter sky full of stars that didn't exist. The tables were draped in white linen and set with crystal goblets that sparkled like captured starlight. The band played something sweeping and orchestral, and the dance floor was already filling with couples.
Fred and Angelina were among the first to dance.
You watched them. You couldn't help it. Your eyes kept finding them in the crowd the way your tongue kept finding the sore spot inside your cheek—compulsive, painful, impossible to stop. Angelina looked stunning in deep green robes that made her look like some kind of warrior queen, and Fred's hand was on her waist, and she was laughing at something he'd said, and he was spinning her in a way that was technically incorrect but undeniably joyful.
"Y/N."
You blinked. George was holding a glass of punch toward you, his expression carefully neutral.
"Thanks."
"You weren't drinking your other one."
You looked down. There was a glass of punch on the table in front of you, untouched. You didn't remember putting it there. "Right. Sorry. Distracted."
"I noticed."
The band shifted into a new song, something faster. Lee Jordan and Katie Bell stumbled past, both of them laughing too hard to maintain anything resembling proper dance form. Alicia Spinnet's Ravenclaw date was surprisingly graceful, leading her through the steps with practiced ease. The night swirled on around you, bright and loud and relentless.
"Do you want to dance?" George asked.
"Not yet."
"Okay."
He didn't push. George never pushed. He just sat beside you, a steady presence at the edge of the dance floor, and let you watch Fred spin Angelina until your chest felt like it was full of broken glass.
By ten o'clock, you'd danced exactly twice.
Once with George, who had been true to his word about his dancing abilities—he'd stepped on your feet three times and apologized after each one with such genuine chagrin that you'd ended up laughing despite yourself. Once with Lee, who had dragged you onto the floor during a particularly energetic number and spun you around until you were dizzy and breathless and almost, almost having fun.
Fred hadn't asked you to dance.
He'd danced with Angelina. He'd danced with Katie. He'd danced with Alicia and Ginny and even, briefly, with Hermione, who'd been abandoned by Viktor while he went to fetch drinks. He'd danced with half the Gryffindor girls and several from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff besides.
He hadn't danced with you.
You told yourself it didn't matter. You were here with George. Fred was here with Angelina. The two of you hadn't danced together at a school event since fourth year, when he'd dragged you onto the floor at the end-of-term feast and spun you around until you'd both collapsed laughing. It wasn't a tradition. It wasn't something you were owed.
It still stung.
You found the firewhiskey sometime around half past ten.
It was being passed around by a group of seventh-year boys near the back of the Hall, hidden behind a truly massive ice sculpture of a rearing hippogriff. One of them—a tall Ravenclaw whose name you couldn't remember—caught your eye as you walked past and offered you the flask with a conspiratorial grin.
"Rough night?"
"Something like that."
You took a swallow. It burned going down, a fierce, bright heat that spread through your chest and settled somewhere in the region of your stomach. You coughed. The seventh-year laughed.
"First time?"
"First time tonight."
"That's the spirit."
You took another swallow. The burn was less shocking this time. The warmth spread further, reaching your fingertips, loosening something in your spine that had been clenched tight since Fred had walked over to Angelina at breakfast two weeks ago.
You handed the flask back. The seventh-year gave you an approving nod and turned back to his friends.
You walked back to your table, where George was waiting, and you didn't tell him where you'd been.
By midnight, the Ball had begun to fray.
The band had switched to slower songs, the kind of syrupy ballads that made couples sway together in the dim light. The candles had burned lower, the fairy lights had begun to flicker, and the crowd had thinned as younger students drifted off to their common rooms. The champions were still there—Harry looked exhausted, Cedric looked impeccable, Fleur was dancing with a boy from Beauxbatons who kept stepping on her feet. Viktor and Hermione had disappeared somewhere; you didn't want to think about where.
You'd found your own firewhiskey by then. A full bottle, purchased from a Slytherin seventh-year who'd set up an illicit bar behind the refreshment table. It had cost you most of the gold in your pocket, and it was worth every knut.
George had tried to stop you. Once. You'd snapped at him—something about not being a child, about not needing a babysitter, about how he should just go find someone else to hover over because you were fine, you were absolutely fine, could he please just leave you alone—
He'd gone. Not far—you could still see him at the edge of the dance floor, talking to Lee and Katie, his shoulders tight with something he was too good a friend to name. But he'd gone, and you were alone, and the firewhiskey was warm in your throat and warm in your stomach and warm in your veins, and it still wasn't enough.
Because Fred was still dancing with Angelina.
He'd been dancing with her all night. Waltzes and reels and the slow, swaying ballads that the band had switched to an hour ago. His hand on her waist. Her head on his shoulder. His laugh carrying across the dance floor, bright and easy and utterly oblivious.
You took another swallow. The bottle was half-empty now. When had that happened?
The song ended. Another began. You watched Fred spin Angelina in a slow circle, watched her dress flare out around her ankles, watched his face crease with laughter at something she'd said.
You hated her.
No—that wasn't fair. Angelina was brilliant. Angelina was kind and funny and talented and she'd done nothing wrong, nothing except say yes when a boy she liked asked her to a dance. You didn't hate Angelina. You hated the way Fred looked at her. You hated the way he touched her waist. You hated that she was standing where you'd stood a thousand times—beside him, close to him, in the orbit of his attention—and she didn't even know what she had.
You took another swallow.
The firewhiskey didn't help. But it made the hate feel a little less sharp, a little less like it was going to cut you open from the inside out.
By two in the morning, the Ball had begun to rot.
Not literally. The decorations were still beautiful, the candles still flickering, the band still playing. But the magic had curdled. The dance floor was nearly empty now, just a few stubborn couples swaying in the dim light. The tables were littered with empty goblets and abandoned plates and the wilted remains of centerpieces that had looked magical eight hours ago. Someone had knocked over a glass of punch near the refreshment table, and the house-elves hadn't appeared to clean it yet, so the puddle was spreading slowly across the white tablecloth like a bloodstain.
You were drunk.
Properly, thoroughly drunk. The bottle was three-quarters empty. Your head was spinning. Your fingers were numb. The anger that had been burning in your chest all night had softened into something duller, something sadder, something that sat heavy in your stomach like a stone.
Angelina had left twenty minutes ago. You'd watched her go—watched Fred walk her to the door of the Great Hall, watched her kiss his cheek, watched her say something that made him smile before she disappeared into the darkness of the Entrance Hall. She'd looked tired but happy. Satisfied. Like she'd had exactly the evening she'd been hoping for.
Fred hadn't left with her.
He was still here, standing near the punch table with Lee and a few other stragglers, his tie undone, his hair a mess, a glass of something amber in his hand. He'd been drinking too—you'd noticed that hours ago, had watched him refill his glass again and again from a flask he kept in his inner pocket. His face had that loose, flushed quality that meant he'd had more than he should have, and his laugh was too loud, and he kept running his hand through his hair the way he always did when he was trying to figure something out and failing.
He hadn't looked at you all night.
No—that wasn't true. He'd looked at you. Once, during a waltz around eleven, your eyes had met across the dance floor and something had flickered in his expression, something that might have been confusion or guilt or something else entirely. Then Angelina had said something in his ear, and he'd turned away, and the moment had shattered.
He hadn't looked at you since.
But he was looking at you now.
You felt it before you saw it—the prickle of awareness at the back of your neck, the instinct that told you someone was watching. You lifted your head, the room swimming slightly, and there he was. Fred Weasley, standing near the punch table with his glass of firewhiskey and his undone tie and his hair sticking up in six different directions.
Staring at you.
His expression was strange. Not the easy grin you were used to. Not the casual, thoughtless confidence he wore like a second skin. Something rawer, something unguarded. His jaw was tight. His eyes were dark. He looked like someone who had been running for a long time and had finally stopped, not because he'd reached his destination, but because his legs had given out.
You stared back.
The music played. The candles flickered. The few remaining dancers swayed in their slow, oblivious circles.
Fred lifted his glass. A toast. A challenge. A question.
You lifted your bottle in response.
And then you drank.
You didn't remember crossing the dance floor.
One moment you were at your table, the bottle clutched in your hand, Fred's gaze fixed on you from across the room. The next moment you were moving, your feet carrying you through the empty space between tables, past the last few swaying couples, past the punch-stained tablecloth and the flickering fairy lights. You grabbed his arm—not gently, not romantically, your fingers digging into the sleeve of his dress robes—and pulled him toward the edge of the Hall.
"What are you—"
"Shut up."
You dragged him past the refreshment table, past the wilted centerpieces, past the ice sculpture that had mostly melted into a sad puddle on the floor. There was a small antechamber off the main hallway, half-hidden by a tapestry, with a velvet curtain hanging across the entrance. You'd passed it earlier on your way back from the bathroom. You hadn't known why you'd noted it then.
You knew now.
You shoved him through the curtain and followed him inside.
It was a small space. A storage room, maybe, or an old cloakroom that had been forgotten when the castle renovated itself. There were no windows. No candles. Just darkness and dust and the faint, far-off echo of music from the Great Hall.
"What the fuck, Y/N?" Fred stumbled, catching himself on the wall. "You can't just—"
"You're drunk," you said. Your voice came out rough, scraped raw by firewhiskey and six hours of silence.
"So are you."
"I'm aware."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "You've been sitting in that corner all night."
"And you've been dancing with Angelina all night. Congratulations. We're both very observant."
Something flickered in his eyes. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't do that. The thing where you pretend you're fine. You've been doing it for two weeks and I'm sick of it."
The anger flared, sudden and hot, cutting through the fog of alcohol like a blade. "You're sick of it? You're sick of me pretending I'm fine? That's rich, Fred. That's really fucking rich."
"I didn't mean—"
"What did you mean, then? What exactly have I been pretending? Because from where I'm standing, you're the one who's been pretending. Pretending you don't notice. Pretending everything's normal. Pretending you didn't—"
You stopped. The word caught in your throat, too sharp, too dangerous.
"Didn't what?" Fred's voice was low. His eyes hadn't left your face.
"Didn't ask her."
The words hung in the air between you. The band had stopped playing; you hadn't noticed until now. The silence was sudden and absolute, broken only by the distant clink of glasses and the murmur of the few remaining guests.
Fred's jaw tightened. "You told me to ask her."
"I know."
"You said 'sure, you should ask her.' Those were your exact words. I asked for your opinion and you told me to go for it."
"I know what I said."
"Then what the fuck did you want me to do?"
The curse hit you like a slap. Fred never cursed at you—not like that, not with that edge in his voice. You'd heard him swear a thousand times, at Quidditch matches, at pranks gone wrong, at Snape and Filch and anyone who got in his way. But not at you. Never at you.
"I wanted you to fucking figure it out!" The words tore out of you, louder than you'd intended, loud enough that anyone still lingering in the corridor would hear. You didn't care. "I wanted you to not need me to tell you! I wanted you to look at me and just—just know, the way I've always known, the way everyone else apparently already knew—"
"Everyone else?"
"George knew. Lee knew. I think even McGonagall fucking knew, Fred. The whole school knew. The only person who didn't know was you."
Fred's face had gone pale. Or maybe flushed—it was hard to tell in the darkness. "Knew what?"
"Don't."
"Knew what, Y/N?"
"You know what."
"Say it."
"Fuck you."
"Say it."
The room was spinning. The firewhiskey was burning in your stomach, in your throat, behind your eyes. Fred was standing too close, or not close enough, and his tie was undone and his collar was crooked and he was looking at you with something that might have been anger or might have been desperation or might have been the same thing you'd been feeling for two weeks, for two years, for your entire goddamn life.
"I'm in love with you." The words fell out of you, clumsy and cracked and nothing like you'd imagined. "I've been in love with you since—I don't even know. Since fourth year. Since third. Since the first time you stole my toast and I wanted to hex you and kiss you at the same time. I've been in love with you for years, Fred, and you asked Angelina to the Ball, and I told you to, because I'm a fucking idiot who thought—I don't know what I thought. That you'd realise. That you'd change your mind. That you'd look at me the way you look at her and just—"
Your voice broke.
The silence stretched.
And Fred said, "You went with George."
"What?"
"You went with George." His voice was rough, jagged, nothing like his usual easy tone. "I told him to ask you—I know, I know I told him, and it was my idea, and I'm a fucking idiot—but you said yes. You said yes, and you've been sitting with him all night, and he's been making you laugh, and you've been looking at him like—"
"He's my friend. Your brother. My friend."
"He's still the one standing next to you!"
"Because you told him to be! Because you handed me off like I was a problem you didn't want to solve yourself!"
Fred flinched. "That's not—"
"Then what was it, Fred? What exactly was it when you suggested I go to the Ball with your brother? Because from where I'm standing, it looked a lot like you didn't want me, but you didn't want to feel guilty about it, so you made sure someone else would take care of me."
"That's not fair."
"None of this is fair!" You were shouting now. "None of this is fair, and I'm so fucking tired of pretending it is. I'm tired of pretending I'm fine. I'm tired of pretending I don't care. I'm tired of watching you with her and smiling and being supportive while you break my heart over and over again without even noticing."
"I noticed."
"Bullshit."
"I did. I noticed something was wrong. I just—" He ran his hands through his hair, gripping the strands. "I didn't know what it was. I didn't know what I'd done. And I didn't know how to fix it."
"You asked Angelina."
"I know."
"You brought her here. You danced with her all night. You gave her a corsage."
"I know."
"You don't get to stand here and be jealous of George. George has been a better friend to me in the last two weeks than you've been in six years."
The words hit him like a physical blow. His expression crumpled.
"I know," he said again. His voice was barely a whisper now. "I know he has. I know I fucked up. I know I've been a complete fucking idiot. I've been in love with you for years, Y/N, and I didn't even know it. Everyone else knew. George knew. Lee knew. Everyone except me. And by the time I figured it out, I'd already asked someone else, and you were with my brother, and I had to watch you smile at him all night and I wanted to fucking die."
"You don't get to die. You don't get to be the victim here."
"I'm not trying to be the victim."
"Then what are you trying to do?"
"I'm trying to tell you I love you!" The words exploded out of him. "I'm trying to tell you I love you, and I'm sorry, and I know that doesn't fix anything but it's all I have. It's all I fucking have, Y/N."
You stared at him. His chest was heaving. His eyes were wet. His hands were shaking at his sides.
"I love you," he said again, quieter this time. "I love you, and I'm sorry it took me so long to figure it out. I'm sorry I asked her. I'm sorry I told George to ask you. I'm sorry I've been a jealous, oblivious arsehole for the past two weeks. I'm sorry for all of it."
The anger was still there, burning in your chest. But underneath it, there was something else. Something that had been there for years. Something that wasn't going away no matter how much you wanted it to.
"I love you too," you said. "And I hate it. I hate that I love you. I hate that you can make me feel like this. I hate that you've hurt me so much and I still want you anyway."
"Then want me. Please. Want me."
You grabbed him by his undone tie and kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't romantic. It was teeth and firewhiskey and two weeks of misery pouring out of you all at once. Fred made a sound against your mouth—surprise, maybe, or relief, or something else entirely—and then his hands were in your hair and he was kissing you back, fierce and desperate and nothing like you'd imagined.
"Fuck," he breathed against your lips.
"Shut up."
"You can't just—"
"Shut up, Fred."
You kissed him again. His back hit the wall. His hands were on your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise, and you didn't care. You didn't care about anything except the taste of him and the heat of him and the way he was saying your name between kisses like it was the only word he remembered.
"Two weeks," you said, pulling back just enough to speak. "Two weeks I've been watching you with her. Two weeks of pretending I was fine."
"Me too." His voice was ragged. "You think I didn't want to scream every time George made you laugh? Every time he touched your arm?"
"He's your brother. He's my friend. That's all."
"I know." He kissed your jaw, your throat. "I know. I'm an idiot."
"You're a complete fucking idiot."
"I know."
You kissed him again. Harder. Angrier. His teeth caught your lower lip and you tasted blood, sharp and metallic.
"I love you."
The words hit you like a physical blow. You stared at him, your hands still resting on his collar.
"You're drunk."
"I'm drunk and I love you. Both things can be true."
"We're still fighting," you said.
"I know."
"I'm still furious at you."
"I know."
"You're an absolute bastard, Fred Weasley."
"I know." He kissed the corner of your mouth. "Tell me again."
"I love you."
His forehead dropped to yours. "I love you too. I'm sorry it took me so long."
"Don't." You shoved him back, your hands flat against his chest. "Don't apologize. Apologies don't fix anything."
"Then what do you want me to say?"
"I want you to explain why you waited until I was walking away to figure out you loved me." You stepped toward him again, close enough to feel the heat of him, the firewhiskey on his breath. "I want you to explain why I had to watch you with her all night. I want you to make it make sense."
"It doesn't make sense." His voice was raw, scraped hollow. "None of it makes sense. I've been a fucking idiot. I've been scared. I've been—"
"Scared of what?"
"Of this." He grabbed your face in his hands, his fingers pressing into your jaw. "Of you. Of how much I need you. Of what happens if I let myself feel it and you decide I'm not worth it."
"Then why now?"
"Because I'm watching you slip away." His thumbs traced your cheekbones, too gentle for how furious he looked. "Because George gets to stand next to you and I don't. Because he gets to make you laugh and touch your arm and be the person you turn to, and I'm stuck across the room with someone else pretending I'm not dying inside."
"George is your brother."
"I know he's my brother!" His grip tightened. "I know he's my brother, and I know he's been a better friend to you than I have, and I hate it. I hate that he's the one you lean on now. I hate that I did this to myself. I hate that I told him to ask you and then spent every single day wishing I could take it back."
"You don't get to hate it." You grabbed his wrists, pulling his hands away from your face. "You don't get to be jealous of George. George has been there for me every single day for two weeks while you were off being oblivious. He pushed the butter dish toward my hand when I forgot to eat. He walked me to class when I couldn't stand to look at you. He asked me to the Ball knowing I was in love with someone else, and he never asked for anything in return."
"I know what he did."
"Then stop acting like you're the victim here."
"I'm not acting like the victim." He grabbed your waist, pulling you against him. "I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you. I know George has been everything I should have been. I know all of that. But I'm still standing here. I'm still telling you I love you. Does that count for nothing?"
"It counts for something." Your voice cracked. "But it doesn't undo the last two weeks."
"Then tell me how to undo it."
"You can't."
"Then tell me what to do."
"I don't know." You were shaking. "I don't know what I want. I want to kiss you and I want to scream at you and I want to go back in time and make you ask me instead of her."
"I wish I had." His forehead pressed against yours. "I wish I'd asked you. I wish I'd figured it out sooner. I wish I wasn't such a fucking coward."
"You are a coward."
"I know."
"You've been a terrible friend."
"I know."
"You broke my heart."
"I know." His voice shattered on the words. "And I'll spend as long as it takes trying to fix it. Just—tell me there's something to fix. Tell me you still want this. Even a little."
"I want this." You grabbed the front of his shirt, twisting the fabric in your fists. "I want this so much I can't fucking breathe. That's the problem. I want you even when I hate you."
"Then hate me." His hands were on your hips now, gripping hard enough to bruise. "Hate me and want me at the same time. I can take it."
"Fuck you."
"I'm serious. Be as angry as you need to be. Scream at me. Hit me. I don't care. Just don't walk away."
"I already walked away."
"And you came back."
"I didn't come back. I never left. That's the whole fucking problem, Fred. I've been here the whole time. You just didn't notice."
"I notice now."
"Too late."
"Is it?" He kissed you—hard, desperate, his teeth catching your lower lip. "Is it too late? Tell me it's too late and I'll stop."
"Maybe it is."
"You kissed me first. You told me you loved me. You're still standing here."
"Fuck you."
"You keep saying that." He kissed you again. Angrier. "But you're not leaving. You're not leaving because you don't want to leave. You want to be here. You want me."
"Don't tell me what I want."
"I'm not telling you. I'm showing you." His hands were everywhere—your hair, your back, your hips. "You want me. You've always wanted me. And I've been too fucking stupid to see it."
"Then why didn't you?" You shoved him back again, harder this time. He stumbled, his shoulder hitting the wall. "Why didn't you see it? I was right there. I've been right there for six years. What was so wrong with me that you couldn't just—"
"Nothing! There's nothing wrong with you! That's the whole fucking problem!" He pushed off the wall, swaying. His eyes were wild now, unfocused. The firewhiskey was bleeding through every word. "You're so fucking perfect and patient and good, and I'm—I'm not. I'm chaos and noise and bad decisions. I ruin things. It's what I do. I ruin everything I touch."
"You didn't ruin me."
"Didn't I?" He laughed—a horrible, jagged sound. "Look at you. You're shaking. You're crying. You've been miserable for two weeks. And for what? For me? I'm not worth that. I'm not worth any of this."
"Don't do that. Don't make yourself the martyr."
"I'm not a martyr. I'm a disaster. I've always been a disaster. Ask anyone. Ask George. Ask my mum. I'm the one who breaks things. I'm the one who takes stupid risks and drags everyone down with me. You want to know why I didn't notice you? Because I was trying to protect you. From me."
"That's bullshit."
"Is it?"
"Yes! You weren't protecting me. You were protecting yourself. You were scared, so you pushed me away. That's not noble. That's selfish."
"Maybe I'm selfish." He stepped toward you, unsteady. "Maybe I'm the most selfish person in this entire fucking castle. Maybe I wanted you and I didn't want to want you, so I pretended I didn't. Maybe I've been lying to myself for so long I forgot what the truth felt like."
"What is the truth?"
"The truth is that I love you. The truth is that I've always loved you. The truth is that I asked Angelina because she's safe, because she doesn't make me feel like my chest is caving in every time she looks at me. The truth is that I'm a coward and a liar and you deserve someone who isn't either of those things."
"Fred—"
"You deserve George." The words came out bitter, slurred, ugly. "You deserve someone steady. Someone patient. Someone who doesn't steal your toast and forget to apologize. Someone who doesn't get drunk at a school dance and confess his feelings behind a fucking curtain. Someone who saw what he had before he threw it away."
"Stop."
"Why? It's true. George is better than me. He's always been better than me. And you—you've spent the last two weeks leaning on him, laughing with him, letting him take care of you. Maybe that's what you wanted all along. Maybe you just didn't know it."
"That's not—"
"Isn't it? You said yes when he asked you. You sat with him at every meal. You danced with him. You smiled at him. You looked at him like—" His voice cracked. "You used to look at me like that. And now you look at him. And maybe that's a good thing. Maybe he's what you need. Maybe I did you a favor."
"A favor?" Your voice was dangerously quiet.
"By telling him to ask you. By stepping aside. By letting him have you, since I'm too much of a fuck-up to deserve you myself."
The words hung in the air, ugly and raw and soaked in firewhiskey.
"Letting him have me?" you repeated. "Like I'm something to be passed around? Like I don't get a say in who I want?"
"That's not what I—"
"You don't get to let anyone have me, Fred. I'm not yours to give away."
"I know."
"You handed me off to your brother because you were too scared to deal with your own feelings. You didn't ask me what I wanted. You didn't stop to think about how I'd feel. You just—made a decision, like always, and expected everyone else to deal with the consequences."
"I'm sorry."
"I don't want your sorry. I want you to stop being so fucking selfish for one second and actually hear what I'm saying."
"I'm hearing you."
"No. You're not. You're standing there feeling sorry for yourself. You're telling me George is better than you so I'll argue with you and reassure you. You're making yourself the victim so I'll feel bad for you. But I don't feel bad for you, Fred. I feel bad for me. I feel bad for the person who's been in love with you for six years while you were too busy being scared to notice."
Fred stared at her. His mouth opened. Closed.
"Nothing to say?" you demanded.
"I don't—I don't know what you want from me."
"I want you to stop being a coward. I want you to stop hiding behind jokes and self-pity. I want you to look at me and actually see me. Not the idea of me. Not the version of me you've built up in your head. Me. The person who's been standing right in front of you for six years."
"I see you."
"Do you? Because right now, it feels like you're seeing yourself. Your guilt. Your fear. Your jealousy. You're not seeing me at all."
Silence.
Fred swayed on his feet. His eyes were wet, bloodshot, unfocused. The alcohol was thick on his breath, thick in his voice, and when he spoke again, it was with the particular cruelty of someone who was too drunk to filter his own thoughts.
"Maybe I don't see you," he said. "Maybe I never did. Maybe I've been in love with the idea of you, and the reality is—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Maybe the reality is that you're just as scared as I am. You stood there for six years waiting for me to notice you. You never said anything. You never fought for it. You just waited. And now you're angry at me for not reading your mind."
"I'm angry at you for asking someone else."
"Because I didn't know! Because you never told me! Because you've been so busy being the perfect, patient, supportive friend that you forgot to actually tell me what you wanted!"
"Don't you dare blame this on me."
"I'm not blaming you. I'm saying—" He ran his hands through his hair, gripping the strands. "Fuck. I don't know what I'm saying. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know anything anymore."
"Then maybe you should figure it out."
"Maybe I should."
"Maybe you should do it somewhere else."
"Yeah." He laughed, bitter and broken. "Yeah, maybe I should. Maybe I should go find Angelina. She's probably wondering where I am. She's probably worried. She actually wanted to be here tonight. She actually wanted to be with me."
The words hit you like a slap.
"Then go." Your voice was ice. "Go find Angelina. Go apologize for disappearing. Go dance with her. Go pretend tonight wasn't a complete fucking disaster."
"Maybe I will."
"Fine."
"Fine."
Neither of you moved.
"I hate this," you said. "I hate that I love you. I hate that you can make me feel like this. I hate that I kissed you and it felt like everything I ever wanted, and it still wasn't enough to make you stop being an asshole."
"I'm always an asshole."
"I know."
"It's the only thing I'm good at."
"Then you're very good at it."
"Thanks."
"It wasn't a compliment."
The silence stretched. Your chest was heaving. His eyes were red. Somewhere far away, the band had started playing again—a slow, mournful waltz for the last few dancers too stubborn to leave.
"I should go," you said.
"Yeah."
"Don't follow me this time."
"I won't."
You turned toward the curtain. Your legs were shaking. Your whole body was shaking. But you were going to walk out of here, because that was the only thing you had left.
"Y/N."
You stopped. Didn't turn around.
"For what it's worth," he said, and his voice was barely a whisper now, "meeting you wasn't the worst thing that ever happened to me. It was the best. Even if I'm too fucked up to show it. Even if I've ruined everything. Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me."
You closed your eyes. A tear slipped down your cheek.
"Goodbye, Fred."
"Goodbye, Y/N."
You pushed through the velvet curtain and walked away.
Summary: Y/N has been in love with Fred Weasley for six years. She's memorized the exact shade of his eyes, fixed his crooked tie a thousand times without being asked, and perfected the art of pretending her heart doesn't crack every time he looks at someone else.
So when Fred asks Angelina Johnson to the Yule Ball—and then suggests his twin brother George take Y/N instead—she does what she's always done. Smiles. Says she's fine. Falls apart in private.
What follows is two weeks of stolen glances, firewhiskey-soaked recklessness, and a slow-burn explosion that finally detonates behind a velvet curtain at four in the morning, where there's no one left to perform for.
Pairing: Fred Weasely X y/n
Warning: This story contains underage drinking, intense emotional arguments, and a relationship dynamic that is messy, painful, and unresolved. Fred says things he doesn't mean. The reader says things she does mean. No one comes out of this looking their best. If you're looking for soft, uncomplicated romance, this isn't that. If you're looking for two people who love each other destroying each other behind a velvet curtain at four in the morning, welcome.
A/N : This is the first time im publishing on tumblr, i have never really done it before. lets hope this works out. Please comment reblog or like i would love to hear your thoughts <3
Word Count : I lost track after i crossed 16k
Here’s Part 2
The Great Hall smelled like toast and snow.
Not the snow itself—snow didn't smell like anything except cold, that particular sharp emptiness that crept into your lungs when you breathed too deep. But the wet-wool-and-frost scent of a Scottish December had settled into every corner of the castle, clinging to robes and tapestries and the ancient stone floors. The enchanted ceiling showed a sky the colour of old pewter, heavy with clouds that couldn't decide whether to snow or simply threaten it. Candles floated overhead in their usual lazy orbits, dripping wax onto tables where house-elves would vanish it before anyone noticed.
You noticed anyway. You always noticed stupid shit like that—the way the candles never quite lined up properly over the Slytherin table, the way Professor Flitwick's teacup sat exactly three inches from the edge of the staff table every single morning, the way the first-year Hufflepuffs always huddled together at the far end of their bench like a flock of nervous sheep.
Noticing things was basically your entire personality at this point. That and being in love with your best friend, which was a fucking cliché and you knew it was a cliché and that didn't stop it from being true.
The bench was cold through your robes. Someone had left a copy of the Daily Prophet open to the Quidditch section, and the Chudley Cannons had lost again—there was a surprise. Further down the table, a fourth-year was frantically finishing an essay while her friend charmed a spoon to tap-dance across a bowl of porridge. The spoon was doing a better job than the fourth-year, honestly.
Professor McGonagall paused on her way to the staff table and fixed the spoon with the particular expression of someone who had been dealing with magical nonsense for forty years and was very tired of it. The spoon stopped dancing. The fourth-year looked relieved.
You reached for the toast.
The toast was gone.
"You absolute fucking menace."
Fred Weasley grinned at you from across the table, your toast already halfway to his mouth, butter dripping onto his fingers. His tie was crooked—it was always crooked, had been crooked every single day since first year, and you'd fixed it for him approximately four thousand times without either of you ever acknowledging it. There was a smudge of something near his left eyebrow that was probably ink, or possibly gunpowder, or possibly both. With Fred, it was usually both.
"Morning to you too," he said, biting into your toast with theatrical satisfaction. "You took too long. Toast gets cold. It's a tragedy. I'm preventing tragedy. You should be thanking me, really."
"I should be hexing you."
"Semantics." He chewed happily. "You wouldn't hex me. You love me too much."
Your stomach did something complicated. You ignored it. You'd gotten very good at ignoring it over the years—the way your pulse jumped whenever he said shit like that, casual and thoughtless and completely unaware that those words hit you like a Bludger to the chest every single time.
"You're delusional," you said.
"I'm charming."
"You're a walking disaster."
"A charming walking disaster. There's a difference."
George slid onto the bench beside you, moving with the ease of someone who had sat in approximately the same spot since he was eleven years old. His hair was marginally less rumpled than Fred's, which meant he'd either woken up three minutes earlier or had given up on taming it three minutes faster. He glanced at Fred, then at your empty plate, then at Fred again, and his expression settled into something deeply unimpressed.
"She's going to hex you one of these days," he said.
"She's been saying that for six years. Empty threats."
"I hexed McLaggen last Tuesday."
"That was different. McLaggen deserved it. He was being a prat about Quidditch trials. I'm being delightful."
"Delightful," George repeated flatly. "Is that what we're calling breakfast theft now?"
"Toast redistribution. It's a social service."
The toast rack refilled itself with a faint pop. You grabbed two slices before Fred could intercept them, and the butter dish slid toward your hand before you could reach for it. George. It was always George who did the small things—pushing the butter, passing the salt, making sure your teacup was full. Fred was the one who stole your food and made you laugh and took up all the space in a room without even trying. George was the one who noticed when you needed something.
You'd never really thought about that before. You'd never really thought about a lot of things.
"Y/N."
Fred's voice pulled you back. He was looking at you with that particular expression he got when he was about to suggest something inadvisable—eyes bright, grin crooked, head tilted slightly to one side. He looked like a dog who'd just spotted a squirrel. A very tall, very ginger, very annoying dog.
"What?"
"I was saying we should test the new product on Filch during patrol tonight. George thinks it's too risky. I think George is being a coward."
"I think George has a survival instinct," George said.
"Same thing, basically."
"What's the product?" you asked, because you always asked, because you were part of this, the three of you, a unit that had functioned perfectly for six years.
"Fainting Fancies. New and improved. Supposed to knock you out for exactly thirty seconds, but we've been tweaking the formula and I think we can get it up to a full minute." Fred's eyes were practically sparkling. "Think of the chaos. Filch drops in the middle of the corridor, we raid his office, we're back in the common room before he even wakes up."
"That's the stupidest plan you've ever had."
"You said that about the Dungbomb cascade in the Slytherin common room."
"That was also stupid. You just got lucky."
"Luck is a skill."
"It's really not."
Fred leaned across the table, close enough that you could smell him—gunpowder and soap and something sweet, probably the cinnamon from the toast he'd stolen. "Come on, Y/N. Live a little. When's the last time you did something reckless?"
"When I agreed to be friends with you two."
"That wasn't reckless. That was fate."
"It was a lapse in judgment."
"It was the best decision you ever made."
His face was inches from yours. His eyes were very blue. You'd known that for six years—had memorized the exact shade, the way they crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the way they darkened when he was angry or excited or working on a particularly difficult bit of magic. You'd catalogued every detail of Fred Weasley's face like it was going to be on an exam, and it had never done you any good at all.
"Fine," you said, pulling back before you did something stupid like stare at him too long. "One test. If we get caught, I'm telling McGonagall it was entirely your idea."
"That's the spirit."
George was watching you. You could feel his gaze on the side of your face, steady and knowing and just a little too perceptive. George always noticed when you looked at Fred too long. George always noticed everything.
You didn't meet his eyes.
The toast was getting cold. You ate it anyway, not tasting it, your mind still stuck on the way Fred had leaned across the table, the way his voice had gone low and coaxing, the way he'd said *the best decision you ever made* like it was nothing, like those words didn't rearrange your entire internal landscape every time he said them.
He didn't know. Of course he didn't know. Fred Weasley was the most oblivious person on the planet when it came to anything that wasn't Quidditch or pranks or his own reflection. He could invent a product that made you vomit on command, but he couldn't see that his best friend had been in love with him for approximately five years.
Five years. Maybe six. You'd lost count.
"So," Fred said, reaching across the table to steal a sausage from George's plate this time, because he was an equal-opportunity thief, "the Yule Ball."
The words landed in your stomach like a stone. You'd been dreading this conversation for weeks. The Yule Ball. The fucking Yule Ball, with its dress robes and dancing and everyone pairing off like it was some kind of mating ritual. You'd been hoping—stupidly, pathetically—that Fred might ask you. Not as a date, necessarily. Just as friends. As the person he wanted to spend the evening with.
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
"What about it?" George asked.
"We should probably ask someone, shouldn't we? It's in two weeks." Fred was looking at his sausage with far too much concentration. "Seems like the sort of thing one does. For a ball. Asking someone."
"Astounding deduction," George said dryly.
"Thank you. I'm full of astounding deductions." Fred took a bite of the sausage. Chewed. Swallowed. His eyes flicked to you and then away, too fast to read. "Angelina was saying something about it yesterday. At Quidditch practice. She mentioned she didn't have a date yet."
Your fingers tightened around your teacup.
George glanced at you. You didn't notice, because you were busy staring at the toast rack like it contained the secrets of the universe.
"Are you going to ask her?" George said.
"Dunno. Maybe." Fred's voice had gone slightly too casual, the way it did when he was pretending something didn't matter. He was still not looking at you. "What do you think, Y/N?"
Don't. Don't ask me. Don't make me give you permission to break my heart.
"Sounds great," you said. "You should go for it."
It came out exactly right. Light. Casual. The opinion of someone who wanted her best friend to be happy. You deserved a fucking Oscar.
Fred's face did something complicated—relief, maybe, or disappointment, or some combination of both that you couldn't interpret. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Angelina's brilliant. You'd have fun."
"Right." He stood up so suddenly that the bench scraped against the stone floor. "Right. She's probably at breakfast still. I'll just—"
He was already moving. Long legs carrying him down the length of the Gryffindor table, past clusters of students and floating candles and the remains of a hundred breakfasts. You watched him go. Your teacup was still in your hand, halfway to your mouth, and you'd forgotten you were holding it.
"You're going to spill that," George said quietly.
You set the cup down. Your hands were shaking. Just slightly. Just enough that you noticed.
"I'm fine."
"I didn't ask."
"Don't."
"Y/N."
"Don't, George."
The silence stretched between you. The Great Hall continued around you—students laughing, plates refilling, the tap-dancing spoon making a comeback further down the table. Nothing had changed. Nothing at all.
Except Fred was standing at the end of the Gryffindor table now, leaning down to talk to Angelina Johnson, and her face was doing something pleased, and his ears had gone pink at the tips the way they always did when he was nervous.
He'd been nervous.
He'd been nervous to ask her, and he'd asked for your opinion first, and you'd told him to go for it because you were a fucking coward who couldn't say the words that had been lodged in your throat for half a decade.
"Fuck," you said, very quietly.
George didn't say anything. He just reached over and took the last piece of toast from your plate, very gently, as if he were handling something fragile. He didn't make a joke about it. He didn't steal it with the theatrical flair Fred would have used.
He just took it, and ate it, and sat beside you in silence while Angelina Johnson said yes to the boy you'd been in love with since you were eleven years old.
Fred didn't know why his chest felt tight.
He'd asked Angelina. She'd said yes. She'd smiled at him—that brilliant, confident smile she got during Quidditch matches when she knew they were going to win—and she'd said yes, and he should be happy. He should be fucking thrilled. Angelina was amazing. Angelina was beautiful and talented and she laughed at his jokes, even the bad ones. She was exactly the kind of girl he should want to take to a ball.
So why did he feel like he'd just made a massive mistake?
He walked back toward his seat, Angelina's yes still ringing in his ears, and he saw Y/N sitting there with her teacup frozen in midair and her face carefully, deliberately blank. George was beside her, saying something too quiet to hear, and the toast rack was empty, and something about the whole scene made Fred's stomach twist in a way he didn't understand.
She'd told him to ask Angelina. She'd said *go for it.* She'd smiled and sounded casual and acted like it didn't matter at all.
So why did he feel like he'd disappointed her somehow?
"You're back," George said as Fred dropped onto the bench. "How'd it go?"
"She said yes." Fred tried to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. It came out flat. "We're going together."
"Brilliant."
"Yeah. Brilliant."
Y/N was looking at her toast. Just looking at it, like she'd forgotten what food was for. There was marmalade on her sleeve, a small sticky smear near the cuff. She hadn't noticed. She always noticed shit like that—she was the most observant person Fred had ever met, could spot a loose thread on someone's robes from across the room—and she hadn't noticed.
"So," he said, because the silence was making his skin itch, "you'll need a date too, Y/N. Can't go alone. That's sad."
"I'll figure something out."
"Corner's been looking at you. Boot, too. And I think Macmillan might fancy you, he's always—"
"Fred." George's voice was quiet but firm. "Drop it."
"What? I'm just—"
"Drop it."
Fred opened his mouth. Closed it. George was looking at him with an expression he didn't recognize, something careful and controlled and just a little bit angry. George never got angry. Irritated, sure. Annoyed, constantly. But not angry. Not like this.
"Fine," Fred said. "Dropping it."
The rest of breakfast passed in a strange, stilted silence. Y/N didn't look at him. George didn't say anything else. The toast rack refilled itself and no one took any.
Fred didn't know why he felt like he'd broken something he didn't know how to fix.
He didn't know why he kept looking at Y/N and thinking about the way she'd said *go for it*, the way her voice had been perfectly steady, the way her smile hadn't quite reached her eyes.
He didn't know anything at all, apparently.
Charms was held in a classroom on the third floor that smelled perpetually of old parchment and the faint, ozone-sharp residue of too many spells cast in too small a space. The windows looked out over the cloisters, where students hurried between classes with their collars turned up against the cold, breath pluming white in the December air.
You sat in your usual spot. Third row from the front, second desk from the left. Fred to your right. George to your left.
This was how it had always been.
This was how it was supposed to be.
Flitwick was demonstrating the charm sequence for a particularly finicky variation of the Freezing Spell, his small form balanced on a stack of books, his voice carrying the particular enthusiasm of someone who genuinely believed that wand movements were the most exciting thing in the world. Usually you took careful notes, drawing small diagrams of the wrist flicks and muttering the incantation under your breath until you got the pronunciation right.
Today you were drawing spirals in the margin of your parchment.
They weren't very good spirals. Your quill kept catching on the rough edge of the parchment, leaving little blots of ink that spread outward like tiny black galaxies. You'd drawn seventeen of them before you noticed what you were doing.
He asked Angelina. He asked Angelina and she said yes and you told him to do it, you literally told him to do it, so you don't get to be upset, you absolute fucking disaster of a human being.
"Right," Flitwick squeaked, clapping his tiny hands together, "partner up and practice the incantation. Remember, it's Glacius Tardus, not Glacioos—the extra syllable is what slows the freezing. Otherwise you'll just end up with ordinary ice, and where's the finesse in that?"
The room erupted into movement. Lee Jordan turned to his partner with the expression of someone who had not been listening for the past fifteen minutes. Alicia Spinnet had already produced a perfect shimmer of slow-creeping frost across her desk.
Fred turned to you automatically. Muscle memory. Six years of pairing up without having to think about it.
You turned to George.
It was a small thing. A nothing thing. Fred turned one way, you turned the other, and for a moment the three of you sat there in an awkward triangle, the rhythm that had sustained you through six years of partnered Charms work suddenly stumbling over its own feet.
"Right," Fred said, recovering faster than you did, because Fred always recovered faster. "I'll just—Lee, you useless bastard, get over here—"
He grabbed Lee by the back of his robes and hauled him toward an empty desk, already firing off some joke about Lee's complete lack of Charms ability. His laughter carried across the classroom, bright and easy.
You'd heard him laugh like that this morning. When he'd asked Angelina. You'd been too far away to hear the words, but you'd heard the laugh.
"Glacius Tardus," George said, holding his wand over the desk between you. "You want to go first, or shall I demonstrate my complete lack of finesse?"
"I think Flitwick would prefer if someone with actual competence went first."
"That's a no to my demonstration, then."
You managed something that was almost a smile. George's wand moved in the precise pattern Flitwick had drawn on the board, and frost began to creep across the wooden surface of the desk, delicate and slow, forming crystalline patterns that looked like ferns.
"Your turn."
You lifted your wand. The movement felt strange in your hand, unfamiliar in a way it shouldn't have after six years of practice. Glacius Tardus. The incantation stumbled on your tongue. The frost that bloomed from your wand tip was patchy and uneven, melting almost as quickly as it formed.
"Again," George said.
You tried again. The frost crept a little further, but it was still wrong, still too fast, still ordinary ice rather than the slow-magic Flitwick wanted.
"Your mind's somewhere else."
"Brilliant observation. Ten points to Gryffindor."
George didn't rise to the bait. He just waited, wand held loosely at his side, his expression patient in a way that made you want to throw something at him and also, simultaneously, made you want to put your head down on the desk and not move for approximately six hours.
"He asked her," you said. The words fell out of you without permission.
"I know."
"I told him to."
"I know."
"What the fuck is wrong with me, George?"
The question hung in the air between you. George's expression didn't change—it rarely did—but something flickered in his eyes, something that might have been sympathy or sadness or something else entirely.
"Nothing's wrong with you," he said.
"I told my best friend to ask someone else to the Yule Ball because I was too much of a coward to tell him how I feel. There's plenty wrong with me."
"You were trying to be a good friend."
"I was trying to protect myself." The words came out bitter, sharp-edged. "I didn't want to hear him say no. So I made sure he'd never get the chance to say anything at all. That's not being a good friend. That's being a selfish fucking coward. How the fuck am I a Gryffindor?"
George was quiet for a moment. Across the classroom, Fred had successfully frozen Lee's eyebrows. Lee was swearing colourfully while Flitwick fluttered around him in a panic, and Fred was laughing so hard he had to brace himself against the desk.
"You're not a coward," George said. "You're scared. There's a difference."
"Not from where I'm standing."
"Then you're standing in the wrong place."
You looked at him. George met your gaze steadily, his wand still held loosely at his side, his expression open and unguarded in a way that Fred's never was. Fred hid behind jokes and laughter and chaos. George just... waited.
"Why are you being so nice to me?"
"Because you're my friend."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe that friendship was enough, that kindness was just kindness, that George wasn't looking at you with something softer than the moment deserved. But George had always been too perceptive for his own good, and you'd always been too oblivious for yours, and somewhere in the space between those two facts was a truth you weren't ready to examine.
"Again," George said, nodding toward your wand.
This time the frost came properly. Slow. Controlled. Beautiful, even, if you cared about that sort of thing.
"See?" George said. "You just needed to get out of your own head."
"Easier said than done."
"Isn't everything?"
Flitwick called the class back to attention. You turned to face the front. Your parchment was covered in spirals, and your ink was running low, and somewhere between the frost and the melting and the quiet weight of George's unspoken observations, the morning had slipped away from you without your permission.
Fred couldn't concentrate.
This wasn't unusual. Fred Weasley had been struggling to concentrate in classes since approximately his first day at Hogwarts, when he'd discovered that Transfiguration was significantly less interesting than figuring out how to turn his eyebrows different colours. But this was different. This wasn't boredom. This wasn't the usual restlessness that drove him to pass notes and make jokes and generally be a massive pain in the arse.
This was Y/N, sitting two rows over with George, her head bent close to his, their voices too quiet to hear.
She'd partnered with George. She always partnered with Fred—had always partnered with Fred, ever since first year, when she'd threatened to hex him if he didn't take Charms seriously and he'd threatened to turn her hair green and somehow that had become the foundation of their entire friendship. For six years, Fred had turned to her in Charms without thinking, the way he turned to George in Potions and reached for the salt at dinner and breathed air into his lungs.
Today she'd turned to George instead.
It shouldn't matter. It was one class. One partnered exercise. She was allowed to work with other people. She was allowed to have other friends. Fred wasn't some kind of possessive arsehole who couldn't handle his best friend spending time with someone else.
Except George wasn't "someone else." George was his twin. His other half. The person Fred trusted more than anyone in the world.
And right now, watching George lean close to Y/N, watching her say something that made his expression soften in a way Fred couldn't interpret, Fred felt something hot and ugly twist in his chest that he didn't have a name for.
"Mate." Lee was waving his hand in front of Fred's face. "You've been staring at the same spot for like five minutes. What's going on?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing. Right. Because people always stare into space with that particular 'I want to murder someone' expression when nothing's going on."
"I don't want to murder anyone."
"You sure? Because you look like you want to murder someone."
Fred forced himself to look away from Y/N and George. "I'm fine."
"You've said 'I'm fine' three times today. That's two times more than usual. Statistically, you're not fine."
"Statistics can fuck off."
"There it is." Lee grinned, apparently satisfied. "There's the Fred I know. For a minute I thought you'd been replaced by a pod person."
Flitwick called the class back to attention. Fred turned to face the front, but he could still see Y/N in his peripheral vision, still see the way she was sitting slightly closer to George than usual, still see the spirals she'd been drawing in the margin of her parchment.
She always doodled when she was upset. She'd been doing it since first year—little spirals in the corners of her essays, tiny flowers on the edges of her notes, abstract patterns that meant her mind was somewhere else entirely. Fred had pointed it out once, years ago, and she'd looked at him with an expression he still couldn't name and said, "You notice that?"
He'd said, "I notice everything about you."
He hadn't meant it the way it sounded. He'd just meant that he paid attention, that she was his best friend, that he'd spent six years cataloguing her habits the way other people catalogued Quidditch statistics. He knew that she took her tea with milk and no sugar, that she chewed on her quill when she was thinking, that she hummed off-key when she was happy and went completely silent when she was sad. He knew that her laugh got higher when she was nervous and lower when she was genuinely amused. He knew that she fixed his collar without asking and stole his gloves when her hands were cold and always, always saved him a seat at breakfast.
He knew everything about her.
So why did he feel like he didn't know anything at all?
The class ended. Students gathered their books and filed toward the door. Y/N walked past him with George, and she didn't look at him, and Fred felt that hot, ugly thing twist in his chest again.
"Y/N," he said.
She stopped. Turned. Her expression was carefully blank. "What?"
Why didn't you partner with me? Why did you tell me to ask Angelina? Why do I feel like I've fucked something up and I don't even know what it is?
"Nothing," he said. "See you at lunch."
"Yeah. See you."
She walked away. George glanced back at Fred once, his expression unreadable, and then he followed her out the door.
Fred stood alone in the empty classroom, his bag half-packed, his wand still in his hand, and tried to figure out why he felt like he was losing something he'd never even known he had.
The days between breakfast and the Yule Ball stretched out like something pulled too tight, like an elastic band about to snap.
You stopped sitting next to Fred in classes.
It wasn't a conscious decision—not at first. It was just that George was there, and George was easier, and George didn't make your chest feel like it was caving in every time he laughed or smiled or mentioned Angelina's name. You started gravitating toward him without thinking about it, the way a plant leans toward the only patch of sunlight in a dark room.
Fred noticed. You knew he noticed. He didn't say anything, but you'd catch him looking at you sometimes, his expression puzzled and a little bit hurt, like a dog who'd been kicked and didn't understand why. It made you want to scream. It made you want to shake him and say, *I'm doing this because I love you, you absolute fucking idiot, because I can't keep sitting next to you and pretending I don't.*
You didn't say that. You didn't say anything at all.
The three of you still ate meals together—that was habit, muscle memory, six years of sitting at the same spot at the Gryffindor table. But the rhythm had changed. Fred sat across from you now instead of beside you. George sat next to you, a steady presence at your elbow, and you leaned into him more than you meant to, more than was fair. He never complained. He never pushed. He just... stayed.
You hated yourself for needing him. You hated yourself for using him. You hated yourself for about fifteen different things, and none of that hatred made it any easier to sit across from Fred at dinner and watch him talk about Angelina.
"Angelina wants to do a group thing before the Ball," Fred said one evening, about a week after the breakfast that had ruined everything. "All of us meeting up in the common room, walking down together. She's got this whole plan worked out. It's very military."
"Sounds like Angelina," George said.
"She's got a schedule and everything. 'Eight o'clock sharp, Weasley, don't be late or I'll hex your eyebrows off.'" Fred grinned. "I think she means it."
"She definitely means it," you said. "Angelina doesn't make idle threats."
"Unlike some people." Fred pointed his fork at you. "You've been threatening to hex me for six years and you've never done it once."
"The year's not over."
"Is that a promise?"
"It's a warning."
He laughed, bright and easy, and your heart did that stupid thing it always did when he laughed, that little flip-flop that made you feel like a complete fucking idiot. You'd been in love with him for years. You should be immune by now. You should have built up some kind of tolerance, the way people built up tolerance to poison.
But Fred Weasley wasn't poison. He was just—Fred. And that was somehow worse.
"So," he said, still grinning, "you still haven't told me who you're going with."
The table went quiet. George's fork paused halfway to his mouth.
"I don't have a date yet."
"Seriously? The Ball's in less than a week. You need to get on that."
"I'm aware of how time works, Fred."
"I'm just saying." He leaned back in his seat, completely oblivious to the way your shoulders had tensed. "What about Corner? He's decent. Bit quiet, but he's good at Herbology."
"I don't want to go with Corner."
"Macmillan?"
"No."
"Boot? I've seen him looking at you in Charms."
"He's looking at my notes. He's shit at Charms."
"Still. You could do worse. He's not bad-looking. Bit of a chin situation, but nobody's perfect."
"Fred." George's voice was quiet, but there was a warning in it. "Drop it."
"What? I'm being helpful."
"You're being a prat."
"I'm being a helpful prat. There's a difference."
You pushed your plate away. The shepherd's pie you'd been eating had gone cold, and your stomach was churning, and Fred was looking at you with that bright, oblivious expression, and you couldn't do this anymore. You couldn't sit here and listen to him suggest other people, couldn't watch him try to hand you off to someone else like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"You could go with George," Fred said.
The words hit you like a punch to the sternum.
"What?"
"George. He doesn't have a date either." Fred shrugged, already turning back to his own plate. "You two get on. You've always got on. Go as friends. Better than going alone, right?"
George was very still beside you. His expression was unreadable, but his jaw was tight.
"Right," you said. Your voice came out flat. "Better than going alone."
"Problem solved." Fred grinned at you, clearly pleased with himself. "Knew I'd figure it out eventually. I'm a genius."
"Yeah," you said. "A fucking genius."
You didn't look at George. You couldn't.
---
Fred didn't know why he'd suggested that.
The words had come out of his mouth without permission, the same way he did everything—impulsively, recklessly, without thinking through the consequences. George and Y/N. Going to the Ball together. As friends. It made sense. It was logical. It solved the problem of both of them not having dates.
So why did he want to punch something?
He watched them from across the table. Y/N was pushing her food around her plate, not eating. George was sitting very still, very quiet, the way he always did when he was thinking about something he wasn't going to say out loud. They looked right together. They always had—George was steadier than Fred, more patient, more careful. He didn't steal her toast or drag her into dangerous pranks or say stupid shit without thinking. He was the kind of person who pushed the butter dish toward her hand before she asked for it. The kind of person who deserved someone like her.
Fred wasn't that kind of person. Fred was chaos and noise and bad decisions. Fred was the kind of person who asked Angelina Johnson to the Yule Ball without stopping to figure out why the thought of asking Y/N made his chest feel like it was full of broken glass.
Because you're scared, a voice in his head said. Because you've always been scared. Because if you asked her and she said no, you'd have to admit that she doesn't feel the same way, and you can't handle that, so you asked someone safe instead.
He pushed the thought away. He'd gotten very good at pushing thoughts away over the years—thoughts about Y/N, about the way she laughed, about the way she fixed his collar without asking, about the way his stomach dropped every time she looked at him with that particular expression that meant she knew exactly what he was thinking.
She knew him better than anyone. Better than George, even. Better than his own family. She knew when he was upset and when he was faking and when he needed someone to sit beside him in silence because words were too much. She knew the exact tone of voice that would make him laugh when he was in a shit mood. She knew how to calm him down after a prank went wrong, how to talk him out of his worst ideas, how to make him feel like maybe he wasn't just the chaos twin, the loud one, the one who broke things and made messes and never took anything seriously.
She saw him. The real him. And he'd asked Angelina to the Ball instead of her because he was a fucking coward.
"Fred."
George's voice pulled him back. The table was clearing—dinner was ending, students drifting toward the doors. Y/N had already gone, her plate still half-full, her exit quiet and quick the way it always was when she was trying not to show she was upset.
"What?"
"You've been staring at the door for two minutes."
"Was I?"
"You were." George's expression was hard to read. "You want to tell me what's going on?"
"Nothing's going on."
"Right. Nothing." George stood up, gathering his bag. "That's why you've been in a foul mood for a week. That's why Y/N keeps finding bloody excuses to leave the table early. That's why you just suggested I fucking take her to the Ball when you've been glaring at anyone who looks at her for the past three years. Nothing's going on."
Fred's jaw tightened. "I don't glare."
"You glower. It's very intimidating. Lee's terrified of you."
"Lee's terrified of everything."
"True." George slung his bag over his shoulder. "But that's not the point."
"Then what's the point?"
"The point is that you're being an idiot."
"Thanks. Very helpful."
"I'm serious." George's voice was quiet now, almost gentle. "You've been in love with her for years. Everyone knows it except you. And instead of doing something about it, you asked someone else to the Ball and then suggested I take her instead. That's not just being an idiot. That's being a coward."
Fred opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"Fuck you," he said.
"Maybe. But I'm right."
He walked away before Fred could respond.
The Great Hall was nearly empty now. The candles had burned low. The enchanted ceiling showed a sky full of cold, indifferent stars.
Fred sat alone at the Gryffindor table and tried to figure out when his life had gotten so fucking complicated.
That night, George found you in the common room.
It was late—past midnight, the fire burned down to embers, everyone else long since gone to bed. You were curled in one of the armchairs near the window, staring at the snow falling on the grounds, your Potions textbook open on your lap to a page you hadn't read in an hour.
"Thought you might be here," he said, dropping into the chair across from you.
"Couldn't sleep."
"You've been saying that a lot lately."
"I've been saying a lot of things lately."
George didn't argue. He just sat there, quiet and steady, the way he always did. You didn't deserve him. You didn't deserve the way he showed up for you, over and over, without asking for anything in return.
"I'm sorry," you said.
"For what?"
"For being a mess. For making you deal with it. For—" You gestured vaguely at yourself, at the situation, at the entire disaster of your life. "All of it."
"You're not making me deal with anything. I'm here because I want to be."
"Why?"
"Because you're my," George took a deep breath, “best friend”
The fire crackled in the grate. The snow fell against the window. You stared at your textbook and tried to find the words for what you were feeling.
"Fred suggested we go to the Ball together," you said. "You and me."
"I know. I was there."
"He just—he said it like it was nothing. Like the idea of me with someone else didn't bother him at all."
George was quiet for a moment. Then he said, very carefully, "Would it help if I told you he's been in a foul mood all week?"
"Fred's always in a foul mood about something."
"Not like this. This is different." George leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "He's jealous, Y/N. He doesn't know he's jealous—he's too thick to figure out his own feelings—but he is. I've known him my whole life. I know what he looks like when he's upset about something he won't admit to himself."
"Then why did he ask Angelina?"
"Because he's scared. Because asking Angelina was safe. She's not you."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"No," George agreed. "It doesn't. But that's Fred. He's never made sense. That's why you love him."
The words hung in the air between you. You didn't deny them. You couldn't.
"I'm not going to pretend I understand what's going on in his head," George continued. "But I know he's miserable. And I know you're miserable. And I know the two of you are both too stubborn and too scared to actually talk to each other about it."
"What am I supposed to say?" Your voice cracked. "'Hey, Fred, I've been in love with you for years and watching you with Angelina is making me want to throw myself off the Astronomy Tower'?"
"Maybe not exactly that."
"Then what?"
George was quiet for a long moment. The fire popped. The snow kept falling.
"Come to the Ball with me," he said.
"What?"
"Not like that." He held up a hand. "I'm not—I know you don't feel that way about me. I'm not asking for that. But you need a date, and I need a date, and maybe if Fred sees us together, he'll finally pull his head out of his arse and do something about it."
"That's a fucking terrible plan."
"Probably."
"Manipulative and stupid and likely to backfire spectacularly."
"Almost certainly."
"And you're willing to do it anyway?"
George met your eyes. His expression was steady, open, unreadable. "I hate seeing you like this," he said. "Both of you. You're my two favourite people in the world, and you're making each other miserable because neither of you will admit what you actually want. If going to the Ball together shakes something loose, even if it's just Fred finally getting angry enough to say something—then it's worth it."
You stared at him. The firelight flickered across his face, highlighting the faint dusting of freckles across his nose, the slight furrow between his brows.
"Why are you so good to me?"
"Someone has to be."
"George—"
"You don't have to say anything." He stood up, stretching his arms over his head. "Just think about it. Ball's in a few days. Offer stands."
He walked toward the stairs to the boys' dormitory. You watched him go, your chest tight with something that felt dangerously close to guilt.
"George," you called.
He paused, one hand on the banister.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. This plan might blow shit up in our faces."
"Still. Thank you."
He nodded once, and then he was gone, and you were alone in the common room with the dying fire and the falling snow and the feeling that you were standing on the edge of something you couldn't name.
On Thursday, exactly six days before the Ball, Fred gave you a Christmas present.
It wasn't Christmas yet. They'd be going home to the Burrow after the Ball, and presents were traditionally exchanged then, in the chaotic whirl of Weasley family festivities. But Fred had never been good at waiting. He'd never been good at following rules or observing traditions or doing anything the way it was supposed to be done.
You were in the library when he found you—your usual corner, the one you'd claimed back in third year and defended ever since. You'd been hiding there more and more lately, retreating between classes and meals, finding excuses to be alone. It was easier than sitting at the Gryffindor table, easier than watching Fred with Angelina, easier than seeing the knowing look in George's eyes every time you stared at his brother for too long.
"Found you," Fred said, dropping into the chair across from you. "You've been avoiding me."
"I've been studying."
"Same thing."
"It's really not."
He leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the table. Madam Pince glared at him from her desk; he ignored her completely. "What are you studying?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing. That's a fascinating subject. What's the textbook?"
"Fred."
"Y/N."
You looked at him. He was grinning, that crooked grin that always made your stomach do stupid things, but there was something off about it—something tight around the edges, something that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"What do you want?"
"I got you something." He pulled a package out of his bag, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a piece of string that looked like it had been repurposed from a Potions kit. "Saw it in Hogsmeade last weekend. Thought of you."
You took the package. It was lumpy and uneven, wrapped with absolutely no skill whatsoever. "You thought of me in Hogsmeade?"
"I think of you all the time."
He said it so casually. So thoughtlessly. Like those words didn't rearrange your entire internal landscape.
"You're staring," he said.
"I'm processing."
"Processing what?"
"The fact that you wrapped a present yourself. This is genuinely the worst wrapping job I've ever seen."
"I'm wounded. Deeply wounded. I spent at least thirty seconds on that."
"It shows."
"Just open the fucking thing."
You did. The paper fell away to reveal a quill—not an ordinary quill, because Fred Weasley wouldn't be caught dead giving someone an ordinary quill. This one had feathers that shifted colour every few seconds, cycling through a rainbow of hues that were probably going to give you a headache if you tried to actually write with it. The shaft was enchanted to emit tiny sparks whenever it touched parchment.
"It's hideous," you said.
"I know." Fred was grinning properly now. "It's brilliant, isn't it? The sparks are supposed to change colour based on your mood, but I think the charm's a bit dodgy because it just does the sparkles regardless. Very festive. Very Yule. You can use it to write your Ball cards."
"I don't have any Ball cards to write."
"You're going with George. That counts."
The words landed like a punch. You set the quill down carefully, very carefully, and tried to keep your face neutral.
"Yeah," you said. "I'm going with George."
"Good. That's—good." Fred's voice had gone slightly strange. "He's a good person. George. Better than me, probably."
"Definitely."
"He'll make sure you have a good time. At the Ball."
"I'm sure he will."
The silence stretched between you. Madam Pince was still glaring. The candles flickered overhead. The quill emitted a shower of purple sparks that had nothing to do with your mood, because if they had anything to do with your mood they'd be black.
"Fred," you said.
"Yeah?"
"Why did you ask Angelina?"
The question hung in the air. Fred's expression flickered—surprise, maybe, or guilt, or something else entirely.
"Because she's brilliant," he said. "Because she's on the Quidditch team. Because she laughs at my jokes."
"That's it?"
"What do you mean, that's it?"
"I mean—" You stopped. Started again. "Never mind. Forget I asked."
"No, what? What were you going to say?"
"Nothing."
"Y/N."
"It's nothing, Fred. Just—forget it."
He was looking at you with that particular intensity he got sometimes, the one that made you feel like he could see right through you. "You're upset."
"I'm not upset."
"You're doing that thing with your hands."
You looked down. You were twisting the wrapping paper into a tight spiral. You forced yourself to stop.
"What thing?"
"The thing where you twist things up when you're upset. You've been doing it since first year. You did it all through Charms last week. You've been doing it at dinner every night for the past month."
"You noticed that?"
"I notice everything about you."
The words hit you square in the chest. He'd said them before—years ago, when you'd asked him how he knew you'd had a bad day, how he'd known to find you in the Astronomy Tower and sit beside you without saying anything. *I notice everything about you.* You'd thought about those words for weeks afterward, had turned them over and over in your mind like a stone you couldn't stop touching.
"Then why didn't you notice this?" The words came out before you could stop them. "Why didn't you notice that I—"
You stopped. Swallowed. Looked away.
"That you what?" Fred's voice was very quiet.
"Nothing."
"Y/N."
"I can't. Fred, I can't—" You stood up, grabbing your bag, shoving the quill into it with shaking hands. "Thank you for the present. It's hideous and I love it. I'll see you at dinner."
"Y/N, wait—"
But you were already gone, fleeing between the bookshelves, leaving Fred alone in the corner with his feet still propped on the table and an expression on his face that you didn't stay long enough to see.
Fred sat in the library for a long time after she left.
He didn't move. Didn't gather his things. Didn't acknowledge Madam Pince's increasingly pointed glares. He just sat there, staring at the space where Y/N had been, replaying the conversation in his head.
Why didn't you notice that I—
Notice what? What was she going to say?
He knew. That was the worst part. He fucking knew, had known for years, had buried that knowledge so deep he'd almost convinced himself it wasn't there. Y/N was in love with him. Y/N had been in love with him since they were kids, since the first time they'd met on the Hogwarts Express and she'd told him his tie was crooked and he'd told her she was bossy and somehow that had become the foundation of their entire friendship.
She loved him. And he'd asked Angelina to the Ball instead of her.
He'd asked Angelina because Angelina was safe. Because Angelina didn't make his chest feel like it was caving in. Because he could dance with Angelina and laugh with Angelina and take Angelina to a stupid ball without having to confront the fact that the person he actually wanted to go with was Y/N.
Fuck.
He dropped his head into his hands. The quill—the one he'd bought for her, the one he'd seen in a shop window and thought of her immediately—was probably still on the table where she'd left it. He'd bought it because it was ridiculous, because it made sparks, because he'd known it would make her laugh that particular laugh she had when she was trying not to find something funny and failing.
He bought her stupid presents all the time. He stole her toast at breakfast and fixed her collar when it was crooked and waited for her after classes without thinking about it. He knew how she took her tea and what made her laugh and which books she'd check out of the library before she even reached the shelves. He knew her better than he knew anyone else in the world, including George, including his own family.
And he'd asked Angelina to the fucking Yule Ball.
He was an idiot. He was the biggest idiot in the history of idiots. He was going to go down in the record books as the stupidest person who ever lived.
"Fuck," he said out loud.
Madam Pince shushed him viciously. He didn't even care.
The night before the Yule Ball, Fred got properly, thoroughly drunk for the first time in his life.
It wasn't planned. He'd been sitting in the common room, watching the fire burn down to embers, trying not to think about Y/N, trying not to think about the way she'd looked at him in the library, trying not to think about tomorrow night and the Ball and the fact that she was going with George and he was going with Angelina and everything was fucked.
Lee had shown up with a bottle of firewhiskey he'd won off a seventh-year in a bet. "You look like you need this," he'd said, and Fred hadn't argued.
Now the bottle was half-empty and Fred was sprawled in an armchair, the room spinning gently around him, his thoughts slow and syrupy and slightly out of focus.
"I've fucked up, Lee."
"You've said that. Several times."
"I'm saying it again."
Lee took a swig from the bottle. "What exactly have you fucked up?"
"Everything. All of it. The whole—" Fred waved his hand vaguely. "The whole situation."
"The situation with Y/N."
"I didn't say it was about Y/N."
"You didn't have to. It's always about Y/N."
Fred closed his eyes. The fire crackled. The common room was empty except for them—everyone else had gone to bed, too excited about the Ball to stay up late. Tomorrow night, this room would be full of people in dress robes, laughing and flirting and pairing off. Tomorrow night, Y/N would be wearing something beautiful, and she'd be standing next to George, and Fred would have to smile and pretend he wasn't dying inside.
"I asked Angelina," he said.
"I know. I was there."
"I asked Angelina because I was scared."
"Scared of what?"
"Scared of—" Fred opened his eyes. Stared at the ceiling. "Scared of her. Y/N. Scared of what she makes me feel."
"And what does she make you feel?"
The question hung in the air. Fred thought about it. Really thought about it, for the first time in years.
"Like I'm not just the loud one," he said finally. "Like I'm not just the chaos twin, the one who breaks things and makes messes and never takes anything seriously. She looks at me and she sees—" He stopped. Swallowed. "She sees me. The real me. And I'm terrified of that. Because if she sees the real me, and she still leaves, then what's the point?"
Lee was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Mate, that's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"Fuck off."
"I'm serious. You're in love with her. You've been in love with her for years. Everyone knows it. Everyone. Even Snape probably knows it, and he doesn't know anything about human emotions."
"Snape doesn't know anything about bloody anything."
"True. But that's not the point. The point is that you're being a fucking idiot."
Fred didn't argue. He just stared at the ceiling, the firelight casting strange shadows across the stone.
"She's been sitting with George," he said. His voice came out quieter than he intended. "At meals. In class. Everywhere. She used to sit next to me. She used to partner with me in Charms. Now she turns to him like it's automatic. Like I'm not even there."
"Because you asked Angelina to the Ball."
"I know."
"Because you told her you were going with someone else."
"I know."
"Because you told George to ask her, and he did, and now you're jealous that your own brother is doing exactly what you told him to do."
Fred's jaw tightened. "I didn't think it would feel like this."
"Like what?"
"Like I've been replaced." The words tasted bitter in his mouth. "George isn't doing anything wrong. He's being a good friend. He's being a better friend than I've been. He pushes the butter dish toward her hand. He walks her to class. He sits with her when she can't sleep. And I just—I watch. I watch, and I want to say something, and I don't, because what the fuck would I even say? 'Stop taking care of her, that's my job'? I gave up that job. I handed it to him myself."
Lee was quiet for a moment. "You could tell her how you feel."
"And say what? 'Hey, Y/N, I know I asked someone else to the Ball and I know I told my brother to take you and I know I've been a complete fucking arsehole for the past two weeks, but actually I'm in love with you and I have been for years'?"
"I mean. Yeah. Basically."
"She'd hex me."
"Probably."
"She'd be right to hex me."
"Also probably."
Fred reached for the bottle. Took another long swallow. The firewhiskey burned going down, but it was a good burn, a cleansing burn. The kind of burn that made him feel like maybe he could actually say the words he'd been swallowing for years.
"She kissed me once," he said. "Fourth year. After the Quidditch final. We won, and everyone was celebrating, and she'd had too much butterbeer. She grabbed my face and kissed me."
Lee's eyebrows shot up. "What did you do?"
"Nothing. I froze. And then she pulled back and laughed it off like it was a joke, and I let her. I pretended I didn't remember the next day. She pretended too. We never talked about it."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because I was fucking terrified." Fred pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Because she was my best friend. Because I didn't know what it meant. Because I thought if I ignored it, it would go away."
"But it didn't."
"No. It didn't." He dropped his hands. "It's been there this whole time. Every time she laughs at one of my jokes. Every time she fixes my collar without asking. Every time she looks at me with that expression like she knows exactly what I'm thinking. It's been there, and I've been pretending it wasn't, and now I'm sitting here drinking firewhiskey alone while she's probably upstairs with George."
"She's not with George. She went to bed hours ago."
"You know what I mean."
Lee took another swig from the bottle. "So what are you going to do? Tomorrow. At the Ball."
"I don't know." Fred stared at the dying embers. "Watch her with my brother all night? Smile and pretend I'm fine while Angelina talks about Quidditch? Drink more firewhiskey than is medically advisable?"
"That's a plan, I guess. Not a good plan."
"I'm not good at plans."
"Then make one. Figure out what you want to say. Find her. Pull her aside. Tell her the truth."
"And what if she doesn't want to hear it? What if she's happier with George?"
"Mate." Lee's voice was gentler than Fred had ever heard it. "She's not happier with George. She's surviving with George. There's a difference. She's been in love with you since we were kids. Everyone knows that. Even George knows that. He's just been keeping her company while you pull your head out of your arse."
Fred laughed—a short, broken sound. "George is too good for both of us."
"Obviously. That's not new information."
"He's been the one taking care of her. While I've been—" Fred gestured vaguely at himself. "Whatever the fuck I've been doing. Being oblivious. Being a coward. Being so scared of my own feelings that I pushed her toward my own brother."
"You didn't push her. You were an idiot. There's a difference."
"Not from where I'm standing."
Lee handed him the bottle. Fred took it. Drank.
"Tomorrow," Lee said. "Tell her tomorrow."
"At the Ball."
"Very romantic."
"Or it'll be a complete catastrophe and she'll never speak to me again."
"That's also possible."
"Thanks for the encouragement, Lee."
"Anytime, mate." Lee grinned. "That's what friends are for."
You couldn't sleep.
It was the night before the Ball, and you were lying in your four-poster bed, staring at the canopy, listening to your dorm-mates breathe in the darkness. Hermione had gone to bed hours ago, exhausted from helping Viktor Krum prepare for the opening dance. Lavender and Parvati were whispering about dress robes and hair charms and which boys they hoped would ask them to dance.
You weren't thinking about any of that. You were thinking about Fred.
You were always thinking about Fred.
Tomorrow night, you'd be standing in the Great Hall in dress robes, and George would be beside you—George, who had been your anchor for the past two weeks, who had pushed the butter dish toward your hand and walked you to class and sat with you in silence when words were too much. George, who had asked you to the Ball not because he wanted something from you, but because he couldn't stand to watch you fall apart alone.
And Fred would be across the room with Angelina.
Tomorrow night, you'd have to watch them dance together. Watch him smile at her. Watch his hand rest on her waist the way it had rested on yours a thousand times over the years—casually, thoughtlessly, as if he didn't notice he was doing it.
You didn't know how you were going to survive it.
The quill Fred had given you was sitting on your nightstand. Even in the darkness, you could see it glowing faintly, cycling through colours that had nothing to do with your mood. You'd tried to write with it earlier, just to see what it felt like, and the sparks had been so bright you'd nearly set your Charms essay on fire.
He'd seen it in a shop window and thought of you.
He'd noticed you twisting things up when you were upset.
He'd said I notice everything about you like it was nothing, like those words weren't the most devastating thing anyone had ever said to you.
And then he'd asked Angelina to the Ball.
You rolled over, burying your face in your pillow. The firewhiskey from earlier had worn off, leaving behind nothing but a dull headache and the familiar ache in your chest that had been there for two weeks.
George's words echoed in your head: Come to the Ball with me. As friends. As the person who's going to make sure you survive the night.
He'd been so steady. So calm. So completely unlike his brother, who was all chaos and noise and bad decisions.
You didn't deserve George. You didn't deserve the way he'd shown up for you, day after day, without asking for anything in return. And tomorrow, you were going to walk into that Ballroom on his arm, and you were going to pretend you were fine, and you were going to try—really try—to give him at least one good memory from this stupid night.
Even if it killed you.
"Fuck," you whispered into the darkness.
Nobody answered. The snow kept falling. The castle settled into silence around you, ancient and indifferent and utterly unaware that you were lying awake, counting down the hours until the worst night of your life.
Tomorrow. The Yule Ball. George's arm in yours, Fred's eyes on someone else, the whole charade of pretending you were fine when you were falling apart inside.
You closed your eyes and didn't sleep.
The Yule Ball began at eight o'clock, and by eight-fifteen you already knew you weren't going to survive it.
Not literally. You weren't being dramatic—or you were, but quietly, privately, the kind of dramatic that happened entirely inside your own head while your face remained arranged in something that approximated pleasant anticipation. You were sixteen years old. You'd been waiting for this night for weeks. You had a friend beside you who had known you long enough to understand exactly what kind of evening this was going to be.
You were going to survive it. You just weren't going to enjoy it.
The Entrance Hall was crowded with students in dress robes, everyone's voices pitched slightly too high, everyone's laughter ringing slightly too bright. The champions were lined up near the doors, waiting to make their grand entrance—Harry looked like he was facing execution, Cedric looked serene and handsome and irritating, Fleur was radiant, Viktor was stoic. Parvati Patil was adjusting Harry's robes with the air of someone who had already accepted that her evening was going to be a disaster. Hermione stood beside Viktor, and she looked so different that you'd walked right past her before recognizing her.
"You're staring," George said, appearing at your elbow.
"I'm not staring. I'm observing."
"You're staring at Hermione's robes like they've personally offended you."
"They haven't. She looks beautiful. I'm just—processing."
"Processing."
"It's a lot of periwinkle."
George snorted. He'd cleaned up well—his hair was actually brushed, his dress robes were only slightly too short in the sleeves, and someone had convinced him to wear a tie that was approximately the right shade of scarlet. He looked like himself, which was comforting. George always looked like himself, even in formalwear.
"You look nice," you told him, because it was true. He was your friend. One of your best friends. And he'd stepped up when Fred had been too oblivious to notice you were drowning.
"So do you." His gaze was steady. "You're going to be fine."
"I know."
"I mean it. It's just a dance. A few hours. Then it's over."
"I know."
"And if you need to leave early—"
"I won't."
"—we can leave early. No questions asked."
"George." You turned to face him properly. The Entrance Hall was full of people, full of noise, full of the particular chaos that preceded formal events. Somewhere behind you, Fred was laughing at something Angelina had said, his voice cutting through the crowd with the precision of a knife. "I'm fine. Really. It's just the Yule Ball. I'm not going to fall apart because my best friend brought someone else."
George looked at you for a long moment. He knew you were lying. You knew he knew. But he also knew better than to push.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay."
"Just so you know, though." He adjusted his tie, a small, almost nervous gesture. "You don't have to be fine. Not with me."
Something tightened in your chest. "I know."
"Good."
"Good."
The doors to the Great Hall swung open. The champions began their procession. The crowd surged forward, and you let yourself be carried along, George's hand resting lightly on your elbow, steering you through the crush of bodies toward the glittering, candlelit cavern of the Great Hall.
The night had begun.
You were going to survive it. You just weren't going to enjoy it.
The first hour was the hardest.
The Great Hall had been transformed into something out of a fairy tale—ice sculptures glittering in the corners, fairy lights woven through the evergreen boughs, the enchanted ceiling reflecting a perfect winter sky full of stars that didn't exist. The tables were draped in white linen and set with crystal goblets that sparkled like captured starlight. The band played something sweeping and orchestral, and the dance floor was already filling with couples.
Fred and Angelina were among the first to dance.
You watched them. You couldn't help it. Your eyes kept finding them in the crowd the way your tongue kept finding the sore spot inside your cheek—compulsive, painful, impossible to stop. Angelina looked stunning in deep green robes that made her look like some kind of warrior queen, and Fred's hand was on her waist, and she was laughing at something he'd said, and he was spinning her in a way that was technically incorrect but undeniably joyful.
"Y/N."
You blinked. George was holding a glass of punch toward you, his expression carefully neutral.
"Thanks."
"You weren't drinking your other one."
You looked down. There was a glass of punch on the table in front of you, untouched. You didn't remember putting it there. "Right. Sorry. Distracted."
"I noticed."
The band shifted into a new song, something faster. Lee Jordan and Katie Bell stumbled past, both of them laughing too hard to maintain anything resembling proper dance form. Alicia Spinnet's Ravenclaw date was surprisingly graceful, leading her through the steps with practiced ease. The night swirled on around you, bright and loud and relentless.
"Do you want to dance?" George asked.
"Not yet."
"Okay."
He didn't push. George never pushed. He just sat beside you, a steady presence at the edge of the dance floor, and let you watch Fred spin Angelina until your chest felt like it was full of broken glass.
By ten o'clock, you'd danced exactly twice.
Once with George, who had been true to his word about his dancing abilities—he'd stepped on your feet three times and apologized after each one with such genuine chagrin that you'd ended up laughing despite yourself. Once with Lee, who had dragged you onto the floor during a particularly energetic number and spun you around until you were dizzy and breathless and almost, almost having fun.
Fred hadn't asked you to dance.
He'd danced with Angelina. He'd danced with Katie. He'd danced with Alicia and Ginny and even, briefly, with Hermione, who'd been abandoned by Viktor while he went to fetch drinks. He'd danced with half the Gryffindor girls and several from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff besides.
He hadn't danced with you.
You told yourself it didn't matter. You were here with George. Fred was here with Angelina. The two of you hadn't danced together at a school event since fourth year, when he'd dragged you onto the floor at the end-of-term feast and spun you around until you'd both collapsed laughing. It wasn't a tradition. It wasn't something you were owed.
It still stung.
You found the firewhiskey sometime around half past ten.
It was being passed around by a group of seventh-year boys near the back of the Hall, hidden behind a truly massive ice sculpture of a rearing hippogriff. One of them—a tall Ravenclaw whose name you couldn't remember—caught your eye as you walked past and offered you the flask with a conspiratorial grin.
"Rough night?"
"Something like that."
You took a swallow. It burned going down, a fierce, bright heat that spread through your chest and settled somewhere in the region of your stomach. You coughed. The seventh-year laughed.
"First time?"
"First time tonight."
"That's the spirit."
You took another swallow. The burn was less shocking this time. The warmth spread further, reaching your fingertips, loosening something in your spine that had been clenched tight since Fred had walked over to Angelina at breakfast two weeks ago.
You handed the flask back. The seventh-year gave you an approving nod and turned back to his friends.
You walked back to your table, where George was waiting, and you didn't tell him where you'd been.
By midnight, the Ball had begun to fray.
The band had switched to slower songs, the kind of syrupy ballads that made couples sway together in the dim light. The candles had burned lower, the fairy lights had begun to flicker, and the crowd had thinned as younger students drifted off to their common rooms. The champions were still there—Harry looked exhausted, Cedric looked impeccable, Fleur was dancing with a boy from Beauxbatons who kept stepping on her feet. Viktor and Hermione had disappeared somewhere; you didn't want to think about where.
You'd found your own firewhiskey by then. A full bottle, purchased from a Slytherin seventh-year who'd set up an illicit bar behind the refreshment table. It had cost you most of the gold in your pocket, and it was worth every knut.
George had tried to stop you. Once. You'd snapped at him—something about not being a child, about not needing a babysitter, about how he should just go find someone else to hover over because you were fine, you were absolutely fine, could he please just leave you alone—
He'd gone. Not far—you could still see him at the edge of the dance floor, talking to Lee and Katie, his shoulders tight with something he was too good a friend to name. But he'd gone, and you were alone, and the firewhiskey was warm in your throat and warm in your stomach and warm in your veins, and it still wasn't enough.
Because Fred was still dancing with Angelina.
He'd been dancing with her all night. Waltzes and reels and the slow, swaying ballads that the band had switched to an hour ago. His hand on her waist. Her head on his shoulder. His laugh carrying across the dance floor, bright and easy and utterly oblivious.
You took another swallow. The bottle was half-empty now. When had that happened?
The song ended. Another began. You watched Fred spin Angelina in a slow circle, watched her dress flare out around her ankles, watched his face crease with laughter at something she'd said.
You hated her.
No—that wasn't fair. Angelina was brilliant. Angelina was kind and funny and talented and she'd done nothing wrong, nothing except say yes when a boy she liked asked her to a dance. You didn't hate Angelina. You hated the way Fred looked at her. You hated the way he touched her waist. You hated that she was standing where you'd stood a thousand times—beside him, close to him, in the orbit of his attention—and she didn't even know what she had.
You took another swallow.
The firewhiskey didn't help. But it made the hate feel a little less sharp, a little less like it was going to cut you open from the inside out.
By two in the morning, the Ball had begun to rot.
Not literally. The decorations were still beautiful, the candles still flickering, the band still playing. But the magic had curdled. The dance floor was nearly empty now, just a few stubborn couples swaying in the dim light. The tables were littered with empty goblets and abandoned plates and the wilted remains of centerpieces that had looked magical eight hours ago. Someone had knocked over a glass of punch near the refreshment table, and the house-elves hadn't appeared to clean it yet, so the puddle was spreading slowly across the white tablecloth like a bloodstain.
You were drunk.
Properly, thoroughly drunk. The bottle was three-quarters empty. Your head was spinning. Your fingers were numb. The anger that had been burning in your chest all night had softened into something duller, something sadder, something that sat heavy in your stomach like a stone.
Angelina had left twenty minutes ago. You'd watched her go—watched Fred walk her to the door of the Great Hall, watched her kiss his cheek, watched her say something that made him smile before she disappeared into the darkness of the Entrance Hall. She'd looked tired but happy. Satisfied. Like she'd had exactly the evening she'd been hoping for.
Fred hadn't left with her.
He was still here, standing near the punch table with Lee and a few other stragglers, his tie undone, his hair a mess, a glass of something amber in his hand. He'd been drinking too—you'd noticed that hours ago, had watched him refill his glass again and again from a flask he kept in his inner pocket. His face had that loose, flushed quality that meant he'd had more than he should have, and his laugh was too loud, and he kept running his hand through his hair the way he always did when he was trying to figure something out and failing.
He hadn't looked at you all night.
No—that wasn't true. He'd looked at you. Once, during a waltz around eleven, your eyes had met across the dance floor and something had flickered in his expression, something that might have been confusion or guilt or something else entirely. Then Angelina had said something in his ear, and he'd turned away, and the moment had shattered.
He hadn't looked at you since.
But he was looking at you now.
You felt it before you saw it—the prickle of awareness at the back of your neck, the instinct that told you someone was watching. You lifted your head, the room swimming slightly, and there he was. Fred Weasley, standing near the punch table with his glass of firewhiskey and his undone tie and his hair sticking up in six different directions.
Staring at you.
His expression was strange. Not the easy grin you were used to. Not the casual, thoughtless confidence he wore like a second skin. Something rawer, something unguarded. His jaw was tight. His eyes were dark. He looked like someone who had been running for a long time and had finally stopped, not because he'd reached his destination, but because his legs had given out.
You stared back.
The music played. The candles flickered. The few remaining dancers swayed in their slow, oblivious circles.
Fred lifted his glass. A toast. A challenge. A question.
You lifted your bottle in response.
And then you drank.
You didn't remember crossing the dance floor.
One moment you were at your table, the bottle clutched in your hand, Fred's gaze fixed on you from across the room. The next moment you were moving, your feet carrying you through the empty space between tables, past the last few swaying couples, past the punch-stained tablecloth and the flickering fairy lights. You grabbed his arm—not gently, not romantically, your fingers digging into the sleeve of his dress robes—and pulled him toward the edge of the Hall.
"What are you—"
"Shut up."
You dragged him past the refreshment table, past the wilted centerpieces, past the ice sculpture that had mostly melted into a sad puddle on the floor. There was a small antechamber off the main hallway, half-hidden by a tapestry, with a velvet curtain hanging across the entrance. You'd passed it earlier on your way back from the bathroom. You hadn't known why you'd noted it then.
You knew now.
You shoved him through the curtain and followed him inside.
It was a small space. A storage room, maybe, or an old cloakroom that had been forgotten when the castle renovated itself. There were no windows. No candles. Just darkness and dust and the faint, far-off echo of music from the Great Hall.
"What the fuck, Y/N?" Fred stumbled, catching himself on the wall. "You can't just—"
"You're drunk," you said. Your voice came out rough, scraped raw by firewhiskey and six hours of silence.
"So are you."
"I'm aware."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "You've been sitting in that corner all night."
"And you've been dancing with Angelina all night. Congratulations. We're both very observant."
Something flickered in his eyes. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't do that. The thing where you pretend you're fine. You've been doing it for two weeks and I'm sick of it."
The anger flared, sudden and hot, cutting through the fog of alcohol like a blade. "You're sick of it? You're sick of me pretending I'm fine? That's rich, Fred. That's really fucking rich."
"I didn't mean—"
"What did you mean, then? What exactly have I been pretending? Because from where I'm standing, you're the one who's been pretending. Pretending you don't notice. Pretending everything's normal. Pretending you didn't—"
You stopped. The word caught in your throat, too sharp, too dangerous.
"Didn't what?" Fred's voice was low. His eyes hadn't left your face.
"Didn't ask her."
The words hung in the air between you. The band had stopped playing; you hadn't noticed until now. The silence was sudden and absolute, broken only by the distant clink of glasses and the murmur of the few remaining guests.
Fred's jaw tightened. "You told me to ask her."
"I know."
"You said 'sure, you should ask her.' Those were your exact words. I asked for your opinion and you told me to go for it."
"I know what I said."
"Then what the fuck did you want me to do?"
The curse hit you like a slap. Fred never cursed at you—not like that, not with that edge in his voice. You'd heard him swear a thousand times, at Quidditch matches, at pranks gone wrong, at Snape and Filch and anyone who got in his way. But not at you. Never at you.
"I wanted you to fucking figure it out!" The words tore out of you, louder than you'd intended, loud enough that anyone still lingering in the corridor would hear. You didn't care. "I wanted you to not need me to tell you! I wanted you to look at me and just—just know, the way I've always known, the way everyone else apparently already knew—"
"Everyone else?"
"George knew. Lee knew. I think even McGonagall fucking knew, Fred. The whole school knew. The only person who didn't know was you."
Fred's face had gone pale. Or maybe flushed—it was hard to tell in the darkness. "Knew what?"
"Don't."
"Knew what, Y/N?"
"You know what."
"Say it."
"Fuck you."
"Say it."
The room was spinning. The firewhiskey was burning in your stomach, in your throat, behind your eyes. Fred was standing too close, or not close enough, and his tie was undone and his collar was crooked and he was looking at you with something that might have been anger or might have been desperation or might have been the same thing you'd been feeling for two weeks, for two years, for your entire goddamn life.
"I'm in love with you." The words fell out of you, clumsy and cracked and nothing like you'd imagined. "I've been in love with you since—I don't even know. Since fourth year. Since third. Since the first time you stole my toast and I wanted to hex you and kiss you at the same time. I've been in love with you for years, Fred, and you asked Angelina to the Ball, and I told you to, because I'm a fucking idiot who thought—I don't know what I thought. That you'd realise. That you'd change your mind. That you'd look at me the way you look at her and just—"
Your voice broke.
The silence stretched.
And Fred said, "You went with George."
"What?"
"You went with George." His voice was rough, jagged, nothing like his usual easy tone. "I told him to ask you—I know, I know I told him, and it was my idea, and I'm a fucking idiot—but you said yes. You said yes, and you've been sitting with him all night, and he's been making you laugh, and you've been looking at him like—"
"He's my friend. Your brother. My friend."
"He's still the one standing next to you!"
"Because you told him to be! Because you handed me off like I was a problem you didn't want to solve yourself!"
Fred flinched. "That's not—"
"Then what was it, Fred? What exactly was it when you suggested I go to the Ball with your brother? Because from where I'm standing, it looked a lot like you didn't want me, but you didn't want to feel guilty about it, so you made sure someone else would take care of me."
"That's not fair."
"None of this is fair!" You were shouting now. "None of this is fair, and I'm so fucking tired of pretending it is. I'm tired of pretending I'm fine. I'm tired of pretending I don't care. I'm tired of watching you with her and smiling and being supportive while you break my heart over and over again without even noticing."
"I noticed."
"Bullshit."
"I did. I noticed something was wrong. I just—" He ran his hands through his hair, gripping the strands. "I didn't know what it was. I didn't know what I'd done. And I didn't know how to fix it."
"You asked Angelina."
"I know."
"You brought her here. You danced with her all night. You gave her a corsage."
"I know."
"You don't get to stand here and be jealous of George. George has been a better friend to me in the last two weeks than you've been in six years."
The words hit him like a physical blow. His expression crumpled.
"I know," he said again. His voice was barely a whisper now. "I know he has. I know I fucked up. I know I've been a complete fucking idiot. I've been in love with you for years, Y/N, and I didn't even know it. Everyone else knew. George knew. Lee knew. Everyone except me. And by the time I figured it out, I'd already asked someone else, and you were with my brother, and I had to watch you smile at him all night and I wanted to fucking die."
"You don't get to die. You don't get to be the victim here."
"I'm not trying to be the victim."
"Then what are you trying to do?"
"I'm trying to tell you I love you!" The words exploded out of him. "I'm trying to tell you I love you, and I'm sorry, and I know that doesn't fix anything but it's all I have. It's all I fucking have, Y/N."
You stared at him. His chest was heaving. His eyes were wet. His hands were shaking at his sides.
"I love you," he said again, quieter this time. "I love you, and I'm sorry it took me so long to figure it out. I'm sorry I asked her. I'm sorry I told George to ask you. I'm sorry I've been a jealous, oblivious arsehole for the past two weeks. I'm sorry for all of it."
The anger was still there, burning in your chest. But underneath it, there was something else. Something that had been there for years. Something that wasn't going away no matter how much you wanted it to.
"I love you too," you said. "And I hate it. I hate that I love you. I hate that you can make me feel like this. I hate that you've hurt me so much and I still want you anyway."
"Then want me. Please. Want me."
You grabbed him by his undone tie and kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't romantic. It was teeth and firewhiskey and two weeks of misery pouring out of you all at once. Fred made a sound against your mouth—surprise, maybe, or relief, or something else entirely—and then his hands were in your hair and he was kissing you back, fierce and desperate and nothing like you'd imagined.
"Fuck," he breathed against your lips.
"Shut up."
"You can't just—"
"Shut up, Fred."
You kissed him again. His back hit the wall. His hands were on your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise, and you didn't care. You didn't care about anything except the taste of him and the heat of him and the way he was saying your name between kisses like it was the only word he remembered.
"Two weeks," you said, pulling back just enough to speak. "Two weeks I've been watching you with her. Two weeks of pretending I was fine."
"Me too." His voice was ragged. "You think I didn't want to scream every time George made you laugh? Every time he touched your arm?"
"He's your brother. He's my friend. That's all."
"I know." He kissed your jaw, your throat. "I know. I'm an idiot."
"You're a complete fucking idiot."
"I know."
You kissed him again. Harder. Angrier. His teeth caught your lower lip and you tasted blood, sharp and metallic.
"I love you."
The words hit you like a physical blow. You stared at him, your hands still resting on his collar.
"You're drunk."
"I'm drunk and I love you. Both things can be true."
"We're still fighting," you said.
"I know."
"I'm still furious at you."
"I know."
"You're an absolute bastard, Fred Weasley."
"I know." He kissed the corner of your mouth. "Tell me again."
"I love you."
His forehead dropped to yours. "I love you too. I'm sorry it took me so long."
"Don't." You shoved him back, your hands flat against his chest. "Don't apologize. Apologies don't fix anything."
"Then what do you want me to say?"
"I want you to explain why you waited until I was walking away to figure out you loved me." You stepped toward him again, close enough to feel the heat of him, the firewhiskey on his breath. "I want you to explain why I had to watch you with her all night. I want you to make it make sense."
"It doesn't make sense." His voice was raw, scraped hollow. "None of it makes sense. I've been a fucking idiot. I've been scared. I've been—"
"Scared of what?"
"Of this." He grabbed your face in his hands, his fingers pressing into your jaw. "Of you. Of how much I need you. Of what happens if I let myself feel it and you decide I'm not worth it."
"Then why now?"
"Because I'm watching you slip away." His thumbs traced your cheekbones, too gentle for how furious he looked. "Because George gets to stand next to you and I don't. Because he gets to make you laugh and touch your arm and be the person you turn to, and I'm stuck across the room with someone else pretending I'm not dying inside."
"George is your brother."
"I know he's my brother!" His grip tightened. "I know he's my brother, and I know he's been a better friend to you than I have, and I hate it. I hate that he's the one you lean on now. I hate that I did this to myself. I hate that I told him to ask you and then spent every single day wishing I could take it back."
"You don't get to hate it." You grabbed his wrists, pulling his hands away from your face. "You don't get to be jealous of George. George has been there for me every single day for two weeks while you were off being oblivious. He pushed the butter dish toward my hand when I forgot to eat. He walked me to class when I couldn't stand to look at you. He asked me to the Ball knowing I was in love with someone else, and he never asked for anything in return."
"I know what he did."
"Then stop acting like you're the victim here."
"I'm not acting like the victim." He grabbed your waist, pulling you against him. "I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you. I know George has been everything I should have been. I know all of that. But I'm still standing here. I'm still telling you I love you. Does that count for nothing?"
"It counts for something." Your voice cracked. "But it doesn't undo the last two weeks."
"Then tell me how to undo it."
"You can't."
"Then tell me what to do."
"I don't know." You were shaking. "I don't know what I want. I want to kiss you and I want to scream at you and I want to go back in time and make you ask me instead of her."
"I wish I had." His forehead pressed against yours. "I wish I'd asked you. I wish I'd figured it out sooner. I wish I wasn't such a fucking coward."
"You are a coward."
"I know."
"You've been a terrible friend."
"I know."
"You broke my heart."
"I know." His voice shattered on the words. "And I'll spend as long as it takes trying to fix it. Just—tell me there's something to fix. Tell me you still want this. Even a little."
"I want this." You grabbed the front of his shirt, twisting the fabric in your fists. "I want this so much I can't fucking breathe. That's the problem. I want you even when I hate you."
"Then hate me." His hands were on your hips now, gripping hard enough to bruise. "Hate me and want me at the same time. I can take it."
"Fuck you."
"I'm serious. Be as angry as you need to be. Scream at me. Hit me. I don't care. Just don't walk away."
"I already walked away."
"And you came back."
"I didn't come back. I never left. That's the whole fucking problem, Fred. I've been here the whole time. You just didn't notice."
"I notice now."
"Too late."
"Is it?" He kissed you—hard, desperate, his teeth catching your lower lip. "Is it too late? Tell me it's too late and I'll stop."
"Maybe it is."
"You kissed me first. You told me you loved me. You're still standing here."
"Fuck you."
"You keep saying that." He kissed you again. Angrier. "But you're not leaving. You're not leaving because you don't want to leave. You want to be here. You want me."
"Don't tell me what I want."
"I'm not telling you. I'm showing you." His hands were everywhere—your hair, your back, your hips. "You want me. You've always wanted me. And I've been too fucking stupid to see it."
"Then why didn't you?" You shoved him back again, harder this time. He stumbled, his shoulder hitting the wall. "Why didn't you see it? I was right there. I've been right there for six years. What was so wrong with me that you couldn't just—"
"Nothing! There's nothing wrong with you! That's the whole fucking problem!" He pushed off the wall, swaying. His eyes were wild now, unfocused. The firewhiskey was bleeding through every word. "You're so fucking perfect and patient and good, and I'm—I'm not. I'm chaos and noise and bad decisions. I ruin things. It's what I do. I ruin everything I touch."
"You didn't ruin me."
"Didn't I?" He laughed—a horrible, jagged sound. "Look at you. You're shaking. You're crying. You've been miserable for two weeks. And for what? For me? I'm not worth that. I'm not worth any of this."
"Don't do that. Don't make yourself the martyr."
"I'm not a martyr. I'm a disaster. I've always been a disaster. Ask anyone. Ask George. Ask my mum. I'm the one who breaks things. I'm the one who takes stupid risks and drags everyone down with me. You want to know why I didn't notice you? Because I was trying to protect you. From me."
"That's bullshit."
"Is it?"
"Yes! You weren't protecting me. You were protecting yourself. You were scared, so you pushed me away. That's not noble. That's selfish."
"Maybe I'm selfish." He stepped toward you, unsteady. "Maybe I'm the most selfish person in this entire fucking castle. Maybe I wanted you and I didn't want to want you, so I pretended I didn't. Maybe I've been lying to myself for so long I forgot what the truth felt like."
"What is the truth?"
"The truth is that I love you. The truth is that I've always loved you. The truth is that I asked Angelina because she's safe, because she doesn't make me feel like my chest is caving in every time she looks at me. The truth is that I'm a coward and a liar and you deserve someone who isn't either of those things."
"Fred—"
"You deserve George." The words came out bitter, slurred, ugly. "You deserve someone steady. Someone patient. Someone who doesn't steal your toast and forget to apologize. Someone who doesn't get drunk at a school dance and confess his feelings behind a fucking curtain. Someone who saw what he had before he threw it away."
"Stop."
"Why? It's true. George is better than me. He's always been better than me. And you—you've spent the last two weeks leaning on him, laughing with him, letting him take care of you. Maybe that's what you wanted all along. Maybe you just didn't know it."
"That's not—"
"Isn't it? You said yes when he asked you. You sat with him at every meal. You danced with him. You smiled at him. You looked at him like—" His voice cracked. "You used to look at me like that. And now you look at him. And maybe that's a good thing. Maybe he's what you need. Maybe I did you a favor."
"A favor?" Your voice was dangerously quiet.
"By telling him to ask you. By stepping aside. By letting him have you, since I'm too much of a fuck-up to deserve you myself."
The words hung in the air, ugly and raw and soaked in firewhiskey.
"Letting him have me?" you repeated. "Like I'm something to be passed around? Like I don't get a say in who I want?"
"That's not what I—"
"You don't get to let anyone have me, Fred. I'm not yours to give away."
"I know."
"You handed me off to your brother because you were too scared to deal with your own feelings. You didn't ask me what I wanted. You didn't stop to think about how I'd feel. You just—made a decision, like always, and expected everyone else to deal with the consequences."
"I'm sorry."
"I don't want your sorry. I want you to stop being so fucking selfish for one second and actually hear what I'm saying."
"I'm hearing you."
"No. You're not. You're standing there feeling sorry for yourself. You're telling me George is better than you so I'll argue with you and reassure you. You're making yourself the victim so I'll feel bad for you. But I don't feel bad for you, Fred. I feel bad for me. I feel bad for the person who's been in love with you for six years while you were too busy being scared to notice."
Fred stared at her. His mouth opened. Closed.
"Nothing to say?" you demanded.
"I don't—I don't know what you want from me."
"I want you to stop being a coward. I want you to stop hiding behind jokes and self-pity. I want you to look at me and actually see me. Not the idea of me. Not the version of me you've built up in your head. Me. The person who's been standing right in front of you for six years."
"I see you."
"Do you? Because right now, it feels like you're seeing yourself. Your guilt. Your fear. Your jealousy. You're not seeing me at all."
Silence.
Fred swayed on his feet. His eyes were wet, bloodshot, unfocused. The alcohol was thick on his breath, thick in his voice, and when he spoke again, it was with the particular cruelty of someone who was too drunk to filter his own thoughts.
"Maybe I don't see you," he said. "Maybe I never did. Maybe I've been in love with the idea of you, and the reality is—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Maybe the reality is that you're just as scared as I am. You stood there for six years waiting for me to notice you. You never said anything. You never fought for it. You just waited. And now you're angry at me for not reading your mind."
"I'm angry at you for asking someone else."
"Because I didn't know! Because you never told me! Because you've been so busy being the perfect, patient, supportive friend that you forgot to actually tell me what you wanted!"
"Don't you dare blame this on me."
"I'm not blaming you. I'm saying—" He ran his hands through his hair, gripping the strands. "Fuck. I don't know what I'm saying. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know anything anymore."
"Then maybe you should figure it out."
"Maybe I should."
"Maybe you should do it somewhere else."
"Yeah." He laughed, bitter and broken. "Yeah, maybe I should. Maybe I should go find Angelina. She's probably wondering where I am. She's probably worried. She actually wanted to be here tonight. She actually wanted to be with me."
The words hit you like a slap.
"Then go." Your voice was ice. "Go find Angelina. Go apologize for disappearing. Go dance with her. Go pretend tonight wasn't a complete fucking disaster."
"Maybe I will."
"Fine."
"Fine."
Neither of you moved.
"I hate this," you said. "I hate that I love you. I hate that you can make me feel like this. I hate that I kissed you and it felt like everything I ever wanted, and it still wasn't enough to make you stop being an asshole."
"I'm always an asshole."
"I know."
"It's the only thing I'm good at."
"Then you're very good at it."
"Thanks."
"It wasn't a compliment."
The silence stretched. Your chest was heaving. His eyes were red. Somewhere far away, the band had started playing again—a slow, mournful waltz for the last few dancers too stubborn to leave.
"I should go," you said.
"Yeah."
"Don't follow me this time."
"I won't."
You turned toward the curtain. Your legs were shaking. Your whole body was shaking. But you were going to walk out of here, because that was the only thing you had left.
"Y/N."
You stopped. Didn't turn around.
"For what it's worth," he said, and his voice was barely a whisper now, "meeting you wasn't the worst thing that ever happened to me. It was the best. Even if I'm too fucked up to show it. Even if I've ruined everything. Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me."
You closed your eyes. A tear slipped down your cheek.
"Goodbye, Fred."
"Goodbye, Y/N."
You pushed through the velvet curtain and walked away.
You and Fred Weasley had been together for years. Your lives were so well meshed, it was almost impossible to tell where he ended and where you began. So when you arrive back at the apartment you two share, the last thing you expect him to say is ‘we need to talk’.
Warnings: angst, happy-ending
———————————————————————
The flat smelled like burnt sugar and cedarwood. Familiar. Warm. Lived-in. The orange glow of a lone enchanted lamp flickered weakly in the corner of the sitting room, its flame occasionally dimming as though it, too, felt the weight pressing against the walls. Outside, the rain whispered against the windows, a gentle, rhythmic hush that felt too soft for what was coming.
Fred stood near the kitchen counter, his back to her, one hand braced against the edge of the wood like it was the only thing holding him up. His other hand kept flexing and curling, fingers twitching as though itching to cast a spell or break something. He hadn’t said much since she’d come home. No kiss. No joke. Just a barely-there glance.
She stood in the doorway, still holding the paper bag of takeaway she’d picked up on the way home. Fish and chips, their usual. The bottom was going damp from the oil, her knuckles whitening around the handle. She didn’t understand why he hadn’t come to meet her. Why the flat was so quiet. Why Fred looked like he was standing inside some invisible storm. But she could tell something was off.
“Fred?” she said, her voice too gentle. Like it would shatter if it met resistance.
He turned slowly, but not all the way. Just enough to look at her over his shoulder. His face was unreadable, jaw tight, mouth flat. Even his freckles seemed subdued in the low light. “We need to talk.”
She blinked. Her heart stuttered, faltered. “Okay…” she said cautiously, setting the bag down on the counter and moving closer. “Is it…is something wrong with George?”
“No. He’s fine.” He still wouldn’t look at her properly. Just kept staring past her, at the floor, or maybe at the wall beyond her shoulder.
“Okay,” she repeated, trying to keep her tone light, coaxing. “Then what is it?”
He finally turned to face her, and that’s when she knew. Something awful was coming. She knew his expressions like she knew the back of her hand. Had kissed every smile, laughed into every smirk, and memorized the curve of every dimple. But this face? This wasn’t one she recognised.
“I think we should…take a break,” he said, voice flat. Detached.
She laughed. It was quick, sharp, and automatic. “A break from what? Fish and chips? I thought this was your favourite.”
He didn’t smile at her joke. The silence that fell between them was loud. She could hear the ticking of the enchanted clock on the wall, the low creak of floorboards as one of them shifted their weight. Her heart beat like a drum in her ears.
“No,” she said, suddenly still. “No. Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” he asked, stepping away from the counter.
“Say things you don’t mean. Fred, if this is about the shop, or the war, or whatever you’re dealing with, just talk to me about it. I’m not stupid.”
“I’m not saying it to hurt you,” he said, but his voice was tighter now, strained. “I’m saying it because it’s true. My feelings have…changed.”
She recoiled like he’d slapped her. “Bullshit.”
Fred blinked, caught off guard. He almost flinched.
“You love me. Don’t pretend you don’t. You’ve never been able to lie to me, Freddie.”
He ran a hand through his hair and looked away. His shoulders were tense, bunched high around his neck. He didn’t answer.
She stepped forward, close enough to touch him. Her hand hovered, fingertips just inches from his chest, but she couldn’t bring herself to close the distance. He looked like he’d shatter. Or maybe she would.
“Is this because of what you’re about to do?” she asked softly. “Because I know.”
He looked at her then, sharply. “You what?”
“I know what you’re planning. Going on the run. The secret radio broadcasts you’ve been fiddling with when you think I’m asleep. I’m not an idiot, Fred. I know you. And I’m coming with you.”
“No,” he said instantly. “Absolutely not.”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“You’re not,” he snapped. “You’re not coming.”
“Why not?”
“Because I need you safe!” he shouted suddenly. The walls seemed to echo with it. The rain outside went quiet for a moment, like the world had paused to listen.
She stared at him, wide-eyed, chest rising and falling fast. “Then just say that,” she whispered. “Say you love me but you’re scared. Don’t lie to me to try and push me away.”
He looked at her like he was drowning. Chest heaving. Hands shaking. His mouth opened, then closed again. The fight in his shoulders collapsed.
“I—” he started, voice breaking. “If you go with me, I won’t be able to protect you. I’ll be distracted. I’ll worry. And that’s dangerous. You don’t understand. I love you too much to lose you.”
“But not enough to not let me go,” she added.
Fred exhaled shakily. His jaw tensed. “I do love you,” he grits out. “More than anything. That’s why I’m doing this.”
She stepped forward, eyes flashing. “Don’t. You don’t have to lie to push me away like I’m some helpless—”
“I’m not lying,” he snapped. Too quickly, too sharp.
She closed the gap between them in two fast steps. “Yes, you are. You’re a shite liar, Fred Weasley. You’re trying to make me hate you so I don’t follow you.”
His breath stuttered as her face inched closer, challenging him. Her voice softened, eyes locking on his. “But I’m not going to hate you. I’ll just hate being without you.”
Fred’s jaw twitched. He couldn’t look her in the eye anymore. Her hands reached up, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. He didn’t have the strength to stop her.
“We’re partners, Freddie.” she whispered. “You and me against everything.”
The air seemed to rush from her lungs at once. And then he was in her arms. Or maybe she was in his. She couldn’t remember who moved first. They kissed like it was the last breath before drowning. Frantic. Desperate. Her hands were in his hair. His arms around her back. They stumbled toward the bedroom. It wasn’t soft. It was devastating.
Their mouths crashed together again and again. Her hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him closer, and Fred let out a groan like he’d been holding his breath for hours. He grabbed her waist, backing them into the wall, kissing her like he was starving and she was the only thing that could ever satiate the hunger.
But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.
She broke the kiss just long enough to gasp against his lips, “Tell me you don’t love me.”
Fred’s forehead rested against hers. His voice was wrecked with emotion, chest heaving. “Don’t make me lie again.”
She kissed him harder this time, hands slipping under his shirt, palms pressing to his chest like trying to memorize the feeling of his heartbeat against her palm. He gripped her hips, fingertips leaving a trail of bruises like he was afraid she’d vanish. But still he murmured between kisses, “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I do,” she rasped. “I’m asking you to let me love you. Even if it’s dangerous.”
He shook his head, desperate, lips grazing her jaw. “You could die. You’ll follow me and—”
“I’d never leave you.”
Those words shattered him to splinters. He lifted her suddenly, and she wrapped her legs around his waist instinctively. They stumbled toward their bedroom, colliding with the edge of the sofa, knocking over a chair. Fred cursed under his breath, laughing brokenly into her neck.
“I’m a right bastard for this,” he confessed. “I should’ve stayed cold. I should’ve let you hate me.”
Her hands were in his hair now, tugging as her lips brush his ear. “Too late.”
He kicked the bedroom door open blindly with his foot, guiding her through the frame without ever pulling away. They crashed into the edge of the bed, falling with a gasp and a tangle of limbs and desperation.
Clothes begin to peel away like secrets. His shirt, her sweater. Her hands dragged down his belt as he kissed her feverish skin like it was the last time he’d ever be allowed to.
His mouth found hers again, slower this time, more reverent, as his hands framed her face like he was memorising every detail.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into her skin, voice cracking. “I’m sorry.”
She cupped his jaw gently, her thumb brushing the curve of his cheekbone. He kissed her again before he could say something he’d regret. It was urgent, frantic, but laced with sorrow. With love. With the kind of longing that only came with knowing the clock was ticking.
———————————————————————
The room was still, dim, and warm with the ghosts of the night before.
She stirred under the tangled covers, her arm reaching instinctively toward the familiar dip in the mattress where Fred always slept. Her fingers brushed only cool linen.
She blinked, disoriented for a moment, the pale light filtering through the half-closed curtains casting a soft grey wash over the room. Morning, but early. The kind of hour where dreams clung too tightly to the edges of reality. Her hand slid across the sheets again.
Nothing but a cold expanse of sheets was there to greet her wandering fingertips.
“Fred?” she murmured, voice rough from sleep and something deeper. Her heart fluttered, unsure.
There was no answer.
She sat up slowly, the sheet slipping from her chest and pooling at her waist. A chill crept over her bare skin. A quiet unease settled into her bones. Something was off.
The apartment - the place that had been theirs for so long - was too quiet. No clatter from the kitchen, no half-muttered curses over burnt toast. No footsteps. No kettle. No Fred.
She rose from the bed, pulling a blanket around her shoulders, and stepped onto the cool wood floor. Her feet moved on their own, down the narrow hallway.
The bathroom door hung open. The mirror was clear. No fog, no damp towel, no half-used shaving cream. Empty.
Her chest tightened. She padded into the kitchen, heart pounding harder with each step. It was clean. Unusually clean. No half-drunk tea, no crumbs, no trace of him having been there at all. Their abandoned fish and chip dinner from last night was still siting exactly where she’s left it. Cold on the counter.
She turned slowly, eyes flicking toward the coat rack. His coat - the brown one with the crooked stitching on the sleeve - was missing. The space beneath the bench by the door, where his boots always waited, was empty. Gone.
Her stomach dropped. Her hands trembled as she turned back down the hall, stepping quickly now, ignoring the sharp ache in her knees as she crashed back into the bedroom. She opened his drawer only to find it was half-empty. Most of his things were missing. The wand holster that usually lay tossed beside the bed was gone too.
Her heart pounded against her ribs like it was trying to warn her.
“No,” she said aloud, voice cracking.
She dropped to her knees beside the bed, gripping the edge of the mattress, eyes wide and stinging. “No, Fred, please—”
She pressed her face into the sheets. They smelled like him. Like cinnamon and firework powder, like skin and home and warmth.
A sob ripped out of her before she could stop it. It came from deep inside, raw and choked and broken. She curled in tighter, fists twisting the blankets, teeth clenched to try and stop the sound but failing miserably.
He had left.
He’d held her like she was all he had left in the world, kissed her like he couldn’t breathe without her, and then left.
Her mind spiralled, replaying how he’d kissed her against the wall, how he’d let her fight for him, how he’d finally given in and made love to her like he meant it. Like she was enough.
He’d let her believe she’d won. And then he’d slipped away. Silent. Cowardly. Or was it brave?
The tears came harder now, thick and hot, rolling over her cheeks as she let herself collapse onto the bed. Her face buried in the pillow that still held the indent of his head, her hands clutching the cooling warmth where his body had lain only hours ago.
He didn’t leave a note. He didn’t say goodbye. He hadn’t even looked her in the eyes and told her the truth.
Because she would have stopped him. She would have followed. And he knew it. So he broke her instead.
She shook, breath hiccuping through sobs she couldn’t control anymore. Her chest ached in a way she didn’t have words for. Something hollow and sharp all at once, like a cracked ribbed cage barely holding in the ruin of her heart.
The light crept brighter through the window, illuminating the half-empty room.
The silence pressed in.
Fred was gone.
And she was alone.
———————————————————————
The jumper was too big, the sleeves swallowing her hands and the hem hitting nearly to her knees. But it was his, and it still smelled like him.
Smoke and sugar. That faint trace of fireworks and the piney scent of the forest behind the Burrow. It had faded over time, but she pressed her face into the wool anyway, hoping the memory of him would cling longer if she just held still enough.
The bed was too big without him. Always had been. The left side remained untouched, the pillow still fluffed, a silent monument to where he should have been.
She lay curled on her side, knees tucked to her chest, one arm curled beneath the jumper and the other resting over the battered wireless radio on the nightstand. Her fingers ghosted over the knobs, tuning slowly. Carefully. As if she’d done this a hundred times before. Because she had.
The static crackled softly, gentle white noise hissing through the speakers as she adjusted the dial. A sliver of some old warbled melody flickered into being. The end of a big band waltz. She turned past it. Another station boasted the distant echo of a WWN talk show, too cheery, too alive. Her wrist paused, fingers twitching.
She tapped the radio gently. Her wand, always within reach, slipped into her hand with muscle memory. She brought the tip to the side of the dial and whispered, just barely audible, “Albus.”
The word lingered in the air like a prayer. The static hiccuped - once, twice - then resumed its soft hiss.
No signal. No voice. No update. Not tonight.
Her chest tightened, but she didn’t sigh. Sighing meant admitting it was hopeless. Sighing meant moving on. So instead, she stayed still. Listened. Waited. Just in case.
Because sometimes, rarely, the radio crackled to life. And for five, ten, twenty minutes, Fred’s voice would filter through the static, joking too loudly, sometimes with Lee, sometimes alone. Their secret pirate transmission. For anyone who was listening. For her, if she could find it in time.
She hadn’t heard him in two weeks.
Her eyes burned, but she blinked the tears back and buried her face deeper into the sleeve of his jumper. Then a knock came alive at the bedroom door.
Her whole body tensed, instinctively shrinking deeper under the covers. She didn’t move.
The knock came again. Harder this time. More insistent.
She stared at the radio. Don’t go away, she thought. Please. Just one word tonight. One breath. Something.
The knock stopped. A beat passed. Then the door creaked open anyway.
“Don’t ignore me, you antisocial lump,” Angelina Johnson’s voice rang through the quiet.
She didn’t look up. Footsteps padded across the carpet, stopping beside the bed. The mattress dipped slightly as Angelina placed a tray down. A single plate with a slice of toast, scrambled eggs, and a mug of tea, still steaming.
“I brought you food. Eat it.”
“Not hungry,” she mumbled, eyes still fixed on the radio, her wand tapping gently against its side. “Go away.”
“Right,” Angelina said flatly. “Because wasting away under a jumper like a ghost is so helpful. You’ve gotta eat. That’s non-negotiable.”
The bed dipped again as Angelina sat beside her. The radio kept hissing. Angelina didn’t flinch at the static. She knew the ritual. She’d walked in on it enough times.
“I tried the password,” she said quietly. “There’s nothing new. I’m sorry.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I tried too. You should still eat.”
Her stomach turned at the thought. But Angelina didn’t relent. She didn’t yell, didn’t plead. She just sat there. Her silence heavier than most people’s words. Admittedly, Angelina’s company had been a great comfort over the past months. In Angie, she’d found strength and comfort, and understanding. George had left her too, in the middle of the night with no warning. Both brothers were gone. Angelina and George might not have been together as long as she and Fred had, but they still loved each other deeply. Only, Angelina seemed to turn to keeping herself busy to avoid the loneliness and sorrow that crept in.
Eventually, she rolled onto her back and pulled herself up to sit, her limbs sluggish and heavy like she was moving through wet cement. Angelina handed her the toast. No fuss. Just held it out until she took it.
She bit into it mechanically. Chewed. Swallowed. Sipped the tea. Let the warmth linger in her throat a second longer than necessary.
Angelina smiled, soft and satisfied like someone who’d just won a quiet battle. But the peace was brief.
“You need fresh air,” she said, gently but firmly. “Just a walk. Around the block. We don’t have to talk. We can come right back—”
“No. I’m not leaving.”
“Babe, you can’t—”
She shoved the tray away, not hard, but with finality. “I said no, Angelina. What if the radio comes on while we’re gone?”
She turned back to the radio, hand trembling now as she picked up her wand again. She tapped the side once more. “…Albus.”
The same static greeted her.
Angelina stood, her expression unreadable. Her voice was soft as she gathered the tray. “You’re not the only one who misses them, you know.”
“I know,” she said.
But her voice cracked on the second word. Angelina lingered at the door for a moment. Her eyes softened, but she didn’t argue again.“I’ll be in the spare room if you need me.”
The door shut with a quiet click. The silence returned.
She curled back into herself, wrapped in wool - in memories. Her wand still rested on the radio, her thumb running over the wood like a rosary.
One more try. “Albus.”
Nothing but static. But she waited anyway.
———————————————————————
The morning light didn’t reach their bedroom the same way anymore.
It used to pour through the window in warm golden streaks, catching on the dust motes in the air and warming the floorboards beneath her bare feet. Now it felt colder, thinner. Pale and disinterested, like even the sun had begun to forget the shape of his body in the bed they used to share.
She stood at the edge of the room in her underwear, arms folded tight over her chest as she stared at the open dresser.
Most of the drawers were empty now. She’d steadily worked through all of his clothes until the smell of fireworks and candy had faded from each piece. But one drawer had remained mostly untouched.
She’d been rationing it. Wearing Fred’s things in secret rotations. A T-shirt here. The flannel he always wore while tinkering in the shop. The socks she used to tease him about when he wouldn’t admit they were actually George’s. But now, even those were losing his scent.
She pulled open the last drawer, slow and deliberate, half-expecting to find it empty too.
But there, shoved to the back beneath a pair of mismatched wool socks and a faded Quidditch jersey, was an old jumper she instantly recognised.
It was the burnt orange one, pilling at the sleeves, neck slightly stretched, with a frayed patch on the right elbow from where he’d snagged it climbing the orchard fence. He used to wear it constantly that summer before sixth year. The summer they stayed at the Burrow together.
She reached out and touched the jumper with careful fingers, like she was afraid it might dissolve if she held it too tightly. As she lifted it from the drawer, the weight of the memory struck her with unexpected force.
She closed her eyes. And when she opened them, it was like she was seventeen again.
The field behind the Burrow buzzed with late-summer crickets, and the grass, still warm from the day’s heat, tickled her ankles as she crept barefoot through the tall stalks.
“Fred, where are we going?” she whispered, laughing breathlessly as he pulled her hand through the darkness.
“You’ll see,” he whispered back, glancing over his shoulder with that glint in his eye that meant trouble.
He wore that orange jumper. The one she always teased him about. The color clashed horribly with his hair, but he’d insisted it was “bold, not bad,” and she couldn’t argue when it smelled like him and felt like home when he hugged her in it.
They broke through the edge of the field and came out into a small clearing. The stars above were spread out like a quilt. Endless and soft and shimmering. Fred let go of her hand only to drop a blanket down onto the grass.
“Ta-da,” he grinned, flopping down. “Best view in all of Ottery St Catchpole.”
She sat beside him, still catching her breath. “Not bad.”
“Not bad?” He gasped, hand over heart. “I drag you out here, impending a probably punishment for breaching Mum’s curfew, risk getting hexed by gnomes, and you give me ‘not bad’?”
She laughed, eyes glittering. “Alright, it’s beautiful.”
They lay down beside each other, arms touching, eyes fixed on the sky. For a long time, neither of them spoke.
The sounds of the night wrapped around them like a lullaby. Wind rustling the trees, the hoot of an owl somewhere near the garden, and the distant creak of the Burrow settling into sleep.
He shifted slightly, turning to look at her. “Do you ever think about next year?” he asked softly. “Everything changing?”
She blinked, surprised by the sudden seriousness in his voice. “All the time.”
“George and I…we might not be going back. We’ve got plans. The shop, a flat in Diagon Alley…Mum’s going to lose her mind.”
She smiled faintly. “I bet Filch’ll be glad you two won’t be running around Hogwarts.”
He laughed, but it faded quickly. “And you’ll still be there. Without me.”
Her throat tightened. “You’ll visit. On Hogsmead weekends. And you’ll write to me.”
“Not the same.”
“No,” she whispered. “It’s not.”
He reached over, brushing a piece of hair from her face. “I don’t want you to be alone.”
“I won’t be,” she said. “I’ll have the others. Angelina. Ginny. School.”
He didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, “That’s not what I meant.”
She turned her head, meeting his eyes. There was something raw there. Something wide open and unguarded.
“I don’t want to be without you,” he said again, “because…I love you.”
It was so simple. So honest, and the first time he’s said it. She stared at him, the weight of the words settling around her like stardust. She’d imagined hearing them. Had whispered them in her head so many times. But this wasn’t in her imagination. This was real. Her Fred. In an orange jumper. Lying in a field with his heart in his hands.
“I love you too,” she whispered, voice trembling.
He smiled brightly, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. Then he kissed her. And the stars kept spinning above them, but it felt like they’d frozen in time.
The jumper was still in her hands. The same one he’d worn that night. She lifted it slowly, pressing it to her face. It smelled like old woodsmoke.
And something sweeter. The cologne he wore back then, before the war, before things got complicated. It was faint now, but still there, woven deep into the fabric. She held it to her face and broke.
The sob crawled up from her ribs, raw and unsteady. Her shoulders shook, hands fisting in the wool, her body curling over like the grief might split her in two. But she didn’t let go. She couldn’t.
Because for a moment, just a moment, it was like he was there again. Lying beside her in the dark, whispering I love you beneath the stars.
———————————————————————
The crooked silhouette of the Burrow stood in front of her like a memory too bright to look at directly. Leaning slightly to the left, held together by magic and love, it had always looked like it might collapse under its own weight, and yet somehow, it never had. Just like Molly, and Arthur. Just like all of them.
She stood at the gate, her wand-hand trembling slightly at her side, the fingers of her other hand curled around the thin strap of her worn bag. Her boots were caked with the dry dust of May, the remnants of the battle still embedded in every seam. She hadn’t worn anything fancy. Just jeans and a jumper that used to belong to her father. She’d long since run out of clothes that smelled like Fred. It had been over a year, after all, since she’d last seen him. A year of flying under the radar. A year of living with Angelina. A year of not knowing when life would return to normal, or if it ever would.
An anxious knot tightened in her chest as she stood there. This was a terrible idea.
Molly’s owl had come two days after the last funeral. Not Fred’s, thank Merlin. But others. So many others. The names she didn’t even know she’d memorised: Colin Creevey. Lavender Brown. Remus. Tonks. Some gone in fire, some in flash, some in silence.
But Fred had lived. He was home. That was the line she couldn’t stop returning to. He was alive.
And she was angry.
The kind of anger that fermented in the gut, bitter and slow. Not the firestorm rage that burned hot and fast. No, this was the cold, aching anger that came from months of waiting. From empty beds and unanswered letters. From the nights she’d fallen asleep to static on the radio, whispering passwords into darkness just to hear his voice. And when she’d needed him most, when the world had been ending, he hadn’t been there. Not for her.
She raised her hand and knocked once before she could change her mind. The door flung open faster than expected.
Ginny launched forward and wrapped her in a fierce hug, nearly knocking her off the step. “You came!”
She managed a breathless smile, gripping Ginny just as tightly. “Molly invited me. I…I didn’t want to be rude.”
“You’re family,” Ginny said fiercely. “It would be rude if didn’t come.”
From behind Ginny, others followed. George clapped her on the back like no time had passed, Percy gave her a solemn nod that meant more than a thousand words. Ron and Harry smiled and called her name like they hadn’t just survived a war. Hermione hugged her too tightly. Angelina, who was already there, gave her a look of quiet understanding.
And then there was Fred.
He stood near the far corner, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. He hadn’t moved. His hair looked longer, as if he hadn’t had time or inclination to cut it. There was a shadow under his eyes that hadn’t been there before, or maybe she just hadn’t seen it. Maybe she’d refused to look.
She caught his eye, just for a second, and it sent a jolt like a bit of lightning through her core. Neither of them smiled. The silence between them felt like its own kind of spell. A barrier. A wound. She looked away first.
“Molly,” she said, her voice cracking just slightly, “can I help with the table?”
“Of course, dear,” Molly said, bustling over and placing a hand on her shoulder. “I’ve already set out the plates, but the glasses and napkins are still in the cupboard.”
She nodded gratefully, stepping past Fred without a word, her shoulder brushing the doorway. She didn’t look back.
———————————————————————
Dinner at the Burrow had never been quiet. Even in the worst of times, this place had a pulse, a rhythm. Like a heartbeat too stubborn to stop. Laughter still lived in the walls, soaked into the wood of the kitchen table, and even if it was quieter tonight, even if there was something unspoken tugging between the adults and the younger faces alike, there was still warmth. Still food.
Molly had made shepherd’s pie, roasted pumpkin, and steamed greens. There were platters of rolls charmed to stay warm and a pot of treacle tart just waiting for dessert. It smelled like comfort. It smelled like home. But she couldn’t taste any of it.
Fred sat across the table from her, two seats down, beside George. He hadn’t spoken to her. Not once.Every time she looked up, he was already looking at her. He wasn’t smiling.
She turned instead to Angelina, seated beside her, and managed a whisper. “I can’t do this.”
Angelina squeezed her knee under the table. “You can. And you’re going to. Eat your bloody pie.”
It was the only thing that made her smile all night.
The tension between her and Fred was palpable, like the moment before a wand duel when your fingers flex just slightly, your heart hammering, your eyes locked on someone who could destroy you. She kept catching herself tracing the rim of her goblet, shredding her napkin with slow fingers. Every nerve in her body told her to look at him again. To yell. To cry. But she didn’t.
Instead, she listened as Harry tried to explain Muggle car maintenance to Arthur, who was eating it up with wide-eyed curiosity. George cracked a joke that made Hermione groan. Ginny kicked Ron under the table.
And she smiled at all the right times. Laughed when expected. But her eyes kept sliding back to Fred. He was quieter than she remembered. That unsettled her more than anything.
She wondered if he was still angry. If he thought she had moved on. If he’d ever meant it, when he’d said his feelings had changed. When he’d said goodbye. When he’d left her, sleeping and trusting and in love.
When the meal finally ended and plates began vanishing with quick cleaning charms, she stood quietly and slipped out of the room. No one stopped her when she climbed up to Ginny’s room and pretended to go to bed.
———————————————————————
Slowly, one by one, Ginny, Angelina and Hermione had joined her. All three had since drifted off to sleep. But she was still wide awake, eyes screwed shut as a flow of memories played before her eyelids. There was no way she’d be getting a wink of sleep here. Not when she knew Fred was in the room below her. Not when she knew the trek to it so well. When she’d made that journey many a night before.
Letting out an exhausted and irritated breath, she climbed out of the makeshift bedding on the floor. Stepping lightly over the creaking floorboards, she made her way out into the hall and then descended down the staircase. Her eyes were instantly drawn to Fred and George’s shut bedroom door. Her stomach flipped but she forced herself to walk past it and continued to the ground floor of the house.
The living room was empty now, chairs pushed back and a few half-empty wine goblets left on the mantle. The fire had burned low, casting orange light against the walls. She padded into the kitchen.
She opened a cupboard, pulled out her favourite mug - the blue one with the tiny chip near the handle - and filled it with water, whispering a quiet charm to warm it. Her hands trembled as she added a spoonful of honey and a crushed bit of dried chamomile from Molly’s neatly labeled jars.
The tea leaves hadn’t even begun to diffuse when the floorboards behind her creaked again. She didn’t turn. She didn’t need to. She recognised the weight of those footsteps. The lanky gait.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” Fred asked quietly.
Her breath hitched but she still didn’t turn. “No,” she said. “Too many ghosts in this house.”
Fred didn’t reply for a long moment. Then he stepped closer, but not too close. “Thanks for coming,” he said.
“I didn’t come for you.”
“I know.”
Another defeaning silence rose quickly. Then she turned, ever so slowly, and looked at him fully for the first time in nearly a year.
He hadn’t changed that much. Still lanky, still handsome in that infuriatingly charming way. His jaw was sharper, though. He looked like someone who had learned to live on half-slept nights and hard decisions. There was an ache in her chest at the sight of him. One she hadn’t felt since the day he left.
“You didn’t write,” she whispered.
“I couldn’t.”
“You didn’t have to lie to me, Fred.”
He swallowed, looking away, his voice tight. “I did. If I hadn’t, you would’ve come with me. I wasn’t going to risk anything happening to you.”
“I should have come with you,” she snapped, stepping closer now, tears welling. “We promised each other—”
“I kept you safe,” he said, voice harsh. “That was the promise I kept.”
Her breath caught in her throat. She clenched her fists. “And what about me?” she asked. “I didn’t want to be kept safe. I wanted to be with you. And you left me. For a whole year!”
He looked at her now, and in his eyes, she saw every sleepless night, every regret, every almost. “I know,” he said. “And I’ve thought about it every single day.”
“You think I haven’t?” She blurted. “Do you think a day went by when my thoughts weren’t consumed by you? When I wasn’t worrying about where you were. What you were doing. If you were even still alive out there.”
“Better than having to be there,” he insisted. “Better than having to worry about me while being hunted by snatchers and dueling with death eaters.”
She had no response for that. The mug in her hand had gone cold, tea forgotten the moment he entered the room. Fred stood there, blocking the doorway like the ghost of every memory she’d fought to survive. He still looked at her like she was something he’d dreamed up. Like she might vanish again if he blinked too long.
“It’s still hard for me to believe this is real. That it’s not a dream and you’re really here,” he murmured, as if the words had to be tested aloud to be believed.
Again, she didn’t answer. Just stared at him. Her fingers wrapped tightly around the ceramic mug as if it were the only thing anchoring her.
Fred stepped closer, slowly, eyes flicking from her face to the chipped rim of the cup in her hands. “I thought about this moment so many times,” he said quietly, almost like he was ashamed of it. “What I’d say. What you’d say. Whether you’d slap me or hex me or just walk away.”
“You forgot the part where I say nothing at all,” she said, voice tight. “Where I just sit at dinner like a guest and not the woman who lived with you. Loved you. Waited for you.”
He flinched. “You’re not just a guest.”
“Felt like one.”
“I did it to keep you safe—”
“Oh don’t you dare,” she snapped, stepping toward him, placing the mug down hard on the countertop with a dull thud. “Don’t you dare keep pulling the noble sacrifice card. I fought. I was there. At the Battle of Hogwarts. You weren’t there keeping me safe, Fred. I handled it on my own. No, this whole mess is because you were to afraid to keep me close, so you pushed me away.”
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Maybe you’re right. I didn’t handle it the way I should have. But you have to understand, I couldn’t watch you die.”
“And I couldn’t watch you walk away. But I had to.”
There was a pause, long and aching. Then he stepped in close, so close she could feel the heat of him, the familiar smell of something smoky and warm that always clung to his shirts. “I missed you every single day.”
“I don’t care,” she whispered. “I’m still mad at you.”
“Good,” he said. “Because that means you still feel something for me. And I’m still in love with you.”
Her mouth found his before her brain could catch up. The mug was left abandoned on the counter, forgotten like everything else except the way his hands curled around her waist and hers fisted in the collar of his old shirt.
They crashed together like magnets snapping back into place. It was urgent, desperate, and breathless. He kissed her like he was trying to make up for every second they’d lost, mouth moving hungrily over hers, fingers tracing her jaw, her neck, her back. She moaned softly into his mouth as he walked her backward, bumping into the pantry door, then the edge of the bench, sending a jar of sugar nearly tumbling.
“Fred! Fred, we can’t. Not here,” she gasped against his lips, pushing lightly against his chest even as her hands tugged him closer. “Your family’s upstairs.”
He smirked into her skin as he kissed down her neck. “Didn’t stop you last time,” he muttered.
She pulled back just enough to raise a brow. “What are you—?”
But she knew exactly what he was talking about. That very same summer before sixth year. The whole house was sleeping. She’d been tiptoeing down for a drink, only to find him already in the kitchen, shirtless and smiling in the golden candlelight. They’d kissed in front of the pantry, just like this. Hands roaming. His mouth hot and reckless against her throat. They’d nearly been caught when the stairs creaked and Molly stirred. She’d giggled into his chest, both of them ducking behind the table, biting back laughter and hunger alike.
“I cannot believe you remember that,” she whispered, breath shaky, face hot.
“Could never forget it,” he said, pressing her up against the cupboard again, voice low and rough. “Especially the part where you said, and I quote, ‘if we get caught, I’ll tell them you seduced me.’”
She laughed, short and breathy, even as her nails dragged lightly down his chest. “Sounds like something you’d do.”
“Merlin, I missed that laugh,” he murmured before capturing her mouth again.
Clothes began to shift and fall between kisses. Her shirt lifted over her head, his hands slipping beneath the waistband of her jeans. He touched her like he’d been starved for the feel of her skin, like memorising her all over again was the only way he’d survive.
She pulled back only when her knees hit the cupboard door behind her, breath ragged. “Fred, we can’t—”
“I need you,” he said simply. “Not just tonight. Not just here.” His lips ghosted over her collarbone, his hands stilling just beneath the hem of her top. “I need you back in my life. Every damn day.”
She searched his face, stunned by the ache in his eyes. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”
“I do,” he whispered.
Then, he dropped to one knee. Her pulse stuttered. “What—”
“I’m not joking.” His voice dropped to something tender. “I’ve had the ring since before I left.”
He pulled back just slightly and reached into his pocket, fingers trembling just a little. Her eyes welled up as he held out a small, well-worn box. It was scuffed from being carried everywhere for months. He opened it, revealing a ring so beautiful and perfect that it made her breath catch in her throat.
“You were going to propose before? Before everything?”
He nodded, throat tight. “I wanted to. I had this whole plan. Candles. Music. Something sappy. But then the war got worse, and I couldn’t risk you following me. I thought I’d lose you.”
“You nearly did,” she whispered.
“But I didn’t,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re still here. Still mad at me. Still perfect. I know I don’t deserve it, but I love you. I’ve always loved you. I don’t have a fancy set up. I don’t have a speech. I don’t even really have a job anymore unless we can get the shop up and running again.” He laughed, dry and nervous, eyes flicking up to meet hers. “But I have a whole future in my head. One where we don’t let the world get between us again. One where we do things right.”
She stared at the ring, then at him. Then laughed, watery and disbelieving. “What am I meant to tell people when they ask how you proposed?”
Fred smirked and pulled her into his arms again. “Tell them it was during the most passionate night of our lives. In my mum’s kitchen. While half-dressed and furious.”
She stared, heart racing, hands trembling. A choked sob bubbled from her throat, even through the tears burning behind her eyes. “You want that to be the story?”
“Best proposal story ever,” he grinned, rising to his feet again and kissing her softly. “Unless you’d rather tell them it happened under the stars. Or on a broomstick. Or in front of a bloody hippogriff. We’ve got options. I’ll do it again, and again, until I get it right.”
She shook her head, pulling him in again, her lips brushing his. “You’re an absolute buffoon, Fred Weasley.”
“I am,” he murmured. “But you’ve never let that stop you before.”
She pressed her forehead to his, voice thick and trembling, but certain. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”
———————————————————————
The scent of sizzling bacon and freshly baked bread drifted up the stairs, sunlight spilling through the curtains in lazy golden streaks. She stretched beneath the duvet, sore in a lovely, familiar way, and for the first time in what felt like ages, her body didn’t ache from sadness or tension. It just ached from being alive and in love.
She padded barefoot down the stairs, wearing an oversized jumper - Fred’s, again, obviously - and soft flannel pyjama shorts. Her hair was still mussed from sleep, and she hadn’t bothered with much more than washing her face and brushing her teeth. The usual morning chaos echoed from the kitchen: George arguing with Ron over toast, plates clinking, Ginny muttering something about Harry drinking all the pumpkin juice.
But the moment she walked in, the noise dulled. Everyone turned. She blinked tiredly. “Morning.”
No one responded right away. Fred, standing at the end of the table putting down a tray of pancakes, looked up the moment he heard her voice. His entire expression softened into something that made her stomach do that awful, fluttering thing it always had when he looked at her like that. As if she’d just walked into a room and turned on all the lights.
Without a word, he crossed the kitchen, placed a steaming mug of tea in front of her, and leaned down to press a soft kiss to her forehead. “Just how you like it,” he murmured.
She smiled into her cup as she cradled it, eyes fluttering closed for a second.
“What on Earth,” Percy muttered, a bewildered expression taking over his features.
“Were you two not at war last night?” Ron asked, halfway through a mouthful of toast.
Arthur glanced between them, bemused. “Did I miss something?”
She tilted her head, smirking over her mug. Fred looked far too smug as he sat beside her, arm casually draping along the back of her chair like they hadn’t spent the previous day avoiding eye contact at this very same table.
And then Ginny gasped loudly. “Oh my Godric! Is that a ring on your finger?!”
All eyes dropped to her left hand, which was still curled around the tea mug. The delicate gold band sparkled like it knew exactly what it was doing. She looked at Fred. He looked at her. They exchanged a shared, secretive smile.
Then she raised her eyebrows, teasing. “So…do you want to tell them, or should I?”
Fred turned to the stunned table with a wicked grin. “We’re engaged.”
The reaction was instantaneous. Ginny shrieked. Hermione let out a dramatic “What?!”Ron dropped his toast. Arthur’s mouth fell open in genuine surprise. And Molly…Well Molly burst into tears and screamed in delight. “OH, MY STARS!”
Chairs scraped back so fast it was a wonder no one toppled over. In seconds, she was being swept from her seat, hugged, kissed, and congratulated in loud, overlapping bursts of joy.
Fred was pulled from one sibling to the next, everyone clapping him on the back and demanding to know when, how, where.
Molly cupped her hands over her mouth, eyes watering. “I knew it! I knew it! Oh, sweetheart, welcome to the family!”
“I thought I was always part of the family,” she laughed as Molly crushed her into a hug.
“Yes, but now it’s official,” Molly cried. “Oh, look at that ring! Fred Gideon Weasley, I swear, you’re lucky she said yes after all you put her through!”
He smirked from over her shoulder, and as the Burrow filled with laughter, joy, and the sound of everyone trying to talk over each other, she looked around the table and felt something settle in her chest. Life was finally as it should be. As it had been once, long ago.
Fred caught her gaze from across the room. Lifted his brow. Gave her that crooked smile that still made her knees go weak. She smiled back.
Molly was already rattling off plans for an engagement dinner, Ginny cooing over the ring, and Arthur trying to discreetly ask Fred about the proposal while still grinning ear to ear.
Fred had just managed to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her back to his side, beaming proudly, when George leaned lazily against the counter with a very smug expression and said, loud enough to cut through the noise, “Well I already knew. Hard to miss, considering I couldn’t even sneak downstairs for a glass of water last night without nearly being deafened by the sound of impending nuptials happening in the bloody kitchen.”
Percy choked on his tea.
Ginny squealed in horror. “GEORGE!”
“Merlin’s beard!” Arthur gasped, looking everywhere except at the couple.
Molly looked like she might faint. “In my kitchen?!”
Fred clapped a hand over his face, muttering, “You were supposed to be asleep.”
“I was!” George shot back. “Until I woke up to the sound of the spatula drawer being assaulted.”
“Fred!” Molly shrieked.
“It was a passionate moment!” he defended, turning pink.
“It was also a health code violation!” George yelled, waving his arms dramatically.
She was blushing so hard she nearly dropped her tea, clinging to Fred’s jumper for balance as he groaned into her shoulder.
“Worst part is,” George added, “now every time I try to make a sandwich in the middle of the night, I’ll have to ask myself, Has this counter been—”
“GEORGE!” came the collective scream from the entire table. But George only grinned wider, completely unbothered.
“I’m just saying,” he muttered, lifting his hands innocently, “some of us didn’t need a formal announcement.”
Fred shook his head, pulling her closer with a groan. “Welcome to the family, love. Hope you like oversharing.”
She just buried her face in his chest, laughing, the ring on her finger catching the light as Fred pressed another kiss to her hair.
And amid the chaos, the teasing, and the scandalised gasps echoing through the Burrow, she had never felt more loved, or more at home. It was going to be chaos. It was going to be messy. But it was them. And it was perfect.
———————————————————————
Tag list: @vivianette @ellouisa17 @wisp1q @divineani @cattleray @billieeilishkisser
Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader
Summary: "Help me I’m being hit on at a bar please be my fake boyfriend for a second"
Word Count: 1779
Warnings: unwanted advances (not from Peter), alcohol mention (characters are of age), bit of angst
A/N: I have ideas for a part 2 of this if anyone is interested heheh
Masterlist
“C’mon babe, lemme get you a drink,” the man standing next to you at the bar insisted with slightly slurred words as he leaned in closer.
“I already told you, I have a boyfriend,” you lied through your teeth and turned away from him on your barstool. You didn’t care if he believed you or not, you just hoped he would back off. When your roommate convinced you to come to some shitty campus bar, you thought she’d actually hang out with you instead of leaving you alone at the bar. You considered leaving as you had no interest in hooking up with some dude who’d leave you high and dry and ditch you in the morning, but the other half of you wanted to make sure your roommate stayed safe. You didn’t know her too well as the two of you just got settled into the new dorm and were preparing for the upcoming semester, but you’d hope she’d do the same for you; girl code and all.
“And here you are, sitting alone,” you turned back around to see him giving you a cocky look, you know you didn’t have to prove anything to him but being neglected by your roommate, the overzealous expression he wore, and the alcohol in your system made you see red.
“And here you are, continuing to hit on someone in a relationship and not taking a hint to back off,” you exploded at him, slamming the drink you were nursing on the bartop and turning away again before whipping back, “and not that it’s any of your business, but he is here,” you regretted the words as they left your mouth, knowing you were actively digging yourself a grave.
“Oh, I’d love to meet him,” he leaned in once again, you knew he was enjoying this and was waiting to see you fumble, and you wanted so badly to wipe that smirk off his face. You quickly tried to form a plan or an excusable defense in your head, while he crossed his arms over his chest, seemingly getting off on your misfortune. You were about to give up when a tall brunette in an olive green jacket caught your eye, you recognized him from the photography class you took a while back, you remember him mostly keeping to himself, occasionally piping up during critique and actually giving really good advice. Shit, what was his name?
“Baby, there you are, I was just about to look for you,” you place a hand on his shoulder to get his attention and give him a quick pleading look to say please go with me on this.
“Sorry, the line for the bathroom was crazy, apparently some dudes started a fight in there,” he responded, giving you a quick nod of understanding while stepping closer and between you and the other guy, whose face fell in dejection.
“We should dance,” you suggested, running your hands across your “boyfriend’s” chest, trying to sell the relationship thing without pushing it too far and making him uncomfortable, “I’m being hit on by creeps over here,” you complained pointedly at the man still watching the interaction.
“Well, um,” he cleared his throat and swallowed harshly, making you back off a bit to calm his nerves but he rested his hands on your waist and kept you in place, “well, we can’t have that,” he pulled you in closer before grabbing your hands and leading you away from the bar. Your stomach erupted in butterflies and your mind went dizzy making you forget about the creep that started this and willingly followed you wherever he took you. You came back to your scenes when he stopped and turned back to you with a concerned look.
“I’m sorry about that, the dude wouldn’t drop it and I just wanted to get away from him,” you admitted, keeping your eyes trained on where your hands were still intertwined.
“No, no, it's fine, I just-” he started before being interrupted by your drunk roommate hanging off of an equally wasted guy.
“Oh, he’s cute,” you were sure that was supposed to be a whisper, “I just wanted to tell you, we're headed out,” she blew you an overdramatic kiss before making her way back to your dorm.
“Do you-” “Um, I-” you spoke at the same time and noticed a tinge of pink on his cheeks.
“Go ahead,” he encouraged while running a hand through his perfectly messy hair.
“Do you wanna get out of here? Go somewhere quieter?” you suggested, worrying into your bottom lip.
“Yeah,” he smiled down at you, “yeah I’d like that,”
“Just not my place,” you referred to your roommate stumbling out of the building, you made a note in your head to text her later tonight to make sure she’s safe.
“That’s fair, I think there's a pizza place that stays open pretty late near here,” he checked the time on his phone, a little past midnight. You nodded as he took your hand again and led you to the door, you can tell he was visibly more relaxed once the cool night air hit his face.
“It’s like a 10 minute walk this way, if that’s okay?” he suggested, gesturing the way toward campus.
“Yeah, I live that way anyway,” you think about reaching for his hand again, but the sober part of your brain reminds you that you don’t actually know this guy, you don’t even remember his name, “were you there with anyone?” you start to conduct an investigation.
“Yeah, my buddy, Harry had just left before you grabbed me, he was mad that they didn’t have some top shelf liquor or something,” he laughed at the recollection, “I was heading out too.”
“Well, I’m glad I didn’t take you away from your girlfriend or anything,” you’d like to think you were being subtle, but you were definitely not sober enough to not be totally obvious with your questioning.
“Nope, no girlfriend, besides you now,” he joked, which made your cheeks heat up, “I’m Peter, by the way.” Ohhh that was his name, he definitely knew you were interrogating him now.
You told him your name too, and surprisingly he remembered your face from the photo class. He told you that he’s a photojournalism major, you shared yours as well and talked about how school was going for both of you. You learned that he was living in Queens with his aunt and commuting to Manhattan for classes, he told you that he plans on moving in with Harry eventually but doesn’t really want to live in whatever bougie penthouse Harry wants to buy. (His friend Harry is apparently super wealthy.) You told him that you were living in the dorms since you were lucky enough to get a hefty scholarship to Empire State University that promised housing so you didn’t have to rent an apartment in Manhattan.
Once you got to the pizza place, it was pretty packed with a bunch of other college students hungry from a night out, luckily they got your slices out to you pretty fast.
“I got it, for saving me,” you lightly swatted Peter’s hands away when he tried to pay for the slices. “You're my hero, like Spider-Man or something,” you joked, hoping to flatter him, but when you looked back at him, after handing the cashier your card, you were just met with wide eyes and his bright red face.
“Heh, it was nothing like that, it was no problem,” he laughed nervously, brushing you off, “I was just trying to find someone to buy me pizza.” He joked back and you couldn’t help but chuckle too, half because it was funny and half that you were glad you didn’t embarrass him too much with the hero comment.
“Let’s sit outside, it's hot in here.” Peter leads you outside with his free hand on the small of your back. You both sat on the curb and ate your pizza, you didn’t realize how hungry you were until you took the first bite, no wonder this place was packed, greasy pizza really hits the spot after a long night.
Once you were both done scarfing down your food, Peter grabbed your empty paper plate from you and set them to the side. You giggled when he turned back and you saw a smear of pizza sauce on the side of his mouth.
“What?” he laughed back, “Do I have something on my face?” He wiped the wrong side of his face with his hand.
“Yeah, come here,” you scooted closer to him, and swiped your thumb across his cheek to clean the sauce up, when you look up from his mouth to his eyes, he’s looking at yours. Before he can shy away, you give him a sweet smile. “Thank you again.”
“Anytime,” he smiled back, that smile must have had a gravitational pull because you were leaning in as soon as it spread across his face.
Suddenly he sat up at attention, and that smile dropped from his face, like he had heard something.
“You okay?” you were genuinely concerned, you thought you were picking up good signals. You had significantly sobered up from the walk and the pizza and weren't nearly as buzzed as you were an hour ago, but maybe your judgement was still a bit skewed.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m alright,” He didn’t sound all that convinced, “I just, I have to go.” He stands up abruptly, but still offers a hand to help you up. You hesitantly take it and let him pull you up.
“Are you sure?” You try to search his face for anything that says he was uncomfortable, or you crossed a boundary, anything to explain the sudden shift.
“Yeah, I am so sorry to leave like this,” Peter looks you in the eyes, and you can see he means it, “I’m really, really sorry, I just have to go,” he pulls his wallet from his pocket and hands you a twenty dollar bill, “Here, for a taxi, please get home safe.”
Before you can respond or even nod, he runs off to the alley next to the pizza place, leaving you standing on the curb confused and alone. Only left with the bill he stuffed into your hand and the replayed, hurried apologies he was giving you, contrasting the easy laughter and connection you felt just moments before. With a sigh, you crumpled the bill and turned toward the street, away from the warm glow of the pizza place and chatter of people winding down for the night that seemed to mock how suddenly cold you felt.
