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a beauty, but a funny girl | part one

fred weasley x f!addams!reader

Fred accidentally falls in love with this mysterious girl in his class through awkward meetings.

♪ ─── warnings: u are “short” bc fred is a giant (i believe in a big!fred), nonchalant!odd!reader but fred’s lowkey into it, goth!or emo!reader (described as wearing black—imagine whatever u want), nonchalant/unexpressive!reader, swearing, parents are morticia and gomez = u r American (sorry), unspecific house!reader, bsf luna mention, acquaintances to lovers, medium slow burn, high school fight + injuries, 2nd/3rd person omnipotent but fred orientated, “British slang,” mild mentions of racism, 7th year, no y/n, no war au, teen cringe, very brief mention of alc, slice of life, swearing, poc!reader (maybe you’re adopted idk), unmeasured but small timeskips

♪ ─── word count: 9.4k

♪ ─── a/n: i really wanted to make this a oneshot bc im worried if i make it multi-part then the chances of me continuing are lower but like i need to split this up or else it'll never be published bc it’s been rotting since may…

There’s this girl in Fred Weasley’s class; no, he doesn’t fancy her or anything, but he’s heard much about this infamous Addams character. He’s seen her silently floating around school, practically gliding down halls in shiny heaps of black fabric. Sometimes, Fred can make out the soft jingle of jewelry when she approaches.

Her parents, supposedly, are vampires that own giant crematoriums with bakery fronts that they use to incinerate their victims, and her family is devoted to the darkest of arts— all according to little Colin Creevey (but it sounds kinda like Sweeney Todd).

This girl apparently feeds off of fear, has a pet tarantula and sleeps in a coffin. The last two rumours were sourced from one nervous Ronald Weasley, so Fred didn’t take it too seriously.

“You’re lucky you never had to share a class with her,” Ron murmured pensively. Three vibrantly redheaded brothers (Fred, George, and Ron) had cornered themselves into a window alcove, trying to cram in some meek conversation before the bell rang. “I heard that she’s a bat animagus—,”

George nudged Fred’s arm. He wiggled his bushy brows and smirked. “Wouldn’t that be cool?” George implored his twin.

Fred shrugged, lightly considering the thought with a slight bob of his head. “Would be pretty badass,” Fred agreed.

Ron scoffed at his older brothers. “Lavender swears she didn’t see a reflection in the lavatory mirrors the other day,” Ron pressed.

“You know, humans can actually learn echolocation,” George chided.

Ron frowned, “Oh, piss off.”

“No no, it’s true,” Fred said with an affirming nod. “We can only do it through snaps.” The twins simultaneously shut their mischievous eyes, tilted their chins up, and held out their hands to snap in unison.

“Shut up,” Ron grumbled, folding his arms atop one another. He eyed the curious glances their peers were charitably donating. “Quit it— people are looking at us,” Ron snapped. He kicked the closest brother (which was George) as an attempt to silence them.

Fred and George give him a little peek, as their snaps fell out of sync. They snickered and eventually stopped, amused and satisfied with the damage they’ve done to Ron’s social standing.

Ron’s shoulders were hunched and tense; his voice was an exasperate whisper, which only drew in Fred and George for his words to be heard. “Her father went to Durmstrang— the school that Malfoy wanted to attend,” Ron indulged dramatically.

Fred wrapped an arm around Ron, pulling him closer. “You sure it wasn’t Pigfarts?” Fred joked in a feathery tone.

“Headmaster Rumbleroar rules with an iron fist,” George added humorously.

“More like a furry one,” Fred corrected. He squeezed Ron’s arm affectionately. “He’s a lion,” he clarified.

Ron weaseled out of Fred’s degrading hold with a hefty huff. “Merlin, you guys are insufferable,” he stated, nostrils flared and eyes aflame.

“Mate, she gets picked on enough— we don’t need to add to it,” Fred rebutted.

The younger (but taller) boy adjusted his messenger bag sardonically, prepared to abandon the oafish twins. “She’s one scary girl,” Ron decided before striding away, passionate about his beliefs.

“What’s she ever done to you?” Fred called out. He received no answer; he simply watched Ron disappear into the crowd of students.

The Potions classroom was smelling… fishy; it was pungent, vile, and evidence of hardworking students. The ridiculous concoction Professor Snape assigned would take two to three class periods to fully brew. Two to three classes; that’s outrageous! The instructions alone are four pages long, the list of ingredients merely half!

All of this for a 50 point assignment! Fred scowled. His nose scrunched with vexation, as he reluctantly flipped through the directional pamphlet.

With a pestle and mortar, grind up acorn barnacle shells into a fine dust…

Add 27 grams of sheepshead wrasse scales…

Boil zooplankton until thick paste…

Fred scoffed and rolled up his sleeves. “Absolute rubbish,” he mumbled before picking up the mortar. He examined the bowl for another potion’s leftover residue, and when he determined it was clean, he grabbed the small burlap satchette of chicken bone powder (Snape had premade it for the class out of the “kindness” of his slimy black heart) and loosened the tie.

Austin (Fred’s lab partner) adjusted the heat on the Bunsen burner with a scarred hand. “It’ll boil in a few minutes,” the lad announced, peering into the small cauldron. He picked up his copy of the instructions. “I’m gonna collect some of the other ingredients,” he added.

“Alright,” Fred nodded, as Austin approached the supply table across the classroom. There was a decently sized line wrapping around it, as their peers were carefully apportioning themselves the right ingredients.

Fred observed the small cloudy bubbles forming at the mouth of the cauldron. What did the directions say? Wait until the water was boiling to pour stuff in?

He glanced at the papers. Eh… it’s probably fine; he dumped the bone powder in and grabbed a wooden ladle to briefly stir. The greyish dust dispersed and started to equally spread throughout the warming liquid.

He folded his big arms over his chest. Now, he’d have to wait however long it takes Austin to get through that line; he had no other ingredients to lazily mix in.

His eyes, full of impatience and impertinence, studied the broth foam and quietly pop, as bubbles were pushed to the surfaces like bouncing balls.

This is dreadful.

Fred slowly lifted up his chin. He scowled at Snape’s greasy helmet of hair. Curse you, he mentally casted. Curse you!

He irritably sighed, but then his attention found you, one table to the right away from his, humbly plucking off the yellow petals of a marsh marigold. He watched you sprinkle the velvety corolla into the steaming pot, as your lab partner (some irrelevant bloke) gossiped with his friend.

The green stem and white spidery roots remained. You held them up at eye level; you broke off a few dead stocks and tossed them into the bin. You proceeded to place them in a small glass vial of blue fluid to steep. You checked up on your boiling cauldron and then decided to add the chicken bone powder.

You did it all so… gracefully.

This is the girl that sleeps in a coffin? Yeah, right… Fred peered at his empty wooden chopping board. She doesn’t look scary, Fred thought. Well, a little intense or deathly bored sometimes but not intimidating. Who would be scared by someone three apples tall?

“Her only friend is Looney Luna…”

Fred didn’t look up; that was the trick to collecting drama and miscellaneous intel— be nosy without acting like it… pretend the conversation wasn’t even happening… Fred grabbed the instructions and pretended to read them.

“… probably escaped a circus together,” a different voice sniggered. It sounded like that Seymour kid; he used to be Percy’s friend… I think, Fred vaguely recalled.

Your lab partner, unoccupied and who Fred knew as Brody (frosted tips, brown roots, brown eyes, very plain looking), responded, but his pitchy words were incoherent at this distance. Fred licked his lips and pretended to nod at himself comprehensively. Ah, yes, wolfsbane, known for its plant qualities…

“She should go back where she came from,” Seymour whispered.

Fred frowned indignantly. Percy would never be friends with someone like that.

At the edge of his peripheral vision, he noticed the two teenagers ogle at you derisively.

“Shut up,” Brody grumbled. “She’s literally right there.”

They hit each other in the arm, huffing and snickering, daring themselves to make it more obvious.

“She probably didn’t hear us,” Seymour reasoned pathetically.

“I heard you,” he said loudly.

Blub blub blub blub blub.

The chicken bone broth was boiling. Fred turned down the temperature, as Austin returned with a wooden tray full of capsules and ceramic dishes.

Brody kicked Seymour’s leg and glared at the boy’s wild black coils. He glared at Fred, eyeing him dismissively. He tightened his tie uncomfortably. “Sorry,” he lamely retorted.

Austin’s neutral demeanor was quickly displaced by Fred’s sudden shift in attitude. The tall redhead seemed… tense… his jaw was taut and his brows firmly narrowed.

“But we weren’t talking to you,” Seymour spat out dryly.

“What’s happening?” The strawberry blond shyly beseeched Fred.

Brody smacked his friend’s lower back. “Shut the fuck up,” he hissed.

“I don’t care,” Fred shrugged, consequently ignoring Austin. His feet shifted beneath him, subtly parting til they were shoulder-width apart. “Why are you even saying stuff like that?”

Seymour rolled his eyes, “It’s none of your bloody business; piss off.”

“I think it is,” Fred refuted through gritted teeth. “If you didn’t want me getting involved, then you should’ve kept your stupid mouths shut.”

Naturally, you were curious as to what the raucous was about.

Brody was idly standing across from you, his friend Seymour was closing in on Fred. Wide-eyed Austin ineptly pretended he wasn’t third-wheeling an argument and started to grind up barnacle shells.

You found it severely unimpressive and resumed potion brewing.

He pointed at them accusingly. His lips practically snarled. “I know how to have basic respect; you guys struggle to be decent human beings,” Fred criticized.

Brody was baffled. “Me too?” He stupidly questioned.

“Isn’t this sweet?” Seymour mocked, gradually approaching Fred and Austin’s lab station. “Poor ol’ Weasley’s in love with the freak,” Seymour snidely observed.

“As if you’d be able to identify ‘love.’ Didn’t your mum leave you as a baby?”

Professor Snape’s attention had been dully notified. His pupils would’ve thinned into slits like a canine on the prowl if it were possible.

“Boys!” He proclaimed annoyedly. “Resolve this issue before points are docked!”

Seymour was bemused. His hands shook with fury. “Don’t talk about her like that!” Seymour shouted, balling up his fists.

“Oh,” Fred purred wickedly. “You can be protective over someone you dunno but I can’t?”

WHOOSH! THWACK!

Snape’s feet stuck the ground like lightninig. “GENTLEMAN!” The professor screeched.

Fred hissed, “You little piece of shit!” He tenderly massaged his jaw, and his face hardened with indignation. He curled up his fingers and launched a punch at Seymour’s face.

CRACK!

His nose was gushing blood.

Seymour leaped toward Fred, grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him onto the ground.

The two boys grunted, long arms flailing and feet hopelessly kicking.

All academic pursuits had been halted— for decently good reason.

“DETENTION! BOTH OF YOU!” Snape proclaimed, drawing his thin black wand from his robe.

Their classmates ogled in disbelief (in your case, it was subtle intrigue).

Glittering ropes of blue magic warped around the two bodies and then tore them apart.

“Enough with this nonsense!” Snape declared, as Fred was hauled into the air.

Seymour was withering on the ground. “I’m gonna kill you!” He shouted.

“I’d LOVE to see you try!”

The heat in Snape’s face could’ve lit his greasy bowl of hair. His nostrils were flared and eyes aflame with disgust. He waved his wand again and Fred fell onto his knees.

“That’s one hundred points from Gryffindor!” He condemned, grabbing napkins from a nearby lab table. He yanked Seymour up from the floor and shoved the napkins into his hands. “McGonagall’s Office. NOW!”

“He threw the first punch,” Fred glowered, pointing at the perpetrator.

“One more word, Mr. Weasley, and that’s another fifty points!” Snape’s deadly black eyes fell upon the class. “Behave yourselves!” The man seethed. Snape snatched Fred and Seymour by the elbows and briskly escorted them out; his cape billowed behind him like a storm cloud.

“I’ve never seen a dead man look so alive,” George mumbled noncommitedly.

“Mum’s gonna kill you,” Ron warned.

“I can already hear the Howler,” Ginny astonished.

Fred tried to roll his good eye (one of them was swollen), as he shakily brought the ice pack to his temple. The Weasley twin was placed at one end of the infirmary, face heavily bruised and shoulders sore. Seymour was at the other end with Madame Pomfrey treating his broken nose.

George shook his head, “Consequences of playing hero.” He tried not to chuckle at his brother’s weakened state.

“‘Hero’?” Ginny echoed. “Why d’you say that?”

“He’s here, because he was defending some girl,” George dismissively clarified.

Ginny frowned, slightly taken aback. “That’s not what I heard,” the young girl stated.

“Doesn’t matter what you heard!” Fred groused curtly at his siblings; they were huddled around his bed the way vultures circled a corpse. He solemnly touched his cut lip, which stung from the slightest pressure. “I did what I thought was right—,”

Ron snorted at the remark. “Mum’s not gonna agree—,” he interjected.

“Who was he defending?” Ginny implored, cutting both her brothers off. “I think it’s rather romantic,” Ginny said half-jokingly.

Fred blushed, almost missing the humour. “It was not!” He protested.

“The Addams girl,” George solved.

Ron’s jaw dropped in dismay. “You DIDN’T!” Ron gasped.

“Ooooh, he did.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Ginny inquired.

“Nothing!” Fred responded (“Everything!” Ron replied).

Ron’s face scrunched with horror. “Did Seymour give you a concussion too?”

“Ginny,” Fred huffed. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that girl.”

“Is she the one always wearing black?”

“Yes,” said George.

“She is a little weird,” their sister softly thought aloud.

“She is not!”

“She’s a beauty… but a funny girl,” George offered.

“I still don’t understand why you’re so defensive about this,” Ron griped, providing his two cents.

“I did it to prove that somebody was on her side! You, Seymour and everybody in this school isolate her and act like she’s some deranged zoo animal. It’s absolutely ridiculous; she’s done nothing.”

…

“I think you did a very noble deed, Fred,” Ginny said, gently touching his shoulder (he winced and she quickly moved her hand to the metal bedframe). “Sorry,” she murmured bashfully.

“I agree,” George concurred with a nod. “A ‘if not you, then who’ type of... call to action, let’s say.”

Fred smiled a little. His lips were dry and slightly crusted with blood, but he was content.

Until he slowly peeked up at Ron. Fred swapped the ice pack into his free hand (his fingers were growing numb).

Ron was reluctant. “I guess…” Ron trailed off shyly. “I guess I forgot she was still human.”

George shrugged, “Gryffindors are pretty stubborn.”

“But if you plead your case,” Ginny began.

“If you play your cards right,” corrected George.

“Mum might go slightly easier on you,” Ginny deduced.

Fred’s eyes hesitantly drifted over Ginny’s shoulder; someone was standing in the doorway to the infirmary, silently watching from afar and cloaked in onyx.

Fred’s heart began to palpitate, and he managed to sink in the stone-hard mattress. His siblings noticed the change in behavior, and without missing a beat, they turned to see what the fuss was all about.

Ginny and George cocked their heads to the side, pleasantly surprised by your presence (thought Ginny did feel a chill tickle her spine). You had made no indication whether or not you’d actually approach them. You were like a phantom, awaiting the moment to mysteriously disappear.

Ron was about to foam at the mouth— in his head, your humanization was partially admitted as verbal manifestation; he did not NOT see you as Beelzebub reincarnate (say her name three times and she shall appear!). But… exposure therapy was a first step in growth, so Ron tried to stay as quiet as possible (despite shaking in his boots).

You advanced towards the Weasleys with footsteps as quiet as a mouse’s. Your posture, your urgency and expression were so aggravatingly neutral and annoyingly unreadable to the redheaded family (Ron really wanted to scream and see if you’d react). You stopped at the end of the bed (short of half a meter) and stared directly at the injured boy.

Fred’s siblings expectantly turned back to him. He sniffled and nervously spoke first. “Hello,” he bunglingly greeted.

“I’m not gonna thank you for participating in a fight, because I don’t condone delinquency,” you bluntly said. Your hands laid at your sides. They didn’t seem to fidget or naturally sway. Fred’s mind went blank, but before he could form coherent thoughts, you added, “I prefer more structured violence, like sword fights. But I will admit… I am impressed by your chivalry. I personally don’t care what people say about me; I’m used to it, but no one’s ever made an effort to firmly stand by their morals… at least in front of me.”

All of their jaws dropped, including Fred’s— and it felt like a thousand needles were stabbed into the bone. Fred Weasley was speechless, mainly because he was suddenly and extremely void of breath. He’d never actually heard you speak before; surprise didn’t just take him aback, he had completely surrendered to it.

“I acknowledge what you did today.” In the blink of an eye, you were instantly standing on the right side of Fred’s bed, empty of his circling brothers and sister. “But if you have to do it again, make sure it’s in a colosseum and to the death.”

You stuck out your hand.

Despite being known for having a stomach of steel, Fred almost threw up and fainted. He ogled at your hand, unsure what to make of it—

She wants a handshake.

Fred reached out, palms damp and cold. You didn’t have a noticeable or visceral reaction; yours were more frigid than his.

You promptly retracted after a few seconds. “I also overheard most of your conversation with your siblings,” you announced.

George cringed, and Ginny jabbed Ron’s arm, as he flushed red with embarrassment.

You carefully considered their responses. “Don’t worry. My opinion of you all hasn’t dramatically changed.” Your attempt at reassurance didn’t hit the mark; the siblings were disturbed.

You gave each Weasley an attentive look of acknowledgement. Your voice remained unwavering and confidently firm. “Heal soon,” you demanded from Fred crisply, before finally departing.

When you were far enough, Ron whispered, “Bloody hell.”

“A beauty but a funny girl,” Ginny commented, reiterating George’s prior observation.

A pulse in Fred’s chest continued to tense up and release precisely with each soft step you took.

Yeah… Fred thought.

The world doesn’t revolve around Hogwarts; that was something Fred Weasley struggled to perceive. The twee village of Hogsmeade shared the same 24 hours as the rest of the population and operated independently as its own society.

They had their own unreliable postage system, a crumbling old schoolhouse, and crooked cobblestone paths. Their community was equipped with gated neighborhoods and abandoned projects at the outskirts of town.

Mid fall and very late summer in the Scottish highlands made the roads damp and muddy with soggy moss growing in the cracks. The streets are lined with buttery daffodils, pale mountain-avens and sweet bluebells (the mark of a public gardener trying to revive the town’s soul).

Fred tried to keep his spirits high, as he walked on the cracked sidewalk, squished between Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell, who were vibrantly talking over his presence.

Quidditch season started its first game earlier that evening. The suspenseful match resolved with Gryffindor’s victory over Ravenclaw, so prideful Captain Angelina Johnson rounded up all her teammates after they hit the showers and swept them off to a celebratory dinner at The Mooncalf: Bistro & Brasserie.

It felt... wrong for Fred to be here. Yes, he did in fact play, but that was because Angelina absolutely refused to put in Andrew or Jack as his substitute (they were utterly incompetent).

She had seen the swelling in his eye lessen, but completely ignored the fact his shoulders were totally incapable of properly swinging a bat! Fred looked like an absolute idiot, relying heavily on George to take the hits and make all the shots...

Well, there's no reason to relive it.

The restaurant took on the facade of a countryside inn. The roof was tiled with terracotta slabs with three thin gable dormers protruding in the front. The exterior walls were primarily the color of sand with the exception of growing vines and dead branches. The Mooncalf offered wrought iron table and chair sets for outdoor seating

It was a lovely place all in all. George had remarked to Fred about potentially starting up a small joke shop in Hogsmeade, but Fred rejected the idea— Diagon Alley was where success awaited them.

To the right was Alvar’s Bazaar, a dank and depressing vintage outlet for local vendors that sold bleached animal bones, haunted furniture and illegally smuggled foreign artifacts. Fred left with mysterious scratches on his back, and he had no interest in revisiting anytime soon.

To the left was Niffler’s Keep, a hippy thrift store that carried crystals, fake turquoise jewelry and vegan leather handbags. Fred had visited it once with his twin; it reeked of cheap incense and lemongrass. The Weasleys escaped as quickly as they could, before they could further investigate the merchandise.

The Mooncalf was fairly busy this Saturday evening. The spicy aroma flooding the restaurant was heavenly; the small team quickly filed into the entryway (a few slipped into the waiting area where two pairs of lovers were already seated).

There was little lighting in there; the ambiance heavily relied on the white candles sitting upon the mahogany tables and low hanging lanterns. There was a bar off to the right and maroon colored booths and circular wood tables that carried tiny flower vases, condiments and salt and pepper shakers in ceramic duck bottles.

Angelina confidentially approached the tall reception stand, and Fred’s heart almost stopped.

You were the hostess in a grey pinstriped black button up and long dark pants. He hadn’t noticed your nails were painted dark burgundy until now, as a tawny owl swooped in (there was an open window above the door).

The copper bird was clutching a pale rolled up piece of parchment; its scaly claw held out the paper to you, and you considerately took and unfurled it.

Wednesday 6pm

Barton M. - party of 4

You picked up a tortoise shell fountain pen and flipped through the thick calendar book. The sharp silver tip hovered over empty time slots until it landed on the requested date. Fred watched you jot it down, grab a green stamp and press it against the letter.

Reserved.

You rolled the letter back up and handed it to the tawny owl, who hooted and cooed before turning and flying out the restaurant.

You looked up at Angelina expectantly, setting the pen aside. You asked politely with matte eyes, “Do you have a reservation?”

The beautiful captain shook her head. “No,” she answered. “What’s the wait time?”

“About twenty minutes,” you retorted. “Is that acceptable?”

Angelina nodded with content. “We have ten people,” she said.

“I’ll add you to the queue.”

Feeling satisfied and after having secured the team a spot, Angelina gestured for the large group to take a seat on the cushioned benches or lonely ottomans in the waiting area.

Fred, on the contrary, felt unnervingly restive and irked by your unanticipated presence, as if someone had pinched the tubes of his aorta closed for a second.

What the hell is she doing here?

Fred, George, Harry and Ron crammed themselves into the window alcove shoulder to shoulder (Ginny snagged an ottoman— lucky).

The Mooncalf of all places?

The transparent pane had the large white lettering and iconic logo. The outline of the long necked and bug-eyed creature stared down at Fred’s messy hair.

“Man, I’m starving,” Ron quipped, legs crossed and arms crudely pushed into his lap (he was trying to become as small as possible).

Harry rolled his emerald eyes. “We’re all hungry.”

Fred was… fortunate enough to be packed next to Ron, who shimmied his pointy elbow to get his elder brother’s attention.

“She’s everywhere,” Ron whispered to Fred very conspicuously (there was absolutely no bloody way you didn’t hear it). “Haunting the narrative, huh?” he joked.

Fred frowned and kicked Ron’s vulnerable ankle. “Shh.”

A boy appeared, assumably another host judging by his similar attire; he was tan, a curly blond and had tapped you cautiously on your shoulder. Like an alert corvus, your head snapped towards the boy’s direction. Your eyebrows twitched, but your hands were still frozen on the calendar book.

Fred interpreted this reaction as your own special way of expressing surprise.

“Polly wants you to roll up silverware,” he told you.

“You’ll take my spot here?” You entreated sternly.

“Yes,” he confirmed.

You didn’t nod or say anything else, but perhaps that hard blink was your response. You slipped away from the reception lectern like a snake in weeds.

Fred glanced around and stood up. “Toilet,” he announced, when Angelina glowered at him, silently daring him to be stupid on her watch.

Conveniently, the bathrooms were in the direction you were headed, so he outrightly followed you— past the dining families, the first dates and giggling friends, past the enchanted jazz instruments playing themselves on a raised stage.

You ended up at an empty booth lodged in the back of the restaurant that was occupied by two giant plastic boxes. One was full of clean cutlery and the other of rolled up silverware; the black napkins were piled in a neat tall stack.

Fred slid into the seat opposite of you. “Since when did you work here?”

You took out your wand and gently waved the slender twig. The reflective utensils floated out of the scratched-up box, as the thick napkins levitated and wrapped themselves around trios of forks, knives and spoons.

“I started a few weeks ago,” you aloofly said. Your gaze remained in the air, wand rhythmically flicking to magic the cutlery into simple sets. “I work mostly weekends.”

Fred hummed, drumming the soft pads of his fingers on the smooth table. Yep, that makes sense, he thought. Not a lot of free time at Hogwarts.

Your wand, Fred realized, was nothing extraordinary; it was a smooth crooked stick of a bocote tree that had been carefully sanded and coated with varnish.

He chuckled, “Wouldn’t Alvar’s suit you a little more?”

You were unfazed by his opinionated humour. “Yes,” you agreed casually, listening to the clinks and soft thuds of the rolled of napkins. “But my parents encourage me to step outside my comfort zone. They think uncomfortable learning experiences are more constructive than complacent ones, so I applied here.”

Fred couldn’t argue with that logic; there were dozens of times his parents forced him to do something unfavorable (like apologizing for the spider-related trauma inflicted on Ron or cleaning out the unaired attic), but he wasn’t certain that they encouraged him to be a better person…

“Is the pay good?” Fred blurted. He wasn’t considering applying to The Mooncalf— although he could use a real source of income (the more funds for pranks, the better).

“It’s minimum wage, and we split the tips at the end of the night,” you explained briefly. Your wand halted and all the ornaments hung in the air frozen. You ran out of napkins. You swished your wrist and the remaining cutlery flew back into the plastic box and you stood up, slid out of the booth and grabbed the stash of rolled up utensils.

Fred sprang out from his seat too, eager to shadow and continue talking. “You weren’t at the Quidditch game tonight, right?” He followed you into a busier section, lingering behind as you began to set down silverware rolls on freshly cleaned tables.

You had set down the box on an empty chair and thoughtfully laid out four sets at a square table. You moved onto the next vacant placements. “Like I said,” you restated, as you positioned six rolls. “I’m only interested if it’s a battle to the death; I’m not keen on school sports.”

Fred’s nose wrinkled. “I think that’s illegal nowadays,” he scoffed.

“You’d be surprised by who and how people still practice it,” you indulged. “Don’t you remember the Triwizard Tournament? Pitting a bunch of teenagers against each other whilst risking all their lives for socially perceived glory?”

A small smirk managed to form on your lips. The emotion was overwhelmingly uncanny to Fred. It may have been subtle, but any change to your impassive facade was like a boulder crashing into a lake: noticeable.

“I was in the first row for all the rounds,” you added with satisfaction. “It was the most exciting thing to happen at Hogwarts. I only wish I was old enough to enter.”

Fred beamed at the notion and accidentally punched your shoulder in excitement (he didn’t notice the error, but you were inconspicuously shocked by the physical contact).

“So did my brother and I!” Fred exclaimed happily. He sighed mournfully, “If the tournament had taken place a few months later, you would’ve seen me fighting off that Hungarian Horntail!”

Although you were evidently more focused on your job, you spared Fred just enough attention to entertain the conversation. He could see you constantly contemplating whether or not to shoo him away or not.

“I’m assuming you skipped out on the Yule Ball?” Fred shyly threw out. He tried to imagine it: you with ridiculously tall heels, glittery eyeshadow and glossy pink lips. The idea was quickly shot down when he realized he had envisioned an entirely different person.

You rolled your eyes; you thought it was a stupid thing to ask. “Obviously,” you sassed. You were now holding a box empty of silverware rolls. You sharply turned to finally face Fred properly. “I’ve been to more sophisticated galas. I didn’t want to waste my time at subpar dances.”

The blond boy from earlier crept past like a spider on its wispy web, taciturn and calculated. The people he was guiding, however, tromped around like an angry horde of elephants.

“Felt like we were waiting forever,” Ginny commented annoyedly.

“Hope the service is snappy,” Ron added.

“I could eat a horse,” Harry grumbled. He received a jab to his bicep.

“Medium rare?” Ron jested.

“Do you think they give out breadsticks?” George innocently asked.

“I’d eat a handful of salt right now,” Alicia sighed.

Fred’s attention snapped towards the gradually passing team; his eyes met Angelina’s first, who was at the front of the small crowd. Her dark almond shaped eyes narrowed.

Angelina roughly coughed, unamused to find him bothering The Mooncalf’s staff. “Fred,” she sternly warned. “What’re you doing?”

“Just chatting,” he replied quickly with a shrug. He watched you sheepishly. “I’ll, uh, see you later,” Fred concluded with a curt nod.

You ignored him and floated to the front of the restaurant.

Ginny and George shared a tentative glance, as he joined the rowdy Gryffindor herd. They were led to two rectangular tables that had been pushed together to accommodate the party size.

The blond host began to hand out the laminated pamphlets, and the team hurriedly sat down to flip open the menus.

“Your server will be with you soon,” was the last thing the boy said before leaving.

As always, Fred sat with George on his right, Ron on his left, Alicia at the end, and Ginny, Harry, Jack and Andrew opposite them. At the heads of the table were Angelina and Katie.

Ginny’s flittering eyes skimmed the menu and suddenly landed on a short list at the bottom. “Oh, they have savory crepes,” Ginny pointed out, nail tapping on the printed out names.

“That sounds so good, but the real question is: do they have vegetarian ones?” Katie mumbled absentmindedly.

“There’s sweet crepes?” Ginny offered. “Peanut butter, banana; strawberry, chocolate…”

“Who the hell likes French onion soup?” queried Ron, baffled at its inclusion.

“Dad sure loves it,” George answered, laying out a black napkin on his lap.

“I might get the steak frites,” Ron said, ignoring his brother.

Angelina called out, “Are we all just getting gillywater?”

Harry turned to the sound of her voice. “I want a butterbeer!”

Ron leaned forward and peered at the end of the table. “Me as well!’ Ron chirped.

“Same!” Fred bellowed.

“Who’s eighteen?” Andrew inquired boldly.

Angelina furrowed a brow. “I am. Why?”

He beseeched, “Can you order me a Dragon Scale?”

Angelina was aghast by the suggestion. Her eyes were ablaze and she scoffed. “Absolutely not!” The girl proclaimed.

“When you actually score a point, she’ll buy you a drink,” Fred teased loudly.

Sunday mornings were reserved for toasted scones, fluffy scrambled eggs, and last minute copying of homework answers. Fred drowned his pancakes in thick sugary syrup, as he loaned Lee his potions lab report to... base his original and unique analysis off of.

The boy, with one hand carrying a fork and the other a beat-up quill, was furiously writing down chemical reactions he had certainly not noticed during class. To imagine they'd continue brewing tomorrow!

"Thanks, man," Lee absentmindedly spluttered. He poked the prongs of his fork into a greasy sausage. Lee tried to bring the link to his mouth but missed and smeared the sausage onto his cheek.

Fred nudged Lee's writing arm, which accidentally made the 'd' in 'caused' to be printed a little crooked. "You got a little somethin' there," Fred teased, gesturing at his own face.

"Totally forgot we had this dumb assignment," Lee grumbled, flipping to the next page. His eyes briefly scanned the instructions, before he turned to the same paragraph in Fred's documents. "Why didn't he just give us the packet at the end? Ridiculous!"

George spread a thin slab of butter onto his golden brown toast. "We would've forgotten all the info by then," George shrugged. He brought the slice to his lips: crunch.

"I doubt he's gonna even look at this tomorrow," Lee huffed. His penmanship was getting sloppier and sloppier. G's became y's, r's sank into n's, and i's were short l's.

"Then why bother making it look like you did it?" Fred snorted, cutting his pancake into bite-sized chunks.

"Why bother getting into a fistfight for some random?" Lee refuted abrasively.

Fred rolled his eyes; Snape sentenced him to a three detention with Stupid Seymour that afternoon. "You're lucky I'm giving you my answers," Fred reminded him haughtily.

Lee slammed his quill down and pushed the papers aside. "I already gave my thanks," he recalled. He finally ate the sausage link and started cutting up his lukewarm omelette. "Super grateful."

"Uh huh..."

George finished his buttered toast and scooped up a handful of fresh blueberries. "Fred, I've got an idea," he drawled out, popping the small fruit into his mouth.

Fred raised a mischievous brow; that was the one sentence he loved hearing most. "Yes, brother?" Fred theatrically answered.

"People cry when they eat chocolate, don't they?"

Fred picked up his glass of orange juice, he swirled it around, pretending it was wine. "Perhaps they do," Fred said in a snooty accent. "But I've never partaken in such activities. What are you suggesting, old sport?" He took a long sip and made sure to slurp loudly.

"Well, old sport," George picked up his own drink (apple juice) and eddied it, "I'm suggesting we create chocolates that have an emotional kick to them, one that stirs the waterworks and funds profound sentimental and corny displays."

"And we could call them... Tear at First Bite." Fred shook his head at himself. "No, Heartstring Sweets," he corrected.

"Because they tug at your heart!" George nodded approvingly. "You're quite clever, brother."

"Hear hear!" Fred placed his cup down. "But how on earth do you suppose we make these spectacular chocolates, hm?"

"Umm..."

From the open awning windows came flocks of owls, swooping low over the tables and dropping brown packages, parcels of sweets or tied-up envelopes. The nocturnal birds hooted and twittered, as their wings propelled them back into the air after a swift delivery.

Students ripped open candy bars and tore out folded up letters. A muggleborn's parents were considering buying her a car for her 17th birthday, a boy's step uncle was recently engaged, and someone's grandma had taken ill.

"Someone's got themself a Howler!" Seamus cried out, enthusiastically pointing above their heads.

The Gryffindors (and a few members of other Houses) followed the direction of his pale hand to find a Great Grey owl carrying a vibrant red envelope. It swooped down from the rafters with little grace, teetering to the side slightly with its legs kicking out anxiously.

Fred squinted at the feathery blob. He dropped his fork and knife, "Oh shit."

Errol the ancient bird almost collided into Fred's head, but in the process had conveniently surrendered the Howler into the ginger's possession.

"I think we know what that's about," Ron sighed, inching away from Fred.

Fred's stomach rumbled with anxiety; he meticulously slid his thumb nail under the patterned wax seal, letting it lift just enough, so he could open it.

Fred gaped at the letter for a second and then peeled the front flap open; the red envelope shot out of his hands, fervently animated and unfolding itself into a hissing mouth. The pale parchment inside crinkled into sharp jagged teeth, a burgundy ribbon lashing out like a snake's tongue.

The papers ruffled slightly. "FREDERICK GIDEON WEASLEY!" it exclaimed in their mother's voice.

"Here it comes..." George's hands flew up to his ears, ready to shield them from the scornful lecture. He offered a pitiful smile to his twin, whilst also scooting away.

The Howler snarled wickedly, "I AM ABSOLUTELY FURIOUS!" Its paper forked tongue flicked at Fred's nose like a whip; he winced and covered his face. "YOUR FATHER AND I EXPLICITLY WARNED YOU TO BE ON YOUR BEST BEHAVIOR; THIS IS YOUR LAST YEAR AT HOGWARTS, AND YOU ARE OFF TO A BLOODY TERRIBLE START."

Hermione lent Ron her ear as he leaned in, shaken by haunting memories. "I remember when Mum sent me one," he whispered to the frizzy haired girl.

She scoffed at him, pushing his shoulder. "And you deserved that," Hermione said facetiously.

"I RECEIVED A LETTER FROM PROFESSOR MCGONAGALL ABOUT THE NEED FOR DISCIPLINARY ACTION FOLLOWING A FIGHT DURING CL--," the Howler suddenly drooped like a limp balloon, it bent down as if it was listening to something. Mum's voice became hush, "-- what, dear?"

Fred was boggled by the interruption; it must've been Dad! Coming to his rescue? But if good ol' Dad had saved Fred's hide, then the letter wouldn't have been sent in the first place... right?

"Let me see that!" The Howler made a shuffling noise. "I see," it murmured. Mum cleared her throat tentatively, and the red envelope straightened up.

A deeper (and more calm) voice spoke, "We've received a letter from the Addams."

The Gryffindor table almost choked.

"You're kidding!" Ron gasped.

"They've expressed their sincere gratitude and point of view," their father continued in a dignified tenor. "We understand you were merely trying to do the good thing--"

"But doing the RIGHT thing doesn't require getting involved in a FIST FIGHT!" Mum obstructed loudly. "You are almost an ADULT, Fred Weasley, and I expect you to outgrow this-- this-- this delinquency!"

Dad ungracefully coughed. "But we are, hm..." the man trailed off.

"Disappointed that this situation wasn't handled differently!" Mum finished.

"But we love you! Mum and Dad!"

Having delivered its message, the Howler began to shred itself into confetti, and a few pieces landed in Fred's syrup soaked pancakes.

Fred's hand slid onto his forehead in dumbfounded shock. "Oh my God," the boy emitted.

"He survives another day," George noted.

"A real miracle that was..." Harry chuckled.

A week following the Potions Incident™, Fred tried his very very best to be on his best behavior for the sake of his parents. This new effort included making it to class on time, actively listening to his professors, and taking notes-- which may sound like normal student behavior, but it wasn't normal for Fred Weasley.

He was a smart in his own right, but all this sitting around, staring at slideshows and reading boring textbooks... Ugh! Fred highly preferred hands-on activities: he had taken Enchanted Pottery I and II last year, and it was phenomenal.

Yes, he gifted his Great Aunt Muriel a flower vase that replenished its water. Yes, he gifted his mum a magically chilling butter dish that he made. Yes, he gifted his dad a beautiful ceramic plate that could keep its contents warm.

And that was why he got better Christmas gifts that year.

But the past few days, Fred Weasley has been extra nice to his peers. He helped find Luna Lovegood's shoes, he volunteered to go shopping with his sister, and he personally trained Andrew during practice.

Fred had depleted his secret stash of midnight snacks (mostly biscuits, granola bars, and crisps), and he was absolutely starving tonight. The hunger pushed him out of his bed, out of the Gryffindor Common Room, and towards the kitchens.

He deserved some mischief, right?

Well, he'd hardly call this mischief; this was a matter of survival. Fred Weasley was surely about to die if he didn't eat something soon.

It wasn't unusual for Fred to wander around the castle at night, but he was often accompanied by his other half. In Christmas pajama pants, a zip-up that was most certainly George's (his initial was on the inside tag) and a moth-eaten rock band shirt (the logo was incredibly faded, but a good eye can make out the name Wilmot and the Banshees), Fred ventured off towards the kitchens, guided by the abundance of moonlight.

With a school as big as Hogwarts, it was incredibly easy to avoid Filch's lackluster security measures. Most, if not all, the paintings he passed were sound asleep; the figures were passed out, leaning against props, hiccuping and snoring.

Fred's stomach rumbled like waves of thunder, as the delicate pitter patter of his slippers echoed against the cold stone walls.

The kitchens (for convenience and practicality) were in the same corridor as the Great Hall. Warm streams of light escaped through the gap beneath the heavy door, along with metallic clangs of pots and pans. The House Elves were still clocked in it seems. Fred could sniff the faint scent of bread; perhaps they were preparing for tomorrow's breakfast?

Fred's warm palm unhurriedly grasped the long iron doorhandle. He twisted and pushed it open marginally, just enough to peek inside-- on a small stepladder was an elf organizing the spice shelf, another was scrubbing dirty plates at a sink, one was tending to the brick oven, and others were sweeping or mopping the floor.

Coast was clear; Fred enlarged the door opening enough for his entire body to be revealed. His view of the kitchens were much clearer now; he saw giant drying racks, butter churning barrels, large jars of dried herbs, cabinets upon cabinets, the Addams girl, rows of low wooden tables--

Wait.

It's you.

In the kitchen.

In the dead of night.

"What-- what're you doing here?" Fred blurted. His voice, despite being so tender in nature, cut through the air like a playing dart. He caught your attention and a earned a few glances from the working elves.

You were sat criss-crossed on the floor at a table facing the entryway, arms folded over your chest assuredly. "Waiting for the oven to finish baking the cake," you bluntly reacted.

Fred stepped into the room and let the door shut behind him. He was bewildered at such a notion. "You eat cake?" he investigated, hesitantly approaching.

"Yes." You were puzzled by his confusion. "Why is that surprising?"

Fred sheepishly shrugged. "You don't seem like you'd have a sweet tooth." He abashedly sat down on the floor across from you.

"It's my grandmother's yew berry chocolate mousse recipe."

Fred furrowed his brows. "Aren't those poisonous?"

"Not entirely." You looked at the elf wearing a blue headscarf and matching tunic. "Cosa knows how to replicate it perfectly, so I occasionally request for her to make it."

The aforementioned elf was waiting by a brick oven. One of her hands was gloved with a thick mitten, which she used to open the iron door of the oven. Inside were three short trays of chocolate cake.

"It's almost done," Cosa stated, after closing the door. "Cosa will grab the yew berries and the mousse from the icebox," she informed. She snapped her fingers and disappeared with a pop.

Your shrewd eyes dragged themselves across Fred's hunched frame. "What're you doing here?" you echoed back at him.

"Looking for a midnight snack."

"You're welcome to try some of my grandmother's cake recipe," you politely offered.

Fred shook his head, "I couldn't."

You stared at him. "I insist."

"Maybe a little," Fred compromised, feeling somewhat unnerved by your persistence.

Pop!

Cosa magically returned carrying two bowls, one with the tiny red fruit mildly covered in frost and the other full of thick airy chocolate mousse. She set both of them on empty counter space. Cosa grabbed the three chocolate layers and set them out to cool on a metal rack.

"Cosa make more mess for Lenny to clean!" cried a particular House elf who was scrubbing burnt leftovers from iron pots. He pointed furiously at the cake pans.

"Lenny doesn't have to clean that!" Cosa snapped back snootily. "Cosa will take care of it!"

"Lenny is highly skeptical," he grumbled, holding up a pan. He squinted at the black residue sitting in the dish. "Cosa forgot to clean up after making French toast..."

Fred couldn't help but watch the two elves bicker. It was an unusual sight-- they had no eyebrows, but their wrinkly eyes narrowed, their lipless mouths pinched into frowns, and their large ears twitched with irritation.

"The Mooncalf is hiring, if you're interested," you said, ignoring the nearby argument.

"Huh?" Fred hummed involuntarily (he had very much heard you loud and clear).

His eyes slowly moved to your pallid yet serene face, fully expecting a reaction of exasperation or disapproval, but your nature stayed neutral.

"They're looking for more servers," you added, unfazed by his absentmindedness.

Fred frowned, "I might be too busy with Quidditch." Time management wasn't an advanced skill of his, but the temptation of income was decently strong. Having a job would make him seem more mature in the eyes of his family though... "I'll think about it," Fred concluded.

Topics of conversation ran out like water in a drought. You and Fred sat in silence, listening to the House elves work. The ginger grew antsy, uncomfortably writhing with restlessness; the awkwardness practically lit his heart ablaze! You, however, seemed unaffected, as Fred struggled to plunge into his head for topics.

A joke! Tell her a funny story or something! ANYTHING!

Fred licked his lips. "What's red and bad for your teeth?" He impulsively initiated.

You studied him for a few seconds before realizing he wanted some sort of signal to keep going. "What?" you indulged him.

"A brick."

You didn't laugh, and Fred choked on his spit. He only grew more anxious and, maybe for the first time in 7 years, embarrassed.

Embarassed. Fred Weasley doesn't get EMBARRASSED-- not in front of anyone with a pulse! Well, you were debatable...

"Tell me another one."

Fred paled. What's that supposed to mean? Was it so bad she's GIVING ME A SECOND CHANCE TO BE FUNNY? How HUMILIATING!

Fred gulped and tried to scrounge up something. Think, Fred, think! Ugh, I'm trying!

"Why was the frog late for work?"

"Why?"

"His car got toad."

"Funny."

NO, IT WASN'T! YOU'RE NOT EVEN BLOODY SMILING. THERE'S NOT A SEMBLANCE OF AMUSEMENT IN YOUR ENTIRE BODY!

Fred leaned the side of his head into his palm and allowed his fingers to mask his eyes. "Don't patronize me," he pathetically grumbled.

"I wasn't trying to."

The House elf had magically cooled down the cake to room temperature. "Bon appetit!" Cosa declared, passing out two forks and small plates to the students.

Oh, thank, Merlin, a distraction...

They each received a perfect slice of chocolate mousse cake, laying on its side, drenched in a thick yew berry infused ganache.

Fred's emotional turmoil had completely derailed his sense of hunger but seeing the dessert before him... his stomach moaned in anticipation, and he quickly cut off a corner piece and shoved it in his mouth.

Each layer was perfectly moist, the chocolate not too bitter, and the fruit not unbearably tart. The whiplash threw Fred's heart into a tornado-- he had braced the fiery storms of hell seconds ago, but now he was eating chocolate!

"'Let them eat cake!'" Fred quoted, trying to rejuvenate his ego and reputation.

"Marie Antoinette didn't actually say that."

His confidence plummeted like a wave crashing onto a beach.

Fred didn't want to-- Fred really really REALLY didn't want to attempt to read your tone, but he just could NOT for the life of him understand you! An enigma of a human specimen! An unopened Pandora's box!

"But I understand what you're saying," you added. "Do you like it?" you interrogated.

"Yes, it's amazing actually," Fred confessed truthfully.

"Grandmama first made this for my father's birthday dinner a few years ago. We had spent the evening playing games and singing."

"What kind of games...?"

"Pin the Snake on the Chimera, Murder in the Dark, Russian Roulette..."

Why did I even ask?

His cowardice reluctantly shooed itself away, and his light-colored eyes bore holes into your downturned head. You appeared frightfully normal when eating cake; Fred personally believed it was the result of two subjects canceling each other out.

One Very Interesting and Unique Individual

- The Activity of a Midnight Snack

= Average

Fred wanted to rip your hair out (not in anger, but the way a child ripped open a present), peel back the thin layers of skin (like an onion), dismantle your skull (similarly to a puzzle), and poke at your blobby brain. Fred had morally promised himself not to use the W-word, but it was all he could think of; you were explicitly and unapologetically weird.

People are always surprised to hear that Fred Weasley does his homework. It may not always be of the highest quality or worth much merit, but they’re usually done on time. His classmates stay vigilant when it comes to potential boobytraps and pranks, but they turn a blind eye to the hours spent studying and researching.

If they spared a moment looking for his academic efforts, they’d realize he spends just as much time scheming as he does plotting. Schemes are more elaborate than most assume; there are mechanics that Fred and George must engineer and perfect before deploying their art into the world.

“Mate, I think we’re gonna have to retire the singing pasta idea,” George reluctantly conceded. His feet dangled above Lee and Fred’s heads, his back lying flat against the thickest branch of the crooked oak.

Fred scoffed, hitting his twin’s leg, “No, come on, we’re onto something here!” In his lap was a sketchbook, one currently full stringy noodles with faces and giant mouths agape. There were a hundred arrows, a thousand captions and a million diagrams.

“Merlin, we already asked Flitwick, and none of those bloody charms have worked,” George reminded him. He swung the toe of his shoe at Fred’s head. He missed.

Fred tutted, “No, you suck at casting them.” He sprang up from his crossed-legged position below the tree, cast aside his book, and looked up at his brother. “It could’ve worked if you just let me try on one bowl!” Fred claimed defensively.

Lee crumpled up an old note and chucked it at Fred’s face. “Oh, shut up! You guys already wasted 5 plates of good spaghetti!”

“You said they were overcooked!” said George, jumping down from the tree.

“I was hoping you’d leave it be, so I could EAT!” Lee revealed irritatedly.

"Was eating all the garlic bread not enough for you?" Fred complained.

Lee snapped back, "Can't a man just be hungry?" He rose to his feet and met George the Giant beside him, still inches taller.

"I think we should try charming the noodles before and right after they're finished boiling. The sauce is probably messing us up," Fred theorized, waving his hands passionately about. "If it works, then we need to find a way to make it dormant, so we could sell magical noodles that sing when you cook them!"

George and Lee's approval was a gradual thing to win over; they understood what Fred suggested but--

"How the hell do you suppose we make a singing spell dormant? On spaghetti?" George questioned.

"We add a spell to make boiled water trigger it," Fred fired back.

"But it'd be funnier if it appeared normal and then started singing at the dinner table," Lee argued.

Fred crossed his arms, tolerably peeved. "If you're gonna recommend something, at least have a solution to it. I can't come up with all of this by myself," Fred spat.

He watched for their reaction, but none came. George and Lee fully stopped listening; their attention honed in on some stupid bird or conversation behind him.

Fred frowned and wrinkles appeared on his forehead. "Hello?" he pressed vexedly.

With a calloused hand, Lee loosely gestured for Fred to spin around.

"Merlin's beard!" Fred gasped, stumbling with electrified shock. His ears prickled with warm blood at the sight of you, impervious to his consternation. "Sorry," Fred murmured, eyes scanning you up and down. "I wasn't expecting-- uh, you. Hello," Fred waveringly smiled.

"Hello," you greeted.

Fred licked his chapped lips and eyed the terracotta pot you were carrying. "And you have a plant?"

You held out the bush for him to better observe. "Yes, I do."

Its leaves were dark green, almost black, and toothed. Pinkish-white bulbs frequented its beige stems with a few fuchsia colored blossoms.

"This is Byron's Bleeding Heart. It's a rare shrub native only to Turkey," you informed.

Fred awkwardly glanced at George and Lee (they shrugged). "That's nice..." he affirmed uncertainly.

"A week ago, I overheard you discussing with your brother the need for an emotional stimulant for an upcoming prank."

"Oh... okay, um--"

"Let me finish," you deadpanned. Fred gulped and sucked in his cheek. "The petals of this flower don't quite achieve what you're looking for, but they get pretty close," you continued briefly. "When consumed, they trigger the amygdala to release hormones that cause overwhelming nostalgia and sadness."

Fred's knees weakened under his weight, and he felt extremely top heavy all of a sudden.

Merlin's beard! If Fred wasn't frozen in ineffable awe, he'd clutch the imaginary pearls around his neck-- he'd probably kiss your feet or ascend into heaven! Maybe even skip and dance!

Fred Weasley was aghast and getting disgustingly sweaty.

But you! An angel in black that left him speechless! Oh my God!

"Bloody hell," Lee sighed.

"Is he swooning?" George snorted quietly.

"You're amazing," Fred blabbed dumbly.

You extended your arms further out. "I know," you smiled with aplomb.

Fred's heart fluttered; she SMILED! His hands shook, as he reached and accepted the plant graciously. "But why?"

"It's a gift. Those don't need reasons," you replied coolly. Your fingers twitched at your sides, and you began to pick at your nail beds. "Water it once a day, and don't touch the leaves. They sting."

Fred held the clay pot in one arm and wiped his clammy palm onto his pants. He casually laughed and shrugged. "Yeah, shouldn't be too hard."

"Take good care of it."

"I will. Promise," Fred solemnly swore, pressing his right hand over his chest.

"Goodbye."

Goodbye.

Fred blinked; he hadn't returned the farewell.

"Uh, I-- goodbye!" he sputtered.

Fred watched you leave like black smoke dispersing in the wind. His eyes stared at the imprints you left in the dirt, actively replaying the last few minutes over and over (nails: dark aubergine) and over (shoes: muddy) and over (sleeves: rolled up) and over--

"What the actual fuck was that?" Lee inhaled. "Was that a marriage proposal?"

Shut up.

Byron's Bleeding Heart had spicy undertones to its uniquely floral scent.

"He's always been a ladies' man," George joked.

A large blossom began to unfurl and bloom.

"I think we just witnessed Fred fall in love."

The tiny furnace in the middle of the room was grumbling, chewing up wood, and simultaneously keeping everyone warm. It must've been a full moon, as Fred could make out the somber howls and yelps of a werewolf in the Forbidden Forest.

George snored and huffed in his sleep, Kenneth had restless feet, and Lee was basically dead.

Fred's quilt (his 14th birthday gift from Mum-- it matches with George) was pulled halfway up to his torso, and his hands were clasped together on his stomach, as he stared at the mystifying and allusive shapes the darkness made on his bed's canopy. He imagined figure skaters dancing, warped faces chatting and animals skittering across chaparral plains. And then he began to think about you.

Fred secretly hated and regretted something in every interaction he had with you.

"I'll, uh, see you later" at the restaurant-- no DUH, she works there, AND we have class together.

Plus those terribly lame jokes in the kitchen! Kill me!

He never knew he was such a bumbling idiot. Fred had never been like this; not even when he fancied Angelina! He couldn't pinpoint a prior time where he actually cared if he was perceived ridiculous or not; but the type of stupidity he's been portraying was beyond the Weasley Twin brand.

So why does he care?

Why?

WHY??

First of all, you’re not intimidating. He’s got nothing to be scared of. You didn’t seem like the type of person to be harboring some terrible secret, in fact, if Fred just found the right questions, you’d probably confess willingly.

You're rather harmless despite your preference for violent sports and activities. You’re a lot smaller than he is, he could definitely take you in a fight (not that he’d want to beat you up), but there was a daunting characteristic about you.

The way you carried yourself and spoke… you’re so… poised and proper, almost sophisticated.

You acted as if nothing could affect you. Events barely rippled or stirred your brow; you were an immovable object.

"Is he swooning?"

Fred rolled his eyes at the sound of George's voice echoing in his head. I was NOT swooning! That was an involuntary moment of weakness!

"I think we just witnessed Fred fall in love."

Oh, BULLSHIT! He shifted onto his side, flipped over his pillow, and pressed his cheek against the cold surface. She caught me by surprise. I wanna see YOU keep your cool when a pretty girl gives you a gift!

Byron's Bleeding Heart sat on the windowsill above Fred's bedside table. A small plastic watering can sat besides it, and both were illuminated by the moon's silvery glow.

"Was that a marriage proposal?"

Um, NO. But if it was, I'd say yes.

Wait, what?

I need to sleep. I got an opening shift tomorrow.

part two (coming soon)

taglist: @c3m3t4ry-grl @infinitenebulamaverick @sirenxiu @darcylewissupremacy @c1nnamongir1 @yobroitsjayden @crazyshiper35 @everythingthatismineisalandmine

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