To make it easier for you guys new here, Iâm making this with all the links to find whatever it is that youâre looking for in my blog!
Quick info about me: my nameâs Jamile, Iâm 22 (if you wanna know, my birthdayâs July, 22nd), Iâm Brazilian and I love writing, although sometimes I delay delivering.
Hi everyone. I was baptized Catholic, but I spent almost ten years away from the Church. Recently (8 months give or take), I decided to come back, and honestly, I still feel like a child learning everything for the first time. Iâm trying to pray again, trying to understand things again, trying to reconnect with God after such a long silence.
A few days ago, I started the novena to Our Lady Undoer of Knots, and weâre currently on Day 6. I began it with hope, but this entire week has felt unbearably heavy. My motorbike broke down, I missed important appointments, everything became stressful and exhausting, and emotionally I feel completely drained. Itâs been one thing after another, to the point where I started wondering if all of this means something.
Iâve heard people say that when someone starts returning to God after years away, things can suddenly become difficult â almost like your faith is being tested. And I donât know what to think. Is this spiritual warfare trying to pull me away before I fully return? Is God testing my trust in Him? Or is this simply life happening at the same time that Iâm trying to reconnect with my faith?
Part of me even wonders if this is connected to the novena itself â if maybe Our Lady is truly âundoing knotsâ in my life, even if the process feels confusing and painful right now.
I genuinely donât know the answer. I think thatâs why Iâm writing this. Iâm trying to find faith again, but Iâm also trying to find community. I want to learn, ask questions, and hear from people who may have gone through something similar.
Okay, so we need to talk about The Testaments because I just finished the season finale and I am absolutely devastated. Also: I have so many questions. Questions the series very clearly left unanswered on purpose, and questions that make me think the show might be building toward something bigger. Or maybe Iâm just going insane and reading into lines that donât even exist. Very possible, by the way.
First of all, we need to talk about June. She was our first protagonist and sheâs back again in the finale. June says something that caught my attention. When sheâs talking to Daisy and the young girl is explaining why sheâs staying â because of Gilead, because of another girl, blah blah blah â she mentions Agnes. Then June is like, âAgnes? Mackenzie?â
And yes, it is her daughter. Hannah.
Now hereâs the part that genuinely threw me off, and I havenât really seen anyone talking about it. Maybe Iâm just too deep in the rabbit hole, but June says: âSheâs your age?â (or something). And the way she says it feels⊠confused.
At first, you could assume sheâs shocked because she never expected the pearl girl to be in the same environment as Hannah. But honestly? I think June is confused by their ages themselves. Like: âWait, what do you mean sheâs your age?â
Because Hannah is supposed to be older than Daisy.
Nicole/Daisy was literally a baby when Hannah was already a little girl. Hannah should not be in the same age group or âclassâ as Daisy. She should be years older. So when June says that line, the actress plays it in a way that â to me â feels like June herself realizes something is off.
Maybe Iâm reaching. Maybe Iâm coping because I desperately want the series to stay faithful to the source material. But this is the first moment where I genuinely thought: wait⊠are they hinting at that timeline difference after all?
Go watch the scene again. Seriously. The delivery feels intentional to me. Not confirmed, obviously â itâs just my theory â but I swear the reaction reads more like: âSheâs not supposed to be your age.â
And yes, I know June naturally feels protective toward these girls because theyâre all survivors of Gilead. I completely get that. I think she would feel connected to any of them. But something about her reaction here felt way more personal and emotional than usual. Juneâs hug in this episode was doing a little too much for my sanity; it felt like a mother proud her daughters are sticking together.
Thatâs my first big question from the finale.
Second of all: please stop asking why that Commander broke off the engagement with Agnes like thereâs some huge mystery behind it. There isnât.
Heâs just an old man who wanted a very young, âpure,â untouched wife. Now he knows Agnes was assaulted, and in his disgusting mindset, sheâs âruinedâ to him. Thatâs why he immediately stood up and physically moved away from her during that scene on the living room.
I still donât fully understand why he helped Becka tho. Maybe he was trying to play the role of the âkindâ Commander, maybe it was guilt, maybe appearances. But as far as Agnes goes? I really think itâs that simple and that ugly.
Anyway. Do you guys still have theories after this finale? Because my brain is melting.
Is Penelope Featherington named after Penelope from The Odyssey? Both wait for the man they love to returnâOdysseus from war, and Colin Bridgerton from his endless travels. In the books, Colin spends years going from place to place before he finally realizes his feelings for Penelope.
Like her namesake, Penelope quietly decides that if she canât have the man she loves, she doesnât want anyone else. The parallel feels too specific to be a coincidence.
Maybe I'm just too late realising this. If so, sorry fandom.
FORGET ABOUT SMUT. PLEASE I AM TIRED OF IT. I NEED ANGST. I NEED GUT WRENCHING EMOTIONAL TURMOIL THAT MAKES ME SICK TO MY STOMACH. I NEED TO BAWL JUST FROM THINKING ABOUT IT.
The crowd roared as Fred punted the bludger away from Angelina, mere inches from hitting her straight in the face and knocking her off her broom. She jerked in the air, startled, but quickly regained her composure and sped off to score yet another ten points for Gryffindor.
"And he does it again! Fred Weasley saves the team captain from the Slytherin team!" Lee Jordan's voice boomed throughout the stadium as Gryffindors cheered and Slytherins scowled. Fred waved his bat above his head in victory as Lee continued, "Really impressive she didnât fall off considering I almost fell off this podium when I saw Goyle's toad-face --" The microphone screeched and Lee's voice disappeared as Professor Mcgonagall snatched the microphone from his hand and scolded him. Lee merely grinned at her.
Goyle's face did look particularly toadlike today, and his already ruddy face was slowly turning into a darker shade of scarlet.
Fred waggled his fingers at Goyle who was now speeding off, "Sorry mate, better luck next time!" He allowed himself one more celebratory loop in the air before he caught George's eye from a few hundred feet away. He was waving his arms in the air at his brother and yelling something Fred could not quite understand.
"What? George, I can't hear you!"
Fred weaved through the players and realized George was pointing. When he got close enough, George yelled again, "DOUBLE BLUDGER!" He jabbed his fingers at Fred's right and left sides, and Fred whipped his head around just in time to see a bludger flying at him.
He managed to drop a few feet in the air and avoid having his skull smashed in. The two bludgers crashed in the air above him; Crabbe and Goyle had teamed up to take Fred out. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Goyle racing away. Fred yelled after them, "OI, YOU TROLL, do you even know how Quidditch works!" They high-fived each other and sniggered, triggering a burst of anger in his chest.
Fred narrowed his eyes at the them in the distance. Suddenly, George was at his side.
"Mate, don't pay attention to them, you have to focus! We can test a puking pastille on them later, I promise!"
Fred nodded curtly, but his mind had not shifted. As he flew away, he saw a one bludger flying towards Harry, another flying towards Katie Bell.
He alerted George but he had already seen it and was speeding towards Katie. Fred turned midair to fly towards and unaware Harry, who was concentrating on finding his tiny gold target. Maybe the anger served as fuel, because he arrived at Harry's side long before he could be hit and smacked the heavy ball away.
Harry called over his shoulder, "Thanks mate!" Before returning to his search for the snitch.
Fred was still breathing heavily, but not from the exhilaration of the match. His eyes were still trained on the opposing team's beaters.
"Don't you dare, Weasley!" Angelina's keen eye had caught the look in his eyes and she called out, "Save that for after the match! Not right now, we can't afford to lose!" But Fred didn't hear her.
He caught hold of a bludger and sped off towards his first target: Goyle.
"YOU IDIOT!!" Angelina screamed in anger as he left her behind.
"Take THIS!" He hurled the bludger at Goyle, whose reaction time was too slow, and it knocked his left arm enough to send him toppling in the air. Fred observed, satisfied, as the smirk was wiped off his pimply face. He caught another bludger and prepared to strike again, but Goyle was less cocky and more alert this time and was able to fly off before Fred could act.
Fred had expected this though, so he was at the ready for the chase. Goyle bobbed and weaved through the players, but as he was a much less talented flier than Fred, he couldn't escape. Fred managed to strike again, this time in the shoulder. He purposefully did not throw hard enough to seriously injure him or put the team in trouble; years of playing Quidditch had honed his ability to control the force at which he threw the bludgers.
Suddenly, Fred saw Goyle reach into his robe. He watched it happen in slow motion: Goyle whipped out a wand and pointed behind him, straight at Fred. Having never seen a wand on the field, as they were prohibited in Quidditch, he moved too slowly to escape Goyle's attack.
"NO!" Fred lunged at the wand but Goyle was too far away, and the spell hit him straight in the chest.
The crowd collectively gasped as it sent him reeling through the air. He could not gain control of his broom for the life of him, and he spun around and around, the only thing he could do was grip the handle as hard as he could. After a few moments, he managed to slow the spinning, but too late; with a loud CRASH, he crashed into the y/h stands.
Students screamed as he crashed into the benches, which splintered and sent wood flying in all directions. Most of them had been able to run out of the way, but there were a few who were knocked off their bench by the force of his crash.
"FRED WEASLEY IS DOWN! FRED WEASLEY IS DOWN!" Lee was jumping up and down and screaming into his microphone, "For those who missed it, Goyle hexed Fred Weasley, THAT HIDEOUS COCKROACH! SOMEONE GO DO SOMETHING!"
Fred's head was still spinning so he could barely hear the crowd. As he gained his senses, he realized that he had crashed directly into a person and was laying on top of them. He quickly pushed himself off of the poor student.
"Are you alright?" He immediately grabbed the student's hand and hoisted them onto their feet.
"I think so? I think I'm okay." Y/n looked down at herself and assessed for any injuries, but miraculously, she did not have a scratch on her.
Y/n looked up at Fred and their eyes met. As quickly as he crashed into her, Fred lost his senses.
He had heard of people describe the moment they met their partners in a magical, fantastical way that he was always skeptical of, and he even made fun of them. They would talk about how time slowed and fireworks went off in their minds, and they just knew this person was the one, but he had never believed it. Love makes people fools, he would say.
But now, he was being proven wrong.
As he gazed into her eyes, time did, in fact, slow, and fireworks exploded through his entire body, the way people had always described. His mind filled with music that wasn't actually there, and every time he recounted this moment to her or their friends or even strangers for years and years after, he would swear he felt a zing! (Y/n would roll her eyes every time, but with a big smile on her face).
"Um... hello?" He was brought back to life when y/n waved her hand in front of his face. He didn't realize that his jaw had been hanging open and that he was still holding the other hand he had hoisted her up with. Amusement danced in her eyes and when she smiled at him, he almost toppled over.
He managed to stumble out, "I'm -- 'm so sorr- didn't mean to--" He didn't know what was happening to him -- usually he was so smooth around girls. Y/n found it endearing though, and laughed in response.
She squeezed his hand reassuringly and replied, "That's alright, I'm okay! You gotta do what you gotta do right?"
In a desperate attempt to prove he wasn't a fool, Fred managed to gather himself enough to gasp out, "PrettiestgirlI'veeverbeenbludgeredinto--" before he was interrupted.
"--AN ABSOLUTE FOOL, YOU LOOK LIKE AN ABSOLUTE FOOL, FREDDIE! CLOSE YOUR MOUTH or A BIRD'S GONNA FLY IN--" Lee's cackle was cut off, and Mcgonagall's voice now boomed, "MR. WEASLEY, GET BACK OUT THERE NOW!"
Fred blushed a deep pink and dropped y/n's hand as if it had burned him. As she laughed, he stammered out some sort of sheepish apology before hopping back on his broom and flying back out.
Thankfully, some people had still been paying attention to the game, and the second Fred flew back in, Harry caught the snitch and the game was over.
Fred flew down, still feeling lightheaded from his encounter with y/n. As soon as his feet touched the ground, Angelina was storming over to him.
"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT, WEASLEY!" Steam was practically pouring out of her ears, "DID I OR DID I NOT TELL YOU TO DROP IT? HUH, WEASLEY? WHAT DID I TELL YOU TO DO!" Professor Mcgonagall was following close behind Angelina and was scolding Fred over her, "-- could have injured yourself or a student, for Merlin's sake, or worse, gotten yourself banned--"
Meanwhile, Harry, who had been too focused on the snitch and missed the hubbub, was jogging alongside the rest of the team and asking, "What was that? What happened? Someone tell me what happened, for the LOVE of--" With a voice tight with suppressed laughter, George shrugged and said, "Can't save you this time, mate."
The team members were giggling and talking over each other, Angelina and Professor Mcgonagall were still scolding him, and Harry was tugging at his robes, still trying to figure out what had happened, but Fred couldn't hear any of it. He had caught y/n's eye again, all the way across the stadium from the ground, and she was smiling sympathetically right at him. He was hopelessly lost in her smile, and he timidly held up his hand and waved. She scrunched her nose in an adorable way and gave him a thumbs up of encouragement. A grin spread across Fred's face.
This brought on another bout of yelling and threats from Angelina as well as more laughter from the team, and still, Fred barely heard her. It was all noise to him.
Professor Mcgonagall caught his far-off look and followed his gaze to see that he was staring right at you. She maintained a stern look, but on the inside, couldn't help but soften. She knew that look. She had seen it countless times before.
And even as Fred was being dragged away by a furious Angelina, he was still smiling and managed to memorize every part of y/n's face, vowing to find her after what surely would be a long post-game meeting.
Pairing: Fred Weasley x [y/n]
Warnings: This story leans more towards those above the age of 16 or a PG-13 rating. While there's no explicit sex, the themes and some of the dialogue suggest a level of maturity beyond a general PG rating.
Summary: In the chaotic world of Hogwarts' seventh year, Fred Weasley's bad jokes become an unexpected distraction for the studious [y/n]. What begins as a test of patience evolves into something deeper as laughter intertwines with longing. Amidst the mayhem of magic and mischief, can they find a genuine connection, proving that sometimes the best punchlines lead to the most unexpected love stories?
About [y/n]: I don't place her in any house, so you're absolutely free to choose. But outside of that, she's written as a girl (18-ish) and I think (I'm not 100% sure) I have mentioned she's white, or that she turns very pale (in shock, or something).
Words: Almost 9k.
A/N: I had a lot of fun writing this! I missed Fred, truly. This one was absolutely just for me. But if you liked it, please leave a comment!
The class wasnât exactly quiet. They teetered on the edge of acceptable behaviour, holding it together solely because the handful of students up front had decided to pretend they cared. The rest were swapping gossip, chucking crumpled parchment like Quaffles, and giggling in a way that would make a banshee jealous.
Professor Flitwick was fully aware, of course. But there was only so much a man under four feet tall could do when every time he tried to scold someone, they immediately transformed into cherubic little angels. And whenever he reached for an airborne note, it mysteriously ceased to exist. The man was clever. The students, unfortunately, were cleverer.
To be fair, no one really expected much from seventh-years at this point. The entire faculty had collectively resigned themselves to the fact that these kids were emotionally, mentally, and spiritually done. Frankly, if anyone snapped and hexed the ceiling, theyâd probably just let it slide.
Which made it exactly the right moment for Fred Weasley to strike up a conversation with [y/n]. He leaned in, red hair gloriously unruly, smirk already forming. âCan I tell you a joke?â
They didnât sit together by chance. No, this was most of the Professorsâ grand experiment: seat the most notorious troublemaker next to the schoolâs most reliable nerd, and maybe her good influence would rub off. It was the academic equivalent of putting a cat next to a bath and hoping it would become a fish. George, the slightly younger twin, was exiled to the other side of the room by direct order of the Headmaster. Nevertheless, separating the Weasley twins was like cutting a Niffler in half and expecting it to stop nicking your silverware.
[y/n] sighed, long-suffering. She knew Fred. She knew that tone. Likewise, she knew that whatever came next was going to be deeply, profoundly stupid. And yet, here she was â the only one in the class not actively contributing to the unravelling of society â and, against her better judgment, slightly curious.
âGo on, then,â she muttered, finally turning to look at him.
Fredâs eyes sparkled.Â
âWhatâs the difference between a snowman and a snowwoman?â He leaned a little closer.Â
There was a pause â five, six seconds of mental preparation â during which [y/n] considered pretending she didnât hear him and diving face-first into her textbook. She also considered dying of secondhand embarrassment. But ultimately, she resigned herself to her fate.
âI donât know,â she said flatly. âWhat?â
Fred grinned. âSnowballs.â
Exactly as predicted: idiotic.
She rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didnât detach. Fred stifled a laugh â poorly â just as Flitwick turned his tiny, deadly stare in his direction.
It wasnât the first joke sheâd heard from him. But this one had somehow done something. It was unclear what, exactly. Nothing obvious had shifted. The air was still thick with whispered gossip, Fred was still grinning like a boy whoâd never known shame, and [y/n] was still trying to care about whatever Flitwick was scribbling on the board.
And yet â something had changed.
What it was, no one could say. Not yet.
While most Gryffindors complained bitterly about every single minute spent in the dungeons with Professor Snape, [y/n] had a particular vendetta against Transfiguration. Or rather, against Professor McGonagall herself.
It wasnât that McGonagall had ever said anything cruel. That wouldâve been easier. No, it was the look â that quiet, cat-like assessment that suggested she knew [y/n] could do better, but had already made peace with the fact that she probably wouldnât. It was judgment and disappointment, wrapped in tartan and pinned together with a brooch.
Was it personal? Likely not. Did it feel personal? Absolutely.
Still, as Hogwarts kept pairing its brightest students with its biggest troublemakers in a grand attempt at character development, [y/n] had once again found herself seated next to Fred Weasley. The idea, no doubt, was that her bookishness might tame him, and his chaotic energy might âbring her out of her shell.â
Utter rot.
She didnât need Fred Weasley to drag her out of anything. She was social. Just⊠not in McGonagallâs class. In that room, her entire personality narrowed to âavoid eye contact and copy everything from the board like your life depends on it.â
Unfortunately, Fred had not received the memo. Or he had, and shredded it for fun.
âHow you doing?â he asked, with the kind of faux innocence that could only mean trouble.
She didnât turn. Didnât blink. Just channelled every ounce of her nerdy energy into ignoring him.
He tried again.âWhatâs six inches long and has two nuts at the end?â
Her quill froze. Her eyes widened to the size of saucers, and her expression dropped every other function but pure disbelief.
She turned to him slowly, like someone preparing to confront a boggart. âWhat did you justâ? I canât believe youâ Why would youâ?â
âOi, can you let me finish?â he whispered, grinning. âOops, that was⊠that was not the dirty joke.â He chuckled at his own brilliance. âIâll start over. Whatâs six inches long and has two nuts at the end?â
âStop saying that,â she hissed, now more horrified than outraged.
âRelax! Itâs an Almond Joy,â he said smugly. âHonestly, the things going through your mind. Merlin.â He shook his head in mock disapproval.
âI donât even know what an Almond Joyââ
She never got to finish. Her voice had risen â just enough to carry across the classroom.
âWhatâs going on there?â
Professor McGonagall was approaching, her robes billowing like an oncoming storm.
âProfessor, Iâm trying to pay attention, but she keepsââ One glare. That was all it took. Fredâs sentence withered on his tongue.
âIt was nothing, Professor,â [y/n] said quickly, shrinking in her seat.
McGonagall lingered for a second, just long enough to make them both squirm, before returning to the blackboard.
[y/n] lowered her head and scrambled to look productive. Her handwriting was now panic-shaped.
âBlimey,â Fred leaned in again, his voice low and maddeningly amused. âAre you afraid of her?â
âNo,â [y/n] muttered.
âHm.â He crossed his arms and said nothing more. For once.
But even in the silence, [y/n] could feel him smiling.
This time â alright, fine â it was slightly [y/n]âs fault.
They werenât even in class. She couldâve not come looking for him.
But then Samara handed her two Sickles for a bet. Then Ursula added six Knuts to the pile, and suddenly [y/n] was standing on the pitch with a pocket full of wizarding money and two friends staring at her like puppies left outside Honeydukes.
âPleeeease!â they said.
It was an official Hogwarts Quidditch match â and as such, you could not miss the unmistakable presence of Fred and George Weasley, standing at the edge of the stands with an old wooden box and expressions that practically screamed entrepreneurial mischief.
As tradition dictated, if Gryffindor wasnât playing, then the Gryffindor Beaters were definitely running the bets. And the turnout was impressive â even a few Professors had wandered suspiciously close to the betting box, dropping coins and pretending not to see anything.
âAh, a customer,â George grinned when she approached. âCan you assist this fine young witch, brother?â
At this point, honestly, it had to be deliberate.
He turned to her with the wooden box, and as he flipped it open, [y/n] saw a scrap of parchment taped to the inside lid â names, numbers, and teams. She swallowed and held out the coins.
âYeah, well,â she blinked. âTwo Sickles from Samyra â for Hufflepuff. And six Knuts from Ursula â against Hufflepuff.â
âYouâre not betting?â Fred asked, already taking the coins and scribbling down the numbers.
âNope,â she said, flatly. Please Merlin, let that be the end of it.
But of course not. He looked up with that very specific brand of Weasley mischief â crooked smile, dangerous glint in his eye, and that posture that meant he was about to be the worst.
âCan I tell you a joke?â
âNo,â she replied instantly, already turning on her heel.
But before she could escape, he gently touched her arm â not enough to stop her, but just enough to make her pause. She turned back, arms crossed, expression set to absolutely not in the mood.
âPlease,â he said, already laughing. Which was never, ever a good sign.
She sighed like someone accepting their fate. âFine. Go on,â after all, they werenât in class, and she could, now, kick him in the shins depending on how terrible the joke was.
He took a second to compose himself, which only made her more suspicious.
âAre you a Slytherin?â he asked, voice low and weirdly serious.
She stared at him. Then down at her scarf. Then back at him. Deadpan.
He pretended not to notice the absurdity of the question.
âBecauseâŠâ he took one last breath, âI really want to slither into your Chamber of Secrets.â
She immediately placed her hands to her face, in a full, dramatic palm drag. From hairline to chin, like she was trying to reset her entire operating system. It was the worst â a tragedy of a dirty joke. Or pick-up line, rather.
Was that a pick-up line?
She didnât answer. She didnât look at him. She simply turned and walked away before her brain had the chance to process anything further.
But if youâd been paying attention â and I do hope you have â you mightâve noticed that she hadnât rolled her eyes. Not once.
That was new.
At this point, itâs probably worth saying again: no, [y/n] and Fred Weasley were not friends. Or, at least, they hadnât been when the school year started. Now⊠well, now it was harder to define what they were.
Fred was popular â the kind of boy everyone knew, or at least recognised by reputation. [y/n] had known who he was long before he ever looked in her direction. But apparently, he had known her silhouette from across the Great Hall for some time now.
It was a Saturday in Hogsmeade. Normally, [y/n] didnât care much for the trip â not since third year when the novelty wore off. But now, with N.E.W.Ts looming and her Hogwarts days numbered, every corridor and crooked alley seemed to shine a little brighter. Like the whole place knew it was her last chance to love it properly.
That morning, sheâd gone with Ursula. Samara had mysteriously vanished with vague talk of âplansâ and âbeing mysterious,â which usually meant snogging someone behind Honeydukes. So it was just the two of them, arms full of sugar quills and chocolate frogs, wandering toward the joke shop.
Zonkoâs was packed, as usual. Not that she or Ursula had any business there â they werenât exactly prank-pulling types. But there was something oddly comforting about wandering the aisles and pretending to care about exploding sweets or belching powder. Like it was part of the Hogwarts package, and skipping it now would be sacrilege.
Besides, the place was warm, smelled like cinnamon and fireworks, and Ursula was dragging her by the wrist with the determination of someone on a mission.
âJust five minutes,â Ursula had said, which of course meant until one of them got distracted or bumped into someone embarrassing.
It turned out to be both.
Without quite realising, [y/n] found herself gently steered toward the shelves of potions, where the bottles gleamed like promises and mistakes. There were the usual suspects â Nosebleed Nougat, Perpetual Itch Powder, and, of course, the potions: brightly coloured, questionably legal, and temptingly labelled with things like Instant Obsession or Regret in a Vial.
She picked up the Hate Potion and raised an eyebrow. âSide effects may include irritability, brooding, and chronic eyeliner use,â she read.
Then came the Love Potion, all glimmer and pink swirls. She turned it in her hands, inspecting the label. People always went on about magical benefits, but no one ever mentioned what happened if you were allergic. Or if the magic decided it wanted something back.
She was just about to put it back whenâ
âFeeling desperate, [y/n]?â
The voice was a smirk wearing a human costume. She didnât even need to look to know who it was.
She very nearly groaned. Or broke the bottle. Or both.
âOh, hi, Fred!â Ursula greeted the redhead with a friendly grin. [y/n] couldnât say the same.
âHello, Weasley.â
âLooking for a good potion, girls?â he asked, lounging like he owned the place. Which, judging by the amount of stuff he probably bought there over the years, he might as well have.
âNot really,â Ursula replied, abandoning the potion sheâd been fiddling with. âBut hey â youâd know. Where do they keep the plush puffskeins now? Youâre basically their number one customer.â
Fred looked mildly offended, but only for dramatic effect. âNear the back, between the dancing fangs and the hiccup powder.â
With a wink, Ursula left, no hesitation, clearly happy to abandon her friend and go off searching for adorable, overpriced puffskeins.
As soon as she was out of earshot, [y/n] turned to him, arms folded, eyebrow raised in amusement. âAnd you? What are you looking for, exactly?â
Fred grinned, the corners of his mouth curling up like heâd just thought of something outrageous.
âAlways looking for trouble,â he said smoothly, like it was a well-practised line. âBut when I spotted you here, I stopped looking. Thought Iâd found something better. Also⊠Iâve got another joke.â
[y/n] sighed theatrically but couldnât suppress the smile tugging at her lips. âGo on, then. Letâs get it over with.â
She had learned early on that resistance was futile. One look at his ridiculous, lopsided grinâhis puppy-that-fell-out-of-a-moving-cart faceâand any no would crumple into a yes before it even left her mouth.
Fred cleared his throat with the gravity of a performer about to hit the punchline.
âAre your legs tired?â
She blinked. That one caught her off guard.
âA little, actually,â she answered honestly, forgetting that she was being set up. âBut I havenât had nearly enough of Hogsmeade yet. Iâll be walking loads today.â
His eyes gleamed with mischief as he quickly adjusted course. âWell, if they do get tired, let me know,â he said, tone low and maddeningly cheeky. âBecause as long as Iâve got a face, you can always sit on it.â
For a split second, silence hung in the air like a suspended spellâand then [y/n] absolutely lost it.
A laugh burst out of her so violently that she doubled over, one hand clutching her stomach, the other grasping the shelf for support. It wasnât a dainty chuckle; it was a full-bodied, gasp-for-air, shoulder-shaking sort of laughâthe kind that turned heads and drew stares.
Fred stood there, blinking, slightly stunned. Heâd told a hundred of these linesâmaybe moreâand, typically, he got groans, eye-rolls, or in the case of his brother George, outright heckling. But laughter? Real, honest, undignified laughter?
That was new.
And she wasnât laughing with the jokeâshe was laughing at it. At him. And oddly, instead of feeling mortified⊠he felt rather proud.
He started laughing too.
âYouâwhereâwhere do you find these?â she gasped, wiping her eyes.
Fred lifted both hands. âI admit nothing.â
She narrowed her eyes, still grinning. âYou definitely read them somewhere. Come on. Spill.â
He hesitated. His ears went red.
âFred,â she said warningly, âif you donât tell me, Iâll assume itâs your own original material. And then I will cry.â
He winced. âFine. I found a book.â
âYou should write to the author and let them know theyâre a menace to society.â She leaned against the shelf, catching her breath. âGood Merlin, Weasley. That was absurd. Completely mental. Whatâs the name of the book?â
Fredâs laugh faltered. His throat clicked audibly as he swallowed, and his Adamâs apple bobbed like it was trying to escape. His cheeks flushed so deeply they were nearly the same shade as his hair.
âWhatâs the name?â she repeated, still giggling, not yet clocking the shift in his expression.
He exhaled slowly. â101 Pick-Up Lines for People Who Like to Laugh,â he said. And then, after a pause: ââŠOver the Age of 18.â
Oh.
[y/n] straightened ever so slightly, eyebrows lifting. She tried very hard not to read too much into the title.
âWell, they wonât make anyone laugh,â she said, aiming for casual but not quite pulling it off. âBesides, whoâs meant to enjoy the laughingâthe one telling the joke or the poor soul forced to hear it?â
Fredâs smile faltered slightly. The pink in his cheeks began to fade as he studied her expression, looking for any hint of mockery. But she was still cordial, still calm, still⊠kind. Which, somehow, worsened it.
âWe should all enjoy laughing,â he replied, voice a bit more serious now, less performative. âI suppose itâs for the one who reads the joke, right?â His shoulders dropped a fraction, relaxing into the moment.
âI havenât got a clue. Youâre the one with the book,â she replied. Then, after a pause, she smiledânot wide, not teasing, but something soft, something that barely touched the corners of her mouth and still said everything. âThough⊠I must admit, I ended up laughing.â
âAt me,â Fred said quickly, a little too quickly, his voice jumping an octave higher with defensiveness. âNot at the joke.â
It shouldâve stung. But somehow, it didnât.
Around them, Zonkoâs remained its usual mess of spinning trinkets and prank-infused chaos, but for a heartbeatâor maybe a little longerâit all blurred into the background. It was just two nearly grown kids standing far too close in a shop theyâd probably never browse together again.
âHm.â She tilted her head slightly, a tone light but final. âI should go rescue Ursula before she marries a puffskein.â
âAlready too late,â Fred said, following her gaze toward the back of the shop. âSheâs registered three of them under her last name. Ceremonyâs at noon.â
âOh no,â [y/n] giggled, lingering just a second longer than necessary. Then she nodded once, like sheâd decided something, and turned to leave. âSee you around, Weasley.â
And just like that, she was off, disappearing between shelves of enchanted stink pellets and screaming yo-yos. Fred stood there a moment longer, staring at the spot sheâd been, one hand fiddling with the edge of his sleeve.
He still had the book in his pocket. But suddenly, it didnât feel all that useful any more.
It wasnât exactly warm, but after what felt like endless days of snow, the sun had finally come out to make a bit of an appearance. Most students with free classes had migrated to the fields surrounding the school, especially the clock tower courtyard. [y/n] was one of them, basking in the rare moment of sunshine.
She sat alone, her body stretched out on a multicolored, plaid towel sheâd thrown onto the grass, eyes shut against the harsh brightness of the sun. She was perfectly content, just listening to the distant chatter of students and the wind rustling the leaves in the trees.
Then, unexpectedly, she felt the familiar weight of someone sitting down on her towel, the fabric shifting beneath her. The change in balance was subtle, but unmistakable. She knew exactly who it was, even with her eyes still closed.
âHot day?â His voiceâdeep, casual, and annoyingly charmingâcut through the ambient noise.
[y/n] opened just one eye, peeking up at Fred Weasley, who was grinning like he knew something she didnât.
âNot as hot as you?â she shot back, the words practically tumbling out, expecting yet another one of his ridiculous jokes.
Fredâs smile widened, and he gave a small, pleased nod. âYouâre getting the hang of it.â
She smirked and closed the eye she had opened. âYouâre rubbing off on me.â
The moment the words left her mouth, she realized what sheâd said, and it made her laughâa quiet, breathy giggle that only came out as a puff of air through her nose. If only the Professors could hear them nowâŠ
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, the kind where you didnât have to say anything to enjoy the company. The sun bathed them both in a warm glow, the sound of students and distant laughter creating a peaceful backdrop. [y/n] kept her eyes closed, but she could hear his calm breathing beside her, steady and unhurried.
âNo jokes for me today?â she broke the silence, her voice low and teasing.Â
Fred shifted on the towel, his legs readjusting as he stretched out a bit more. She cracked open her eyes just in time to see him lay down, his head resting on the towel, even though she herself wasnât with her head down.Â
âI donated the book to my brother,â he said, almost offhandedly.
âGeorge?â she asked, the first Weasley name that popped into her head.
âRon, actually,â he corrected, a hint of amusement in his voice. âI think heâll need it.â
âIs your little brother an aspiring comedian?â [y/n] couldnât help but ask, eyebrow raised in curiosity.
Fred laughed, the sound rich and warm.Â
âNo,â he said, the word almost too ridiculous to be taken seriously.
âThen whatâs he going to need it for?â she continued, genuinely curious now. âTo embarrass himself?â
Fred chuckled again, the laugh almost surprised, as if he wasnât expecting her to know so much about the Weasley family. âHe doesnât need any help with that department,â Fred replied, still laughing softly.
âSo whatâs he going to do with this classic piece of wizarding literature?â she asked, tilting her head slightly.
Fred gave a nonchalant shrug, but she could tell he was amused by her genuine, almost naive curiosity.
Since her question had gone unanswered, [y/n] let it drift away and decided to test another current instead.
âI heard you and your twin want to start your own joke shop,â she said lightly, as if it didnât matter either way. âIs that true?â
Fred turned his head to look at her. The sunlight caught in his lashes. âWe hope so,â he replied, at last. âI donât really think of us as academics, you know?â
âBut you guys are smart,â she said, the words escaping before she could think twice. The moment they left her lips, she regretted itânot because they werenât true, but because she already knew what heâd say next.
âHowâd you know?â
Right on cue.
She bit the inside corner of her mouth, cornered by her honesty. âWell, weâre partners in most subjects and⊠you catch up. Thatâs more than most.â
âWe donât get good grades, though,â Fred tilted his head slightly, brow raised.Â
âRight,â she nodded. âBut grades arenât everything.â
âThey are to you,â he said, gentlyânot accusing, just perceptive.
She paused, drawing in a long breath, then letting it out slowly.
âNo, not really,â she admitted, her voice quieter now. âI thought they were, or maybe I just wanted them to be. NowâŠâ She trailed off, searching for the right words. âNow, I wish I knew what I wanted to do with my life, like you and George.â
Fred didnât interrupt.
âIâm just lost,â she said finally, pressing her lips together in a tight line before looking back up at the sky.
Fred didnât offer a solution. He just lay there beside her on the chequered towel, quiet. The sun warmed her skin, but it was the closeness of himâhis steady presence, the quiet understanding in his eyesâthat made her feel less like she was drifting.
After a long moment, he spoke. âIf it helps⊠even with a plan, everything still feels uncertain. Weâre just pretending we know what weâre doing.â
She turned her head, finally meeting his eyes again. âYouâre pretending?â
âAll the time,â he said with a lopsided smile. âI just happen to be superb at it.â
She smiledâsmall, but real. It crept up slowly, tugging at her lips before she could stop it. And that was simply it. There was no need to say more.
Still, rather than let it drift too far into the future category (an area she wasnât ready to unpack on a weekday afternoon), she nudged him playfully with her shoulder and asked, âDonât you have any other jokes for me? I know you can conjure one with your mind.â
He turned his head toward the clouds again, lips twitching, voice mock-thoughtful. âActually⊠you just made me remember one.â
âPlease, go ahead,â she said, laying her head on the towel as well, next to his.
Honestly, she couldnât believe she was the one begging for a Fred Weasley joke. Of all the things she thought sheâd become by seventh year, âenthusiastic dirty-joke-enablerâ hadnât made the list.
âDo you have telekinetic powers?â he asked, his tone casualâtoo casual.
[y/n] narrowed her eyes suspiciously and turned her head to look at him. Fred turned toward her too, face close enough that she could see the faint freckles across his nose and the sunlight catching in his lashes. He looked like he was on the edge of laughingâand maybe on the edge of bailing out.
âI donât know if I can do it,â he chuckled nervously.
âWhat? No! Come on!â [y/n] opened her mouth. âIâm curious now!â
He exhaled in surrender, still chuckling. âJust rememberâyou asked for it.â
âGo on,â she nodded solemnly.
Fred cleared his throat like a performer warming up for a very questionable debut.
âBecause you just lifted one of my body parts without touching it.â
There was a full second of silenceâthen she gasped in outrage.
âNO!â [y/n] shoved him hard in the armâhm, strong forearm, her brain notedâand scrambled back an inch on the towel, looking both mortified and scandalised. âFred Weasley! Weâre lying next to each other in public! Thatâs absolutely foul!â
Fred doubled over in laughter, clutching his stomach. âYou asked for it!â
âI was expecting a pun!â she wailed, face red, but her eyes sparkled. âA clever pun, notâyou knowâperversion!â
He was still laughing, and she was too, despite herself.
She flopped back down with a groan, shielding her face with her arm. âI canât believe I encouraged you.â
He peeked at her from the side. âYouâre smiling.â
âIâm scarred,â she corrected.
âYouâre grinning.â
âOnly because Iâm plotting revenge.â
Fred grinned at the sky again, satisfied. âThatâs fair.â
The sun was still bright overhead, but the moment between them felt quieter now, the kind of quiet that comes when two people have laughed a little too loudly and are left with only the warmth of each otherâs presence.
Neither of them said anything else. But neither of them moved.
And maybe that said more than anything ever could.
It was Quidditch match day again. The air buzzed with anticipation, banners flapped wildly in the wind, and students filled the stands in their house colours. However, that day there was no one orchestrating the underground betting ring or smugly redistributing galleons post-match. That was because the Weasley twins were both on the pitch, flying high on their broomsticks, darting through the air as they desperately tried to block Bludgers coming from all directions.
And somehow, despite knowing absolutely nothing about sports, [y/n] found herself once again in the stands, right in the thick of it.
âYouâre drooling,â Ursula said dryly beside her, clearly enjoying herself. She was now very well-versed in her friendâs current obsessionâmainly because [y/n] wouldnât shut up about it.
âPiss off,â [y/n] replied without looking away from the field, showing a finger at her friend. Her eyes were locked on Fred, who had just zoomed across the pitch to block a Bludger headed straight for Harry Potter.
Gryffindor wonâof course they did. Half the school seemed to be rooting for them. The crowd exploded into cheers as Harry caught the Snitch, and the players landed, brooms now in hand rather than between their legs. [y/n] left the stands, suddenly unsure what to do with herself.
Why was she going down there? Why was she following the surge of students onto the pitch like a Quidditch groupie?
Because she had a reason. Sort of.
Blending in with the crowd, she made her way closer, dodging hugs, backslaps, and the odd flying elbow. Fred was laughing, flushed from the match, surrounded by fans and teammatesâbut even in the sea of people, his eyes flicked toward her like heâd been expecting it.
When the crowd finally began to thin out, she jumped in front of him with a grin that could only mean trouble.
âIâve got a joke for you,â she said, eyes sparkling.
Fred raised an eyebrow, grinning like a boy whoâd just been handed a gift he wasnât sure he deserved. âOh, yeah?â
She nodded, taking a breath like she was about to cast a complicated spell.
âDo you know if I could become a broom?â she asked innocently, though the corners of her mouth were already twitching.
He tilted his head, very parrot-like. âEr⊠canât say I do.â
âBecause Iâd love to stay between your legs for an hour or two.â
The moment the words left her mouth, she burst into laughterâhalf from nerves, half from sheer pride in herself. Her hand flew to her face as a blush bloomed furiously across her cheeks.
Fred blinked, clearly caught off guard. And thenâhe roared with laughter, clutching his side like sheâd physically winded him.
âBloody hell!â he wheezed between breaths. âYou did not just say that!â
She turned away in mock shame, still giggling.
He leaned closer, voice low and full of that wicked, teasing tone sheâd come to know too well. âIf that was your way of joking, you just put every line Iâve ever used to shame.â
She peeked at him through her fingers. âYeah, well. I learn from the best.â
Fred grinned, eyes crinkling. âIâll need a full recovery before I can match that energy. Give me a day or two. Or three.â
âOr forever,â she said, rolling her eyes, though her smile stayed stubbornly in place.
Their gazes lingered a second too long.
She rolled her eyes, but her smile held stubbornly, like it didnât care if it gave everything away.
Their gazes lingeredâjust a moment too long to be casual. Just long enough to feel like something was changing. Around them, the pitch still buzzed with leftover chaosâshouts, chants, streamers tangled in the breeze. But in the bubble of that glance, it all faded into the background.
âOi! Kiss already!â George shouted from a few metres away, his voice booming over the noise and absolutely on brand.
The remaining players and fans burst into laughter.
And just like that, [y/n] folded inward, embarrassment blooming red-hot across her face. Without thinking, she ducked into Fredâs chest, hiding herself from the entire universe. He smelled like cut grass, sweat, and something oddly warm, like worn cotton and adrenaline. And weirdly⊠she didnât mind. She didnât pull away.
Fred didnât flinch or teaseâhe just wrapped his arms around her and let her hide there, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
âDumbass,â Fred muttered fondly, patting his twin on the head as George passed by, clearly proud of the chaos heâd caused.
Then Fred lowered his voice, leaning just enough for her to hear over the fading noise.
âDo you want to get out of here?â
She turned her head, cheek pulling away from his chest just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes were sincere, still glinting with laughter, but quiet now. Waiting.
âBlimey, yes, please,â she breathed, a nervous giggle escaping her lips, fluttering like trapped butterflies.
Fred steered her through the thinning crowd with an easy confidence. His left hand clasped hers firmly, and before they knew it, theyâd gone from a gentle stroll to a proper dash, legs pumping like they were kids again. Giggles bubbled up between them, that daft, happy sound only teenagers â or those utterly smitten â could manage.
Breathless and flushed, they found themselves a good distance from the echoing cheers of the Quidditch pitch. [y/n] watched, a touch of wonder in her eyes, as Fredâs gaze swept around, his mind clearly flicking through mental blueprints. Heâd located a hidden area, a spot promising that much-desired privacy. And it had almost all four walls; one side was more of a charming archway. Still, it would absolutely do.
But it would serve the purpose of the moment.
Another tug on her hand â barely a moment of looseness this time â and he was guiding her towards the nook he knew from the legendary Marauder's Map (a perk from his less-than-angelic youth). Without so much as âCan I?â â as if he needed it at that point â he released her hand to cup her face, both palms warm against her skin, tilting her chin up to bridge their height difference.
A proper Weasley grin was playing on his lips as he finally leaned in for a kiss. [y/n] vaguely registered the fact that she was probably grinning herself, but that thought quickly faded into the background noise of pure sensation. The taste of him, the sheer pleasure of their lips meeting, the soft brush of his breath against her cheek. His lips, surprisingly cool at first, were then incredibly sweet, like a lick of Honeydukes best. Little details started to bloom in her awareness: the way she had to lean up slightly, the gentle caress of his fingers moving from her cheek to her nape, then tangling in her hair.
Given Fredâs reputation as the schoolâs prankster, this wasnât exactly the snog sheâd mentally rehearsed. Not that it was a bad thing, not at all! It was brilliant, actually, the kind of kiss that surely had fireworks popping off somewhere unseen. And judging by the way neither of them could stay away for more than a snatched breath, both were in complete agreement. They kept coming back for more, a silent conversation of lips and tongues.
Truth be told, his repertoire of dodgy jokes had led [y/n] to expect something a bit more⊠naughty. A bit spicier. This kiss, however, was pure, unadulterated romance, worthy of a movie â but a PG-rated one.
After so many dirty jokes, it was a bit of a surprise.  Â
But she wasnât about to complain. Not one bit. She simply melted into him, her hands finding a comfortable spot on his shoulders, fingers twirling through the glorious, untamed mess of his red hair.   Â
Time seemed to blur and fade. Dear reader, between us, it was a good half an hour. They kept pulling each other in, with a proper longing hung in the air, a silent yearning for something more than just a kiss. Cor blimey.   Â
Eventually, though, the moment had to wind down, and they found themselves chuckling again, like a pair of right idiots. And that was sort of it. For that day.
Perched on her bed, [y/n] was doing her best to hide the monumental disappointment bubbling inside as she answered Ursulaâs interrogation.
âAnd how long has it been, exactly?â Ursula asked, referring to how many days had passed since the kiss [y/n] and Fred Weasley shared.
âFour days,â [y/n] replied, perhaps a tad too quickly. âGive or take,â she added, attempting a casualness that felt about as convincing as a Niffler denying a magpie.
As if she hadnât been counting the hours, marking them off on an invisible calendar.
âHm,â Ursula pursed her lips, stretching them out. âA bit of a long time, that,â she declared, sounding like a right scientist analysing a particularly baffling test tube.
âA long time!â [y/n] exclaimed, indignation momentarily overriding her attempts at nonchalance. Then, she bared her teeth in a grimace that was more âaggghâ than a smile, before returning to her best uncaring expression. âNot that I'm bothered, mind you.â
âYou have nothing,â Ursula observed, like a post-it reminder.
âWe have nothing,â[y/n] echoed, confirming the dire situation.
âStill, youâd think he'd have said something,â Ursula mused, tilting her head. âHas he even spoken to you?â
The question sent another wave of frustration through [y/n], who mentally flicked through the last few days, desperately searching for any sign of Fred acknowledging her existence beyond the bare minimum in their shared classes.
âHe did⊠sort of. He went a bit like this,â she demonstrated, raising her eyebrows and giving a sort of half-hearted upturn of the lips that barely qualified as a smile. It wasnât a great impression of Fred, admittedly, but it conveyed his lack of effort. âAnd then he said, âWhat up?â Who says that?â
Ursula, witnessing her friend's building fury, had to agree, it was a bit rubbish.
âNo cheeky jokes?â
âNot a single one,â [y/n] confirmed, her tone still laced with disbelief.
âShocking,â Ursula declared, shaking her head in mock disapproval.
Defeated, [y/n] flopped back onto the bed, sinking into the mattress.
âYou were just another conquest,â Ursula offered, her tone taking on a slightly mournful note.
âJust anotherâŠâ [y/n] started to agree, to wallow in the disappointment, but then she stopped herself.
She refused to let Fred Weasley off scot-free. If heâd wanted her to fall for him, well, now he had a girl properly smitten, and heâd better deal with it. Because if not, Merlinâs beardâŠ
âThis is not how itâs going to be,â [y/n] announced, suddenly leaping out of bed with a newfound determination. It was nearly eleven at night; everyone should be tucked up in bed (or at least pretending to be for curfew).
âWhat are you going to do?â Ursula asked, a hint of concern in her voice.
âIâm going to get what he owes me,â the girl stated, her eyes gleaming with purpose.
âAnd what exactly does he owe you?â Ursula asked, thoroughly bewildered, as if sheâd missed a crucial plot twist. [y/n]âs sudden change of mood had left her slightly behind.
[y/n]âs expression hardened. âA punchline.â
It was not some sudden descent into full-blown stalker territory that had [y/n] knowing Fredâs whereabouts, mind you. Absolutely not. In fact, the cheeky git himself had let slip, the day before that disastrous Quidditch match that led to all this kerfuffle, that every Wednesday night he and his twin would sneak off to Hogsmeade.
âWhere dâyou reckon we get half our brilliant prank ingredients from?â heâd grinned, that familiar Weasley smirk plastered across his face. Zonkoâs, naturally.
Well, now the tables had turned, hadnât they?
Being a seventh-year, [y/n] and plenty of others were clued in on the secret passage to Hogsmeade. Still,[y/n] hadnât exactly been using the clandestine route, not even for a bit of off-season shopping. But Fred must have been on his way back from the village just as she was legging it down the stairs and along the corridors to intercept him.
Reaching the hidden entrance, [y/n] stopped just shy of it, bathed in the rather dramatic light of a solitary chandelier halfway down the corridor.
She looked almost spectral, despite the fact her night robe was a rather fetching shade somewhere between purple and wine. A proper nightgown it was, tied snugly just under her bust. Not exactly see-through, but light enough. Still, no need to fret on that front, as she had her trusty pajama shorts and vest top underneath.
Leaning against the cool stone wall, she waited, patience wearing thin. Just as she was about to give up, she heard muffled noises, and her heart gave a little flutter. Did she actually have the nerve to go through with this?
Swallowing hard, she held her breath until he and his brother emerged from the passage, chuckling away with bags in their hands and that unmistakable waft of butterbeer clinging to them.
âWant to hear a joke, Weasley?â she called out, perhaps a tad too theatrically.
There were two Weasleys, however, both looking utterly bewildered at the ghostly figure illuminated in the dim light.
âFred Weasley,â she clarified, clearing her throat and making it crystal clear which ginger menace she was after.
George didnât hesitate for a second. He swiftly relieved Fred of the bags he was carrying and scarpered, a look on his face that suggested he either knew exactly what was going on â or at least, would soon understand; Fred would certainly tell him later. [y/n] could have sworn she even saw the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement.
And then George was gone, vanishing with surprising speed, that [y/n] felt hazardous. But Fred, the remaining Weasley, didnât look scared. MoreâŠconfused.
He didnât look guilty, either.
âWell,â he said, voice low and slightly hoarse, like heâd forgotten how to use it. His Adamâs apple bobbed as he swallowed. He took one cautious step in her direction â but there were still a solid five feet between them. A deliberate distance. âI want to hear the joke.â
[y/n], who was still mentally processing Georgeâs Olympic-level retreat, blinked at him.
âGo on,â Fred coaxed. âTell it.â
She didn't actually have a joke thoroughly prepared, not one bit. She was going to have to pull one out of thin air, cobble something together from the chaos in her brain because she refused to look like an idiot.
âAre you my homework?â she asked, miraculously managing to keep her voice steady.
Fred raised a single brow â and not the amused kind.
And suddenly, she couldnât tell what he was thinking. He didnât look amused. He didnât look irritated. Fred just looked tired. Not the kind of tired that came from sneaking around with your twin in the middle of the night â no, this was deeper.
Realising this, she took a deep breath, all hope draining away. Resigned to her fate, she delivered the punchline, ready to turn tail and run:
âBecause I should definitely be doing you.â
But she didnât run.
Couldnât. Not with his eyes on hers like that â fixed and unreadable, and yet⊠He wanted to laugh! Oh, it was written all over him: the way his mouth twitched at the corners, the faint scrunch of his nose, like he was physically restraining the chuckle. And yet â he didnât.
And thatâs what got her. That right there. The rational part.
Why was he being rational?
âWhat?â she asked, blinking, part bewildered, part boiling. âSay something, for Merlinâs sake.â
Still, he said nothing. He looked just as dazed as he had when heâd first spotted her in the corridor.
âBrilliant,â she muttered, a smile curling bitterly at her lips. âLeave me hanging, Weasley. Snog me in the middle of nowhere and then act like it was some shared hallucination.â
She laughed â sharply, dryly â and then, to her horror, kept going. âBetter yet, donât talk to me at all. Iâll do the honours for you, yeah?â She mimicked his voice â that low, cheeky drawl he used in the back of Potions class. âWhat up?â
She took a step toward him. Then another. Neither of them noticed the space between them shrinking â there was too much tension fizzing in the air, humming like a misfired spell.
Fred stuffed his hand into his front pocket â a small, nervous gesture she mightâve missed if she werenât watching him like he held all the answers to her unfinished diary entries.
âIâll tell you whatâs up, Fred Weasley,â she declared, jabbing a finger in his direction with each word like she was reciting a particularly aggressive haiku. âI need to know where we went wrong. Was I just another name on the list? Another laugh between broomsticks?â She inhaled sharply. âIf so, fine. Not ideal, but fine. I can handle that. But if youâre ignoring me becauseââ
Donât say it, her brain whispered.
âBecause Iâm a terrible kisser,â she pushed on, her voice wobbling only a little, âthen just tell me. Honestly. Thatâs all Iâm asking for. I mean, if you were a terrible kisser, Iâd have said something. Kindly, obviously. Maybe even offered a second chance. For improvement purposes.â
She was rambling now, properly spiralling, but she didnât want to dare give him a chance to speak.Â
âIf my kiss didnât set off your fireworks â pun intended â then fine. Iâll resume my day, quietly and gracefully. But, you know, we could keep with the dirty jokes, they are relatively funny, theyâve grown on me â pun not intended â and IâŠâ
She trailed off only when she saw it â the tilt of his eyes, the almost-smile.
It wasnât full-blown, not quite. But it was there, hovering.
Mouth still half-open, [y/n] froze like the sentence hadnât quite finished leaving her lips. She glanced from Fred to the room, as if retracing her steps, searching for something sheâd missed.
âYou talk too much, you know that?â Fred said casually, hand still buried in his pocket.
She frowned. âI didnât use to.â
That earned a real smile from him â quick, unguarded, boyish.
âNo, you didnât,â he agreed. âBut then some genius professor had the bright idea of sitting the quiet ones next to the troublemakers. You know, to âbalance each other outâ.â He chuckled under his breath, gaze flicking away. âSeems it worked.â
âOh, it did,â she shot back. âNow Iâm the one who wonât shut up, and youâre quiet as aââ
âUhm,â his brows perked up. âI think there was a joke in that book about flies.â
âWhat was it like?â she asked curiously, then scolded herself, scowling. âWell, I donât want to know it,â she snapped. âStop deflecting! Are you going to answer any of my actual questions?â
âThey were more like wild guesses,â he said, smirking.
He had that look â smug, maddeningly attractive, and about five seconds from saying something entirely inappropriate.
âStop smiling like that,â she muttered, crossing her arms. âHonestly. Itâs infuriating.â
âIâll be serious then,â he said, drawing in a breath. And he was â all the mischief softened, replaced by something sincere.
âI didnât like kissing you,â he paused. Dramatically. âI loved it.â
She blinked.
âBut then,â he continued, âI got scared. Because the thoughts running through my head â during and after that kiss â were⊠a bit intense. And frankly, theyâd been lurking long before we even kissed. Since the moment you laughed at one of my ridiculous pickup lines, something⊠grew.â
She arched an eyebrow.
âPun very much intended,â he informed, just like she had, before. Then he went on, âThe lust definitely grew â along with, well⊠other things.â
Her eyes widened, and she asked, with a kind of horrified curiosity, âDuring the kiss?â
Fred had the nerve to grin, cheeks turning a shade of pink. âAlso right now.â
âBut weâre fightingâŠâ
He leaned in slightly. âAnd Iâve never seen you look so hot.â
âSeriously?â
âSeriously,â he said, deadpan. âItâs making me want to keep arguing.â
âBut I still donât get it,â she pressed, exasperated. âAnd no, Iâm not dragging this out for vanityâs sake, to keep looking hot. I genuinely hope to understand. If you were so⊠enthusiastic about meââshe waved vaguely toward his trousersââthen why did you ghost me?â
Fred let out a strange sort of laugh â rough and awkward, like it scraped up the back of his throat on the way out. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder, his face softening like he was about to deliver news of a lost pet.
âBecause youâre a virgin,â he said, voice full of tragic respect. He even tilted his head forward a bit, as though observing a moment of silence. âI was trying to be decent. Give you time.â
She stared at his hand. Then at his pitying, chaste little face.
And burst out laughing. Not a giggle â a full-on guffaw that echoed off the stone corridor, wild and unstoppable.
âIâm not aââ she tried, choking on a sob of laughter.
Fred looked wounded.
âIâm not a virgin, you absolute melon,â she wheezed, wiping at her eyes, still grinning like mad.
âButâŠâ his eyebrows crashed together. âYou blush every time I make a more sexual joke.â
âYes, because you say those things in class,â she snapped, still giggling. âWith Professor Flitwick like two feet away.â
âOh,â he said, blinking.
They stood in silence for a moment. [y/n] was catching her breath from laughing so hard, while Fred was⊠well, recovering whatever shred of ego he had left â after all, heâd called her a virgin when she wasnât, and had apparently sworn himself to celibacy for no reason at all.
The castle stayed quiet, but the air had turned colder as the hour crept on.
âSo,â she finally said, relaxing her shoulders, her voice calmer now, almost casual, âwas that kiss of yours the PG version?â
Fred looked at her, head tilted.
âWhat would you have done,â she went on, âif youâd known I wasnât⊠chaste?â
He didnât quite smile, but something flickered in his eyes. Amusement? Memory? Something just shy of dangerous.
âWhy do you want to know?â
She gave a little shrug. âI donât think I hate you anymore. Not now that things are cleared up â the confusion, the vanishing act, the⊠sexual urges.â
âI never explained my sexual urges to you,â he said, frowning slightly.
âOh no?â she asked, dragging one finger in a casual path over his chest, then up his neck. Half-pointing, half-caressing. âSo what was that Chamber of Secrets line about, then?â
He bit back a chuckle. âI donât want to fuck you in the Chamber of Secrets.â
âThat wasnât the line,â she smirked. âYou said you wanted to sneak in and crawl to me.â
âIt wasnât crawling either,â he stepped closer â close enough now that he had to tilt his head all the way down to meet her eyes.
âYou're giving me a hard time, Fred Weasley,â she said, narrowing her eyes playfully. âWhatâs a girl gotta do around here to earn a big reward?â
He exhaled slowly, as if the words had physically affected him.
âI think youâve had enough puns for one night.â
She smiled â slow and wicked.
âOh, but you know what I havenât had enough of yet?â
Fredâs eyes searched hers, scanning for any sign of hesitation. There was none.
The half-light made her look ethereal â like she belonged to this strange hour of the castle, somewhere between dream and trouble. Her lips were parted, breath shallow but certain. Fred brought one hand to her jaw, his thumb brushing over her cheek like he was memorizing the shape of her. Then, slower still, he dipped his head.
The kiss wasnât rushed. It didnât slam into her like the last time, like something impatient. It unfolded. A murmur of heat passed between their lips as they met, warm and unhurried, the kind of kiss that asked, Are you sure? and answered, Yes, I am.
His other hand came to rest on her waist, drawing her into him. She responded with fingers curling into his shirt, tugging slightly â asking for more. Their bodies fell into place as if they'd done this a hundred times before. As if they were always meant to fit this way.
Fred pulled back for a breath, their foreheads touching. He didnât say anything, just looked at her like she was the beginning of a very good secret. And then he kissed her again â deeper this time, more urgent. His hands were moving now, one threading into her hair, the other pressing her closer until there was no air between them, just heat and want and years of almosts.
She gasped against his mouth when he backed her into the cold stone wall, and he laughed softly â not mocking, just amazed.
âI really didnât plan to kiss you against a wall,â he whispered.
She tugged him forward by the collar. âShut up, Weasley.â
They kissed again, and again, the world shrinking to the echo of their breaths in the corridor. She felt his fingertips graze beneath the hem of her shirt, just a brush, not daring more than the skin at her waist. But it made her shiver all the same. And Fred noticed.
âYouâre cold,â he murmured against her lips.
âNo,â she replied. âIâm on fire.â
He smiled, eyes half-lidded. âGood.â
They stayed pressed together like that for a while, as the castle held its breath around them â two people caught between recklessness and reverence, between the thrill of wanting and the sweetness of being wanted back.
Potions, Politics and Physical Education? - Chasing Shadows (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/1538496375-potions-politics-and-physical-education-chasing?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_reading&wp_uname=lucatojamile
Oliver Wood lives and breathes Quidditch. Romance? What's that?
Eighteen years in, and the most exciting thing that's happened is maybe... possibly... kissing someone with glitter on their nose? Yeah, his social life needs a serious overhaul. Enter Flora, a whip-smart Slytherin who's got no time for broomsticks and all the time for... exercise? That's right. But for that, she needs Oliver's help.
When Flora challenges Oliver's single-minded, Quidditch-obsessed world with the shocking revelation that Hogwarts doesn't have P.E. and the outrageous request to become her personal "fitness coach", things get... complicated. Between accidental hand-holding, dorm room parties gone wild, and a simmering tension thicker than treacle tart, Oliver starts to realise that maybe there's more to life than winning the House Cup. But is he ready to trade his broomstick for a chance at real romance? And can a Slytherin and Gryffindor really find love amidst house rivalries and misplaced sports equipment?
Get ready for a hilarious and heartwarming tale of unexpected crushes, terrible dancing, and the discovery that sometimes, the best kind of magic happens off the Quidditch pitch. This is one potion of awkwardness, politics, and physical education that you won't want to miss!
Finding out that Lenore Dove used orange to show her protest and rebellion against the Capitol only for that to be Peeta's favorite color. I am feeling some kind of way about that let me tell you.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 2/4
Fandom: Bridgerton (TV), Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Anthony Bridgerton/Reader, Anthony Bridgerton/You
Characters: Anthony Bridgerton, Eloise Bridgerton, Benedict Bridgerton, Original Characters
Additional Tags: Inspired by Bridgerton (TV), Benedict Bridgerton Being an Idiot
Summary:
Miss y/N is sharp, spirited, and wholly unimpressed with the expectations placed upon her as a young woman of society. With a quick wit and a penchant for mischief, she navigates the season with an air of detachmentâuntil Viscount Anthony Bridgerton steps into her path. He is a man of duty and discipline, carrying the weight of his title with practised charm, yet beneath his composed exterior lies a simmering restlessness that only y/N seems to ignite.
Their encounters are filled with biting humour and an undeniable spark, both of them too cleverâand too stubbornâto admit the pull between them. Add to this the chaos brought on by y/Nâs younger sister, Amaranth, whose youthful innocence and knack for causing trouble threaten to upend every plan y/N makes. Amid whispered secrets, stolen glances, and unspoken truths, the lines between propriety and passion blur.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 2/4
Fandom: Bridgerton (TV), Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Anthony Bridgerton/Reader, Anthony Bridgerton/You
Characters: Anthony Bridgerton, Eloise Bridgerton, Benedict Bridgerton, Original Characters
Additional Tags: Inspired by Bridgerton (TV), Benedict Bridgerton Being an Idiot
Summary:
Miss y/N is sharp, spirited, and wholly unimpressed with the expectations placed upon her as a young woman of society. With a quick wit and a penchant for mischief, she navigates the season with an air of detachmentâuntil Viscount Anthony Bridgerton steps into her path. He is a man of duty and discipline, carrying the weight of his title with practised charm, yet beneath his composed exterior lies a simmering restlessness that only y/N seems to ignite.
Their encounters are filled with biting humour and an undeniable spark, both of them too cleverâand too stubbornâto admit the pull between them. Add to this the chaos brought on by y/Nâs younger sister, Amaranth, whose youthful innocence and knack for causing trouble threaten to upend every plan y/N makes. Amid whispered secrets, stolen glances, and unspoken truths, the lines between propriety and passion blur.
Welcome to the official masterlist for Secrets We Keep! Dive into the journey of [Y/N] Malfoy as she navigates the complexities of family, identity, and unexpected emotions with Fred Weasley.
Chapters
Part One:
(setting the stage, family tension, and first encounters)
Part Two:
(late-night encounters and a stolen kiss)
Part Three:
(tension grows as the distance becomes harder)
Part Four:
(nightmares, a siren, and a destiny to fulfil)
Summary: As [y/n] Malfoy prepares for her arranged marriage, she grapples with her disillusionment and longing for freedom. Fred Weasley haunts her thoughts, and she ultimately escapes the life set for her.
Warning: family drama, mild angst, cursing.
A/N: And here we are, the end of this story. Itâs been a journey filled with both sadness and relief. Writing this was tough, especially with [y/n]âs bittersweet path. I hope some of you found something to connect with, even if itâs dark. Thank you for sticking with me!
PART FOUR
The beginning of planning her arranged marriage came the summer after her seventh year at Hogwarts. [y/n] Malfoy stood in the ornate study of Malfoy Manor, the air thick with the scent of polished wood and old parchment. She turned the first reply card over in her hands, its edges embossed with gold. Thanking them for the invitation, it read, with all the decorum expected from their circle. The white, gilt-edged invitations had already been sentâdate, time, and place meticulously planned by Narcissa, who had a penchant for perfection.
âThe Carrows are a respectable family,â [y/n] muttered under her breath, echoing the words her parents had so often said. Her voice was low, sardonic. âThis union secures alliances and ensures my⊠comfortable life.â
Comfortable. The word tasted bitter, coated in disillusionment. It would undoubtedly be a life of luxury; she did not doubt the Carrows' wealth could rival her own familyâs. But what did comfort mean in the world her parents envisioned? Gilded cages and polished chains.
Her eyes landed on a parchment resting atop the mahogany deskâa letter from Alecto Carrowâs eldest son, her husband-to-be. She had never met him. His handwriting was beautiful, each stroke elegant, the ink gliding across the page as though it carried importance. The words, however, felt hollow: âI am glad to unite our families through you. I have heard a great deal about your refinement and grace.â
She snorted softly. Refinement and grace? Was that all she amounted to in his eyes?
Well, not shockingly, she knew almost nothing of himâhis name only barely etched in her memory. Aiden, or perhaps it was Alec? The family seemed fond of âAâ names, but for all she knew, she might as well have been marrying the patriarch, Alecto himself. The letter continued, a boastful recounting of his horses, estates, and their holdings in Scotland.
[y/n] skimmed the page, her interest waning. A man should write of himself if he hoped to court a woman properly. How tall was he? Athletic or slender? Did he carry himself with dignity or merely posture? Was he cleverâprone to unconventional thoughts and daring solutions? Was he kind or fierce, perhaps fire-hearted enough to intrigue her? What she needed was not a list of properties, but a glimpse of the man behind the name.
Fred Weasleyâa reckless, foolish symbol of rebellion. And look what it had earned her: nothing but a hollow engagement and a life she could barely stomach. Nothing had changed.
âYou are a Malfoy,â Luciusâs voice cut sharply through her thoughts, heavy with authority. âAct like it.â
And so she did. Or, at least, she performed.
The Death Eater meetings were a far cry from the glittering parties of her youth. Held in secret locations, they carried an oppressive air of dark rituals and whispered schemes. As the engagement solidified, [y/n] found herself attending more often. As a woman among men, she was dismissed as an accessoryâa passive observer left to linger in shadowed corners or in the kitchens of the grand houses that hosted these gatherings.
She loathed every second. The words exchanged were laced with cruelty and bloodlust, ambition tainted by the iron tang of violence. In those moments, she felt like an intruder in a world where morality had been strangled. Yet, she could not leave. Not without consequence.
Her introduction to her betrothed came at one such meeting. The parlour was steeped in tradition, its atmosphere stifling with expectations. She wore her finest robes, their emerald sheen catching the dim light as she extended her hand. She almost faltered when introduced, realizing she had barely committed his first name to memory. Was it Aiden, Alec, or perhaps another forgettable 'A'? The realization brought a faint blush of irritation to her cheeks, but she masked it swiftly, her polished exterior remaining intact.
âItâs a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Mr. Aiden,â she said, her voice polished and detached.
âThe pleasure is mine, Miss [y/n],â he replied, brushing a chaste kiss against her knuckles. His touch was impersonal, his gaze measured. A performance, like hers.
She held back a sigh. What was this, 1878? She half-expected him to recite poetry while fanning himself with a handkerchief. Every word exchanged felt rehearsed, devoid of any genuine curiosity or intent to connect. He seemed as uninterested in knowing her as she was in him, their interaction a hollow charade orchestrated by their parents. She still didnât know the man before her, and he had done nothing to change that.
All of it felt like a relic of another age, a carefully choreographed performance where neither party could deviate from the script. The whole evening felt less like her life and more like a contract being signed on her behalf, one inked with duty and sealed with tradition. And yet, she entertained a sliver of hope. Perhaps their closeness in ageâa mere four yearsâmight bridge the gap. Perhaps he would turn out to be interesting, a distraction from the thoughts of another boy with fire in his heart.
Her motherâs subtle gestures through the eveningâa gentle touch on her arm, a fleeting glanceâwere meant to reassure her. Instead, they felt like chains tightening with every breath.
The final straw came at the dress fitting. The shop was a cathedral of decadence, its silk-draped walls and crystal chandeliers casting a warm glow over racks of gowns. Madam Yvette, a master seamstress, fluttered around [y/n] like a diligent bird, pinning, measuring, adjusting.
When she finally stood before the mirror, she gasped. The dress was a marvel, its white silk threaded with silver and encrusted with tiny, sparkling gems. It clung to her frame like a dream, each movement casting ripples of light. It was everything a bride could desire.
She desired it.
She hated how much she loved it. The gown was a masterpiece, a testament to wealth and artistry. Yet, staring at her reflection, she felt like one of the porcelain dolls from her childhoodâbeautiful, fragile, and utterly lifeless.
There was a need to loathe it. To make the dress a symbol of her rebellion, a thing she could despise as easily as the life it represented. But it was perfect, and that perfection mocked her. This was no rebellion. It was surrender.
That night, beneath the pale light of an enchanted candle, [y/n] made her decision. It was not a sudden resolve, but one that had been growing, coiling tighter with every restrictive expectation placed upon her. She packed quietly, methodically, her movements almost reverent. Into the small trunk went a few priceless robes and pieces of jewelleryânot as tokens of sentimentality, but as a means of survival, a safeguard for a life she had yet to imagine.
Her fingers brushed against the cool metal of a silver bracelet Narcissa had gifted her years ago. It was delicate, intricate, and entirely impractical. She hesitated, her hand hovering before snapping the trunk shut. Her motherâs face rose unbidden in her mind, not cruel, but weary, burdened by her own sacrifices. There was love there, but it was a conditional loveâbound by family legacy, by bloodlines and obedience. Sentimentality was a luxury she could not afford, and so she left it behind.
Where could she go? The question loomed, heavy and unrelenting. Not to any wizarding family, not even to a distant cousin. Her parentsâ reach would be too great, their eyes everywhere. She needed a place that would not just hide her but make her invisible, unworthy of pursuit. A world so mundane it bordered on offensive.
[y/n] could see it in her mindâs eyeâeverything her parents despised, everything they deemed beneath them. And that was precisely why they would never look for her there.
Her decision made, she approached the gates of Malfoy Manor. The iron bars, etched with serpents, seemed almost alive in the moonlight, their coiled bodies gleaming as though watching her, judging her. Her hand trembled as she gripped her wand, drawing in a steadying breath. The house loomed behind her, a fortress of memories both bitter and sweet. A place that had shaped her, bound her, and now sought to consume her.
With one last glance, she disappeared. The crack of magic echoed faintly in the still night, leaving the grounds of Malfoy Manor silent and emptier than ever.
FIVE YEARS LATER
Funny how time changed the meaning of a word. Comfort. It had been a foreign concept onceâsomething she scoffed at, even fearedâbut now, it fit snugly around her life, like an old jumper. The Muggle world, of all places, had become her sanctuary. A strange thought, given its lack of magic, but perhaps that was why it worked.
[y/n] Malfoyâthough sheâd long since shed that infamous surnameâhad carved a niche for herself among the oblivious. She moved smartly and swiftly, carefully constructing a life that Muggles wouldnât think to question. To them, she was just another ambitious young woman with a knack for getting things done. If they ever wondered why her productivity seemed superhuman, well, they didnât wonder for long. Humans, sheâd learned, preferred explanations that fit their neat, non-magical world.
Factories, offices, anywhere requiring efficiencyâshe conquered them all. While others struggled through tedious tasks, she worked quietly, subtly enhancing her efforts with spells too delicate for even a squib to detect. Within two years, sheâd climbed to the top of her field, her desk now buried under contracts, cheques, and invitations from Muggle elites. The money poured in faster than she could spend it, not that she cared much for the luxuries it offered. A second flat in one of Londonâs poshest postcodes? Sure, why not.
Her heart, if she allowed herself to examine it, still belonged to the Wizarding World. But that life was closed to her now, and perhaps it was better that way. Sheâd caught whispers of how things had unfolded after the war. Malfoyâthe name sheâd once worn like armourâwas now more curse than legacy. Her brother had slipped back into the familyâs fading business; her father had disappeared entirely, becoming little more than a shadow haunting whispers in darkened rooms. The family had been shunned, tolerated at best. Good.
She thought of them rarely, their faces blurred by distance and time, but she liked knowing that the world had sided with the good and the brave. Harry Potter. Hermione Granger. The ones who stood up and stood firm. For once, she could admire them without bitterness.
Her own exile was self-imposed, but necessary. The Wizarding World had become too tangled with pain and shame. Better to focus on the Human World, with its predictable rules and simple ambitions. Her life here was steady and controlled, though sometimes, late at night in her quiet flat, she caught herself wondering.
Would they even recognize her now? The girl she had been, the choices she had madeâthey felt like they belonged to someone else. Here, she was no one special, and yet, that was freeing in a way she hadnât expected. Still, no matter how far she moved from the magic, it always lingered, a soft hum in the back of her mind.
But life in the Muggle world wasnât entirely solitary. Over time, [Y/N] had made a few friends at her office, a small but lively group of young women who had welcomed her into their fold. They were sharp, driven, and wonderfully uncomplicated. They cared about promotions, weekend plans, and the latest trends, but never about where sheâd come from or why her accent carried the faint trace of an old-world upbringing.
To them, she was just [Y/N]âquirky, a little guarded, but always reliable in a crisis. They called her the âoffice wizard,â a nickname she laughed at far harder than she should have, and often dragged her to after-work drinks at pubs where the music was too loud and the lights too dim. She found herself appreciating their company more than sheâd expected.
They didnât ask questions she couldnât answer, didnât pry into a past she would rather not share. Sometimes, as they swapped stories over pints, she marvelled at their ease, at the way they seemed to carry their lives so lightly. When the inevitable topic of relationships came up, as it always did, she listened quietly, smiling in all the right places but contributing little.
It was inevitable, of course, that someone would notice.
âAlright, Miss Mysterious,â teased Clara, a vivacious blonde from accounting, one Friday evening as they sat crammed into a booth. âYouâre always so quiet when we talk about boys. Come on, spill. How many guys have you dated?â
[Y/N] froze for a split second, her hand tightening around her glass. She should have seen this coming. She could lie, of course, craft some plausible story to satisfy their curiosity, but she hated lying to them. These were good peopleâMuggles, yes, but kind ones.
âNot many,â she admitted with a shrug, trying to sound nonchalant. âIâve been⊠focused on work.â
Ah, the classic dodge. Clara raised an eyebrow, and the other women exchanged knowing glances, but mercifully, they let it drop. The conversation flowed back to safer territoryâClaraâs latest Tinder misadventures and the office internâs questionable taste in trousers.
[Y/N] sipped her drink, grateful for the reprieve, but her mind had already wandered, unbidden, to the one boy she couldnât seem to forget.
Fred Weasley.
She could still see his cheeky grin, the way he made light of everything, even when the world had been crumbling around them. The memory of him had softened with time, but it hadnât faded. And then there was the kiss.
She still remembered it; his hands cupping her face, his lips warm and insistent against hers. For that fleeting moment that she had let herself respond, her guard dropping entirely. And then, as if on instinct, she had ruined it. Sheâd pulled away, stammering something incoherent, her walls slamming back into place. Fred had looked at her thenâsurprised, confused, and just a little hurt.
The memory still haunted her, no matter how much she tried to bury it.
She knew very little about what had become of him after the war. He was aliveâthat much she knew, though for a while, even that had been uncertain. He worked with his brother in a shop she barely understood, something to do with jokes. That was all she allowed herself to gather, never daring to dig deeper.
And yet, the name Weasleyâhis nameâremained stubbornly lodged in her thoughts.
It should have meant nothing to her by now. It should have been nothing more than a relic of a life sheâd left behind.
So why wasnât it?
TWO MONTHS LATER
Damn Clara and her Muggle curiosity.
It was eight a.m. [Y/N] should already be in her glass-walled office on the seventh floor of one of Londonâs most prestigious buildings. She should be there, sipping coffee and reviewing contracts. She wasnât.
Instead, she stood in front of a shop whose garish facade practically shouted for attention. Vibrant reds and oranges painted its tall walls, while enchanted displays in the windows whirred, spun, and sparkled with an almost irritating glee. Occasionally, one of the joke items would roll or float to the glass as though inspecting her. Each time, her sharp, impatient glare seemed to say, Yes, Iâm still here. Now open already.
Above it all, a bold, playful sign declared: Weasleysâ Wizard Wheezes.
It was past eight a.m., and the shop showed no signs of opening anytime soon. That should have been her cue to leave. You do not belong in Diagon Alley any more, a small, sharp voice in her head reminded her.
Maybe it was right. She didnât belongânot any more. Her dyed brownish hair might fool the casual observer, but the telltale silver-blond roots gave her away, a reminder of the family she had tried so hard to leave behind. No amount of Muggle integration could erase the threads of her Malfoy past; they clung to her like cobwebs, woven into her very identity.
Even her appearance gave her away. She had dressed with what she thought was a flair for eccentricityâa calculated blend of high fashion and Wizarding nostalgia. Her knee-high designer boots gleamed under her long, luxurious black fur-lined coat, both costly and ostentatious. Sheâd imagined herself blending in effortlessly, perhaps even standing out in a way that would make her look authentically at home. But no, she realized now, sheâd got it wrong. The bustling streets of Diagon Alley, alive with the warmth of fresh-brewed coffee and the hum of early morning commerce, seemed to whisper to her as if the cobblestones themselves carried a message, âWe see you, Little Malfoy.â
And she was certain they did. Witches and wizards passing by spared her sidelong glances, quick and furtive, as if confirming what they thought they recognized but dared not voice aloud. Perhaps a chatty house-elf had already darted off to Malfoy Manor to announce her return.
And yet, here she stood, waiting.
Waiting for what, exactly? A confrontation? An explanation? Or simply a distraction from the restless questions plaguing her mind ever since Clara had barged into her office yesterday, looking pale and uneasy.
âAre you alright, Clara?â [Y/N] had asked, raising an eyebrow at her normally unflappable friend.
Clara hesitated, biting her lip. âYou told me about that boy from your⊠younger years, didnât you? The red-haired one?â
[Y/N] stiffened but nodded cautiously. âFred?â
âI think⊠I think I saw him in my dream last night,â Clara said, her tone unsure. âIâm not much of a dreamer, really, but this felt⊠strange.â
That had caught [Y/N]âs attention. âGo on.â
Clara fidgeted, her unease growing. âHe asked about you. Called you a coward, if I remember right. It wasâwell, creepy, honestly. Iâve never met him. I donât even know what he looks like. Not only that, but I only know one ginger person, my cousin Elena. This wasnât her. He was tall with broad shoulders.â
The description hit [Y/N] like a Bludger to the chest. That was Fred. It couldnât be anyone else.
For hours afterward, Claraâs words had replayed in her mind, feeding a gnawing unease. It was one thing for her dreams to be haunted by Fred Weasleyâthat she could accept. He was a ghost from her past, after all, a lingering shadow of what could never be. But Clara? A Muggle who had never set foot in the Wizarding World?
It wasnât normal.
It had to be Fredâs doing. Or something tied to him. And so, despite every instinct telling her to turn back, [Y/N] had Apparated to Diagon Alley at dawn, standing in the shadow of Weasleysâ Wizard Wheezes as if the answers she sought might come tumbling out with the dayâs first customers.
But the shop remained stubbornly closed.
âTypical,â she muttered under her breath, glowering at the enchanted shopfront. Her fingers curled into fists inside her coat pockets, knuckles pressing against her wand. She could almost imagine him inside, laughing at her expense.
After everything it had taken her to get hereâalright, so Apparating wasnât that hard, but the thought of doing it again after so long had been dauntingâshe wasnât about to turn tail and leave. If Fred wanted to keep avoiding her, well then, fine. Sheâd be the one to show up in his dreams next time, calling him a coward. That thought was satisfying enough to momentarily soften her scowl.
Still, she couldnât shake the frustration simmering under her skin. She glanced around Diagon Alley, careful to avoid meeting the curious gazes of passers-by. Every other business was already up and running, their doors open, their owners busy tending to customers. But Weasleysâ Wizard Wheezes? Quiet as the grave.
Her eyes roamed the buildingâs vibrant facade, taking in the rotating joke items in the windows that almost seemed to mock her. Then her gaze snagged on something sheâd nearly missed: a side entrance, discreet but not entirely hidden. It didnât lead into the shop itselfâthat much was clearâbut to a narrow staircase ascending to what had to be the flats above.
âBingo,â she murmured to herself, the corners of her mouth twitching upward in satisfaction. Of course, Fred and George would live above their shop. That was obvious now. And why wouldnât they? The arrangement was practical, convenient, and knowing them, probably a little chaotic. She herself might have done the same if her office building had been zoned for residential living.
Her eyes narrowed at the staircase. If Fred wouldnât come to her, then maybe sheâd just have to go to him.
The first doorâthe one leading to the staircaseâwas conveniently ajar. She hesitated for a moment, her mind wandering to wizarding security measures she might have forgotten. Surely, the Weasleys had something in place? But then again, in the Muggle world, all you needed were keys and staff. Simpler times, simpler problems.
The staircase ahead was steep, the narrow space cramped and dimly lit. She glanced at the steps as she ascended, her thoughts wandering idly. How did anyone carry furniture up here? She wondered, picturing Fred or George wrestling with a sofa on these stairs.
Oh, right. Magic.
The realization was immediate, and she caught herself smirking at her own forgetfulness. It was strange, almost comforting, how much her thinking had shifted to match the Muggle world. Keys instead of charms, staff instead of wardsâit felt⊠simpler.
At the top of the stairs, the passage opened into a narrow corridor with four doors, two on each side. She paused, scanning them curiously. So the twins shared their building with three other flats. Interesting. Why she found this detail intriguing, she couldnât say, but she filed it away in her mind nonetheless.
The real question, however, was which door led to Fredâs flat. She could knock, of courseâwork her way down the line, one by oneâbut the thought made her stomach twist with self-consciousness. What if she was mistaken? What if she interrupted someone she would rather not see?
Her gaze lingered on the nearest door, but her imagination had already run off. It wasnât just strangers who might answer, but ghosts of her past, familiar faces she hadnât seen in years. Fred wasnât the only Gryffindor she remembered vividly. Could Angelina Johnson live here? Lee Jordan? Oliver Wood?
Her pulse quickened, and not in a good way. She had no idea where any of them were now, no sense of their lives post-war. Would they recognize her? Would they even want to? For all she knew, these doors could open to a past she wasnât ready to face, filled with memories of Quidditch captains and old rivalries she had tried to leave behind.
And here she was, almost a CEOâpractically guaranteed to inherit the title once her boss retiredâand she was hesitating like a schoolgirl afraid to get caught out of bounds. How absurd.
Ultimately, she chose to embrace the absurdity. Letting out a frustrated sigh, she leaned against the wall closest to the stairs, her knees buckling as she slid down to sit. She drew her legs up close to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, and let her gaze wander down the hallway of doors. Eventually, Fredâor Georgeâwould have to leave the flat.
A question nagged at the back of her mind, one that she hadnât thought about until now. Could she still tell Fred apart from George?
Shaking her head and trying to let that for later, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her wand, the one she hadnât touched in years. The familiar wood felt cool beneath her fingers as she absent-mindedly ran her hand along its length. It had been so long since sheâd used it, tucked away in the back of her wardrobe like some forgotten relic.
In the human world, she'd built a life from the ground upâmoney, prestige, luxuries she never wanted to give up onâand the wand now felt as useless to her as a pair of glasses without a prescription. It was a piece of her past, a reminder of the world she had left behind. And yet, here it was in her hands, as if to remind her that no matter how much sheâd changed, some parts of her would always remain.
âBlimey! Is that [y/n] Malfoy?â
The voice came out strong, firm, with a hint of surpriseâdefinitely not accusatory or worried, but it certainly had her attention. It wasnât one she was expecting to hear.
She blinked and slowly looked up from her wand, her knees relaxing as she processed the words. Ron Weasley? Her heart gave a small, unexpected lurch. It was him.
She hadnât seen Ron in years, but as her eyes took him in, it hit her: he was no longer the whiny, awkward redhead sheâd remembered from their school days. He was taller now, solidly built, with the familiar red hair still untamed but now paired with a more confident air. He stood in front of her, his broad shoulders practically filling the doorway, casting a shadow that made her feel smaller than she already was.
Ron was leaving one of the flatsâthe second one on the rightâand just behind him, another familiar ginger was emerging. As Ron stepped aside, making room to pass, [y/n] realized with a jolt that it could only be one of the twins. With a key in hand, Fredâ[y/n] could feel the certainty in her gut that it was him, not Georgeâpeered over Ronâs broad shoulders, his gaze searching.
Fred glanced over Ronâs shoulder, and his expression shifted instantly. What had begun as mild confusion deepened into a quiet, almost disappointed suspicion when his eyes landed on her.
âHello, Ronnie,â [y/n] ventured with a smile that felt a little too sweet, too forced, as if she were trying to hide the confusion swirling inside her. Why was she even here again?
From Ronâs reaction, she couldnât help but think that he had probably greeted everyone with that same warm, almost automatic smile since the war. It seemed genuine enough, but [y/n] suspected it wasnât really for her. It was that unspoken relief that everyone whoâd survived sharedâthe one where you were thankful to be alive, even if some of you came from families with blood-stained histories.
Despite that, [y/n] returned his smile, this time with more sincerity. After spending so much time in the mundane, human world, genuine smiles had become easierâno longer the practised, photogenic grins she once wore for show.
As Ron stepped closer, Fred Weasley took his time, carefully locking the front door to his flat. He turned his back to both Ron and [y/n], choosing to focus on his simple task, seemingly unwilling to acknowledge the ghost of his past standing just a few feet away.
[y/n] straightened herself, trying to play it cool, and Ron kindly offered a hand to help her up.
âThanks,â she smiled again, feeling a twinge of embarrassment as she brushed off some imaginary dust from her clothes, now that she was upright.
âItâs good to see you,â Ron said, his voice suddenly thick with emotion. âI donât even remember the last time we saw each other. Was it at Hogwarts⊠in that damn battle?â he asked, uncertain, with a faint of hardship creeping into his words.
She could lie. She could say yes, tell him sheâd been right there beside him in the thick of the fight, bravely standing her ground. But she didnât.
âNo, I think you saw me last at my graduation,â [y/n] answered honestly.
âOh!â Ronâs face lit up. âThe one Fred and George didnât get.â
[y/n] couldnât help but grin at the memory. In another lifeâone where she wasnât standing here like an uninvited ghostâFred would have laughed and given Ron a light thump on the back of the head. But not today. Not with her in the picture.
Instead, Fred stood there, silent, his gaze flicking between the two of them. His brow furrowed, and he arched an eyebrow. The expression wasnât for Ronâit was for her. And it asked the unspoken question: âWhat on earth are you doing here?â
Or perhaps it was more like: âWhat the bloody hell do you want?â
[y/n] couldnât decide. Either way, it didnât seem good.
She quickly slipped her wand back into her coat pocket, where it seemed safer than being out in the open, and left her hand there, just in case it would prevent her from doing something foolish. She was already feeling the stirrings of anger, both Fredâs and hers, and it was only a matter of time before things escalated.
âSo, what brings you here?â Ron asked, saving Fred the trouble. The younger brother suddenly realized that it made no sense to find the Malfoy girl (Malfoy woman now, letâs respect her age) on Fredâs doorstep.
Or did it make sense?
As [y/n] cleared her throat, Fred's gaze sharpened, narrowing into something that could only be described as curiously bitter. Meanwhile, Ron, bless him, took a step back, looking anywhere but at her, his lips twitching into a mischievous grin of his. Clearly, heâd misread the situation entirely. Ron had a knack for romance ever since Hermione presented him to the genre.
âI need to talk to your brother, Ron,â [y/n] explained, her voice firm as she addressed the younger Weasley, though her eyes remained firmly fixed on the older ginger. She couldnât help but notice, with a faint feeling of surprise, that Ron was, in fact, taller than Fred.
That wasnât to say Fred was ugly. Quite the opposite. Far from it. Time had only been kind to Fred Weasley. In fact, time had given him that rugged charm that many men only dreamt ofâbroad shoulders, a jawline that seemed sculpted by a particularly talented artist, and eyes that could make even the hardest of hearts pause.
And then there was the hair. Oh, the hair. At twenty-twoâor was it twenty-three? [y/n] never bothered to ask his birthday, but it didnât matterâFred had something most men his age would envy. Hair. Proper hair. Thick, straight, and voluminous, with a sheen that made [y/n] momentarily question the state of her locks. It looked as if it had been kissed by a thousand golden suns, and God help her, she could still remember how it felt to run her fingers through itâsoft as silk, far too soft for someone who was so damn irritating.
What had initially seemed like disinterestâno, scratch that, angerâsuddenly morphed into a more subtle form of curiosity on Fred Weasleyâs face.
Ron grinned awkwardly. âWell, Iâll leave you two to it. I think Iâll head over to the shop now, if thatâs alright with you, Fred?â
Fred didnât bother to respond verbally, merely offering a nod that lacked any real enthusiasm. He was still too busy trying to process why [y/n] was standing in his doorway with all the poise of a person who had every right to be there, when he had been certain heâd left herâand her familyâfar behind.
âDo you open at nine?â [y/n] asked suddenly, her voice light, the question easing the tension in her muscles. âWho opens at nine?â she almost laughed.
âItâs my shop,â Fred snapped back, his tone rougher than heâd intended. âI open whenever I want.â
[y/n] straightened her back, feeling her sharp words come back with more force than she'd anticipated. âWell, you're losing money, then,â she remarked, as naturally rude as any Malfoy could be. It was in the blood, really. Besides, the Muggle world had taught her a thing or two about businessâand how to make a proper profit.
Fred blinked, momentarily stunned. âDo you want me to show you my income statement?â he retorted, genuinely flabbergasted by her cheek. And there it wasâFred was rolling in it now, with a business that could make even the tightest of Gringotts goblins envious.
âThereâs no need,â she replied nonchalantly, eyes fixed on him as though they were discussing the weather.
At this point, Ron, who had been lingering, cleared his throat awkwardly.
âInvite her in,â he suggested helpfully. âOffer her the tea I just made. It should still be warm.â
Fred attempted to summon a comet to smite his brotherâs headâunsuccessfully, given his wandless ineptitude. Ron left, down the stairs with easiness.
The ginger that stayed sighed, gestured at the door with all the staged grace, and rolled his eyes. âFine, come on in, then. Canât have you standing out here, with all the neighbours, one step from seeing you.â
Rude, she thought, but waited for the door to be open again and walked in.
The door swung shut behind her with a soft click, sealing her fate. It was, of course, quiet inside. Where was George? She wondered. The flat was a little too cosy, although it was as if two grown men had perfected the art of cramming chaos into every nook. It was classic Weasley: part 'creative charm,' part 'why bother?' with a smattering of 'itâll do' thrown in for good measure. The space was cluttered with various items, mismatched furniture, andâstrangely enoughâseveral unclaimed joke products scattered about like forgotten experiments. A few odd contraptions blinked softly in the corners, their flashing lights flickering like distant stars.
There was also the smell that hung. The green tea was sharp and familiar, a good morning choice, but beneath it lingered something distinctly masculineâwarm, like well-worn wood, a trace of shaving cream, and the faint, spicy note of what [y/n] supposed was Fredâs cologne, which seemed as roguish as its owner.
[y/n] turned to find Fred in the kitchenâa narrow, galley-style space that somehow managed to be both cramped and charming. The marble counter separating it from the living room was a surprising touch of elegance, though slightly marred by scorch marks and stray stains. Fred was heeding Ronâs advice, fussing with the tea kettle as though brewing it required profound wizarding expertise. Spotting two tall, battered stools nearby, she perched on one, the wood creaking in protest. Fred didnât join her. Instead, he slid the cup across the counter with controlled ease, before leaning casually against the counter with the sink.
âTo what do I owe the honour of hearing your voice again?â he asked, casually annoyed.
âTo yourself, I suppose,â [Y/N] replied crisply, lifting her teacup with a deliberate air of disinterest. The cup's delicate edge pressed against her lips, muffling what she muttered next. âI wouldnât have come if you hadnât tormented me.â
Fredâs brows shot up, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. âI torment you?â he repeated, mock incredulity dripping from his words. âBlimey, I donât see how, but somehow Iâm proud of myself. AlthoughâŠâ He trailed off, adopting an exaggeratedly thoughtful pose. âI suspect, somehow, itâs all your fault.â
The look she shot himâarched eyebrow, narrowed eyesâspoke volumes. It was a âdonât-you-dareâ glare so potent it could have stopped an army of garden gnomes mid-chaos. Fred held up his hands in mock surrender.
âOr,â he added quickly, a trace of nervousness slipping into his tone, âyour unconsciousâs fault, maybe?â
âI donât see how,â she said evenly, her voice carrying the same clipped, deliberate cadence heâd just used.
His grin broadened.
âNow, Malfoy,â he teased, dragging her surname out as though it were the punchline to a private joke, âitâs not my fault youâre still losing sleep over a teenage fling. Over a little peck.â
Her teacup clinked loudly as she set it down, the sound slicing through the air. A little peck? Her fingers tightened slightly on the tableâs edge, her posture straightening. He couldnât still be a lunatic, could he? Surely, heâd grown up, matured, learned to let bygones be bygones. Apparently not.
Two paths stretched before her, like diverging trails in the Forbidden Forest: she could bite back, dragging him through the truth of their not-so-innocent historyâa truth they both remembered all too wellâor she could stay the course, pressing her accusation that he had been invading her dreams with magic.
The âwhat ifsâ always stung sharper than the âso it was.â
âFred,â she said at last, her voice measured, a sigh lacing her words, âI wonât get into this petty squabble with you.â She paused, collecting her thoughts, before fixing him with a steady look. âI only came here because you had the nerve to pick on a Muggleâan innocent person.â
Fredâs smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine confusion. âA Muggle?â he echoed, straightening slightly.
âYes,â she pressed on, her tone sharp. âI wouldnât be here if your little haunted nightmare game involved just me. But tormenting Clara? Thatâs low, even for you.â
The confusion on Fredâs face deepened. âClara?â he repeated, as though the name was foreign to him.
[Y/N] crossed her arms, frustration bubbling just beneath her composed exterior. âSheâs my friend,â she said pointedly, watching his reaction carefully.
Fredâs head tilted slightly, his expression now hovering somewhere between perplexed and intrigued. âAnd⊠sheâs been having nightmares about me?â he asked slowly, the faintest hint of a grin tugging at his lips again.
[Y/N] didnât answer immediately, her jaw tightening as she debated her next words. âShe dreamt of you,â she admitted, her tone clipped. âBut thatâs not the point. The point isâŠâ Her voice wavered for a fraction of a second, betraying the frustration she was trying to mask. âIf this is your doing, youâve crossed a line.â
For a moment, Fred simply stared at her, his usual swagger replaced with something closer to disbelief. And then, much to her irritation, he laughedâa low, warm sound that filled the space between them.
âMalfoy,â he said, shaking his head as his laughter subsided, âyou think Iâm invading peopleâs dreams now? What do you reckon I amâa rogue boggart with a wand?â
Her glare didnât waver. âDonât play dumb,â she snapped, though she wasnât entirely sure he was playing. âYouâre capable of far more than you let on.â
Fredâs grin returned in full force, his confidence clearly undented. âWell,â he said, pushing off the counter and leaning toward her slightly, âif Iâm such a menace, then youâre just going to have to teach me a lesson, arenât you?â
[Y/N] narrowed her eyes, biting back the retort that rose instinctively to her lips. Instead, she took another deliberate sip of her tea, the porcelain cool against her fingertips. If she wasnât careful, this conversation would spiral completely out of her control. It was Fred, after allâand if there was one thing he excelled at, it was pulling strings until the entire tapestry unravelled.
âFor Godâs sake, you're still annoyingly incapable of seeing things, arenât you?â [Y/N] exclaimed, frustration edging her voice. âIâm not going to curse you. I want my peaceâand Claraâsâback. Just tell me youâll fix this, and Iâll leave. Go back to my life.â
ââFor Godâs sakeâ and friends with a Muggle? What happened to you, Malfoy?â Fred mocked, a laugh bubbling up. âTurned into a squib?â
âI wish I was,â she muttered, no longer bothering to mask the exhaustion in her voice. âThen at least these nightmares would stop.â She glanced up at him, no longer caring about his ridicule. âYou know magic, Fred. You know how it works. Itâs more about emotion than the fancy incantations.â
âYes,â Fred tilted his head slightly, âand so what?â
âSo,â she pressed, âwe need the goodbye we never got. I donât want to be here, I donât want your goodbye, and Iâm pretty sure you donât want mine, either. But a part of us does, and until we get that, these dreams⊠they wonât stop.â
For a moment, silence fell. [Y/N] felt her heart race. She wasnât sure how much more of this she could take, but the truth was now hanging between them like an electric charge.
Her voice softened, the usual sharp edge gone. She looked at him, the boy who once held her while she cried in the dead of night in the hallway outside Dumbledoreâs office. âTell me you havenât been dreaming too, and Iâll walk away. Tell me I didnât show up in your dreams and turn them into nightmares, and Iâll go away. Iâll claim to the world that Iâm the emotionally immature one, that I couldnât get over you. Go ahead, tell me that.â
Fred opened his mouth as if to speak, but the words got stuck. For a split second, his ever-present smirk faltered. The silence stretched, and [Y/N] knewâknewâhe wouldnât be able to say it.
âI knew it!â [y/n] hissed triumphantly, pointing an accusatory finger at him as if she were a Ministry prosecutor about to win a case. âYou have been dreaming about me.â
Fred let out a dry, hollow laugh and scrubbed a hand over his face, dragging his palm down to his chin as if physically bracing himself. âBloody hell, Malfoy,â he muttered, a mix of disbelief and exasperation. âYouâre really not going to let this go, are you?â
âNo,â she snapped, her arms crossing defensively over her chest. âAnd donât act like this is my fault. I didnât invite myself into your dreamsâyou did. Or your subconscious did. Frankly, this emotional magic is a bloody difficult one to cast, since it even involved a Muggle.â
Fred tilted his head back against the counter, eyes briefly closing as if seeking divine patience. âItâs not like I can help what we dream about, can I? Merlin knows I wouldnât choose you as my nightly torment.â He glanced at her then, a spark of familiar mischief lighting up his gaze despite his irritation. âUnless youâre saying Iâm just that irresistible?â
She groaned, dragging her hands down her face. âDonât you get it? I donât want to haunt youââ
âFunny,â he interrupted, a smirk tugging at his lips. âYouâre doing a smashing job of it in real life right now.â
âFred,â she breathed, and this time, it wasnât a sharp rebuke. Her voice held a weariness, like the weight of everything between them had finally caught up to her. Fred stilled, his usual bravado faltering. There was something unnervingly raw about her tone. Something unguarded.
The room felt smaller suddenly, and the world outside quieter.
She sighed deeply, almost to herself, her gaze flicking briefly to the cup of tea she still held. âThey were right, you know,â she said softly, as though admitting a secret sheâd kept hidden for years. âItâs all about the âwhat ifs.ââ
Fred didnât reply, his brows knitting in faint confusion as he watched her. She continued, her gaze flickering from him to the cup of tea she still held, as though she couldnât quite meet his eyes. âI tried to forget everything after the Hogwarts. I left it all behindâmy name, my family, and, eventually, the magic. I thought⊠if I acted like none of it happened, maybe it wouldnât matter. Perhaps you wouldnât matter.â
She paused and forced herself to look up, her eyes locking onto his. âBut it didnât work. Youâre still there, Fred Weasley, haunting me like some poorly written Victorian ghost.â
Fred blinked, momentarily taken aback by the weight of her words. It wasnât often someone accused him of being anything besides a pain in the arse, let alone something important. He recovered quickly, though, because Fred Weasley was nothing if not annoyingly quick on his feet.
âPoorly written ghost?â he echoed, leaning forward with a mock-offended expression. âIâll have you know Iâm the stuff of literary genius. Dickens himself would weep at the sheer brilliance of me.â
âFredââ she started, but he didnât let her finish.
âOr Shakespeare,â he added with a smug grin. âCanât you see it? âO Fred, Fred! Wherefore art thou, Fred?â Itâs tragic, really. Doomed romance and all that.â
Her lips twitched, but she bit down hard to smother any sign of a smile. âIâm serious.â
âSo am I,â he shot back cheekily, though something softened behind his jest. He held her gaze, and for once, there wasnât a trace of mockery there. âItâs the âwhat if,â isnât it? Our âwhat if.â What are we supposed to do with it? Because, damn it, Malfoy, itâs usâhaunting and being haunted.â
SAME DAY, ONE MINUTE LATER
Oh, her silence spoke volumes.
That Thursday had shaped up to be a day of surprisesânone of them pleasant. First, Ron had barged into the flat at seven in the morning, a time when Fred was still blissfully asleep, just to offer him company (completely unnecessary) and tea (completely uninteresting). George had been off gallivanting around the world for two years now, putting, for the first time in their lives, a real, tangible distance between the twins.
The war had changed everything. During the final battle against the Dark Lord, Fred had been badly injured when a wall collapsed on him. By some miracle, the healing magic of those around him had been enough to stabilize his life force, but the full recovery came slowly, over a week of unconsciousness in the hospital wing.
It was a hard blow for all the Weasleys, but George had taken it the hardest. Fred and George werenât just twins; they were one soul divided in two, and when Fred was nearly lost, George had felt like he was adrift on a sea without a shore. For a week, he couldnât breathe, couldnât focus. It was as if half of him had vanished. The months that followed were a blur of worry and exhaustion, as George poured all his energy into caring for Fred. But slowly, he realized something: his obsessive behaviour wasnât healthy. It wasnât just fearâit was a fear of losing the very thing that made him who he was. Without Fred, George didnât know who he was any more. And that was terrifying.
When the dust settled and the shop was up and running again, George had asked Fred for some time aloneâto figure out who he was without being defined by âFred and George.â Fred, ever the understanding twin, had agreed. He knew that, in part, he felt the same. Sure, he had been unconscious and had no idea of the emotional chaos around him, but he also knew that just as George was lost, so was he. He had never known who he was beyond being the other half of a pair. Who was Fred without George? It was a question that gnawed at him.
In the first year of Georgeâs travels, everything had felt relatively surreal. The letters, messages, and photos kept coming, keeping the illusion of his brother being close, even though he wasnât. It was easy to forget that George wasnât his neighbour next door.
But recently, that comfort had started to fade. The letters had become less frequent, and when they did arrive, they were filled with long paragraphs about George discovering a passion for painting and his ever-expanding collection of international relationships. Meanwhile, Fred was still stuck in the same placeâdiscovering nothing beyond the shop and his role in it.
It hadnât been a shock when the nightmares had started, three months ago. They were relentless. [Y/N]âhis siren, his tormentorâappeared in his dreams, calling to him, luring him in with the promise of something more, and then pushing him away with anger and disgust. Her rejection, especially in his dreams, was always the worst.
Ron had noticed Fredâs downward spiral. The dark circles under his eyes were impossible to miss. For the first month, Fred had avoided sleep altogether, afraid to face his siren again. And so, Ron had taken it upon himself to help, thinking it was all due to Georgeâs absence. After all, none of the Weasleys knew the truth about [Y/N] Malfoy. They knew her only as the troublemaker Malfoyâjust like her brother Dracoâand someone Fred always scoffed at whenever her name was mentioned. George had suspected there was more to the story; however, Fred had never mentioned the kiss to anyone. That was a secret heâd carry to his grave.
But now, here she wasâhis siren, standing before him as beautiful as a teenager. Her dyed hair did not completely hide her roots, which were also evident in her expensive clothes. The coat she still wore, even inside the flat, was made of fluffy fur, like her nightgown had once been.
Her eyes were still sweet, her jawline as defined as it had ever been. Though her body was hidden beneath her clothing, Fred knew well enough that it hadnât changed much. Her hand, delicately holding the teacup, was perfectly manicured. But the pink nails were new. Not the familiar green or black that used to symbolize her defiance, her Malfoy heritage. She had changed, sureâbut not in the ways she claimed.
She was still a Malfoy witch, whether she liked it or not. Fred couldnât quite understand her insistence on claiming to be someone different now. Sure, she was lighter, a little less guarded. Sheâd smiled at Ron a moment ago. Her forehead was more relaxed. But her tone was the same. Yet, her voice? The tone was the same. He could still hear the sharpness, the bitterness underneath it all.
The scent of something faintly spiced lingered in the airânot cinnamon, but something warmer, deeper. It reminded her of everything Fred Weasley was: audacious and unruly, yet oddly comforting. She glanced around the room, taking in the cluttered worktops and the faint hum of the kettle.
It was almost⊠domestic. And that was the problem.
Fred leaned against the counter opposite her, arms braced casually on either side, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him. His eyes, sharp and searching, pinned her in place. âSo,â he began, his voice low, measured. âAre we going to talk about it? Or are we just going to keep pretending we donât have a difficulty with our what-if? You know where it starts. Itâs your fault.â
[Y/N] let out a huff, turning slightly to avoid his gaze. âNot me, Weasley.â
âRight,â he drawled, the corner of his mouth curling into something that wasnât quite a smile. âBecause running off after a kiss isnât a concern at all. Itâs perfectly normal behaviour, Malfoy.â
She shot him a glare, her silver eyes flashing. âYou wouldnât understand.â
Fred straightened, folding his arms across his chest. âTry me.â
The challenge in his voice was unmistakable, and for a moment, [Y/N] hesitated. But the weight of unspoken words pressed heavily on her chest, and the longer she stood there, the harder it became to ignore the gnawing ache inside her.
âFine,â she said, her voice sharper than she intended. âYou want to know why I ran? Because Iâve spent my entire life believing that the only way to escape my familyâs destiny was to find someone to save me from it. Someone who wasnât like them. Someone who could⊠break the cycle.â She paused, her gaze dropping to the floor. âI thought kissing you would be the answer. But it wasnât. It couldnât be. I had to grow up and realize that no oneânot even youâcould be my saviour. I have to be my own.â
Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, Fred said nothing. The tension between them crackled like static, filling the silence with unspoken truths.
âYou think I donât get it?â he said finally, his voice quieter now, edged with something raw. âDo you know what itâs like to hear people whisper about you? About your family? To have everyone think they know who you are because of where you come from? Malfoy, I grew up in a house that barely held together, with a family that everyone laughed at because we didnât have two Sickles to rub together. You think I donât know what itâs like to want to prove them all wrong?â
Her head snapped up, surprise flickering across her features. Fred stepped closer, his voice gaining strength.
âI heard about your engagement,â he said, his tone dipping. âThe moment I found out, I thought it was the most ridiculous thing Iâd ever heard. Some pure-blood match, right? Another puppet for your father to string along? I wanted to⊠Merlin, I wanted to break every rule in the book, storm in and drag you away from it all. But then I realizedâŠâ His voice softened. âIt wouldnât have mattered. Because it had to be you, [Y/N]. It had to be your choice.â
Her breath hitched, the weight of his words settling over her like a heavy cloak. She wanted to respond, to tell him that she understood, but her throat felt tight, and the words wouldnât come.
âWhen I heard that you ran off, disgracing your familyâs name when we were on the brink of war, I just laughed so much, so loudly. I was somewhat proud. But I also hoped you would come to me. You never did. Were you alone all this time?â Fred dared ask and she nodded yes. His voice steady. âYou donât have to⊠any more.â
Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them away, forcing herself to stay composed. âYou make it sound so simple,â she whispered. âBut itâs not.â
Fredâs lips quirked into a faint smile, though his eyes remained serious. âIt never is. But that doesnât mean itâs impossible.â
The space between them felt charged, like a taut string pulled to its breaking point. Fred took another step forward, his presence warm and grounding. They were close now, so close that [Y/N] could see the faint freckles dusting his nose, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.
âThis is a bad idea,â she said aloud, her voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze dropped to his lips, betraying her resolve.
Fredâs breath hitched, and he leaned in, his voice low and teasing. âI like bad ideas. Theyâre the bestsellers at the shop.â
And then his lips were on hers, and the world seemed to still. The kiss was slow at first, hesitant, as though they were both testing the waters. But it quickly deepened, the air between them crackling with intensity. Fredâs hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and [Y/N] responded in kind, her fingers threading through his hair as she pressed against him.
It was as if the universe had aligned for this one perfect moment. Their worldsâso different, so at oddsâcollided in a way that felt both impossible and inevitable. And for the first time in what felt like forever, [Y/N] allowed herself to believe in something apart from destiny.
When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested against each other, their breaths mingling in the quiet of the kitchen. Fredâs eyes searched hers, a flicker of mischief returning to his gaze.
âSee?â he said, his voice soft but filled with humour. âBad ideas can be brilliant.â
[Y/N] couldnât help but laugh, the sound light and unburdened. âYouâre insufferable, Weasley.â
âAnd yet, you like me like that, Malfoy,â he shot back, grinning.
At that moment, standing in Fredâs cluttered kitchen with her heart racing and her walls crumbling, [Y/N] allowed herself to hope. Perhaps bad ideas werenât so bad after all.
Fred stepped back first, his hand lingering at her waist, as though reluctant to let her go completely. [Y/N] tilted her head, her gaze flickering between his eyes and the faint smile that still played at his lips. It felt surreal, this momentâsomething plucked out of the pages of a story she hadnât dared to believe could ever be hers.
âSo,â Fred said, breaking the silence with his characteristic cheek. âDoes this mean weâre friends again? Or do I need to officially apply for the position? I heard you have some now, with Clara and whatâs her name.â
[Y/N] snorted softly, a sound that felt strangely freeing. âFriends?â she echoed, raising an eyebrow. âIâm not sure if thatâs what Iâd call us.â
âOh?â Fredâs grin widened. âAnd what would you call us, then?â
âTwo idiots,â she replied, though there was no malice in her toneâonly a lightness she hadnât felt in years.
Fred let out a laugh, the sound warm and unguarded. âWell, if thatâs the case,â he said, stepping closer again, âI say weâre bloody brilliant at it.â
Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world outside that tiny kitchen ceased to exist. It was just themâtwo people who had spent years running from what-ifâs, finally standing still long enough to see what might be.
TWO YEARS LATER (EPILOGUE)
The sun beamed down on the expansive garden of The Burrow, transformed for the day into something almost unrecognizable. Though it remained the cosy Weasley home at heart, today it sparkled with an air of opulence that could only come from [Y/N]'s insistence on keeping some of her luxurious customs intact. Every corner of the garden was adorned with charmed fairy lights and elaborate floral arrangements that shimmered faintly in the summer light, while silver table settings and flowing satin ribbons added an undeniable touch of grandeur. It was clear that with her fortune and Fredâs mischievous ingenuity, The Burrow had never looked so fancy.
[Y/N] adjusted her veil for the third time, glaring at Clara, her maid of honour, who was tryingâand failingâto hide her grin.
âI donât know how this house is still standing,â Clara said suddenly, gesturing toward The Burrow with a bewildered look. âI mean, look at it! The angles are all wrong, itâs leaning more than that tower in Italy, and Iâm certain that top floor is breaking at least seven architectural laws.â She paused, then added, âHonestly, itâs like a miracle.â
âStructural spells,â [Y/N] replied smoothly, before quickly backtracking. âEr, I mean, Iâm kidding! Fredâs dadâs very⊠handy. Built it himself. A bit of a genius with tools, really.â
Claraâs eyes narrowed slightly, as if she were on the cusp of figuring something out. But then she shook her head, letting out a laugh. âWell, whatever the reason, itâs⊠charming. Ridiculous, but charming.â
Then, as kind as always, she added, âItâs⊠unique. Just like you two. And stop fussing with your dress,â her Muggle practicality shining through. âYou look perfect. If I didnât know better, Iâd say you were nervous.â
âNervous?â [Y/N] scoffed, though her hands betrayed her, fiddling with the intricate lace of her dress. âIâm a CEO. I don't get nervous.â
And it was true. After years trying to reach for the job, she finally got it. Just in another company this time. A shop, with a very funny name, that sold very funny products.
âOh, is that right?â Fredâs voice cut through the air as he appeared around the corner, already in his dress robes but as insufferably casual as ever. He grinned at her, his eyes twinkling with mischief. âBecause from here, it looks like youâre about to bolt.â
âFred,â Clara said with mock exasperation, âyouâre not supposed to see her before the ceremony!â
âItâs bad luck,â [Y/N] added, her tone clipped but her lips twitching in amusement.
Fred waved a dismissive hand. âBad luck, good luck⊠I think weâve already broken enough rules to make our own luck.â
âYouâre impossible,â she muttered, though her eyes softened as she looked at him.
Before Fred could retort, a commotion erupted from the far end of the garden. Heads turned as a figure emerged from the apparition point, his dishevelled red hair unmistakable even from a distance.
âGeorge!â Fred exclaimed, his grin widening. He turned to [Y/N], his eyes alight with excitement. âTold you heâd make it.â
George Weasley strode toward them, his expression equal parts sheepish and triumphant. On his arm was a stunning woman with an air of effortless confidence, her sleek black dress a sharp contrast to the cheerful chaos around her.
âSorry, Iâm late,â George said as he approached, his voice carrying that familiar Weasley humour. âHad to pick up a plus-one.â
âFashionably late as always,â Fred quipped, clapping his twin on the back. âI was starting to think youâd run off to Peru again.â
âNot this time,â George replied with a grin, before turning to [Y/N]. His gaze lingered, a flicker of recognition softening his expression. âCouldnât miss this. Took you too long enough to make it official.â
[Y/N] tilted her head, raising an eyebrow. âI see you havenât lost your charm, George.â
âNor my memory,â he quipped. âAlways knew Iâd see you again, Malfoy.â
âLovely to finally see you again, George. Now, if you donât mindâŠâ [y/n] gestured toward the arch, her impatience evident. âIâd like to get married sometime this century.â
George raised his hands in mock surrender. âSay no more.â He turned to Fred, giving him a sly wink. âGood luck, mate. Youâre going to need it.â
Fred rolled his eyes but couldnât hide his grin. He turned back to [Y/N], his expression softening as he offered her his arm. âShall we, Siren?â he teased, the nickname slipping out as naturally as ever.
âLetâs,â she said, her heart racing as she took his arm.
The ceremony was short but sweet, filled with laughter and a few tears. Clara sniffled loudly as she handed [Y/N] her bouquet, earning a teasing nudge from Fred. When the officiant finally asked if they took each other as husband and wife, their answers rang out in unison, clear and certain.
âI do.â
As the crowd erupted into cheers, Fred leaned in, his voice low enough for only [Y/N] to hear. âTold you bad ideas are brilliant.â
She laughed, her heart lighter than it had ever been. For the first time, she felt freeâfree of her past, her name, her burdens. As they walked back down the aisle together, hand in hand, she couldnât help but smile.
After years of trying, she had finally let go of the Malfoy name for a new one.
Summary: Fred wrestles with his feelings for [y/n], torn between frustration and attraction, while she struggles with her family's expectations and her own desires.
Warning: family drama, mild angst, cursing.
A/N: Iâve been having a really hard time with writing romance lately. This chapter came out way more sad and heavy than I intended. It feels kind of âblehâ to me, and I just wanted to apologize if it doesnât hit the mark for you. Honestly, I have a feeling people are only going to like Part Two anyway. I know this was meant to be a Bad Idea (the song) fic, and I really shouldâve stopped at one chapter, but I just canât resist pushing on! Iâm a sucker for making things more complicated than they need to be, but I hope you still find some value in this chapter.
PART THREE
Fred Weasley sat on the edge of his four-poster bed, one hand gripping the crimson bedpost as if the solid wood could steady the storm inside him. His twin was off somewhereâlikely gathering ingredients for another grand prankâleaving Fred alone in the quiet of the Gryffindor dormitory. It was a quiet he didnât welcome, but one that had become all too familiar since that night on the Quidditch pitch.
He ran a hand through his fiery hair, frustration evident in every movement. He couldnât get her out of his head. [y/n] Malfoy. The kiss, her tears, the way her voice had cracked when she said, âThis was a bad idea.â It replayed over and over, an unrelenting loop that left him both aching and seething.
How someone so infuriating, so contrary to everything he stood for, could leave such a mark on him? She was a Malfoy, for Merlinâs sake! And yet, the memory of her sadnessâthe raw, vulnerable way sheâd looked at himâcut deeper than he wanted to admit.
The days passed, however, and that was no longer the girl he saw now. Not the [y/n] who had avoided his gaze in the Great Hall for weeks, who laughed too loudly with her Slytherin friends, her silver-blond hair gleaming like a crown under the enchanted ceiling. The persona she wore now was cruel, dismissive, and every bit the Malfoy heiress she had been raised to be. She wasnât just coldâshe was biting. Cutting remarks, condescending smirks, and an air of superiority that made Fredâs blood boil.
He hated her.
Or at least, that was what he told himself.
âYouâre stewing again,â George said, leaning against the bedpost opposite Fred. His twin had appeared in the doorway moments earlier, a bag of pranking supplies slung over one shoulder. âLet me guess. Malfoy?â
Fred shot him a glare but said nothing.
George sighed, dropping the bag on the floor with a thud. âYouâre not exactly subtle, you know. Want to talk about it?â
âThereâs nothing to talk about,â Fred muttered, his voice tight. âSheâs precisely what we always thought she was. A spoiled, heartless Malfoy. Whatever I thought I saw before⊠I was wrong.â
George frowned, studying his twin. âYou donât sound convinced.â
Fred stood abruptly, pacing the small space. âI donât care, alright? Whatever sadness I thought she had⊠itâs gone now. All I see is her true self. And I canât stand her.â
George raised an eyebrow but didnât press further. Instead, he leaned down to rummage through the bag. âFine. But you might want to find a better way to handle it than glaring daggers across the Great Hall.â
Fred didnât reply, his mind too clouded with frustration to respond.
On the day next, [y/n] Malfoy stared into her reflection in the Slytherin girlsâ dormitory. Her silver-blond hair fell perfectly into place, and her robes were impeccableâthe very image of Malfoy perfection. Yet, the girl staring back at her felt like a stranger.
She had thrown herself into the role her parents expected of her. She answered every one of Narcissaâs letters with glowing reports of her achievements, she smiled at Draco when he gloated about their familyâs prominence, and she even laughed at Pansy Parkinsonâs insipid jokes. The [y/n] who had once dared to dream of running away with Fred Weasley was gone.
But those were nightmares now, and they didnât stop. Night after night, she dreamed of the Burrow, of the warm chaos of the Weasley household. She dreamed of Mollyâs stern but kind voice, the way Ginnyâs laughter filled the room, and the infectious mischief that seemed to follow the twins wherever they went. In her dreams, she belonged there. She was happy there.
And every morning, she woke up with tears staining her pillow.
One evening, an owl arrived bearing a gift from her father. The package was wrapped in elegant green paper, tied with a silver ribbon. [y/n] hesitated before opening it, her hands trembling slightly. Inside was a stunning emerald necklace, the gemstones gleaming like liquid light. It was exquisite, a clear reward for her recent âimproved behaviour.â
She lifted the necklace, the cool weight of it settling in her palm. It was beautifulâundeniably so. Her reflection in the mirror confirmed as much as she clasped it around her neck. The emeralds caught the light, casting a faint green glow against her skin.
And she hated herself for loving it.
Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision. She sank to the floor, clutching the necklace as sobs wracked her body. How could she despise everything her family stood for and still covet the life theyâd built for her? How could she dream of simplicity and warmth while clinging to the luxury and grandeur sheâd been raised in?
âYouâre pathetic,â she whispered to herself, her voice choked with tears. âYou donât deserve anything else.â
ONE MONTH AFTER THE KISS
The tension between them came to a head one afternoon in the courtyard. Students gathered in clusters, chattering as they soaked in the rare burst of sunlight. Fred leaned against a low stone wall, George beside him, both watching the scene unfold with casual interest. That was when he saw her.
[y/n] walked with her usual Slytherin entourage, her head held high and a smirk playing on her lips as she exchanged remarks with Draco. Her voice carried over the courtyard, sharp and mocking, and Fredâs jaw clenched as he watched her.
âLooks like Malfoyâs on her high horse again,â George muttered, nudging Fred with his elbow.
As if sensing his gaze, [y/n] turned her head. Their eyes met across the courtyard, and for a moment, the surrounding noise seemed to fade. There was no warmth in her gazeâonly a cool, detached amusement that made Fredâs blood boil.
âWeasley,â she called out, her voice carrying a hint of mockery. âShouldnât you be off planning your next grand failure of a prank?â
The Slytherins around her chuckled, and Fred pushed off the wall, crossing the courtyard in a few quick strides. The surrounding students turned to watch, sensing the brewing confrontation.
âBetter a failed prank than a failed personality,â Fred shot back, his voice even but laced with venom.
A ripple of âoohsâ spread through the crowd, but [y/n] didnât flinch. If anything, her smirk deepened.
âClever,â she said, tilting her head. âDid you come up with that on your own, or did you need Georgeâs help?â
Fred stepped closer, his fists clenched at his sides. âWhat happened to you?â he demanded, his voice low but forceful.
Her expression faltered for a fraction of a second, but she quickly recovered, her smirk returning with renewed vigor. âI grew up, Weasley. Maybe you should try it sometime.â
He opened his mouth to reply, but the bell rang, signalling the end of the break. Students began to disperse, and [y/n] turned on her heel, walking away without another word. Fred watched her go, his chest tight with a mix of anger and something he refused to name.
TWO WEEKS LATER
Fred leaned against the stone railing of the Astronomy Tower, the chill of the night air biting at his skin. It had been months since the kiss, but it lingered in his memory like a ghost. He hated himself for it, for the way his mind kept wandering back to that momentâthe feel of her lips, the vulnerability in her eyes.
Why had she kissed him? Fredâs mind circled the question like a persistent gnat. If she had wanted him, if she had truly meant that kiss, then there must have been a reason. What was it? She had to have seen something in him, something worth risking her perfect Malfoyâs image for. He clenched his jaw, his hands gripping the cold stone of the railing as his thoughts spiralled further.
That dawn, he would have done anything for her. If she had asked, he would have taken her away from all of itâthe name, the expectations, the suffocating legacy. He would have brought her to the Burrow, wrapped her in the chaotic love of his family, and shielded her from the world. Fred knew Harry Potter himself would have stood beside him to face down Draco or even Lucius if it came to that. He could have given her a different life, one filled with simplicity and freedom. But none of it mattered because in the end, she didnât choose him.
The realization stung more than he wanted to admit. She hadnât just walked away; she had turned her back on the idea of them completely. And now, all he was left with was a memory of what could have been and the bitter taste of rejection.
âIdiot,â Fred muttered under his breath, anger flaring in his chest. He wasnât just angry at her; he was furious with himself. He had let her get under his skin, let himself believe that there was something real between them. And for what? To be left stewing like some lovesick fool months later. He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to shake the thought.
âNever again,â he said firmly, the words more a promise to himself than anyone else. But even as he turned to leave, the ghost of her lingered in his mind, refusing to be banished entirely.
âEnough,â he muttered to himself, shaking his head. He turned on his heel, determined to channel his frustration into something productive.
âGeorge,â Fred said sharply as he entered their dormitory, his twin glancing up from a half-assembled prank device. âGet the paint bombs. Weâre hitting the Slytherin common room tonight.â
The Slytherin common room erupted in chaos as a series of paint bombs exploded, sending streams of bright, sticky colours across the stone walls and elegant furnishings. Students screamed, fleeing the room as the vibrant mess coated everything in sight.
[y/n] stormed out with the rest, her robes splattered with streaks of blue and red. Her fury was palpable, her silver-blond hair streaked with paint. Her eyes scanned the corridor, narrowing as she spotted a flash of red disappearing around a corner.
âFred Weasley!â she shouted, her voice echoing through the stone halls. âYouâre dead!â
Fred ducked behind a pillar, a grin tugging at his lips despite himself. He watched as [y/n] marched after him, her rage driving her steps. Draco appeared behind her, looking equally furious.
âGo get Umbridge!â [y/n] snapped at her brother. âThey deserve proper punishment for this.â
Draco hesitated but ultimately obeyed, hurrying off toward the main staircase. The moment he was gone, [y/n] turned back to where Fred had been hiding, her voice still sharp.
âYou think this is funny?â she spat, stepping closer.
Fred stepped out of his hiding spot, his arms crossed. âA little, yeah.â
[y/n] let out a sharp, disdainful laugh. âTypical Weasley. No wonder your family canât afford proper manners. Or, for that matter, anything else.â
Fredâs grin didnât waver. âAnd yet, here you are, covered in paint and shouting at me. Not very dignified for a Malfoy, is it?â
âDignity?â [y/n] shot back, her voice rising. âComing from the boy who just vandalized a common room because heâs too petty to grow up? Thatâs rich.â
Fred took a step closer, feigning thoughtfulness. âIâll have you know, it wasnât just pettiness. It was also a lot of fun.â
âFun?â she snapped, incredulous. âYouâre insufferable.â
âAnd youâre predictable,â Fred retorted. âAlways so quick to pull out the superiority card. Must get exhausting.â
The Slytherins standing nearby exchanged exasperated glances. One of them yawned audibly.
âAre they seriously still at it?â muttered Pansy Parkinson, rolling her eyes. âItâs the same old words, on repeat. Come on, letâs go. This is boring.â
As the Slytherins began to filter away, their curiosity dulled by the repetitive argument, [y/n] didnât budge. Her attention remained fixed on Fred, her anger unrelenting.
âYou think youâre so clever, donât you?â she hissed, stepping closer. âWell, newsflash, Weasley: youâre not. Youâre just a loud-mouthed, meddling brat who doesnât know when to stop.â
Fredâs grin faltered for a split second before returning, sharper this time. âAnd youâre purely a stuck-up, pretentious Malfoy who doesnât know how to have fun.â
Their voices echoed in the now-empty corridor, the intensity of their argument only growing as the space between them seemed to shrink. Their shouting continued, echoing through the corridor until the other students had cleared out, leaving them alone in the narrow space.
âWhat changed?â Fred demanded suddenly, his voice cutting through the argument like a blade. âWhat happened for you to become⊠this?â
[y/n] froze, her anger faltering.
âWhat changed?â he asked again, louder.
For a moment, she looked like she might deflect, but then her shoulders slumped.
âThe worst part isâŠâ she said quietly, her voice trembling, ânothing really did change.â
Fred took a step closer, his expression softening. But before he could say anything, [y/n] glanced down at herself, at the paint still dripping from her robes. Her face twisted in frustration, and she turned on her heel.
âI canât do this,â she muttered, starting to walk away.
Fred reached out, his hand brushing her arm, but she pulled free. âDonât run from me again,â he called after her, his voice breaking slightly.
She didnât stop. Her pace quickened, and Fredâs frustration boiled over.
âCoward!â he shouted, his voice echoing down the empty corridor.
[y/n] hesitated for the briefest moment but didnât look back. She disappeared around the corner, leaving Fred alone once more, feeling worse because he happened to be, for once, right.
MANY DAYS LATER
As the weeks passed, the distance between them grew insurmountable. Fred buried himself in preparations for the joke shop he and George were planning, channelling his frustration into their inventions. [y/n] threw herself into her studies, determined to graduate at the top of her class and make her parents proud. But it wasnât just academic success driving herâshe became a fixture of the new regime under Umbridge, following the rules and executing small tasks to keep herself in favour.
Just like Draco, she became one of the professorâs so-called âpets,â a symbol of compliance and ambition. Yet, unlike her younger brother, she never reported Fred. She left that sort of thing to Draco, whose obsessive focus on Harry Potter meant he rarely paid attention to Fred and Georgeâs antics.
Still, the role stung. She hated herself for wearing Umbridgeâs approval like a badge, for smiling through the nauseating pink decor and sickly sweet condescension. It was a survival tacticâor so she told herself. But deep down, she knew it was just another layer of the person she was expected to be, and another step further from the girl she used to dream of becoming.
When the day came for Fred and George to leave Hogwarts, it was chaos. The twinsâ grand exitâcomplete with fireworks and a swamp in the middle of the schoolâwas the talk of the castle. [y/n] watched from the sidelines, her heart aching as she saw him disappear into the distance. Fred hadnât looked at her, not really, except for a glance that felt colder than the bitterest winter wind. It had been a fleeting moment, his eyes brushing past her as if she were just another face in the crowd, before his focus returned to the chaos he and George had unleashed.
Her posture had been proud, aloof, maintaining the Malfoy facade sheâd perfected over the years. But as the twins vanished from view, the weight of her act crushed her. Her shoulders slumped, and the mask she wore cracked, leaving behind only the hollow ache of loss. She turned away from the lingering crowd, retreating to the solitude of the Slytherin common room before anyone could notice her faltering composure.
That night, alone in her dormitory, she allowed herself to cry. The tears came quietly, soaking her pillow as she pressed her face into it, muffling the sound. She had pretended to be cruel, to be the Malfoy everyone expected, just to keep Fred at a distance. But now he was gone, and the effort seemed meaningless. There was no one left to keep away, no reason to uphold the charade. The school days were ending anyway, and besides Draco, no one seemed to notice her shift back into the quiet, withdrawn girl she had once been.Â
And when the school year finally ended, [y/n] packed her belongings and returned to Malfoy Manor. She graduated with honours, her familyâs pride glowing in every congratulatory letter from their acquaintances. She was, at last, everything they wanted her to be.
Lucius was waiting for her at the train station, his posture rigid and immaculate as always, the faintest hint of a pleased smile curling at the corners of his mouth. As [y/n] descended from the train, he stepped forward, extending a gloved hand. âWell done,â he said, his tone carrying an air of measured approval. âYou have made the family proud.â
She hadnât expected those words from him. Lucius Malfoy, always measured and exacting, rarely offered praise. For a fleeting moment, they almost felt like an achievement, a validation of the lengths sheâd gone to play the part they demanded of her. Her stomach twisted, but she managed a small, practised smile as she took his hand. âThank you, Father.â
But whatever validation she felt quickly curdled into something darker. She had wanted to protect herself, to push Fred away, to shield her fragile hopes from the inevitable disappointment. Instead, she had cemented herself further into the life they had planned for her, a gilded cage of expectations and obligations.
The anger rose swiftly, directed as much at herself as it was at her father. Her act, her cruelty, her desperate efforts to be someone she wasnâtâit had all backfired. She was more trapped than ever, with the door to another path firmly closed behind her.
Narcissa was waiting for her inside the family car, that would take them back to the manor, and her face lighted up with uncharacteristic warmth when she saw her daughter. âMy darling,â she exclaimed, pulling [y/n] into a rare, delicate embrace as soon as she entered. âYouâve done so well. And the engagementâŠâ Narcissaâs voice softened, her eyes shimmering with excitement. âI have so many plans for your dress, the decorationsâeverything will be perfect.â
[y/n] nodded numbly, allowing her motherâs voice to wash over her. She could feel the weight of their expectations settling back onto her shoulders, heavier than ever. Narcissa continued to chatter about florists and fabrics, oblivious to the way her daughterâs gaze had drifted to the window, her reflection staring back at her with a hollowness she couldnât ignore.
Welcome to the official masterlist for Secrets We Keep! Dive into the journey of [Y/N] Malfoy as she navigates the complexities of family, identity, and unexpected emotions with Fred Weasley.
Chapters
Part One:
(setting the stage, family tension, and first encounters)
Part Two:
(late-night encounters and a stolen kiss)
Part Three:
(tension grows as the distance becomes harder)
Part Four:
(nightmares, a siren, and a destiny to fulfil)
Summary: After a chance encounter late at night, the lines between enemy and ally blur, and the walls she's built to protect herself start to crack. With new alliances and unexpected emotions, [Y/N] must face the truth of who she isâwhile fighting to keep her family's secrets buried.
Warning: Mentions of dark magic, family drama, mild angst, cursing.
A/N: Inspired by the song Bad Idea from the musical Waitress, this part dives deeper into [y/n]'s inner turmoil and the evolving tension between her and Fred. It's the kiss chapter, if anyone's wondering. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy this next chapter. đ
PART TWO
For Merlinâs sake, she was nearly eighteenâa woman on the verge of adulthood. Soon enough, she would be the unmarried Malfoy maiden paraded before society and married off to whatever young, noble man her parents deemed worthy. The thought of such a futureâof tying herself to a strangerâwas unbearable. Yet, in a twisted way, it symbolized her transition into the poised, proper woman her family expected. And women, real women, didnât cry like this. Not with swollen eyes, blotchy cheeks, and sobs so intense that their throats ached.
This? This was pathetic.
She caught her reflection in the polished surface of a large silver candelabra positioned at her shoulder height in the anteroom between the staircase to Dumbledoreâs office and the corridor leading to the other professors' offices. The distorted image of herself was unflattering, but she didnât look away.
Her nightly walks had become routine, the castle, her endless labyrinth. It had to be her eighth or ninth night sneaking out of her dormitory to wander, using the chill of the stone corridors and the physical exhaustion of climbing staircases to numb her swirling emotions. She had started in the dungeons, but as usual, her legs had carried her upward, far away from her house and its suffocating sense of belonging she no longer felt.
She didnât hate the girls she shared a room with. If anything, she admired how easy they made everything seemâlaughing, gossiping, exchanging hair-care charms and giggling over their shared crushes. [Y/N] liked them, maybe even more than she was willing to admit. But lately, sheâd been walking on eggshells, keeping her distance, terrified that the truth might slip out if she let her guard down.
The truth that her familyâs pristine image hid a rotting core. The truth that her fatherâher familyâserved the Dark Lord.
That night, as every night, she yearned for someone to confide in. Not just anyone, though. Someone who could take her secret and shield her from the crushing weight of it. Someone who wouldnât gasp in horror at the revelation or, worse, nod in understanding.
And if that was too much to hope for, she at least wanted someone who could distract herâa group of friends who wouldnât talk about family heirlooms, pure-blood pride, or valuable objects passed down through generations. She wanted to forget.
But forgetting wasnât so simple. And so she walked, and cried, and loathed herself for both.
With only the magic light cast by her wand as company, she decided to rest in the anteroom. Surely, Dumbledore wouldnât be working hours in his office? It was almost three in the morning. Not a soul in the castle was awake. Well, perhaps the owls.
[Y/N] let out a shuddering breath. She brushed the tears from her cheeks with a shaky hand, trying to pull herself together.
At night, when no one was watching, the disgusted sneer she had perfectedâthe one she had stolen from her fatherâs own expressionâfaded away. What replaced it was someone softer. Someone vulnerable. Someone who wasnât sure how much longer she could keep up the act.
But whether it was a laugh of fate or an unfortunate stroke of luck, she was not alone. She was not the only one awake.
There were few professorsâ offices up there. Some kept the empty rooms near their classrooms as a personal choice. Professor Snape, for example, kept himself housed in the dungeons, like the natural-born Slytherin he was.
But there was one unfortunate pink one, who had little to none panther-like appearance, who chose one of the offices upstairs, and [y/n] suspected that the choice was made to stay close to Dumbledore.
Of course, Dolores Umbridge was not the topic. She was not the one who slipped out the front door of her office, at three in the morning.
No, the figure was not the notorious pink one. It was an equally famous red.
Fred Bloody Weasley. Of all the people to run into at three in the morning, it had to be him.
[Y/N] swallowed hard, her sobs lodging in her throat as her eyes darted around, frantically searching for a hiding place. The anteroom was painfully bareâno tapestries, no curtains, no alcoves to disappear into. Her wand was still clutched tightly in her hand, the faint light she had conjured snuffed out instantly. She sat there on the cold floor, heart pounding in her chest, hoping against hope that the darkness would be enough to conceal her.
But it wasnât.
The soft glow of the candelabra she had forgotten about betrayed her position. Its flickering light wasnât strong, but it was enough.
Fred didnât call out, didnât ask who was thereâhe wasnât stupid. Instead, he leaned casually against the wall, squinting in the dim light. His steps were slow, deliberate, the faint creak of his trainers against the stone the only sound in the otherwise silent corridor.
As he approached, [Y/N] froze. She considered her optionsâshe could lie, she could feign illness, or she could stay silent and pray heâd leave her be. But none of those seemed convincing, not when he was already this close.
The moment stretched unbearably, the soft flicker of the candelabra casting shifting shadows across Fredâs face. His expression wasnât mocking or mischievous as it usually was; it was curious, maybe even cautious, as though he wasnât sure if he should even be intruding.
Finally, he stopped just a few feet away, tilting his head to the side as he stared down at her. âCouldnât sleep either, huh?â he asked quietly, his voice devoid of the usual playful lilt.
[Y/N] blinked, thrown by his tone. Of all the things sheâd expected him to say, that wasnât it.
Fred didnât wait for an answer. He crouched down, careful to keep some distance between them, his movements deliberate and non-threatening. âYou, uh⊠want me to leave?â he asked, his voice softer now, almost hesitant.
It wasnât a demand or a joke. It was a question, simple and honest, and for a moment, [Y/N] didnât know how to respond. She was used to taunts, pranks, and snide remarks from Fred and Georgeâthis wasnât in the play book.
She shook her head, surprising even herself.
Fredâs lips twitched, not quite a smile but close enough. âAlright then,â he said, easing himself down to sit on the floor across from her, his back against the wall.
They sat there in silence, the candelabraâs flame dancing between them. It wasnât comforting, exactly, but it wasnât uncomfortable either. For once, neither of them had to say a word.
[Y/N] sat still for a moment, the silence between them pressing in. Her chest felt tight, and she knew she had to say somethingâanythingâto break it. But the weight of everything she had just been feeling still lingered, her tears still fresh in her memory. She wasnât sure what possessed her to ask, but it was the first thing that came to mind.
âDid you plant a bomb in the pink bitch's office?â
Fredâs lips twitched at the corners, a hint of a smile pulling at them, though his eyes remained thoughtful. âSomething like that,â he replied, his tone just as dry and amused as ever.
For a fleeting moment, [Y/N] allowed a smile to tug at her own lips, though it was short-lived. The act of smiling hurtâher cheeks were still sore from the hours of crying, swollen and tender.
With a steely look, she fixed her gaze on him. âIf you tell anyone you saw me here, I will unleash Cruciatus curses on you until you turn into a house elf,â she warned, her voice cold and resolute.
Fred raised an eyebrow, as if the threat didnât quite have the desired effect. But there was a glimmer of recognition in his eyes, the tension in his posture betraying him. âIâd say the same, you know,â he replied, a wry smile spreading across his face. âIâm at risk here too.â
The grin he wore was playful, but there was something deeper now, a shared understanding that hadnât been there before.
Her eyes narrowed as she glanced around, noticing the absence of his twin. âWhereâs George?â she snapped.
Fred shrugged nonchalantly, his smile widening as he leaned back against the wall. âSnapeâs,â he answered, his eyes twinkling mischievously. And then he flashed her a full, genuine grinâsomething so real that it was almost disarming.
[Y/N] wasnât sure what to make of thisâthis strange, unspoken understanding, the rare glimpse into the Weasley twins' world, or the fact that, at that moment, they were both, in their own ways, in the same boat.
She took a long, careful moment to look at Fred, really look at him, taking in every detail. His arms, strong and defined; his broad shoulders, relaxed against the wall; the easy confidence in his posture, the way his hair, though tousled, seemed to fall just right. And his eyesâholding the weight of things he hadnât yet spoken aloud.
But then her gaze lowered, to his lips. Slightly parted. Expectation? Or something else? Her mind swirled, as she felt a strange knot form in her stomach.
His cheeks were redâwhy were his cheeks red?
Her eyes flicked back to his, meeting the depth of his gaze again. Now, those eyes were darker, almost blackâsombre. What did that mean? What was he thinking?
For a moment, she wrestled with the urge to speakâto break the tension. But the salty sting of the tears she hadnât fully wiped away still lingered, and she knew, somehow, that he was still watching her with that quiet curiosity. Her secretâher familyâs dark secretâloomed over her, suffocating in its weight. It was so improper here, in this quiet moment between them. She could feel it pressing against her chest, a constant reminder of the chasm between her and everyone else.
And then, before she could think better of it, she moved. A quick, impulsive gesture. Jump or be caught.
So jump it was. Her lips met his.
It was simply a fleeting touch, a soft peck. But in that brief moment, something sparked between them, an electric current that both startled and thrilled her. As soon as the kiss happened, she pulled back, her heart pounding in her chest. Fredâs eyes fluttered open, and it took a moment for him to register what had just happened.
[Y/N] let out a sound, half-frightened, half-embarrassed. What was she frightened of? The kiss? Of herself?
Before she could make sense of anything, her face burned with mortification. She jumped up from the spot, suddenly self-conscious of the awkwardness that now clung to her like a second skin. Her robes caught at her ankles as she moved, making her stumble, but she regained her footing quickly. Her mind was a whirlwind of confusion, but one thing was certain: she had kissed Fred Weasley!
And to make matters worse, sheâd done it like a childâimpulsive, messy, and utterly unprepared.
THAT SAME NIGHT, MINUTES LATER
The grand prankâmeticulously crafted to ruin every single porcelain plate adorned with kitten designs in Dolores Umbridge's officeâwas perfectly in place. The setup was flawless, engineered so that when the door was opened, the catastrophe would appear to be the result of her own careless actions. Floors below, an equally devious scheme was undoubtedly in motion. George Weasley, with his skilled hands and sharp wit, would be putting the finishing touches on the trap in Severus Snape's office.
But Fred wasnât moving.
He remained seated in the same spot where he had stumbled upon the tearful Slytherin minutes earlier. His usually restless energy seemed to have deserted him, leaving him uncharacteristically still. The echoes of what had just happenedâher tears, her vulnerability, and then thatâplayed over and over in his mind.
Fred Weasley had been on the receiving end of many things in his lifeâlaughs, hexes, detentionsâbut a kiss like that? Never.
The kiss wasnât grand or dramatic; it wasnât even what one might call proper. It had been fleeting, a brush of lips, but it left behind a current of something he couldnât quite name. Her lips had been soft, warm, and trembling, and the brief touch carried a weight that Fred hadnât expected. A weight that didnât feel like just a kissâit felt like a moment sheâd decided on, maybe even fought herself over, before finally letting go.
And then sheâd run.
Fred leaned his head back against the wall, staring at the dim ceiling above him. His mind was spinning, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He hadnât had time to react, hadnât said a single word before sheâd disappeared. And now he was sitting here, replaying it all like a scene in one of those overly dramatic wizarding plays his mum occasionally dragged them to during Christmas holidays.
He let out a long, frustrated breath and ran a hand through his messy hair. âBloody hell,â he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to anyone else.
Fred Weasley didnât do confusion. His life was simple. He didnât dwell on things, and he certainly didnât let people catch him off guard. Yet here he was, sitting in a dark hallway, absolutely baffled by a girl who, only hours ago, he would have described as Malfoyâthe snooty one.
But now?
Now, he couldnât stop thinking about the way her eyes had lookedâred-rimmed and puffy, but with a defiance that reminded him of storm clouds. Or the way her voice had wavered when she spoke, like she was fighting a battle he couldnât see. And then there was that kissâŠ
Fred groaned and pushed himself off the floor, finally forcing himself to move. George would be wondering what was taking so long, and the last thing Fred needed was his twinâs sharp tongue picking apart his distracted state.
As he made his way toward the stairwell, he couldnât shake the feeling that something had shifted. That fleeting kiss had opened a door he wasnât sure he wanted to close. Or maybe, just perhaps, it wasnât a door he could close even if he wanted to.
TWO DAYS LATER
Sheâd had enough. A Howler? A Howler, of all things?
Lucius Malfoy, with all his pomp and self-righteousness, had dared to send her a Howler. At least he hadnât been cruel enough to have it delivered in the Great Hall, where every student would have had front-row seats to her humiliation. No, the familyâs sleek black owl, as dark as the night itself, had waited for the moonâs ascent to deliver its cargoâa Howler bound with a green ribbon and sealed with silver wax.
[Y/N] untied the parcel with trembling fingers, her stomach sinking as the seal cracked open. Her fatherâs voice erupted in a cold, measured monotone that somehow managed to be worse than screams.
âYour brother has reported your carelessness, your lack of decorum,â Lucius began, each word razor-sharp. âWandering the halls inappropriately dressed, conducting yourself without purpose. If this behaviour affects your grades, young lady, I will have no choice but to petition your professors for additional coursework. I understand that Miss Umbridge did not award you full marks on a recent essayâan embarrassing lapse. I had assumed it to be an anomaly. Let us ensure it remains so.
âThe Carrow family,â he continued, his tone heavy with meaning, âhas expressed interest in you. Do not disappoint us.â
And that was that. No shouting. No dramatic crescendos. Just cold, calculated disapproval, delivered through the most theatrical medium possible.
When the Howler finished, it hovered for a moment, as if daring her to respond, before folding in on itself and dropping neatly to the floor. She stared at the scraps for a long moment, her chest tight with suppressed fury.
The Carrow family!
She hadnât even had her formal debut yet, and already sheâd been practically auctioned off to the highest bidder. She didnât need to dredge her memory for details. If Lucius Malfoy had deemed the Carrows suitable, it was because their sonâno doubt a fledgling Death Eaterâticked all the right boxes. Bloodline. Wealth. Loyalty to the Dark Lord.
[Y/N] clenched her fists, the fragile parchment crumpling further in her hands. For the first time, she didnât cry. She didnât allow herself the luxury. Instead, she tore the Howler into pieces, her movements swift and brutal, and flung the scraps onto the grass.
She was outside, near the rear entrance to the castle that overlooked the path to the Quidditch pitch. The cool night air brushed against her face, doing little to calm the storm raging within her.
With an almost defiant tilt of her chin, she looked up at the moon, searching the vast expanse of stars for some semblance of guidance. But they offered none. The stars twinkled indifferently, as though mocking her plight.
She clenched her jaw, breathing heavily through her nose as her thoughts spiralled. She was to be married off, shackled to some boy her father had deemed suitable, and inevitably inducted into the ranks of the Death Eaters. It was a future she neither chose nor wanted.
How foolish she had been to ever think she had a choice. She never had. Not even as a child.
Sheâd been moulded from infancyâwrapped in long-sleeved dresses to exude the âMalfoy class,â her hair half-tied to frame the pale perfection of her lineage. A silent doll, a perfect reflection of her familyâs ideals. While Dracoâs fiery stubbornness earned him their fatherâs reprimandsâor their motherâs smothering, silencing embracesâshe had learned early to keep her mouth shut. To think before speaking. Or, more often, to simply not speak at all.
And for what?
The letter had shattered any lingering illusions of solidarity within her family. Draco, her own brother, had reported her. For wandering the halls aimlessly, for her clothing being âtoo casualââpetty, trivial things. She could have laughed at the absurdity of it all if it didnât sting so much.
He was no naĂŻve boy any more, she realised bitterly. At some point, heâd shifted from the irritating, idealistic little brother into a perfect disciple of their fatherâs will. The baby Malfoy had become something else entirelyâsomeone she could no longer trust.
And yet, if he only knew what she had truly done.
The thought struck her with the force of a thunderclap. Two nights ago. The moonlight. The candlelit corridor. Fred Weasley.
She shivered, though not from the cool night air. If Dracoâor worse, Luciusâhad any inkling of what had transpired, she doubted even the long arm of her motherâs influence could shield her from the consequences.
But then, almost as suddenly as her panic had risen, it ebbed away, leaving something else in its place. Something sharp and hot and utterly wicked.
She let out a short, incredulous laugh, low and quiet, as if afraid the stars might overhear. How deliciously ironic that, in a world where every choice had been made for her, she had snatched a moment of her own. She had crossed every line her family had so carefully drawn.
She felt it again nowâthat reckless, impish surge, as though Peeves himself had passed straight through her, cackling as he went. It made her feel⊠alive. For once, she had done something utterly and completely her own. Something wrong. Something unforgivable.
It was a tiny spark of rebellion that flickered in her chest, and it dared grow.
The castle at night was a labyrinth of shadows and whispers, the ancient walls cool and unyielding under [Y/N]âs palms as she steadied herself against one of them. Her heart thundered in her chest, her breaths quick and shallow. She didnât stop to thinkâthinking was dangerous, thinking would unravel her resolve. She needed to act before she lost the reckless courage surging through her veins.
Her footsteps echoed in the empty corridors as she broke into a run. The portraits she passed muttered in disapproval, their drowsy protests lost on her. She couldnât stop now. Not when the fire in her chest begged for fuel. It was dangerous and foolish, and exactly what she needed.
Her mind raced alongside her feet. The memory of Fred Weasley, his smirk, his laugh, the way his lips had felt brushing against hersâit burned like a secret brand. The thought clawed at her now, relentless and consuming. She wanted more. She needed to find him. [y/n] needed to know if this feelingâthis chaos, this rebellionâwas real, and to confirm it was her choice, once. Her heartbeat thudded against her ribs, faster and louder, like a drum urging her forward. Letâs make mistakes, it seemed to whisper.Â
Her breath hitched as she skidded to a halt, stooping to rest her hands on her knees. A judgmental portrait loomed nearby, its painted gaze following her with disdain.
âSo what?â she snapped, her voice cutting through the silence. âItâll be my mistake to make. Mine.â
The portrait shrugged indifferently, its expression unreadable, and she straightened, a renewed defiance lifting her chin.
Elsewhere in the castle, Fred wandered aimlessly, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. The corridors stretched endlessly, cold and quiet, as his thoughts circled like vultures. He was haunted by a memory. A devastating one.
Two nights ago, everything had changed. Her lips, soft and unexpected against his, had been like a spark in the dark. Heâd told himself it was nothingâa mistake, a lapse in judgment. But the memory wouldnât fade. It gnawed at him, twisting and reshaping itself until it was no longer something he could dismiss.
He groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. âYouâre an idiot,â he muttered under his breath. A Malfoy. Of all people. His mind conjured images of her familyâtheir sneers, their disdain, the way they would look at him like dirt under their boots. And yet, when he thought of her, all he could see was the defiance in her eyes, the vulnerability that lurked just beneath.
He leaned against the wall, his forehead pressing into the cool stone. He shouldnât want this. Fred shouldnât want her. And yet, the thought of kissing her again refused to leave him. Not a hesitant peck this time, but something real, something that would sweep them both away. The very idea made him wince with self-loathing. A good bad idea, his thoughts taunted him. Make worse whatâs already pretty bad.
Back again on the grass ground, where she had begun, [y/n] found herself facing the entrance of the Quidditch pitch, the vast expanse of grass stretching out before her. The cold air bit at her skin, bringing a clarity she didnât want. She doubled over, hands on her knees, gasping for breath. The fire inside her dimmed, replaced by the creeping chill of doubt.
She straightened slowly, the stars above fading as the first blush of dawn crept over the horizon. The soft light turned the castle into a silhouette, a towering reminder of everything she was running from. Her heart, which had been racing moments ago, began to sink. She shook her head, her lips pressing into a bitter line.
This was madness. Utter madness. She was a Malfoy. He was a Weasley. Their worlds didnât just clash; they were built on opposing foundations, destined to crumble if they ever truly met. Her brotherâs face flashed in her mind, followed by her fatherâs cold disapproval. She knew exactly what they would say if they found out.
âPoor idea,â she murmured to herself, the words soft and scathing. âMe and you.â
Her shoulders sagged as the weight of it all pressed down on her. She turned slowly, intending to head back to the castle, to bury herself in the lies and expectations that had shaped her life. It was safer that way. Smarter. It was the only way to survive. Time to let this thing go, she thought, her steps faltering. It was a pretty good bad idea, wasnât it, though?
Elsewhere, Fredâs pace quickened suddenly, his body moving before his mind could catch up. He had no idea where he was going, but he knew he couldnât stop. His feet pounded against the stone floors, his breath coming in short bursts. The castle seemed to pull him forward, its twisting corridors narrowing until he could feel the weight of dawn pressing against the walls.
He didnât want to find her. That was what he told himself. But the truth gnawed at him, sharp and insistent. He needed to see her, needed to know if she felt it tooâthat spark, that chaos. He had to know if it had meant something, or if he was just a fool chasing shadows.
As he neared the Quidditch pitch, the cool air hit him like a wave, clearing his head just enough for him to curse his own stupidity. But then he saw her.
[y/n] Malfoy stood in the grass, the faint glow of dawn outlining her figure. Her hair was tousled by the breeze, her arms wrapped around herself as though to ward off the chill. She looked fragile against the vast sky, but there was a strength in her stance that made his breath catch.
He stopped, his chest heaving as their eyes met.
Neither spoke. Neither moved.
The sun lingered just below the horizon, as if hesitant to interrupt the stillness, granting them the fragile, fleeting privacy of the in-between hours.
Fred saw her first. And yet, the strike of itâthe sheer improbability of her standing thereâwas just as breathtaking to her.
Had he been looking for her? Had he felt it too, the same turmoil of rebellion, of need, of something greater than them both? [y/n] didnât know. She had no answers to her spiralling questions, and for once, she didnât care. She would have to ask him herself.
Her breathing steadied as a newfound calm settled over her. Slowly, deliberately, she took her first steps toward him. Fred, who had been running so fast mere moments ago, now stood frozen in place, rooted to the spot as he watched her approach. His gaze dropped to her feetâdelicate steps in dark blue slippersâcarrying her closer, closer.
To him.
He could hardly believe it. Fred had been so certain she would avoid him forever after that stolen, fleeting kiss in the shadows. But the horizon was brightening, and so was she.
[y/n] Malfoy wasnât hiding any more.
Fred let her close the gap between them on her own because part of him still doubted that whatever she was going to do next would be good for him.
âYou kissed me,â he said, as if it was the only thing he could say to her.
âYes,â she agreedâwell, she really had.
âAnd then you avoided me,â he added, the words tinged with an unintended cruelty. He didn't mean to push her away, not when all he wanted was to bring her closer. But Fred Weasley was clumsy with feelings, and he hated how his tongue betrayed him.
[y/n] didnât flinch. She doubted anything Fred said could push her away. âI did,â she admitted, her tone softer now, her head tipping slightly to one side, almost in resignation. âThat part was intentional.â
Fred frowned, his chest tightening. âLet me guess. Because, bamâI'm a Weasley. That reality hit you, didnât it?â He tried to sound casual, but the words escaped him too fast, and he felt ridiculous as soon as they hung in the air.
But [y/n] wasnât offended. Her retort came swiftly: âAnd I'm a Malfoy, dear Weasley. What does that mean, really?â
His gaze faltered, his brows knitting together as her words settled in.
âIt's too early for us to be defined by names like that,â she continued, a faint smile teasing her lips. She crossed her fingers and stretched her arms out in front of her, like a child trying to reach the sky. âIâm just [y/n]. For a few more days, Iâm still seventeen. And you? Who are you?â
Fred blinked at her, unsure of what to say. The silence lingered, stretching just long enough for doubt to creep in. Was he really not going to get it? Her head tilted slightly in question, but her disappointment didnât last long.
Fred closed the gap between them. His hands found her waist with a determination that surprised even him. Before either of them could think too much, her face tilted forward, meeting him halfway. The kiss was easyânatural.
And [y/n] didnât pull back. Her breath caught against his lips for only a moment before she parted them, inviting him closer. When his tongue brushed hers, her hands rose to his shoulders, fingers tracing the curve of muscle, grounding herself in the sensation.
This was a kiss. Deep and unrelenting, it was more than skin meeting skin; it was a convergence of need and affection. She pressed herself against him, craving the connection, wanting to lose herself in the solidness of Fred Weasley.
Fred matched her intensity, his hands moving from her waist to her back, then higher, threading into her hair. He marvelled at the soft, silver strands as they slipped through his fingers, untangling the remnants of her earlier rush. At that moment, [y/n] let him have herâher posture, her defences, all of it.
For Fred, the sensation was everything.
But, like all good things in life, the moment had to end. Eventually, they pulled apartâbut [y/n] remained in his arms, her warmth still pressed against him.
âI'm Fred,â he said, a little breathless but smiling anyway, the mischievous glint in his eyes softening. âGeorgeâs twin. Itâs a pleasure to meet you, [y/n].â
It was beautiful. That was [y/n]âs first thought. The way he said her name, the way he looked at herâit was like she was the only person in the world. But then the second thought came. Slowly, her hands fell away from his face, where they had been cradling him just moments before.
It felt like a fantasy. Too good to be true. And even if it was true, it felt too good to be hers.
The moment passed. Fred noticed the change instantly. Her body tensed in his arms, her back straightened like a shield raising itself, and even the silver strands of her hair, which he had so joyfully tousled, seemed to settle back into a pristine, unyielding order.
âWhatâs wrong?â he asked, his voice low with concern.
âNothingâs changed,â she replied, her words carrying a quiet sadness. It seeped into her voice, her expression, even the hesitant way she pulled his hands away from her waist.
Fredâs brows furrowed. âWhat do you mean, [y/n]?â
She hesitated, the weight of her thoughts pressing down on her. âI thought it would change,â she admitted, guilt creeping into her tone. Her voice broke just slightly as she added, âI thought this would be enough to saveâŠâ
âSave what?â Fred pressed gently, his voice filled with care, though worry was starting to edge into it.
Save me, she finished in her mind, but the words never made it past her lips. She looked away, stepping out of his hold. Now, without his embrace to shelter her, the towering silhouette of the castle loomed around them. Hogwarts now felt more like a reminder of the person she was supposed to be.
And how she had failed everyone.
A tear slipped from her right eye before she could stop it. Damn it. She brushed at her face with a trembling hand, but Fred had already seen. Fred noticed everything about her, and this was no exception.
Something was very wrong.
Wasnât she the one who had invited him to be someone new? To shed the weight of expectations? Then why did it feel like she was slipping back into the role of the Malfoy daughterâthe person she so desperately wanted to leave behind?
âYouâre not making sense,â Fred said, his voice tinged with both confusion and concern. The whiplash of her emotions was challenging to follow, and it worried him.
âIâm not,â she admitted bitterly, frustration bubbling over. She took a step back, then another, as if physical distance might make her words sting less. âI never am.â She paused, swallowing hard before adding, âIâm sorry, Fred. I thought... I thought this kiss would be enough.â
Her voice cracked on the last word, and the weight of her thoughts dragged her down. What kind of fool am I?
A kiss wouldnât save her. This wasnât a fairytale. A true loveâs kiss wouldnât wake her from the life already spiralling out of control, unravelling like a story written by someone elseâs hand. What power did Fred have against Lucius Malfoy? Against the man who, by now, had likely finalized her engagement to someone hand-picked for status and strategy?
What had she been imagining? That theyâd run away together? Into the sunset? And go where? The Burrow? She snorted bitterly at the thought. [y/n] wouldnât last a day there. She wouldnât even know how to be in a world so unadorned, so painfully honest.
She wanted to escape her name, her lineage, the weight of expectations that pressed down on her every step. But could she? She couldnât run from the habits ingrained in her, the luxuries she loved. Her hand unconsciously brushed the soft fur of her robeâan extravagance that cost more galleons than most people earned in a month.
And Merlin helped her, she loved the robe.
Her feet moved before her mind gave the order, pulling her away from him.
âNo, not again,â Fred called after her, his voice carrying desperation. He reached out, his fingers just brushing the air near her hand. âDonât run from me again.â
Her chest was tight, and she was still fighting back the sob that was already breaking free, her breath hitching painfully. âThis was a bad idea, Weasley,â she said, her voice barely above a whisper, though she knew he could hear her.
She slowed for just a moment, long enough to meet his gaze. His hand was still outstretched, a silent plea hanging between them. Her eyes softened, guilt flickering behind them. âBut thank you.â
Then she turned and ran, the moment's weight trailing behind her.
