Fractures in the Foundation
Tags: [mlw] [angst] [slight fluff] [panic attack] [best friends] [comfort] [Umbridge era] [Weasley family dynamics] [stress] [emotional breakdown] [Fred Weasley needs a hug]
Word Count: 2,031
Fred Weasley was tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushingly exhausted.
He'd grown used to balancing things—pranks and punishments, schoolwork and scheming, mischief and mayhem. But lately, it wasn’t just about finding the next big laugh. It was about surviving.
Ever since Harry had announced that Voldemort was back, Hogwarts had become a battlefield. Not with wands or curses—no, that would’ve been easier. Instead, it was words, whispers, and doubt. Slytherins sneered, Ravenclaws debated, and even among Gryffindors, there was hesitation. Umbridge’s influence spread like a sickness, twisting minds, feeding into the fear, and anyone who so much as considered standing with Harry found themselves a target.
Fred didn’t care much about people’s opinions—he knew the truth, and that was enough. But Ron? Ron took it personally.
And that was how Fred ended up in the middle of the Gryffindor common room, physically separating his younger brother from a fight that had spiraled out of control.
It had started with a few snide remarks, something about Harry being delusional, about Dumbledore feeding him lies, and then suddenly, Ron was throwing a punch. The other Gryffindor—a burly fifth-year who should’ve known better—shoved him right back.
Before Fred even thought about it, he had stepped between them, shoving Ron back with one hand and holding the other boy at arm’s length.
"Enough," Fred snapped, his voice sharper than usual. "Are we really doing this? Fighting each other when there’s a literal psychopath out there gathering an army?"
Ron was fuming, chest heaving, fists still clenched. "Tell him that!" he spat. "Tell him to stop acting like Harry’s making this all up!"
"I’m just saying," the fifth-year argued, still glaring, "we haven’t seen anything. You expect us to believe You-Know-Who is back just because Potter says so?"
Fred's patience, already worn thin, finally snapped. "Believe whatever the hell you want," he said coldly. "But if you think turning on your own house is the way to go, then you’re just as bad as—"
He cut himself off, jaw tightening.
As bad as Percy.
The words went unspoken, but they hung in the air like a curse.
Ron’s ears were burning red, but the fight had left his eyes. He gave one last glare before stomping up to the boys' dormitory, shoving past the people who had gathered to watch. The fifth-year huffed but backed down as well, muttering under his breath before retreating.
Fred stayed rooted in place, his fingers curled into fists at his sides. He could feel the weight of the stares, the hushed murmurs. He didn’t care.
What he did care about was the pressure in his chest, the way his throat felt tight, the way the walls seemed to close in around him.
George had been at his side during the argument, but he didn’t say anything now. Maybe he knew. Maybe he felt it too—the weight of holding everything together, of keeping their family from fracturing any more than it already had.
Fred exhaled sharply and turned on his heel, leaving the common room without another word.
You found him in the Astronomy Tower.
It was late—too late for anyone to be wandering around without the risk of detention. But you knew Fred better than most. You knew when he was itching for trouble and when he just needed to breathe.
Tonight was the latter.
He was leaning against the railing, staring out at the darkened grounds. His usual easy smirk was gone, replaced with a furrowed brow and a clenched jaw.
"You’re gonna give yourself wrinkles," you teased lightly, stepping beside him.
His lips twitched, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes. "That’s the least of my problems, love."
You didn’t push. Not yet. Instead, you leaned against the railing too, letting the silence settle.
Finally, after what felt like ages, he exhaled. "I can’t do this anymore."
Your stomach twisted at the quiet admission. "Do what?"
"This," he gestured vaguely. "Being the one who keeps it together. Mum’s a wreck, Dad’s always at work, Bill and Charlie aren’t here, Percy won’t even answer us, and now I have to be the one to make sure Ron and Ginny don’t fall apart too." He let out a humorless chuckle. "Merlin, even George and I—it's like no one listens to us unless we’re yelling or pulling a prank."
Your chest ached at the frustration in his voice.
"You shouldn’t have to do it alone," you said softly.
Fred scoffed. "Yeah? And who else is going to step up? Everyone else is too busy either pretending nothing's wrong or losing their minds over it."
He ran a hand down his face, his breathing turning shallow. "I just—I can't keep pretending it's fine. I'm tired. I'm so bloody tired, and no one sees it."
Your hand found his, squeezing gently. "I see it."
His fingers tightened around yours like a lifeline.
For a moment, it was silent again, the tension between you almost suffocating. And then—his breathing hitched.
At first, you thought it was a sigh. But then his shoulders trembled. His grip on the railing went white-knuckled. His breaths came in uneven, rapid bursts.
Panic.
"Fred," you said quickly, stepping closer. "Hey, look at me."
He didn’t. His eyes were squeezed shut, his body rigid, like he was bracing himself for something.
"Fred," you tried again, firmer this time, cupping his face in your hands. "Breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Come on, with me."
His chest heaved, but he tried. He matched your rhythm, though each inhale still stuttered.
"That’s it," you murmured. "You’re okay. You’re not alone."
His eyes finally opened, glassy and red-rimmed. He looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him from shattering entirely.
You gave him a small, reassuring smile. "There you go. Better?"
He nodded weakly, though he still looked drained. "Yeah," he mumbled. "A bit."
Without thinking, you pulled him into a hug. He didn’t resist.
For someone who always carried himself with such ease, with such laughter and bravado, Fred melted into you like he’d been holding himself together for too long. His arms wrapped around you tightly, his face buried in your shoulder.
"You’re not in this alone, Fred," you whispered. "You have me. You have George. You have your family, even if it doesn’t always feel like it."
He let out a shaky breath. "Thanks," he murmured, voice muffled. "For this. For being here."
You smiled softly, running a hand through his hair. "Always."
The road ahead was still uncertain. The war loomed, Umbridge tightened her grip, and the weight on Fred’s shoulders wouldn’t disappear overnight.
But in this moment, in the quiet space between exhaustion and comfort, he allowed himself to rest.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough. A/N GUYS WHO SHOULD I WRITE ABOUT NEXT???