content: fluff, 2nd pov, slightly (?) longer fic, hands 😋, inspired by this tiktok (not george but same vibes 😌)
a/n: all i could say is thank you so much for the insane support. i honestly didn't anticipate that 'His Smile' would get any attention at all . anyways, if you want to be added to the taglist, please let me know!
p.s. i'm sorry this took so long. work and med school are not in my favor this month 🤧 i also may or may not have procrastinated as well. so, for future parts, please expect it will take long — mostly because i work well without deadline or expectations XD
p.p.s sorry for any spelling or grammar errors. my dyslexia is not bloody cooperating. and apologies if it's not as good as the first one, i'm running a bit on fumes when writing this 🤧
Being a prefect has its advantages. For one, you get to scold annoying gits with no repurcussions — to an extent, of course! Two, you have access to the greatest bathroom there is in the castle. Three, you get the earliest gossip of anything happening in Hogwarts — student and faculty alike!
Then, there's the unfortunate disadvantages.
Not only have you been covering people's shift in night patrols — because you are too kind for your own good — now, your presence is demanded for a whole week to decorate the Great Hall and certain corridors of the castle for freaking Valentine's Day.
All because Professor Dumbledore seemed to have liked the ex-DADA Professor Lockhart's idea of puking pinks, reds, and whites 'to illuminate the gloomy halls of this school'. Headmaster's words, not yours.
But, alas, with how humongous this school is, the student manpower is at odds. The week is almost over and the Great Hall and corridors looked like they were being torn apart instead of being decorated. It seems magic can't do everything.
"We called for volunteers from each house," your Head Girl grins widely as she returned from her ultimate expedition of gathering 'reinforcements'.
You tilt your head to look at the 'volunteers' that thudded behind her.
None of them looked happy to be there.
Is what you wanted to say to her if your eyes hadn't locked in on one volunteer.
George Weasley.
Your friend, who seemed to have materialized beside you out of nowhere, elbows you. "Prince charming is here," your friend states with a knowing grin.
"Shut it," you sent her a warning glare as you rubbed the spot she hit.
Then, Hermione Granger, one of the Gryffindor prefects, grins at you as she pulls Harry and Ron from behind her which pulled a chain of tugging from the begrudging Gryffindor 'volunteers'.
You could even hear her scold Ron, saying things like 'Ron, you're a bloody prefect too. Stop being so difficult!'
From what you can deduce, Hermione had forced Ron — another Gryffindor prefect — to force Harry, his brothers, and their friends to aid the decorating team.
"I've gathered us most of Gryffindor's Quidditch players, they can do a lot of heavy-lifting tasks," Hermione turns to you. And for a moment, you forgot that you were the one leading the labor force of the decorating team as you stared at her, still slightly dumbfounded that George Weasley is here.
"Y-Yeah, sure," you cleared your throat as you nodded.
"Wait, aren't you the smile girl?" Fred's voice suddenly cuts through your dreamy haze that soon became embarrassment.
George elbows his grinning twin before turning to you. "Sorry 'bout him, love. He's a bit of a loony," he smiles softly as Fred huffs out an offended 'Hey!' beside him.
Love. That word nearly took you out.
"I-It's okay— Um, I need you to divide your group into three," you cleared your throat again, trying your best to gather your bearings and not embarrass yourself further in front of him.
"One will stay here in the Great Hall with me. The others will go to the corridors with Ernie and Padma, separately," you gestured at the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw prefect beside you.
You watched as the group moves like an adorable, chaotic version of the boat is sinking. Some were even fighting to be in certain groups.
While you were too busy being amused at the chaos of red and gold, you failed to notice that a certain ginger boy had settled himself beside you.
"So, what are we going to do?" George asks with that troll-killing smile of his.
"Um— We're, uh—"
"Y/N's finishing up the paper garlands. But, there's still a lot to do — might need some help in there," your friend answers for you with that infuriating grin of theirs.
You don't know if you should thank her or strangle her.
"Alright. Lead the way, love," George — bless him — smiles softly at you as he extends his arm in gesture for you to, in fact, lead the way.
Your friend mouths 'Good luck' from behind you. You haphazardly mouthed a curse at her, and she just laughs at you.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"Then, you fold it this way," you state as you looked over to your side, watching if George was doing it correctly. You nod in approval as he does.
"That was... complicated and easy at the same time. Weird," George grins, "and you improvised this because you find the one in the book to be too time consuming?" George watches you nod like it wasn't a big deal. It was.
"How brainy," George adds.
You playfully scrunched your nose at the awful attempt of a compliment. "You need to work your on your vocabulary," you chuckled.
"What? Like resplendent? I don't think my brains cut out for that level of braininess, love," George grins.
"I—" you flushed and turned to George, huffed through your nose with your lips pressed in a thin line and a look that says 'really? you just gotta go there, didn't you?'
"Sorry, sorry," George laughs, hands raised in appeasement, before returning to his paper garlands to finish up.
For a moment, the two of you sit comfortably together, folding paper garlands and exchanging light conversation. But, of course, in the midst of it, your eyes couldn't help but flicker towards him ever so often.
How could anyone blame you, really? For someone his age, his got hands for days.
Then, you watched him rolled his sleeves up, face frowned in concentration as he moves onto his next batch of garlands — and, Merlin help you — you think you might actually combust at how hot that was.
That's not all, see those long, prominent veins that wraps around his forearms? Ugh, absolute heart palpitations. Those long, slender, and calloused fingers of his from Quidditch practice and prototyping pranks — an absolute product of his hardwork? Yup, oxygen just left your lungs.
Oh, and if anybody asks how you know he practices more times than his teammates or how he tests his prank gadgets often? Well, let's just say a girl never reveals her secrets.
He's got the biggest hands you've seen in Hogwarts. You just know that anything he holds in them will be engulfed with warmth, and utterly protected. You'd be a total puddle if he ever wraps his hands on you.
Your eyes continued to follow his every move. Every time his finger slids on the paper to fold a crease, you wonder how it would feel to intertwined your hands together. Would his dwarf yours? Would it feel warm like a cozy fire or hot like a blazing furnace? Would yours and his fit like a puzzle piece waiting to meet? How would it feel to trace his veins up his arm? How—
"Ow!" you winced as the paper you had been absentmindly folding pricks you.
"You okay?" George frowns, eyebrows scrunching in worry as he takes your hand in his before you could blink.
"Y-Yeah, I'm okay, really...!" you chuckled nervously as his hands engulfed yours completely. Seriously, is that hand size normal??
George ignores you as he inspects the bit of blood the paper cut has drawn out of you, still having that frown on his face as if how dare the paper hurt you.
You hoped he doesn't hear how much your heart is hammering through your chest right now.
Then, he grabs something from his pocket and wraps a tiny bandaid around your finger with the utmost of care.
"I don't quite have the knack for healing spells. So, you'd have to settle for this one," George grins as he gently runs his thumb across the surface of the bandaid.
"Thank you, George," you smiled softly at him before returning to your garlands.
If you would have stared a little longer at him, you would have seen the blush that crept up on his cheeks. But, unfortunately, you only heard him clear his throat as he returns to his own garlands. You also don't notice how George himself had a paper cut a few minutes later, and had healed himself easily with a wordless spell.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"Why not just use magic to hang these up?" George asked as he raised the finished garlands.
"My magic is in need of some practice when it comes to precise placement. And, I hate having these look crooked up there," you gestured at the walls where the garlands were supposed to go.
"Can you grab that for me?" you pointed at the ladder by the side, trapped and surrounded by boxes of decorating supplies and tools.
George nodded, already moving to grab it.
It was a simple request. A simple favor. So, why were you frozen in place, eyes tracing along his arms as you watched him criminally fold his sleeves for the second time today before bending down to carefully move the objects aside around the ladder so he could grab the very ladder you asked him to get?
It didn't help that you saw the way the muscles of his arm tense and contract so beautifully, so deliciously. It might be your imagination, but you feel like the veins on his forearm are going to pop if he moves more.
Honestly, could this man get anymore detrimental to your health?
"Here you go," George grins as he sets the ladder in front of you like it was the easiest thing in the world.
"Thanks," you squeaked out and hurried to climb on it before he gets the chance to see how flustered you were by him simply moving a bloody ladder.
But in your hurry, the ladder wobbled and you felt yourself start to slip.
"Ah—"
But, then, a firm set of hands clasps on your waist to steady you.
"You okay, love?"
You felt yourself shiver when you felt his breath on your back through your shirt.
"Y-Yes. Thank you, George. You— uh, you can let go now." You squeaked out body stiffer than an effect from a Petrificous Totalus spell.
George only chuckles at you, "I'm not taking any chances, love."
Your hands tremble as you try to hang the bloody garlands while his hands remained on your waist. The warmth from them seeps into your skin through your top and makes you light in the head.
You did try to focus on your task at hand, but all you could think about is how big his hands felt on your waist. Your mind latches on how firm and grounded he feels, and you know for a fact that there is no chance of you slipping with him protecting you from behind.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Hours later, you finally got a breath out as you waved at the leaving crowd of volunteers while some of them waved back at you. And, yes, George was one of them.
"Saw you earlier — that was some strategical flirting. Color me impressed," Your friend grins as they emerged from beside you.
"I nearly cracked my skull open and the first thing you say to me is that? What a friend you are.'" I turned to her with an unimpressed look.
a/n: excuse any cringe writing and errors. i know it's my first post but i've been on a decade long hiatus that I even forgot my email and have to make a new tumblr account.
p.s. this was inspired by a tiktok edit of george weasley. ariana's song below was used in said vid. here's the link.
p.p.s. this might also be self-indulgent. let me blabber about my man's smile pls ;^;
Fred Weasley maybe most girls' favorite. But George Weasley was yours. Especially, that most radiant smile of his.
The very one that has you enchanted the first time you saw it on the face of second year George as he and Fred came running down the halls to get away from an enraged and slime-covered Filch.
The very one where the corners of his eyes crinkle so adorably even with that little spec of mischief gleaming in them. Especially, then.
You swear that that smile of his could light up the darkest room in Hogwarts. There's just something in them, you know?
The type of something that makes your heart flutter and ache with too much adoration for a boy. But no one's blaming you for your very obvious, fat crush on him.
Which was why it pains you — no, offends you how your very own friends could even say such things about him.
"Ugly twin?? How dare you utter such rubbish right in front of me!" you huffed.
"It's not that serious," one of your friends chuckled in amusement at your exasperated reaction.
"We just find Fred more attractive, that's all," the other shrugs.
"Yeah, Fred's smile-"
"Nuh uh!" you exclaimed as you cut your friend off with a raised finger before she could even dare finish that sentence.
"George Weasely has the best, most adorable, radiant, handsome smile Hogwarts has and will ever see. Period. Fred could neee-vah compare!" you jabbed your finger on the table like you were stating absolute facts. Which you were, excuse them!
"His smile could blind a troll to death with how resplendent it is! Fred's smile is brassy and cocky. But my George's? Absolute cinnamon roll. Oh! And, don't even get me started when he laughs!"
Your friends could only shake their heads as they watched you clutch your heart dramatically like you've been struck by cupid himself at the thought of George Weasley's smile and laugh. Your friends find it truly astonishing just how down bad you are for this Gryffindor boy.
"Resplendent? Never heard that one before. What an interesting word to describe someone's smile. With passion, nonetheless."
It felt like the world suddenly took a pause. Well, your group seems to be.
You turned your head rigidly like an unoiled mechanical machine in sheer dread, praying that it wasn't who you know it was. That maybe by some astronomical miracle, it wasn't him who was behind you.
But, alas, the universe is not on your side for your eyes met brown ones cascaded by those familiar orange locks that you adore.
There, stands George and Fred who seemingly had been on their way to their supposed spots in the Gryffindor long table when they heard you rave about George.
"Looks like you have quite a fan here, Georgie. I say I'm quite jealous. No one seems to notice my adorable, radiant and handsome grin that could blind a troll to dea-"
Fred gets elbowed by George. Hard. Poor bloke had a bit of a cough fit paired with a series of groans.
In the midst of that twinly chaos, you remained frozen and caught like a deer in headlights.
"I was having a bad day so far. But you've lifted my spirits quite a bit there," George grins at you. And, despite the teasing tone in them, that smile was soft in a way that makes one's heart flutter involuntarily.
"As a token of my gratitude, I think you deserve this," George takes out a big box of chocolate frog from his pocket and grabs your hand to place it on.
To say that your heart is in your throat by now, would be an understatement. Because, not only did George freaking Weasley heard you gush about his smile, he also grabbed your freaking hand and placed a chocolate frog in them. You're just about ready to combust from embarrassment and happiness alike.
Fortunately for you, you were able to squeak out a thank you before George and Fred finally left. By then, you finally allowed yourself to collapse on your seat. Your friends think you might actually faint.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"What took you two so long?" Ron frowns, hand already outstretched when Fred threw him his every-flavored beans.
"Oi! It takes a bit while to grab five people's candy stash. Some of you lot hid it a little too well, you know," Fred huffs at the audacity to question him and his twin's — albeit delayed — charitable actions for the group.
"Plus, we got caught up by something interesting on the way," Fred grins as he elbows George. Hard. Definitely, his retaliation from his brother's earlier assualt.
"Whu ish Fwed tawking avout?" Ron asks with a mouthful of beans that Hermione scolds him for with a 'Don't eat when your mouth is full, it's disgusting!' and a wack on his head.
George glares at Fred as he took his seat. "Nothing," George replies as he opens his chocolate frog.
"Nothing, he says. It ain't nothing if Mr. I don't -share -my - sweets gives his largest chocolate frog box to a girl-"
That seems to have caught everyone's attention.
"What..?"
"A girl?!"
"George shared his sweet??"
"There's no way he gave the largest one!"
George groans at what Fred had just unleashed. Stupid twin brother.
"It's just one sweet—" George tries to argue.
"That's not what you said when I grabbed your licorice wands yesterday. Your least favorite sweet, might I add!" Fred crosses his arms with a huff.
"Because you took five instead of the two you said!" George huffs back as the Weasley twins glared at each other.
"Fight! Fight! Fight!" Lee chants with a grin.
And, chaoes ensues.
a/n: planning to make a series about this. of reader, admiring george. but we'll see XD. edit: i made it into a series! here's parrt 2!
You’ve always known how people die. The first time it happened, you were six years old. Since then, every glance is a countdown. Every connection is a risk. You’ve made peace with the curse, befriending those with the shortest threads, leaving behind warmth before the world goes cold.
Then Fred Weasley walks into your life with too much laughter, too much heart…and a death you can’t bear to watch. You never planned to fall for him. But when fate marks him for a violent end, you do the unthinkable. You break the rules and change the story. And fate demands payment.
Warnings: multiple character deaths throughout.
———————————————————————
The first memory you had was of your mother, smiling in the garden, surrounded by dahlias.
It wasn’t a fully formed memory. Not really. It was more like the feeling of a moment, a flash of warmth. The kind that stays trapped in the cottony folds of early childhood. The scent of sun-warmed earth. Her laughter, bright and soft, like wind chimes. The way her hands moved, fluid and gentle, plucking weeds with care.
You had been sitting in the grass, legs still too short to fold properly. She was singing under her breath. Something about sugar and honey. A lullaby, maybe. Or something she made up just to make you smile.
And you did smile. For a second. Until it happened.
She was mid-song, the light catching on her necklace, when her smile faltered. And you saw it, like a crack across glass.
Suddenly, your mother wasn’t just kneeling in the garden. She was slumped over a steering wheel. Her forehead was split open. There was glass glittering in her skin like stars. Smoke poured through a shattered window. Her hair, tangled and wet with blood, framed a face you couldn’t reconcile with the woman still humming beside you.
You screamed. You screamed so hard your lungs burned and your throat tore. You flailed and sobbed and clutched at the air like you were drowning. And your mother - alive, whole, confused - ran to you and held you tight, over and over whispering, “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
But she wouldn’t. Not for long.
You never forgot that vision.
Not in the way children forget things. It lived in you like a shard of ice beneath the skin - unmelting, unblinking. And then, two years later, it happened.
A car accident. Foggy weather. Tire blowout. No survivors.
Everyone said it was a freak tragedy. Wrong place, wrong time. No one could’ve known. But you had known.
At eight years old, you stared out the window of your aunt’s car, hands folded in your lap like you were being punished, and you didn’t say a word the whole way to the funeral.
That was the day you stopped screaming, but the visions never stopped.
By the time you were nine, you knew how to hide it. You didn’t tell people anymore. You didn’t cry in front of strangers or ask questions no child should ask. You just…watched.
You watched your grandfather smile across the table and saw him collapse beside a piano, his face purple with a heart attack.
You watched your neighbor’s dog run through the yard and saw the same dog limp and bloody on the side of the road, eyes glazed, tongue stiff.
It was always the same. One moment, not real. The next, inevitable. You learned not to react.
Sometimes the deaths were quick. A blink, a flash, over before they began. Sometimes they were long, stretched-out shadows behind someone’s eyes. Years off, but certain. A creeping rot in the bones.
You didn’t see them all the time. It wasn’t like a movie playing every second. It was more like a ripple, something you could feel under the surface when you focused. When you stared too long. When you met someone’s gaze and they held it just a second too long.
And the worst part was: no one else could tell. People looked at their loved ones and saw forever. You looked and saw a countdown.
You tried to warn your grandmother, once. You told her about the visions. Told her about how she would die. She laughed and patted your head and told you not to worry so much. She was dead before dinner. A stroke, in the middle of a fabric shop.
After that, you learned: fate does not like to be interfered with. You made your peace with it. Kind of.
When you got your Hogwarts letter, you hoped - naïvely, stupidly - that it might change something. Maybe it would go away. Maybe you’d learn control. Maybe it was normal, and you’d meet others like you. Maybe you wouldn’t be so alone anymore.
But the moment you stepped onto the train, your eyes caught a boy with spiky black hair walking ahead - and saw him lying on the floor of the Forbidden Forest.
You’d spoken to the teachers about it. Had gone to Dumbledore himself, but when even he didn’t have any solutions for you, you knew it wasn’t going anywhere.
So you adapted. You survived. You made rules for yourself.
Rule One: Don’t get too close.
People won’t understand you. They don’t know what it means to have every friendship under a time limit. To love people with a pre-written obituary. You learned quickly that being around others made you feel lonelier than actually being alone.
Rule Two: Don’t interfere.
It doesn’t work. It hurts to try. The universe doesn’t care how kind you are. It corrects your interference with surgical cruelty. One life for another. You saw that happen more than once.
Rule Three: Love the ones who will die young.
Because they need it. Because you can see them. Because you might be the only one who knows what they’re worth before the world loses them.
You made it a point to sit next to the quiet kids in class. The anxious ones. The sick ones. The reckless ones with a smile too big and hands too shaky. You remembered birthdays, even if they only had one more. You gave your favorite scarf to a Hufflepuff with hollow cheeks in fourth year, and she wore it until they lowered her casket in May.
You taught a Ravenclaw how to cast Lumos under her sheets, and she died in an accident a month later.
Each death hit you like a bruise to the soul. But it didn’t break you. You knew what you were signing up for. You signed up anyway.
You had a gift. Or a curse. Or both. But you chose to make something good from it. And that was the life you built.
———————————————————————
Fred Weasley noticed you for the first time outside Greenhouse Three, three minutes past noon on a Saturday in October.
The sun was bright through the glass, casting warped beams across the tables, lighting the rows of squirming Mandrakes in a sickly gold. You were there reading and keeping to yourself when Fred slid onto the bench beside you with all the grace of a collapsing broomstick.
“Hope you don’t mind if I sit here for a bit?” he said. “George, Lee, and I needed some ingredients for a product we’re cooking up and we didn’t expect Sprout to be in the greenhouses on a Saturday. If anyone asks, I’ve been here with you the whole time.”
You didn’t look at him right away. Not because you were shy. But because it was habit. You didn’t meet people’s eyes easily, not anymore. You knew what might be waiting there.
You gave a quiet shrug. “I don’t mind.”
“Excellent,” Fred grinned, already rolling up his sleeves and peering over your shoulder. “What’re you reading?”
“It’s a book about rare magical plants and their properties,” you explained. “I’ve got a herbology practical exam on Monday.”
“Is that the Mimbulus Mimbletonia assignment?” He questioned and you nodded in confirmation. He was two grades above you - even though you were only a year and a half apart in age - and had likely done all of the same assignments before. “Well I hope you’re better at not killing plants than I am. Just last week I murdered a cactus. By accident. Mostly.”
You huffed a laugh before you could help it.
He looked at you sidelong. “Was that a laugh? I think that was a laugh.”
“Maybe,” you murmured, poking at your gloves. “Though if anyone asks I’ll deny it.”
“Oh, mysterious,” he said with mock drama. “I see, you’re one of those.”
“One of what?”
He smirked. “The ‘I keep to myself because I’m obviously haunted by a dark and tragic past’ type.”
You raised your eyebrows. He held his hands up in surrender, smudged with soil already. “Hey, I’m not judging. I’m just good at reading people.”
And then he went quiet. Because you looked up at him. Just a flicker of a glance. And Fred’s smile faltered. Not in a big way. Just a twitch at the corner. Like a ripple across still water. Your eyes were steady. Careful. Tired in a way most students your age had never learned to be.
Fred looked at you for a second longer than necessary. Then said, “There it is again.”
You blinked. “There’s what?”
“That look,” he said simply. “You’ve got this… I don’t know. Lamenting thing going on. Like you’re watching a movie no one else can see, and it’s not gonna end well.”
You looked away. Your hands found the pruning shears and gripped them too tight. Fred didn’t press. Not in the way most people would. He didn’t crack another joke or prod the bruise until you bled.
Instead, he nodded once and went back to pretending he was scanning the garden for Sprout. But that was the moment when Fred Weasley started really seeing you.
———————————————————————
The thing about Fred was, he wasn’t just loud. He wasn’t just funny or chaotic or the human embodiment of a controlled explosion. He watched. He noticed things.
Like how you always carried a spare set of gloves, even when you didn’t need them, because someone else might. Or how you always chose the bench closest to the door in every class. How you walked on the outer edge of a group in the corridors, not quite part of the crowd.
He noticed the way your gaze lingered on people. Quietly. Softly. As if you were memorizing them in real time.
And he noticed that people around you changed.
Not in a big way. Just small, strange coincidences. A Slytherin boy with shaky hands suddenly looked more confident after a single conversation with you. A quiet girl from Ravenclaw who’d spent two weeks skipping meals in the Great Hall sat with you once, and ate like she was starving.
Fred didn’t understand it. But he noticed. And because he was Fred, he didn’t let it go.
You hadn’t seemed to notice him again until three months later.
You were in the courtyard, kneeling in the grass with your bag abandoned beside you. A first year was sobbing quietly. Her shoes scuffed and too big. She had her arms wrapped around her knees like she was trying to make herself disappear.
Fred didn’t mean to see it. He’d been chasing George - literally - after an exploding ink prank went wrong. But something made him stop.
You made him stop. You knelt in front of the girl like you weren’t worried about grass stains. You said something low, something he couldn’t hear, but whatever it was made her laugh, just a tiny breath of one. You reached into your satchel and pulled out a chocolate frog. The girl blinked, stunned, and reached for it with both hands.
Fred didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. Just watched you get up, brush dirt off your knees, and walk away like it had meant nothing. You locked eyes with him across the courtyard, noticing him watching. Your eyes only connected for a second before you looked away, almost skittish.
It wasn’t long, but he saw it. He felt it. The same ache from Greenhouse Three. That strange look in your eyes.
The next time he saw you after that was in the library.
You had a book open on the table in front of you, but your eyes weren’t on the pages. You were staring across the room, at a seventh year. Tall. Blonde. You had your head tilted just slightly.
Fred almost turned away. Until he saw you lean forward and scribble something on the corner of your parchment. A note. Something small. You tore it out and crossed the room before the librarian could hiss at you. You dropped the note on the boy’s book and walked off.
Fred never found out what it said. But he did see that same boy later that night, laughing for the first time in weeks.
When Fred confronted you, it was quiet. Not dramatic. Not accusatory.
You were leaving Divination. The air was cold and damp, sky bruised with stormclouds. Everyone else had rushed ahead to avoid the drizzle.
But Fred hung back beside you, as though he hadn’t climbed the tower just to find you between classes.
“So,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Can I ask you something?”
You raised a brow. “Will you ask it anyway?”
“Definitely.” You waited. He hesitated. “…Why do you do it?”
You blinked. “Do what?”
“All of it,” he said, turning to face you fully. “The notes. The chocolate frogs. The gloves. The little acts of kindness. You…see people, even the ones no one else bothers to look at. Why?”
You hesitated. The answer burned in your throat. You couldn’t tell him the truth: Because they won’t be here long. Because every one of them is on a timer. Because I can feel it.
So instead, you said, “I want to make a positive influence.”
Fred didn’t speak for a moment. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
He searched your face like he was looking for something else behind your eyes. But you didn’t let him find it.
Back in the Great Hall that night, Fred watched you from across the room.
You were sat at the Hufflepuff table, flipping through a book, though your gaze drifted often toward the ceiling. Like you were counting stars. Or measuring time.
George passed him a pastry and nudged his elbow. “You’re staring.”
Fred didn’t look away. “She’s weird.”
“Is that you complaining or falling in love?”
Fred didn’t answer. Because it wasn’t either. Not yet. Not quite. But the clock had already started ticking. And he could feel it.
———————————————————————
You weren’t expecting to see Fred in the morning. You were walking out of Charms, clutching a half-finished essay and a quill with its feather half-chewed, when he slid into step beside you like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment.
Fred Weasley grinned at you like the sun had just risen for him specifically.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he said, bumping your shoulder lightly with his.
You didn’t flinch. But you did blink in surprise.“…yeah, it is strange. Especially considering you’re not in my class.”
“Right you are,” he said brightly. “But you’re the only one worth being late to class for.”
Your steps faltered. He caught it. Of course he did.
You gave a wary smile and adjusted your grip on your parchment. “So you were looking for me?”
“Following, stalking, semantics,” he replied, tossing his arms behind his head as he walked beside you. “Though I prefer to think of it as strategic loitering. Very dignified.”
You bit back a smirk. “Be careful, you’re starting to sound like you’re flirting.”
Fred gave you a mock-wounded look, pressing a hand to his chest. “Sound like? I’ll have you know, this is premium Weasley-grade charm. Bottled straight from the source.”
“And this is what? A free sample?”
“Oh no,” he said with a wink. “I’m hoping for a subscription.”
You laughed. You actually laughed, full and real, and for a second, that was all there was. Fred, smiling. Fred, warm and golden in the morning light. Fred, walking backwards just to face you as you tried to hide your grin behind your parchment. Fred, looking so alive—
Then it hit you. You didn’t know what triggered it. Sometimes it came like a whisper, sometimes like a blow. But this…This was a storm.
You stumbled. Fred caught your elbow, laughing at first, thinking it was just the joke. And then you looked at him and saw it.
You saw the flash first, of stone splitting open behind him. An explosion. Dust and fire. Screams. Blood on his temple. A smile, still frozen on his face, like he didn’t even know what hit him.
Fred Weasley. Gone. Gone in a flash. On the battlefield. Not decades from now. Not in the distant haze. Soon. He didn’t look even a day past twenty. Your breath left your body like a punch to the ribs. Your heart dropped. Your hands went numb.
And Fred - real, breathing Fred - was still standing there, holding your arm, eyes crinkled with amusement.
Until he saw your expression changed. You didn’t mean for it to. But you looked at him and something in you folded. The same thing that had happened dozens of times before.
The quiet mourning. The grieving before it happened. The look you gave the boy in the library, and the girl in the courtyard. Fred saw it. He saw it immediately, and his smile faltered. Just a flicker.
His hand slipped away from your arm like it had been burned. “…What?” he asked softly.
You blinked hard and forced the mask back on, fumbling for something to say.
“Nothing,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “Just tired. Long class.”
Fred didn’t buy it. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just tilted his head slightly, watching you with eyes a little too sharp for comfort.
The rest of the walk was quiet. He didn’t leave, but he didn’t fill the silence, either. You could feel him studying you out of the corner of his eye. Trying to put the pieces together. Trying to decide what he’d just seen flicker across your face.
You kept your gaze forward, locked on the stone floor, blinking back the weight behind your eyes. Not Fred. Not him. It wasn’t fair.
You were used to the ache. You were used to looking at people and preparing your heart for goodbye. You were used to burying them before they were gone.
You hadn’t meant to let him in, but some part of him had squirmed its way into your mind anyway. And now it was too late. You couldn’t unsee it.
———————————————————————
It started with the tea.
He liked peppermint. You weren’t sure how you knew that. Maybe from a Hogsmeade trip once, maybe from the time he stole someone else’s cup and said, “Much better than that dirt-flavoured Earl Grey.”
So when you saw the stack of cups at breakfast, you reached for the peppermint before you even thought about it. You didn’t drink it. You just poured it. Added a little honey. And then you walked past his table.
Fred Weasley looked up the moment your shadow fell across the bench. You didn’t say anything. Just set the cup beside him, met his confused glance with a small, tight smile, and kept walking.
He turned to George immediately. “What do I do?” he whispered.
George just stared at the mug, then at you disappearing into the crowd, then back at Fred. “Bloody hell,” he murmured. “It’s just tea. Drink it. Reckon she likes you.”
Fred grinned. But it wasn’t a triumphant grin. It was slow. Quiet. Almost…gentle. Like someone had handed him something fragile. Something he didn’t want to break.
Later that day, he found you in the courtyard. You were pretending to read. You always pretended to read when you needed to not look like you were watching someone.
He dropped into the seat beside you, all limbs and cocky bravado. “Didn’t peg you for a peppermint tea type.”
You looked up, heartbeat skipping, eyes narrowing in mock innocence. “Excuse me?”
Fred leaned forward, elbows on knees, looking straight at you. “You brought me tea.”
“I bring lots of people tea.”
“You don’t,” he said.
You didn’t answer. Instead, you tilted your head and turned a page - an upside-down page.
Fred caught it and smirked, purposefully reaching out to grab the book and turn it the right way around. Your face flushed. “You brought me tea,” he said again, quieter this time.
“Do you want to give me a medal?”
“No, I want a reason.”
You met his gaze. And for the first time, you let a little of the truth slip through your voice. “You looked like you needed it.”
The thing was, he didn’t need it. Not right then. Fred was laughing louder than ever. Cracking jokes. Pulling pranks. Daring Peeves to duel.
But you were watching him now the way he watched you. For the moments in between. The pause before the laugh. The hesitation when he thought no one was looking.
There was something quieter underneath him lately. A tension in his hands. A flicker in his eyes when someone would speak about the things going on in the wizarding world. The return of you-know-who. The ministry becoming more and more corrupted. Death eater attacks.
You saw it. You saw everything. And so, you did what you always did for the dying. You were kind.
But this time, it didn’t feel clinical. It didn’t feel routine. It felt like…preparing your heart for grief. Like choosing to sit near him in the library, pretending to study until he inevitably moved beside you and scribbled doodles in the margins of your notes.
Like defending him when a Slytherin girl accused him of hexing her quill, even when you knew he did it.
Like saving him an extra plate of his favourite pies and sneaking them over to the Gryffindor table when he came in soaked from Quidditch practice.
Like laughing when he slipped you a joke note in your bag.
Fred noticed. He noticed every single time. And he didn’t call attention to it. Not out loud. But you caught him looking at you like he was trying to memorise your face. You caught him watching your hands, your mouth, your every reaction like it mattered. Like you mattered.
You weren’t used to that. The ones who saw the look in your eyes - the knowing - usually grew afraid. Or suspicious. Or distant. Fred was the only one who leaned in closer. The only one who wanted to understand.
———————————————————————-
“I don’t get it,” One of Gryffindor’s Star quidditch players, Angelina Johnson, said one afternoon, slumping beside you at the Hufflepuff table as you watched Fred from across the room.
“Get what?”
“You,” she said, eyes narrowing. “And Fred. You’re not together, but you look at him like you are.”
You blinked. “I do not.”
Angelina raised her eyebrows. “You brought him soup to the common room last night.”
“He was sick.”
“You saved him his favourite pies for dinner because practice ran late.”
“I was…bored.”
Angelina leaned closer, smirking now. “Be honest. Do you fancy him?”
You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Frowned. “…I don’t think so.”
Angelina looked at you for a long moment. “That’s not a no.”
You didn’t respond. Because for all your certainty, your heart had started doing that thing. That inconvenient, fluttering, stuttering thing. You ignored it, of course. Told yourself it was nothing.
You were always kind to the ones who would soon be lost. But deep down, a quiet thought bloomed like a bruise: You’re not just being kind, are you?
Fred found you again a few days later, after you’d snuck a chocolate frog into his bag. You were sitting under the trees near the lake, sketching something you’d never show anyone. He sat beside you without asking, knees bumping yours.
“You left,” He didn’t speak for a while. Then he leaned over, voice quiet. “You always do that.”
You glanced at him. “Do what?”
“Disappear before anyone can say thank you.”
You shrugged. “Maybe I don’t need to hear it.”
“Or maybe,” he said, watching you carefully, “you don’t want to admit you actually like me.”
Your pulse kicked. He didn’t look smug. He looked…gentle. Curious. Open. That scared you more than any teasing ever could.
You stood up quickly, brushing imaginary dirt off your skirt. “I should go,” you said, not meeting his eyes.
Fred stood, too, though he didn’t follow. He just stood there, letting you go, but not looking away. And you could feel it again. The way he looked at you like you were already his. And the way, deep down, your heart wanted to be.
———————————————————————
You were halfway through Transfiguration notes and a barely warm scone when Fred Weasley dropped into the bench beside you like he’d been catapulted.
“Oi,” he said, nudging your shoulder. “Bad day? You’re looking a bit like you’ve just been to a funeral. Except for this. No colour allowed at funerals. Stupid rule, really.”
He tugged at the bright gold bow that was holding your hair up. You glanced at him, his hair windswept, a leaf in it, tie loose, and that unrepentant grin that always made it harder to breathe than you wanted to admit.
“Hardly stupid,” you muttered. “Funerals are meant to be somber affairs. It’s not a party.”
“But it could be,” Fred smirked. “If I die tragically, at least make sure people laugh at mine. I don’t want any of that all-black, hoity-toity nonsense.”
You blinked. The words weren’t meant to hurt. But they did. A little more than they should.
You dropped your quill. “Don’t say that.”
He turned to you, surprised. “Say what?”
You shook your head, brushing crumbs off your page. “Nothing. Just…don’t.”
Fred was watching you again. Closely. Quietly.“Alright,” he said gently, voice a little lower. “I won’t.”
You didn’t mean to spend the rest of the day with him. But somehow, you did.
He walked with you to the library. Borrowed a book he didn’t need. Sat across from you and made faces every time you tried to focus. Slipped a note into your bag that read: If you keep ignoring me, I’ll stage a dramatic faint in the Restricted Section.
He waited outside your common room that evening before dinner with a pair of chocolate frogs and no explanation.
When you smiled and asked why, he shrugged. “You always give them to everyone else. Thought today you could use one.”
You tilted your head. “You thought I could use a chocolate frog?”
“A smile.”
You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t say anything at all. But you didn’t stop him either.
———————————————————————
Two days later, he cornered you on the Astronomy Tower. It was late. The sky was low and bruised with clouds. The stars were hiding. He found you leaning against the stone ledge, arms folded, hair tugged loose by the wind. How he knew to find you here you weren’t sure.
Fred approached slowly. “You always come up here alone?”
You didn’t turn. “Only when I want peace.”
“Ouch,” he said lightly. “Should I leave, then?”
“Maybe.”
He didn’t. Instead, he came to stand beside you. “You know, I’ve been thinking,” he said. “We’ve got this whole unresolved thing going on.”
You finally turned. “Unresolved?”
Fred nodded. “You give me tea. I give you chocolate frogs. You pretend you don’t care. I pretend I don’t notice you do. Very romantic.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Is this your idea of a confession?”
Fred put a hand over his heart dramatically. “What if it is?”
You stared at him. The boy who made everyone laugh. Who walked into a room like he already owned the air in it. Who’d been orbiting you more and more lately like gravity had decided it was time.
He was serious. Kind of. Almost. And that’s when it hit you. He liked you.
Not because you were convenient or easy. You’d purposefully made things difficult for him. He didn’t mind that you were some strange girl who knew too much about things no one said out loud.
And for a second, your heart fluttered. But then you remembered the way you’d seen him fall. Bleeding. Broken. Gone. A memory that hadn’t happened yet, but burned in your chest like it had.
He didn’t have long. You knew that. He didn’t.
Fred stepped closer, his voice suddenly gentler. “Go out with me.”
You blinked. “Fred—”
“Just once,” he said. “Say yes. Let me take you to Hogsmeade, or sneak you into the kitchens. Anything. I’ll even let you pick.”
You laughed. Quietly. Sadly. And he caught it. The shift. The weight behind it.
“Hey,” he said, softer now. “I’m not teasing. I want to know what it looks like when you stop running away from me.”
You bit your lip. You should’ve said no. You wanted to say no. Because this wasn’t fair. Not to him. Not to you. But you looked at Fred, warm and waiting, full of belief and stupid, stubborn light, and you thought: Maybe I can give him this. While there’s still time.
So you nodded. Once. “Okay.”
Fred blinked. “Wait, really?”
You smiled. “Yes.”
His grin nearly split his face. “Bloody hell, I wasn’t actually expecting…George owes me ten galleons!”
You shoved him lightly. “Don’t make me regret it, Weasley.”
You didn’t expect this to go anywhere. Fred would get bored eventually. It was just another act of kindness on your behalf.
But inside, your heart was already unraveling. Because this wasn’t a favour. It might have felt like one, but it wasn’t. You were falling. And you didn’t even see it.
———————————————————————
You weren’t expecting much. Not because you didn’t think Fred could deliver a proper date - he could charm a Hippogriff into a slow dance if he wanted to - but because you’d told yourself not to expect anything. You weren’t here for you. You were here for him.
One day, he wouldn’t be here. You knew that. He didn’t. So you said yes. Once. For kindness.
But then he met you outside the castle wearing a button-up shirt and a ridiculous velvet blazer the colour of raspberry tarts, and held out a bouquet of fizzing whizzbees on sticks, and suddenly you were laughing before you even said hello.
“You’re joking.”
Fred gave you an exaggerated bow. “I’m romancing you, actually.”
You eyed the ‘bouquet’. “You brought me candy. On skewers.”
“Florals are so last season.”
You bit back a smile as you took them. “You’re completely mad.”
“And yet,” he said, stepping beside you, “here you are. On my arm. Tragic.”
You let him guide you down the sloping path toward Hogsmeade. The wind tugged at your hair, the hem of your cloak. Fred kept sneaking glances at you like he wasn’t quite convinced this was real.
You didn’t blame him. Neither were you.
The day was grey, with thick clouds above and a storm threatening the horizon, but Fred made it golden.
First stop was the joke shop. Not Zonko’s, but a tiny stall tucked behind Honeydukes where a wizard with purple spectacles sold contraptions Fred described as ‘too risky for George’.
He bought you a singing plant (you had to shush it three times), a mood-reading quill (which immediately wrote ‘trouble brewing’ when you touched it), and a matchbox-sized reusable firework that burst into glitter hearts when lit.
Then came Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks. Fred asked for “the frothiest one they had” and poured half of it onto his nose “for comedic effect.”
You sipped yours slower. Watched him over the rim of your mug. There was something behind the way he looked at you today. Still teasing, yes. Still Fred. But gentler, somehow. Like you were something rare, not to be startled. You weren’t used to that. And it made something inside you start to ache.
After lunch, Fred dragged you to the Shrieking Shack - not for haunting, but for a “Fred-exclusive ghost tour” in which every spooky sound was clearly made by him throwing rocks or growling behind his scarf.
“Did you hear that?” he gasped dramatically, clutching your arm. “I think it’s the ghost of Christmas past!”
You snorted. “I think it’s the ghost of a boy who wants to hold my hand.”
Fred wiggled his fingers. “Guilty.”
You didn’t take it. But you didn’t pull your arm away either when he took it anyway.
The sun dipped lower. The cold sharpened. Fred walked slower now, matching your pace exactly. You ended up back near the edge of the village, past the shops and crowds, where the fields started to slope into forest. It was quiet here. The kind of quiet that let your thoughts breathe.
Fred stopped walking. “Alright,” he said. “This is the part where I impress you.”
You looked at him, wary. “More than firework hearts?”
He grinned. “I brought provisions.”
From the inner lining of his cloak, he pulled a small tartan blanket, two chocolate bars, a flask, and a teacup. Just one.
You raised a brow. “And we share?”
“We could,” Fred said, a little too quickly. “Or I could pretend to be smooth and say I brought it because I like the idea of you stealing my things.”
That startled you. The honesty. The warmth. The way he was looking at you like he meant it. You sat down anyway. He joined you. The hill gave a view of the castle, glittering far away, all turrets and gold. The sky was burning pink.
Fred passed you the chocolate. “You’ve been quiet today.”
You glanced at him. “You haven’t.”
“That’s our dynamic.”
You huffed a laugh.
Fred leaned back on his elbows, legs outstretched. “Be honest. Is this the worst date you’ve ever been on?”
You hesitated. Then shook your head. “No,” you said. “It’s the best.”
Fred blinked. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You were already struggling. Because if you didn’t know what came next - if you hadn’t already seen it, felt it, mourned it - you would’ve fallen for him right then.
The way he smiled at you without asking for anything in return. The way he gave the day everything he had, just to see you laugh. The way he tried, so hard, even though you’d never asked.
You bit your lip. “Fred?”
“Yeah?”
“If you only had a year left to live…what would you do?”
He turned his head toward you slowly. “What kind of question is that?”
“A real one.”
He frowned, but not seriously. “Okay. Well, first, I’d rob Gringotts. Then I’d make George get a tattoo of my face on his face. Then I’d finally tell Filch what I really think of his bloody cat.”
You didn’t smile.
Fred’s own faded. “Hey.”
“I’m just saying,” you said softly. “Sometimes…sometimes we don’t have as long as we think.”
Fred tilted his head. “Are you alright?”
You nodded. Lied. “I’m fine.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, he reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
“Y’know,” he said, “if I didn’t know better…I’d say you’re trying to prepare me for something.”
You froze. Your eyes met. For a second, just one, it felt like he knew.
But then he smiled. And you realised it had been just another joke. He didn’t know. He couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But you did. And it was killing you.
You walked back in silence. Not because it was awkward, but because there was so much between you now - unsaid and real and humming like a storm behind your ribs.
When you reached the castle steps, Fred stopped you. “I had a good time,” he said, voice soft.
You looked at him. He was flushed from the cold, hair messy, eyes bright and searching. You could feel how much he meant it.
“Me too,” you whispered.
He stepped closer. “Can I—”
You kissed his cheek before he could ask. A soft brush. A thank you. He stared at you after, a little stunned. And for the first time since you said yes, you felt dizzy.
Because somewhere during this date, the ache of the future got tangled with the warmth of the present. And you weren’t sure anymore which one was winning.
———————————————————————
You knew better. You knew better than to let it go this far. But it started slow, like everything dangerous does. You’d meant to give Fred one good day.
A single memory he could carry like a charm in his pocket. Something small and kind to slip into the cracks of his fate. But now it was weeks later, and you were too deep to climb out.
Too deep in it to pretend otherwise. It had been eight dates now. You kept count, though you told yourself you didn’t.
The second was a walk around the Black Lake, where he tried to juggle rocks and ended up splashing you both, laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe.
The third was a Honeydukes raid - he snuck you into Hogsmeade after curfew through a secret one-eyed witch passage and let you test all the samples. You’d snorted soda through your nose after the “singing socks” made your shoes tap-dance uncontrollably.
Fourth was at the owlery. You don’t know why he took you there, only that he said it was “underrated and full of character, just like you.” You watched the sunset behind scattered wings, and he told you about how George once tried to train an owl to pickpocket.
You still smile when you think about it.
The fifth, sixth, and seven were blurred between quiet library corners (he claimed to study, mostly just drew ridiculous cartoons in the margins of your notes), Quidditch stands after practice (he flew slow laps just to show off for you), and midnight snacks in the kitchens (he tried charming a spoon to feed you pudding and accidentally launched it into your face instead).
The eighth was yesterday. He kissed you after. It wasn’t a planned thing. Just a quiet, breathless moment when he was walking you back to your common room. He stopped at the door, turned to say goodnight, and the words got lost somewhere between your eyes and the way you smiled like the night hadn’t ended yet.
His lips were warm and smiling against yours. You hadn’t stopped him. You hadn’t wanted to.
Now you sat curled in the Gryffindor common room, curled under one of the tartan blankets, pretending to read while your heart betrayed you.
Fred sat on the rug nearby, cross-legged, building a tower out of Chocolate Frog boxes with George and Lee Jordan. He was saying something ridiculous, probably plotting a prank, and every now and then he glanced your way like he couldn’t help himself.
He smiled when he caught your eye. And you felt it again - that impossible, aching want. The urge to freeze this moment and lock it in your bones. Because you knew. You knew this wouldn’t last. You knew how the story ended.
You’d seen it again the night he kissed you. The flash behind his eyes. The scream in the air. The way the ground cracked beneath the weight of stone and magic. The stillness. He would die in a war that was currently brewing. And you couldn’t change it. You couldn’t stop it. You’d never been able to. Fate didn’t let you edit. It traded one death for another.
That’s why you’d never tried. That’s why you weren’t supposed to fall in love. But Fred had this laugh - Merlin, that laugh - and he looked at you like you were the only bit of sense in his chaotic world. He made you feel less like a ticking clock and more like a person again.
You hadn’t meant for it to go this far. And yet here you were, hanging out with his friends in his common room like you belonged.
You looked up as he crossed the room and dropped beside you on the couch, all legs and warmth and the scent of cinnamon and broom polish. His shoulder brushed yours.
“Hey, pretty girl,” he murmured, voice soft and teasing. “You know you’ve been reading that page for ten minutes?” You tilted the book to hide your face, but he just leaned closer, eyes dancing. “Is it that good, or are you just trying to avoid me?”
“I’m trying to look studious,” you replied, not looking at him.
“You’re failing beautifully.”
You let the book fall to your lap and studied him. The freckles like constellations. The slight sunburn from practice earlier. The softness in his eyes. You were already gone.
“You’re being very charming,” you said, barely above a whisper.
He grinned. “I’ve been told it’s one of my more dangerous skills.”
You couldn’t laugh. Not fully. Because all you could think was: How many more times do I get to sit beside him like this? How many more pages do I get to pretend to read while he’s alive and warm and next to me?
“Fred…” you started, but the words burned out in your throat.
He turned toward you completely now, sensing the shift, reading it in the quiet like he always could.
“What is it?” he asked gently.
You looked down at your hands, clenched in the blanket. “I don’t know. Just…don’t want this to end.”
He didn’t ask what you meant. He just reached for your hand and held it in his.
“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” he said.
You wished you could believe him. Wished he was right.
———————————————————————
Fred had always talked about the future like it was a prank waiting to be pulled.
It didn’t scare him, not really. He treated it like one big adventure with half serious plans, half chaos, and a lot of laughter in between. And lately, more and more of those plans included you.
“We’ll move to London,” he’d say offhandedly, like it was already decided. “Start a shop in Diagon Alley. George wants Knockturn but I think he just likes the drama.”
You’d smile, but never answer. And when he’d push - “You’d at least come visit, wouldn’t you?” - you’d kiss him instead.
Soft. Distracting. Sweet.
It always worked. Until it didn’t.
It was small at first. Barely a flicker. But Fred wasn’t stupid. He noticed things. Especially about you.
The way you’d go quiet when people talked about what they’d do after Hogwarts. The way your eyes drifted when someone said ‘next year’. The way you changed the subject like it owed you something. Like it was dangerous.
He noticed how you’d stiffen when he spoke about the future with you in it. Joking about weddings, or flat hunting, or how you’d have to name your kids something ridiculous just to keep the Weasley chaos alive. You’d laugh. But not the way you would about anything else.
And then there were the other things.
It happened the first time after the Hufflepuff prefect, Rosalie McDonald, never came back from summer break. They found out her family had been attacked by death eaters.
The day before going on break, Fred had caught you talking to her outside the library. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, it just happened.
“I think you should write to your older sister,” you’d said gently. “Now, while you still can.”
Rosalie had blinked. “What do you mean ‘while I still can’?”
You’d hesitated. Then smiled. “Just…something tells me she needs to hear from you.”
Fred hadn’t thought much of it at the time.
And then it happened again. Six months later. An older Slytherin boy, Nolan Travers, hexed by his own parents for refusing the dark mark. Before he’d gone home for Christmas, Fred had seen you slide a wrapped chocolate frog into Nolan’s bag. You barely spoke to the guy. Fred had teased you about it later.
“What’s that, a secret admirer thing? Didn’t know you were into angry boys with an attitude.”
You’d just said, “He always seemed like he missed being a kid. I figured he should have one more.”
Fred had laughed. Until Nolan was gone. And then it wasn’t funny anymore.
He started watching you differently after that. Not just as the girl he fancied - madly, deeply, stupidly - but as someone he didn’t fully understand.
There was something underneath your softness. Something ancient and brittle and trembling like a spiderweb across time.
You never said anything out loud. Not really. But you said goodbye to people with your eyes. With your hands. With the way you looked at them like you knew.
You started spending more time with the younger students, helping with homework, walking them to class, slipping them extra pastries at breakfast.
You knew. And he didn’t know how to ask. Didn’t know if he should.
One evening, Fred found you sitting on the Astronomy Tower, knees hugged to your chest, staring out across the dark sky. The stars were sharp and clear above you.
He sat beside you slowly, careful not to disturb the quiet. “What are you thinking about?” he asked.
You took too long to answer. “Tomorrow,” you finally whispered.
He turned to look at you. “Funny. You never do.”
You flinched. Just a little.
Fred watched you out of the corner of his eye. “You never talk about the future,” he said softly. “Not really. I do. I plan. I dream. You just…disappear.”
You said nothing. He nudged you gently. “You don’t think we have one, do you?”
That made you look at him, sharply. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Your face twisted. Like something was pulling inside your chest, something clawing to stay hidden.
“I just don’t see the point in pretending,” you murmured.
Fred’s brow furrowed. “Pretending what?”
“That everything lasts forever.”
It was quiet again. Too quiet. Even the wind held its breath.
Fred’s voice dropped low. “You act like you know how it ends.”
You turned your face away. “Don’t.”
He studied you carefully now. The set of your jaw. The shine in your eyes. The way your fingers curled into your sleeves like they were hiding something.
You stood abruptly. “I should go.”
He rose with you. Reached for your hand, but didn’t grab it. “Hey. Just, tell me. Is there something I should know?”
You hesitated. And then did what you always did when you didn’t want to lie. You kissed him. Soft. Distracting. Sweet.
He let you go, even though every part of him screamed not to.
As your footsteps vanished down the stairs, Fred stood under the stars, alone, wondering if maybe he was falling in love with someone who already knew how their story ended.
———————————————————————-
The world was on fire.
Hogwarts roared around them, crumbling under the weight of centuries and war. The sky above had turned the color of dried blood, smeared with smoke and flashes of green light. The very ground seemed to shake with grief, stone and magic groaning beneath their feet.
Fred had known this was coming. Not because anyone had told him. Because you hadn’t.
Because every time he talked about the future - about the joke shop reopening, about traveling, about growing old with matching canes and bad knees - you went quiet. You looked away. You smiled too tightly, like it hurt.
He’d noticed everything. The way you lingered when hugging people goodbye. How your eyes sometimes filled with tears for no reason at all. How you never made plans beyond this week, this night, this moment. As if you couldn’t.
And he knew. He knew something wasn’t right. You weren’t just someone who had feelings about things. You were someone who knew with certainty. And tonight you looked terrified.
Even as the battle began and Hogwarts turned into a war zone, you stayed at his side, lips pressed thin, hand clutched in his like it was the only thing keeping you from falling into the abyss.
But then Fred had gone to his father, pulling Arthur aside. “She can’t follow me,” he said hoarsely. “You have to keep her back. Promise me.”
Arthur’s eyes darkened behind his cracked glasses. “Fred—”
“Promise me. Please.”
Arthur looked at him like he already knew what this meant, and then nodded.
You hadn’t seen it coming. You hadn’t thought Fred would ask for help. When Arthur wrapped an arm around you and gently - yet firmly - steered you toward the Great Hall, you resisted. When you saw Fred running the opposite way, toward the worst of it, you screamed.
“Fred! FRED, DON’T—!” Your voice cracked like a spell mid-air.
You struggled, breaking free of Arthur’s grip. You ran after him. You tried to keep up, but his legs were longer. His strides were larger. He moved faster. You knew what was coming. And so did he.
The corridor exploded.
Stone tore from the walls like paper. Fire bloomed in the air. The sound was deafening. Metal against stone, bodies crashing, spells colliding, a scream that Fred wasn’t even sure was his.
Then, nothing. Just smoke and stillness. He was lying on his side. There was blood in his mouth. Dust in his lungs. Something sharp digging into his back. He couldn’t move his right arm. Couldn’t hear much beyond the ringing in his ears and a distant, muffled shouting.
He was alive. Barely. How? He’d felt it coming. He’d made peace with it. Accepted that this - right here - was the end. His vision swam as he tried to sit up, coughing violently.
And then you were there. Crawling over the rubble, your knees scraped raw, blood down your temple, a cut across your cheekbone. You were panting, gasping, your fingers trembling as you touched his face.
“You idiot,” you choked. “You…oh my God, you bloody idiot—”
“You weren’t supposed to come,” Fred whispered, wincing as he tried to lift himself.
“You were supposed to die,” you hissed.
And then he saw it. The color draining from your skin. Your hands leaving bloody prints against his chest. You were shaking - your whole body - but not from fear. From pain.
He looked down. There was a burn across your abdomen, jagged and pulsing with green rot. A curse. Deep. Fatal.
Fred’s breath caught. “No…no, no, no—”
You tried to smile. You really did. “It’s okay,” you rasped. “It’s already done.”
Fred gripped your shoulders and tried to sit up fully, holding you in his lap now, frantic. “What did you do? What the hell did you do?”
“I traded it,” you whispered, forehead resting against his.
“No. You weren’t supposed to interfere,” Fred said, voice cracking like old glass. “You never interfere.”
“That’s because fate takes anyway. Fate always takes anyway, but I figured out how to cheat it. A life for a life.” Your eyes fluttered shut.
He stared at you, heart breaking in real time. He shook his head violently, his jaw tight with rage and grief. “You had no right. That was my death. That was my life to give—”
“I saw your death,” you said softly. “Before. It would have been terrible. You died under rubble. George screamed your name, and I couldn’t do anything. I’ve seen it a hundred times. You don’t understand.
“Yes, I do.” Fred swallowed hard, clutching you like you’d vanish into dust if he loosened his grip. “I do understand. I’ve noticed. The way you always seem to know who’s going to die and when. I know what you can do. And I don’t care. I would’ve…I accepted it. I knew I was going to die.”
You smiled faintly. “I couldn’t live with that.”
Fred was sobbing now, helpless and furious and broken. “You don’t get it. I can’t. I can’t live without you—”
“You have to.” You reached up, brushing his tear-soaked cheek with shaking fingers. “Fred. You’re going to live. You’re going to grow old. You’ll run that shop. You’ll tease your nieces and nephews and dance at weddings. You’ll be happy.”
He clung to you like a lifeline, his lips trembling. “It doesn’t mean anything if it’s not with you. That was our future.”
You gave a soft, sad smile. “My future ended the moment I knew you were going to die. You were the last thing I had left to fight for. So I changed it,” you murmured. “It’s already done.”
“What do you mean?”
You smiled. Eyes wet and far away now. “I can see it…your death.”
He froze.
“You’re going to live a long time,” you whispered. “You’re going to be old. Happy. Surrounded by people you love. It’s not going to be violent. Or dirty. Or lonely. It’ll be quiet. It’ll be peaceful.”
Fred’s face crumpled. “That was supposed to be your death.”
“I had no one left but you,” you said softly. “And you…you have them. Your family. Your whole life.”
Fred shook his head. “I’d trade it. In a second. I’d go back and die for you right now.”
“No.” Your voice was barely there now. “You have to live for me. For us. I’ll see you again, when it’s time.”
And then you exhaled like a sigh, and you were gone.
———————————————————————
The Burrow had grown over the years. Extensions, additions, magic upon magic. Its foundations were laughter and stubborn love.
Fred sat in the sunroom, a blanket over his knees, a warm mug forgotten on the table beside him. The walls were covered in photographs of laughing children, proud parents, wild holidays and Christmas mornings.
And you. Still eighteen. Still smiling. Still leaning into him like you had your whole heart tucked into the space between your ribs, and you were trying to give it away.
He heard them in the kitchen - nieces and nephews and their children, Ginny’s grandkids racing through the hall, Hermione scolding someone gently, George laughing so hard he wheezed.
Fred leaned back in his chair. He could feel it now. Like a breeze moving through his bones. Like the way time used to slow when he looked at you.
“I’m ready,” he whispered.
And death came, not with violence, but with light. And when he opened his eyes, you were there. Smiling. Whole. Just as he remembered you.
“Hey there, trouble,” you said, brushing his silver-streaked hair back from his forehead. “It’s good to see you.”
He laughed wetly. “Took me long enough.”
You held out your hand and when he took it the deep wrinkles in his aged skin smoothed. His hair regained its vivid orange colour, and his hunched posture righted itself. Once again he was twenty, just as he had been when you’d left him. And together, you stepped into whatever was next.
———————————————————————
Tag list: @vivianette @ellouisa17 @wisp1q @divineani @cattleray @billieeilishkisser @lupinsweater
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.
“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.
“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”
“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.
“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.
“What?” the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.
“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”
“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.
“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.
“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”
The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”
“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”
