Ink and Quiet Things
Fred Weasley x Shy!Hufflepuff!Reader (soulmate au)
cw: fluff, not really anything but a little suggestive, a disgusting amount of use of y/n, this is my first post so pls be nice 😭 open to any criticism (like please im dying)
Word Count: 7.1k
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Grimmauld Place wasn’t the cold, cursed house it once was. Not anymore.
With the war that never happened, with Regulus alive and the Potters untouched by Voldemort’s wrath, the Black family home had become something else entirely. It was still dark in places, still held echoes of the old ways, but now there were charmed lights, mismatched furniture, and constant noise. There were loud dinners and louder debates. Music drifting down halls, laughter echoing off portrait covered walls, and Sirius (very much alive) arguing with James over whether or not the chandelier was meant to swing like that.
It was home, in a way y/n had never really known.
She was a Hufflepuff, soft-spoken and polite, far too used to fading into the background of louder Gryffindor personalities. But somehow, she’d been pulled into the gravitational orbit of Harry, Ron, and Hermione early in first year, and now, years later, she was here, spending her holidays surrounded by magic, noise, and people who were far too bright for someone so…quiet.
And yet, they kept inviting her back.
Every Christmas, every Easter, every summer she was welcome. The Potters treated her like one of their own. Molly Weasley fussed over her hair and fed her second helpings before she could politely decline. Remus always had a book recommendation just for her, and Regulus, not nearly as terrifying as she’d once thought, would quietly set a cup of tea down beside her without saying a word.
It was perfect, almost.
Except for the mark. And for Fred Weasley.
She’d known for a while. The soft swirl of ink on her skin, a curling feather paired with an ember, intricate and strange and impossibly him. Soulmarks appeared in adolescence, and hers had been there since fourth year, hidden beneath long sleeves and jumpers. It was delicate. Beautiful. And unmistakably Fred's, once she’d seen his in passing during summer at the Burrow.
His mark matched hers exactly. His just happened to be inked proudly on the inside of his forearm, often visible as he pushed up his sleeves to cook, or tinker, or just walk around like it didn’t matter that his soulmate was clearly nowhere in sight. Except she was right there.
Sitting across from him at breakfast. Laughing quietly at his jokes. Helping Hermione clean out the attic while he and George planned pranks two rooms away. She was right there—heart thudding every time he brushed past her, never looking close enough to see.
Because how could he?
Fred was sunlight and fire. Charismatic and funny, brilliant in a way that burned. She… was not. She was Ron’s friend, quiet and kind and perpetually wrapped in oversized jumpers. Her sleeves always long enough to hide the mark. Always careful, always cautious.
She couldn’t tell him. Not when he deserved someone who matched his energy, someone bold and quick and magical in a way that sparkled, not lingered in corners. And not when Ron might very well lose his mind. The idea of dating anyone was already enough to get him fussy. But his best friend with his brother? No, thank you. So she kept it quiet. She watched Fred laugh with George and throw his head back around the fire. She helped Ginny repaint her room and stayed up late reading with Harry. She smiled and listened and never let her sleeves slip.
And Fred? Fred didn’t seem to notice.
He spoke to her kindly, joked like he did with everyone, but never once looked at her the way soulmates were supposed to look. He was waiting for someone else. Someone loud. Someone obvious. Someone not her.
So she stayed hidden. Quiet. Long sleeves in summer. Careful, careful always.
But magic has a way of dragging the truth out.
And houses, especially ones as alive as Grimmauld Place, never stay quiet for long.
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The first time it happened, it was barely anything.
Y/n was reaching past Fred to grab a spoon from the kitchen drawer, murmuring a soft “sorry” as she brushed by. But her fingers, just the tips, skated over the bare skin of his forearm where his sleeves were rolled up.
Her breath caught.
The world tilted, just slightly.
It felt like static, like lightning dressed up as a whisper, quick and electric and too much all at once. Her mark flared under her jumper, not in pain, but in awareness. She yanked her hand back like she’d been burned and mumbled an apology.
Fred, for his part, blinked. It had registered. Not fully, not consciously maybe, but something in him had noticed. He glanced down at his arm, then back at her, confused.
“Huh,” he whispered, more to himself than her.
But she was already halfway out of the kitchen, hands shaking, fingers curled to her chest like she could press the feeling back in. She didn’t look back.
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The second time, it was worse.
Fred and George were helping Sirius repair a shelf in the sitting room, and y/n, curled in her usual armchair, offered to help pass tools from the box. Sirius had wandered off to yell at James about the missing nails, so it was just her and the twins. She handed Fred the small hammer, their fingers brushing again. That time, it was deliberate. Not on purpose but not a mistake either. Her fingers grazed his knuckles, and something tugged in her chest so hard it made her dizzy. Her heart tried to climb up her throat. Fred froze.
Just for a second. Barely enough for George to notice, but enough that y/n did. His fingers tightened around the handle like it grounded him. Then his eyes flicked up to her, just a beat too long.
“Thanks,” he said. A little quieter than usual.
She gave a small, strangled nod and buried herself in her book, eyes fixed on the same line for ten minutes without reading a single word.
Fred tried to shake it off. He did shake it off. He always had random moments of weirdness, too much static from George’s spellwork, or a quirk from living in a magical house full of twenty people. But…
That night, lying awake in the room he shared with George, Fred found his thoughts wandering. Back to her. Back to the way her fingers had touched his. How her voice went a bit breathless when she was nervous. How she always wore long sleeves, even when it was boiling. He didn’t know why he noticed those things. Or why it suddenly mattered.
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The third time it happened, neither of them could write it off.
She was helping Molly in the garden, potting herbs in little clay jars for the kitchen. Fred came out to drop off lunch, arms full of sandwiches and his usual grin slanted across his face. He sat beside her in the grass without being asked. They talked, about nothing, about gnomes, about Regulus’s weird attachment to one of the garden cats. It was easy, which was always the most dangerous kind of moment. Fred passed her a cup of lemonade, fingers brushing hers again and this time?
It jolted.
Like something cracked open between them. Their marks pulsed; hers beneath cloth, his in open air.
She gasped. He flinched.
The cup slipped, lemonade spilling over her skirt. But neither of them moved right away staying frozen in place, eyes locked.
“What was—” he started, then stopped.
She stood too fast, mumbling, stammering, heart beating so loud she could barely breathe.
“I—I should—go inside,” she whispered, not looking at him.
Fred didn’t stop her. Couldn’t. He sat in the grass, lemonade dripping from his fingers, staring after her with the mark on his arm tingling.
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Later, he’d sit in his room, legs folded, staring at the design he’d always worn like decoration.
The feather and ember. Curling inwards.
Familiar in a way that now made him uneasy.
Because he’d felt something. Three times now.
And maybe, just maybe, he was starting to realize it wasn’t just random sparks.
It was her.
It had to be.
Her quiet hands, soft eyes, and the way she always wore long sleeves in the middle of August.
Fred Weasley had never been more confused in his life.
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George wasn’t a mind-reader. He just had a twin.
Which meant that he didn’t need to hear Fred’s thoughts to know something was up. All he had to do was watch. And lately, Fred had been looking.
At her.
At y/n.
Not that she noticed. She was the kind of person who made herself small without meaning to, always tucking herself into corners like she didn’t belong in the noise. But George had noticed. Had alwaysnoticed. Because Fred noticed. And now it was getting… suspicious.
It had started with the garden. George heard about it from Ginny, who’d seen Reader nearly bolt inside “like her skirt was on fire.” Fred had come in ten minutes later, weirdly quiet, and gone straight upstairs. Alone. No commentary. No dramatic reenactment. Just gone.
That wasn’t normal.
And then there was the way Fred had been rubbing his forearm lately. Not in pain. More like restlessness. That same forearm with the soulmate mark.
George wasn’t the sentimental sort. He and his own soulmate, Angelina, had figured it out fast and easy. No dramatics. No poetry. Just a “hey, you’ve got the same weird lightning bolt-and-laughing mask combo as me, want to make this official?” and a kiss behind Zonko’s.
But Fred? Fred had always been the one who’d imagined something… more. He’d always joked about a “big, cinematic reveal.” He wanted the drama. The passion. Fireworks.
Instead, he got a Hufflepuff girl who tripped over her own feet when he looked at her for too long.
George, naturally, found this hilarious.
And also, a little bit endearing.
So he decided to help. Subtly.
Which, for a Weasley twin, meant just enough chaos to get things moving.
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It started with lunch. Everyone was crowded into the dining room at Grimmauld Place, half the house seated elbow-to-elbow, passing plates and shouting over one another. Y/n was nestled between Ginny and Hermione, picking at her salad, while Fred sat across the table talking to Harry, but watching her.
George leaned in. “You’ve been acting weird,” he muttered under his breath.
Fred blinked. “What?”
“You’ve got that look,” George said, stabbing his fork into his food without looking. “Like you’ve seen a ghost. Or fallen into a hopeless, soulmate-level crush.”
Fred choked on his water.
George slapped him on the back. “There it is.”
“I have not—” Fred hissed, glancing around, but no one was paying attention.
George raised an eyebrow. “Then why do you keep staring at y/n like she’s got a secret you’re trying to read off her face?”
Fred went quiet.
And that was enough for George.
He smirked.
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The next morning, George took it up a notch.
“Hey, y/n” he said casually, popping into the sitting room where she was curled up with a book. “You ever get those random soulmate mark flares? Like, warm spells or zaps or whatever?”
She stiffened. Just slightly. But he caught it.
“Um…” she said softly. “Sometimes, I guess. Not lately.”
Lie.
He grinned like it was nothing. “Weird. Fred’s been saying his has been going bonkers lately.”
That was also a lie. Fred hadn’t said a word. But she didn’t need to know that.
She bit her lip.
George walked off like he hadn’t just dropped a match into a bucket of gasoline.
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Later that night, Fred cornered him. “You’re messing with me.”
George looked deeply unbothered. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Fred crossed his arms. “Telling y/n about my mark flaring up?”
“Is it not?” George blinked innocently. “I figured it was. You’ve been rubbing at it like it’s got fleas.”
Fred’s hand dropped from his arm like he’d been caught red-handed.
“I’m just—” Fred faltered. “I think I might know who—”
George leaned in, smug. “Do tell.”
Fred shook his head. “It’s stupid. She’s—she wouldn’t… I mean, she’s Ron’s friend. She’s shy. She never even looks at me.”
George’s face softened. “Yeah, and you’re not exactly subtle either. She looks at you when you’re not looking. All the time.”
Fred stared at him.
George just clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t overthink it. Just—pay attention. Maybe the drama you’re waiting for is already happening. Quietly.”
Fred didn’t say anything. But that night, when he saw y/n helping Lily with tea, her sleeves pulled to her wrists again in the middle of summer, he looked a little closer. And the next time their hands brushed, he didn’t pull away quite so fast.
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The house had gone unusually quiet. It was late, later than it should’ve been. The kind of late where the halls of Grimmauld Place creaked softly under their own weight and the enchanted lanterns had dimmed to a golden haze. Everyone else was asleep or pretending to be, tucked into mismatched rooms and beds far too small for the growing number of people they now housed.
Fred wasn’t tired. Not really.
He was restless, mind buzzing with a quiet, nagging hum he couldn’t shake. He wandered toward the sitting room, where the fireplace still crackled low, and nearly turned back when he saw someone already there.
It was her.
She was curled into the armchair closest to the hearth, blanket draped across her lap, a half-read book cradled against her chest. Her head tilted toward the firelight, and for a second, just one brief aching second, Fred forgot how to move.
She looked like something out of a memory he hadn’t made yet. Peaceful. Soft. Warm. She didn’t hear him at first. And maybe he should’ve left. Should’ve turned and given her the quiet she clearly came looking for. But then she shifted, reaching down to adjust the blanket. And her sleeve slipped.
Just for a moment.
Just far enough.
Fred’s breath caught. He didn’t mean to stare, he didn’t mean to, but he did.
There, just above her wrist, half hidden in the shadows and the folds of soft knit fabric, was the familiar curve of a feather. Dark ink curling up her forearm. The exact lines he’d traced a hundred times with his eyes, maybe more.
His own mark.
His soulmate’s mark.
On her.
She didn’t see him. She didn’t know. And Fred didn’t say a word. He stepped back, quietly, breath barely held between his teeth as he turned and walked away, heart slamming so hard against his ribs it made his palms sweat.
He didn’t sleep that night.
The next morning, nothing had changed.
Not on the surface. Y/n sat beside Hermione at breakfast, soft-spoken and sweet, sleeves tugged back down like usual. Fred wandered in late, hair mussed, eyes shadowed from too little rest. George gave him a look. Fred ignored it. He didn’t speak to her. Not directly. Not yet.
But he watched.
He saw her.
The way she laughed softly at Harry’s joke. The way her fingers danced nervously around her mug. The way she chewed the inside of her cheek when Ron brought up the Yule Ball from two years ago. And he wondered: how long had she known? Because she’d known. She had to. No one hid a soulmate mark that well on accident. Fred’s hand drifted down to his own arm, fingers brushing the mark he’d never bothered to hide. He thought about the garden. The lemonade. Her silence. She’d known. And she hadn’t told him. And for once, Fred didn’t have a joke ready. No quip. No grin.
Just a quiet question that gnawed at the edge of his ribs:
Why not?
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Grimmauld Place was asleep. The kind of deep, velvet silence that only came in the earliest hours, long after the laughter faded and the house finally stopped creaking under the weight of too many footsteps and too many secrets.
Y/n stood barefoot in the cold kitchen, fingers wrapped around a glass of water, watching moonlight spill through the tall, grimy window above the sink. She wore only a soft tank top and sleep shorts, loose and plain. Something she never would’ve worn in the daytime, not in this house. Not when she spent every waking moment covering the one part of herself she couldn’t let anyone see. But it was late. Everyone was asleep. Or so she thought.
The cold tile cooled her toes as she took a small sip, her mind foggy from sleep and the residual tug of dreams she couldn’t quite remember. She set the glass down and turned
toward the hallway when—
“Didn’t mean to scare you.”
She jumped. Actually jumped, heart lurching into her throat.
Fred Weasley stood in the doorway, shirtless, pajama pants hanging low on his hips, hair a riot of copper and curls. He blinked at her, one hand dragging across his face. Sleepy.
Surprised.
Too awake.
“I—sorry,” she stammered, taking a quick step back, her right arm instantly crossing over her left, covering the exposed mark on her upper forearm.
Fred’s eyes dropped, just for a second. And that was all it took.
The curve of the feather. The ember trailing into soft spirals. Her soulmate mark. His soulmate mark.
Exposed for half a heartbeat before she shielded it with trembling fingers.
He knew.
He knew.
But she didn’t know he knew.
He looked up again just as she spoke, fast and brittle.
“Didn’t think anyone else would be awake.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Fred said casually, voice rough with the kind of tired that doesn’t come from a lack of rest.
She nodded, backing away with practiced grace, arm still clutched tightly against her side. “Well—goodnight.”
“Night,” he echoed softly.
She left quickly, bare feet nearly silent on the wooden floors. He waited until he couldn’t hear her anymore before sinking down onto one of the kitchen stools, elbows on the counter, head in his hands.
She was his soulmate.
He'd been almost sure after that night by the fire. He’d been hopeful after George started poking around. After the strange spark between them. The softness. The hesitation.
But now…
He’d seen it.
No mistaking it. No room for doubt.
She had known.
And she was still hiding.
Fred exhaled slowly, staring down at his own forearm; the same mark, bold and bare, exposed for years. She must’ve thought he didn’t want her. Did she really believe that?That she wasn’t what he wanted?
He stood slowly, the kitchen too quiet, the glass still sitting where she’d left it. Fred didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. He just sat awake, mind turning, heart aching, not angry. Just full. Too full.
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He didn’t say anything. Not about the mark. Not about that night.
But everything changed.
Not suddenly, not in a way most people would notice. But she noticed. Of course she did. Y/n had spent her entire life listening for the quiet things.
And Fred was loud, normally. Wild, quick-tongued, sharp and sun-bright.
But now, when it came to her?
He was quiet.
Intentional.
Soft.
He started sitting closer. Not in a crowded kind of way, not too close, just enough. Just near enough that she noticed the warmth of him before she even saw him. He’d fold himself into the couch beside her while she read. He’d sit at the table early if she was already there. No grand entrances. No loud jokes. Just.. presence.
And his mark, his soulmate mark, was always in sight.
Not aggressively. Not on display. But visible. Sleeves rolled up. Arm on the back of the chair. Subtle things.
And he’d glance at her sometimes, not at her face, but at the fabric she wore. The way her sleeves were always pulled long. Like he was waiting. Wondering.
She noticed. She noticed all of it.
It terrified her.
Because something was changing, but she didn’t know what.
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One afternoon, when the rest of the house was loud with Ginny and Ron arguing over a chess match, Reader sat alone in the sunroom, curled in her favorite corner chair with a book she’d been trying to read for over an hour. She didn’t hear him come in. But suddenly he was there. Holding a mug of tea. Her tea. The exact way she took it. No one else ever remembered.
He handed it to her wordlessly, then sat on the floor beside the chair, close enough for his knee to rest near her ankle, but not quite touching.
“Thanks,” she said softly.
He didn’t look up. “You always read when things get loud.”
Her heart flipped. “It helps me think.”
“Yeah?” He rested his head back against the edge of her chair, voice low. “I think I’d rather listen to you than them.”
She nearly dropped the mug. He didn’t press. Just closed his eyes and let the silence settle around them, warm and fragile. And she wondered, was this how he was with everyone? But she knew the answer.
It kept happening. Small, impossible things.
Fred started remembering details about her, little ones no one else had ever bothered to ask.
The kind of books she liked. The way she hated cold butter on toast. The exact spell she struggled with during sixth year. And then one morning, in the kitchen, he reached across her to grab a jar, his fingers brushing the fabric at her wrist.
“Sorry,” he said, too gently. Like he didn’t mean just for the touch.
She flinched anyway. And Fred, his smile didn’t fade. But it shifted. Softer. Sadder. Like he understood. Like he didn’t want her afraid.
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That night, she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her arm cradled to her chest. He was acting like someone who wanted her. Not just liked her. Not just thought she was funny or nice.
Wanted her. Desperately. Quietly. Like he didn’t know how to say it.
And she didn’t understand why.
She’d always thought she wasn’t his type. But then why was Fred Weasley, flirt, prankster, golden boy, bringing her tea and memorizing how she liked her jam and sitting on the floor just to be near her? Unless…
No.
He couldn’t know.
Could he?
Down the hall, Fred sat at the edge of his bed, arm resting on his knee, thumb tracing over the familiar lines of his mark.He had no idea what he was doing. No plan. No script. Just one stubborn, overwhelming truth:
He wanted her.
Exactly as she was.
Quiet, and scared, and soft.
And he would wait.
As long as it took.
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It was nearly two in the morning. The house had fallen into that thick, uncanny quiet again, too still for a place always brimming with life.
Y/n hadn’t meant to be up this late, but she’d left her sketchbook in the old study off the second floor and she couldn't sleep without it.
Barefoot, hoodie tugged low over her sleep shorts, she padded through the corridor, heart calm, unaware she wasn’t alone. Not until she turned the corner. And crashed directly into Fred Weasley.
She gasped as she hit him, stumbling back, only for his arms to catch her, steady her, pull her in.
It was instinct, fast and clumsy, not meant to be more than a reflex, but it was more. Because she ended up backed against the wall. And Fred? Fred didn’t step away. Neither of them moved. Not for one long, crackling second.
He was so close. She could feel the heat of his chest against hers, the brush of his breath where it hit the shell of her ear. One of his hands was braced beside her head, the other—lower, hovering near her waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch. She looked up at him, wide-eyed. He looked down at her like she was something precious he wasn’t sure he deserved.
And then—
He did touch her.
Slowly.
Carefully.
His hands, warm and calloused, slid under the hem of her jumper. Not far. Just enough to find her bare waist. He exhaled sharply through his nose, like he hadn’t expected to feel so much from something so simple.
She trembled.
His thumbs moved in slow, careful circles. Up and down. Feather-light. Barely there. But there. Anchoring. Worshipful.
“Sorry,” he whispered, but he didn’t pull away. “I just…”
He never finished the sentence.
Because her breath hitched. Her hands curled into the front of his shirt like she didn’t know what to do with herself. And then, just like that, she unraveled.
She ducked under his arm, half-stumbled, and all but ran down the hall. Fred didn’t follow. He pressed his back to the wall, dragging a hand down his face, his skin still buzzing where he’d touched her. His fingers still remembering the curve of her waist. The soft warmth of her. The way she’d melted into his hands before she ran. He didn’t know if he should be kicking himself or chasing after her.
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She didn’t sleep.
She lay in bed, blanket up to her chin, every inch of her skin still singing. Not just from his hands. From how he’d touched her. Gentle. Slow. Like he wanted her. Like he knew what she was.
She pressed her palms to her burning cheeks and wanted to scream into her pillow. He hadn’t said anything. But he hadn’t needed to. And now she didn’t know how to look at him again.
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He didn’t sleep either.
Because now? Now he knew she felt it too. That this wasn’t in his head. That even if she ran, even if she hid her mark under long sleeves and tried to pretend, She wanted him too.
And Fred Weasley had never in his life wanted anything more.
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She’d been avoiding him.
Not overtly, y/n was too subtle for that. But Fred wasn’t oblivious. Not anymore. Not to her. She moved differently around him now, like he was heat she couldn’t bear to stand too close to for long. Always out of the room just before he entered, always keeping her eyes fixed anywhere but on his face.
He gave her space. At first.
But he was starting to burn from the inside out.
And then, one evening, it just happened.
The house was noisy with after-dinner chatter, Harry and Ron yelling over wizard chess in the lounge, Ginny and Hermione helping Lily in the kitchen, James loudly threatening to sing. Fred slipped away to the hallway, needing air. And that’s when he saw her.
She stood by the old bookshelf near the stairs, arms folded, face turned toward the high, half-cracked window. Moonlight caught the side of her face. She looked calm, but her fingers were fidgeting, like she was trying to undo the nerves curled up inside her chest.
He didn’t think.
He moved.
“Hi.”
She jumped—again—and looked over, startled. “Oh. Hi.”
Fred smiled, soft, nervous. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. You okay?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Just needed a minute.”
“Me too.”
He leaned beside her, close but not touching. Silence stretched between them, not awkward, but full. Of questions. Of things unsaid.
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye “You’ve been… quiet.”
She let out a breath. “I’m always quiet.”
Fred turned his head, really looking at her now. “No, I mean… quieter. Around me.”
That landed. She froze, just for a second. “I don’t mean to be.”
“You don’t have to be afraid of me, you know.”
She flinched like it was a touch.
“I’m not—afraid of you.”
“Then what are you afraid of?” That cracked it open. Just a little.
Her throat bobbed, her eyes darted away, and her voice came out barely above a whisper. “Of wanting something I can’t have.”
And that almost broke him.
Because Merlin, if she only knew.
Fred took a breath, sharp, quiet, unsteady. His heart was pounding, his hands twitching with the need to reach out, to touch her again, to press his mouth to her jaw and tell her everything.
She was right there. Inches away.
He turned, stepped closer.
She looked up.
And it was all there. In her eyes. Her breath. The way her lips parted like she was waiting for something, anything.
Fred leaned in.
His hand lifted, hovered near her face, near her hair, her neck.
So close.
He opened his mouth.
“I…”
Her eyes widened.
His voice caught.
And then—
He didn’t say it.
Didn’t say I know. Didn’t say I saw. Didn’t say I want you too.
Instead, he exhaled. A quiet, rough thing. And let his hand fall to his side.
“Goodnight,” he whispered.
He stepped away. Left her standing there, staring after him like he’d stolen the air from the room.
And down the hall, out of sight, Fred ran a hand through his hair and whispered to himself: “Coward.”
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Fred was brooding. Again.
He stood in the backyard, leaned against the garden wall, chewing absently on a blade of grass like it might stop him from thinking about her.
It didn’t.
Of course it didn’t.
George found him like that. Arms crossed. Mark visible. Soulmate-level angst radiating off him in waves.
“You’re being pathetic,” George announced.
Fred sighed. “Hello to you, too.”
“No, seriously,” George said, throwing an arm around his twin’s shoulder. “You’re acting like you’ve been love-cursed. You’ve seen her mark. You know she’s yours. She wants you. And you’re still walking around here like you’re waiting for the Sorting Hat to give you permission.”
Fred groaned. “It’s not that simple—”
George spun to face him. “IT IS EXACTLY THAT SIMPLE.” Fred blinked. George threw up his hands.
“You know what she’s like, mate. She’s shy. She’s scared. And she’s convinced you’re not into her. You waiting for her to get a telescope and decode your emotional signals from space?”
Fred scowled. “I’m trying not to scare her off. You didn’t see the way she ran after I touched her.”
George put a hand to his heart. “Okay. Fine. Yes. You’re soft and sweet and respectful. We all love that about you. But if you don’t kiss her soon, I will lose my mind.”
Fred laughed despite himself.
“And!” George added, “I have a plan.”
Fred narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like that look.”
“You will,” George grinned. “You’re going to take her to the lake.”
Fred blinked. “What lake?”
“The lake, Fred. The one five minutes from here, the one that glows at night from the enchanted algae, the one that’s literally built for soulmate confessions and forehead touching and tragic stargazing. That lake.”
Fred hesitated. George leaned in, lower and dead serious. “Just you and her. No interruptions. You tell her you want to show her something. You walk her down there. You sit next to her. You take her hand. And then—you tell her.”
Fred swallowed. “And if she runs again?” he asked, quiet.
George shrugged. “Then at least she’ll be running away knowing she’s wanted. And that’s already more than what she thinks now.”
That shut Fred up.
Because George was right.
She didn’t know.
She couldn’t possibly know, not really.
And he’d waited long enough.
ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
That evening, just as the sun dipped behind the trees, Fred found her on the back steps, hugging a blanket to her chest, watching the sky fade into twilight.
“Hey,” he said softly.
She looked up.
“Want to take a walk?”
Her brows pulled together. “Where?”
“I want to show you something.”
She hesitated. But then she nodded. And Fred offered his hand. She took it.
ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
The lake shimmered like spilled stardust.
Soft blue light bloomed beneath its glassy surface, illuminating the mossy edges and casting a pale glow over the quiet trees that stood like silent sentinels around them. The night air was warm, the kind of summer air that held you gently and smelled like grass and faint wildflowers.
Fred tugged off his shirt with a lazy smirk, the light catching along the lines of his back as he dropped it onto the grass. Y/n sat at the edge of the dock, bare feet swaying in the water, ankles glowing softly from the magic below.
She tried not to look at him.
And failed.
He stretched, slow and unbothered, then glanced at her over his shoulder with a teasing grin. “You coming in?”
She sputtered. “W-what?”
He stepped toward the water, now only in his swim shorts. “You heard me. It’s perfect. You’re wasting it.”
She shook her head, clutching her knees to her chest. “Nope. I’m good here. On land. Where there’s… gravity?”
Fred grinned wider and slipped into the water with barely a splash.
She watched him, face warm. Too warm. Her stomach buzzed like she’d swallowed a snitch.
He swam a few strokes, then turned and began drifting toward her again, slow and smooth like some sea creature sent to ruin her life. And ruin her life he did.
Because he reached the edge of the dock, hands sliding gently onto her thighs, wet and warm and intentional, and pulled himself closer between her knees, water dripping down his chest, his face suddenly very close to hers. Her breath vanished.
His hands moved up, grazing her bare skin beneath her sleep shorts, then settled on her hips, fingers curling around the soft waistband. He tilted his head, smirk lazy but his eyes, his eyes, hungry.
“Still not tempted?” he murmured, voice low and soaked in amusement.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
“I—I’m not really… swim-prepared.”
“Neither am I,” he grinned. “But here I am. No excuses.”
“I—this isn’t fair,” she whispered.
“What’s not?”
“You.” Her voice cracked. “You being this close and—touching me and—looking at me like that.”
Fred leaned in closer, lips just a breath from hers. “Like what?”
She couldn’t answer.
Couldn’t think.
Her hands gripped the dock beside her, knuckles white. His fingers squeezed her hips just slightly, like he was grounding her, keeping her from floating away.
They sat in that charged silence, barely breathing, until Fred whispered, “Can I kiss you?”
She nodded before she even realized it.
And then his mouth was on hers.
Soft. Gentle. But hungry, too. Like he’d been starving and she was the first taste of something real. Her entire body went stiff, shocked, and then melted, mouth opening under his, hands rising shakily to his shoulders.
Fred kissed her like he already knew every inch of her, slow, reverent, deep. One hand slipped under the hem of her oversized sleep top, dragging up the damp fabric to feel more of her skin, and her breath caught.
She hesitated.
Pulled back, just slightly.
Fred paused, eyes heavy-lidded and lips parted. “Please, baby,” he whispered, voice so soft it didn’t even echo.
And that was it.
She gave in.
Let him pull the shirt up, let him kiss her again as her hands found their way into his dripping hair. Everything else vanished; the dock, the trees, the whole damn world, except him. Fred's hand found her wrist. The one she always kept covered. She didn't even realize.
Not until he pulled away and brought it to his mouth and pressed a kiss directly to her mark.
Her soulmark.
His soulmate’s mark.
Her breath stopped.
The world crashed back in.
She froze, stiff as stone.
Fred felt it immediately. Pulled back, confused.
“Hey. What’s wrong?”
But she was already scrambling, grabbing her shirt, slipping it back over her head like armor.
“I—I have to go.”
“Wait—”
“I’m sorry—I just—” she stood, wild-eyed, barefoot, heart racing.
Fred stood in the water, blinking, arms half-outstretched, the blue light painting him in soft silver. “Please, love—”
But she was already moving.
Already gone.
Running.
Again.
ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
Once again she didn’t sleep.
She couldn’t.
Her skin still buzzed with the ghost of his hands,on her waist, her thighs, her wrist. His mouth on her mark. His voice in her ear.
“Please, baby.”
She clutched her knees to her chest in the corner of the bed, oversized hoodie drowning her frame, heart racing so hard it felt like something might snap inside her.
She’d ruined it.
Whatever gentle, burning thing existed between her and Fred, she’d burned it down. She should’ve stopped it. She should’ve said no. She should’ve never let it happen.
But when he kissed her like that, when he touched her like she was something precious, how could she not fall apart?
And then he saw the mark. Kissed the mark. And he hadn’t said anything, but she knew. Knew the second it happened that he knew. Now what?
Avoidance. That was the only plan. The only survival method she had left.
So the next morning, she didn’t come down for breakfast. She skipped lunch. Pretended to nap. Hid in the upstairs library until nearly everyone had gone to bed. But George Weasley was waiting.
He cornered her just outside the second floor bathroom, arms crossed, leaning against the wall like he’d been lying in wait all day.
She froze.
He raised a brow. “You planning to hide for the rest of your natural life, or just until Fred starts crying into his pillow?”
Her stomach dropped. “George—please don’t—“
“Nope.” He stood, arms flinging wide. “Absolutely not. I let you both have your tension. I let you pretend like the longing stares were just 'coincidences'. I even let Fred spiral in peace for, like, months. But this?” He pointed at her hoodie. “This is mark-covering shame mode. And I’ve had enough.”
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said too quickly, backing up a step.
George just stared at her like she was the slowest puzzle he’d ever solved.
“I know what happened,” he said, voice gentler now. “Fred told me. He’s been losing his mind.”
Her heart stopped. “He—he told you?”
“Not everything. Just that something happened. That he messed up. That he thinks he pushed you too far.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it.
George softened, stepping closer. “Look, I get it. You’re scared. You think he only wants you because of the mark. You think maybe if he’d found out differently—less… naked—he’d have changed his mind.”
Tears stung the back of her eyes. She looked away.
“But here’s the thing.” George ducked his head to catch her eye again. “Fred was in love with youbefore he ever saw the mark. Before you kissed. Before the lake. Before anything.”
She sucked in a breath.
“I know my brother,” he continued, voice low, steady. “He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t look at someone like he’s been struck by lightning unless it’s real.”
Her throat burned. “But what if it’s not enough? What if—what if he regrets it? What if I’m not who he wanted me to be?”
George reached out, placed his hands on her shoulders gently.
“You are exactly who he wanted. You’ve always been.”
She blinked fast, tears catching in her lashes.
“Fred is absolutely wrecked over you right
now,” George said. “He thinks he scared you away. He thinks you regret it. He thinks he’s lost his chance.”
“I don’t regret it,” she whispered, voice cracking.
“Then tell him.” George squeezed her shoulders, smiling slightly. “Tell him before he sets something on fire in your honor. He’s very dramatic when heartbroken.”
She let out a shaky laugh.
“Just… talk to him,” George said softly. “Let him show you how much he wants you. Because he does. Mark or no mark. All of you.”
She nodded, finally. Barely.
ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
The hallway outside Fred’s room was dim, the shadows long and flickering with the soft glow of the sconces. The house had finally gone quiet again, filled with the hush of night.
She stood at his door for a full minute before she could bring herself to raise her hand.
She didn’t knock.
She just opened it.
Fred looked up from where he sat at the edge of his bed, hair messy from running his hands through it, shirt rucked up slightly where he’d been tugging at the hem in frustration. He froze when he saw her.
Eyes wide. Lips parting.
He stood slowly.
“Hey,” he said, voice rough. “I—”
But she didn’t let him finish.
Didn’t say anything.
She crossed the space in two heart-thudding steps, grabbed the front of his shirt in trembling hands, and kissed him like her life depended on it.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful.
It was everything she’d been holding in for months. All the terror. All the longing. All the slow-burning want that had curled in her belly since the first time he touched her and she felt it.
Her mark burned under her sleeve, but she didn’t care.
Fred made a choked sound against her mouth, surprised, but then he was kissing her back with equal desperation. Hands on her waist, her hips, gripping like he wasn’t sure she was real.
He backed her toward the bed without ever breaking the kiss, swallowing her gasp as he gently eased her down with him, her legs falling to either side of his hips as he hovered over her, still drinking her in like she was made of light and he was starved. She was trembling. He broke away just long enough to breathe, his forehead pressed to hers.
“You came,” he whispered, like he couldn’t believe it.
She nodded against him, still too breathless to speak.
Fred’s hand came up, brushing the hair from her face, thumb resting on her jaw.
“I was so worried I’d scared you away.”
“You didn’t,” she breathed. “I—I just—“
He kissed her again before she could spiral. Slower this time. Reverent. Like she was something sacred and he’d never get tired of worshipping her.
When his hands drifted beneath her jumper again, she didn’t stop him. She let him pull it over her head, slow, careful, and this time, her soulmate mark was fully exposed in the dim light. Her skin burned under his gaze, but she didn’t flinch.
Fred stilled.
She could barely look at him.
But when she finally dared to lift her eyes to his, she found something there that broke her.
Wonder. Awe. And something so devastatingly tender it made her chest ache.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.
Instead, he reached for her wrist, just like before.
Pressed his lips to the mark again.
This time, she didn’t run.
