Pairing: Fred Weasley x reader
Summary: you and Fred have spent years at each other's throats, trading insults and glares across the pitch and in every corridor of Hogwarts. But when a careless moment in Potions earns you two a detention that threatens your places in the upcoming quidditch match, you're forced to do the one thing you've always avoided: work together.
inspired by the song: bad thing (bunny hop) by Ariana Grande. “have you been this fine? the whole damn time. this is a bad thing.”
Warnings/content: enemies to lovers, anyhouse!reader works (hufflepuff for this story), injured!reader, detention together, quidditch player!reader, protective!fred, he bandages your injury, fighting, physical fights, teasing, common room party, mentions of alcohol, slowburn, angst (ish), fluff, late night library sessions, kissing, bullying (not you), banter, tension, professor snape being harsh, crying, fred is actually a sweetie, arguments, mentions of blood (injury)
Wordcount: 13.5k
Dewdrops from this morning's rain clung to the glistening quidditch pitch under the late afternoon sun. You had sprinted across the castle grounds, robes billowing behind you like a golden banner, your broom clutched tightly in your hand.
Practice was supposed to have started ten minutes ago, and you were never late, never. The one time you had allowed yourself to linger in the library, pouring over Advanced Potion-Making for an upcoming examination, and now you were paying for it with the frantic heartbeat against your ribs.
But as you rounded the final corner, breathless and flushed, your steps faltered. The pitch was empty of yellow and black. Instead, a sea of crimson and gold dominated the field, players already mid-drill, their brooms cutting through the air with practiced precision.
You recognised Oliver Wood's commanding voice echoing across the pitch above, barking instructions to his teammates like a general rallying his troops.
Your furrowed your brows, confused as to why you heard his voice instead of your own captain's.
Cedric Diggory, ever the picture of composure, stood at the bottom of the pitch with the rest of your team, their brooms beside them, expressions ranging from mild annoyance to resigned acceptance. Susan Bones caught sight of you first, her face softening with sympathy as she waved you over.
"What happened? Where is everyone?" you asked, still catching your breath, your eyes darting between your teammates and the Gryffindors occupying the field with infuriating nonchalance. "Practice isn't cancelled, is it? We were meant to be here, I know we were—"
"Gryffindor booked the pitch," Cedric explained, his tone gentle, as if he were delivering news of a minor inconvenience rather than a complete upheaval of your carefully planned schedule. "Professor McGonagall approved it this morning, I think Wood wanted to urgently test a new formation before the match next week, extra training or something."
"Extra training?" you repeated, your voice climbing an octave. "But we were here first, we've had this slot reserved for weeks. They can't just—"
"Apparently, they can," Hannah Abbott interjected with a shrug, though her eyes flickered with the same frustration you felt. "Cedric already spoke to Professor Sprout about it, we've got the pitch tomorrow instead though."
You opened your mouth to protest further, every argument you could conjure dying on your tongue as the Gryffindor team began their descent from the sky.
Broom after broom touched down with practiced ease and you watched as they dismounted, their laughter and chatter carrying across the grass like taunts wrapped in merriment. Oliver Wood approached first, his expression apologetic as he addressed Cedric.
"Diggory, I really am sorry about this," Wood said, running a hand through his already windswept hair. "McGonagall approved it at the last minute. We wouldn't have—"
"Don't worry about it, Wood," Cedric replied with practiced diplomacy, extending a hand that the Gryffindor captain shook firmly. "We'll take tomorrow. Gives us a chance to study their weaknesses anyway."
A ripple of laughter passed between both teams, the shared camaraderie of players who understood the sacred rituals of the game.
You watched the exchange with growing irritation, not at Cedric, you could never truly be angry at Cedric, whose patience seemed as infinite as the castle's library—but at the sheer injustice of it all.
You had woken early for this, had forgone breakfast to ensure you arrived on time and had spent the entire morning mentally preparing your plays.
"Don't worry, Y/N, we've got tomorrow," Ernie Macmillan offered, clapping you on the shoulder with perhaps more enthusiasm than the situation warranted. "Besides, think of all the extra practice time you'll have to work on that new maneuver you've been perfecting."
"Right," you muttered, though your tone lacked conviction. "Extra practice time, wonderful."
It was then, that you saw a familiar figure.
Fred Weasley was sauntering past your group, beater's bat swung carelessly over one shoulder, and his broom in the other hand, his red hair catching the sunlight like a flame.
He walked with a particular confidence that seemed to come as naturally to him as breathing, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth that you had grown to despise over the years. But it was the way he looked at you, that infuriating glint in his warm hazel eyes that told you he knew precisely what you were thinking.
"Lovely weather for a fly, isn't it?" he remarked, stopping just beside you, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of broom polish and his natural scent, though you'd sooner die than admit you had catalogued such details. "Shame you won't be enjoying it, then again, I suppose tomorrow will have to do. Though I hear the weather's supposed to be dreadful. Fog, rain, maybe a bit of hail if we're lucky."
"Your concern for my practice schedule is touching, Weasley," you replied, your voice dripping with saccharine sweetness that fooled no one. "But I'll manage. We Hufflepuffs are remarkably resilient, it takes more than a stolen practice slot and some bad weather to rattle us."
"Stolen?" Fred pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense, though his eyes danced with amusement. "I'd hardly call it stolen. We simply... appropriated. There's a difference, Wood asked and McGonagall approved. The rest, as they say, is history."
"Convenient history," you shot back, stepping closer to him without quite meaning to. The move was instinctive, a gravitational pull toward conflict that had become second nature between you. "You obviously had something to do with this. Probably bribed McGonagall with some of those ghastly prank products you and Georgie are always peddling."
Fred's grin widened, an expression that made you want to simultaneously hex him and—no. You stopped that thought before it could fully form. There was no and, there was only irritation, frustration, and the satisfying fantasy of watching him get drenched by a particularly well-aimed water-making spell.
"I don't know what you're implying, Y/N," he said, drawing out your name in a way that made it sound like an inside joke you weren't privy to. "But if you're suggesting I would abuse my privileged access to the Hogwarts administration for personal gain, well, you know me so well."
"Ugh.", the sound escaped you before you could stop it, a guttural expression of pure exasperation. "Sometimes, Weasley, I want to—"
"Strangle that smug face?" he supplied helpfully, "Yes, I believe you've mentioned that before. Multiple times, in fact...you're remarkably consistent in your threats."
"Consistency is a virtue," you retorted, crossing your arms. "Though I suppose you wouldn't know much about that, given your attention span seems to rival that of a particularly distracted flobberworm."
He opened his mouth to reply but George appeared at his brother's side, clapping a hand on Fred's shoulder with enough force to make him stumble slightly, "Alright you two, as entertaining as this is, the rest of us would like to get back to the common room before dinner. We're starving, and I'm fairly certain Ron has already eaten half the snacks in our dorm."
"This isn't over Fred." you said, fixing Fred with what you hoped was a sufficiently intimidating glare.
"It's never over between us, is it?" he replied, his voice softer now, though the teasing glint remained in his eyes. "Wouldn't have it any other way, it would be terribly boring if it were."
"Sorry 'bout that Y/N, just ignore him, all the best for practice tomorrow." George, ever the mediator, attempted to defuse this conversation.
"Don't worry about it George, thanks anyhow." The corner of your lips curled up into a smile.
You watched him walk away, his laughter echoing across the pitch as George said something that made him throw his head back. The sound was surprisingly melodic, you realised, the kind of laugh that made people want to join in regardless of whether they knew what was funny.
Stop it, you told yourself firmly. You hate him, you've always disliked him.
Ever since that one quidditch match that started it all back in third year, two years had passed your feelings were still mutual. You've been at odds ever since that match, and you might just have to always be.
Back in third year, the quidditch pitch bathed in the honeyed glow of a summer afternoon, and you had been so singularly focused on the quaffle soaring toward the hoops that you hadn't registered the whistle of the bludger until Fred Weasley's broom collided with yours in a sickening crunch of wood and fabric, sending you both spiralling toward the ground in a tangle of flailing limbs and sharp curses.
You hit the ground with a jarring thud, the wind knocked clean from your lungs, and when you opened your eyes, you found yourself sprawled across Fred's chest, his face inches from yours, his hazel eyes wide with shock and close to amusement despite the obvious pain contorting his features.
For one suspended, breathless moment, you both simply stared at each other, your bodies pressed together in a way that was entirely too intimate, his hands having instinctively found your waist to steady you even as you pushed yourself off him with more force than necessary, scrambling to your feet and ignoring the way your cheeks had flushed a furious pink.
"I almost had that!" Fred huffed, scrambling upright and brushing grass from his robes with an air of exasperation that bordered on petulance.
You folded your arms across your chest, your jaw dropping in disbelief, he had just collided with you, sent you tumbling from the sky and he couldn't even be bothered to ask if you were alright?
"Excuse me?" you shot back.
"Well, if you weren't in the way, I would've hit the bludger!" he retorted, gesturing wildly at the sky as if the evidence of his near-triumph still hung in the air.
"In the way?" you repeated, "I was trying to catch the quaffle, you came out of nowhere!"
"I was looking out for the bludger, which is my job, in case you've forgotten how quidditch works! And by the way, I almost saved you from one!" Fred snapped, stepping closer, his chest nearly brushing yours as he squared up to you.
"Your job is to not crash into other players, Weasley!" you shot back, "Maybe you should try actually looking where you're going!"
"Maybe you should try staying out of the way of people who actually know what they're doing!" he countered, his voice rising to match yours, and you opened your mouth to deliver a scathing retort when Cedric and Oliver descended upon you both, their brooms kicking up clouds of grass as they landed between you like exasperated parents separating squabbling children.
The captains' voices overlapped in a symphony of stern reprimands about teamwork, discipline, and the importance of not killing each other during the match, but you barely heard them, too focused on the way Fred's jaw was clenched and the way his eyes never quite left yours even as he nodded along to Oliver's lecture.
"Well, if you could stay out of my way, that would be great, Fred," you finally snapped, your voice cutting through the captains' scolding like a blade, and the way his name fell from your lips felt sharper than any hex you could have thrown.
He smiled then, a tight, forced expression that didn't quite reach his eyes, almost like satisfaction, like he'd been waiting for you to say something, anything, that would keep this fire burning between you.
"And I will happily do that," he shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he leaned in just slightly, just enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, "Wouldn't want to be anywhere near you."
Since then, you had somehow managed to get along with everyone, except him.
As your friends gathered around you, their voices a comforting hum of reassurances and plans for tomorrow, you found your gaze drifting back to the retreating figure of Fred Weasley.
He had his arm slung around George's shoulders, and they were laughing at something, their heads close together in that way twins had of communicating without words.
Just this once, just for a moment, his eyes met yours across the distance.
George tugged him forward, and the moment was gone, leaving you with nothing but the echo of his gaze and an uncomfortable flutter in your chest that you refused to acknowledge. It was probably from all that running earlier.
___
Timeskip:
Hogwarts' corridors' were blessedly quiet the next morning after your Hufflepuff quidditch training, most students either still in the Great Hall finishing breakfast or already in their classes.
You had chosen to walk a more circuitous route to potions, partly to enjoy the solitude and partly because you had heard that the bullies who occasionally lurked near the Charms corridor had been particularly active lately, and you wanted to stop them.
Three fifth-year slytherins, their robes pristine and their expressions cruel, had cornered a small first-year slytherin against the stone wall near the staircase to the dungeons.
The slytherin girl was clutching a battered copy of A History of Magic to her chest like a shield, her eyes wide with unshed tears as the tallest of the boys snatched her wand from her trembling fingers.
"Let her go," you said, your voice sharp enough to cut through the corridor's silence. The three boys turned, their sneers faltering as they recognised you.
You weren't particularly intimidating, your hufflepuff badge seemed to negate any reputation for toughness before you could even establish one, but there was something in your voice that made them pause.
"This doesn't concern you," the tallest one said, his lip curling. He was broad-shouldered and clearly used to getting his way through brute force. "Run along to your little badger friends, why don't you?"
"I said let her go." You stepped forward, placing yourself between the bullies and the first-year. "Now."
"Or what?" the second boy sneered, crossing his arms. "You'll tell a professor? We'll just deny it, whose word do you think they'll believe, ours, or some first-year's?"
"Funny," you said, your voice calm but your eyes blazing. "I was just thinking the same thing. Except I was wondering whose word they'd believe, three known troublemakers with disciplinary records a mile long, or two students, one of whom has a perfect academic record and enough prefect friends to make your lives thoroughly miserable." You paused, letting the threat sink in. "The answer seems fairly obvious to me. Now give her back her wand and we'll pretend this never happened."
The boys exchanged glances, clearly weighing their options. The tallest one's jaw tightened, and for a moment you thought he might try to push past you. But then he huffed, tossed the wand at the first-year's feet, and stalked off with his friends in tow.
"You're lucky," he muttered as he passed you. "Next time, your little friend won't have you around as bodyguard."
"Luck had nothing to do with it," you called after him, your voice steady. "And if I catch you bothering anyone else, there won't be a 'next time.' I promise you that."
When they were gone, you turned to the first-year, whose trembling had subsided to a mere shake. Her eyes were still shiny, but the tears had begun to recede, replaced by a tentative relief. You crouched down to her level, retrieving her wand from the floor and pressing it gently into her hands.
"They're just jealous, you know," you said, your voice warm and steady. "When people pick on you for no reason, it's because they feel small inside. They see something in you that they lack, bravery, perhaps, or kindness, or intelligence. And rather than working to build those qualities in themselves, they try to tear you down instead."
The girl blinked at you. "Really? But I'm just...I'm nobody. I'm not brave, I'm not smart, I'm not—"
"You are brave," you interrupted, not unkindly. "You attempted to stand up to them, didn't you? It takes courage to face people like that, even when you're scared. And you're kind, I can see that. You didn't fight back or try to hurt them, even though you could have. And I'd bet you're smarter than you give yourself credit for." You gestured to the book she was clutching. "You're already reading ahead. That's not something a 'nobody' does."
The girl's cheeks flushed with color, but there was a small smile tugging at her lips now. "You really think so?"
"I know so," you said firmly, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Now, off you go. I think you've got a Charms class to get to, don't you?"
The girl nodded, clutching her wand and book to her chest. She hesitated for just a moment, then threw her arms around you in a quick, fierce hug before darting away down the corridor.
You watched her go, a warm feeling spreading through your chest. It was a small thing, helping her, but small things had a way of adding up.
Someone had done the same for you once, back when you were a first-year, new to Hogwarts and terrified of everything. You still remembered her face, the way she had smiled and said, "Don't worry, it gets easier." Her name was—
"Aw, look at that. The great Y/N Y/L/N, terror of the quidditch pitch, reduced to a puddle of maternal feelings."
The voice came from behind you, and you felt your body tense involuntarily before you even turned around. Of course, of course it was him.
Fred stood leaning against the wall, his arms crossed and that infuriating smirk firmly in place. He must have come from the corridor behind you, which meant he'd been watching the entire exchange.
"What did you tell her?" he asked, pushing off from the wall and strolling toward you. "Some snide remark to scare her away from you? Did you threaten to hex her if she didn't start doing your homework?"
"I told her that Fred Weasley is an arse," you replied without missing a beat, turning to face him fully. "I thought it was best she learned the truth early, so she'd know who to avoid."
Fred's eyebrows shot up, and then he laughed. It was the same laugh you'd heard on the pitch, the one that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest and make you want to join in despite every logical reason not to.
"Ouch," he said, pressing a hand to his chest. "And after I was just starting to think you might actually have a heart under all that quidditch-obsessed exterior. I saw you with that first-year, you know. The whole 'you're brave and kind and smart' speech, very touching, almost made me tear up."
"Don't you have somewhere to be, Weasley?" you asked, your voice flat even as your cheeks flushed slightly. "Class, perhaps? Or are you planning to spend the whole morning lurking in corridors, eavesdropping on private conversations?"
"Lurking is such a grotesque word," Fred said, falling into step beside you as you began walking toward the Potions classroom. "I prefer 'strategically positioned observation.', it sounds more professional."
"Irritating?" He considered this. "I've been called worse. Usually by you, actually. 'Insufferable,' 'infuriating,' 'the most annoying person I've ever met', those are favourites of yours, if I recall correctly."
"Only because they're accurate."
"See, this is what I love about our conversations," Fred continued, seemingly unbothered by your hostility. "You never hold back, it's refreshing, really. Most people just agree with me because they're intimidated by my charm."
Your steps faltered. "Intimidated? By you? Weasley, the only thing about you that's intimidating is your inability to stop talking."
"Ah, but you always listen, don't you?" He grinned, and it was such an infuriatingly confident expression that you had to actively resist the urge to hex him. "You could have walked away at any point but you're still here, having this conversation with me. Fascinating, isn't it?"
You opened your mouth to retort, then closed it again. Because he was right. You hadn't walked away, though you could have, should have, but instead you were walking side by side with Fred toward a classroom you both had to be in, exchanging insults like they were part of some elaborate dance.
"I'm only still here because we have the same class," you said finally, your voice clipped. "It has nothing to do with you or your supposed charm."
"Whatever you say, Y/N." His voice was light, almost teasing. "Whatever you say."
When you reached the Potions classroom, Fred swept ahead of you and held the door open with an elaborate flourish. "Ladies first," he said, his tone dripping with exaggerated gallantry.
"After you," you replied, your smile just as fake as his. "I wouldn't want you to miss a single moment of Snape's delightful lecture."
"I insist." He gestured you forward, his eyes dancing with mirth. "I was raised to be a gentleman, after all. My mother would never forgive me if I let a lady walk into the metaphorical lion's den without me."
You stepped past him, your shoulder brushing against his chest in a way that was probably accidental but felt strangely intentional. The contact lasted only a moment, but you felt the warmth of him even through the thick fabric of your robes.
"Thank you," you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them. It was a reflex, the ingrained politeness your mother had drilled into you since childhood. And yet, as you took your seat at the potions table, you found that you meant it.
Fred slid into his seat across from you, "Anytime," he said, voice softer.
George dropped into the seat beside his brother, followed by Lee Jordan at another table, and the moment was gone.
"For today's lesson," Professor Snape announced, his voice cutting through the room like a blade, "we will be examining the properties of the Draught of Living Death. Can anyone tell me the primary ingredient?"
Katie's hand shot up immediately, but Snape's gaze swept past her, as she had been answering all the questions lately. "Anyone who is not Miss Bell?"
Fred's hand went up. You blinked, genuinely surprised. Fred Weasley, volunteering to answer a question in Potions? It seemed as unlikely as a Malfoy being nice to a Weasley.
"Yes, Mr. Weasley?" Snape's tone was skeptical.
"Powdered root of asphodel," Fred replied confidently. "The trick is the sequence of the stirring, counter-clockwise for the first six minutes, then clockwise for two, then the root has to be added at exactly the right moment or the whole thing turns into a mess."
He paused, a grin spreading across his face. "It's a bit like Quidditch, actually. You have to time everything perfectly. One wrong move and—"
"Indeed," Snape cut him off, his expression souring at the mention of the sport. "While Mr. Weasley's analogy is... creative, I would remind you all that Potions is a precise art, not a children's game played on brooms."
The class erupted into whispers and snickers. George and Lee were leaning forward, already building on Fred's comparison with wild gestures and suppressed laughter. "See, the stirring is like the seekers," George was saying, "always circling, waiting for the right moment. And the cauldron—"
"Is the quaffle," Lee added, slapping the table in glee. "Because it's round and your success depends on—"
"Alright, that's enough." Snape's voice thundered over them, and the laughter died instantly. "If you have quite finished, perhaps we can return to the matter at hand. The Draught of Living Death is not a game, it is a notoriously difficult potion that requires patience, precision, and an understanding of magical properties, qualities that are clearly in short supply in this room."
You watched the exchange with a mixture of exasperation and reluctant amusement. The Weasley twins had a talent for turning even the most serious lessons into spectacles, and Snape's obvious irritation only seemed to fuel their enthusiasm.
It was impossible not to be drawn into their orbit, even when you wanted nothing more than to focus on the lesson.
A crumpled piece of parchment then landed on your desk.
You glanced up sharply, Fred was looking at Snape with an expression of exaggerated attention, but you caught the subtle wiggle of his eyebrows, the barely suppressed grin. You glared at him, then looked down at the note.
"Spoiler alert: Gryffindor wins the match next week. ;)"
The note was written in a looping, messy hand that you'd seen on too many prank products to mistake. You felt a flush of irritation, or something like irritation, creep up your neck. He had no right to be this confident, especially not after what had happened at practice two days ago. Your hand moved automatically, writing a response before your brain could catch up.
The note sailed back across the table, landing neatly in front of Fred just as Snape turned to write instructions on the blackboard. You saw Fred glance down, read the message, and produce a grin so wide it seemed to split his face. Then he was scribbling again, and another piece of parchment was making its way toward you.
"You know, people might start to think you enjoy this. All this note-passing, very romantic."
Your eyes widened. Romantic? You nearly crumpled the note on the spot, but something stopped you. Something about the way the words seemed to shimmer with teasing energy, the way you could practically hear his voice in your head. Instead, you uncapped your quill and wrote: "In your dreams, Weasley. I'd rather date a Bludger."
"That can be arranged, I know a few that would be very interested."
"I'm sure you do, you seem to have a talent for attracting things that hit you in the head."
"Mr. Weasley. Miss Y/L/N."
Snape's voice cut through the classroom like a whip, and your blood went cold. The entire class seemed to turn in unison, all eyes fixed on you and Fred. You could feel the heat rising up your neck, staining your cheeks with an unmistakable blush.
"Yes, Professor?" Fred asked, his voice perfectly innocent.
"I asked you to identify the next step in the creation of the Draught of Living Death," Snape said, his tone dangerously quiet. "I assume you were too occupied with your...correspondence...to pay attention."
Snape swooped down on your table in a swish of black robes, and before either of you could react, he had snatched the parchment note from your desk. His eyes scanned it rapidly, and his expression grew even more forbidding.
"How delightful," he hissed. "Sending love letters around my classroom, are we? I suppose I should be flattered that you find my lessons so romantically inspiring."
The class snickered. Someone, you suspected Lee Jordan, let out a low whistle. You and Fred both opened your mouths to protest simultaneously.
"It's not like that, Professor!" you said, your voice a little too high. "It's just—"
"We weren't—" Fred started.
"Silence!" Snape's voice cracked through the air. "I have heard enough. You will both stay after class."
"But Professor—" you began.
"After class, Miss Y/L/N," Snape repeated, his tone brooking no argument. "Unless you would prefer to see your Head of House."
You closed your mouth, swallowing the protest that was already forming on your tongue. The last thing you wanted was to disappoint Professor Sprout, who had been nothing but supportive of your studies and your Quidditch ambitions. You glared at Fred across the table, silently blaming him for the entire situation.
He had the audacity to shrug, his expression an infuriating mix of apology and amusement.
When the rest of the class had filed out—Gabriella, one of your ravenclaw friends, shooting you a sympathetic look as she passed, George winking at his brother with obvious curiosity. You and Fred stood before Snape's desk like miscreants awaiting judgment.
"You find this amusing, Mr. Weasley?" Snape asked, his gaze fixed on Fred's still-smirking face.
"Not at all, Professor," Fred replied, though the grin hadn't quite left his eyes. "I assure you, this is a grave situation."
Snape's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Indeed. The two of you appear to have forgotten that Hogwarts is an institution of learning, not a...a courtship display. And now I find myself in the position of having to decide how to handle your enthusiasm."
"We weren't—" you started, but Snape raised a hand, cutting you off.
"I have a solution," he continued, his voice clipped. "You are both due to play in the upcoming Quidditch match, I believe?"
Your heart sank, you knew where this was going. "Professor, please—"
"I will give you a choice," Snape said, his eyes glinting with a mixture of malice and satisfaction. "You may either forfeit your place in the match, or you may write a ten-thousand-word essay on the history and importance of Potions in magical theory. That will be due by the day of the match."
"You can't do that!" The words burst out of you before you could stop them. "The match, we've been training for weeks, the whole team is counting on—"
"Then I suggest you choose wisely, Miss Y/L/N." Snape's tone was utterly unsympathetic. "A forfeit, or an essay. Those are your options."
Fred opened his mouth, and you could see the arguments forming on his tongue. But then he looked at you and closed his mouth again.
"We'll take the essay," you said, surprising yourself as much as anyone else. "The ten-thousand-word one."
Snape's eyebrows rose. "An unexpected choice, I had assumed you both would opt out of writing an essay."
"We don't want to let our teammates down," you said quietly. "If I can't play, that's one thing, but I won't be the reason the Hufflepuff team is short a player."
Beside you, Fred nodded slowly. "Same for me. The essay's not ideal, but at least George and the others can still play."
Snape surveyed the two of you with an unreadable expression. "Very well, the essay is due by next Friday. And if either of you attempts to pass off work that is anything less than thorough, I will know."
"Yes professor," you and Fred said in unison.
The moment you stepped out of the classroom, you rounded on him. "This is your fault, Weasley, you and your stupid notes."
"My stupid notes?" Fred turned to you, "You were the one who kept responding, you could have just ignored me."
"Like I could ignore a bludger to the head," you shot back. "Your notes are about as subtle as one."
"You seemed to enjoy it well enough." He fell into step beside you as you marched through the corridor, his long legs easily matching your pace. "You certainly wrote back quickly, I thought you hated me."
"I do hate you." The words came out automatically, but there was something hollow in them, something that didn't quite ring true. "I hate you and your jokes and your stupid notes that are going to take me the rest of the week to write."
Fred grinned. "We could write them together, you know. Two heads are better than one, as they say. Imagine the time we'd save."
"I'd rather write the whole thing myself than have you ruining my work with your opinions."
"You underestimate me." But he was still smiling. "Although...speaking of opinions, I should probably get started on that essay. If I'm going to have to actually write something educational, I might need to borrow some books from the library." He paused, tilting his head at you. "Unless you want to join me?"
For a moment, you considered it. The thought of spending more time in Fred Weasley's company was equal parts appealing and terrifying, a combination you couldn't quite make sense of.
But you had your own essay to write, and the idea of having someone to work with, even someone as irritating as Fred, was strangely appealing.
"Maybe...I'll think about it," you said finally. "But you better not send any more notes."
"Wouldn't dream of it." His grin was impossible to trust.
---
The next week passed in a blur of late nights in the library and increasingly desperate attempts to research the history of potions.
You had taken Fred up on his offer to work together, though you'd insisted on meeting in the library rather than the Gryffindor common room. The library had rules, silence and a complete lack of Fred's brothers, all of which seemed conducive to actually getting work done.
But the library was also crowded, and finding a quiet corner was nearly impossible. And so, three days before the essay was due, you found yourself sitting at a table in the library's back corner, surrounded by stacks of books and parchment, while Fred sat opposite you in a similarly disheveled state.
It was late, well past midnight, and the library was empty except for the two of you and Madam Pince, who had given up on shooing you out hours ago. The candles flickered low, casting shadows across the pages of the books you'd been staring at for what felt like years.
You'd barely written three thousand words.
"Why did we agree to this again?" you muttered, your head dropping to the table with a soft thunk. "Snape is a monster, a brilliant, terrifying, essay-demanding monster."
Fred's laughter was low and tired, "You really want to know? Because I could have sworn you'd say 'I told you so' if I tried to suggest we avoid it."
"Always," you said into the table. "I would absolutely say I told you so. Because I did tell you so, I told you so many times."
"And yet, here you are," Fred said, and when you lifted your head, he was looking at you with something that might have been fondness in his eyes. "Having a tea break with your sworn enemy."
"Not my sworn enemy," you corrected automatically. "Just...the person I dislike most at this school."
"I'm touched." He rolled his eyes. "To be your least favourite person in a school full of people is quite an honour."
"I'm glad you appreciate it," you said dryly, sitting up straight and stretching your arms over your head. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to find a book on the history of potion-making. I can't keep citing the same three sources over and over again."
You pushed back from the table and made your way to the stacks, your footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. The library had always been your sanctuary, a place where you could escape from the pressures of school and the chaos of the common room.
Tonight, though, it felt different and restless, especially with the essay due soon.
You found the book you were looking for on the top shelf, far out of reach. You stretched, but your fingers barely grazed the spine. For a moment, you considered using a Summoning Charm, but you'd had a long day and your concentration was shot. You could barely manage a simple Levitation Charm right now.
"Need a hand?" Fred's voice came from behind you, and you jumped, nearly knocking over a stack of books. He was standing much closer than you'd expected, his tall frame blocking the dim light from the corridor.
"I can manage," you said, but even as the words left your mouth, you knew they weren't true. The book was stubbornly out of reach, and every time you stretched for it, your muscles screamed in protest.
Fred smiled, then reached up and pulled the book down with ease. He was so close that you could feel the warmth radiating from him.
"Here," he said softly, placing the book in your hands. "Is there anything else you need given your lack of height?"
You scoffed then looked up at him, your eyes meeting his. He was so close, close enough that you could see the flecks of green in his hazel eyes, the faint stubble along his jaw.
You had hated him for so long, had convinced yourself that he was everything you despised, arrogant, loud, infuriating. But right now, in the soft candlelight of the library, with his hand barely brushing yours, he didn't seem like any of those things.
He seemed like someone entirely different, someone you hadn't let yourself see before.
"Thank you, Fred," you said softly, and the words felt different on your tongue.
His eyes widened slightly at your tone, head tilting, awaiting another jab or retort from you, but nothing came. Then he stepped back, and the moment was over, but you couldn't shake the feeling that there had been a shift in the space between you.
By the time you returned to the table, your hands were trembling slightly, and you couldn't meet his eyes. You sat down opposite him, the book in your lap, and tried to focus on the words.
You were so tired that your thoughts were becoming hazy, and you felt your eyelids drooping. The words on the page blurred together, and you caught yourself nodding off more than once. Beside you, Fred was similarly exhausted, his head bobbing as he tried to stay awake.
"Maybe we should call it a night," he said finally, his voice slurred with sleep. "We won't be much good to anyone if we can't keep our eyes open."
"Just a few more minutes," you said, but even as you spoke, your head was already dropping toward the table.
When you next opened your eyes, it was to the soft sound of someone breathing deeply beside you. The library was dark, the candles had burned low, leaving only the faint glow of the moonlight filtering through the windows, and Fred was asleep.
He was hunched over the table, his face half-hidden in the crook of his elbow. His hair was mussed, his robes rumpled, and there was a smudge of ink on his cheek.
He looked younger somehow, less like the arrogant prankster you'd always despised and more like a tired student trying to get through a difficult week.
Your chest softened, your lips subconsiously curving up into a smile.
You had a blanket in your bag, you'd brought it on a whim, knowing the library could get cold at night. Without thinking, you draped it gently over his shoulders, careful not to wake him. He stirred slightly, murmuring something unintelligible, then settled back into sleep.
"Sleep tight, Fred," you whispered, and the words came out softer than you'd intended.
It was only when you turned to gather your own things that you realised you'd made it halfway through the book without even reading a word.
You'd been too focused on him, on the way his chest rose and fell with each breath, on the way his eyelashes cast shadows across his cheeks.
This was a problem, you weren't supposed to notice things like that or even pay attention to him.
As you slipped out of the library, leaving Fred to his dreams and your blanket draped over his shoulders, you felt an energy change between the two of you.
___
You found him the next afternoon in the corridor outside the Great Hall, and for the first time, he didn't immediately launch into a joke or a sly remark. Instead, he grinned, free of mockery, and fell into step beside you.
"I wanted to thank you," he said, his voice oddly sincere. "For the blanket. It was surprisingly...thoughtful of you. I didn't realise you had enough kindness left for me."
"I don't," you said quickly, trying to brush it off. "It was just...you looked cold. It was an impulse."
"Impulsive kindness?" He raised an eyebrow, and there was a hint of his usual teasing in the gesture. "That sounds like something a hufflepuff would say."
"You say that like it's an insult."
"Not at all." He was smiling again, the expression surprisingly warm. "I was just wondering...I mean, I know you've got the team to consider, and I know we're supposed to be rivals... but I was thinking, since we're almost done, maybe we could properly finish the essay together. After class, we could meet in the Gryffindor common room, if you wanted. There's plenty of space, and we'd be able to concentrate better than in the library."
You hesitated, the Gryffindor common room, with Fred. It was one thing to work together in a neutral space like the library, it was quite another to go into his territory, surrounded by his friends and the echoes of his laughter.
But you were tired, and the essay was due soon, and you figured that two heads of ideas were better than one.
"Fine," you said. "But I'm bringing my own quill, I don't trust anything you've touched."
Fred chuckled, "Whatever floats your boat."
___
You'd expected the gryffindor common room to be crowded, the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open to reveal a warm, bustling space filled with plush armchairs and roaring fires.
You hadn't anticipated the sheer volume of people who seemed to fill every available inch of floor space. Students were sprawled across sofas, lounging on cushions, and perched on tables, their voices rising in a cacophony of laughter and arguments.
"Y/N?" George's voice cut through the noise, his expression one of pure shock. "What are you doing here?"
"Don't sound so surprised," Fred said, stepping past you with an air of deliberate casualness. "She's here for the essay, we're working on it together."
"You're...you're actually working together?" Ron, who had been sitting in one of the armchairs with Harry, nearly dropped the chocolate frog he was holding. "Since when?"
"Since we realised it would be faster if we collaborated on this detention task," you said, your voice steady even as every eye in the room seemed to fix on you. "We're both capable of putting aside our differences for the sake of not failing Potions."
Ron and George exchanged a look that was far too knowing for your comfort. "Differences," George repeated slowly, a grin spreading across his face. "Is that what you call it?"
"Shut it, George," Fred said, but there was no heat in his voice. "Y/N's our guest, try to behave like civilised human beings for once."
"Civilised?" Harry's eyebrows shot up. "We're talking about you, Fred."
"Not in front of the guest, please." Fred put a hand over his heart in mock offense. "I have a reputation to maintain."
The room dissolved into laughter, and you found yourself smiling despite everything. It was impossible not to, surrounded by the easy warmth of the Gryffindors.
Hermione, who had been curled up in a chair by the fire, waved you over with a welcoming smile and Ginny moved to make space for you on the sofa.
"You'll have to excuse them," Ginny said, rolling her eyes in the direction of her brothers. "They've never quite learned how to behave around new people."
"We're not new," you pointed out. "I've known them for years."
"Ah, but you've never been a guest before." Ginny's grin was knowing. "There's a difference, and I think that's what's making them all a bit... confused."
"Confused?" You couldn't help but ask.
"They can't figure out if they're supposed to be teasing you or welcoming you," Ginny explained. "Normally they'd just tease you, but since Fred brought you here, it's changed the dynamic."
You felt your cheeks flush at the implication. "It's just for the essay," you said quickly. "Fred and I are still..."
"Sworn enemies?" Ginny finished, her expression unreadable. "Sure, that's why you're sitting here, in our common room, surrounded by gryffindors, talking to me about your mysterious rivalry."
"I'm not—" you started, but Ginny cut you off with a wave of her hand.
"Relax," she said. "I'm just teasing, it's nice to see you two not at each other's throats for once. Honestly, it was exhausting watching the two of you bicker all the time."
"You're not the only one," you muttered, but there was no real heat in it. "It's always been that way, though. Since that quidditch match."
"Ah, the infamous quidditch match." Ginny leaned forward, a glint in her eyes. "You know, Fred never told me exactly what happened. Just that you accused each other and it escalated from there."
"It wasn't exactly a proud moment," you admitted. "We clashed at wrong times, and I guess...both too proud to admit our faults." Now realising how petty this whole thing sounded, and how easily it could have been avoided.
Ginny's eyebrows rose, trying to hold back laughter. "That's it? That's the whole reason you've been at war with each other for years?"
"It's not the whole reason," you said, though you weren't quite sure what else there was. "It's just...we got used to hating each other, it became a habit."
"Interesting." Ginny's expression shifted, becoming thoughtful. "You know, I've never heard Fred talk about anyone as much as he talks about you. Always complaining about how annoying you are, how you never back down, how you're too stubborn for your own good... but he never stops talking about you."
You blinked. "That's...that's not exactly a compliment."
"Maybe not the way you're hearing it," Ginny said. "But trust me, for Fred? It is."
___
The next few hours passed quickly, buried in research and writing. Though the common room was chaotic, you and Fred somehow managed to carve out a corner of the space for yourselves, spreading books and parchment across a low table near the fire. The others respected your need for quiet, mostly, though you caught more than a few curious glances in your direction.
"We should work on the section about the importance of potions in magical history," Fred said, his quill scratching across the parchment. "I found a reference to a hundred-year-old potion that was essential to the defense of some magical community in the sixteenth century, it might give us a good foundation."
You glanced up from your own research, surprised. "That's actually a good idea, I was going to focus on the evolution of potion-making techniques, but I hadn't thought of connecting it to historical examples."
Fred grinned. "See? Two heads are better than one, I told you we'd be a good team."
"Don't get too comfortable," you warned, but your voice was softer than you'd intended. "We still have another two thousand words to go, and I'm not carrying you through the whole thing."
"Right, cause I'll be carrying you through it instead," Fred teased, and his eyes met yours across the table. In the flickering firelight, his expression seemed less adverse.
George appeared, snapping you out of your gaze, dropping a plate of sandwiches onto the table with a loud clatter. "Figured you two might be hungry," he said, his grin far too knowing. "Can't write an essay on an empty stomach, right?"
"Thanks, George," you said, tearing your gaze away from Fred. "That's very thoughtful."
"Of course it is." George winked. "I'm always thoughtful, especially when my brother seems to have finally found someone who can match his level of stubbornness."
"We're not—" you started.
"It's just for the essay," Fred finished, his voice slightly strained. "We're not anything."
"Of course you're not." George's grin widened, before remaining neutral. "Not anything at all, that's why you've been staring at each other for the last five minutes without saying a word."
"Staring?" George repeated. "No, of course not, you were just looking intently at each other, in a completely platonic way."
"George, I swear to Merlin—"
"Fine, fine." George held up his hands in surrender, but he was still grinning. "I'll leave you two to your 'completely platonic' essay-writing. Just don't forget that the common room has eyes, and ears, and a very healthy appetite for gossip."
When he had retreated to the other side of the room, you and Fred exchanged a glance that was equal parts embarrassment and reluctant amusement.
"Your brother is entertaining," you said.
"He really is," Fred agreed. "But he also usually has the tendency to be right, about...about a lot of things." Fred trailed off, not wanting to imply anything.
You felt your cheeks flush again. "Right about what, exactly?"
Fred hesitated, his eyes searching yours. "I don't know," he said slowly. "You'll have to ask him.
___
After what felt like eons, you and Fred walked side by side toward Snape's office the day of the quidditch match, the completed essay clutched in your hands like a trophy, your steps light with the giddiness of having finally conquered the impossible.
"I can't believe we actually did it," you said, your voice tinged with disbelief and no small amount of pride, "Ten thousand words, ten thousand words about potions."
"I still can't believe I managed to write ten thousand words about anything that wasn't a prank," Fred grinned, nudging your shoulder with his, "My mother would be so proud, or horrified, probably both."
You laughed, the sound bright and easy, and for a moment you allowed yourself to forget about the match, about the rivalry, about everything except the simple pleasure of having finished something monumental together.
Neither of you noticed the small first-year boy who scurried past, his wand pointed downward, his lips moving in a whispered incantation he'd found in a dusty book somewhere. His aim was far less precise than his enthusiasm, and his spell bounced onto the corner of your essays, a faint shimmer of light that faded almost instantly, leaving no trace behind.
You kept walking, your conversation flowing as naturally as the breeze through the open window, the parchment still clutched in your hands, still proudly clutched, still, except the ink had begun to dissolve, the words bleeding away like watercolours in rain, vanishing into the fibers of the paper as if they'd never been written at all.
The boy disappeared around a corner, already forgotten, and you and Fred strolled on, utterly unaware that the essay you were so proud of had become nothing more than blank parchment, the evidence of your hard work erased in a single careless moment.
"I think Snape might actually be impressed," Fred mused, his voice warm with optimism, "I know, I know, it's a long shot. But we actually put effort into this."
"Let's just get this over with before he changes his mind and makes us write another one." Fred knocked with exaggerated confidence, his grin wide as Snape's voice called for entry, and when you stepped inside the dim, potion-scented office, you couldn't help but feel a surge of triumph, this was it, the moment you'd been working toward all week.
"Professor Snape," you announced, holding out the essay with both hands like an offering, "We've completed the essay, ten thousand words, as requested."
Snape took the parchment from you with a curt nod, his eyes scanning you two.
"Well done," he said, his voice flat and unimpressed.
"Thank you." you and Fred exchanged a look of barely contained glee, he'd said well done, well done, the words that meant you were free, that you'd actually managed to impress the most unimpressible professor in Hogwarts.
"Thank you, Professor," you said, already turning to leave, already planning how you'd celebrate, how you'd finally get to play in the match after all this—
"Wait." Snape's voice cut through the air and you froze mid-step, your heart lurching as you turned back to face him, "What is the meaning of this, Weasley? Y/L/N? Some kind of joke?"
"I'm sorry, Professor?" you said, your voice suddenly small, confusion knitting your brow as you watched him hold up the blank parchments, his expression dark with barely contained fury. "Where is the real essay?" he demanded, his voice rising, and he turned the paper around to face you, blank, utterly blank, the parchment as empty as the day you'd first pulled it from the shelf.
"That's...that's impossible," you stammered, stepping forward, your hands trembling as you reached for the paper, "We wrote it, we spent all week on it, I swear, Professor, it was there—"
"You expect me to believe that?" Snape's voice was cold, dismissive, his eyes boring into you with the kind of contempt that made your stomach drop, "You think you can waltz in here with a blank piece of parchment and claim it was a ten-thousand-word essay?"
"But it was," Fred interjected, his voice tight with frustration, "We spent hours on it, we researched, we wrote, we—"
"I know what a completed essay looks like, Weasley," Snape interrupted, his voice dripping with disdain, "And this is not it."
"This is a pathetic attempt at avoiding the consequences of your actions." He continued.
You stared at the blank parchment, your mind racing, and then it hit you, the first-year, the boy who had scurried past with his wand, the murmured incantation you'd barely registered in your excitement!
"Wait- er, there was a student," you said, your voice gaining urgency, "A first-year, he was casting something, some kind of spell, he must have hit our essay—"
"A first-year," Snape repeated flatly, and you could hear the disbelief in his voice, the utter dismissal of what you were saying, "You expect me to believe that a first-year managed to cast a spell powerful enough to erase an entire essay without you noticing?"
"He was trying to do a dissipation charm," Fred said, his voice desperate now, "I heard him, he was practicing, he must have gotten the incantation right somehow."
"Enough." Snape's voice cut through the air like a whip, and you flinched, your heart sinking as he fixed you both with a look of pure disappointment, "I expected better from you, Miss Y/L/N. I know Weasley is not academically...reliable, that's hardly new, but you? You have always been a diligent student. And yet here you are, standing before me with a blank piece of parchment, concocting stories about first-years and accidental spells."
"Please, Professor," you said, your voice cracking slightly, the tears you'd been fighting pricking at the corners of your eyes, "We're telling the truth."
"I'm sorry," Snape said, and his voice was almost gentle now, which somehow made it worse, "But without the essay, there's no proof that you completed the assignment."
"And without the assignment..." He paused, letting the words hang in the air, "I'm afraid it'll have to be no Quidditch for either of you."
"What?" The word burst out of you two, desperate, "No, Professor, please, the match is in a few hours—"
"I'm sorry," Snape repeated, and this time there was no gentleness in his voice, only finality, "You may leave."
You walked out of Snape's office in a daze, the blank parchment still clutched in your hands like a death sentence, and you didn't realise you were crying until Fred's hand found your shoulder, comforting you in a gesture that felt more like an anchor than anything else.
"It's not fair," you whispered, your voice breaking, "We did the work. We did everything right."
"I know," Fred said, and his voice was tight with barely suppressed anger, "I know. But there's nothing we can do now. He's made up his mind."
"I know." He then squeezed your hand, and you felt the warmth of him through the fog of your despair, "We'll just have to watch from the sidelines, like we planned, missing one game won't be the end of the world."
"It feels like it is," you said, and Fred pulled you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you with a gentleness that surprised you, and you buried your face in his chest, letting yourself be held. You didn't even care that he was hugging you, it barely registered, you were too focused on your current disaster.
"At least we went down together," he murmured into your hair, his voice barely a whisper, "That's got to count for something."
You stood in the Gryffindor tent with Fred, watching the game unfold through the canvas flaps. The sky was clear, sun warm on your skin, but you couldn't feel any of it. All you could think about was the essay, the blank pages, the lost words, the chance that had been taken from you.
"We should be out there," you said, your voice hollow. "We should be playing."
"I know." Fred's voice was equally subdued. "But at least we get to watch."
"It's not the same," you said, and you hated the bitterness in your voice. "We trained for weeks, we worked so hard and now..."
"But that doesn't mean we can't still enjoy it. Right?" Fred softly comforted, "Chocolate frog?" He offered, taking one out of his bag. "Ron bought heaps."
"No thanks, maybe next time." You managed a smile, looking at him.
He was trying so hard to be positive, to make the best of a bad situation. And despite everything, you found yourself grinning.
"You're right Fred," you said. "I'm glad we could at least be here to support your friends." just then, his chocolate frog jumped on you and you laughed.
"Hey, I think he likes you." Fred complimented, holding the box in his hands still.
"Would be hard not to." You teased, grabbing the chocolate frog off your shoulder and onto your hands.
The match ended in a tie. The golden snitch had escaped capture all afternoon, and when the sun began to set, and the players were too exhausted to continue, the captains called a draw.
It was the best possible outcome.
Both teams decided that a celebration was due, taking place in the Hufflepuff common room later this evening, where there was more space and easier access to the kitchens.
A pile of discarded robes scattered across your bed like fallen leaves. You held up a deep burgundy dress robe, then discarded it in favour of a soft cream-colored tunic with delicate embroidery along the sleeves, then immediately second-guessed that choice and reached for the first one again, your reflection staring back at you with an expression of pure frustration.
"You've been standing there for twenty minutes," Hannah observed from her perch on the edge of your bed, her voice laced with barely concealed amusement as she watched you hold the burgundy dress up to your chin for the fourth time, "The party's in an hour, and you've got certain look on your face that screams you have someone in mind to impress."
"I do not have a look," you protested, but you caught your own reflection again and had to admit—yes, the slight furrow between your brows, the anxious bite to your lower lip, the way you kept smoothing down the front of your robes as if you were preparing for something far more significant than a common room party, "I'm just trying to figure out what to wear. Is that a crime?"
"It's not a crime," Angelina said from where she'd claimed the window seat, her voice lilting with a knowing edge that made your stomach flip, "But it does raise certain questions."
"Like what?" You kept your voice carefully neutral.
"Like what kind of party this is," Gabriella chimed in, her dark eyes glinting with mischief as she leaned forward from her spot on the floor, "Because usually, when someone's trying to decide between three different outfits for a casual common room party, it means there's someone they're trying to impress."
"I'm not trying to impress anyone," you said quickly, maybe too quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush that made Hannah raise an eyebrow, "I just...I want to look nice. Is that so terrible?"
"For you?" Angelina said, her grin widening, "You, who usually wears whatever's at the top of your trunk without a second glance? Who once showed up to breakfast with your robes inside out and didn't notice until third period? Yes. That's absolutely suspicious."
You opened your mouth to defend yourself, but no words came, because she was right, you'd never cared about what you wore before and yet here you were, agonising over a simple tunic.
"I just—" you started, then stopped, the burgundy robe hanging limply from your fingers as you stared at your reflection, "I don't know. I guess I just want to feel...different tonight."
"Orrr," Hannah said slowly, drawing out the word with deliberate emphasis, "You want to look good for a certain redheaded gryffindor who spent the entire quidditch match in a tent with you, looking like he was having the time of his life despite not playing."
You felt the heat crawl up your neck, staining your cheeks a shade that matched the robe you were still holding, and you hastily dropped it onto the bed as if it had burned you. "I don't know what you're talking about," you said, but your voice came out smaller than you'd intended, less certain, "Fred and I were just…we were just working things out. We had to write the essay together, and we got to know each other, and—"
"And you seemed pretty cozy with him in that tent," Gabriella interrupted, her voice sing-song with teasing, "We saw you, you know. Through the flap, you were sitting so close to each other, and he was laughing at something you said, and you had this look on your face like—"
"Like what?" you demanded.
"Like you enjoyed being there with him," Angelina said softly, and there was no mockery in her voice now, only genuine curiosity, "Like you didn't mind that you weren't playing, like being in that tent with him was better than being on the pitch."
You opened your mouth to deny it, to insist that you'd been furious about missing the match, that you'd only tolerated Fred because you'd had no choice, but the words wouldn't come, because she was right, wasn't she?
You had enjoyed it, the quiet moments in the tent with Fred, his voice warm and teasing, his shoulder brushing against yours, the way he'd made you laugh even when everything felt hopeless. "He caused me to not be able to play," you said finally, though even as the words left your mouth, they felt hollow, insufficient, "Well…we both did, really, it was both our faults. We both let Snape catch us."
"But it was alright in the end, wasn't it?" Hannah pressed, her voice gentle, "You and him. All those years of hating each other, and it just was alright."
"So," Gabriella said, bouncing to her feet and grabbing the cream tunic from your hands, holding it up to you with an approving nod, "Wear this, and wear that necklace you got for your birthday, the one with the little charm. It brings out your eyes."
"I'm not trying to impress him," you insisted, but you were already reaching for the tunic, already running your fingers over the soft fabric with a fondness that surprised you.
"Of course you're not," Angelina said, her grin wide and knowing, "And the fact that you keep saying that absolutely proves it." You groaned, burying your face in your hands, but you were laughing too, the sound bubbling up from somewhere inside you—because they weren't wrong, were they?
___
Students from both teams mixed together, and the tension that had been building for weeks finally dissipated. Cedric Diggory and Oliver Wood were laughing together now, and even the slytherins and ravenclaws seemed to be enjoying themselves.
Warm golden light from the enchanted candles casted dancing shadows across the walls as music swelled through the crowded space, and you found yourself lost in the rhythm of the music your body moving to the beat as Angelina spun you around with a laugh echoing over the chatter.
Katie had joined you and Angelina, her grin wide as she pulled Hannah and Gabriella into the circle, and for a few blissful moments, you forgot about everything - the essay, the match, the chaos of the week and simply let yourself be carried away by the joy of the celebration.
"I can't believe the match ended in a tie," Katie shouted over the music, her eyes bright with amusement, "Wood was absolutely livid, I thought he was going to hex the Snitch for not cooperating."
"Cedric wasn't much better," you laughed, shaking your head at the memory of your captain's frustrated pacing, "He kept muttering about 'next time' and 'strategic adjustments' like he was planning a military campaign."
Angelina leaned in, "At least the party's good. I heard someone smuggled in firewhisky from somewhere, like, a significant amount."
"Who?" Gabriella asked, her eyes widening with a mixture of horror and delight.
"Don't ask, don't tell, but maybe we could sneak some, if we're lucky." Hannah said with a wink, and you all dissolved into laughter, the sound mingling with the music in a way that felt like pure freedom.
The common room was growing increasingly crowded, bodies pressing together as more students poured in from the other houses, and the music seemed to get louder with each passing moment.
"I'm parched," you announced, your throat dry from laughing and shouting over the noise, "I'm going to get some punch. Anyone want anything?"
Gabriella started to move with you, her hand reaching for your arm, "I'll come with—"
"No, no, it's okay," you said, waving her off with a smile, "I'll be right back. Save my spot."
You wove through the crowd, your steps light as you made your way toward the refreshment table at the far end of the room, and despite yourself, your eyes began to scan the crowd, looking for a flash of red hair, a familiar grin, the tall frame of the boy who had occupied your thoughts all week.
There was no sign of him yet, and you felt slightly disappointed, but you quickly pushed that aside, telling yourself it didn't matter, that you were here to have fun with your friends, not to pine over Fred like some lovesick schoolgirl.
You reached the punch bowl, the sweet scent of fruit and juice wafting up from the deep ceramic bowl, and you were just reaching for a cup when a figure appeared at your side, tall, lanky, with the distinctive blue-and-bronze robes of a ravenclaw.
"Well, well," the voice drawled, and you turned to find Jack leaning against the table, his eyes glassy and unfocused, a half-empty cup dangling from his fingers, "If it isn't the girl who got kicked off the team today."
You stiffened, your hand pausing mid-reach for the cup as you forced a polite smile onto your face, "Kicked off? No, it was just temporary. I'm not off the Hufflepuff team. It was just—"
"Oh yeah?" Jack interrupted, his voice dripping with mockery, "Well, you're better off standing in the stands anyway. A pretty face like yours shouldn't be getting all sweaty and bruised on a quidditch pitch. You should let the real players handle it."
Your smile faltered, a flicker of anger sparking in your chest, "I'm sorry, what did you just say?"
"I'm just saying," Jack continued, leaning closer, his breath sour with firewhisky, "You're too pretty for Quidditch, you should be cheering from the sidelines, wearing something nice, letting the men do the heavy lifting. That's where girls like you belong."
"Girls like me?" you repeated, your voice dangerously quiet, your hands clenching at your sides.
"Yeah, you know." He gestured vaguely at you with his cup, sloshing some of the contents onto the floor, "The kind of girl who's better off being looked at than actually doing anything."
You opened your mouth to deliver a scathing retort, something about misogyny and outdated thinking and how he was clearly compensating for something, but you stopped yourself, remembering that he was drunk, that arguing with him would only make things worse, that the best thing you could do was walk away.
"Excuse me," you said, your voice tight but polite, "I think I should get back to my friends."
You turned to leave, but Jack's hand shot out, grabbing your wrist with surprising strength, "Hey, I wasn't done talking to you. Where are you going?"
"Let go of me," you said, your voice firm as you tried to pull away, "Now."
"Oh, come on, don't be like that," Jack slurred, his grip tightening, "I was just trying to give you a compliment. You hufflepuffs are so sensitive—"
The glass flew from his other hand, propelled by a careless gesture as he tried to keep you from leaving, and you saw it arc through the air in slow motion, saw the way the light caught the edges, the way it spun toward you, the way you couldn't move fast enough to avoid it.
Shattering against the edge of the table, you felt the sharp sting of shards slicing across your arm, the pain blooming bright and hot as blood welled up from the gash, dripping onto the stone floor in dark crimson droplets.
You yelped, clutching your arm to your chest, your breath coming in sharp gasps as the pain registered, as the shock of it settled over you like a cold blanket.
"What the hell—" you started, but the words died in your throat as a blur of red hair and fury pushed through the crowd, and before you could fully process what was happening.
Fred was there, his eyes blazing as he shoved Jack backward with enough force to send him stumbling into the table.
"Oi! Shove off, Jack!" Fred's voice was a low snarl, his body positioned between you and the ravenclaw like a shield, "What the hell is your problem?!"
Jack recovered his balance, his face contorting with drunken anger as he shoved back, "Try controlling this girl's mouth, that's the problem! She's your girlfriend now, or what? Got you wrapped around her little finger like a good little—"
"Stay away from her." Fred's voice was ice, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, and you could see the barely contained rage in every line of his body, "I'm warning you, Jack. Don't come near her again."
"Or what?" Jack sneered, taking a stumbling step forward, "You'll fight me? You think you can take me, Weasley?"
The first punch was thrown before anyone could intervene, Jack's fist swinging wildly, catching Fred across the jaw with a sickening crack.
You heard yourself scream as Fred retaliated, his own punch landing squarely in Jack's stomach, and then they were both on the ground, rolling and grappling in a blur of fists and anger.
"Stop it!" you cried, trying to pull them apart, but your injured hand was throbbing, and you couldn't get a grip on either of them.
"Fred! Jack! Blood hell, stop this!" George appeared seemingly out of nowhere, his strong arms wrapping around his brother and hauling him backward, and Harry was there too, pulling Jack off the ground with more strength than his slender frame suggested.
Cedric materialised between them, his voice cutting through the chaos with captain's authority, "That's enough! Both of you, stand down!" Jack was still struggling, his face flushed and ugly with anger, but Harry's grip held firm, and after a moment, he sagged, his fight draining out of him.
Fred was breathing hard, his lip split and bleeding, his knuckles raw, but his eyes were fixed on you, on your hand, on the blood that was still seeping through your fingers. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice rough, and you nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, the adrenaline still surging through your veins.
"Get him out of here," Cedric ordered, and Harry and George dragged Jack away, his protests fading into the noise of the party, which had barely paused in its revelry.
You realised you were shaking, your whole body trembling as the shock began to wear off and the pain in your hand grew sharper, more insistent. "I need…I need to go," you said, your voice unsteady, "I'll be back in a bit. Just- I need space."
Angelina reached for you, her face creased with concern, "Let me come with—"
"No, it's fine," you said, pulling away, "I'll be fine, I just need a moment. I'll come find you guys later." You pushed through the crowd, your vision swimming, and you knew exactly where you were going, the spare room off the main corridor, the one with the bed and the medical supplies, the one that had become your sanctuary during the chaos of the week.
The room was quiet, the door muffling the music and chatter from the common room, and you sank onto the edge of the bed, grabbing a tissue from the nearby desk and pressing it to your wound, trying to stop the bleeding.
Your hand was still shaking, the tissue quickly turning crimson and you bit your lip to keep from crying, from letting the exhaustion and pain and frustration overwhelm you.
A slow creak from the door, snapped you from your thoughts and you looked up to see Fred standing in the doorway, his expression soft with concern, a bruise already forming on his jaw and a thin line of blood still trickling from his split lip.
"Hey," he said gently, stepping inside and closing the door behind him, the latch clicking softly into place, "Hey, you okay?"
"I'm fine," you said automatically, but your voice wavered, and your hand was still shaking, and the tissue was soaked through with blood that just kept coming. "It's nothing."
Fred's eyes darted to your hand, and his expression shifted, all the softness replaced by focused urgency, "Shit. Your hand- that's not nothing, Y/N. Let me see."
"Fred, it's fine," you protested, but he was already crossing the room, already kneeling in front of you, his hands gentle as he reached for yours.
"You're bleeding," he said, his voice soft but firm, "It's not nothing, please let me help."
You hesitated, your chest ached at the way he said it, at the concern in his eyes, and slowly, reluctantly, you let him take your hand.
"I've had my fair share of injuries," Fred murmured, his eyes focused on your wound as he reached for the medical kit he'd spotted on the shelf, "Ginny's always getting banged up during practice, and George and I have patched each other up more times than I can count. You learn to be quick about it."
He worked with practiced efficiency, cleaning the wound with a gentle touch that belied his usual chaotic energy, his fingers careful and precise as they applied antiseptic and wrapped bandages around your palm.
You watched the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his tongue poked out slightly when he was focused, the way his lashes cast shadows across his cheeks in the dim lamplight.
Have you been this fine? The whole damn time?
The thought came unbidden. You watched him and you noticed things you'd never allowed yourself to notice before, the freckles scattered across his nose like constellations, the way his jaw was stronger than you'd realised, the softness in his eyes when he thought no one was looking at him.
His hair was a mess from the fight, a bruise darkening along his jaw, a small cut on his lip that he'd barely seemed to notice, and yet all of his attention was on you, on your wound, on making sure you were okay.
"All done," he said softly, his thumb brushing over the bandage with a tenderness that made your breath catch, "There, good as new."
"Thank you, Fred." The words came out softer than you'd intended, your voice barely above a whisper, and you looked up at him, your eyes meeting his.
His gaze was warm, searching, and you felt yourself leaning toward him without quite meaning to. "And I'm sorry," you added, the apology slipping out before you could stop it.
"For what?" He tilted his head, genuinely confused, "The fight wasn't your fault, Y/N. Jack's an idiot, he's always been an idiot."
"No," you said, shaking your head, "Not that...for everything. Through the years." You paused, gathering your thoughts, your fingers twisting in your lap, "I should never have...I was so angry at you, and I didn't even know why. I just assumed the worst, and I let that assumption color everything. I thought you were arrogant and careless and—"
"Y/N, stop."
Fred's voice was gentle, his hand reaching out to cover yours, "I was an arse too. The match back then, third year- it was my fault. I was showing off, trying to prove something and I crashed into you because I wasn't paying attention and instead of apologising, I blamed you. I've been blaming you ever since because I was too proud to admit I was wrong."
"No, it was my fault too," you insisted, shaking your head, "I was so focused on the quaffle, I didn't even see you coming when I should have—"
"We were both idiots, me a little bit more though," Fred interrupted, a rueful smile tugging at his lips, "We were both too stubborn to admit we might have been wrong and we wasted years hating each other because of one stupid accident."
"Years," you repeated, the word feeling strange, "All that time, and we could have just…talked, like this."
"Like this," he agreed, his thumb still resting over your knuckles, warm and steady, "I think we were both too scared to talk or to admit that maybe—"
"Maybe what?" you breathed, slowly blinking.
"Maybe it was never really hate," Fred said softly, his eyes searching yours, "Maybe it was… something else."
You could feel the heat radiating from him and the way his eyes flickered down to your lips and back up, you could feel the pull of him like a magnet drawing you closer. "I don't want to be your 'enemy' anymore, Fred," you whispered, your voice barely audible above the muffled music from the common room.
"Me too," he confessed, "I want to be—" He didn't finish the sentence.
Instead, he leaned in, and you met him halfway, your lips brushing against his in a kiss that was soft and tentative at first, a question more than an answer.
His hand came up to cup your cheek, and you melted into him, all the years of hatred and rivalry dissolving like morning mist, leaving behind only warmth, only possibility, only him. He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours, and you could see the smile spreading across his face.
"I think I've been waiting to do that for a very long time," he murmured, his voice husky with emotion, "I just didn't know it."
"Me too," you admitted, your fingers finding his, intertwining, "I didn't know it either but I think- I think I'm glad we finally figured it out."
"Glad is an understatement," Fred said, and he kissed you again, longer this time, and when you pulled apart, you were both breathless and laughing, the joy of it bubbling up from deep inside you.
"I suppose this means I have to tell my friends you're not my 'sworn enemy' anymore," you said, your voice teasing, "They're going to be so disappointed, Gabriella had a whole betting pool going about when we'd finally get along."
"A betting pool?" Fred's eyebrows shot up, "How much did she win?"
"I'm not telling you that," you said primly, but you were grinning, "You'll get a big head."
"My head is already appropriately sized, thank you very much," he shot back, and you chuckled.
"Is it a bad thing," you asked softly, suddenly serious, "Falling in love with your once-enemy? I mean, everyone always says-"
"I don't think it is," Fred interrupted, his voice firm and sure, "I think it's the best thing that could have happened. I think we were always meant to end up here, we just took the long way around."
"The very, very long way," you agreed, and he kissed you again. You let yourself be carried away by it, the warmth of his lips, the steadiness of his hands around you, ever so hopeful of everything that was yet to come.
Outside, the party raged on, the music thrumming through the walls, but in that small, quiet room, you and Fred had found something far more precious than any celebration, you had found each other.
