Watched the Michael movie a few days ago because 1) its Michael fricking Jackson hello? And 2) JAAFAR YOU ABSOLUTE EYE CANDY UGHH CUTIE PATOOTIE, with his sparkling eyes, that beautiful SMILE and the charisma!
Safe to say im adding Jaafar to the list of lomls fr❤️❤️❤️
The actual movie was really good I had so much fun singing alone, I kid you not yall I was shaking with excitement when thr movie started.
The cinema i watched it in was very shitty tho, the sound was muffled and the projector was trash and the audience was dead silent until me and my friend/sisters started clapping and singing/cheerkng loudly
I really wanna rewatch it again with a better experience
you vent in your diary, and, one day, fred weasley accidentally reads some entries and tries to nonchalantly return it.
♪ ─── warnings: mentions of petty teenage drama (not that important), diary entries are overdramatic (pent up rage) and cringe bc it’s a teen diary, established friends, friends to lovers, medium paced burn, swearing, brief mentions of sex + mentions of a past crush, have not read or seen the movies in like 50 yrs, this reminds me of that old tiktok trend “u left ur diary at my house”, made up friend group w/non important oc’s, bsf w ginny, soft!fred(?)
♪ ─── word count: 3k-ish (wish tumblr had a wc 💔)
part two
Dear Diary,
Monday
NELINA IS A FUCKING LIAR. I KISSED LIAM ONCE. ONE FUCKING TIME ON HALLOWEEN, BECAUSE THE FEELINGS WERE MUTUAL AND THIS STUPID CUNT IS TELLING PEOPLE WE HAD SEX IN THE PREFECT LAVATORY.
I HAVE NEVER EVEN HELD HANDS WITH LIAM. HE WAS A CUTE HALLWAY CRUSH TO GET ME OUT OF BED AND TO CLASS. I LIKED HIM BUT I DIDN’T PROPERLY FANCY LIAM. WE KISSED, PASSED A FEW NOTES, STOLE A FEW GLANCES, BUT WE NEVER EVER HAD SEX. OH MY DAYS. SHE IS INSANE.
I FUCKING TRUSTED HER. IT WASN’T A BIG DEAL— IT’S JUST A KISS— BUT SHE’S MAKING IT ONE. YOU KNOW HOW I FOUND OUT? BECAUSE NELINA TOLD ABBY, AND ABBY TOLD ME. I’M GONNA KILL HER. I HATE HER AND HER STUPID SISTER. I SEND PLAGUES ON HER HOUSE. CURSE HUFFLEPUFFS. THEY ARE ALL EVIL. NEVER TRUST A HUFFLEPUFF.
Dear Diary,
Tuesday
Whatever, it’s fine. I’m sure my peers are competent to decipher that RUMOURS aren’t FACTS. But there’s always IDIOTS who believe ANYTHING.
I don’t even know if it’s worth clearing my name, but I asked Liam if he heard anything about it. He did… from his friends... I almost died, but I knew it was important to clarify some things. It wasn’t a big deal to him, but he promised to confront Nelina tomorrow. We’ll see. I don’t want to deal with her; she better stay out of my way.
Ginny suggested voting her out of the friend group. She’s always been problematic; I think we’ve just normalized her behavior. I highly doubt something will be done about Nelina. Ginny, Abby and I are going to Hogsmeade this weekend. Obviously, a certain somebody wasn’t invited— wasn’t even told— and we’d like to keep it that way. I am guiltless and ready to splurge. I need new stationary and some sweets.
Dear Diary,
Wednesday
SHE THINKS SHE’S COOL WITH HER STICK AND POKE TATTOOS. IT GOT INFECTED AFTER TWO DAYS, AND I WAS THE ONE THAT OFFERED OINTMENT FOR IT.
“Oh, your tattoos are so beautiful! What does it mean?”
“Wow, I can’t believe you didn’t get it professionally done; it looks mint!”
IT’S THREE TINY FUCKING DAISIES. THERE’S NO MEANING. IT’S JUST STUPID FUCKING FLOWERS. YOU CAN ABSOLUTELY TELL THEY WERE DONE IN THE SCHOOL LAVATORY. THEY ARE ALL BLOWING SMOKE UP HER ARSE. IF I HEAR SOMEONE COMMENT ON THOSE ABOMINATIONS ONE MORE TIME, I AM BLOWING UP HOGWARTS.
I’m so done with her; I don’t care, truly, I don’t. I’ve always helped her with Divination and Charms— she’s never said thank you or acknowledged my efforts, because students then ask her for assistance, and she tells them that it’s all in the book. Books she didn’t obviously read, because I’m the one doing the work. Never again; I’m never helping her. I’d rather have a Horntail burn off my skin and leave me alive than be in the same
“There you are,” a honeyed tenor voice mused. The words swam from soft lips to your ear so delicately that you almost tuned him out— Fred, endlessly freckled, with his arms crossed in lighthearted disbelief, was observing you. Shoulders tensely hunched, mad black scribbling, quill ready to snap beneath your fingers… you looked insane.
His presence had prickled your overly passionate rumination and burst whatever frothing train of thought you had. The emotions, however, still lingered strongly, or you assumed so, because Fred anxiously glanced down at your bouncing leg. Seeing him was peculiar, not because he was in a library, where’s he’s been notoriously blacklisted, but because none of Ginny’s siblings ever sought you out.
You relaxed your hand and dispatched the quivering quill. “You were looking for me?” You asked him. Your fingers began throbbing.
Fred casually shrugged. He enveloped his large pallid hands into his trouser pockets. “Ginny drafted George and I to help find you,” he answered. “You’ve missed dinner three times this week, mate. She was getting a little worried… something going on?”
“Huh?” You blinked away the automatic response. Your brain quickly processed his inquiries, and you suddenly felt a mild dowse of embarrassment. You nervously licked your lips. “No, sorry. I was just caught up with, uh, revising,” you sheepishly explained.
You weren’t lying. The first two hours spent in the library were dedicated to studying (reminder: arithmetic test tomorrow!). Coincidentally, the following break was the ever time consuming therapeutic journaling.
“You sure?” Fred pressured. He began to inch closer, and you swiftly pulled loose papers over your diary. His back leaned against the adjacent desk. It creaked beneath his shifty weight. “I won’t tell my sister if that’s what you’re worried about.” Fred added with a reassuring smile, “I have six siblings. Trust me, I know how to keep a secret.”
“I promise you: I’m fine,” you invariably said. “I simply lost track of time!”
He earnestly accepted your answer with a nod. “Well,” Fred began. “If you hurry, you might be able to catch a bite or two,” he finished with a humble, tight-lipped smile.
Your leather messenger bag was like the mouth of a tornado, fiendishly sucking in parchment. “Thanks, Fred,” you orated, as you mismatched papers to notebooks and hurriedly stashed writing equipment into a pouch.
The lanky ginger shrugged nonchalantly. “Don’t mention it. I’ll tell Ginny I found you in the library— just head down to the Great Hall, alright?”
“Thank you,” you repeated, swinging the swollen bag over your shoulder.
Dear Diary,
Friday
Nelina found out we’ve been hanging out without her; at first, she showed no sign of aggression. This was TERRIBLY wrong to assume. She reported Ginny and I for BULLYING, and McGonagall sat us down after lunch to discuss. It was embarrassing to explain that she was the one spreading rumors about ME. McGonagall didn’t realize the full extent and promised to further investigate before she takes any action.
Ginny must’ve told her brothers, because later that day, during Charms, Fred (I think…) came up to me. Said he felt bad, blah blah blah. I said it was fine, he made a dumb joke to lighten the mood, and offered me gum. I did NOT eat it for my safety.
Dear Diary,
Saturday
I just checked the past few entries, and Nelina The Devil truly has consumed my life. I’m gonna attempt to limit mentions of her (mostly petty inconveniences she causes), but I’ll record major updates.
I’m debating whether or not I should audition for the play. There’s not a lot of info, but I don’t really wanna approach any of the members… I wasn’t aware Hogwarts even had a funded Drama Club… how much does the Ministry of Magic give to us? Why do we only have one janitor? No offense but one janitor isn’t efficient enough to keep a CASTLE clean. I’m pretty sure he can’t even do magic. What is he paid to do??
Dear Diary,
Sunday
My parents sent me sweets!! (And a letter: very thoughtful.) I received a parcel full of fizzy dummies, foam strawberries and bonbons!!! I’m gonna have to ration these.
Wizard sweets are fun and all, but I don’t always want steam blowing out my nose or my skin turning green. Muggle candy may be “boring” (according to Fred and George, as they were there when I opened the package), but it’s straight to the point, sensible, and I don’t want too much happening in my mouth. Ginny got Elephant on a Bicycle candies from Ron for us to try. I am not too keen on the roaring or squealing. Did not enjoy.
Dear Notecard,
Monday
Nelina Satan hexed my shoes to self-walk into walls and people. I’ve collided into a window, Professor Trelawney, Luna Lovegood, and Cedric Diggory. Fred is loaning me his Quidditch sneakers. They absolutely do not fit, so I’m writing this as Fred is shoving extra socks into the insole.
“Here we go,” Fred mused tenderly. He stayed crouching but held up the brown waxy trainers for viewing. You were lucky the Boys’ Locker Room was on the way to Arithmancy, and you were lucky Fred was being so generous.
“You’re just like a cobbler,” you joked, sliding off the loggia railing. You accepted the sneakers graciously. “Thank you so much. You’re a life saver!” You gushed, pocketing the sticky note.
Inside the shoes were two pairs of bunched up socks, crammed against the toe with “padding” around the heel. It was a decrepit and juvenile attempt at tailoring but still much appreciated.
Fred nodded in agreement. “I am,” he restated happily. His arms naturally found themselves akimbo. “Go on, Cinderella, try them on!” He teasingly urged.
Carefully, you placed them down on the cracked stone tiles and cautiously slid your clothed foot inside. The weight was entirely foreign to your ankle; you gently rolled it side to side, testing the waters and finding the extra cushioning beneficial. In went the other foot, so you took baby steps and a small jump. The soles clapped against the hard floor like thunder.
Fred laughed and covered half his face with a large freckled hand. He sighed softly, “But I’ll need them back by the end of the day. I have practice after school.”
“Of course.” You fished out the sticky note and turned it onto the blank side. “I’ll meet you here?” You offered, extracting a pencil.
Fred’s gaze wistfully drifted into the courtyard. “Sure,” he shrugged. He cockily added, “You might as well stay and watch my athletic feats.”
You wanted to roll your eyes but settled for a judgmental side glance instead. “We’ll see,” you retorted before scribbling a footnote.
REMINDER: RETURN SHOES AND GLUE THIS INTO DIARY.
“But…” Fred leaned against a column and crossed his arms. You instinctively looked up at the sound of his voice with innocuous anticipation. “It’s the least you can do.” He added suggestively, “I did you a solid favor after all.”
Your attention rightfully returned to the flimsy sticky note, unknowingly pending on a verdict. You gave him no response, but you included in your To-Do list: QUIDDITCH PRACTICE.
Dear Diary,
Monday (officially documented)
They’re already halfway??? through (unashamedly forgot about my “promise” to Fred— I really needed to finish up that Potions essay), but it’s a lovely day out. Ginny gave me an old pair of trainers.
Is it better to arrive late rather than leave early? Doesn’t really matter, I guess, because I cleared out a lot of homework. I’ve brought foam strawberries to snack on.
They’re flying so fast and so far away— it’s hard to identify who’s who.
Fred MIGHT be #6. I don’t know…
I’ve attended one Quidditch game, the student turnout was very high, but I highly doubt it’s replicated every match.
EEEEEEEEP! was the shrill battlecry of the silver whistle. With great fervor, training officially concluded, and the whole Gryffindor team cheered for a job well done.
A small sprinkle of Slytherin Quidditch players had watched practice (solely to scope out the competition), but they immediately disbanded. Members of the Oliver Wood Fan Club were quickly dispersing from the stands into the arena, hopeful that they’d catch a closer look at the overworked captain.
Proper practice attendee etiquette was unclear. Were you to simply leave? Or should you meet up with a certain redhead to give compliments and inputs?
All the players swooped down to the ground and swiftly dismounted their flying brooms— all except one.
Fred Weasley flew up to the rickety bleachers with hair thoroughly tussled by wind. He had peeled the dark goggles off his brow til they hung loosely around his neck. “Didn’t think you’d actually show,” he grinned teasingly. Perspiration collected on his face, but his cheeks were red as if roses had kissed them.
“Didn’t know if I should,” you sallied, as you stood up.
“You think it was worth it?”
You shrugged and rested your arms atop the railings, “Sure.”
He furrowed his dark brows and cackled. “You don’t follow Quidditch, do you?” Fred asked.
“These are a lot of questions, Weasley. Where was this energy in class?”
“Never too worried about it,” Fred boasted. With the back of his hand, he swept away the accumulated sweat off his face. He earnestly added, “At least I got you out of that dingy old library.”
Dear Diary,
Tuesday
I can tell who is who when they’re separated (somehow, I don’t know, but I also don’t address them by name just in case), but they’re rarely ever alone, so I NEVER know who is who. I’m 95% sure that it’s Fred who’s been talking to me… We have some classes together without George, so I’m 1000% affirmative for those moments.
I overheard Ron saying someone requested the elves to make Italian tonight. We’ll see if that request was honoured. I need some cheesy lasagna.
Also, I fixed my shoes.
Dear Diary,
Wednesday
Fred stopped by yesterday to remind me about dinner again— I got there just before food was served! I squeezed in between Hermione and Angelina.
Tonight, I had some chickpea curry, roasted potatoes, and pork chops. It was heavenly. Ginny, Fred and George sat before me. One of them (I’m unsure who) flung a chickpea at me, which deflected OFF OF MY FOREHEAD and landed on Hermione’s plate. Surprised is an understatement; Hermione was BAFFLED.
Dear Sticky Note,
Thursday
NELINA “ACCIDENTALLY” POURED A MYSTERIOUS CONCOCTION ON ME. I DON’T FUCKING KNOW WHAT’S IN IT, BUT MY SKIN STARTED TO STING, SO I’M WRITING THIS IN THE BATHROOM. SNAPE SAID I SHOULD GO TO THE INFIRMARY, BUT I REFUSE TO SHOW WEAKNESS.
Dear Sticky Note #2,
Still Thursday
I got 2nd-3rd degree burns, and Nelina got detention. Her parents are being contacted according to Fred (who just came to visit me). He witnessed the whole incident and felt sorry for me. Nelina got 100 points deducted from Hufflepuff. Madame Pomfrey’s making an herbal ointment to apply to my stomach.
Dear Diary,
Friday
Ginny and Abby felt terrible and have officially excommunicated Nelina from the friendgroup. I wasn’t there for the break-up, because I had to tell Prof. Sprout my account of the “accident.” She’s getting suspended for 10 days. My parents heard about it and sent more sweets. Ginny gave me red velvet cookies (I don’t know where they were sourced, but it was delicious). Life is good.
Dear Diary,
Saturday
I think I know the physical difference between Fred and George. Fred’s nose is a little straighter, while George’s got a slight curve to it. It’s not very helpful, because it’s only visible in their side profiles. Ginny said George’s eyes are a little bit bigger, but I don’t see it.
Fred’s been coming to the library everyday. When he has Quidditch practice, he immediately showers after. He must be aggressively lathering himself up with soap, because I can smell him before he’s in view.
He always walks me down to the Great Hall, we’ve gotten pretty close. Who knew Fred Weasley was allergic to pistachios? I wonder what we’ll talk about today.
Knock knock.
“I’m comforted by the fact you’re a creature of habit, but disturbed by your lack of socialization,” Fred mused airily. He retracted his balled up fist from the wood desk and crossed his muscled arms. “Writing anything interesting, Shakespeare?”
You dramatically groaned, shut your journal, and leaned back into the chair. Your arms were stretched high above your head and you yawned obnoxiously. “Nothing you’d understand,” you said.
Fred sarcastically rolled his eyes and pulled out a seat. “Then it must be rubbish,” he accused. “You know I’m one to indulge in high literary merit.”
“Do I?” You rhetorically tested. You scooted your chair outward to face Fred properly. He mimicked you before crossing his legs. “Have you ever read Beowulf?”
He scoffed and pretended to wave the question off. “I know all there is about werewolves,” he said.
“Beowulf isn’t about werewolves,” you giggled.
He exaggeratedly frowned, but the small curves of his lips couldn’t resist smiling. “Is that one of your muggle books?”
“Yes,” you confirmed.
“Any good?”
You shook your head. “Absolutely not.”
Dear Diary,
Saturday night
“Fred, why’ve you been so hygienic recently?” Ron asks— his mouth is absolutely crammed with food. He’s like a chipmunk. We only understood this sentence, because Hermione made him repeat it properly after swallowing.
George gives Fred this weird look and then looks at me.
“You only think it’s ‘so’ because you barely maintain yourself, mate,” Fred quips.
We weren’t laughing AT Ron, but it was funny. Ron blushes, “Whatever.”
The previous and following conversations don’t really matter— it’s this specific moment that bothers me for some unknown reason. George’s glance at me feels unwarranted. He knows something that I don’t. It’s making me paranoid.
Does he think I smell? DO I SMELL?? I only shower at night, because I don’t want to go to class with wet hair. Should I be showering twice???
Dear Diary,
Sunday
I took a shower this morning AND THEN I RAN INTO FRED. I’ll give a very brief summary of our… interaction.
I exit the washrooms holding all my toiletries, dirty clothes and damp towel. I bump into Fred, who’s heading to the showers, also holding a bunch of things. We awkwardly apologize and then
Fred: are you doing anything later today?
Me: no, why?
Fred: do you want to go to Hogsmeade with me?
Me: just you?
I thought this was an appropriate question to ask, but Fred makes a weird face.
Fred: yeah…
I take a second too long to think and he makes another strange expression.
Me: sure
Fred: after lunch?
Me: yeah, sounds good
And then we part ways.
I’m gonna get changed. I’ll record how it went if anything notable happens.
Dear Diary,
Sunday night
I need time to ruminate in silence.
Dear Diary,
Tuesday
We went to Madame Puddifoot’s for coffee. It wasn’t a date, I know it wasn’t, but it just felt so… nice? I don’t know. Everything we did felt like something a couple would do. Maybe. I mean, Madame Puddifoot’s is THE hotspot for dates, but I don’t think Fred meant it like that.
I might just be tricking myself or overanalyzing things, but the concept of, I guess, dating Fred just kept haunting me the whole day.
I FEEL GROSS. THAT’S MY BEST FRIEND’S BROTHER. BUT I CAN’T HELP IT?? MAYBE?
Like… what if? You know? What if I just want him to smile at me? Or hold my hand? And take me on dates?
I think I’m just super lonely.
BUT HE’S CUTE? AND I MIGHT HAVE A CRUSH ON HIM?
He’s so tall and handsome; he’s athletic and charming and he’s so thoughtful and sweet. He doesn’t need to get me for dinner, but he does. Ginny doesn’t even do that, and we’re closer friends (this isn’t a diss, just I’m old enough to know better and to take care of myself but he’s just considerate enough to show up anyway?). He definitely didn’t need to give me his trainers nor did he need to help me un-jinx mine. BUT I DON’T KNOW? It feels wrong, but there’s logistically no reason for it to… right?
Dear Diary,
Wednesday
I don’t want to fancy him. I CANNOT LIKE HIM. He’s just not my vibe. I’m practical, and he’s very… flamboyant. Plus, it would make things between Ginny and I strange— especially if Fred and I broke up. I come over to The Burrow on holiday all the time, so things would get bloody awkward seeing an ex at a sleepover.
We probably wouldn’t get along romantically. Our sense of humour is a little different. I’m not too big on pranking people, and that’s the twins’ whole thing. Fred’s so creative, he and George invent, design, and create their own products for their future business. I don’t have the capacity to even begin a project like that. He’s too confrontational for me. He smells so sharp and of spice. Every inhale makes my eyes water and sting. I’d prefer someone more subtle and likeminded, maybe a little more introverted and organized.
Yesterday, during Transfiguration, he asked if he could share my ink cartridge. I can’t date someone who’s unprepared for school (I said yes but that was out of courtesy). AND THEN HE ASKED IF HE COULD BORROW MY NOTES. Not only is he inattentive in class, but he’s DOUBLE unprepared. I’d probably go insane if I had to deal with that… (I gave him the notes).
In hindsight, these things weren’t big deals. In the moment, I didn’t even care, so I have no clue why I’m so worked up about it after the fact. I don’t want to have a crush. Especially on Fred. I’m gonna try my best to act normal.
Since the weekend Hogsmeade trip, your mental and physical ecosystem had been thrown off its balance. Your thoughts moved laggardly, which unfortunately transferred to your work ethic, but History of Magic with dastardly ancient Professor Binns was always dreadfully languid and painstakingly dull.
The lined sheets of paper were starved of productive note-taking today. A few bullet points followed an unenthusiastic “Chapter 12” headline. The margins bore no outrageous doodles or caricatures of wizards past, and Professor Binns was prattling endlessly about the muggle-fought World Wars. Who knew the Great Depression also affected Wizarding Society? You didn’t, because you weren’t paying attention.
“We began observing the Soviet Union’s attempts to placate the steep decline in the economy…”
Blah blah blah blah. You might as well have been sleeping with your eyes wide open.
“… the democratic socialism had more regulations on businesses…”
The dilapidated grandfather clock in the corner was nowhere close to lunchtime. Its bony iron fingers trudged along the slim white face inconspicuously. Forty more minutes of this— absolutely awful!
“Why… you… all… ways…hat?”
“distribution of wealth… electoral politics…”
A warm pointed elbow nudged your slouching arm. You eyed the white scribbles on the blackboard, which was easy to decipher when your professor is see-through. “Huh?” You looked at your table mate, Fred, who had taken Nelina’s seat since her suspension.
He snickered at your cluelessness. “Why do you always do that?” Fred repeated in a whisper.
“What do you mean?” You retorted quietly. You instinctively picked up your pen and dipped it in the ink well.
“How do you just…” Fred wetted his lips, as words failed him momentarily. He chuckled to himself. “How do you disappear like that?”
You began scratching words onto the lackluster parchment. “There’s always something cooler to think about,” you mumbled lightheartedly. It was your turn to nudge his arm now. “Especially when you’re in this class, don’t you think?” You quipped.
The two of you shared a look at the ghostly apparition of a teacher. How Binns even picked up chalk pieces— you didn’t know. The translucent man was drawing a timeline, appropriately adding notches for years following the First World War.
Fred leaned his head backward, resting it on the straight ledge of the chair. “I might explode if we don’t move on from the Soviet Union,” Fred grumbled, as his hands dragged down his face.
You tried to copy down the timeline, but boredom possessed your hand, and you stashed your quill away. “Dreadful,” you agreed.
“You coming over for Easter holiday?” Fred whispered.
You perked up at the notion of vacation— but it was sooooooooo far away from today. Your spirits fell as quickly as they were raised. You answered solemnly, “I don’t think so. Why?”
Fred’s soft features were puzzled into confusion.“I thought Ginny would’ve invited you to The Burrow.”
“I mean, she suggested it, but she never actually asked your parents,” you explained. You hushed up, when Professor Binns turned to face the class, trying to provoke student participation.
“What was the Ministry’s affirmative action plan called? Anyone?” The old man wasn’t expecting much of a response (he usually never received one), but the deadly silence that followed was unnerving even to a ghost. A few awkward seconds passed, and Binns answered himself. “MAGES: Mitigation Aid and Gain Enhancing Support.”
Once he turned around, you pensively lowered your voice, wary about catching the professor’s attention. “I just don’t want to show up unannounced,” you murmured.
Fred hadn’t caught what you said and was inclined to lean in closer. He smelled like cinnamon and amber, and his body heat radiated off of him like sunlight. “Sorry?”
You scooted towards him, bringing your lips to his ear. “I don’t want to show up unannounced,” you clarified.
He looked at you dumbfounded and with red cheeks. “Harry and Hermione are over all the time. They never tell us they’re coming half the time,” Fred sputtered reassuringly. “My mum and dad would love to have you,” he added softly. “I mean, I certainly will.”
You couldn’t help but blush.
Dear Diary,
Friday morning
I GOT UP EARLY TO SHOWER AND YOU’RE NEVER GONNA BELIEVE THE CONVERSATION I EAVESDROPPED ON.
FRED WEASLEY HAS A CRUSH ON SOMEONE. I AM RELEASED FROM THIS PRISON. NO MORE SILLY CRUSHES.
I was trying to be quiet, careful not to disturb anyone, but in the corridor I hear these 2 girls whispering. Naturally, like the snoop I am, I stop short of entering their peripheral and stand there to listen. It’s really creepy, I know, but I’m so intrigued— BUT NOT ONCE DID THEY MENTION WHO IT WAS HE FANCIED.
The one CRUCIAL detail was left out (because they didn’t know BUT STILL).
It’s none of my business... but I just like knowing stuff and hoarding information. What’s the problem with that? Maybe I can play matchmaker.
Dear Sticky Note,
Friday
The thought of him with someone else is making me physically unwell. I almost threw up after lunch. Who could he possibly like? I am DYING to know.
Dear Diary,
Saturday
I like my best friend’s brother. I like Ginny’s BROTHER.
I like the color of his hair and the way he parts it. I like his little freckles and the shape of his lips. He’s got a scar above his eyebrow. I generally just enjoy looking at his face— he’s got a nice neck and pretty toned arms, though I rarely get to see them, but his hands are always available, and they’re so long and smooth.
This little crush has lingered in the doorways he held open for me. It’s made me hallucinate reciprocation in his smile and fidgeting hands. He talks so softly and is more gentle with me than anybody else.
I swear to Merlin that this is real; I just DON’T KNOW HOW TO PROVE IT. I’m not going mad! I’ve been going through all the stages of grief— denial, anger, depression, bartering, and now acceptance. SOMETHING IS HAPPENING. I KNOW IT IS. HE’S EITHER THE DEVIL INCARNATE AND THIS IS A FOUL PRANK, OR MY INTUITION IS UNLIKE ANY OTHER. All I know is that
I FANCY FRED WEASLEY.
FUCK.
Fred wasn’t nosy per se, but, at times, he found himself insatiably curious. George and he have spent dozens of hours dissecting the ingredients of Zonko’s candies (some masters are unwilling to take on apprentices; the Weasley Twins will make their own name…). And the greasy slime-ball that is Snape would never admit it, but Fred and George had the art of potions down to a tee. It was their reticent professor who inadvertently assisted the creation of their Ton-Tongue Toffee and Canary Creams.
But if there was one question he desired answered, it would be about you. What was going on in that little head of yours? Your very existence was a paradox— those scintillating eyes of yours were always askance, always drifting off to lala land, but watchful and keen enough to be overly critical. Your head may perpetually be in the clouds, but your ears persisted in their function; they picked up enough detail for you to seamlessly integrate yourself into conversation and activity, but you had a debilitating (yet charming) awkwardness that struck down nonchalance.
Regardless of where he was coming from, Fred could show up to your usual corner of the dusty library and find you writing in the same black leather journal. He knew you were a diligent note-taker (most days) and (evidently) a passionate academic, but this little book consumed all your attention. Judging by its lack of highlighting, doodles, graphs and timelines Fred presumed you were drafting a novel…?
He never asked.
On Monday, it was the same usual charade: he’ll emerge from the bookshelves, crack a witty remark, and patiently watch you scramble for your belongings. You’ll glide past him without sparing him a glance, because you knew he would always follow— but, today, he hesitated. Because when you first caught him in your peripheral, he noticed you had quickly stashed the black leather journal into a stack of withering library books. And when you had packed up all your things, you forgot to retrieve it…
So he took it.
Fred pulled it out from the pile, lodged it into his own bag, and caught up to you before you realized how far behind he was.
Did he know it was wrong? Potentially, but he highly doubted that it contained any sensitive information. Fred’s intentions were innocuous; was it a crime to want to know what caught your interests?
After dinner (which consisted of woeful discussion about the Transfiguration test results, spicy lamb stew and vegetable roasts), Fred retreated to the Boys’ Dorms for some… investigative journalism. As his roommates were heading off the showers, Fred landed on his bed, stomach first, and whipped out the waxy-covered tome.
Fred ran his thumb across the smooth paper edges; judging by the thickness of the written sections, you must’ve been knee-deep in your novel.
Should he start from the beginning? Nah, where’s the fun in that? Books rarely interested Fred; the flowery paragraphs spent on developing the setting and scenery were disgustingly boring— action sequences and brilliant battles were what he sought.
So he flipped to the latest entry—
I like my best friend’s brother.
Oh. This was gonna be one of those fluffy romance books.
Fred tried not to frown; romcoms weren’t really his thing, but it was hard to decipher what you did and didn’t like sometimes (girls had always been aloof enigmas; his specialty was pranks, not flirting). Reading your story could probably help him learn more about you.
I like Ginny’s BROTHER.
Wait a minute…
His eyes glanced at the top of the page.
Dear Diary,
Fred’s heart stopped.
HOW ON EARTH DID HE MISS THAT? THIS WASN’T A DRAFT— THIS WAS A BLOODY DIARY! HE WAS IN POSSESSION OF YOUR DIARY OF ALL THINGS!
“Oh fuck.”
He looked at the last few squiggly lines.
I FANCY FRED WEASLEY.
FUCK.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or sigh with relief, but ‘fuck’ was right— Fred Weasley was gonna be in huge fucking trouble for seeing this.
“What’re you reading?”
“BLOODY HELL!” Fred slammed the diary shut.
George initially winced at the shrill shriek, but then cackled at his twin’s plight. “Something dirty, I’m assuming?” George mused, “Your face has gone all red—!”
Fred leaped out of the bed and seized George’s shoulders.
George’s straight brows narrowed furiously. “What’s wrong with you?” He exclaimed. He grabbed Fred’s arms, trying to peel his grasp away.
“George, listen to me—,”
“I am!” He withered.
“SHHHHH!” Fred hushed, pressing a finger against his brother’s lips. “I wasn’t reading anything, okay? I don’t read. I don’t like books—,”
George looked down at the journal, sitting innocently on the bed, “So it is something dirty…?”
“NO! I WASN’T READING ANYTHING!”
“What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” George asked, as his twin pushed him away. The boy stumbled backward and tenderly massaged his bicep, where Fred had aggressively grabbed him.
Fred pointed an aggravated finger at George. “You didn’t see anything, alright?” He hissed.
George scoffed, “Merlin’s beard, fine! I didn’t see anything! God, what’s up your arse today?”
𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐇𝐈𝐒, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄 | fred weasley x clingy! reader
summary: fred and you are so openly in love with each other that you put lavender brown to shame
⤷ requested by anon
warnings: a lot of pda, some kissing description but not much, hella pet names, cringy but honestly we all want this. no plot i repeat absolutely zero plot. reader is in harry's year, and f + g are only one year older
wc: 1.2k words
author's note: trying to catch up with all my requests over spring break. short lil piece. i'm the biggest believer in simp fred weasley.
Fred Weasley and you were openly and disgustingly in love with each other. There was no other way to phrase it. It was loud and on display and in the face and so... you.
Your Saturday morning started like any other. You adjusted your top in the mirror, applying a thick layer of lip gloss that you were certain would transfer to Fred's lips the second you left your Common Room.
You were right, for the moment you saw Fred waiting outside, shaggy hair falling over his eyes and his face sporting his usual mischievous grin. You bounded over and his hands automatically fell to your waist, gripping them slightly. "Good morning, darlin'"
"Morning, angel."
And then leaned down.
The kiss was just beginning to deepen, you inhaling Fred's mint scent and tangling your hands into his soft locks when a voice rudely interrupted you.
"Oi!" shouted Percy, his Prefect badge gleaming on his robes. "Get to breakfast! And that'll be five points for engaging in promiscuous activities in the corridor!"
When he had stalked off, Fred scoffed. "Honestly, just because he doesn't get any..."
Fred's arm remained firmly slung around your shoulders, holding you flush against him as you two made your way into the Great Hall. There was hardly any space left next to Ron and Harry for one person, let alone two, but you squished together anyway.
Fred faced you as he ate breakfast, long legs on either side of the bench, listening intently to whatever story you were reciting about Binns' lecture. His eyes didn't leave yours, lifting a hand to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. He pulled you even closer, close enough that his breath was brushing against your neck.
You held up a spoon to his lips, a concoction of yogurt, honey and berries. "Try this, Freddie."
His eyes still didn't leave yours as he licked the spoon clean. "Delicious, baby. Very sweet."
"Yeah?"
His voice dropped a register, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. "But not as delicious and sweet as you."
It wasn't long before his lips found yours once more, one hand splayed on your lower back, other one cupping your face with so much devotion you could cry. It was moments like this, where it felt like it was only you and Fred, that you loved the most.
Unfortunately for the rest of the table, it was not just you and Fred present. Lee was inching away from the both of you, sliding his plate along the table, George's face was twisted into pure disgust, and Harry were already pretending to throw up into their plates.
Hermione and Ron insisted your relationship with Fred was bordering on codependency. You would have been insulted, if it weren't for the fact it was possibly true. You had tried to describe it once — how every moment apart felt physically painful, how being around Fred was a breath of fresh air — but you were only met with blank stares. It didn't help that Fred was equally enamored with you as you were with him.
On most days, you could be found curled up on a couch in the Common Room. That was the case today, fire blazing in the corner as a wintery storm raged outside. A blanket covered you both, legs pressed together, Fred's large arms wrapped around your frame, your head resting on his chest. Your entire body lay on top of him, like a—
"Cute weighted blanket." commented Fred.
You hummed in response, pushing yourself down even more. Your hands snuck up his shirt, resting on his broad shoulders. Fred placed a kiss to the top of your head as you nuzzled deeper. "Comfortable, sweetheart?"
"Very."
"Good. Because I'm not letting go."
Your peace was soon interrupted as a chorus of loud voices filtered into the Common Room — George, Lee, Ginny, Harry, Ron and Hermione.
Lee groaned as he saw you two. "Merlin, give it a rest."
"I'd rather die." said Fred solemnly.
"At least, have some respect for us single people." groaned Harry dramatically.
"Yeah!" agreed Ron.
"You know," you said loudly, eyes ping-ponging between the two. "This could be your life too, if you'd just get a move on and ask Gin and 'mione out."
Hermione rolled her eyes at you exasperatedly, but you didn't miss the way she turned bright red, nor the way Ginny looked at Harry out of the corner of her eye.
George changed the topic of conversation. "We came to ask if you two would like to join us for a snowball fight."
"Boys versus girls." said Lee solemnly. "To the death."
Fred noticed how you tensed above him - you'd already had quite a long day with studying in the library and tutoring some third-years. He grinned at the others. "S'alright. You lot go ahead. I think we're going to stay here."
When the others had left, you propped yourself up onto Fred's chest. You placed a kiss to his cheek, then the other, then on his forehead, and the tip of his nose. "Thanks, my love."
He flipped you over suddenly, hovering as his large hand found your thigh. "I admit, I may have had ulterior motives."
Fred was acting like you had gone off to war. In reality, you had only returned home for the Winter Holidays, but he didn't think he could handle any more days. At breakfast, Fred was now caressing a parchment in his hand. George peaked over to see a picture of his you, your smile wide and laughter bubbling in your throat.
"That's, er, it's a very nice picture." commented Ginny, biting her cheek to prevent a giggle from bursting through.
"If you can't handle y/n being gone for what, ten days—" started Harry.
Fred interrupted him. "Fourteen days, two hours, twenty-seven minutes and five seconds. Six seconds, seven seconds—"
Lee flicked his forehead. "I think what Harry is trying to say is, you do realize you're a year ahead of her?"
"What're you going to do when you're graduated and she's is still school?" questioned Hermione.
"I'll get held back." said Fred morosely.
Ron had now arrived at the table. He snickered. "What's got your knickers in a twist? You look like someone's taken the last Chocolate Frog."
"Sod off, Ron." retorted Fred.
"Girlfriend withdrawals, Fred?" asked Ron in faux sympathy.
Fred grumbled something under his breath, before burying his head his arms. Ron sighed. "You've become unbearably irritating."
"She would've sorted that out by now." said Fred, so morosely that Ginny stuffed a fist into her mouth to stop from laughing.
"Well, you won't have to wait much longer," announced Hermione, checking her wristwatch. "The train should be arriving in a few minutes."
Fred perked up. Within minutes, he was stood outside the castle, watching as the carriages pulled up. When you finally emerged from one, your eyes met his brown ones and you squealed in delight.
You pushed aside your trunk, narrowly missing a terrified second year as you launched yourself into his arms. "I missed you, baby!"
Fred's lips pressed against yours in a loud smooch, lifting you up as your legs wrapped around his torso. "I missed you more, my angel."
You ignored the judgmental looks, reveling in Fred placing small kisses in the crook of your neck, hands firmly wrapped on your lower back. You were finally home.
Fred Weasley vs. one very odd Slytherin girl should have been an easy win. Unfortunately, his chosen opponent kept treating his sarcasm like constructive criticism, his insults like helpful advice, and his increasingly obvious affection like perfectly normal friendship. What began as a petty attempt to get under a her skin became something entirely different when Fred realised he likes her exactly as she is. Literal-minded, quietly observant, and hopelessly sincere in a world full of people who never say what they mean.
Warnings: oblivious reader, neurodivergent coded, a bit angsty, limited use of Y/N
———————————————————————
The first time Fred Weasley tried to offend you, you thanked him. It happened on a corridor slick with November gloom, the high windows of Hogwarts dimmed by rain so steady it looked less like weather and more like the sky had sprung a leak. Students streamed past in untidy currents of black robes and chatter, the castle full of its usual weekday pulse. Shoes struck stone, laughter ricocheted off the walls, the staircase groaned as they shifted above like summering ancient beast.
You stood to the side of the rush with a stack of books braced against your hip, your tie a neat green-and-silver line against the dark wool of your robes. There was something composed about you even in stillness, as if the chaos of the hallway simply broke itself against you and ran harmlessly away. You weren’t fidgeting or glancing around. That was to say you didn’t seem to share the nervous energy that infected most people in crowded corridors. You existed amongst them, a contrast of cold self-containment, like moonlight on black water.
Fred noticed that before he noticed anything else. That you never hurried, and you never flinched. You wore your aloofness not like armor, but like skin. It was apart of you. And because Fred Weasley was Fred Weasley (because mischief ran in his veins like wildfire and because there had never been a person at Hogwarts he couldn’t get some sort of reaction from) he decided, almost immediately, that he disliked you.
You were a Slytherin, for one thing. Worse, you were a Slytherin with an expression so unreadable it made him feel as though he were performing in front of a brick wall and somehow losing. Other people laughed, snapped back, rolled their eyes, blushed, sputtered, sulked. Other people gave him something, but you only looked at him with those steady, distant eyes of yours as though he were a mildly unusual weather pattern. It was intolerable.
So when he sauntered past with George at his side and caught sight of you rearranging your books by size rather than subject, he slowed, angled himself into your path, and said, with all the sarcastic venom he could muster, “Careful, darling, if you stack those any higher you might finally disappear under with the size of your thrilling personality.”
George snorted beside him. Fred thought it was an excellent line. Light, sharp, just enough mockery to sting. He waited for the flash of irritation, the chilly Slytherin bite, the offended lift of your chin. Instead, you looked down at your books, then back at him. Your gaze was thoughtful when you asked, “Do I seem dull?”.
Fred blinked in surprise. That was not the correct response, yet he recovered quickly as he always did. “Painfully so.”
You nodded once, as though he had confirmed a private suspicion. “I had wondered whether people found me difficult to talk to.”
George made a soft choking noise. Fred stared at you. “I…what?”
“That was helpful,” you said, entirely sincere. “Thank you.”
Then you stepped around him and continued down the corridor, leaving him standing there with his mouth half-open and George dissolving into helpless laughter. Fred turned very slowly to watch you go. Your robe hems whispered over the stone and you didn’t look back. You didn’t seem embarrassed or upset or even faintly annoyed. You simply carried on, as untouched by his words as if he had tossed pebbles into a lake too deep to notice.
George wheezed into his sleeve. “Oh, that is catastrophic. She’s clueless.”
Fred scowled. “Come on, she knew.”
“No,” George said, grinning wide enough to split his face. “That’s the best part. She absolutely did not.”
Fred looked after you a moment longer, jaw tight, something hot and strange prickling at the back of his neck. This, he thought, was not over.
———————————————————————
It became a problem rather quickly. Not for you, but for Fred, because once he had begun he could not seem to stop. He told himself it was a matter of principle. A matter of pride. A matter of restoring balance to a universe in which Fred Weasley, menace of Gryffindor Tower and self-appointed king of mischief, had delivered an insult to a Slytherin girl only for her to receive it as though it were constructive criticism.
It gnawed at him, so he tried again. And again. And again. Each attempt should have been the one that worked. He sharpened his words like knives and sent them skimming in your direction with increasing creativity. He called your handwriting ‘aggressively grim’. You thanked him and explained that you had been aiming for legibility, not warmth. He remarked that your stare could sour milk. You said that was useful to know, as you’d never liked milk anyway. He informed you, with lazy malice, that your silence made you seem vaguely murderous. You considered this, then replied that if people found you intimidating, perhaps they might bother you less in the library.
Every time, he walked away feeling as though he had somehow been outmaneuvered in a game only he had realized was being played. You, meanwhile, appeared to think Fred Weasley one of the more unexpectedly perceptive people at Hogwarts. Which was, perhaps, the most insulting thing of all.
The real issue was not merely that you misunderstood him. It was the way you misunderstood him with such grave earnestness, such calm acceptance, and such complete lack of self-consciousness that it robbed his mockery of its teeth and handed it back to him blunt and useless.
And Merlin, you were earnest. Not in the wide-eyed, fluttery way some girls were. There was nothing soft or eager about you. Your earnestness was stranger than that. It lived beneath the frost of your composure like a lantern under ice, quiet and steady and impossible to extinguish. You took people at their word. You assumed precision where others meant performance. Sarcasm slid off you like rain off slate.
Fred had never met anyone so resistant to tone. It fascinated him in the most irritating way imaginable. By December, he had developed the terrible habit of looking for you. He spotted you at breakfast by the shine of your hair and the silver serpent on your robes. Or in the courtyard with your gloved hands wrapped around a mug of something steaming, your breath ghosting white into the winter air. Or in class with your face bent over parchment, lashes low, expression intent in a way that made the whole room seem blurred around the edges. It was as though the castle itself had gone soft-focus and left only you in sharpened detail. He hated that he noticed such things. He hated, too, that other people began to notice him noticing.
“Mate,” Lee Jordan said one evening in the courtyard, sprawled upside down on a bench with a packet of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans balanced on his chest, “you keep staring at that Slytherin like she owes you money.”
Fred, who had indeed been staring across the courtyard where you sat at a table temporarily occupied by inter-house study partners, snapped his gaze away. “I do not.”
George, from where he was testing a new trick wand on a stick, said without looking up, “You do.”
“I’m observing.”
“Like a scientist?”
“Like a strategist.”
Lee grinned. “Strategising what? How to marry her or murder her?”
Fred threw a handful of grass at his face. The truth was far less amusing and therefore far more dangerous. You confused him. Not just your responses, though they did, or the maddening sincerity with which you accepted whatever nonsense he flung your way. It was the fact that, the longer he watched, the more he began to suspect you were not cold at all. Just private. There was a difference, and he saw it in fragments. Like how you always moved aside for younger students in corridors, one hand sweeping your robes back so they could pass.
Or how you quietly repaired a Hufflepuff second year’s torn essay with a neat Reparo and then acted as though it had not been worth mentioning. In the way you listened carefully when people spoke to you, your eyes fixed on their robes or shoes or hands with a focus so unwavering it unsettled people unused to being taken seriously. Or even how you fed crumbs to the birds by the black lake when you thought nobody was watching.
You were not unkind. You were simply…elsewhere, sometimes. Not cruelly, or dismissively, just set at a slight angle to everybody else. It was as though the language of ordinary interaction had been taught to you from a textbook rather than lived at your kitchen table. You missed jokes, missed double meanings, missed flirtation entirely. You took words as literal offerings and arranged them carefully in your mind, never seeming to realise that most people threw theirs like stones and expected everyone else to duck.
Fred found this both exasperating and, against all odds, a little heartbreaking. He did not care for that feeling. So naturally, he doubled down.
———————————————————————
The trouble deepened in Potions. Professor Snape, in one of his usual fits of theatrical cruelty, paired Gryffindors and Slytherins for a fortnight-long assignment on antidotes. The classroom reacted as though he had announced a plague. Groans rose at once, parchment fluttered, several people looked actively offended by the concept of cooperation.
Then Snape’s gaze slid over the class like oil over water and landed on you and Fred. “Weasley,” he said silkily, “with Y/N.”
Fred nearly laughed from disbelief. Across the room, your expression did not change at all. If anything, you looked mildly relieved, as though being partnered with him was good news. Which, Fred thought sourly, only proved you had not the faintest idea who he was.
He swaggered over anyway, dropping into the seat beside you with performative ease. “Well,” he said, leaning back, “this should be dreadful.”
You arranged your ingredients into exact little rows. “You are very good at slicing valerian root evenly.”
Fred paused. “What?”
“You have steady hands,” you said, not looking up. “I’ve seen you in class.”
He stared at your profile. Your face was lovely in the severe way winter mornings were lovely, something clear and difficult to approach. Your mouth was soft, though most people might not have guessed it from a distance. Your lashes made dark crescents against your cheeks when you looked down. There was no mockery in your voice, no hidden barb, no game. Just observation.
Fred, who had opened his mouth to say something cutting, found his prepared remark vanish like smoke. “That,” he said at last, “might be the most boring compliment I’ve ever received.”
You nodded. “I wasn’t trying to be interesting.”
He barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. Your eyes flicked to his then, startled for the first time, as if you hadn’t expected that sound from him. Something shifted in the air between you. Like the first crack in a frozen pond.
Fred noticed it. And, being a fool, he ruined it immediately. “You know,” he said, slicing the valerian root with deliberate precision, “for a Slytherin, you’re remarkably easy to manipulate.”
You glanced over. “Am I?”
“Hopelessly.”
You considered that with alarming seriousness. “That would explain a few things.”
His knife paused mid-slice. “What things?”
“A group of Ravenclaws convinced me last week that a first-year had been made invisible by a cursed teapot.” Fred choked on air. You went on, brow faintly furrowed. “In hindsight, there were inconsistencies.”
“Just a few?”
“Yes.”
He stared at you for a beat or two, and then he bent over the table. Helpless, bright, genuine laughter that bubbled out of him before he could catch it. Beside him, you watched with quiet puzzlement, your head tilted slightly like a cat hearing a strange sound at the door. It occurred to Fred, suddenly and disastrously, that he liked making you look at him. He sobered too fast after that, which was how the rest of the lesson went poorly.
You measured ingredients with elegant care while he chopped too aggressively. Your sleeves brushed once when both of you reached for the same vial, and Fred jerked back as though burned, knocking over a spoon. You looked at him while he scowled at the spoon as if it had betrayed him personally.
“You’re clumsy today,” you said.
“I’m wounded by your criticism.”
“I didn’t mean it critically. You usually have excellent coordination.”
Merlin. By the end of class, Snape had deducted five points from Gryffindor for Fred’s ‘astonishing inability to maintain even the illusion of competence’, and you said, while packing your bag, “If you want, I can help you practice steadier wand motions before the next lesson.”
Fred looked at you as though you had spoken in Ancient Runes. “You’d help me?”
You blinked once. “Yes.”
“Why?”
That made you pause. The room had begun to empty around you, chairs scraping, students talking in loose knots. Cauldrons clinked as they were put away and Snape’s robes swept past in a black hiss.
You adjusted your grip on your books. “Because you keep helping me.”
Fred felt his face go blank. Helping you. You meant his remarks. His taunts. His endless attempts to needle and provoke. Somehow, through the crooked lens of your earnestness, you had translated all of them into some sort of awkward support. He did not know whether to laugh, deny it, or walk directly into the nearest wall.
Instead he said weakly, “Right.”
You gave him a small nod, as if the matter had been settled, and left. Fred remained where he was, rooted to the stone floor.
George appeared in the doorway a moment later and took in Fred’s expression with immediate delight. “Bad news?”
Fred turned slowly. “I think that girl believes I’m kind.”
George burst into hysterics so violent he had to brace himself against the doorframe.
———————————————————————
Snow came thick over the grounds the following week, swallowing the castle in white. The world beyond the windows softened into blurred charcoal and pearl. The lake became a sheet of black glass rimmed with frost. Pine branches bowed beneath the weight of snow, and the air had that brittle, metallic bite that made every inhale feel newly minted. Hogwarts in winter looked less like a school and more like a fairytale story with it’s turrets dusted white and lanterns glowing amber behind mullioned windows. The whole place hushed beneath the season’s spell.
Fred usually loved it. Winter at Hogwarts meant snowball fights, whispered schemes, and secret products tested in warm common rooms while storms battered the windows. It meant laughter, thick scarves, stolen treacle tart from the kitchens, George at his side and mischief at their fingertips.
This winter, however, now also meant you. Because you were everywhere. Or perhaps not everywhere, only in all the places he found himself looking. In the library’s dim alcoves with your fingers ink-smudged and elegant against yellowed pages. On the moving staircases, one hand skimming the banister while your gaze drifted somewhere distant, as if you were composing thoughts no one else would ever hear. In the courtyard, your Slytherin scarf wound high over your mouth, only your eyes visible above the silver-striped wool, watching snowfall with a solemnity that made it seem sacred.
Fred told himself he was only curious. He told himself that right up until the afternoon he found you sitting alone beneath the covered arch near the Clock Tower, a book open in your lap, snow spinning just beyond the shelter like torn paper in the wind. He had not meant to stop. He had been on his way back from Hogsmeade, cheeks stung red from the cold, pockets full of contraband joke quills and a half-finished plan involving a fake howler. George had run ahead to deliver something to Lee and Fred should have gone straight inside.
Instead, he slowed. You sat with one boot tucked beneath the bench, your gloved fingers holding the page flat against the gusting air. Your hair had caught a few flakes along the crown, white specks scattered in the dark like stars caught in a night sky. There was a stillness to the scene so complete it made him feel irrationally as though speaking too loudly might shatter it.
So he said, “You do realise most people have the good sense to avoid looking like a tragic heroine in weather like this.”
You looked up. There was a visible, silent sorting of his words. Then, “Is that what I look like?”
Fred leaned against the stone pillar, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide the way they’d gone suddenly awkward. “Utterly doomed, very dramatic, probably about to wander into the lake reciting poetry.”
You glanced toward the lake as if considering the practicality of this. “I can’t swim well enough for that. Besides, it’s likely solid ice by this time of year. I’d go sliding like a bear on skates.”
He laughed before he meant to and your mouth twitched into…not a smile exactly, but something close. It was tentative, like sunlight touching frost without melting it. Fred felt the entire world narrow to that nearly-smile. He had seen you expressionless, thoughtful, mildly puzzled, once faintly startled. But this fragile hint of amusement struck him with absurd force. It was like glimpsing a hidden room in a house he had spent months circling from the outside.
He tried to cover the feeling with insolence. “You know, it’s deeply annoying that you keep ruining my insults by taking them as practical advice.”
You closed your book around one finger to hold your place. “I don’t think they are insults.”
Fred stared. You met his gaze steadily, and there it was again, that unnerving directness. That sense that when you looked at someone you did not skim the surface but fixed yourself on them entirely.
“You say unkind things,” you admitted. “But you usually notice something true first.”
The wind stirred and snow hissed softly across the stones. Somewhere overhead the clock tolled the quarter hour, each bell note falling into the cold like iron into water. Fred could not, for a moment, think of anything to say.
You went on, your voice quiet, matter-of-fact. “Most people don’t bother to even take notice, do you’re already a step above the rest.”
There was no self-pity in it and that was the worst part. You said it as one might remark on the weather or the date, plain and unembellished, which made it land with twice the force.
Fred felt something in his chest shift uneasily. He thought of every cutting remark he’d made, every sarcastic observation, every attempt to unsettle you. Thought of you taking each one carefully in hand, examining it for whatever truth it contained, and keeping that instead of the cruelty wrapped around it. He had wanted to get under your skin. Instead, somehow, you had slipped under his.
“Well,” he said, and his voice came out rougher than intended, “that’s a terrible habit. You noticing me taking notice.”
You tilted your head. “Why?”
Because, he thought with sudden panic, I am beginning to notice you back. But before he could answer, laughter rang sharp across the courtyard. Three older Slytherin boys came striding under the arch from the far end, cloaks dusted with snow, boots wet and dark. You stiffened so subtly another person might not have caught it. But Fred did.
He saw the tiny tightening of your shoulders, that fractional stillness. The boys noticed you at once. Their expressions shifted in the ugly, familiar way boys’ expressions sometimes did when they had spotted someone they thought easy to corner.
“Oi,” said one of them lazily. “There you are.”
You closed your book properly this time, sliding it into your bag. “I wasn’t aware I was being looked for.”
“Don’t be difficult,” another said.
Fred’s posture changed without him deciding to change it. One moment he had been slouched against the pillar. The next, he was upright, attention sharpened, something hard and instinctive clicking into place beneath his skin.
The first boy’s gaze flicked to Fred and narrowed. “This doesn’t concern you, Weasley.”
Fred smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. “Funny,” he said lightly, “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
The air altered, the atmosphere turned taut as wire. Fred could see it in the slight narrowing of the boys’ eyes. One of them scoffed. “Run along, Gryffindor.”
Fred’s grin widened, all teeth now, bright as broken glass. “Tempting. But I’m ever so fond of standing exactly where I’m not wanted.”
You rose slowly from the bench, your bag slung over your shoulder. The tallest of the boys looked at you, ignoring Fred with deliberate contempt. “You never came to collect your things from the common room.”
“My things?” you repeated.
“The notes, quill, whatever rubbish you left.”
You considered their words for a minute, then you said, in that same calm tone, “I didn’t leave anything in the common room.”
Something flickered across the boy’s face. Annoyance. Exposure. He had lied, then. Or half-lied, expecting you to follow along. What was worse was Fred saw you preparing to go with them. Of course you were, because some part of you always assumed people meant what they said, even when the whole world was built on half-meanings and traps.
Fred pushed off the pillar. “She’s not going anywhere with you,” he said. The words came out easy and certain.
Everyone looked at him, you most of all. For the first time since he had known you, you looked openly bewildered by him.
The Slytherin boy sneered. “And why exactly do you care?”
Fred did not answer at once. He could have said anything. He could have made a joke, or pretended it was about house rivalry, or opportunism, or even boredom. Instead, he stepped forward until he stood beside you, close enough that the sleeve of his coat brushed your robe and he could feel the cold radiating off your gloves.
And he said, softly, “Because she clearly hasn’t realised yet that you’re idiots.”
Silence greeted him. Then George appeared at the far end of the courtyard as if summoned by the scent of conflict. He called out, “Fred?”
The distraction was enough. The boys cursed under their breath, recalculating now that there were two Weasleys instead of one that the odds no longer worth the trouble or spectacle. After a few more muttered threats, they slunk off into the snowfall, their footsteps crunching away over the frozen stones.
The tension left the arch all at once. George approached with suspicious delight, eyes darting between you and Fred. “Did I miss a murder?”
“Almost,” Fred said.
You were still looking at him. Snowlight softened your face, turning your skin paler than usual and your eyes darker by contrast. There was no fear in your expression. Only that same grave, searching attention with which you seemed to examine everything important. “You didn’t have to do that,” you said.
Fred shoved his hands into his pockets again. “Yes, well. Heroism sometimes strikes without warning.”
George made a rude choking sound, but you only frowned very slightly. “They were lying.”
“Yes,” Fred said.
“I know that now.” You looked down, as though annoyed with yourself. “I might have gone with them.”
Fred’s mouth thinned. “I know.”
Then, quieter, you asked, “How?”
He looked at your too-serious eyes. He peered at the composure you wore so well until someone pressed against its weak points. He watched the strange and shining earnestness in you, so unguarded in all the ways that mattered. Some truths arrived before his pride could smother them, so he answered honestly.
“Because,” he said, “you always think people are being more decent than they are.”
The words settled between you like snowfall. They were soft, cold, and impossible to gather back once fallen. Your gaze lifted to his only to see something had changed there. Not much but enough. George, to his credit, said nothing. The wind moved through the arch, carrying the sharp scent of snow and pine and distant chimney smoke. Fred’s hair was a riot of red in the white light, his freckles stood out stark against cheeks gone pink with cold. He looked older when he wasn’t grinning. Sharper, somehow, all restless angles and held-back heat. Now that his usual smirk had faded, there was a startling clarity to his face, like a mask had slipped and shown the dangerous sincerity beneath.
You studied him as if seeing him anew. With total seriousness, you said, “That was a very kind thing to notice.”
George folded in half laughing as Fred closed his eyes. “Unbelievable,” he muttered to the winter air.
When he opened them again, you were still watching him. You didn’t look confused exactly, but thoughtful, as though he had become a riddle worth cracking. And, God help him, Fred thought you had never looked prettier.
———————————————————————
After the incident beneath the Clock Tower, Fred decided firmly, decisively, and with all the brittle conviction of a man building a dam out of parchment, that something had to be done. You were becoming impossible to deal with. Not in the ordinary sense. You were not loud, nor demanding, nor dramatic. You did not trail after him, or bat your lashes, or attempt in any visible way to insert yourself into his life. In fact, the true problem was almost precisely the opposite. You continued on as you always had, gliding through the corridors of Hogwarts with that same cool stillness, your expression composed, your robes immaculate, your attention often turned inward as though part of you lived on some quiet shore no one else could reach.
And yet now, whenever you saw him, you nodded. Nodded as though the two of you shared an understanding. As if he hadn’t spent the better part of several months trying to needle, mock, provoke, and generally make a menace of himself in your direction. The nod itself was unbearable enough. Small, grave, never hurried, and never flustered. The sort of nod one gave a co-conspirator or a favorite professor or a person one trusted to tell the truth in a room full of liars. Fred hated it. He hated more that each time you gave it, something warm and unruly uncoiled low in his chest like a dragon stirring in sleep.
“This,” he announced to George the following morning, stabbing viciously at his porridge, “has gone too far.”
George, who had witnessed enough of Fred’s spirals to know better than to interrupt prematurely, buttered his toast with saintly calm. “Has it?”
“Yes.”
“Tragic.”
Fred ignored him. The Great Hall hummed around them, alive with the clatter of cutlery and low conversation. Sunlight spilled through the enchanted ceiling in diluted winter beams, silver-pale and cold. Owls swooped overhead with the last of the post. Somewhere down the table, Lee was trying to convince Alicia Spinnet that one of the Ravenclaw sixth years had winked at him. At the Slytherin table, you sat three seats down from the end, a book propped against the pumpkin juice jug, apparently reading while eating toast with a detached attitude. Your scarf lay folded precisely beside your plate. A loose strand of hair had fallen over your cheek, and every now and then you tucked it back without looking up.
Fred scowled. George followed his gaze and sighed with theatrical understanding. “Ah. Her.”
“Yes, her.”
“What has she done now? Continued to exist in a way you find personally offensive?”
Fred leaned closer across the table. “She thinks I’m thoughtful.”
George stared at him for a beat, then let out a slow breath through his nose. “That is serious.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“I would never.”
Fred flung a bit of toast at him. George dodged easily and grinned. “I mean it,” Fred said, lowering his voice. “I have to fix this.”
“Why?”
“Because.” Fred glanced toward you again and immediately wished he hadn’t. You were turning a page with your usual absent precision, brow faintly furrowed in concentration. “Because she keeps looking at me like I’m…trustworthy.”
George burst into laughter loud enough to make Angelina turn around until Fred kicked him under the table. “Oh, that’s rich,” George wheezed. “That’s genuinely rich. After all the work you put in cultivating your terrible reputation.”
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s the funniest thing that has happened to me this month.”
Fred glowered. “I just need to remind her who I am.”
George propped his chin on his hand. “And who exactly is that?”
Fred opened his mouth and then closed it again because the answer, once simple, had lately grown slippery. Who exactly was he, in this particular matter? Fred Weasley, menace and mischief-maker, yes. Fred Weasley, effortless flirt, professional nuisance, connoisseur of chaos, certainly. But there was also now the Fred who noticed the exact shape of your silence, and who could tell when your stillness meant peace and when it meant strain. The Fred who had stepped between you and a pack of smirking boys before his mind had caught up with the instinct of it.
George saw the hesitation and pounced on it with savage delight. “Oh, no,” he said softly, eyes widening in mock horror. “You don’t know anymore.”
Fred shoved his shoulder hard enough to nearly send him off the bench.
———————————————————————
His first attempt at clarification came in Charms. You arrived early, as you often did, and took your seat by the windows where the frost feathered the panes in intricate white veins, as delicate as lacework. Outside, the grounds were all white brilliance beneath a pale sky, but indoors everything glowed warm and golden, lit by floating candles that bobbed gently overhead.
Fred dropped into the seat beside you before anyone else could. You looked up at once. There it was again? that small nod. And worse, the almost imperceptible softening around your mouth that suggested you were actually pleased to see him. He felt his carefully prepared malice trip over itself. Still, he forged ahead.
“Bad news,” he said, pulling out his wand. “I’ve decided you’ve become intolerably smug.”
You absorbed this in silence. “About what?”
Fred blinked. “What?”
“What am I smug about?”
He had not expected a follow-up question. Insults, in his experience, worked better when not required to defend their internal logic. “You just are,” he said, with diminished conviction.
You glanced down at your parchment, considering. “I don’t think I feel smug.”
“It’s subtle smugness.”
“That seems difficult to measure.”
Fred stared at you. Your tone was utterly earnest. You were genuinely attempting to understand the accusation as though it were feedback from a supervisor. Around you, students began filing in, filling the room with voices and dragging chairs. George passed your desk, took one look at Fred’s expression, and bit his lip so hard he had to keep walking to avoid betraying himself.
“I’m insulting you,” Fred said under his breath.
You turned to him more fully. The candlelight caught in your hair and made a halo of it, all sheen and shadow. Up close, your eyes were stranger than most people realised. They were clear and watchful, and difficult to lie to, though you yourself seemed peculiarly vulnerable to lies from others. Your face gave little away, but not because it was empty. Rather because everything in you seemed drawn inward first, filtered through thought before expression. You were not unreadable. You were simply translated through a slower, subtler language than most people had patience for.
“I know you say things that are meant to be unkind,” you said quietly. Fred froze as you looked down, straightening the edge of your parchment. “I just don’t always think you mean them as unkindly as you could.”
For once in his life, Fred Weasley had no ready reply. Professor Flitwick bustled in then, saving him from the moment by clapping his tiny hands for attention, and the lesson began in a scatter of squeaking chairs and raised wands. But Fred heard very little of it. Your words had lodged in his mind like burrs in fabric, clinging stubbornly.
You don’t mean them as unkindly as you could. It was a ridiculous thing to say. It was also, infuriatingly, true. Because if Fred had truly wanted to hurt you he would have known how by now. He had collected enough pieces of you. Made enough observations. Seen enough of your odd little tells and habits and quiet vulnerabilities. He knew what made you hesitate, what made your guard tighten, what made your attention turn bright and startled. He knew, at least in outline, where the softest parts of you were, and he had never once struck there.
The realisation unsettled him so badly he set Lee Jordan’s quill on fire by accident.
———————————————————————
The second attempt came in the library, and fared no better. The library at dusk felt like the inside of a held breath. Rows upon rows of books rose into shadow, their spines dusky with age, their titles glinting gold and silver in the lamplight. The silence there was never absolute. It breathed softly through turning pages, shifting chairs, the scratch of quills, and the occasional ominous throat-clear from Madam Pince. Dust swam through the amber air like powdered sunlight, and the tall windows reflected the room back on itself until the whole place seemed doubled. One library real, one made of shadow and glass.
You were seated alone at a long oak table near the Restricted Section rope, surrounded by books in precarious towers. Fred approached with stealth and slid into the chair opposite you, letting his gaze travel deliberately over the stack. “This looks deeply unhealthy.”
You glanced up. “What does?”
“The amount of joy you appear to derive from researching antidote compounds.”
“I don’t think I look joyful.”
“No, that’s the point. You look alarmingly bored.”
You nodded slowly. “That may be fair.”
He leaned forward, forearms on the table. “You are impossible to understand, you know.”
You studied him across the candle flame between you. “You say that often.”
“Yes, well, repetition sharpens a point.”
“Or dulls it.”
Fred’s mouth twitched despite himself. “That sounded almost witty.”
You blinked. “Thank you.”
He dropped his head into one hand. A shadow fell across the table and Madam Pince narrowed her eyes. Fred immediately sat up straighter and arranged his face into counterfeit innocence. She moved on only after lingering long enough to make her suspicion abundantly clear. When she was gone, you pushed one of the books toward him.
He looked at the title. ‘A Practical Catalogue of Common Poisons and Their Reversals’. “I’m not helping you murder anyone.”
“You are helping me study.” You tapped the page. “You were right.”
Fred frowned. “About what?”
“You said last week my cutting of sopophorous beans was inefficient because I hesitated before each slice.”
“I was mocking you.”
“Yes,” you said, “but you were also correct.”
His pulse did something stupid. “And now?” he asked, because apparently self-destruction had become a hobby.
“Now I’ve been practicing not hesitating.” You said it plainly, but a small current of pride moved beneath the words. Not showy pride but quiet satisfaction.
Fred looked at the book, then back at you. He had spent months tossing remarks like sparks, and somehow you had gathered them into warmth. It made him feel monstrous and honored all at once. He tried, one final time, to steer the conversation back toward safer cruelty.
“You know,” he said, “most people would have the sense to stop taking my advice by now.”
Your fingers paused atop the page. “Why?”
Because I’m mean, he almost said. Because I like watching you look at me. Because I no longer know whether I’m trying to push you away or pull you closer. Instead he only said, “Because I’m a terrible influence.”
You considered him in silence so long he grew aware of the candle burning down between you, of distant pages turning somewhere in the stacks, of his own pulse drumming stupidly in his throat. Finally, you said, “I don’t think that’s true.”
It was your tone that undid him. Not playful, or flirtatious, or dreamy. Merely sure. As if, after observation and thought, you had reached a conclusion and trusted it.
Fred looked away first. “Merlin,” he muttered.
Your brow faintly furrowed. “Was that rhetorical?”
He laughed once, raggedly, and shoved the poison catalogue back toward you. “Study before I decide to become worse out of spite.”
You inclined your head. “All right.” Then, after a pause that felt somehow heavier than the first, you said, “I’m glad you sat with me.”
He did not answer, mostly because he no longer trusted his own voice.
———————————————————————
The problem worsened when other people began involving themselves. It started at lunch two days later. You were crossing the entrance hall with an armful of books, moving with your usual measured grace beneath the vaulted ceiling. Snowmelt had been tracked in across the flagstones, turning the floor slick in patches. The enormous hourglasses stood gleaming in their alcoves, jeweled with house points. Students surged around you in noisy tides, bright scarves and damp hems and winter-reddened cheeks.
From the opposite side of the hall, Fred saw it before you did. A Hufflepuff third year was running too fast and looking over his shoulder at a friend. He collided with you hard enough to send your books sliding from your arms. They struck the stone with a painful clap of leather and parchment and one skidded straight into a puddle of slush.
The boy spun around, mortified. “Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t—”
You were already crouching to gather the books. “It’s all right,” you said, though your voice had gone thinner around the edges.
Fred reached you in three long strides. The third year looked visibly relieved when Fred, a notorious older Gryffindor and usually a sign of incoming trouble for Slytherins, dropped to one knee and snatched the wet book out of the slush before more damage could be done.
“For God’s sake,” Fred muttered, drawing his wand. “Scourgify.”
The water vanished at once. The hall kept roaring around you, but the immediate space seemed to narrow, students sweeping past in blurred motion while the moment itself held still. Fred passed you the dried book and your fingers brushed his for half a second, cold from the stone.
You looked at him again with that searching, solemn gaze. The Hufflepuff boy apologized twice more and scampered off. Fred stood, offering you the rest of the stack. “You really ought to stop letting gravity bully you like this.”
You took the books carefully. “I didn’t let it.”
“Passive resistance, then.”
“I slipped.”
“Yes, I noticed.”
There was laughter nearby where Parvati and Lavender whispered by the staircase, both openly watching. A pair of Slytherin girls passing by slowed almost imperceptibly. George, halfway down the marble stairs, came to a full stop and grinned like a man witnessing prophecy unfold.
You, oblivious to all of them, only adjusted your grip on the books and said, “Thank you.”
Fred opened his mouth for some glib rejoinder, some line to restore the proper shape of things. But you added, with quiet seriousness, “You’re always there very quickly.”
The words landed with the force of a confession. Not because you had meant them that way. You had not. You simply said true things and left them naked in the air, not seeming to realise that other people dressed truth in layers for a reason. Fred felt suddenly, acutely aware of the watching eyes around him.
He should have laughed it teased you. He should have said something easy and throwaway and false. Instead he heard himself ask, “Is that a complaint?”
Your lashes lowered briefly as you shifted the books against your chest. “No.”
That single syllable contained no shyness and no flirtation, only certainty. The noise of the Entrance Hall swelled back in around him. George made a kissing face from the staircase. Fred told him to sod off without taking his eyes off you. You seemed to interpret this as a continuation of their previous conversational thread and gave a small nod before heading toward the dungeons, robes skimming the wet stone.
George bounded down the stairs the instant you were out of earshot. “Oh, you’re finished,” he said gleefully.
Fred began walking. George fell into step beside him like a particularly obnoxious shadow. “I am not.”
“You looked like someone had hit you over the head with a church bell.”
“She says odd things.”
“She says obvious things.”
Fred frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
George gave him a look of exaggerated pity. “Only that you have, in fact, been there very quickly. Repeatedly, almost as if you are forever scanning crowds for one specific Slytherin with the social instincts of a lost fawn.”
Fred stopped walking and George continued two steps before noticing and turning back. “A lost fawn?” Fred repeated, offended.
George shrugged. “A very elegant one.”
Fred resumed walking with increased violence in each step. It was Lee, however, who said the worst thing. That evening, the Gryffindor common room blazed with firelight and noise. The windows were black mirrors against the night, reflecting red-gold warmth back into the room. Students lounged across sofas and rugs, feet tucked beneath blankets, cards and sweets and textbooks scattered everywhere in the comfortable chaos. The fire crackled low and deep, breathing heat into the room until everything smelled of wool, smoke, and melting candlewax.
Fred sat in an armchair with a deck of self-shuffling cards he had no intention of actually using. Lee dropped onto the arm of the chair. “So.”
Fred did not look at him. “No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Yes, I do.”
Lee grinned. “You like her.”
Fred’s denial came at once, automatic and sharpened by reflex. “Don’t be absurd.”
Lee plucked one of the cards from the deck and squinted at it upside down. “All right. You are obsessed with her in a way that is beginning to affect your timing, your insult quality, and your ability to blink when she enters a room.”
Fred made a grab for the card. Lee whisked it away. “I am not obsessed.”
“You’re something.”
George, sprawled before the fire with a notebook balanced on one knee, said without glancing up, “He’s gone peculiar.”
“Thank you,” Lee said. “That’s the phrase.”
Fred rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t even know her.”
That silenced them both for a moment. Then George looked up. And because George was George and because for all his mockery he possessed the unnerving ability to step sideways into truth when least convenient, his expression gentled. “Don’t you?” he asked.
Fred did not answer. The fire popped. Didn’t he? He knew the line that appeared between your brows when you were thinking hard. He knew you touched the spines of books before choosing one, as though greeting them. He knew you disliked being startled from behind but never said so. He knew that when you were overwhelmed, you grew quieter, not louder. He knew your silence had shades to it. He knew you believed people more often than they deserved. He knew you noticed small things and missed enormous ones. He knew that whenever you thanked him, you meant it with your whole heart.
Fred looked into the fire and felt something in himself shift again, deeper this time, like ice cracking under dark water. “I guess I know enough,” he said at last.
———————————————————————
A few days later, you found him before breakfast in an almost empty corridor on the fourth floor. Dawn had only just begun unspooling itself through the castle windows, turning the grey stone faintly blue. The corridor was chilly and quiet, lined with suits of armor that glimmered dully in the half-light. The castle at that hour felt strange and private, like seeing a great animal sleeping.
Fred had been on his way back from an early errand involving a prototype trick teacup and you stood by one of the tall arched windows, the pale morning behind you. Without the noise of other students around, the silence between you felt more intimate than silence ought to.
“You’re up early,” he said.
You turned. “So are you.”
“Kind of you to notice.”
“I notice many things.”
“I’m beginning to fear that.”
The corner of your mouth moved, again not quite a smile, but the ghost of one. It had become more frequent lately, those almost-smiles. Fred had begun to collect them greedily, each one a rare coin. You held something out to him and he frowned and took it before registering that it was a sugar quill.
He stared down at it. “What’s this?”
“I went to Hogsmeade with Daphne yesterday,” you said. “You mentioned once that the Honeydukes ones are better than the castle sweets and I’ve seen you chewing on a few of these in class.”
Fred looked up sharply. He had mentioned that, offhandedly weeks ago during one of your Potions lessons while waiting for a simmering draught to thicken. He had not thought you were paying attention. At the time you had been crushing dried nettles with the concentration of a saint illuminating a manuscript.
“You remembered that,” he said before he could stop himself.
You looked mildly puzzled by the surprise in his voice. “Yes.”
It was only a sugar quill, a cheap bit of sugar wrapped in bright paper, and yet something in his chest tightened so fiercely it was almost painful. Fred, who gave things constantly - jokes, inventions, chaos, charm, noise - had rarely known what to do with quiet offerings or remembered details.
So of course he ruined the moment. “You do realise,” he said, leaning against the wall and aiming for flippant, “that this is a dangerous precedent. Giving sweets to notorious delinquents.”
You folded your hands before you. “I thought you might like it.”
The corridor seemed suddenly too narrow as Fred looked at you. You had no idea what you were doing to him. No idea how impossible you had become with your grave eyes and literal heart, your solemn thank-yous and your habit of remembering the things other people dropped carelessly in passing. You stood there in the fragile blue of morning, your Slytherin tie slightly crooked for once, your hair loose around your shoulders, and you looked less like a rival and more like something out of a fairytale one stumbled into by mistake. A winter thing, lovely and strange and entirely capable of undoing a man who laughed too easily and felt too much beneath the surface of it.
Fred swallowed. “Well,” he said softly, “that was your first mistake.”
You tipped your head. “What was?”
“Thinking I have any manners left at all.” And then, because he could not help himself, because the impulse arrived bright and wicked and warm, he unwrapped the sugar quill, snapped it cleanly in half, and held one piece out to you. You looked from the sweet to his face. “For you,” he said.
You hesitated before you took it, as though thinking over a thousand possibilities before deciding it was safe. Your fingers brushed his again, and the contact was light as moth wings, brief as breath on glass, but it left a trail of heat in its wake. You looked down at the sugar quill half in your hand with something almost like surprise. “You’re sharing,” you said.
Fred grinned, though it felt strangely unsteady. “Don’t sound so shocked. I’m charitable in winter.”
You considered that. “Is that seasonal? Should I expect a decline in spring?”
He laughed aloud. This time unmistakably, and it made you smile. Your first real smile. It wasn’t dazzling in the conventional sense, but it unfolded slowly like a flower opening under snow. Or like sunlight finally breaking through cloud after a long grey morning. And because Fred had spent so long watching for scraps of expression from you, the sight of your actual smile struck him with catastrophic force.
He forgot every prepared line. Forgot the corridor, the castle, the hour. Forgot, briefly, how to breathe. You seemed unaware of the devastation you had caused. You bit into the sugar quill thoughtfully and looked out the window. The early grounds beyond were washed in silver frost.
“It’s peaceful this early,” you said.
Fred was still looking at you. “Yes,” he said, though he wasn’t looking at the grounds at all.
———————————————————————
He should have known peace never lasted. By the end of that week, things came to a head. It started in a corridor after dinner with two Slytherin girls and one nasty overheard comment. Fred had been heading back from the Owlery when he heard your name. He slowed instinctively. The voices came from around the bend ahead, sharp and low and unmistakably cruel.
“…honestly don’t know what’s wrong with her,” one girl said.
“She’s so weird,” said the other. “She listens like she’s waiting for the rest of the sentence that never comes.”
“And the Weasley thing?” the first added. “Pathetic, really. He’s obviously making fun of her.”
Fred stopped dead. The corridor was lined with torchlight and old stone, shadows flickering along the walls. Cold anger rose in him so quickly it surprised him.
The second girl snorted. “I know. It’s embarrassing. She can’t even tell when people are laughing at her.”
That was when you rounded the corner from the opposite end. You saw the girls, and saw him. From the way your steps faltered only once before smoothing out, Fred knew at once that you had heard enough. Not all, perhaps. But definitely enough.
The girls went still, yet it wasn’t them you eyes were trained on. You were looking at Fred. Your face had gone very calm with stillness that was not peaceful at all. The girls, perhaps sensing the sudden danger in the air, muttered something and slipped past, their footsteps retreating quickly. Silence rushed in after them. You stood there with your hands at your sides, shoulders straight, expression unreadable.
Fred took a step toward you. “Y/N—”
“Were they right?” Your voice was quiet enough that it nearly vanished into the crackle of the torches.
He stopped. You looked at him directly, and there was no confusion in your gaze this time. No careful sorting or hopeful literalness. “Have you been laughing at me?” you asked.
And Fred, for the first time since this began, felt fear. Fear of answering badly and watching something delicate shut forever. He should have said no. The truth had lined itself up for him, terribly easy to reach. He could have stepped into it. Could have told you that what had begun as mockery had become something else so gradually it frightened him. Could have said that the girls were wrong, or half wrong, or that he had been cruel once and was trying, clumsily and too late, not to be anymore.
He should have said no. Instead, something old and ugly reared up in him. It was the same reckless instinct that had started this whole disaster. The same hot cowardice that preferred performance to vulnerability, and cruelty to confession. Fear curdled into defensiveness so fast he hardly felt the turning of it. He only felt the sharp, sudden certainty that here, at last, was his chance to restore the balance. To prove that he had never gone soft. To tear down the impossible, dangerous thing you had built him into inside your own mind.
So Fred smiled wrongly. It wasn’t his real one. Not the warm, crooked grin that arrived when George said something outrageous or when a joke landed just right. This one was honed to a blade’s edge. It was thin, bright, and merciless. A smile meant for crowds.
“Yes,” he said. The word cracked through the corridor like ice splitting under weight.
Your face did not change at first. Fred saw the moment it landed, though. He watched the almost invisible stilling of your breath, and the minute tightening at the corners of your mouth. Behind you, torchlight shivered against the stone, throwing gold over the wall and shadow under your eyes.
“Yes,” he said again, because now that he had begun he could not seem to stop, every instinct in him rushing downhill toward ruin. “Of course I have.”
You stared at him but you didn’t interrupt or protest. You were listening, as you always did, as though every word mattered enough to be taken whole. Fred hated that even then.
“It’s been ridiculous,” he said, his voice gone lazy with a carelessness he did not feel. “Honestly, I thought you’d work it out sooner. But apparently not.”
Still you said nothing. He should have stopped there. He should have looked at your face, at the blankness settling over it like frost over glass, and understood that he was standing on the edge of something irreparable. Instead, he kept going, because if he stopped, he would have to admit that none of this felt like victory.
“Do you have any idea,” he said, “how absurd you’ve looked? Taking everything seriously. Thanking me. Looking at me like I meant any of it.” He gave a short, sharp laugh that sounded wrong even to his own ears. “Merlin, it’s almost impressive.”
Your fingers curled once at your sides. Very slightly. A lesser sign, perhaps, to someone who did not know you. But Fred knew, by now, how still you became when you were straining to hold yourself together. He knew your silences had textures. This one was not thoughtful or calm. It was taut and thin and dangerous, stretched like glass before the break.
And still he did not stop, because some broken, frightened part of him wanted you angry. Wanted you cold. Wanted you to look at him with ordinary hatred instead of the strange faith that had made him feel seen and guilty and wanted all at once.
So he struck where he knew you were soft. “You really didn’t notice?” he asked, almost lightly. “All this time?”
Your throat moved as you swallowed. Fred tilted his head, and the cruelty in him sharpened itself to a point. “No wonder everyone thinks you’re stupid.”
That did it. Not outwardly, at first. There was no large reaction. You didn’t gasp, or flinch, or break in any visible, dramatic way. But something in your face changed so subtly and so completely that the sight of it made his stomach lurch.
It was as if a lamp had gone out behind your eyes. Not because there was nothing there but because suddenly there was too much pain for light to get through. You looked at him as though you were rearranging the entire shape of the world and finding that every piece had been lying to you.
When you spoke, your voice was quiet. “Everyone?”
It was as though your question was giving him another chance. Another chance to take back what he had said. Fred’s pulse thudded once, hard. He had meant it as a line. A careless exaggeration. A weapon. But spoken back in your voice, that one word sounded small and wounded in a way that stripped it bare. He could have stopped there and taken it back but instead he doubled down. “Everyone.”
A long silence stretched between you. Down the corridor, somewhere far off, a door slammed and laughter flared faintly from another floor. Closer at hand, one of the torches hissed as wax spat into flame. The castle went on breathing around you, ancient and indifferent, while inside that narrow strip of corridor the air felt flayed raw.
You blinked once, then twice before Fred realised with a horrible jolt that your eyes had filled. You didn’t wipe them. The tears didn’t spill immediately, they only gathered there, brightening your gaze until it shone as though lit from within. Your face remained composed in a deliberate way that told him you were refusing to let yourself come apart where he could see. Your chin stayed lifted, your shoulders stayed straight. Only your mouth betrayed you, trembling once before you pressed it flat again. And when you looked angry, on top of hurt, it nearly undid him. Humiliation sat so badly on you because you wore dignity like bone, and to see it bruised was like seeing marble crack.
“I see,” you said. Your voice had gone even quieter, but it no longer sounded uncertain. It sounded careful and as controlled as a person stepping barefoot through broken glass because they had decided there was no other way forward.
Fred’s heartbeat was wild now, a trapped thing battering against his ribs. He wanted to take back every word but pride, wretched and instinctive, held his jaw in place. He said nothing. You drew in a slow breath through your nose, and when you spoke again there was a faint change in your tone of clarity.
“No,” you said, the tears finally slipping free, soundless and shining down your cheeks. “I think I finally understand.”
Fred felt those words like a blow. You laughed once, but there was no humor in it, only disbelief turned inward until it cut. “I kept thinking you were saying one thing and meaning another, but I had it the wrong way around.”
Your eyes stayed fixed on his. You didn’t hide from him and that was somehow worse. “I thought you noticed things because you were paying attention,” you said. “I thought you were mean to tell the truth, not for the sake of it.”
Each sentence was calm and precise. It was all the more devastating for the effort it took you to say them while your tears ran unchecked, betraying the grief you were refusing to dramatise. You looked furious now, your anger and humiliation braided so tightly together they made your whole face seem sharper. Your lashes were wet, your cheeks burned, and your hands had balled into fists so hard your knuckles had gone pale. And then, finally, the wound showed in one awful, trembling exhale.
“I know I don’t always understand things the way everyone else does,” you said, and now your voice shook despite your efforts to steady it. “I know I miss things. I know people think it means I’m—”
You stopped. For the first time, you looked away from him, as if the next word itself was hard to bear aloud. Fred felt dread crawl cold and sick through his body. When you looked back, the tears on your face had only made your expression fiercer.
“Stupid,” you said. The word dropped between you like a stone into deep water. Fred went still. You gave a tiny, bitter nod to yourself, as though confirming something you had feared for a long time. “I know that’s what they think. I just didn’t realise you thought it too.”
“No,” Fred said, finally, but the word came late and thin and useless.
Your laugh of disbelief broke with your words. “Don’t start lying for my comfort now,” you whispered.
He knew at once what you meant. He did not get to take it back at the exact moment he saw what it had done. He did not get to fling knives and then rush forward, aghast, because someone had bled. He did not get to choose cruelty and then recoil from its consequence as though he had been misunderstood.
Fred stepped toward you anyway. “Y/N—”
You stepped back faster. The movement was small, but it split something open in him. Your face hardened around your grief with frightening speed. “All this time,” you said, your voice thin with fury, “I thought maybe for once I had understood someone correctly.”
He had no answer to that. None that mattered. Another tear slid down your cheek. You wiped it away now with an angry hand almost roughly, as if furious with your own body for betraying you. Your chest rose and fell too fast. Fred had seen you composed, distant, grave, puzzled, and almost-smiling. He had never seen you hurt, and the knowledge that he had done it made the corridor tilt sickeningly around him.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
You looked at him as if the words were an insult. “Don’t be,” you said with such naked contempt that he stopped where he was. “I’m not confused anymore,” you said, and every syllable came out clipped and trembling. “So at least you accomplished that.”
Then you drew yourself up straighter though your tears were still falling, and though your face was flushed with humiliation. Your breath still caught against the edges of your words and whatever was left of your softness vanished entirely.
“Congratulations, Fred,” you said. His name in your mouth had never sounded like that before. Not warm, or thoughtful, or anything but ruined.
Then you turned and walked away with that same dignified, measured stride you always had, even with your face wet and your shoulders rigid and your hurt trailing behind you like torn silk in your wake. The torchlight caught the silver on your robes and turned it briefly bright as a knife. Your footsteps echoed down the corridor, sharp and lonely, until distance swallowed them.
Fred did not follow. He couldn’t. He stood there in the wreckage of his own making, every cruel word still vibrating in the air around him, and felt the full shape of what he had done settle over him like chains. He stared at the place where you had disappeared, his chest hollowing out with a slow, terrible force. Shame arrived first, then horror, and then recognition that this had been the thing he’d wanted at the beginning, wasn’t it? The restoration of some smug, careless order in which Fred Weasley was only ever a prankster and never a friend to Slytherins. He had wanted to make you see him clearly. And he had. Only now the sight of himself, reflected back through your pain, was uglier than he could stand.
He dragged a hand over his face and his palm came away shaking. At the end of the corridor, a draft moved through the castle, cold as winter, and Fred stood alone in it. He had finally become exactly what he had pretended to be.
———————————————————————
Fred lasted four days before it began to show. It wasn’t the same as the loud sort of misery he might once have performed for an audience which would have consisted of dramatic sprawling over tables in the Great Hall, a hand flung tragically to his brow, and exaggerated sighs until Angelina threatened him with bodily harm. This was quieter than that. It hollowed him out from the inside and left the edges standing.
He laughed when expected, but the sound came late. He forgot things. He burned a batch of Canary Cream prototypes so badly that even George shook his head. He went looking for you without meaning to and kept finding only the shape of your absence. That undid him more than anything because you were gone now. Of course you still existed in the castle, moved through its corridors, sat in its classrooms, breathed the same candle-thick air and crossed the same courtyards under the same winter sky. But you had become unreachable where once there had been pauses in which he could slip beside you and trade barbed remarks. You saw him and turned another way. If a lesson forced you into the same room, you didn’t look at him. If he entered the library, you left it. If he rounded a corridor and found you there, your face went smooth and unreadable and emptied itself of him completely.
The castle seemed built to torment him with memory. Every place held some version of you. The Potions classroom with its pewter light and simmering cauldrons, where your sleeves had brushed once over chopped valerian and turned his hands suddenly clumsy. The library table near the Restricted Section rope, where you had pushed books toward him and remembered every stray thing he said. The fourth-floor corridor washed in pale dawn, where you had handed him a sugar quill because he’d mentioned, weeks before, which ones he preferred. The courtyard arch by the Clock Tower, where you had looked at him in the snow and told him that he noticed things. He remembered that the most.
You say unkind things, but you usually notice something true first. Now all he could hear, over and over, was your voice in the corridor after. I know people think it means I’m stupid. I just didn’t realise you thought it too.
He had not known guilt could be physical before this, but it was. It sat in his chest like iron. It dragged behind every breath. It made food taste like paper and sleep feel impossible. His own thoughts had become a punishment cell he could not stop pacing in, each lap bringing him back to the same moment, the same look on your face, the same late and useless no clawing its way out of him long after the damage had been done.
By the fifth evening, George stopped pretending not to notice. The Gryffindor common room glowed red and gold around them. Rain had started outside, tapping softly at the windows, turning the black glass into streaked mirrors. Most of the room had settled into a post-dinner lull where students half-studied and half-dozed, limbs tucked beneath blankets, parchment spread over knees. Near the fire, Alicia and Katie were arguing over a Quidditch strategy diagram. Lee lay upside down on a sofa with his feet hanging over the back, humming tunelessly to himself.
Fred sat at the table by the window with a quill in his hand and a piece of parchment before him so blank it had begun to feel judgmental. George approached, took one look at the untouched parchment, and lowered himself into the chair opposite. “You’re not even pretending to work anymore,” he said.
Fred did not lift his head. “I am working.”
“On what?”
Fred turned the quill between his fingers. “On thinking.”
George snorted. “Dangerous.” He paused, then said in a soft voice, “You look awful.”
Fred laughed once without humour. “Thank you.”
“You know what I mean.”
Yes, he did. He looked awful because he felt awful. Because he hadn’t realised until you were gone just how much of his day had begun orienting itself around you in small, humiliating increments. Like a seat chosen because it gave him a line of sight to where you usually sat. Or a detour through a corridor because you sometimes passed there after Charms. Even a hand reaching automatically into his pocket when he saw something in Hogsmeade and thought, absurdly and immediately, that you would like it.
He missed your face. Not only its beauty, though there was that too in infuriating abundance. He missed the quiet intelligence of it and the way your expression changed by fractions. How your gaze focused fully when you listened, making the rest of the world feel thin and unimportant. He missed your almost-smiles, rare and slow and so hard-won they had felt like secrets entrusted to him. He missed the precise cadence of your voice. He missed the way you took words seriously, the way you turned them over as though language were a set of objects to be arranged carefully rather than flung carelessly into the air. He missed the feeling of being noticed by you.
And worse than that he missed the friendship he had not even understood he possessed until he shattered it. Because that was what it had been, alongside everything hotter and more confusing beneath it. Friendship, genuine and strange and precious. You had listened to him as though he were worth understanding. You had remembered him, shared things with him, and sat beside him in silences that never felt empty. You trusted him in that steady, unshowy way that had made him feel, for the first time in longer than he liked to admit, less like a performance and more like a person. He had found something real in you.
And then he had stamped on it with both feet. Lee’s voice drifted over from the sofa. “For the record,” he said without opening his eyes, “watching you mope is becoming genuinely upsetting.”
Fred looked over. “Then stop watching.”
Lee rolled off the sofa, landed in a heap of limbs, and wandered over to the table. He dropped into the chair beside George and squinted at Fred with the frankness of old friends who had long ago forfeited any claim to delicacy. “You haven’t hexed anyone all week,” Lee said. “You nearly cried into your shepherd’s pie yesterday.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did,” George said.
“That was gravy.” Fred corrected.
George raised his eyebrows and Lee leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Have you spoken to her?”
Fred let out a breath and looked back down at the parchment. “She won’t let me.”
“Well,” said Lee, “yes. I likely wouldn’t talk to you either.”
Fred’s jaw tightened. The warmth of the common room pressed in around him, but he felt none of it. He only felt the cold of that corridor, the way your tears had shone without sound, the way you had stepped back when he reached for you.
“I keep hearing it,” he said at last. Neither George nor Lee spoke. Fred swallowed. “What I said.” The words came harder now that he had begun, dragged up from somewhere raw. “I can’t stop hearing them, and every time I do, it sounds worse. Crueler. It sounds like…” He broke off, rubbed both hands over his face, then said into them, muffled and furious, “Well, it sounds like exactly what it was.”
George’s expression changed. The mockery left it first, then the ease. What remained was his brother stripped down to the bone of him, perceptive, protective, and unbearably direct when it mattered. “Fred,” he said quietly, “what you did was awful.”
Fred looked up. George held his gaze without flinching. “It was cruel, and it hit exactly where she was vulnerable, and you know that.”
Fred nodded once. He couldn’t argue against the pony and he didn’t want to. “I know,” he said. “I deserve to be just as miserable for it.”
Lee sighed through his nose and leaned back. “You’re being punished already.”
“I should be.” His punishment felt appropriate.
“Yes,” Lee said. “But that doesn’t mean you should give up.”
Fred laughed bitterly. “You think I can just stroll up and say sorry and that fixes it?”
“No,” George said. “You can’t go back or unsay it, and you probably can’t make her feel better right away. Some things don’t heal just because the person who caused them finally feels bad.”
Fred looked away. The rain had strengthened beyond the window now, silvering the dark. The glass reflected his own face faintly back at him. He looked drawn and tired.
George went on. “But you can tell her the truth.”
Fred’s gaze snapped back. “The real truth,” Lee added. “Not the ugly rubbish you threw at her because you panicked.”
George leaned forward, forearms on the table. “Tell her you lied.”
Lee nodded. “Tell her how it started.”
“And how it changed,” George said.
“And how you feel now,” Lee finished.
Fred stared at them both. The answer rose immediately in him. What good would that do? Why would you believe him? Why would you stay long enough to hear it? What right had he to put more words in your path after the ones he’d already used to wound you?
But beneath all that was something simpler. A need for you to know him. For you to know the truth. That he didn’t believe you stupid. That you weren’t stupid. That fact that you believed the worst thing he had ever said to you represented the whole of him ate away at him. You did not deserve to think you had been foolish for seeing something gentler in him because you had not been wrong. He had just been cowardly.
Fred looked down at the blank parchment between his hands. “What if she won’t listen?”
George’s voice softened. “Then at least she’ll know you tried.”
Lee gave him a sharp look. “And if she does listen, don’t be clever. Don’t joke. Just tell her the truth and let it be ugly.”
Fred almost smiled at that. “You make it sound easy.”
“It won’t be,” said Lee.
George reached over and stole the quill from his fingers. “Go before you lose your nerve.”
Fred sat there for a minute, and because George knew him too well, he stood, hauled Fred up by the arm, and shoved him toward the portrait hole. “Now,” George said.
Fred caught his balance. “You’re both unbearable.”
Lee saluted lazily from his chair. “Go grovel.”
Fred left before they could say anything else.
———————————————————————
He found you the next afternoon on the grounds. Winter had softened a little, enough that the snow no longer lay in clean, untouched sheets but had begun to melt in patches, exposing dark earth and flattened grass beneath. The sky hung pale and pearled above the castle, and a weak, watery sun pressed through the clouds without warmth. The air smelled of thawing stone, damp moss, and the lake. Bare branches scratched at the sky like black ink strokes.
You sat alone beneath a beech tree near the edge of the grounds, far enough from the main paths that few students wandered that way unless they meant to. A blanket had been spread beneath you over the still-damp grass. Your bag lay open at your side, one book stacked on top of another, and one rested in your hands, open across your lap. Your robes pooled dark around you. The wind stirred the ends of your hair across your cheek. From a distance you looked calm as you always did, but Fred knew better now than to mistake stillness for peace.
He slowed as he approached. Your posture shifted before he was close enough to speak. Perhaps you heard his steps through the brittle grass, or perhaps some instinct simply alerted you to being watched. You looked up and the second you recognised him, your face emptied. You lowered your eyes at once and began packing your things away. Each movement was neat and efficient.
Fred’s stomach dropped. “Wait,” he called.
You didn’t wait. You slid the bookmark into your page, shut the book, stacked it with the others, and reached for your bag. Panic rose in him swift and sharp. By the time he reached you, you were already halfway to your feet.
“Please,” he said.
Still you refused to look at him. You gathered the blanket with one hand, and that was when he reached out and caught your other hand in his. The contact stopped you both and your fingers went still in his grasp. Fred felt the shock of it all the way to his shoulders. Your hand was cold from the air. He had imagined touching you again so many times in the past week that the feel of it now was almost overwhelming.
You tried once, immediately, to pull away. He tightened his hold, not enough to hurt you and only enough to keep you there. The desperation in him finally broke free of pride. “Please stay,” he said, voice rough. “Please. Just for one minute.”
At that, you finally looked at him. Your eyes were guarded and tired. There were shadows beneath them he did not remember putting there but knew, in his bones, that he had. He hated himself afresh for that.
“I don’t want to do this again,” you said. The quietness of your voice frightened him more than anger would have.
“You won’t,” he said quickly. “I swear to Merlin, you won’t. I just…I need to tell you something.”
Your hand remained rigid in his. “What?”
He drew in a breath that felt too small for what he needed to say. “The truth.” Fred swallowed and forced himself not to look away. “I was the stupid one. Not you.” he said.
Your brows drew together almost imperceptibly.
“I was,” he said again, because the words had to be plain and whole and not dressed in any wit. “Not you. Me.”
You said nothing. The grounds had gone very still around you. Fred held your gaze and made himself continue. “When this started,” he said, “I was trying to be cruel.” The words tasted foul but he kept speaking. “I thought you were aloof and impossible and I hated that I couldn’t get a reaction out of you, so I made it into a game. I wanted to annoy you. Embarrass you. Prove I could get under your skin.”
Your expression changed by almost nothing, but he felt it anyway. There was a tiny flinch of old hurt. “I know,” you said, and the simplicity of it cut him.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I know you do. But that isn’t all of it.”
He let go of your hand then, not because he wanted to but because he had not earned the right to hold it through this. His fingers felt abruptly empty.
“The longer it went on, the harder it got,” he said. “Because you kept being…you. You took me seriously when no one else did. You listened when I spoke. You remembered things. You saw straight through the performance half the time, except not in the ways I expected. You made room for me when I hadn’t done anything to deserve it.”
Your eyes stayed fixed on him now, watchful and unreadable. Fred’s pulse pounded. “I liked talking to you,” he said. “I liked being around you. I liked that you saw things differently. I liked that you noticed details everyone else walked past. I liked your questions and your pauses and the way you think before you speak. I liked how you took things literally and still somehow understood truths other people miss entirely.”
The wind moved through the bare branches above you, making them (and you) shiver. Fred’s voice dropped lower. “I liked your quirks,” he said. “All of them. I liked the things you thought made you strange. I liked that your mind worked the way it did. I liked that you didn’t move through the world carelessly. I liked that you paid attention. I liked…” He broke off, looked at you helplessly, then forced the rest out. “I liked you.”
Your mouth parted slightly. Not from understanding, he thought at first, but from surprise that he was saying any of this aloud.
“I lied to you,” he said. “That day in the corridor. I lied because I was scared and proud and angry at myself for caring. You asked me if the girls were right, and instead of telling you the truth, I said the worst thing I could think of because it was easier than admitting that I’d changed.”
Your eyes had gone bright again, though not in quite the same way as before. There were tears there, yes, but held differently. Fred stepped closer, careful this time, like approaching something wounded that might yet bolt.
“I am so sorry,” he said. “Not in the useless way I said it before. I mean it properly. I’m sorry I made you feel stupid. I’m sorry I used the thing you were most afraid of against you. I’m sorry I made you think your way of seeing the world was something to laugh at.” His throat tightened. “It isn’t,” he said fiercely. “It never was.”
You looked down then, and the sight nearly undid him. Because your lashes lowered as though under too much weight, and your shoulders that were so often held with quiet dignity softened by a fraction. When you spoke, your voice was very small. “You said yes.”
Fred closed his eyes for one beat. “I know.”
“You said everyone was laughing.”
“I know.”
Your fingers worried at the edge of the folded blanket. “I believed you.”
“I know,” he said again, and this time it came out broken.
You were quiet for so long he began to fear you would simply walk away after all. That you would gather yourself and leave him standing there in the damp winter light with the truth too late in his mouth.
Then you asked, still not looking at him, “Why did you come now?”
The answer was immediate. “Because I missed you.”
Your chin lifted slightly. Fred let out a breath and gave up every last scrap of defensiveness.“I missed everything,” he said. “I missed talking to you. I missed you looking at me. I missed your face. I missed your strange little silences and the way you’d remember something I’d forgotten saying. I missed being your friend.”
That made you look at him. The word friend settled between you with quiet force. Fred met your gaze. “I was,” he said more softly, “wasn’t I? Your friend?”
Something in your expression wavered. Yes, he had been. In the odd, crooked, complicated shape your connection had taken, there had still been friendship there. Real enough to wound when broken. “I thought so,” you said.
The ache in those three words nearly doubled him over. “And I wrecked it,” he whispered.
Then, to his astonishment, you asked, “Did you mean any of the noticing?”
Fred frowned. “What?”
“When you said things about me.” Your eyes searched his, grave as ever. “About me being intimidating. Or observant. Or too trusting. Or…” You hesitated. “Different.”
“Yes,” he said at once. “Yes. All of that was true. The cruelty was real at the beginning,” he said, because he would not insult you with half-honesty now. “But the noticing was real too. And then the noticing became all of it.”
A tear slipped down your cheek. This time you wiped it away gently. “I hated thinking I’d imagined you,” you said.
Fred made a soft, wrecked sound. “You didn’t,” he said. “You didn’t imagine me. I just behaved like a coward.”
Something in your face loosened like frost beginning to melt from a windowpane, letting the shape beneath come slowly back into view. Your mouth trembled, then steadied. Your eyes remained damp, but they no longer looked shuttered. “I was so angry,” you admitted.
“You had every right to be.”
“I still am,” you said.
Fred nodded. “Also fair.”
That, unexpectedly, made the corner of your mouth twitch. It was not a smile, but it was the first trace of one he had seen since the corridor, and it struck him like sunrise.
“I don’t like being lied to,” you said. “And I don’t like being made to feel foolish.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
You studied him another long moment. Then, with the severe honesty that belonged only to you, you added, “You looked miserable all week.”
Fred barked out a startled laugh. “Thank you.”
“You did.”
“I was.”
Then you said, “Good.”
He laughed again, this time properly, and there it was. That tiny fracture in the ice, enough to let warmth through. You looked down at your books, then back at him, and something gentler entered your expression. “I forgive you,” you said.
Fred went still. The winter air vanished from his lungs. Perhaps you saw the shock of it on his face, because you added, very quietly, “I don’t think what you said was small. And don’t think it stops hurting immediately just because you’ve explained it. But I believe you’re telling the truth now.”
Fred stared at you as if he’d forgotten every language he knew. You forgave him. The relief that moved through him was so intense it bordered on exhilaration. He had not realised how tightly he had wound himself around the fear of losing you entirely until that fear loosened enough to let him breathe.
“Thank you,” he said.
You gave a slight nod. Then Fred, because apparently he had not yet exhausted his capacity for making a disaster of important moments, said in a rush, “And I do like you.”
You blinked. “Yes,” you said. “You already said that. That you like me and my quirks.”
He made a strangled sound of frustration. “Not just that.”
You frowned faintly, trying to sort the distinction. Fred looked at you with your hair stirred by winter wind and your books half-packed and your expression caught between confusion and dawning curiosity and he felt some last foolish fear give way beneath a stronger certainty.
Of course words were failing him. Words had failed him from the start with you, slipping and twisting under the weight of too much meaning. Maybe because you listened so intently to them, they always felt suddenly inadequate in your presence, too blunt for the truth they were meant to carry.
So he stepped closer, slowly enough that you could stop him if you wanted to. When you didn’t, he lifted one hand, touched your cheek with a care that made his own heart ache, and kissed you.
The world narrowed. The cold air, the lake, the distant castle, the damp winter grass…all of it fell away until there was only your breath catching softly against his mouth, and the cool silk of your skin beneath his thumb. He kissed you gently at first. When he pulled back, it was only enough to look at you.
Your eyes were wide with astonishment. Fred’s hand remained against your cheek, his thumb just beneath your eye, and he gave a shaky little smile that held more vulnerability than any expression he had ever shown you. “Do you understand me now?” he asked softly.
For one suspended beat, you only stared at him. Then the understanding arrived. He saw it happen when your face changed as the meaning finally settled into place. He hadn’t meant the friendly ‘I like you’, or the treasured-companion ‘I missed you’, but something warmer and deeper. It made your whole expression go luminous with startled feeling.
“Oh,” you gasped.
Fred laughed, helpless and breathless and half in love with the shape of your realisation.
“Yes,” he said.
A flush rose slowly into your cheeks, pink against the winter air. Your gaze dropped once to his mouth and then back to his eyes, and for the first time since he had known you, you looked almost shy.
“Yes,” you said again, softer now. “I do understand.”
And then you kissed him back. It was tentative but not for long. You reached for the front of his robes with one hand, fingers curling into the fabric as if to anchor yourself, and leaned up into him with a kind of thoughtful certainty that made his knees feel briefly unreliable. Your kiss felt deliberate, sincere, a little careful at first and then wholly unleashed. Fred made a soft sound against your mouth and drew you closer, one hand slipping to your waist, the other still cradling your face as though he could scarcely believe he was allowed to.
When you finally parted, the two of you stayed close enough to share breath. Your eyes searched his. “You should have just said that,” you murmured. “I might have understood sooner.”
Fred laughed under his breath. “I know.”
A tiny smile touched your mouth then, and he kissed it immediately. This time when you laughed, it was against his lips. Beneath the bare branches and the pale winter sky, with your books forgotten in the grass and the damp air turning your cheeks rose-bright, the truth settled between you at last. Fred rested his forehead against yours and closed his eyes for one brief, grateful second.
“You are not stupid,” he said quietly.
Your fingers tightened in his robes. “I know,” you answered after a moment. “But I’m glad you understand that now too.”
He kissed you again for that and when the two of you finally began gathering your things distractedly (with Fred repeatedly forgetting what he was meant to be holding because he couldn’t stop looking at you) the world felt changed as if something long-buried had finally begun to surface from the snow, green and living, beneath the thaw. You walked back toward the castle together. This time, when your hands brushed, neither of you pulled away or pretended not to notice.
Kuroo’s grandparents’ house was packed. The warm hum of conversation filled every corner, blending with the occasional burst of laughter and the distant sound of kids squealing as they ran through the hallways. His entire family had gathered for his grandfather’s birthday, a rare full-family event that happened maybe once a year.
The kitchen was a flurry of activity, aunts swapping recipes and gossip over steaming dishes while his uncles gathered around the dining table, engaged in heated debates over sports. Kuroo’s grandmother had you both cornered earlier, asking—no, demanding—when you two planned on giving her great-grandchildren, and before you could even attempt an answer, Kuroo had expertly steered the conversation to something else, saving you from the relentless interrogation.
You had smiled, nodded, played your role as the perfect daughter-in-law, but after hours of dodging prying questions and smiling at distant relatives whose names you barely remembered, you were in desperate need of a break. The stuffy warmth of the crowded living room and the persistent hum of voices pressing in from all sides made escape your only option.
So, you slipped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you with a quiet sigh, pressing your hands against the sink. A deep breath, a few moments to yourself—that was all you needed. A little peace, a little space, a moment where you weren’t being eyed like a future baby-making machine.
Then, a few minutes later, the door clicked open again.
You barely had time to turn before Kuroo slipped in, shutting it behind him.
Your eyes widened. "What are you—"
"Let’s fuck."
You blinked. "Wow. How romantic. You really know how to set the mood, Tetsurō. Maybe light a candle next time? Play some soft jazz?"
His smirk was slow, lazy, dangerous. "Oh, I’d play something, alright. But I don’t think you’d be able to focus on the music."
You scoffed, folding your arms. "Tetsurō, we’re at your grandparent’s house. At a family event. With people literally roaming the halls. But sure, let’s add public indecency to our marriage résumé. That'll really impress your grandma."
He leaned in, pressing his hands against the sink behind you, caging you in. “And?”
Your heart pounded. “And it’s a terrible idea.”
Kuroo tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “You remember that bet we made a few weeks ago?”
Your stomach dropped.
Of course, you remembered. Some stupid, petty argument over who could name more world capitals or something equally dumb. You lost.
And Kuroo? He said he’d save his favor for the right moment.
This was apparently it.
“Tetsurō.” You crossed your arms, trying to look firm despite the way your pulse hammered in your throat. “Absolutely not.”
He grinned. “You agreed to the deal.”
“I didn’t think you’d cash it in like this!”
He hummed, tilting his head. “Well, it’s the perfect time. No one even notices we’re gone.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but the second his hands slid down to your waist, his fingers pressing into your hips, his body heat radiating against yours—
Your resolve crumbled.
“You wouldn’t.”
Kuroo leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Oh, I would.”
And with the way he was pressing into you, his hands gripping you like he’d already won— you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to stop him.
His fingers trailed lower, teasing, playful, pressing into the fabric of your dress just enough to make you gasp. “You know, I was gonna save this for something special, but…” he exhaled against your neck, his voice dark, teasing. “I think you’d rather pay up right now, wouldn’t you?”
Your breath hitched, hands coming up to push against his chest—half-heartedly. “Your Mother is outside.”
His smirk deepened. “And? No one’s paying attention.”
“Tetsurō—”
“Shhh,” he murmured, fingers curling beneath your chin, tilting your face up. His lips hovered over yours, barely brushing, mocking. “You’re acting like you don’t want this.”
Your skin burned, and you cursed how easily he could unravel you. The worst part? He knew it. He knew you’d fold for him, knew exactly how to make your body betray you.
“Tell me you don’t want me,” he murmured, lips pressing just beneath your ear, his breath hot and slow.
You swallowed hard. “Tetsu—”
His hands slid further down, gripping your hips, pulling you against him. “Say it, baby. Say you don’t want me to touch you.”
You couldn’t.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, your resolve slipping further with every second.
Kuroo chuckled, the sound low and full of satisfaction. “That’s what I thought.”
His hands slipped beneath the hem of your dress, slow and deliberate, fingers tracing along the sensitive skin of your thighs. “You’re already getting warm, baby,” he whispered. “You sure you wanna keep resisting me?”
You clenched your jaw, trying to fight the way your body shuddered under his touch.
You parted your lips, ready to say something—anything—but the moment his fingers pressed just a little higher, your breath hitched, and you knew you were done for.
Kuroo’s smirk widened. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
And then, he kissed you.
Deep, slow, devouring.
Your back hit the bathroom counter, your arms winding around his neck as he took his time, teasing you, making you fall apart without even trying.
“We have to be quiet,” he whispered against your lips.
And with the way he was dragging you under, drowning you in heat, in want, in him— you knew that was going to be impossible.
But instead of answering, you simply nodded, your breath uneven, your body already melting against him. His eyes darkened at your silent surrender, and before you could process it, you were kissing him again—deeper, more desperate, all hesitation gone.
His hands moved instantly, slipping further beneath your skirt, his fingers tracing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, teasing, waiting. "That's my girl," he murmured against your lips, his grip tightening as he pressed you harder against the counter. "Now, let's see how well you can keep quiet."
His fingers slid between your thighs, parting them just enough before slipping under your underwear, skimming over your warmth with a featherlight touch. You sucked in a sharp breath, your hands gripping the sink behind you as he chuckled low against your lips. "Already so warm for me, baby."
You bit down on your lip as his fingers pressed in, slow but firm, stretching you just enough to make your legs shake. He worked you open with practiced ease, his other hand wrapping around your hip to hold you still as your body responded to every precise curl of his fingers.
A whimper nearly escaped your lips, but you slapped a hand over your mouth, eyes widening as you remembered where you were.
Kuroo smirked, dark and wicked, his fingers moving faster, his thumb circling that sensitive spot that had your stomach tightening. "That’s it," he whispered, nipping at your jaw. "Keep quiet for me. You don’t want anyone to hear, do you?"
You shook your head, muffled sounds slipping between your fingers as your thighs trembled around his hand. He was relentless, teasing, playing, knowing exactly how to push you to the edge without letting you go over.
Then, just as your breath hitched, just as your body started to tighten around his fingers, he withdrew.
You let out a desperate, choked sound, but before you could protest, you felt the unmistakable press of him against you. Hot. Hard. Teasing.
He groaned as he rubbed himself against your entrance, just barely pushing the tip inside before pulling away.
"Shit—you're shaking, baby," he whispered, his voice rough, strained with control. "You want it that bad, huh?"
Before you could answer, he grabbed your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the sink. The cool porcelain against your skin sent a shiver up your spine, but it was nothing compared to the way he slotted himself between your legs, teasing you further as he lined himself up.
"Hold on to me," he muttered, voice thick with hunger.
Your arms wrapped around his neck just as he pushed inside, slow but deliberate, stretching you inch by inch. A strangled moan built in your throat, but you barely bit it back, eyes fluttering shut as he bottomed out, filling you completely.
His fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place as he started to move, deep and steady at first, but quickly growing more desperate. His breath was hot against your neck, each groan rumbling through his chest as he thrust into you, the wet sound of skin against skin mixing with your ragged breathing.
Your legs tightened around his waist, pulling him in deeper, chasing the edge that was already creeping up on you. His hand snuck between your bodies, fingers finding that sensitive spot, circling, pressing, sending white-hot pleasure straight to your core.
"T-Tetsu—" you gasped, one hand flying to your mouth as your body trembled around him.
"That’s it," he groaned, fucking into you harder, faster. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel it."
You were right there, so close, when—
Knock. Knock.
Your eyes shot open, panic freezing you in place.
"Tetsurō?" came the unmistakable voice of his older sister from the other side of the door. "Are you in there?"
Kuroo barely faltered, grinning like the devil as he stilled inside you, pressing his forehead against yours.
"Yeah, be out in a sec," he called back easily, voice steady despite the fact that he was currently buried inside you.
His sister huffed. "Hurry up, it's time for cake. Also, where’s your wife?"
Your breath caught, but Kuroo? Unbothered.
"Dunno," he lied smoothly, thrusting into you just once, slow and teasing. "Maybe she got lost."
You bit your lip, glaring at him, nails digging into his shoulders.
His sister sighed. "Whatever. Just get your ass out here."
The second her footsteps faded down the hall, you swatted his arm, chest heaving.
"You are unbelievable."
Kuroo grinned, pulling back only to slam into you again, harder this time, forcing a muffled cry from your lips. Your arms tightened around his shoulders, nails pressing into his skin as your entire body clenched around him.
"That’s right," he whispered against your ear, his pace unrelenting, each thrust sharp and punishing. "You're shaking so much—gonna act like you don’t love this? Like you don’t get off on almost getting caught?"
You tried to glare at him, but with the way his cock was hitting that perfect spot inside you, all you could do was shudder, mouth parting in helpless gasps.
"Yeah, that’s what I thought," he taunted, watching the way your body twitched under him, the way you clung to him like you needed him to keep you from falling apart.
His fingers slid back between your legs, finding your swollen, desperate clit, rubbing it in slow, teasing circles. The sudden sensation sent a jolt of pleasure up your spine, and you bit down hard on your own hand to keep from crying out.
"That close already?" he murmured, feeling the way your walls fluttered around him, the way your legs trembled around his waist. "Bet you love this, don’t you? Letting me fuck you like this when anyone could walk in."
You tried to protest, but all that came out was a broken moan, breathless and wrecked.
Kuroo chuckled, breath hot against your cheek. "No snarky comeback? No sarcasm? Baby, you’re too far gone to even argue, huh?"
His words only pushed you further, the tension inside you winding impossibly tight. His thrusts grew sharper, his fingers working you relentlessly until you finally shattered, your entire body convulsing as pleasure crashed over you.
Your orgasm triggered his, his rhythm stuttering as he groaned low against your skin, spilling deep inside you.
For a long moment, the only sound in the bathroom was your combined heavy breathing, the weight of what just happened settling between you.
Then, Kuroo smirked, pressing one last slow kiss to your jaw. "See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?"
You barely had the strength to lift your head, your breath still coming in heavy, uneven pants. Swallowing hard, you managed to rasp, "Never again."
Kuroo only chuckled, brushing his lips against your temple before pulling back. "Come on, there's cake."
You groaned, still trying to reassemble your thoughts, your body tingling with the aftershocks of pleasure. With shaky hands, you reached down, pulling up your panties—now soaked with his release—and quickly adjusted your dress, trying to look at least somewhat composed before stepping back out into the party.
Kuroo, the smug bastard, was already fixing his shirt, completely unbothered, his smirk not fading for even a second as he reached for the door handle. "Think Grandma will notice how wrecked you look?"
You swatted at him, glaring. "Shut up, Tetsurō."
But as you stepped out, legs still wobbly, Kuroo just shot you a knowing grin. "Too late. You already look guilty."
Guys I really need a long chaptered slow burn, preferably enemies to lovers fanfic recommendation for Draco x Reader (on ao3 or here). could be after the war or whateverrr all i ask for is a well written fanfic, want that hurt comfort SO bad.
baratheonpilled
ellievsbear
areudirty
stormborns
janainaart
yousharknotpass
