(cleaning after a fight • protective fred)
The roar of the crowd still clung to the air like static as you made your way down from the stands, the late-afternoon light slanting gold across the Quidditch pitch. Banners snapped lazily in the breeze, red and gold blurring together as students spilled from the bleachers, flushed with excitement and victory. Your scarf was crooked, your hands cold despite the sun, your heart still racing from the final goal. Gryffindor had won—again—and the ground seemed to hum with it.
You spotted them near the edge of the pitch almost immediately. Harry was grinning, broom tucked under his arm, Ron talking a mile a minute with that breathless, disbelieving joy he always got after a good match. George leaned against his broom, smirk firmly in place. And Fred—Fred was still vibrating with adrenaline, eyes bright, hair wind-tossed, laugh sharp and triumphant. You were halfway to calling out when the atmosphere shifted.
A voice—sneering, sharp—cut through the noise.
You didn’t catch the words. Only the way Fred’s expression changed.
One moment he was smiling, the next his jaw locked, shoulders going rigid like a bow pulled too tight. He turned so fast it was almost dizzying, broom dropping into the grass as he stepped toward a Slytherin player lingering far too close. George’s hand shot out instinctively, but Fred was already speaking—low, dangerous, nothing like his usual joking lilt.
The shove came first. Then the swing.
Gasps rippled outward as bodies surged, the pitch erupting into chaos. Robes tangled, brooms clattered to the ground, and the air filled with shouted insults and the dull thud of fists meeting fabric and bone. Fred didn’t just shove this time—he swung again, hard, and the Slytherin reeled back into another player. Someone shouted Harry’s name, and suddenly he was in it too, glasses askew, grappling with a boy twice as mouthy as he was tall. Ron followed without hesitation, red-faced and furious, tackling someone who’d laughed far too loudly.
You didn’t think—you ran.
Your voice cut through the noise as you grabbed Fred’s arm, fingers digging into his sleeve as you tried to haul him back. Ginny pulled his other arm though he barely budged, adrenaline making him feel immovable, his free hand still clenched, knuckles already split and bleeding.
“Guys—stop!” you shouted, breathless, heart hammering. “Fred, please—!”
Hermione was there a second later, grabbing Ron and yelling something sharp and furious. George wedged himself between Fred and the Slytherin, swearing under his breath as he shoved his twin back. Angelina and Katie Bell dragged Harry away just as he tried to lunge again, a cluster of students piling in to separate bodies and pull people apart.
Fred froze—not at George’s grip, not at the professors’ voices beginning to thunder across the pitch—but at you.
For a split second, the world narrowed to the feel of him beneath your hands: hot, shaking with rage, breath coming hard. His chest rose and fell as he looked down at you, eyes still blazing, blood smudged across his knuckles. Whatever had been said—whatever had lit the fuse—drained out of him the moment he saw your face.
“Enough!” came Professor McGonagall’s sharp command, cutting through everything like a blade, Snape’s dark form sweeping in behind her.
Students scattered quickly then, muttering and wide-eyed, as the professors took control. But you stayed where you were, hands still curled in Fred’s sleeve, staring up at him as the last of the fury faded into something else entirely—something protective, something raw and aching.
Professor McGonagall’s gaze swept over the wreckage of the pitch—grass torn up, brooms scattered, students still breathing hard with leftover fury clinging to them like smoke.
“That is quite enough,” she said crisply, her voice leaving no room for argument. Her sharp eyes landed first on the Gryffindors. “Potter. Weasley. Both of you. And you as well, Mr. Weasley.”
Fred straightened instinctively, jaw tightening again, though George’s hand stayed firm on his shoulder. You felt the shift immediately—the way Fred pulled himself together, the way he always did when consequences arrived.
Then Snape stepped forward, black robes billowing like a storm cloud. His lip curled as his gaze cut toward the green-clad students still being held back.
“Adrian Pucey. Marcus Flint. Draco Malfoy.” His eyes lingered on Malfoy with particular disdain. “I should have known.”
Malfoy smirked, despite the split lip and the hand still gripping his collar, until Snape’s glare silenced him.
“All of you,” McGonagall continued sharply, “will accompany us to the castle immediately. Detentions will be discussed once we have determined precisely what provoked this… disgraceful display.”
Harry adjusted his glasses, still flushed, Ron muttered something under his breath that Hermione immediately hissed at him to stop. Fred’s hands were clenched again at his sides, scraped and bleeding, his eyes flicking once toward you.
“Ms. Johnson,” McGonagall added, softer but no less firm, “you are to escort the rest of your team back to the tower.”
Angelina nodded and began calling the remaining players to follow her. Georges eyes flicked between Fred and you in something that looked dangerously like understanding as he followed his team off the pitch.
As the professors began herding the fighters toward the castle, you stood frozen, heart lodged somewhere in your throat. Fred hesitated—just a beat too long—before turning to follow McGonagall, Snape’s presence like a shadow at his back.
The corridors were quieter than they should have been, the aftermath of the match still echoing in distant stairwells and whispered clusters of students being shooed along by prefects. You paced near the entrance hall, fingers worrying the hem of your sleeve, heart still beating too fast.
Fred emerged from a side corridor with George a step behind him, Professor McGonagall disappearing the other way after delivering what was clearly a very final warning. Fred’s knuckles were split, one side of his jaw already darkening, a thin line of blood at his brow that made your stomach twist.
“Fred,” you said, already crossing the space between you.
George opened his mouth—probably to tease, or warn, or say be careful—but one look at your face made him stop. He lifted his hands in surrender, backing away with a knowing huff.
“I’ll… give you two a minute,” he said lightly. “Try not to start another war.”
Fred looked down at you, something uncertain flickering behind his usual grin. “You shouldn’t—”
“Come on,” you cut in, gentler than your words suggested, fingers already curling around his wrist. “Before Madam Pomfrey sees you and makes a whole production of it.”
His hand was warm, rough, trembling just slightly. He let you lead him without protest, footsteps falling into sync with yours as you navigated staircases and turns you knew by heart.
The climb to Gryffindor Tower felt longer than usual. You could feel his eyes on you the whole way—protective, careful, like he was afraid one wrong word might break the moment.
“Did they say anything…?” you asked quietly as the Fat Lady came into view.
Fred exhaled through his nose. “Nothing worth repeating.”
Inside the common room, the fire crackled softly, casting gold over the familiar chaos of armchairs and half-finished homework. A few students glanced up, took in Fred’s state, and wisely looked back down.
You guided him to the stairs without slowing, tugging him along until you reached the boys’ dormitory door.
The dormitory was dim and empty, the late-afternoon light slanting in through the tall windows and catching dust motes in the air. The door clicked shut behind you, muting the sounds of the common room below.
“Sit,” you said again, more gently this time, steering Fred toward his bed.
He dropped down with a dramatic sigh, sprawling back against the pillows. “Blimey, dragged off to my own dormitory,” he said, attempting a grin. “If George knew—”
You shot him a look over your shoulder as you rummaged through his trunk. “Fred.”
“Alright, alright,” he laughed, hands lifting in surrender. “I’ll behave. Promise.”
You found what you were looking for—clean cloth, a small vial of essence of dittany, a bowl you filled with water from your wand—and turned back to him. Up close, the damage looked worse than it had in the corridor. His knuckles were scraped raw, one eyebrow split just enough to bleed again now that the adrenaline had worn off.
“Merlin,” you murmured, kneeling between his knees. “You really went for it.”
He shrugged, trying for nonchalance, but you felt the tension in him. “They started it.”
“That’s what everyone says.”
“Well,” he added lightly, eyes flicking to your face, “everyone’s usually wrong. I’m not.”
You dipped the cloth into the water and reached for his hand. The moment your fingers wrapped around his, something shifted—electric, quiet, undeniable. His teasing stalled. His grip tightened just slightly before he relaxed, letting you guide him.
You cleaned his knuckles slowly, carefully, your thumb brushing his skin more than strictly necessary. He watched you the entire time, gaze intent, softer than you’d ever seen it.
“You didn’t hear what they said,” he said after a moment, voice deliberately casual.
“No,” you replied. “I didn’t.”
Good, he thought—but he didn’t say it. Instead, he tilted his head, studying you like you were a puzzle he’d never quite solved. “Still ran in like a hero, though.”
You snorted. “Hardly heroic. You’re terrible at stopping when you should.”
“Rude,” he said. “I stop all the time.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Name one.”
He opened his mouth—then shut it, huffing out a laugh. “Alright, fair.”
You moved closer to dab at the cut near his brow, your knees brushing his, your breath ghosting across his cheek. He went very still.
“You’re good at this,” he said quietly.
Your hand faltered for half a second before you recovered. “Someone has to look after you lot.”
Fred’s lips curved, not quite a grin. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing.”
The air felt thicker somehow, charged. His bravado flickered back on, just enough to keep things from tipping over the edge. “Though if you’re planning on fussing over me every time I get into a fight, I might start picking them on purpose.”
You leaned back, pointedly unimpressed. “Try it and I’ll hex you myself.”
“Ooh,” he said, delighted. “Threats now? Is this a new thing between us?”
You shook your head, but you were smiling despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he murmured, eyes warm, “you’re still here.”
You finished cleaning the last cut, your fingers lingering for just a heartbeat too long before you pulled away.
You shifted closer again, tearing a strip of bandage between your fingers. The sound was soft, but in the quiet dorm it felt loud. Fred watched your hands as if they were the most interesting thing in the world.
“This one’s going to bruise,” you said, pressing the bandage around his knuckles. Your touch was careful, but firm. “You’ll feel it tomorrow.”
He winced—not from the pain, but from how close you were. “Worth it.”
You paused. Looked up at him. “Don’t.”
“Don’t pretend you enjoy getting hurt.”
His mouth tipped into that familiar crooked smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Didn’t say I enjoyed it. Just said I’d do it again.”
Your fingers stilled. The tension coiled tighter.
“For what?” you asked quietly.
Fred’s gaze lifted to yours, steady and unguarded in a way that made your breath hitch. “Some things,” he said, voice low, “are worth taking a hit for.”
You swallowed and forced yourself to keep working, moving the bandage to his wrist, wrapping it slowly. Your thumb brushed the pulse there, and you felt it jump beneath your touch.
“You can’t keep doing that,” you said. “Charging in like you’re invincible.”
He laughed softly. “You think I believe that?”
You didn’t answer. You reached for his arm instead, lifting his sleeve to check the bruise along his forearm. Your closeness erased the rest of the world—no common room noise, no lingering shouts from the pitch, just the quiet between you and the steady rhythm of his breathing.
“You were shaking,” he said suddenly.
“Back there,” he continued, gentler now. “When you grabbed me. Your hands were shaking.”
You hesitated, then tied off another bandage with more force than necessary. “I was angry.”
“Mmm,” he hummed. “Looked more like scared.”
Your eyes snapped to his. “I wasn’t.”
Fred didn’t tease you. Didn’t grin. He just looked at you, expression softening in a way that felt dangerous. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
The words settled heavy between you.
You leaned back slightly, but he followed the movement without thinking, your knees still pressed between his. His voice dropped, almost a whisper. “You always come running, you know that?”
“And you always make trouble,” you shot back, though your voice lacked heat.
“Maybe,” he said. “But you always stay.”
Your breath caught. Your fingers tightened around the last bandage, your knuckles brushing his skin as you secured it. The proximity felt unbearable now—his warmth, his scent, the way his eyes kept flicking to your mouth like he was fighting himself.
You finished at last, hands lingering uselessly in your lap. “There,” you said. “You’ll live.”
Fred leaned forward just a fraction, close enough that you could feel his breath against your cheek. “Shame,” he murmured. “Was enjoying the attention.”
You scoffed, but your heart was hammering. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he repeated softly, echoing his earlier words, “here you are. Kneeling in my dorm, patching me up like I matter.”
Your gaze met his again, and for a second neither of you moved. The space between your faces was thin—too thin. Your thoughts scattered, your pulse roaring in your ears.
Then Fred exhaled and leaned back, breaking the spell with a lopsided grin. “Reckon Madam Pomfrey would be proud.”
You laughed shakily, grateful and frustrated all at once. “Get some rest, Weasley.”
He watched you stand, eyes following you like he wasn’t ready to let the moment go. “You’ll stay a minute?”
You hesitated—just long enough for him to notice—then nodded, settling beside him on the edge of the bed.
Fred stayed quiet longer than you expected.
You could feel it—the way something heavy sat just behind his jokes, the way his fingers kept flexing like he was still resisting the urge to punch something. You shifted beside him, turning slightly so your knee sat against his.
“You still haven’t told me,” you said softly.
“What he said.” Your voice was gentle but stubborn. “Fred. You don’t usually lose it like that unless it’s bad.”
He scoffed, eyes dropping to the floor. “You don’t need to hear it.”
“I do,” you insisted. “I’m not leaving until you tell me.”
He glanced at you then, a quick look—half fond, half exasperated. “You’re impossible.”
A breath left him, sharp and frustrated. He leaned back on his hands, staring up at the ceiling like the answer might be written there. “He said—” Fred stopped, jaw tightening. “He said something crude. About what he thought you’d be like. Alone. About how someone like you only looks sweet until—”
“Fred,” you said, very quietly.
He swallowed. “He talked about you like you were a thing. Like you existed for him to imagine whatever he liked.” His voice dropped, shaking now with contained fury. “I’ve heard a lot of rubbish from Slytherins. But that—about you—”
You felt something cold bloom in your chest, followed immediately by heat. Anger, yes—but also something else. Something aching.
“That’s why you fought,” you said.
“That’s why Harry fought,” Fred corrected. “That’s why Ron nearly lost his mind. And that’s why I nearly broke Pucey’s nose.”
You reached for him without thinking, your hand settling over his wrist. His skin was warm beneath your palm, solid and real.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you said, though your voice trembled.
“Yes,” he said immediately. “I did.”
You looked at him then—really looked. At the way his bravado cracked when it came to you. At the way his jokes fell away, leaving something fierce and unwavering behind.
“I can handle myself,” you murmured.
“I know,” he said. “That’s not the point.”
Silence stretched, thick and charged. Your hand was still on his wrist. Neither of you moved it.
“You scare me sometimes,” you admitted. “The way you rush in like that.”
He smiled faintly. “You scare me too.”
“Yeah,” he said softly, turning his hand so your fingers slid into his palm. He didn’t fully lace them—just held on, tentative and careful. “Because you make me want to be better. And that’s… inconvenient.”
Your breath caught. “Fred…”
He leaned closer, close enough now that you could see the tiny freckle near his eye, the faint bruise blooming along his jaw. His voice dropped, losing its teasing edge. “I don’t want anyone looking at you like that. Thinking about you like that. I hate it.”
Your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.
“Why?” you asked, though you already knew.
His gaze flicked to your mouth. Back to your eyes. “You really need me to spell it out?”
You shook your head, barely.
Neither of you spoke after that. You didn’t need to. The air between you felt electric, fragile, like one wrong move might shatter it—or ignite it.
Fred moved first, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn’t.
The kiss was soft at first, almost unsure—his lips brushing yours like a question. Then you answered, leaning in, fingers curling into his shirt as the tension finally broke.
He kissed you like he’d been holding back for years.
When you finally pulled apart, foreheads resting together, breath uneven, he laughed quietly. “Well,” he murmured. “That explains the fight.”
You smiled, heart racing, forehead still pressed to his. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I think it does.”
You lingered because neither of you knew how to leave without making it weird—and somehow that made it worse.
Fred broke the silence first, smirking despite the split lip. “You always hover this close when you’re patching people up, or am I special?”
You tightened the bandage just enough to make him hiss. “Hold still.”
“Ow—see, that’s abuse. I nearly got expelled for you and this is the thanks I get.”
“For me?” You shot him a look. “You got expelled for your mouth, actually.”
He grinned, unrepentant. “Yeah, well. Occupational hazard.”
You finished taping the bandage and didn’t move away. He noticed. Of course he did—Fred noticed everything, especially when you were involved.
“You’re staring,” he said lightly.
“Mm. Tragic. Still handsome though.”
You snorted. “Debatable.”
“Ouch. Worse than Pucey, that.”
You reached for another cloth, dabbing at a scrape along his jaw. “You didn’t have to start a fight.”
“I didn’t start it,” he said easily.
Your eyes flicked up to his. “You could’ve walked away.”
“And let him keep talking?” His tone stayed casual, but his gaze sharpened. “Not a chance.”
You shook your head, exasperated. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he said, leaning just slightly into your touch, “you’re still here.”
You froze. He felt it immediately.
Fred’s smile softened, turning curious. “That got you, didn’t it?”
“Don’t read into things,” you said, but your voice wasn’t convincing.
“Too late,” he replied. “Been doing that for ages.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you like me anyway.”
That earned him another look—longer this time. Quiet. Measured.
He swallowed. “See? That one did it.”
“Made me want to shut up.” A beat. “Which never happens.”
You laughed despite yourself, the sound easing the tightness in your chest. “You’re ridiculous.”
Neither of you moved for a moment, close enough to feel the heat, far enough to pretend it meant nothing and for once, Fred didn’t say another word. Both of you left in silence.
Fred broke first—of course he did.
“You know,” he said, eyeing the neat bandage on his knuckles, “if I’d known getting punched would earn me this level of personal attention, I’d have started fights years ago.”
You scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’d do this for anyone.”
He raised a brow. “Liar.”
You laughed despite yourself, a quick, helpless sound, and that was all it took. Fred’s grin widened, victorious and warm, like he’d been aiming for that exact reaction.
“There it is,” he said. “That laugh. Worth the detention.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you said, shaking your head.
“And yet,” he replied, softer now, “you’re still smiling.”
He leaned in again, turning your shared smiles into a soft kiss, giggling into each other's mouths, the sound of it muffled and bright between you both. When you pulled back, both of you were smiling like idiots.
