Still Boldly Writing @fear0fdeathkeepsusalive - Tumblr Blog

The Girl Who Hates Quidditch

Fred Weasley x FemRavenclawReader

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

———————————————————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I heard that,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She laughed. “Not happening.”

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

“And when I don’t?”

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

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

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

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

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

And just like that, the bet was on.

———————————————————————

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

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

She blinked, then looked up.

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

She narrowed her eyes. “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

She stared at him. “In the library?”

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

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

“You can’t be serious.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It adds reckless, high-speed trauma.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She groaned. “Fred—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———————————————————————

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

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

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

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

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

And then came Fred and George.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t.”

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

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

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

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

“Sorry to disappoint.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

———————————————————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ginny grinned like she knew better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…What are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And endearing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thirteen Harpies have broken their collarbones since 1991.”

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

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

“And yet, you’re still here.”

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

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

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

———————————————————————

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

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

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

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

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

Her voice was pure sugar. Her eyes were arsenic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She folded her arms. “I do.”

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

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

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

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

Soft.

Charged.

She didn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

———————————————————————

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

He sighed dramatically and started to close his watch when—

“There you are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was innovation, not bragging.”

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

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

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

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

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

Her brows arched. “You pay attention?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That doesn’t mean I like it.”

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

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

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

Her breath caught. And he knew it.

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

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

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

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

“And you’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You so are.”

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

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

He didn’t let go right away.

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

“Maybe,” she admitted with a reserved tone.

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

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

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

———————————————————————

It started with one practice.

Then one game.

Then two.

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

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

Fred would spot her every time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she always wore her Ravenclaw scarf.

Always.

Fred, of course, made a scene every time.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh?” He smirked. “How’s that?”

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

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

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

“I’m nothing if not loyal.”

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

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

“I still hate it.”

“Of course you do.”

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

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

———————————————————————

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

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

Even when they were collectively complaining.

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

“Harry’ll blow something up,” George finished, deadpan.

“Or Hermione will,” Fred added, smirking. “You’ve seen how serious she is about the DA.”

“That pink toad is handing out detentions like Honeydukes samples,” Ginny grumbled. “Colin Creevey got one just for asking if the rules on club meetings had changed.”

“Lee got one for breathing too loud,” George offered, shaking his head.

“Filch is practically salivating at the thought of catching people,” Fred muttered. “It’s disgusting.”

“Filch has always been like that. Umbridge just enables it,” y/n’s laugh came a second too late, too tight around the edges. She was staring at the fire, fingers drifting to the back of her left hand like a reflex. Slow, absent, like scratching at an itch that wouldn’t go away.

Fred glanced down at the movement and caught sight of her rubbing the spot just beneath her knuckles, like she didn’t realize she was doing it. His brow furrowed.

“What’s that?”

She blinked. “What’s what?”

“Your hand.” He sat up straighter, voice sharpening with sudden alertness. “What’re you—?”

She quickly tucked it beneath her thigh, but he was faster. Fred reached over, gentle but insistent, catching her wrist before she could hide it. He turned her palm over and his breath caught. There, faint but unmistakable even in the glow of the fire, were the angry red words etched into her skin: I must not question authority.

“You—” His voice came out hoarse. Then louder. “She didn’t.”

She tried to pull away. “Fred—”

“That hag did this to you?” he spat, his voice rising as he glared at the wound like he could burn it off with fury alone. “Are you…? What the hell! Why didn’t you tell me?”

George had risen out of his chair, his eyes narrowing. Ginny had gone still, her grip on the pillow tightening.

“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,” she said softly.

Fred stared at her, incredulous. “A big deal? She carved you.”

“There’s nothing to do about it,” she said, curling her fingers over the scar again. “It’s done. It’s not permanent. Just, drop it. Please.”

“No, no, we should go to McGonagall,” Ginny cut in, voice cold with controlled rage. “She has to know.”

“McGonagall’s got enough going on with the staff performance reviews,” y/n said quietly. “Besides, she can’t do anything about it either. Not when Umbitch has Fudge’s support.”

Silence pulsed in the space between them. The fire crackled, throwing shadows over Fred’s clenched jaw.

She offered the smallest, tired smile. “Let’s talk about something else.”

George exchanged a tense glance with Ginny, but it was Fred who finally sighed, low and reluctant, and leaned back again beside her. His hand hovered a little closer to hers now, resting against the rug.

“Fine,” he muttered. “New topic. Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff. Saturday.”

George perked up. “You coming to see us win, or what?”

“She’s never been to a Gryffindor game,” Ginny said slyly, cutting her a look. “Strange, considering she goes to every practice these days…”

“I’m not missing study time for a game,” she said, a little too quickly.

“Game ends at noon,” Fred said with a tilt of his head. “Plenty of time to study after.”

She looked away, fiddling with the end of her sleeve. “It’s not about the game.”

George raised a brow. “Oh?”

She hesitated. “I just…don’t want to watch Hufflepuff win.”

Fred laughed. “Oh ye of little faith, you wound me.”

“You’re not worried about us losing,” George said with a grin. “You’re worried we’ll get flattened.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re worried we’ll get hurt,” Fred filled in, blunt and knowing.

She didn’t deny it. Her cheeks were dusted pink now, and her eyes stayed on the fire like it would save her from the teasing.

Fred’s smirk turned warm. “So what you’re saying - or rather, not saying - is…you care.”

She groaned. “Don’t start.”

“Too late.” George was grinning. “It’s out there now.”

Fred nudged her lightly with his knee. “Admit it, strategist. You like us.”

“You’re alright,” she muttered.

“Alright!” He echoed in mock offence, gripping his heart like she’d stabbed it.

Ginny snorted into her sleeve. Fred leaned closer, voice dropping into something that made her chest flutter. “You know, if you are coming to the match, I’ll reserve you the best seat in the stands.”

“You don’t get to reserve seats.”

“Don’t need to. I just threaten to hex anyone who tries to sit there.”

She rolled her eyes, rising before she could smile too much. “It’s nearly curfew. I should go.”

“Don’t make me walk you,” Fred said, already standing. “You know I will.”

“I can survive a walk to Ravenclaw tower, thank you.”

He smirked, but his gaze lingered just a second too long, like he wanted to say more. “See you Saturday?” he asked.

She hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly around her books.

“…Maybe.”

———————————————————————

The afternoon sun was low over the Quidditch pitch, casting long gold shadows across the grass and staining the sky in hues of soft orange. The air still carried the buzz from Saturday’s Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff match - a fair, but difficult affair that ended in narrow victory. Katie had taken two near-misses from a Bludger, George had a scuffed shoulder, and Angelina’s voice had gone hoarse from screaming.

Now it was Tuesday, and they were back on the pitch. A post-match practice to tighten up what had gone wrong and polish what had gone right.

Y/n hovered near the edge of the stands, arms folded across her chest and scarf wrapped around her Ravenclaw uniform like armor. It wasn’t where she usually stood. Normally she was on the field’s edge with a notebook or crossed arms, calling out ideas and running commentary, offering observations that always - somehow - helped.

But today, she was quieter. Kept a little distance. Fred noticed. So did the others.

“Oi,” Katie Bell shouted mid-pass, gliding toward the sidelines. “Where were you Saturday? You promised you’d come!”

“I didn’t promise,” she said, shading her eyes. “So Fred and George shouldn’t have said I did.”

“You basically did,” George called out from across the field, swinging his bat and sending a Bludger soaring. “You’ve been at every practice for weeks, talking tactics. We thought you were a convert.”

“She’s still scared Fred’s going to break every bone in his body,” Ginny teased from the stands behind her, wand in hand for mock-commentary.

Fred flew past above them, looping in the air with an exaggerated wobble. “It’s very likely,” he called. “I am tremendously reckless!”

She rolled her eyes, ignoring the rush in her stomach. “You lot didn’t need me,” she called back. “You won.”

Fred angled into a sharp descent, landing near her with all the grace of someone born to broomsticks. He was flushed from flying, hair windswept and cheeks tinged pink. He grinned at her, broad and stupid.

“But it wasn’t the same without our favourite Ravenclaw strategist,” he said, brushing back imaginary tears. “We missed your constant sass and judgment.”

“Didn’t miss your dramatics.”

Fred’s eyes twinkled. “I think you did.”

She huffed. “As if I don’t get enough of that off the pitch.”

He beamed. “See? She likes me.”

“No, I—”

But then Angelina blew the whistle again, and Fred winked before kicking off and soaring back into the air with a wild flourish, looping through a passing drill like he hadn’t just spent half of it teasing her.

She shook her head, hiding a reluctant smile.

The next twenty minutes were routine: Chaser drills, Beater coordination, Keeper defence. Everyone was sharp and focused. Even Fred, despite the obvious effort he was putting into cracking jokes mid-pass. The ball zipped back and forth across the pitch, and she could see him keeping one eye on her even from a distance.

Fred launched forward to catch the Quaffle from Katie, but instead of taking the pass cleanly, he twisted midair, gave a loud grunt, and tumbled off his broom.

It happened so fast she barely registered the fall. One moment he was aloft, and the next, his body hit the grass with a thud, rolling with a convincing groan. He didn’t get up.

Her stomach dropped.

“Oh my God! Fred!” She sprinted across the pitch before she could think, feet flying over the grass, scarf billowing. Her heart thundered in her chest, panic pushing adrenaline into every step.

He was lying facedown, groaning softly, one hand twitching by his side.

She dropped to her knees beside him, breath catching. “Fred? Hey, hey, what hurts? Can you hear me? Can you turn over?”

He groaned again, face still pressed to the grass. By now Ginny was behind her and the rest of the team were touching down on the field.

“Oh my god! Don’t move. Merlin, did you land on your head? We need to get Madam Pomfrey!”

And then he turned his head. And grinned.“Gotcha.”

Dead silence met him. Dead, thick silence.

“You absolute git,” she breathed in a combination of relief and hurt as her horror passed by.

Fred blinked innocently up at her from the grass. “What? You were worried?”

“I was worried because I thought you’d shattered your bloody spine—!”

He pushed himself upright, still chuckling. “I just wanted to see if you’d run to my rescue.”

“You—” She shoved him. “You idiot! You utter arse—!”

“Hey, you were the one who denied caring about our wellbeing,” he said, laughing, brushing grass off his robes and leaning back on his hands. “I was just…confirming it.”

Her fists were clenched, cheeks flushed with rage and humiliation. “Do you have any idea how terrified I was?” she snapped. “I thought you cracked your skull open!”

“But now we know, if I ever do, you’ll be the first one on the scene.” His grin grew wicked. “To kiss it better. Maybe nurse me back to health.”

She stared at him. And then smacked him on the arm.

“OW—! Okay, maybe no kissing then—!”

“You’re unbelievable,” she snapped, standing up and brushing off her robes. “Completely unbelievable. You think this is funny? I was genuinely scared.”

Fred froze. The laughter died in his eyes. “Hey…I didn’t mean to…Look, I didn’t think it’d really scare you.”

She took a step back. “Well next time, don’t pull some ridiculous stunt just to make a point.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and stormed off the pitch, boots kicking up grass, hair flying behind her.

Fred watched her go. His mouth opened. Then closed. “Y/n, wait!” Ginny called out after the girl, hurrying to try catch up.

George landed beside him, blinking. “Well, you messed that one up.”

Fred ran a hand down his face. “…Yeah.”

———————————————————————

It started the morning after practice.

Fred waited for her outside the Great Hall, leaning against the stone wall with a casual smirk and a single Chocolate Frog in hand. A peace offering.

“Oi, Ravenclaw,” he said as she walked past with her books hugged to her chest. “I come bearing bribes.”

She didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t even blink.

Fred’s grin faltered. “Too soon?”

She turned a corner and was gone. He stood there, alone, Chocolate Frog melting slightly in his palm.

A few days later, he tried again. This time in the library.

He spotted her at a back table, parchment spread out, quill flicking in sharp, irritated strokes.

Fred walked in with a crooked smile and a folded up piece of parchment under his arm - a “Very Official Study Guide to Quidditch for Stubbornly Brilliant Ravenclaws,” complete with doodles of brooms, bludgers, and stick figures he would insist were very accurate drawings of her throwing things at him.

He dropped it on the table. She looked at it. Then at him.

And then very slowly, deliberately, slid the parchment back over to him without unfolding it, and returned to her notes.

His throat felt dry. “Right,” he muttered. “Cool. I’ll… just be over there. Not interrupting.”

At dinner in the Great Hall, he tried to catch her eye across the tables.

She laughed at something Luna Lovegood said. She looked even more beautiful when she laughed, Fred thought. He watched her as she shifted her weight. Brushed her hair behind her ear. Never once looked his way. Even when he dropped a levitating pumpkin pasty in front of her plate.

It hovered. She didn’t flinch. It floated back to him like a defeated puppy.

By the time the weekend rolled around, the rest of Gryffindor House had caught onto her mysterious and sudden absence.

“She hates you,” George said cheerfully, flopping onto the common room couch beside Fred. “It’s actually impressive.”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, well, what did you expect after that stunt you pulled?” Ginny asked, biting into an apple as she joined them. “Mum always said you had the emotional intelligence of a troll with a head cold.”

“I didn’t think—” Fred started, running a hand through his hair. “It was a joke. A harmless joke.”

“Doesn’t seem so harmless now that she’s not talking to you, does it?” Ginny said bluntly.

Fred looked at her, jaw tight. He didn’t reply.

Ginny let out a long sigh, “You know what, let me help you out here. Only because you look so pathetic right now moping over her.”

“I’m not moping,” Fred scoffed.

“Admit it Freddie, you are moping,” George shook his head in disagreement. “You miss her. We can all see it. I think someone has a little crush.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” The older of the two twins protested, though the flush on his cheeks said quite the opposite.

“Come off it, Fred. Admit that you like her and I’ll tell you exactly where you went wrong,” Ginny bargained. “It’s really a wonder you haven’t figured it out for yourself.”

A muscle in Fred’s jaw feathered as he clenched it. He was tempted to tell Ginny where she could stick her wand but then he thought better of it. After all, he had missed y/n. He’d missed her smile and the sound of her laugh. He’d missed her quiet presence in the common room and the sparkle in her eyes when they met his. But what he missed most of all was the feeling that bloomed in his chest whenever she was around - warm and comforting and exhilarated all at once. The idea of never getting to experience that again left a hollow feeling in his stomach. So, swallowing his pride, he turned to his sister.

“So maybe I do like her,” he admitted. “So, spill. What is it?”

“Do you know why she hates Quidditch?”

Fred looked over, eyes shadowed in the candlelight. “Because she’s allergic to fun?”

Ginny didn’t smile. “No, Fred. Her dad? I’m guessing you’ve never connected the names?”

He frowned. “What? Y/l/n?”

Ginny nodded. “Her dad used to play professionally. For the Montrose Magpies. He was one of the best Chasers the league had. Fast. Sharp. People said he could outwit a bludger mid-match.”

Fred’s breath caught. He had heard the name. In old game tapes and collector’s cards. Y/l/n was a legend. He couldn’t quite remember what had happened to the guy, just that his name wasn’t around anymore.

“What happened?”

“Final game of the season,” Ginny said. “Against the Wimbourne Wasps. A Bludger hit him wrong - back of the head. Mid-air. He fell about thirty feet. Broke his back. Spine never healed right.”

Fred’s face paled.

“She was there,” Ginny added, voice low. “She was seven.” Silence fell between them like a dropped wand. “She watched the game from the stands. Watched him fall. Watched the medics run out, her mum scream. He was in St Mungo’s for months. He still can’t walk properly. Definitely can’t ride a broom.”

Fred stared at his hands, at the way they curled into helpless fists. “Merlin, I’m an asshole.” Fred’s chest ached.

All her sharp retorts, her anxiety in the stands, the way she chewed her lip watching drills…it all clicked. The reason she could see patterns in plays, why she knew every injury in league history, why she wouldn’t come to games. It wasn’t because she hated the sport. It was because she loved someone who lost everything to it.

And Fred had made a joke out of it. A joke that pulled that old, raw fear right back into her chest.

He stood up abruptly, blood rushing in his ears.

“Fred—” Ginny started.

“I have to fix it.”

Ginny sighed. “How’re you gonna do that?”

He didn’t reply. He just turned and walked out, the guilt coiled tight around his ribs like a bludger straight to the heart.

———————————————————————

The Owlery was nearly empty, save for the soft rustling of feathers and the scent of straw and parchment. Wind whistled gently through the open arches, tugging at the edge of her robes as she tied a letter to one of the school owls.

Behind her, boots scuffed against stone. She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. She was familiar with with the sound of his steps, with the pattern of his gait, and the feeling of his presence.

Fred.

He cleared his throat, awkward and quiet - two words no one ever really used to describe him. Not until now.

“Hey,” he said gently.

She didn’t reply. Just stared ahead at the misty hills beyond the castle, where the sun was starting to dip toward the treeline, gilding the sky in gold.

Fred stepped closer, hands in his pockets, voice soft. “I know I’m probably the last person you want to see right now.”

She still didn’t look at him, but she didn’t walk away either. He took that as a small mercy.

“About that stupid prank,” he said. “I didn’t understand. I just thought…I don’t know what I thought anymore. Maybe that it would be funny? A stupid joke? A chance to get you to pay attention to me?”

The silence stretched, brittle and heavy. Fred exhaled slowly. “I never meant to make you feel like that - to scare you like I did.”

She flinched at that. Not visibly, not much. But enough for him to notice.

“I didn’t think about what watching someone you care about get knocked out of the sky would feel like.”

Now she turned. Just a little. Enough to look at him from the corner of her eye, guarded.

Fred met her gaze, voice steadier now. “Ginny told me. About your dad. About what it did to your family.”

A beat passed.

“I’m not him,” he added, quieter. “And I’m not asking you to pretend it didn’t happen. I just…I just want you to know I’d never want to be the cause of that kind of hurt. Not to you.”

Her breath caught, barely audible, but she didn’t turn away from him. Her sharp eyes stayed trained on his, and that was enough to keep his heartbeat racing.

“I care about you,” he said. “More than I’ve let on. More than I probably should, considering I’ve spent the last week being hexed by your glares.”

That pulled a flicker at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile. But something close. He took a small step closer, tone gentler now.

“I miss you, alright? I miss our bickering and your eye-rolls and the way you always correct my Quidditch stats. I even miss you calling me out for being an idiot, which - let’s be honest - is pretty often.”

She looked away, heart thudding too loud in her chest.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” Fred said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just needed to say it. All of it.”

Still, she did not speak. Couldn’t bring herself to.

“I’m sorry.” He lingered a moment longer, like he was hoping for something. A word. A glance. A sign. But she said nothing.

And after a beat, he turned and left her there, alone with the owls and her thundering heart.

———————————————————————

The next morning, y/n sat by the lake, bundled in her cloak as the wind rippled across the water. Her fingertips kept brushing over the scarred words on her hand.

She never expected to fall for someone like him. Someone loud and unpredictable and reckless. A Quidditch player, no less.

She’d promised herself - after seeing what it did to her mother, after watching her father disappear into a hospital bed and never really come back - that she’d never let herself get involved in anything so dangerous.

But Fred wasn’t just a Quidditch player. He was stupidly kind. And funny. And so painfully sincere when it mattered.

And the thought of him hurting because of her? That was a weight she hadn’t expected to feel.

“You’re brooding,” Ginny said, plopping beside her on the bank, tucking her knees to her chest.

“I’m thinking.”

“That’s just silent brooding with a fancier name.”

She snorted despite herself.

Ginny nudged her shoulder. “You saw him, didn’t you?”

She nodded.

“He’s miserable without you.”

“I’m sure he’ll survive.”

Ginny gave her a look.

“Fine,” she muttered. “He seemed sincere.”

“He is sincere. He hasn’t been this quiet since Mum threatened to move the family ghoul into his bedroom in second year.”

That made her laugh. Really laugh, the sound catching on the breeze like music.

Ginny smiled. “He likes you, you know. Really likes you.”

She looked down at her hands, fingers fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. “I don’t know if I can do this, Ginny. I promised myself I’d never fall for a Quidditch player. Never let it…take up space in my life. Never let it cause that kind of grief again.”

“But you already have,” Ginny said gently. “You fell for him, didn’t you?”

“I think I have…” Y/n admitted in a small voice, as if afraid of the words themselves. “Is that weird to you? Me talking about your brother like that?”

Ginny gave a small shrug. “Doesn’t bother me. But I think…if there’s one thing Mum always says about Dad, it’s that she never regretted falling for him. Nothing else that they’ve gone through ever mattered more than getting to love him.”

Her eyes stung, just a little.

“And for what it’s worth,” Ginny added, bumping her shoulder, “he’s completely destroyed without you. Like, extreme levels of mopiness. He’s reached all new levels of melodramatic. It’s almost impressive.”

That pulled another soft laugh from her, and Ginny smiled, triumphant. But the laughter faded into something heavier. Because the truth was: she didn’t know if she could allow herself to open up to him. But she wanted to. And maybe that was the first step.

“Next game’s on Sunday. Gryffindor’s playing Slytherin,” Ginny reminded her before standing and dusting her hands off on her pants. “Something tells me you’ve got a lot to think about before then.”

———————————————————————

The late November air had a bitter edge to it, the kind that stung your nose and numbed your fingertips. A wind cut across the Quidditch pitch, tugging at scarves and cloaks as students filtered into the stands. Among them was a splash of unexpected colour - scarlet and gold - looped loosely around the neck of a Ravenclaw girl.

She didn’t wear it high and proud like the Gryffindors around her. It wasn’t wrapped tightly to ward off the cold. It hung loosely, uncertainly, like the decision she’d finally come to only hours before.

Ginny spotted her immediately. “You came,” she said with a hopeful grin, sliding onto the bench beside her. Luna was already there, humming to herself with her lion hat perched lopsided on her head.

Y/n nodded once, her eyes scanning the pitch nervously. “Don’t read into it.”

Ginny smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But Ginny’s gaze flicked to the Gryffindor locker room tunnel with unmistakable meaning. And sure enough, moments later, the red-robed team came bursting onto the pitch in a roar of noise and wind and energy. The crowd erupted, but the world stilled for her.

Fred was there. Helmet under one arm, broom in hand, grinning lazily as if none of this mattered. But she saw it. The way his eyes scanned the crowd, how his steps faltered for half a second when they landed on her. She barely had time to react before the whistle blew.

His gaze was still locked on her when the bludger nearly took his head off.

“Oi!” George barked, dragging Fred down by the sleeve just in time. “Focus!”

Fred blinked, as if waking from a dream, and then, grinned. That was when she knew.

The fear that twisted inside her was different than the one she remembered watching her father fall. This one was sharper, messier, tangled up in affection and anger and wanting to leap out of her skin. She gripped the rail in front of her as the game roared to life.

Slytherin was out for blood. It was instantly brutal. Bludgers aimed not at brooms but heads, shoulder checks that bordered on illegal, and jeering chants from the green-and-silver section. Y/n felt herself flinch every time Fred dipped or swerved too close to a hit.

He was reckless. Of course he was. She hated him for it, and loved him all the same.

“You alright?” Ginny asked, frowning as y/n went still after a particularly hard and fast bludger sent Fred spinning midair.

“I’m fine,” she lied. She felt her stomach lurching as though she were about to be sick.

But she wasn’t. Not when Fred pulled out of the dive gripping his side. Not when his broom sagged slightly, and he drifted off toward the sidelines.

“Madam Hooch’s calling a timeout,” Ginny muttered, already standing. “Something’s wrong.”

Y/n didn’t even think. She was halfway down the stands before anyone could stop her.

By the time she reached the edge of the pitch, Fred was sitting on the ground, one glove off, squinting at Madam Hooch as she shone the glowing tip of her wand over his left rib cage. The look on his face - sharp but edged in pain - scared her more than any curse could.

She shoved past the barricade of people. “Move! Fred!”

His eyes flicked toward her, confused. “You came.”

“Why are you smiling? Are you…? Don’t tell me you’re joking again—”

“I’m not,” he said softly, wincing. “I’m actually a bit knackered.”

She sank beside him, eyes scanning his face. His cheekbone was grazed from the scratch of a broom tail as he’d flown too close. And the way he sat clearly gave away an injury at his side where he’d been struck.

“You absolute idiot,” she whispered.

“I missed you too.”

Despite the worry, the fury, the ache she’d carried for weeks, her heart fluttered stupidly.

Madam Hooch stood and gave him a curt nod. “Nothing appears to be broken. You can finish the game.”

Fred made a move to stand but faltered, and she caught his arm instinctively. “I thought you didn’t like Quidditch,” he said as he leaned closer, eyes locked onto hers.

She hesitated for a beat, heart pounding, before a swell of confidence overcame her. The wind tugged at her hair, and the roar of the crowd faded beneath the rush in her ears.

“I don’t,” she said. “But I like you.”

Then she grabbed the collar of his flying robes and yanked him forward.

He didn’t need more than a second. His lips found hers like they were made for it. Burning and soft and clumsy all at once. She could feel the grin in his kiss, the way his fingers hovered at her waist like he couldn’t believe this was real.

Somewhere above them, Lee Jordan’s voice cracked over the magical megaphone. “AND IT SEEMS…YES, FOLKS, IT SEEMS FRED WEASLEY HAS JUST BEEN KISSED SENSLESS BY WHO MY SOURCES TELL ME IS A RAVENCLAW IN DISGUISE, IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE STADIUM! MERLIN, SOMEONE GET THAT BOY A TROPHY!”

Laughter erupted around them, but Fred only pulled away slightly, forehead resting against hers. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

Her voice trembled. “You’re going to win, right?”

His grin stretched, cocky and wild. “For you? Always.”

And with that, he straddled his broom and shot back into the sky, chasing a Bludger and leaving her breathless on the ground. One hand still clutched her scarf, the taste of wind and honey lingering on her lips.

She turned and walked back to the stands, cheeks flaming, heart racing.

Ginny was already smirking when she sat back down. “I guess you weren’t lying. You’re not into Quidditch, huh? You’re just into my brother.”

“Shut it.” But she didn’t stop smiling. Not once, not even when Fred scored the winning goal and pointed straight at her from the air.

This time, she cheered the loudest.

———————————————————————

The Gryffindor common room was glowing. Literally. Lanterns had been charmed to flicker gold and crimson, casting the whole space in a warm, celebratory hue. Firewhisky (procured through highly suspicious means) sloshed in mugs, music played from a bewitched gramophone in the corner, and someone had strung Gryffindor banners between the beams of the ceiling.

Y/n pushed through the portrait hole, the same Gryffindor scarf she’d stolen from Ginny still knotted loosely around her neck and a nervous energy trailing behind her like steam. The room erupted into cheers the moment someone spotted her.

“There she is! The Ravenclaw with the kiss of the century!” bellowed Seamus, raising his drink in her direction.

“Did you see her grab him? Poor bloke didn’t even have time to prepare!” added Parvati, giggling from her perch on the arm of a squashy chair.

“Who cares about him! Did you see Umbridge’s face? She looked like she’d swallowed a blast-ended skrewt!” Padma exclaimed.

Y/n flushed, her expression flickering between embarrassment and amusement as she murmured greetings and edged through the crowd.

“Looking for someone?” Ginny asked, sidling up beside her with a smirk and an all-too-innocent tone.

“Maybe,” Y/n answered, trying not to smile. Her eyes scanned the crowd, but there was no sign of Fred. “Have you seen him?”

Ginny raised a brow. “I might have,” she said cryptically, before disappearing into the crowd, leaving y/n blinking.

She spotted Neville next, sipping a butterbeer and looking entirely overwhelmed by the crowd.

“Neville,” she said warmly, touching his elbow.

“Oh, hello! Merlin, you were brilliant!” he blurted, then went beet red. “I mean, not in the game, obviously, but with Fred, and the kiss, and all.”

Reader laughed, tension easing slightly. “Thanks, I think.”

She continued through the crowd, waving to Lavender and dodging a butterbeer spill, searching every corner. No Fred. It was only when she spotted George leaning against a wall near the hearth, chatting with Angelina, that she zeroed in. He saw her coming and grinned.

“Looking for a certain ginger?”

“If you’re referring to yourself, no,” she quipped.

George chuckled and casually slipped a folded piece of parchment into her hand, before turning back to Angelina without another word.

Curious, she stepped aside and unfolded the note.

If you’re reading this, you’re looking for me. Which is good, because I’ve been hoping you would. Come find me. Just follow the hall behind the tapestry of the drunk troll (you know the one). I promise it’s worth it.

– F

Intrigued, she tucked the note into her pocket and slipped out of the common room unnoticed, heart drumming faster than she liked to admit.

She ducked behind the tapestry Fred had referenced - one depicting a troll singing off-key with a mug in one hand and a lute in the other - and found the narrow corridor just as he’d promised.

It was like stepping into another world. Candles floated gently along the walls, their golden light flickering against stone. The floor was dusted with soft rose petals and the air smelled faintly of cinnamon. At the far end, standing sheepishly beneath a hovering bouquet of enchanted peonies and a few nervously blinking fairy lights, was Fred Weasley.

Y/n stopped in her tracks, lips parting in disbelief. “What is all this?”

Fred rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks tinged with red. “So…I might’ve gone slightly overboard. But in my defense, you did kiss me in front of the entire Quidditch stadium, and I figured I should try to live up to that.”

She folded her arms, the corners of her mouth twitching. “This isn’t exactly your usual style, Weasley.”

“Well,” he said, stepping forward, “neither is falling for a Ravenclaw who once told me Quidditch was the root of all evil and that I had the attention span of a flobberworm.”

She laughed. “I stand by both those statements.”

“Fair,” he grinned. “I guess you did win the bet. I couldn’t make you like quidditch. Merlin, you still flinch when someone so much as nudges a bludger.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but he held up a hand.

“But you came to every practice. You brought ideas. You even wore that scarf.” He pointed to the Gryffindor colors still around her neck, the edge of it frayed from overuse. “So if you didn’t do it all for quidditch, then that means you did it all for me.”

“I…” she began, but he stepped closer.

“And I know what you’re going to say. That maybe I’m a bit too much like your dad. That Quidditch is dangerous and selfish and a bit idiotic, and honestly? You’re right again. But you also can’t live your life afraid of the what ifs.”

She went still.

He took a breath. “So if you’ll have me, I’ll promise to always be careful. I’ll promise to never pretend I’m injured again, because, bloody hell, I was a right idiot for that. And - this is the most important part - I’ll never ask you to love Quidditch. Not ever again.”

She smiled slowly, heart aching in that soft, terrifying way that meant it was real.

He hesitated. “So…what do you think? Are you willing to give us a shot?”

“I think,” she said, stepping into him until the flickering candlelight danced across both their faces, “that you talk far too much.”

Then she kissed him again, gently this time, like the first breath after a long dive underwater.

Fred made a soft sound of relief and kissed her back, one hand moving instinctively to her waist, the other brushing her cheek with surprising reverence.

When they pulled apart, his eyes were alight. “That means yes?”

“That means yes,” she confirmed. And nothing - not even quidditch - had ever made Fred Weasley’s smile shine brighter.

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

Still Boldly Writing