(enemies to lovers • jealousy • one bed trope)
Fred weasley x fem reader
The late-spring sun melted over Paris like warm honey, gilding every rooftop it touched. The city stretched beneath them—terracotta chimneys, soft pastel facades, balconettes dripping with flowers, and the lazy curl of the Seine glowing gold. It was the kind of evening that smelled like fresh bread, distant rain, and possibility.
She stood at the stone railing of the overlook, breath caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. Paris. She was finally here. Her suitcase leaned against her legs, expensive ribbons she’d tied to the handle fluttering in the gentlest breeze. The air was warm, the sky soft, and her heart—annoyingly—loud.
Behind her, the familiar chaos of her friends spilled across the steps.
Hermione was lecturing Ron about “not losing his things before they even reached the hotel,” while Harry and Ginny were taking turns snapping crooked photos of each other. George was digging through his bag for Merlin-knew-what while Angelina scolded him.
Fred was staring directly at her.
He leaned casually against a lamppost, arms crossed, expression unreadable in that infuriating way of his. His hair caught the sunlight like wild flame, and his mouth pulled into the faintest smirk—the kind he reserved specifically for winding her up.
He was impossible. Loud, mischievous, dramatic, and somehow always exactly where she wished he wasn’t. They’d been sniping at each other since her first year of Hogwarts, an ongoing war of sarcasm and stubbornness. And somehow, despite the arguing and eye-rolling, they always ended up in the same group, in the same conversations, at the same events.
She blamed the universe. Or fate. Or maybe George.
Fred pushed off the lamppost and sauntered over with that long, easy stride of his.
“Enjoying the view?” he asked, glancing meaningfully—not at Paris, but at her.
She refused to give him the satisfaction of reacting.
“It’s stunning,” she said breezily. “Paris, I mean.”
He hummed, gaze dropping briefly to her glossed lips before flicking back up, smug as ever.
“Shame I have to share the city with you,” he teased lightly.
She scoffed, crossing her arms. “Don’t act like I’m not the highlight of your entire trip.”
“Highlight?” Fred repeated, hand over his heart. “Sweetheart, you’re the challenge of my entire trip.”
Before she could snap back, Hermione called, “Alright! Hotel time, everyone. It’s only a short walk from here.”
The group gathered their bags, chattering excitedly as they started down the sunlit Parisian street—cobblestones glowing, cafés spilling laughter onto the sidewalks, flower carts perfuming the air.
She adjusted her luggage handle and moved to follow. A warm hand brushed hers.
Fred had stepped beside her—too close, as always, his shoulder almost touching hers.
Not offering help. Just… being there.
He shot her a sidelong look, smirk softening just enough to make her heart misbehave.
“Try not to fall behind, princess,” he murmured. “Wouldn’t want Paris to swallow you whole.”
She lifted her chin, refusing to let him see her blush.
“Don’t worry,” she said sweetly. “If the city tries anything, I’ll just sacrifice you first.”
His low laugh curled around her spine. “Merlin help us both.”
They descended into the city together, the sky turning rose-gold overhead, the magic of Paris collecting around them like a whispered promise.
As they arrived she stood still for a moment, drinking in the sight of the boutique hotel Hermione had found—a tall, elegant building of pale limestone with soft sage-green shutters and a carved wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze: Hôtel Lumière Charmante. Fairy lights curled across the façade like constellations caught in vines.
Fred, hauling his trunk behind him, brushed past her with a smirk. “Careful,” he said lightly. “You’re gawking so hard you’re liable to inhale a pigeon.”
Her jaw snapped shut. “I hate you,” she muttered.
“Strong opener for a holiday,” he replied, grin widening.
Enemies was a strong word for what they were. Irritatingly aware of each other was closer—but both of them would rather hex themselves bald than admit it.
Inside, the lobby was all velvet settees, marble floors, and the scent of lavender drifting from tall vases. A chandelier glittered overhead like a cluster of fallen stars.
“Alright,” Hermione said, clapping her hands. “Room arrangements!”
Harry and Ginny paired off, Ron and Hermione claimed theirs, George and Angelina snagged the last double. Which left—
Fred raised a brow at her.
“No,” Hermione cut in quickly, eyes wide as if sensing doom. “They have a spare single at reception. Two singles available. You two don’t have to share.”
Fred muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Shame.”
Their rooms were side by side on the second floor—hers a soft cream-colored space with tall windows that opened onto a tiny balcony covered in ivy. She unpacked quickly, smoothing her pastel dresses into the wardrobe, brushing a few loose strands of hair back into place, and trying not to think about how annoyingly good Fred had looked in the sunset—shirt sleeves rolled, tie undone, laughing at something Ron said.
Not thinking about him. At all.
By dinner time, the group wandered down the hill toward a café terrace that overlooked the city. Lanterns glowed overhead, the evening warm and breezy, smelling of baked bread and wine.
They snagged a long outdoor table draped in white linen, tiny candles flickering in glass jars. Couples leaned close over plates of pasta; street musicians played soft accordion nearby; the entire skyline shimmered below them.
She felt like she had stepped into a dream.
Fred pulled out the chair beside her before she could choose another, plopping down with a grin that was far too smug for someone who hadn’t actually been invited to sit there.
“Paris suits you,” he said casually as he poured her wine. “You look… less annoying here. More sparkly.”
She stared. “Did you just call me sparkly?”
“Don’t get used to it.” He clinked his glass against hers.
Conversation flowed easily—stories, teasing, laughter drifting up into the golden night. She sipped her wine slowly, letting it warm her chest. Fred’s knee brushed hers under the table by accident…or maybe not?—and she pretended not to notice despite her pulse jumping.
Paris woke them gently — not with the clatter of Diagon Alley or the whistles of the Burrow, but with sunlight pouring in wide and soft across the hotel’s shutters, pigeons arguing politely on the sill, and the muffled, musical hum of the city beginning to roll. From her window she could see the gray, gleaming ribbon of the Seine and, beyond, rooftops crowned with chimney pots and the occasional jaunty television antenna. The hotel itself smelled faintly of polished wood, espresso, and lemon oil — genteel and a little worldly, the sort of place that folded you into its routine like an old scarf.
A grin broke across her face.
She dressed, and stepped onto her tiny balcony. Below, the street was stirring: cafés dragging out their rattan chairs, flower vendors lifting buckets of roses and peonies onto their carts, and a few early risers strolling with pastries in hand.
A knock sounded at her door.
“Morning!” Ginny said when she opened it, her hair loosely braided, cheeks bright with excitement. “Breakfast downstairs. Ron’s already threatening to eat the tablecloth if they don’t bring food soon.”
She laughed. “Let me grab my bag.”
Downstairs the group gathered in the sunlit breakfast room, mismatched chairs and a tiled floor, the table crowded with fresh baguettes, glossy jams in tiny pots, and an absurdly good coffee machine that Harry considered an invention worth worship. Hermione had commandeered the sugar, making notes about train times and their schedule for the Louvre, while Ron was chiefly occupied with locating the strongest jam. George and Fred bickered amiably over who’d ordered which pastry, Ginny and Angelina laughed at both of them, and Harry and Ron traded planning for the day with that anxious-but-excited energy of people who still insisted on seeing everything at once.
She sat beside Hermione, sunlight catching her hair. “Three days until Greece,” Hermione mused, voice practical but soft. “We can’t waste a single morning here.”
“Wasted mornings are my specialty,” Fred said, grinning at her, and she flicked a piece of buttery crust at his cheek. It landed like a tiny flag of surrender.
He pretended to be wounded. “Traitorous pastry,” he complained, then reached over and stole a bite of her croissant. His fingers brushed hers, brief and electric — the kind of small thing that seemed to snag and hold the air between them.
They split in easy teams for the morning: Harry and Ron on a mission for historical oddities, George and Fred lured by the idea of chaotic souvenirs (and possibly a fireworks-in-France concept note), Hermione intent on the Louvre’s map, and Angling and Ginny oscillating between the two camps with amused grins. She walked with Hermione and Ginny for the first stretch, boots tapping on cobblestones, the air alive with vendors arranging chestnuts and antiques, accordion music threading underfoot.
At the Louvre the stone swallowed them into a cool hush. The building felt like a breathing thing; marble corridors held their breath like secrets. Hermione moved through galleries like someone reading a favorite book aloud, pointing out a brushstroke here, a conservation miracle there. She found it charming all the same: the reverence, the human buzzing, the sunlight hitting gilt frames in a way that made everything glow.
Fred and George, oddly reverent in their own way, were more interested in an exhibit of 18th-century prank toys (of course), and she caught Fred’s eye between marble columns; he mouthed something that looked suspiciously like you look ridiculous in that outfit — code for you look wonderful — and she glared a hole in his head. He returned the expression then a small, private grin once she looked away.
In the early afternoon the girls decamped for a sweet, riotous hour of their own. Hermione had a list of patisseries to try and Ginny declared they were to treat it like a pilgrimage. They drifted along streets hemmed by boutiques and flower stalls, stopping for macarons that crunched with sugar and unfurled into almond-scented clouds on the tongue. A tiny shop offered berets; she tried one on and felt, absurdly, like she’d stepped into a postcard. Ginny teased her into a twirl. Hermione inspected every seam like a project she might someday catalogue, and the four of them collapsed on a café terrace to sip pale lemonades and trade stories.
“You look like you belong in an impressionist painting,” Ginny said, nudging her shoulder. “Honestly, you are the summer personified.”
She laughed. “I would like to be an impressionist’s muse, yes. Preferably the kind that gets to pick the colors.”
Hermione’s brow softened. “You should write postcards,” she said suddenly, serious and fond. “Not the usual ones. The properly romantic kind.”
They lingered, and in a quiet lull Angelina asked about Fred — not in the teasing way of the others but the observant way of a friend who notices the small sandpaper shifts in someone. “Is it getting worse with Fred?” she asked, voice low, earnest.
She huffed, snapping shut the guidebook Ginny had made her carry. “What, the uncontrollable urge to strangle him? Yes. Absolutely. Being trapped in a foreign country with him might actually be how I die.”
Ginny snorted. “You two have been at each other’s throats since breakfast.”
“He started it,” she said automatically, then winced because she sounded five. “He always starts it. Everything out of his mouth is some obnoxious comment about how I pack too much or walk too slow or talk too—”
“—loud,” Ginny finished, amused. “Yeah, we heard.”
“It’s like he’s going out of his way to wind me up,” she muttered, stabbing her fork into a croissant as if it had committed a personal offense. “And we’re stuck together for almost two more weeks. I might actually snap.”
Hermione squeezed her hand, sympathetic but honest. “You two have spent this much time if not more in the burrow before. You’re bound to clash but nothing you aren’t used to.”
“Clash? Hermione, he’s insufferable.”
Ginny leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, giving her a look that was part pity, part entertainment. “The rest of us are starting to think you’re both insufferable,” she said with a sigh. “Every time one of you walks into the room the other looks like they’ve been cursed.”
“It’s exhausting,” Angelina added softly. “Truly.”
She groaned, dropping her head onto the table. “I know. I KNOW. But he’s—he’s FRED.”
“And you’re you,” Ginny said, tugging her head back up. “So don’t be an idiot.”
She blinked at her. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” Ginny said with an exasperated laugh, “you can’t let him get to you so easily. He’s pushing your buttons because he knows he can. Ignore him. Or—better yet—beat him at his own game.”
She lifted her chin, a spark of defiance flaring. “Fine. I can do that.”
Hermione glanced at Ginny and Angelina with a quiet sigh.
“Oh Merlin,” she murmured. “This is going to be a disaster.”
And from around the corner faint and unmistakable, Fred Weasley’s laugh carried out, light and smug in the Parisian air.
Ginny groaned. “Here we go…”
The rest of the night had faded into the blur of late–Paris magic. They’d wandered back to the hotel with the others, half-tired, half-buzzed, the air smelling faintly of rain on warm stone. She had gone to sleep thinking Paris was softer at night… and that Fred Weasley was decidedly not.
Somehow, morning made that even clearer.
The sunlight slanted in pale and cool across the hotel room carpet as they all gathered downstairs for breakfast again, yawning and blinking like a mismatched flock of birds. The group was cheerful, talkative, buzzing about plans for the day — except for two people.
She kept her distance from Fred, and Fred, very pointedly, did not keep his distance from her.
He made one snide comment about her shoes being “impractical for someone who trips on flat surfaces.” Another about her “tourist enthusiasm being loud enough to attract a pack of wild baguettes.” And when she asked Hermione a perfectly normal question about the metro, Fred muttered under his breath:
“Shame there’s not a train that runs on dramatics. She’d never have to walk.”
Normally she’d fire back, normally she’d tear him to ribbons with that honey-coated sarcasm she’d perfected just for him.
But this morning? She ignored him.
Brutally, effortlessly, and like he wasn’t even there.
They toured Montmartre, the sky a gentle watercolor above them. She walked with Ginny, letting the wind tug at her skirt, choosing to admire the artists and flower boxes instead of Fred’s scowls. They bought crepes. She pointed out architecture to Harry. She linked arms with Hermione as they browsed antique shops. She tried perfumes at a tiny boutique with Ginny and listened to Ron rant about price tags.
And all the while — Fred glowered from the edges. He swooped in with quips and she pretended not to hear them. He nudged her elbow while walking and she stepped away.
He made a sarcastic comment about her buying a diary with a gold clasp. She smiled sweetly at the cashier and ignored him again.
It was petty, it was cruel, but mostly it was deeply, deeply effective.
The more she ignored him, the more Fred’s jokes sharpened, like little darts waiting for a reaction he wasn’t getting.
By late afternoon, the group stopped near a scenic overlook, Paris sprawled below in glittering blues and whites. Everyone was chatting, snapping photos, trading bites of pastries. She leaned over the railing, peacefully minding her business.
Fred came up behind her — voice low, sharp, but not loud enough for the others. “Are you seriously doing this all day?”
She didn’t turn. “Doing what?”
His scoff was incredulous. “Merlin’s sake, this. Ignoring me. Acting like you can’t hear a single bloody thing I say.”
The wind moved her hair as he stepped closer.
“I’m not ignoring you,” she lied, still facing forward.
“Oh, you absolutely are,” he snapped. “And it’s—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening.
She finally turned toward him. “It’s what?”
He looked frustrated, flushed, cornered in a way she’d never seen on him. His voice came out rougher than he meant: “It’s the only way I know you’re listening. Because—because irritating you is the only time you actually look at me.”
Fred realized what he’d said a half-second too late. He swallowed, eyes flicking away, mocking tone returning like a faulty shield. “Not that it matters. Just—stop ignoring me. It’s annoying.”
She stared at him — really stared — and for a moment, the entire overlook went quiet.
Then she said, calmly “Now you know how it feels.”
Hermione called her name from a few meters away. She stepped back, breaking the strange electricity stretching between them.
Fred watched her go, jaw tense, eyes dark — not angry, not exactly. And to him Paris, beautiful and bright behind him, suddenly felt far too small for the two of them.
The next morning, the sun didn’t even bother trying to break through the clouded Paris sky.
Rain pattered softly against the hotel window, a spring drizzle that made the city look blurred and watercolor-soft. It should’ve been cozy, romantic even — but it mostly just made everyone move slowly. Sleep-heavy. Ready for a change of scenery. Ready for Greece and sunlight.
She stretched, blinked at the gray light, and sighed.
Downstairs, the lobby buzzed with the lazy, half-awake energy of people who’d packed too late and hadn’t had enough coffee. Their group gathered one by one, bags in hand, umbrellas dripping on the tile floor. Fred leaned against the wall, tapping his foot, clearly impatient — and clearly itching to annoy her again.
She didn’t look at him. Not after yesterday. She didn’t have the energy.
“Right,” Hermione said, shuffling the papers that held all their portkey and itinerary details. “We check out now, and meet back at the portkey station at four. That gives everyone around six hours to do whatever they want before we head to Greece.”
“Six hours,” George groaned dramatically. “What on earth will we do with ourselves in Paris, of all places?”
Ginny flicked him in the ear.
Everyone peeled off into smaller groups — Hermione and Ginny plotting some last-minute bookstore run, George promising Angelina “one last pastry tour,” and Fred… well, Fred hadn’t said what he was doing. Or who he was going with.
Instead, Harry came up beside her, slinging an arm casually around her shoulders. “Ron says we’re grabbing lunch before anything else,” he said. “He’s apparently starving to death.”
“I missed one meal already,” Ron muttered.
“You missed breakfast,” Harry corrected.
“That’s not missing. That’s… delaying.”
She smiled — finally, something normal.
“So?” Harry asked. “You in? One last wander through Paris with your two favorite people?”
She looked across the lobby briefly — and accidentally met Fred’s gaze. It was sharp. Stormy. Irritated. He looked like he wanted to say something, but she tore her eyes away before he could, choosing instead to bump Ron with her shoulder.
“I’m in,” she said brightly. “Lead the way, boys.”
They headed out into the rainy streets, the gray light brushing across the rooftops. Parisians hurried by under umbrellas, steam rose from café awnings, and the smell of warm bread drifted from somewhere nearby. It was peaceful.
A perfect atmosphere to forget about Fred Weasley. At least for six hours.
The six hours slipped by faster than any of them expected.
She, Ron, and Harry had wandered through the quieter streets of Paris, avoiding the tourist-heavy boulevards and ducking instead into bookshops that smelled of parchment and rain. Ron insisted they try every pastry they passed, which led to them sharing a box of flaky almond croissants while she flirted in the little French she knew, with the handsome barista who drew little stars in her cappuccino foam.
They browsed magical antiques in a tucked-away wizarding shop where Ron nearly bought a cursed wind-up dragon, and she spent far too long admiring enchanted travel journals that sketched memories as one experienced them. By afternoon, the rain had lightened to a mist, the clouds thinning just enough to make the Seine look silver instead of gray. The three of them strolled along the river, laughing at Ron’s dramatic retelling of yesterday’s near-disaster with the malfunctioning escalator charm at the metro station.
For a few blissful hours, there was no tension, no barbed comments from Fred, no forced proximity — just quiet adventure with friends.
But eventually, time caught up with them.
A clock tower chimed three-fifty as they cut through a square lined with dripping plane trees, their bags charmed to stay dry as they hurried toward the designated portkey spot: an old wrought-iron gazebo tucked behind a magical florist near the edge of the city.
The whole group trickled in by fours and twos.
Hermione and Ginny arrived first, arms full of paper-wrapped flowers Hermione insisted would survive the jump to Greece if charmed properly. Angelina and George followed not long after, mid-argument over whether French or British wizarding navigation spells were superior.
Of course he showed up last — hair damp from the drizzle, shirt slightly rumpled, expression set in that neutral face he wore whenever he refused to betray irritation. He nodded to the group, but when his eyes met hers for half a second, something tightened there — something unreadable, sharp as flint.
She looked away first because she wasn’t doing this today. Not when they were minutes from magical international travel. Not when she was tired from the weather and the long morning and the constant pretend-ignoring of every little jab he had thrown the day before.
Hermione glanced between them, then wisely didn’t say a word.
George clapped his hands together, “Right! Portkey’s set to go in thirty seconds. Everyone touching?”
They all stepped in under the gazebo, each of them grabbing hold of the battered old enchanted lantern serving as their portkey. A soft hum filled the air.
“Ready for Greece?” Ginny asked brightly.
A chorus of yeses echoed—except from Fred, who muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Ready as I’ll ever bloody be.”
She pretended not to hear.
The lantern glowed blue, and the world yanked sideways.
Their Paris chapter closed in a rush of wind and spinning light, and the world snapped back into place with a rush of warm air and salt-sweet wind.
They landed—stumbled, really—onto a sun-washed stretch of cobblestone just outside their seaside hotel in Paros, Greece. The portkey that had whisked them from Paris vanished with a faint pop behind them, leaving the eight of them blinking in the sudden burst of brightness.
And what brightness it was.
The Aegean glittered like poured silver beyond the whitewashed buildings, the sea stretching wide and endless, reflecting the late-spring sun in shimmering coins of light. Palm trees swayed lazily. Bougainvillea trailed down balconies in cascades of pink and purple. The air was warm but not heavy, scented faintly with sea salt, grilled fish, lemon, and something floral she couldn’t place but wanted bottled forever.
Ginny let out a delighted sound, “Oh—Merlin—this is a dream.”
Harry laughed, slipping an arm around her waist. Ron whistled low under his breath. Hermione was already digging her camera out of her bag.
George turned toward the group, sunglasses slipping down his nose. “Welcome to paradise, ladies and gents. Try not to melt from the sheer beauty of me in this lighting.”
Angelina shoved him. “Try not to fall into the sea in this lighting.”
And then, of course, Fred.
Fred stepped beside her, hands shoved into his pockets, hair stuck down by the sea's humid air. He looked annoyingly good, which irritated her more than the shells poking into her shoes.
“Well,” Fred drawled, looking at the water then at her with that infuriating half-smirk, “at least it’s humid enough my hair’s not the only thing having a dramatic day.”
She didn’t take the bait. She’d spent the last 48 hours pretending not to notice him, which took more effort than she cared to admit.
“Lovely,” she said sweetly, breezing past him toward the hotel entrance. “Maybe the humidity will flatten your personality too.”
His offended scoff behind her was delicious.
Hermione pressed her lips together, fighting laughter.
Harry muttered, “Here we go again.”
The hotel itself looked like it had been plucked straight from a postcard—white stone walls, bright blue shutters, vine-covered trellises, lanterns swaying lightly in the wind. It stood right on the beach, so close that the waves sounded like the building’s heartbeat.
As they filed inside, the girl at the desk handed out keys, explaining the layout:
“Two couples’ suites on the left”—Hermione and Ron, Harry and Ginny—
“One double suite on the right”—George and Angelina—
“And a connected room at the very end of the hall though it’s separated by a locked door”—hers and Fred’s.
Hermione’s eyes widened and Angelina beamed.
She blinked. “There… there must be some mistake—”
Fred reached for his key, spinning it around his finger with that infuriating ease.
“Oh, relax. I’m sure I’ll barely hear you sobbing through the wall.”
She glared. “Trust me, Fred, if I cry it will be because I can hear you.” Fred gave her a look. Smug. Taunting. Predictable.
“This’ll be fun,” he murmured.
She gripped her suitcase harder. “For who?”
Ron clapped Harry’s shoulder to stop a soon to be fight. “Unpack, beach in thirty minutes?”
She turned toward her room, feeling the cool sea breeze blow through the hall.
Behind her, Fred called lightly, “Try not to miss me too much, princess, you can come through the door whenever you want.”
She did not give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment.
They followed the curved hallway down to the last two doors — sea-facing rooms, inside a single adjoining door between them like some cosmic joke.
Fred tested his door. “Oh look,” he said sweetly, “I can already feel the peace and quiet slipping away.”
She shouldered past him. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re predictable,” he shot back.
But there was something else flickering beneath it — frustration, yes, but also the same tension that had been threading between them since Paris. A pull neither of them handled well.
The wind blew warm across her skin as she stepped into her room. It smelled like citrus and salt and new beginnings. She told herself she didn’t care that Fred’s room touched hers by a single, flimsy, traitorous door.
The Greek evening was a painting in motion — gold sun melting into soft apricot clouds, a warm wind brushing the salt-sweet air, and the distant hush of the tide calling them all toward the shoreline.
A thick, old-fashioned brass handle sat on the door that linked Fred and her rooms together —locked, untouched, but very, very present. She had stared at it perhaps a second too long before unpacking, refusing to acknowledge the strange pull of awareness it gave her.
She stood in her room, towel-drying her hair after a quick rinse, still buzzing from the thrill of arriving in a new country. Their hotel provided the kind of view that felt unreal — blue upon blue upon blue, stitched with sunlight.
She slipped into her bikini and tied a skirt at her hip, the gauzy fabric fluttering when she moved. The coordinating top for her skirt slipped easily over her shoulders, airy and elegant.
Her hair puffed naturally from the humidity, her perfume warm and floral, her gold jewelry catching the last bits of sunset. She did one last check in the mirror, smoothing her skirt and pressing her lips together with a sigh.
She looked good. Very good, which meant — unfortunately — that Fred Weasley would notice.
She would sooner jump into the sea fully clothed than admit she cared.
With a final exhale, she stepped into the hallway. The carpet muted her heeled footsteps as she walked toward the stairs, passingFred’s door.
Soft footsteps rounded the corner behind her.
He was coming from his room, towel slung around his shoulders, hair still damp, wearing swim trunks and a loose white button-down left open. Sun-kissed already, despite only being here an hour. Of course.
He looked at her, brows lifted — just a fraction — before he masked it with a smirk.
“Trying to blind the local population, are you?” he drawled, eyes flicking from her earrings down the sweep of her skirt.
She didn’t miss a beat. “Trying to improve the local scenery. Someone has to when you’re here.”
His smile twitched, caught between irritation and something that warmed the space between them.
They walked in silence down the stairs and out onto the hotel’s private path, sand already soft beneath their shoes. The beach opened before them and their friends were scattered across a set of loungers under wide sun umbrellas.
George elbowed Ron, who muttered something about “finally.”
A gust of warm wind caught her skirt, her hair, her perfume — carrying it toward Fred, who froze for half a second at the scent.
He recovered quickly. “Let’s get this over with before the sun sets and you claim I ruined the lighting.”
She refused to give him the satisfaction of a smile.
But—when the soft Greek sands met her feet, when their friends waved to her with excited chatter, when the sky shifted toward coral and lavender—
She took a deep breath—the smell of sea salt and hibiscus, the faint music drifting from the hotel bar, the warm breeze lifting her skirt—and joined them.
Which meant, of course, that the next five days were going to be absolutely, wonderfully dangerous.
Especially with Fred Weasley living one locked door away.
The taverna glowed by the time they wandered up from the beach—sun-kissed, still a bit damp, and smelling faintly of salt and sunscreen. Whitewashed walls, strings of golden bulbs, bougainvillea spilling like paint from the roof. A soft breeze drifted in from the sea, carrying the scent of grilled lemon and herbs.
She walked beside Hermione and Angelina, her skirt brushing her shins, bikini straps peeking from under her top. Fred trailed behind with the boys, pretending not to look at her but looking constantly. Dinner was loud and warm—platters of calamari, bowls of tzatziki, grilled fish drizzled in olive oil. Ron inhaled half the menu, Harry kept stealing Ginny’s olives, and Hermione scolded Ron for nearly knocking over the water jug. All the while, her and Fred tossed their usual sharp comments back and forth over the table… but the edges were softer tonight. Sea air softened everything.
After dinner, someone suggested ice cream, and they ended up following a cobblestone path toward the little waterfront gelato stand glowing under a striped awning.
She stepped up to the counter first, scanning the flavors—lavender honey, rosewater pistachio, caramel—when a voice to her left said, lightly accented:
“Hardest decision you’ll make all night, trust me.”
The guy beside her had sun-tousled dark hair, bright green-blue eyes, and a smile dipped in effortless charm. He looked about her age, maybe a year older—tan, wearing a linen shirt unbuttoned just enough.
He grinned when she met his gaze. “The caramel is life-changing.”
She blinked, then smiled back—politely, effortlessly. “Is it? That’s a big claim.”
“I would never joke about gelato.”
A laugh slipped out of her.
Behind her, Fred stiffened so visibly that Ron elbowed him.
She ordered the caramel—mostly to end the conversation—but the guy beamed like he’d been personally validated. When her cone was handed over, he lifted his own as though in a toast.
“Enjoy, beautiful. Hope I see you around.”
She gave him a small, polite nod and turned back to her group.
Fred was glowering. Not subtly. At all.
George leaned in, voice low so the others wouldn’t hear. “Mate,” he murmured, “if you stare any harder, you’ll set his very nice linen shirt on fire.”
Fred didn’t look away. “Who the hell wears that many buttons undone in public?”
George snorted. “Jealousy looks good on you. Very rugged. Very tragic.”
They walked back toward their hotel, the group laughing together under the string lights, the surf whispering just beyond.
Her gelato melted slowly down her wrist. Fred’s jaw stayed tight the entire walk.
The next morning began violently early—and violently wrong.
She was tangled in cool sheets, half-dreaming of sunlight and sea-salt breezes, when a loud click echoed from the wall beside her bed.
A slow, rusty creak. Then—
The connecting door—the one she had very purposefully locked the night before—swung open, and in stepped Fred Weasley, hair wild, shirt half-buttoned, looking far too awake for a human being.
He leaned against the doorframe with a self-satisfied grin. “Morning, love.”
Her pillow hit him before the rest of her brain fully started working.
“FRED WEASLEY—WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT THAT DOOR?”
He dodged the second pillow, laughing.
“Oh come on, love, you didn’t say anything about me unlocking it.”
“I SHOULDN’T HAVE TO!” she snapped, scrambling to pull the sheets higher up her chest. “You can’t just—just barge into my room whenever you want!”
“Well, technically I walked. Alohomora just helped a bit.”
Her voice ricocheted off the walls, startling a bird outside the balcony.
He held up his hands in faux surrender, though the glint in his eye said he was delighted with himself.
“Easy, sweetheart. I’m here on official business.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” she muttered darkly. “What, did you come to steal my shampoo? Hide my shoes? Hex my makeup bag?”
Fred smirked. “Thought about it.”
She grabbed the closest item—her sandal—and threatened him with it like a weapon.
“Actually,” he said, “breakfast is in fifteen minutes. Everyone’s already heading down. And since you sleep like you’ve been hit with a Stunning Spell, George thought I should ‘politely check if you still exist.’ His words. Not mine.”
“So you break into my room?!”
He shrugged. “Can’t risk losing you to the void. Ron would never forgive me.”
She threw the sandal. He yelped and caught it mid-air.
“Alright, alright! I’ll wait outside,” he laughed, stepping back through the door. “Get decent, Sleeping Beauty.”
She pointed angrily. “And LOCK THAT DOOR BEHIND YOU.”
The door clicked shut again, and through the wall she heard his muffled, mocking voice:
“—only if you say please!”
She flopped back in bed, fuming, face burning—not purely from anger, if she was honest with herself.
The day had barely started.
And she already wanted to throw him into the sea.
The morning drifted lazily into afternoon, warm and bright, the sort of Greek sunlight that made everything shimmer like gold leaf — except her, who was radiating something closer to murder after Fred had opened the door and strolled into her room like he owned the place.
The whole walk down to breakfast had been done in utter silence—well, her silence. Fred kept throwing sideways glances like he wanted to speak but didn’t dare.
By late morning, everyone migrated down to the beach. The sky was a clear, endless blue, the sea sparkling like spilled diamonds. After swimming and splashing and shouting over the waves, she and Hermione finally collapsed on their towels to tan, warm sand molding to their bodies, the sound of water rushing in and out soothing enough to finally make her forget Fred’s morning intrusion.
Hermione lay beside her, adjusting her sunglasses.
“I still cannot believe he used Alohomora on your door,” Hermione muttered. “Honestly, I’d hex Ron if he tried that.”
She huffed, flipping onto her back. “He’s insufferable.”
The silence was peaceful — until a shadow fell across her legs.
It was the man from last night — the one she’d met at the gelato stand, the one with sun-touched skin, an accent made for poetry, and a smile like he knew it.
He brushed his hair back, gave her a dazzling grin.
“Ah—there you are,” he said warmly. “I hoped I might see you again. The water is beautiful today… almost as much as you.”
She flushed, sitting up. Hermione propped herself on her elbows with interest.
They exchanged a few flirtatious lines — light, playful, harmless — him complimenting her outfit, asking how long she was staying, offering to recommend local coves to swim in.
Heavy footsteps bulldozed across the sand.
Hair damp, chest still flushed from the sea, jaw set in a line that nearly cut the air. He stopped behind the stranger, arms crossed.
“Alright?” Fred asked her, tone deceptively casual — the kind of casual that came right before he hexed a Doxy nest for fun.
The man glanced over his shoulder. “Your friend?”
Fred didn’t smile. “Oh, I’m her closest friend.”
Hermione nearly choked on her water bottle.
The man raised a brow, amused rather than intimidated. “Well, I’ll let you enjoy your day,” he said softly to her. “Perhaps I’ll see you again.”
He gave her one last slow smile and walked off down the beach, sunlight catching on his shoulders.
The moment he was out of earshot, Hermione inhaled dramatically.
“Fred,” she said, “you were staring at him like you wanted to turn him into driftwood.”
Fred glared at the sand. “Was not.”
“You absolutely were,” she said.
She looked at him, squinting behind her sunglasses.
Fred was still standing there, tense, jaw clenched, the vein in his neck visible. It was jealousy and he was terrible at hiding it.
Steam still clung to the bathroom mirror as she stood before it, blending a touch of highlighter across her cheekbones. The sun had kissed her skin warm and golden that afternoon, making makeup feel almost unnecessary — just a gloss, a sweep of mascara, and she looked sunkissed in that effortless way she loved.
Her dress, draped over the back of the chair, waited for her: a long, backless slip with a thigh-high slit that shifted like water whenever she walked. Elegant without trying. Feminine without apology.
She slipped it on carefully, drawing the straps over her shoulders, the fabric hugging her waist. She’d just leaned toward the mirror to finish her mascara when—
She nearly dropped the tube. “Fred— don’t you dare—”
But the connecting door pushed open anyway, and Fred Weasley walked in like he owned the place once again.
His eyes swept over her — slowly, almost disbelievingly — taking in the bare expanse of her back, the curve of her waist, the soft shimmer of the fabric. His usual smirk didn’t appear. For once, he looked caught off-guard.
And annoyingly… handsome.
His shirt was linen and open at the collar, revealing a streak of sunburned skin at his chest. He’d rolled his sleeves up to his forearms; the top buttons were undone like he had no idea what that did to people. The sea breeze had pushed through his hair, leaving it messy in that infuriatingly good way.
She cleared her throat sharply. “You can’t just walk in here.”
He blinked, coming back to life. The cocky smirk resurfaced — a shield, a habit, I-definitely-wasn’t-just-staring-at-you lifeline.
“Relax, love. I knocked.”
“You said ‘I’m coming in,’ that’s not knocking!”
“Semantics.” He shrugged, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe as if he hadn’t just trespassed. “Besides, we need to go. Hermione made reservations. Fancy place. If we’re late she’ll have my head — or worse, yours.”
She glared, snatching her lip gloss. “You could have waited in the hall.”
“And miss the grand reveal?” His eyes flicked back to her dress, lingering a second too long. “Tragic.”
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like you’re—” She cut herself off. No way she was giving him that satisfaction.
He raised a brow, amused. “Spellbound? Impressed? Distracted?”
He pushed off the doorframe, stepping back toward his room. “Come on. The others are already downstairs. And you’re gonna make people in this hotel crash into walls looking like that.”
She felt her face warm. “That’s not a compliment coming from you.”
“Oh, it absolutely is.” He gave her one more glance — a lingering one she felt in her stomach — then turned away. “Hurry up, or I’m eating your bread basket.”
She let out a breath the second he was gone.
She really, really… hated him.
But she had to put a hand on the counter to steady herself before following him out to meet with the rest of the group.
The walk to the restaurant was supposed to be peaceful.
The sun was dipping low, painting the Greek sky in rose-gold ribbons that shimmered over the buildings. The air smelled like sea salt and citrus, the kind of evening that begged for calm.
Instead, she and Fred were already bickering halfway down the stone pathway.
“Next time you want to barge into my room,” she snapped, heels clicking sharply, “maybe try knocking like a normal person.”
Fred scoffed, hands shoved in his pockets, hair still damp from his shower and his shirt—far too intentionally unbuttoned just a little too low. “I did knock,” he said. “You just didn’t hear it over all your… powdering and primping.”
“It’s called getting ready,” she bit back, glaring at him from the corner of her eye. “Something you clearly didn’t spend much time on.”
“Oh?” He flashed her a grin, smug and infuriating. “Thought you’d appreciate the unbuttoned look. Since you stared long enough.”
They reached the restaurant before she could throttle him.
The place was carved into the cliffside, lights twinkling along the patio, tables overlooking the endless darkening sea. It was beautiful—romantic, even—and she hated that she noticed that last part.
She took the chair between Hermione and Ginny. Fred sat directly across from her, which was cruel and unjust and absolutely on purpose.
Menus were passed around. Wine was poured. And then… dinner happened.
“You know,” Fred said casually, swirling his wine, “your little boyfriend from the beach looked thrilled to see you today.”
Ginny paused mid-sip. Ron mouthed, Fred, what are you doing?
Her jaw clenched. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Right,” Fred hummed. “Just like you ‘weren’t staring’ earlier.”
Her chair scraped a little too loud as she leaned forward. “I was tanning, Fred. Not everything is about you.”
“Oh, believe me,” he said, eyebrows bouncing, “I wish it wasn’t.”
“Good,” she snapped. “Because trust me—it isn’t.”
Across the table, Harry muttered, “Bloody hell,” while George smirked behind his glass like he was watching front-row theatre.
Fred took a slow sip of wine, eyes locked with hers like a challenge. “Fantastic. Then we’re in agreement.”
Hermione whispered, “Are you two… okay?”
But their glares burned hotter than the Greek sunset behind them.
The waiter arrived, blissfully oblivious, and asked for their order.
Neither of them broke eye contact as they spoke in perfect, furious unison:
They argued the entire dinner, a low-simmering bicker that never quite boiled over but never cooled either. Hermione kept shooting them warning looks; Ron looked like he was betting on how long it would take before someone threw a bread roll.
By the time they walked back along the lamp-lit path toward their hotel, the air warm and salted, she was tired — not physically, but emotionally. Fred had sniped at her outfit, she’d snapped back about his unbuttoned shirt looking like he was auditioning for a Muggle boyband, and the table had nearly choked on their drinks.
They ducked into a stretch of tourist shops, little stalls glowing with strings of yellow lights. Painted ceramics, handmade jewelry, seashell trinkets — the kind of romantic little souvenirs that should’ve been sweet, if she and Fred weren’t locked in their own private Cold War.
She drifted away from the group for a moment, pausing at a rack of necklaces. And then—
“You again,” came a warm, accented voice.
The guy from last night. Dark hair, sun-warmed skin, smile too pretty for anyone’s emotional stability.
“Oh — hi,” she said, surprised but pleased.
He leaned against the stall, easy and confident. “I didn’t catch your name last night.”
She told him, cheeks warming at the way he repeated it like it tasted good on his tongue.
“I’m Nikos,” he said. “Are you free tomorrow? Maybe we get coffee? Or I show you the best spot to watch the sunset?”
Her heart fluttered. It felt good — wanted, uncomplicated.
And because Fred had spent the last twelve hours driving her mad, she smiled and said, “Yeah. I’d like that.”
He smiled and told her a nice spot to meet at 10 to which she agreed.
From behind her, she heard Hermione choke on her own spit, Ginny squeal into her hands, and Angelina mutter “oh Merlin, here we go.”
As they walked away, the girls instantly exploded into whispered chaos, tugging her into their little bubble of giggles.
“He’s gorgeous,” Ginny hissed.
“Like offensively gorgeous,” Angelina agreed, “ and we only have a few more days here, you have to go.”
“He asked me,” she said, flipping her hair with theatrical delight. “What was I supposed to do? Say no?”
The girls shrieked in excitement — and that’s when she noticed Fred a few steps ahead.
He’d heard, and he didn’t even pretend to joke, or smirk, or throw some annoying comment her way.
George walked beside him, trying — and failing — to hide a shit-eating grin.
“So,” George whispered loudly, elbowing his brother, “our girl’s got an admirer.”
“Brilliant,” Fred said flatly.
“Tall, handsome bloke,” George continued, enjoying this too much. “Very friendly. Very charming.”
“Fantastic,” Fred muttered, voice clipped.
“Probably thinks she’s beautiful, too,” George mused, tapping his chin. “Probably planning his wedding vows already—”
“George,” Fred snapped quietly, “drop it.”
The girls kept whispering around her; the boys kept glancing back.
Fred didn’t look at her once. He didn’t joke or tease. He didn’t even send her one of those infuriating side-smirks that always made her want to kiss him or hex him — depending on the day.
For the first time all trip, Fred Weasley was silent.
And the silence was loud.
The morning air carried a warm, salty breeze, promising another perfect day in Greece. She lingered over breakfast with Hermione and Ginny, talking quietly while Ron, Harry, George, and Fred lingered at the other side of the terrace. Fred’s eyes flicked toward her more than once, his jaw tight, lips pressed in a thin line. George caught the glance and smirked knowingly, but said nothing, letting his brother stew.
By late morning, she was ready. A denim skirt and tank top hugged her figure just enough, the straps of her bikini poking out. Her hair was loosely tied with tendrils escaping to frame her sun-kissed face. Niko, waiting at the small cafe by the beach, stood when he saw her approaching, a broad, confident grin lighting up his features.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice warm and easy. “You look… stunning.”
“Thank you,” she replied, smiling, feeling a little flutter in her chest. They walked along the promenade, passing colorful shops, vendors selling fruits and trinkets, and the occasional stray cat. Niko was charming, easy to talk to, and attentive—laughing at her jokes, teasing her lightly, and letting her steer the conversation when she wanted.
Fred, following at a discreet distance with George acting as a buffer, seethed quietly. Every laugh she shared with Niko, every animated gesture, every glance that wasn’t for him made Fred clench his fists and mutter under his breath. George, leaning against a sun-bleached wall, whispered, “Mate… calm down.”
“She’s… smiling too much,” Fred muttered, not even trying to be subtle.
George rolled his eyes. “Mate, it’s a date. That’s the point. Just don’t do anything dumb. Yet.”
Meanwhile, she and Niko had wandered down to a quieter stretch of the beach. He suggested they rent small rowboats, laughing as she struggled with the oars. The wind tossed her hair around her face, and the sound of the waves mixed with their laughter. She was thoroughly enjoying herself, letting the warm Greek sun and carefree air ease her worries, even as a small pang of guilt for Fred tugged at the back of her mind.
After boating, they walked along the shoreline, stopping occasionally to pick up seashells or watch a crab scuttle across the sand. Lunch was seaside at a little taverna, where they shared plates of grilled fish and lemon potatoes. Niko talked about his family and his work, while she animatedly described summers at her home and the burrow along with adventures she had with her friends, leaving out the magic of course.
Fred had long since given up on following them, the anger becoming too much, and his secrecy became increasingly difficult.
As she and Niko returned toward the hotel, she felt a strange tug—excitement from the date but also a restless sense of anticipation and irritation, though she couldn’t quite place it. Fred’s dark gaze had been following them earlier in the day, and she had caught more than a few heated looks from him when she wasn’t looking. She felt a blush creeping up at the memory, and maybe, just maybe, a tiny thrill at knowing he noticed.
As she waved goodbye to Niko at the cafe, promising to meet tomorrow, Fred’s sharp voice cut through her thoughts. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
She turned slowly, meeting his stormy eyes. “Excuse me?”
“Really?” he asked, pointing toward the empty cafe where Niko had just left. His tone was tight, controlled, but his irritation was obvious. “You’re… seriously smiling like that after… that?”
She raised an eyebrow, playful but defensive. “It was just a date, Fred. You don’t have to look like someone stole your wand.”
Fred’s mouth twitched, trying to hide the mix of frustration, jealousy, and… something else.
The day before their final day in Greece passed in a blur of sun and laughter, though her thoughts kept drifting back to Nico. They met briefly in the morning near the beachside café, sharing a few playful jokes and lingering glances before she reluctantly said her goodbyes as they would be leaving for Italy, promising to see him again someday. The rest of the day was spent with the group snorkeling, wandering the local market, and soaking in the last hours of sun.
The following morning, the sky was a soft wash of pink and gold as the sun rose over the beach. The gentle lapping of the waves against the shore carried through the open windows of her room, nudging her awake. Fred was already up, or at least she assumed so—she had glimpsed him moving past the balcony earlier, silhouetted against the sparkling sea. Today was their penultimate day in Greece, and the group had decided unanimously that they would spend it together. No splitting up like they had in Paris—no wandering off alone, just a full day enjoying the last hours of sun and sand before their journey to Italy.
Breakfast was a boisterous affair, everyone teasing each other, planning activities for the day. Hermione suggested another group snorkeling trip, Ginny and Angelina were eager to explore the local market for souvenirs, and Harry and Ron insisted on trying out the small sailing boats rented from the beach. She laughed and bantered with everyone, but Fred’s presence was a constant undercurrent—his sly remarks, his occasional snide comments, and the way he kept trying to get her attention in the quietest, most infuriatingly deliberate ways. She ignored him, letting him stew, which only seemed to make him more determined.
The day passed with sunburned shoulders, salty hair, and laughter echoing across the sands. They played in the water, raced along the shore, and built a somewhat ridiculous sandcastle that everyone contributed to, only to have Fred mischievously knock over the towers once it was nearly finished. She scowled, and the familiar spark of annoyance flared between them. The rest of the group laughed, oblivious—or perhaps willfully ignoring—the tension simmering just under the surface.
By the late afternoon, everyone was gathered back at the beach, settling on towels and chairs with fruity cocktails and cold water bottles. It was peaceful, and yet the quiet between her and Fred had grown heavier, more charged, as if the distance between them could crack glass.
And then it happened as they began walking to the portkey.
It started with a small disagreement—nothing more than a quip about sunscreen. She rolled her eyes at him, dismissing his comment, but he didn’t let it go. His smirk was gone, replaced by a tense jaw and sharp eyes.
“You can’t just ignore me, you know,” he snapped, the usual levity in his voice gone. “You think I don’t notice you spending your whole day laughing with everyone else, like I’m not even here?”
She froze, caught off guard by the sudden intensity. “Fred, it’s not like that. I’m just—”
“Just what?” he pressed, stepping closer, voice low and urgent. “Just pretending I don’t matter?”
Her heart thudded against her ribs, frustration and something deeper twisting in her stomach. “I’m not pretending anything! You’re… impossible, sometimes!” she shot back, equally heated.
The argument escalated quickly. Words sharp as sea breeze cut between them, each sentence tugging at old feelings neither wanted to fully acknowledge. Neither noticed the rest of the group slowly getting farther and farther away, assuming everyone was walking to the portkey to Italy. They were too caught up—too furious, too stubborn, too aware of how much the other mattered—to step back and breathe.
Hermione’s brow furrowed as they all put their hands on the portkey. “Wait… where did they go?”
Ginny glanced around. “I think… they’re still over there? By the rocks?”
And they all whipped away in a flurry of light before any had the chance to pull away.
By now, the argument had reached its peak. She and Fred were both breathing hard, staring each other down. “I’m not walking away first,” she said stubbornly.
“Neither am I,” Fred shot back.
Somewhere between huffing and muttered expletives, they both failed to notice the group slowly moving down the path toward the designated portkey. Their shouts, muffled by the wind and distance, barely registered.
Minutes later, the sun lowered, painting the sky in streaks of purple and pink, when Fred finally looked up. “Uh…” he muttered. “Where’s everyone gone?”
Her eyes widened. “Oh no.”
They sprinted across the sand, the golden light of the sunset catching the water in glittering shards, but it was too late. The group had already touched the portkey and vanished, leaving the beach silent except for the sound of the waves and their own panicked breaths.
Fred groaned, slamming a hand against his forehead. “This is—this is brilliant,” he muttered sarcastically, though his dark eyes met hers with a flicker of guilt.
She crossed her arms, exasperated but secretly a little thrilled by the enforced proximity. “You realize this is entirely your fault?”
“It’s entirely yours too,” he shot back, though the edge in his voice was tempered by that flicker of softness she recognized.
They stood there, stranded together, the vast expanse of the Greek coast stretching out around them. Waves lapped at their feet. The salty air brushed past, tangling her hair and tugging at the hems of her dress. They were alone, completely alone, and for the first time in a long while, neither could retreat behind friends, distractions, or humor.
Fred ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated, and muttered, “Well… we can’t exactly wander around all night and we can’t apparate because Hermione didn’t tell us where exactly we’re supposed to go. We should head back to the hotel, get rooms, and call an owl to sort another portkey while we sleep.”
She groaned, already anticipating the awkwardness, but didn’t argue—there wasn’t much choice. When they arrived, their hearts sank a little. The front desk clerk raised an apologetic brow. “I’m afraid there’s only one room available for tonight,” she said, glancing at the pair. “It has… one bed.”
Fred’s jaw tightened, and he shot her a sidelong glance that was equal parts irritation and mischief. She let out a small, incredulous laugh. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Vacation season,” the clerk shrugged. “Everything else is full.”
They exchanged a look that spoke volumes: this would be a long, awkward night.
They trudged down the hallway in exhausted, annoyed silence, the key dangling from her fingers. When she unlocked the door, the soft glow of lamplight revealed a single queen-sized bed, tucked neatly beneath gauzy white curtains that drifted in the ocean breeze through the cracked balcony doors.
Fred let out a low whistle. “Cozy,” he muttered. “I’ll take the floor.”
She crossed her arms. “You’re absolutely taking the floor. I’m calling for extra blankets.”
“Oi,” he said, hands raised, “I offered, didn’t I?”
She ignored the bite in his tone and went to the little brass dial on the wall, speaking with the attendant to request as many pillows and blankets as they were willing to bring. Meanwhile, Fred scribbled irritatedly on a scrap of parchment, giving it to the owl he had called for.
“Portkey request sent,” he announced, sounding tired. “We should get word in the morning.”
She nodded stiffly. “Good.”
The tension between them hung thick, taut as a drawn bowstring.
“Right,” she said finally, grabbing her pajamas and backing toward the bathroom. “I’m rinsing off. Don’t destroy the place while I’m gone.”
Fred opened his mouth—probably to make some petty jab—but shut it again, jaw flexing. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Go ahead.”
She slipped into the bathroom and closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a long moment. The shower hissed to life, steam filling the small space as she stepped under the warm water, washing the day—and the argument—off her skin.
Outside, Fred paced once, then twice, running a frustrated hand through his hair before collapsing onto the edge of the bed with a sigh, the ocean wind stirring the curtains as if even Greece itself was holding its breath.
The room was dim and quiet when she stepped out of the bathroom, steam drifting behind her as she wrapped her arms over the thin fabric of her nightgown. It was the only sleepwear she’d packed—soft, short, and absolutely not designed for the current situation.
Fred was digging through his bag across the room. At the sound of the door, he looked up—froze—and then snapped his gaze sharply away, the tips of his ears flushing crimson.
“What—what are you wearing?” he sputtered, voice cracking in disbelief.
She huffed, tugging at the hem that would not get any longer. “It’s all I brought. I didn’t think I’d be stuck sharing a room with you.”
He finally found his pajamas, turning towards the bathroom quickly and avoiding any eye contact.
“My turn,” he said quickly, brushing past her as though the smallest touch might set the room on fire. He shut the bathroom door behind him.
She exhaled and sat on the edge of the queen-sized bed before slipping into it. The owl had already flown off with Fred’s request for a replacement portkey, and a stack of extra pillows and blankets had been dropped off for him.
Deciding there was nothing left for her to do, she grabbed her book, and curled up against the headboard. When Fred emerged from the bathroom—hair damp, shirt hanging off one shoulder—he froze.
“You’re… reading?” he asked, as though the very concept offended him.
“It’s called unwinding,” she said without looking up.
“Well I’m trying to sleep,” he shot back, dropping onto the floor with a dramatic huff. “And your lamp is very bright.”
She rolled her eyes but shut the book with a sigh. “Fine.”
The lamp clicked off. The darkness settled.
A minute passed. Then two. Then—
“You’re still awake,” Fred muttered from the floor.
More shifting. A thump. A frustrated groan.
She stared at the ceiling. “Stop rolling around, you’re making the whole floor angry.”
“I’m not rolling,” he snapped back. “I’m… readjusting. It’s called trying to survive on a glorified carpet.”
Then, quieter, edged but brittle—
She closed her eyes. “Oh, Merlin. Really?”
“What? I’m asking.” His voice was sharp but underneath it was something tight. Jealous. “You seemed to like him.”
“He was nice,” she admitted. “It wasn’t that serious.”
Fred scoffed. Bitter. “Yet he’s all you talked about for days.”
She didn’t answer. For once, neither did he.
A soft, tired, “Goodnight,” drifted from the floor.
But neither of them slept.
After another fifteen minutes of him shifting and huffing and trying to force a pillow into something resembling comfort, she finally sat up and hissed, “Fred.”
He paused mid-flop. “What?”
“Just get in the bed. I can’t sleep with you throwing a tantrum on the ground.”
“Fred.” She flicked the blanket beside her. “Get up here.”
His silhouette hesitated in the dark. “I’m not— I don’t want you to think—”
“Oh my God,” she groaned, “get in the bed, Weasley.”
A beat of silence, then the creak of the floorboards as he stood.
He climbed into the bed carefully, as if afraid to disturb the air between them. They worked together in silence, stacking pillows down the middle like a makeshift fortress. His hand brushed hers once while adjusting a cushion — a tiny, accidental touch — and it felt like it echoed.
“There,” he said. “The wall of virtue.”
She snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”
He settled onto his back. “And you’re bossy.”
When they finally settled, both on their backs staring at the ceiling, the quiet felt louder than any argument they'd had.
A minute passed. Then another.
Fred exhaled sharply. “This is ridiculous.”
“You’re the one who kept rolling around like you were fighting a demon.”
“Maybe I was,” he muttered. “Maybe the demon has a name. Starts with N and ends with —”
“Oh, don’t even,” she groaned, turning onto her side to face the wall.
He shifted too, the mattress dipping. “I’m just saying,” he added, bitterness threading his whisper, “funny how you suddenly sleep fine when it’s not him keeping you company.”
She closed her eyes. “Fred, stop.”
Silence. A long one. Softer this time.
“…You really didn’t like him that much?”
“…Not as much as he liked me.”
Fred let out a slow breath, something easing in his chest. “Good.”
She opened her mouth, then shut it. The vulnerability in his voice — raw, unguarded, absolutely not the version of Fred she was used to — tugged at her, loosening something in her chest.
“Goodnight, Fred,” she whispered.
A minute later, he rolled onto his other side. She felt the bed shift with him. She followed, turning instinctively, both of them facing the pillow wall but inches apart.
Eventually, her voice slipped out, barely more than a breath. “Fred?”
“…Thanks. For not letting me sleep alone in Greece.”
The darkness felt different now—less sharp, less cold. The tension between them no longer made the room small; it filled it with something else entirely. The word settled between them, warm like the first hint of morning.
Neither of them slept quickly, but eventually, wrapped in stubbornness and unspoken things and one shared mattress, they drifted off, breaths evening out, separated by a pillow wall that both of them pretended was more effective than it really was.
The morning sunlight filtered in pale and warm through the sheer curtains, brushing lightly across the room and creeping up the bed.
For a moment, he didn’t understand why his arm felt so heavy—or why something warm and soft was pressed against his chest. Then he inhaled, and everything came rushing back: the missed portkey, the hotel mix-up, the single bed… the pillow wall that had apparently not survived the night.
She was tucked against him, head beneath his chin, her hand loosely curled in the fabric of his T-shirt as if she’d been holding onto him in her sleep. One of her legs was slung over his, and his arm—completely of its own accord—was wrapped tight around her waist, keeping her close.
Then, slowly, painfully slowly, his eyes softened, and something in him melted so thoroughly it almost hurt.
He didn’t want to. Didn’t dare.
Her breath was warm where it fanned against his collarbone. Her hair tickled the edge of his jaw. And for the first time in… he honestly couldn’t remember how long… Fred felt a bone-deep peace.
He tightened his arm around her just the slightest bit, savoring it like he’d never get the chance again.
He knew he should let go—knew when she woke up she’d probably shove him off the bed, call him a menace, and demand to know why he’d violated the sacred terms of the pillow wall—but right now he didn’t care.
He just wanted one more minute. One more breath. One more moment where she was soft and warm and pressed against him like she belonged there.
He dipped his head the smallest fraction, his nose brushing the top of her hair taking in the scent of her shampoo—light, barely a touch, but enough to make his chest ache.
“Just… five more minutes,” he whispered to no one but the quiet, trying to memorize the shape of her against him.
Because in a few hours, they’d be back to fighting, but for this sliver of morning light she was his to hold.
A bit later, her breathing shifted—soft, warm against his collarbone—and Fred felt it like a lightning strike he had to pretend not to notice.
Her hand rested over his heart like she’d fallen asleep mid-claiming it. He should’ve moved. He should’ve rolled away. He should’ve done something besides lie perfectly still and memorize the way she fit against him like some cruel trick of fate.
So he kept his eyes closed, every muscle pretending at sleep while every nerve in his body screamed awake.
Then she shifted again—this time leaning in.
She thought he was asleep.
He realized it instantly in the way she hesitated, her breath catching against his chest, and then—
She tucked herself closer.
Her nose brushed his skin. Her fingers curled slightly, holding onto him. She relaxed into him like she wanted the moment to last, something soft and vulnerable slipping through the cracks of all their bickering and stubborn walls.
Fred nearly forgot how to breathe.
He swallowed hard, keeping perfectly still, careful not to give himself away. If she knew he was awake—Merlin, he didn’t know what either of them would do. But this? Her choosing closeness? He could’ve stayed like this for hours.
Her legs tangled with his again, her forehead pressing lightly to his jaw. He let his chin rest against her hair—just barely, just enough to pretend he wasn’t doing it on purpose.
And for the first time since they’d missed the portkey, since Greece, since Paris…
Fred Weasley didn’t feel annoyed or jealous or irritated.
He just felt her. Warm and soft, breathing him in like he was something safe.
The owl’s shriek shattered the soft morning haze.
They both jolted—practically launched—apart, blankets twisting, limbs scrambling, hearts hammering.
She sat up first, hair a sleepy halo, cheeks pink for several reasons.
“You—! You crossed the pillow barrier!” she accused, pointing at the mound of pillows now shoved to Fred’s side.
Fred, equally flustered yet absolutely refusing to be the more embarrassed one, propped himself on an elbow. “Me? I crossed it? I woke up with your leg on me! And you were the one pulling me closer!”
“You were absolutely doing it,” he insisted, running a hand through his rumpled hair. “Practically dragged me across the mattress in your sleep. Strong grip, by the way.”
She sputtered. “Oh, please—”
But the owl hooted impatiently at the window, cutting her off.
Fred muttered, “Yeah, yeah, hold on,” and crossed the room to take the rolled parchment from its beak. The owl nipped his fingers for good measure before flying off with a rude flap.
He unrolled the letter while she tried to calm her pulse—and tried very hard not to think about the heat of him pressed on her, the steady rise and fall of his breathing against her neck, the way their legs had tangled—
“Well?” she asked, maybe a little too quickly.
Fred cleared his throat. “Portkey’s arranged. One o’clock. Gives us… about four hours.”
“Four hours,” she echoed.
To spend together. Alone. After waking up wrapped around each other like they had every right to be there.
The room felt far too small again.
Fred’s eyes flicked toward her—then away—then back, soft and unreadable.
“So,” he said, forcing casual into his voice, “guess we’ve got some time to kill.”
“Yeah,” she murmured. “Guess we do.”
The walk back into the sun felt like walking on eggshells.
After the owl’s interruption and the awkward argument about who crossed the pillow barrier, Fred had run a frustrated hand through his hair and muttered something about “needing air” and “going for a walk.” She’d nodded, needing it just as badly, and they agreed—tight-voiced—to meet in thirty minutes for breakfast.
She got ready slowly, the room still warm with the ghost of last night’s closeness. Her hands trembled a little while she brushed her hair, and she hated that she missed the weight of his arm around her waist.
By the time she walked into the small hotel café, Fred was already there.
He stood when he saw her—out of habit, politeness, or nerves she couldn’t tell—and they exchanged stiff “hi’s,” like acquaintances instead of two people who had literally woken up wrapped around each other.
Breakfast was… quiet. A minefield they both tiptoed around.
Small comments, half-smiles, but neither brave enough to mention the bed.
Afterward, they packed up their things, brought their bags to the front desk, and officially checked out. With hours still left before their portkey, they headed down toward the water.
And the stiffness followed them all the way to the sand.
The beach was bright, breezy, brilliant—and they were walking side by side like two people avoiding stepping on shadows.
They went straight to the beach bar, desperate for something to take the edge off.
“What do you want?” Fred asked.
“Something strong,” she replied.
He gave a humorless huff that might’ve been a laugh. “Same.”
Two cold cocktails appeared—fruity, colorful, deceptively potent. They carried them to a pair of lounge chairs and sat down with oceans of tension still between them.
Sip by sip, the edges softened. Then melted. Then dissolved entirely.
She started by laughing at something small—Fred commenting on the birds “looking like they were planning a coup.” He glanced over as if startled that she found him funny today, then he laughed too. The sound loosened something tangled inside her.
Soon they were leaning toward each other instead of away.
Then they were making fun of tourists’ terrible sunburn lines.
Then Fred tried to balance his empty cup on his stomach while lying back and failed so dramatically she snorted and nearly spilled her drink.
He grinned at the sound—wide, unguarded, sunshine-bright.
“You’re laughing at me,” he said.
“Admit it,” he said, nudging her foot with his. “You missed me.”
She rolled her eyes, cheeks warm from drink and sun. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Oh, come on,” he teased. “We shared a bed. Shared warmth. Shared—”
He smirked into his straw.
But there was something softer beneath it now. Something warm. Something honest.
The alcohol hummed gently through their veins, blurring sharp words and smoothing rough edges. By the time they’d ordered a second round, they were talking like best friends—ones that weren’t busy biting each other’s heads off. Both leaning just a little too close.
The awkwardness of the morning was gone, burned away by sun and liquor and that magnetic thing between them neither one was ready to name.
By the time she finished her third drink, the tight knot in her chest had loosened and she was definitely drunk.
Fred was the same, though he was on his fourth drink.
They sat on the sun-warmed beach loungers beneath a wide umbrella. Spring wind swept across the beach, warm and salted, tugging playfully at the ends of her hair. Fred kept glancing over—not the irritated, wounded glances from that morning, but the familiar teasing ones, smoothed by tipsiness and the fact they actually knew how to laugh together.
She sipped her drink, tipped her head back against the chair, and sighed. “This is nice.”
Fred nudged her ankle with his. “See? Told you Greece wasn’t completely ruined by your tragic crimes.”
She snorted. “My crimes? You broke into my room at dawn.”
“Only because you ignored me the previous day,” he fired back, pointing at her with the stem of his drink. “Which was very rude, by the way. Deeply harmful to my fragile ego.”
“Your ego is not fragile.”
“It is!” he insisted with drunken sincerity. “Absolutely shattered. I’m practically in pieces.”
She laughed too loud to stop herself, covering her face. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re finally fun again,” he said—light, teasing, but something warm flickered beneath it.
She dropped her hands, letting them fall over the arm of the chair. “Maybe you’re finally not being an arse.”
He gasped dramatically. “Take that back.”
They stared at each other for a few long, playful seconds—then both dissolved into bubbling laughter, the kind that curled in the stomach and made everything feel easier.
Fred let his head fall back on the cushion, hair messy from the wind. “You know,” he said, staring toward the water, “I forgot how easy we are when we’re not… you know. Fighting.”
“Mm,” she hummed. “I did too.”
They didn’t touch. Not really. But his hand hung off the lounge just inches from hers. Close enough she felt warmth radiate across her skin like a secret.
He glanced over again, grin crooked. “So. Should we cause some trouble before we leave Greece?”
She raised her glass. “I suppose it’d be rude not to.”
Fred clinked his drink gently against hers. “That’s the spirit.”
By the time they had to leave for the portkey, they were completely drunk—giddy, swaying, warm inside and out.
“We have—hic—fifteen minutes,” she announced, squinting at the sun as if it were a clock.
“That’s plenty,” Fred declared with absolutely zero accuracy.
They stumbled down the sand path, shoes and bags in hand, arms bumping every few steps, giggling like they had no earthly reason not to.
Fred tripped on a seashell and she almost fell trying to catch him. He blamed the ground for being “shifty.” She told him he walked like a newborn deer.
When they reached the portkey, they clung to it like it might float away, still breathless with laughter.
And then—WHOOSH—Italy swallowed them in a whirl of color.
Their friends were waiting.
Fred had his arm around her shoulder, she had her hand fisted in the front of his shirt to steady herself, both were rosy-cheeked, sun-warmed, and giggling like idiots.
Hermione mouthed what the hell?
Ron whispered, “Weren’t they at each other’s throats?”
Harry shrugged helplessly.
And she and Fred just stood there, leaning into each other as the world steadied beneath their feet again— still laughing, still drunk, and absolutely no longer pretending they could stay indifferent.
They tumbled around, honey-gold light, laughter spilling out of them as their feet hit the grass… unsteady, ridiculous, drunk. A small, walled garden kept wandering Muggles from seeing the chaos of two tipsy Brits collapse into each other.
“You two…” Hermione started carefully, “…seem… different than when we last saw you?”
“We’re fantastic,” she announced, flopping dramatically against Fred’s side. He steadied her without missing a beat, his own grin crooked and stupid.
“Yeah,” Fred echoed, slinging an arm back around her shoulder. “Never better.”
George snorted. “Last we heard, you’d murdered each other behind a fruit stand.”
“That was yesterday,” Fred said, waving a dismissive hand. “Long time ago. Ancient history.”
She nodded. “We’re friends now.”
“Best friends,” he agreed.
They burst out laughing again. Nobody knew why—not even them.
Harry leaned toward Ron. “Are they drunk?”
“Obviously,” Ron muttered.
Angelina crossed her arms, amused. “This is going to be interesting.”
They gathered their bags and left the little hidden garden, strolling toward the coastal hotel. Italy glowed soft and pink, the sea just across the street glittering like glass. Warm, breezy air rolled in from the water, carrying a sweet smell.
Their friends chatted about Greece, about the trip, about plans—but every once in a while someone glanced back at Fred and her… who were whispering, bumping shoulders, or breaking into bubbly laughter for no apparent reason.
Finally Hermione stopped walking, turned around, and delivered the news very matter-of-factly:
“Well. It’s good you two shared a room last night,” she said with a pointed look, “because it’ll prepare you for our stay here.”
Ginny grinned wickedly. “You’re rooming together again.”
“But—” she blinked. “Why?”
“Because,” Angelina said, “this hotel’s mostly full. We booked months ago. All couples share a room…” She raised an eyebrow. “…and the singles are paired.”
Harry added, “There’s one single’s room left in the entire building.”
Ron finished smugly: “Two beds, but still shared.”
Their jaws dropped in perfect unison.
“WE CAN DO THAT,” she said abruptly, far too cheerful.
“YES. COMPLETELY FINE,” Fred agreed, equally too loud.
George cackled. “They’re so drunk.”
They resumed walking, weaving slightly on the cobblestone. Every time she lost her balance, Fred caught her arm dramatically, heroically, as though saving her from a cliff. When he tripped, she held onto his shirt like they were in a ballroom.
“Stop dragging me,” she muttered.
“You’re the one who keeps tipping.”
She shoved him. He shoved her back—gentle but ridiculous—and they both dissolved into giggles again.
Harry, up ahead, sighed. “Merlin help us.”
Ginny smirked. “Oh, I’m loving this.”
By the time they reached the hotel entrance—a peach-colored building draped in flowery vines—they were still leaning into each other, still flushed from alcohol and sun, still laughing like they’d never argued at all.
And their friends shared the exact same look: This is going to get very interesting
She blinked the room into focus, her head pleasantly warm and cloudy, the covers twisted around her legs. For one disoriented moment she had no idea where she was—until she spotted the second bed.
He was sprawled diagonally across the mattress, hair a mess, one arm dangling off the side, snoring softly like someone who had laughed too much and drank too much and had absolutely no regrets. She remembered—barely—their drunken arrival, his arm around her shoulders so she wouldn’t fall, both of them giggling like idiots.
“Love? You decent?” Ginny’s voice floated through the door.
She stumbled out of bed, still tipsy but stable enough, and opened it. Ginny raised an eyebrow immediately.
“Well, you two look alive. Good. Get ready for dinner—we’re meeting downstairs in an hour.” She smirked. “Try not to kill each other before then.”
Ginny closed the door before she could deny anything.
Behind her, Fred groaned awake, rubbing his eyes like a sleepy child. “Why is the world so bright?” he mumbled.
“It’s not. You’re hungover,” she said, arms crossed but unable to hide her smile.
He blinked at her. Soft. Sleep-warm. Almost sheepish. “We’re sharing a room. Right.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry if I snored.”
“You snored like a troll,” she teased.
He laughed, and she laughed, and suddenly the fog from the morning, the argument, the awkwardness—it all felt very far away.
She grabbed her toiletries and disappeared into the bathroom to rinse off and change. Her head was still buzzing with leftover alcohol and sun and the dizzying whirl of Portkey travel. She slipped into another matching two-piece set—light, summery, elegant—her skirt flowing, her top perfectly fitted. Then she quickly put on some light makeup in the mirror.
When she stepped out, towel in hand, wringing water from her hair, Fred froze mid-buttoning his shirt.
His eyes traveled—slowly, helplessly—down the curve of her shoulder, the tie of her top, the sweep of her skirt. His lips parted, barely. He blinked like he needed a moment to reboot.
She raised a brow, smirking. “Yes?”
He coughed. “Like Italy suits you.”
“Is that your drunk way of saying I look nice?”
He straightened, his own shirt only half-done, exposing warm sun-kissed skin and a chain she’d never noticed before. “You look more than nice,” he admitted. “I just don’t know if I’m sober enough to say it without sounding stupid.”
She stepped past him to grab her earrings, pretending she wasn’t flustered. “Well… you clean up pretty nice yourself,” she said lightly.
He flashed her a grin—slow, crooked, undeniably flirty. “Yeah?”
She nodded, cheeks warm. “Yeah.”
They stood there for a moment, both pretending to adjust something—her jewelry, his sleeves—both very aware of the other.
Still tipsy. Still warm from the beach. Still hopelessly drawn together despite everything.
“Ready to go?” she asked quietly.
Fred looked at her for a long moment. “Yeah,” he said, softer than before. “Let’s go.”
And together they headed downstairs, still unsteady on their feet, still flushed, still caught somewhere between enemies, friends, and something beautifully dangerous.
The evening air in the coastal Italian town was warm and soft, carrying the smell of lemon trees and the distant hush of waves. The restaurant’s balcony overlooked a narrow street lit by dangling lanterns, casting gold across the white tablecloths. The group had gathered around a long wooden table, wine already breathing in open bottles, and laughter buzzing under the glow.
She and Fred slipped into their seats last — still a little pink-cheeked from their accidental nap and the leftover haze of tipsiness that made everything feel lighter, warmer, funnier. She took the chair between Hermione and Fred; Fred pulled his own chair a little closer than strictly necessary. Their knees brushed, and neither made an effort to correct it.
George noticed immediately, flicking a knowing look across the table at Angelina. Hermione raised an eyebrow. Ron smirked. Ginny mouthed, Oh, this is new. But no one said anything.
Wine was poured, crisp and sweet, and she lifted her glass with a little sigh of delight.
“Cheers,” Harry said, raising his.
“To surviving Greece,” George teased.
“To not murdering each other,” Ginny added, eyes flicking at the two of them.
“And to Italy,” Fred said, clinking his glass lightly against hers. His gaze held hers a beat too long — warm, softened by wine — before he smirked. “Try not to pick a fight before dessert.”
She rolled her eyes, heat blooming in her chest. “Oh, please. You start at least half of them.”
“Half?” Fred scoffed, dramatically offended. “I start maybe thirty percent.”
“Thirty-five and that’s my final offer.”
She laughed — that easy, unrestrained kind of laugh that made the others glance over, smiling because the sound was infectious. Fred watched her more than the joke warranted, grin pulling lopsided in that way he only ever gave her.
Dinner unfolded in overlapping conversations — travel stories, complaints about the heat, ridiculous memories from Hogwarts — but she and Fred kept orbiting each other.
A shared bottle of wine they were definitely finishing too fast.
He plucked a crumb off her plate.
He nudged her chair closer with his foot.
She accused him of crowding her space.
He told her she smelled nice tonight to which she nearly knocked over her wine glass at that.
The table caught pieces of it — the closeness, the softness sneaking in around the edges of their usual sparring — and exchanged those silent looks people do when two friends are clearly becoming something else but haven’t admitted it yet.
By the group's second bottle of wine, her head felt pleasantly floaty, warm with alcohol and the spring night. Fred’s hand brushed hers under the table once, twice, and neither pulled away.
Hermione hid a smile behind her glass.
Ron muttered, “Just snog already,” under his breath.
Angelina and George exchanged triumphantly smug grins.
But she didn’t notice any of that — too lost in the sparkle of lights, the taste of wine, the cozy heat of Fred sitting beside her, and how easy everything suddenly felt.
The wine had turned everything golden.
After dinner, the eight of them spilled out onto the cobblestone street in a warm, laughing tangle — cheeks flushed, steps uneven, arms looped around one another as they wandered through the glowing Italian evening. Lanterns hung overhead like suspended suns, and somewhere nearby, a street guitarist strummed something soft and romantic.
They were all decidedly tipsy. Ginny tripped on a pebble and giggled into Harry’s shoulder. Ron kept kissing the top of Hermione’s head. Angelina teased George about his terrible Italian accent. And Fred and her… well, they kept drifting too close, sharing looks that felt like sparks in the warm air.
Then they passed a small underground club, neon sign pulsing faintly beneath a stone archway. Music thumped just enough to feel thrilling.
“Let’s go in!” Ginny declared.
Inside, the club was dim and dreamy — colored lights sweeping low across the dance floor, shadows dancing on old brick walls, the music humming through the floorboards. Their friends instantly splintered off to dance with their partners, disappearing into the crush of bodies like they’d been waiting all night for this.
She and Fred were the only two left standing near the edge of the room, the beat vibrating beneath their feet.
Fred leaned on the wall behind him, arms crossed, hair messy in the multicolored light. “Well,” he said with a crooked grin, “looks like we’ve been abandoned.”
She snorted, “Oh no. How ever will I survive alone someone nagging me every five minutes?”
Fred put a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”
“Probably,” he admitted, grin deepening.
A moment passed — warm, loose, slow. The kind of moment that only happens when music thrums in your ribs and wine softens the edges of everything.
Then Fred pushed off the wall. “Dance with me.”
It wasn’t a question. But it wasn’t a demand, either. It was soft and shaded with something almost shy.
She hesitated just long enough to pretend she wasn’t immediately saying yes. Then, “Fine.”
His hand found hers. Warm. Steady. And then they slipped onto the dance floor.
They didn’t dance like the others, wild and laughing. Instead, Fred pulled her close — closer than friends should — hands settling at her waist, fingertips brushing skin where her top lifted slightly with each breath. She looped her arms around his neck, and the world narrowed into heat and heartbeat and the sweet sway of bodies that had been orbiting each other for far too long.
The music softened. The lights dimmed blue.
His forehead dipped toward hers.
Their lips hovered — inches, then less than inches — the weighted sweetness of a kiss hanging between them like a held breath.
She could feel his heart. He could feel hers.
And just as he began to close the last impossible distance—
George’s voice cut through the music like a bucket of cold water. He barreled over, laughing, sweaty from dancing, completely oblivious.
“You’ve got to come try this drink — some bloke says it tastes like liquid fireworks—”
Fred jerked back so fast he nearly swore. She stepped away, breath unsteady, pulse wild.
George paused, looking between them, then grinned far too knowingly.
“Oh. Am I interrupting something?”
“NO,” they both blurted, too quickly, too loudly.
George raised a brow. “Right. Well…” He leaned in between them conspiratorially. “Come before the bar closes.”
And he vanished into the crowd again.
She and Fred just stood there, staring at each other in the strobing lights, both flushed, both breathless, both pretending that almost-kiss didn’t still crackle in the small space left between them.
Finally, Fred swallowed hard and tried for a joke — his voice rough.
“Guess that’s what we get for having friends.”
As the night came to a close, they stumbled through the quiet hotel hallway, her shoes in Fred’s hands, laughter muffled behind unsteady breaths. Italy at night was warm and humming— or maybe that was just how everything felt when one was drunk and far too aware of the boy walking beside her.
Fred fumbled with the keycard first, missed the slot entirely, then snorted at himself.
“Give it here,” she giggled, plucking it from his fingers and getting it right on the second try. “Honestly, Freddie.”
“Oh, so now you’re the responsible one?” he teased, leaning heavily on the doorframe as she pushed the door open.
The room was dim, lit only by the streetlamp glow leaking through the balcony curtains. Their two beds sat neatly apart — an entire civilized meter of distance that felt utterly ridiculous after the night they had just had.
She flopped face-first onto her bed with a groan. “Everything is spinning,” she mumbled into the pillow.
Fred laughed, dropping her purse he’d been carrying over a chair. “That’s what happens when someone has—what was it—three glasses of wine and half a club’s worth of cocktails?”
“You had just as much,” she said, rolling onto her back.
“Difference is,” he said, pointing at himself, “I’m experienced.”
“You fell on the stairs.”
Fred opened his mouth, closed it, pointed at her again. “…That was one time.”
She giggled — the warm, soft kind that hid nothing — and he smiled because he always, always did at that sound.
There was the muffled music from the street below, the smell of seasalt and tanlines, the lingering heat of the club on their skin. And him — standing at the foot of her bed, watching her with that lopsided, tired smile.
She blinked up at him. All warm and loose and honest.
“Freddie,” she whispered.
He froze. “Here… as in…?”
She patted the empty side of her mattress. “Just—come sleep with me tonight.” Her cheeks warmed. “I don’t want to sleep alone.”
His breath caught, sharp and quiet.
“Are you sure?” His voice was rougher than he meant it to be — not teasing this time, not mocking, something lower and unguarded.
She nodded, eyes soft and heavy. “I’m drunk. And tired. And I just… want you close.”
Fred exhaled shakily, tension melting right out of him. He glanced at his own bed — perfectly reasonable, perfectly separate — then back at her, curled on top of the blankets, looking at him like she trusted him.
“…Yeah alright,” he murmured. “C’mon lets get you ready for bed.”
Fred pulled her gently to her feet, steadying her when she swayed. He led her into the bathroom, both of them stumbling a bit but he was determined, that instinct to take care of her rising above the wine swirling through his system.
He took a cotton pad, a little cleanser, and wiped away her makeup with surprising gentleness, as if she were something delicate. Something precious. When he finished, he set a nightgown on the counter for her.
“I’ll give you a minute,” he said, slipping out so she could change.
When he came back, he was already in his own sleep clothes — just loose drawstring pants and nothing else. No shirt. No attempt to hide the fact that he was sculpted from years of Quidditch and chaos. Her eyes shamelessly traveled over his chest, shoulders, stomach… Slow. Obvious. Drunk honesty in her gaze.
Fred swallowed, ears going pink.
He pretended he hadn’t noticed — terribly, unconvincingly — and guided her back toward the beds, peeling the blankets down for her with a soft,
He climbed into her bed carefully, hesitantly, like he wasn’t quite convinced it was real. The mattress dipped beside her, and she shifted instinctively toward the warmth of him.
They lay there, facing each other, the space between them barely a breath.
The room was quiet except for their uneven breathing — and the soft, dizzy realization that neither of them had any intention of moving further apart.
“Come here,” she murmured.
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even flirtation. It was instinct, hazy and trusting, wrapped in wine-soft edges.
Fred froze for half a second… then melted. Completely. She immediately tucked herself against him—head on his chest, arm draped across his stomach, her leg brushing his. Fred sucked in a breath, heart hammering right beneath her ear.
“You’re cuddly when you’re drunk,” he whispered, smiling into the dark.
“You’re always warm,” she mumbled back.
Silence eased over them, soft and slow. His hand found her waist, steadying her as she shifted closer. Their noses bumped when she tilted her face up, and for one suspended second, Fred looked like he might combust.
She blinked at him, eyes too dreamy to be real.
Their lips met in a slow, searching kiss—wine-sweet, uncertain, impossibly gentle. She sighed against his mouth, fingers curling in the fabric of his sleep pants as though anchoring him there. Fred kissed her again, deeper, like every sarcastic comment, every argument, every impossible feeling had been building to this.
He pulled back a fraction, forehead resting against hers, breath unsteady.
“I like you,” he whispered. “More than I should. More than I—Merlin, I’ve liked you for ages. I—”
But her breathing had gone soft. Slow. Asleep.
Fred blinked down at her, stunned, a laugh trapped somewhere in his chest—half heartbreak, half relief.
“Of course,” he murmured, brushing a thumb gently over her cheek. “Figures the first time I say it out loud, you’d be unconscious.”
She nuzzled closer in her sleep, utterly peaceful.
Fred held her tighter, kissed the top of her head, and let himself fall asleep beside her, still smiling.
The sunlight in Italy was far too bright for the state either of them were in.
Late morning bled warmth through the thin hotel curtains, dusting everything in a soft haze. She was asleep still, curled into Fred’s chest, his arm hooked around her waist like it had grown there overnight.
A gentle but insistent knock sounded. Fred groaned and she burrowed deeper against him.
The door creaked open without waiting for permission.
“Alright, rise and—oh Merlin’s beard.”
Angelina’s, right behind her, delighted, “Oh this is rich.”
Fred’s eyes shot open so fast he winced. She blinked awake a second later, bleary and confused—only to realize at the same time he did that they were wrapped around each other in one bed.
Fred’s arm was still around her. Her leg was thrown over his like it belonged there.
“Bloody hell,” Fred muttered, attempting to sit up but only succeeding in pulling her with him.
Hermione set two vials of hangover potion on the bedside table, smirking like she’d been waiting her whole life for this exact moment.
“We brought potions,” she said, far too politely for the scene before her. “For… you both. Since clearly you’re—comfortable.”
Angelina crossed her arms, grin wicked. “You two do realize this room has two beds?”
Angelina raised a brow. “Sleeping very cozily for two people who ‘can’t stand each other.’”
Hermione gave a knowing, painfully knowing smile. “Take your potions. We’ll meet you both downstairs in an hour for food,” and closed the door quietly when they left.
Fred slowly exhaled, running a hand down his face. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction. She was still half in his lap.
“Well,” he said hoarsely, finally looking at her with eyes still soft from sleep, “that could’ve gone better.”
She swallowed. “We were drunk.”
He snorted. “Sure. Let’s blame the mattress.”
Their eyes held a beat longer than they should have.
Then she reached for a hangover potion, bumping her knee into his.
“Let’s just… take these,” she murmured.
“Excellent idea,” he said, but didn’t move his arm from around her until she pulled away.
Still, even after she did, he didn’t stop looking at her like the morning light had been invented just to fall across her face.
Fred left for breakfast before her, explaining he needed to speak with George about their return to the shop in three days. From the bathroom, she gave a casual okay, feeling significantly better after taking a hangover potion and finishing her makeup.
Downstairs, Fred joined the others who were already gathering. Hermione and Angelina had quietly let everyone know what they had seen the night before. Fred insisted it hadn’t been anything like that—yes, they’d been drunk and kissed, but that was it.
Turning serious, he laid out a plan. He needed their help to distract her: the girls were to take her to the beach and then do a little shopping, giving him the time and space to prepare a romantic setup where he could finally confess his feelings. The boys would help him with the setup and ensure they could get her alone at the right moment. They all huddled, quietly plotting and coordinating, until finally she appeared downstairs for breakfast, unaware of the scheming that had already begun.
After breakfast, Hermione and Angelina exchanged a glance that immediately set her on edge.
“Come on,” Hermione said, her voice unusually insistent.
“We’ve got… errands to run.” Angelina chimed in with a conspiratorial grin.
“Yeah, the beach won’t wait, we need to get going before, well… before you get distracted” Ginny added.
Before she could ask what they meant, they practically tugged her toward the door, barely letting her grab her sunglasses.
“What’s going on?” she asked, but the three girls waved her off, eyes glinting with amusement and something unreadable.
Hermione whispered, “Just trust us.”
Angelina added, “You’ll see.”
By the time they reached the beach, she realized they had steered her away from the breakfast area much faster than usual. Their smiles were a little too knowing as they kept stealing glances toward the hotel in the distance. As they walked along the sand, their hands subtly guiding her away from the path she would have taken alone, she felt herself both curious and suspicious. “Okay… you guys are definitely hiding something,” she said, half laughing, half accusatory.
Hermione just shrugged, tilting her head as she led her closer to the water. “Maybe we are,” she said softly, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes.
Ginny winked, “But we promise, it’s for your own good.”
Despite the playful scolding, she couldn’t help but feel the girls were deliberately pulling her away from Fred and the hotel, and a small part of her heart raced at the thought of why.
After a morning of wandering through the sun-drenched streets, the girls had dragged her from boutique to boutique, trying on flowing dresses, delicate skirts, and silky blouses. She laughed at their persistence, but secretly enjoyed the attention and the excuse to indulge in a little shopping. By early afternoon, they returned to the hotel, the warm sea breeze following them inside.
“Quick, change into something nice,” Hermione urged, tossing her a soft, pale-blue dress that fluttered just above her knees.
“We’re going out for dinner tonight,” Angelina added with a wink.
The irony wasn’t lost on her—none of the other girls were even remotely dressed up. Ginny was in loose linen pants, Hermione in a simple blouse, and Angelina had gone for comfortable sandals and a casual sundress.
“You’re making me feel overdressed,” she said, half-laughing as she slipped into the dress.
“Oh, don’t worry about us,” Hermione said, smoothing her own shirt. “This is just… you need a little motivation, that’s all.”
Once she was ready, the group began making excuses—“We’ll head to the bar first,” “Just need a little fresh air, meet you there,” “I think I left my book back in the room”—all designed to keep her distracted. She noticed the pattern but didn’t have time to ask questions before they left, leaving her standing in the doorway.
A moment later, Fred appeared in the hall, grin in place, eyes sparkling. “Shall we?” he asked, offering his hand. She took it, and without another word, he led her up a winding path through the hotel grounds. The sound of the waves grew louder as they approached a secluded garden tucked along the beach, lanterns flickering softly and casting golden light over a small, intimate table set just for two.
The gentle scent of flowers and the faint ocean breeze wrapped around them as Fred pulled out her chair. For the first time all day, it was just the two of them, the rest of the group conveniently “otherwise occupied.” And in that quiet, private space by the water, the air seemed to hum with unspoken anticipation.
The garden felt like something out of a dream. The lights swayed gently, casting soft shadows over the flowers that bloomed in vibrant bursts of color. The faint scent of salt from the sea mingled with jasmine and roses, wrapping them in a quiet, magical bubble. The table between them held only a single candle, its flame flickering and reflecting in her eyes as she sat across from him, cheeks still flushed from the sun and the walk.
Fred’s usual mischievous grin softened, replaced by something rarer—something sincere and open. He reached across the table, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, lingering just a moment too long for casual comfort. “You know,” he began, his voice quieter than usual, almost vulnerable, “I’ve been terrible at this… at saying things I should’ve said a long time ago.”
She tilted her head, heart fluttering, eyes meeting his. “Saying what?”
“That I’ve… been completely hopeless about you,” he admitted, a shy laugh escaping him. “For years, actually. And I thought I could hide it behind jokes, pranks, all of that… but I can’t. I don’t want to. I… I like you. More than I probably should. More than I can stop thinking about. And I know I’ve been an idiot, and you’ve probably seen right through me all along.”
Her chest tightened, a warmth spreading through her. For years, she had felt the same—had noticed the protective blur beneath his teasing, the small glances, the way he somehow made every moment brighter. And now he was saying it, out loud. “Fred… I—”
He leaned forward, closing the distance slowly, letting his hand cover hers on the table. “You don’t have to say it back,” he whispered, though his eyes searched hers for something he couldn’t quite name.
She smiled, laughter bubbling up in her chest despite the fluttering in her stomach. “I like you too,” she confessed softly, her fingers curling around his. “I’ve liked you for ages, you muppet.”
Fred’s grin returned, bright and uncontainable, and this time it was full of relief and triumph. “Finally,” he said, leaning in, and she met him halfway. Their lips touched softly, the kiss slow and gentle, carrying years of unspoken feelings and missed chances.
The florals swayed around them, the ocean whispered praises in the background, and for the first time, the world felt perfectly aligned. When they pulled back, foreheads pressed together, laughter mingled with their sighs.
“You’re impossible,” she murmured.
“And you make it worth every moment,” he replied, tugging her hand as they lingered in the golden glow, finally together.
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