PRANK WARS | F.W
malfoy!reader x fred weasley
"rudest white haired person ever"
Summary: You and Fred Weasley had been bickering since first year, locked in a never-ending war of (mostly) harmless pranks. Why is it that he's so obsessed with tormenting you? you’ll never know—but it’s equal parts annoying and entertaining, especially when you catch that furious look on his face as you walk away from your latest victory. The petty rivalry drags on for years, until your sixth year, when one of Fred’s pranks goes completely wrong… or maybe completely right.
Word Count: 6k+
A/N: This is definitely NOT my usual go-to posts, but I reallyyyyy loved this idea I had since like—forever. Soooo here you go!
⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰
It started on the train on the way to Hogwarts. It was your first time being completely away from your family. No more cold sharp gazes were present, instead the warm breeze was hugging you as the sound of your short heeled boots echoed through the hall.
You were walking along the corridor of the train, eager to find that old lady selling candies. That was until a red-headed boy around your age popped up in front of you, smiling like an idiot.
"Quick question! Frog spawn soap OR Snake spawn soap?!" he was practically shouting at you.
Instead of turning him away, you immediately answer. "Snake spawn soap, duh!"
“And why is that?” he asked, his face inching closer to yours, determined to know why you chose snakes over frogs.
"Snakes are far more dangerous," you reply smoothly, a glint of amusement in your eyes. "People might like frogs—some even keep them as pets. But snakes? They strike fear. If you want real panic, snakes will always get you the reaction you're looking for." A slow, knowing smirk curves your lips.
"Wow..." his mouth was now agape instead of that cheeky grin a few moments ago. "You are... wow... that was amazing. You are definitely getting added on my 'people I want to be friends with' list!"
You stare at him, brows furrowed as he rattles on about the people that are on his list.
"I'm Fred by the way!" he exclaimed, his hand extended in front of you, hoping you would shake it.
Your eyes darted away from him to the sound of a trolley just behind him. The colorful cart easily caught your attention more than this boy's hair. You can already smell the chocolate frogs and the sherbet lemon waiting for you to devour them.
'The old lady selling candies!' you thought.
You brushed right past Fred, ignoring his outstretched arm as you marched directly toward the reason you’d left your compartment in the first place.
You could practically feel his glare burning into the back of your head as you neared the trolley where the old witch stood. You didn’t turn around, but you were almost certain you caught the tail end of his muttered complaint:
“Rudest white-haired person ever.”
You rolled your eyes and pretended not to hear him, too focused on piling your arms with every sweet you’d been craving since the train left the station.
⸻
The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall was beautiful, showing a deep twilight sky where stars twinkled softly, matching the real weather outside. The loud whispers of older students bounced off the stone walls—talk of Quidditch, exams, and quiet gossip filled the room, blending with the familiar magic of the castle.
Unlike the other students in your year—their backs slouched, fingers nervously fidgeting—you stood tall, shoulders squared, head held high, and hands calmly poised before you, radiating the composed authority of a headmistress.
You were a Malfoy after all.
But unlike your younger brother—who was cold, dull, and uninterested in anything fun—you were full of life, sharp-witted, and always up for an adventure. Especially when it came to pranking.
Your Father never approved of your foolishness but you never minded him. Your father adored you.
Behind that mischievousness of yours, you understood the importance of blood purity. You swore to your father you would never marry a man that doesn't have clean blood. Your father was proud.
You grew up in a house where your mother would teach you proper etiquettes of a pure blooded woman before you could even read. You carried yourself with proper poise, grace and elegance.
So when you walked through the Great Hall, students' whispers grew rapidly.
"White hair?" "Is she a Malfoy?" "She must be!" "Look at the way she acts, it screams pure blood."
You could hear them talking about you. As they should.
You weren't a mean person. You just... like to boast.
You like to tell people the new things your father bought you. You love to show off. Show off every expensive dress, every polished pair of shoes, every glinting necklace that probably costs more than their family vacations.
It’s not your fault you have taste—and money.
You walk like the hallway is a runway and talk like everyone’s dying to hear what you'll say next. And they usually are. Eyes follow you when you pass, even if it’s just to roll them. Jealousy’s loud like that.
And whenever you prank your little brother and turn out successful, you would tease him for weeks with no end.
"You could never be like me Draco. Father actually smiled when I pranked you. Slightly, but anyway! He's going to buy me more prank stuff from Zonkos that I would use on you!"
Draco would roll his eyes and retreat into one of his classic sulks, convinced your father liked you more than him.
As you reached the front of the Great Hall, Professor McGonagall began calling students one by one to sit on the stool, gently placing the old, tattered Sorting Hat atop their heads.
“HUFFLEPUFF!” the hat bellowed as it touched the head of a boy named Cedric Diggory. Cheers exploded from the Hufflepuff table, the students in yellow welcoming him with proud claps and bright smiles as he made his way over.
Professor McGonagall looked back down on her parchment, "Y/N Malfoy!"
Your breath hitched as your name got called out. You walked up the steps and sat on the stool, the talking hat pressed on your head. It wasn't even a second when the pointed hat shouted "SLYTHERIN!"
You smiled in relief and started to walk towards the sea of students wearing green robes. That was when you locked eyes with a particular red head.
His brows was furrowed as you look him in the eye, a small smile plastered on your lips. He was staring at you with curiosity, his head slightly tilting as he watches you. His eyes looked away from yours as his name got called out.
"Fred Weasley!"
A Weasley, huh. The family your father had always told you to avoid at all costs. Even if they were pure-bloods, they were the biggest blood traitors alive.
Fred jogged up to the stool, his usual grin back in place as the Sorting Hat was placed on his head.
"GRYFFINDOR!" it shouted a second later.
He shot you a wink as he hopped off the stool and ran to join the cheering Gryffindors. You rolled your eyes and were about to look away—until you heard the next name.
"George Weasley!"
You blinked, your head tilting slightly. Another one?
Sure enough, an identical boy stepped forward, the same red hair, same build, same smug grin. Twins. Fantastic. He gave a playful nudge to Fred as he passed him, then sat down and was sorted just as quickly.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
The two high-fived as George dropped into the seat beside his brother, both of them stealing a glance across the room toward you. Fred pointed discreetly, clearly whispering something to George, who looked at you, laughed, and nodded as if they were already plotting their next move.
You pressed your lips together, holding back a smile. Two of them. Double the trouble.
This year was going to be interesting.
⸻
Settling into Hogwarts was easier than you thought. Your Slytherin dorm under the Black Lake was cold but pretty, with green light dancing on the stone walls. You unpacked fast, hanging up your best robes and filling your shelves with sweets you bought from the trolley. For once, everything felt right. No strict parents watching you—just freedom and a castle full of chances.
You went to bed with a smug smile, already imagining how fun this year was going to be. And in the back of your mind, you kept replaying that brief encounter with Fred Weasley. The nerve of him… but also, the boldness. You almost admired it.
The next morning, after breakfast, you decided to get a head start on the day and wash up. The bathroom was surprisingly empty, the stone floors chilly beneath your feet as you stepped into one of the stalls. You grabbed the fancy soap you had brought from home—a pure white bar, scented with lavender—and started lathering it onto your hands.
That’s when you noticed it.
A thin, slick shape slithered down your wrist.
You froze.
Another one dropped from the bar of soap and landed with a soft plop on the wet floor. Then another. And another. Before you knew it, tiny snakes—green and black, hissing and coiling—were appearing one by one, wriggling free from the soap like it was some kind of cursed egg.
Your eyes went wide in shock as you dropped the soap, stumbling back against the wall.
“What the—” you muttered, heart racing.
The snakes kept coming, a writhing little pile now forming by the drain. None of them looked dangerous—they were too small to be deadly—but still, the sight was enough to make your skin crawl.
And yet, as the panic settled into irritation, only one name flashed through your mind.
Fred Weasley.
Of course.
You narrowed your eyes, lips twitching into an unwilling smile. That absolute prat must have enchanted your soap when you weren’t looking. You don't know how, but he for sure did!
You almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. He asked, you answered, and he delivered—exactly as promised.
“Well played, Weasley,” you muttered under your breath, staring down at the last of the tiny snakes slipping down the drain. “But if you think this means war, you’re absolutely right.”
Because if Fred Weasley wanted to play games… you were more than ready.
After Fred pranked you with those snakes, which he kept denying that it wasn't him—"I swear! It wasn't me!" he stammered, but a small smirk was forming on his lips—you got him back by making his toothpaste spurt out slugs.
"What in the Godric's beard was that Malfoy!" he scowled, storming toward you during breakfast.
"What do you think it was?" you smirked, crossing your arms. "It was payback for your pathetic Snake Spawn soap—the idea you stole from me!"
Fred Weasley didn’t let the slug-toothpaste prank slide—and from that moment on, you both knew it was war.
⸻
It was an ordinary Tuesday afternoon in the Hogwarts library. You sat at a far table, head bent over your parchment, scribbling notes on magical creatures. The air smelled faintly of old books and dust, and the only sounds were the gentle scratching of quills and the occasional creak of a chair. You didn’t even notice Fred Weasley slip in, his bright red hair barely visible behind the tall shelves.
You reached for your ink bottle, dipping your quill without looking. The second the quill touched the liquid, the bottle gave an odd hiss. Frowning, you leaned closer just as the bottle exploded—not with a bang, but a poof of thick, emerald-green smoke that enveloped you entirely. Coughing and spluttering, you waved your hands wildly to clear the cloud, but when it faded, the real horror set in. Your arms, your robes, even your face were stained neon green, glowing faintly under the dim library light.
“Fred Weasley!” you hissed, spinning around—but he was already gone. You stormed out into the corridor, cheeks burning, catching sight of his retreating back as he disappeared around a corner, laughter trailing behind him. You clenched your fists, seething.
The embarrassment was bad enough, but the fact that Fred had done it so effortlessly, so smoothly, infuriated you. Oh, he thought he was clever, did he? Thought you’d just let it go? Not a chance.
That night, lying in bed, you stared up at the canopy, plotting. You weren’t going to rush your revenge—no, you were going to wait, plan, and strike when Fred least expected it.
You replayed his routine in your head: how he swaggered into the Great Hall every morning, always late, always grinning, always taking the same seat beside George. Perfect. You smiled to yourself as you drifted off to sleep, your mind already working on the trap you’d set for the following week.
By the time Friday rolled around, you were ready. You watched from the Slytherin table as Fred sauntered into breakfast, completely unaware of what was coming. Just as he sat in his usual spot, the plate in front of him screamed, loud enough for the whole hall to hear:
“THE UNDERWEAR FRED WEASLEY IS WEARING RIGHT NOW HAS PINK CARTOON DRAGONS ON THEM!”
The Great Hall went silent for a beat—then exploded with laughter. Fred froze, his face turning bright red as he grabbed at the plate, trying to shut it up.
You nearly choked on your pumpkin juice, laughing so hard you had to wipe tears from your eyes. Across the room, you met his gaze with a sweet, innocent smile. “Enjoy your breakfast, Weasley?” you called. Fred’s eyes lit up with that gleam you knew too well.
The prank war had officially begun.
⸻
After your triumphant revenge in the Great Hall, you thought you’d earned at least a few days of peace. But you should have known better—Fred Weasley never let a challenge sit unanswered for long. Sure enough, by midweek, you caught him sneaking glances at you across the corridors, a glimmer of mischief dancing in his eyes. You tried not to let it rattle you, but something inside warned you: Fred was planning something, and he was planning it soon.
The real blow landed in Charms. You were sitting near the front, feeling unusually confident. Professor Flitwick had just posed a question, and your hand shot up without hesitation. “Yes, Miss Malfoy?” Flitwick called brightly. You opened your mouth, ready with the perfect, well-rehearsed answer—and instead of words, a loud quack echoed through the classroom.
You froze. Heat flooded your cheeks as the entire room burst into laughter. Eyes wide, you clamped your mouth shut, blinking furiously. Surely not—surely you hadn’t just—
“Quack,” you tried again, panicking. The sound was even louder this time, like an angry goose. Across the room, Fred was doubled over, shaking with silent laughter, his shoulders trembling as he bit his lip to keep from howling outright.
“Miss Malfoy?” Flitwick asked gently, though even he looked dangerously close to giggling. Mortified, you covered your mouth with both hands and sank low in your seat, glaring daggers at Fred the whole time.
He gave you a little wave and an infuriatingly innocent grin, as if he’d had nothing to do with it. You seethed in silence for the rest of the lesson, burning with embarrassment—but inside, your mind was already racing. Fred thought he’d won? He had no idea who he was messing with.
That night, you lay awake, arms folded behind your head, plotting your next move. You weren’t about to let him win this round. If Fred wanted a prank war, he was going to get one. You smiled darkly to yourself, already imagining the look on his face when you hit back—because this time, you were going to make sure everyone remembered your victory.
After the humiliating Charms class quacking incident, you knew you couldn’t let Fred get away with it. He’d crossed a line — and it was time to hit back, harder. You needed something clever, something unexpected, something that would rattle his pride without hurting a hair on his head… or maybe, you thought slyly, right on his head. That’s when the idea struck you late one night, as you watched Fred swagger past in the corridor, his famously messy red hair sticking up in every direction. Oh yes. His hair was the perfect target.
You spent two days perfecting the potion: harmless, temporary, but utterly impossible to ignore. It would activate on contact — the moment it touched Fred’s hair, it would transform it into a neon, bright pink masterpiece, styled into chaotic spikes that no charm could fix for at least a full day.
The hard part, of course, was slipping it into his shampoo bottle undetected, but you were determined. One well-placed distraction, one quick charm, and the bottle was yours. You switched the contents with a satisfied grin, and the trap was set.
The next morning, you sat casually at the Slytherin table, sipping your pumpkin juice and waiting. The Great Hall buzzed with chatter—until the doors swung open, and Fred Weasley strolled in. And then, slowly, the room fell silent.
One by one, heads turned, eyes widened, and whispers filled the air. Fred blinked, confused, looking around. He frowned as people snickered, nudged each other, pointed. Finally, his hand shot up to his head—and he froze.
His jaw dropped as he yanked a lock of his hair down in front of his eyes, only to stare in horror at the vivid, bright pink. He tugged at another piece, then another, pulling on the spiky strands as George burst into laughter beside him.
Across the hall, you raised your goblet in a smug, silent toast, locking eyes with Fred. His mouth opened in an outraged protest, but he couldn’t even form words. His hands flew up to his hair again, as if sheer willpower could tame the wild spikes.
That entire morning, Fred Weasley was the talk of Hogwarts. People stopped him in the corridors, poked at his hair, and grinned as he passed by, fuming.
You, meanwhile, glided through your day with a satisfied smile, feeling like you’d finally evened the score. But deep down, you knew this wouldn’t be the end. Fred wasn’t the type to back down — not when the game was just getting interesting.
⸻
By third year, the pranks had become legend.
By now, you understood each other’s pranking style well—Fred never struck back immediately. No, he waited, let you drop your guard, and then unleashed something that would leave you shrieking. You just didn’t know when or how.
The answer came one chilly morning when you woke up, stretched lazily in bed, and felt something… odd. There was movement, faint but undeniable, under your blanket.
Blinking blearily, you propped yourself up and slowly peeled back the covers. That was when dozen—no, hundreds—of tiny green frogs came leaping out, landing on your pillow, your nightstand, even right into your lap.
You let out a blood-curdling scream that echoed through the Slytherin dormitory. Your roommates bolted upright, shrieking alongside you as frogs bounced off beds, desks, and curtains, their little webbed feet slapping against the stone floor.
Chaos erupted as girls danced around, trying to dodge the tiny invaders, while you sat frozen in your bed, fury bubbling in your chest. You didn’t even have to think about who was behind this.
Fred found you later that day in the corridor, his grin stretching ear to ear. “Sleep well, Malfoy?” he drawled innocently as he strolled past. You whipped around, eyes blazing, but he was already gone, leaving only his laughter trailing behind him like a victory banner.
Oh, he was delighted with himself — and honestly, you had to admit, it had been a brilliant prank. But you weren’t about to let him have the last laugh.
That evening, as Fred and George made their way up to their dorm, they opened the door—and were immediately hit by a horrible stench. The entire room was overflowing with thick, slimy bubbles that weren’t just foam—they reeked of rotten eggs and old socks. Every surface was coated in sticky, smelly slime that clung to their clothes and hair, making a disgusting squelching sound with every step. The more they tried to wipe it off, the more it spread, leaving their skin itching and their eyes watering.
Fred stormed into the Gryffindor common room later, drenched in stinking goo, his hair matted down, his face twisted with fury. You passed by the open entrance just then, humming cheerfully, and couldn’t resist tossing over your shoulder: “Sweet dreams, Weasley.” You could practically feel his glare burning into your back—and you knew the prank war was only just beginning.
⸻
By the time the Slytherin vs. Hufflepuff Quidditch match rolled around, you were riding high on your latest victory. You’d nailed Fred and George’s dorm with the multiplying bubble charm, and you were sure they were still scrubbing soap out of their ears.
You strolled confidently to the pitch that Saturday morning, bundled in your house colors, ready to cheer on your team with the rest of Slytherin.
The stands were packed, banners waved, and the air was buzzing with energy. You couldn’t help glancing smugly toward the Gryffindor section—where Fred was undoubtedly plotting, but surely, surely not ready yet.
Oh, how wrong you were.
The first hint came when you felt a strange shimmer in the air around you—like the prickle of a spell. You frowned, looking down at your robes just as they poofed—transforming in an instant into a massive, fluffy pink tutu complete with glittering bows and frilly trim.
A horrified gasp escaped your lips as you spun in a circle, trying to make sense of what had happened. The crowd exploded into laughter, students pointing, hooting, clutching their sides as they doubled over. Even the Hufflepuff Beaters flying overhead paused to stare.
You whipped your head toward the Gryffindor stands, and sure enough, there was Fred, laughing so hard he was wiping tears from his eyes. He leaned against George for support, both of them howling with glee as they pointed directly at you.
Your face burned as you glared daggers at Fred, fists clenched at your sides. You yanked at the tutu helplessly, but it stayed stubbornly fixed, sparkling in the sunlight as if mocking you.
By the end of the match, you had sworn revenge. You stormed off the pitch with as much dignity as you could muster, but the laughter followed you all the way back to the castle. That night, as you lay awake in bed, you plotted carefully.
Fred had humiliated you in front of the whole school. This couldn’t be a small response—no, this needed to be legendary. You smiled darkly to yourself, already imagining the chaos you’d unleash at the next Gryffindor match. Let Fred laugh now. His time was coming.
⸻
You spent the entire week before the Gryffindor match planning your masterpiece. After the tutu incident, you knew Fred would be watching his back, so you had to be subtle — quiet, clever, and completely foolproof.
You studied his broomstick when he wasn’t looking, charmed it carefully, triple-checked your work, and then waited.
The pitch was packed on the day of the match, the crowd roaring with excitement as the Gryffindor team zoomed out onto the pitch. You sat calmly in the stands, heart racing, a small, satisfied smile curling on your lips.
Fred flew like he always did — fast, flashy, confident. He soared past the stands, weaving between players, pulling off little stunts just to rile up the crowd.
But then, slowly, the audience’s cheers shifted. The laughter began, rippling through the rows of students like a wave. Heads turned, fingers pointed, and a roar of amusement filled the air. Fred slowed slightly, frowning in confusion — and then glanced back.
Trailing behind his broomstick was a giant banner, magically tethered to the tail. And in enormous shimmering letters, it read:
“PROPERTY OF SLYTHERIN’S PRINCESS.”
Fred’s jaw dropped. His eyes darted up toward the stands—and there you were, lounging comfortably, chin in hand, flashing him a radiant, triumphant smile. You lifted your hand in a mock wave, watching as realization crashed across his face like a tidal wave.
Midair, Fred began twisting and spinning, yanking desperately at the banner, but no matter how he twisted or turned, it stayed firmly attached, fluttering proudly behind him like a royal flag.
The Gryffindor Beaters were doubled over on their brooms, howling with laughter; even the Slytherin players slowed down just to watch the spectacle unfold. The entire stadium roared with delight, students nearly falling out of their seats with laughter.
By the end of the match, Fred landed red-faced and panting, yanking the banner off and storming into the changing rooms. You stayed seated, basking in the victory, knowing full well that you’d just made history in the long-running prank war. B
But deep inside, you also knew Fred wouldn’t let this slide. His pride had taken a hit — and next time, he’d strike back harder. The game was far from over.
⸻
By fourth year, the prank war between you and Fred still hasn't stopped.
First-years whispered about it in the corridors; even the professors exchanged amused glances when your names came up together.
But after your spectacular broom-banner stunt the previous year, Fred had gone unusually quiet. For weeks, you waited, suspicious. Surely, he was planning something. Yet days turned into weeks, and… nothing. You began to relax—maybe he was finally calling a truce.
That was your mistake.
One afternoon in Potions, you were diligently working on your essay, head bent over your parchment, quill scratching away. You dipped your quill into the inkpot — only to have it float just out of reach, hovering playfully in the air.
You frowned, stretching a little farther, but it danced upward again, spinning tauntingly. A flicker of annoyance sparked in your chest.
You stood slightly, reaching — but the quill zipped even higher, twirling right above your head. Suddenly black ink spilled right over you.
He definitely charmed the ink pot because by the time the ink stopped dripping, you were covered from head to toe.
Around you, students began to snicker, and when you shot a sharp look across the room, there was Fred, lounging at his desk, arms folded behind his head, wearing that unmistakable smirk.
By the time class ended, you were fuming. But you didn’t rush to retaliate. No—you waited, planned, prepared.
You spent two days brewing a harmless little potion (with a bit of help from a very amused friend in Ravenclaw), and when the time was right, you slipped it discreetly into Fred’s morning pumpkin juice. The next day, the results were glorious.
Fred burst into the Great Hall, laughing and talking—but every word came out in a ridiculous, high-pitched, chipmunk-like squeak. His eyes widened in horror, and as he tried to speak louder, it only got worse.
The entire Gryffindor table collapsed in laughter, banging fists on the table, tears streaming down their faces. Even Professor McGonagall struggled to keep a straight face when Fred tried to answer her roll call.
You watched the scene unfold from the Slytherin table, coolly sipping your tea, giving Fred a calm little wave. His cheeks were scarlet as he glared at you, voice cracking absurdly as he hissed,
You smiled sweetly. You wouldn’t have it any other way.
⸻
By fifth year, things between you and Fred had reached new heights. The pranks were no longer casual skirmishes — they were full-out battles, planned with military precision.
You both had reputations now: you, the sly Slytherin strategist; Fred, the Gryffindor king of mischief. Neither of you could walk down a corridor without someone whispering, “What do you think they’ll do next?” You’d been planning your next move carefully—but Fred got to you first.
It happened on an ordinary morning, as you confidently strutted through the corridor, feeling untouchable. Suddenly, you felt the sharp tug of a spell.
Before you could even reach for your wand, you were yanked upward, shrieking as you dangled upside down in midair, robes flapping wildly around you.
Students gasped, then burst into laughter, pointing and clapping. You twisted frantically, trying to cover your face, heart hammering in humiliation.
And there was Fred—leaning casually against the wall below you, looking utterly pleased with himself. He grinned up at you, arms crossed, his brown eyes dancing with laughter. “New perspective, Malfoy?” he called, smirking as you fumed and flailed above him.
You shouted at him to put you down this instant, but Fred only chuckled, drawing out the moment until you were red-faced with fury. Finally, with a flick of his wand, he released the spell, and you crumpled ungracefully to the floor.
Oh, you were going to make him regret that.
The next Hogsmeade weekend, you struck back. You waited until Fred was seated comfortably at the Three Broomsticks, surrounded by friends, lifting a butterbeer to his lips — boom — the bottle exploded in his hands, sending sticky foam splashing all over him.
He yelped, startled, but laughed it off — until the second glass exploded. And the third. And the fourth. No matter what glass or bottle he picked up, no matter where he went, the moment butterbeer touched his lips — boom.
By the end of the day, Fred was soaked, hair dripping, robes sticking to his skin as he glowered at you from across the room. You hummed cheerfully as you passed by, offering him a bright, innocent smile.
The war was far from over—and both of you knew it.
⸻
And yet, no matter how ruthless the pranks became, there was always a secret thrill between you—a challenge, a spark. Fred would catch your eye across the room, mischief shining bright, and you’d lift your chin, daring him silently to try again.
Because with Fred Weasley, it was never just a prank war.
It was your thing. And neither of you was planning to stop any time soon.
By sixth year, things between you and Fred Weasley were… complicated. The pranks were still part of your lives, but there was something else now. Something you couldn’t name.
A fluttering in your chest when your eyes met across the Great Hall. A lingering glance after a shared joke. But neither of you said anything, hiding behind the comfort of your prank wars.
And then Fred went and ruined everything.
It all started when Fred and George Weasley decided it would be “fun” to sell love potions to unsuspecting students. The twins had always been known for their mischievous ideas, but this one took the cake.
They had somehow managed to make the potions look like ordinary sweets, luring in the girls of Hogwarts with promises of a little extra charm for their crushes.
But things got weird fast.
First was Seamus Finnigan, who’d never paid you much mind beyond the occasional “Oi, pass the vial.” Out of nowhere, he appeared at your side one morning, holding a crudely folded origami flower. “For you,” he’d said, practically shoving it into your hand. “You’ve got the nicest eyes I’ve ever seen.”
You stared at him, bewildered. “Thanks…?”
Then came Terry Boot, cornering you in the library with a shaky smile and a book of sonnets. “I wrote one. For you,” he blurted, cheeks blazing as he read, voice cracking horribly:
“Your hair is like a broomstick’s sweep, your eyes like—uh—cauldrons deep…”
You snatched the paper away before he could butcher any more.
By the third day, it was full-on chaos. Boys trailed after you like a parade, bringing you ridiculous gifts—fizzing whizzbees, hand-knit scarves, even a foot massage coupon from some over-eager third year.
Anthony Goldstein left enchanted bubbles floating around your head between classes, each one popping with a heart-shaped puff. And one morning, Dean Thomas literally serenaded you at breakfast with a shaky guitar and the most awkward grin you’d ever seen.
Everywhere you went, there they were—dozens of them—pushing, shoving, offering to carry your books or walk you to class. Some you barely even knew.
It was exhausting.
You were cornered by the Black Lake one afternoon when it finally clicked. A group of lovesick boys surrounded you, all chattering over each other.
That’s when you overheard one murmur, “It must’ve been that love potion… Fred said it’d work wonders…”
You froze, eyes narrowing dangerously.
Fred Weasley.
You found him at their little booth that night, selling potions with George, looking smug as ever.
“WEASLEY!” you snapped, storming up to him.
Fred grinned lazily, biting into a chocolate frog. “Evening, Princess. Enjoying all the attention?”
“You complete git!” you hissed. “You did this! Your stupid potions—why are they all in love with me?”
Fred shrugged, feigning innocence. “Funny thing… must’ve been a little cross-contamination. The potions got… mixed up.”
George snorted into his drink. “Mixed up, my arse. You spiked them, Fred.”
Fred elbowed him, eyes sparkling. “Purely accidental, of course.”
You glared at him, seething. “Well, fix it.”
But before Fred could answer, a bold Gryffindor stepped up behind you. “Hey—want to grab a butterbeer at Hogsmeade this weekend?” he asked, puffing out his chest. Before you could react, he reached out and roughly grabbed your face, eyes locked on yours in that same bewitched daze—and leaned in to kiss you.
You gasped, frozen—but Fred was faster.
With a sharp, “OI, BACK OFF!” Fred grabbed the guy by the collar and yanked him back so hard he nearly toppled over a chair.
“Not happening, mate,” Fred growled, stepping protectively in front of you, eyes blazing.
The room fell silent.
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t think it would go this far,” Fred said, his voice serious now.
You stared at him for a moment before answering, your voice icy with frustration. “You went too far, Fred. This is beyond a joke now.”
For the first time, you saw Fred falter. He swallowed hard, then nodded, his usual cheeky grin nowhere to be found. "I know. And I’m going to make it right."
The next morning, you found a neatly folded note on your bedside table:
“I know I went too far. I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that chaos. – F.W.”
Beside it sat a small bag of your favorite sweets—the same ones you always got off the trolley on the Hogwarts Express. Your chest tightened as you stared at it, fingers brushing the paper.
You huffed, stuffing the note in your pocket. But later, in Potions, you caught Fred’s eye across the room—and your stomach did that stupid fluttering thing again. You scowled, focusing hard on your cauldron, but couldn’t stop thinking about the note.
The next day, another note appeared tucked into your Transfiguration book:
“I know you’re angry with me, but I can’t help myself. I miss the way we used to mess with each other. I miss the banter, the pranks. And maybe, just maybe, I miss you a little bit too much. – Fred”
Your heart fluttered unexpectedly. You were mad at him. Furious, even. But somehow, those words… they made your frustration feel like a tangled knot in your chest.
You missed him too. The teasing, the way he always knew how to get under your skin, the way he made everything feel exciting.
And the worst part? Every time you looked at him now, your chest felt tight and fluttery, your head full of memories you couldn’t shake.
Later that evening, you sat under the archway outside the Slytherin common room, arms crossed tightly as you watched the lake ripple through the glass wall. You hadn’t heard Draco approach, but suddenly he was there beside you, arms folded and expression sharp.
“You’ve been moody,” he observed.
You didn’t look at him. “Nice to see you too, Dray.”
He raised a brow, then sighed. “Let me guess. Weasley trouble?”
You stiffened. Draco caught that immediately and scoffed.
“Seriously?” he asked, disbelief creeping into his tone. “You’re letting Fred Weasley of all people get under your skin?”
You rolled your eyes. “It’s not like that.”
“It’s exactly like that,” he said, leaning against the wall beside you. “You’ve been weird for days. Distracted. Flushing like a third year every time someone says his name.”
You rubbed your temple, exasperated. “He’s… he’s just being Fred. Annoying. Charming. Infuriating.”
Draco snorted. “And yet you’re reading his little notes like they’re love poems from Merlin himself.”
“I’m not!” you shot back, but your face betrayed you instantly. Draco tilted his head, eyeing you with an amused smirk.
“He’s reckless,” Draco said, more serious now. “Immature. A walking explosion. You really think someone like that knows how to… I don’t know. Handle someone like you?”
You bit your lip, unsure of what to say. Draco wasn’t being cruel—he was being honest like a true brother could ever be.
“I think…” you began slowly, “I think he sees me in a way most people don’t. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
For once, Draco was quiet. Then, he sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Just don’t let him play you,” he muttered. “You’re more than a prank war.”
You turned your head slightly, studying him. “You almost sound like you care.”
“I do,” he said quietly, eyes on the lake. “I just know how easy it is to fall for someone who makes everything feel like fun—until it’s not.”
The third note came the following night, slipped under your pillow:
“Can’t stop thinking about that look you gave me when I saved you. Never want to see you scared like that again. – Fred”
You hugged your pillow, scowling at yourself, frustrated and flustered. Why did your heart betray you every time? Why did Fred Weasley, of all people, make you feel like this?
Days passed, the awkward tension between you easing little by little, especially with Fred’s persistent peace offerings. Slowly, your anger melted, leaving behind that familiar fondness and something… more.
So when Fred finally cornered you near the entrance of the Great Hall one evening and muttered, “Astronomy Tower. Tonight. Please,” you found yourself nodding—despite the voice in your head screaming danger.
“It better not be another prank, Weasley,” you warned, crossing your arms.
Fred smirked, eyes warm. “Promise. No tricks. Just… meet me.”
That night, you climbed the tower steps, heart thudding painfully. When you reached the top, Fred was there waiting, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking up at the stars.
“You made it,” he said, his grin soft.
“I’m still convinced you’re about to drop a bucket of slugs on me,” you shot back—but there was no venom in your voice now, only teasing.
Fred’s eyes twinkled. “Nah. Too easy.”
He lifted his wand—and the sky exploded.
But this wasn’t any ordinary fireworks display.
First came a soap and it started to spawn snakes. Next, a toothpaste that squirted out slugs.
Then, bubbles—huge, shimmering orbs that floated above the tower, popping into sparkly trails just like the time you’d enchanted Fred's dorm. Then a giant sparkly tutu spiraled through the night sky, glittering silver and pink—the very same tutu Fred had hexed you to wear in the middle of a quidditch match. You laughed despite yourself, eyes shining.
Next, sparkling green and silver snakes slithered across the stars, intertwining with floating butterbeer mugs that frothed and fizzed—exact replicas of the butterbeer you’d once hexed to explode all over him.
A shimmering banner unfurled in the sky, sparkling with the words: “PROPERTY OF SLYTHERIN PRINCESS”—the prank you did with his broom.
One by one, every prank, every memory, every laugh you’d shared burst into glowing shapes above you, dancing against the night sky. Your chest tightened painfully, your eyes misting up.
And finally, in huge, crackling gold letters:
“Let's end this war, but first... Fall for me at Hogsmeade?”
Fred turned, his expression surprisingly vulnerable despite his trademark grin. “No jokes this time. No potions. Just me… asking you the normal way.”
Your heart pounded as you stared at him, overwhelmed. “That’s… honestly the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard,” you whispered, voice shaking.
Fred’s grin widened, eyes locked on yours. “Yeah, but admit it—you love it.”
You shook your head, laughing softly despite the tears pricking your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”
“So… is that a yes?”
Your breath hitched, chest aching with everything you’d been holding back for years.
“Yeah, Weasley. It’s a yes.”
And when Fred pulled you into the warmest, stupidest, most wonderful hug in the world—fireworks still echoing above you—you realized something terrifying and exhilarating all at once:
You’d fallen long before this firework show. You just hadn’t admitted it until now.
⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰
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