pairing: fred weasley x reader
summary: A fiery rivalry with Fred Weasley turns into a secret romance filled with stolen kisses and hidden glances. When the truth comes out—first to Ron, then Molly—the fear fades, replaced by warmth, laughter, and the unexpected feeling of home.
a/n: i am actually in love with this one bc i freaking love this song so why not romanticize it
The Gryffindor common room smelled of parchment, ink, and the faint char of someone’s failed spell. You leaned against the wall near the fireplace, arms crossed, your wand tucked into the sleeve of your robes. Fifth year was a pressure cooker—OWLs looming, Umbridge’s saccharine tyranny, and the constant buzz of Harry’s latest drama. But none of that was half as infuriating as Fred Weasley, who was currently sprawled across a couch, tossing a Fanged Frisbee in the air with that infuriating smirk plastered on his face.
“You’re going to take someone’s eye out, Weasley,” you snapped, dodging as the Frisbee whizzed past your head.
Fred caught it mid-air, his grin widening. “Only if they’re not paying attention, love. Which, clearly, you are. Always so… vigilant.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t call me that.”
“What? Love?” He sat up, all lean limbs and red hair catching the firelight. “Suits you. You’re so full of warm, fuzzy feelings.”
You scoffed, pushing off the wall to grab your Charms textbook from a nearby table. “Keep dreaming, Fred. I’d rather kiss a Blast-Ended Skrewt than deal with you for longer than I have to.”
George, lounging nearby with a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages, snorted. “Careful, Y/N. That’s practically a love letter coming from you.”
Ron, sitting at a table with a half-finished essay, groaned. “Can you two not start this again? I’m trying to focus.”
You shot Ron a sympathetic look. He was your closest friend in Gryffindor, the one who’d welcomed you into the fold back in first year when you’d been too stubborn to ask for help navigating the castle. You’d bonded over shared complaints about homework and his brothers’ endless pranks. But being Ron’s friend meant being in Fred’s orbit, and that was a problem.
Fred Weasley was chaos incarnate—brilliant, reckless, and infuriatingly charming when he wasn’t being a complete git. You’d been at each other’s throats since second year when he’d “accidentally” charmed your bag to spew chocolate syrup all over the Great Hall. He claimed it was meant for someone else. You didn’t buy it. Since then, it was a war of words, pranks, and glares across the common room.
“Focus on your essay, Ronald,” Fred said, tossing the Frisbee to George. “Y/N and I are just having a friendly chat.”
“Friendly?” you said, incredulous. “You charmed my quill to write backwards yesterday.”
“And you hexed my shoelaces to tie themselves together,” he shot back, eyes glinting. “Fair’s fair.”
You opened your mouth to retort, but Hermione, sitting across from Ron, slammed her book shut. “Enough! If I have to hear one more argument about who hexed who, I’m going to charm both your mouths shut.”
Fred winked at her. “You’re no fun, Granger.”
You rolled your eyes and stormed upstairs to the girls’ dormitory, your heart pounding with the familiar mix of irritation and something you refused to name. Fred Weasley was not worth your energy.
The Gryffindor common room was alive with music and laughter, a rare moment of rebellion against Umbridge’s suffocating rules. Someone had smuggled Firewhisky, and Lee Jordan had rigged a charmed gramophone to blast music loud enough to drown out the portraits’ complaints. The room pulsed with energy, students dancing and shouting, the air thick with the scent of butterbeer and something sweeter—freedom.
You stood near the drinks table, nursing a goblet of pumpkin juice, your robes swapped for a black sweater and jeans. Ron was beside you, ranting about Quidditch tryouts, his face flushed from a sip of Firewhisky he’d “accidentally” tried.
“You’re telling me Angelina’s making us run laps?” he groaned. “I’m not built for that.”
You laughed, nudging his shoulder. “You’ll survive. Just don’t trip over your own feet again.”
Your banter was interrupted by a loud whoop from the center of the room. Fred and George were demonstrating their latest invention—portable fireworks that spelled out rude words in midair. The crowd cheered as “UMBRIDGE IS A TOAD” fizzled out in sparks.
“Idiots,” you muttered, though a smile tugged at your lips.
Ron followed your gaze. “They’re mental, but you’ve got to admit, they’re clever.”
“Clever at causing trouble,” you said, but your eyes lingered on Fred. His hair was a mess, his sleeves rolled up, and the way he moved—confident, alive—made your stomach twist in a way you hated.
As if sensing your stare, Fred looked over, catching your eye. He smirked, raising his goblet in a mock toast. You scowled and turned back to Ron, who was now complaining about Snape.
But Fred wasn’t done with you. A few minutes later, he sauntered over, George trailing behind with a grin that promised mischief.
“Having fun, Y/N?” Fred asked, leaning against the table, too close for comfort.
“Was, until you showed up,” you shot back, crossing your arms.
George laughed. “You two are like a bad potions experiment—always exploding.”
“Only because she’s so volatile,” Fred said, his voice teasing but his eyes sharp, like he was studying you.
You bristled. “And you’re so insufferable.”
Ron groaned. “Merlin, just ignore each other for one night, yeah?”
Fred ignored him, stepping closer. “Come on, Y/N. Dance with me. Might loosen you up.”
You snorted. “I’d rather dance with a troll.”
“Harsh,” George said, clapping a hand to his chest. “Fred’s not that bad.”
But Fred’s grin didn’t falter. “One day, you’ll admit you like me.”
“In your dreams, Weasley,” you said, turning on your heel and heading toward the dance floor to escape him. The music shifted, a new song kicking in—a pulsing, electric beat that made your heart race. You didn’t know the name, but it felt like a storm, all jealousy and longing, the kind of song that made you want to scream and run and feel everything at once.
You danced with a few friends, letting the music drown out your thoughts. But Fred was never far, his laughter cutting through the crowd, his presence like a magnet you couldn’t shake. When you glanced back, he was dancing with Angelina, his hands on her waist, her head thrown back in laughter. Something hot and sharp twisted in your chest, and you hated it. Hated him. Hated yourself for caring.
Later, you found yourself back by the drinks table, catching your breath. The room was a blur of lights and bodies, the music still pounding. You were pouring yourself another drink when Fred appeared, alone this time, his face flushed from dancing.
“Still sulking?” he asked, grabbing a bottle of butterbeer.
“Still annoying?” you countered, not looking at him.
He chuckled, but there was an edge to it. “You’re jealous.”
You froze, your goblet halfway to your lips. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He stepped closer, his voice low, teasing but with something sharper underneath. “You were glaring daggers when I was dancing with Angelina.”
Your face burned. “You’re delusional. I don’t care who you dance with.”
“Right,” he said, smirking. “That’s why you’ve been watching me all night.”
You slammed your goblet down, turning to face him. “You’re so full of yourself. I wasn’t watching you—I was making sure you didn’t set the room on fire with one of your stupid pranks.”
He raised an eyebrow, undeterred. “Sure. And I’m Merlin’s long-lost cousin.”
You were inches apart now, the air between you crackling with tension. The music shifted again, that same stormy song from earlier, its beat sinking into your bones. I’m coming out of my cage, and I’ve been doing just fine… The lyrics weren’t clear, but the feeling was—raw, desperate, like something breaking open.
“You’re insufferable,” you said, your voice shaking with something you couldn’t name.
“And you’re impossible,” he shot back, but his eyes flicked to your lips, and your breath caught.
The argument spiraled, as it always did, a flurry of insults and jabs. But then he said something that stopped you cold.
“You act like you’ve got it all figured out, Y/N, but you’re all talk. Bet you’ve never even—” He cut himself off, his eyes narrowing as if he’d just realized something. “Wait. Have you never been kissed before?”
Your face went scarlet. You had been kissed—once, in third year, a clumsy, awkward thing that left you embarrassed and the boy in question avoiding you for weeks. It wasn’t something you advertised, but it wasn’t nothing. Still, Fred’s words hit a nerve, and you hated how exposed you felt.
“That’s none of your business,” you snapped, turning to leave.
But he grabbed your wrist, gently, pulling you back. “Hang on. I didn’t mean—Merlin, Y/N, I was just taking the piss. But… really?”
You yanked your wrist free, glaring. “I’ve been kissed, Weasley. Not that you’d know what a good one feels like.”
His smirk returned, but there was something softer in his eyes. “Is that a challenge?”
Your heart stuttered. The music pulsed, the crowd a distant blur. He was too close, his voice too low, his gaze too intense. “You wouldn’t dare,” you said, but it came out weaker than you meant.
“Wouldn’t I?” he murmured, stepping closer. And then, before you could process it, his hand was on your cheek, his lips brushing yours—soft at first, tentative, then deeper, like he was pouring every unspoken word into it. It wasn’t your first kiss, but it was the first that mattered. The first that felt like fire, like magic, like him.
When he pulled back, you were breathless, your mind a mess. The song was still playing, its jealous edge mirroring the chaos in your chest. Fred looked as stunned as you felt, his eyes wide, his usual bravado gone.
“Bloody hell,” he whispered. “That was…”
“Don’t,” you said, stepping back, your voice shaky. “This doesn’t change anything.”
But it did. And you both knew it.
The next week was torture. You avoided Fred, but every time you saw him—across the Great Hall, in the common room, joking with George—your heart did that stupid flip. He didn’t push, didn’t tease, just watched you with a look that made your skin burn.
One night, after a particularly brutal DADA lesson with Umbridge, you found him in an empty corridor, testing a new prank product. He looked up, and before you could bolt, he said, “We need to talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” you said, crossing your arms.
“Bullshit.” He stepped closer, his voice low. “You felt it too. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”
You wanted to deny it, to throw it back in his face, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you kissed him again, hard and desperate, and he kissed you back like he’d been waiting for it his whole life.
It was a secret after that—stolen moments in empty classrooms, hushed arguments that turned into kisses, your heart a tangle of fear and want. You didn’t tell Ron, couldn’t bear the thought of him finding out. He’d never understand why you, of all people, fell for his brother.
But secrets don’t stay hidden at Hogwarts. One night, Ron caught you and Fred in the common room, too close, too obvious. His face went from confusion to betrayal in seconds.
“What the hell is this?” he demanded, his voice shaking.
You froze, Fred’s hand still on your arm. “Ron, I—”
“You’re with him?” Ron’s eyes darted to Fred, then back to you. “After all the crap you’ve said about him?”
Fred stepped forward. “Mate, listen—”
“Don’t,” Ron snapped, storming out.
You stood there, heart pounding, the music from that night echoing in your mind. Fred squeezed your hand. “We’ll figure it out,” he said softly.
But as you watched Ron disappear, you weren’t so sure.
The Gryffindor common room was quiet, save for the crackle of the dying fire and the distant howl of wind against the castle walls. It was late—too late for anyone to be up, but you couldn’t sleep. Not after Ron had seen you and Fred, his face twisting from confusion to something raw and betrayed. You sat on the edge of a worn armchair, staring at the embers, your heart a tangled knot of guilt and defiance.
Fred was beside you, uncharacteristically still, his usual swagger replaced by a tense silence. He’d tried to follow Ron after the outburst, but you’d stopped him. This was your mess to fix—Ron was your friend, and you owed him an explanation. But what could you say? That the one person you swore you hated had somehow become the one you couldn’t stop thinking about? That every argument, every glare, had been hiding something you were too stubborn to admit?
The portrait hole swung open, and Ron stormed in, his face still flushed, his eyes blazing. He stopped short when he saw you and Fred, his gaze flicking between you like he was trying to solve a puzzle that made no sense.
“Ron,” you started, standing up, but he cut you off.
“Don’t,” he snapped, his voice low but sharp enough to cut. “Just… don’t. How long has this been going on?” His eyes locked on yours, and the hurt in them made your chest ache.
You opened your mouth, but the words stuck. Fred stepped forward, his hand brushing yours as if to steady you. “A few weeks,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “It wasn’t planned, mate. It just… happened.”
Ron laughed, a bitter sound that didn’t suit him. “Happened? You’re my brother, Fred, and you—” He turned to you, his expression softening just a fraction, but the anger was still there. “You’re my best friend, Y/N. You hated him. You told me a hundred times how much you couldn’t stand him. And now you’re—what? Sneaking around behind my back?”
Your face burned, the weight of his words sinking in. You were stubborn, independent, the girl who didn’t need anyone’s approval—but Ron’s disappointment hit harder than you expected. “I didn’t mean to lie,” you said, your voice quieter than you wanted. “I just… I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t even know what this was until it was too late.”
Ron ran a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps. “Too late? Merlin, Y/N, you could’ve told me. Instead, I find out by walking in on you two—” He gestured vaguely, his face twisting like he couldn’t even say it. “What am I supposed to do with that?”
Fred’s jaw tightened. “Ron, listen. I know you’re pissed, but this isn’t about you. It’s about us.” He glanced at you, and for a moment, the firelight caught the softness in his eyes, the kind he only showed when no one else was looking.
Ron stopped pacing, his shoulders slumping. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? It’s you, Fred. You’re my brother, and you’re… you. You prank people, you break rules, you leave a trail of chaos everywhere you go. And she—” He pointed at you, his voice breaking. “She’s too good for that. She deserves better.”
The words stung, not because they were true, but because they echoed the doubts you’d been fighting since that night at the party. Fred was chaos, a wildfire you couldn’t control. But he was also the only one who saw through your walls, who matched your stubbornness with his own, who made you feel alive in a way you hadn’t before.
Fred’s hand clenched into a fist, but his voice stayed steady. “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t spent every day wondering why the hell she’d even look at me?” He stepped closer to Ron, his height making him seem older, more serious. “But I’m not playing her, Ron. This isn’t a game.”
Ron stared at him, then at you, his eyes searching for something—reassurance, maybe, or proof that this wasn’t a mistake. You wanted to give it to him, but your own heart was a mess of fear and want, and all you could do was stand there, caught between the two brothers.
“I need time,” Ron said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t… I can’t deal with this right now.” He turned and headed for the boys’ dormitory, the portrait hole swinging shut behind him.
You sank back into the armchair, your hands covering your face. Fred sat on the armrest, close but not touching, like he wasn’t sure if you wanted him to. “He’ll come around,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced.
You looked up at him, your throat tight. “What if he doesn’t? He’s my best friend, Fred. I can’t lose him.”
Fred’s eyes softened, and he reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You won’t. Ron’s stubborn, but he’s not stupid. He just needs to get over the shock of his best mate snogging his brother.”
You laughed despite yourself, the sound shaky. “You’re awful.”
“And you’re stuck with me,” he said, his grin returning, though it was softer, almost hesitant. “Unless you’ve changed your mind.”
You met his gaze, the memory of that first kiss flooding back—the music, the heat, the way it felt like the world had tilted. “I haven’t,” you said, and the words felt like a confession.
He leaned down, kissing you softly, and for a moment, the world was just the two of you, the fire’s warmth, and the quiet promise of something real.
The next few weeks were a tightrope. Ron barely spoke to you, his silences heavy with unspoken hurt. You threw yourself into DA meetings, channeling your frustration into spells and strategy, but every time you saw Ron across the room, wand raised, his jaw set, guilt twisted in your gut. Fred, meanwhile, was a constant—slipping you notes in the common room, stealing kisses in the shadows of the library, his presence a reminder that you’d chosen this, chosen him.
The breaking point came during a DA meeting in the Room of Requirement. Umbridge’s decrees had tightened, and the group was practicing defensive spells, the air thick with tension and the unspoken fear of what was coming. You were paired with Ron, casting Protego against his Stunning Spells, but his aim was sloppy, his focus elsewhere.
“Ron, come on,” you said, lowering your wand. “You’re not even trying.”
He glared at you, his wand still raised. “Maybe I don’t feel like helping you and Fred play happy couple.”
The room went quiet, heads turning. Harry, standing nearby, raised an eyebrow but stayed out of it. You felt Fred’s presence across the room, his eyes on you, but you kept your focus on Ron. Fred gave everyone in the room a look reminding them to mind their own business.
“That’s not fair,” you said, your voice low but firm. “You’re mad, I get it. But shutting me out isn’t going to fix anything.”
Ron’s face reddened. “You lied to me, Y/N. You and Fred, sneaking around like I’m some idiot who wouldn’t notice. How am I supposed to trust you?”
Your temper flared, but you forced it down. “I didn’t lie. I just… I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t even know what I felt until it was too much to ignore.” You stepped closer, your voice softening. “You’re my best friend, Ron. I’d never hurt you on purpose.”
He looked away, his jaw tight, but you could see the fight draining out of him. “It’s just… weird. You and Fred. He’s my brother, and you’re… you. I thought you hated him.”
“I did,” you admitted, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Or I thought I did. Turns out, he’s not so awful.”
Fred, who’d been pretending not to listen, snorted from across the room. “High praise, love.”
You shot him a glare, but there was no heat in it. Ron looked between you, his expression softening, though he still looked like he’d swallowed a sour Bertie Bott’s bean.
“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” he said finally, his voice low. “Fred’s… Fred. He’s not exactly known for being serious.”
Fred walked over, his usual grin replaced by something steadier. “I’m serious about her,” he said, his eyes on Ron. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Ron studied him, then you, and something shifted in his gaze-acceptance, maybe, or at least the start of it. “Fine,” he said, exhaling sharply. “But if you break her heart, I’ll hex you into next week. Brother or not.”
Fred’s grin returned, full force. “Deal.”
The resolution wasn’t instant. Ron was awkward for days, his conversations with you stilted, but he stopped avoiding you. You caught him watching you and Fred sometimes, his expression a mix of curiosity and resignation, but he didn’t pull away again.
The real turning point came during a chaotic night in the Great Hall. Umbridge’s Inquisitorial Squad had raided a DA meeting, and you, Fred, and Ron ended up in detention together, scrubbing cauldrons under Filch’s gleeful supervision. Fred, predictably, turned it into a game, flicking soap suds at you when Filch wasn’t looking. You retaliated, splashing him with water, and soon you were both laughing, your hands brushing as you reached for the same sponge.
Ron groaned, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. “You two are disgusting.”
You froze, expecting another argument, but Fred just grinned. “Jealous, Ronniekins?”
Ron rolled his eyes, but he flicked a sud at Fred, and for the first time in weeks, the three of you were laughing together, the tension melting into something warmer, something familiar.
Later, as you walked back to the common room, Fred’s hand in yours, Ron fell into step beside you. “You’re still a git,” he said to Fred, but his tone was lighter.
“And you’re still a prat,” Fred shot back, but he squeezed your hand, his eyes warm.
Ron glanced at you, his expression softening. “You’re happy, yeah?”
You nodded, your throat tight. “Yeah. Really happy.”
He sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Then I guess I’ll live with it.”
The Burrow was a riot of warmth and chaos, its crooked walls humming with the energy of summer. The kitchen smelled of fresh bread and lavender, the garden buzzed with gnomes scurrying through the overgrown grass, and every room seemed to creak with the weight of Weasley family life. You’d been invited to spend two weeks here before sixth year, a gesture from Ron to mend the lingering awkwardness between you after he’d caught you and Fred together. But now, standing in the cluttered living room with your trunk at your feet, you realized this was going to be harder than you thought.
Keeping your relationship with Fred a secret from Molly Weasley was like trying to hide a Firework from Filch. She had a sixth sense for mischief, and you and Fred were walking a dangerous line. The plan was simple: act normal, no touching, no lingering looks, and definitely no sneaking off. Ron had made it clear he wasn’t going to cover for you if his mum got suspicious. “I’m not lying to her,” he’d muttered on the train ride home. “She’ll have my head.”
You glanced at Fred across the room, where he was helping George levitate a stack of old Quidditch Weekly magazines to clear space. His sleeves were rolled up, his hair a mess of red catching the sunlight streaming through the window, and when he caught your eye, he winked. Your stomach flipped, and you quickly looked away, your cheeks burning. Merlin, this is going to be impossible.
Molly bustled in, her apron dusted with flour, her wand tucked behind her ear. “Y/N, dear, you’re in Ginny’s room with Hermione,” she said, her voice warm but firm. “Boys, you’re all upstairs. No funny business, mind you.” Her eyes lingered on Fred and George, who both put on their most innocent expressions.
“No funny business here, Mum,” Fred said, his grin too wide to be trusted.
You bit your lip to keep from laughing, grabbing your trunk and heading for the stairs. Ron followed, carrying Hermione’s bag, his ears red as he avoided your gaze. “This is a terrible idea,” he muttered under his breath.
“Relax,” you whispered back, though your heart was racing. “We’ve got this.”
But you didn’t. Not really.
The first few days were a masterclass in restraint. You and Fred were careful—too careful. You sat at opposite ends of the dinner table, where Molly piled plates high with roast potatoes and shepherd’s pie. You avoided brushing shoulders in the narrow hallways. When Fred passed you the butterbeer during a game of Exploding Snap in the garden, his fingers lingered a fraction too long, and you yanked your hand back like you’d been burned. Ron noticed, rolling his eyes, but Molly was too busy scolding George for charming the cutlery to dance to see.
At night, though, the Burrow’s creaky floors and thin walls made secrecy a nightmare. You’d lie awake in Ginny’s room, Hermione’s soft snores beside you, and hear Fred’s laugh from upstairs, low and warm, carrying through the house. It was torture, knowing he was so close but untouchable. The memory of that party kiss—the heat of his lips—kept you restless, your heart a mix of longing and fear. What if Molly found out? Would she send you home? Lock Fred in his room until school started back?
On the fourth night, you couldn’t take it anymore. You slipped out of bed, tiptoeing down the hall to the kitchen for a glass of water—or so you told yourself. The house was dark, the only light coming from the moon spilling through the windows. You froze when you heard a floorboard creak behind you.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” Fred’s voice was low, teasing, but there was something softer in it, like he’d been waiting for this.
You turned, your breath catching. He was leaning against the doorway, wearing a faded Weird Sisters T-shirt and pajama bottoms, his hair sticking up at odd angles. The moonlight made his eyes glint, and for a moment, you forgot how to speak.
“Keep your voice down,” you hissed, but your heart wasn’t in it. “If your mum catches us—”
“She’s snoring loud enough to wake a dragon,” he said, stepping closer. “We’re safe.”
You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “Safe? You’re about as safe as a Blast-Ended Skrewt.”
He grinned, closing the distance between you. “And yet, here you are.”
Before you could retort, he kissed you—soft at first, then deeper, his hands finding your waist. It was reckless, standing in the middle of the Weasley kitchen where anyone could walk in, but you melted into him, the world narrowing to his warmth, his heartbeat, the faint taste of peppermint on his lips.
A loud creak from upstairs made you both jump apart, your heart pounding. You held your breath, listening, but no one came. Fred chuckled softly, his forehead resting against yours. “Close call.”
“You’re going to get us caught,” you whispered, but you couldn’t stop smiling.
“Worth it,” he murmured, stealing one more quick kiss before stepping back. “Go to bed, love. Before I do something really stupid.”
You rolled your eyes but headed back to Ginny’s room, your pulse still racing. The Burrow felt alive with secrets, and you were starting to think you’d never survive two weeks.
It happened on the seventh day, during a chaotic Weasley family Quidditch match in the orchard. The sky was a brilliant blue, the air thick with summer heat and the shouts of Ron, Ginny, and George as they zoomed around on brooms. You were on the ground, ostensibly keeping score with Hermione, but mostly watching Fred. He was a blur of red hair and laughter, dodging Bludgers with effortless grace, his grin infectious as he taunted Ron mid-air.
“Nice dive, Ronniekins!” he shouted as Ron fumbled a catch. “Maybe try using your hands next time!”
You laughed, and Fred’s eyes flicked to you, his smile softening for just a second. It was a mistake. Molly, who’d been setting up a picnic table nearby, caught the look. You saw her pause, her hands stilling on the tablecloth, her eyes narrowing as they darted between you and Fred.
Your stomach dropped. “Hermione,” you whispered, nudging her. “She’s onto us.”
Hermione glanced over, her expression a mix of sympathy and alarm. “Oh no. Just… act normal.”
But normal was impossible when Fred landed a few minutes later, sweaty and grinning, and tossed you a water bottle. “Stay hydrated, love,” he said, the word slipping out before he could stop it.
Molly’s head snapped up like a hawk spotting prey. “Fred Gideon Weasley,” she said, her voice dangerously calm. “What did you just call her?”
The orchard went quiet. Ron, still hovering on his broom, looked like he wanted to sink into the ground. George snorted, clearly enjoying the chaos. You felt your face heat up, your stubborn streak urging you to stand your ground, but your heart was pounding.
Fred, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “I called her love,” he said, meeting his mother’s gaze. “Because that’s what she is.”
You wanted to throttle him for being so bold, but your heart did a stupid flip at his words. Molly’s eyes widened, then flicked to you, her expression a mix of shock and something softer—concern, maybe, or realization.
“Y/N, dear,” she said, her voice softening but still firm. “Is this true?”
You swallowed, your independence warring with the urge to hide. But Fred’s hand brushed yours, a quiet anchor, and you found your voice. “Yeah,” you said, lifting your chin. “It’s true.”
Ron landed with a thud, muttering, “Here we go.”
Molly’s mouth opened, then closed. She looked at Fred, then you, then back at Fred, her hands on her hips. “And you thought you could keep this from me? In my own house?”
“We weren’t sure how you’d take it,” you said, your voice steady despite the nerves. “Didn’t want to make things weird.”
“Weird?” Molly’s voice rose, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “You’re sneaking around under my roof, and you think that’s not weird?” She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Merlin’s beard, you two. I raised seven children—I know when something’s going on.”
Fred grinned, undeterred. “So you’re not mad?”
“Oh, I’m mad,” Molly said, pointing a finger at him. “Mad you didn’t tell me! And you—” She turned to you, her expression softening. “Y/N, you’re practically family already, but you’re still a guest in my home. I expect honesty. And no sneaking off to the broom shed, understand?”
Your face burned, but you nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Weasley.”
She huffed, then pulled you into a sudden, bone-crushing hug. “Oh, come here. If you’re going to be with my Fred, you’d better get used to this.”
Fred laughed, but there was relief in his eyes as he met yours over his mother’s shoulder. Ron, still hovering nearby, groaned. “Can we go back to Quidditch now? This is too much.”
George zoomed down, clapping Fred on the back. “Told you she’d figure it out. Mum’s got eyes like a Niffler.”
The rest of the day was a blur of Molly’s overbearing warmth—she insisted on setting an extra place for you at the table, as if you were officially part of the family now—and Fred’s teasing, his hand finding yours under the table when no one was looking. The Burrow’s chaos wrapped around you like a warm blanket, and as you sat in the garden that night, Fred’s arm around you, Ron bickering with George, and Molly’s laughter drifting from the kitchen, you realized you’d found something you hadn’t known you were looking for.
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