Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader
Summary: you haven’t heard from your long distance ‘boyfriend’ Blaise Zabini for 3 months, so you fly halfway across the world to surprise him. however, your journey isn’t easy: getting drenched in rain, broken cars and no booked hotel.
That’s when you met Fred Weasley, an irritable but charming guy who agrees to help you get to the Blaise manor, and on your journey there, you find yourself falling for someone who you once deemed annoying.
Warnings/content: subtle enemies to lovers, grumpy x sunshine (kinda), fake dating for one night trope, enemies sharing one bed, capture the flag at the Burrow, George being their no.1 shipper, fluff, arguments
Wordcount: 8.8k (got carried away lols but enjoyy)
You could’ve sworn someone cursed your whole ‘surprise’ trip. It felt like the rain had teeth and gnawed through your traveling cloak, seeped into the wool and found the spaces between your ribs like it was searching for something warm to latch onto.
Your luggage, the one with the broken wheel that kept catching on cobblestones, sputtered behind you like a dying animal.
Twelve hours, you thought, dragging the miserable thing through another puddle. Twelve hours of Portkey, broom, and that godforsaken train, and this is my welcome.
Diagon Alley was a ghost town. Half the people cozied up indoors, the other half away with their families these holidays, not a single person on the street. Except you.
The holiday wreaths hung on every door, windows were dark, the shops shuttered, the festive lights dimmed by the rain.
Your breath came in white puffs that mingled with the fog rolling off the cobblestones. Somewhere, a sign creaked on rusted hinges, ‘The Leaky Cauldron, Fully Booked’, and you wanted to scream.
Three nights at the Seven Stars Inn, that was the plan. A cheap room, a hot bath, three days of rest before the two-hour driving journey to Zabini Manor. You'd booked it in advance, you'd confirmed it.
You decided to rest three days since you had quite the tedious journey, and you wanted to explore Diagon Alley.
"Sorry, love." The innkeeper's face was a mask of practiced sympathy. "No record of your booking. And even if there was..." She gestured at the lobby behind her, packed with travelers sprawled across every available surface. "We're full up. Holiday rush."
"But I—" Your voice cracked. "I have the confirmation. I can show you—"
"Doesn't matter what you've got, sweetheart. We have no evidence or record of your booking and we're full. Try the Leaky Cauldron."
"Then I don't know what to tell you, maybe you could try—” She was about to speak but another staff had called for her, “What is it Susan? I’ll be there in a sec!…” she then turned back to you, “Sorry love, try somewhere else perhaps.”
The door had closed in your face. Polite, but final.
And now here you were, soaking wet, exhausted.
Standing in the middle of a deserted alley with no room, no plan, and no boyfriend to call because you'd wanted to surprise him, because you were an impulsive fool who'd let your heart do the thinking instead of your head.
Heck, he wasn’t even your ‘boyfriend’ officially, more like someone you were dating or ‘pen pals’ with, who were on the road to becoming a couple.
You pulled his last letter from your pocket, the one you'd read a hundred times on the journey. His handwriting was elegant, slanted, every loop deliberate.
"I miss you more than words can say. The gardens here are blooming, but they're nothing compared to the way you smiled at me in Paris. Write soon. I'm counting the days."
That was three months ago.
And then nothing, no trace of him whatsoever.
You'd told yourself he was busy. The Zabini estate was vast, his mother's demands endless. He'd sent you a letter saying he'd been called home, that family matters required his attention. You'd understood, you'd waited.
And then you'd stopped waiting.
Something's wrong, your heart had whispered. He needs you, maybe something dire happened to him.
"Stupid," you muttered to yourself, dragging your trunk through another puddle. "So incredibly, monumentally stupid."
You ducked under an awning, pressing your back against a cold storefront. Your cloak was ruined, hair was plastered to your skull and your trunk was probably waterlogged beyond saving.
A single light burned in the darkness. Warm. Golden. A sign stating ‘We are Open’.
The sign above the door read: Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.
You didn't think twice, body bolting towards the shop.
Inside, it was chaos, but a beautiful kind. Shelves upon shelves of bright boxes, jars of swirling purple liquid, displays of things that popped and whirred and winked at you as you passed.
A stuffed dragon hung from the ceiling, its mechanical wings flapping lazily. The shop smelled like sugar and a sweet bubblegum-like scent of bubbles.
The door chimed as you entered.
"Hello?" Your voice echoed through the empty store. "I know it’s almost closing time, but I just—I need some help—"
You wandered further in, dripping rain onto the polished floor. Your fingers traced a box labeled Puking Pastilles.
"Very handy if you need a good puke."
The voice came from behind you, low, amused, with a warmth that curled around the edges like smoke.
You spun in the direction of the hoarse voice.
He was tall, that was the first thing you noticed. The second was the hair, a shock of brilliant red that seemed to glow even in the dim light. The third was the suit, deep brown with rust-orange undertones, a loosened tie, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms dusted with freckles.
He leaned against a shelf with an ease that suggested he owned every inch of space he occupied.
His eyes were the color of whiskey held up to candlelight. And he wore a name tag, ‘Fred’.
"Believe me," you groaned, "after the day I've had, puking would be the cherry on top."
His lips twitched. "Rough journey?"
"Rough everything." You gestured vaguely at your soaked, pathetic self. "I flew in from—well, it doesn't matter. My accommodations fell through. It's raining. My boyfriend, well, talking stage, partner, my date?—" The word caught in your throat. "—I'm trying to surprise him. But I haven’t heard from him and now I have nowhere to stay."
The man's expression shifted, a flicker in those amber eyes—curiosity, maybe or judgment. It was hard to tell.
"Long-distance boyfriend?" he asked.
"Lucky guess." He pushed off the shelf, moving closer. His presence was bold, crackling with restless energy. "Let me ask you something." He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, head tilted. "How long since you've actually seen him?"
"We've been writing letters—"
"Letters." He laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Right. And recently those letters stopped coming, didn't they?"
Your jaw tightened. "How did you—"
"Long-distance doesn't work." He said it like he was stating a fact. Like he'd read it in a textbook. "People drift, they forget. They find someone closer, someone easier." His eyes held yours. "You're standing in my shop, soaking wet, because the man who supposedly loves you didn't bother to make sure you had a place to stay."
"That's not—" You shook your head. "He doesn't know I'm coming. It's a surprise."
"A surprise." He laughed again. "Where is he now, then? If he's so wonderful, where's the boyfriend who's supposed to pick you up from the station? Where's the boyfriend who's supposed to keep you dry?"
"Please," you said, your voice sharp. "What do you know about love?"
The question hung between you.
His expression shifted slightly, the smugness dropped, just for a moment.
"Enough," he said softly, "to make sure I'd never let my girl get soaking wet."
He glanced away. "From the rain. Obviously."
"But I don't waste my time on that nonsense." He straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his suit. "Love. All that—" He gestured vaguely. "Couples dancing in the rain, writing poetry, making grand gestures. It's a farce, a performance."
"I'm realistic." He countered.
"You don't even know me.”
"I know you showed up in a foreign country with no backup plan." His smile was sharp. "I know you're desperate enough to wander into a joke shop after hours and pour your heart out to a stranger.”
“Well you don’t know anything about Blaise.” You remarked, Blaise’s name slipping from your mouth.
“Zabini? You’re dating Zabini?”
“Well, talking to him, on the way to becoming official, yes.” You were confident, or were you.
“In that case, I know—" He paused. "You're not going to find what you're looking for in that fancy manor of his. Best turn around now and fly home.”
"Thank you for the advice," you said flatly. "I'll treasure it."
"Sarcasm. Lovely." He huffed.
"You're lovely." You forced a smile.
"Now who's being sarcastic?"
The argument bubbled up between you like a pot about to boil. You wanted to strangle him, you wanted to laugh. You wanted—well, you wanted to punch that smug, freckled face, but you were too exhausted to follow through.
He sighed suddenly, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I've got to close up. My brother's sick, George. He was supposed to help me tonight, but he's upstairs with a fever, and Angelina's with him, so it's just me."
"George's girlfriend. Wife, probably soon. They're disgustingly happy." He wrinkled his nose. "Makes you want to vomit. Oh—" He gestured to the Puking Pastilles. "Hence these."
You stared at him. "Did you just—"
The rain hammered against the windows, you both looked at it then at each other. You looked back at the rain.
"This is the part where you tell me you have a plan," he said.
"You don't—" He stared at you. "You didn't think ahead? In this season? Every inn within fifty miles is full. Every hotel. Every—" He broke off. "Do you not think ahead?"
"I was impulsive!" you burst out. "I thought he needed me! I thought—" Your voice cracked. "I thought he'd be happy to see me, well he better be in three days time.”
Your admission hung in the air, raw and embarrassing.
"You really love him," Fred said slowly. "Don't you?"
"I don't know." You looked away. "I thought I did. Now I'm not sure."
You turned to your belongings, grabbed them and slowly strolled towards the door, ready to head out into the rain again, onto the next location you’d seek out for accomodation.
Fred was quiet for a long moment, watching as you despondently stared into the abyss.
Then he groaned, the sound of a man who knew he was about to do something he'd regret.
"There’s a spare bedroom upstairs," he said. "Used to belong to our old assistant, Lee. He moved on, got a job at the Quidditch supply shop, lucky sod. It's small. Cozy, maybe, if you're generous but it's warm and dry."
You turned to stare at him. "You're offering me a room?"
"I'm offering you a choice." He held up a finger. "Option one: you stay out there, catch pneumonia, and haunt my shop forever. Option two: you come upstairs, sleep in Lee's old room, and—" He grimaced. "And I try not to strangle you while you're under my roof."
"No time for questions, just say yes before I come to my senses."
You opened your mouth. Closed it then opened it again, “Yes?”
"Excellent." He was already walking toward the back of the shop, grabbing a set of keys from behind the counter. "Follow me, don't touch anything. And if you break anything, I'm adding it to your tab."
"You're soo funny." You deadpanned.
"I'm generous, you mean." He shrugged, smiling cheekily.
He led you up a narrow staircase, through a cozy living area cluttered with half-finished experiments, past a closed door that must have been his brother's room, and down a short hallway to a tiny bedroom.
It was small, bare. But there was a bed with clean sheets, a window that looked out over the alley, and a warmth that chased the chill from your bones. Beside it was a small wooden nightstand with a lamp, and a picture of who you guessed was Lee and George, with Fred.
"There's a bathroom down the hall," he said. "Towels in the closet. Hot water, but not for long—the pipes are temperamental."
"Thank you," you said, and meant it.
He nodded, already turning away.
He paused and looked back.
"I'm Y/N," you said. "In case you wanted to know."
"I already knew." He smirked. "Your luggage’s got a tag on it. Really, you should be more careful with your personal information. Anyone could be tracking you."
"Are you always this irritating?"
"Well, it is part of my charm." He clicked his tongue.
And then he was gone, leaving you alone in a stranger's spare room with nothing but the rain and your tangled thoughts.
You'd woken to the smell of bacon and sausage and the distant sound of Fred's voice arguing with someone.
"No, George, I'm not taking her to Knockturn Alley. What kind of tour guide do you think I am?"
"She's not a guest. She's a, she's a situation."
"I'm not explaining myself to you. Go back to bed, you’re still sick."
You'd dressed quickly, braided your damp hair, and emerged to find Fred leaning against the counter with a cup of tea, his tie loosened, his sleeves already rolled up.
"Morning, Sleeping Beauty," he'd said. "Ready for a grand tour?"
"Ready to be underwhelmed," you'd replied.
Two hours later, you were still underwhelmed.
"This is Flourish and Blotts," Fred announced, gesturing at a tidy storefront. "Books, boring. Don't waste your time."
"You're supposed to be showing me the sights."
"I am showing you the sights, my sights. The ones that matter." He pointed down the street. "That's the Leaky Cauldron, overpriced. That's Ollivanders—just sticks, really. That's Eeylops Owl Emporium, if you like birds that poop on your shoulder. Best point out these shops so you don’t fall for tourist scams, knowing how naive you can be about certain things."
He was pushing your buttons. Every comment was a barb, every observation a jibe.
You stopped in the middle of the street, hands on your hips. "You know, when someone says 'tour,' they usually expect enthusiasm, charm, maybe a little bit of history."
Fred turned, his eyebrows rising. "History? You want history?"
"Alright." He swept an arm wide. "This alley was built in—"
"—in the 1500s, give or take a century—"
"—and it's been a hub for wizarding commerce ever since. Of course, none of that matters, because people still manage to get lost, buy terrible gifts, and fall in love with the wrong people."
There it was, the barb you'd been waiting for.
"Let me guess," you said, resuming your walk. "Long-distance relationships are doomed, love is a myth and commitment is a trap."
"See? You're catching on."
He fell into step beside you, his long legs matching your pace. "Look, I'm not saying it's impossible. I'm saying it's unlikely. You met this bloke in Paris—"
"Exactly, holiday romance. Different city, different vibe. Everything feels magical when you're on holiday. But real life—" He gestured at the rainy alley, the mud on your boots. "Real life is this, cold, unpredictable, full of puddles."
"Of course there's a difference." He stepped in front of you, blocking your path. "Cynical means I don't believe in anything. Realistic means I believe in the things that actually exist. Like hot chocolate and warm beds. And—" He paused, his eyes scanning your face. "And the way your nose scrunches up when you're annoyed."
"It's doing it right now."
You shoved past him. "You are so irritating at times."
He caught up easily. "So tell me about this Blaise. What's he like? Handsome? Wealthy? Does he write flowery poetry about your eyes?"
"His letters were—" You stopped yourself. "They were good."
"Good." Fred's tone was dry. "High praise."
"He's elegant, sophisticated. He knows how to treat a woman."
"Oh, I'm sure he does. Probably sends you roses and chocolates and declarations of undying devotion."
Fred laughed, "And how long did that last?"
"Longer than your relationships, I'm sure."
"Ouch." He pressed a hand to his chest. "Right in the heart."
"You're vicious, I like it.” He paused then continued, “Come on, there’s a shop I want to show you.”
You hated how that made you feel. Though he was aggravating, you noticed certain things about him.
The way he held doors open for you even while rolling his eyes. The way he bought you a hot chocolate from the café without asking, just slid it across the table while you were complaining about the cold. The way he kept glancing at you, checking to see if you were keeping up or comfortable.
But still annoying nonetheless, being the cynic he was.
He took you to a tiny store tucked between two larger ones, a place that sold nothing but fireworks.
"These are proper fireworks," Fred said, his eyes lighting up. "Not the Muggle kind. These ones—" He picked up a box labeled Dragon's Breath. "These ones actually breathe."
He was different here, more animated, alive. His hands moved as he talked, gesturing at the displays, explaining the intricacies of each firework with genuine excitement.
"This one—" He held up a tube. "—creates an actual phoenix. Flies through the air, bursts into flames, reforms. It's beautiful."
"Have you ever set one off?" You leaned in with curiosity.
"Only once. Nearly burned down the shop, George was furious."
"Of course I did. That's the point." He grinned. "Life's too short for safe choices."
His eyes caught yours, and you felt a jolt, the one that made your stomach flip and your heart stutter for a few seconds.
“You so sure Blaise is waiting for you?” He asked, snapping out of the moment you shared.
“Yes, why would he not? It felt like love at first sight, you know?” You hummed.
“No, I don’t know.” He replied dryly, “Love at first sight is, a myth.”
“No it’s not. Not when you both feel it.”
“Are you well? I think I’ve got a diagnosis for you, love sick.” He quipped and you scoffed.
The afternoon stretched into evening, Fred bought you a pastry from a bakery, something flaky and filled with honey, and you ate it while you talked about your childhoods.
"The Burrow," he said, his voice fond. "It's chaos, absolute chaos. Seven children, all of them loud, all of them opinionated. Mum running around with a wooden spoon, Dad tinkering with Muggle artifacts in the shed."
"It's insane. But it's—" He paused. "It's home."
"What's it like? Being part of something like that?"
He looked at you. "You don't have a big family?"
"I don't have any family." You said it lightly, like it didn't matter. "Grew up in the system, moved around a lot."
"I didn't—" He stopped walking. "Y/N, I didn't know."
You looked at him. The shop lights flickered, casting shadows across his face. For a moment, you saw past the cynicism, past the jokes, past the irritating charm.
"I'm here," you said. "That's enough. Survived on my own this long, don’t really need anyone, mostly.”
You should have said yes. Instead, you said, "Maybe."
Something shifted between you, he listened intently, with no hint of judgement, just someone who really wanted to hear you out.
Then Fred cleared his throat.
"Anyway," he said, his voice deliberately light. "I should get you back. George will have the shop locked up by now, and if you're not there to argue with, I'll have no entertainment for the evening.”
"Aggravating, I know." He grinned. "You keep telling me."
"That's not what I said."
The walk back was quiet, but not uncomfortable. You were aware of him beside you, his warmth, his scent, the way his hand kept brushing yours as you walked.
"Fred," you said suddenly.
"Thank you, for today. Even though your tour guide skills could use a bit of improvement." You chuckled.
He glanced at you, a slight smile growing on his lips.
"You're welcome," he said. "Well it could improve with a few more tours, you’ll just have to come visit again.” He said casually, as you both arrived home.
He opened the shop door, letting you pass. As you brushed past him, you caught his eye, and for a second, neither of you moved.
Then he stepped back, and the spell broke.
"Right well I’m going to help George sort some things out and you should probably get some rest before dinner, Angelina is cooking.”
"Sounds like a plan, I’ll see what I can do to help her out” You chimed, walking towards the stairs while he stayed at the shop.
You climbed the stairs, your heart pounding. In your room, you collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
What are you doing? you asked yourself. You came here for Blaise, for your boyfriend.
But the thought felt hollow, distant. Like it belonged to someone else.
All you could think about was red hair and whiskey eyes and the way Fred's hand had almost, almost taken yours.
You had a shower and changed into some casual clothes, making your way to the kitchen to help Angelina prepare dinner.
George and Angelina were the opposite of Fred. Ever so warm, welcoming, bundle of joys.
"Ah, so you're the mysterious Y/N!" George beamed from behind the counter, his face still flushed with the remnants of fever but his eyes bright. "Fred hasn't shut up about you."
"I haven't—he's lying," Fred said flatly.
"Am I?" George winked at you. "He said—"
"You can't hex me. You're terrible at hexes."
"I invented half the products in this shop."
"And I invented the other half. Your point?"
They bickered like schoolboys, and you found yourself chortling, amused at their duality, so mature and serious when they needed to be, but so carefree and fun with each other.
Angelina was warm and sharp, her eyes missing nothing. She watched you and Fred like she was watching a particularly entertaining Quidditch match.
"Don't mind them," she said, linking her arm through yours. "They've been like this since birth. It's how they show affection."
“They’ve got an interesting way of showing it.” You chuckled.
“How about you then? What’s your story Y/N?” Angelina smiled eagerly.
“Yeah, what brings you here?”
“Was supposed to visit my long distance boyfr- well, my date, and yeah, I’ll be seeing him in a few days.”
“You sure this date of yours, is the one?” She raised a brow, “Does he know you’re coming?”
You looked down slowly, knowing damn well that your response was both no and no.
“Don’t worry, if this one doesn’t work out. There’s plenty of better people out there.” She hummed, dropping a hint. “The Weasley’s are a lovely family and-”
You choked on air, “Oh no, you don’t mean-” Fred?
She burst out laughing, “I didn’t even finish my sentence, you formed the thought yourself.” Her smile was knowing.
“How about we start of as friends, instead of sister in laws.” You teased, knowing you’d never get with Fred.
“I thought we were already friends.” She smiled warmly, a hand on your back.
“Wow you two have outdone yourselves.” George complimented, stuffing his face with roast beef.
“I wouldn’t mind cooking again tomorrow, it’s the least I can do to help.” You offered, well, alongside paying some token cash to Fred, who refused it at first, you also offered to help out because you wanted to give back.
“Fred, you didn’t tell her?” George reminded, scooping some mashed potatoes for himself.
“What’s tomorrow?” You asked while pouring some juice into your glass.
“Oh yeah, we’re going home to the Burrow tomorrow for the holidays, just for two days.” Fred mentioned before turning to George, “What was there to mention? I thought she would’ve wanted to stay here while we went and—”
“Leave Y/N here by herself while everyone is back with their families for the holidays?” Angelina said, “I don’t think that’s fair.”
“Well let’s not pressure her now.” Fred said, looking to you to gauge how you were feeling.
“Actually I don’t mind, but I don’t want to intrude on your family gathering.” You smiled shyly. “I don’t mind staying here to, I’ll take good care of the apartment.”
“Nonsense, we won’t have you staying here by yourself while we’re gone. Come join us!” George chirped, “Besides, Freddie hasn’t brought a girl home in ages.”
You and Fred simultaneously choked on whatever you were eating.
“Molly will be elated!” Angelina grinned.
“She’s already seeing someone!” Fred defended, “Let’s not put pressure on our guest shall we?”
“We’d love to have you there Y/N, I’ll let mum know. You can join the girls in their room with Ginny and Hermione too.” George reassured, “Don’t stay here by yourself aye.”
“Alright I’ll join you guys, if it’s no trouble.” You beamed.
At the Weasley house, you felt as though you encountered a glorious disaster, crooked walls, creaking floors, and a warmth that seemed to seep into your bones the moment you crossed the threshold. Molly Weasley descended upon you like a benevolent hurricane.
"You must be Y/N, so lovely to meet you dear! Do come in, make yourself at home. Freddie must’ve been taking good care of you eh?"
"Mother, we're not—she's not—"
"Nonsense! Any friend of Fred's is family!"
"Not in that way. We're not—"
"Don't worry about it, dear. Come, come.”
Fred shot you a look of pure desperation. You shrugged, helpless while giggling.
The morning blurred into a whirlwind of introductions: Ginny, fierce and funny, Hermione, warm and clever, Ron, awkward and sweet, Harry, quiet but observant, Percy, who Fred openly called a "prat" but who seemed genuinely trying to make conversation. Bill and Fleur who were a sweet couple.
Molly fed you breakfast until you thought you'd burst.
"Nonsense! Fred, pass her the bread."
"Fred, be kind to our guest will you?”
He passed you the bread, his face apologising for his mother’s hospitality and you chuckled.
While everyone was laughing at a joke Ron made, you caught Fred’s eye across the table. Something shared between you, amusement, maybe, awe. You felt at home here, the love, the warmth and you mouthed “Thank you” to Fred, who nodded in response.
And then the games began.
"Capture the flag!" Ginny announced, her eyes alight. "Y/N, you're with me, George and Harry. We're team red. Fred, you're team blue along with Ron, Hermione and Angelina."
“Alright the rules are simple, each team has two flags. The goal of the game is to capture the flags of the other team, whoever loses both flags first, well, loses.” Fred explained.
Everyone split up. The Burrow's property became a battlefield, hedges, gardens, sheds, the nearby woods. You ran and laughed and scrambled through the undergrowth, your heart pounding with the joy of it.
When had you last felt this? The relentless pressure of missing Blaise, the anxiety of the journey, the cold rain, it all fell away.
"Duck!" Ginny tackled you behind a hedge. "Ron's coming."
You both held your breath as Ron lumbered past, muttering about unfair team compositions.
"He's terrible at this," Ginny whispered. "Too loud. Hermione’s the real threat."
"Where's the flag?" You asked, wanting to find the other flag the team hid, while George and Harry attempted to find the other flag.
"Somewhere near the old shed, through the trees I think. But Fred's guarding it. You try get the flag, I’ll defend our flag Y/N.”
You crept through the trees, following Ginny's directions previously. And there it was, a small wooden cabin a few minutes from the main house. The red flag fluttered from a high shelf inside.
He spotted you at the same moment you spotted him.
"Fancy meeting you here," he said, spreading his arms wide. "Come to surrender?"
He grinned, that infuriating, irresistible grin, and you were moving before you could stop yourself. You lunged for the flag and he blocked you. You shoved him while he staggered back, laughing.
"All this for a piece of fabric?"
You went for the flag again and he caught your waist. You twisted, he twisted with you and somehow you were both on the floor, tangled together, fighting and laughing and—
His hand was on your hip. Your face was inches from his, his breath was warm against your lips.
His eyes were dark now, the whiskey amber gone molten. His thumb traced a circle on your waist, and you felt it in your bones, felt it everywhere.
"Y/N," he said, and your name sounded different in his voice. Softer, careful.
"You're—" you breathed. "You're fraternising with the enemy."
"What’s so wrong about that?"
"Look." He released you gently, pushing himself up. "The flag. It's right there."
You blinked, getting up and rushing towards it but he’d managed to trail behind you and reach for it, his height being a clear advantage, the red fabric dangling from his fingers.
"The game is clearly mine. But I'll let you have this one."
But his smile was different now, less sharp and more sincere.
You hated how much you noticed.
Day three started with a catastrophe. The shower was temperamental here too, you'd been warned. But you hadn't expected the water to go ice-cold just as you were finishing. You'd scrambled out, wrapped a towel around yourself, and bolted for the door—
And collided with a solid wall of warm, freckled skin.
Naked. Well, mostly naked. He had a towel slung low on his hips, and oh, Merlin, you could see everything. The muscles of his chest, the trail of hair that disappeared beneath the towel, water droplets still clinging to his collarbone.
"Sorry—I didn't—" You were backing away, your face burning. "I thought you were downstairs—"
"I was." His voice was rough. "I came up to the pipes, you used all the hot water.”
"No, it's fine. I just—" His eyes dropped. "You're—"
You looked down, noticing your towel was slipping, you screeched and yanked it up.
He didn't look away but raised his eyebrows.
"Fred!" You hit him playfully.
"I'm not—" He swallowed. "I'm not looking." His eyes darted away awkwardly, trying to be respectful.
"You're definitely looking."
You shoved past him, retreating to your room. You could hear him laugh from the hallway.
You slammed the door, heart racing. Your skin was tingling and you couldn't stop thinking about the way his breath had caught when he'd seen you.
This is bad, you thought. This is very, very bad.
You’d spent the rest of the day with the Weasley’s, they were truly the loveliest and you felt a hint of sadness when it was time for you to depart. Evening time had arrived and Fred agreed to drive you to the Zabini manor. It was a two hour drive and by the time you’d arrive, you’d hoped it be night, just in time to see Blaise and unwind together.
Molly gave you the tightest hug, “Remember dearie, you’re most welcome here anytime! It was lovely meeting you Y/N.” She beamed warmly, you’d only known her for two days and yet felt the most motherly love from her.
You said your goodbyes to the others as well, “Promise you’ll visit again, we’ve got more capture the flag games to win.” Ginny grinned.
“Yeah do come by again Y/N, we could learn a thing or two from you about winning.” Ron added which earned a chuckle from you.
The car was Fred's pride and joy, a beat-up Ford Anglia that looked like it had been through a war. It sputtered, coughed and nearly died every time he hit a pothole, but he drove it with the confidence of a man who'd never let practicality get in the way of stubbornness.
"Fred, you don't have to do this," you said for the tenth time.
"I know I don't have to." He didn't look at you. "I'm choosing to, it’s the least I could do after being so cynical.”
You laughed softly, “That’s new.”
The countryside rolled past, green hills, stone walls, sheep huddled under hedges. It should have been peaceful. Instead, it felt like waiting for a bomb to explode.
The engine coughed. Sputtered. Died.
Fred swore, colourful, intensive, words. The two of you got out of the car and inspected the engine, well, he inspected it.
“Yeah, battery’s dead. Should’ve changed it before our trip.”
"Surely there’s a mechanic near by?”
“In this region? Not likely. Let’s talk a walk, there’s probably a village nearby who could help."
There wasn't a village, but there was an inn. A charming, rustic little place with a sign that read ‘The Sleeping Fox’ and a proprietor who took one look at them and beamed.
It didn’t help that the sun was setting, any hope of finding help would probably arrive tomorrow morning.
"A couple! Finally! A young couple who doesn't look miserable!" The receptionist, a friendly elderly lady, beamed.
"Oh, we have a special for couples this evening! Half off! But you have to kiss to prove it. It’s a cute tradition my darling husband implemented!” She giggled.
"Kiss?" you repeated weakly.
“Shouldn’t be so hard for an energetic young couple eh?” She cheered.
“We’re exhausted, how about a hug to prove we’re a couple!” Fred tried to ease the situation, not wanting to make you uncomfortable.
The door behind the reception opened and out came who you assumed to be the lady’s husband. “Oh how lovely, what a cute couple! Have you told them about our tradition love?” The man chuckled.
“We’re a bit…shy…?” You spoke up, trying to dodge the kiss they requested.
“Aw come on now love, you’re young, full of life, a simple kiss would be easy for you two.” The man insisted, grinning.
Fred slowly moved closer, and quickly gave you a peck on the cheek. “There!”
“No, no darlings, it has to be a proper kiss!”
They were not going to let this go were they? Fred and you appears to have the same idea and turned to each other.
You should have said no, you should have walked out.
Fred's lips met yours, he cupped your cheeks, he felt warm, sweet, right.
The kiss was supposed to be a performance but it felt real to you, it was everything.
You pulled back, breathless. Fred's eyes were dazed, his hand still cupping your cheek.
"There," he said, his voice hoarse. "Happy?"
"Very happy!" the elderly couple crowed. "Room 3. Best view in the house. Well deserved for such a sweet couple.”
“Thank you very much, my girlfriend and I will cherish it.” Fred grabbed the keys. “By the way, do you guys know any mechanics around here?”
“Oh yes, Jack is brilliant. He’s taken the day off today but he usually comes by for breakfast with us. He’ll be here tomorrow, I’ll let him know he has a customer! Best rest for now dear.” The lady replied, to which Fred thanked.
That night, you couldn’t help but feel bad for Fred. "Take it," Fred said, jerking his chin towards the bed. "I'll take the floor."
"You can't take the floor."
"It's cold. You'll get sick."
"Then I'll be sick. What do you care?"
"I care—" You stopped. "I care because you've been kind to me, Fred. Even when you pretend you haven't."
His jaw tightened. "I'm not kind."
He stared at you. Then, slowly, he climbed onto the other side.
You lay there, barely breathing. The space between you was electrified.
"Why are you so cynical about love?"
"I got cheated on," he finally exhaled. "A few years back. Thought she was the one, thought we were going to—" He laughed. "I was young, stupid. She made me feel like I was enough and then I somehow wasn't, just left me like I was nothing.”
"Don't be." He rolled onto his side, his eyes finding yours in the dark. "She taught me something important."
"To wait." His voice was soft. "To wait for the right person. Someone who doesn't make you fight for their attention, someone who just…sees you.”
"How do you know when you’ve found that person?"
His lips curved into a smile. “You just do. When you know you know.”
“Wow, that’s helpful.” Your voice was flat, “super descriptive.”
He chuckled, “It’s as though time doesn’t exist when you’re with them. They’ll make 7 hours feel like 7 minutes.”
And your mind flashed memories with Fred, instead of Blaise. You blinked, nodding slowly. “I see.”
Early the next day, everything was in order. Fred’s car was fixed, the two of you had breakfast together, accomodation paid for by Fred. He had truly been helpful, you know for a fact you would not have survived without Fred here.
He was the kindest yet more irritating man at times.
The drive to the Zabini mansion was quiet, you stared out the window and pondered. What would Blaise say? How would you feel after seeing him for one year? Did you really want to part ways with Fred?
“What’s on your mind?” Fred turned to you before his eyes darted back to the road.
“Now that I’m actually minutes away from seeing him…I don’t know what to feel.” You admitted.
“Easy, just think back to Paris, channel those emotions again.” He said casually.
“Yeah, you’re right.” You said, though, you couldn’t seem to feel anything from those memories, the only thing occupying your mind was the man driving this car.
You arrived at the Zabini mansion and it was everything you'd imagined, stately, elegant, surrounded by gardens that must have been beautiful in the summer.
The engine ticked as it cooled, the only sound in the sudden silence. You sat in the passenger seat, your hands clasped in your lap, your heart thudding against your ribs for reasons that had nothing to do with the man waiting inside.
"So," you said, turning to Fred. "This is goodbye."
He was already looking at you. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel, once, twice, three times, before he forced them still.
"Looks like it," he said.
His voice was carefully neutral. Deliberately light, but you saw the way his jaw tightened, the way his knuckles went white against the wheel.
You didn't hesitate, you reached over and wrapped your arms around him.
Fred went still for a moment, caught off guard, frozen, and then his arms came up around you, pulling you closer. His chin rested on your shoulder, and you felt him exhale, long and slow, like he'd been holding his breath for days.
"You're going to be fine," he murmured against your ear. "He's lucky. Idiot doesn't even know what's coming."
"I'm not lucky," you whispered back. "I'm just stubborn."
You laughed softly, and then you pulled back.
Your faces were inches apart. His eyes dropped to your lips, yours dropped to his. The air between you crackled, pulsed with the memory of that kiss at the inn.
One kiss, you thought. One performance. It didn't mean anything.
But it had. It had meant everything.
You snapped back, breaking the spell. Fred's hands fell from your waist, and he cleared his throat, looking away.
"Right," he said. "Your stuff."
He was out of the car before you could respond, grabbing your luggage from the back. He set it down on the cobblestones with surprising gentleness, his movements stiff and deliberate.
You stepped out of the car. The gate loomed before you, pristine and perfect and utterly terrifying.
"You should go," Fred said. "He's probably waiting."
"Y/N." His voice was soft.
You opened your mouth, then closed it, turning toward the gate.
One last look, one last moment. "All the best, with everything." You finally said.
Fred was leaning against the car, arms crossed, watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read. The setting sun caught his hair, turning it to fire.
"And, thank you," you said.
"I know." He smiled, a real smile, warm and sad and somehow hopeful all at once. "Go on, make your grand entrance."
You squared your shoulders and walked toward the intercom, claiming you were visiting Blaise.
The gate then swung open, revealing a man who was both familiar and strange.
You turned around, wanting to wave goodbye to Fred, but his car had driven off once he saw Blaise come out.
Blaise Zabini was just as you remembered, tall, dark, impossibly elegant. His clothes were perfectly tailored, his posture impeccable, his smile warm but tinged with shock.
"Y/N?" His eyes widened. "What—how—?"
"Surprise." You laughed, but it came out wrong. "I know I should've written, but you stopped sending letters, and I got worried, and I thought maybe something happened—"
"Stopped sending letters?" His brow furrowed. "I sent you one. A few months ago."
"I did." He reached for your luggage, lifting it effortlessly. "You never received it?"
"I never—" Something cold settled in your stomach. "Blaise, what was in the letter?"
He was quiet for a long moment.
"Let's go inside," he said. "We need to talk."
The parlor was beautiful, all silk and gold and antique furniture that probably cost more than you'd earn in a lifetime. Blaise poured you tea with steady hands, his expression carefully composed.
"I've been dreading this conversation," he said. "Even though I thought it was already over."
"Blaise, you're scaring me."
He set down the teapot. "My family has arranged a marriage for me."
The words hung in the air. "A marriage," you repeated.
"Political, strategic. My parents' doing." He laughed, but there was no humour in it. "I had no choice. The Zabini name carries weight and my family expects—" He broke off. "I wrote to you, I told you everything. I said—" His voice cracked. "I said we needed to end it. That I couldn't keep you waiting for something that wasn't going to happen, that I thought it was better for you to move on. I didn't want to tie you down to a relationship with no future, that would be unfair to you."
"The letter," you said slowly. "I never got the letter."
"I thought you'd received it. I thought—" He ran a hand through his hair. "I assumed you were angry, that you'd decided to cut ties."
"Blaise, I—" Your voice caught. "I came all this way."
"I know." His eyes were pained. "I'm so sorry, Y/N. I never wanted to hurt you. I thought I was protecting you."
You should have been angry, you should have been shattered.
Instead, you felt... relieved. "It's okay," you heard yourself say.
"It's not okay. I led you on. I let you believe—"
"You didn't lead me on. We were—" You searched for the right words. "We were something, we had something, but the distance... we grew apart. And I think we were always going to, weren't we?"
Blaise stared at you. "You're not angry?"
"I'm not angry. I'm—" You laughed softly. "I'm sad, of course, but I'm not surprised and I'm not broken, Blaise. I'm okay."
"I don't deserve you being 'okay'."
"Maybe not, but I'm still going to be."
Silence stretched between you two.
"He's the reason, isn't he?" Blaise said suddenly. "The man who dropped you off. Couldn't quite see his face, but your body language said it all."
Your cheeks flushed. "What? No. He's just—"
"The way you looked at him," Blaise interrupted. "When you were saying goodbye. I saw it through the window, you looked at him like—" He paused. "I've never seen you look at anyone like that, not even me for the short time we had."
"Don't deny it, I'm not accusing you. Anyone could see it." He smiled, wry, accepting. "I'm happy for you, really. If he makes you feel that way, then maybe this is all for the best."
"You're being very mature about this."
"I'm being realistic." He gestured at the grand room around them. "My life is complicated, Y/N and I realise now that I was holding you back, holding myself back. We were never going to be what we thought we could be."
"Well, what do you want to do now?"
He considered the question. "For one, I am flattered that you went through all this to visit me, truly, thank you Y/N. And secondly, I want to be friends, genuine friends. And I want you to be happy." He paused. "Speaking of which, a friend of mine is opening a bakery in Diagon Alley and he's been looking for staff. If you ever decide to move here... I could put in a good word."
"Croissants, pastries, coffee. The works." He grinned. "You always did have a gift for making people feel welcome. I remember you saying that you'd love to work at a bakery back when we met in Paris. This would be perfect for you."
You thought about it. A job, a reason to stay, a life in a country you'd only ever dreamed of.
"I might take you up on that," you said carefully.
"Good." He extended a hand. "Friends?"
You took it. "Friends."
"I feel terrible that you flew all the way to see me, only for this to be the result." He apologised.
"No, no. You know what, I'm actually...relieved?" You strangely admitted.
"Relieved?"
"This trip brought more positives into my life than I would have thought."
"Well, glad you got something positive out of it. Paris was brilliant but I suppose we had our run, didn't we?" Blaise chuckled.
"It was fun, yeah, those were some pretty good days. And I'm glad we could officially end our 'relationship' here." You agreed, both reminiscing about a year ago.
"Is there anything else I could do for you? You're more than welcome to stay here until you settle yourself. Or I could have my driver escort you somewhere?" Blaise asked kindly.
An idea came to mind, of course. "There is one place I'd like to go to."
Blaise nodded knowingly.
———
The driver was efficient and silent, dropping you off just outside the Burrow. It was late, you assumed everyone was asleep, but surprisingly, the lights were still on.
Your hands were shaking as you knocked and the door swung open.
Fred stood in the doorway, his hair mussed, his tie gone, his shirt untucked. He looked exhausted and disheveled and perfect.
"Y/N?" His eyes went wide. "What are you doing here?"
Your mind flashed back to the car. The seven hours that had felt like seven minutes. The way he'd said it, they should make 7 hours feel like 7 minutes, and the way you'd tucked it away, knowing somehow that you'd need to see him again.
"You were right," you said.
"About Blaise." You stepped forward. "We didn't work out, but we ended on good terms. Friends, really."
"Y/N, I'm—" He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, I know how much you liked him."
"That was the past," you said simply. "I was blinded, by the romance of it all. By the letters, by the idea and potential of him, not the reality. But once I got here, I realised—" You searched for the words. "I realised I was chasing something that wasn't real, something that was never going to work, and then I met someone else. Someone who made me feel—" You broke off.
Fred's expression shifted. His eyes searched yours, looking for something he was afraid to believe.
"Made you feel what?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"He made seven hours feel like seven minutes. He made me feel like I was enough, like I didn't have to prove anything. Like I could be myself—messy and impulsive and annoyed and somehow still wanted." You laughed, a little breathless. "He was infuriating and cynical, and he drove me absolutely mad. But I couldn't stop thinking about him, even when I should have been thinking about someone else."
"I'm moving here," you continued. "Blaise's friend is opening a bakery, and he put in a good word. I have a job, Fred. I have a reason to stay."
The words hung between them.
"Y/N—" His voice cracked. "I was about to write you a letter, I was going to tell you that I—" He laughed, disbelieving. "I was going to be a sentimental idiot and confess my feelings like a proper sap."
"Let me guess," you said. "You were going to say something cynical and romantic at the same time."
"That's exactly what I was going to do."
He raised an eyebrow. "Show you?"
"You said you were going to confess, weren't you?"
Fred stepped forward, taking your face in his hands. His touch was warm, trembling slightly, and his eyes, those endearing whiskey eyes, held yours like you were the only thing in the world that he could focus on.
"I am absolutely captivated by you," he said. "I have no idea when it happened, but you've consumed everything about me. And I know I should have said it before you left, but I was scared, and I was stupid, and I thought I was protecting myself by pushing you away."
"Protecting yourself from what?"
"From losing you." He smiled, soft and broken. "Except I lost you anyway and the worst part was, I didn't even get to tell you."
"I'm telling you now." He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. "I have feelings for you, Y/N. I think you caught my eye ever since you walked into my shop, soaking wet and furious and absolutely magnificent."
"Love at first sight, my ass." You chuckled.
"There's an exception for everything."
"I was furious that night."
"I know, it was brilliant."
"I know we haven't known each other long, but I also know that I've never felt this way about anyone and if you're really staying, if you're really moving here, then I want to be part of your life. All of it. Every messy, chaotic, beautiful part."
You then closed the gap between you two, and he reciprocated, pulling you even closer by the waist, while your arms wrapped around his neck.
It was different from the inn, deeper, surer, more honest. You melted into him like you'd been waiting your whole life to belong here.
"You're mine," he murmured against your lips. "You know that, right? You're mine now."
"And you're mine, Fred Weasley."
"I was yours the moment you called me irritating."
"That's not romantic." You laughed.
"Same thing, still not romantic!"
He laughed, the sound of pure joy.
Without warning, the door burst open. "KNEW IT!"
George stood in the doorway, his face flushed with triumph, Angelina behind him with a wide smile. Ginny appeared at the top of the stairs, followed by Ron and Hermione and Harry and, somehow, Molly and Arthur, in the midst of all the noise.
"I told you!" George crowed. "I told you all! From the very beginning! 'Fred's got it bad,' I said. 'He's going to fall for her.' And you all said I was being dramatic—"
"You're always dramatic," Fred said flatly.
"Look who's talking!" George grabbed your arm, pulling you inside. "Welcome to the family, Y/N. We've been expecting you."
"You—" You turned to Fred. "You told them?"
"I told George. He told everyone."
"Of course I told everyone! That's what families do!"
Molly was already fussing, clucking about how thin you looked and whether you'd eaten anything and when was the wedding going to be?
"Mum," Fred said, his ears reddening, "we've been together for approximately five minutes—"
"Five minutes is plenty of time to know! I knew Arthur was the one the moment I saw him—"
"LOVE is messy, dear. Now, who wants tea?"
You were surrounded by chaos, by love, by the warmth of a family that had already welcomed you before you'd even arrived.
And in the middle of it all, Fred caught your hand.
You squeezed his fingers, "Better than okay."
He beamed, that annoyingly charming, radiant, infuriating smile. You knew, with absolute certainty, that you'd found your home. The man standing beside you was worth every storm you'd ever weathered.
