.....did I just see a part 1 added to Fred and the Healer??? You know when you walk past something, stop and then walk backward to loo at it again? I did the tumblr equivalent
This genuinely made me giggle because YES YOU SAW THAT CORRECTLY! I was wondering if anyone was going to catch that…Part 2 is currently in the works.
In the aftermath of George losing his ear, the Order sends a healer to the Burrow to monitor his condition. She is brilliant, blunt, and far too easy for Fred Weasley to fall for. But just as he begins to think she might feel the same, she is called away to help someone else and neither of them says what matters most.
Warnings: canon accurate character injury, mentions of the wizarding war and pure blood ideology, angst
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The Burrow was a house that wore its life loudly. Even in the deadest hours of night, when the crooked little dwelling ought to have surrendered itself to silence, it still breathed in creaks. Every beam and brick had absorbed the imprint of the family inside it and refused to rest entirely. But tonight even the Burrow seemed to hold its breath. The clock ticked in the kitchen with its many hands pointing anxiously to danger, the patched curtains stirred at the windows with every wandering draught.
Fear ran through it like a gust of wind through an open door, sweeping over the lightless corners. Ginny’s hurried footsteps trampled the stairs as she climbed in a hurry, leaving the rest of the Order of the Phoenix downstairs. Upstairs behind a half-shut bedroom door, George Weasley was bleeding.
Fred stood in the narrow landing with his back against the wall and his hands curled so tightly into fists that his nails bit crescents into his palms. He could still still smell the metallic sting of George’s blood on his robes and hear the sound of George breathily laughing through gritted teeth. It was a ridiculous, half-delirious joke. Holey. Fred had laughed only because he was completely and entirely incapable of helping in any other manner. It had been an instinctive response to his twin’s humour when the sight of George had been enough to turn Fred’s stomach to ice water. He hated the blood and the smell of dittany in the air. Even more, he hated the way his mother’s hands had fluttered uselessly for a few agonising seconds before she seized control of herself and started barking instructions with tears already slipping down her face. Above all else, he hated that he could do nothing. There was no use for his skills in this sort of situation. No clever bit of wandwork or sleight of hand or illusion magic to alter the reality of a curse-darkened wound.
George lay in their room with half his head swathed in bloodied bandages, pale under his freckles, and Fred felt as though someone had taken a blade to the centre of his chest and left it there. He had always been half of something whole, half of the seamless and inseparable duo that was Fred and George. The sudden reality that both of them may not make it through this war was enough to strike terror into his bones.
The landing was crowded. Ginny hovered at the far end of it, white-faced and silent. Fleur’s silver-bright voice drifted in and out from behind the bedroom door, trying to help stop the bleeding while Molly vanished downstairs and back up again so many times in the last ten minutes that her skirts seemed to leave afterimages. Still it was not enough. Still George did not stop bleeding.
Fred scrubbed a hand over his mouth and looked toward the stairs at the sound of hurried footsteps below. Then there came a brisk and deliberate knock that cut cleanly through the rush. Arthur was closest and he disappeared down the stairs at once like he was expecting whoever had come. There was the muted rumble of his voice, then another voice in answer that belonged to a woman. She sounded calm and unhurried. A moment later, she appeared at the foot of the stairs and Fred’s attention shifted so decisively that it was like a compass needle jerking north.
She could not have been much older than Fred and George, perhaps only by a few years. But there was something about her that made her feel older. She had mastered a stillness so controlled that it lent her an immediate gravity. Rain had dampened the shoulders of her travelling cloak, darkening the fabric to near-black and silvering the edges with fine droplets that gleamed in the hall light like threads of mercury. Beneath it, practical robes clung slightly at the hem, marked by the weather and the muddy road. A worn leather satchel was slung over one shoulder, buckled and bulging with supplies. Her hair, pinned back in what had likely once been a sensible arrangement, had partly escaped its fastenings in the wind. The loose strands curled damply against her temples and throat, softening a face that might otherwise have looked carved more from marble than flesh.
Her eyes moved once over the people on the landing and then lifted to the closed bedroom door at the far end of the corridor, locating the axis around which all this fear was turning. “He’s in there?” she asked.
There was no preamble to it. She didn’t start with a soft apology for the hour, or offer them empty reassurance. Instead she jumped straight to business.
“Yes,” Arthur answered at once, already climbing back up toward her. “Molly and Fleur are trying to stop the bleeding, but—”
She was moving before he finished. Fred stepped aside automatically as she came up the stairs, and the scent of rain and jasmine brushed past him in a cool, clean draft. Up close, she looked tired. There were faint shadows beneath her eyes and ink stains smudged across her cheek. A fine burn scar curved pale and silvery along the inside of her wrist before disappearing beneath her sleeve.
She glanced at him only briefly, but the look was sharp enough that he felt as though he were being measured. “Has he lost consciousness?”
Fred stammered slightly, caught half a second behind her pace. “N-no.”
“Vomiting?”
“No.”
“Blurred vision?”
“He said no, but—”
“Did he say it before or after the Blood-Replenishing Potion?”
Fred frowned. “After, I think.”
Her chin dipped once, accepting the answer without ceremony. “Good.”
And then she passed him and entered the room. Fred stared after her for one beat too long before following. Their room felt far too small to contain the amount of worry currently crammed into it. Candlelight threw long, restless shadows against the walls. The air was thick with the smell of blood, singed fabric, and the bitter medicinal tang of opened vials. George lay propped up against pillows, his skin chalk-pale beneath the scattering of freckles over his nose, his mouth pressed into a familiar line of stubborn amusement. The right side of his head was wrapped in makeshift bandaging already soaked through in places, red seeping steadily through white. From the pile of discarded strips of crimson fabric Fred could assume they’d changed the dressings already several times.
Molly was at George’s bedside and Fleur stood by the end of the bed, her face pinched with helpless concern. Ginny lingered in the doorway behind Fred, her jaw set hard.
The healer took in the room in one sweeping glance and, without even raising her voice, began to reorder it. “Mrs Weasley, I need clean water and clean cloths. As many as you’ve got.”
Molly was not a woman easily directed in her own house, but she nodded at once. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
“Mr Weasley, if you have essence of murtlap, bring it. If not, don’t waste time looking.” Arthur turned on his heel immediately. “Better light,” she added, already setting her satchel on the bedside table and shrugging off her cloak. “And fewer bodies.”
Fleur, who was generally far too dignified to look affronted, did so anyway. “You are asking us all to leave?”
“I’m asking anyone not actively helping to do so,” the healer replied matter-of-factly, drawing out a pair of gloves. “Crowding him won’t improve the wound.”
George astonishingly gave a faint snort. “Hear that? My own twin evicted from our room.” His voice was hoarse, but the sound of it made the tension in Fred’s ribs loosen by a fraction.
The healer’s mouth shifted almost imperceptibly. “If you can make jokes, I have high hopes for your recovery.”
Molly pressed her lips together and kissed George’s temple before and Arthur was already clattering down the stairs after giving the healed the supplies she’d requested. Fleur moved aside to make space while Ginny lingered a fraction too long in the doorway before Molly steered her out with a hand at her shoulder.
“Fred,” Molly said from the hall, “if you’re not helping—”
“He’s staying,” the healer said calmly, not looking up. Fred’s head turned toward her in surprise. She was rolling back her sleeves with quick, efficient hands. “He knows his brother better than anyone. I’ll need someone to tell me when this one is lying.”
George’s eyes cracked toward Fred with immediate wickedness despite the pain. Oh, don’t even start, Fred thought.
The healer sat on the edge of the bed and finally turned her full attention to George, her face softening with focus sharpened by care. “I’m going to remove the bandages,” she told him. “You may dislike me for the next five minutes.”
George breathed out through his nose. “Only five? Not a very generous assumption.”
Her hands were deft as birds and steady as old stone. She unwound the stained strips of cloth with precise movements, never tugging where she could ease. Fred watched her fingers work and had the absurd thought that they looked made for healing. They were long and elegant, marked here and there by faint traces of her trade with little scars, a nick near one knuckle, and a burn half-faded to pearl. Working hands. Capable hands. It was a deeply inappropriate thing to notice when his brother was half-dead in front of him, and yet he noticed it all the same.
When the final bandage came free, the wound beneath it looked even worse in the brighter light. Molly had cleaned what she could, but the curse had left behind a raw, furious edge to the flesh. The dark magic had bitten into George’s body and soured whatever it touched. Fred’s stomach turned sharply while George’s jaw flexed, though he made no sound.
The healer leaned closer, examining it in silence. Candlelight slid over her cheekbone and caught in the loosened strands of hair at her neck. Her brows drew together very slightly. She laid two fingers near, but not upon, the wound, eyes half-lidded in concentration as she murmured a diagnostic charm under her breath. The spell illuminated the air in thin silver threads, brief as cobwebs in moonlight. Fred saw them gather, bend, and then recoil from the mangled edge of the curse.
Her expression did not change much. That frightened him more than if it had. “What?” he asked, and the question came out rougher than he meant it to.
Her eyes flicked to his, then back to George. “Whatever did this was a nasty curse.”
Fred’s mouth went dry. “Can you fix it?” he asked.
Her gaze fixed on him with an unsparingly honest expression and Fred had the sudden sense that she was the sort of person who would rather injure someone with truth than comfort them with a lie.
“I can close what should close,” she said carefully. “I can keep it from spreading. I can ease the pain and reduce the damage that remains to his inner ear. But no,” Her voice gentled, if only by a shade. “I cannot regrow what dark magic has destroyed. Only time will tell whether his hearing will recover completely, but I would say it’s likely only going to be a partial loss.”
George turned his face slightly toward the window and in that minuscule motion that was so small it might have escaped anyone who did not know him as intimately as Fred did, there was a flash of hurt Fred felt slide between his ribs like a shiv. Some might think it was vain to be upset about what was mostly a cosmetic injury, but it was not about the ear being gone. It was about losing a part of him that had once been identical to Fred. They shared everything, a family, a business, a body, and once, a face. But no longer would they bare uncanny resemblance to one another.
George swallowed. “Brilliant,” he muttered faintly. “Always wanted to look rakish.”
“At least now mum will be able to tell us apart,” Fred let out a breath, trying to lighten the burden of the news.
The healer held George’s gaze for a quiet moment, and when she spoke again, her voice had dropped into a lower and steadier tone, like a hand placed flat over a racing heart. “You are alive,” she said. “Your mind is clear. Your magic is untouched. Your family is downstairs nearly tearing the house apart with worry over you.” One corner of her mouth curved very slightly. “You are, by all appearances, aggressively loved, and that matters more than an ear, though I know it may not feel like it tonight.”
A real smile tugged crookedly at George’s mouth. “You’ve got a shocking bedside manner,” he said.
“I had better once,” she replied dryly.
Something flickered through her expression as she said it. It was there and gone so quickly Fred might have imagined it, like a shadow passing under still water. Before he could think more on it, Molly returned with makeshift basins and cloths in a flurry. For the next twenty minutes, the healer worked.
Fred watched her with surprise at how (for lack of a better word) boring it was. There were no grand sweeps of her wand, or blazing bursts of restorative magic. Nothing disguised the fact that healing was, at its core, a patient and exacting labour. She cleaned the wound with water warmed to a comfortable temperature, added a measured amount of murtlap essence, muttered charms, and administered potion after potion with the concentration of someone threading a needle.
Fred handed her whatever she asked for before anyone else could. Cloths, salve, a mortar and pestle, his illuminated wand for more light. Twice their fingers brushed as she took something from his hand. Twice a strange little current darted under his skin. He ignored it. George, unfortunately, noticed everything.
At one point, while the healer was bent over the bedside table measuring drops into a spoon and acted was definitely not staring, George opened one eye and looked at Fred with such smug, lopsided wickedness that Fred nearly threw the clean cloth at his head.
Shut up, Fred mouthed. George’s grin widened fractionally. Bastard. The healer straightened then and passed George the spoon. He drank obediently, grimacing at the taste. “Ghastly,” he said.
“That means it’s brewed properly.”
Fred barked a laugh. Her eyes flicked to him, and this time the faintest thread of amusement met his and held for a beat longer than before. It changed her face in an instant, lighting something beneath the surface, like the brief glow of a lamp behind shuttered windows. It struck him with ridiculous force.
She was beautiful. Not in some abstract, ornamental way, though she was certainly lovely. It was not merely the shape of her face or the dark brightness of her eyes or the damp tendril of hair curling against the side of her throat. It was the entirety of her, including the authority in her posture, the precision of her hands, and the unflinching steadiness with which she moved.
Fred, who had spent most of his life following his instincts, felt the certainty of his interest arrive with almost insulting swiftness. Well, that was deeply inconvenient. At last she eased back from the bed and removed her gloves with a weary little exhale. The bleeding had stopped and the fresh bandaging sat clean and secure. George still looked exhausted and pale, but no longer perilously so.
“He’ll need monitoring through the night,” she said, capping a vial and sliding it back into her satchel. “And again tomorrow. If his condition worsens, call me immediately.”
Molly clasped a hand to her chest. “Call you from where? You’re not leaving, are you?”
Then Arthur said, gentle and practical, “You can’t mean to travel back after all this. It’s too dangerous.”
Molly drew herself up as though someone had insulted her personally. “Certainly not. You’ll stay here.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly—” the healer began.
“You absolutely could,” Molly said.
“There are other places I ought to—”
“Not tonight.”
“It truly isn’t necessary—”
“My son is missing an ear.”
The healer hesitated for only a fraction of a second. Fred watched her instinctive preparation to refuse comfort before it could be pressed too warmly upon her. Then healer’s lips parted, then closed again.
Molly, who could outstare a dragon if motherhood required it, folded her arms. “You are staying the night. Tomorrow, if George still needs you, and from the look of him he does, you will stay tomorrow as well. We have room, we have food, and I won’t hear another word about it.”
Fred watched the healer’s face as she absorbed this assault of kindness. It was the first time he had seen her seem genuinely uncertain, like the hospitality has thrown her off guard. That, for some reason, lodged somewhere tender inside him. At last she dipped her head. “All right.”
Molly softened instantly. “Good girl.”
A strange look crossed the healer’s face at that. Then she bent to gather her cloak. Fred moved before thinking. “Here.” He picked it up from the chair before she could and held it out to her.
“Thank you,” she said, taking it.
Up close again, he caught the clean herbal scent of her skin beneath the rain and potions. Her hand brushed his wrist as she took the cloak. Her fingers were cool.
“What should I call out when I summon you for breakfast tomorrow morning?” Fred asked, voice rough with drowsy mischief.
She looked over her shoulder at him as she fastened the clasp at her throat. There was the faintest pause, then she said her name. He repeated it once in his mind at once, privately. “Right. Lovely to meet you under such charming circumstances.”
She let out the smallest breath of laughter. Fred saw Ginny reappear in the doorway just in time to catch the look on his face, because her eyebrows shot upward so high they nearly vanished into her hairline. Oh, no. Ginny’s mouth twitched with instant, vicious delight.
Fred glared at her with all the menace he could muster, which had the unfortunate effect of confirming every suspicion she had just formed. Her grin sharpened. He was going to hex her into next week.
Molly began fussing over whether the healer had eaten, whether she preferred tea or cocoa or something stronger, while Arthur set aside the used basins. Fred only half-heard any of it. He was watching the healer as she moved through the room collecting the last of her supplies with tired grace in her shoulders. The faint stiffness that suggested she had been travelling and working without pause. There was a reserve about her that did not feel aloof so much as hard-won, like a door she had taught herself to close quietly and firmly and never leave ajar. Yet she had stayed.
Fred, who had always admired brilliance but loved softness hidden beneath sharp edges, felt something in himself tilt. George cleared his throat faintly. Fred looked over to see his twin was studying him through half-lowered lashes with the expression of a man who had just stumbled upon the funniest thing to happen to him all evening. “Hey Freddie,” George murmured.
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
George’s grin, sleepy though it was, turned downright beatific. Across the room, Ginny made a suspicious snorting noise. The healer glanced between them, plainly aware that she had become the centre of some joke not yet spoken aloud. Her gaze lingered on Fred for the barest moment, curious, slightly bemused.
He had the abrupt, mortifying urge to say something clever. What came out instead was, “Do you need help carrying anything?”
Splendid. Utterly devastating. A conversational triumph for the ages. Ginny very nearly choked. But the healer only regarded him for a second, then shook her head. “No. Thank you.”
There was a softness in her tone now that had not been there when she arrived, as if somewhere between the blood and the bandages and the stubbornness of the Weasley household she had allowed herself to ease by one small degree.
Molly ushered her toward the door, already talking about a room made ready and hot tea waiting downstairs. Arthur followed while Fred lingered by George’s bedside for a moment longer. His twin waited until the healer’s footsteps had faded down the stairs before turning his head slightly and saying, in a voice scratchy with exhaustion but rich with satisfaction, “You’re done for.”
Fred stared at him. “You are concussed.”
“No, I’m right.”
“You’re missing an ear. Your judgment is compromised.”
George’s grin widened. “You asked if she needed help carrying a satchel.”
“It might have been heavy.”
“It was tiny.”
Fred muttered something obscene under his breath that only made George laugh weakly into the pillow.
From the doorway, Ginny said, “This is the most pathetic thing I’ve seen all month, and we’re in the middle of a war.”
Fred swung around. “Get out.”
She leaned against the frame, looking infuriatingly smug. “You fancy her.”
“I do not.”
George made a sound that was practically a delirious scoff. Ginny folded her arms. “Fred.”
“Ginny.”
“Fred.”
He glared at her and she glared back with cool patience like she was observing a particularly stupid animal. At last she sighed. “It’s completely obvious.”
George snorted and winced immediately after, which only made Fred feel guilty enough to abandon murder as a viable option. He rubbed a hand over his face and exhaled sharply.
Downstairs, he could hear Molly bustling and the faint clink of cups being set out. Amid it was the healer’s voice too, quieter than the others, but present now in the house. Woven already into the Burrow’s patchwork chorus. Fred found himself listening for it without meaning to. Something in him had turned instinctively toward her as naturally as a flame bent toward air and as helplessly as ivy sought the sun.
She had appeared carrying order in her hands and steadiness in her voice, and some hidden, unruly piece of him had looked at her and thought, ‘There you are.’ She had arrived like cool water poured over fire and taken hold of a room full of panic until everyone in it could breathe again. That in itself was impressive.
Fred looked back at George, who had finally let his eyes drift shut. Then he glanced toward the open doorway, toward the stairs, toward the sounds below. Tomorrow, she would still be here. The thought came soft as candlelight and dangerous as hope. Fred ought to have known better than to trust hope in times like these, but felt his traitorous heart take it up eagerly all the same.
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Morning at the Burrow always came bustling and banging and bright as a brass bell. It entered by way of clattering pans and a kettle that began shrieking before the sun had properly committed to the sky. It brought the scent of toast and porridge and over-steeped tea curling up the stairs, the rustle of robes, and the muttered crossfire of conversation.
That morning, beneath the usual domestic cacophony, there lingered another note entirely, pulled taught over them all. Mad-eye was dead, and George injured. Their plan to move Harry had not been without losses. Fear had not left the Burrow, it had merely changed its clothes. It no longer paced wild-eyed through the corridors with blood on its hands, but sat in corners instead, quieter now, watchful and unwilling to be dismissed.
Fred felt it too, the moment he opened his eyes and saw pale morning light slipping through the crooked edges of his curtains, turning the room the colour of watered milk. For one dislocated second, still half in sleep, he forgot. Then memory came all at once, swift and merciless: George’s blood, the wound, the healer’s hands, the sound of her voice.
He sat upright. Percy’s old room was cool. That was where Fred had slept last night, to give George and the healer space. It had been decided it was best for her to stay in George and Fred’s room to keep an eye on her patient throughout the night. Fred’s hair was a mess and his neck ached from sleeping badly. He had not removed his jumper the night before, only collapsed atop the sheets after everyone had finally, reluctantly dispersed. Threaded through his thoughts with embarrassing immediacy was a single, crystalline awareness. She was still here. The thought darted through him with all the ridiculous brightness of a lit match.
Fred swung his legs over the side of the bed and told himself sternly that he was getting up to check on George. This was true. It was also not the entire truth. The upstairs landing was awash in slanting gold, sunlight pouring through the crooked windows and striping the floorboards with warmth. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beams like suspended ash, rising and falling in invisible currents.
In their room, George was awake, though only barely. He lay half-propped against the pillows in a nest of blankets, his face wan but less ghastly than it had been the night before. The fresh bandaging around the side of his head was clean, though shadows of pain still sat beneath his eyes.
Beside him, seated in a chair Molly must have brought from downstairs, was the healer. The morning light caught at her profile and rendered it finer. She was no longer wearing the damp dark robes she had arrived in. Instead she wore a simple blouse with the sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow and a long skirt in some muted berry shade. Someone - likely Molly - had lent her a cardigan that was slightly too large through the shoulders, its wool the warm brown of chestnuts. Her hair was loosely gathered now, not pinned so severely as the night before, and a few escaping strands feathered around her face.
George was saying something low and dry. Fred missed the words because he was too busy noticing the way her hands rested in her lap, loosely folded, elegant even in stillness, one thumb absentmindedly tracing over the faint scar at the inside of her opposite wrist. Tired hands this morning.
Then George saw him and his expression changed instantly. The thin, sleepy neutrality sharpened into unmistakable wickedness.“Morning,” George drawled.
The healer turned at the sound of his voice, and Fred experienced the deeply irritating sensation of his own body becoming abruptly too aware of itself. His posture, his hands, the direction of his gaze, everything seemed suddenly clumsy, too large, out of control.
“Morning,” he said, and was at least gratified to find that it came out more or less normal.
George’s brows lifted. The healer gave Fred a small nod, quiet and composed. “He slept through the night.”
Fred stepped properly into the room. “Did he?” he asked.
“No,” George said. “I thought I’d just lie here with my eyes shut for the aesthetic of a sickly Victorian boy.”
Fred rolled his eyes, moving toward the bed. “You look dreadful.”
“So do you.”
“How touching,” said the healer, and there was a thread of dry amusement in it that made Fred’s stupid heart stumble like a badly kicked broomstick.
He came to stand at the side of the bed, angling most of his attention toward George for the sake of appearances. “How are you feeling?”
George considered this. “As though someone hacked off part of my head.”
“That’d do it.”
“I’m also deeply wounded that you didn’t come see me until now.”
Fred frowned. “It’s barely morning.”
“It is late enough,” George replied, with the faint grandeur of the unfairly wronged. “I thought you’d be here sooner.”
Across the room, the healer had lowered her gaze to the phial in her hands, but not before he saw the quick flicker at the corner of her mouth. She was hiding a smile.
“At least I came to check on you,” Fred said pointedly. “I was in two minds about going straight to breakfast.”
“Of course you were.” The words themselves were innocent enough. George’s tone was not.
Fred contemplated smothering him with a pillow and decided against it only because the healer was present and because George had, in fairness, recently lost an ear.
She rose, crossing to the small table near the bed to sort through the potions she had laid out. The movement drew Fred’s eye at once, traitorous thing that it was. She moved with that same cautiousness she had shown the night before, but in daylight there was more to observe. Like the slight stiffness at the base of her neck, perhaps from sleeping awkwardly, the way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind one ear with the back of her wrist when her fingers were occupied.
“She says I’m improving,” George announced.
“That’s good,” Fred said, though his gaze had already drifted back to the healer.
“It is,” she replied. “The bleeding has slowed considerably. The damage is still volatile, but the tissue around the ear isn’t inflamed enough to alarm me yet.”
Fred leaned against the bedpost, trying very hard to appear like a brother taking a sober interest in medical matters rather than a man devoting entirely too much of his consciousness to the cadence of a woman’s voice. “So he’s all right?”
Her expression shifted into rebuke. “He is better than he was. That is not the same thing.”
Fred nodded once. Something in his face must have betrayed more than he intended, because her own expression softened by a fraction.
“He’s strong,” she said. “And stubborn. Those are useful qualities in a patient.”
George managed a wan grin. “You hear that? I’m practically a professional.”
“A professional nuisance, perhaps.” Fred laughed.
“That’s a cruel thing to say to a one-eared man.” George muttered indignantly.
This time the healer did smile, and it was enough to rearrange the air in the room around it. The thing about her smiles, Fred was beginning to realise, was that they felt earned. They did not spill from her casually. They arrived carefully, as though she weighed them before giving them away, and that made each one feel like treasure.
Footsteps sounded in the hall before Ginny appeared in the doorway with a tray balanced in her hands and a look on her face that told Fred immediately she had arrived prepared to be horrible. She took in the scene at once, George awake, Fred at the bedside, and the healer arranging potions.
Her eyes narrowed with gleeful understanding.“Well,” she said, much too brightly, “what a surprise.”
Fred did not even turn. “Go away.”
Ginny entered anyway, setting the tray on the bedside table with deliberate care. “I only meant,” she said, “that I’m impressed. George hasn’t been awake ten minutes and already he’s got visitors.”
Fred shot her a look so venomous it ought to have singed the carpet. Ginny smiled beatifically while George gave a solemn nod. “I inspire loyalty.”
To her credit, the healer pretended to notice nothing at all, but Fred caught the way her lashes lowered briefly. It was a sure sign she was hiding her amusement. George, of course, looked as though he had been granted an early Christmas.
“Being me tea?” he asked Ginny.
“I did.”
“Excellent. Now bring me some peace and quiet by getting out.”
“No,” said Ginny cheerfully.
Molly’s voice floated up the stairs from below, calling everyone down for breakfast. The smell of frying bread now, rich and savoury, mingled with tea leaves and marmalade wafted up the landing.
The healer glanced toward the doorway. “You should all eat.”
George made a face. “Can’t.”
“You can and you will,” she said. “A little. With your potions.”
He looked theatrically betrayed. “I thought you’d said I was improving.”
“I did. Don’t make me revise my assessment.”
Ginny snorted. Fred, who knew he ought to go downstairs like everyone else and behave as though his reason for hovering here had not shifted in ways he could no longer entirely deny, found himself lingering still. “You should eat too,” he said before he could think better of it.
Her hand stilled on the spoon she was measuring potion into. It was such a tiny pause that neither George nor Ginny would likely have noticed. Fred did. Then she resumed, expression unchanged. “Mrs Weasley already fed me.”
Of course she had. Fred pictured Molly pressing tea and toast upon her with that fierce insistence that turned refusal into a practical impossibility, and the image was absurdly dear to him. “Good,” he said.
Her gaze lifted to his for a brief moment and surprise at being considered flashed across it. George saw that too. Fred knew he did because the corner of his mouth twitched. Bastard.
“Fred,” Ginny said sweetly, “Mum asked you to help with breakfast.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“She did, actually.”
“When?”
“When I got George’s tea.”
“You’re lying.”
“Probably.”
The healer did laugh then involuntarily, and it left as quickly as it had come in a short burst. Fred felt triumph flare idiotically through him as though he had personally orchestrated it. George took one look at his face and practically glowed with malicious delight.
“Fred,” he said in the tone one reserved for delivering particularly mirthing news, “you’re staring.”
Fred nearly choked on air. Ginny’s eyes widened with theatrical innocence as sarcasm coated her voice. “Is he?”
The healer, who had gone very still, turned back toward the phials in front of her with a composure that would have impressed anyone considering how much she must now be hearing between the lines.
“I’m not staring,” Fred said, because dignity had already fled and there was apparently no point pretending otherwise.
George hummed. “No, that’s worse, then. Because if this is you trying not to—”
Fred lunged for the pillow at his side. George laughed and then winced, which ended the matter at once. Fred froze. “Sorry.”
George waved him off faintly, still grinning. “Worth it.”
The healer was smiling now with her head lowered, and Fred experienced the acute misery of knowing precisely how this looked from the outside. Him, red-eared and hopeless. George one breath from delirious amusement. Ginny acting as though she had just discovered a new favourite sport. Breakfast could not possibly be worse than remaining in that room.
Or maybe it could, which was perhaps why Fred stayed another minute. He told himself it was because George still looked tired and there were instructions to hear, potions to remember, and practical concerns yet to be addressed.
It had nothing at all to do with the way the healer’s presence seemed to reconfigure the atmosphere of the room. Nothing to do with how the morning sunlight set the strands of her hair alight where they escaped at her neck. Nothing to do with the fact that every time she looked at him he felt, absurdly, as though some hidden mechanism inside him were being wound tighter and tighter. Not at all.
At last she straightened and passed George the spoon of potion. “Drink.”
He obeyed with poor grace, grimacing after. “You enjoy that entirely too much.”
“Immensely.”
Fred grinned. She looked up and found him doing it. For a moment the room seemed to narrow strangely. Or perhaps he only noticed less of it all at once. The creak of the floorboards, the rattling tray, the morning sounds from below all melted away as her gaze met his and held. There was warmth there now. Not much but it was a marginal difference from the night before.
Then Ginny ruined everything by saying, “Honestly, if watching this gets any more painful I’ll need healing too.”
Fred pointed at the door. “Out.”
“You first.”
“You’re intolerable.”
“So I’ve been told.” She swept from the room looking entirely too pleased with herself.
George sipped the last of his tea and reclined deeper into the pillows. “I do hope you’re planning to spend the whole day checking on me,” he said. “Would hate to think my suffering isn’t being put to full use.”
Fred narrowed his eyes. “I can leave right now.”
“No, no,” George murmured. “That would be selfish.”
The healer gave George one last assessing glance, adjusted the blanket near his shoulder absently, and then picked up the tray. “He should rest again.”
“That sounds like a subtle instruction for us to leave,” Fred said.
“It is an instruction for him to rest,” she replied. “Whether the rest of you can behave yourselves enough to permit that is another matter.” Her tone was dry, but it carried the same glint as before.
Fred, helplessly charmed, took the tray from her before she could lift it properly. “I’ll bring this down.”
Surprise flickered over her features. Then, with a small inclination of her head, she said, “Thank you.”
It was a simple phrase yet the way she said it so quietly and sincerely, as if she were accustomed to standing alone beneath burdens, lodged in him all over again. Fred was used to gratitude in passing, to the casual exchange of favours within a household full of people. But with her, each offered kindness seemed to meet some hidden caution first, as though she expected very little and trusted even less.
He wondered, with a swift and strange pang, who had taught her to do that. He wondered what kind of world made a woman like her carry herself as though every warmth extended toward her might be temporary. The questions came uninvited, but once there, they remained.
George closed his eyes, whether from exhaustion or strategy it was hard to say. Fred backed toward the door with the tray in hand, unwillingly aware that leaving meant putting space between himself and her. It was a ridiculously embarrassing awareness. At the threshold, he glanced back. She was drawing the curtains slightly to soften the light near George’s bed, her movements gentle now that the urgency had passed. Morning gold threaded around her silhouette. The borrowed cardigan hung loose at her wrists. Her profile was composed, but softened by fatigue and that peculiar quietness she seemed to carry within herself like a second skin.
She felt, in that moment, less like a visitor more like a ghost the house had briefly imagined for itself out of need and hope. Fred tore his gaze away before George could open an eye and catch him at it again.
Downstairs, Molly stood at the stove with her sleeves rolled high, directing sausages, toast, and three different frying pans with intense concentration that could probably have turned the tide of a war if properly weaponised. Arthur sat at the table with the paper open in front of him, though from the look on his face he had read the same paragraph three times and retained none of it. Bill was nursing tea and Fleur buttered toast with a distracted elegance. Ginny, curse her, was waiting.
The moment Fred entered with the tray, she looked up. Then she looked deliberately, meaningfully, toward the ceiling. Then back at him.
Molly turned. “How is he?”
“Better,” Fred said, setting the tray by the sink.
The word changed the room, easing something in every face at once. Arthur’s shoulders loosened, Bill exhaled and Molly closed her eyes briefly, one hand pressing to her apron in gratitude.
“And our guest?” she asked, already reaching for another plate. “Did she take tea? Did she eat enough? I told her she ought to have more toast, but she wouldn’t hear of it—”
“She’s fine,” Fred said.
Ginny made a faint choking sound into her cup. Molly, who missed little when her children were involved, turned her head slowly. Her eyes narrowed just enough to suggest a dawning recognition.
Fred saw it happen in real time, Merlin preserve him. Bill looked from Ginny’s expression to Fred’s face and then, with the dreadful speed their elder brother connected every available dot, smirked into his tea.
“No,” Fred said immediately.
Nobody had actually said anything yet. That only made it worse. Arthur lowered the paper by an inch. “No what?”
“Nothing.”
Ginny smiled into her toast. Molly resumed cooking with a measured calm. “Would you mind taking this upstairs to her, dear?”
Fred looked at the plate she indicated. Fresh toast with jam, a boiled egg, another cup of tea. He looked at his mother, then at Ginny, whose face had already gone pink with the effort of keeping her laughter inside her body. Bill gave up and looked openly delighted. Fred knew a trap when he saw one.
Unfortunately, he also knew there was no earthly force powerful enough to save him from his mother when she was in this mood. He reached for the tray. “Fine.”
“Lovely,” Molly said, much too innocently.
Ginny bit the inside of her cheek. As Fred made for the stairs once more, he heard George call faintly from above, his voice carrying just enough to be ruinous. “Back already?”
The kitchen dissolved into noise. Bill bent double with laughter. Ginny smacked the table. Even Arthur’s mouth twitched while Molly pressed her lips together with all the futility of a dam against floodwater.
Fred paused at the top of the stairs, tray in hand, and closed his eyes for one long beat. Then, because retreat was no longer available to him and because the witch still had not properly eaten and because George would probably die of joy if Fred fled now, he went on toward the woman who had only been in the Burrow a handful of hours and had already become the axis around which too much of Fred’s attention turned.
It was absurd and inconvenient. It was, he was beginning to suspect, only going to get worse.
Still laughing into her tea, Ginny said to no one in particular, “This is going to be fun.”
———————————————————————
In the end, Fred would not have been able to say precisely when curiosity became habit, nor when habit softened into attachment, nor at what exact hour of which exact day the simple act of seeking her out began to feel less like inclination and more like instinct.
It happened the way dawn approached in winter, slowly and stealthily with light arriving so gradually that by the time one noticed it, the whole world had already changed colour. At first, there had been reason enough. George needed monitoring. George needed his bandages changed, his potion measured, his symptoms watched and weighed and worried over. George needed company, though he would rather have bitten off his remaining ear than admit it aloud. It was only natural, then, that Fred should be there. Only sensible that he should linger near the doorway, lean against the bedpost, take trays downstairs and fetch clean cloths and ask, every few hours, how George was feeling with all the earnestness of a devoted brother.
This was true. It was simply not the entire truth. By the end of the first day, even he had begun to suspect that. By the end of the second, the entire household knew it for fact.
Still, the Burrow, mercifully, had a way of making even the most humiliating developments feel survivable. Life within its walls continued with the stubborn insistence of ivy cracking stone. Morning dissolved into afternoon in a clutter of tea cups and folded linen and sun warming the kitchen floorboards. The house sighed and shifted around them all. Its old wood held the day’s heat. Its windows glimmered with pale autumn light. Its rooms seemed to gather the healer into their disorder with surprising ease, until her presence no longer felt like an interruption but rather a new thread stitched into an already crowded tapestry.
Fred found reasons to be near her as naturally as breathing. Some were passable, some were transparent, and most were, to George and Ginny at least, a source of endless delight.
The first proper conversation happened over breakfast, though ‘breakfast’ was perhaps too orderly a word for what occurred at the Burrow each morning. It was more like a domestic skirmish fought with marmalade, burnt toast, and Molly’s increasingly exasperated instructions, all of it underscored by the shriek of the kettle and the rhythmic clatter of cutlery.
Once more Fred carried her tray upstairs under the concentrated gaze of his family and the distant sound of Ginny already laughing herself half-sore in anticipation. He had entered their room braced for mortification and found instead a quieter scene than he expected.
George was asleep again, one hand lax over the blanket, his breathing deep and even. The healer stood by the open window, one palm resting lightly against the frame as cool morning air stirred the edge of the curtain and lifted the loose strands around her face. The sunlight touched her profile in pale gold, gentling the shadows beneath her eyes but doing nothing to erase them. She looked as though she had been thinking, and thinking too heavily. There was always, Fred was beginning to understand, a certain inwardness to her stillness, as if she carried a second world just beneath the surface of herself and stepped into it without warning.
“You brought enough to feed a dragon,” she said when he entered, glancing at the tray in his hands.
Fred crossed the room and set it down on the table. “Mum thinks our stomachs are thrice their actual size. You’re lucky she didn’t send up a ham.”
That coaxed a faint smile from her. He hesitated only a fraction before adding, “don’t think I’ve ever seen George this fast asleep.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “That tends to happen when patients are given pain draughts and bullied into resting.”
“Your methods are innovative.”
“My methods are effective.”
Fred grinned. She came to sit beside the small table, drawing the cardigan more snugly around herself before reaching for the tea. Her hands looked cold. Fred did not immediately leave. Nor, to his private surprise and unreasonable delight, did she ask him to.
Instead she took a sip of tea, glanced toward George to ensure he still slept, and asked, “Is he always this dramatic?”
Fred huffed a laugh and leaned one shoulder against the wardrobe. “Constantly. It’s exhausting.”
“He implied the same of you.”
“That’s slander.”
“I haven’t known him long, but he strikes me as reliable.”
“Then you’ve been tragically misled in a very short time.”
The corner of her mouth lifted. It wasn’t yet one of those rare, sudden smiles that transformed her face and left Fred internally disordered for several minutes afterward. Just a quiet upward flicker, subtle as the first ripple in still water. He found himself watching for those now. Collecting them mentally the way other people collected coins or charms or stories.
She broke off a corner of toast. “You’re close.”
It was not really a question. Fred’s glance moved instinctively to George, sleeping in the bed by the window, pale still. “There isn’t a me without him,” he said, the words arriving before he could dress them in anything lighter. “Never has been.”
The admission sat in the air between them, unexpectedly bare. She looked at him with an attentiveness so complete it felt almost like being held still beneath it. “No,” she said quietly after a moment. “I suppose there hasn’t.”
Something in the way she answered told him she understood more than the sentence itself contained. He nodded toward the breakfast tray and said, lightly, “If you don’t eat at least half of that, Mum will think I dropped it down the stairs and lied to preserve my dignity.”
She let out a brief breath of laughter and picked up the toast again. Fred stayed until the tea had gone from steaming to merely warm.
That afternoon, he found her in the kitchen. More accurately, he found her after inventing an errand involving salve George did not actually require and then forgetting the errand entirely upon seeing her there.
The kitchen was sun-shot and drowsy in the late light, warmth pooled in the worn flagstones and on the cluttered wooden table where Molly had left herbs drying on a tray and a bowl of apples slightly too bruised to serve to guests. The windows were open, allowed the clucking of complaining chickens to drift in from outside. She stood at the counter with her sleeves rolled to the elbow, crushing dried ingredients with a pestle in a stone mortar. The motion was rhythmic. Her head was bent, hair slipping loose at her nape, and the afternoon sun turned the escaping strands to burnished thread. Fred paused in the doorway long enough for the floorboard beneath him to creak.
She looked up. “Oh,” she said, and though the word was small, there was no displeasure in it. “It’s you.”
Fred leaned against the frame with deliberate ease he did not remotely feel. “Disappointed?”
Her gaze dropped back to the mortar. “Undecided.”
He laughed and stepped into the room. “Cruel.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Only just.”
The pestle rotated beneath her hand with a dry, soft scrape. “Is George asking for me?”
“No.”
That made her look up again, one brow arching ever so slightly. Fred, caught now between honesty and dignity, chose the former because the latter had been slipping through his fingers for the better part of two days. “I was just passing through,” he said.
The perceptive look she gave him then ought to have embarrassed him more than it did. As though she had already learned enough of him to know when his words and motives did not quite align. “Mm,” she hummed.
“Harsh.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t need to. It was all there in the ‘mm’.”
This time she smiled. Fred came farther into the kitchen and peered at the mortar. “What’s that?”
“Murtlap, dittany, and dried comfrey,” she said. “I’m making a poultice.”
“For George?”
“For your father’s hand, actually. He burned it on the kettle and insisted it was nothing, which generally means it is at least something.”
Fred snorted. “That sounds about right.” He reached for one of the apples from the bowl and took a bite. It was tart enough to make his eyes water for half a second.
She noticed. “That was very brave of you, those apples look as though they’ve passed their prime.”
“Thank you,” he said solemnly. “I think courage should be acknowledged where possible.”
She shook her head, but there was laughter tucked into the movement. For a while they remained like that, with her grinding herbs at the counter, and him loitering shamelessly nearby under the increasingly threadbare pretence of existing helpfully in the same room. Their conversation wandered in starts and spirals rather than straight lines. He learned that she preferred peppermint tea to black. That she hated the smell of burnt sugar and the sound of people chewing loudly. That she had once hexed a man in training for saying something spectacularly idiotic about potion accidents, and though she claimed to regret it, the telltale quirk at the edge of her mouth suggested she regretted only that she had been caught.
She learned, in turn, that Fred had broken his left wrist at age eleven attempting to attach homemade wings to a garden gnome. That he and George had once smuggled a Fanged Frisbee into Percy’s room, who had nearly lost an eyebrow in turn. That his mother, though terrifying when roused, was incapable of staying truly angry when someone made her laugh against her will.
“You’re very good at that,” she said suddenly.
“At what?”
“Making people laugh when they don’t intend to.”
Fred shifted his apple from one hand to the other. “It’s an occupational hazard.”
Before she could answer, Ginny sauntered in, took one look at the two of them in the honey-coloured light of the kitchen, and said, “Oh, good. You found her.”
Fred closed his eyes. “Please take a long walk off a short pier.”
Ginny ignored him completely. “Mum’s looking for you.”
“Why?”
“She didn’t say.”
“That means she either wants me to check on George or be blamed for something exploding.”
“Probably both.” She stole the half-eaten apple from his hand and bit into it, instantly wrinkling her nose in disgust and tossing it back to him.
Fred glared at her. Ginny, chewing, turned to the healer and added sweetly, “He’s been in here three times already today, by the way.”
Fred made a strangled noise. “I have not.”
Ginny swallowed. “Four, then. Sorry.”
The healer lowered her gaze to the mortar again, but not before Fred saw the fresh glow of amusement in her face. Ginny left before murder could be attempted. Fred stayed another three minutes, purely to prove a point, though to whom and what point he could not have said.
———————————————————————The third evening, rain came. It arrived in a long silver hush across the orchard and roof, tapping first at the windows and then settling into a steady drumming murmur that made the whole Burrow feel cocooned against the dark. The house drew inward under the weather. Lamps were lit early. The smell of damp earth rose sharp and sweet from outside, and the glass fogged slightly at the edges where warmth met cold.
George had finally fallen asleep after a more difficult bandage change that left him quiet and drawn with pain, and the household, all at once aware that it had reached the end of its own reserves, dispersed into a rare hush.
Fred found the healer in the sitting room. She sat in the armchair nearest the lamp, one leg tucked beneath her, a book open in her hands but held at a page she clearly had not turned in several minutes. Her face, lit amber by the lamp and intermittently silvered by the rain-dim flashes of lightning in the far distance, looked gentler in the half-light, though no less guarded. The room was all shadows and old upholstery and the sleepy ticking of the clock on the mantel.
Fred hesitated at the threshold. Then she said, without looking up, “You hover loudly.”
He smiled. “How is that even possible?”
“It’s the floorboards that give you away.”
“Then they’re traitors.”
She closed the book around one finger to keep her place and glanced toward him. “Were you looking for George?”
“No,” Fred said, and this time the honesty came easier. “Not this time.”
Something flickered across her expression. “Ah,” she said.
He came in and dropped into the chair opposite, sprawling automatically and then, realising belatedly that sprawled might imply a comfort he had not yet earned, sat up again. She definitely noticed. He knew she noticed because the corner of her mouth moved. Outside, the rain thickened. It silvered the windows and softened the world beyond them until the night looked painted rather than real.
“What are you reading?” he asked. She turned the cover slightly so he could see. He raised his brows. “That looks devastatingly boring.”
“It has pictures.”
“That improves things enormously.”
Another of those almost-smiles. He began telling her about the books he and George had tormented Percy with as children, especially the one that had screamed whenever anyone dog-eared a page. She countered with a story about a training manual at St Mungo’s so dull that half the trainees had used it as a pressing weight for dried potion ingredients rather than read it. Fred, delighted by the image, pressed for further detail until she found herself describing the training ward almost against her will. The long hours, the smell of antiseptic and herbs, the constant shuffle of emergency admissions, the politics among senior healers, the strange intimacy of tending strangers at their most frightened.
She spoke of it with precision first. Then, gradually, with memory. Somewhere in that slow unwinding, her voice changed. It happened so subtly he nearly missed it. It wasn’t in the words themselves, but in the texture beneath them. A tension had entered her shoulders. Her fingers, resting along the spine of the book, tightened fractionally.
Fred, sensing the shift, let his own levity soften.“What made you leave?” he asked gently.
She went still. The rain went on speaking for several seconds in the silence that followed, tapping its soft relentless fingers against the panes. At last she looked down at the book in her lap and said, “I didn’t leave.”
The words were plain. Their wound was not. Fred felt his own posture change at once, his body leaning toward attention before he consciously chose it. “What happened?”
Her laugh, when it came, was quiet and without mirth. “What happened,” she repeated, as though tasting the shape of the question. “Officially? Reorganisation. Staffing concerns. Changing priorities.” Fred’s jaw hardened. She ran one thumb absently along the edge of the cover. “Unofficially, it became less desirable to have Muggle-born healers anywhere visible once people began deciding death eater ideation was suddenly acceptable again.”
Her voice remained calm, but it had gone flatter somehow, smoothed thin. “At first it was subtle. Fewer shifts. Fewer opportunities. Patients reassigned. Then one day I was called in and told my services were no longer required.”
Fred stared at her. It was not that he had not known, in the broad and bitter way everyone knew, what was happening in the world beyond the Burrow’s walls. He knew. He had heard the whispers, the cruelties curdling into systems, the names left off lists, the jobs withdrawn, the rights eaten away in increments like rot at the root of a beam.
But hearing it attached to her, to the hands he had watched steady a room full of panic, to the sharp quiet competence that had kept George safe through the night, made the injustice of it feel suddenly personal in a new and blazing way. “That’s vile,” he said.
She shrugged, and the movement was too slight to be real indifference. “It was practical, from their point of view.”
“No,” Fred said at once, anger sharpening every syllable. “Cowardly, from their point of view. Disgusting from every other.”
She looked up. He realised, too late, how fiercely he had spoken. But he did not regret it.“You should still be there,” he went on, quieter now but no less certain. “Anyone with eyes can see that.”
For a moment she said nothing. The old Burrow creaked around its sleeping family like a ship holding steady against weather. Then she asked, very softly, “Can they?”
Fred frowned. Her gaze dropped again, not to avoid him but as if to better choose the words from somewhere deep and difficult. “You say that as if it’s obvious. As if what I am, what I can do, should matter more than how I was born. And to you, perhaps it is obvious. To your family. To the Order.” A bitter little smile touched her mouth and vanished. “But there are places where you learn very quickly that usefulness is only welcome for as long as it remains convenient.”
Fred felt something painful and urgent pull tight inside his chest. He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. “Then they were fools,” he said. “And blind ones.”
A faint crease formed between her brows.
“I mean it,” he said. “They sacked a healer who can hold her nerve in a room full of panic, bully my brother into listening to instructions for once, and somehow manage not to hex half my family when they’re being overbearing idiots.”
She let out a breath that might have been the beginning of a laugh. “That sounds suspiciously biased.”
“Oh I am definitely biased,” Fred said. “Doesn’t make it less true.”
And then she did laugh softly, the sound small as a flame catching. But when it faded, there was something damp and bright in her eyes that had not been there before, and Fred’s own breath caught on the sight of it. She looked as though it had been a long time since anyone had spoken on her behalf without condescension, pity, or personal gain folded into the gesture.
If he had liked her before, admired her before, been drawn to her before, this was different. His feelings took root somewhere far beneath wit and surface charm, in older and steadier soil. He wanted to suddenly protect every tender thing the world had tried to bruise in her. Which was a catastrophic development.
She looked at him for a long moment. “Thank you,” she said.
It was no casual courtesy. It was not for the tea tray or the chair he had carried or the half-dozen invented errands he had used to haunt her orbit. It was for hearing the hurt in her words and meeting it not with awkwardness or false reassurance, but anger sharp and clean enough to stand beside. Fred understood that. He nodded once.
When he did speak again, his voice came gentler than usual, stripped clean of performance. “You deserved better.”
Her expression shifted, so slightly most people would have missed it. But Fred saw some hidden place within her giving way by the merest degree. “Yes,” she said after a while. “I think perhaps I did.”
The rain went on falling. Neither of them moved. It felt, for a strange suspended minute, as though the whole house had narrowed to the warm ring of lamp-light around them.
After that, the conversations came more easily. Not because either of them stopped guarding themselves altogether, but because some first inner door had opened, and once opened, could not be entirely shut again.
———————————————————————
He found her the next morning in the orchard, where mist still clung low over the grass and the apple trees stood bare-limbed and silvered with dew. She had gone out for air before the house woke properly, her arms folded against the chill, her breath pale in the early light.
Fred, claiming he had come to feed the chickens, joined her without mentioning that the feed bucket in his hand was mostly empty. They spoke of small things at first. Of the weather, George’s stubbornness, whether the orchard would fruit well next summer if there was a next summer untouched by war. Then, as if the quiet of the morning made honesty easier, they began speaking of childhood.
She told him she had not grown up around magic the way he had. That there had been no portraits speaking from walls, no enchanted clocks, no jumble of owl feathers and Floo dust and accidental hexes at the breakfast table. She described instead the hush of ordinary suburbia, the sharp surprise of discovering as a child that she was not odd so much as something unnamed and waiting to be understood.
Fred listened as though she were telling him a story in a language he had never heard but somehow wanted badly to learn.
Later that same day, he wandered into George’s room to find the two of them laughing over one of George’s exaggerated retellings of childhood disaster. She was seated near the bed with fresh linen in her lap, the light from the window making the borrowed brown cardigan look almost honey-coloured around her. George, traitorously cheerful now that pain had loosened its grip enough to leave room for mischief, broke off mid-sentence the instant Fred appeared.
“Oh, good,” George said. “He’s back.”
Fred narrowed his eyes. “I live here.”
“And yet somehow every entrance feels unnecessary.”
She bit the inside of her cheek to hide a smile.
Fred crossed the room and reached for the stack of folded cloths before she could. “Need help?”
“No,” George and the healer said in perfect unison.
George smirked. Fred ignored him and sat anyway. He stayed through the bandage change, talking nonsense on purpose when George’s face tightened with pain, and if, afterward, the healer looked at him with a new sort of warmth as though recognising in him a tenderness hidden beneath the jest, it was not something Fred dared acknowledge aloud.
That evening, he found her at the kitchen sink washing potion spoons. The light was dimmer then, all amber and shadow, and Molly had gone upstairs with clean towels while Arthur mended something mechanical by hand at the table and the wireless murmured low in the background. Fred took the spoon from her hand under the pretext of helping, though he only succeeded in splashing water onto his own sleeve.
She laughed outright. Arthur looked up over the rims of his spectacles, smiled to himself, and very deliberately went on with his mending without comment. Fred, absurdly pleased just to have won that laugh, flicked a few rebellious droplets of water toward her.
Her eyes widened. “Did you just—”
“Accidentally,” he lied.
She set down the cloth, reached into the basin, and splashed him squarely in the chest. Fred stared at her. She stared back. Then both of them broke. The laughter came quick and helpless, startling enough in the quiet kitchen that Arthur eventually got up muttering about the disgraceful state of his grown children, though the fondness in his voice smoothed the words into something gentler.
For a brief minute, with water shining on the wood and laughter still trembling in the air, she looked younger and less burdened. Fred would have done almost anything to see that expression stay.
———————————————————————
By the fifth day, the teasing had become relentless. Ginny took to appearing in doorways like a maliciously omniscient ghost, offering comments with deadly precision.
“Well,” she would say, finding Fred in the kitchen where the healer happened also to be in the kitchen, “what an astonishing coincidence.”
Or, “George, do ring a bell next time. Fred’s nearly worn grooves in the floorboards outside your room.”
George himself, improving enough to regain his full capacity for torment, was no kinder. “Could you fluff my pillow?” he would ask mournfully, only to add, “Not you, Fred. Her. You can sit there and pine quietly.”
At which point Fred, flushing and furious, would threaten him with bodily harm while the healer bent very low over whatever potion bottle or roll of bandage happened to be nearest.
But the humiliation was easier to bear than it ought to have been, because by then she had begun looking at him differently too. Not in broad, obvious gestures. Nothing so easy. He noticed it in the details, like the way her gaze sought him first when George made some impossible remark, as though expecting Fred’s answer to it. She listened when he spoke, not indulgently, but with her whole attention. Her smiles came more freely now, though still never carelessly, as if she had begun to trust that letting them reach him did not put her at risk.
And Fred (the poor, doomed idiot that he was) felt himself falling continuously in increments. In every conversation that lasted a little longer than necessary. In every softening of her guarded mouth. In every moment she let some buried shard of herself catch the light and remain there, if only for an instant.
He fell in the orchard mist. In the lamplight of the sitting room. In the golden clutter of the kitchen. In the hush after George drank his potion and drifted back to sleep while she and Fred remained speaking in lowered voices as though the room had somehow narrowed around them alone.
By then it was no longer a question of whether it was happening. It was happening with all the bright and terrible inevitability of water finding its course. And though Fred still did not know exactly where the line lay between her kindness and something more, he knew this much. She no longer felt like a guest in the Burrow. She felt like a pause in the war. Like warmth borrowed against winter. Like a light left burning in a window one had not realised until one was desperate to reach it.
That evening twilight descended slowly, lavender folding into the sky beyond the windows while the orchard darkened tree by tree. The Burrow settled inward around the approach of night. Molly made stew as rain threatened but never came.
George, after enduring the evening’s final examination with much exaggerated fortitude and enough commentary to make the process twice as long as it ought to have been, had been declared irritatingly improved.
“It is most unwise,” the healer had told him, rewrapping the now-neater bandage at the side of his head, “for someone in your condition to look that smug.”
George reclined against the pillows with his hands linked over the blanket as though posing for a portrait entitled ‘Heroic Invalid’. “And yet I manage.”
“You manage many unfortunate things.”
Fred, lounging in the chair near the bed with an ease he had no business feeling by then, barked a laugh. She looked up at the sound of it, her expression shifting. Her mouth relaxed by a degree, her eyes warming as though a hidden candle had been lit behind them. Fred’s stupid pulse stumbled all over itself.
George’s gaze drifted from Fred to the healer and back again, heavy with silent delight. Then he sighed dramatically and said, “It’s a shame, really.”
Fred narrowed his eyes at once. “What is?”
“That I’m nearly well enough to lose my excuse for excellent company.” George, not remotely finished ruining his twin’s life, went on, “I mean, once my healer is gone you’ll no longer have the motivation to check in on me.”
The healer’s hands, where they rested near the edge of the mattress, stilled. Fred felt his own face go warm with abrupt, humiliating speed.“George,” Fred said, with all the warning of a drawn wand.
George smiled serenely. “Yes?”
Fred could have killed him. Instead he stood, crossed to the bedside, and yanked the blanket a sharp inch higher in entirely false concern. “You seem tired,” he said through his teeth. “Perhaps you should rest.”
George looked up at him with angelic innocence. “Oh, no. I’m feeling wonderfully awake.”
“I can help with that.” Before violence could become a realistic prospect, Molly called them down to supper.
The room broke apart around the summons. George was maddeningly pleased with himself and allowed Fred to help settle him more comfortably only because he was still weak enough to make resistance effortful. The healer began gathering the used cloths and empty phials into her satchel, and Fred, because he had apparently ceased even pretending self-preservation, took half of them from her hands without being asked.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
He shrugged, though his fingers tingled faintly where they had brushed hers. “I like to appear useful once every few days. Keeps everyone on their toes.”
She gave him an amused look. “You do that rather often, actually.”
Fred was caught entirely off guard by the sincerity in her tone and had no answer ready. That alone should have told him the depth of his trouble.
After supper, the house fell into one of those peculiar interludes of silence. The dishes had been done and the wireless murmured softly in the corner. Molly sat mending a sleeve near the fire while Arthur read with his spectacles sliding low on his nose. Bill and Fleur had retreated upstairs, so did Ron, Hermione and Harry, and Ginny sprawled on the rug with a book she was only half reading, listening instead to everything. George, under strict instruction not to come downstairs yet, sulked from above in intermittent shouted complaints that nobody answered.
Fred, who had every intention of behaving normally that evening, lasted perhaps twelve minutes. He found the healer in the kitchen once again. She was standing at the table, recorking potion vials with deft fingers while the last of the evening light lingered weakly at the windows. The room glowed amber under the hanging lamp. Outside, darkness spread soft as spilled ink over the hill.
Fred leaned against the doorframe. “You know, one might start to think you haunt this room.”
Without looking up, she said, “One might say the same of you.”
He grinned. “I’m wounded.”
“I’ll fetch the murtlap.” At that she did look up, and the dry amusement in her face struck him with that now-familiar mix of delight and undoing as he clutched his heart in exaggerated pain. “The sheer amount of supper you ate hasn’t at all affected your ability to be dramatic, I see.”
“What can I say, it’s a defence mechanism. Comes out when I’m feeling particularly vulnerable.”
“Is that what this things is between us? Vulnerability?”
Fred opened his mouth with some clever answer prepared but whatever he had meant to say faltered under the weight of her gaze. He found himself stepping farther into the room. “It might be,” he said.
She lowered the final cork into place and set the vial aside. For a moment neither of them moved. “You ought to be making sure your brother is resting,” she said, though there was no reprimand in it.
Fred took another step. “I’m not the one who’s spent the better part of a week keeping George in line through force of will.”
That made the corner of her mouth lift. “He was never quite so difficult to tame. Though I suspect if it were you in that bed missing an ear it might have been a different story.”
Fred was close enough now to see the fine shadows beneath her eyes again, though lighter than before. Close enough to catch the faint clean scent of herbs still lingering on her sleeves, the whisper of tea and soap. Close enough to notice the pulse fluttering once at the base of her throat.
Fred looked at her then the way he had tried with steadily failing discipline not to look at her all week. He gazed at her with open affection. He didn’t mean to be reckless, but the accumulation of days and glances and conversations had rendered caution suddenly too thin to hold him.
The lamplight gilded the edge of her cheek. A loose strand of hair had fallen near her mouth, and before he could think better of it he reached out. His fingers paused just shy of touching her in a question of approval. She did not move away. The permission in that stillness was so slight most people would have missed it. Fred did not. He brushed the strand gently back behind her ear.
Something low and electric unfurled through him. She was watching him now with a kind of wondering seriousness he had never seen in her before, as though she too had arrived, unprepared, at the edge of something she had not meant to approach so quickly. “Fred,” she said.
He did not know whether it was warning or invitation. Possibly she did not know either.
“I know,” he murmured, though he knew nothing at all except that she was very near and the room felt full of unspoken things and he had not been this aware of his own heartbeat in years.
His hand had not left her face entirely. His knuckles still hovered close to the line of her cheek, close enough to feel warmth. The silence between them lengthened. “I think,” she said softly, and stopped.
Fred’s own voice had gone low without his permission. “What?”
Her eyes flicked once to his mouth and back. That tiny movement nearly undid him. “I think,” she tried again, “this is a very bad idea.”
“Probably,” he said. It was the wrong answer. It was also honest.
A breath of laughter escaped her, startled and edged in nerves. Fred smiled despite the pounding in his ribs. His thumb shifted, barely grazing the air near her jaw. He could feel her mind whirring, trying to decide something.
“Well, this is sickening.” Ginny’s voice sliced through the kitchen like a knife through silk.
They sprang apart as though struck. Fred whirled so fast he nearly took out a chair with his knee. Ginny stood in the doorway carrying a stack of folded tea towels and wearing the expression of a girl who had just been bestowed the highest form of entertainment. Her gaze darted from Fred’s flushed face to the healer’s startled one and widened with theatrical delight.
“Oh, good,” she said. “I hadn’t imagined it.”
“Get out,” Fred snapped, far too fast.
Ginny ignored him. “Wait, let me just absorb the wonderful fact that I was right.”
The healer had turned away under the pretence of adjusting the potions at the table, but Fred could see the colour high in her cheeks, the stiffness in her shoulders. His own embarrassment arrived hot enough to be practically incandescent.
“Ginny,” he said in a tone that ought to have counted as a curse.
Ginny set the tea towels down with maddening calm. “Mum wants to know whether the salve’s ready.”
“It is,” the healer said quietly, still not looking at either of them.
“Brilliant,” said Ginny, who had no business sounding so cheerful. “Carry on.”
She left. Fred stared after her in naked disbelief. “I’m going to smother her in her sleep.”
At least the healer laughed at that, one hand lifting to cover her mouth. The sound loosened the tension in the room, though not enough to restore what had just been interrupted. The spell of the moment had broken.
Fred rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.“I’m sorry,” he said, because it seemed somehow necessary though he did not know for which part. Ginny, the near-kiss, the intensity of how he had been looking at her.
She shook her head and finally met his eyes again. There was embarrassment in her expression still. “No,” she said softly. “Don’t be.”
The words landed like a hand pressed to the centre of his chest. Neither of them said anything after that.
The house seemed suddenly louder again, ordinary life rushing back in to reclaim its territory. She gathered the salve. Fred stood there like a fool with too many things in his throat and no sensible order in which to say them.
“I should take this up to George,” she said.
———————————————————————
That night, Fred did not sleep so much as rotate in agony through a series of increasingly useless positions while replaying the kitchen scene with the persistence of a haunting.
Her saying his name. Her not moving away. The flick of her eyes to his mouth. That almost unbearable moment in which he had been quite certain that if Ginny had not spoken, he would have kissed her.
The knowledge pulsed through him hot and bright. By the time grey morning began to seep around the curtains, Fred was no longer tired so much as feverishly alive with the need to tell someone before the weight of it made him split at the seams.
George was still asleep, so he cornered Ginny first. She was in the kitchen, half-dressed and yawning into a cup of tea, when he appeared in the doorway looking very much like a man who had lost his mind.
Ginny eyed him over the rim of her mug. “You look deranged.”
“I nearly kissed her.”
Ginny lowered the mug very slowly. Then a wide and merciless grin spread over her face. “I know.”
Fred stared. “What do you mean, you know?”
“I interrupted you, didn’t I?”
“You did it on purpose?!”
Ginny shrugged with infuriating serenity. “You were taking forever.”
Fred looked scandalised enough for both of them. “You are monstrous.”
“You’re welcome.”
Before he could formulate a threat sufficient to convey the enormity of her crimes, Molly entered carrying a basket of laundry and took one look at his face.
Her eyes sharpened. “What happened?”
Ginny answered for him at once, because treachery apparently ran strong in the family. “He nearly kissed her.”
Molly stopped short. To Fred’s horror, one hand flew to her chest. “Oh!”
“Don’t,” he said at once.
But Molly was already smiling in a dangerous way. She had spotted romance in the wild and felt morally obliged to interfere. “Well?” she demanded. “And?”
“And nothing,” Fred said. “Ginny walked in and ruined it.”
“You ruined it yourself by taking too long,” Ginny corrected, blowing on her tea.
Molly looked between them, laundry forgotten entirely. “You’re going to talk to her this morning.”
Fred opened his mouth to protest but then he closed it again because yes, that had in fact been the plan. Or rather, the fevered and half-coherent shape of a plan formed sometime around three in the morning between not sleeping and imagining what might happen if he said anything honest. “I was going to,” he muttered.
Molly’s smile deepened into pure satisfaction. “Good.”
When footsteps sounded on the stairs all three of them turned. The healer came into the kitchen with her satchel already packed. That was the first blow. The second was that she was dressed for travel in her dark robes again. Her hair was pinned back more carefully than the day before. There was no borrowed cardigan in sight, no softened domestic edges. She looked less like someone who now belonged to the Burrow’s patchwork warmth and more like the woman who had first arrived through its door carrying competence and distance in equal measure.
Fred felt something inside him go still. Molly’s smile faltered at once. “Oh,” she said. “Hello, dear.”
The healer gave them all a small, composed nod. “George no longer requires close monitoring. I checked the wound again this morning. It’s healing cleanly enough that you can owl if anything changes, but he doesn’t need me here now.”
Every word was sensible. Every word felt like a shut door.
“And,” she added, fingers tightening for the briefest moment around the satchel strap, “I had word late last night. Someone else has been injured. They need help.”
No one spoke at first. The kitchen, moments ago warm with possibility and conspiracy and meddling, seemed suddenly colder. Fred was aware of the kettle starting to whisper on the stove, of Ginny lowering her mug in uncharacteristic silence, and of Molly’s face shifting through disappointment toward understanding.
“Oh, deary,” Molly said gently. “Of course. Thank you for staying so long.”
Fred could not seem to make his mouth work. She turned then, perhaps sensing his silence more sharply than anyone else’s, and met his eyes. There was something in her face he had not seen before so clearly, an ache adjacent to regret. She had wanted, against her better judgment, and now was forcing herself back into the shape of duty because duty was familiar and wanting was not.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
That jolted him at last into speech. “You don’t need to be sorry.” His voice came out rougher than intended.
She hesitated. “I would have told you last night, but—”
But Ginny had interrupted them. But the moment had broken. But whatever might have been said in its wake had gone unsaid. Fred understood all of that in the silence after.
“It’s all right,” he lied.
It was not all right. It was necessary, perhaps. Honourable. Entirely in keeping with who she was. But it was not all right.
Molly, with unfailing intuition, quietly shooed Ginny toward the scullery on some invented errand and busied herself at the stove with an ostentation so obvious it counted as mercy.
Fred stepped closer. “When are you going?”
“Now.” The word struck harder than it should have.
Fred wanted suddenly, violently, to say all of it. That he had thought of her before he slept and the instant he woke. That the house felt different with her in it and would feel emptier without. That he had not imagined what passed between them in the kitchen last night. That if she stayed another hour, another minute perhaps, he would ask properly and risk whatever answer came.
Instead he said, “You should be careful.” It was such a painfully insufficient sentence he almost hated it.
But her expression changed as though she heard everything beneath it all the same. “You too,” she said.
For one suspended second neither moved. Then she reached out with a small, deliberate gesture, her fingers light against his forearm. Her touch was so brief it could almost have been mistaken for balance except that it was not. It was farewell made gentler by contact. A thing offered because words could not safely carry all that wanted carrying.
Fred looked down at her hand, then back up at her face. He thought, absurdly, that if he asked then perhaps the whole morning might reorder itself. But the satchel was on her shoulder. Duty was already tugging at her. Whatever certainty had filled him upstairs in the dark had deserted him now that losing her seemed one wrong word away from becoming permanent. So he did not say anything at all.
Her hand fell away. “Goodbye, Fred.”
The sound of his name in her mouth nearly undid him for the second time in less than twelve hours. “Goodbye.”
She turned before he could ruin himself by saying something reckless and too late to matter. Molly walked her to the door. Arthur, coming in from outside, stopped and murmured his thanks. Ginny returned, still quiet, and watched from the kitchen threshold as the healer stepped into the pale morning light.
The front door stood open. A cool breeze wandered in carrying the scent of damp grass. She paused once on the step and looked back. not at the house in general, but at them. At the family. At him. Then she smiled. It was not one of the smaller smiles she had learned to give more easily over the past days. It was fuller than that, sadder too, and so lovely in its restraint that Fred felt the sight of it like sunlight through glass. Then she turned away and stepped through the door.
Molly rounded on Fred with such forceful urgency that he almost laughed, had he not felt rather like his ribs were full of stones. “Well?” she demanded.
Fred blinked. “Well what?”
“Go after her!” The command burst from her as though it had been gathering steam for several minutes. “Honestly, Fred, don’t just stand there looking miserable. Tell her how you feel!”
Fred stared at the open door, his muscled remaining rigid with apprehension. Outside, there came the sharp crack of Apparition splitting the morning once she had crossed the boundary. The sound echoed strangely against the Burrow’s crooked walls and was swallowed at once by silence.
“She’s gone,” he said.
“So Apparate after her!”
“To wherever she’s been called because someone’s injured?” His laugh came out short and wrong. “Mum, we don’t even know where she went.”
Molly faltered, because of course she knew as well as he did there was nothing that could be done now. But exasperation still blazed in her eyes. “You can send a patronus message.” she said. “You can ask her to dinner. You can do something.”
Fred looked down at his hands. The place on his forearm where she had touched him seemed to hum with memory. He could still hear the crack of her leaving. Could still see the packed satchel, the pinned hair, the careful distance she had wrapped around herself again in the morning light. Not because she had not felt anything (he would stake his wand she had) but because the war made every tender thing feel temporary, and perhaps she had trusted duty more than hope for good reason.
He swallowed. “No,” he said at last, quietly.
Ginny made a sound of disbelief. “Fred—”
He shook his head once. Not because he did not want to. Merlin, he wanted to. Maybe she was right to walk away. George had lost an ear and there was nothing telling what else hey would lose in the process of fighting against Voldemort.
Molly looked at him with a mixture of frustration and aching sympathy. “You silly boy.”
And the Burrow, which had held her for six brief days like a warm light cupped against gathering dark, felt all at once too large for the emptiness she had left behind.
there are fanfic writers who are: "I want to write about this prompt but other people have already done it before, unfortunately. I would have loved to write it 😢"
and then there's me who unapologetically writes about the same prompt, same trope (that has absolutely been written by other people before), same ship — in slightly different ways, at least 200 times in across 200 different fics of mine.
But anywaysss, I just wanted to say how I love your Fred x Reader stories🥹 like, the first one I read was “Oblivious” and it honestly made me feel like I wanted to write again🥹. Soooo, I wanted to ask if I can use “Oblivious” as an inspiration or reference if I were to write a fanfic. It’s okay if not- I would fully respect that. Anyways. I love your workkkkkk. Highkey hope to read more stories from you😋
Hi there! Thank you so much! I am honoured to be the first! Of course you can use it as inspo. You don’t have to but if you do end up referencing it and want to tag mine I’d really appreciate it. 🥰
She made a deal with the devil (Fred Weasley). The terms? He helps her get the boy she’s always wanted. But the price? Well, it costs her everything she thought she knew about him.
Inspired by the book ‘Better Than The Movies’ by Lynn Painter.
———————————————————————
The next morning, you strode into the Great Hall with your nose completely mended, not a trace of bruising left thanks to Madam Pomfrey. Heads turned, whispers following you, but your gaze zeroed in on the familiar cluster of Gryffindors at the long table: Fred, George, Lee, Dylan, Alicia, and Angelina.
As you drew near, George spotted you first. He raised his goblet in salute. “Oi! Look at that, she’s got her face back!”
Lee let out a cheer, clapping loudly. “Much better! You look almost normal again.”
You laughed, sliding a hand self-consciously over your newly repaired nose. “Thanks.”
George leaned forward, looking guilty. “Sorry for breaking your face.”
“Both of us are,” Lee added quickly, nodding solemnly.
“It’s fine,” you said with a shrug. “Really.”
George gestured to the empty space at the table. “Sit with us, yeah?”
You hesitated. Breakfast was always with Luna. You loved your quiet mornings together with steaming tea and her stories about her odd dreams. Fred, who’d been leaning lazily back, suddenly shifted. He scooted over, bumping shoulders with George to make space. With a simple nod, he patted the bench between himself and Dylan. “Right here.”
Your pulse quickened. You shouldn’t, but your feet moved anyway, and before you knew it you were wedged between the two boys, trying not to grin too obviously. “So,” you asked, glancing around the group, “what were you all talking about before I walked up and my nose stole the spotlight?”
“Party,” Dylan answered easily, flashing a grin. “Hufflepuff common room this Friday. It’s supposed to be massive.”
Before you could respond, Fred cut in. “You should come.”
You hesitated, nibbling your lip. “I kind of already had plans on Friday.” You were meant to visit Hagrid with Luna. You were supposed to pretend to eat his rock cakes and listen to him ramble about Blast-Ended Skrewts or whatever new creature it was he’d gotten interested in.
Dylan tilted his head, feigning disappointment. “Shame you can’t make it.”
The words hit like a warning bell. Without thinking, you rushed in, “I mean…maybe I can reorganise my plans. Move them to Saturday. Then I could come.”
Dylan’s grin widened. He leaned in, slinging his arm casually across your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Atta girl.”
Your chest swelled with triumph. You flicked your gaze across the table to Fred, hoping to catch his smirk of approval, the silent told you so you were waiting for. Instead, Fred’s jaw was tight, his eyes fixed stubbornly on the plate in front of him. He didn’t look at you once, but you didn’t care. Not even a little. Dylan’s arm was heavy around you, and you felt on top of the world.
———————————————————————
Later that day, you slipped away from the crowded castle, down the sloping lawns until the sound of chatter faded and all that was left was the gentle lap of the Black Lake against the shore. You found your usual spot on a flat rock that jutted out a little, low enough that your shoes just touched the cool spray.
The water shimmered beneath the autumn sun, black and silver. You hugged your knees to your chest and let out a long sigh, the words spilling before you could think better of it. “You’d love it here today, Mum. The light’s hitting just right. The water’s calm, like it’s listening.”
You trailed your fingertips in the ripples. You always talked to the water. She had said it once, long ago, that when people died they went back to nature. To air, to trees, to rivers and oceans. She had said she’d like to come back as water, something that touched everything. Ever since, you’d found yourself whispering to lakes and streams, just in case she was listening.
Your voice caught as you added, “I think…I think Dylan’s perfect. He’s exactly like you remembered. Kind, handsome…He even smiled at me today like maybe he’s finally noticed I’ve grown up. Maybe this is it, maybe you sent him back to me.” You blinked rapidly, tears blurring the reflection of the sun. “But I hate this feeling. Like you’re slipping away from everyone but me. Dad didn’t even write this year. He always did before. Always. He just…moved on.”
Your voice cracked, and now the tears were hot and streaming down your face. “But I won’t. I don’t want to. I want to keep you here. I can’t stand that the world is forgetting you.”
You covered your face, shoulders shaking. For a long time, there was just your soft crying and the soft plash of water.
“Are you…talking to yourself?”
You gasped, spinning around, hands flying to your damp cheeks. Fred Weasley stood a few steps away, half-smirk on his face, half-curious tilt to his head.
Panic and humiliation surged like fire in your chest. You scrambled up from the rock. “Are you stalking me now? Following me around like some kind of creep?”
His brow furrowed. “What? No. I was just…” He looked wrong-footed for once, mouth opening and closing.
“Don’t lie, Fred. You’ve been hovering around all week, now you’ve followed me here. Merlin, do you seriously have nothing better to do than harass me?”
He blinked, startled by the venom in your voice. Then, as he took in your blotchy cheeks and watery eyes, his expression shifted. The smirk fell away, replaced by something like regret. “Wait, you were…bloody hell.” He swore under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I didn’t realise. I thought you were just…I didn’t mean to—”
But the apology barely registered. You were already storming past him, fists clenched, tears threatening to spill again. “Just leave me alone, Weasley!” you shouted, your voice cracking halfway.
You didn’t wait for his response. You ran, faster and faster, up the grassy slope toward the looming castle, the sound of the water and his voice swallowed up behind you.
———————————————————————
You were curled up in your dorm, the curtains drawn against the chill, one of your mum’s old books balanced in your lap. The spine was cracked and soft from years of her hands turning its pages, the faint smell of lavender still clinging to it. You were tracing a familiar line with your finger when a soft tap-tap-tap at the window made you flinch.
Outside, a barn owl perched on the sill, feathers dusted with moonlight, a letter tied neatly to its leg. You pushed the window open, letting the cold air sweep in, and untied the note. The parchment was slightly creased, the handwriting bold and hurried.
Hey,
I’m really sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to intrude or make you uncomfortable. I swear I wasn’t following you, I just stumbled upon you with the world’s worst timing. I hope you’ll forgive me.
— Fred
You blinked, feeling a pang of guilt. You’d lashed out hard, but truthfully, he hadn’t deserved it. He’d only ever been kind, even when you were sharp with him. You found a quill and bit your lip before writing back.
Fred,
You don’t need to apologise. If anything, I should be the one saying sorry. I completely overreacted.
And just so we’re clear, you didn’t make me cry. I was already crying when you found me. Not everything’s about you, you know. ;)
— Y/N
You tied it carefully to the owl’s leg and sent it off. Barely five minutes later, there was another tap.
I get it. And for what it’s worth, I understand. It wasn’t a parent for me, but my gran. I used to talk to her whenever I saw a bird. She loved them, said it was the universe’s way of letting her listen in. Sounds a bit daft, I know. But it helped.
You stared at the words, heart tightening. Relief spread through you. He understood. He really understood exactly. You dipped your quill again, a small smile tugging at your lips.
That doesn’t sound daft at all. Are you in your dorm?
Moments later, the owl was back again.
I believe the question is “what are you wearing?”. And to answer, a very sexy pair of bunny trousers and a flannel shirt with holes in it.
You burst out laughing, muffling the sound in your sleeve.
Sounds hot.
Another swift reply.
It is. And to answer your first question, yes, I’m in my dorm. But I’m about to sneak out. Want to come with?
You chewed the end of your quill.
Sneak out where?
The owl made its final journey.
It’s a surprise. Meet me in the common room in ten, if you’re coming.
You hesitated. It was reckless, and stupid even. But your pulse was thrumming with excitement. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you pulled a jumper over your pyjamas and shoved your feet into fluffy boots.
Fred was already waiting when you tiptoed into the common room, standing by the firelight. The glow painted his hair gold, his eyes honey-warm. And yes, he was absolutely wearing bunny-print pyjama pants. You burst out laughing. “You weren’t joking!”
“I’d never joke about pyjamas,” he said, mock-offended.
“Where are we going?” you asked.
“Still a secret.” He led you out through the portrait hole, down the dimly lit corridors until you reached the statue of a humpbacked witch. He pulled out his wand and muttered something under his breath. The hump creaked open, revealing a yawning black tunnel.
You blinked at it. “Absolutely not.”
“What, afraid of the dark?”
“No,” you said. “But afraid of following strange men through spooky underground passages in the middle of the night? Very.”
He grinned. “Lucky I’m not strange, then.”
Before you could argue, he hopped down into the darkness, muttering ‘Lumos’. The wandlight cast his freckles in sharp relief. “I’ll catch you,” he promised.
You took a deep breath and jumped. True to his word, his hands caught your waist, steady and strong, lowering you slowly to the ground. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver right through you. “Colour me impressed, Weasley.”
He smirked. “Did you think all these muscles were for show?”
“What muscles?”
“Pretend all you want,” he teased. “I know you’ve been staring.”
You flushed but deflected. “So, is this where you take all your victims?”
“No, no,” he said. “You’re special. The others go somewhere else.”
You couldn’t help laughing. As you walked, the tunnel stretched ahead like a vein of earth. You talked to fill the silence. Fred mentioned that Dylan had told him you were funny, and you couldn’t hide your grin.
“That what you were talking to your mum about?” he asked softly.
“Partly,” you admitted. “And…other things.”
He hesitated, then said, “You said you were already crying when I got to the lake. Why?”
You slowed your steps. You didn’t have to answer. But something about him and the quiet in his tone made it easy to trust him.
“It just feels like everyone’s forgotten her,” you said finally. “Like I’m the only one who still remembers. And I don’t want to forget. Not even the smallest thing.”
Fred nodded silently.
“And I can’t talk to anyone about it but her,” you added, voice low. “And now you, I guess.”
“Not even Luna?” he asked. “She lost her mum young too.”
“It’s different,” you said. “Luna’s…at peace with it. I’m not.”
He was quiet for a long moment. “Maybe she could help you be at peace too,” he said gently.
You didn’t reply. Peace felt too close to forgetting.
Then he said, “You know, I remember your mum. Everyone did. She had this way about her, like you couldn’t help but be pulled in.”
Your throat tightened. “You do?”
He smiled faintly. “Yeah. I fell off my broom once at the Burrow when she was visiting and nearly cried, but she pretended to trip too and made me help her up before healing my knee. Made me feel brave.”
You laughed, softly. “That sounds like her. It’s nice, talking about her,” you murmured. “Dad won’t anymore.”
“Then I’ll talk about her with you,” he said simply.
By the time you reached the end of the tunnel, your chest felt lighter. The passage opened into a wooden-roofed cellar. Fred climbed up first and offered you his hand. His palm was broad and warm as he pulled you up into the dim sweetness of a familiar shop.
“Honeydukes?” you whispered.
He grinned, grabbing handfuls of sweets and leaving coins on the counter. Then he tossed you a packet of fudge in your favourite flavour. Pure coincidence, probably. But it felt like more than that.
You laughed softly as you started the walk back, talking about everything and nothing. Classes, Quidditch, pranks…The conversation tilted flirtatious, your pulse quickening. Then Fred mentioned Dylan again, and reality snapped back in. Dylan. Your plan. Your goal.
When you emerged from the one-eyed witch passageway, Fred made you promise to keep it secret. You swore you would. And yet when you crawled back into bed, the only thing you could think about, the only name that echoed in your head, was Fred Weasley.
———————————————————————
Your trunk was chaos. Every skirt, jumper, and blouse was scattered across your bed in a tornado of fabric. You were supposed to be getting ready for the Hufflepuff party, but instead you were tearing through your clothes like someone searching for a missing piece of themselves.
You wanted something that felt like you. But you also wanted something new. Something that would make Dylan notice you. And, you couldn’t deny it, something Fred wouldn’t make fun of.
As you held up one of your mum’s soft cardigans, you thought about what Fred would say. Probably something like ‘Looks like you nicked that off your gran’. You tossed it aside, your cheeks warming.
Next, you tried one of the crop tops Fred had shoved into your arms during your Hogsmeade trip. Standing in front of the mirror, you imagined him smirking, leaning against the doorframe, drawling something like, ‘Knew you had it in you’.
With an exasperated laugh at yourself, you finally landed on a compromise. A short floral skirt, a loose cropped sweater, and the sneakers Fred had insisted on buying. A mix of past and present. Your mum’s softness, Fred’s push for something bolder.
You descended the Gryffindor Tower steps, heart pounding, only to find Fred waiting for you as he always seemed to, like it was second nature now. When he turned, his eyes swept over you once, quickly, and then again, slower. For the briefest second, you thought you saw something flicker across his expression. Surprise? Approval? Want? His throat worked in a swallow.
You smiled, feigning nonchalance. “Well? What do you think? How do I look?”
His answer came after a pause, deliberate and carefully measured. “Dylan will love it.”
The words landed like ice water. You forced a laugh, nodding, but inside your chest pinched tight. You hadn’t realised until just then how badly you’d wanted his compliment.
You tried to shake it off as you walked side by side to the Hufflepuff common room. Fred tapped the right rhythm on the barrels and ushered you inside, where Dylan was waiting. He grinned wide when he saw you. “Wow. You look great.”
The words should have sent your stomach swooping. Instead, they barely registered because across the room, Angelina’s face lit up like starlight when she spotted Fred. And Fred smiled back.
You moved quickly, almost instinctively, dropping down onto the floor spot right next to Fred before anyone else could. You tucked your skirt beneath you, sneakers bumping against his, heart hammering.
The lights dimmed, the projector flared, and the film began. Some Muggle adventure about kids and mobsters and treasure. But you couldn’t pay attention. Not when Fred’s leg was pressed flush against yours, heat radiating through the fabric of your skirt like a brand. Every time he shifted, even slightly, your skin lit up where you touched.
Did he notice? He must have noticed. You couldn’t breathe properly. Your whole body felt wired, trembling.
You risked a glance sideways only to find him already watching you. His face was closer than you’d realised, his hazel eyes reflecting the flickering light of the screen. You watched the bob of his throat as he swallowed, the way his gaze flickered to your eyes, then lips, then eyes once more.
Your breath hitched. He was looking at your mouth. Did he want to kiss you? Did you want to kiss him? Yes. God, yes.
The air between you buzzed with it, heavy and magnetic. His expression was intent, eyes dark, and when your brow lifted the tiniest bit in question, he dipped his chin, subtle but unmistakable. Your pulse roared in your ears.
He leaned closer…and then George and Lee tumbled off the sofa in a heap, crashing right into Fred.
You jolted, the spell shattered, cheeks flaming with the realisation of how close you’d been. How ready you’d been to kiss him. In front of everyone. Fred cursed under his breath, shoving George off him with rough annoyance. You whipped your head forward, staring determinedly at the glowing film as though the blurry shapes of mobsters and treasure maps could drown out the pounding of your heart.
A moment later, Fred got up and left with no explanation. He just stood and slipped away. It wasn’t until you noticed Angelina was gone too that the sick weight settled in your stomach. Your chest hollowed out.
Maybe you’d imagined it. The look, the almost-kiss…Maybe all of Fred’s teasing, his kindness, his attention, had been part of the act all along. You were supposed to be the one playing this game, luring Dylan closer. But somehow, somewhere along the way, you’d let Fred in, and maybe that was the stupidest mistake you’d ever made.
The rest of the movie passed in a blur. You stayed exactly where you were, your eyes locked on the flickering screen, but you couldn’t have told anyone what was happening in the film if your life depended on it. Your mind was stuck, looping over the way Fred had looked at you and leaned in and almost kissed you.
You swallowed hard, dragging your gaze to the floor. Had you imagined it? That had to be it. You’d built it up in your head, twisted a moment into something it wasn’t. Because if it was real…then why had he walked away? Why hadn’t he come back? Your chest tightened.
When the film finally ended, the room buzzed back to life with chatter and people stretched their limbs, muscles having gone stiff from remaining idle too long. You stayed seated.
“Oi, Green,” Fred’s voice cut in, alerting you to the fact of his unnoticed return. “Didn’t you say you had that stash of old muggle books upstairs? Y/n might like that sort of thing.”
Your head snapped up, looking around until your eyes landed on him, then looking past him to where Angelina stood with slightly flushed cheeks. You felt your stomach twist.
Dylan turned toward you, smiling. “Yeah, actually. Wanna see them?”
You forced a smile back, standing and already following him up to the students dorms. “Sure.”
His dorm room was quiet and empty, the rest of his dorm mates clearly out or downstairs with the rest of the group. The noise of the party had long since faded as he showed you a small stack of books by his bed. You recognised some classics, some adventure novels, and a few romances tucked between them. Hermione Granger had leant you a few over the years and you’d collected some yourself. You crouched beside him, picking one up and flipping through it. You should have been excited. This was what you wanted, time alone with Dylan and even something to bond over!
But your thoughts kept drifting to Fred and Angelina disappearing and reappearing together. If you weren’t so distracted you would have asked Dylan why he had so many muggle books and where he’d gotten them from. But you were distracted. Where had Fred and Angelina even gone? Had they gone into Dylan’s dorm room and that was why Fred remembered the books? Did Hufflepuff have a secret broom closet in the common room like Gryffindor did? Was that where they’d slipped off to?
“…you alright?” Dylan asked, pulling you back away from your thoughts.
“Yeah,” you said quickly, forcing a laugh. “Just thinking. Fred and Angelina disappeared for a while. I can’t for the life of me figure out where they could have gone?”
“You know if I didn’t know any better I’d say you look a little jealous right now.” He laughed, then hesitated before adding, “But Fred mentioned you two are just friends.”
Your stomach dropped. “Yeah,” you said quickly. “That’s right, we’re just friends. No jealousy here. I was just curious because I found a secret room in Gryffindor tower. It’s got me wondering if all the common rooms have them.” You lied, trying to formulate a believable cover.
Dylan nodded, satisfied with your answer. “I don’t know, to be honest. Haven’t been back long enough to really look. But if anyone could find on it’d be one of the twins. Makes sense they’d sneak off there if there was one. Fred was saying he might ask Angelina out, which ai’m sure he’s probably already talked to you about.”
It felt like something sharp slid straight through your chest. You nodded again, but your fingers tightened around the book in your hands. Of course he was. Why wouldn’t he? Angelina was pretty, confident, smart and talented. The whole package, really. “Yeah, totally. He told me about it ages ago.” Another lie.
Fred…Fred hadn’t done anything wrong. This was the plan. So why did it feel like this?
You barely registered the others piling into the form room until George clapped his hands together. “Come on, guys, we’re gonna raid the kitchens! You comin?”
“Hell yeah we’re coming!” Dylan shot up excitedly and you pulled a tight smile and nodded as you went along with flow of the crowd like a leaf blown into the river.
The group spilled out into the corridors, laughter echoing as you all attempted to sneak through the castle. You ended up at the back, and by your luck of course Fred was already there. Your eyes met and then instantly flickered away like to magnets repelling. The tension was immediate.
“It’s Filch!” Lee Jordan hissed a warning, jumping back from the corridor he’d just turned.
“STUDENTS OUT OF BED!” Filch’s scratchy voice echoed down the hall.
Panic erupted as everyone scattered in different directions, their whispers turning into panicked laughter. Shit. You’d never gotten a detention before and you were fairly certain your father wouldn’t be happy with you starting now. You ran blindly until suddenly Fred’s hand closed around your wrist.
“This way,” he hissed and pulled you down a side corridor, then out into the courtyard.
Freezing cold rain hit you instantly, soaking through your clothes in seconds and turning them heavy. Fred pulled you to duck below a low wall as you heard Filch’s uneven footsteps race in the outdoor corridor behind you. You breathlessly staring at him as water dripped from his hair, following his chiseled jaw.
“Are you going to ask Angelina out?” you blurted.
You knew this wasn’t the time for such a discussion but your mind was so fixated on the question that you couldn’t help it.
Fred frowned, caught off guard. “What?”
“Dylan said…” you cut yourself off, shaking your head and sending rain droplets flying. “Never mind.”
Before he could respond the footsteps they were hearing doubled and they were accompanied by voices.
“Snape,” Fred muttered, grabbing your arm again and dragging you toward the nearest entrance.
Once you were back in the castle, Fred did not slow. Instead he launched himself for the handle of a door and then stuffed you inside, following after you and shutting the door quietly. You barely had room - or enough light - to look around. Your elbow bumped into something tall and wooden. A broom closet. Fred had locked you both in a broom closet.
The space suddenly felt even more cramped, and you tried to scramble away but your back hit the wall, knocking the broomsticks against each other. Fred was pulling you to him in an instant, clamping his large hand over your mouth. Your eyes went wide, adjusting to the darkness you could only just make out his eyes staring down at you and another long finger pressed against his lips. The message was clear. Be quiet. In practice, it was a lot harder. You were fairly certain your ragged breathing wasn’t even enough to drown out the sound of your pounding heartbeat.
Your heart was racing, now not only from running but from how close he was. You could feel the heat emanating from his chest even through the soaked fabric of his clothes brushing yours. Every faint rise and fall of his chest scraped against your own. Outside, Snape’s voice droned on low and sharp, Filch muttering in response.
Your fingers twitched at your sides. You could smell the rain on him, warm cinnamon and sugar more familiar beneath it. When he finally dropped the hand that was over your mouth, “You never answered me,” you whispered.
Fred didn’t reply but you felt him shift ever so slightly closer. Or were you just imagining it? Like you’d apparently imagined that almost kiss in the Hufflepuff common room.
“I didn’t think it mattered,” he finally said quietly.
“It does,” you breathed.
“Why?” he asked and you saw the tilt of his brows in the dark.
How could you answer? What reason could you possibly give him? The answer was none. You couldn’t. If you told him it was because it made you uncomfortable he’d know there was more to it. He’d ask why? And then you’d be down the rabbit hole of more questions you couldn’t answer. Not truthfully, at least.
So you didn’t answer. Instead your hand lifted before you could think better of it, brushing against his chest. You didn’t know why you didn’t, just that you wanted to. But he didn’t pull away.
Your pulse roared in your ears. “Fred…” his name came out softer than you meant.
The tension snapped. He closed the distance first, his hand that had previously been covering your mouth now gripping the side of your neck as he pulled your mouth to meet his. His lips found yours in the dark and you responded instantly. Your body was set on fire, your stomach burning so fiercely it made acid seem tame.
Your arms instinctively gripped his collar, pulling him down lower so you had better access to his mouth. His lips slanted against yours, parting them with his tongue and dialling the heat up from red fire to white hot inferno.
He kissed you like he meant it. Like you were never part of a plan. Like the plan hadn’t existed at all. And it certainly didn’t exist anymore. His breath hitched as your nails scraped his collarbones, your hold on him tightening. Your name barely formed on his lips in a breathy moan when — BANG!
The door flew open. George stumbled in, slamming the door shut behind him. “Bloody hell, didn’t think anyone was in here—”
You both jerked apart instantly, and you thanked the dark for hiding the furious shade of red your face had turned.
“…Right,” George said slowly, looking between the two of you. “I’m just going to pretend I didn’t see that.”
The three of you stood there in painfully cramped silence for the remainder of the hour. By the time you made it back to Gryffindor Tower, your head was spinning.
Fred hadn’t said a word and neither had you. You couldn’t. Not when George was still there, watching and grinning like he knew your salacious little secret. So you slipped away the moment you could, retreating up the stairs to your dorm.
You lay in bed long after the lights went out, staring at the ceiling. Your lips still tingled. You traced them with your fingertips as you replayed the events of the night over and over I your head and realised you might actually like Fred Weasley.
———————————————————————
You woke the next morning with the world completely flipped on its axis. Hogwarts still stood where it always had, the same draughty corridors and moving staircases and burnt toast at breakfast. But something inside you was completely rearranged, as though someone had reached into your chest in the middle of the night and quietly moved every organ half an inch to the left. And it was all because Fred Weasley had kissed you. Not even in some vague, friendly peck-you-could-explain-away sort of manner. He had kissed you so passionately, there was no way he hadn’t wanted to.
You touched your lips while staring at yourself in the mirror that morning, heat blooming all over again at the memory of his hands at your neck and waist, the sharp inhale he’d made when you’d pulled him closer, the way his mouth had moved against yours like he had been thinking about doing that for a while.
You had spent half the night constructing possibilities of what would happen next based on your extensive evidence of romance novels past. Maybe he would catch your eye at breakfast and grin in that private way people did after secret kisses. Maybe he would find you alone and say ‘we need to talk about last night’ in a deep and low voice. Maybe, if the author of the universe was feeling particularly generous, he would kiss you again.
So you walked into the Great Hall with a fizzing, stupid hope in your bloodstream. Fred was at the Gryffindor table with George and Lee. He looked up when you neared and your stomach dropped and soared all at once. His eyes met yours for exactly one second.
“You’re early!” he called cheerfully, as if nothing had happened. “Green’s coming down in ten, by the way, so try to look less terrifyingly eager by the time he gets here.”
You stopped dead in your tracks while the world kept on spinning. George snorted into his porridge and Lee barked a laugh while you blinked at Fred. He was buttering toast. Buttering. Toast. If you hadn’t been there you would have thought there was no way he had pinned you against a broom closet wall ten hours ago and kissed you until you forgot your own name.
You sat down slowly. “What?”
Fred glanced at you with bright, infuriating normalcy. “Dylan. I told you I’d keep pushing him, didn’t I? Well, be prepared. A little birdie told me you might be getting exactly what you wanted today.”
You stared at him, thrown completely off balance while he winked. Your pulse turned cold. Maybe George being there had embarrassed him, you told yourself. Maybe he was just waiting to get you alone. Maybe he had something grand planned!
But then Dylan arrived, and Fred slipped seamlessly into wingman mode. He clapped Dylan on the back, nudged conversations your way, and brought up books you liked and how “surprisingly funny” you were when not being uptight.
Every word felt like a tiny betrayal. You kept waiting for Fred to look at you differently. For him to send you a secret little sign, but he didn’t. He treated you exactly as he had before the broom closet kiss. Except somehow he was even more enthusiastic about delivering you into Dylan’s orbit. Had you really been that bad a kisser?
By lunch, your confusion had curdled into hurt. By the afternoon, hurt became humiliation. Had you read it wrong? Was it just a moment? A meaningless lapse in judgement? Every time you tried to corner Fred alone, someone else was there - George, Lee, Angelina, Dylan - and every single time, Fred behaved maddeningly, dazzlingly casual.
Until after classes ended. It happened in the courtyard when most students were on their way back to their dorms before dinner. Students milled everywhere, bundled in scarves against the cold. You were standing with Luna discussing whether thestrals knew they were invisible when a commotion rose near the fountain.
You turned to see Dylan Green was striding toward you holding…Your breath stuttered. Was that a bouquet? Made of…books? Surely enough, he was indeed holding a bundle of tied-together, origamied book papers with sugar quills and candies tucked between each makeshift flower.
Luna clasped both hands under her chin and whispered, “Oh, that’s awful! Those poor books.”
You had to agree with her. What a waste of a good novel. You stood frozen when Dylan stopped in front of you, smiling. Once upon a time the sight would have made your knees weak. Not anymore. Now, it seemed to have no effect as he spoke. “I know Hogsmeade weekend is coming up,” he said loudly enough that half the courtyard was now openly watching, “and I was wondering if you’d go with me. As a date.”
A chorus of ooohs rippled through the steadily gathering crowd of students. Your face went hot as you tried to look at anything other than Dylan holding the book bouquet. Behind him, leaning against the stone balustrade with George and Lee, was Fred. He was watching intently, his eyes locked on yours. His face looked set in stone.
This was it, some desperate part of you thought. This was the moment when he would interrupt and object. But Fred only lifted both brows at you as if to say, “Well?” And then he gave you a thumbs up. That one simple gesture had your chest caving in.
Dylan extended the bouquet. “So? What do you say?”
You could feel every student staring. You could feel Luna watching beside you, mildly confused about what was happening. Fred still wasn’t moving. He wasn’t stopping this. He didn’t look wounded. He didn’t care. It was as though the broom closet had never happened.
Your throat tightened. “Um,” you said faintly.
Dylan smiled wider, confident that you’d say yes, and because Fred was still standing there acting like this was exactly what he wanted - or because you were too hurt and too proud to make a scene - you forced your lips into something resembling a smile. “Yes,” you heard yourself say. “Yes, I’ll go.”
The courtyard erupted. Lee shouted something obscene and Dylan’s dorm mates whooped. Luna still stared in surprise at Dylan when he beamed and kissed your cheek. You smiled back because everyone was looking but inside, confusion and disappointment twisted together so sharply it almost felt like grief. This wasn’t what you wanted anymore.
———————————————————————
Hogsmeade always looked like something out of one of your mother’s paperbacks, with the little village brushed in autumn gold, shop windows fogged with warmth, and couples drifting hand in hand between Honeydukes and Madam Puddifoot’s. Today should have felt magical. Younger you would have narrated it in sweeping romantic prose because technically this was everything you had ever wanted. Dylan Green was on a date with you. He had bought you butterbeer, complimented your hair, held doors open and smiled and asked all the right questions. So why did you feel absolutely nothing?
No, that wasn’t true. You felt something. You felt restless. Every time Dylan laughed, you found yourself comparing it to Fred’s louder, rougher laugh. Every time Dylan touched your elbow politely while steering you through crowds, you thought of Fred’s hand on your neck in the broom closet. It was unbearable.
You were halfway through pretending to care about whatever story Dylan was telling you about Quidditch drills in America when your eyes drifted past his shoulder and your stomach dropped. Fred was there. He was walking down the opposite side of the street with Angelina. Your pulse jumped and heat rose to your face. Angelina was saying something animatedly and Fred bent his head to hear her better, smiling softly.
Your heart turned to lead in your chest, weighing you down. There it was. Cold, humiliating proof that the broom closet kiss had meant far more to you than it ever had to him.
You barely heard Dylan ask, “You alright?”
“Fine,” you lied automatically.
But you were not fine. You watched Fred and Angelina disappear around a corner, and it felt absurdly like being left behind. Again.
Dylan suggested Zonko’s next. You nodded. Your body was there, but your mind was spiralling so hard you could barely track the conversation. And then, as if the author of the universe had decided one emotional disaster wasn’t enough for a single afternoon, you spotted Luna outside Dogweed and Deathcap. She was standing alone.
It was only then that you remembered you’d been meant to meet up with her last night but you’d completely forgotten. Your stomach sank.
“Which do you prefer?” Dylan was saying, asking some question, something about treacle fudge maybe, but you were already stepping away.
“I’ll be right back.” You didn’t wait for his response. You hurried across the street. “Luna!”
She turned but her eyes didn’t smile when she saw you. “Hi,” she said mutedly. She glanced down at the shopping bag in your hand, then back up. “How is studying going?”
Studying? You flinched. Oh, that’s awful was right. You’d sent her a letter saying you couldn’t do your usual Hogsmede morning shop because you had an ancient runes assignment. Why you hadn’t just told her about your date with Dylan, which she knew was this weekend, you weren’t sure. Perhaps you’d gotten too used to lying to her lately with every cancelled afternoon. Every “sorry, I have homework.” Every abandoned Hagrid visit and lakeside walk and bookstore browse while you snuck off with Fred or chased Dylan. You had been lying to her for weeks.
“Luna, I—”
“You’ve been very busy lately,” she said, not sounding very accusing but you knew her well enough to know she was upset. “Too busy for me, mostly.”
Your eyes burned. “Can we talk?” you asked desperately.
Dylan was calling your name from behind you but you ignored him. It was something you should have done from the beginning. Luna looked at you for a long moment, then nodded.
You ended up on a bench near the edge of the village where the crowd thinned and it all came out in one giant, miserable flood. You told her the truth about Fred and the fake dating plan. You covered everything, the Spots, the truth about the Hogsmeade shopping trip, the late-night letters, the secret tunnel to Honeydukes, the almost kiss, the actual kiss…You came clean about all of the lies. You cried halfway through and apologised three separate times.
Luna listened wordlessly and when you finally finished, wrung out and humiliated, you whispered, “I’m so sorry.”
Luna was silent for a moment, then she said, “I know.” She reached over and squeezed your hand. “I accept your apology.”
Relief hit so hard you nearly sobbed again.
“But,” Luna added thoughtfully, “why are you on a date with Dylan?”
You stared at her. “What?”
She tilted her head. “You quite clearly want Fred.”
The words landed with startling force. You opened your mouth to deny it but nothing came out because sitting there, exhausted and stripped of every performance, you suddenly couldn’t lie anymore. Not to Luna and not to yourself.
Your shoulders sagged. “I do,” you whispered. The admission felt enormous. “I do want Fred.”Luna smiled softly like she’d known for ages. You laughed once, wet and miserable. “Doesn’t matter though, does it? I was too stupid to see it until now and he’s with Angelina.”
Luna shook her head. “Fred isn’t with Angelina.”
You stared. “Yes he is, I literally saw them together ten minutes ago—”
“No,” Luna said gently. “George is with Angelina. I spoke to them in Honeydukes.”
You frowned. “George?”
“Yes. George has liked Angelina Johnson for ages.”
Your brain screeched to a halt. “What?”
Luna nodded serenely. “Fred was buying licorice wands alone when I saw him.”
Your mouth fell open. Everything rewound. Fred disappearing with Angelina after the almost kiss. Fred acting normal. Fred pushing Dylan toward you. Fred watching you accept Dylan’s date. A horrible understanding began to bloom.
“Then why…” you whispered. “Why did he go off with Angelina that night?”
Luna smiled faintly. “Maybe the same way he helped you with Dylan, he was helping George with Angelina.”
Your stomach dropped all the way to your feet.
Oh no. Oh no. You had kissed Fred. Fred had kissed you back. And then, with absolutely no clarification, you had gone and accepted a very public date from Dylan Green while Fred watched. You slapped a hand over your mouth.
“I have done something catastrophically stupid.”
Luna nodded. “Yes.”
You stood so fast the bench scraped. “I need to fix this.”
“Probably.”
“I need to get Fred back.”
Luna looked delighted now. “Oh, definitely.”
———————————————————————
By the time you trudged back through the portrait hole into Gryffindor Tower, your legs ached, your hair was frizzing from the damp, and your lungs felt lined with dust. You had spent the entire bloody afternoon chasing Fred Weasley around Hogsmeade like a deranged woman in one of your mother’s farcical screwball romances.
It had started at Honeydukes, where Luna had last seen him. You hadn’t found Fred but you did fine Lee Jordan elbow-deep in a bag of jelly slugs, who looked delighted by your wild-eyed appearance.
“Fred?” he repeated, chewing thoughtfully. “Saw him twenty minutes ago. Think he said something about the Shrieking Shack.”
You had sprinted. The Shrieking Shack yielded no Fred, but you did run into Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, who were arguing over whether it was actually haunted. Hermione pointed you sternly toward Zonko’s. “Pretty sure he went that way.”
At Zonko’s Joke Shop, the shop clerk, a wizard with purple spectacles who seemed bizarrely familiar with Fred’s shopping habits, had informed you that yes, Mr. Weasley had been there. Yes, he’d left ten minutes ago, and he’d muttered something about the Three Broomsticks.
You had wanted to scream when the Three Broomsticks had no Fred. It did, however, have Ginny Weasley and Dean Thomas sharing chips in a corner booth. Ginny, after one look at your frantic expression, had grinned in a way that suggested she suspected what was going on. “Fred? Saw him talking to Cedric Diggory outside.”
Cedric Diggory had not been difficult to find. You simply followed the trail of swooning third-year girls whispering, “He smiled at me,” like pilgrims following a saint.
Cedric Diggory had been very polite. “Yes, I saw Fred. We ran into Alicia Spinnet, actually, and then he left.”
You had then found Alicia. She was alone, which had been startling enough. You’d rarely seen her without Katie or Angelina by her side. The last thing you wanted to do was talk to her, but you had no other choice. Surprisingly, she’d listened to your increasingly desperate questioning, and said, with genuine confusion, “No idea where he went, sorry.”
Then you’d spotted Dylan at the end of the lane looking lost. Without even thinking, you had pointed. “Alicia, i don’t know what happened between you and Dylan, but I can tell you like him. You should talk to each other.”
Alicia had laughed. “That’s not the problem. Besides, didn’t he ask you on a date?”
“Yeah, technically we’re still on it. But it’s not going to work out and maybe if you tell him it’ll soften the blow.” You answered and she looked baffled but walked up to Dylan anyway.
You had run off before either could ask questions. Maybe Alicia wasn’t quite Satan incarnate after all. Who knew.
After all of that, after crisscrossing Hogsmeade until sunset bled into dusk and dusk into evening, you still had not found Fred.
Now, back in Gryffindor Tower, you collapsed into one of the armchairs by the fire and waited. Students trickled in from dinner. George and Angelina returned, looking very cozy indeed. Their date must have gone well. Lee returned. You even spotted Alicia, who had blushed and waved at you thankfully before heading over to talk to Katie excitedly. Still there was Fred.
You waited through curfew until the fire burned lower. The common room emptied until only shadows and embers remained. Still no Fred. It was like he had vanished.
You sat bolt upright. Vanished. Hidden. A place nobody would think to look unless they knew him. Unless they knew…
“The Spot,” you whispered. Your heart kicked violently.
You were on your feet in seconds, hurrying across the common room to the fat shepherd portrait, murmuring a secret before slipping inside. “Alicia Spinnet is finally dating Dylan Green.”
The little hidden room glowed softly with candlelight. Sweet wrappers were scattered everywhere and in the middle of it, propped against the wall with a book in his hands, was Fred Weasley. He looked up and shock flashed across his face. Then it fell into a wounded and wary expression, but just as quickly, he covered it with nonchalance.
“Well,” he said lightly, marking his page with one finger. “If it isn’t the woman of the hour. How was your date with Dylan?”
You stared at him, “It was awful.”
Fred faltered in surprise and you stepped further in.
“I left halfway through. And then,” you said, voice shaking now, “I spent the rest of the day looking for you.”
That made him sit up fully. The book slid forgotten into his lap. “You…what?”
“I checked half of Hogsmeade,” you said breathlessly. “Honeydukes, the Shrieking Shack, Zonko’s, the Three Broomsticks, Cedric Diggory, Alicia Spinnet…honestly, I think I’m hungry enough to eat a whole hippogriff at this point but I skipped dinner because I thought I’d wait until you got back to the common room. Only, I guess you were already here, the whole time.”
“Why were you looking for me?” he asked quietly.
The room suddenly felt very small and far too warm for your liking. “Because,” you said, fingers twisting together, “I realised I didn’t want to be on a date with Dylan. I wanted it to be you.”
His inhale was sharp. Your heart was trying to beat its way out of your ribs now. “And I know maybe the kiss didn’t mean anything and maybe I completely misunderstood and if so this is humiliating and I’ll probably have to throw myself in the Black Lake, but if it did mean something then you need to tell me because I cannot do this weird pretending-we-didn’t-make-out thing anymore—”
You got no further because Fred stood, crossed the tiny room in three long strides, and cupped your face in both hands then kissed you. Your breath disappeared. You grabbed fistfuls of his jumper as his mouth moved against yours in a beautiful rendition of what had happened in that broom cupboard.
When he finally pulled back, only an inch, his forehead rested against yours. “It meant something,” he whispered.
Then he kissed you again. This one was slower and deep enough to make your knees feel dangerously unreliable. You laughed softly against his lips, dizzy with relief.
“Incredible,” you murmured between kisses. “I run all over Hogsmeade with this grand romantic speech and you just grab me instead.”
Fred grinned against your mouth. “Thought actions might be clearer.”
You kissed him again because you’d talked enough. His hands slid to your waist, drawing you close until there wasn’t an inch of air left. In the middle of all the breathless kissing and smiling and forehead bumps, you whispered, “So…what now?”
Fred leaned back just enough to look at you, his hazel eyes bright in the candlelight. “Now,” he said, thumb brushing your cheek, “you’re mine.”
Your stomach somersaulted. “Well,” you said, tucking yourself against his chest, “Dylan and Alicia are a much better match anyway.”
Fred laughed and kissed the top of your head. In your mother’s romance novels this was exactly where the story would end, but for you and Fred, it was only just beginning. This was so much better than the books.
You used to be somebody. Popular, untouchable, the girl everyone wanted to know. Then you chose Stiles Stilinski. But while you were choosing him, he was busy choosing someone else. Sanding down his edges, softening his chaos, becoming a version of himself that fit better beside Lydia Martin. So you stopped. Stopped saving him a seat, stopped laughing first, stopped waiting. Only then did he realise what he’d lost. This time, he isn’t chasing the girl who never saw him. He’s fighting for the one who did.
———————————————————————
It didn’t happen all at once. There was no grand declaration. No slammed lockers. No tearful confrontation in a hallway. You simply stopped. It began with a seat. For months years you had slipped into the chair beside Stiles automatically, like gravity pulled you there or a ritual you’d never abandon. You never had to look, your body just knew where to go.
On Monday, you didn’t. You sat one seat over. Close enough to see, but far enough to notice the distance. Stiles didn’t say anything at first. He was mid-story, animated, trying too hard to make Jackson laugh at something that wasn’t funny. He didn’t notice the gap between you. Not until his elbow reached back, instinctively searching for the familiar press of your arm, and met air instead.
His hand hovered for half a second, then dropped. He kept talking and you watched the condensation slide down your water bottle instead of watching him.
By Tuesday, he realised you’d stopped texting him, and in came the barrage of messages.
Stiles: Are you alive?
Stiles: Meet at our spot?
Stiles: Movie night still on?
Your phone felt heavier in your palm every time it buzzed and his name flashed across the screen. You told yourself it was fine. He would be fine. He didn’t need you. And you weren’t punishing him, you were just tired. Tired of orbiting someone who kept drifting away.
At lunch on Friday, the noise around your usual table was bright and sharp. Lydia was laughing, Allison leaning in to whisper juicy gossip, Danny chiming in with something quick and clever. Stiles sat straighter now, and spoke slower. He even smiled differently. He was performing again, and you were no longer part of his act.
You used to finish his jokes. Catch his rambling thoughts before they scattered. Now you let them fall. You let silence swallow the space where your voice used to be.
When the bell rang, you stood before he did.“See you,” you said lightly as a blanket goodbye to everyone.
“Yeah. Yeah, see you.” He blinked at you hopefully, like he was wishing those words were solely for him.
You didn’t give him the satisfaction, and remained impassive, letting him watch you walk away.
It wasn’t that you were actively avoiding him. You just stopped waiting. You stopped looking over your shoulder to see if he was keeping up. If he fell behind now, you didn’t slow down. You stopped waiting for him to text or call. You stopped waiting for him to find you after class.
And Stiles noticed pretty immediately. He felt it in the way you feel when a familiar sound stops humming in the background. When the fridge goes quiet and suddenly the house feels wrong. He noticed you weren’t laughing first anymore. He noticed Scott walking beside you more often. He noticed that when he made a joke, one of his real ones that he used to reserve just for you, you didn’t catch it the same way. Instead you smiled politely, and it stung.
That afternoon in class, he turned instinctively to whisper something to you, but you weren’t there. You’d moved to the front row. He stared at the back of your head for a moment, confusion flickering across his face. After the moment passed he told himself it didn’t matter, and people changed seats all the time. It didn’t mean anything. Except he found himself staring at the empty desk beside him longer than he should.
After that he started remembering other things he’d failed to notice too, like the way you no longer touched his arm when you laughed. The way you didn’t automatically hand him your fries at lunch because you knew they were his favourite. Even the way you looked at him now was different. More like someone handling glass that had already cracked once.
And beneath it all, he felt guilt. It settled in his chest, heavy and unwelcome. He knew you were mad. He knew he’d felt the shift when you’d yelled at him in the parking lot the other night. He’d felt it even more when you’d stopped arguing with him. And that was the worst part. You weren’t angry anymore. You were just…gone in pieces.
The next Friday, he walked into the cafeteria and instinctively scanned for you. You were there, but you weren’t looking for him. Scott was saying something, and you laughed brightly, your head tipping back the way it used to when Stiles rambled too fast.
Something inside him twisted. He told himself it was nothing. He finally was friends with Lydia. He had made progress on his ten year plan. He was closer than ever to the thing he’d wanted since third grade. So why did it feel like he was losing something instead? Why did the table feel colder? Why did he keep glancing at you when Lydia was talking? Why did the version of himself sitting beside her feel like a jacket two sizes too small?
He didn’t know how to fix it, he didn’t even know if he had the right to, but when you stood to leave early again and didn’t look back to see if he was coming…He felt more than ever. The space you left behind. Stiles Stilinski suddenly wondered if he’d been chasing the wrong girl the entire time.
———————————————————————
The bell above the video store door jingled when Stiles walked in. Rows of VHS tapes and CD’s lined the walls in faded covers, sorted in genres of action, romance, horror, comedy. Whole lives stored in plastic rectangles. He went straight to the film he’d been ordered to get. Picking it up and turning it over, he adjusted his grip on the case in his hand. The Notebook.
He stared at the cover for a second like it might bite him. He didn’t even really like romance movies, but Lydia did. Tonight mattered, in the grand scheme of his ten year plan to get Lydia Martin to fall in love with him. It was the first movie night of theirs he’d been invited to, at her house no less. He was mentally rehearsing what he’d say when he heard your laugh echoing through the empty store.
Not polite. Not restrained. It cut clean through the space. He turned towards it to see you standing in the horror aisle, one foot hooked casually behind the other, holding up a VHS tape dramatically.
“Okay, but you cannot tell me Gremlins isn’t a Christmas movie,” you were saying.
Scott rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “It literally turns into a horror massacre.”
“It’s festive horror,” you shot back. “Like Black Christmas, Jack Frost, and Silent Night, Deadly Night.”
Stiles felt something in his chest drop.You looked…lighter. Not the tight, careful version of you from the cafeteria. This was the version he remembered. Animated, glowing, and comparable. Scott was standing exactly where he used to, close enough to you to bump shoulders as the two of you argued about genres and films. He watched Scott reach out and take the tape from your hands, your fingers brushing without either of you reacting. It was natural, and easy. It used to be the three of you. Now it was just you and Scott.
You noticed Stiles a second later when your eyes met his across the aisle. For half a heartbeat, something flickered there. Surprise, maybe. Then it settled into something more guarded.
“Hey,” you said coldly. There was none of your usual brightness. No spark. Just…begrudgingly polite.
Scott turned, stiffening almost imperceptibly when he saw Stiles. Protective, though he wouldn’t call it that out loud.
“Hey,” Stiles echoed. He suddenly became painfully aware of what he was holding.
You glanced down and clocked it immediately. The Notebook. Your expression didn’t change. Not drastically, at least. But he saw the tiniest of shifts behind your eyes as understanding dawned.
“Oh,” you said gently. “Big plans tonight?”
“Yeah,” he replied, a little too quickly. “Uh. Movie night.”
“With Lydia?” you asked. You had heard her talk about The Notebook more times than you could count on two hands.
He nodded in confirmation and all you could do was nod back. Then you lifted the CD’s in your arms. “We’re doing one too,” you said. “Scott’s idea.”
Scott gave a small shrug, like it was nothing. It wasn’t nothing. Not to Stiles. His eyes dropped to the titles. Psycho. The Shining. Bride of Frankenstein. A fantastic lineup.
It hit him in a way he wasn’t prepared for. Not like jealousy exactly. It didn’t feel romantic or territorial, it was more a feeling of displacement. He wasn’t your first call anymore. He wasn’t your automatic Friday night plans. You weren’t waiting for him to decide if you were worth showing up for. You were just…doing it without him.
You shifted the tapes in your arms. “Well,” you said softly, “have fun tonight.”
There was no edge to it. That somehow made it worse. Scott stepped closer to you, casual but deliberate. “We should get going,” he said.
You nodded as you passed Stiles, your shoulder brushing his lightly. Once upon a time, that would’ve been intentional and charged with static energy he couldn’t quite name. Now it was just accidental space being shared.
The bell above the door jingled again as you left. Stiles stood there, staring at the empty doorway. He looked down at The Notebook in his hands, then back at the horror aisle. He could almost see you standing there again, arguing passionately about whether The Lost Boys was better than Poltergeist.
He swallowed thickly as the movie in his hands suddenly felt wrong, and the night ahead somewhat hollow.
———————————————————————
Jackson bailed first. ‘Something came up,’ he said over text. No other explanation.
Danny followed ten minutes later. ‘Sorry, guys. Family thing.’
So it was just Stiles and Lydia. The living room was dim, lamplight soft against the walls. Lydia sat curled at one end of the couch, legs tucked neatly beneath her, red hair falling perfectly over one shoulder. She looked like she belonged in a magazine spread titled ‘Effortlessly Beautiful While Watching Romance Films’.
Stiles sat beside her, stiff at first, hyperaware of the inches between them. This is it, he told himself. This is what you wanted.
The movie started. It was full of soft piano music and dramatic rain and beautiful people staring at each other intensely.
Lydia sighed softly. “I love this part.”
Stiles nodded, pretending he did too. He tried to relax into it. Tried to enjoy the proximity, the way her shoulder brushed his when she shifted. Tried to feel that long-standing, third-grade crush swell into something victorious.
But instead he felt restless. He made a small comment under his breath about how the main character clearly needed therapy instead of a house.
Lydia blinked at him. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just…you know. The emotional repression? The toxic volatile communication style? It’s a classic romance trope that really isn’t romantic at all.”
She turned back to the screen. No laugh, no conversation during the film arguing the themes or motifs. This wasn’t what he was used to during a movie night at all. He shifted. Okay, this was fine. He could adapt to a different tone.
He tried again later, dropping the smoother cadence he’d been practicing for weeks. “So if I build you a house by hand, like, inevitably with questionable structural integrity, are we automatically soulmates or…?”
Lydia frowned slightly. “Why would you do that?”
He stared at her. “I…it’s in the movie.”
“Oh.” She smiled politely. “Right.”
That was when it hit him that you would’ve laughed. You would’ve thrown popcorn at him and said, “Only if the roof caves in dramatically during a love confession.”
You would’ve built on the joke. Twisted it. Made it better. Instead, the room felt quiet. Not a comfortable quiet, but an empty quiet. He glanced at Lydia. She was beautiful. Perfect. Intent on the screen. Completely unbothered. And he finally let himself notice something he’d been ignoring. He was editing himself, even now. Even alone he softened his sarcasm. Filtered his weirdness. Curated his energy so it wouldn’t overwhelm her. Because when he didn’t, she didn’t lean in. She didn’t light up. She just blinked and moved on.
Your voice echoed in his memory. “Why would you want to be with someone who doesn’t like you for who you actually are?”
He swallowed. He thought back to the video store, to the way you’d held those CD’s like treasures. About the way you’d said “Have fun tonight” without waiting for him to explain. About how you used to sit so close he never questioned it, and how lately, you hadn’t.
The movie swelled toward its dramatic climax. Lydia dabbed at the corner of her eye. Stiles felt nothing. There was no triumph or satisfaction. Not even the giddy ache of finally being alone with the girl he’d wanted for years. He felt tired, like he’d been running toward something shiny and only now realized it was just a metallic wrapper floating on the breeze. He looked at Lydia again and all he saw was a shiny wrapper. A pretty exterior drifting along with the movement of the crowd.
He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life explaining his jokes. He didn’t want to feel smaller just to be digestible. He didn’t want to keep pretending. And worse, he realised the person he’d never pretended around was the only person who had liked him without the mask.
He thought about you sitting one seat over instead of beside him, about your silence at lunch, and about the way you’d stopped waiting. Suddenly, the past few weeks snapped into focus. He hadn’t just been chasing Lydia. He’d been losing you. And you hadn’t fought to stay, you’d simply let him go.
The movie ended, the credits rolled, and Lydia smiled at him. “That was nice.”
“Yeah,” he said softly.
Nice. He used to leave movie nights with you buzzing. Talking over each other about plot holes and character flaws and alternate endings. Now he just felt hollow.
As Stiles gathered his things and thanked her for the night, she walked him to the front door. She kissed his cheek lightly, and his heart didn’t race. When the door closed behind her, the street fell silent. In that silence, Stiles Stilinski finally understood something terrifying. He didn’t want Lydia. Not if it meant losing himself. Not if it meant losing you.
He stood there for a long moment on Lydia’s porch. Then he pulled out his phone, and scrolled to your name. His finger hovered over the screen, too frightened to finish the action because wanting you back meant admitting he’d been wrong, and Stiles had never been more afraid of you being right.
———————————————————————
He didn’t text you that night. He almost did. He typed and then deleted and then re-typed and then backspaced tens of times. Hey. He deleted that. Are you busy? Deleted that too. An apology over text felt cowardly, too small a gesture and too easy of a way out, and this wasn’t a small matter.
So the next afternoon, he found Scott. “You owe me,” Stiles said without preamble.
Scott raised an eyebrow. “For what?”
“For being right about everything all the time.”
Scott blinked. “That’s ridiculous, but whatever. What happened?”
Stiles swallowed. The words felt heavier out loud. “I screwed up.”
Scott didn’t argue, knowing that was a kind way to put it, and his silence hurt more than if he had. But together they came up with a plan, and after school they executed it.
He went to the video store himself. Rented the a classic horror lineup he knew you’d go crazy over. He bought your favorite candy, the sour one you pretended didn’t make your mouth bleed. He even vacuumed. Twice.
He dimmed the lights and draped blankets over the couch and furniture to make a comfy tent beneath. Like a makeshift fortress, the way you’d always said you’d loved to do movie nights as a kid. Then he finally texted you.
Stiles: Scott’s coming over for movie night. You should too.
It took you six minutes to reply with a simple ‘Okay.’ No emoji. No warmth. His stomach lurched with nervousness.
When you arrived,you didn’t knock the way you used to. You hesitated first, your fist pausing in mid-air. Stiles opened the door quickly before you could talk yourself out of it, looking mildly out of breath, as though he’d been waiting at the window and then ran to open it.
You looked beautiful. Not because you’d dressed up. You always were beautiful, and he’d simply accepted that as a fact of life. His physical attraction towards you was something he’d never thought too critically about, but now it wasn’t something he’d could pass by.
“Hey,” you said carefully. “Where’s Scott?”
He stepped aside to let you in. “He’s…not coming.”
Your eyes narrowed slightly. “You said—”
“I know.” He interrupted you quickly, gaze following you nervously and eagerly as you walked into the living room and then stoped dead in your tracks.
Your eyes scanned the room as you took it all in. The lights were low, pillows already pulled on the floor beneath the canopy of blankets, like a patchwork tent. The stack of horror tapes were piled on the coffee table, your favorite candy already opened beside them. Two bowls of popcorn, not three.
Your expression shifted, not quite melting but not as guarded anymore either. “You did this?” you asked quietly, your voice full of uncertainty.
“Yeah.”
Silence stretched between you. You crossed your arms loosely over your chest, not defensively but protective. “What’s this about, Stiles?”
He ran a hand over his hair, nervous habit resurfacing now that the facade was gone. “You were right, that night in the parking lot. I don’t think I’ve been me,” he said slowly. “Not in a while.”
You didn’t respond, so he took that as his opening to keep going. “I thought I wanted something. For years, I thought I wanted something. And I convinced myself if I just adjusted myself enough, worked hard enough, I’d finally get it.” He laughed softly, not out of amusement but in bitterness. “But somewhere in there, I stopped being the version of me that mattered. And the worst part?” he continued, his voice quieter now. “I stopped being that version around the one person who actually liked him.”
He looked at you then and this time there was no mask. No cool tone, or curated charm. He was just Stiles. “I took you for granted,” he said, and the words landed heavy in the room. “I thought you’d just always be there. No matter how distracted I got. No matter how much I screwed up.”
You couldn’t do anything other than blink and stare, processing the words you’d spent sleepless nights wishing to hear. You wondered what had finally pushed him over the edge of nonsense and hurtling towards such a revelation.
“The past few weeks?” he swallowed. “They’ve sucked.”
You huffed a tiny breath. “For you?” Things had been sucking for a lot longer than the past few weeks for you.
“For you and me,” he agreed. “Because I finally noticed how much I missed you. And I don’t just mean movie nights. I mean…” He gestured helplessly. “You. Sitting next to me. Calling me out. Laughing at my dumb jokes. Arguing about horror villains like it’s life or death.”
“It took you long enough to even notice I was gone,” you muttered bitterly.
He stepped closer, but not enough to crowd you. “I missed you even before you stopped sitting next to me. I just didn’t realise it because I was too busy trying to be someone else.”
The silence that followed was thick yet fragile. You looked down at your hands, fiddling with your jewellery. “I told you,” you said softly. “I told you that you were losing yourself.”
“I know.” His voice cracked slightly. “You were right. I don’t want to be that guy, the one who makes you feel small, or invisible, or like you’re a second choice.”
You inhaled sharply at that.
“You weren’t a second choice,” he added quickly. “You were…” He stopped himself, his amber eyes not leaving yours for even a millisecond, and that’s how you knew he was being entirely honest. “I was too stupid to see what I already had.”
Your eyes lifted to his slowly. “I don’t get to lose you again,” you said quietly. It wasn’t a question, but a boundary.
He nodded immediately. “You don’t.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“I know,” he said again. “I know.”
You searched his face for the performance, half-expecting it out of habit, but there wasn’t one.
“I want our friendship back,” he said first, his voice steady but careful. “If you’ll let me.”
You held his gaze, considering it. Or pretending to. You could already feel yourself folding.
“And…maybe,” he added, softer now, more confident by the fact you didn’t immediately scream at him or walk out. “If you still want to, maybe we could try…something different. Something…more?”
Your pulse stuttered, your lips parting in surprise, wondering if you’d heard him right or if maybe you misunderstood his meaning.
“Not because I’m bored,” he rushed on. “Not because someone else didn’t work out. But because I realised I don’t want to keep pretending to be another person to keep anyone’s attention.” He stepped one inch closer. “I want to be myself, and I am the most authentic version of me when I’m with you.”
The room felt very, very quiet. You could see the nerves in his hands, his shoulders weren’t squared. He wasn’t performing. In him you could see your friend, the boy you’d fallen for. The Stiles you’d blown up the rest of your life for.
You exhaled slowly. “You hurt me,” you said.
“I know, and I’m sorry. I can’t even tell you how sorry I am.”
“I’m not going to sit at a table where I feel invisible again.”
“You won’t.”
You studied him one more time. Then you stepped forward, just enough that your breath mingled. “Okay,” you whispered.
Relief washed over his face so visibly it almost made you laugh. “Okay?” he beamed.
“Okay,” you repeated. “But if you start pretending again, I’m leaving.”
He nodded so fast it was almost comical. “Deal.”
You smiled, small at first, then wider. When he leaned in, he hesitated just enough to give you space to pull away. You didn’t, so he went for it, his lips crashing against yours clumsily. The kiss wasn’t urgent. He got his bearing fairly quickly, turning tentative with his movements. When you pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours.
“Hi,” he murmured.
You smiled against his mouth, your stomach doing cartwheels. “Hi.”
“Wow, we should’ve started doing that sooner,” he breathed out a laugh, butterfly wings fluttering against the walls of his chest.
“That one’s on you, Stilinski,” you flushed, shaking your head at him.
“Well, can we do it again?” He asked softly, eyes darting down to your lips as he licked his own, as though savouring the taste of your chapstick.
“Yes, but not today. I’m still mad at you,” you whispered, smirking slightly. If he made you suffer you were sure going to get back at him.
His pout told you it was working and you turned on your heel and crawled under the blanket fort. “Come on, put Scream in. I’m feeling like a comedy today.”
“You know, technically, Scream isn’t classified a horror-comedy, it’s slasher meta-horror.” He argued as he grabbed the CD from the case and knelt in front of the DVD player.
“Slasher-horrors are the perfect genre to overlap with comedy.” You argued right back and when Stiles turned around he has the brightest and widest smile on his face. He’d missed this.
“You sure we can’t kiss again? Just one more?” He crawled over to you, leaning in.
You placed your hand over his face and pushed him back. “Eyes on the screen, lover boy.” But you were fighting back a giddy smile of your own as he settled beside you. When he tried to hold your hand as Casey got her guts sliced out, you let him, granting him a small mercy. Totally not just because you wanted to.
She made a deal with the devil (Fred Weasley). The terms? He helps her get the boy she’s always wanted. But the price? Well, it costs her everything she thought she knew about him.
Inspired by the book ‘Better Than The Movies’ by Lynn Painter.
———————————————————————
The fields between your house and the Burrow were golden in the late summer sun, swaying lazily as though they had nothing better to do than mock you for your restlessness. You hated how quiet it felt now. Summers used to mean running through these fields barefoot, shrieking with laughter, Luna trailing daisies behind her, Dylan Green’s smile burning brighter than the sky, and the Weasley boys. Always too loud, and always too much.
But that was before. Before you lost her. Before the world cracked open and swallowed your mother’s laugh, her warmth, her everything. Now summers felt like borrowed time, a season stretched thin with memories. You spent them scavenging scraps of her, finding her in her dresses, her favorite books, her perfume bottle that still held the faintest trace of her. Sometimes you thought if you dressed yourself in her life, if you wore her stories, you could trick the world into thinking she was still here. Trick yourself into thinking she hadn’t gone anywhere at all.
That’s why you’d decided to go to The Spot. The willow tree stood like an old friend in the center of the fields, a giant with arms open wide, leaves trailing to the grass like secrets being whispered. It was the place that knew your childhood like the back of it’s leaves. You’d built forts there with Luna, pretended to be knights and villains with Dylan, and held countless summer night meetings with the Weasley twins. It was sacred.
It was also a war zone, because you and Fred Weasley did not share. Not then. Not now. The Spot was either his or yours, depending on who got there first. Stupid? Yes. But when it came to Fred, nothing was ever simple.
So when you pushed through the tall grass, heart set on curling up against the bark with your book tucked in your lap, and saw him sitting there like he owned the place with his long legs stretched out, and head tipped back against the tree with that insufferably smug expression, you groaned out loud.
“Merlin save me,” you muttered, not even bothering to hide your disappointment.
Fred cracked one eye open and smirked. “Oh, perfect. My afternoon just got more entertaining.”
You glared at him, fists already curling at your sides. “Of course you’re here. Don’t you have a sibling to annoy?”
He grinned wider, straightening up and patting the grass beside him. “And miss the pleasure of ruining your day? Not a chance.”
Heat climbed your neck, the familiar rush of irritation that only Fred could summon. “This is my spot.”
“Correction,” he said, plucking a blade of grass and twirling it between his fingers, “this is whoever-gets-here-first’s spot. And lucky me, I beat you.”
You stomped closer, trying not to notice how the late sun caught in his hair, turning it to copper fire. Ugh. He was too tall, too sharp around the edges, too much like every cliché of the arrogant, untouchable jock in the books you devoured at night. Except in the books, the girl didn’t want to punch the hero in the face.
“You’re unbearable,” you snapped.
Fred leaned back on his elbows and his gaze flicked over you with infuriating ease. “And you’re predictable. By now I can draw the exact way your forehead wrinkles when you’re angry.”
Your hand flew to your brow automatically. “It does not wrinkle.”
“Oh, it does.” His grin was wicked, knowing. “Adorable, really. Like a very cross kitten.”
Your pulse jumped, though whether from rage or embarrassment, you weren’t sure. “I am not a kitten. And I am not adorable.”
Fred clutched his chest theatrically. “Careful, love, you’ll hurt my feelings. Calling me unbearable, denying your own cuteness…truly cruel.”
You scoffed, the urge to throw your book at his head almost overwhelming. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”
“Not really.” His eyes glittered as they locked on yours, a spark of mischief you knew all too well. “I told you, annoying you is my favorite pastime.”
That was the final straw. With a sharp huff, you turned on your heel and started marching back across the field, grass whipping at your ankles. Behind you, his laughter chased after you, warm and mocking at once.
“Don’t be like that!” he called. “See you at Hogwarts!”
You flipped him a very unladylike hand gesture without looking back, your cheeks burning hot as you quickened your pace. Of course he’d ruin your last summer afternoon. Of course he’d win The Spot, because Fred Weasley always won and you hated him for it. Or at least, you told yourself you did.
———————————————————————
The castle felt alive again. After a summer of empty fields and lingering silences, the sound of laughter and chatter echoing off Hogwarts’ stone walls wrapped around you like a blanket. The Great Feast had been the usual chaos with pumpkin juice spilling, Luna telling you about Nargles nesting in the chandeliers, the Sorting Hat droning on in riddles while you stole rolls from the platter. It was almost comforting.
Afterwards, you split off from Luna with a squeeze of her hand, her dreamy smile following you as she drifted off to Ravenclaw Tower. You knew she’d be up all night stargazing with her telescope, but you had other plans.
Your Spot. The thought made you quicken your pace through the Gryffindor common room, weaving between clusters of students, heart thrumming with anticipation. Your little secret wasn’t just a broom closet. It was your sanctuary, a hidden place carved out, tucked neatly behind a portrait of an unusually fat shepherd who always insisted you bring him gossip in exchange for entry. Inside, you had blankets piled high, pillows in every corner, and a stack of books you’d dragged there over the years. And candles of course, because nothing felt more romantic than soft flickering light, even if you were the only one around to enjoy it.
You waited impatiently in the common room, feigning disinterest until the crowd thinned, until the fire burned low and your housemates finally disappeared upstairs. Then, at last, you slipped to the portrait, whispered the little bribe you’d promised the shepherd (“Dean Thomas has been drawing in his sketchbook of Ginny Weasley again”), and slipped inside. The door clicked shut behind you, and your heart stopped.
The candles were already lit. Their golden glow cast shadows across the walls, pooling light over the nest of blankets and pillows you’d so carefully arranged. But worse, infinitely worse, was the figure sprawled right in the middle of it. His long limbs took up far too much space, his stupid grin flashing the moment his eyes met yours. “Evening, love.”
Your groan ripped out of you, loud and guttural, echoing off the stone. “Are you kidding me?”
Fred propped himself up on one elbow, looking irritatingly comfortable. “You didn’t think I’d let you have all the best spots to yourself, did you?”
You stormed a few steps forward, pointing a furious finger at him. “Seriously? First the willow tree and now this? You had to take this too? You can’t just let me have one thing, can you?”
“Not when it’s this entertaining.” He stretched lazily, folding his arms behind his head as though he’d been king of this hideout his entire life. “You really should work on hiding your hiding places. You left an awful lot of crumbs behind when you smuggled biscuits in last year.”
You clenched your fists. Merlin, you hated him. Or at least, you desperately wanted to. “This is my Spot. I made it. Every pillow, every candle, every blanket. You think the school provided all this?”
Fred’s smirk only deepened. “Then I should thank you for decorating. Lovely ambiance, by the way. Sets the mood perfectly.”
Your cheeks burned. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re territorial.” His eyes glinted with that dangerous mischief, the kind that made you want to shake him and maybe throttle him just a little. “It’s just a broom closet. We could share, you know.”
You shot him a look that could have scorched through walls. “We are not sharing. You can’t just waltz into my sanctuary and decide it’s yours.”
He shrugged, utterly unbothered. “You should know by now, love. Once I find something good, I don’t let go.”
The words caught in your chest, heavier than they should have been. You hated that. Hated that his voice slid so easily under your skin, like a song you couldn’t stop humming even when you despised the tune.
So you crossed your arms, chin lifted stubbornly. “Well, tough luck. Because this one’s mine. I don’t care what you say, I’m not backing down.”
Fred only leaned forward, his grin widening as if he’d been waiting to hear exactly that. “Good. I like a challenge.”
Your stomach flipped, though whether from rage or something far more dangerous, you couldn’t say. All you knew was this, Fred Weasley wasn’t leaving. And you weren’t either. The war for your broom closet had begun.
———————————————————————
You were furious all day. Every class, every corridor, every stairwell felt like it had been tainted with the ghost of last night. Fred Weasley lounging in your spot, smirking like he’d won, like he’d always win. Your quill snapped halfway through Charms when you thought about it, and Professor Flitwick looked personally offended. You scowled through Transfiguration, muttered darkly through Herbology, and nearly set your parchment aflame in Defense Against the Dark Arts.
By lunch, Luna had drifted beside you serenely, balancing a stack of pudding cups in her arms like offerings. “You look as though you’ve swallowed a Snargaluff,” she observed, settling beside you at the Gryffindor table.
“I’m fine,” you bit out, stabbing at your roast potato so viciously it crumbled into paste.
“You’re not fine,” she said dreamily, peeling open a pudding cup. “But you will be. Did you hear? Dylan’s back.”
Your fork clattered against your plate. You blinked at her. “What?”
“Dylan Green,” she repeated, as if the name wasn’t a thunderclap in your chest. “His family moved back. I heard they’ve been staying with Alicia Spinnet.”
Your stomach twisted. Dylan Green. The boy who used to run through the fields with you, who always distracted the twins when they’d tie your shoelaces together or charmed your hair neon green. The boy who had smiled at you like you weren’t just the awkward, too-loud, too-dreamy girl trailing behind everyone else. Your mother had adored him. She was always teasing, always nudging you with conspiratorial grins about how cute you looked together.
It had been years since he left, since his family disappeared across the ocean. But the moment Luna said his name, you felt every memory bloom back to life, fresh and bright and golden. Your heart caught like maybe your mother had sent him back to you. A sign. A gift.
And then Luna’s words fully registered. “Wait. Did you say they’re staying with Alicia Spinnet?”
Luna nodded, spooning pudding into her mouth. You made a sound halfway between a laugh and a growl. Alicia Spinnet had been the worst kind of brat when you were kids, always flaunting her shiny hair and new robes, rolling her eyes when you tripped or stumbled, making faces when you dared to speak up in games. Sure, she wore her Gryffindor badge and polite smiles now, but you’d never forgotten. You could smell fake a mile away. The thought of Dylan spending time with her was unbearable.
Still, you straightened your spine, fire burning in your chest. No. You wouldn’t let it ruin this. If Dylan’s return was a sign from the universe, or from your mum, you weren’t about to ignore it.
So when you spotted him later in the hallway, walking toward you with that same sunbeam smile you remembered, you sucked in a deep breath, fluffed your hair with trembling fingers, and plastered on the brightest grin you could manage.
“Dylan Green,” you said, and his name tasted sweet on your tongue.
He looked down at you, and when that smile curved his lips it was handsome, easy, and familiar. You swore the castle itself tilted. His voice wrapped around your name like it had been waiting years to say it. “Wow. You look…the exact same as I remember you.”
Your cheeks burned as you laughed, nervous but elated. “It’s been forever. I can’t believe you’re back.”
“Yeah,” he said warmly, shifting his bag on his shoulder. “Feels weird, but…good. Hogwarts hasn’t changed much, has it?”
You shook your head, heart soaring, trying to find words that didn’t sound idiotic. You were about to tell him how glad you were he was back when a loud BANG sounded. A firework shot off right at your ankles, shrieking and exploding into a fizz of gold sparks. You yelped, stumbling back, colliding hard with the wall as your elbow scraped painfully against the stone.“Bloody—!”
Dylan reached out like he might steady you, but your eyes had already snapped to the culprit. Of course. Who else would it be? Fred Weasley, leaning against the wall down the corridor, wand lazily twirling between his fingers, smirk plastered across his face like sin itself.
“Careful, love,” he called, voice maddeningly light. “Walls can be vicious.”
Your jaw clenched, fury bubbling hot. But Dylan was still looking at you, and the last thing you wanted was to look like the childish, easily ruffled mess Fred always painted you as. So you forced a tight, brittle smile. “All good. Just a…minor accident.”
Fred’s smirk faltered for half a second, confusion flickering in his eyes at your civility. Then, like he’d caught himself, he pushed off the wall and strode over, clapping Dylan on the shoulder like they were old mates. “Dylan Green, heard you were back. Welcome home.”
Dylan grinned, clearly pleased. “Thanks, Fred. Good to see you.”
“Listen,” Fred said smoothly, ignoring you entirely now, “some of us are having a little party in Oliver Wood’s dorm Friday night. You should come by. Good chance to catch up with everyone.”
“Sounds brilliant,” Dylan said at once, flashing that smile again. “I’ll be there.”
You stood stiffly, fury searing through your chest as Dylan bid you both goodbye and walked off. Your scraped elbow stung, your pride stung worse, and your insides burned at how Fred hadn’t even thought to invite you.
Later, when you found Luna, you practically exploded. “Can you believe him? Not inviting me? Like I don’t exist?”
She tilted her head, dreamy and confused. “But you don’t like Fred. And you hate parties. Why would you want to go to a party?”
You threw your hands up. “Because Dylan will be there, Luna. And I have to - no, I will - make sure he sees me before Alicia worms her way in. This is my chance.”
You narrowed your eyes, already plotting. If Dylan was your destiny, then nothing, not Alicia Spinnet, not your clumsiness, and especially not Fred Weasley, was going to stop you. And if the only way into that party was through Fred…Well. You’d just have to beat him at his own game.
———————————————————————
The Gryffindor common room was quieter than usual that night. The fire had burned down low, painting the walls in a soft amber glow, and most of the house had already trailed off to their dorms. You knew Fred liked to sneak out for a midnight snack before bed though, and he was due any minute. You lingered near the staircase, fidgeting with the hem of your polka-dot skirt, trying to time it just right so you could catch Fred alone.
When he finally appeared, sauntering down from the boys’ dormitory with that irritating air of smugness that seemed permanently stitched into his posture, you squared your shoulders and cut him off by the armchairs near the fire. “We need to talk.”
He blinked at you, feigning surprise, then let a grin curl across his mouth. “Well, well. If it isn’t my favourite little cross-kitten. What’s the matter? Come to admit I’ve won the broom closet once and for all?”
Your hands balled into fists. “Hardly. This is about Friday night.”
His brows arched, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh? Asking me out on a date, are you?”
You exhaled sharply through your nose, determined not to rise to his bait. “No. I want into that party in Oliver Wood’s dorm. You’re going to get me in.”
For once, his smirk faltered into genuine amusement. He leaned back against the armchair, folding his arms like he had all the time in the world. “And why, pray tell, would I do that?”
“Because,” you said through gritted teeth, “I’ll give you The Spot for two weeks.”
That got him. His eyes widened slightly, then narrowed, calculating. “Two whole weeks? You must really want this. But why? You’ve never been interested in parties before?”
Your cheeks heated, but you held your chin high. “No questions asked. That’s the deal. You get me in, and you keep it a secret. No running your mouth, no teasing, nothing.”
Fred’s grin returned, wolfish. “Oh, I’ll take the deal. But let’s not pretend I can’t figure out why you want it so badly.”
You froze, stomach dropping. “What are you talking about?”
He leaned in, eyes sparkling like he’d just uncovered buried treasure. “Dylan Green. Your childhood sweetheart, the one you’ve been sighing about since you were old enough to plait daisies into your hair. You think this is fate, don’t you? Him coming back. A grand romantic sign from the heavens.”
Heat rushed to your face, fury bubbling up. “That’s none of your business.”
“Oh, but it is.” Fred chuckled lowly, tapping his chin as if savoring every word. “You’ve probably got this insane, romanticized notion that you’re destined to be together. It’s adorable, really. Desperate, but adorable.”
Your jaw clenched. You wanted to scream, to hex him, to throw him into the fire. But the truth in his words hit too close, so you swallowed it down and forced yourself to say stiffly, “Do we have a deal or not?”
Fred’s grin widened, triumphant. “We have a deal. The Spot for two weeks, and in exchange, I’ll make sure you and Dylan have your shining moment. Merlin knows I’d do anything to keep you away from me for that long.”
You glared at him, your pride in tatters. He pushed off the armchair, brushing past you with a casual air. “Meet me at the staircase Friday at eight o’clock sharp.”
“Fine,” you snapped.
But before you could leave, his gaze flicked down to your outfit. He paused, head tilted, and smirked. “And don’t wear that.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“That,” he said, gesturing to your polka-dot skirt and cozy sweater. “You want Dylan to notice you? Don’t dress like…that.”
Your face burned. “What’s wrong with how I dress?”
Fred let his silence linger just long enough to make your blood boil. His eyes raked over your outfit in exaggerated slow motion before he shrugged, utterly infuriating. “It explains itself.”
You sputtered, defensive. “Oh, because you’re such an expert in fashion? Please. Half your wardrobe is hand-me-downs with moth holes.”
He smirked, clearly delighted by how riled up you were getting. “True. But I still manage to look good, don’t I?”
You scoffed, ready to strangle him on the spot. “You’re unbearable.”
Fred only gave you a lazy, knowing smile as he turned toward the boys’ staircase. “Friday, eight o’clock. Try not to embarrass yourself, love.”
You stood there, fuming, your heart pounding far too fast. You hated him. You hated him. It felt like you’d just signed a deal with the devil, and why did part of you feel like he was already winning whatever sick twisted game he was undoubtedly plotting in his head?
———————————————————————
By Friday evening, your nerves buzzed like static. You’d gone through four different outfit options before finally settling on the one you thought struck the perfect balance of chic and effortless: a black pleated skirt, crisp white button-up tucked neatly in, black leather Mary Janes polished to a shine, and a silk scarf tied at your neck with your mother’s pearl necklace. Classic. Elegant. Unforgettable.
When you saw Fred waiting for you at the staircase, your stomach did a traitorous little flip. He was leaning against the banister, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other tapping lazily against the railing. His hair was annoyingly perfect tonight, falling just so across his forehead, and his button-down (rolled at the sleeves, of course) looked far better on him than you wanted to admit.
When did he get handsome? The thought flitted through your head before you shoved it out. You weren’t here for him. You were here for Dylan.
Still, you stepped forward with confidence. “Ready?”
Fred’s eyes flicked down at your outfit…and he instantly burst out laughing. You froze, heat rushing to your cheeks. “What?”
He shook his head, still chuckling, one hand pressed to his stomach as though you’d just made the best joke of the night. “Oh, Merlin. You’re really going to wear that?”
Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me? I look chic.”
“You look like you’re about to give a presentation on the Goblin Rebellions of 1612.” He snorted, gesturing broadly at your ensemble. “Everyone else is going to be in jeans. You’re going to stick out like a sore thumb.”
“Good,” you snapped, lifting your chin. “That’s the point. I want to stand out to Dylan.”
Fred smirked, unbothered. “Oh, you’ll stand out, all right. Just not the way you think.”
You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath as he started up the stairs, and you had no choice but to follow.
Oliver Wood’s dorm was packed. Music blared from an old wireless in the corner, bottles of butterbeer littered the desks, and the air was thick with laughter and the smell of too many sweaty Gryffindors in one place. The Quidditch team was clustered near the center, and Fred slipped seamlessly among them, exchanging handshakes and grins like he owned the room.
You hovered at his side, scanning frantically until your gaze caught on Dylan. He was by the makeshift snack table (which was really someone’s trunk shrouded with a plastic tablecloth), pouring pumpkin juice into a cup, looking maddeningly handsome.
“Relax,” Fred muttered when you practically bounced on your toes. “He’s not going anywhere.”
But before you could retort, Dylan spotted the two of you and came over. He clapped Fred on the shoulder warmly, then turned to you with a smile.
“Wow,” he said, eyeing your outfit. “Studying late already?”
Your heart sank. “Studying?”
“Yeah,” he chuckled. “Uniform still on. You’re dedicated as always.”
Mortification clawed at your insides. Of course. He thought you were still in uniform. You forced a laugh, trying to play it off. “Right, yeah. Got a little carried away with coursework.”
“Always the overachiever.” Dylan grinned, then glanced between you and Fred. “And you two showed up together? Cute couple.”
Your stomach flipped, and not in the good way. “What? No! We’re not! At all. Just friends. Barely friends.”
But Dylan only laughed, looking at you differently now with something a little warmer and curious. Your cheeks burned. Maybe this was working after all. Until an already drunk fifth-year girl stumbled toward Fred while giggling, clearly trying to flirt, and then promptly vomited all over you. The stench hit immediately. It was warm, sticky, and absolutely everywhere.
“OH MY GOD!” You shrieked, arms flailing, horror consuming you. “She…she threw up on me!”
Laughter erupted around you, voices chiming in, “Oi, watch out, it’s vomit girl!” and “Careful, don’t slip!”
You thought you might actually die. But then Fred was suddenly beside you, steadying you with one firm hand on your shoulder. His voice dropped low against your ear. “Bathroom. Now. That door on the left. I’ll bring you something to change into.”
You didn’t think, you just ran. The bathroom was mercifully empty. You slammed the door shut, stripped off the soaked clothes, and jumped straight into the shower, scrubbing like you could erase the entire disaster. When you climbed out, dripping and desperate for a towel, you found none. Groaning, you muttered a half-effective drying charm, your hair still damp, water dripping down your calves.
A knock sounded. “Oi,” Fred’s voice called. “Got you a spare set.”
You cracked the door just enough to slip your hand out, snatching the bundle from him before slamming it shut again. When you unfolded it, your groan was loud enough he probably heard through the door. Sweatpants and a Gryffindor Quidditch jersey. Both massive.
“Seriously?” you shouted through the wood. “This is what you brought me?”
Fred’s amused voice floated back. “I can’t get into the girls’ dorm, remember? That’ll have to do.”
You muttered under your breath, but guilt prickled through you. He had helped. And he sounded…oddly kind. Not smug, not cruel, but the same easy-going Fred he always was with everyone who wasn’t you. Which was confusing in its own right.
Still, you tugged on the clothes, rolling the waistband of the sweatpants three times just to keep them from falling, cuffing the bottoms so you didn’t trip. The jersey hung like a tent, so you knotted it at your waist, tugging it off one shoulder to make it look something like an outfit. You glanced in the mirror. You looked ridiculous. And yet, kind of cute.
With a bracing breath, you shoved your vomit-soaked clothes into the bin and stepped back into the party. All eyes turned and cheers rang out. “Hey, vomit girl!”
You wanted the floor to swallow you. Dylan, at least, looked sympathetic as he came over. “You okay?”
“Fine,” you lied, forcing a breezy smile. “Just…unforgettable first impression, right?”
He laughed, eyes flicking down your body. And then you realized with horror that Fred’s sweatpants had slipped low on your hips, dangerously so. Before you could adjust, Fred appeared at your side, jaw tight, hand yanking the waistband up sharply.
“She’s leaving,” he announced, voice hard. “Her clothes are falling off.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but Dylan was already nodding, still watching you. So you forced a smile. “See you around.”
Fred marched you out before you could say anything. The walk back to your dorm was oddly quiet at first. You were giddy, despite the disaster, convinced Dylan had finally noticed you. Fred shattered the illusion with his next words. “You know, while you were in the bathroom, Dylan said some stuff.”
You looked at him sharply. “What stuff?”
“He still sees you as the weird little kid from next door.” Fred shoved his hands in his pockets. “The one who forced us to act in all those plays you wrote.”
Your face burned. “I have an artistic spirit!”
He grinned. “You also tried to charge us entry tickets made out of grass. And you made me play the damsel once. Wig and all.”
You sputtered. “It was theatrical, hardly weird.”
“And you used to collect dead beetles and tell people their names.”
“That was…educational.”
Fred’s laughter was warm, rolling, almost infectious. You found yourself laughing too, despite your indignation, cheeks aching as the two of you walked. By the time you reached the staircase to your dorm, your irritation had softened into something else entirely.
Fred paused, smirk tugging at his lips. “Thanks for the free advertisement, but I’ll need my jersey back before Quidditch practice on Wednesday.”
You huffed, rolling your eyes as you turned toward the stairs. “Don’t hold your breath.”
When you glanced back, he was still watching you, his grin lingering in the low torchlight.
———————————————————————
By the time you reached your dormitory staircase, the adrenaline of the night had finally worn off, leaving you oddly restless. You changed into your pyjamas, slipped beneath the covers, and stared up at the canopy overhead. The room was quiet, muffled by the soft snores of your roommates, but your thoughts were anything but still.
You replayed the party in your head, every humiliating detail. The uniform comment. The vomit. The chanting of “vomit girl.” You groaned, burying your face in your pillow. This was not how you’d imagined Dylan finally noticing you. You’d wanted sparks, romance, destiny. Not the scent of alcohol and someone else’s dinner decorating your shirt.
And yet, when your thoughts wandered back over the night, Dylan wasn’t who stuck out. Fred was. Fred, who hadn’t abandoned you when you wanted to melt into the floor. Fred, who had murmured directions to the bathroom to save your dignity. Fred, who’d stood outside the door and made sure you had clean clothes, even if they were his ridiculous sweatpants and Quidditch jersey. Fred, who had walked you back with no smirks and no grandstanding, just steady company at your side.
You frowned at the memory. You’d spent years chalking him up as the typical Gryffindor jock: loud, cocky, always ready with some joke at your expense. And tonight? He’d been…different. Not entirely. He still teased, still laughed at your childhood beetle collection and called your weird, but there was something under it. Something that made you laugh with him instead of at him.
Gentlemanly. That was the word, wasn’t it? It startled you, the realization. You shifted under your blankets, unsettled, your mind tugging at the edges of the thought like it was dangerous to follow too far.
You were supposed to be thinking about Dylan and about how you’d finally caught his eye, and how maybe next time you’d get it right. But instead, you found yourself picturing Fred’s grin in the torchlight as he’d told you to return his jersey. The warmth in his laughter. The way his hand had clamped firm and certain on your waistband before Dylan’s gaze could wander too far.
Your stomach gave a tiny, traitorous flutter. You scowled at yourself in the dark, dragging the blankets over your head. No. Absolutely not. Fred Weasley was not who you wanted. Not who you’d been pining for since forever.
And yet, as sleep finally crept up on you, the thought that lulled you under was not Dylan’s smile…but the sound of Fred’s laugh.
———————————————————————
Two mornings later, you found Fred lounging on a low wall in the courtyard, tossing a Quaffle in the air like he hadn’t a care in the world. You hesitated only a second before marching over, the bag with his clothes clutched tight in your hand.
“Here.” You thrust it at him. “Washed and folded. You’re welcome.”
Fred caught the bag mid-air with a smirk, peering inside before glancing back up at you. “Folded? You’re spoiling me.”
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t get used to it. And…thanks again. For, you know. The other night.”
His grin widened, and he leaned back, looking irritatingly pleased with himself. “That almost sounded like genuine gratitude. Careful, you’ll ruin your reputation.”
Before you could snap back, a group of fourth-years walked past, and one of them sing-songed, “Cute couple alert!” Another chimed in, “Weasley’s finally got himself a girlfriend!” followed by a chorus of laughter.
You blinked after them, heat rushing to your face. “What are they on about?”
Fred chuckled low, enjoying your bewilderment far too much. “Oh, didn’t you know? You’re my girlfriend now.”
Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”
He shrugged, wholly unbothered. “You showed up to a party on my arm. You were wearing my jersey. My name across your back.” He leaned closer, voice dropping just enough to make you flush. “That’s as good as a declaration, sweetheart.”
You groaned, loud and dramatic, dragging your hands down your face. “This is a disaster! Dylan is never going to go for me now if he thinks I’m already taken!”
“Maybe that’s for the best,” Fred muttered under his breath, but when you glared at him, his expression shifted quickly back to smug amusement.
But then an idea sparked, wild and ridiculous, and before you could stop yourself you blurted, “Wait. This could actually work.”
Fred arched a brow. “Dangerous words coming from you.”
“No, listen,” you said, pacing in front of him now, excitement building. “If Dylan sees you and me together, it shows him I’m not the awkward little kid from next door anymore. I’ve grown up. I’m dateable. Desirable, even. And if he thinks you - Fred Weasley, human embodiment of chaos - are interested, maybe he’ll see me differently.”
Fred tilted his head, clearly entertained. “Or,” he drawled, “he’ll think you’re entirely off the market and never bother trying.”
“Not if you help me,” you countered, pointing at him. “You pretend to like me, talk me up to Dylan, and I’ll keep you firmly in the friendzone. He’ll see I’m wanted, but still available. It’s perfect.”
For a moment, Fred just studied you, the Quaffle balanced lazily in his palm. Then, to your surprise, his grin turned sharp. “Alright. I’m in.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately. “What’s the catch? Because there’s no way Fred Weasley is doing something out of the kindness of his heart.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes glinting. “The Spots. Both of them. Forever.”
Your stomach dropped. “What? No. Absolutely not. You can’t be serious!”
“Non-negotiable,” Fred interrupted smoothly. “You want Dylan Green? You want me to play doting fake-boyfriend in front of half the school? I get the willow tree and your little hideaway broom closet. Permanent custody whenever I want it.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but your brain was already conjuring up images of Dylan smiling at you, seeing you as something more than just the girl who wrote plays in the field. Something worthy. Your mum’s voice in your memory was teasing and hopeful, nudging you closer to madness.
You groaned, loud enough that a group of second-years nearby jumped. “Fine. Fine! But if you so much as breathe wrong in this arrangement, I’m revoking it.”
Fred leaned back again, tossing the Quaffle skyward with a grin of victory. “Pleasure doing business with you, darling.”
You scowled, but deep down, a thrill of nerves and anticipation curled in your chest. You’d made a deal with the devil and now there was no turning back.
———————————————————————
Wednesday morning found you bleary-eyed at the Gryffindor table, stirring half-heartedly at your porridge while Luna leaned across the bench, telling you about a dream she’d had involving dirigible plums and a colony of puffskeins. You were nodding along, trying to feign alertness, when someone slid onto the bench beside you with far too much energy for this hour.
“Morning, darling,” Fred said, helping himself to a slice of toast from your plate like he owned it.
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t call me that. And don’t steal my breakfast.”
“Consider it my fee,” he said smoothly, buttering the toast. “For delivering very important news.”
You huffed, but curiosity won. “What news?”
Fred leaned back, grinning. “Saturday night a bunch of the lads are getting together for a friendly Quidditch match on the pitch. Nothing formal, just some flying and showing off. I’ve made sure Dylan’s coming. And,” he added with a meaningful look, “I want you there.”
You blinked. “You want me to…play Quidditch?”
“Not play,” he corrected, smirking. “Spectate. Maybe take a few laps if you’re feeling brave. The point is, it’s a small group, no gaggle of girls hanging around, no distractions. Just you, Dylan, and some quality opportunity for him to see how cool you’ve become.”
Something in his tone prickled, and you set your spoon down with a sharp clink. “Excuse me? Are you suggesting I’m invisible whenever other girls are around?”
Fred immediately raised his hands, mock-innocent. “I didn’t say invisible. Just…less noticeable.”
Your glare could have set him on fire. He grinned, utterly unfazed. But then you found yourself laughing, just a little. Because somehow, over the past few days, his teasing had stopped feeling cruel and started feeling familiar. Like banter instead of battle.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head.
He just leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I’ve been talking you up to Dylan, you know. Convincing him you’re not just the girl who used to wear your mum’s dresses and force us to reenact Romeo and Juliet under the willow tree.”
You flushed, biting back your retort. “I maintain that I just had an artistic spirit.”
“And now you’ve got a chance to prove it’s matured,” Fred said, smug. “So here’s what we’ll do. I’ll get you some clothes to wear, and you’ll—”
“Clothes?” you interrupted, scandalised. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”
“Nothing,” Fred said immediately, too smoothly to be honest. “But for this, you need the whole cool girl makeover. Not your usual ‘off-duty librarian’ chic.” His eyes flicked to your outfit, which was another patterned skirt and blouse combination, and back up, lips twitching. “Jeans. A jumper. Something casual. Like you didn’t try, even though you obviously did.”
Your mouth fell open. “Off-duty librarian? Excuse me?”
Fred only shrugged, that maddening grin never faltering. “Trust me. You’ll thank me later.”
“I will not,” you huffed, crossing your arms. “And where exactly do you plan on getting me these so-called ‘cool girl’ clothes?”
“Oh, that’s the fun bit.” He crunched into your toast, talking around the bite. “We’ll go to Hogsmeade Saturday morning. My treat.”
Your stomach lurched. You’d promised Luna you’d spend Saturday morning with her, looking through the bookshop and sipping butterbeer. But the gleam in Fred’s eyes told you he wasn’t going to let this one go, and the thought of Dylan noticing you at last was too powerful to ignore.
So you sighed, stabbing your porridge with unnecessary force. “Fine. Hogsmeade. Saturday.”
Fred smirked, victorious. “Perfect. Don’t be late. And change your hair.”
Your fork froze mid-air. “What’s wrong with my hair?”
“Nothing,” he said again, eyes dancing. “But I think we should commit to the bit. Full transformation.”
You groaned and dropped your fork with a clatter. “I can’t believe I’m letting you do this to me.”
Fred leaned back, smug as ever, and stole the rest of your toast. “Believe it, sweetheart.”
———————————————————————
Saturday morning came with a drizzle of mist and the kind of crisp autumn air that made you want to bury yourself in blankets. Instead, you found yourself making excuses to Luna at breakfast about piles of unfinished homework before slipping out of the Great Hall with a guilty twinge in your chest.
Fred was already waiting by the gates, hands stuffed in his pockets, hair ruffled by the breeze. He spotted you and grinned in that annoyingly effortless way that made him look like he owned the morning. “Ready, darling?” he drawled.
You scoffed but fell into step beside him as you headed down the sloping path to Hogsmeade. The walk, to your surprise, was easy. You found yourselves talking, not arguing, not bickering, but actually talking. Somehow the subject landed on books, and when Fred casually mentioned Pride and Prejudice, you almost tripped over your own feet.
“You’ve read Austen?”
He shrugged, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Of course. George and I found Mum’s stash years ago. Figured if we were going to pull off good love letters for prank fodder, we had to learn from the best. Ended up actually enjoying them. Don’t tell anyone.”
You blinked at him, caught between disbelief and fascination. “You…liked them?”
“Darcy’s a prat, but he grows on you,” Fred admitted. “And don’t get me started on Heathcliff. ‘Be with me always, take any form, drive me mad, only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you?’ That bloke needs serious therapy, not Catherine.”
A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “I can’t believe this. Fred Weasley quoting the Brontës.”
“And quoting them better than you, sweetheart,” he teased, bumping your shoulder lightly with his.
By the time you reached the shop, you were almost disappointed the walk had to end. Inside, Fred wasted no time plucking jumpers, jeans, and jackets from the racks, piling them into your arms. “Try these. And don’t argue.”
“I’m not putting on a fashion show for you,” you hissed, cheeks heating as he tried to shove you toward the changing rooms.
“Who said show? Just think of it as an evaluation.” His grin widened. “Purely professional.”
You slammed the door of the fitting room in his face, heart hammering. But when you tried on the clothes, you hated to admit he had an eye for it. The jeans fit perfectly, the jumper hugged you in a way that felt casual but chic. You felt confident. It was certainly different from your mum’s dresses and skirts, but not in a bad way. You found yourself almost smiling at your reflection before stomping back out, determined not to let Fred see how much you liked them.
Fred was lounging on a bench when you emerged, a box beside him. He handed it over without ceremony.
“What’s this?” you asked warily.
“Open it.”
Inside sat a pair of chunky white sneakers, gleaming new. You blinked down at them, your throat tightening. “Fred…why?”
“You’re in desperate need of new shoes,” he said simply, eyes flicking down to your worn Mary Janes. “Those things are practically relics.”
You swallowed hard, caught off guard by how much the gesture meant. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t smug. He’d taken the time to notice something as small as your beaten up pair of old shoes.
“Thank you,” you said softly, meaning it more than you expected.
He nodded toward the pile of clothes in your hand, smirk sliding back into place. “So? Verdict?”
You rolled your eyes, but a reluctant smile tugged at your lips. “You have good taste. I’ll give you that.”
“I know I do,” he shot back, smug as ever.
You huffed and carried the clothes to the counter, trying to hide the warmth blooming in your chest.
When you stepped out into the street again, arms full of bags, the last person you expected to see was Luna.
“There you are!” she said brightly, eyes widening at the shopping in your hands before darting to Fred at your side. “I thought you had homework?”
Your brain scrambled. “I did. Finished early. And then I, um…ran into Fred. He needed help picking a present for Ginny. An ‘I’m sorry for pranking you’ present.”
Fred nodded solemnly, playing along. “I’m terribly guilty, you know. It needed a woman’s touch.”
Luna tilted her head, considering, then seemed to accept it with a dreamy smile. “That’s very thoughtful. Well, come on then, there’s a new shop I want to show you!” She looped her arm through yours, tugging you away before you could protest.
You glanced back, panic flickering, but Fred was already stepping forward, plucking the bags from your hands. He leaned in close enough to whisper, “Don’t worry. I’ll keep them safe in the common room.”
You mouthed thank you, once more startled by his unexpected kindness, before Luna tugged you down the street. Fred gave you a cheeky salute as you disappeared into the crowd.
———————————————————————
You burst into the common room, breathless, eyes darting around until you spotted Fred slouched in one of the armchairs. Relief hit you like a wave.
“Thank you!” you exclaimed, snatching the bags out of his arms. “You’re a lifesaver!”
He arched an eyebrow at your dramatic entrance as you sprinted toward the stairs, bags flapping against your legs. “Don’t thank me yet,” he called after you.
An hour later, you emerged from the dormitory transformed. Your hair hung straight and smooth, gleaming in the firelight. Baggy ripped jeans clung comfortably at your hips, paired with a cropped jumper that slipped off one shoulder, the color making your eyes stand out. A touch of makeup softened and defined your features.
Fred was leaning against the wall at the bottom of the staircase, waiting. When you appeared, he visibly froze for half a second before his expression melted into a smirk. He crooked a finger toward you. “Turn.”
Rolling your eyes but secretly fluttery, you spun once on the spot. Fred clapped slowly, dramatically. “Brilliant. I do good work.”
You gave his arm a playful whack. “What about me? I had something to do with it, you know.”
“Yes, well done to you as well,” he replied breezily. “I didn’t know you had the capacity to follow instructions accurately.”
You gasped and smacked him again, but laughter spilled out as the two of you bantered your way out of the tower.
When you reached the grounds, the others were already waiting. Dylan caught sight of you instantly, his face brightening as he waved. He fell into step beside you as you all headed toward the pitch.
“Remember when we used to play tag on brooms? And you’d always chicken out halfway through?” Dylan teased.
You laughed, cheeks warm. “I was small! And uncoordinated. Luna still reminds me of the time I nearly flew into a tree.”
“You and Luna still close then?” he asked.
“Best friends,” you said without hesitation.
Dylan smiled, then casually asked, “Do you remember Alicia?”
Your stomach dropped. “Unfortunately.”
As if summoned, Alicia’s voice called out, “Hey!” You turned to see her jogging toward you, cheeks flushed, smile dazzling.
You bit back a groan as she immediately slotted herself beside Dylan, launching into conversation about her Charms book.
Slipping to the back of the group, you fell into step with Fred. He raised both hands in surrender at your sharp glare. “I swear, I didn’t know she’d show up.”
You let out a resigned breath. “Doesn’t matter. You were right, I disappear as soon as she’s around.”
His voice softened, uncharacteristically gentle. “You don’t disappear.”
Your throat tightened, but you said nothing, keeping your eyes fixed ahead until Alicia veered off toward the locker rooms.
Later, you found yourself curled in the stands with a book, glancing up every so often to watch the boys dive and dart across the pitch. Fred and George were matched against Lee and Dylan, shouts of laughter echoing into the evening air.
“Come on, play with us!” Dylan’s voice cut through the din.
You sat up, startled. “I can’t fly for shit.”
He grinned, dropping to the ground and extending a hand. “I’ll teach you.”
Before you knew it, you were standing by his broom, heart hammering as he adjusted your grip. He gave you a once-over, and you thought maybe you caught something like admiration in his eyes.
“You’ve changed, you know,” he said, almost casually. “You’re not the little kid I remember.”
A surge of pride swelled in you. Victory! You managed to hover clumsily off the ground, Dylan climbing on behind you to steady the broom. His voice brushed against your ear as he guided your movements.
But just as you started to find your balance, he ruined everything by saying, “Fred’s really into you, you know.”
Your grip faltered, the broom dropping a whole meter before Dylan seized control again. “What?” you blurted.
“He’s a great guy,” Dylan said earnestly. “You should give him a chance. If it doesn’t work, no harm done.”
Heat crept into your face. “I don’t see Fred that way.”
“Just think about it,” Dylan urged. “He’s good for you.”
You gritted your teeth, mumbling an agreement just to end the conversation. And then WHAM! Something slammed into your face, white-hot pain exploding across your nose. You toppled sideways off the broom, the ground rushing up until you hit the grass with a thud. Groaning, you clutched your face, tears springing unbidden to your eyes.
Voices blurred around you of George scolding Lee, Lee shouting back, Dylan laughing as he tossed the quaffle into the air. Panic clawed at your chest. Dylan was laughing. At you.
Then Fred’s voice cut through everything. Urgent, steady and close. “Hey, hey, are you okay? Put pressure on it. Come on, let me have a look.”
Your trembling hands were gently pried away. Fred shoved his sweater against your nose, the wool already warm from his body. His hands were steady, his eyes fierce with focus.
You winced but forced a shrug. “I’m fine.”
George crouched beside you. “You’re being ridiculously cool about this. Lee would be bawling.”
“I would not!” Lee shouted. “I don’t cry.”
Fred, still crouched close, smirked faintly. “Oh, I’d cry. Hurts like hell.”
That made you smile through the ache. “Is it bad?” you asked weakly, trying to peel the jumper back.
The collective wince from everyone around made your stomach drop. “Oh, it’s mashed!” Lee blurted. “You look like a Mrs Potatohead.”
“Mrs Potato-what?” George muttered, confused.
Fred’s jaw tightened. “Right, that’s it. We’re going to the hospital wing.”
Before you could argue, he was helping you up, his arm steady around your shoulders as he steered you toward the castle. You pressed his jumper firmly to your nose, blood soaking through.
He kept talking as you walked, spouting nonsense, jokes and banter to keep you distracted from the pain. “So Dylan’s been giving you broom-riding lessons? Romantic, I suppose. Shame they ended with you faceplanting.”
You managed a laugh, pain buzzing through you. Somehow, his voice was grounding.
By the time you stumbled into the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey took one look and clucked her tongue. “Broken. Not to worry, it’ll be mended in a jiffy.”
Fred helped you onto the bed, then lingered long enough to flash you a crooked smile. “Try not to get hit in the face by flying bludgers next time, yeah?”
You waved him off with his bloodied jumper, warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with embarrassment. Maybe you had completely misjudged him.
You were somebody once. Popular, wanted, untouchable. Then you chose Stiles Stilinski. From the moment you sat beside the loud, awkward boy with the buzz cut and the skateboard, your world quietly rearranged itself around him. You give up tables, parties, and expectations for movie nights and bad horror films. You fell in love with him for exactly who he is. But Stiles is in love with Lydia Martin. And loving him means watching him change, watching him become ‘sombody’, shinier, cooler, louder, all in the hope that Lydia will finally choose him back.
Warnings: unrequited love, angsty, canon divergent, popular Stiles AU
———————————————————————
It was late by the time Stiles finally stopped talking. The night had left a metallic taste in your mouth from fear, adrenaline, and the echo of Lydia’s voice saying Jackson’s name like it was the only one that mattered.
You and Stiles were sitting on the hood of his busted up Jeep, legs dangling, the parking lot half-empty and buzzing faintly under flickering lights. The air smelled like oil and wet asphalt. Somewhere past the closed down video store, Beacon Hills pretended to be normal again.
Stiles stared at nothing, his elbows braced on his knees, fingers worrying at the frayed edge of his hoodie.
“She deserves better,” he said, for what felt like the tenth time. His voice was rough, chewed up. “I mean, come on. Jackson treats her like crap. He lies, he uses her, he literally turned into a reptilian monster with paralytic venom and a tail and she still…” He huffed out a humourless laugh. “She still chose him.”
You said nothing. You’d learned that interrupting him when he spiraled only made it worse.
“I would’ve treated her right,” he went on. “I would’ve actually cared. I wouldn’t have…” He gestured vaguely, like the word Kanima was still too big to touch after watching Jackson get skewered by Peter and Derek’s claws. “I don’t know. I’d be better. But she doesn’t want better. She wants him. And I’m just…” His mouth twisted. “Me.”
Something in your chest cracked. “You don’t even like who you are anymore,” you said quietly.
He blinked, finally turning to look at you. “What?”
“You don’t,” you repeated, firmer now. “You’ve been blowing off Scott. You’ve been ditching me. You keep changing the way you talk, the way you dress, the way you…” You stopped yourself, exhaling. “You act like a completely different person around her.”
“That’s not—”
“It is,” you cut in. Your hands clenched in your lap. “And I don’t get it. Why would you want to be with someone who doesn’t like you for who you actually are?”
He laughed, sharp and bitter. “Because no one likes me for who I actually am.”
The words landed like a slap. Something hot and furious surged up your spine before you could stop it. All the swallowed feelings. All the nights you’d sat beside him, invisible. All the ways you’d shrunk yourself just to stay close.
“I DID!” The sound of your own voice startled you. It was loud and raw, echoing off the empty asphalt.
———————————————————————
FRESHMAN YEAR, Week 1
The first week of high school felt like a runway. The halls of Beacon Hills High buzzed with noise and nerves, lockers slamming and laughter ringing too loud, but you moved through it all like you already belonged. You always had. Hair perfect, outfit effortless in that way people pretended was accidental. You laughed easily, touched arms when you talked, knew when to smile and when to roll your eyes. People watched you walk by, not subtly.
At lunch, you slid into your usual seat without looking, the table already shifting to make room. Lydia Martin was mid-sentence, animated, gorgeous, holding court like she’d been born knowing everyone would listen. You were her mirror in a way. Her best friend, co-conspirator, the other half of the pair people talked about in low voices. Them. The girls everyone wanted to be. The girls everyone wanted.
“So anyway,” Lydia said, twirling a fork through her salad, “Jackson thinks tryouts are basically his already.”
You hummed, half-listening, eyes drifting across the cafeteria out of habit. There were the athletes. The cheerleaders. The band kids clumped together. Social ecosystems already forming, lines being drawn. And then you saw him.
He was two tables over, off to the side. Not lost exactly, but separate. Like he and his friend existed in their own orbit. He was talking with his whole body, hands flying, mouth moving too fast, head tipping back as he laughed at his own joke. His hair was buzzed short, uneven like it had been done in someone’s bathroom, and he wore a red flannel over a graphic tee that looked a little too old for him. There was a skateboard propped against his leg, scuffed and loved.
His friend with the shaggy brown hair and slightly lopsided jaw sat beside him, smiling patiently, nodding along. They looked ridiculous. They looked authentic, nothing like the posing and fake smiles and surface conversations you were used to.
Something in your chest tilted. You kept watching, unnoticed, as he stood abruptly, nearly knocking over his chair, grabbing the skateboard and spinning it once before tucking it under his arm like it was an extension of him. He said something that made his friend laugh harder this time, wide and unguarded.
“Who’s that?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Lydia followed your gaze, frowning faintly. “Who?”
“Him. Buzz cut. Flannel.”
She squinted. “Oh. I don’t know. Some kid. Total nobody.”
You didn’t respond but you couldn’t look away.
Later, in the hallway, you saw him again. He was skating down the corridor like the rules didn’t apply to him, weaving clumsily around startled freshmen, apologizing loudly even as he kept going. A teacher shouted. He saluted with two fingers and hopped off the board, nearly tripping, laughing breathlessly.
Your friends groaned. “Ugh, what an idiot.” Jackson rolled his eyes.
You smiled. He caught your eye by accident, just for a second. Honey brown eyes, curious and sharp and bright with something unfiltered. He looked away immediately, like he wasn’t used to being looked at at all. Your heart did a strange, stupid thing.
That night, lying in bed, you didn’t think about Diego’s jawline or the way people had leaned in when you spoke at lunch. You thought about the boy with the skateboard and the too-fast mouth and the flannel like armor. About how alive he seemed in a world obsessed with being polished.
You didn’t know his name yet. But you knew, with a certainty that would follow you for years, that you were utterly enamoured with him.
———————————————————————
FRESHMAN YEAR, Week 3
The classroom smelled like dry erase markers and new paper, the kind of scent that only existed at the start of the year before everything got worn down. Desks scraped as students claimed their seats in clusters, gravitating toward people who already felt safe.
Scott and Stiles had taken their usual position, which was the second row from the back, slightly off-center. Not hiding, just not exactly expecting company. Stiles was halfway through a whispered rant, leaning back in his chair, legs stretched out.
“I’m just saying, if the syllabus is already more than three pages long, that’s a red flag. That’s like…” he gestured vaguely with his pen, “epic foreshadowing.”
Scott snorted. “You haven’t even looked at it yet.”
“I don’t need to. I feel it. This class is going to single-handedly destroy my motivation for academic excellence.”
That was when the chair beside Stiles moved. It wasn’t begrudgingly chosen as a last resort or hesitated over. It was simply pulled out and occupied like it had always been yours.
Stiles froze mid-sentence, and Scott blinked at you, dumbfounded. You set your bag down neatly, crossed one leg over the other, and pulled out a notebook like this was the most natural thing in the world. Like you didn’t usually sit two rows closer to the front.
You glanced up, catching both of their expressions, and smiled. Your friendliness was easy and warm. It came naturally. “Hi,” you said. “Is this seat taken?”
Stiles looked at Scott. Scott looked at Stiles. Their faces clearly said ‘I don’t know what’s happening, man,’ as though reality was glitching.
“N—no,” Stiles said finally, voice cracking just a little. “I mean. Yes. I mean, no one. It’s…” He gestured at the chair like it might bite him. “It’s all yours! That is, iff you still want it after that attack of verbal diarrhoea.”
“Cool.” You nodded and laughed lightly, finding his rambling adorable, and opened your notebook.
Both of them short-circuited. “You’re actually sitting here?” Scott repeated politely, like maybe this was a test.
You smiled, light and genuine. “Sorry.” you said your name, offering your hand first to Scott, then to Stiles. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
Scott shook your hand, still visibly confused. “I’m Scott.”
“Stiles,” he blurted immediately after, too fast. “Stiles Stilinski. That’s, uh, my name. Obviously.”
You smiled at him a little longer than necessary. The teacher started writing highlights from the syllabus up on the board. You leaned slightly toward them, lowering your voice conspiratorially.
“So,” you said, tapping the syllabus that has already been handed out on your desk, “do we think ‘three essays’ means three essays? Or, like, three essays plus at least ten surprise quizzes? Because four pages of syllabus? We’re not covering that in three assignments.”
Stiles let out a startled laugh before he could stop himself. “Oh my God,” he said. “You get it.”
Scott grinned. “I told him it wouldn’t be that bad.”
“It’s always that bad,” Stiles said solemnly. Then, catching himself, he glanced at you. “I mean, not that I’m pessimistic or anything.”
You tilted your head, amused. “You kind of are.”
His mouth opened like he was about to protest but then he thought about it for a second and promptly closed his mouth. “…Yeah,” he admitted. “Okay. I am.”
The last bell rang, the room settling into quiet as the teacher began speaking, but something had already shifted. Stiles sat a little straighter, hyper-aware of the space between your arm and his. Scott watched the two of you with faint disbelief, like he was waiting for someone to tell him this was a prank.
You took notes, whispered comments, leaned in when Stiles muttered sarcastic observations under his breath. Like you’d always been meant to be there. And for the first time since walking into that school, Stiles didn’t feel like a nobody. Not when you chose to sit next to him.
———————————————————————
FRESHMAN YEAR, Week 4
By Thursday, people had started to notice. It began with strange looks, side-eye glances, whispers that followed you down the hall, conversations that dipped when you passed. At lunch, the table felt tighter than usual, bodies angled away instead of in.
You sat down anyway, unbothered on the surface, stirring your yogurt like it wasn’t suddenly very important where you chose to sit.
“So,” one of the girls said, dragging the word out. “Are you, like, adopting strays now?”
A few snickers followed her comment. You even didn’t look up.
“Because,” another added, leaning forward, eyes bright with curiosity and cruelty, “you’ve been spending a lot of time with Scott McCall and, what’s his name? Stiles?”
You lifted your gaze slowly. “Stiles Stilinski.”
That only made them laugh harder. Lydia slid into the seat beside you a moment later, immaculate as ever, Jackson hovering behind her like a shadow. She smiled when she saw you.
“Party tomorrow,” she said lightly. “Jackson’s parents are out of town.”
Jackson smirked like it was the highest honour to be hosting the first party of the year. Which for him, it probably was. You couldn’t find it in you to care all that much. You knew Stiles wouldn’t be going.
You shook your head. “I can’t.”
Lydia blinked. “Why not?”
“It’s movie night,” you said. “At Stiles’s house.”
The table went quiet. Lydia tilted her head, lips curving, eyes sharpening. “Okay,” she said calmly. “I’m going to make this really clear for you.”
You stiffened, but you didn’t interrupt.
“This is high school,” she continued. “We’re not all holding hands and sucking on juice boxes in the sandpit anymore. There are people who are in…and people who are out.”
Her gaze flicked meaningfully across the cafeteria toward Scott and Stiles’ table.
“Hanging out with those losers?” Lydia said softly. “That’s total social suicide.”
Jackson crossed his arms, satisfied. “If you don’t come to the party,” He finished, smiling like he already knew what your answer would be, “you’re out.”
He and Lydia waited as you looked at them for a long moment. At the girl you’d grown up with and her meathead boyfriend of all of three weeks. At world she represented, and the safety of being adored without effort.
Then you exhaled, letting it all go. “Well,” you said evenly, standing and slinging your bag over your shoulder, “then I guess I’m out.”
The smile on Lydia’s face faltered, just a fraction.
“See you around, guys,” you added, already turning away. You didn’t look back.
The walk across the cafeteria felt longer than it should have. Every step hummed with awareness, eyes burning into your back, the low murmur swelling behind you.
Scott looked up first when you stopped at their table. “Uh, hey?” he said like it was more of a question, genuinely confused.
Stiles squinted up at you, suspicious. “Uh, what are you doing?”
You didn’t answer. Instead, you reached down, casually grabbed a chip from Scott’s plate, and popped it into your mouth. Then you set your tray down, pulled a cookie from your bag, and nudged it toward him. “Trade,” you said.
Scott blinked. “…Okay.”
You slid into the seat beside Stiles like it was the only place you’d ever belonged. “So,” you said, glancing between them, your voice easy. “Important question. How do we feel about Gremlins on Friday night?”
Stiles’s laugh that came after your questions was short, incredulous, and a little breathless.“…I think,” he said slowly, “a double feature sounds even better because Gremlins two is definitely better than one.”
You didn’t miss the table you left behind at all.
———————————————————————
SOPHOMORE YEAR, Week 3
You’d spent too long getting ready. The outfit was casual in a way that took effort, soft enough to look accidental, cool enough to look effortless. Your hair sat exactly how you wanted it to, makeup light but intentional. You checked yourself one last time in the mirror and told your reflection not to be stupid. It was just a movie night.
But Scott wasn’t coming, and that meant it was just you and Stiles.
His house smelled like he’d already gotten the usually snacks ready. Buttered popcorn and nachos. You kicked your shoes off at the door, heart already racing, palms slick. Stiles hovered, jittery as ever, talking too fast as he led you to the couch.
“Scott bailed,” he said, flopping down and grabbing the remote. “Something about homework, but we both know that’s code for Allison.”
You smiled, settling beside him. Close enough that your knees almost touched. You noticed everything. The way he sat with one leg tucked under him. The way his fingers drummed restlessly against the arm of the couch. The way his buzz cut caught the light from the TV, softening the sharp angles of his face. He was wearing a worn hoodie, sleeves pushed up, collar stretched just slightly at the neck.
God, you liked him. You liked how loud he was. How fast. How he filled space without asking permission. Your thoughts kept drifting to the distance between you, how easy it would be to lean in, to let your shoulder brush his, to say something that would change everything.
You’d decided tonight was the night. The movie started. It was some eighties horror you barely registered, but you were too aware of him beside you to pay attention. Your whole world narrowed to Stiles Stilinski. The rise and fall of his chest. The way he laughed at jokes before they landed. The way his arm rested along the back of the couch, not around you, but close enough to feel like a possibility.
Then he spoke. “You know,” he said suddenly, eyes still on the screen, voice casual but charged, “this is actually kind of…good timing.”
Your heart stuttered. “Yeah?” you said, trying to sound normal.
“Well,” He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Now that Scott’s with Allison, and Allison’s friends with Lydia, it’s like…I don’t know. I might actually have a shot.”
The words hit before you could brace for them. A shot. “With Lydia,” you clarified, as if there were any doubt, your stomach dropping.
“I mean, I’ve been into her since, like, third grade,” he went on, warming to the subject, oblivious. “We were doing a project on Ancient Greek mythology and she was yelling at some guy for pronouncing Persephone wrong, and I still thought she was the most beautiful person I’d ever seen. Isn’t that pathetic?”
He laughed softly, fondly. Like the memory was something precious. You stared at the TV, the screen blurring just a little. “No,” you said quietly. “It’s not pathetic.”
He kept talking. About Lydia. About timing. About how things finally felt like they were lining up for him. Every word felt like a small, careful cut. Not deep enough to kill you, just enough to make you bleed slowly. You nodded when you were supposed to. Smiled when it was expected. Inside, something folded in on itself.
You’d imagined this night so differently. Alone at his house, just the two of you on the couch. You’d thought maybe he’d notice how close you were sitting. How much effort you’d made. You’d thought maybe he’d see you. Instead, you were watching him talk about how in love he was with someone else.
You leaned back slightly, putting space between you, pretending it was just comfort. Pretending your chest didn’t ache. Pretending this wasn’t the first time your feelings had been quietly, unintentionally dismissed.
It wouldn’t be the last. But you didn’t know that yet. All you knew was that you sat there beside him, heart breaking in inches, while the movie played on unwatched, and you loved him anyway.
———————————————————————
SOPHOMORE YEAR, Week 8
You were practically vibrating with excitement when you slid onto the bench. You didn’t even sit first, just plopped your bag down and immediately started rummaging, fingers tangling around plastic cases as Scott and Stiles looked up at you.
“Okay,” you said, breathless, triumphant, pulling them out one by one and lining them up on the table like precious artifacts. “I went to the video store, and I may have gone a little overboard, but I regret nothing.”
Scott leaned forward, curious. “What’d you get?”
You grinned, tapping each case as you named them. “The Labrynth. The Lost Boys. And Poltergeist.”
Stiles’ eyebrows shot up. “Oh my god.”
“Right?” you said. “So, question. Do we pick one for Friday night, or do we commit to a full-blown marathon and destroy our retinas and sleep schedules in one fell swoop?”
Scott laughed. “A marathon sounds—”
He didn’t get to finish.
“Hey,” The voice came from behind you. It was light, magnetic, and unfortunately for you, familiar.
Your stomach sank before you even turned around. Lydia slid onto the bench across from Stiles like she belonged there. Allison followed, then Jackson, then Danny, then two other people you used to sit with without thinking twice. The table filled fast, becoming loud and crowded.
Just like that, the air changed. Stiles straightened instantly. His shoulders rolled back. His voice shifted lower, cooler, clipped in a way you’d never heard it sound around you.
“Uh, hey,” he said, smiling too quickly.
You glanced at him, waiting. Waiting for him to finish the conversation you’d started. Waiting for him to look back at the movies still fanned out on the table between your hands. He didn’t.
“Whatcha got there?” Danny asked casually, nodding at the cases.
“Oh,” you began, relieved for the opening. “I was just saying—”
“The video tapes?” Stiles cut in suddenly, laughing like it was nothing. “Yeah, uh, she’s really into, like, old horror stuff.”
She. Not we. She. You went still.
Lydia’s attention flicked to Stiles fully now, assessing him interestedly. “We’re going skating on Friday,” she said. “After dinner. You should come.”
Your heart lurched. “Oh,” you said quickly. “Actually, Friday’s movie night—”
“Skating sounds great.” Stiles’ voice was immediate and decisive. Then he went on, energized now, riding the moment. “I can probably get us the keys from this guy that works at the rink. We could go after hours, make it private.”
Lydia smiled, impressed. “That’d be amazing,” she said.
Jackson nodded approvingly. “Yeah. Do that.”
You stared at Stiles in shock. This version of him - the confident tilt of his chin, the way he talked like access and favors were nothing to him, the way he didn’t even glance at you to check in - it felt like watching someone wear his body but speak with a different mouth.
You didn’t say anything. The movies sat untouched in front of you, suddenly ridiculous. Plastic and stupid and heavy with a plan that no longer existed. Conversation buzzed around you, but you faded to the edge of the table like a ghost no one noticed.
Stiles leaned closer to Lydia, trying and failing to make her laugh. Scott caught your eye once, his brow furrowing. He was just as confused as you, but he didn’t say anything. Neither did you. You just sat there, silent, watching the boy you liked turn into someone else entirely.
———————————————————————
SOPHOMORE YEAR, Week 13
You sat at the table with your hands folded in your lap, shoulders drawn in just slightly, like if you took up any more space you might be noticed, and not in a good way. The voices around you blurred together into noise that no longer belonged to you.
Stiles was talking. Of course he was. He leaned back against the bench, easy and loose in a way you didn’t recognize, trading jokes with Danny, laughing a little louder than necessary when Jackson smirked at something cruel. He interrupted Allison mid-sentence just to make Lydia laugh. It worked, she did, tilting her head, eyes bright, her attention successfully caught.
You watched him do it. Watched the way he mirrored them now. The cadence of his voice slower, smoother. The sarcasm sharpened and sanded down all at once. His attitude was less frantic, less him. He nodded along to conversations about parties you weren’t invited to, about people you didn’t know anymore, about weekends that no longer included you.
You didn’t know when it had happened, when you’d stopped understanding the references, when the jokes had stopped landing, but suddenly you were very aware that you were the only one not speaking. Not laughing. Not included.
Your tray sat untouched. The food had gone cold. Stiles didn’t look at you once. Not when Lydia brushed her knee against his. Not when Jackson scoffed at something and Stiles laughed along. Not when Danny asked about lacrosse and Stiles chimed in eagerly, like he’d always belonged in rooms like this.
It was a performance. You could see it now, clear as day. The posture. The confidence worn like borrowed clothes. He was becoming someone else in real time, sanding down the sharp edges that made him Stiles Stilinski and replacing them with something easier to like. Easier to accept. All for Lydia.
Your chest ached with the effort of staying quiet. You stared at the table, at the scratched surface, at the condensation ring from someone else’s drink. You wondered if anyone would notice if you stood up and walked away.
Then Scott’s hand found yours beneath the table. You startled slightly, fingers twitching, and when you looked up, he was already watching you. His expression was soft, concerned, apologetic in a way that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the fact that he saw it.
He squeezed your hand gently. It was a silent ‘I know’. Your throat tightened. Across the table, Stiles laughed again and for a moment you almost didn’t recognise the sound at all. In that small, hidden space beneath the table, where the noise couldn’t reach you, you held onto the only thing that still felt real. The knowledge that someone else also knew exactly how much this hurt.
———————————————————————
SOPHOMORE YEAR, Summer Break
“I DID!” The sound of your own voice startled you. It was loud and raw, echoing off the empty asphalt.
Stiles froze. You stood up abruptly, sliding off the hood of the Jeep with your heart hammering, breath coming too fast. “I did,” you repeated, your voice shaking now. “I liked you when you were loud and weird and too much. When you had the buzz cut and the stupid sarcasm and the ADHD rambling and the—” You laughed weakly, tears stinging your eyes. “God, you were such a beautiful disaster.”
He stared at you like the ground had shifted under his feet.
“I was somebody,” you went on, the words spilling out before you could swallow them back. “People knew me. Liked me. I had a table to sit at, Stiles, and I gave it up because I wanted to sit next to you instead. Because I liked you. Not this version you keep trying to sell Lydia, the real you.”
Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. Stiles opened and shut his mouth repeatedly like a gaping fish, unable to form coherent words. His eyes were wide and panicked, like he was afraid any movement might make this worse.
You wiped at your face angrily, humiliated now that it was out. “I shouldn’t have said that,” you whispered. “I’m sorry. Just, forget it.”
You turned away before he could stop you, before he could say something that would break you open even more. Behind you, his voice cracked your name, but you didn’t look back. You walked off into the dark, leaving him standing there alone with the truth.
You knew if you were Lydia walking away from him, he’d follow. But you weren’t Lydia, and he just watched you go.
Beacon Hills is a warzone and Deucalion’s daughter is dropped into it like a match to gasoline. Sent to seduce Stiles Stilinski and spy on Scott’s pack, she doesn’t expect to find laughter, warmth, and a boy who makes her feel human again. The more she learns about Scott’s pack, the harder it becomes to keep playing her part, so she chooses to keep the peace. The problem with choosing peace is that it makes you a traitor to both sides. But secrets rot and betrayal burns when Stiles learns who she really is. She is then faced with a choice between the father who made her and the pack that reminded her what family actually means.
———————————————————————
The first time you saw him, he was talking too fast. He spoke in the same way a river would when it spilled over rocks and refused to slow for anything in its path. Stiles Stilinski was leaning against the battered blue lockers outside the Beacon Hills High library, his long limbs folded in angles that look accidentally elegant. His hands moved when he spoke, just as quickly and fluidly as his words with restless gestures that sliced through the air like punctuation marks.
“I’m just saying,” he insisted, his voice rising with dramatic frustration, “statistically speaking, if you survive a supernatural murder spree twice, the odds of a third one are—”
“Don’t say it,” Scott McCall, the beta on his way to becoming an alpha, groaned.
You watched them from across the hallway near the trophy case. Your father’s instructions echoed in your mind. The boy is close to the True Alpha. Gain his trust. Learn what he knows. You had expected someone sharper. Someone dangerous. Someone who carried an air of importance. Instead, you found…this. A boy with restless brown eyes and messy hair that refuses to obey gravity. A boy whose sarcasm crackled like static electricity. A boy who laughed too loudly and stood too close to his friends, like proximity itself might keep the world from taking them away.
You hated how immediately interesting he was. You hated it even more when he noticed you, because Stiles’ gaze snagged on you like a hook. His sentence cut off mid-word. “If we don’t find this guy soon—”
He stared and you stared right back. For a moment the hallway noise faded into a dull blur of lockers slamming and students shouting across tiled floors. Then he leaned slightly toward Scott without breaking eye contact. “Who is that?” he whispered, completely unaware that you could hear even that across the hall.
Scott glanced over and you deliberately looked away. “New girl,” Scott shrugged, not yet skilled enough with his senses to smell the supernatural on you.
But Stiles kept looking. You felt his eyes on you like a gravitational force that pawed at your attention. His gaze was almost physical, like the warmth of sunlight lingering on your skin. You straightened from the wall and walked toward them, each step measured. It was a predatory stalk, because that was what you were raised to be. Deucalion’s daughter, the child of the Demon Wolf. You had grown up with stories of power whispered into your ears like bedtime prayers. Strength. Dominance. Survival. Mercy was weakness.
Your father used to braid your hair when you were small. You remembered that. Before he lost his sight. Before he created the Alpha Pack. Before the darkness in his glowing red eyes turned bottomless. But that memory was dangerous, you buried it, and you smiled.
When you reached Stiles, you tilted your head slightly. The motion was calculated, a performance of subtle curiosity mixed with softness. “Hi,” you said. Your voice came out warm and friendly.
Stiles blinked at you several times, his mouth opening and closing like a malfunctioning animatronic.
Scott snorted. “You good, man?”
“I, uh…yeah! No, yeah!” Stiles ran a hand through his hair, which only made it worse. “Hi.”
You hid your amusement behind a polite expression. “Hi.”
A beat passed and Stiles finally gestured awkwardly. “I’m Stiles. Which is not my real name but also kind of is my real name and I promise it’s less confusing than it sounds.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Is it?”
“No.”
Scott laughed at his friend. “I’m Scott.”
You looked over at him. There was something warm about Scott McCall. He had a steady and luminous energy beneath his quiet demeanour, like a campfire burning in a dark forest. You couldn’t understand why your father feared him. But it was Stiles who drew your attention back like gravity.
“So,” he said quickly, “new girl. Do you, uh, have a name?”
You let the moment stretch just long enough before telling him. He repeated it softly, as though testing how it felt in his mouth.
“I was hoping you’d be able to point me in the right direction. I have no clue where I’m going.” You held up your timetable and Stiles instantly enthusiastically offered to show you the way.
Over the next few weeks, the plan unfolded with alarming ease. You sat beside Stiles in class, you laughed at his rambling theories, you walked with him to your cars after school beneath the gold-washed light of late autumn afternoons. Beacon Hills felt deceptively peaceful during those hours.
Leaves scattered across the pavement like fragments of dying fire and wind whispered through tall trees lining the streets. Stiles talked the entire time. About everything, and about nothing at all. He told you about Lydia and Scott and lacrosse and conspiracy theories that the cafeteria meatloaf was actually a government experiment to see if humans could differentiate between the taste of regular meats and rodent.
You listened, laughed, and learned all you could. And slowly something inside you began to shift, because Stiles Stilinski was kind. He didn’t hold any of the fragile politeness of strangers. Instead he was unapologetically himself and bore the stubborn, reckless kindness of someone who cared too much. Not about everyone, but for his people. His father, and his friends, and respect few others it was true. But it seemed you had made that lists He held open doors, he remembered small details. Once he noticed you shivering and silently draped his hoodie over your shoulders.
The fabric smelled like detergent and faint cologne and something indefinably him. Perhaps it was the smell of erratic energy that always seemed to linger around him. You told yourself it was just part of the mission. That the warmth blooming in your chest was part of your strategy. But at times - especially late at night, or when the Alpha Pack gathered in the woods and Kali’s claws gleamed in moonlight and Ennis laughed like thunder - you remembered the way Stiles looked at you. It made your chest ache in a way that felt dangerously close to missing him.
The first time he kissed you, it was raining. Not a gentle drizzle, but a full autumn storm. Water drummed against rooftops and soaked the streets until everything reflected silver under the streetlights. You and Stiles were standing outside his jeep. He had insisted upon taking you home. You didn’t need protection. You could snap the spine of anything that tried to hurt you. He didn’t know that, of course, but even if he did you’d suspect he’d still walk you home, because that was who he was.
His hair was plastered to his forehead, soaked through. “You know,” he’d said breathlessly, “this might be the worst possible moment to say this because I’m ninety percent sure pneumonia is setting in, but—”
You stepped closer. “Stiles.”
He stopped and you were surprised when your own heart pounded like thunder. This hadn’t been part of the plan, but suddenly the thought of not kissing him felt unbearable so you grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him down. His lips crashed against yours in startled confusion. For half a second he froze before he kissed you back. His motions were hard and desperate, like he’d been waiting for this moment without even knowing it.
Rain poured down around you, cold water streaming down your face, but his hands slid to your waist and the warmth of his touch burned through the storm. You felt euphoric and the closest to being a teenage girl that you ever had been.
———————————————————————
The bedroom was dim except for the amber glow of Stiles’ desk lamp. It threw long shadows across the room over stacks of crumpled research papers, a cluttered corkboard of red string and newspaper clippings, and the piles of books and empty soda cans that seem to define Stiles Stilinski’s natural habitat. The window was cracked open, letting in the cool night air of Beacon Hills. Outside the crickets hummed softly like a distant chorus.
You sat cross-legged on his bed. Stiles was sprawled beside you, half on his stomach with a notebook open in front of him, pen tapping anxiously against the paper. His brows were pulled together in intense concentration, the little crease between them deepening as he spoke.
“Okay, so here’s the thing,” he said, waving the pen in the air like a conductor’s baton. “Sacrificial magic isn’t random. It’s never random. There’s always a pattern.”
You leaned back against the headboard, watching him. Your eyes followed the way his hair stuck up in a dozen stubborn directions and how his eyes burned bright when he talked about mysteries and monsters. You loved the way his hands moved when he was excited, like his fingers were sketching invisible diagrams in the air. It’s was unbelievably endearing to you.
“What kind of pattern?” you asked lightly. Your voice was casual and curious, but beneath it, your senses were razor sharp. Listening and learning. This was what you were sent here for.
Stiles glanced up at you and his expression softened instantly. It was as though the storm in his mind quietened the moment he saw you and it made your stomach flutter.
“Well,” he said, shifting closer, “we’ve got three victims so far, all in different locations and under slightly different circumstances. But the cause of death is consistent. Head bashed in, throat cut, and strangulation. But there’s more to it than that. There’s a system to who gets taken.”
You tilted your head. “Like symbolic sacrifices?”
He nodded eagerly. “Yes! Yes, exactly. Symbolism. Think ritualistic magic, ancient druid stuff. Each sacrifice represents something.” He flipped the notebook toward you, his messy handwriting filling the pages.
You leaned closer to read the almost indecipherable scrawl and your shoulder brushed his. The contact was brief but the electricity that sparked along your skin was anything but. It lingered on. You studied the page and then looked back at him. His whisky eyes were glued to you, and you suspected they’d never left.
For a moment the world narrowed to just the two of you and the tension that hummed between you like a live wire. That was, until you remembered exactly what you were meant to be here for. Breaking yourself out of the trance, you reached over and stole the pen from his hand.
He protested immediately. “Hey, hey! That’s my thinking pen!”
“You have a thinking pen?”
“Yes,” he said seriously. “It’s very important to the process.”
You twirled it between your fingers playfully. “Seems pretty ordinary.”
“That pen has seen things,” he said dramatically. “Terrible things, like calculus.”
You laughed and the sound filled the room, light and bright. Stiles stared at you like the sun just rose before his eyes. God. You realise with a quiet shock that you love making him look at you like that just as much as you love it when he makes you laugh.
You set the pen down. “So what’s the symbolism behind the sacrifices?” you asked.
Stiles cleared his throat awkwardly. “So far we think they’re connected to, uh…purity.”
“Purity?” you repeated.
“Yeah.” His expression became sheepish “Which would mean…” You watched him carefully as he rubbed the back of his neck. “…virgins.”
Silence hung in the room for half a second as you wondered about the potential benefits of such a sacrifice. “Virgins.”
Stiles nodded awkwardly. “Yeah. Which, okay, sounds very medieval and weird but hear me out.”
You tried not to smile. “Go on.”
“Heather was the first person to be taken, and she told me herself she was a virgin. Then, Lydia found the second body and he was wearing a purity ring.”
“Okay…could there be another possible link?” You questioned, noticing his rising anxiety in the way his hands fidgeted.
“If there is, I haven’t found it yet. But if it is virgins, which I’m thinking it is, then it’s bad. Really bad.” His chest rose and fell rapidly.
“I mean, any human sacrifice is bad, right? Even non-virgins don’t deserve to get ritualistically murdered,” you joked.
“No, I mean, yes, but no, that’s not what I meant.” He shook his head.
“Oh?” Your brows furrowed in confusion until he pointed at himself. “Oh.” Your eyes widened in realisation.
“Mhmm,” he nodded
You bit your lip. “Stiles. You don’t seriously think you might be next?”
“Well when you say it like that it sounds really bad.” He groaned and flopped backward onto the bed. “I’m going to die because I’m a virgin. This is humiliating.”
You laughed again as he covered his face with both hands. “You’re not going to die.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m pretty confident.”
He peeked at you through his fingers. “You seem weirdly calm about my potential ritual sacrifice.”
You shifted closer to him on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. “Maybe I have a solution.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “A solution?”
You nodded, leaning forward and gazing up at him under an umbrella of dark lashes. “Mm.”
“And this solution would involve…?” He swallowed thickly, eyes trained on your every movements.
Your hair fell around your face like a curtain and your voice was soft when you answered “Changing that.”
Stiles froze, like someone had unplugged the power source to his brain. “Changing…the…the virgin…thing?”
You smiled faintly. “Yes.”
He sat up so quickly he almost head-butted you.“Wait.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Wait?”
“I just want to clarify,” He gestured frantically between the two of you. “What exactly are you suggesting here?”
Your fingers slid into the collar of his flannel shirt and you used it to pull him closer. “Take a guess.”
The breath left him in a quiet rush. His eyes searched your face and suddenly the nervous humor faded. He saw your expression and saw the genuine care behind your eyes. You wanted this. Not for the mission, or for the Alpha Pack, or even for your father. You wanted this for you. For the girl who felt lighter when she was around him. For the girl who believed, just for a moment, that maybe the world could be something other than violence and power.
Stiles touched your cheek hesitantly. “You don’t have to do that,” he said softly.
Your chest tightened. “I know.”
His thumb brushed your jaw. “I’d be perfectly happy just making out with you until I die in some horrifying druid sacrifice.”
You laughed under your breath. “That’s a very noble plan.”
“I’m a noble guy.” His words were soft and his tone wrapped around your heart and warmed it.
You leaned forward and your lips met his again. This time the kiss deepened instantly. His hands slid into your hair and your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. The kiss became breathless and hungry and warm all at once, like a wildfire catching in dry grass.
Between kisses he murmured something incoherent and you laughed against his mouth.“Still thinking about dying?”
“Significantly less,” he breathed.
You kissed him again, and when things finally slowed later, when the room was quiet and warm and Stiles was lying beside you with his arm around your waist, you felt something bloom in your chest. It was fragile and terrifying. It was pure happiness. Something you hadn’t granted yourself in a long time.
Stiles traced lazy patterns on your arm. “So,” he murmured.
“Yes?”
“If I survive this whole supernatural sacrifice situation…”
You glanced at him. “…yeah?”
“I’d like to take you on a real date.”
Your heart stumbled. “A real date?”
“Yeah.” He smiled sleepily. “Like a normal human date. With food and no talk about murder.”
You swallowed the little burst of excitement and nervousness that rose. “I’d like that.”
Your phone buzzed suddenly on the nightstand. The sound sliced through the moment like a blade, popping your happy little bubble. You reached for it and turned it over, glancing at the screen. Your stomach dropped instantly.
Deucalion. Just the sight of your father’s name flashing across your phone felt like a shadow crawling across your spine.The message was short. ‘Come home’.Your chest tightened with guilt.
You sat up quickly. “I should go.”
Stiles frowned immediately. “Already?”
You pulled your clothes back on hurriedly. “Yeah I, uh, I promised someone I’d meet them.”
The lie tasted bitter on your tongue. Stiles watched you carefully, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “Hey,” he said quietly.
You paused. “Yeah?”
He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “You…you had a good time, right?”
The vulnerability in his voice hit you like a knife. You walked back to the bed and kissed him softly. “I did.” You meant it, but the guilt coiled tighter in your chest as you pulled away.
Because you knew exactly what he didn’t. You were sent here to betray him. And somehow, somewhere along the way, you stopped wanting to.
———————————————————————
The building was silent when you arrived. Your boots echoed softly against the concrete floor as you stepped inside the penthouse apartment the Alpha Pack had claimed as both a vantage point over the Argents, but also as a base of operations.
You knew before you even saw them that they were there. Your wolf senses noticed the shift in the air first. The scent of alphas was one of raw power. It was ancient and dangerous, coiling beneath your skin.
You stepped further into the apartment and there they all were, standing gathered at the dining table. A council of predators. Kali leaned lazily against the wall, her dark hair spilling over one shoulder, claws idly tracing lazy circles across the table top. The movement was slow and deliberate, like a cat sharpening its nails. Ennis stood right next to her, massive and silent, his arms crossed over his chest. His presence always filled a room like a thunderhead waiting to break. The twins were sat slumped in chairs and at the center of them was your father.
Deucalion. The Demon Wolf stood perfectly still, hands folded behind his back like a king surveying his court. Even blind, he commanded the room and could read it just as easily. His head tilted slightly as you entered.
Your name rolled off his tongue like velvet stretched over steel. “You’re late.”
You swallowed the lingering warmth of Stiles’ room, the scent of his sheets, the memory of his hands, and pushed it down deep where no one could smell it. “I was out.”
Kali smirked. “Busy night?”
You ignored her. Your father turned slightly toward you. “Come closer.”
You obeyed him, not because you wanted to, but because instinct and years of conditioning demanded it. When you reached him, the familiar scent of him hit you. Old leather, aftershave, and beneath it all, the copper tang of blood that never quite left him.
“Scott McCall has made contact,” Deucalion said calmly.
The words tightened in your chest. “Contact?”
“Yes.” Your father’s voice carried easily across the room. “He wishes to meet.”
Kali scoffed. “How touching.”
Ennis’s voice rumbled low in his chest “Where?”
“An abandoned shopping mall on the edges of town.”
Your stomach twisted because you knew Scott. You knew the quiet sincerity in his eyes. The stubborn belief that violence was the last resort, not the first. Your father did not hold the same ideals.
“He says he wishes to discuss peace.”
The word hung in the air like a fragile glass ornament. Kali laughed outright. “Peace.” She pushed off the wall, her claws scraping the wooden table with a scrape. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?”
“No,” Deucalion said evenly.
You stepped forward. “I do.”
The room held its breath and every head in it turned toward you. Your father shifted his head slightly. “Explain.”
Your voice was steady. “Scott isn’t a liar.”
Kali rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.”
“He said he wants to talk?” you continued, ignoring her. “Then that’s exactly what he means.”
Deucalion smiled faintly. The expression never reached his eyes. “You’re naïve.”
“I’m observant.” A ripple of tension moved through the pack. It was rare that anyone would speak against him. Your father turned his head toward you fully now.
“You think the boy is incapable of deception?”
“Incapable, no. Disinclined to, yes.” You doubled down.
His smile deepened slightly. “Perhaps Scott McCall is not deceitful, but Derek Hale is.”
The name landed like a stone dropped in water.“You think Derek set this up,” you said quietly.
“I think Derek Hale has spent his entire life surviving by anticipating betrayal.” Deucalion stepped slowly across the concrete floor, and his boots echoed. “He would not hesitate to ambush us.”
You shook your head. “No.”
Ennis grunted. “Why are you defending them?”
Your throat tightened. You weren’t supposed to. Every instinct drilled into you since childhood said the enemy deserves no mercy. But the memory of Stiles’ voice, soft and hopeful in the quiet warmth of his bedroom, flared in your mind.
“Because they protect people,” you said quietly.
Kali snorted. “How noble.”
Your father stopped walking, and the silence stretched. Then, finally, he decided. “We will go.”
Your heart lightened slightly, wondering if maybe there was hope for a peaceful outcome after all. If you’d father was willing to hear him out, Scott might be able to win him over.
“But we will go prepared.” He added, and your hope faltered.
Kali grinned, her eyes flashing. “Now that sounds more like it.”
Ennis placed both of his fists on the table, leaning forward. “We should split up. Make him think you’re alone, then approach from multiple sides.”
Deucalion nodded once, and turned toward the exit. “Let them believe we trust them.” His voice softened. “And be ready when they reveal they cannot be.”
The pack began moving, predators preparing for a hunt. You followed them toward the exit doors, your mind spinning with unease. Scott asked for peace, and your father was preparing for war.
The cold night air hit your face as the doors swung open. The parking lot outside was empty, washed in pale moonlight. Wind rustled through tall weeds pushing up through cracks in the asphalt. You stepped onto the pavement behind Kali.
Something flickered at the edge of your senses. It was the faintest shift of movement. Your instincts sharpened instantly. You paused, and closed your eyes, listening close to the sound of a heartbeat. It was fast, indicating unease. The rhythm was human, accompanied by light footsteps moving carefully through the shadows. Your gaze drifted subtly toward the tree line and you saw her. Allison Argent was moving quietly between the trees, keeping her distance. She was following you.
Your heart thudded. You knew exactly what she was doing. She was tracking the pack, trying to protect Scott. You could say something. You should say something. One word and your father would know. But then Allison would be dead before the moon reached its peak.
Instead, you turned your head away and said nothing. Ahead of you, Deucalion stepped into the night. “Come.”
The pack moved forward like a tide of shadow, and you followed them, carrying a secret heavier than anything you’ve ever hidden before.
———————————————————————
The abandoned shopping mall felt like the hollow skeleton of a dead beast. Every footstep ricocheted through the cavernous space where storefronts sat gutted and dark, their glass shattered long ago. Escalators stood frozen like rusted ribs, and the tiled floor reflected the pale green flicker of emergency lights that never fully died. The place smelled like mildew, concrete dust, and wolves. Too many wolves.
The moment Derek’s ambush sprang to life, the mall erupted into chaos, bodies slamming into walls, and claws scraping tile. The thunder of snarls and bone-cracking blows echoed beneath the high ceiling. You barely had time to register it before Cora Hale came at you like a lightning strike.
She moved fast, feral and furious, her dark hair whipping around her face as she lunged across the mall corridor. Her claws flashed toward your throat. You twisted aside at the last second, her hand tearing through empty air where your neck had been.
“You. You’re with them?” she snarled, finally recognising you now that she was up close.
Your claws slid out instinctively, golden eyes ignited in your reflection in the shattered glass storefront beside you. You hated that she recognised you. Hated the confirmation in her expression. “Looks like it,” you muttered.
Cora attacked again. This time her shoulder slammed into your ribs, sending you crashing backward into a row of abandoned mannequins. Plastic limbs scattered across the floor with hollow clacks as you shoved her away. Around you, the battle raged. Derek crashed into Ennis hard enough to dent a metal kiosk. The twins moved like synchronized shadows, circling Boyd and Isaac with unsettling smiles. Scott grappled with Kali near the escalator, their movements fast and brutal.
And you…you were fighting Cora. Or pretending to, because every strike you threw landed just off target. Every swipe of your claws stopped a fraction short of doing real damage. You shoved her back again, sending her skidding across the tiles. She snarled, her eyes burning. “You’re holding back.”
“I’m not,” you lied. She lunged again, faster this time.
You dodged instinctively. Your reflexes were sharper than hers. You were stronger. You twisted her arm, slammed her shoulder-first into a pillar, then shoved her away. Cora staggered back several feet. Your chest rose and fell with controlled breaths. Across the battlefield, a sharp voice sliced through the noise.
“Oh please.” Kali scoffed from behind you.
You glanced toward her. She stood several yards away, claws buried in Derek Hale’s shoulder as she restrained him with terrifying ease. Even mid-battle, her attention was fixed on you. Her lip curled in amusement. “Is this really the best you can do?”
Cora growled and launched herself at you again. You sidestepped and she slammed into a metal bench. Kali laughed. “Pathetic. You’re holding back.”
Your jaw tightened. The accusation landed like a spark in dry grass. Your temper ignited and Cora charged again. This time you didn’t pull the strike. You grabbed her arm, twisted, and threw her. She flew across the mall corridor like she weighed nothing. Her body slammed into a storefront gate hard enough to rattle the metal bars violently. The impact echoed through the entire building and Cora crumpled to the floor several yards away.
The entire fight faltered for half a second, even Kali looked impressed. “Better.”
But the moment shattered because suddenly, Boyd and Isaac are forced to their knees by the twins, who gripped them with synchronized strength. Kali tightened her hold on Derek, and the battle stopped. Just like that the mall fell eerily quiet. Panting breaths, low snarls, and the drip of water somewhere in the distance filled your ears. And then you felt Scott McCall’s gaze land on you. You turned and came face to face with him.
Scott stood several feet away, his chest heaving, and eyes glowing bright gold. His gaze swept over the scene. Boyd was captured, Isaac was restrained, Cora was weak and coughing up blood, and Derek was trapped in Kali’s claws. Then his eyes landed on you and stayed there, because he saw your face and your claws were still out. Your eyes still glowed gold. Recognition hit him like a physical blow.
His brows knitted together. “You’re…a werewolf?”
The question sounded almost disbelieving. Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t wanted him to know like this. Not here, not in the middle of a battlefield. You retracted your claws slowly, but the damage was done.
You said nothing. Your throat felt tight, and your mind raced ahead to the inevitable. Scott would tell Stiles. Of course he would. He wouldn’t mean to ruin anything, but he would. And Stiles would look at you differently. Everything would break. Scott studied you carefully.
“Are you…part of the Alpha Pack?”
Your silence stretches. You can feel everyone watching, waiting for you to speak. Your lack of answer said everything and Scott’s expression hardened.
“But how?” he said, confused. “You’re not an alpha.” His gaze flicked to your eyes to confirm they were indeed yellow, not red, or even blue.
“Ah.” Deucalion’s voice glided into the silence, sounding smooth and satisfied. “Now we arrive at the interesting part.”
Scott turned toward him and your father stepped forward, calm as ever. “My daughter.”
Scott’s head snapped back to you. “His daughter?!”
The words echoed across the empty mall. Deucalion smiled faintly. “Yes.” He gestured toward you almost proudly. “Though clearly not my most enthusiastic disciple.”
Your stomach churned as Scott looked between the two of you in stunned disbelief. “You’re Deucalion’s daughter?”
You wished the ground would open and swallow you whole. Before you could answer, Deucalion continued. “This meeting was meant to serve as something of a…graduation.”
Your head turned sharply toward him. “What?”
Scott frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Deucalion folded his hands behind his back. “You see, Scott, my daughter has always struggled with the philosophy of our pack.” His voice dripped with quiet disappointment. “She refuses to kill.”
The words landed heavily in the air and Scott’s gaze flickered toward you again as your stomach twisted.
“Of course, we can’t have a wolf with yellow eyes in the alpha pack,” Deucalion continued calmly, his smile sharpening. “After all, then it would be a misnomer.”
Your heart skipped and a cold dread spread through your chest. “What are you saying?” you whispered harshly.
Your father turned his blind gaze toward Derek. “It’s simple, really.” His tone was completely casual which only made the moment even more chilling. “If Derek Hale refuses our invitation…” Your pulse pounded in your ears. “…you will kill him.”
The words hit you like a physical blow. “What?”
Scott’s head jerked toward you while Deucalion continued calmly. “And take his alpha status.”
Your breath left you in a sharp rush. “No.” Your voice shook. “No, that’s not—”
“You would become an alpha,” he added smoothly. “And finally take your rightful place among us.”
Shock quickly gave way to anger. “You never told me that.”
“I didn’t need to.”
Your hands curled into fists, claws digging into your palms. “You were going to force me.”
The realisation landed like a punch to the gut. Every memory of your father, every faint hope that somewhere beneath the Demon Wolf there was still the man who braided your hair when you were small, shattered.
Deucalion sighed. “As I said, my daughter the pacifist.”
Disappointment coated every syllable. The tension fractured when a sudden BANG sounded. A flash exploded across the mall and white light flooded your vision. Allison. More explosions detonated across the columns and walls, leaving many of them blinded and disoriented as the battlefield erupted into chaos once again. You staggered back, temporarily unable to see. Shouts echoed and snarls carried and metal crashed.
When your sight finally returned, everything had changed. Scott stood several feet away looking at you. He didn’t seem angry. He didn’t look like he hated you, but there was something worse behind his gaze. Understanding. You knew exactly what that meant. He knew exactly what part you’d been instructed to play. He knew exactly why you’d approached him and Stiles in the hallway that first day, and he would tell Stiles. He’d tell him, and it would ruing everything you’d built. That little bubble of happiness you got to experience with him would be destroyed.
Your chest tightened painfully. Across the mall Ennis and Derek slammed into each other with brutal force, crashing through the railing of the second-floor balcony. They vanished over the edge, their bodies tumbling into the darkness below. The fight stopped again as everyone turned toward the fall. In that moment, you made a split decision and you ran.
You turned and sprinted down the empty corridor, your boots pounding against tile. You weren’t headed toward the Alpha Pack, or toward Scott, but away from both. Right now, you couldn’t face any of them. Not when the first thing on your mind was getting to Stiles and explaining before Scott could.
———————————————————————
The vast majority of Beacon Hills was asleep. Porch lights glowed in soft halos. Sprinklers clicked somewhere down the street. The sheriff’s cruiser wasn’t in the driveway, which was an absence that made the house look smaller, and less protected. You landed in the Stilinski backyard with your lungs burning and heart hammering like it was trying to warn you out of your own skin.
You didn’t go to the front door, instead your fingers bit into bark as you scaled the tree beside the house, branches swaying under your weight. Sap slicked your palms and leaves brushed your cheeks. You could feel the old, familiar thrill of height, how it made you feel untouchable and made the world seem like a map instead of a maze.
Except you weren’t untouchable tonight. Tonight you were running on panic and prayer. You reached his window. It was one you’d climbed through before many times. The first time you’d laughed about with him when he’d jokingly called you a burglar with questionable morals and excellent legs. You slid your fingers under the frame and pushed. It was stuck. Of course it was stuck.
“Come on,” you breathed, your voice tight.
You shoved harder and the wood creaked. The latch gave with a soft snap that sounded far too loud in the hush of sleeping suburbia. Cool air spilled out, scented with laundry detergent, paper, printer ink. You swung a leg over the sill and dropped lightly onto his bedroom floor.
You froze when you registered just how dark it was inside. The desk lamp wasn’t on, and there was no glow of a laptop screen or phone. There was no frantic rustle of papers or voice talking to itself, narrating theories into the universe like the silence had asked questions. The room looked wrong without him in it, like a stage after the actors had left. The props abandoned, light extinguished, the story paused mid-sentence.
“Stiles?” you called softly.
Nothing answered. Your pulse started to stutter. Had Scott called him? Had Scott gotten here first and warned him to run, to hide, to lock his doors and barricade his heart away from you?
Your eyes adjusted quickly and shapes emerged. His bed sheets were rumpled, the corkboard on the wall full of spidering red string like veins. His favourite hoodie was tossed over the desk chair like it had been dropped in a hurry. You took a step forward, breathing in, and your stomach tightened. Something in the air felt freshly disturbed.
You swallowed. “Stiles?” you called again, louder this time.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway and your whole body snapped taut. The door opened and there he was. Stiles stepped in like it was just another night. His hair was wet, clinging to his forehead and curling at the ends, a towel draped around his shoulders. His pyjama pants sat low on his hips in that careless way that would’ve made you lick your lips a few hours ago. It would’ve made you tug him closer and tease him and forget the world existed beyond the warmth of him.
He blinked when he saw you, just once. Then his eyebrows shot up. “Okay,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “Either I’m dreaming, or…what are you doing here?”
Relief hit you so hard your knees almost gave out. You let out a shaky breath, sounding like a half laugh and half sob. “I…I needed to see you.”
His expression shifted immediately, worry moving across his face like a cloud blotting out sun. He stepped closer, the towel slipping a little on his shoulders. “It’s, like three in the morning,” he said, softer now. “Are you okay? Did something happen? Are you hurt?”
You shook your head too fast. Your throat felt raw already, as if your body had decided tears were more reliable than words. “I have to tell you something,” you blurted.
He stilled, the space between you filling with sudden, prickling tension, as if the room itself leaned in to listen.
“I have to tell you something,” you repeated slower, forcing the words through the panic. “And I know it’s going to sound awful and crazy, but you have to listen. Please, just hear me out. Please.”
Stiles’ mouth parted like he wanted to interrupt. Like he wanted to say your name and soften you with it. But he didn’t. He only watched you, eyes cautious. There was a stillness in him you hadn’t seen often. He didn’t have his usual jittery, chaotic energy. This was controlled and braced, like a door with a chair wedged under the knob.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
You took a step closer, the floor creaking beneath you like even the wood was screaming that you were a traitor. “I—” Your voice cracked, forcing you to swallow hard. “You trust me, right, Stiles?”
His face did something small, almost imperceptible, like pain tightening at the corners of his eyes.
You pushed on, desperate. “Right? You trust me?”
He nodded, just once. There were no words of affirmation. No ‘yeah’. No ‘of course’. No ‘always’. Just a silent motion, like the weight of the question had already bruised him. That was what tipped you off. Your fear had been too loud to let you hear it. Not Stiles’s heartbeat. That was there, quick and uneven. Not the smell of the shampoo in his hair, sharp and clean. You’d missed the second scent. One that was familiar. It threaded through the room like a warning line. Scott. Your face darkened as your stomach dropped.
You went still. Your eyes lifted to Stiles’, and whatever you saw there confirmed it before he could say a single thing. “He’s already here,” you whispered.
It wasn’t a question. Stiles’ jaw tightened and you turned your head slightly, focusing, letting your senses find him. Scott McCall stepped out of the shadows into the doorway, the dim light catching in his eyes. He looked like a storm contained in a human body, full of anger and worry and protective instinct tangled together. His gaze fixed on you like you were a threat, but the pain there told you he didn’t want to treat you that way.
“Stiles,” Scott said, voice low.
Stiles didn’t look at him. He didn’t have to. He was staring at you with something that made your chest split open. Finally he let the facade fall and betrayal took over. Hurt so sharp it looked like anger, because anger was easier to hold than grief.
“So,” Stiles said, and the word was flat, brittle. “The jig is up.”
Your mouth opened. “Stiles…”
He stepped back like his name in your mouth had burned him. “You know what’s funny?” he snapped, the words coming fast now, not like his usual rambling. This was pointed and precise. “I knew. Like, some part of my brain knew this was too good to be real. Too…convenient.”
“Please,” you choked. “Just let me—”
“No.” His voice cut through yours like a blade. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to show up here in the middle of the night and…what, explain your way out of this?”
Your eyes stung. Hot tears blurred him into a smear of pale skin and shadow. “It wasn’t like that,” you said, shaking your head. “It wasn’t fake—”
He laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. “Wasn’t fake?”
Scott’s shoulders tensed as Stiles kept going, voice rising, hands gesturing now like he didn’t know what to do with the hurt inside him except throw it into the air. “You lied to me,” he said, the words ragged. “You sat in my room and listened to me talk and you looked at me like—like you actually saw me, and the whole time you were what? Taking notes? Reporting back to daddy? Playing me?”
“It started as a mission,” you admitted, the truth ripping out of you because lying again felt pure evil. “It did. But I…Stiles, I didn’t—”
“You didn’t what?” he demanded. “You didn’t mean to?” You flinched. His eyes shone in the dark, wet and furious. “I trusted you,” he said, voice cracking on the last word like it surprised him. “I trusted you with…with everything.”
You stepped forward instinctively, hands lifted in a helpless gesture. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry. But it meant something to me. You meant something to me.”
Scott moved instantly. He stepped between you and Stiles like a wall, his body angling protectively, his eyes flashing. The implication hit you like a slap. He thought you might attack him. He thought you might hurt Stiles. As though there were any universe where that was possible. Your throat tightened so hard you could barely breathe.
Stiles’ face twisted, hurt and anger and humiliation all tangled together. “You really think I’m that stupid?” he spat. “That you’d actually want me?”
The words weren’t just an insult. They were a wound he’d carried a long time and you’d just opened it. “No,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Stiles, no, don’t say that. I wanted you. I—”
He shook his head violently, as if he could shake your words loose from his skin. “You don’t get to rewrite this,” he said. “You don’t get to turn it into some tragic star crossed love story. You made me feel something…You made me feel—”His breath hitched. His voice dropped, raw. “It doesn’t matter what I felt. Now I just feel used.”
The word landed heavy, final. You brought a hand to your mouth, trying to hold yourself together. Tears spilled anyway, hot and unstoppable.
Scott’s voice rumbled low, warning in it. “You need to leave.”
You stared at him with your vision swimming and chest aching with a grief so sharp it felt physical. You could take Scott in a fight, you knew that. Your father had made sure of it. But you didn’t move toward violence. You didn’t want to. Not now, and not ever again, if you could help it. Because if you lashed out, even once, they would be right about you. They would see Deucalion’s shadow where you were standing and decide that was all you were. So you looked past Scott, at Stiles.For one impossible second, some part of you still expected him to step forward, to defend you out of instinct. Out of the bond you thought you’d built.
But he didn’t. He stayed where he was, shoulders rigid and face tight with disgust and pain, like he couldn’t even bear for you to be breathing the same air.
Your heart cracked. You nodded once, small and broken. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, though it felt useless.
Then you backed away. The window waited behind you like an open mouth. You climbed out the way you’d come in, hands shaking, breath ragged, and tears blinding. The cool night air hit your face like punishment. You paused and behind you, in the dark of his room, you heard Stiles’ voice one last time. It sounded low and wrecked, not quite angry anymore. “Just…go.”
So you did. You dropped from the tree, landed hard, and ran into the night with your chest splitting apart. You’d come to save what you had, and all you’d done was watch it die in front of you.
———————————————————————
The girls’ locker room was somewhat disgusting. It smelled like cleaning products and cheap body spray, sweet rot layered over harsh disinfectant. The tiled walls sweated with leftover steam from your early-morning shower, and the fluorescent lights overhead flickered like nervous eyelids, buzzing in a way that made your senses bristle. Yet you’d made a temporary home of it anyway, because it was the only place that felt…neutral. Not the penthouse apartment with its teeth-bared tension and the taste of dominance in the air. You hadn’t been back since that night at the mall. You also hadn’t been back to the Stilinski house with its warm lamplight and fond memories. Stiles’ laugh haunted you like a ghost you didn’t deserve.
This place wasn’t either. It was just cold tile and metal lockers. A space no one watched because no one expected anything important to happen here. In the far corner, half-hidden behind a row of lockers, a small pile of your belongings lay on the ground: a stolen gym mat, a couple of threadbare blankets you’d ‘borrowed’ from the nurse’s office, a pillow that had seen better centuries. It looked pathetic in the harsh light, like a child’s fort abandoned mid-game. You’d slept there anyway, curled up with your knees to your chest, listening to the building settle. Listening for footsteps that didn’t belong. Listening for the sound of claws or voices bouncing off tile.
You’d been waiting for them. The twins, Kali, your father…Some part of you had kept expecting the door to explode inward, expecting violence to come looking for you like it always did. But the days had passed and the silence had stretched and you were still here.
You’d just finished showering, your hair still damp against the back of your neck as you tugged your shirt into place. You stared at your own reflection in the fogged mirror. Your eyes looked tired, your face too pale, lips pressed into a line like you could hold your life together by sheer force of will. Then finally a sound came. The faint click of the locker room door. Your spine snapped straight, every muscle in your body went taut in an instant, instincts surging to the surface like something waking hungry. Your breath quieted and your hearing sharpened. The world narrowed down to a single point.
Footsteps were approaching, but they were slow and cautious. Not stomping with confidence like Kali. Not heavy like Ennis (who you were fairly certain was dead). Not measured like your father. You slid behind a row of lockers, moving soundlessly, your bare feet whispering against the tile. Your hand hovered near your side, ready for claws to slide out. Ready to fight. Ready to bleed if you had to.
A shadow shifted on the floor, then a figure stepped into view. Scott McCall. Scott’s eyes swept the locker room sharply, alert, and suspicious. He was dressed for and early lacrosse practice in his hoodie, duffel bag slung over one shoulder. His posture carried the wary readiness of someone who hadn’t slept properly in weeks. His gaze landed on you.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice low.
He didn’t sound friendly - and you band expected him to - but he also didn’t sound hostile. He was just wary, as if you were a spark near gasoline. You stepped out from behind the lockers slowly, hands visible.
“School,” you said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Scott’s eyes narrowed. “It’s—” he glanced toward the clock above the doorway, “—barely six-thirty.”
“I couldn’t go anywhere else.” You admitted in a defeated and embarrassed tone.
His gaze flicked past you to the corner, where the blankets and the pillow lay on the floor. His expression shifted, surprise breaking through suspicion. “Have you been sleeping here?”
You didn’t answer right away, because saying it out loud sounded pathetic. Your silence did it for you.
Scott’s jaw tightened. “Since the mall?” he asked quietly, connecting the dots correctly.
You nodded once. Something in Scott’s face softened, almost against his will, then hardened again just as fast. “Why?” he demanded. “Why are you here? Why are you not with them?”
You felt your stomach knot with fear of the truth. But the truth was the only thing you had left, and you didn’t know if it would be enough. “I’m not going back,” you said, your voice hoarse.
Scott stared at you like he was waiting for the trick. Like he expected you to smile and reveal the knife behind your back. “You really expect me to believe that?” he said.
You swallowed. “It was the last straw,” you whispered. Scott’s brows knitted together. You let out a breath that shook like it was trying to break free of your chest. “I didn’t…I didn’t see how far he’d fallen,” you said, and the words came out like you were confessing a crime. “Not until he told us what he was going to make me do.”
Scott’s eyes narrowed. “What? Kill Derek?”
You laughed once, sharp and bitter and humourless. “Kill Derek,” you nodded in confirmation. “He was going to force me into it. Like it was nothing. Like my choice didn’t matter. Like my conscience was just an inconvenience he could crush under his boot.”
Scott’s stare didn’t waver. “I don’t buy it,” he said flatly. “You can’t be part of that pack and not have known what they were.”
The accusation stung because it was fair. Because you’d asked yourself the same thing every night you’d lain on that gym mat, staring at the ceiling, listening to your own breathing like it was the only proof you were still alive. You forced yourself to speak anyway. “My dad wasn’t always like that,” you said softly. “None of them were.”
Scott’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes flickered, just a fraction. Curiosity prying at the edges of distrust.
You pressed on. “When I was younger…” Your voice caught. You cleared your throat, trying to steady it. “He used to read to me. He used to braid my hair. He used to tell me that strength wasn’t about fear, it was about control and doing what was right even when it was the harder path.” Your chest tightened painfully. “When he made his little all-star pack he changed,” you continued. “Or maybe he’d changed before that, maybe…maybe I just stopped being small enough to pretend it wasn’t happening.”
Scott’s jaw tightened. “You stayed.”
“I stayed because I kept thinking I’d wake up one day and he’d be back,” you said, the words spilling out now, unstoppable. “My dad. The man I remembered. I kept thinking if I waited long enough, if I was good enough, if I proved myself enough, he’d look at me and I’d see him again.” Your eyes stung. “But he’s gone,” you whispered. “And I finally accepted that. I’m not getting him back.”
Scott watched you closely and you could feel his senses reaching, reading your heartbeat and the tremor in your voice, the truth pulsing through you whether you wanted it to or not.
You dragged in a breath. “I’m not trying to trick you,” you said quietly. “I’m not trying to earn anything. I just…I’m tired. I’m tired of being his little puppet, I’m tired of tiptoeing the line between what they want me to be and what I can stomach. I’m done.”
Scott’s gaze shifted down and then back up, like he was seeing you differently now. Not as a weapon, not as a spy, but as a person standing in a locker room at dawn with nowhere to go. His shoulders lowered a fraction and then his expression tightened again, like he remembered what you’d done.
“What about Stiles?” he asked.
The name hit like a bruise pressed too hard. Your throat closed. Your heart, the stupid and stubborn thing, ached immediately as if it had been waiting for someone to say his name aloud. You forced a breath.
“What about him?” you asked, but it came out small. Your voice was sad and fragile.
Scott’s eyes held yours. “Were you telling the truth?” he asked, voice quieter now. “The other night. Do you actually…care about him?”
You swallowed thickly and your eyes burned. You nodded once, then again. “Yes,” you whispered. “I meant it. All of it.” Scott’s face softened in something like reluctant sympathy. “I wasn’t expecting to,” you admitted, voice cracking. “I wasn’t. It started as—” you flinched, “—something else. But I fell for him anyway.” Your fingers curled at your sides. “It was real to me,” you said, as if saying it might keep it alive somewhere, even if it was dead between you.
Scott exhaled slowly. “He really cared about you,” he said.
A laugh threatened to become a sob. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Well…it doesn’t matter now. I ruined it.”
Scott’s eyes stayed on you and then he said, carefully, like he was placing a match on a table and waiting to see if you’d pick it up, “I might know a way for you to make it up to him.”
Your head snapped up. Hope, sharp and sudden, flared in your chest. “What?” you breathed.
Scott’s jaw tightened. “To all of us,” he added.
You stepped closer without even thinking, desperation evident in your pleading eyes. “What is it?”
Scott held your gaze. “Help us take your dad down.”
The words dropped into your chest like a stone. Fear flooded you so fast it made your hands cold. Your father. Deucalion. The Demon Wolf. The man whose shadow had been your entire life. Your mouth opened and nothing came out. Scott watched you, steady and unblinking. There was no cruelty in his request. No demand. It was as though he already knew what your answer would be. You forced your lungs to work again. Your mind raced, running through memories like a frantic montage. Your father’s voice, his hands, his disappointment, his quiet certainty that you belonged to him.
Then Stiles’ face flashed in your mind. His laughter, his warmth, his hurt. Your stomach twisted and you swallowed thickly. “How?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.
———————————————————————
The hole in the earth was hidden when you’d found it. Scott had cleared the brush and moved the fallen debris, exposing the mouth of the old root cellar like a wound reopened. The air around the Nemeton was colder than it should’ve been, thick with damp moss and ancient wood and something older that clung to the back of your throat. Magic, you thought bitterly. Or maybe just history.
Scott stood at the edge and glanced at you. You could tell he was trying not to show how relieved he felt, but you’d been living in tension for weeks now. Taking your father and the Darach down hasn’t changed that.
“You ready?” he asked quietly.
You forced a nod. Your hands were damp and your stomach churned like the ground beneath you had turned to water. Scott anchored the ladder and fed it down into the darkness, rung by rung, until it disappeared into the hole with a soft scrape against stone.
“Okay,” he called down. “Allison, you first.”
A few seconds later, Allison Argent emerged. Her hands gripped the rungs with practiced steadiness, her hair pulled back, her eyes sharp even as she climbed out of the earth. She swung a leg over the edge, boots landing on leaf litter, and she straightened. When her gaze landed on you surprise flickered across her face. You saw the question in her eyes. Why is she here?
You didn’t answer. You didn’t know how. Allison’s jaw tightened as she looked to Scott, then back to you, and finally she stepped aside without a word, choosing not to turn the moment into a confrontation.
Isaac came up next. He climbed like someone who never quite trusted the ground to stay under him. When he surfaced and saw you, his mouth tightened into something wary, his eyes going a little too bright. He didn’t speak either, just moved aside, shoulder brushing Allison’s as if checking with her silently.
Then Chris Argent climbed out, followed by Melissa McCall, and then the Sheriff. Each one rose from the earth like a memory surfacing, faces tired but relieved to be alive. You stood with Scott, slightly behind him, like a shadow trying not to be noticed. But you were noticed.
The last set of footsteps came up the ladder, lighter than most of the rest. He was fast and impatient even when climbing out of a hole in the ground. You didn’t have to look to know who it was. Your body already knew. Your heart flipped stupidly and traitorously. Stiles emerged with restless urgency, hair still damp from sweat or rain or both. When he reached the top rung and hauled himself up, the morning light caught his face in a way that made him look painfully young.
Then his eyes found you and the world narrowed to the space between you and him. His golden-brown eyes filled with pain so sharp it looked like it might spill out and cut the air open. He stopped at the top of the ladder like the sight of you had physically halted him. One hand stayed on the rung, the other curled tightly around the edge of the ground. He shook his head, small and disbelieving. A silent ‘no’. It hit you like a punch to the gut. You swallowed hard, your throat tight, your chest aching like it was trying to cave inward.
Stiles’ gaze flicked to Scott. His voice was rough when he spoke. “What is she doing here?”
Scott held his ground, calm and steady. He’d only officially transitioned into a true alpha minutes ago and yet he was already seamlessly stepping into the role. “She’s been working with me,” Scott said.
Stiles’ eyes snapped back to you, Apprehension. Anger. Hurt. Confusion. You read too many emotions trying to survive in one expression.
Scott continued, careful with every word. “For weeks. After the mall…she turned. She’s been helping us. She helped me fight Deucalion.”
Stiles stared at you like he was trying to force the truth to show itself under his gaze. Like if he looked long enough, he could see whether you were still a lie.
Your lips parted and your heart begged you to speak but the emotion thick in your throat wouldn’t allow it. Not with Allison watching like a blade. Not with Isaac’s distrust like a bruise. Not with the Sheriff’s disapproving presence. And not with Stiles’ pain standing between you like a wall.
Stiles said nothing but the silence was its own verdict. He climbed the rest of the way out slowly, as if each movement required effort, then stepped away from you without looking back.
You didn’t chase him. You knew you didn’t deserve to.
———————————————————————
You didn’t speak to him that day. Or the day after. Or the day after that. Weeks of working with Scott hadn’t earned you a single word from Stiles. Only glances, sharp and fleeting, like he couldn’t decide whether to look at you or pretend you weren’t there. Every time his gaze brushed you, it hurt like touching a bruise.
Then Monday came. School returned like it always did, indifferent to tragedy. Lockers slammed, bells rang, and students complained about homework. None of them had ever fallen apart on the floor of an abandoned mall.
You tried to become small. You tried to be invisible. You sat in the library between shelves that smelled like paper and dust, your books spread out in front of you like props for a life you no longer recognised. Kali and Ennis were dead. Your father hadn’t contacted you since disappearing. Ethan and Aiden were a small familiarity, but even their presence didn’t comfort you much as they were rarely around and you’d never been that close in the first place despite being near in age.
You were staring at a paragraph without reading it when someone dropped into the seat across from you. You looked up to see it was Stiles, but an apart of you must have known before your eyes because your heart was already pounding out of your ribcage.
Stiles didn’t smile, and his eyes didn’t soften. He looked tired, dark crescents beneath his eyes, jaw tight, hands clasped together on the table like he needed something to do with them that wasn’t shaking or fidgeting. He leaned in just enough to set the tone. This wasn’t a casual conversation.
His voice came out low, controlled, dangerous in a way you’d never heard from him before.“Okay,” he said. “We’re doing this.”
Your pulse jumped at the opportunity to talk. “Stiles—”
“No.” He cut you off immediately, eyes locking onto yours. “No, you don’t get to—” He gestured vaguely, sharp and frustrated. “—you don’t get to charm your way through this or cry and make me feel like the bad guy for being upset. I want the truth.”
You swallowed.
“All of it,” he added.
The words were steady, but his eyes weren’t. They flickered with something raw beneath the control, hurt still bleeding under the surface.
“Start from the beginning,” he said. “Not the version you told me. Not even the version you told Scott. I want the whole story.”
Your hands trembled slightly beneath the table. You curled your fingers into your palms to hide it. This was it. The moment where you would tell him everything and maybe lose him for good. Stiles sat so still it was like he’d nailed himself to the chair with his hands clasped on the table. The library hummed around you with soft page-turns and distant footsteps, but the space between you felt sealed off and airless, like you’d both stepped into a glass box and shut the lid.
You drew a breath that didn’t feel like it reached your lungs. “Okay,” you whispered. “Here’s the story from the beginning.”
Stiles’ eyes didn’t leave your face.
“The real beginning,” you added, voice shaking on the edge of control. “It might not seem like it matters, but I promise, it does.”
His throat bobbed once. He gave a single nod, sharp, like a gavel. So you told him. You told him about your mother first and the way grief was a shape you grew around instead of something you ever stopped carrying. How she died when you were young enough that your memories of her were made of fragments. How the world split open early for you, and you learned to live inside the crack.
You told him you were born a werewolf. How it had settled under your skin like it belonged there, like it had always been waiting. How you took to it better than most, your senses sharpening without the panic some of the bitten ones felt. And your father…
“My dad…he was my idol.” The words hurt to say because of how far he has since fallen in your eyes. “He was the leader of one of the greatest packs in California,” you continued, forcing your voice steady. “He was a visionary and his dream was peace.”
Stiles’ eyes flickered, searching you, like he couldn’t reconcile the monster he’d heard about with a man who could dream of peace.
“He worked with Talia Hale,” you said. “To create the werewolf summit. A place where packs could come together to seek advice and foster community. To protect each other. To keep each other in check.” Your throat tightened. “He was…a great man,” you whispered. “Until a peace meeting with an Argent went sour and he lost his sight. And then,” you said, the words scraping out of you, “his first beta, his closest friend, turned on him.” You swallowed thickly. “Killing him gave my father a taste of power.”
Stiles flinched, like the phrase had snapped against his skin.
“And over the coming years,” you said, voice quieter now, “he wouldn’t stop there. He kept killing, one after the other, all for reasons that grew less and less legitimate until he was the last one standing.”
The silence around your words felt thick, heavy as wet wool. “He convinced others to do the same,” you continued. “Kali. Ennis. Eventually Ethan and Aiden.” Your eyes burned. “By then, Talia Hale was dead. A once great family…decimated.” Your voice caught, and you forced it through anyway. “It left him unchecked. It left all of them unchecked. They became what you know them as,” you whispered.
You let out a breath that trembled. “My father became the most terrifying man alive. And I was his favourite.” The word tasted like ash.“His most loved,” you added softly, “and his biggest disappointment.”
Stiles’ eyes lifted to you again, and what was in them wasn’t just anger anymore. It was something rawer. Something that looked a lot like understanding, even if he didn’t want it.
“I still believe in the ideals he once preached,” you said quickly, like you had to get it out before you lost your nerve. “I believe in peace, between packs and between us and hunters. A balance. A system where nobody has to be hunted just for existing. I thought one day my father would see that too,” you admitted. “That maybe I could help him remember it. I was…I was so blinded by loyalty and love for him, and the horror of disappointing him, that I lost sight too.”
You looked down at your hands, because your eyes were betraying you now as they welled. “He asked me to spy on Scott through you,” you confessed, voice cracking slightly. “To get close to you, to gain information, to give them a vantage point. The same way he asked Aiden and Ethan to get close to Lydia and Danny.”
Stiles’ jaw clenched hard enough you could see it. You knew it was still a sore point for him and you didn’t blame him.
“It was never meant to go that far,” you said, forcing the words through the growing lump in your throat. “I swear to you, Stiles, it wasn’t.” You sucked in a breath, and your eyes finally spilled. “But spending all that time with you…” You swallowed, wiping at your cheek too roughly. “You showed me everything I was missing.”
Stiles didn’t interrupt. He didn’t even move. He simply listened as he’d decided, just for now, to let your words finish bleeding out. You tried to keep going, but your voice shook with it.
“You showed me what a real pack should be like,” you said. “Respect and trust and love for one another. You showed me what friendship was for the first time in my life.” Your chest tightened, and you pressed a hand briefly over your sternum like you could hold your heart in place. “You showed me what it felt like to be accepted and liked for who I am,” you whispered. “To be part of something I believed in. To help people. To sacrifice for others and have others do the same for you.”
Your breath hitched. “With you,” you said, and your voice broke completely, “I felt safe for the first time in years.”
Stiles’ eyes flickered, and you saw the smallest tremor in his composure, like your words had found the crack in him and slid inside.
“And I fell for you,” you admitted, almost a sob. “I couldn’t stop myself.” You laughed once through tears, soft and disbelieving. “You…you’re so amazing,” you whispered, shame and awe twisting together in your chest. “And I admire you so much, and I—”
Your voice failed. You were silently crying now, helpless and humiliated, your tears dripping onto your hands, your shoulders trembling like your body had finally decided it couldn’t carry this alone anymore.
“In those moments when it was just you and me,” you managed, voice barely there, “it was real. It was all real. I couldn’t have faked it even if I tried.”
You looked up at him, tears blurring his face, and forced yourself to say the last part. The part that felt like standing on a ledge and letting go.
“Lying to you…hiding who I was…it was killing me,” you whispered. “And I’m…I’m happy you know the truth now. Even if that means you never want anything to do with me again.” Your throat tightened so hard you could barely speak. “I’d understand.”
The silence after was enormous. Stiles sat there, breathing slow, staring at you like he was trying to decide how to react. His eyes shone. Then, finally, he reached across the table and his hand slid over yours. The warmth of his skin and the familiarity of the shape of his palm against yours made your heart sigh. It was so gentle in a way you hadn’t expected, not after the way he’d looked at you by the ladder that day.
He only continued to surprise you. “It meant everything to me too,” he said quietly and it made your heart stutter. Stiles’ fingers tightened around yours like he was anchoring himself. “You were the first girl who ever made me feel like that,” he admitted, voice rough. “Like…like I was wanted. Like I was worth choosing. Like I wasn’t…lesser, or a second choice, or the guy who’s only there because someone else didn’t show up.”
His eyes flickered down to your joined hands, then back up. “With you,” he said, and the words sounded like they hurt and healed at the same time, “I felt seen. Understood. Important.”
Your lips parted, but no sound came out. You could only stare at him, stunned by the tenderness threaded through the hurt.
He swallowed. “And I want to feel like that again,” he whispered.
Hope swelled in your chest so fast it was frightening.
“But,” Stiles added quickly, the word sharp with caution, “I’m not…I’m not just going to magically be okay. This is going to take time.”
You nodded rapidly, tears still sliding down your cheeks.
“A lot of time,” he said, almost like he was warning both of you. “And I need you to promise me something.”
“Anything,” you breathed.
His gaze held yours, unflinching. “Never lie to me again.”
Your throat worked around a sob. “I promise,” you said fiercely. “I swear. Never again.”
Stiles’ shoulders dropped slightly, like he’d been holding himself braced for impact and finally allowed himself to exhale. “Okay,” he murmured, almost to himself.
And something inside you broke open and relief and gratitude, and poured out of the chasm it left. You surged up from your chair and leaned across the table, throwing your arms around him. The wood dug painfully into your ribs but you didn’t care. You hugged him like you could stitch yourself back together with the force of it, like you could pour every apology and every ounce of sincerity into the press of your arms.
Stiles made a soft sound of surprise and then his arms came around you, careful at first, then tighter. His hand pressed between your shoulder blades.
Maybe you hadn’t lost him forever.
———————————————————————
The mirror in the bathroom had a hairline crack down one corner, but you stared at your reflection anyway. You looked older than you had the last time you’d seen your father. And you were older, in all the ways that didn’t show up in a yearbook photo. It was the type of older that came from carrying too many choices in your ribs, from learning the difference between survival and living and realising how often you’d mistaken one for the other.
Your hands hovered over the sink. You flexed your fingers once, feeling the faint ache in your knuckles that always came before nerves turned into instinct. Tonight wasn’t a hunt. That was the strangest part. The nerves were for something else entirely. Tonight was a meeting. A reconciliation, if you were brave enough to call it that.
You exhaled, slow and controlled, as if you could breathe your heart back into a sensible rhythm. He helped them. The thought repeated like a mantra you didn’t fully trust.
Deucalion, your father and the shadow that haunted you, had stood with Scott against Theo and the dread-doctors’ aftermath. Not because he was forced, not because he had something to gain, but because he had chosen, for once, to do the difficult thing. To protect instead of consume. You’d watched it from the edges, watched him move through the world like a man learning how to walk again without crushing everything beneath his feet.
And still…a part of you remembered the mall and the way his voice had sounded when he decided your conscience was optional. The way he had spoken about your life like it was nothing more than a tool to him. The way disappointment from him had always felt like being skinned alive.
You reached for the necklace on the counter. It was simple silver, nothing like the old tokens he’d once given you. Your fingers trembled as you fastened it, the clasp refusing to cooperate until you forced yourself to stop rushing, stop panicking, stop acting like fear was the only language your body knew.
“You’re gonna break the necklace, you know.”The voice came from the doorway, now as familiar as the way home was familiar.
You turned to see Stiles leaning against the doorframe, posture casual. Though you’d come to learn he could make anything look easy if he tried hard enough. He wore a dark hoodie and jeans, hair a little messier than usual, eyes steady. In his hands was a coffee mug he hadn’t bothered to drink from yet, like he’d forgotten it existed the second his mind landed on you.
You tried to smile but it came out uneven. “I’m not breaking it,” you said.
Stiles’ gaze flicked to your hands, to the way you kept touching the chain at your throat as if checking whether it was real. “You’re doing that thing,” he said gently.
“What thing?”
“The thing where you pretend you’re fine,” he said, and his mouth quirked into a not-quite-smile. “But your hands are telling the truth.”
Heat rose behind your eyes, sudden and humiliating. You looked away, blinking hard, focusing on the sink, on the faucet, on anything that wasn’t the tenderness in his tone. “I’m fine,” you repeated, as if repetition could make it true.
Stiles stepped into the bathroom and set the coffee cup down on the counter. Then he moved behind you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him without even touching. His reflection appeared over your shoulder, his brown eyes a little tired around the edges.
He didn’t speak right away. He just slid his arms around you from behind, slow and careful, like he was asking permission with every inch of movement. You let yourself sink back into him and his forearm settled across your waist. His hand rested over your stomach, palm warm, fingers loosely splayed, anchoring you to the present. The mirror showed you both. You in front, rigid with old fear and him behind, steady as a lighthouse in bad weather.
“You’re not going to have to do this alone,” he murmured. “You have me.”
Your throat tightened. “I know.”
Stiles pressed his chin lightly to your shoulder, the edge of his hair tickling your skin. “You’ve been staring at yourself like you’re about to go into battle,” he said.
You huffed a quiet laugh that didn’t hold any humour. “It kind of feels like it.”
He made a low sound of understanding, his arms tightening slightly. “Okay,” he said. “Then…let’s do the battle checklist.”
You turned your head a fraction, eyebrow lifting despite yourself. “The what?”
“The battle checklist,” he repeated, like it was obvious. “First, do you have your keys?”
“Yes.”
“Phone?”
“Yes.”
“Pepper spray?”
You twisted to look at him fully, incredulous. “Pepper spray?”
He blinked innocently. “What? I’m just saying. It’s very empowering to hold. Also, I’m pretty sure it works on at least half the supernatural creatures in this town purely because nobody expects it.”
A small and startled laugh escaped you. Stiles’ expression softened instantly, like he’d been waiting for that sound. “Okay,” he said more quietly now. “Second, if at any point you want to leave, we leave.”
You swallowed. “Stiles…”
“No negotiations,” he said, and this time there was no humour in it. Only sincerity, firm as a hand on your back. “You don’t owe him your body in a room, you don’t owe him your time, you don’t owe him anything just because he—” His voice caught, and he exhaled through his nose. “Just because he’s your dad.”
The words hit in a tender place you didn’t like to touch. You nodded once, forcing your breath to work. “He’s changed,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him. “I think he has.”
Stiles’ gaze held yours in the mirror. “I know,” he said. “Scott thinks so too.” You managed another weak smile. “But that doesn’t erase what happened. It doesn’t erase what he did to you.”
Your chest clenched. The old fear rose, sharp and instinctive. Stiles squeezed you, grounding you. His voice dropped, quieter, threaded with something that made your heart ache. “And it doesn’t erase what you did,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “Or what I did. Or what we did to each other.”
Your breath caught. There it was. The thing that still haunted the edges sometimes. It wasn’t laced with anger anymore, or accusations, but there were still some scars left behind by trust broken that they had rebuilt stitch by stitch.
You turned in his arms. Stiles let you, hands sliding to your waist, thumbs brushing the fabric of your shirt. Your eyes searched his face. “You’re…okay?” you asked, because some part of you still needed to ask. Still needed to hear the answer. Still half expected the floor to drop out from under you if you assumed too much.
Stiles’ mouth twitched. Then he nodded slowly.“I’m okay,” he said. His eyes flickered, a shadow crossing them briefly, memory passing like a cloud. “Because you stayed.”
Your throat tightened. “You didn’t have to forgive me,” you whispered. “After everything—”
“Yeah,” he interrupted softly, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I know. I’m famously irrational.”
You let out a shaky laugh, tears stinging anyway. Stiles’ expression turned serious again, gaze steady and warm all at once like he was holding you with his eyes as much as his hands.
“I forgave you,” he said, voice low.
You nodded, because you remembered every slow step it had taken. Every flinch you’d swallowed, every truth you’d forced yourself to speak even when silence would’ve been easier.
“I forgave you,” he repeated. “Because you chose us. Over and over. Even when it cost you. Even when it hurt.”
His thumb brushed your cheek, catching a tear you hadn’t realised had fallen.
“And because it was real,” he added, voice roughening slightly. “It was real for me too.”
Your chest filled with something too large to name. You leaned forward, forehead resting against his, both of you breathing the same air.“Stiles,” you whispered.
“I’m here,” he whispered back. The words were simple, but they sounded like a promise.
You pulled back just enough to look at Stiles.“I’m scared,” you admitted.
Stiles’ eyebrows lifted, gentle. “Yeah,” he said. “So am I. I’m dating his daughter.”
You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. He squeezed your hands. “But here’s the thing,” he said, and his voice softened into something steady as bedrock. “You’re not that kid anymore. You’re not the girl waiting for him to change so you can finally breathe. You’re the woman who walked away. The woman who fought him. The woman who chose the right thing over neutrality even when it was the hardest choice. And you don’t have to forgive him. But if you do, if you really do believe he’s changed, then you get to do it on your terms. Not his.”
You swallowed thickly. “Okay,” you whispered.
Stiles nodded once. Then he pressed a kiss to your temple. It was brief, but grounding. “Ready?” he asked.
You glanced at the mirror one last time. You looked frightened, but you weren’t standing on the edge alone anymore. You nodded. Stiles slipped his arm around you as you stepped out of the bathroom and into the dim living space, where the air smelled faintly of coffee and and the warm, familiar presence of Stiles’s home.
As you moved toward the door, Stiles’ arm tightened around your shoulders, steady as a vow. Whatever waited on the other side, you weren’t walking into it alone.
hiii !! i’m in love with how you portray characters in your fics and i’m especially impressed with your HP fics. This is my first time requesting a fic but if you don’t want to it’s okay, I know you’re probably busy! This is an open prompt i was hoping you’d consider!
I was hoping to request a Fred Weasley/Slytherin reader fic where at first fred attempts to be snarky and mean to her with clever insults (one sided rivals) but the reader aloof, dense, and is really really bad at reading other ppls intentions and takes his comments too literally, misinterpreting them as helpful and kind which make their interactions confusing for fred. (also maybe include him protecting her at some point) i know this is a weirdly specific prompt but I’d really love to see this come to life with your writing! Thank you for your consideration.
Thank you so much for submitting this ask! I had to write it immediately as I loved it so much! You can find it linked below!
Fred Weasley vs. one very odd Slytherin girl should have been an easy win. Unfortunately, his chosen opponent kept treating his sarcasm like constructive criticism, his insults like helpful advice, and his increasingly obvious affection like perfectly normal friendship. What began as a petty attempt to get under a her skin became something entirely different when Fred realised he likes her exactly as she is. Literal-minded, quietly observant, and hopelessly sincere in a world full of people who never say what they mean.
Warnings: oblivious reader, neurodivergent coded, a bit angsty, limited use of Y/N
———————————————————————
The first time Fred Weasley tried to offend you, you thanked him. It happened on a corridor slick with November gloom, the high windows of Hogwarts dimmed by rain so steady it looked less like weather and more like the sky had sprung a leak. Students streamed past in untidy currents of black robes and chatter, the castle full of its usual weekday pulse. Shoes struck stone, laughter ricocheted off the walls, the staircase groaned as they shifted above like summering ancient beast.
You stood to the side of the rush with a stack of books braced against your hip, your tie a neat green-and-silver line against the dark wool of your robes. There was something composed about you even in stillness, as if the chaos of the hallway simply broke itself against you and ran harmlessly away. You weren’t fidgeting or glancing around. That was to say you didn’t seem to share the nervous energy that infected most people in crowded corridors. You existed amongst them, a contrast of cold self-containment, like moonlight on black water.
Fred noticed that before he noticed anything else. That you never hurried, and you never flinched. You wore your aloofness not like armor, but like skin. It was apart of you. And because Fred Weasley was Fred Weasley (because mischief ran in his veins like wildfire and because there had never been a person at Hogwarts he couldn’t get some sort of reaction from) he decided, almost immediately, that he disliked you.
You were a Slytherin, for one thing. Worse, you were a Slytherin with an expression so unreadable it made him feel as though he were performing in front of a brick wall and somehow losing. Other people laughed, snapped back, rolled their eyes, blushed, sputtered, sulked. Other people gave him something, but you only looked at him with those steady, distant eyes of yours as though he were a mildly unusual weather pattern. It was intolerable.
So when he sauntered past with George at his side and caught sight of you rearranging your books by size rather than subject, he slowed, angled himself into your path, and said, with all the sarcastic venom he could muster, “Careful, darling, if you stack those any higher you might finally disappear under with the size of your thrilling personality.”
George snorted beside him. Fred thought it was an excellent line. Light, sharp, just enough mockery to sting. He waited for the flash of irritation, the chilly Slytherin bite, the offended lift of your chin. Instead, you looked down at your books, then back at him. Your gaze was thoughtful when you asked, “Do I seem dull?”.
Fred blinked in surprise. That was not the correct response, yet he recovered quickly as he always did. “Painfully so.”
You nodded once, as though he had confirmed a private suspicion. “I had wondered whether people found me difficult to talk to.”
George made a soft choking noise. Fred stared at you. “I…what?”
“That was helpful,” you said, entirely sincere. “Thank you.”
Then you stepped around him and continued down the corridor, leaving him standing there with his mouth half-open and George dissolving into helpless laughter. Fred turned very slowly to watch you go. Your robe hems whispered over the stone and you didn’t look back. You didn’t seem embarrassed or upset or even faintly annoyed. You simply carried on, as untouched by his words as if he had tossed pebbles into a lake too deep to notice.
George wheezed into his sleeve. “Oh, that is catastrophic. She’s clueless.”
Fred scowled. “Come on, she knew.”
“No,” George said, grinning wide enough to split his face. “That’s the best part. She absolutely did not.”
Fred looked after you a moment longer, jaw tight, something hot and strange prickling at the back of his neck. This, he thought, was not over.
———————————————————————
It became a problem rather quickly. Not for you, but for Fred, because once he had begun he could not seem to stop. He told himself it was a matter of principle. A matter of pride. A matter of restoring balance to a universe in which Fred Weasley, menace of Gryffindor Tower and self-appointed king of mischief, had delivered an insult to a Slytherin girl only for her to receive it as though it were constructive criticism.
It gnawed at him, so he tried again. And again. And again. Each attempt should have been the one that worked. He sharpened his words like knives and sent them skimming in your direction with increasing creativity. He called your handwriting ‘aggressively grim’. You thanked him and explained that you had been aiming for legibility, not warmth. He remarked that your stare could sour milk. You said that was useful to know, as you’d never liked milk anyway. He informed you, with lazy malice, that your silence made you seem vaguely murderous. You considered this, then replied that if people found you intimidating, perhaps they might bother you less in the library.
Every time, he walked away feeling as though he had somehow been outmaneuvered in a game only he had realized was being played. You, meanwhile, appeared to think Fred Weasley one of the more unexpectedly perceptive people at Hogwarts. Which was, perhaps, the most insulting thing of all.
The real issue was not merely that you misunderstood him. It was the way you misunderstood him with such grave earnestness, such calm acceptance, and such complete lack of self-consciousness that it robbed his mockery of its teeth and handed it back to him blunt and useless.
And Merlin, you were earnest. Not in the wide-eyed, fluttery way some girls were. There was nothing soft or eager about you. Your earnestness was stranger than that. It lived beneath the frost of your composure like a lantern under ice, quiet and steady and impossible to extinguish. You took people at their word. You assumed precision where others meant performance. Sarcasm slid off you like rain off slate.
Fred had never met anyone so resistant to tone. It fascinated him in the most irritating way imaginable. By December, he had developed the terrible habit of looking for you. He spotted you at breakfast by the shine of your hair and the silver serpent on your robes. Or in the courtyard with your gloved hands wrapped around a mug of something steaming, your breath ghosting white into the winter air. Or in class with your face bent over parchment, lashes low, expression intent in a way that made the whole room seem blurred around the edges. It was as though the castle itself had gone soft-focus and left only you in sharpened detail. He hated that he noticed such things. He hated, too, that other people began to notice him noticing.
“Mate,” Lee Jordan said one evening in the courtyard, sprawled upside down on a bench with a packet of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans balanced on his chest, “you keep staring at that Slytherin like she owes you money.”
Fred, who had indeed been staring across the courtyard where you sat at a table temporarily occupied by inter-house study partners, snapped his gaze away. “I do not.”
George, from where he was testing a new trick wand on a stick, said without looking up, “You do.”
“I’m observing.”
“Like a scientist?”
“Like a strategist.”
Lee grinned. “Strategising what? How to marry her or murder her?”
Fred threw a handful of grass at his face. The truth was far less amusing and therefore far more dangerous. You confused him. Not just your responses, though they did, or the maddening sincerity with which you accepted whatever nonsense he flung your way. It was the fact that, the longer he watched, the more he began to suspect you were not cold at all. Just private. There was a difference, and he saw it in fragments. Like how you always moved aside for younger students in corridors, one hand sweeping your robes back so they could pass.
Or how you quietly repaired a Hufflepuff second year’s torn essay with a neat Reparo and then acted as though it had not been worth mentioning. In the way you listened carefully when people spoke to you, your eyes fixed on their robes or shoes or hands with a focus so unwavering it unsettled people unused to being taken seriously. Or even how you fed crumbs to the birds by the black lake when you thought nobody was watching.
You were not unkind. You were simply…elsewhere, sometimes. Not cruelly, or dismissively, just set at a slight angle to everybody else. It was as though the language of ordinary interaction had been taught to you from a textbook rather than lived at your kitchen table. You missed jokes, missed double meanings, missed flirtation entirely. You took words as literal offerings and arranged them carefully in your mind, never seeming to realise that most people threw theirs like stones and expected everyone else to duck.
Fred found this both exasperating and, against all odds, a little heartbreaking. He did not care for that feeling. So naturally, he doubled down.
———————————————————————
The trouble deepened in Potions. Professor Snape, in one of his usual fits of theatrical cruelty, paired Gryffindors and Slytherins for a fortnight-long assignment on antidotes. The classroom reacted as though he had announced a plague. Groans rose at once, parchment fluttered, several people looked actively offended by the concept of cooperation.
Then Snape’s gaze slid over the class like oil over water and landed on you and Fred. “Weasley,” he said silkily, “with Y/N.”
Fred nearly laughed from disbelief. Across the room, your expression did not change at all. If anything, you looked mildly relieved, as though being partnered with him was good news. Which, Fred thought sourly, only proved you had not the faintest idea who he was.
He swaggered over anyway, dropping into the seat beside you with performative ease. “Well,” he said, leaning back, “this should be dreadful.”
You arranged your ingredients into exact little rows. “You are very good at slicing valerian root evenly.”
Fred paused. “What?”
“You have steady hands,” you said, not looking up. “I’ve seen you in class.”
He stared at your profile. Your face was lovely in the severe way winter mornings were lovely, something clear and difficult to approach. Your mouth was soft, though most people might not have guessed it from a distance. Your lashes made dark crescents against your cheeks when you looked down. There was no mockery in your voice, no hidden barb, no game. Just observation.
Fred, who had opened his mouth to say something cutting, found his prepared remark vanish like smoke. “That,” he said at last, “might be the most boring compliment I’ve ever received.”
You nodded. “I wasn’t trying to be interesting.”
He barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. Your eyes flicked to his then, startled for the first time, as if you hadn’t expected that sound from him. Something shifted in the air between you. Like the first crack in a frozen pond.
Fred noticed it. And, being a fool, he ruined it immediately. “You know,” he said, slicing the valerian root with deliberate precision, “for a Slytherin, you’re remarkably easy to manipulate.”
You glanced over. “Am I?”
“Hopelessly.”
You considered that with alarming seriousness. “That would explain a few things.”
His knife paused mid-slice. “What things?”
“A group of Ravenclaws convinced me last week that a first-year had been made invisible by a cursed teapot.” Fred choked on air. You went on, brow faintly furrowed. “In hindsight, there were inconsistencies.”
“Just a few?”
“Yes.”
He stared at you for a beat or two, and then he bent over the table. Helpless, bright, genuine laughter that bubbled out of him before he could catch it. Beside him, you watched with quiet puzzlement, your head tilted slightly like a cat hearing a strange sound at the door. It occurred to Fred, suddenly and disastrously, that he liked making you look at him. He sobered too fast after that, which was how the rest of the lesson went poorly.
You measured ingredients with elegant care while he chopped too aggressively. Your sleeves brushed once when both of you reached for the same vial, and Fred jerked back as though burned, knocking over a spoon. You looked at him while he scowled at the spoon as if it had betrayed him personally.
“You’re clumsy today,” you said.
“I’m wounded by your criticism.”
“I didn’t mean it critically. You usually have excellent coordination.”
Merlin. By the end of class, Snape had deducted five points from Gryffindor for Fred’s ‘astonishing inability to maintain even the illusion of competence’, and you said, while packing your bag, “If you want, I can help you practice steadier wand motions before the next lesson.”
Fred looked at you as though you had spoken in Ancient Runes. “You’d help me?”
You blinked once. “Yes.”
“Why?”
That made you pause. The room had begun to empty around you, chairs scraping, students talking in loose knots. Cauldrons clinked as they were put away and Snape’s robes swept past in a black hiss.
You adjusted your grip on your books. “Because you keep helping me.”
Fred felt his face go blank. Helping you. You meant his remarks. His taunts. His endless attempts to needle and provoke. Somehow, through the crooked lens of your earnestness, you had translated all of them into some sort of awkward support. He did not know whether to laugh, deny it, or walk directly into the nearest wall.
Instead he said weakly, “Right.”
You gave him a small nod, as if the matter had been settled, and left. Fred remained where he was, rooted to the stone floor.
George appeared in the doorway a moment later and took in Fred’s expression with immediate delight. “Bad news?”
Fred turned slowly. “I think that girl believes I’m kind.”
George burst into hysterics so violent he had to brace himself against the doorframe.
———————————————————————
Snow came thick over the grounds the following week, swallowing the castle in white. The world beyond the windows softened into blurred charcoal and pearl. The lake became a sheet of black glass rimmed with frost. Pine branches bowed beneath the weight of snow, and the air had that brittle, metallic bite that made every inhale feel newly minted. Hogwarts in winter looked less like a school and more like a fairytale story with it’s turrets dusted white and lanterns glowing amber behind mullioned windows. The whole place hushed beneath the season’s spell.
Fred usually loved it. Winter at Hogwarts meant snowball fights, whispered schemes, and secret products tested in warm common rooms while storms battered the windows. It meant laughter, thick scarves, stolen treacle tart from the kitchens, George at his side and mischief at their fingertips.
This winter, however, now also meant you. Because you were everywhere. Or perhaps not everywhere, only in all the places he found himself looking. In the library’s dim alcoves with your fingers ink-smudged and elegant against yellowed pages. On the moving staircases, one hand skimming the banister while your gaze drifted somewhere distant, as if you were composing thoughts no one else would ever hear. In the courtyard, your Slytherin scarf wound high over your mouth, only your eyes visible above the silver-striped wool, watching snowfall with a solemnity that made it seem sacred.
Fred told himself he was only curious. He told himself that right up until the afternoon he found you sitting alone beneath the covered arch near the Clock Tower, a book open in your lap, snow spinning just beyond the shelter like torn paper in the wind. He had not meant to stop. He had been on his way back from Hogsmeade, cheeks stung red from the cold, pockets full of contraband joke quills and a half-finished plan involving a fake howler. George had run ahead to deliver something to Lee and Fred should have gone straight inside.
Instead, he slowed. You sat with one boot tucked beneath the bench, your gloved fingers holding the page flat against the gusting air. Your hair had caught a few flakes along the crown, white specks scattered in the dark like stars caught in a night sky. There was a stillness to the scene so complete it made him feel irrationally as though speaking too loudly might shatter it.
So he said, “You do realise most people have the good sense to avoid looking like a tragic heroine in weather like this.”
You looked up. There was a visible, silent sorting of his words. Then, “Is that what I look like?”
Fred leaned against the stone pillar, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide the way they’d gone suddenly awkward. “Utterly doomed, very dramatic, probably about to wander into the lake reciting poetry.”
You glanced toward the lake as if considering the practicality of this. “I can’t swim well enough for that. Besides, it’s likely solid ice by this time of year. I’d go sliding like a bear on skates.”
He laughed before he meant to and your mouth twitched into…not a smile exactly, but something close. It was tentative, like sunlight touching frost without melting it. Fred felt the entire world narrow to that nearly-smile. He had seen you expressionless, thoughtful, mildly puzzled, once faintly startled. But this fragile hint of amusement struck him with absurd force. It was like glimpsing a hidden room in a house he had spent months circling from the outside.
He tried to cover the feeling with insolence. “You know, it’s deeply annoying that you keep ruining my insults by taking them as practical advice.”
You closed your book around one finger to hold your place. “I don’t think they are insults.”
Fred stared. You met his gaze steadily, and there it was again, that unnerving directness. That sense that when you looked at someone you did not skim the surface but fixed yourself on them entirely.
“You say unkind things,” you admitted. “But you usually notice something true first.”
The wind stirred and snow hissed softly across the stones. Somewhere overhead the clock tolled the quarter hour, each bell note falling into the cold like iron into water. Fred could not, for a moment, think of anything to say.
You went on, your voice quiet, matter-of-fact. “Most people don’t bother to even take notice, do you’re already a step above the rest.”
There was no self-pity in it and that was the worst part. You said it as one might remark on the weather or the date, plain and unembellished, which made it land with twice the force.
Fred felt something in his chest shift uneasily. He thought of every cutting remark he’d made, every sarcastic observation, every attempt to unsettle you. Thought of you taking each one carefully in hand, examining it for whatever truth it contained, and keeping that instead of the cruelty wrapped around it. He had wanted to get under your skin. Instead, somehow, you had slipped under his.
“Well,” he said, and his voice came out rougher than intended, “that’s a terrible habit. You noticing me taking notice.”
You tilted your head. “Why?”
Because, he thought with sudden panic, I am beginning to notice you back. But before he could answer, laughter rang sharp across the courtyard. Three older Slytherin boys came striding under the arch from the far end, cloaks dusted with snow, boots wet and dark. You stiffened so subtly another person might not have caught it. But Fred did.
He saw the tiny tightening of your shoulders, that fractional stillness. The boys noticed you at once. Their expressions shifted in the ugly, familiar way boys’ expressions sometimes did when they had spotted someone they thought easy to corner.
“Oi,” said one of them lazily. “There you are.”
You closed your book properly this time, sliding it into your bag. “I wasn’t aware I was being looked for.”
“Don’t be difficult,” another said.
Fred’s posture changed without him deciding to change it. One moment he had been slouched against the pillar. The next, he was upright, attention sharpened, something hard and instinctive clicking into place beneath his skin.
The first boy’s gaze flicked to Fred and narrowed. “This doesn’t concern you, Weasley.”
Fred smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. “Funny,” he said lightly, “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
The air altered, the atmosphere turned taut as wire. Fred could see it in the slight narrowing of the boys’ eyes. One of them scoffed. “Run along, Gryffindor.”
Fred’s grin widened, all teeth now, bright as broken glass. “Tempting. But I’m ever so fond of standing exactly where I’m not wanted.”
You rose slowly from the bench, your bag slung over your shoulder. The tallest of the boys looked at you, ignoring Fred with deliberate contempt. “You never came to collect your things from the common room.”
“My things?” you repeated.
“The notes, quill, whatever rubbish you left.”
You considered their words for a minute, then you said, in that same calm tone, “I didn’t leave anything in the common room.”
Something flickered across the boy’s face. Annoyance. Exposure. He had lied, then. Or half-lied, expecting you to follow along. What was worse was Fred saw you preparing to go with them. Of course you were, because some part of you always assumed people meant what they said, even when the whole world was built on half-meanings and traps.
Fred pushed off the pillar. “She’s not going anywhere with you,” he said. The words came out easy and certain.
Everyone looked at him, you most of all. For the first time since he had known you, you looked openly bewildered by him.
The Slytherin boy sneered. “And why exactly do you care?”
Fred did not answer at once. He could have said anything. He could have made a joke, or pretended it was about house rivalry, or opportunism, or even boredom. Instead, he stepped forward until he stood beside you, close enough that the sleeve of his coat brushed your robe and he could feel the cold radiating off your gloves.
And he said, softly, “Because she clearly hasn’t realised yet that you’re idiots.”
Silence greeted him. Then George appeared at the far end of the courtyard as if summoned by the scent of conflict. He called out, “Fred?”
The distraction was enough. The boys cursed under their breath, recalculating now that there were two Weasleys instead of one that the odds no longer worth the trouble or spectacle. After a few more muttered threats, they slunk off into the snowfall, their footsteps crunching away over the frozen stones.
The tension left the arch all at once. George approached with suspicious delight, eyes darting between you and Fred. “Did I miss a murder?”
“Almost,” Fred said.
You were still looking at him. Snowlight softened your face, turning your skin paler than usual and your eyes darker by contrast. There was no fear in your expression. Only that same grave, searching attention with which you seemed to examine everything important. “You didn’t have to do that,” you said.
Fred shoved his hands into his pockets again. “Yes, well. Heroism sometimes strikes without warning.”
George made a rude choking sound, but you only frowned very slightly. “They were lying.”
“Yes,” Fred said.
“I know that now.” You looked down, as though annoyed with yourself. “I might have gone with them.”
Fred’s mouth thinned. “I know.”
Then, quieter, you asked, “How?”
He looked at your too-serious eyes. He peered at the composure you wore so well until someone pressed against its weak points. He watched the strange and shining earnestness in you, so unguarded in all the ways that mattered. Some truths arrived before his pride could smother them, so he answered honestly.
“Because,” he said, “you always think people are being more decent than they are.”
The words settled between you like snowfall. They were soft, cold, and impossible to gather back once fallen. Your gaze lifted to his only to see something had changed there. Not much but enough. George, to his credit, said nothing. The wind moved through the arch, carrying the sharp scent of snow and pine and distant chimney smoke. Fred’s hair was a riot of red in the white light, his freckles stood out stark against cheeks gone pink with cold. He looked older when he wasn’t grinning. Sharper, somehow, all restless angles and held-back heat. Now that his usual smirk had faded, there was a startling clarity to his face, like a mask had slipped and shown the dangerous sincerity beneath.
You studied him as if seeing him anew. With total seriousness, you said, “That was a very kind thing to notice.”
George folded in half laughing as Fred closed his eyes. “Unbelievable,” he muttered to the winter air.
When he opened them again, you were still watching him. You didn’t look confused exactly, but thoughtful, as though he had become a riddle worth cracking. And, God help him, Fred thought you had never looked prettier.
———————————————————————
After the incident beneath the Clock Tower, Fred decided firmly, decisively, and with all the brittle conviction of a man building a dam out of parchment, that something had to be done. You were becoming impossible to deal with. Not in the ordinary sense. You were not loud, nor demanding, nor dramatic. You did not trail after him, or bat your lashes, or attempt in any visible way to insert yourself into his life. In fact, the true problem was almost precisely the opposite. You continued on as you always had, gliding through the corridors of Hogwarts with that same cool stillness, your expression composed, your robes immaculate, your attention often turned inward as though part of you lived on some quiet shore no one else could reach.
And yet now, whenever you saw him, you nodded. Nodded as though the two of you shared an understanding. As if he hadn’t spent the better part of several months trying to needle, mock, provoke, and generally make a menace of himself in your direction. The nod itself was unbearable enough. Small, grave, never hurried, and never flustered. The sort of nod one gave a co-conspirator or a favorite professor or a person one trusted to tell the truth in a room full of liars. Fred hated it. He hated more that each time you gave it, something warm and unruly uncoiled low in his chest like a dragon stirring in sleep.
“This,” he announced to George the following morning, stabbing viciously at his porridge, “has gone too far.”
George, who had witnessed enough of Fred’s spirals to know better than to interrupt prematurely, buttered his toast with saintly calm. “Has it?”
“Yes.”
“Tragic.”
Fred ignored him. The Great Hall hummed around them, alive with the clatter of cutlery and low conversation. Sunlight spilled through the enchanted ceiling in diluted winter beams, silver-pale and cold. Owls swooped overhead with the last of the post. Somewhere down the table, Lee was trying to convince Alicia Spinnet that one of the Ravenclaw sixth years had winked at him. At the Slytherin table, you sat three seats down from the end, a book propped against the pumpkin juice jug, apparently reading while eating toast with a detached attitude. Your scarf lay folded precisely beside your plate. A loose strand of hair had fallen over your cheek, and every now and then you tucked it back without looking up.
Fred scowled. George followed his gaze and sighed with theatrical understanding. “Ah. Her.”
“Yes, her.”
“What has she done now? Continued to exist in a way you find personally offensive?”
Fred leaned closer across the table. “She thinks I’m thoughtful.”
George stared at him for a beat, then let out a slow breath through his nose. “That is serious.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“I would never.”
Fred flung a bit of toast at him. George dodged easily and grinned. “I mean it,” Fred said, lowering his voice. “I have to fix this.”
“Why?”
“Because.” Fred glanced toward you again and immediately wished he hadn’t. You were turning a page with your usual absent precision, brow faintly furrowed in concentration. “Because she keeps looking at me like I’m…trustworthy.”
George burst into laughter loud enough to make Angelina turn around until Fred kicked him under the table. “Oh, that’s rich,” George wheezed. “That’s genuinely rich. After all the work you put in cultivating your terrible reputation.”
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s the funniest thing that has happened to me this month.”
Fred glowered. “I just need to remind her who I am.”
George propped his chin on his hand. “And who exactly is that?”
Fred opened his mouth and then closed it again because the answer, once simple, had lately grown slippery. Who exactly was he, in this particular matter? Fred Weasley, menace and mischief-maker, yes. Fred Weasley, effortless flirt, professional nuisance, connoisseur of chaos, certainly. But there was also now the Fred who noticed the exact shape of your silence, and who could tell when your stillness meant peace and when it meant strain. The Fred who had stepped between you and a pack of smirking boys before his mind had caught up with the instinct of it.
George saw the hesitation and pounced on it with savage delight. “Oh, no,” he said softly, eyes widening in mock horror. “You don’t know anymore.”
Fred shoved his shoulder hard enough to nearly send him off the bench.
———————————————————————
His first attempt at clarification came in Charms. You arrived early, as you often did, and took your seat by the windows where the frost feathered the panes in intricate white veins, as delicate as lacework. Outside, the grounds were all white brilliance beneath a pale sky, but indoors everything glowed warm and golden, lit by floating candles that bobbed gently overhead.
Fred dropped into the seat beside you before anyone else could. You looked up at once. There it was again? that small nod. And worse, the almost imperceptible softening around your mouth that suggested you were actually pleased to see him. He felt his carefully prepared malice trip over itself. Still, he forged ahead.
“Bad news,” he said, pulling out his wand. “I’ve decided you’ve become intolerably smug.”
You absorbed this in silence. “About what?”
Fred blinked. “What?”
“What am I smug about?”
He had not expected a follow-up question. Insults, in his experience, worked better when not required to defend their internal logic. “You just are,” he said, with diminished conviction.
You glanced down at your parchment, considering. “I don’t think I feel smug.”
“It’s subtle smugness.”
“That seems difficult to measure.”
Fred stared at you. Your tone was utterly earnest. You were genuinely attempting to understand the accusation as though it were feedback from a supervisor. Around you, students began filing in, filling the room with voices and dragging chairs. George passed your desk, took one look at Fred’s expression, and bit his lip so hard he had to keep walking to avoid betraying himself.
“I’m insulting you,” Fred said under his breath.
You turned to him more fully. The candlelight caught in your hair and made a halo of it, all sheen and shadow. Up close, your eyes were stranger than most people realised. They were clear and watchful, and difficult to lie to, though you yourself seemed peculiarly vulnerable to lies from others. Your face gave little away, but not because it was empty. Rather because everything in you seemed drawn inward first, filtered through thought before expression. You were not unreadable. You were simply translated through a slower, subtler language than most people had patience for.
“I know you say things that are meant to be unkind,” you said quietly. Fred froze as you looked down, straightening the edge of your parchment. “I just don’t always think you mean them as unkindly as you could.”
For once in his life, Fred Weasley had no ready reply. Professor Flitwick bustled in then, saving him from the moment by clapping his tiny hands for attention, and the lesson began in a scatter of squeaking chairs and raised wands. But Fred heard very little of it. Your words had lodged in his mind like burrs in fabric, clinging stubbornly.
You don’t mean them as unkindly as you could. It was a ridiculous thing to say. It was also, infuriatingly, true. Because if Fred had truly wanted to hurt you he would have known how by now. He had collected enough pieces of you. Made enough observations. Seen enough of your odd little tells and habits and quiet vulnerabilities. He knew what made you hesitate, what made your guard tighten, what made your attention turn bright and startled. He knew, at least in outline, where the softest parts of you were, and he had never once struck there.
The realisation unsettled him so badly he set Lee Jordan’s quill on fire by accident.
———————————————————————
The second attempt came in the library, and fared no better. The library at dusk felt like the inside of a held breath. Rows upon rows of books rose into shadow, their spines dusky with age, their titles glinting gold and silver in the lamplight. The silence there was never absolute. It breathed softly through turning pages, shifting chairs, the scratch of quills, and the occasional ominous throat-clear from Madam Pince. Dust swam through the amber air like powdered sunlight, and the tall windows reflected the room back on itself until the whole place seemed doubled. One library real, one made of shadow and glass.
You were seated alone at a long oak table near the Restricted Section rope, surrounded by books in precarious towers. Fred approached with stealth and slid into the chair opposite you, letting his gaze travel deliberately over the stack. “This looks deeply unhealthy.”
You glanced up. “What does?”
“The amount of joy you appear to derive from researching antidote compounds.”
“I don’t think I look joyful.”
“No, that’s the point. You look alarmingly bored.”
You nodded slowly. “That may be fair.”
He leaned forward, forearms on the table. “You are impossible to understand, you know.”
You studied him across the candle flame between you. “You say that often.”
“Yes, well, repetition sharpens a point.”
“Or dulls it.”
Fred’s mouth twitched despite himself. “That sounded almost witty.”
You blinked. “Thank you.”
He dropped his head into one hand. A shadow fell across the table and Madam Pince narrowed her eyes. Fred immediately sat up straighter and arranged his face into counterfeit innocence. She moved on only after lingering long enough to make her suspicion abundantly clear. When she was gone, you pushed one of the books toward him.
He looked at the title. ‘A Practical Catalogue of Common Poisons and Their Reversals’. “I’m not helping you murder anyone.”
“You are helping me study.” You tapped the page. “You were right.”
Fred frowned. “About what?”
“You said last week my cutting of sopophorous beans was inefficient because I hesitated before each slice.”
“I was mocking you.”
“Yes,” you said, “but you were also correct.”
His pulse did something stupid. “And now?” he asked, because apparently self-destruction had become a hobby.
“Now I’ve been practicing not hesitating.” You said it plainly, but a small current of pride moved beneath the words. Not showy pride but quiet satisfaction.
Fred looked at the book, then back at you. He had spent months tossing remarks like sparks, and somehow you had gathered them into warmth. It made him feel monstrous and honored all at once. He tried, one final time, to steer the conversation back toward safer cruelty.
“You know,” he said, “most people would have the sense to stop taking my advice by now.”
Your fingers paused atop the page. “Why?”
Because I’m mean, he almost said. Because I like watching you look at me. Because I no longer know whether I’m trying to push you away or pull you closer. Instead he only said, “Because I’m a terrible influence.”
You considered him in silence so long he grew aware of the candle burning down between you, of distant pages turning somewhere in the stacks, of his own pulse drumming stupidly in his throat. Finally, you said, “I don’t think that’s true.”
It was your tone that undid him. Not playful, or flirtatious, or dreamy. Merely sure. As if, after observation and thought, you had reached a conclusion and trusted it.
Fred looked away first. “Merlin,” he muttered.
Your brow faintly furrowed. “Was that rhetorical?”
He laughed once, raggedly, and shoved the poison catalogue back toward you. “Study before I decide to become worse out of spite.”
You inclined your head. “All right.” Then, after a pause that felt somehow heavier than the first, you said, “I’m glad you sat with me.”
He did not answer, mostly because he no longer trusted his own voice.
———————————————————————
The problem worsened when other people began involving themselves. It started at lunch two days later. You were crossing the entrance hall with an armful of books, moving with your usual measured grace beneath the vaulted ceiling. Snowmelt had been tracked in across the flagstones, turning the floor slick in patches. The enormous hourglasses stood gleaming in their alcoves, jeweled with house points. Students surged around you in noisy tides, bright scarves and damp hems and winter-reddened cheeks.
From the opposite side of the hall, Fred saw it before you did. A Hufflepuff third year was running too fast and looking over his shoulder at a friend. He collided with you hard enough to send your books sliding from your arms. They struck the stone with a painful clap of leather and parchment and one skidded straight into a puddle of slush.
The boy spun around, mortified. “Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t—”
You were already crouching to gather the books. “It’s all right,” you said, though your voice had gone thinner around the edges.
Fred reached you in three long strides. The third year looked visibly relieved when Fred, a notorious older Gryffindor and usually a sign of incoming trouble for Slytherins, dropped to one knee and snatched the wet book out of the slush before more damage could be done.
“For God’s sake,” Fred muttered, drawing his wand. “Scourgify.”
The water vanished at once. The hall kept roaring around you, but the immediate space seemed to narrow, students sweeping past in blurred motion while the moment itself held still. Fred passed you the dried book and your fingers brushed his for half a second, cold from the stone.
You looked at him again with that searching, solemn gaze. The Hufflepuff boy apologized twice more and scampered off. Fred stood, offering you the rest of the stack. “You really ought to stop letting gravity bully you like this.”
You took the books carefully. “I didn’t let it.”
“Passive resistance, then.”
“I slipped.”
“Yes, I noticed.”
There was laughter nearby where Parvati and Lavender whispered by the staircase, both openly watching. A pair of Slytherin girls passing by slowed almost imperceptibly. George, halfway down the marble stairs, came to a full stop and grinned like a man witnessing prophecy unfold.
You, oblivious to all of them, only adjusted your grip on the books and said, “Thank you.”
Fred opened his mouth for some glib rejoinder, some line to restore the proper shape of things. But you added, with quiet seriousness, “You’re always there very quickly.”
The words landed with the force of a confession. Not because you had meant them that way. You had not. You simply said true things and left them naked in the air, not seeming to realise that other people dressed truth in layers for a reason. Fred felt suddenly, acutely aware of the watching eyes around him.
He should have laughed it teased you. He should have said something easy and throwaway and false. Instead he heard himself ask, “Is that a complaint?”
Your lashes lowered briefly as you shifted the books against your chest. “No.”
That single syllable contained no shyness and no flirtation, only certainty. The noise of the Entrance Hall swelled back in around him. George made a kissing face from the staircase. Fred told him to sod off without taking his eyes off you. You seemed to interpret this as a continuation of their previous conversational thread and gave a small nod before heading toward the dungeons, robes skimming the wet stone.
George bounded down the stairs the instant you were out of earshot. “Oh, you’re finished,” he said gleefully.
Fred began walking. George fell into step beside him like a particularly obnoxious shadow. “I am not.”
“You looked like someone had hit you over the head with a church bell.”
“She says odd things.”
“She says obvious things.”
Fred frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
George gave him a look of exaggerated pity. “Only that you have, in fact, been there very quickly. Repeatedly, almost as if you are forever scanning crowds for one specific Slytherin with the social instincts of a lost fawn.”
Fred stopped walking and George continued two steps before noticing and turning back. “A lost fawn?” Fred repeated, offended.
George shrugged. “A very elegant one.”
Fred resumed walking with increased violence in each step. It was Lee, however, who said the worst thing. That evening, the Gryffindor common room blazed with firelight and noise. The windows were black mirrors against the night, reflecting red-gold warmth back into the room. Students lounged across sofas and rugs, feet tucked beneath blankets, cards and sweets and textbooks scattered everywhere in the comfortable chaos. The fire crackled low and deep, breathing heat into the room until everything smelled of wool, smoke, and melting candlewax.
Fred sat in an armchair with a deck of self-shuffling cards he had no intention of actually using. Lee dropped onto the arm of the chair. “So.”
Fred did not look at him. “No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Yes, I do.”
Lee grinned. “You like her.”
Fred’s denial came at once, automatic and sharpened by reflex. “Don’t be absurd.”
Lee plucked one of the cards from the deck and squinted at it upside down. “All right. You are obsessed with her in a way that is beginning to affect your timing, your insult quality, and your ability to blink when she enters a room.”
Fred made a grab for the card. Lee whisked it away. “I am not obsessed.”
“You’re something.”
George, sprawled before the fire with a notebook balanced on one knee, said without glancing up, “He’s gone peculiar.”
“Thank you,” Lee said. “That’s the phrase.”
Fred rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t even know her.”
That silenced them both for a moment. Then George looked up. And because George was George and because for all his mockery he possessed the unnerving ability to step sideways into truth when least convenient, his expression gentled. “Don’t you?” he asked.
Fred did not answer. The fire popped. Didn’t he? He knew the line that appeared between your brows when you were thinking hard. He knew you touched the spines of books before choosing one, as though greeting them. He knew you disliked being startled from behind but never said so. He knew that when you were overwhelmed, you grew quieter, not louder. He knew your silence had shades to it. He knew you believed people more often than they deserved. He knew you noticed small things and missed enormous ones. He knew that whenever you thanked him, you meant it with your whole heart.
Fred looked into the fire and felt something in himself shift again, deeper this time, like ice cracking under dark water. “I guess I know enough,” he said at last.
———————————————————————
A few days later, you found him before breakfast in an almost empty corridor on the fourth floor. Dawn had only just begun unspooling itself through the castle windows, turning the grey stone faintly blue. The corridor was chilly and quiet, lined with suits of armor that glimmered dully in the half-light. The castle at that hour felt strange and private, like seeing a great animal sleeping.
Fred had been on his way back from an early errand involving a prototype trick teacup and you stood by one of the tall arched windows, the pale morning behind you. Without the noise of other students around, the silence between you felt more intimate than silence ought to.
“You’re up early,” he said.
You turned. “So are you.”
“Kind of you to notice.”
“I notice many things.”
“I’m beginning to fear that.”
The corner of your mouth moved, again not quite a smile, but the ghost of one. It had become more frequent lately, those almost-smiles. Fred had begun to collect them greedily, each one a rare coin. You held something out to him and he frowned and took it before registering that it was a sugar quill.
He stared down at it. “What’s this?”
“I went to Hogsmeade with Daphne yesterday,” you said. “You mentioned once that the Honeydukes ones are better than the castle sweets and I’ve seen you chewing on a few of these in class.”
Fred looked up sharply. He had mentioned that, offhandedly weeks ago during one of your Potions lessons while waiting for a simmering draught to thicken. He had not thought you were paying attention. At the time you had been crushing dried nettles with the concentration of a saint illuminating a manuscript.
“You remembered that,” he said before he could stop himself.
You looked mildly puzzled by the surprise in his voice. “Yes.”
It was only a sugar quill, a cheap bit of sugar wrapped in bright paper, and yet something in his chest tightened so fiercely it was almost painful. Fred, who gave things constantly - jokes, inventions, chaos, charm, noise - had rarely known what to do with quiet offerings or remembered details.
So of course he ruined the moment. “You do realise,” he said, leaning against the wall and aiming for flippant, “that this is a dangerous precedent. Giving sweets to notorious delinquents.”
You folded your hands before you. “I thought you might like it.”
The corridor seemed suddenly too narrow as Fred looked at you. You had no idea what you were doing to him. No idea how impossible you had become with your grave eyes and literal heart, your solemn thank-yous and your habit of remembering the things other people dropped carelessly in passing. You stood there in the fragile blue of morning, your Slytherin tie slightly crooked for once, your hair loose around your shoulders, and you looked less like a rival and more like something out of a fairytale one stumbled into by mistake. A winter thing, lovely and strange and entirely capable of undoing a man who laughed too easily and felt too much beneath the surface of it.
Fred swallowed. “Well,” he said softly, “that was your first mistake.”
You tipped your head. “What was?”
“Thinking I have any manners left at all.” And then, because he could not help himself, because the impulse arrived bright and wicked and warm, he unwrapped the sugar quill, snapped it cleanly in half, and held one piece out to you. You looked from the sweet to his face. “For you,” he said.
You hesitated before you took it, as though thinking over a thousand possibilities before deciding it was safe. Your fingers brushed his again, and the contact was light as moth wings, brief as breath on glass, but it left a trail of heat in its wake. You looked down at the sugar quill half in your hand with something almost like surprise. “You’re sharing,” you said.
Fred grinned, though it felt strangely unsteady. “Don’t sound so shocked. I’m charitable in winter.”
You considered that. “Is that seasonal? Should I expect a decline in spring?”
He laughed aloud. This time unmistakably, and it made you smile. Your first real smile. It wasn’t dazzling in the conventional sense, but it unfolded slowly like a flower opening under snow. Or like sunlight finally breaking through cloud after a long grey morning. And because Fred had spent so long watching for scraps of expression from you, the sight of your actual smile struck him with catastrophic force.
He forgot every prepared line. Forgot the corridor, the castle, the hour. Forgot, briefly, how to breathe. You seemed unaware of the devastation you had caused. You bit into the sugar quill thoughtfully and looked out the window. The early grounds beyond were washed in silver frost.
“It’s peaceful this early,” you said.
Fred was still looking at you. “Yes,” he said, though he wasn’t looking at the grounds at all.
———————————————————————
He should have known peace never lasted. By the end of that week, things came to a head. It started in a corridor after dinner with two Slytherin girls and one nasty overheard comment. Fred had been heading back from the Owlery when he heard your name. He slowed instinctively. The voices came from around the bend ahead, sharp and low and unmistakably cruel.
“…honestly don’t know what’s wrong with her,” one girl said.
“She’s so weird,” said the other. “She listens like she’s waiting for the rest of the sentence that never comes.”
“And the Weasley thing?” the first added. “Pathetic, really. He’s obviously making fun of her.”
Fred stopped dead. The corridor was lined with torchlight and old stone, shadows flickering along the walls. Cold anger rose in him so quickly it surprised him.
The second girl snorted. “I know. It’s embarrassing. She can’t even tell when people are laughing at her.”
That was when you rounded the corner from the opposite end. You saw the girls, and saw him. From the way your steps faltered only once before smoothing out, Fred knew at once that you had heard enough. Not all, perhaps. But definitely enough.
The girls went still, yet it wasn’t them you eyes were trained on. You were looking at Fred. Your face had gone very calm with stillness that was not peaceful at all. The girls, perhaps sensing the sudden danger in the air, muttered something and slipped past, their footsteps retreating quickly. Silence rushed in after them. You stood there with your hands at your sides, shoulders straight, expression unreadable.
Fred took a step toward you. “Y/N—”
“Were they right?” Your voice was quiet enough that it nearly vanished into the crackle of the torches.
He stopped. You looked at him directly, and there was no confusion in your gaze this time. No careful sorting or hopeful literalness. “Have you been laughing at me?” you asked.
And Fred, for the first time since this began, felt fear. Fear of answering badly and watching something delicate shut forever. He should have said no. The truth had lined itself up for him, terribly easy to reach. He could have stepped into it. Could have told you that what had begun as mockery had become something else so gradually it frightened him. Could have said that the girls were wrong, or half wrong, or that he had been cruel once and was trying, clumsily and too late, not to be anymore.
He should have said no. Instead, something old and ugly reared up in him. It was the same reckless instinct that had started this whole disaster. The same hot cowardice that preferred performance to vulnerability, and cruelty to confession. Fear curdled into defensiveness so fast he hardly felt the turning of it. He only felt the sharp, sudden certainty that here, at last, was his chance to restore the balance. To prove that he had never gone soft. To tear down the impossible, dangerous thing you had built him into inside your own mind.
So Fred smiled wrongly. It wasn’t his real one. Not the warm, crooked grin that arrived when George said something outrageous or when a joke landed just right. This one was honed to a blade’s edge. It was thin, bright, and merciless. A smile meant for crowds.
“Yes,” he said. The word cracked through the corridor like ice splitting under weight.
Your face did not change at first. Fred saw the moment it landed, though. He watched the almost invisible stilling of your breath, and the minute tightening at the corners of your mouth. Behind you, torchlight shivered against the stone, throwing gold over the wall and shadow under your eyes.
“Yes,” he said again, because now that he had begun he could not seem to stop, every instinct in him rushing downhill toward ruin. “Of course I have.”
You stared at him but you didn’t interrupt or protest. You were listening, as you always did, as though every word mattered enough to be taken whole. Fred hated that even then.
“It’s been ridiculous,” he said, his voice gone lazy with a carelessness he did not feel. “Honestly, I thought you’d work it out sooner. But apparently not.”
Still you said nothing. He should have stopped there. He should have looked at your face, at the blankness settling over it like frost over glass, and understood that he was standing on the edge of something irreparable. Instead, he kept going, because if he stopped, he would have to admit that none of this felt like victory.
“Do you have any idea,” he said, “how absurd you’ve looked? Taking everything seriously. Thanking me. Looking at me like I meant any of it.” He gave a short, sharp laugh that sounded wrong even to his own ears. “Merlin, it’s almost impressive.”
Your fingers curled once at your sides. Very slightly. A lesser sign, perhaps, to someone who did not know you. But Fred knew, by now, how still you became when you were straining to hold yourself together. He knew your silences had textures. This one was not thoughtful or calm. It was taut and thin and dangerous, stretched like glass before the break.
And still he did not stop, because some broken, frightened part of him wanted you angry. Wanted you cold. Wanted you to look at him with ordinary hatred instead of the strange faith that had made him feel seen and guilty and wanted all at once.
So he struck where he knew you were soft. “You really didn’t notice?” he asked, almost lightly. “All this time?”
Your throat moved as you swallowed. Fred tilted his head, and the cruelty in him sharpened itself to a point. “No wonder everyone thinks you’re stupid.”
That did it. Not outwardly, at first. There was no large reaction. You didn’t gasp, or flinch, or break in any visible, dramatic way. But something in your face changed so subtly and so completely that the sight of it made his stomach lurch.
It was as if a lamp had gone out behind your eyes. Not because there was nothing there but because suddenly there was too much pain for light to get through. You looked at him as though you were rearranging the entire shape of the world and finding that every piece had been lying to you.
When you spoke, your voice was quiet. “Everyone?”
It was as though your question was giving him another chance. Another chance to take back what he had said. Fred’s pulse thudded once, hard. He had meant it as a line. A careless exaggeration. A weapon. But spoken back in your voice, that one word sounded small and wounded in a way that stripped it bare. He could have stopped there and taken it back but instead he doubled down. “Everyone.”
A long silence stretched between you. Down the corridor, somewhere far off, a door slammed and laughter flared faintly from another floor. Closer at hand, one of the torches hissed as wax spat into flame. The castle went on breathing around you, ancient and indifferent, while inside that narrow strip of corridor the air felt flayed raw.
You blinked once, then twice before Fred realised with a horrible jolt that your eyes had filled. You didn’t wipe them. The tears didn’t spill immediately, they only gathered there, brightening your gaze until it shone as though lit from within. Your face remained composed in a deliberate way that told him you were refusing to let yourself come apart where he could see. Your chin stayed lifted, your shoulders stayed straight. Only your mouth betrayed you, trembling once before you pressed it flat again. And when you looked angry, on top of hurt, it nearly undid him. Humiliation sat so badly on you because you wore dignity like bone, and to see it bruised was like seeing marble crack.
“I see,” you said. Your voice had gone even quieter, but it no longer sounded uncertain. It sounded careful and as controlled as a person stepping barefoot through broken glass because they had decided there was no other way forward.
Fred’s heartbeat was wild now, a trapped thing battering against his ribs. He wanted to take back every word but pride, wretched and instinctive, held his jaw in place. He said nothing. You drew in a slow breath through your nose, and when you spoke again there was a faint change in your tone of clarity.
“No,” you said, the tears finally slipping free, soundless and shining down your cheeks. “I think I finally understand.”
Fred felt those words like a blow. You laughed once, but there was no humor in it, only disbelief turned inward until it cut. “I kept thinking you were saying one thing and meaning another, but I had it the wrong way around.”
Your eyes stayed fixed on his. You didn’t hide from him and that was somehow worse. “I thought you noticed things because you were paying attention,” you said. “I thought you were mean to tell the truth, not for the sake of it.”
Each sentence was calm and precise. It was all the more devastating for the effort it took you to say them while your tears ran unchecked, betraying the grief you were refusing to dramatise. You looked furious now, your anger and humiliation braided so tightly together they made your whole face seem sharper. Your lashes were wet, your cheeks burned, and your hands had balled into fists so hard your knuckles had gone pale. And then, finally, the wound showed in one awful, trembling exhale.
“I know I don’t always understand things the way everyone else does,” you said, and now your voice shook despite your efforts to steady it. “I know I miss things. I know people think it means I’m—”
You stopped. For the first time, you looked away from him, as if the next word itself was hard to bear aloud. Fred felt dread crawl cold and sick through his body. When you looked back, the tears on your face had only made your expression fiercer.
“Stupid,” you said. The word dropped between you like a stone into deep water. Fred went still. You gave a tiny, bitter nod to yourself, as though confirming something you had feared for a long time. “I know that’s what they think. I just didn’t realise you thought it too.”
“No,” Fred said, finally, but the word came late and thin and useless.
Your laugh of disbelief broke with your words. “Don’t start lying for my comfort now,” you whispered.
He knew at once what you meant. He did not get to take it back at the exact moment he saw what it had done. He did not get to fling knives and then rush forward, aghast, because someone had bled. He did not get to choose cruelty and then recoil from its consequence as though he had been misunderstood.
Fred stepped toward you anyway. “Y/N—”
You stepped back faster. The movement was small, but it split something open in him. Your face hardened around your grief with frightening speed. “All this time,” you said, your voice thin with fury, “I thought maybe for once I had understood someone correctly.”
He had no answer to that. None that mattered. Another tear slid down your cheek. You wiped it away now with an angry hand almost roughly, as if furious with your own body for betraying you. Your chest rose and fell too fast. Fred had seen you composed, distant, grave, puzzled, and almost-smiling. He had never seen you hurt, and the knowledge that he had done it made the corridor tilt sickeningly around him.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
You looked at him as if the words were an insult. “Don’t be,” you said with such naked contempt that he stopped where he was. “I’m not confused anymore,” you said, and every syllable came out clipped and trembling. “So at least you accomplished that.”
Then you drew yourself up straighter though your tears were still falling, and though your face was flushed with humiliation. Your breath still caught against the edges of your words and whatever was left of your softness vanished entirely.
“Congratulations, Fred,” you said. His name in your mouth had never sounded like that before. Not warm, or thoughtful, or anything but ruined.
Then you turned and walked away with that same dignified, measured stride you always had, even with your face wet and your shoulders rigid and your hurt trailing behind you like torn silk in your wake. The torchlight caught the silver on your robes and turned it briefly bright as a knife. Your footsteps echoed down the corridor, sharp and lonely, until distance swallowed them.
Fred did not follow. He couldn’t. He stood there in the wreckage of his own making, every cruel word still vibrating in the air around him, and felt the full shape of what he had done settle over him like chains. He stared at the place where you had disappeared, his chest hollowing out with a slow, terrible force. Shame arrived first, then horror, and then recognition that this had been the thing he’d wanted at the beginning, wasn’t it? The restoration of some smug, careless order in which Fred Weasley was only ever a prankster and never a friend to Slytherins. He had wanted to make you see him clearly. And he had. Only now the sight of himself, reflected back through your pain, was uglier than he could stand.
He dragged a hand over his face and his palm came away shaking. At the end of the corridor, a draft moved through the castle, cold as winter, and Fred stood alone in it. He had finally become exactly what he had pretended to be.
———————————————————————
Fred lasted four days before it began to show. It wasn’t the same as the loud sort of misery he might once have performed for an audience which would have consisted of dramatic sprawling over tables in the Great Hall, a hand flung tragically to his brow, and exaggerated sighs until Angelina threatened him with bodily harm. This was quieter than that. It hollowed him out from the inside and left the edges standing.
He laughed when expected, but the sound came late. He forgot things. He burned a batch of Canary Cream prototypes so badly that even George shook his head. He went looking for you without meaning to and kept finding only the shape of your absence. That undid him more than anything because you were gone now. Of course you still existed in the castle, moved through its corridors, sat in its classrooms, breathed the same candle-thick air and crossed the same courtyards under the same winter sky. But you had become unreachable where once there had been pauses in which he could slip beside you and trade barbed remarks. You saw him and turned another way. If a lesson forced you into the same room, you didn’t look at him. If he entered the library, you left it. If he rounded a corridor and found you there, your face went smooth and unreadable and emptied itself of him completely.
The castle seemed built to torment him with memory. Every place held some version of you. The Potions classroom with its pewter light and simmering cauldrons, where your sleeves had brushed once over chopped valerian and turned his hands suddenly clumsy. The library table near the Restricted Section rope, where you had pushed books toward him and remembered every stray thing he said. The fourth-floor corridor washed in pale dawn, where you had handed him a sugar quill because he’d mentioned, weeks before, which ones he preferred. The courtyard arch by the Clock Tower, where you had looked at him in the snow and told him that he noticed things. He remembered that the most.
You say unkind things, but you usually notice something true first. Now all he could hear, over and over, was your voice in the corridor after. I know people think it means I’m stupid. I just didn’t realise you thought it too.
He had not known guilt could be physical before this, but it was. It sat in his chest like iron. It dragged behind every breath. It made food taste like paper and sleep feel impossible. His own thoughts had become a punishment cell he could not stop pacing in, each lap bringing him back to the same moment, the same look on your face, the same late and useless no clawing its way out of him long after the damage had been done.
By the fifth evening, George stopped pretending not to notice. The Gryffindor common room glowed red and gold around them. Rain had started outside, tapping softly at the windows, turning the black glass into streaked mirrors. Most of the room had settled into a post-dinner lull where students half-studied and half-dozed, limbs tucked beneath blankets, parchment spread over knees. Near the fire, Alicia and Katie were arguing over a Quidditch strategy diagram. Lee lay upside down on a sofa with his feet hanging over the back, humming tunelessly to himself.
Fred sat at the table by the window with a quill in his hand and a piece of parchment before him so blank it had begun to feel judgmental. George approached, took one look at the untouched parchment, and lowered himself into the chair opposite. “You’re not even pretending to work anymore,” he said.
Fred did not lift his head. “I am working.”
“On what?”
Fred turned the quill between his fingers. “On thinking.”
George snorted. “Dangerous.” He paused, then said in a soft voice, “You look awful.”
Fred laughed once without humour. “Thank you.”
“You know what I mean.”
Yes, he did. He looked awful because he felt awful. Because he hadn’t realised until you were gone just how much of his day had begun orienting itself around you in small, humiliating increments. Like a seat chosen because it gave him a line of sight to where you usually sat. Or a detour through a corridor because you sometimes passed there after Charms. Even a hand reaching automatically into his pocket when he saw something in Hogsmeade and thought, absurdly and immediately, that you would like it.
He missed your face. Not only its beauty, though there was that too in infuriating abundance. He missed the quiet intelligence of it and the way your expression changed by fractions. How your gaze focused fully when you listened, making the rest of the world feel thin and unimportant. He missed your almost-smiles, rare and slow and so hard-won they had felt like secrets entrusted to him. He missed the precise cadence of your voice. He missed the way you took words seriously, the way you turned them over as though language were a set of objects to be arranged carefully rather than flung carelessly into the air. He missed the feeling of being noticed by you.
And worse than that he missed the friendship he had not even understood he possessed until he shattered it. Because that was what it had been, alongside everything hotter and more confusing beneath it. Friendship, genuine and strange and precious. You had listened to him as though he were worth understanding. You had remembered him, shared things with him, and sat beside him in silences that never felt empty. You trusted him in that steady, unshowy way that had made him feel, for the first time in longer than he liked to admit, less like a performance and more like a person. He had found something real in you.
And then he had stamped on it with both feet. Lee’s voice drifted over from the sofa. “For the record,” he said without opening his eyes, “watching you mope is becoming genuinely upsetting.”
Fred looked over. “Then stop watching.”
Lee rolled off the sofa, landed in a heap of limbs, and wandered over to the table. He dropped into the chair beside George and squinted at Fred with the frankness of old friends who had long ago forfeited any claim to delicacy. “You haven’t hexed anyone all week,” Lee said. “You nearly cried into your shepherd’s pie yesterday.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did,” George said.
“That was gravy.” Fred corrected.
George raised his eyebrows and Lee leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Have you spoken to her?”
Fred let out a breath and looked back down at the parchment. “She won’t let me.”
“Well,” said Lee, “yes. I likely wouldn’t talk to you either.”
Fred’s jaw tightened. The warmth of the common room pressed in around him, but he felt none of it. He only felt the cold of that corridor, the way your tears had shone without sound, the way you had stepped back when he reached for you.
“I keep hearing it,” he said at last. Neither George nor Lee spoke. Fred swallowed. “What I said.” The words came harder now that he had begun, dragged up from somewhere raw. “I can’t stop hearing them, and every time I do, it sounds worse. Crueler. It sounds like…” He broke off, rubbed both hands over his face, then said into them, muffled and furious, “Well, it sounds like exactly what it was.”
George’s expression changed. The mockery left it first, then the ease. What remained was his brother stripped down to the bone of him, perceptive, protective, and unbearably direct when it mattered. “Fred,” he said quietly, “what you did was awful.”
Fred looked up. George held his gaze without flinching. “It was cruel, and it hit exactly where she was vulnerable, and you know that.”
Fred nodded once. He couldn’t argue against the pony and he didn’t want to. “I know,” he said. “I deserve to be just as miserable for it.”
Lee sighed through his nose and leaned back. “You’re being punished already.”
“I should be.” His punishment felt appropriate.
“Yes,” Lee said. “But that doesn’t mean you should give up.”
Fred laughed bitterly. “You think I can just stroll up and say sorry and that fixes it?”
“No,” George said. “You can’t go back or unsay it, and you probably can’t make her feel better right away. Some things don’t heal just because the person who caused them finally feels bad.”
Fred looked away. The rain had strengthened beyond the window now, silvering the dark. The glass reflected his own face faintly back at him. He looked drawn and tired.
George went on. “But you can tell her the truth.”
Fred’s gaze snapped back. “The real truth,” Lee added. “Not the ugly rubbish you threw at her because you panicked.”
George leaned forward, forearms on the table. “Tell her you lied.”
Lee nodded. “Tell her how it started.”
“And how it changed,” George said.
“And how you feel now,” Lee finished.
Fred stared at them both. The answer rose immediately in him. What good would that do? Why would you believe him? Why would you stay long enough to hear it? What right had he to put more words in your path after the ones he’d already used to wound you?
But beneath all that was something simpler. A need for you to know him. For you to know the truth. That he didn’t believe you stupid. That you weren’t stupid. That fact that you believed the worst thing he had ever said to you represented the whole of him ate away at him. You did not deserve to think you had been foolish for seeing something gentler in him because you had not been wrong. He had just been cowardly.
Fred looked down at the blank parchment between his hands. “What if she won’t listen?”
George’s voice softened. “Then at least she’ll know you tried.”
Lee gave him a sharp look. “And if she does listen, don’t be clever. Don’t joke. Just tell her the truth and let it be ugly.”
Fred almost smiled at that. “You make it sound easy.”
“It won’t be,” said Lee.
George reached over and stole the quill from his fingers. “Go before you lose your nerve.”
Fred sat there for a minute, and because George knew him too well, he stood, hauled Fred up by the arm, and shoved him toward the portrait hole. “Now,” George said.
Fred caught his balance. “You’re both unbearable.”
Lee saluted lazily from his chair. “Go grovel.”
Fred left before they could say anything else.
———————————————————————
He found you the next afternoon on the grounds. Winter had softened a little, enough that the snow no longer lay in clean, untouched sheets but had begun to melt in patches, exposing dark earth and flattened grass beneath. The sky hung pale and pearled above the castle, and a weak, watery sun pressed through the clouds without warmth. The air smelled of thawing stone, damp moss, and the lake. Bare branches scratched at the sky like black ink strokes.
You sat alone beneath a beech tree near the edge of the grounds, far enough from the main paths that few students wandered that way unless they meant to. A blanket had been spread beneath you over the still-damp grass. Your bag lay open at your side, one book stacked on top of another, and one rested in your hands, open across your lap. Your robes pooled dark around you. The wind stirred the ends of your hair across your cheek. From a distance you looked calm as you always did, but Fred knew better now than to mistake stillness for peace.
He slowed as he approached. Your posture shifted before he was close enough to speak. Perhaps you heard his steps through the brittle grass, or perhaps some instinct simply alerted you to being watched. You looked up and the second you recognised him, your face emptied. You lowered your eyes at once and began packing your things away. Each movement was neat and efficient.
Fred’s stomach dropped. “Wait,” he called.
You didn’t wait. You slid the bookmark into your page, shut the book, stacked it with the others, and reached for your bag. Panic rose in him swift and sharp. By the time he reached you, you were already halfway to your feet.
“Please,” he said.
Still you refused to look at him. You gathered the blanket with one hand, and that was when he reached out and caught your other hand in his. The contact stopped you both and your fingers went still in his grasp. Fred felt the shock of it all the way to his shoulders. Your hand was cold from the air. He had imagined touching you again so many times in the past week that the feel of it now was almost overwhelming.
You tried once, immediately, to pull away. He tightened his hold, not enough to hurt you and only enough to keep you there. The desperation in him finally broke free of pride. “Please stay,” he said, voice rough. “Please. Just for one minute.”
At that, you finally looked at him. Your eyes were guarded and tired. There were shadows beneath them he did not remember putting there but knew, in his bones, that he had. He hated himself afresh for that.
“I don’t want to do this again,” you said. The quietness of your voice frightened him more than anger would have.
“You won’t,” he said quickly. “I swear to Merlin, you won’t. I just…I need to tell you something.”
Your hand remained rigid in his. “What?”
He drew in a breath that felt too small for what he needed to say. “The truth.” Fred swallowed and forced himself not to look away. “I was the stupid one. Not you.” he said.
Your brows drew together almost imperceptibly.
“I was,” he said again, because the words had to be plain and whole and not dressed in any wit. “Not you. Me.”
You said nothing. The grounds had gone very still around you. Fred held your gaze and made himself continue. “When this started,” he said, “I was trying to be cruel.” The words tasted foul but he kept speaking. “I thought you were aloof and impossible and I hated that I couldn’t get a reaction out of you, so I made it into a game. I wanted to annoy you. Embarrass you. Prove I could get under your skin.”
Your expression changed by almost nothing, but he felt it anyway. There was a tiny flinch of old hurt. “I know,” you said, and the simplicity of it cut him.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I know you do. But that isn’t all of it.”
He let go of your hand then, not because he wanted to but because he had not earned the right to hold it through this. His fingers felt abruptly empty.
“The longer it went on, the harder it got,” he said. “Because you kept being…you. You took me seriously when no one else did. You listened when I spoke. You remembered things. You saw straight through the performance half the time, except not in the ways I expected. You made room for me when I hadn’t done anything to deserve it.”
Your eyes stayed fixed on him now, watchful and unreadable. Fred’s pulse pounded. “I liked talking to you,” he said. “I liked being around you. I liked that you saw things differently. I liked that you noticed details everyone else walked past. I liked your questions and your pauses and the way you think before you speak. I liked how you took things literally and still somehow understood truths other people miss entirely.”
The wind moved through the bare branches above you, making them (and you) shiver. Fred’s voice dropped lower. “I liked your quirks,” he said. “All of them. I liked the things you thought made you strange. I liked that your mind worked the way it did. I liked that you didn’t move through the world carelessly. I liked that you paid attention. I liked…” He broke off, looked at you helplessly, then forced the rest out. “I liked you.”
Your mouth parted slightly. Not from understanding, he thought at first, but from surprise that he was saying any of this aloud.
“I lied to you,” he said. “That day in the corridor. I lied because I was scared and proud and angry at myself for caring. You asked me if the girls were right, and instead of telling you the truth, I said the worst thing I could think of because it was easier than admitting that I’d changed.”
Your eyes had gone bright again, though not in quite the same way as before. There were tears there, yes, but held differently. Fred stepped closer, careful this time, like approaching something wounded that might yet bolt.
“I am so sorry,” he said. “Not in the useless way I said it before. I mean it properly. I’m sorry I made you feel stupid. I’m sorry I used the thing you were most afraid of against you. I’m sorry I made you think your way of seeing the world was something to laugh at.” His throat tightened. “It isn’t,” he said fiercely. “It never was.”
You looked down then, and the sight nearly undid him. Because your lashes lowered as though under too much weight, and your shoulders that were so often held with quiet dignity softened by a fraction. When you spoke, your voice was very small. “You said yes.”
Fred closed his eyes for one beat. “I know.”
“You said everyone was laughing.”
“I know.”
Your fingers worried at the edge of the folded blanket. “I believed you.”
“I know,” he said again, and this time it came out broken.
You were quiet for so long he began to fear you would simply walk away after all. That you would gather yourself and leave him standing there in the damp winter light with the truth too late in his mouth.
Then you asked, still not looking at him, “Why did you come now?”
The answer was immediate. “Because I missed you.”
Your chin lifted slightly. Fred let out a breath and gave up every last scrap of defensiveness.“I missed everything,” he said. “I missed talking to you. I missed you looking at me. I missed your face. I missed your strange little silences and the way you’d remember something I’d forgotten saying. I missed being your friend.”
That made you look at him. The word friend settled between you with quiet force. Fred met your gaze. “I was,” he said more softly, “wasn’t I? Your friend?”
Something in your expression wavered. Yes, he had been. In the odd, crooked, complicated shape your connection had taken, there had still been friendship there. Real enough to wound when broken. “I thought so,” you said.
The ache in those three words nearly doubled him over. “And I wrecked it,” he whispered.
Then, to his astonishment, you asked, “Did you mean any of the noticing?”
Fred frowned. “What?”
“When you said things about me.” Your eyes searched his, grave as ever. “About me being intimidating. Or observant. Or too trusting. Or…” You hesitated. “Different.”
“Yes,” he said at once. “Yes. All of that was true. The cruelty was real at the beginning,” he said, because he would not insult you with half-honesty now. “But the noticing was real too. And then the noticing became all of it.”
A tear slipped down your cheek. This time you wiped it away gently. “I hated thinking I’d imagined you,” you said.
Fred made a soft, wrecked sound. “You didn’t,” he said. “You didn’t imagine me. I just behaved like a coward.”
Something in your face loosened like frost beginning to melt from a windowpane, letting the shape beneath come slowly back into view. Your mouth trembled, then steadied. Your eyes remained damp, but they no longer looked shuttered. “I was so angry,” you admitted.
“You had every right to be.”
“I still am,” you said.
Fred nodded. “Also fair.”
That, unexpectedly, made the corner of your mouth twitch. It was not a smile, but it was the first trace of one he had seen since the corridor, and it struck him like sunrise.
“I don’t like being lied to,” you said. “And I don’t like being made to feel foolish.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
You studied him another long moment. Then, with the severe honesty that belonged only to you, you added, “You looked miserable all week.”
Fred barked out a startled laugh. “Thank you.”
“You did.”
“I was.”
Then you said, “Good.”
He laughed again, this time properly, and there it was. That tiny fracture in the ice, enough to let warmth through. You looked down at your books, then back at him, and something gentler entered your expression. “I forgive you,” you said.
Fred went still. The winter air vanished from his lungs. Perhaps you saw the shock of it on his face, because you added, very quietly, “I don’t think what you said was small. And don’t think it stops hurting immediately just because you’ve explained it. But I believe you’re telling the truth now.”
Fred stared at you as if he’d forgotten every language he knew. You forgave him. The relief that moved through him was so intense it bordered on exhilaration. He had not realised how tightly he had wound himself around the fear of losing you entirely until that fear loosened enough to let him breathe.
“Thank you,” he said.
You gave a slight nod. Then Fred, because apparently he had not yet exhausted his capacity for making a disaster of important moments, said in a rush, “And I do like you.”
You blinked. “Yes,” you said. “You already said that. That you like me and my quirks.”
He made a strangled sound of frustration. “Not just that.”
You frowned faintly, trying to sort the distinction. Fred looked at you with your hair stirred by winter wind and your books half-packed and your expression caught between confusion and dawning curiosity and he felt some last foolish fear give way beneath a stronger certainty.
Of course words were failing him. Words had failed him from the start with you, slipping and twisting under the weight of too much meaning. Maybe because you listened so intently to them, they always felt suddenly inadequate in your presence, too blunt for the truth they were meant to carry.
So he stepped closer, slowly enough that you could stop him if you wanted to. When you didn’t, he lifted one hand, touched your cheek with a care that made his own heart ache, and kissed you.
The world narrowed. The cold air, the lake, the distant castle, the damp winter grass…all of it fell away until there was only your breath catching softly against his mouth, and the cool silk of your skin beneath his thumb. He kissed you gently at first. When he pulled back, it was only enough to look at you.
Your eyes were wide with astonishment. Fred’s hand remained against your cheek, his thumb just beneath your eye, and he gave a shaky little smile that held more vulnerability than any expression he had ever shown you. “Do you understand me now?” he asked softly.
For one suspended beat, you only stared at him. Then the understanding arrived. He saw it happen when your face changed as the meaning finally settled into place. He hadn’t meant the friendly ‘I like you’, or the treasured-companion ‘I missed you’, but something warmer and deeper. It made your whole expression go luminous with startled feeling.
“Oh,” you gasped.
Fred laughed, helpless and breathless and half in love with the shape of your realisation.
“Yes,” he said.
A flush rose slowly into your cheeks, pink against the winter air. Your gaze dropped once to his mouth and then back to his eyes, and for the first time since he had known you, you looked almost shy.
“Yes,” you said again, softer now. “I do understand.”
And then you kissed him back. It was tentative but not for long. You reached for the front of his robes with one hand, fingers curling into the fabric as if to anchor yourself, and leaned up into him with a kind of thoughtful certainty that made his knees feel briefly unreliable. Your kiss felt deliberate, sincere, a little careful at first and then wholly unleashed. Fred made a soft sound against your mouth and drew you closer, one hand slipping to your waist, the other still cradling your face as though he could scarcely believe he was allowed to.
When you finally parted, the two of you stayed close enough to share breath. Your eyes searched his. “You should have just said that,” you murmured. “I might have understood sooner.”
Fred laughed under his breath. “I know.”
A tiny smile touched your mouth then, and he kissed it immediately. This time when you laughed, it was against his lips. Beneath the bare branches and the pale winter sky, with your books forgotten in the grass and the damp air turning your cheeks rose-bright, the truth settled between you at last. Fred rested his forehead against yours and closed his eyes for one brief, grateful second.
“You are not stupid,” he said quietly.
Your fingers tightened in his robes. “I know,” you answered after a moment. “But I’m glad you understand that now too.”
He kissed you again for that and when the two of you finally began gathering your things distractedly (with Fred repeatedly forgetting what he was meant to be holding because he couldn’t stop looking at you) the world felt changed as if something long-buried had finally begun to surface from the snow, green and living, beneath the thaw. You walked back toward the castle together. This time, when your hands brushed, neither of you pulled away or pretended not to notice.
When Stiles Stilinski put out an advertisement for a flatmate, he didn’t expect to end up living with the most distracting person he’d ever met. She was a perfect flatmate in almost every way. Clean, quiet, kind, but entirely unaware that her idea of loungewear was slowly driving him out of his mind.
Warnings: mildly nsfw, implied smut, fade to black, college au
———————————————————————
You had answered Stiles Stilinski’s advertisement because it was practical. Two bedrooms, close to campus, and decent rent. He was a guy who’d seemed nervous but polite when he showed you the place, tripping over his words and apologizing for absolutely everything, from the squeaky floorboard to the fact that the laundry door stuck if you didn’t lift it just right. He’d seemed safe and normal. A little weird, maybe, but in a way that felt harmless. After moving in you were happy to find he was exactly what you expected.
But he hadn’t expected you. Stiles Stilinski realized that problem roughly three days after you moved in. You’d padded out of your room early in the morning, hair still damp from the shower, wearing what you clearly considered pajamas and what he very quickly realized were not something his brain knew how to treat casually. Linen pants that were criminally short, soft, light, and nearly translucent in the morning sun, and a thin cropped t-shirt that had slipped off one shoulder. A lace strap peeked out where it shouldn’t have, delicate and maddening.
You’d blinked at him blearily from the kitchen doorway. “Oh hey. Morning,” you’d said, completely unaware you were about to ruin his entire day.
He’d dropped his spoon to the table with a clatter along with his jaw. And it only got worse from there.
You were a perfect roommate. Unfairly so. You were quiet and clean. You paid rent on time. You never brought random people over late at night. You cooked great food and always made extra, sliding him a bowl or a plate like it was nothing. “I made too much,” you’d say, shrugging, like feeding him wasn’t an act of domestic intimacy that made his chest ache. And you did all of this while dressed like you were singlehandedly waging psychological warfare.
Some days it was loose cotton pants slung low on your hips and a tight little top that dipped just enough to make his eyes short-circuit. Other days it was matching lounge sets that looked soft and harmless until you moved, until the fabric shifted and clung and revealed just how little it was doing to conceal you.
You sprawled on the couch with your legs tucked under you, reading. You leaned over the counter to check something in the oven. You stretched in the doorway of your room without a shred of self-consciousness. And Stiles - poor, stupid Stiles - spent most of his time actively not looking. He learned the exact spot on the wall to stare at when you passed by. He perfected the art of staring intensely into the fridge. He suddenly had a lot of urgent phone calls whenever you sat beside him. Because noticing felt wrong. You weren’t doing anything to him. You weren’t flirting and you weren’t teasing. You were just existing comfortably, at ease in what was now your home as well, which only made him feel worse.
He lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling, his brain betraying him with vivid, unwanted images. He felt gross for it. Creepy. Like he was crossing some invisible line just by wanting you when you hadn’t invited that kind of attention. But what could he do about it? It wasn’t like he could tell you. And there wasn’t any way to subtly request you to wear more clothing around the flat. What kind of guy asks his roommate to dress less comfortably? What kind of guy even thinks that? So he suffered in silence.
One such night, you were in the kitchen late, barefoot, wearing one of those thin, oversized tees that somehow still managed to ride up your thighs. You were standing at the counter, spoon in hand, when you turned and found him frozen in the doorway. His gaze snapped up instantly.
“Oh,” you said softly. “Sorry, did you need the kitchen?”
“No,” he said, voice cracking. He cleared his throat. “No. I was just, uh, hydrating.”
You smiled. A small, easy motion. “I made soup. You want some?”
Of course you offered him some. You always did. As you handed him a bowl, your fingers brushed his. It was brief and entirely accidental. It meant nothing. But to Stiles, somehow it was everything. He took the bowl because if he didn’t keep his mouth shut and comply with a polite smile, he might say something stupid. Or something a bit too honest.
The longer this went on, the longer it became apparent that maybe the problem wasn’t just your clothes. The problem was that he liked you. That he respected you. That he wanted you. And wanting you while sharing a lease felt like a minefield he didn’t know how to cross without blowing everything up, so he smiled too tightly.
“Thanks,” he said. “You’re…seriously the best roommate.”
You tilted your head, studying him, like you sensed something he hadn’t said. And for one terrifying second, he wondered if maybe you already knew. But the expression left your face as quickly as it had come.
———————————————————————
Stiles was crouched on the edge of his bed like he was defusing a bomb, phone pressed to his ear, voice dropped to a whisper that suggested he was either confessing to a crime or planning one. “Okay, but you don’t understand,” he hissed. “This is not a normal situation.”
On the other end of the line, Scott McCall sighed. It was the long-suffering sigh of a man who had been dragged into Stiles Stilinski’s brain against his will. “I understand that you have a roommate,” Scott said patiently. “And that she…wears clothes?”
“They’re not just clothes,” Stiles said, immediately defensive. “They’re, like boyfriend’s-eyes-only outfits. And I feel gross even saying that, which is why I’m whispering in my own bedroom like the FBI is listening.”
“Stiles,” Scott said slowly, “are you telling me you’re sexually frustrated by your roommate’s pajamas?”
Stiles scrubbed a hand down his face. “They’re not pajamas,” he insisted. “They’re sheer linen short sets, and cotton loungewear…and the zip-up hopdies! Why are they cropped? Why do they slide off her shoulder like that? Who designed them to do that?”
“Okay,” Scott said, clearly trying not to laugh. “First of all, calm down. Second of all, you can’t tell her to change.”
“I know that,” Stiles snapped. “That’s why I haven’t. Because that would be weird. And creepy. And I would rather set myself on fire than be that guy.”
“Good,” Scott said. “Because you would come off wrong.”
“I know!” Stiles whispered louder. “She’s perfect, Scott. She’s quiet, she cleans, she cooks, she feeds me. Do you understand how intimate that is? She hands me a bowl of homemade pasta like it’s nothing and my brain short-circuits.”
“So what’s the problem?” Scott asked.
“The problem,” He said, lowering his voice again as if you might somehow hear him through two walls and a closed door, “is that she looks like that while doing it.”
Then Scott said, “Okay. So you don’t say anything. You manage it.”
“How?” Stiles demanded. “I can’t move out of my own place. I can’t kick her out. I can’t gouge my eyes out, it’s frowned upon.”
“Well,” Scott said thoughtfully, “you could change the environment.”
Stiles frowned. “What does that mean.”
“Make it colder,” he said. “Blast the aircon. If it’s freezing, she’ll put more clothes on. Problem solved.”
Stiles went very quiet and very still, pondering the option for a long moment. “Oh my God, that’s genius,” he finally breathed, awe flooding his voice. “Scott, you beautiful, simple man. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because you’re spiraling,” he said. “Just, don’t be obvious. And don’t make it unbearable.”
“I will be subtle,” Stiles promised, already standing and creeping toward the hallway thermostat like it might bite him. “Tasteful and responsible. Only mildly arctic.”
“Stiles—”
“I’m not gonna freeze her out,” He said. “I just want her in, like…a sweater. A hoodie that stays on both shoulders. Pants with structural integrity.”
“Good luck,” Scott said.
Stiles hung up, heart racing, and stared at the thermostat like it was his last hope. One careful click and the air shifted. A low hum filled the apartment. Stiles retreated to the couch, trying to look casual, innocent, like a man who definitely was not orchestrating a microclimate for his own sanity.
A few minutes later, you padded out of your room. You paused, hugging your arms around yourself. “Is it…really cold in here?” you asked. “Or is it just me?”
“Oh,” Stiles said lightly. “Yeah, maybe? I hadn’t noticed. I tend to run hot.”
You blinked at him, then smiled. “Huh,” you said. “Guess I’ll grab a hoodie.” You disappeared back into your room.
Stiles exhaled as soon as you were gone, feeling victorious. This was it. He was a genius. A mastermind. And then you came back out wearing more clothes, yes, but somehow looking even hotter. The baggy sweatpants you’d traded out for your linen shorts hung low on your hips, waistband folded over artfully. The hoodie that you’d retrieved was thin. Too thin, Stiles realised immediately, as the cold had done its work too well. The outline of your hardened peaks was unmistakable, his traitorous eyes clocking it before his moral compass could intervene.
What was almost worse was the fabric slipping off one shoulder as you waked, exposing bare skin and the delicate lace straps beneath. Black, maybe navy. His brain supplied the detail unhelpfully. You tugged the hoodie down absently, arms crossing over your chest as you padded farther into the room.
“Oh yeah,” you said, voice casual. “That’s definitely better.”
Stiles realised, with dawning horror, that he might have just made things worse. He stopped breathing. He stared at the coffee table. The wall. His own hands. Anywhere but at you. You wandered into the kitchen, opening the fridge, completely unaware that his internal monologue had devolved into screaming. Stiles shifted on the couch, trying to adjust himself subtly and failing miserably. His whole body was wound tight, every nerve ending on high alert like he was in danger. Which, frankly, he was. Of saying something stupid or making a noise or spontaneously combusting.
You leaned against the counter, hoodie slipping even farther, lace strap stark against your skin. “Want some tea?” you asked over your shoulder.
“Yes,” He croaked. Then he cleared his throat and tried again. “Yes. Tea would be great.”
You smiled to yourself, busying your hands with the kettle as Stiles clenched his jaw so hard it ached. Normal. He was a normal human man who drinks tea and was not thinking inappropriate thoughts about his roommate’s anything. At least, that was what he told himself.
This was not your fault. You weren’t doing anything wrong. You were just comfortable in your home, and Stiles was losing his damn mind. The aircon hummed louder, as though mocking him. Scott was going to kill him when Stiles told him his genius plan had backfired catastrophically.
You glanced back at him then, brows knitting slightly. “Are you okay?” you asked. “You look kinda tense.”
Stiles laughed and the sound came out too fast and too high. “Yeah, I’m great. Never better. Just, uh, getting a little cold. Maybe you were right.”
You frowned, thoughtful, then hugged your arms around yourself again. The motion was absolutely devastating, hardened peaks grazing against the fabric while it pulled taught. “Well,” you said lightly, “if it’s too cold, we can turn it down.”
Stiles’s heart slammed into his ribs. “Yes,” he said immediately. “I mean, yeah, that’s a good idea. I like it. I’ll do that now.”
He swallowed hard and nodded, staring straight ahead as you poured hot water into two mugs. He had never regretted anything more in his life than touching that thermostat.
———————————————————————
He made the mistake of helping. That was what Stiles told himself as he stood beside you in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, knife in hand, trying to be useful while his entire nervous system short-circuited. You were cooking dinner, steak and fries and some sort of sauce. But dinner wasn’t the issue. It was those tiny silk shorts you had on, soft and airy, catching the glow of the overhead light every time you moved. A matching camisole skimmed your body, thin straps tracing your shoulders, the fabric clinging in a way that made it impossible to pretend you weren’t right there.
You bent over to grab something from a lower cupboard. Stiles’s grip tightened on the knife, knuckles whitening as his brain screamed at him to look away and failed. His eyes moved downward to where the silk stretched and lifted, the lower curves of your ass exposed to him. The scent of the sauce you were cooking mixed with the faint, maddeningly familiar smell of your perfume. His thoughts dissolved into static.
He swallowed hard, heat pooling low in his stomach, sharp and relentless. He tried to breathe through it. Tried to focus on the rhythm of chopping, on the sound of the pan sizzling, on literally anything that wasn’t the way his body was reacting to you existing five feet away from him.
You straightened and leaned across the counter again, reaching for a spice, and your breast pressed together beneath the dipping neckline. Stiles’ jaw clenched. This wasn’t sustainable. This wasn’t healthy. He shifted his weight subtly, desperate to hide the very obvious problem he was fighting to ignore, every nerve ending screaming. He felt ridiculous and frustrated. Wound so tight he thought he might snap.
You glanced over your shoulder. “Hey, can you—”
“I need to use the bathroom,” he blurted, voice too fast.
You blinked, startled. “Oh, yeah, sure.”
He didn’t wait. He escaped down the hall like a man fleeing a crime scene, locking the door behind him and bracing both hands on the sink, chest heaving. He turned on the shower, cranking it cold, stepping under the spray like it might knock some sense back into him.
It didn’t. The water was freezing, biting, but his body refused to cooperate, desire stubborn and unrelenting. He laughed breathlessly to himself, shaking his head.
“This is pathetic,” he muttered, but it was necessary.
He twisted the knob to warm the water and leaned his forehead against the cool tile, eyes closed, finally giving in to what he’d been denying himself for months. He kept it quiet, and fast, and desperate. Your name slipped through his thoughts uninvited, a sharp inhale catching in his throat as he finally found release, tension breaking all at once like a snapped wire.
Afterward, he stood there for a long moment, breathing hard, shame and relief tangled together in his chest. He cleaned up and straightened himself out, ran a hand through his damp hair. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he shook his head again, half-relieved, half-miserable.
“This can’t keep happening,” he told his reflection.
But when he opened the bathroom door and caught the faint sound of you humming in the kitchen, he knew, deep down, that it absolutely would.
———————————————————————
Stiles took to avoiding you like it was a survival tactic. He stopped lingering in the kitchen. Stopped collapsing onto the couch beside you. Meals happened at bizarre hours (either late nights or early mornings) and when you noticed, you realised he’d started carrying his food straight back to his room like he was afraid of being seen with it. Or with you.
At first, you told yourself you were imagining it. But then days passed where you barely crossed paths at all, and when you did, he was tense. Polite but distant, eyes darting away like he’d been caught doing something wrong. It hurt more than you expected. You liked living with Stiles. He was funny, and relaxed, and respectful, and you’d grown to enjoy his company. Lately you’d felt maybe something even more building. He was attractive, after all, and you got along so well. At least, you’d thought you had.
You replayed every interaction in your head, trying to figure out what you’d done. If you’d been too comfortable, too friendly, or too much. The thought that maybe he just didn’t enjoy living with you settled heavy in your chest.
So you made a decision. If you were the problem, you’d fix it. That afternoon he came home from class, backpack slung over one shoulder, and he stopped dead in the doorway. It was filled with boxes. Half your life was spread across the living room. Clothes folded, books stacked, your plants lined up like they were waiting for instructions.
“Uh,” he said, blinking. “Are you…going somewhere?”
You looked up from the box you were taping shut, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. I’ve decided to move out.”
He dropped his bag and crossed the room in three frantic steps. The panic hit instantly, hot and sharp and overwhelming. His chest tightened, breath coming too fast as a thousand awful explanations slammed into him at once. The colour drained from his face. “What?” he asked, voice pitching up. “No, why? Did something happen? Did I—”
You noticed. You were uncomfortable. You hated him.
He crossed the room without thinking, words spilling out before he could stop them. “Oh my God,” he blurted, running a hand through his hair. “You noticed. You noticed, didn’t you? I was really hoping you wouldn’t notice.”
“It’s kind of hard not to notice,” you admitted, wincing at the confrontation you’d been hoping to avoid.
“Oh my God,” he said, running a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice. “I was really hoping you wouldn’t notice. I tried so hard, I swear! I didn’t want to make things weird or make you think I was a creep or…God, this is the worst possible way for this to come out—”
Your brows knit together. “Stiles, what are you talking about?”
He did, mid-spiral, breath caught halfway in his chest. He stared at you, confusion bleeding into horror as realisation finally landed. “You…don’t know,” he said quietly.
“Don’t know about what?” You shook your head.
His shoulders sagged. “I thought,” he said slowly, carefully now, “that you were moving out because you realised I couldn’t stop staring at you. Because I was affected by you. By your clothes. By the fact that you exist and apparently my brain forgets how to function when you’re around.”
The words hung between you. He braced himself for disgust, or anger, or embarrassment so sharp it might kill him. Instead you laughed. It wasn’t mocking or cruel, just soft, warm, and relieved.
“Oh,” you said, understanding dawning in your eyes. “That’s why you’ve been hiding.”
He blinked. “That’s…not the reaction I expected.”
“I thought you didn’t like me,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “I thought you were avoiding me because you regretted living with me.”
“What?” he said instantly, horrified. “No. God, no, Jesus, no. It’s the opposite of that.”
The relief that crossed your face made something in his chest ache. “So,” you said, stepping closer, your tone shifting, playful now, teasing, “if my clothes were the problem…I could just stop wearing them. And stay.”
His heart stuttered. Relief hit first followed immediately by something dangerously close to disappointment. “I mean,” he said, nodding like a man clinging to sanity, “yeah. That would probably be better.”
You watched him for a second too long, then your lips curved. Before his brain could catch up, you were pulling your top over your head, letting it fall to the floor like it was nothing, leaving you in just a lace bralette.
Stiles forgot how to breathe. His thoughts scattered, every carefully constructed defense evaporating as he stared, utterly undone. There was no way this was real. No way this was happening in his living room, with boxes still half-packed and his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest.
“Is this,” he swallowed, voice rough, “is this really happening right now?”
“Mmhmm,” you murmured, stepping into his space, close enough that he could feel your warmth, and smell your perfume. “You didn’t think you were the only one looking, did you?”
His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, brain screaming ‘don’t mess this up!’ even as desire surged, undeniable and overwhelming. Weeks of restraint snapped.
“Oh. Fuck it,” he breathed.
When he kissed you, it was everything he’d been holding back, desperate and relieved and hungry all at once. Your hands fisted in his hoodie, pulling him closer, and the world narrowed to heat and breath and the way his name sounded when you whispered it. The boxes blurred, the apartment disappeared.
He finally stopped fighting how badly he wanted you and let himself have it.
———————————————————————
Stiles woke slowly after a night that felt too good to be real. For one disorienting second, warmth lingered in his body of phantom sensations, like the echo of hands and mouths and heat. His chest tightened as his brain caught up, reality settling back in with brutal efficiency.
Oh. Right. It was a dream. It wouldn’t have been the first time his subconscious had betrayed him like that. Erotic dreams starring you had become, unfortunately, a pattern. His brain had zero shame.
He groaned quietly and scrubbed a hand over his face, staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom. Was he disappointed? Absolutely. Relieved? A little. Because if last night had been real, then everything would be complicated now. Unfixably so. And maybe it was better, safer, that it lived only in his imagination.
He swung his legs out of bed, still half-asleep, and padded toward the ensuite, pushing the door open without thinking.
“AH!” The sound ripped out of him, sharp and panicked, as his brain short-circuited completely.
You were there, fresh out of the shower with your hair damp, skin flushed, wearing one of his T-shirts and absolutely nothing else. The white fabric clung to you, soaked through, transparent enough that his traitorous eyes registered far too much before his survival instincts kicked in.
He yelped, flailed, slammed his hand into the doorframe, and immediately hissed in pain.“Shit, fuck, sorry! I’m sorry!”
He tried to retreat and shut the door at the same time, accomplishing neither gracefully.
You burst out laughing. “Stiles,” you said, amused and breathless. “Are you okay?”
He stared at the door like it had personally wronged him. “My hand,” he muttered. “I think I just broke like twenty bones.”
You stepped closer, concern softening your smile as you took his injured hand gently, examining it. “Here,” you murmured, and then you kissed it.
His entire body went stiff. You lifted your head, eyes warm, and before he could process anything, you leaned up and kissed his lips. It was slow, lingering, and unmistakably not a dream. Stiles stopped functioning. When you pulled back, he stared at you, stunned, mouth slightly open.
“…So,” he said faintly. “Last night wasn’t a dream?”
You laughed, eyes crinkling. “No, Stiles. It wasn’t a dream.”
“Well,” he said weakly, rubbing the back of his neck, “it’s happened before.”
Your brows lifted, delighted. “Oh really?” Your voice dipped, teasing, a spark of something dangerous there. “And how often,” you asked softly, “would you have these dreams?”
He sighed, shaking his head, defeated and still painfully awkward. “All the time.”
You laughed again, cheeks flushing pink, eyes bright. “You’re adorable,” you said fondly.
Then you walked past him like nothing monumental had just occurred, leaving him standing there blinking after you.
“Wait, what?” he blurted, scrambling to follow. “What is happening? Are we…what are we doing?”
You didn’t answer right away. You walked straight into the living room and knelt beside one of the half-packed suitcases, shoving a few loose clothing items inside.
Stiles’ heart dropped. “I thought,” he said carefully, “you weren’t moving out anymore?”
You looked up at him, lips curling. “I’m not.” His relief barely had time to bloom before you added, “I’m moving into your room.”
His brain bluescreened. “…I’m sorry, what?”
You stood, stepping closer, voice dropping into something slow and deliberate. “It’ll be easier that way,” you said lightly, “for you to have access every time I distract you.”
His mouth gaped opened. Internally? Hell yes. Externally? He looked like a man actively malfunctioning. You laughed, leaned up, kissed his cheek, then ruffled his hair like it was already familiar.
“I could get used to this,” you said warmly.
Stiles swallowed, heart racing, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t think I ever will.” he admitted honestly.
But he didn’t look upset about it. Not even a little. After all, he was a man whose wildest fantasies had just come true.
Hiii, i hope your not overwhelmed by the requests and everything, i would just like to request some more angst (fred weasly) if that's possible, doesn't really matter what kind but mostly before during or after the war, its just really rare to find angst on tumblr that is actually good but I love loveeee you fanfics so much girls
Thanks anyway xx 🩷🩷🩷🩷
Hey! Thank you so much for your request! I’ve just posted a post-war angsty Fred fic! I’ll link it below for you 💕
Fred Weasley watched the woman he loved disappear in the Battle of Hogwarts, and the world insisted he accept that she was dead. He refused. Fred clung to hope long after everyone else told him to move on. When rumours surface of witches and wizards kidnapped during the war, hope is all he can cling to.
Warnings: angst, post Battle of Hogwarts, canon divergent where Fred survived
———————————————————————
Fred Weasley learned how to exist in the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts by pretending he was fine and it was an impressive lie. He smiled, he joked, and he helped George rebuild the shop. He laughed at the right moments and held his family together when the house felt too quiet, when the chairs stayed empty, and when joked echoed wrong.
But he never stopped looking for you. You had vanished in the chaos. One moment fighting alongside him in the smoke-choked corridors, fingers brushing as you split to cover opposite stairwells, and the next you were gone. No body, no spell residue, and no answers.
Everyone told him what that meant. Everyone seemed to know with absolute certainty that you were gone. Everyone except him. Fred refused to say the words out loud. Refused to let anyone else say them either. You weren’t dead. You couldn’t be. Death left things behind. You had left nothing. No trace, no proof, no goodbye, and Fred Weasley had never been very good at believing in things he couldn’t see.
So he saw you everywhere instead. In the corner of his eye in Diagon Alley, turning sharply enough that strangers stared when he froze. In the sound of laughter that wasn’t George’s. In the way the light hit the shop windows at dusk, just like it used to when you waited for him after closing.
He heard your voice in his head constantly, soft when you said his name like it was a secret, sharp when you scolded him for being reckless, warm when you laughed at jokes that weren’t even that funny. Sometimes he reached for you in his sleep. Sometimes he woke up furious with himself for dreaming at all.
“Fred,” George said gently one night, weeks after the funerals had ended and the casseroles stopped coming. “You have to—”
“I don’t,” Fred snapped, sharper than he meant to. “I don’t have to do anything.”
George didn’t push. He never did. But the worry in his eyes lingered, heavy and helpless.
At dinner one evening, the Burrow glowing warm and falsely normal, Arthur cleared his throat. “The Ministry raided an old property today,” he said, carefully. “One of Rookwood’s. Turns out he’d been keeping people there. Muggleborns he kidnapped during the war.”
Fred’s fork clattered against his plate. His heart slammed so hard it felt like it cracked something open. “People?” he said, voice thin. “Alive people?”
Molly’s chair scraped back as she rounded on Arthur, furious. “Arthur Weasley, honestly—!”
“What?” Fred stood abruptly, leaning over the table to make direct eye contact with his father. “Dad, tell me what you said.”
Arthur looked stricken. “Fred, I—”
“You said alive,” Fred pressed. His hands were shaking now, hope blazing bright and dangerous in his chest. “You said kidnapped. That means—”
“Fred,” Bill said gently, already knowing. Already bracing. “There were dozens missing. Hundreds.”
“It could be her,” Fred said, breathless. “She could be one of them.”
Silence fell like a verdict. Molly’s face crumpled. “Oh, Freddie…”
George reached for his arm. “Mate, listen to us.”
“No,” Fred said. “You listen to me. She didn’t die. I know she didn’t. This…this is it. This is why.”
“They would have found her by now,” Percy said softly. “They’ve been checking names.”
“They haven’t checked all of them yet.”
“They will,” Molly whispered. “And if—”
“When,” Fred snapped. “When they find her, I’m going to bring her home.”
Molly and Arthur exchanged worried expressions, concerned for their son. Neither of them believed you’d be coming home.
———————————————————————
The names were published a week later. Fred read them three times. Your name wasn’t there. He folded the Prophet with trembling hands and sat very still.
Something inside him finally, mercifully, gave way. He stopped looking for you so actively after that. Stopped flinching at footsteps. Stopped turning at every laugh. Stopped imagining you walking through the door like you always had, impossibly bright and real. He told himself that love didn’t vanish, but it could go quiet. That grief could be survived if you learned to live around it. He told himself a lot of lies.
Months passed and then, one afternoon, Diagon Alley buzzed with unfamiliar energy. Ministry tents lined the street near the Leaky Cauldron. The walls were full of official notices, healers and Aurors escorted witches and wizards who looked thinner, paler, and haunted. Recovered muggleborns.
Fred was halfway through a delivery when he heard your laugh. He didn’t imagine it. It wasn’t a memory catching up with him. It was real. It cut through him like a curse. He turned slowly, heart pounding, already furious at himself for hoping again. But this time, there you were, standing just inside the Leaky Cauldron, wrapped in borrowed robes. Your hair was shorter, your eyes darker with things he didn’t understand yet, but it was unmistakably you. Alive, breathing, and looking around like the world had only just given you back to yourself. Fred forgot how to move.
You looked up and your eyes met his. For a second, neither of you existed in the present. The war collapsed inward. Time rewound and stuttered and broke. You stared at him like he was a ghost. Then your face crumpled.
“Freddie,” you whispered, like saying his name might shatter you both.
He crossed the distance in three steps and pulled you into him, arms tight, desperate, shaking. You made a sound that was half laugh, half sob, and buried your face in his chest like it was the safest place left in the world.
“I thought you were gone,” he breathed into your hair. “I thought…I thought I lost you.”
“I tried to come back,” you sobbed. “They took me. I couldn’t…I didn’t know if—”
“I know,” he said fiercely, pressing his forehead to yours. “I know. But you’re here now. You’re here.”
He cupped your face, thumbs brushing away tears, memorising you again like he was afraid you’d fade if he didn’t.
“I love you,” he said, voice breaking. “I have loved you, even when I thought you were dead.”
You laughed softly through your tears. “Idiot,” you whispered. “I loved you the whole time. That’s what kept me alive. Imagining coming home to you.”
Fred pulled you back into his arms, holding you like the world might try to steal you again. He didn’t let go of you. Not when the world resumed moving around you. Not when an Auror politely cleared his throat. Not when someone bumped his shoulder in passing. His arms stayed locked around you.
“You’re real,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours. “Merlin, you’re actually real.”
You nodded, unable to stop crying, hands fisting in the front of his jumper as if anchoring yourself. “They said I could come here. Just for a few days. They’re processing everything.”
“You’re not staying here,” he said immediately. “You can stay with me and George, at the flat. You’re not going anywhere without me again.”
You laughed weakly, the sound breaking around the edges. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I do,” he replied, just as softly. “I decided it months ago. You just didn’t know.”
He guided you to sit, his hand never leaving yours. He looked at you properly and took in the new scars you hadn’t tried to hide, the shadows beneath your eyes, the way you held yourself like someone who’d learned how to disappear.
His smile faltered. “They hurt you,” he said.
“Yes,” you answered honestly. “But they didn’t take everything. They couldn’t.”
He swallowed, eyes shining. “They bloody succeeded in taking me apart.”
You reached up, cupping his cheek the way you used to. The contact made him shudder. “I know,” you whispered. “I felt it. Every time I thought I wouldn’t make it…I thought of you. Of the way you smiled at me like I was something good in the world.”
Fred closed his eyes, a tear finally slipping free. “I tried to move on,” he admitted hoarsely. “Everyone said I had to. But it felt like burying you alive.”
“Thank you,” you said gently. “For not giving up on me.”
When he opened his eyes again, the grief was still there but it was softer now, finally sharing space with something brighter. “You’re coming home,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
You hesitated. Just for a second. “I don’t know who I am yet,” you confessed. “I don’t know how to be…normal.”
Fred leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours again, steady and sure. “Then we’ll figure it out together.” He smiled like the sun breaking through ruins. “I mourned you,” he whispered. “I loved you in a world where you were gone. So loving you here? This part’s easy.”
You leaned in and kissed him. It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was slow and careful and tentative. A promise rather than a plea. When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing you in like proof.
“I still feel like a ghost.” You chuckled humourlessly at the strangeness of it all. Of everything not quite feeling solid.
“You’re not a ghost,” he said.
“What am I then?”
“You’re my future,” Fred replied without hesitation. “And I’m not letting it get lost again.”
Five years after graduation, you return to Beacon Hills for your high school reunion expecting nothing more than nostalgia and polite smiles. What you don’t expect is the way your heart still reacts to your ex-boyfriend, Stiles. The two of you had parted after Senior year, never quite the same after the Wild Hunt had taken him from you in more ways than one. You still love him, but you’re five years too late…or maybe right on time.
Warnings: second chance romance, a little angsty
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You hadn’t planned on coming. That was the lie you told yourself as you stood outside the Beacon Hills High gymnasium, staring at the banner strung too tightly across the entrance reading, WELCOME BACK, CLASS OF 2013!The letters were warped and uneven, just like everything else that came back to haunt you in this town.
Five years. It had been five years since graduation. Five years since him.
You adjusted the strap of your handbag on your shoulder and inhaled, the air thick with summer and memories you’d spent years pretending didn’t still own you. You told yourself you were here for Scott. For Lydia. For the version of you that survived high school and deserved to stand here without shaking. Not for Stiles Stilinski.
Inside, the gym buzzed with noise. The space was too loud, too bright with colourful flashing lights, and far too familiar. Someone had tried to class it up with a makeshift bar along the wall, but it still smelled faintly of varnish and teenage sweat. Faces blurred together as you moved through the crowd, people you used to know well enough to bleed for now smiling at you like strangers.
You were halfway through your first drink when you felt it. That pull. That awful, magnetic certainty that you’d always felt around him. You looked up and surely enough there he was. Stiles stood near the bleachers, shoulders tense, one hand wrapped around a glass he wasn’t drinking from. He looked older in the way that came from exhaustion rather than age. He was broader, his bone structure sharper, like the world had carved pieces out of him and called it growth. His hair was a bit shorter, his jaw darker with stubble, but his eyes…God. His eyes were still the same. They found yours immediately.
The hit of it stole the breath from your lungs. Five years vanished in an instant, replaced by the echo of nights spent pressed together in his Jeep, whispered plans about forever, hands clasped so tightly it felt like an unbreakable vow.
You tore your gaze away first. You didn’t miss the way his eyes followed you after. The realisation that you’re still thundered around him hit you at the same time you noticed the woman standing near him. She was tall and very pretty, laughing at something Scott said. Your heart dropped, heavy and sudden.
So he’d moved on. Of course he had. You didn’t know why part of you had expected him not to. Or rather, hoped he wouldn’t.
The jealousy burned hot and irrational, settling under your skin like a bruise. You drank too fast after that, the alcohol doing nothing to numb the way your eyes kept betraying you, flicking back to him over and over again. Every time, he was already looking.
You spent the next hour pretending you weren’t acutely aware of where Stiles was at all times. Every laugh from his direction grated. Every time he leaned close to that pretty blonde girl he’d brought with him your stomach twisted. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that you’d moved on, that the ache in your chest was just nostalgia rearing its ugly head.
Except then you saw him glance at the guy beside you. Your friend was loud, charming, and entirely oblivious. He was talking animatedly, gesturing in a way not too dissimilar from how Stiles used to. Stiles’ jaw tightened, his smile going stiff in a way you remembered too well. He thought you brought a date.
Something petty and wounded sparked in your chest before you could stop it. You turned toward Tony, letting your smile linger a second too long, fingers brushing his arm as you laughed again, louder this time. You leaned closer, said something near his ear, your hand resting comfortably on his chest like it belonged there.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Stiles stiffen. The satisfaction was fleeting, but it was there. Tony, unfortunately, was not an idiot. He glanced down at your hand. Then at your face. Then followed your line of sight across the gym straight to Stiles, who he recognised from all the old photos you still kept.
“Oh,” he said slowly. “Ohhh.”
You dropped your hand. “Don’t.”
He snorted. “You’re trying to make your ex jealous.”
You groaned under your breath. “Okay, yes. Fine. I am indeed putting on a bit of a show. Now get with the program and play along.”
Tony folded his arms, unimpressed. “Why do you want to make your ex jealous?”
“I don’t,” you said too quickly. “I just don’t want him to think I haven’t moved on.”
Tony’s eyes flicked back to Stiles, and then to the blonde woman standing next to him. He winced. “Ah, you want to make your ex jealous because you’re jealous.”
“I am not jealous,” you snapped.
He raised an eyebrow. “You absolutely are.”
“I am not.”
“You dragged me to a high school reunion you swore you didn’t care about, immediately clocked your ex across the room, and then used me as emotional artillery,” he said mildly. “You’re jealous.”
You crossed your arms. “I just want him to see I’ve moved on.”
Tony sighed and tilted his head. “But you haven’t moved on.” He continued mercilessly, “You still spend every breakup anniversary moping. And the ex-anniversary. And his birthday. And—”
“Okay,” you cut in sharply. “Thank you. I get the picture.”
Tony’s expression softened a little. “Why haven’t you been able to move on?” he asked. “What’s so special about this guy? I mean,” he glanced at Stiles again, squinting slightly. “No offense, but he doesn’t exactly scream ‘once-in-a-lifetime’.”
You huffed out a quiet, humorless laugh. “You wouldn’t understand,” you said, already knowing it was true.
He waited anyway. You exhaled, gaze drifting back to Stiles without permission. “I fell for him sophomore year,” you said softly. “Hard and fast, and he fell just as quickly. Neither of us let go. We went through everything together,” you continued. “Things that shouldn’t happen to people that young. We talked about marriage, and kids. We planned a whole future together like it was inevitable.” Your throat tightened.“Until our senior year when he went through something alone,” you said. “Something he couldn’t come back from quite the same. And we…struggled. We tried, but in the end it just all fell apart.”
Tony blinked. “Wow,” he said after a moment. “I don’t know about you, but nothing that ever happened at my high school was that deep.”
Of course it wasn’t, you thought bitterly. How could it be? No one else had watched the world fracture open. No one else had fought monsters in the dark or lost people they loved to something they couldn’t name to anyone else. The void Stiles left behind yawned open in your chest. It was an echoing, hollow ache that never quite filled, no matter how much time you poured into it.
“I need a drink,” you said abruptly and you walked away before Tony could respond.
The makeshift bar was manned by none other than Coach Finstock himself, wearing a whistle and a grin that suggested he had no business being trusted with alcohol.
You stopped short. “Why are you here?”
“Teaching doesn’t pay what it used to,” Coach said easily with a shrug. “Side hustle.”
You eyed the bottles behind him. “I didn’t know you could make drinks.”
“That’s because I can’t,” he said. “I know how to make one drink.”
You sighed. “Can I get a margarita?”
“How about a rum and coke?” he interrupted.
“I don’t drink rum and coke.”
“One rum and coke coming right up!” Coach announced, already turning away.
You stared after him, defeated, then noticed a glass of wine sitting untouched on the counter. You reached for it instead. And of course that was when you would finally collide paths with Stiles Stilinski. It was inevitable, really. Beacon Hills had always been small, and tonight it felt suffocating. You reached for the drink at the same time he did, fingers brushing for half a second too long before you pulled away like you’d been zapped.
“So,” Stiles said, voice rougher than you remembered, “still stealing my drinks?”
You scoffed despite the pounding of your heart against the gates of your ribcage. “You always used to leave them unattended. That’s on you.”
His mouth twitched, something painfully familiar flashing across his face before it vanished. Silence stretched, thick and awkward and loaded with things neither of you had said in years.
“You look…good,” he said finally, like it hurt to admit.
You swallowed. “You too.”
Another pause. His gaze flicked over your shoulder, landing on Tony. “Your…boyfriend?”
The word hit like a slap. You stiffened. “He’s—”
“Oh, right,” Stiles cut in, sharp, defensive. “Sorry. I forgot, that’s none of my business.”
The old irritation flared, quick and bright, the co variation reminiscent of one of the last ones you’d had. “You don’t get to act like that.”
“Like what?” he snapped, eyes flashing.
The laugh that tore out of you was bitter. “You brought someone too, Stiles. Don’t act like I’m the problem here.”
He blinked. “What?”
“The girl you came with,” you said, heat rising in your chest. “I’m not blind.”
Realisation dawned slowly, then hit him all at once. “She’s not…she’s Scott’s friend. I came with Scott.”
Your breath caught. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Stiles swallowed thickly, those honey eyes trained on your face while you looked anywhere other than at him.
“Tony’s not my boyfriend” you said quietly. “He’s my roommate, and his boyfriend is quite territorial. I just didn’t want to be here by myself.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the reunion faded into the background, replaced by the thud of your heart and the way Stiles was staring at you like he’d just been given something fragile back. You stared at your glass. He stared at the counter. The air between you felt tight.
Coach Finstock reappeared like a storm front. “There you are!” he boomed, slapping a glass down in front of you. Inside was a murky, aggressively sloshed rum and coke that looked wrong. Like he’d eyeballed the ratio and lost.
“Ohhhhh,” Coach continued, squinting at the two of you with sudden recognition. “The Class of 2013’s Most Likely to Get Married!”
Your stomach dropped.
“Where’s the ring?” he demanded, grabbing your hand and lifting it like he expected one to materialize through sheer force of will.
You froze. Beside you, Stiles stiffened so hard you could practically hear it. After a beat too long, he cleared his throat. “There is no ring, Coach.”
Coach waved a hand. “No matter, no matter. Still time.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “What about babies, huh? Got any of those running around, biting ankles?”
You winced and Stiles looked faintly horrified.
“You know,” Coach went on thoughtfully, “a baby bit my ankle once. Nasty little thing. Left a mark.”
“No,” you said quickly. “No babies.”
Coach squinted. “No babies yet?”
You swallowed. “No, Coach. We’re actually… not together anymore.”
The words landed heavy. Coach’s grin faltered. Then he barked out a laugh. “What? Nooo!” He laughed again, louder, then abruptly stopped when he actually looked at your faces.
His smile slid clean off. “Oh,” he hissed. “No. What?! That’s…” He gestured vaguely between you, clearly malfunctioning. “Well I never would’ve thought.”
A beat passed with him staring into both of your souls. “Oh this is awkward,” Coach declared. “This is really awkward!” He laughed again, clapped his hands once, then paused. “I think I need a drink.”
Before you could protest, he grabbed the rum and coke he’d just handed you, took it in one brutal gulp, winced, and muttered, “Yep. Still awful.”
Then he walked off, shaking his head. You and Stiles stood there in stunned silence. At least Coach is the same, you thought faintly.
Stiles let out a breath. “Well,” he said softly, on the same train of thought as you. “Some things don’t change.”
For a moment, just a moment, it almost felt like old times. Until Stiles kept talking, appearing agitated. “Yeah, some things don’t change, and then there are things that you thought would never change, until it was too late to realise they already had.”
“Are we really going to do this now? Here?” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose as your stomach lurched.
“Yes, now. Yes, here, because when and where else am I supposed to see you? You completely walked out of my life.” He spat bitterly, turning to you confrontationally.
“Okay, that’s not fair!” You protested. “It wasn’t like I just got up and left one day out of the blue with no warning or explanation!”
“Yeah well that’s what it felt like!” He threw back, his voice raising.
“How did it feel like that?!” You yelled right back, oblivious to the people round you starting to notice the altercation. “How did you notice when things started to change? You changed! You changed before I ever did and I tried. I tried so hard to make it work but when you came back, you were so stuck in the before. I couldn’t stay there with you.”
You didn’t need to say it, he knew you were talking about the wild hunt. About how he’d gone missing, forgotten about and erased from reality for months. He’d returned right before graduation and while the rest of them were ready to move on with their lives - to college, and jobs, and new places - he’d been stuck in the past. He wasn’t ready to move on with them and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t catch up.
“So you left me behind.” His voice broke when he said it and your heart shattered along with it.
“I didn’t want to,” you admitted, tears now welling in your eyes. “I wanted to be with you forever, but I didn’t know how to be with you without fixing what happened, and no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t fix it. You couldn’t adjust and I couldn’t keep letting you hold me back.”
“I was drowning,” he said hoarsely. “I didn’t know how to catch up. And when you left for college, I thought…God, I thought about how easy it was for you to forget me and I thought that it could happen again. Only that time it wouldn’t be because of the Ghost Riders, it would be because of some other guy that you’d meet.”
“It wasn’t my fault that I forgot! I couldn’t control that, but I would never do that to you if I had a choice. Especially not for someone else. And I thought you knew me well enough to know that,” you shook your head, frustration rising. “There was no one else for me! No one. There still isn’t.”
Those last three words left your lips involuntarily and you instantly wished you could take them back.
“You…you’ve never found someone else?” He frowned, surprised and in disbelief.
“No, I haven’t,” you said, voice breaking. “I didn’t want to. Couldn’t even think of anyone else, honestly. I loved you. I still—” You stopped yourself, breath hitching.
Stiles didn’t. “I never stopped,” he said. “Not for one day. I’ve been in love with you for five years, and I hated myself for ruining it and it was easier to pretend I didn’t. To blame you for it.”
The confession hit you square in the chest, knocking the air from your lungs.
“I regretted it,” you admitted, tears slipping free. “Every stupid fight. Every unsent or backspaced message. I kept thinking if I’d just waited, if I’d just held on a little longer…”
He stepped closer, tentative, like you might vanish if he moved too fast. “I’m here now,” he said softly. “If you still want me.”
You didn’t hesitate. Your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him in, and when he kissed you it was everything you’d missed. It was desperate and familiar, aching with five years of restraint. He kissed you like an apology, like a promise, like the future you’d both been too broken to believe could ever come to fruition again was suddenly conceivable.
When you finally pulled back, foreheads pressed together, he laughed shakily. “Guess we both really suck at moving on.”
You smiled through tears. “Maybe we were never supposed to.”
This time, when you took his hand, he didn’t let go. And five years later when he took yours and finally got down on one knee and proposed, neither did you.
