hello! first off i looove your writing and im so glad to see you still have your requests open! anyway can u pls write smth of fred weasley and its like they're in the middle of the second wizarding war right and theyre joining harry, hermione, and ron during their hunt for the horcruxes and fred is rlly protective of her even tho he knows she can handle herself and one day when theyre in the malfoy manor, fred just gets torn apart hearing her screams as bellatrix tortures her for information and when theyre rescued shes like close to death from all the torture and fred just tries his best to nurse her back to health and hes rlly gentle with her and never lets the others touch her because hes afraid of her getting hurt again. just tons of fluff at the end!
Torturous
(Protective!Fred Weasley x reader)
'Fred is forced to listen to your screams as you’re tortured by Bellatrix. When you escape Malfoy Manor, Fred stays with you your entire recovery and promises never to let you get hurt again.'
The screams clawed at the damp stone walls of the Malfoy Manor cellar, each one a dagger twisting deeper into Fred’s gut. Down there in the suffocating darkness, chained alongside George, Luna, and Hermione, he paced like a caged animal, his fists clenched around the bars that wouldn’t budge no matter how many spells they hurled.
“That’s her,” he sobbed, his voice barely above a whisper, raw with fury. George gripped his shoulder, trying to steady him, but Fred shrugged it off, his eyes wild. Luna muttered something about a plan, Hermione’s face pale and determined as she worked on the locks with a hairpin, but all Fred could hear was you— your agonized cries echoing from above, Bellatrix’s manic laughter punctuating the horror.
Hold on, love, he thought desperately, slamming his palm against the cold metal. I’m coming. Just hold on.
The Cruciatus Curse, he knew it too well from his grandfather's stories of the first wizarding war— unimaginable pain that left no marks, but shattered the soul. And Bellatrix wasn’t holding back; her taunts filtered down through the floorboards, demanding information on the Horcruxes, on Harry, on everything you’d sworn to protect. Your screams peaked, then broke into sobs, and Fred felt something inside him snap. I should’ve never let you go up there alone.
Upstairs, in the drawing room where shadows danced like Death Eaters across your pale face, Bellatrix loomed over you, her wild hair framing a face twisted with delight.
“Filthy little blood traitor,” she snarled, her bony wand slashing through the air. “Crucio!” Your body convulsed on the ornate rug, every muscle seizing as lightning tore through your veins, your vision spotting with white-hot agony. You gasped for breath, tasting blood from where you’d bitten your tongue, but you clamped your jaw shut, unable even to think of the answer to her questions. Even if you had, you wouldn't give them to her.
Another curse followed, this one carving deep gashes across your arms, blood soaking into the fabric of your robes as Bellatrix cackled. “Where’s the sword? Where’s Potter hiding? Tell me, or I’ll make you beg for death!”
The pain blurred everything, your world shrinking into endless torment, but in the haze, you thought of Fred— his grin, his warmth, his smell —and it anchored you, just enough to keep you holding on.
Soon, the rescue came in a blur: Dobby’s apparition, the crack of spells, the door blasting open. Fred was the first out, wand raised, bolting up the stairs with George right behind him. The manor was chaos—Death Eaters scattering, shouts and curses flying. He burst into the drawing room just as Bellatrix raised her wand for another strike. Your body lay crumpled, barely breathing, blood pooling around you. Rage boiled over in Fred, so much so he couldn't see anything but your tormentor.
“Avada Kedavra!” he roared, the forbidden curse erupting from his wand in a flash of green light. But Bellatrix was quicker, her form twisting into nothingness with a sharp crack as she apparated away, her laughter lingering like smoke. He wished he could've killed her with his bare hands; choke the life out of her for what she did to you.
Fred dropped to his knees beside you, his hands shaking as he gathered you into his arms, ignoring the sting of his own wounds. The rage he felt evaporated, exchanged for something much more thinking: sorrow and fear. “Hey, hey, it’s me,” he whispered urgently, brushing matted hair from your face and vomit from your mouth, his voice cracking. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.” His voice trembled as hot tears flew down his freckled cheeks.
Hermione hovered nearby, moving forward to check on you, but Fred waved her off fiercely. “Back off! Don’t touch her.” She jumped back. He cradled you close, his heart hammering, applying pressure to your worst gashes with a torn strip of his shirt as he rocked you side to side like a baby.
A moment later, George placed a tentative hand on Fred's shoulder, concern billowing across his face when Fred whipped around with a snarl like a feral dog. "Freddie...Hermione can heal her." Looking up at George with wide, fraught eyes and an open mouth trembling, he paused then nodded once, lowering your body enough that she could access you. Hermione slowly kneeled next to you, cradled in Fred's arms, murmuring healing charms and digging in her bottomless bag for salve.
She’s mine to protect, Fred thought, and I failed once. Never again. Your eyelids fluttered weakly, a faint whimper escaping your lips, and he pressed his forehead to yours. “Stay with us, love. We’re getting out of here.”
The transition to Hogwarts felt like a fever dream: Fred apparated you, still in his arms, straight to the castle’s hospital wing, to be kept under Madam Pomfrey’s stern care. Days blurred into nights, but Fred never left your side, his world narrowing to the quiet rhythm of your breathing and the soft glow of healing potions.
The wing was a sanctuary of white linens and arched windows, sunlight occasionally filtering through in golden shafts that danced across the stone floor. He sat in a rickety chair pulled right up to your bed, his lanky frame hunched forward, one hand always entwined with yours— gentle, as if you were a delicate spell that might unravel at the wrong touch.
He’d taken over the small tasks with a tenderness that surprised even him: dipping a cloth in cool water scented with lavender essence to soothe your fevered brow, carefully spooning nutrient potions past your lips when you stirred in fitful sleep, rearranging the pillows to cradle your bandaged form just so. The scars from Bellatrix’s curses— twisted, silvery lines that pulsed faintly under the wrappings —made his stomach churn every time he changed them, but he did it methodically, his fingers light as feathers. Madam Pomfrey was grateful for the help, being so occupied with other student and staff's wounds.
You fought like hell, didn’t you? he thought, a mix of pride and guilt swelling in his chest. My brave girl. Look at you... I should’ve been there sooner. Fred felt weighed down by the guilt of not killing Bellatrix the second she put her hands on you, like a ton of lead on his shoulders. George had tried to get him to go home to Shell Cottage once, offering to sit vigil while he "ate a proper meal and had a shower... or two," but Fred had snapped at him in a way George hadn't seen before. “No, George. I'm not leaving until she's better.”
Harry and Hermione visited too, bringing updates on the war, but Fred kept them at arm’s length, his protectiveness a shield he couldn’t lower. No one touches her. Not while she’s like this.
The room was filled with little comforts he’d conjured or nicked: a vase of ever-blooming daisies on the bedside table, their petals whispering soft scents; a stack of joke shop prototypes nearby, untouched but ready to make you laugh when you woke; even a blanket Molly had knitted for your recovery, draped over your legs for that familiar Weasley warmth. He’d talk to you in low murmurs during the quiet hours, recounting silly stories from before— how Ron had nearly set the tent on fire with a botched cooking charm, or the time you’d all played Exploding Snap under the stars— to fill the silence, to remind you (and himself) that life waited beyond the pain.
Your eyelids fluttered open one evening as the sun dipped low, painting the wing in hues of orange and pink. You'd woken up frequently, speaking gibberish, but this time Fred recognised the absence of mist from your eyes, like you were really awake, cognizant, for the first time in days.
He straightened instantly when he caught your stirring, tired eyes lighting up, though shadows lingered beneath them from sleepless nights. “There you are,” he said softly, his voice a warm rumble, leaning in to brush a kiss to your forehead. “Had me worried you’d decided to become a permanent resident here. Madam Pomfrey was going to start charging rent.”
You tried to smile, but it came out as a weak grimace, your throat dry as parchment. Fred was already there, helping you sit up with one arm around your shoulders, the other fluffing the pillows behind you. “Easy, love. No rushing. You’ve earned a proper lie-in.” He fetched a glass of water from the side table, holding it to your lips with care, his free hand steadying yours. As you sipped, memories crashed back— the manor, the curses, the rescue —but Fred’s presence was a balm, his thumb tracing idle patterns on your wrist.
As you came back to life, defrosting from the semi-comatose state you'd been living in for days, you took note of Fred's face: his eyes were rimmed, red and puffy, like he'd been crying; his clothes were the same as they were days ago. You tried to speak but nothing came out, vocal cords lazy from not being used.
“George says hi,” he continued, settling back but keeping hold of your hand, his grin boyish despite the exhaustion. “Brought you some Chocolate Frogs earlier, but I might’ve eaten one. Quality control, you know.” He winked, but his gaze softened, searching your face. “You scared me half to death back there. Hearing you… Godric, I thought I’d lose my mind. But you’re here, and that’s what matters.”
"Freddie," you croaked, squeezing his hand. "You look bloody awful. Haven't you been home?"
Fred cracked into a smile. "Your first words in days are an insult to me... shouldn't surprise me." You smiled, then stopped when you felt your lip bleeding. He wiped the blood from your lip and fished in his pocket for some salve Hermione had left. As he applied it carefully to your cracked lips, he continued, "I didn't want to leave you here. I couldn't. You were too... vulnerable."
"You're gonna take Madam Pomfrey's job next," you whispered. "You'd look dashing in a nurse uniform, actually."
He squeezed your hand gently, a small smile on his lips as he kissed your knuckles. “I’m not letting you out of my sight again, Y/N. I don't want you to have to be as brave as you were ever again." He looked like he might cry, so you squeezed his hand as tears rolled down your own cheeks: partly from the pain, partly from the gratitude you felt to still be alive and still be with Fred.
"But for now, just rest. I’ve got everything else covered, love.” He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering there as if to seal the promise, the world outside fading to just the two of you in that quiet, healing space. "Plus, I've got loads of prototypes to try on you for when this is all over."
