JUST FRIENDS - FRED WEASLEY
Summary: You and Fred are just friends. However, you can't help but feel a tug at your heart whenever he does little things - making you question if your 'just friends.'
warnings: a pinch of angst, cussing, friends to lovers.
You and Fred were just friends. Nothing less, nothing more. At least that’s what you kept telling yourself. Over and over, like a charm you hoped would eventually work—because if it didn’t, you weren’t sure how much longer your heart could take it.
He did things, little things that didn’t feel exclusively friendly.
Like how he always found you in a crowded room—his eyes scanning until they landed on yours, lighting up like you were the only one worth seeing. Or how he saved you the best part of every dessert at dinner. Or when he’d throw an arm around your shoulders after a long day, fingers curling into the fabric of your robes like he didn’t even notice. Or when he’d lean in close during study sessions, reading your notes upside down, his cheek brushing yours while he made some cheeky comment that had your stomach somersaulting.
And the worst part? He never seemed to notice what it did to you.
It was the casual intimacy of it all—his easy affection, the warmth in his voice when he said your name. The way he’d ruffle your hair when you were annoyed, or hold your pinky instead of your hand when he tugged you through the busy corridors between classes. Things that shouldn’t have meant anything… but always did.
The saddest part was that you knew Fred Weasley. Almost as well as George. You knew he flirted with half the castle. You knew the not-so secret hookups he’s had with other Gryffindors and some Ravenclaws here and there. You knew he wasn’t serious about relationships with them, or maybe even anyone.
However, none of them got the quiet parts of him. The stillness behind his laughter. The worry in his eyes when you were too quiet. The way he’d wait up for you after late Prefect rounds, claiming he “just happened to be up,” even when his hair was mussed from sleep. Or maybe you just noticed far too much and overanalyzed him.
So no, you weren’t in love with Fred Weasley.
But sometimes—when he looked at you like you hung the moon—you really, really wished you were just a little better at lying.
Because whenever he does things like that, you find it even more difficult to keep pretending. Like tonight.
The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with post-Quidditch victory energy—scarlet and gold banners fluttering, laughter echoing off the walls, and butterbeer flowing in celebratory bursts. Someone had dragged a wireless from the dorms and turned the volume up, and a few people had pushed the couches aside to make room for dancing.
You sat curled into the arm of a chair, trying to keep your focus on the cup in your hands and not the way Fred Weasley moved through the room like he belonged to it—easy, magnetic, glowing with that same wild charm that made people gravitate to him without even realizing it.
Your stomach flipped when his eyes landed on you. He was still in his Quidditch gear, hair windblown and cheeks flushed from the game, but somehow he looked better like that—unpolished and completely alive.
“Hey,” he called, making a beeline for you through the crowd. “There’s a rule that says you have to dance with the winning team.”
“I think you made that up,” you replied, raising an eyebrow.
He grinned, unbothered. “I make up a lot of rules. Doesn’t mean they’re not good ones.”
Before you could protest, he was holding out his hand. And you—idiot that you were—took it.
The crowd parted just enough to let the two of you fall into step with the slow rhythm of the music. It wasn’t really dancing, not proper anyway. Just swaying in place, your hand in his, his other resting gently at your waist. But the closeness made your thoughts stumble.
He smelled like firewood and grass and a hint of cinnamon—like autumn wrapped in trouble—and he was looking at you like you were something rare.
“I told George you’d say no,” Fred murmured, tone soft enough that only you could hear it.
You tilted your head. “To what?”
His smile flickered at the edges, a little too careful. “Dunno. Just figured you might’ve had enough of me.”
You rolled your eyes to hide the way your heart skipped. “Don’t be dramatic. Why would I ever say no to you?”
He chuckled, spinning you lazily in a slow circle. “I can’t help it. It’s part of my charm.” And it was. All of it was. The humor, the warmth, the way he pulled you close without a second thought like you belonged there.
But you had to remind yourself again- just friends. Thats exactly what you were.
His eyes lingered for a second longer than usual, and his smile shifted—less mischievous, more… genuine.
“You look really nice tonight,” he said, voice quieter than before. “That color suits you. Its my favorite to be exact.”
You glanced down at the red fabric tucked neatly into your black leather skirt—nothing fancy, nothing flashy, just something that made you feel a little braver than usual. “It’s your house color,” you said with a small smirk. “Of course it’s your favorite.”
Fred tilted his head slightly, his eyes still on you. “Yeah, well… you make it look like a whole thing.”
You laughed, mostly because it was easier than letting yourself sink into the way he was looking at you. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re stunning,” he said simply, without any of the usual flair. Just that. And then he looked away like it hadn’t completely disarmed you.
“I could say the same about you,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.
His brows lifted. “What, this?” he gestured to himself—the grass-stained Quidditch uniform, his jersey untucked, pads hanging a little lopsided. “I’m literally sweating. This is me at my least impressive.”
You grinned. “That’s the sad part. You still look good.”
Fred let out a loud, theatrical gasp. “Are you—flirting with me?”
You rolled your eyes. “Relax, Weasley. It’s a compliment, not a marriage proposal.”
“Damn,” he muttered. “And here I was already planning the color scheme.”
He twirled you unexpectedly, making you laugh again as you stumbled back into his arms.
It was easy with Fred. Always had been. You danced like that for a while—slow, steady movements in the middle of a party that was growing louder by the minute. But in your little bubble, the noise faded. He asked you about your classes, groaned when you reminded him about your shared Transfiguration essay, and gave you a dramatic reenactment of how he almost died catching the last Quaffle, complete with flailing arms and fainting poses.
You rolled your eyes, but secretly you lived for these moments—when he let the silliness melt into something softer.
You talked about how much longer you had at Hogwarts, about the DA meetings, about how he and George were already plotting something “big” before they left for good.
He looked down at you as he spoke, his expression open, like he wanted you to remember this version of him—the one who wanted to be more than just a bloke who never took anything serious. The one who wasn’t laughing at the world, but sharing the laugh with you.
And you let yourself pretend, just for a moment, that you were something more.
“Oy, Weasley! Get over here, mate! We need a you!”
It was Lee Jordan, standing near a cleared table that had clearly been repurposed for an aggressively chaotic game of wizard’s Exploding Snap. George stood beside him, smirking like he’d been waiting for the perfect time to interrupt.
Fred groaned dramatically but smiled at you as he loosened his hold.
“Sorry, love,” he said, voice low and far too casual for the way your heart reacted to the nickname. “Best if i head off to Lee before i get a bludger to the head next practice.”
You forced a laugh, letting your hands fall away from him slowly, too slowly. “Wouldn’t want to deprive the common room of your talents.”
He grinned, already backing away, fingers still brushing yours until the last second. “Exactly. Sacrifices must be made.”
And then he was gone—folded back into the crowd, into the noise and the warmth and the chaos that always seemed to orbit him. Like he had never looked at you like that. Like he hadn’t just taken your breath away without even trying.
You stood there for a second, unsure what to do with yourself, before your eyes scanned the room and landed on Hermione, seated near the fireplace, a cup of punch in her hands and a knowing look already blooming on her face.
She glanced up as you walked up to her, lifting her cup slightly in greeting. “Well, you two looked cozy.”
You scoffed, too harsh, too fast. “We’re just friends.”
There was a pause—brief, but enough.
Then Hermione set her cup down and leaned forward slightly, her voice calm, like she wasn’t trying to pick a fight—just deliver the truth.
“You say that like it’s a fact,” she said softly. “But you look at him like you’ve already written a thousand love letters you’ll never send.”
“That’s quite dramatic,” you muttered, though your voice lacked bite.
Hermione didn’t respond right away. She just looked at you—really looked at you—with that frustratingly perceptive expression she wore when she was holding back something she already knew. You hated how well she could read you, even when you were trying not to be readable at all.
“I notice things,” she said quietly, as if reading your mind. “Like how you laugh before he even finishes a joke. Or how you scan a room the second you walk into it—only to relax the moment you see him.”
You stayed silent, because… well, what could you say to that?
“He touches you differently than he touches anyone else,” Hermione continued. “It’s not just friendly. He’s gentle with you. Like he’s afraid if he holds on too tightly, you’ll disappear.”
Your throat closed up. She wasn’t wrong. And that was what made it so much worse.
“I can’t…” You shook your head, struggling to find the words. “I don’t want to feel like this, Hermione.”
“Because it’s Fred,” you whispered, like saying his name too loud would unravel you. “He’s not—he’s not someone who does real feelings. He flirts with everything that moves. He jokes when he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s… impossible to pin down. He’s not the kind of boy you fall for expecting something back.”
Hermione’s voice was gentle but firm. “Maybe he’s not the kind of boy who used to do real feelings. But maybe you’re the exception.”
Your heart ached at that. It would be so much easier if you could believe it.
But you’d seen Fred with other girls. Heard the way he flirted, laughed, turned everything into a joke. And even if he was different with you, what if it was just that—different—but not more?
“You don’t get it,” you said, barely above a whisper. “If I tell him how I feel and I’m wrong, I lose him. I lose this. I lose my best friend.”
Hermione reached over and gently placed a hand on your arm. “I do get it,” she whispered, “More than you think. But you deserve to be loved out loud. And I think Fred might be a lot closer to that than you realize.”
You looked over at her, eyes stinging.
“I’m scared,” you admitted.
“I know.” Her smile was small, kind. “But just because you’re scared doesn’t mean he’s not worth the risk.”
It had been three days since the party, and you still hadn’t stopped thinking about the way Fred had looked at you or the way he spoke to you. You couldn’t stop replaying Hermiones words of affirmation she informed you of.
“You deserve to be loved out loud.”
You didn’t argue with the concept of it- no, you knew your worth. You argued with the fact it was Fred. You knew it wouldn’t be him no matter how many times you’d pray and hope just maybe- maybe he’d be the one who would shout your name from rooftops. The one who would love you out loud. You knew it was a fantasy - a fantasy that you’d have to be mad to believe would become true, because its Fred.
That led to reminding you on Hermiones other expression.
“But maybe you’re the exception.”
You didn’t believe that at all. You refused to. He must look at other girls like that right? You two were just friends. It’s what you both told everyone, so why act like theres something there?
Still, you’d kept it to yourself. Like always.
It was now time for dinner, and the Great Hall buzzed with the usual chatter. You sat across from Ron and beside Hermione, absentmindedly poking at your bangers and mash while Harry launched into yet another rant about Snape deducting points for “existing too loudly.”
“Honestly, I breathed, Hermione,” Harry said, gesturing with his fork. “And he docked me five points for being ‘aggressively present.’ What does that even mean?”
Hermione sighed, though she was clearly holding back a smile. “It means you were being annoying again.”
“He said it with fanfare,” Harry added. “Like it was the highlight of his week.”
You smiled weakly at their bickering, but your focus was slipping. It had been since the moment you caught sight of Fred down the table.
He was leaning in toward Angelina Johnson, all relaxed shoulders and easy grins, his arm casually draped behind her on her shoulder. Her hand was on his forearm—light, familiar—and he didn’t move. Didn’t shift away. If anything, he leaned closer when she said something in his ear, and he laughed—open and loud and effortless. You noticed how she looked at him.
It shouldn’t have meant anything. He and Angelina had been friends for years. Teammates. Comfortable.
But you’d always noticed the way she touched him—like she could. Like she had every right to. And she did, Fred wasn’t yours to claim.
And in the quietest, most insecure part of yourself, she had always been the reason you never said anything. Because if Fred Weasley were going to fall for someone—really fall—it would be someone like her.
Beautiful. Confident. Untouchable.
Not someone who spent the night rereading every word he said and pretending her heart didn’t race at his touch.
You looked down at your plate and tried to focus on the way your mashed potatoes were pooling into your sausage. Anything but the twisting in your chest.
“So I told him,” Harry continued, oblivious, “if he wants me to stay quiet, he can try giving me detention, but I refuse to stop breathing.”
“Very brave of you,” you muttered, your voice a little flatter than intended.
“Thank you,” Harry perked, then returning to his conversation about how ‘insufferable’ Snape was
Hermione looked over at you for a moment, quiet. You could feel her eyes on you like a weight. “You okay?” she asked softly, voice low enough that Ron and Harry wouldn’t hear.
“Perfect..” You mumbled, eyes flickering between Fred and your plate.
Hermione’s eyes followed yours, hers landing on Fred and Angelina - which she immediately caught on. “He doesn’t look at her how he looks at you though.“
“It doesn’t matter, Hermione.” You bit out, voice sounding more bitter than you intended. “I can’t keep telling myself something is there when there isn’t. I refuse to pretend that he’ll randomly wake up one morning and pick me. Because we’re friends. Just friends. And its stupid for me to pretend that theres something more lingering between us when it’s just me.”
You didn’t want to hear any of Hermione’s comforting words now- because you knew you wouldn’t believe it for a moment. Not when Fred was laughing like that, not when his hand stayed where it was, not when you felt like you were five inches shorter than usual and your chest was trying to cave in quietly while everyone else just enjoyed their dinner.
You pushed your food around and nodded along as Ron started going on about Quidditch lineups, and you told yourself—again—that it was fine. Because even though it wasn’t far from fine, you had no say in it whatsoever. You and Fred were friends. Nothing less, Nothing more.
And you had to accept that.
You told yourself you had to start pulling away.
Whatever this thing was—this not-quite friendship, not-quite something more—it was starting to hurt. It sat in your chest like weight, blooming every time he looked at you like you meant something and fading just as fast the second someone else made him laugh harder.
You started with small things. Sitting at the far end of the table. Taking longer routes to class. Turning the other way in corridors when you saw that familiar flash of ginger hair coming around the corner. You told yourself it was for the best. That you were being smart. That it was self-preservation.
But then you saw him in the halls. Again. And again. And always… she was there.
She wasn’t doing anything wrong, not really. She wasn’t draped over him or clinging to him in a way that demanded attention—but she was there. Lingering at his side like it was natural. Like she belonged.
And the worst part? He didn’t look like he minded. If anything, he seemed at ease—laughing at something she said, leaning in close to hear her, nudging her shoulder as they walked.
It chipped away at you slowly. Like frostbite. You didn’t even notice how cold it made you until it started to numb everything else.
So when Fred tried to talk to you—because of course he did—you gave him almost nothing in return.
“Hey, you heading to Charms?”
“Mind if I walk with you?”
He tried to joke, keep it light, keep it Fred, but you didn’t meet him halfway. Didn’t give him the usual grin or sarcasm or playfulness he was used to.
Just short answers. Polite, distant. A version of yourself you didn’t even recognize.
He looked at you a little funny when you said goodbye—like he was trying to figure out where he lost you, and whether or not he was supposed to chase after it.
“Hey,” he said, reaching out to gently catch your elbow just before you turned down the corridor. “Hold on.”
You stopped, but didn’t turn.
“You’ve been short with me,” he said, not accusing, just… confused. “Barely said more than a sentence all week.”
You shrugged, eyes fixed on the stone floor. “Busy.”
There was a pause, and then a quiet scoff. “Love, you don’t expect me to buy into that, do you?”
You finally looked at him. He looked tired in a way you weren’t used to seeing—like the mask of constant jokes and easy charm had slipped for just a moment.
But it didn’t matter. You couldn’t let it matter.
“Then don’t,” you said, voice sharper than you meant it to be.
Before he could say anything else, you turned on your heel and walked away, your footsteps echoing far too loudly in the quiet corridor.
Snow had settled thick across the rooftops of Hogsmeade, like icing on a gingerbread village. Icicles hung sharp and glinting from every overhang, and the crunch of boots on the snow-covered paths echoed softly with every step.
You were wrapped in your warmest coat, scarf snug around your neck, but the cold still bit at your fingertips through your gloves.
It was supposed to be a good day. One of the rare weekends where you could all go into the village, drink hot butterbeer, browse shops, feel normal. And for a while, it worked.
You and Harry had argued over whether the sweets at Honeydukes were superior to Zonko’s joke shop, while Ron had made it his mission to find the thickest socks in the village. Hermione kept insisting you all stop walking directly in the path of slush puddles, tugging you out of the way with narrowed eyes and half-smiles.
Eventually, the four of you ducked into the Three Broomsticks for warmth and steaming mugs of hot butterbeer. The fire crackled nearby, warming your cheeks and thawing the chill from your coat. For a moment, you let yourself settle. Let yourself pretend you weren’t avoiding anyone. That you weren’t trying to keep your heart from splitting open every time you saw Fred.
After finishing your drinks, you and Hermione wandered into a little winter shop tucked between two larger storefronts—full of knitted scarves, earmuffs, enchanted mittens that refused to get wet, and cloaks lined with soft furs and golden clasps. Hermione was flipping through a rack of deep green cloaks, going on about practicality and wool content when something over her shoulder stopped you cold.
He was across the store, walking with George, Lee, and—of course—Angelina.
He looked good. Too good, honestly. That effortless charm about him, jacket open just enough to show his Gryffindor scarf, cheeks pink from the cold, and his hands animated as he joked with the group.
Angelina was laughing, nudging him with her shoulder. She lingered close. She always did. And as if it couldn’t get worse, Fred turned his head mid-laugh—and his eyes met yours.
You looked away instantly, hands fumbling with the scarf you were holding. Hermione didn’t notice at first, still explaining how she’d been needing a new cloak for weeks.
“I’m just going to pay,” you said quickly, already stepping toward the counter.
Hermione blinked. “Alright, I’ll just look at these earmuffs—”
“No,” you said too quickly, too firmly. “Actually, why don’t you go ahead to that bookshop you mentioned earlier? I think I’m just going to take a walk.”
She gave you a look. “You sure?”
You nodded, offering a smile that was tight and definitely not convincing. “Yeah. Just… need a bit of air.”
And then you were gone. You didn’t even remember what you bought. You just needed to not be there. Not see him. Not feel that crushing ache rise every time you remembered all the things you could never say. It had been weeks since you spoke with him, but it felt just like yesterday. Too soon. Too early.
After you turned the corner, you let out a shaky sigh. Due to the cold and your heart’s pounding within your chest.
Before you could even think, a hand grabbed your arm—firm, urgent—and before you could react, you were pulled into the narrow alleyway between two shops, boots scraping against packed snow, your heart thrashing in your chest.
“What the—let go of me!” You slapped wildly at the arm until the grip loosened.
“Oi, alright—bloody hell—stop hitting me!”
You froze, your hand dropping mid-swing.
He stepped back, holding his hands up, breathing hard. “Hi.”
“Are you bloody mad?!” you snapped, your voice sharp, angry, and very much covering the panic and heartbreak roiling underneath. “You don’t just drag people into dark alleyways!”
“There’s this thing called speaking like a normal person, Fred!”
He ran a hand through his hair, flushed, snow catching in his lashes. “You haven’t been speaking to me at all. It’s been fuckin’ weeks.”
You folded your arms. “I’ve been busy.”
“Don’t.” His voice cracked a little—just enough to silence you. “Don’t give me that. You’ve barely looked at me in weeks. You won’t sit near me, won’t talk to me, you disappear when I walk in the room. It’s like I’ve done something awful and you won’t even tell me what it is.”
Fred took a shaky breath and kept going.
“I miss you,” he said, voice raw and exposed. “I miss everything. I miss your laugh in the common room, how you always threaten to hex me whenever i steal your homework, I miss your smile. I miss knowing you’ll be there when I look up. I miss… you.”
You looked away, but he stepped closer.
“And I don’t get it,” he said, eyes searching yours. “What did I do? Did I screw something up? Did I say something? Just—just tell me, and I’ll fix it. Just—don’t leave me like this.”
You swallowed thickly, heart racing. And then—
Your words had sliced through the cold air like a blade, sudden and shaking.
“I’m in love with you,” you said again, more quietly this time. “And I’ve been trying to pretend I’m not, but it’s exhausting, Fred. And it hurts. It hurts to see you with her, even if there’s nothing going on. Even if she’s just your friend. Because I’m not just your friend. Not anymore. Not in my head.”
His mouth parted like he wanted to speak, but you didn’t let him.
“You always made me feel like maybe… maybe there was something there. And I held onto that. Every time you looked at me like I mattered. Every time you made me laugh when I wanted to cry. I thought maybe… just maybe you saw me the way I saw you.”
You shook your head, voice cracking.
“But then she’s always there, and you never push her away, and I know it’s stupid, but I thought—I thought if I got some distance, I’d stop hurting. But it didn’t work. It just made everything worse.”
Silence. Thick. Cold. Endless.
He stepped forward, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t clumsy or desperate. It was gentle. Like something he’d been carrying for far too long, and could finally let go.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath trembling.
“It was always you,” he whispered. “It’s always been you. I don’t know how you didn’t see it. I flirted with half the castle just to hide how badly I wanted you. Because I was terrified of scaring you off. Terrified of making you uncomfortable. Terrified that if I wanted you too loudly, I’d lose you completely.”
You blinked up at him, tears brimming, your chest aching in that awful, beautiful way when hope finally claws its way through.
“I don’t want anyone else,” he said. “You’re not some backup plan. You’re not some secret I was waiting to get over. You are—you’ve always been—the only one I’ve ever wanted.”
“And if you give me even half a chance, I swear I’ll never let you wonder again.”
Your hands gripped the front of his coat. “Fred Weasley—if you walk away after saying all that, I’m hexing you.”
He grinned—really grinned—and kissed you again. The snow kept falling, yet the cold didn’t touch you.
And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to lie to yourself anymore.
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