dusktildawn @un1dusk - Tumblr Blog

Apr 14

dear diary | part two

fred weasley x f!muggleborn!reader

you vent in your diary, and, one day, fred weasley “accidentally” reads some entries and tries to nonchalantly return it.

♪─── warnings: friends to lovers, established friends, teenage feelings/hormones, cringe diary entries, swearing, medium paced burn, 1 time use of y/n, u being a theater kid minor subplot, follows fred for a bit, unimportant background characters, fred has acid reflux, bsf’s hot older brother trope, vaguely 6-7th year btw, casually ripped!fred, happy ending

♪─── word count: 3.7k probably

part one

Dear Notecard,

Sunday

I lost my diary.

I’ve scavenged the ends of the earth, and I simply cannot find it. My life is over. I’m moving to America, because the things I’ve said in there are vile. Maybe. I don’t remember (which is a problem).

I JUST NEED IT BACK. OH MY DAYS. IT’S OUT THERE IN THE WILD FOR ANYONE TO SEE.

I genuinely don’t know what I’m to do. Should I ask Ginny and Abby to help me find it?

WHAT IF SOME KID HAS IT?

WHY DOES IT GO MISSING AFTER I MAKE IMPORTANT REVELATIONS? COINCIDENCE? I THINK NOT!!!!

I’ll probably have to burn this card later to prevent any further journal leakage.

Dear Notecard #2,

Monday

Ginny’s on the lookout for my diary. I really should’ve charmed it to appear invisible to unauthorized eyes or something. GOD, WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT SOONER? I’M SO FUCKING STUPID. ALL OF THIS COULD’VE BEEN PREVENTED IF MY IQ WAS 10 POINTS HIGHER.

What if Peeves has it? He would’ve said something by now, right? Probably would’ve taunted me by waving it in front of my face… everything seems normal.

Will saying “Accio Diary” pull it out of whomever’s grubby hands it’s currently in?

I miss you, Diary. Please come back to me.

Dear Notecard #3,

Tuesday

I genuinely don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I might give up, because Hogwarts is big and the amount of people that go here is even bigger, so it’s really a lost cause. I don’t think I wrote anything disgustingly intimate in there… besides you know what, but like that stuff is normal to a degree… my life is so over.

I need to get my mind off it. I’ll see if Ginny wants to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend, but tonight I gotta organize and clean out a bunch of stuff for Hugo.

Fred Weasley could not stop reading your journal entries. He mentally promised that the one accidental log would be it, but Fred Weasley was born nosy. Sticking his big nose in other people’s business was a guilty pleasure, and when the gossip came to him, practically served on a silver platter, Fred Weasley could not resist temptation.

For the first two days, right after picking you up from the library and a chatty dinner, he’d retreat to his dorm, flip to a random page, and start reading. Fred had learned a lot about you, more than he could ever imagine uncovering through regular conversation.

The guilt showed up as acid reflux on the third day; he hadn’t formulated a plan on how to safely return the journal, but being in possession of it was causing… minor distress to both parties.

Your eyes tended to wander into people’s backpacks and fly into every stack of books, hopeful of locating the missing diary. You jumped at the sound of your name, because you were agonized by the thought that someone knew something.

Paranoia, that’s what it was; but your intuition was following a breadcrumb trail, because that someone was Fred, and he knew way too many ‘somethings.’

I need to get rid of it, Fred ruminated. He anxiously looked around the Common Room; he was alone thankfully, but regretfully alienated in this particular endeavor.

The little black journal was hidden away in the messenger bag he clutched in his lap. Perhaps I can throw it into the lake or toss it into the fire! Watch my sins burn away! Fred bit down on his pointer finger’s nail; he felt it bend beneath his tooth and eventually tear away. He huffed and flicked it out of his mouth.

The portrait of the Fat Lady swung wide open with a pitchy squeal (from the painted subject, not the door), and Fred’s ginger head snapped towards the sound expectantly, but only found a short blonde carrying a folded up easel. Unfortunately, Fred couldn’t quite label that tanned face (um, perhaps Agatha? Or Sophie?), but he knew she was Ginny’s roommate.

He straightened his posture and peered over the couch. “Hey!” He called out. The girl’s eyes swept across the room, which was very empty, so she turned to Fred, curious. “D’you know where my sister is?” He asked.

She shrugged, “I dunno.” She pointed at the staircase to the Girls’ Dormitory. “But I can check, if you want.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “Please.”

A minute or two later, Ginny emerged with rows of pink curlers rolled up in her long fiery hair and a thin layer of green goo on her face.

Fred coughed with frazzled eyes at the sight of his sister. “What’s with the getup?”

“Self-care day,” Ginny bluntly answered. She cautiously tapped her cheek, checking the dryness of her clay mask. She begrudgingly crossed her arms. “What’d you want, Fred?”

“Have you seen Y/N?”

Ginny made an indescribable face (to Fred it was a mix between common suspicion and sisterly speculation). She shrugged; her irked brow stiff from the clay. “I don’t know… maybe check the Drama Club? Rehearsals are usually after school—,”

“What now?” Fred sputtered, standing up from the ancient couch. Since when did you do theater? How come he never heard about this?

His sister rolled her eyes. “Drama Club. Rehearsals. After school,” she repeated, as she turned back to the stairs.

Ginny had only taken a few steps towards colloquial freedom, before Fred blathered on, “We have one of those?”

Ginny kept ascending towards the dormitories. “Yes,” she reluctantly called out.

Fred frowned and his forehead creased with displeasure. You had never mentioned attending auditions or even considering joining the Drama Club to him! Nor did you even write about it in the diary— well, his brows furrowed, he wasn’t reading the entries chronologically.

Fred slid the thick strap of his bag onto his shoulder. He looked at wooden backings of the portrait-way. Drama Club it is then.

This was all messed up, Fred was firmly aware, but now he knew you reciprocated his feelings! The ends justify the means, right? Good things can come from Fred’s invasive and intrusive behavior!

Fred paled, as he pulled the painting open. Oh God, this is gonna end terribly, he concluded.

The Fat Lady watched him exit the stale Gryffindor Tower. She held out her crystal wine chalice. “Where you off to, troublemaker?” She mused lightheartedly.

The boy threw over his shoulder, “Just, uh, gotta fix some stuff.”

Her thin brown eyebrows quirked mischievously. “Fix?” She echoed, placing her drink down. She cackled and clapped her pink hands. “That’s new!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m constantly evolving— puberty and whatnot,” Fred waved his hand dismissively, and he ventured off deeper into the cold castle.

Fred passed through galleries, overhearing lower class men twittering on about bogus tarot readings and overdue assignments. Laggard complaints from Ravenclaw Quidditch players about the upcoming match drowned out the soft thuds of his footsteps.

No one knew he had your diary. Not even George.

Fred’s hand subconsciously patted the cracked leather skin of his bag (which was a hand-me-down from Charlie). He felt the rectangular shape press against his palm, affirming to him of its consistent existence.

When he passed by the library, he realized he didn’t know where the Drama Club was.

Shit.

His trainers squeaked when he came to such an abrupt halt. His stomach churned and his throat stung; he squinted down the long empty corridor. A figure was quickly approaching— one tall with long flaring black robes, stiffly squared shoulders and a snobby upturned nose.

“Percy!” Fred exclaimed, lightly jogging up to him.

It was the first time Fred appeared… happy when seeing his elder brother.

Downturned lines appeared on Percy’s elvish face. The Prefect was always displeased when seeing a Weasley twin.

“Yes?” Percy snootily answered, uncomfortably shifting weight on his feet.

“Where’s the Drama Club?” Fred inquired.

It was Percy’s big eyes that squinted this time. He crossed his skinny arms. “Why do you need to know?” Percy pressed.

“I need to drop something off for my friend.”

As a dignified Prefect, he was naturally inclined to answer. But as a human with a working memory, Percy was skeptical and reluctant to inform his brother.

The younger redhead automatically sensed the hesitancy. “I’m not lying, Percy,” Fred told him. “I honestly need to return a book.”

“Since when did you read?”

“Just tell me where,” Fred begged.

Percy rolled his eyes. “You’re not gonna stink-bomb their practice are you? I’ll write you up if I hear any—,”

Fred shook his head vigorously. He waved his hand, almost trying to erase the thought from his brother. “No no no,” Fred said. “I’m serious this time. I have to return something.”

Percy sighed— no, he huffed and scratched his eye in disdain. “Third floor, right across Professor Prentiss’ room,” the Prefect grumbled.

Fred tried not to eagerly smile. This might be the only time he was genuinely grateful for Percy’s birth. Fred clapped a hand on Percy’s shoulder. “Thanks,” he chirped, before swiftly brushing past.

The Drama Club room was hot. Everyone had shed a few woolen layers and taken the liberty of tying up hair or rolling up their sleeves. The windows were all popped open and atmospheric charms were cast maybe a billion times, but absolutely nothing worked. It was grotesquely humid and mildly sweaty to your chagrin.

You were scavenging through the bulging chests for old itchy costumes, as student volunteers dug through the piles of handmade foam props and stage furniture. You had come across earthy colored smocks to flared nylon pants. There were faux golden circlets, Viking helmets, steampunk goggles, fur hats, and snake wigs all crammed into various boxes.

You pulled out a long silver robe, thematically vague to its time period, but sheer and sparkly with dozens of diamond buttons down the front. You stood up and pressed it against your body.

You looked down at the glittery fabric and held out a large Marie sleeve. “Would this work for the Lady of the Lake?” You curiously threw out to the room.

Hugo’s attention flew over. The club president pushed up his little spectacles with one hand (the other was holding a tape measure). Hugo hummed, “Yes, that’ll do.”

“I wish it was longer; it’d be more whimsical,” Loretta mused from her wooden stool. Hugo motioned for her to hold out her arms. Loretta wordlessly complied, and the boy assessed the appropriate lengths for a new outfit. “Can my dress be blue?”

“It’s gonna be green,” Hugo snapped, before jotting down a few numbers into his notebook.

Loretta’s shoulder sagged. “But that’s so… ugh.”

Hugo rolled his eyes, “It’s a sensible color for Morgan.”

“But I’m so pale, it’ll wash me out and make me look sickly.”

Hugo gestured for her to step off the chair. “Even better!” He mocked.

“How about pink?” She offered.

“Absolutely not.” He looked at you and your newfound cloak. “Let me see that,” Hugo said, nodding for you to come hither. You brought the garment over, and the black haired boy scrunched his nose. “It might be too big; I’ll have to bring in the waist.” He turned to the whole room. “Did anyone find the crowns?”

“Yes, they’re on the table by the window,” you immediately answered. You pointed in their general direction, and Hugo spotted Desmond carefully checking the tiaras.

“I’ll take this off your hands,” Hugo said. You handed over the robe, and he continued, “There should be a moonstone crown. You’ll wear that one, alright?”

Desmond, looking at the aforementioned diadem, interrupted the two with a wince. “Half the gems fell off actually…” Desmond grumbled.

Hugo’s hand slapped his forehead. He groaned, “What about the star one then?”

Loretta stopped pairing old shoes. “Oh, I wanted that,” she sighed sadly from the floor.

Desmond reached across the table, picked it up, and gently turned it around in his large calloused hands. “It looks fine.”

Hugo turned back to you, “Star one it is.”

Knock knock knock.

The abrasive sound lured in everyone’s notice, but with the door already ajar and an infamous freckled face clearly peering in, the club president grew vexed.

“Weasley, get out!” Hugo barked. His long legs strode over to the door in seconds. He attempted to shoo Fred away, but the mischievous Beater’s eyes locked onto yours, and he motioned for you to meet him in the hall.

“We don’t need any production delays!” Hugo proclaimed exasperatedly, as you stepped around open crates and hopped over fake swords and lanterns.

“I’ll see what he wants,” you mumbled to Hugo, who averted his gaze and sniffled in satisfaction.

You pressed a warm hand against Fred’s firm chest and pushed him out of the Drama Club room. “What’re you doing here?” You asked him, once the door was shut.

The back of Fred’s throat stung, and he tried his best not to gag with his stomach acid partying. “Hey,” he sheepishly croaked. You raised a brow, and his hand shakily reached into his bag. “You forgot this in the library the other day,” Fred added, before presenting to you your very own diary.

You screamed and snatched it out of his hands.

He gave no fight, and your face paled before it began to burn with bewilderment. If it were possible, your face would be blue with humiliation.

“Did you read it?!” You screeched, clutching the diary close to your chest.

Fred stared at you dumbly. “No,” he said.

You gawked at him, speechless. Oh my God. He totally read it, you internally shrieked. Oh my God. Oh my God. It’s over. It’s all over.

Fred shrugged, “I just found it.”

LIAR! LIAR. LIAR. LIAR!

You stuttered breathlessly, “Did you— did you just—,” you gulped and sucked in a hasty breath. You shook with fury and cried, “DID YOU JUST HAVE IT THIS WHOLE TIME?!”

Fred cringed; his ears prickled at the shrill timbre of your voice. “Yes,” he admitted ashamedly.

You gasped, “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

“I’m sorry,” Fred managed to muster.

You smacked his arm with the journal, “What did you read? HUH? WHAT DID YOU READ?”

Fred yelped and clutched his “injured” bicep. You continued thwacking him. He hunched over, knees slightly bent and upper half concave. He tried to protect his head from the abuse. “I’m sorry! I am! I’m SO sorry!” Fred pleaded.

“Are you confessing to it?” You indignantly replied. With the warmth of the castle and the heat of your adrenaline, sweat pooled above your furrowed brow. “You STOLE and READ my diary?” You whacked the back of his head.

Fred squealed and flopped onto his stomach. He pushed himself onto his hands and knee and scampered out of your aim like a confused rat. The boy, cheeks flushed with eyes full of comedic fear, defensively held out his arms and stumbled onto his feet.

He yawped, “YES! I DID! You don’t have to forgive me; I definitely wouldn’t—,” You raised the book, ready to launch at his head, but Fred intuitively ducked before spewing, “PLEASE, DON’T THROW THAT AT ME!”

“Oh my God,” you defeatedly weeped. You lowered the diary, deflated of purpose and reason (Fred tried not to audibly sigh with relief, but he was very grateful it wasn’t becoming a flying projectile).

Another friendship ruined, you thought, this was practically betrayal. It didn’t hurt as much as Nelina, but, God, it was weirdly barbaric. You couldn’t find it in yourself to look at him— you wanted to (really really wanted to), because you secretly yearned for relishing in his guilt, but his youthful charm and gorgeous looks were sure to inadvertently sway whatever verdict you had in mind.

Fred watched your empty hand cover your eyes with dramatic dejection. “It’s not that bad,” Fred timidly suggested. He boldly took a half step closer, foolishly hopeful you’d let him console you.

You crossed your arms, diary tucked under an armpit. You glared at him, “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Weasley.”

Last name. Ouch. If this were under… normal circumstances, he’d jokingly wipe a tear from his cheek, but he knew, for certain, doing so would send him to a very early grave.

“Look on the bright side…?” Fred meekly proposed.

“Don’t tell me how to feel,” you spat.

Fred weighed all his limited options; he hypothesized all the outcomes (he had imagined them on his walk to the Drama Club), but none were sufficient enough.

Fred frowned and took a few more steps toward you. “Listen, I’m truly sorry about this whole thing,” he sighed.

“Thanks,” you retorted, in your iconic sarcastic tone.

He apprehensively gauged your reaction (which obviously wasn’t pleasant; you were ready to punch him). “But you’d never have told me all that stuff on your own,” Fred stated.

“I don’t want to ruin what we have.”

He awkwardly used his fingers to comb through his hair, before he offered a pained, small, idiotic but boyish smile. “Then you’d never know what we could,” Fred reasoned lightheartedly. “And you’d never find out that I like you back.”

You stared up at him, impressively boggled, and possessed by thorough uncertainty. A surreal emotion burst in your chest like a water balloon. “What?” You whispered, as unannounced joy oozed into your veins.

“Yeah,” he reaffirmed, softly gazing down at your face. “You’re lucky I’m so invasive. I mean, if I wasn’t, it’d save me a few head injuries—,”

You laughed, and your heart fluttered. It spun, danced and somersaulted. Oh my God. “Lucky? Me?” You rephrased, baffled.

He nodded with a coy smirk on his blushing lips. “Yeah— you’re also lucky that I play Quidditch. Any other guy would’ve been knocked out from your blows— but what I’m saying is that we’d never have this conversation without me finding that little diary of yours.”

You scoffed, “Am I supposed to thank you?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed.”

You cackled, “Oh, you are vain!”

“You’re into it, and we have written evidence!” Fred defended.

You sighed wistfully, “Oh my days…”

“C’mon, talk to me; I’m right here.”

Being the person in Fred’s fixed observation was a strangely heavy burden to carry. Your eyes darted to the Drama Club room. As much as you loved the revelation, “I have things to do,” you reminded him. “I’ve already been out here a while. Hugo’s gonna be pissed.”

He rolled his eyes. “Real convenient.” Fred flexed his arms subtly (he wouldn’t be surprised if he found some bruises later), as they intersected over his puffed up chest. “We’ll talk later then. No use in hiding; I know where you usually go.”

You nodded (and tried to hide your amusement, for his confidence and ego was certainly unmatched). You put a hand over your heart. “Scout’s honor,” you pledged. “Now, GO AWAY!”

Dear Diary,

Wednesday

There’s a lot to process. Like A LOT a lot. You go missing for three days and my whole life unravels and almost collapses inward… crazy stuff. Hugo was a little annoyed since I talked to Fred for so long, whatever (they also heard me assaulting him in the hallway… Amber was scared, no big deal), sorted out my costume (got the shoes, dress, crown, sword yada yada) BUT THIS THING WITH FRED WEASLEY. He is TRIFLING. Absolutely TRIFLING.

I don’t know if you know this, but you were BOOKNAPPED by that redheaded SCOUNDREL. He kept you for THREE DAYS and thinks he can waltz into play prep to return you without any consequences. If it wasn’t a crime, I would’ve murdered him. And if I didn’t have compromising feelings.

The craziest detail— besides the fact he casually READ MY FUCKING DIARY— is that he also FANCIES ME. He tried to emotionally manipulate me into believing this whole charade was beneficial (it kinda was), but that doesn’t excuse the fact he BROKE my TRUST and INVADED my PRIVACY.

He was my friend before he was some lame love interest, so naturally I already set some standards for him to follow; standards that him and most of my other friends were issued. Standards that he totally DEMOLISHED in three days.

I don’t even know if I wanna go into further detail. What if I lose you again? What if the next peeping tom prints my entries in the newspaper? For the whole world to see?

I’ll have to ask Hermione for a concealer spell to ensure this NEVER happens again. I need to put a tracker inside the cover or hex the pages to burn when opened by a stranger. I need to do SOMETHING.

I hate knowing that he read stuff and has opinions about opinions I didn’t share with him. He knows too much about me now. He could’ve misinterpreted a bunch of things and think I’m mad. What am I gonna do???

You were gonna talk to Ginny; that’s what. It was the most logical course to take, because 1) she was in on the search and 2) her scheming redheaded brother was the red-handed culprit.

With paranoia at an astronomical all-time high, the little black journal made its way with you to Ginny’s dormitory. It carried within its thin leaflets the same giddiness, reluctancy, and indifference you felt, as you rapped on the door.

“Ginny,” you greeted, when the dewy face emerged. You lightly gasped at her bright appearance. “Your hair!” You awed.

Delicate strawberry locks rolled onto Ginny’s confident shoulders like waves. She giggled and pretended to toss her hair flirtatiously. “Just wanted to try something new,” she said.

“I like this look,” you approvingly commented. “You should’ve done this for the Yule Ball!”

“Thanks, but the back is a bloody mess,” Ginny lightheartedly indulged with a regretful head shake. She snorted at herself, “I didn’t have enough fashion sense back then.”

She waved you into the room. “What’s up?” Ginny casually asked, before sitting down on her bed.

You shut the door (which was thin, so it didn’t do much) behind you and rotated a nearby desk chair around til it faced her. Your eyes theatrically closed, and you placed a tender hand on your chest. You sucked in an exhausted breath and stashed your diary flat on the table.

Ginny chuckled at the sight. “Oh boy.”

“Good news is,” you began, slowly peeling your eyelids open. Your friend perked up with anticipation. “I found my diary,” you continued in a whisper-shout.

Her jaw dropped, and she straightened, as her eyes darted to the desk. “No way! Where was it??”

“Ughhhh,” you grunted. You annoyedly laughed at yourself and leaned your head against the top of the chair. “You’re actually never gonna believe me. It’s so bad.”

“Tell me!” Ginny urged.

You craned your head and stared her in the eye. “Fred stole it.”

Her face dropped. “No bloody way.”

“Yes, way.” You leaned forward, “He had it this whole time, Ginny—,”

“No!”

“— he read my entries, Ginny.”

“NO!”

“I was furious.”

“I’m furious for you,” Ginny huffed. She tautly folded her arms below her bosom and crossed her legs. “How’d you find out?”

“He showed up to play prep, gave it back, and tried to tell me it wasn’t a big deal.”

“That’s why he asked me where you were,” Ginny realized. She lamented, “He’s so stupid. He’s so stupid.” She flopped backward into her mattress. “Oh Merlin. What the bloody hell is wrong with him?”

“But it’s fine,” you said, to which Ginny bolted up, gawking at you. “I beat him up,” you added triumphantly. “He had it coming.”

“He had it coming…!” Ginny echoed with astonishment. Straight out of, uh, what did Hermione call it? It was like a long version of a wizard photograph— muggle picture? No… a motion picture.

“I wish I was there to see it,” she declared earnestly. “It sounds like a novel.” Admittedly, she mostly wanted to see her brother withering in pain.

The remaining undisclosed information was the most enticing. You leaned toward Ginny and held out an open palm, practically sparking with explosive anticipation. The innocuously took it in her own and gave you her ear.

“You know what he tells me right when I stop hitting him?” You rhetorically questioned.

“No…?”

“He says that if he wasn’t a little snoop… I’d never find out that he. liked. me. back.”

As if your hand was a burning blob of coal, Ginny released it with a terrified scream. She sprang onto her feet.

“WHAT?! WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?” Ginny wheezed, as if she’d been electrocuted. “He— you— Fred— YOU FANCY HIM? MY BROTHER?”

“Yes!”

Ginny paced and ruminated in wobbly ellipses. “AND HE FANCIES YOU?”

“YES!”

Her toned arms went akimbo with curls bouncing like springy coils, she was manufacturing her own personal understanding of the situation.

She grumbled incoherently (along the lines of Fred “dying a virgin” (you tried not to laugh)). Ginny occasionally shared a few strings of words (“his hygiene has been too good,” “overdoing lame jokes,” “showing off at practice”).

But her mental math wasn’t adding up. You + her brother = in love apparently? How did this happen under her nose? Where was she this whole time?

Her pacing came to a slow halt. “So… are you guys dating now?” Ginny inquired cautiously.

“No, am I supposed to ask for your blessing or something?” You harmlessly joked.

“If anything, it would be George’s.” She rolled her eyes right before she knelt down and grabbed dirty articles of clothing from the floor. “I’m totally fine with you guys dating, but he’s bloody insufferable sometimes, so you need to be prepared for that.”

A shy snicker managed to escape your glossy lips. “He’s not that bad,” you haggled, before picking up your diary. You carefully stood up and stretched your dormant arms with a cautious crack. “I probably should find him now; he wanted to have a proper talk.”

Ginny grinned, “He’s a procrastinator, so better start planning the wedding now.”

You lightly pushed her shoulder, “Oh, stop it!”

The cold doorhandle met your warm palm, and right before you left, Ginny hastily added, “By the way, my parents said they’d love to have you over for Easter. And I just got my learner’s permit, so I could totally take us to the beach in the flying car!”

Logically, the first step in tracking down the elusive Fred Weasley was to check the dormitory. While the stairs to the girls’ quarters were enchanted to contort into a slide if a boy stepped on it, there was no consequence vice versa. A few conflicting feelings brewed in your head about the overall concept, but who were you to complain, if it was beneficial right now?

The long narrow hallway smelled of smoke, dust, and minty pest repellant (which was unsurprising to you, given the nature of Gryffindor guys). Crooked nails had been drilled deep into the grey brick wall, a simple assistant to the heavy medieval tapestries hanging.

The floorboards squeaked beneath your soles (or maybe it was anxious mice), but through the thin dark doors, you could make out distant boisterous talking, some rigorous quill scratching or mellow music by The Beatles or Jarvey and the Mandrakes (one of Ginny’s favorite bands; she was very upset when she couldn’t see them on tour last year).

On each door was a golden plaque inscribed with all its “tenants.” You carefully strolled through, trying to spot an F. Weasley in boxy font.

Plan A: If Fred’s alone, you guys will have a heart-to-heart chat (or as close as Fred can humbly get). Whatever the verdict is, you promise to outwardly be civil. You knew, most definitely, that you’d be forever heartbroken if he didn’t want anything serious.

Plan B: If Fred’s not alone, then you’ll try to pull him out to talk somewhere else. This option was more likely; there’s not a lot of places to go after school and club activities.

At the very end of the corridor on the right, second plaque from the bottom, was F. Weasley. There were 3 other nameplates, you already knew he roomed with his twin and Lee Jordan, but you weren’t certain on K. Towler. You raised a balled up fist, ready to knock,

“OH! BLOODY HELL!” A shrill voice interjected (you became… perplexed). “Are you sure you’re applying the same amount of pressure??” He whined through gritted teeth (it was the man of the hour, Fred Weasley, you realized).

Lee dropped something on a wooden surface and barked back mockingly, “Shut up, you big baby! Maybe you shouldn’t have gotten your ass kicked.”

“That injury is completely irrelevant to this!” Fred snapped back.

“You willingly play as a Beater, and you’re complaining about THIS? This is NOTHING!”

“We could’ve been done twenty minutes ago, mate,” George quipped.

Enough eavesdropping— you politely struck your hand against the door.

“Go get that, George,” Lee commanded.

The other redheaded Gryffindor Beater appeared, unnecessarily tall and watery-eyed. He had ridden himself of his sweater and tie, and the top of his button-up was unfastened.

He had opened up just enough space to fit his large stature in the entryway; you could barely see into the room.

George raised a brow at your sudden appearance.“Someone’s here to see wee ol’ Freddie?” George teased gently.

You propped yourself onto your toes and peered over the boy’s shoulder. At the same time, Fred had craned his neck and spotted the top of your hair.

He was lying on his bed, hands behind his head (one was pressing an icepack against his skull), and very very shirtless. Lee sat on a stool, hunched over, holding a chopstick that had a needle taped at the end. On the nightstand was an ink cartridge, alcohol wipes and tissues.

Fred blushed and your feet fell flat on the ground. George moved, letting you brush past him, before he shut the door. A dormant furnace occupied the middle of the room, and in each corner was a red canopy bed (half were neatly made). Fred and Lee were set up on the far end of the dorm, right next to the big window.

Lee stopped poking Fred with the makeshift tattoo gun. “Did you want one as well?” He asked you.

“How many have you done?”

George snorted and leaned against a waxy post at the end of Fred’s bed.

“First time actually,” Lee answered.

At least he didn’t do Nelina’s. “No thanks, I’m good,” you sheepishly rejected. “I just wanted to check up on him,” you added, vaguely gesturing towards Fred’s direction.

You cautiously stood on Fred’s left, directly across from Lee and wary of interfering with his “work.” Peering over Fred to see his in-progress tattoo was unexpectedly difficult for you, because he was… distractingly built.

You didn’t want to objectify him, but oh my God. You always thought Fred was on the leaner side, but apparently the Hogwarts uniform concealed a lot.

Fred was rather stocky for someone his height. His arms were subtly flexed and bulging with muscles considering his current position. Bloody hell, his chest was big and his stomach was perfectly toned— you wanted to poke and prod at him, especially his Apollo’s belt.

Your eyes darted to the small strip of skin (below his right armpit, on the side of his ribs) where Lee was inking. There was a blue template of words he was outlining— only “Mischief Man” was completed so far.

“‘Mischief Managed’?” You lightly questioned.

Fred licked his lips and uncomfortably shifted his legs. “George and I are getting matching ones,” he explained.

“Cute,” You approvingly nodded. You glanced at his brother, who cheerily winked.

“How about me?”

There was a light copper happy trail leading into his waistband. Now, you desperately wished you two were alone.

“Don’t push it,” you blurted.

Lee and George gave each other a look.

“You said we needed to talk,” you said.

“We can talk now,” Fred offered.

“Pretend I’m not even here,” Lee mumbled, intensely fixated on the small tattoo.

“We aren’t here,” George corrected.

You stood up straight, hands casually hidden behind your back. “I dunno about that.”

“How about after my tattoo’s done?” Fred suggested. “Max fifteen minutes? You can just hang out with us for a little bit.”

Once Lee wiped away the excess ink, Fred sat up, grabbed his dress shirt, as George was taking off his own.

Fred raised his arm and inquisitively looked down at his new tattoo. He grinned at his twin, “Mum cannot find out, or we’re so dead.”

“What’s she gonna do?” George rhetorically scoffed.

“Get Charlie to sear it off,” Fred retorted playfully. He got out of bed and tenderly grabbed your arm with his unoccupied hand. He guided you towards the door with faithful nudges, as he weaved his arms through the sleeves.

Both of you went out into the hallway, and it suddenly felt a lot more narrow than before. “Let’s talk,” Fred said quietly, crossing his arms.

“Alright. Where do we start?” You chuckled, leaning against a scratched doorframe.

He shrugged meekly, “We like each other. There’s only one plausible option.”

Fred hadn’t bothered to fasten any of the buttons, giving you a premium viewing of his torso. You swallowed and tried not to ogle. “I guess so; it’s worth a shot,” you agreed.

“I promise I’ll make it worth every second,” Fred cockily smirked. He unwittingly licked his soft pink lips. “You coming over for Easter?”

Your voice wavered with reluctant uncertainty. “My parents will probably be okay with it, so yeah. Most likely.” You giggled, “This is like the millionth time someone’s asked me.”

“Very popular girl,” he mused teasingly. “Hopefully mine starting today?” Fred giddily urged.

Your heart fluttered, and all you could muster was a shy nod in consent. “Yeah…,” you quietly confirmed.

Fred pulled you close by the shoulder; he tilted your chin slightly and introduced his warm mouth to yours. It felt like lightning the way it was so spontaneous and had completely lit up your face.

Fred pulled away slowly and smiled. The hand on your shoulder slithered onto your neck affectionately. “You can go write about this later,” Fred whispered. You scoffed. “Dear Diary…” he began.

You attempted to frown (how can you be mad at that face?). “I’m never writing again, as long as you’re alive,” you said.

His eyes stayed locked on yours. He added wistfully, “… I almost drooled when I saw Fred Weasley shirtless today.”

You pushed him. “I’m gonna kill you.”

“I couldn’t stop gawking at his rippling muscles!”

“Oh, stop it!” You groaned, “I would never say that!”

“But it happened, don’t deny it.” Fred laughed and kissed you again.

tags: @adhara-the-star @badbclub @calkestiswife @amethyst-sunrise-cinnamon-dusk @un1dusk @lulunix15 @gabriellewood @s3d-mushroom @largar

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

dusktildawn