MATCHMAKER
• pairing: fred weasley x potter!reader
• warnings: none
• summary: Fred spends months trying to find Y/N Potter the perfect boyfriend before realizing the reason none of his candidates are good enough is because he doesn't actually want her dating anyone but him. Featuring:
- Fred Weasley sabotaging his own matchmaking plans
- George suffering because he's the only intelligent person in the room
- Cedric Diggory accidentally becoming a couple therapist
- Harry Potter realizing every Burrow invitation was a setup
- one very jealous redhead
- two idiots who take far too long to figure it out
"Absolutely not," Fred Weasley declared, slamming his pumpkin juice down so hard the drink sloshed over the rim. George, seated beside him at the Gryffindor table, barely glanced up from his sandwich.
"I didn't even say anything," Y/N Potter protested, frowning as she dabbed at the spilled drink with her napkin.
"You were thinking it," Fred said, pointing an accusing finger. "That look. It is the same one Harry gets before he does something he shouldn't and it is the one you get when you're about to say something devastatingly reasonable."
Y/N rolled her eyes. "I was going to ask if you did the Charms essay, but clearly, your psychic abilities are wasted on me."
Fred leaned forward, elbows on the table, his expression shifting from mock outrage to something more calculating. "You know what your problem is?" he said, as if this were a revelation.
"I’m sure you’re about to tell me," Y/N sighed, nudging her half-eaten butter pastry aside.
"You," Fred declared, "are tragically single."
George choked on his sandwich and Fred slapped him hard between the shoulder blades. "See? Even George agrees!"
"I do not," George wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. "I was—Merlin's beard—choking on my own saliva because you've officially lost the plot."
Fred ignored him, focusing instead on Y/N with the intensity of a man who'd just discovered a new pranking frontier. "Think about it," he said, gesturing broadly enough that a passing first-year nearly took an elbow to the face. "When was the last time you went on a date? A proper date, not that disaster with Davis where he spent twenty minutes lecturing about kneazle breeding."
George nodded, “He’s right.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes, feeling a sense of foreboding. “Why do I feel this is leading somewhere terrible?”
Fred grinned. “Because you’ve known me for six years.” He reached into his robes and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. George groaned. “No.” “Oh yes.” “No.” Fred dramatically slapped the parchment onto the table."Fear not! That is what friends are for princess! To find you a perfect match, lucky for you I am a great matchmaker."
Fred coughed theatrically. "Candidate number one: Oliver Wood."
Y/N blinked. "Oliver Wood? The one who sleeps with his Quidditch playbook under his pillow?"
“The very same.”
“The Oliver Wood who once spent forty minutes explaining Puddlemere United’s reserve strategy to the entirety of Hogwarts?”
“He is passionate.”
“The Oliver Wood who thinks discussing Puddlemere United qualifies as small talk?”
“Dedicated.”
“The Oliver Wood who nearly missed lunch arguing with a portrait about Quidditch formations?”
Fred beamed triumphantly, “You already know so much about him. It seems like you are a perfect match.” George buried his face in his hands while Y/N looked personally offended.
“Fred everyone knows things about him. He tells anyone who’ll listen.”
“He’s athletic.”
“He breathes Quidditch.”
“He has nice hair.”
George looked up.“You’re really running out of arguments.”
Fred threw a grape at him.
“You’re impossible.”
“No,” Fred corrected. “I’m a visionary.”
“You’re a menace.”
“That too.”
Three days later, Y/N Potter found herself outside the Quidditch pitch, Oliver Wood enthusiastically covering the back of an old Transfiguration essay with diagrams.
“And that’s where people get it wrong,” Oliver explained, sketching another arrow. “Everyone focusses on the Chasers but the real issue is positioning. That’s why Puddlemere United’s strategy has been completely misinterpreted.”
Y/N stared at the parchment, which contained seventeen arrows none of which seemed to lead anywhere.
“You are right,” Oliver nodded seriously. “That's exactly what i have been thinking.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Y/N said.
“Because you’re listening,” Oliver replied.
Suddenly, a suspicious choking noise came from somewhere behind the broom shed. Y/N’s eyes narrowed, but Oliver either didn’t hear it or thought it was normal.
“The thing is,” he continued, flipping the parchment over, “people don’t appreciate how much the reserve squad contributes to the overall structure.”
Y/N stared in horror as he revealed a fresh blank side. There was more. Behind the broom shed, George was bent over laughing.
“This is painful,” George said.
Fred squinted towards the pitch. “She looks interested.”
“She looks like she’s planning a murder,” George added.
“They’re having a conversation,” Fred said.
George looked at him. “Fred.”
“What?” Fred asked.
“She’s been staring at the same arrow for six minutes,” George said.
Fred frowned. “Maybe she’s concentrating.”
George laughed harder.
Twenty-five minutes later, Y/N slipped away under the pretence of Professor McGonagall expecting her. Whether McGonagall was aware of this supposed meeting was irrelevant; freedom was freedom. Unfortunately for her, Fred was waiting halfway back to the castle.
“So?” he asked, his voice cutting through the air.
Y/N halted her steps. “Fred.”
His grin faltered slightly. “Yes?”
“If Oliver Wood ever asks me about Puddlemere United again, I’m throwing both of you into the Black Lake.”
Fred considered this. “Not a love match then?”
“No.” With that, Y/N stomped back to the castle.
George caught up to Fred moments later still grinning. “Funny,” he said. “Last week Wood was passionate loyal and husband material.”
Fred shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yeah well turns out all he talks about is Quidditch.”
George stared at him. “You knew that before.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Fred.”
“What?”
“You literally introduced him by listing Quidditch related qualities.”
Fred opened his mouth to respond but paused, then closed it again. George smirked.
Fred frowned. “Did you see how close he was standing to her?”
George blinked. “What?”
“The point is he was standing weirdly close.”
“You arranged their date.”
Fred looked mildly horrified. George’s grin widened. “Oh.”
Fred quickly looked away. “Oh,” George said. “Don’t.” Fred warned.
“That’s what’s happening.”
“Nothing’s happening.”
“You got jealous.”
“I did not.”
“Fred.”
“What?”
“You got jealous of the bloke you picked.”
Fred scoffed. “I was not jealous.”
George hummed. “Interesting.”
Fred groaned. “Stop saying that.”
“I don’t think I will.”
Fred sighed dramatically before muttering something under his breath and quietly walked back to the castle.
In the evening Fred found Y/N at their house table and plopped down beside to her. "Fine. I admit Wood wasn't the match for you. That’s fine. There are several other options available. Like, option two: Lee Jordan."
"Our best mate?" George interjected already munching on a pastry of suspicious color, eyebrows nearly vanishing into his hairline. "The same Lee Jordan who set your eyebrows on fire last week?"
"Allegedly," Fred corrected, waving a dismissive hand. "Besides, that was a controlled experiment gone slightly awry. Point is, he's funny, charming, and—"
"—and he knows how to listen," Y/N finished flatly, crossing her arms. "Which is more than I can say for a certain redhead at this table."
Fred gasped, pressing a hand to his chest as if she'd physically wounded him. "That hurt. That was personal." He turned to George, who was now biting back his grin. "Did you hear that? She wounded me."
George shrugged. "She's got a point, mate. You do have the attention span of a concussed pygmy puff."
Y/N smirked, plucking a grape from the fruit bowl and tossing it at Fred's forehead. "See? Even George agrees."
"Lee is single," Fred announced, as if this were a groundbreaking discovery and not common knowledge to anyone who'd ever shared a dormitory with the boy. "And unlike some people"—he shot Y/N a pointed look—"he doesn't spend dates lecturing about magical creatures or Quidditch strategies. He tells jokes. Good jokes."
"Debatable," George muttered behind his hand.
"Fine," Y/N said, snatching the singed parchment from Fred's hands before he could launch into another sales pitch. "Will you stop bothering me if I talk with him?"
Fred's grin widened into something dangerously victorious. "Oh, absolutely," he lied, the gleam in his eyes suggesting the exact opposite. George, who had known his twin long enough to recognize impending disaster, groaned and buried his face in his hands.
Lee Jordan, as it turned out, was catastrophically bad at dating. The first clue should have been the way Fred had practically shoved Y/N into the courtyard bench beside him before vanishing with a suspiciously theatrical cough. The second clue was Lee's opening line: "So, Fred reckons you've got a thing for blokes who can make things explode. True or false?" Y/N had barely opened her mouth before Lee launched into a detailed explanation of his latest attempt to charm Filch's mop to sing vulgar sea shanties—which, admittedly, was impressive, if not exactly romantic. By the time he started diagramming the optimal placement of dungbombs in the Slytherin common room, Y/N was seriously considering hexing Fred into next week.
Back in the Gryffindor common room, Fred was lounging by the fire like a smug kneazle when Y/N stormed in, her hair slightly singed at the ends. "You set me up with a walking fireworks display?" she demanded, throwing a half-melted chocolate frog wrapper at his head. Fred caught it with a grin, unfazed.
"Ah, but did you laugh?" he countered, leaning forward with the eager anticipation of a gambler watching his dice roll.
Y/N opened her mouth, then paused. Lee had made her laugh—twice, before his experimental self-heating teacup had exploded and showered them both in lukewarm Earl Grey. Fred’s grin sharpened, sensing weakness.
“See?” He stretched his arms along the back of the sofa, radiating satisfaction. “Romance is overrated. What you really need is someone who—”
“No.” Y/N jabbed a finger at his chest. “No more setups. I’m done being your dating experiment.” Behind Fred, George mimed applauding from the armchair, mouthing finally around a mouthful of licorice wand.
Fred clutched his heart again, but this time his grin never wavered. “Darling you hurt me. Truly. But fine—no more setups.” He held up his hands in surrender, then leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Unless… you secretly want me to keep trying?”
Y/N threw a throw pillow at his face. It bounced off his nose with a satisfying thump.
George snorted. “Mate, take the hint. You’re worse at this than Filch is at happiness.”
The Lee Jordan experiment officially ended a few days later when Lee cheerfully admitted that the primary reason he’d agreed to the date was Fred’s promise of access to several joke shop prototypes. Y/N wasn’t even offended; she’d suspected as much from the start. What surprised her was Fred’s reaction. He looked relieved, not pleased that the matchmaking attempt had failed but rather relieved as though a problem had somehow solved itself. George noticed this too, of course he did; he noticed everything. Y/N assumed this would finally end Fred’s increasingly disastrous mission, but she should have known better.
A week later, she arrived for breakfast to find Fred and George seated beside a piece of parchment so long it hung off both sides of the table. George was eating toast (again) while Fred furiously scribbled. Y/N immediately felt concerned.
“What is that?” Neither twin looked up. “What is what?” Fred asked. “The absurdly large piece of parchment.” Fred sighed dramatically. “If you must know, it’s research.” Y/N reached across the table before either twin could stop her. The title read: POTENTIAL BOYFRIENDS FOR Y/N POTTER. She stared, then stared some more. George had the decency to look embarrassed, but Fred didn’t.
“Fred.” “Yes?” “Why does this exist?” “Because your standards are clearly unreasonable and someone has to help.”
Y/N looked back down at the list, several names already crossed out. Oliver Wood -
Talks about Quidditch too much. Lee Jordan - Too interested in joke products. Cormac McLaggen. The name had been crossed out so aggressively it nearly tore through the parchment. Beneath it, Fred simply wrote: “Absolutely not.” Y/N looked up. “What does that mean?” “It means absolutely not.” “That’s not an explanation.” “It doesn’t need to be.” George looked between them and annoyed said “I asked the same thing.” Before Y/N could investigate further Fred suddenly lunged across the table to recover the parchment. Y/N yanked it away. “Give me that.” “No.” “Y/N.” “Fred.” George nearly inhaled his tea. The argument lasted long enough to draw the attention of half the Gryffindor table. In the end Fred recovered the list.
That evening, Y/N was halfway through her tea when Cedric Diggory slid into the seat across from her at the Gryffindor table with a polite, "Mind if I join you?" His warm smile and annoyingly perfect hair were enough to make every teenage girl swoon.
Cedric's eyes crinkled at the corners as he balanced his plate on the table. "Arithmancy, right?" he said, nodding at Y/N's textbook. "I swear, Vector's assignments make my brain feel like it's been through a wringer."
Y/N blinked, momentarily thrown. She’d anticipated a painfully obvious setup line from Fred, scripted with all the grace of a troll in tap shoes. However Cedric was already effortlessly tearing into his eggs, as if he hadn’t been coerced into anything. "You're in our class?" she asked, before realizing how stupid that sounded. Of course he was. It’s kind of difficult to miss him when a swarm of girls follow his every move.
"Third row, left side," Cedric said through a mouthful of food, grinning when she rolled her eyes. "What, you think Hufflepuffs don't take notes? I've got three inches on you—easy to miss me when you're busy cursing your quill for sputtering again."
A laugh escaped before she could stop it. "It's defective," she insisted, pointing at him with her own toast. "I swear it's got a vendetta. Last week it wrote 'bollocks' instead of 'Babbling' on my essay."
Cedric choked on his eggs, laughing so hard he had to wipe his mouth with his sleeve. "Merlin, I wish I'd seen Vector's face for that one," he wheezed, shaking his head. "Bet she docked you points for 'creative interpretation of magical theory.'"
Y/N groaned, tossing a grape at him. "She did! Ten whole points because apparently, my quill has 'an attitude problem.'"
Across the table, Fred's eyes narrowed. His fingers drummed against his untouched porridge like a man counting down to detonation. George, sensing impending disaster, kicked him under the table. Hard.
Fred's spoon clattered into his porridge as Cedric leaned closer to Y/N, their laughter bouncing off the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling like stray snitches. "This is unacceptable," Fred hissed, grabbing George's wrist before his twin could deliver another warning kick. "Look at him. Look at him—smug, golden, perfect. It's unnatural, he is doing too much, too little."
George pried Fred's fingers off his arm. "Mate, you're the one who literally orchestrated this. You handed Diggory a script like he was some second-rate actor in your tragic rom-com."
Fred scoffed. "I gave him suggestions. Polite conversation starters. Fun facts about her interests. Not—" He gestured violently as Cedric charmed Y/N's defective quill to float in a lazy figure-eight between them, "—this freakish display of effortless charm."
"Oh, now you're anti-charm?" George muttered, watching as Y/N flicked a grape at Cedric's forehead. The Hufflepuff caught it mid-air with his teeth, grinning as she mock-applauded. "Merlin's pants, Fred. You're acting like you caught him juggling Bludgers in her underwear."
Fred's chair screeched across the flagstones like a wounded hippogriff as he vaulted over the bench, narrowly avoiding face-planting into a platter of kippers. "Y/N!" he announced, draping himself across her shoulders with the grace of a concussed troll, his voice three octaves too loud for polite company. "Fancy seeing you here. Eating dinner. In the Great Hall. What a coincidence."
Cedric's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline as Y/N elbowed Fred sharply in the ribs. "We share a dormitory," she deadpanned. "And you've been staring at us like a starving kneazle at a tuna convention for ten minutes."
"Allegedly," Fred said, plucking a sausage off Cedric's plate without asking and biting into it with exaggerated relish. "So! Diggory. How's... Hufflepuff?" He waved the half-eaten sausage like a conductor's baton. "Still... yellow?"
George facepalmed so hard his ears rang.
Y/N stood abruptly scraping her chair against the flagstones. It sounded like a cat being dragged backwards through a knothole. Cedric’s fork hovered mid-air his expression flickering between amusement and concern as she muttered “I need air” before striding towards the Great Hall doors with a determined steps.
Fred's triumphant smirk lasted exactly two seconds before Cedric—bloody perfect Cedric—dropped his fork with a clatter and stood without hesitation. "Excuse me," he said politely to no one in particular, already moving after her with the effortless athleticism of someone who'd never tripped over his own shoelaces in his life.
"Did he just—"
Fred's fingers twitched toward his wand, but George grabbed his wrist with the reflexes of someone who'd spent years preventing impulsive twin decisions. "No," he hissed. "You are not hexing Diggory in the middle of the Great Hall."
"But he's following her," Fred protested, watching in horror as Cedric jogged to catch up with Y/N, his stupidly perfect hair bouncing with each stride. "Like some kind of—of golden-retriever-bloodhound hybrid."
George sighed, rubbing his temples. "Mate, you're the one who shoved them together. This is your mess."
Fred’s jaw tightened as he watched Y/N slow at the doors, her posture stiff and guarded. Cedric leaned close, murmured something inaudible, and Y/N’s shoulders eased just enough to release a reluctant laugh. Her hands vanished into her robe pockets, and then she nodded.
The world narrowed to the sight of them slipping into the corridor together. One heartbeat, they were framed in the Great Hall’s glow; the next, only the echo of their footsteps threaded through the lingering hum of conversation. Fred’s knuckles whitened around the edge of the bench as the moment bled seamlessly from noise into silence, leaving him in the wake of a hall that suddenly felt much colder.
The kitchens weren't as crowded as Y/N expected—just a handful of house-elves darting between bubbling cauldrons, their ears twitching at the intrusion. Cedric held the portrait door open with his foot, balancing a plate, one of the house elves forced into his hands, with two steaming mugs of something that smelled suspiciously like spiked hot chocolate. "Hufflepuff privilege," he said with a wink, nodding towards the elves now arranging a platter of cinnamon-dusted shortbread between them. "They think I'm malnourished."
Y/N snorted, accepting the mug. "You? Malnourished? You look like you were carved out of marble by a particularly enthusiastic sculptor."
Cedric's laugh bounced off the copper pots hanging overhead. "Flattery will get you extra biscuits." He nudged the plate toward her, his fingers brushing hers.
"So," Cedric said after a deliberate sip, "Fred's got... opinions about your love life."
Y/N nearly choked on her hot chocolate. "Fred's got opinions about everything," she muttered, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. "Last week he tried to convince me that Flobberworms were the next big fashion trend for dates. The week before that, he swore up and down that George had secretly been a Polyjuiced McGonagall for three days."
Cedric chuckled, leaning back against the kitchen's rough-hewn table. "Sounds like he's got his own way of looking out for you," he said, swirling his mug thoughtfully. "Even if it involves explosives and terrible setups."
Y/N rolled her eyes, but her fingers tightened around her mug. "More like he's allergic to the idea of me actually enjoying someone's company without his interference."
Cedric traced the rim of his mug with one finger, the firelight casting flickering shadows across his thoughtful expression. "You and Fred," he said finally, his voice quieter now, "you've been friends since first year, right?" Y/N blinked, caught off guard by the shift in topic. "Yeah," she admitted, stirring her hot chocolate absently. "He and George pulled me into their chaos during our first Herbology lesson when I accidentally repotted Mandrake without earplugs. Apparently they saw potential for prank partner. Harry almost had a heart attack when he found out about his older sister being friends with the twins."
Cedric laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Can't blame him. They can be a lot." He hesitated, then added, "With George you seem to have a sibling bond while with Fred...you two seem... close. Closer than most friends." His tone was carefully neutral, but there was something searching in his gaze.
Y/N snorted into her mug. "If by 'close' you mean 'he's an insufferable git who thinks he gets a say in who I date,' then sure." She paused, then sighed. "But yeah. He's... Fred. He's the one who charmed my shoes to sing my mom's favorite song when I was homesick in second year. And the one who stayed up all night helping me study for Potions exam every single time the last few years, even though he hates Snape more than anyone."
Cedric studied her for a long moment, his fingers drumming against his mug. "You know," he said slowly, "for someone who complains about Fred's interference, you talk about him an awful lot."
Y/N stiffened. "I—what? No I don't."
"Three times just now," Cedric said, grinning when she threw a biscuit at him. He caught it effortlessly. "And that's not even counting how often you bring him up in class. Last week in Arithmancy, you spent twenty minutes arguing with Vector about whether Fred's theory on self-propelling dungbombs had mathematical merit."
"That was different!" Y/N protested, feeling her ears grow warm. "That was—that was academic. And it did have merit. Fred's diagrams were—" She cut herself off when Cedric's grin widened into something knowing. "Oh, shut up."
Cedric's grin softened into something dangerously perceptive as he took another sip of hot chocolate. "Did you ever think," he said, tilting his head slightly, "what it would be like if you two dated?"
The mug shook in Y/N's hands, splashing chocolate onto her robes. She stared at him, mouth half-open. "Fred and me?" The words came out strangled, like she'd inhaled a handful of Fizzing Whizbees. "That's—that's ridiculous."
"Is it?" Cedric's voice was infuriatingly mild as he summoned a napkin and handed it to her. "You whole mood changes when he walks into a room. You argue his prank experiments in front of professors, trust him to find you datable candidates—"
"Because we've been friends for years," Y/N interrupted, scrubbing at the stain with unnecessary force. "That's what friends do. They—they notice things. Doesn't mean anything."
Cedric leaned back against the table. "Funny," he mused, swirling his mug. "I've never seen Fred Weasley lose a game of Exploding Snap over whether I prefer caramel tart or pumpkin pasty."
Y/N's fingers froze mid-scrub. The napkin crumpled in her grip. "He—that was one time—"
"Last Thursday," Cedric supplied cheerfully. "And again yesterday when you two were arguing about which Honeydukes chocolate is superior. He looked like you'd cursed his kneecaps when you said you liked the dark chocolate peppermint crèmes over the milk caramel ones."
Y/N’s face burned hotter than dragonfire. She opened her mouth—closed it—then threw another biscuit at Cedric’s head. He caught it again, grinning like he’d just won a bet. "Admit it," he said, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. "You’ve got a thing for Fred Weasley."
Cedric was joking—mostly. But the way Y/N's fingers tightened around her mug, the sudden flicker in her gaze that darted away like a startled snitch, the flush creeping up her neck—all of it clicked into place with a precision that would’ve made Arithmancy look like guesswork.
"Merlin," Cedric breathed, half-laughing, half-stunned. "You do."
"I don’t," Y/N hissed, but her voice cracked on the second word, betraying her more effectively than any Veritaserum.
Cedric leaned back, whistling low under his breath. "Well. That explains why every bloke Fred’s thrown at you has been a disaster."
Y/N stared into her hot chocolate like it held the secrets of the universe, her cheeks burning hotter than the fire in the hearth. Cedric’s knowing smirk was unbearable—she wanted to vanish into the floorboards like a particularly embarrassed ghost.
"You could’ve just told him," Cedric said, nudging her foot under the table with his own. "Saved us all the theatrics."
She groaned, pressing her forehead against the cool wood of the kitchen table. "Oh, sure. ‘Hey Fred, by the way, I fancy you—please stop setting me up with every bloke in Hogwarts.’ That would’ve gone brilliantly."
Cedric chuckled, stealing another biscuit from the platter between them. "Better than him accidentally hexing me into next week for laughing at your jokes."
Y/N lifted her head just enough to glare at him. "He wouldn’t—"
Cedric raised an eyebrow.
"—okay, he might," she admitted, slumping back in her chair. "But only if you laughed at the wrong moment. Or the right one. Or breathed too loud in his general direction." She exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. "It's just— Fred doesn’t do... feelings. He is a certified flirt, but he never, ever, took a witch on a date. When anyone asks him about it, he says he is too busy working on his career. But he seems to have planty of free time to bother me with his list of my perfect boyfriend candidates."
Cedric studied her for a long moment, his fingers drumming against his mug. "You ever think," he said slowly, "that maybe Fred’s been setting you up with every wrong bloke on purpose?"
Y/N snorted. "Oh, absolutely. His master plan: annoy me into celibacy."
"No, I mean—" Cedric hesitated, then leaned forward, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "What if he’s been sabotaging your dates because he can’t stand the idea of you with anyone else?"
The thought hit her like a rogue Bludger to the ribs. Her fingers twitched around her mug, sending ripples across the surface of her hot chocolate. "That’s... ridiculous," she said weakly. "Fred doesn’t get jealous. He invents new types of mayhem to distract himself from school work."
Cedric’s grin was infuriatingly knowing. "Yet here we are," he said, gesturing between them, "in the kitchens, because he looked ready to Avada my kneecaps for making you laugh at dinner."
The truth is blind as a Patronus charm. She groaned, pressing her palms to her eyes. "Merlin, I’m an idiot."
"Not entirely," Cedric allowed, stealing another biscuit. "But you did let him set you up with Lee Jordan. That’s... a choice."
Y/N groaned louder, sliding halfway off her chair. "I panicked! He was relentless—what was I supposed to do, tell him, 'Oh, by the way, the reason none of your terrible setups work is that I’ve been halfway in love with you since third year'?"
Cedric choked on his biscuit. "Third year?" His voice pitched upward like a mandrake’s scream. “Merlin’s pants, Y/N, that’s five years of pining!”
“Shut up,” Y/N hissed, glancing frantically at the nearest house-elf, who was now watching them with wide-eyed fascination while stirring a cauldron of something that smelled suspiciously like firewhisky-infused custard. She grabbed Cedric’s sleeve, yanking him closer. “It’s not—it wasn’t constant. It’s just… occasional. Intermittent pining.”
Cedric’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. “Intermittent,” he repeated flatly. “Like a faulty Floo connection?”
“Exactly!” She nodded vigorously, then faltered. “Wait, no—that makes it sound—”
Y/N groaned and slumped forward, pressing her forehead against the kitchen table. Cedric’s laughter bounced off the copper pots overhead as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Merlin's beard, you've got it bad," he said, shaking his head. "And here I thought I was the tragic romantic in this friendship."
She shot him a glare, but it lacked any real heat. "Shove off, Diggory. Like you've never had a crush."
"Oh, I have," he admitted, grinning. "But mine usually don't involve five years of denial and a conspiracy to sabotage my own love life via incompetent matchmaking."
Y/N lunged for Cedric's last biscuit, fingers brushing the cinnamon-dusted edge just as his hand snapped out, catching her wrist mid-air.
"Cheeky," Cedric murmured, grinning as she tried to twist free. His grip tightened just enough to keep her pinned, his other hand plucking the biscuit from the plate with infuriating ease. "Hufflepuffs do share," he said, breaking it in half with exaggerated fairness, "but we don't tolerate theft."
Y/N scoffed, kicking his shin under the table. "That wasn't theft, Diggory, that was justice—you've eaten three already!" She twisted her wrist sharply, but Cedric's Quidditch-honed reflexes kept her pinned.
"Well aren't you cozy." They froze mid-scuffle when Fred's voice cut through the kitchen like a rogue Bludger to the ribs. He stood framed in the portrait hole, his silhouette rigid against the flickering torchlight of the corridor beyond.
Fred's fingers twitched against the doorframe—once, twice—before he shoved off with a sharp laugh that sounded more like a hex hitting its mark. "Don't let me interrupt," he said, spreading his hands mockingly. "Looks like you two are... biscuit-deep in conversation."
Y/N jerked her hand back from Cedric's grip like she'd been scalded, her chair scraping loudly against the flagstones as she stood. "Fred—wait—" But he was already pivoting on his heel, his robes snapping behind him with the force of his retreat.
Cedric exhaled through his nose, watching Fred's retreating back with the air of a man who'd just rolled a critical failure in a high-stakes game of Gobstones. "Well," he said mildly, brushing biscuit crumbs off his robes, "that went spectacularly."
Y/N stood frozen in the kitchens, Cedric's words still ricocheting around her skull like rogue Bludgers. The house-elves had gone suspiciously quiet, their wide eyes darting between her and the empty portrait hole where Fred had vanished.
Cedric nudged her ankle under the table. "What are you waiting for?" he asked, nodding toward the door. "Christmas?"
One heartbeat she was standing there, fingers still tingling from Cedric's grip, the next she was sprinting toward the portrait hole with all the grace of a hippogriff mid-takeoff. She skidded on a patch of spilled custard, nearly face-planted into a tower of copper pans, and would've barreled straight through the door if a house-elf hadn't squeaked and yanked it wider at the last second.
Three strides into the corridor, she froze. Cedric's laughter echoed from the kitchen—warm, unbothered, the sound of someone who'd just handed her a lifeline and didn't need thanks. But her feet pivoted anyway, robes whipping around her ankles as she sprinted back, skidding to a stop in the doorway. "Thank you," she blurted, gripping the frame.
Cedric saluted her with his half-eaten biscuit, grinning around a mouthful of crumbs. "Go get your prankster," he said, waving her off. "And for Merlin's sake, don't let him set you up with anyone else—his taste is abysmal."
She didn't bother dignifying that with a response, already spinning back into the corridor. Hogwarts blurred around her—tapestries, staircases, the occasional yelp of a startled first-year as she barreled past. Fred couldn't have gone far.
She nearly collided with George at the base of the marble staircase, his arms full of what looked like the entire Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes inventory. "Whoa there—" He sidestepped just in time, but a box of Fanged Frisbees went airborne, clattering down three steps before she caught it with a hasty Accio. "You look like someone cursed your kneazle," George observed, tilting his head. "Or—" His gaze flicked past her shoulder, then back to her flushed face. "Ah. Kitchen raiding with Diggory, were we?"
"Not—not like that," Y/N panted, shoving the box back into his arms. She hesitated, fingers tightening around the edge. "Have you seen Fred?"
George's grin was all teeth. "Oh, you mean my emotionally constipated twin currently taking out his frustrations on a defenseless suit of armor near the Charms corridor?" He adjusted his grip on the boxes. "Third floor. Look for the one missing its left gauntlet—he transfigured it into a rather aggressive tea cup."
She was already moving before he finished speaking, taking the steps two at a time. Behind her, George called out, "Tell him if he wrecks another one, Flitwick's making him polish the rest for a month!"
The third-floor corridor was suspiciously quiet—no clanging armor, no shouted hexes—until a sharp bang echoed from an alcove near the Charms classroom. Y/N skidded around the corner just in time to see Fred slam his fist against the stone wall, his shoulders heaving. The suit of armor beside him was indeed missing its left gauntlet; in its place, a tea cup shaped like a snarling kneazle pulsed ominously.
"Leave me alone, George," Fred growled without turning, his voice rough like he'd been chewing on gravel.
"It's me," Y/N said, voice softer than she intended. Fred stiffened, his fingers curling into fists against the stone.
Fred turned slowly, his expression carefully blank except for the muscle twitching in his jaw. "Shouldn't you be back there?" He jerked his chin toward the staircase, his voice oddly flat. "With Diggory. Discussing... biscuits."
Y/N crossed her arms, stepping closer until the toes of her shoes nearly brushed his. "We were discussing you, actually."
That got a reaction—Fred's eyes snapped to hers, sharp as a jinx. "Me?" His laugh was jagged. "What's there to discuss? My stellar matchmaking skills?" He gestured wildly toward the general direction of the kitchens. "Clearly you two hit it off—"
Y/N grabbed Fred’s flailing wrist mid-gesture, her fingers tightening around his pulse point. "We hit it off discussing how ridiculous you are," she said, voice low. Fred froze, his breath hitching as her thumb brushed the inside of his wrist.
The tea cup kneazle unraveled abruptly, ceramic losing its shape. Fred’s gaze flicked to her mouth, then away. "Yeah?" he muttered, jaw working. "Which part? The bit where I set you up with a walking incendiary, or—"
"The bit where you can’t stand the idea of me liking anyone," Y/N interrupted, stepping closer until his back hit the alcove wall. Fred’s breath stuttered. "Especially when they make me laugh."
Fred’s fingers twitched against hers. "That’s not—"
"Not what?" Y/N challenged, pressing closer until Fred’s shoulders met the cold stone. His pulse hammered against her fingertips as she tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. "Not true?"
Fred’s throat worked, his free hand lifting as if to push her away—then hovering uncertainly between them, fingers twitching like a wand mid-spell. "You’re impossible," he rasped, but the heat in his voice belied the accusation.
She could see it then—the flicker of something raw beneath his bravado, the same look he got when a prank backfired spectacularly and he had to choose between laughing it off or admitting defeat.
“Admit it,” she said, tightening her grip on his wrist. “You sabotaged every single date because you couldn’t bear the thought of me with anyone else.”
Fred opened his mouth then closed it again, opening it once more but nothing came out. Y/N and Fred stared at each other, the silence stretching. Then Fred pointed at her accusingly with his free hand.
“That’s an outrageous allegation,” he said.
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “You crossed out Cormac McLaggen so hard you nearly tore through the parchment.”
“That was unrelated,” Fred said.
“You interrupted dinner because Cedric made me laugh,” Y/N continued.
“He was being suspiciously funny.”
“Cedric Diggory,” Y/N said, lifting a brow.
“Yes?” Fred said, blinking.
Fred looked genuinely convinced this explained everything. A laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
Y/N’s stomach performed a complicated piece of accidental magic. “Oh, no,” she said quietly.
Fred frowned. “What?”
“Oh, this is awful,” Y/N said.
“What is?”
“You actually are jealous,” she said, his ears immediately turning red.
“I am not,” he insisted.
“You are,” Y/N said.
“I am not,” Fred said again.
“You followed me to the kitchens,” Y/N said.
“I was investigating,” Fred said.
“Investigating what?”
Fred hesitated. “Biscuits.”
Fred looked offended when Y/N laughed so hard she nearly lost her balance.
“It was a perfectly reasonable investigation,” Fred said.
“Fred,” Y/N said.
“There were biscuits,” Fred said.
“Fred,” Y/N said again.
“There was hand-holding,” Fred said.
Cedric’s voice drifted back into her memory. Maybe he can’t stand the idea of you with anyone else. The realisation settled into place with terrifying clarity.
Merlin.
Fred wasn't trying to find her a boyfriend. Fred was trying to find literally anyone who wasn't him.
The great Fred Weasley—professional menace, part-time chaos merchant, full-time idiot—suddenly seemed very interested in a crack in the stone wall.
"Oh my god," she said.
"What?"
"You fancy me."
Fred made a strangled noise.
Y/N pointed dramatically.
"That noise means yes."
"It does not."
"It absolutely does."
Fred groaned and dropped his head against the wall. "This is humiliating."
She smiled slowly, dangerously. To which Fred immediately thought it was suspicious.
"What are you smiling about?"
"Nothing."
"That's a lie."
"Maybe."
"Y/N."
She stepped closer.
Fred straightened automatically.
"Y/N."
"You know," she said thoughtfully, "all this time I thought you were being ridiculous because you enjoy meddling."
"I do enjoy meddling."
"I know."
"Very much."
"I know."
Fred narrowed his eyes.
"You're making a point. I don't like it."
Her smile widened.
"The truth is," she said, "you're only slightly ridiculous."
Fred looked offended.
"Only slightly?"
"The rest of the problem is that you're an idiot."
Before he could respond, she grabbed the front of his robes and kissed him.
When she pulled back, Fred looked completely stunned. Y/N decided it was one of the best things she'd ever seen.
"You kissed me," he said.
"Observant."
"You actually kissed me."
"Still observant."
Fred blinked.
He grinned slowly, hopelessly victorious.
"Oh," he said.
"Oh?" Y/N repeated.
"Oh, this changes everything."
She groaned.
"There he is."
Fred's grin widened.
"You know, if I'd known all it took was several catastrophic matchmaking attempts and a complete emotional breakdown—"
Y/N smacked him on the arm and he laughed. The sound echoed down the corridor. For a moment neither moved. Then Fred reached for her hand and Y/N squeezed his fingers. He looked down at their joined hands and shook his head.
"George is never going to let me live this down."
"Absolutely not."
"He's going to be unbearable."
"Definitely."
Fred sighed.
"Worth it."
Y/N smiled.
"Yeah," she said.
"Definitely."
**Bonus scene:
The next day halfway through breakfast, Harry noticed Fred wasn’t paying attention to George.
Which was odd.
George was in the middle of a detailed story about a first-year, a suit of armour and suspiciously large fireworks and yet Fred seemed far more interested in whatever Y/N was saying. Harry watched as Fred reached across the table and stole a piece of toast from her plate. Y/N slapped his hand, but Fred stole it anyway. Neither seemed bothered.
Harry frowned. Across the table, George noticed his gaze and immediately smirked.
Suddenly everything clicked into place inside Harry's brain. Every summer invitation to the Burrow, every owl asking if Harry was coming, every follow-up sentence saying Y/N is invited too, every time Fred had somehow ended up sitting next to her.
Harry slowly lowered his fork at the realization. “Oh.”
He pointed at Fred. “Every time you invited me to spend the summer at the Burrow.” Fred closed his eyes. “Harry—“ “You wanted Y/N to come.” George burst out laughing.
Fred sighed. “Fine.” Harry stared. Fred rubbed a hand over his face. “I wanted both of you to come.”
“You used me.”
“I didn’t use you.”
“You absolutely used me.”
“It wasn’t the only reason!”
“Fred.”
“Fine. It wasn’t even the main reason.”
Harry shook his head. “You are unbelievably annoying.” “That’s fair.”
Fred smiled at Y/N, to which Harry immediately gagged.
“Oh, don’t start,” he muttered.
“We’re literally sitting here,” Y/N replied.
“Exactly.”
George’s shoulders shook with laughter. Fred looked thoughtful for a moment.
“You know, if you think about it, this is actually good news.”
“There’s no good news in this,” Harry said.
“You’ll finally get me as a brother.”
Harry gagged again. Y/N dropped her head onto the table.
“Fred.”
“What?”
“Please stop talking.”
George laughed so hard he had tears in his eyes. Harry pointed at Fred, saying: “That’s the opposite of good news.”
Fred looked deeply offended.
“Rude.”
“Merlin help us if there’s ever another you.”
The grin slipped from Fred’s face. Beside him, Y/N froze. Harry narrowed his eyes at both of them.
“I hope your kids inherit my sister's personality.”
The entire table went silent. Y/N made a strangled noise and covered her face.
“Harry!”
Fred looked equally horrified.
“We’ve been together for less than a day!”
George promptly lost his composure. Harry looked between them.
“What?”
“You can’t just say things like that!”
“I was making a perfectly reasonable observation.”
“It wasn’t reasonable!”
“It really wasn’t,” George managed between laughs.
Harry rolled his eyes. For a moment, he watched Fred and Y/N sitting there looking equally embarrassed and despite himself, felt some of his annoyance fade. Then he pointed at Fred one last time.
“If you make her cry, I’m helping George.”
For once, Fred didn’t joke. He glanced at Y/N before looking back at Harry.
“I won’t.”
Harry held his gaze for a moment before nodding. That would have to do. Across the table, George immediately ruined the moment.
“So we all agree that their children are doomed?”
And just like that, breakfast returned to normal.
