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Who Are You?

Chapter Five: Testing the Waters

-Summary: after the war, Fred Weasley wakes up in St. Mungo’s alive, but without his memories of you. as you stand at his bedside, a stranger to the boy you love, he asks the question that breaks your heart: “Who are you?”

A story of lost memories, quiet healing, and love finding its way back. ✦

- Word count: 1017

- Pairing: Reader x Fred Weasley

Fred had never been the type to sit still. Even in recovery, you could see it, the restless tapping of his fingers on the blanket, the way he leaned forward whenever Healers explained things, as if he might leap out of bed and prove them wrong. He hated waiting. He hated uncertainty.

And now that he had caught his first glimpse of you in a memory, the laugh under lantern light, his restlessness had sharpened into something new: determination.

It started small.

“Tell me again about the quill,” Fred said one morning as you sat beside him, porridge cooling in a bowl you suspected he had no intention of eating.

You blinked. “The one who wrote limericks?”

He nodded. “Yeah. You said I hexed it. How did you react?”

You smiled faintly. “At first, I thought it was broken. Then it started scribbling about Snape’s greasy hair. I couldn’t stop laughing, even though I tried to hide it. You nearly gave yourself away grinning at me.”

Fred tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “And I laughed too?”

“Yes. So hard you almost fell out of your chair.”

Fred was quiet for a moment, chewing his lip. “See, I can’t see it in my head yet. But when you tell me, I… feel something. Like my chest knows before my brain does.” He paused, glancing at you. “Does that make any sense?”

Your throat tightened. “It makes perfect sense.”

The questions grew bolder after that.

One afternoon, George brought in a deck of Exploding Snap cards, grumbling that Fred needed more stimulation than staring at the ceiling. Fred pounced on the idea immediately, insisting you play.

“You said I used to beat you at this,” Fred said, shuffling the cards with practiced ease. His hands were steady, quick, as though muscle memory had never left him.

You smiled, nerves dancing in your stomach. “Not always.”

Fred smirked, dealing the cards. “Prove it.”

The game started, and you felt yourself slipping into a rhythm that had once been second nature, banter, laughter, the thrill of waiting for the cards to snap. Fred was sharp, his instincts kicking in even without memory. Once, he caught your eye across the cards, his grin wide and mischievous. For a heartbeat, it was the old Fred, undeniable, brilliant, yours.

When the cards finally exploded, sending sparks across the table, Fred startled with a laugh so loud that George snorted from his chair. Fred pressed a hand to his chest, shaking his head.

“Bloody hell,” he said breathlessly. “That felt right. Like I’ve done this a thousand times with you.” His gaze softened, lingering on you. “Haven’t I?”

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. “Yes. You have.”

Fred leaned back, eyes still on you. His grin was playful, but there was something deeper beneath it. “Then I want more. Tell me everything.”

That night, you sat with him long after visiting hours technically ended, recounting stories. You told him about sneaking into the kitchens, about the paper crane he had charmed, about the time he tried to teach you how to juggle Dungbombs (which ended in an explosion that left you both scrubbing soot off the walls for hours).

Fred listened intently, his eyes flicking between your face and the gestures you made, as though he were cataloguing every detail. Sometimes he laughed an easy, unguarded sound that made your chest ache with longing. Other times, he grew quiet, brows furrowed, like he was pressing against the edges of his mind, trying to force something through.

At one point, he interrupted. “When I made you the paper crane… did I hold your hand?”

You hesitated. “Yes. You always did, when I was scared.”

Fred stared at his own hand for a long moment, flexing his fingers as though searching for the echo of that touch. Then he reached out hesitant, almost shy and took your hand in his.

Your breath caught.

He studied the way your fingers fit together, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles. His expression was strange half curiosity, half something rawer.

“This feels… familiar,” he murmured. “Like I’ve done this before. A lot.” His gaze flicked up to yours, steady and searching. “Haven’t I?”

Tears burned behind your eyes, but you forced your voice to stay steady. “Yes, Fred. You have.”

His thumb lingered against your skin, and for a long moment, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of you—the faint beeping of hospital charms, the muffled sounds from other rooms, all fading away until there was only his warmth.

Then Fred exhaled sharply, pulling back as though jolted. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, pressing a hand to his temple. “It’s like it’s there, but I can’t grab it. Like smoke slipping through my fingers.”

You leaned closer, your heart pounding. “Don’t force it. Just… let it come.”

Fred groaned, dropping his head back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut. “I hate this. I hate not knowing. You sit here, telling me all these brilliant stories, and I I want them. I want them so badly it hurts.” His voice cracked on the last word.

Your chest ached. Slowly, you reached out and brushed your fingers through his hair, a gesture you hadn’t dared try before. His eyes fluttered open at the touch, surprise flickering across his face then something else, softer, almost vulnerable.

“You used to say I was stubborn,” you whispered. “That once I set my mind on something, I’d never let go.”

Fred huffed a weak laugh. “Sounds about right.”

“Then don’t let go of this,” you said firmly. “Don’t let go of us.”

For a long moment, Fred just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, slowly, resolutely.

“I won’t,” he said. His hand found yours again, gripping tightly. “Even if I have to fall for you from the start, I bloody well will.”

Your breath hitched. You wanted to cry, laugh, kiss him all at once. Instead, you only squeezed his hand back, your tears finally spilling over.

And in that moment, you believed him.

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Please pray for my Great Aunt Jackie who is on end of life hospice, that she will receive last rites and that the Lord will have mercy on her soul.

#christianity #catholic #catholicism #prayer request #prayer requests #praying #prayer #hospicecare

Knitting post & aunt update:

I've been knitting the last few nights at work to make a scarf for my aunt. It's enjoyable and helps pass the time, but what I found weird and interesting was that a lot of the nursing staff kept stopping by and asking about it. A couple of them asked for my number; one specifically curious about me making them one too. It seemed really sweet.

Also:

It's finished!

However, there's some bad news.

I was informed that my aunt has been diagnosed with pneumonia, which you could imagine is extra bad for someone more immobile and vulnerable. I'm still visiting (and flying out today), but I'll have to be extra careful (masking up) and maybe leave the (washed) scarf with staff until she's better.

Unfortunately, this also means that she won't be able to be visited by a trained therapy dog while I'm there.

This is Fergus, and he'll be visiting my aunt once she's recovered. She LOVES dogs and I think she might like repeated visits from gentle fellas like him.

For anyone interested, the resource I found that was accommodating for us was the Alliance of Therapy Dogs.

I'm still open to any recommendations on things that might help her be comfortable during this time of her life. Thank you.

#knitting #cw illness #therapy dogs #hospicecare #family visit #family #disability

No sleep 😴 I think I’m hovering between dimensions

Im caring for my parents (hospice for my mom) and they are going 16-24 hours with no sleep. 🥹

#me #personal #mom life #nurselife #hospicecare