[worncreature]

USED TO BE ONE OF THE ROTTEN ONES . . . about me ﹒ masterlist (soon) ﹒ archive of our own (soon)

worncreature, est. 2002 — charlie rests in digital hibernation, in which she scrapes her old mind into blank pages and embeds herself in existing stories

i currently do not write according to requests, as i am incapable of delivering a project my heart is not fully committed to. i try to not make promises i can’t keep.

. . . AND I LIKED YOU FOR THAT

[ninilittlewizard]

[aycecold]

Practice Makes Perfect

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader (implied gryffindor)

Setting: Hogwarts, 7th Year (Order of the Phoenix era)

Word Count: ~8.3k

Summary: You ask your friend Fred to teach you how to kiss before your date on Saturday. He agrees, even though he's been in love with you for three years. Three lessons. Three days of kissing you and pretending it means nothing. By the time you go on that date, you realize that your date isn't who you want to be kissing

A/N: Requests are open for Harry Potter characters and Spider-Man/Peter Parker! Feel free to send prompts, tropes, or scenarios. Please like, comment, and reblog if you enjoy <3

The thing about Fred Weasley was that he never shut the fuck up.

Words were his weapon, his shield, his sleight of hand. He talked so you wouldn't look too closely at his face. He joked so you wouldn't hear the things he was actually saying underneath the jokes. He'd spent seven years perfecting the art of being completely unreadable while giving the impression of being an open book. A magic trick. A misdirection. Look at the mouth, not the eyes. Laugh at the punchline, not the pause before it.

So when you cornered him after dinner in the empty Charms corridor, wringing your hands like you were about to ask him to help you hide a body, he'd already queued up half a dozen deflections before you opened your mouth. He was ready. He was prepared. He was Fred fucking Weasley, and nothing got past his defenses.

Then you opened your mouth.

"You want me to what?"

The words came out sharper than he intended. Sharper than he'd ever spoken to you. You flinched—just slightly, a flicker at the corner of your mouth—and he hated himself for it immediately.

"Teach me," you repeated, and your voice only wobbled a little, which he had to give you credit for. "To kiss. Properly. I have a date with Adrian Pucey on Saturday and I don't want to look like a complete idiot."

Fred stared at you.

The torchlight in the Charms corridor was doing that thing where it made everyone look slightly haunted. Shadows jumped and flickered across your face. Somewhere in the distance, Peeves was singing a rude song about Umbridge and her Educational Decrees, something about toads and bureaucratic overreach. The castle settled and groaned, ancient and indifferent to the fact that Fred's internal organs were currently rearranging themselves into new and uncomfortable configurations.

"Pucey," he said finally, and his voice came out almost normal. Almost. If you didn't know him. If you weren't you. "Adrian fucking Pucey. Former Slytherin Chaser. Graduated last year. That Adrian Pucey."

"He's visiting. Marcus Flint invited him for the Hufflepuff match."

"Flint. Of course. The hemorrhoid brothers, reunited at last." Fred crossed his arms, leaning against the stone wall with a casualness he absolutely did not feel. "What do they even talk about? The proper way to gel your hair into a helmet? How to be a walking contraceptive advertisement?"

"Fred."

"I'm just saying. Pucey once tried to hex his own broom. Lee told me. Lee doesn't lie about things that pathetic."

"He thought it was jinxed."

"It wasn't jinxed. It was a normal broom. He was just shit at flying."

"Fred."

"Fine. Fine." He held up both hands in surrender. "Pucey. Saturday. Kissing. You want me to teach you." He paused, and something flickered behind his ribcage. "Why me?"

The question came out quieter than the rest. Less armored.

You looked at him—really looked—and Fred felt that familiar sensation of being seen, actually seen, by the one person who'd always been able to do it. You'd walked into his train compartment first year and asked if you could sit down because everywhere else was full, and Fred had taken one look at you and forgotten how to form a complete sentence. He'd been forgetting how to form complete sentences around you ever since.

"Because you're the only person I trust," you said. "To be this bad at something in front of. To not make me feel stupid about it."

Fred opened his mouth. Closed it.

That wasn't—he'd expected a joke. A deflection. Something he could volley back with a quip and a grin and minimal damage to his internal organs. Not honesty. Not that.

He recovered badly. "So this is a pity request. You're exploiting my well-documented inability to say no to you."

"Is that well-documented?"

"It's extensively documented. There are charts. Graphs. A particularly damning pie chart involving the time I let you practice Stinging Hexes on me in fourth year."

"You complained the whole time."

"I complain because I care. It's my love language." The word love slipped out before he could catch it. He steamrolled forward before you could notice. "Fine. Yes. I'll teach you. On one condition."

"What?"

"When Pucey inevitably starts droning on about his glory days—and he will, he's constitutionally incapable of not—you hex him somewhere creative. Nothing permanent. Just memorable."

You laughed. The sound did what it always did—wrapped around Fred's ribs and squeezed until his lungs forgot how to work.

"Deal."

"Right. Tomorrow night. Room of Requirement. Seventh floor. Left corridor across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. Wear something comfortable." He pushed off the wall, walking backward down the corridor. "We might be at this a while. You're starting from absolute zero. Tabula rasa. A blank canvas. A lump of clay waiting to be molded by my expert—"

You threw a Stinging Hex at him. He dodged it easily, laughing.

But the laughter died the moment he turned the corner.

He stood in the dark corridor, alone, and pressed his forehead against the cold stone wall. The chill seeped into his skin, grounding and unpleasant. His hands were shaking. His heart was doing something arrhythmic and concerning. And somewhere deep in his chest, in the locked box where he kept all the feelings he wasn't allowed to have, something had started to crack.

Three years, he thought. Three years of loving her, and she asks me to teach her how to kiss someone else.

If that wasn't some kind of cosmic joke, he didn't know what was.

LESSON ONE

The two days between the corridor and the first lesson were a special kind of hell.

Fred was useless. Genuinely, catastrophically useless. He set his cauldron on fire in Potions—actual fire, flames licking up toward the dungeon ceiling—and didn't notice until Snape was on top of him like a particularly greasy bat, deducting points and assigning detention with a sort of grim pleasure. He walked into a suit of armor outside the Great Hall and apologized to it. He stared at his breakfast for so long without eating that George started pelting him with toast crumbs to see if he'd notice.

He didn't notice.

"You're doing the thing," George said at dinner on Thursday, sliding onto the bench across from him.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you're having a crisis but pretending you're not having a crisis by making more jokes than usual. It's very convincing. I'm sure no one else has noticed." George paused. "Except everyone. Everyone has noticed. Angelina asked if you'd been Confunded."

"Angelina should mind her own business."

"Angelina's the team captain. Your mental state is her business. You flew into the goalpost twice at practice yesterday."

"I was testing its structural integrity."

"You were staring into the middle distance and forgot the goalpost existed." George leaned forward, dropping his voice. "It's about her, isn't it. The favor."

Fred's jaw tightened. "I don't know what you're—"

"Freddie." His twin's voice was uncharacteristically serious. "Whatever you're doing—and I know you're doing something, because you've got that look you get right before you do something monumentally stupid—just. Be careful. Yeah? Some things you can't joke your way out of."

Fred looked at his twin—his other half, the person who knew him better than anyone on the planet—and felt something splinter behind his sternum.

"I'm always careful," he said.

George snorted. "You've never been careful a day in your life. That's the problem."

The Room of Requirement was on the seventh floor, in the left corridor across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy attempting to teach trolls ballet. Fred had paced in front of it for a solid fifteen minutes, trying to work up the nerve to go inside. His palms were sweating. His heart was doing something complicated and painful. He'd changed his shirt three times before coming up here, which was embarrassing and which he would take to his grave.

This is fine, he told himself, for approximately the fortieth time. This is educational. You're helping a friend. Perfectly normal friend activity. Nothing to lose your mind over.

The door materialized—smooth wood, iron handle, completely unremarkable except for the fact that it hadn't existed thirty seconds ago. Fred pushed it open.

And stopped dead.

"Oh, you absolute bastard," he said to the room.

The Room of Requirement had outdone itself. There was a sofa—deep burgundy, squashy, positioned in front of a crackling fireplace. There was a rug thick enough to sink into. And there were candles. Dozens of them. Hundreds, maybe. Floating overhead like lazy, judgmental stars, casting warm golden light across the entire scene. It looked like the sort of room where someone got proposed to. Or seduced. Or both, possibly in that order.

"Subtle," Fred told the ceiling. "Really subtle. Why not just conjure a heart-shaped bed and be done with it? Maybe some rose petals? A string quartet?"

The room, being a room, did not respond. But Fred could have sworn the candles flickered in a way that was vaguely smug.

He was still glaring at the ceiling when the door opened behind him.

"Sorry I'm—oh." You stopped in the doorway, staring at the candlelit wonderland. "Oh, wow. That's... a lot of candles."

"The room has opinions," Fred said, turning around. "Apparently it thinks we need—"

He stopped.

You were wearing a jumper that kept slipping off one shoulder. Your hair was loose, still slightly damp at the ends like you'd rushed through a shower to get here on time. Your cheeks were pink from the climb up seven flights of stairs. You looked nervous and determined and completely, devastatingly beautiful, and Fred forgot how words worked for approximately three full seconds.

"Need what?" you prompted.

"What?"

"You said the room thinks we need something."

"Right. Yes. Mood lighting. Apparently." He shook himself, gesturing toward the sofa. "Sit. Make yourself comfortable. This is going to be very clinical and professional."

"Is it?"

"Fuck no. Not even slightly. But I'm going to pretend it is for the sake of my sanity." He dropped onto the sofa beside you, close enough that he could smell your shampoo—something floral, something that reminded him of summer and the Burrow's garden and every good thing he'd ever felt. "Okay. Kissing 101. First things first: what do you already know?"

"Nothing. That's why I'm here."

"Nothing? You've never—"

"No. Never."

"Not even spin the bottle? Truth or dare? That time in fourth year when Angelina dared everyone to—"

"No, Fred. I've never kissed anyone. That's the entire point."

Fred stared at you. He'd known, theoretically. You'd said as much in the corridor. But hearing it again, here, in this aggressively romantic room with the candles and the fire and the way you were looking at him with that mixture of trust and nervousness—it landed differently.

He was going to be your first kiss.

Not your first real kiss. Not the one that mattered. That would be Pucey, or someone after Pucey, or someone who wasn't Fred. But technically, chronologically—his lips would be the first ones you ever kissed.

The thought made him feel slightly insane.

"Right," he said, shoving the feeling into the pit where he kept all his other inadvisable emotions. "No pressure on me, then. I'm popping your kissing cherry. That's not terrifying at all."

"My lesson cherry. Not my anything else."

"Lesson cherry. Yes. That's a normal thing people say." He shifted to face you properly, and his knee brushed yours. Neither of you moved away. "Okay. First rule: kissing isn't a performance. It's not something you do at someone. It's something you do with them. If you're in your head worrying about technique, you've already fucked it. You have to be present. Actually there, in the moment, paying attention."

"Paying attention to what?"

"To them. To how they're responding. What they're doing. What they seem to like." His voice dropped slightly, unbidden. "You can't follow a script. You have to listen with your whole body."

"That's very philosophical for someone who set a toilet on fire last week."

"The toilet provoked me. And I contain multitudes. Depths. Occasional profundity." He reached out before he could stop himself. "Give me your hand."

"What?"

"Your hand. I'm demonstrating something."

You hesitated for half a second. Then you placed your hand in his. Your fingers were cold. Fred's pulse kicked up approximately forty beats per minute. He ignored it with the practice of long experience.

"Hands matter," he said, placing your hand on his shoulder. He curled your fingers into the fabric of his shirt. "Everyone forgets about hands. They just let them dangle. Don't do that. Touching someone—really touching them—is half the kiss. It changes the whole shape of it."

"Shape?"

"Kissing has a shape. Don't look at me like that, it's a real thing." His own hands settled on your waist—light, careful, barely there. He could feel the warmth of you through your jumper. Could feel the slight tremor in your muscles. "See? Now we're connected. It's more... intimate."

The word hung between you.

"Right," you said quietly. "That makes sense."

"Next." Fred's voice came out rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat. "You don't just crash into someone's face like a battering ram. You lean in slow. Give them time to meet you. It builds anticipation."

"How slow?"

"Like this."

He leaned in.

It was supposed to be a demonstration. A clinical, educational demonstration. He watched your eyes widen slightly. Watched your lips part. Watched you unconsciously mirror his movement, leaning toward him like there was a magnetic pull you couldn't resist.

"And then?" you whispered.

"And then..." His gaze dropped to your mouth. Back to your eyes. "You stop thinking. And you let it happen."

Your eyes fluttered closed.

Fred took one more second. One more second to memorize the way you looked in the firelight—trusting him, waiting for him, your lips slightly parted and your fingers tightening on his shoulder. One more second to pretend, just for a moment, that this was real.

Then he kissed you.

The plan was simple: brief contact, pull back, deliver a witty remark about technique. Maybe a joke about how you weren't completely hopeless. Something light. Something casual. Something that wouldn't betray the fact that his heart was currently attempting to claw its way out of his chest.

The plan did not survive contact with your mouth.

Your lips were softer than he'd imagined—and he'd imagined, fuck, he'd imagined so many times, late at night with the curtains drawn, hating himself a little more each time. They parted under his, surprised and sweet, and your hand slid from his shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, and Fred made a sound he definitely hadn't authorized. Something low and involuntary and wanting.

His hands tightened on your waist. You made a sound in return—a small, surprised, wanting sound—and the kiss deepened without either of them consciously deciding it should. His tongue brushed your lower lip. You gasped. He swallowed the gasp. The hand on your waist slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer, and you came willingly, your fingers fisting in his hair, and for one endless, perfect moment Fred forgot that this was supposed to be a lesson. Forgot that you were practicing for someone else. Forgot everything except the way you felt against him, warm and real and here.

Then reality crashed back in.

He pulled away like he'd been burned.

You made a small noise of protest—a tiny, breathless sound—that you immediately tried to cover with a cough. Your eyes opened slowly. Dark. Dazed. Something flickering in them that Fred refused to identify.

"Like that," he said, and his voice came out absolutely wrecked. He cleared his throat. "That's... that's the general idea."

Your hand was still in his hair. His thumb was still tracing absent circles on your hip. Neither of you moved.

"That was..." you started.

"Basic," Fred said, too quickly. "Very basic. Entry level. Wait until we get to the advanced stuff."

"There's advanced stuff?"

"Oh, darling." The endearment slipped out before he could catch it. He covered it with a leer he didn't feel. "That was me on a very tight leash. You haven't seen anything yet."

You stared at him. Your lips were slightly swollen. Your cheeks were flushed. There was something in your expression—confusion, maybe, or disappointment, or something else entirely—that Fred didn't stick around to decode.

He stood up so abruptly he nearly knocked over a side table.

"Same time tomorrow. We'll work on rhythm. Don't be late." He was already backing toward the door. "Homework: think about what you learned. Five feet of parchment on the importance of hand placement. I expect citations."

"Fred—"

"Citations!"

He was out the door before you could finish.

In the corridor, alone, Fred pressed his forehead against the cold stone wall and tried to remember how oxygen worked. His lips were still tingling. His hands were still shaking. Every nerve ending in his body was standing at attention, screaming her her her in a chorus he couldn't silence.

Three years, he thought. Three years, and you agreed to teach her how to kiss someone else. You absolute fucking moron.

He didn't punch the wall. He wanted to. But he didn't.

It was a near thing.

LESSON TWO

He didn't sleep.

That was becoming a pattern. He'd lie in his four-poster with the curtains drawn, staring at the canopy, replaying the kiss on a loop. The way you'd sighed against his mouth. The way your fingers had felt in his hair. The way you'd arched into him like you'd been waiting for it, like you'd wanted it as much as he did.

It doesn't mean anything, he told himself, at 3 AM, at 4 AM, at 5 AM. She's practicing. She's going to use everything on Pucey. You're a teaching aid. A warm body. A means to an end.

By the time the sun came up, he'd almost convinced himself.

George cornered him at breakfast. "You look like shit."

"Thank you. I woke up like this."

"You didn't sleep again."

"Observant. Ten points to Gryffindor."

George shoved a plate of toast toward him. "Eat something before you keel over. And then tell me what's actually going on, because you've been weird for days and I'm running out of jokes to cover for you."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Bullshit." George dropped his voice. "Is it the favor? The thing you're doing for her?"

Fred's silence was answer enough.

"Freddie." George's voice went uncharacteristically gentle. "Whatever this is—you know you don't have to do it, right? You're allowed to say no. You're allowed to protect yourself."

"She asked me." Fred's voice came out rougher than he intended. "She asked me, George. What was I supposed to say?"

"'No' would've been a good start."

"I can't say no to her." He stared at his untouched toast. "I've never been able to say no to her. Not since the day we met."

George was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed, the sound heavy and resigned. "You're in love with her."

It wasn't a question.

"Since fifth year," Fred said. "Maybe longer. I don't even remember anymore."

"And she asked you to teach her how to kiss someone else."

"Yes."

"Fucking hell, Freddie."

"I know."

"That's—that's proper tragic. That's Shakespearean. That's the kind of thing they write operas about."

"Thank you for that. Very helpful."

"I'm serious. This is going to destroy you."

Fred finally looked at his twin. "It's already destroying me. But I'd rather have pieces of her than nothing at all."

George didn't have an answer to that.

Neither did Fred.

The second lesson was, impossibly, worse.

Same room. Same sofa. Same fucking romantic candles, which seemed to have multiplied since yesterday. You were already there when Fred arrived, sitting cross-legged on the ridiculous rug, and you looked up when he entered with an expression that made his stomach drop.

"Hi," you said.

"Hi." He dropped onto the sofa, keeping a careful distance. "Ready for round two?"

"What are we learning tonight?"

"Rhythm." He rubbed his palms on his thighs. "Kissing isn't static. It's a conversation. A back-and-forth. You have to find a rhythm that works for both of you."

"Like dancing?"

"Exactly like dancing. Which you're terrible at, if the Yule Ball was any indication."

"I stepped on your toes one time."

"Three times. I counted." He shifted to face you. "But that's because you were in your head about it. Same problem. You have to stop thinking and just... feel."

"Easy for you to say. You're good at everything."

"I'm good at most things. Everything is pushing it. I'm shit at Potions. And Divination. And keeping my mouth shut when Umbridge is being a fascist." He paused. "And apparently I'm shit at saying no to you, so add that to the list."

You smiled, but it didn't quite reach your eyes. "You could have said no."

"No, I couldn't." The words came out more honest than he meant them to. He covered quickly. "You'd have pouted. It would've been unbearable. I'm doing this for purely selfish reasons."

"What selfish reasons?"

Because I'll take any excuse to kiss you. Because I'm pathetic. Because I've been dreaming about your mouth for three years and this is the only way I'll ever get to touch it.

"Because I get to boss you around," he said. "It's very satisfying. Now shut up and let me demonstrate."

He leaned in. Kissed you. Slower this time—deliberate, controlled. He let the rhythm build. Soft, then deeper. Soft, then deeper. A tide. A pulse. You followed his lead effortlessly, your hand finding his jaw, your fingers tracing the line of it like you were memorizing him.

"Now you try," he said, pulling back. "Lead. I'll follow."

You kissed him. Hesitant at first—then bolder. You set the rhythm and he matched it, and it was so good, so unbearably good, that Fred had to physically restrain himself from taking over, from deepening it, from showing you exactly how much this wasn't a lesson to him.

He pulled back. Breathing hard. "Good. That was good."

"Then why do you keep stopping?"

Because if I don't stop, I'm going to say something I can't take back. Because this is killing me. Because every time I kiss you, I'm imagining you kissing him, and it makes me want to put my fist through a wall.

"Because you've got it," he said. "No need to overdo it. Same time tomorrow."

"Fred—"

"Final lesson tomorrow. Then you'll be ready for Saturday."

The word Saturday landed like a hex. He saw you flinch—just slightly. Or maybe he imagined it.

"Right," you said quietly. "Saturday."

He fled before you could say anything else.

LESSON THREE

Saturday morning arrived grey and cold, the way February mornings at Hogwarts always did. Frost on the windows. Drafts in the corridors. The kind of cold that settled into your bones and refused to leave.

Fred woke up on the common room sofa, still in yesterday's clothes, with a crick in his neck and a weight in his chest that had nothing to do with the firewhisky George had poured into him the night before.

Today was the day.

He had one more lesson to teach you. And then tonight, you'd be with Pucey. Pucey's hands on your waist. Pucey's mouth on yours. Pucey getting to have everything Fred had been dreaming about for three fucking years.

"You look like death," George said cheerfully, dropping into the armchair across from him.

"Warmed over. Shit. Take your pick."

"I'll take all three." George studied him for a moment. "Last one tonight?"

"Last one."

"And then what?"

Fred didn't answer. He didn't have an answer. He'd been so focused on surviving the lessons that he hadn't let himself think about what came after. The aftermath. Watching you with someone else. Pretending to be happy for you. Pretending his heart wasn't being slowly ground into dust.

"I don't know," he said finally. "Get drunk. Set something on fire. The usual."

"Healthy coping mechanisms."

"I'm a very healthy person."

The day crawled by like something wounded.

Fred attended classes in body only. His mind was elsewhere—in the Room of Requirement, in the Charms corridor, anywhere you were. He caught glimpses of you across the Great Hall at lunch, surrounded by Hermione and Ginny, and your eyes met his for just a moment before you looked away.

You looked nervous.

Good, Fred thought viciously. Then immediately: No, not good. I don't want her to be nervous. I want her to be happy. That's all I've ever wanted.

Even if it's not with me.

The thought was a knife between his ribs.

The Room of Requirement had escalated.

Fred stood in the doorway, staring at the scene before him. Same sofa. Same fireplace. But the candles had multiplied exponentially—there were hundreds of them now, floating in elaborate patterns, casting constellations of light across the ceiling. Rose petals on the rug. Actual rose petals. And music, soft and slow, coming from everywhere and nowhere.

"You're taking the piss," Fred told the room. "This is—you're actually taking the piss. This isn't subtle. This is the opposite of subtle. This is a seduction scene from a trashy romance novel."

The candles flickered. Smugly, Fred could have sworn.

He was still glaring at them when the door opened behind him.

"Sorry I'm—" You stopped. "Oh. Oh, wow."

"The room's gone rogue. I have no control over it. I apologize on its behalf."

"It's..." You stepped inside, looking around at the candles, the rose petals, the firelight. "It's kind of beautiful."

You're beautiful, Fred didn't say. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and you're about to go kiss someone else, and I'm going to have to smile and pretend it doesn't kill me.

"You look nice," he said instead, because you did. You'd made an effort—a green dress he'd never seen before, your hair done differently, color on your lips. For the lesson, you'd said. To practice the whole experience.

"It's not too much?"

"No. It's..." He swallowed. "You look beautiful."

Your smile was bright and pleased and completely oblivious to what it did to him. "Thanks. So. Final lesson?"

"Final lesson." He crossed the room slowly, stopping in front of you. Close enough to touch. Close enough to count your eyelashes. "Everything we've covered. Putting it all together. Show me what you've learned."

You stepped into his space without hesitation. Your hands found the back of his neck. Your eyes met his.

And then you kissed him.

No hesitation. No uncertainty. You kissed him like you'd been thinking about it all day, like this was the only thing you'd wanted, like you'd forgotten this was supposed to be a lesson at all. Your body pressed against his, your fingers in his hair, your mouth opening under his with a sound that short-circuited his brain entirely.

His hands found your waist. Your hips. The small of your back. He backed you against the wall without conscious thought, and you arched into him, and he groaned against your mouth, and somewhere in the back of his mind a voice was screaming this is a lesson this is practice this is supposed to mean nothing—

But it didn't feel like nothing.

It felt like everything.

Your fingers traced his jaw. Your teeth grazed his lower lip. You made a sound—soft and wanting and surprised, like you hadn't known you could feel this way—and Fred broke.

He kissed you deeper. Harder. Desperate. Like you were oxygen and he'd been drowning for years. His hands slid under the hem of your dress, just barely, just enough to feel the warmth of your skin, and you gasped into his mouth and pulled him closer.

"Fred—"

"Is this—"

"Don't stop. Please don't stop."

So he didn't. He kissed you until his lips were numb and his lungs were burning and his heart was a drumbeat against his ribs, and when you finally broke apart, gasping, forehead to forehead, your lipstick smeared across both your mouths, he almost said it.

The words were right there. I love you. I've loved you for years. Don't go. Don't kiss him. Choose me. Please. Please choose me.

"You're ready," he said instead.

Something in your face shuttered. "Ready?"

"For tonight. For Pucey." The name tasted like poison. "You've got it all down. The technique, the rhythm, the—" His voice cracked. "He won't know what hit him."

"Right." You stepped back, smoothing down your dress with hands that trembled slightly. "Tonight."

You walked to the door. Paused with your hand on the frame. Looked back at him.

"Fred?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For..." You gestured vaguely at the room, the candles, him. "This. All of it. I know it was probably weird for you."

Weird, he thought. Weird is one word for it. Agonizing is another. Soul-destroying is a third.

"What are friends for?" he said.

You left.

Fred stayed in the Room of Requirement until the candles burned out, one by one. Until the fire died to embers. Until the room went cold and dark around him.

He pressed his fingers to his lips and tried not to think about how they were still tingling, still warm, still tasting faintly of you.

You met Adrian Pucey at the portrait hole at seven o'clock sharp.

He was already there when you arrived—leaning against the wall with the practiced casualness of someone who knew he looked good and wanted to make sure everyone else knew it too. Dark hair, expensive robes, the kind of smile that had probably charmed a hundred people before you.

"Right on time," he said, offering his arm. "I like that."

Fred would have made a joke about being late, you thought, and then immediately pushed the thought away.

"Thanks for inviting me," you said, taking his arm.

"My pleasure. I've been wanting to ask you for a while. Just never got the chance before I graduated."

The walk to Hogsmeade was cold but clear. Pucey talked the whole way—about his job at the Ministry, about his family's connections, about the Quidditch match he was here to watch. You made appropriate noises at appropriate intervals. Nodded. Smiled. Tried to focus on the words coming out of his mouth instead of the way his hand felt on your arm.

It wasn't a bad hand. It was a perfectly nice hand. Warm, dry, appropriately placed.

It just wasn't Fred's hand.

Stop it, you told yourself. Stop comparing. This is a date. A real date. With a handsome older man who actually wants to be here. Be present.

The Three Broomsticks was warm and crowded, full of the Saturday night chaos of students and villagers alike. Pucey found a table in the corner—"I know the owner," he said, as if this was impressive—and ordered two Butterbeers without asking what you wanted.

Fred always asked what you wanted.

Stop it.

"So," Pucey said, leaning back in his chair with the easy confidence of someone who'd never been uncertain about anything in his life. "Seventh year. How's it going? Dumbledore's Army still running? Umbridge still being a nightmare?"

"Both, yes. Though we're not supposed to talk about the DA."

"Right, right. Secret society. Very mysterious." He grinned. "I always knew you were the interesting type."

"I'm not sure interesting is the word most people would use."

"What word would they use?"

You thought about it. Thought about Fred, and what Fred would say. Brilliant. Stubborn. Terrifying. The only person who's ever made me forget my own punchline.

"Quiet," you said. "Most people would say quiet."

"Quiet can be good. Mysterious. Keeps a man guessing."

Pucey talked for another hour. About Quidditch. About the Ministry. About his plans to "move up quickly" because he had "connections." You drank your Butterbeer and nodded and tried to pay attention, but your mind kept drifting.

Fred would have asked about your day. Fred would have made you laugh until your stomach hurt. Fred would have stolen sips of your Butterbeer and then denied it even with foam on his upper lip.

Fred. Fred. Fred.

The name was a drumbeat in your head.

By the time Pucey suggested a walk, you were exhausted from the effort of pretending to be present.

"Cold out," he said, stepping closer as you left the pub. "Here, let me."

He draped his cloak over your shoulders without waiting for an answer. It smelled like expensive cologne. Nothing like Fred's jumper, which always smelled faintly of smoke and cinnamon and something you could never quite identify.

"Thanks," you said.

"My pleasure." He stopped under a streetlamp, turning to face you. The light caught his features, sharp and handsome. "I had a really good time tonight."

"Me too," you lied.

"I'd like to see you again. If you're interested."

You opened your mouth. Didn't know what to say. Didn't know what you wanted. Before you could formulate a response, Pucey leaned in.

The kiss was... fine.

Technically proficient. His hand found your jaw—Fred's lesson, the jaw thing, you'd done this exact move in the Room of Requirement—and his lips pressed against yours with appropriate pressure. He tasted like Butterbeer and mint. There was tongue, a little too much, just like Fred had predicted.

And you felt absolutely nothing.

Pay attention, Fred's voice echoed in your head. Be present. Listen with your whole body.

You tried. You really tried. You closed your eyes and let him kiss you and tried to feel something—anything—other than the growing certainty that this was wrong. That he was wrong. That the hands on your waist weren't the right hands and the mouth on yours wasn't the right mouth and the body pressed against yours wasn't the right body.

You thought about Fred.

The way he'd kissed you in the first lesson—careful and controlled, like he was holding himself back. The way his hands had tightened on your waist like he couldn't help himself. The way he'd made that sound, low and wanting, like you'd surprised him. The way he'd looked at you in the firelight, something raw and vulnerable flickering behind his eyes before he covered it with a joke.

That's the one, you thought. That's the one you're supposed to feel.

Pucey pulled back. Smiled. "Not bad, right?"

"Not bad," you echoed.

"Definitely want to see you again. Next Hogsmeade weekend, maybe? Or I could come up to the castle sooner. Flint can get me in."

"I'll... let you know."

He walked you back to the castle, still talking. You made sounds of agreement at appropriate intervals. Your mind was elsewhere. It had never left the Room of Requirement. It had never left Fred.

At the portrait hole, Pucey kissed you again—brief, confident, a promise of more to come. "Owl me," he said. "I'll be waiting."

And then he was gone, and you were climbing through the portrait hole, and you were thinking: I've made a terrible mistake.

The common room was nearly dark.

The fire had burned down to embers, casting long shadows across the furniture. Everyone had gone to bed—it was past midnight, you'd been walking around the grounds for an hour trying to clear your head—and the only sound was the soft crackle of dying flames.

And Fred.

Fred was in his usual armchair. Still dressed. Still awake. Waiting for something, or nothing, or you.

You stopped just inside the portrait hole. Your lipstick was smudged. Your hair was mussed from the wind. Pucey's cloak was still draped over your shoulders—you'd forgotten to give it back.

Fred's eyes went to the cloak immediately. His jaw tightened.

"Hey," he said, and his voice was perfectly casual. Dangerously casual. "You're back late. Or early. Depends on your perspective."

"Why are you still up?"

"Couldn't sleep." He didn't stand. Didn't move. Just looked at you from his chair with an expression you couldn't read. "Nice cloak."

Your stomach dropped. "It's Pucey's. I forgot to give it back."

"Generous of him. Lending you his cloak. Very chivalrous." The word came out like an insult. "What else did he lend you? His tongue, apparently. You've got—" He gestured vaguely at his own mouth. "Lipstick situation."

You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand. "Fred—"

"So how was it? The date. The big night. Did Sir Adrian live up to expectations?" He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Come on, I've been sitting here for hours. Entertain me."

"It was fine."

"Fine." He nodded slowly. "Just fine? That's all I get? Three days of intensive instruction, and the review is 'fine'? I'm going to need more detail than that. For quality assurance purposes."

You crossed the room. Stopped in front of his chair. Looked down at him. "Why are you being like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like—" You gestured at him, frustrated. "Sarcastic. Mean. You're being an arsehole."

"I'm always sarcastic. It's part of my charm." He stood up, and suddenly he was too close, and you had to tilt your head back to look at him. "But fine. You want me to stop being sarcastic? Let's be direct. Did he kiss you?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"What?"

"Where did he kiss you? Outside the pub? On the walk back? At the portrait hole? Be specific."

"The walk back. Under a streetlamp. Very romantic." Your voice dripped with something you didn't quite recognize. Anger, maybe. Or guilt. Or both.

"And did you use what I taught you? The hand placement? The rhythm? Did you pay attention to his responses like a good student?"

"Fred—"

"Because I've been thinking about it all night. Sitting here. Waiting. Wondering if my lessons were effective. If you knocked him dead like I told you to." He stepped closer. His eyes were dark, unreadable. "So. Final exam. What was the verdict?"

"He used too much tongue."

"Knew it. Called it. Pucey's a tongue guy." Fred's voice was sharp-edged, a blade wrapped in a joke. "What else?"

"He talked about Quidditch for two hours. He didn't ask me a single question about myself. He ordered my drink without asking what I wanted." You were listing grievances now, the words spilling out. "He lent me his cloak like I was some damsel who couldn't handle a little cold. And when he kissed me—"

You stopped.

"When he kissed you?" Fred prompted. His voice was quieter now. Dangerous.

"When he kissed me, I felt nothing."

The word landed like a stone in still water.

"Nothing," Fred repeated.

"Nothing. It was technically fine. He did everything right. But I felt—" You swallowed. "I felt nothing. It was empty. It was like kissing a wall. A handsome, arrogant, Slytherin-shaped wall."

"Tragic."

"And the whole time—" Your voice cracked. "The whole time, I was thinking about you."

Fred went very still.

"The way you kissed me," you continued, and now the words were coming faster, unstoppable, a dam breaking. "The way your hands felt. The way you pulled me closer like you couldn't help yourself. The way you looked at me in the firelight. I kept comparing him to you, Fred. Every single second. Every single kiss. And he didn't even come close."

"Don't," Fred said hoarsely.

"Don't what?"

"Don't do this." He stepped back. His hands were shaking. He shoved them in his pockets. "Don't stand there with his cloak on your shoulders and his lipstick on your mouth and tell me you were thinking about me. That's not—" He stopped. Swallowed. His jaw was so tight you could see the muscle jumping. "That's not fair."

"Fair?" You laughed—a sharp, humorless sound. "You want to talk about fair? You've been acting strange all week. Cutting lessons short. Avoiding me. Looking at me like I was hurting you and then pretending everything was fine. You kissed me—you kissed me like that—and then you told me to go be with someone else. And now you want to lecture me about what's fair?"

"I was trying to protect myself!"

"From what?"

"From this!" He gestured between you, wild and desperate. "From standing here while you tell me you thought about me while another man had his hands on you. From hoping for something I can't have. From—" His voice cracked. "From loving you for three fucking years and watching you choose someone else."

The words echoed in the silence.

"Three years?" you said.

"Since fifth year. Since that quidditch meeting where you stood up to that Slytherin prick who was giving me shit. You didn't even hesitate. Just stepped in front of me and told him to fuck off. I knew then." He laughed, bitter and broken. "I've known ever since. And I've been pretending ever since. Every joke, every prank, every time I made you laugh—it was all just... trying to be close to you. Trying to be something to you. And then you asked me to teach you how to kiss someone else, and I thought—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I thought I could do it. I thought I could be selfless. But I can't. I can't fucking do it. It's killing me."

You stared at him.

This boy—this ridiculous, brilliant, infuriating boy—who'd been your best friend for seven years. Who'd made you laugh when you wanted to cry. Who'd sat with you in the hospital wing when you'd caught that weird flu in third year. Who'd hexed anyone who looked at you wrong and then denied it. Who'd kissed you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered and then told you to go be with someone else.

"You absolute fucking idiot," you said.

"I'm aware."

"Three years?"

"Give or take. I lost count around year two."

"And you never said anything?"

"What was I supposed to say?" He dragged a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. "'Hey, I know we're best friends and you trust me implicitly, but I'm actually completely gone on you and have been for years, hope that doesn't make things weird'? That would've gone over brilliantly."

"It would have gone over better than this!"

"Would it?" He stepped closer again, and his voice was raw, scraped open. "Would it really? Because you just spent an entire evening with another man. You kissed him. You wore his cloak. And you came back here and told me you thought about me the whole time. But you're still standing there, and you haven't told me what you want."

"Because I didn't know!" The words burst out of you. "I didn't know what I wanted. I didn't know what any of this meant. I've never done this before—any of it. I didn't know that kissing someone could feel like nothing or like everything. I didn't know that the person I wanted was right in front of me the whole time. I didn't know."

"And now?" Fred's voice was barely above a whisper. "Do you know now?"

You looked at him. Really looked. At his rumpled clothes and his tired eyes and his jaw that was still tight with tension. At his hands that were still shaking, shoved in his pockets like he was afraid of what they'd do if he let them free. At the boy who'd been your best friend for seven years and in love with you for three.

"Yes," you said. "I know now."

Fred didn't move. Didn't breathe. "And?"

"I don't want Pucey. I don't want anyone else." You stepped closer, close enough to touch. "I want you. I've wanted you since the first lesson. Maybe before. I don't know. I just know that every time you kissed me, I forgot it was supposed to be practice. Every time you pulled away, I wanted to pull you back. Every time you made a joke and pretended it didn't matter—" Your voice cracked. "It mattered to me. You matter to me."

Fred stared at you for a long moment. The firelight flickered across his face, catching the gold in his eyes, the slight tremor in his lower lip.

Then he moved.

His hands came out of his pockets and cupped your face—gentle, so gentle, like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. His thumbs brushed your cheekbones. His forehead pressed against yours.

"Say it again," he said hoarsely. "Please. I need to hear you say it again."

"I want you, Fred Weasley. You. Not Pucey. Not anyone else. You."

He kissed you.

Not a lesson. Not practice. Not holding back. Fred Weasley kissed you like he'd been waiting his whole life to do it—desperately, reverently, like you were the answer to a question he'd stopped letting himself ask. His hands slid from your face to your waist, pulling you against him, and you fisted your hands in his shirt and kissed him back with everything you had.

"Three years," he murmured against your mouth. "Three years I've been wanting to do that."

"Then don't stop now."

He didn't.

He kissed you until you were both breathless, until your lips were swollen and your heart was racing and the cloak—Pucey's stupid cloak—had slipped off your shoulders and pooled on the floor, forgotten. He kissed you like he was trying to memorize you, like he was making up for lost time, like he was terrified this was a dream and he'd wake up any second.

When you finally broke apart, gasping, his forehead still pressed against yours, he laughed—a real laugh, surprised and joyful and slightly hysterical.

"What?" you asked.

"I'm just—" He shook his head. "I'm having a moment. This is a moment. I'm allowed to have a moment."

"You're allowed to have a moment."

"I've been imagining this for three years. Three years. And the reality is—" He pulled back to look at you, and his expression was so open, so vulnerable, so completely unguarded that it made your chest ache. "You're so much better than anything I imagined. It's not even close."

"That's a very smooth line."

"It's not a line. I don't have lines. I'm emotionally compromised. My defenses are down. You're seeing the real Fred Weasley, and the real Fred Weasley is a complete fucking disaster who's been pining over his best friend for the better part of a decade."

"The real Fred Weasley is kind of cute when he's honest."

"Cute? I'm going for devastatingly handsome. Rugged. Mysterious."

"You just admitted you're a disaster."

"A rugged disaster. A mysterious disaster. There's a difference."

You laughed, and the sound was bright and real and full of something you didn't have a name for yet. Fred's arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, and he buried his face in your hair.

"I love you," he said quietly. "I know it's fast. I know we haven't—I know this is new. But I've been holding it in for three years and I can't—I need you to know. I love you."

Your heart stuttered. "Fred—"

"You don't have to say it back. I'm not expecting—"

"I love you too."

He pulled back to stare at you. "What?"

"I love you. I think I've loved you for a while. I was just too stupid to realize it." You cupped his face in your hands, mirroring his earlier gesture. "I'm sorry it took me so long. I'm sorry I kissed someone else. I'm sorry I asked you to—"

"Don't." He covered your hands with his. "Don't apologize. You didn't know. I didn't tell you. If anyone should apologize—"

"Don't you dare. You were trying to protect yourself. I get it. I get all of it." You went up on your toes and kissed him, soft and brief. "But from now on, no more protecting. No more hiding behind jokes. No more pretending. Deal?"

"Deal." His grin was back—the real one, the one that crinkled his eyes and made him look like he was up to something. "But I'm still going to make jokes. It's a core part of my personality. I can't just turn it off."

"Wouldn't expect you to."

"Good. Because I have several prepared. Starting with the fact that Pucey's cloak is on the floor and I'm going to take that as a metaphor."

You glanced down at the crumpled cloak. "What kind of metaphor?"

"He's beneath me. Literally and figuratively." Fred's grin widened. "Also, I'm going to owl it back to him tomorrow with a note saying 'thanks for keeping her warm, I'll take it from here.'"

"You absolutely will not."

"I absolutely will. It's already written. In my head. The prose is devastating."

"You're impossible."

"And yet you love me."

"And yet I love you," you agreed.

He kissed you again—softer this time, sweeter, full of promise and relief and something that felt like coming home. When he pulled back, his eyes were bright.

"So what now?" you asked.

"Now?" He glanced around the empty common room, at the dying fire and the dark windows and the castle settling into silence around them. "Now we go to bed, because it's two in the morning and I'm running on approximately six hours of sleep for the whole week. And tomorrow—" He paused. "Tomorrow I'm taking you to Hogsmeade. Properly. As a date. I'll buy you a Butterbeer and ask you questions about yourself and not talk about Quidditch at all."

"That sounds perfect."

"It does, doesn't it? I'm very good at this boyfriend thing already."

"Boyfriend?"

He had the grace to look slightly nervous. "Too fast?"

"No." You smiled, reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of his eyes. "Not too fast. Just right."

He walked you to the stairs to the girls' dormitory. Paused at the bottom. His hand found yours, fingers interlacing like they'd been doing it for years.

"Goodnight," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Fred."

You were halfway up the stairs to the girls' dormitory when you heard it—barely audible, muttered under his breath like a curse he couldn't quite swallow.

"Fuck that pussy."

You stopped dead. Turned on the step. "OI, FRED, I'M NOT DEAF—"

A pause. Then, from the common room below, utterly unrepentant: "Ah. Well."

[worncreature]

you can tell ayce truly understands fred as a character, from his quippy dialogue he throws with ease to the thoughts he buries deep within himself. his wit and charm spills over, which is no easy feat, but what stuck with me were the quiet moments we have with fred. when he exits the stage and we see him fall apart. this is a perfect representation of fred weasley, uncontrollably in love.

this fic will make you hold your breath, maybe make your heart race, belt to a love song with your hairbrush as your microphone, and wish you had a polaroid of fred weasley taped to your vanity mirror. i’m also always impressed when i read a solidly written kiss scene. excuse me, scenes. fred lovers, go nuts!

also this is an easter egg that only ayce readers know about but, oh my god, when THE toast made another appearance and george delivered it to fred. i laughed. if you haven’t read ayce’s previous fred weasley fic, the darn toast was (in my opinion) such a key point brought up in a major conflict between fred and the reader. i was dying. the toast was basically a motif.

ayce, it’s time to keep the whole “george and his toast” thing going. but, education first.

[spiderfunkz]

─── ✷ SHE'S THUNDERSTORMS . george weasley x fem!reader

you have a loud mouth, luckily it comes in handy when defending your boyfriend ; cw. fluff , established relationship , people being mean about george , reader is mentioned to be loud & bossy ; words. 1.1k

author's note ⌇ hellooo george weasley girlies, the previous blurb i wrote for him has gained some traction so here's another short blurb! likes and reblogs are much appreciated— my taglist is open for george btw :)

fred and george. that's the known order of their names, fred's name first, then george. it was an unsaid habit everybody silently agreed to, it was easier to pronounce, a lot catchier on the tongue. the twin's title became their brand, and with that meant everybody knew fred first before george's name landed in their mouths. george didn't make a fuss about it, besides, they came in a pack, at some point his name will roll in along just as well, equally enough. though— it'd be nice if someone saw him first.

you did. you saw george weasley first. you became easily drawn towards him. they were identical twins, you knew, but the moment your eyes laid on george weasley the differences became significant. he was the twin who'd be more careful when messing around with new students or professors, the one who'd actually do his missing paper works after absent classes, the one who'd gently smiled at you— that's how you noticed his lips were slightly more curved than his twin.

his nose slants down at the tip, you noticed the first time he laughed at your obnoxious joke during class. unlike anyone else, you felt like you didn't have to dim your light or lower your voice when you're around him— george felt like he didn't have to brighten his light around you to be noticed. it was as if the stars had tied you two together. a relationship slowly bloomed after a long phase of stealing glances, passing notes, silently laughing at each other's jokes from afar, accidental touches, and unexpected meet-ups late at night after sneaking out of curfew.

you've also successfully gained a pass from not getting pranked by the twins. which roughly translated to george has cheekily mastered charms overnight and made sure every prank moving forward will not directly affect you nor your schedule. you were grateful for him, and he couldn't ask for a more perfect girlfriend. you helped him initiate new tricks and quips for pranks, taught him materials he had missed out because of detention, you brought the loud-ness he needed when things became quiet— that was a trait of yours he liked. you knew how to be talkative, you knew how to stand your ground, you knew how to listen and when to not accept other people's dirt. you couldn't be stepped on. he liked that, maybe a bit too much.

you knew a saying that spread around the castle from time to time. a word that was passed onto others without much critical thinking. george had told you plenty of times until you unfortunately could not keep up. people compared them, you knew that long before, just never knew how bad it was until you heard it yourself. just this morning whilst you were passing a group of people slightly older than you— though their personalities showed no real signs of maturity. "i mean, they are called fred and george for a reason, no? fred then george," one whispered just loud enough for you to hear. the group snickered, "he has half of fred's charm. and i'm being generous. if anything, fred's the interesting one," he added.

those two sentences were carved into your head for the rest of the day. it simmered deep into your skin. until, by some miracle, you spotted the same group crossing the courtyard, unguarded. you could just leave them alone and let the universe curse them until their next lineage, but you could definitely do it better, and faster. you walked towards them, "oi!" the group turned, a whistle went your way. merlin, you wanted to throw a silencing charm and call it a day— "could we help you, gorgeous?" you figured that was the same person who made the comment earlier that day, based off the annoying amount of ego he held.

"oh, piss off," you scoffed, the tone had set the scene. "she's quite feisty!" a voice from the group yelled, "care to repeat what you said this morning?" you questioned, tilting your head towards the boy. he shook his head in practiced confusion, "funny, i don't really recall,"— you folded your arms. the group shared nervous glances as their friend stand face-to-face with you. "interesting, you had a lot to say about my boyfriend when he wasn't around, that ring a bell or two?" a crowd of students slowly gathered nearby. it wasn't unusual to hear your voice from halfway across the grounds.

"tell me, what makes george less than his brother?"

"i don't exactly remember what i said,"

"that's convenient,"

the boy opened his mouth, though, nothing came out. you furrowed your brows at him, waiting until the silence turned uncomfortable. around you, students watched without switching their view. eventually, the boy spoke a sentence, "i just said fred's the interesting one,"

"and george isn't? you don't even know them do you?" he awkwardly shifted his head, a gesture signaling that he hardly knew them. from afar, george had joined the crowd. observing with his eyes full of admiration and a tablespoon of fear. you continued, "you are so shallow, truly. do you have any other businesses to attend to other than talking about a complete pair of strangers who would never, ever, speak to you? you couldn't even dream of it," you didn't let him let another word to you.

"you folks just assume you know it all. a pair of twins don't equal to the same person. he has qualities you clearly lack. if you only see things from a superficial view, that's just a pathetic way of concluding something," you let a sigh out, deeper than expected. you were disappointed to know this was not the first time someone has talked about your boyfriend in this type of manner. the boy collected himself again and let out a scoff, "i don't particularly care, why has he gotten a personal spokesperson anyway?"— "i'm his girlfriend, idiot, it's a bit different. you wouldn't know what that's like, would you?"

that seemed to shut him up. he looked away for a moment before muttering something under his breath, earning a small laugh from one of his own friends instead. that's sad, you thought. it's funny how quickly someone can lose conviction once they're confronted. unfortunately to you, and fortunately enough for him, the time was cut short by a professor's voice calling across the courtyard. ushering the crowd to move along before whatever this was turned into something more. you dramatically frown as the students dispersed, throwing the boy one last look before turning away yourself.

only then you noticed george.

you realized he arrived amidst it. his brother was leaning on a pillar a few steps back, grinning from ear to ear. george, meanwhile, looked completely stunned, as if he'd just witnessed something he couldn't quite believe. "blimey," he managed, almost stuttering. you turned to him, "what?"

he reached for your hand almost absentmindedly, eyes locked looking at yours, smiling in the way that melted you most. you shoot him an innocent smile. "you know.. you can boss me around whenever you'd like,"

"shut up, george,"

"yes ma'am,"

you paused, "maybe later."

[worncreature]

this just made me angry that there are people who deem george as inferior to fred.

fred & george are a duo, a partnership for a reason. both require each other for their craftsmanship (if you could call it that lol) to thrive. fred’s name only stands in front because we list in alphabetical order.

i feel like this sentiment exists due to people deeming those who are identical twins as one entity and not as separate individuals.

i appreciated this contribution in having the reader literally combat the narrative of george being any less than fred. i would’ve said much worse than the reader lol.

us george fans must stick together. there will be no “other twin” labeling <3.

[worncreature]

i wrote almost four thousand words for what was intended to be the first part of my george weasley fic, and it has yet to be complete. now, i am realizing this likely has to be split into two for this mess to be digestible.

i suppose my george weasley fic review reblogs give a preview to my writing style, so if any of you have enjoyed what you've read from me so far and george weasley, please stay tuned!

[wwhiteferrett]

bunny | george weasley

summary: george needs a partner for an upcoming wedding so he doesnt seem ‘lonely.’ his plan to have a fake relationship with you grows into something…more. warnings: none, sfw, fluff, kissing pairing: bestfriend!george x fem!reader - post war wc: 4.2k a/n: based off of a matchup i did <3

You chopped the green cilantro on the wooden chopping board, humming a familiar tune under your breath. The window perched above the kitchen sink let light seep in onto your freshly tanned skin.

The smell of paprika and pepper wafted through the air; you inhaled the delicious scent and smiled in contentment. 

George and Lee had invited themselves over—again.

“To brainstorm,” George had said, with that stupid grin. “Your cooking is simply unavoidable…well- sometimes."

You laughed to yourself at the memory, knowing you smacked him on the arm after the comment. 

You were cooking his favorite food: chicken and lime rice. 

Dropping the cilantro into the sizzling pan with the chicken, you put the cover on it. You checked the time: 6:00. They’d be here at any second—

CRASH.

You jolted up, looking around to see where the commotion came from. Grabbing the kitchen knife, you slowly stepped into the living room.

“Oi! Lee! You alive?”

“Asshole!”

Your shoulders dropped—just a…burnt George and Lee.

“Knife!” George shrieked, pointing his wand at your hand.

“Floo powder? Are you serious?” You sighed, placing the kitchen knife down on a coffee table. “Was the front door not good enough?” 

Lee had bits of coal all over his face, coughing up dust as he got up from the ground. "George said it'd be faster."

"George also thinks birds aren’t real." After taking a good look at your dirty rug, you rubbed your temples. “Is everyone…okay?” 

“Yup–well, Lee, maybe not so okay–ouch!” George jumped back as Lee pinched his arm. “I’m sorry, okay? I thought you’d already arrived!”

“I’m holding this against you forever, mate.”

George ran a hand through his dusty hair. Clearing his throat, he shone a toothy smile at you. “Miss me yet, Y/N?”

“I saw you yesterday, George.”

“Exactly. Who wouldn’t miss my gorgeous face?”

“I wouldn’t.”

George raised his eyebrows. “Grumpy today, huh? Got a lil’ cloud over your head.” His grin faltered after he observed your sternness. “Just kidding with you. How’ve you been?”

You placed a hand on your hip. “...I was doing fine before you ruined my living room.” 

George looked around: your pearly white couch was matted with soot, the side table was knocked over, and a small fire was starting in front of the fireplace.

“Adds some character.” George shrugged. “Needed some color anyway. White’s a depressing color.”

Lee butted in. “Quite the opposite, George.”

“If this isn’t cleaned in the next ten seconds, I’m kicking you both out.” You playfully threatened. 

Immediately, Lee blew out the fire as George waved his wand at the fallen table, fixing it. Lee jumped onto the couch, sending dark dust into the air and off it. 

“All clean! How long was that—seven seconds?” Lee said cheekily. George pinched his lips into a line, suppressing a laugh. 

You rolled your eyes and walked back into the kitchen. “Come and sit down, you troublemakers.”

This dinner would surely be entertaining.

—

“Y’know, you could go pro with this cooking,” Lee munched, rice all over his chin. 

“I second that. How do you cook this amazingly?” George shoved another bite of chicken into his mouth.

“Thank you. I just tried a new recipe,” You smiled, taking a sip of water. “Mrs. Weasley makes great chicken noodle soup; maybe I should ask her for that recipe as well…” You thought aloud. 

Lee nearly choked on his rice.

Eyes wide, you slapped his back in an attempt to help. “LEE!”

George snickered at the sight; Lee’s eyes started to tear up as he waved a hand for you to stop.

“Ouch! Y/N, I’m okay!” Lee assured, placing a hand on your shoulder.

“Merlin, I saw your spirit rise from your body.” George joked, taking a sip of water.

“What even happened?” You asked, an eyebrow raised.

Lee exchanged a glance with George. Something… mischievous flickered across the brunette boy’s face.

“Don’t,” George mumbled, eyeing Lee.

Lee grinned. 

“Molly had quite a lot to say to George a few days ago, Y/N-”

“Lee!” George hissed.

“Maybe you could lend a hand, help out one of your best friends-”

“Ignore him, Y/N,” 

“What did Mrs. Weasley say?” You inquired, disregarding George’s feeble shots to shut Lee up.

“Molly thinks it’s time for George to find someone to settle down with.”

You nearly choked as well—this time on air and pure shock.

A beat of silence followed.

George ran a hand down his face as Lee tried not to laugh.

No corny remark or an off-putting joke. Just accepting what Lee said.

“I’m going to kill you, Lee.” The ginger muttered. 

“What’re you getting at? That I need to be George’s girlfriend?” You raised your eyebrows, looking at the two boys.

“Well-“

“Lee.”

“George was saying if you could-“

“Lee, I’ll just tell her, okay?” George sighed loudly, leaning back into the chair and looking at you with unsure eyes. “Mum thinks I’m…busying myself with work too much. Said I need to find someone.” 

“Not just that, Georgie,” Lee teased. “The wedding.”

Your eyes widened. You knew exactly where this was going.

“Right…the wedding. My family’s been invited to a wedding, and I don’t want to seem…” George’s eyes flickered away, his mind shifting to find a proper word.

“Lonely?” You offered quietly.

George nodded—almost hesitantly. “Yeah, you could say that." He shifted in his seat uncomfortably, looking at his hands. “...Mum keeps mentioning this wedding…and…”

“Get on with it, you booger,” Lee huffed in impatience. 

George kicked Lee’s shin under the table. “...It would be incredibly stupid to ask you this…”

“George. Get it out.” You prodded.

“Wouldyoupretendtobemygirlfriend?” George said it so quickly, you couldn’t even make out any words.

“Huh?” You and Lee said at the same time, confused.

“Mate, she’d have to understand you first before she can say yes,” Lee sniggered, taking a sip of his water.

With another deep breath, George asked, “Would you pretend to be…my girlfriend…for one night?”

Your lips parted.

Watching your concerned face, he gave a crooked, reassuring smile. “No pressure, though…If being in a fake relationship wasn’t on your bucket list…I totally get it.” 

Shaking your head, you placed both your hands on the table. “No, I’m game. Whatever I can do to help you.” 

George raised a brow. “No negotiation?”

“Should’ve charged you, actually.”

“Too late.” A sly grin replaced his warm smile. 

A glint in his eyes said more than enough; you would do anything for your best friend.

—

“This dress is too uncomfortable,” You complained, tugging at the hem of the dress. It was a dreamy, flowy dress that complemented your body, which accentuated your curves. The only issue was the lacy rim, which aggravated your fragile skin. 

The lace brushed against the inside of your arms, already making you itch.

You'd spent years learning how to hide the worst of your eczema.

Some days were easier than others. Today? Not so compliant.

George and Lee knew that it was your worst enemy—but they didn’t know how insecure it made you. 

“You look great, Y/N. Spectacular, even.” George comforted. Before you could thank him, he whispered, “Not as good as me, though.”

You flicked his head, scowling. “Incredibly funny, Georgie.”

You were standing in front of the Burrow with the ginger close beside you.

“Are you ready?” George smiled, nudging your side.

You nudged him back. “Of course.”

He opened the wooden door, and you were greeted with the familiar Weasley scent of cinnamon, pumpkin, and coffee beans. 

The warm lighting kissed your skin as you walked further into the home. George softly shut the door behind him, then rubbed your shoulder. “You’re shaking like Ron’s old rat.”

You scoffed. “It’s cold.”

“Want my jacket?”

You looked at him. “That’s for after.”

Laughter erupted from the living room—a few steps away and you would be face to face with Mrs. Weasley.

“Look like we’re in love,” George whispered. Patting down your hair, you followed George into the full living room.

“And then, Ginny decided it would be the perfect time to jump off the platform!”

Mrs. Weasley slapped her knee; everyone roared with laughter again. 

Then, Mrs. Weasley’s eyes flickered to the corner in which you and George awkwardly stood. With wide eyes, she basically screamed.

“Oh my days!” Jumping up from the spot on her couch, she ran over and engulfed both you and George into a tight embrace. “My precious babies! How have you been? Both of you?”

You tried to speak, but your air circulation was compressed.

“Mum-” George choked out.

“Oh- Sorry!” Mrs. Weasley let go, stepping back and looking both of you up and down. 

Once her eyes fell on you, they stayed there. 

Her jaw slackened.

A silence—filled with realization—flowed through the entire room.

“George!” Mrs. Weasley gasped. 

“Mum,” George grinned. “Y/N and I are-”

“Georgie!” Mrs. Weasley swallowed him in a hug again. “I thought the day would never come!”

“Mum, I can’t-” George patted her back weakly. The cheeky woman let go of George’s lanky body and patted his cheek.

Observing you both for a moment, Mrs. Weasley seemed like she was… waiting.

George froze—you did too. 

All eyes were on you two.

You felt a gentle touch on the side of your hand.

“Holding hands now?” You hissed, barely audible.

“I- I don’t know,” George whispered awkwardly.

“You’re supposed to know!”

“You’re the one with relationship experience.”

“A bold, outrageous assumption, George.”

George glanced down at your hand, hesitated, then carefully laced his fingers through yours.

Mrs. Weasley practically melted.

“How adorable! I can’t even process this!” she gushed. “You’ve always been the good-looking boy, Georgie.”

Someone snorted from the couch. Looking past the ginger-haired woman, you saw a giggling Ginny Weasley.

“I always thought he was the ugliest one, Mum,” Ginny quipped.

You smiled at her, then noticed a dressed-up Hermione, Harry, and Ron sitting near her. They fell into silent laughter as Mrs. Weasley shot a glare at her. 

“Be happy your brother even found someone, Gin.” 

“Are we ready to go?” A rough voice called out from the entrance. Peeking, you saw Arthur Weasley in an orange suit. “Time to Apparate!”

“Honey, come here, come here!” Mrs. Weasley hurried to her husband, pulling him into the living room. 

“Your hands are freezing.” You said under your breath.

“You’re the one shaking.” George shot back.

“I’m uneasy.”

“About what exactly?”

“You make me uneasy.”

“That could mean many things.”

You sighed. “Take it as you will, Georgie.”

Suddenly, you were face-to-face with a tired-looking man you knew well. 

“Y/N! George! How nice to…” Mr. Weasley trailed off, taking in the sight. “Is this…wait…Molly!”

“Yes, Arthur! They’re together!”

Mr. Weasley bear-hugged you, careful not to mess up your hair.

“He chose the best of the best, for sure.” Mr. Weasley let go of you, cheekily smiling. You returned a small smile. “And good job, son.” The stubby man lovingly patted his son’s shoulder.

“Are we going now?” Ron complained with a sigh. 

“Let’s go, children!” Mr. Weasley announced, and everyone made their way out of the house. 

You stayed back with George, still awkwardly holding his calloused hand. 

“Still shaking, huh?” He teased. 

You scowled. “I already told you. I’m just…nervous.”

“About what? You never explained to me.”

A tense moment—like a heartbeat or a blink of an eye.

“... Disappointing your family.”

George’s eyes widened. “You? Disappoint? Do you even know who you are?”

“Just…me,” You mumbled, looking at your heels.

George let go of your hand and placed his hands on your shoulders. “Look, if you think my family hates you for being my…girlfriend, they don’t. They’re just in shock.”

“Lovebirds! We’re going!” Bill called out.

George reassuringly wrapped an arm around your shoulder, murmuring, “Just keep being you. They love you for you.”

You both walked out of the Burrow and prepared to Apparate.

—

One word to describe this wedding: overwhelming.

“I didn’t know you had a million aunts and uncles,” you joked, nudging George’s arm. He rolled his eyes. 

You two have been approached about four times in the past five minutes since you arrived. 

“George!” An elderly woman called out from a table. George took a breath, then turned to face her. 

“Hello, Aunt May,” He greeted. 

“Who’s this beauty?” Aunt May wiggled her brows. She was obviously drunk.

You waved. “Y/N L/N. Nice to meet you.”

“Have you two kissed yet?” She asked groggily. 

You stilled. 

No one’s asked that before.

“Um-” 

“We’ll see you around, May.” George took your hand and guided you away from the drunken woman. 

“What the hell was that about?” You questioned, weaving through the crowd of people around the refreshment table.

“She’s always like that.” He replied casually. 

“Georgie-kins!” 

George groaned as you stifled a laugh. Turning around, you faced another woman—a lot older, with smile wrinkles and greyish hair.

“Hi, Aunt Junie.” 

“How have you been? I haven’t seen your cute face in years!” The woman grinned, patting his shoulder. Her eyes fell on you; her smile broadened at the sight of you. “Is this your girlfriend?”

“Yup. Y/N L/N. My girlfriend.” George said, almost proudly.

“You two look adorable together—like two fitting puzzle pieces. Perfect.” 

You smiled politely, beaming. “Thank you so much.”

“Very kind of you to say, Aunt Junie.”

“Couples!”

You and George looked back to see a giddy man with a large camera. 

“Huh?”

“Come on! Get closer,” The man beamed.

You moved closer to the ginger boy.

“Closer! You’re cutting out the frame.” 

Another inch. You were basically squished against his arm.

“Come on, do you two even like each other?” The cameraman joked. 

George deeply exhaled, moved behind you, and loosely wrapped his arms around your waist.

“Is this good?” George asked the red-cheeked man. He nodded enthusiastically. 

“Say chili-cheese dog!”

“Chili-cheese- wait, what?”

The flash went off, basically blinding you and George. 

“Ow.” You squeezed your watery eyes shut.

“Take a look!”

The picture was a grainy, black-and-white photo. You could make out both of your confused faces—in general, a not-so-attractive picture.

“Thank you.” You smiled at the man. “Keep it, though. But thank you.” 

George led you away to an open table. Sitting down, you caught your breath. This entire wedding party had been insanely overwhelming, but the most stressful thing was your damn dress.

You discreetly adjusted the cuff again.

“That’s the eighth time you’ve fixed your sleeve,” George mumbled, looking into the distance.

You paused, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. “You’ve…noticed?” 

“I always do.” He did a double-take. “Not- not like that. I just sensed you’re uncomfortable…like you got ants in your dress.”

“What if I did?”

“I’d let them eat you.”

Your laughter doubled. “Very evil, you are.”

“Is it…your eczema?” George asked quietly in a more serious manner.

“Is it obvious?”

He shook his head. “Only ‘cause I’ve known you forever.”

You hummed in response, absentmindedly tracing your fingernails over the dry patch of skin.

Another scratch.

It was getting worse by the second.

You scratched it—harder this time. Maybe the itch would go away? 

Suddenly, you felt a cold hand touch yours, pushing it down to your lap.

“Y/N…”

You looked up at George. He was…worried.

“Yeah?”

“You’re…hurting yourself.”

He said it calmly. Not bombarding or judgemental. It was gentle.

The noise from the music blurred like static to your ears. 

“I-I know. It- I just hate it.”

“Hate your skin?”

“Yeah. Basically.”

“I think it makes you unique.” The corners of George’s lips twitched upward. His hand was still placed on top of yours. There was no one to deceive—no need to pretend, yet George still…held on to you.

“Oi! George!” Ron yelled. “Help with the cake, will ya?”

George sighed, standing up and patting your shoulder. “No more scratching, okay? Or Mum’s gonna think I got a cat to attack you.”

You snickered, watching him walk away to a struggling Ron and Harry.

—

“They were children, George,” You laughed, arm linked with his. You were exiting the party, sweaty from the final game they hosted.

“They were opponents, Y/N.” He reprimanded. 

“How do you feel now you’ve made five children cry?”

George shrugged with a grin. “Accomplished.” He patted your back. “You did pretty good for your first time playing that game.”

“I know. Horrifying, but worth it.”

Once the night autumn breeze hit your skin, you shivered involuntarily. 

“Cold?” George asked, slipping off his coat. 

“No, I’m-” Your teeth chattered before you could stop it.

“You’re cold.”

“Yeah. I am.”

He put the black coat over your shoulders, and you were consumed with warmth.

“Thank you.” You looked up at him with a small smile.

“Anything to not let you freeze to death,” George responded with a wink.

“George, dear, are you and Y/N coming back to the Burrow?” Mrs. Weasley asked, walking next to her son. 

“I think we’re calling it in early tonight, Mum,” George answered. 

“Oh, well, Y/N should come over for dinner on Sunday! Bill is bringing Fleur, too.” 

You raised your eyebrows. 

George looked just as worried.

“What do you think, Y/N? Think you’ll be able to make it, honey?” Mrs. Weasley prompted. 

You didn’t know what to say; unsure, you looked at George. He gave a look that said go with it.

“Um- yes! I’ll see my schedule. I would love to come, though!” You said with a warm smile. 

“Perfect! I can’t wait to see you again, sweet pea!” Mrs. Weasley gave you another motherly embrace and a kiss on the cheek. “Save Apparating, okay?” She tottered away back to her husband and the others.

“Another day I need to pretend to be your significant other?” You sighed. 

“I’m…sorry. I didn’t know this would be a repeating thing.” George scratched the nape of his neck. 

“It’s no problem. I’m okay with it. As long as your mother is happy with both of us…”

George hummed in agreement. 

“I should go home now.” You said after a second.

“I’ll come with you.”

Both of you Apparated to the front of your home. The moon glistened with a pearly white aura; the wind howled hard.

“Well, I’ll owl you.” You said slowly. You walked to the entrance and unlocked your door, George at your side.

“Yeah. Thanks for…making this wedding fun. Without you, I think I would've died from boredom.”

You giggled. “No problem. The cake was amazing.”

“When you smudged some on my face, sure.”

“Don’t hold a grudge over me.”

“Can’t promise it.”

George held eye contact with you for a few seconds, then dropped it. 

“It’s late. Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Sweet dreams to you too, Georgie.” You grinned, opening your door and shutting it behind you.

His soft eyes.

His light touch.

The wrinkles near his eyes when he smiled.

The way he cared.

It made your heart melt, all warm and fluffy inside.

…Was this…

Love…?

—

“How nice to see you again, Y/N!” Mrs. Weasley smiled as she opened the door. “You look so beautiful!” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley. Thank you again for inviting me for dinner.” You walked into the warm house; you heard a familiar ring of chatter and laughter in the dining room.

“My pleasure, sweetheart! George isn’t here yet, had to get something. Come sit down; the food is nearly ready.” Mrs. Weasley steered you into the packed room and led you to an empty seat.

Two empty seats, one for you and one for George.

You sat down on the wooden chair, Ginny next to you.

“Hi, Y/N. You look really nice.” Ginny greeted you with a small smile.

“Oh! Um- thank you, Ginny. You smell great too!” You replied. “Wait- I mean, you look great.”

Ginny burst into laughter at your mess-up. “I don’t know how George did it. You’re, like, a hundred times funnier than him.” 

“Yeah, I…I try.” You gave her a subtle grin. 

The front door creaked open, letting in the dim sunset light. George walked into the dining room and looked around the room, cluelessly.

“Idiot,” Ginny whispered to you. “Oi! Here, dumbass!” 

George's eyes landed on you, and his lips cracked a smile.

“Hey, Y/N,” George said as he sat down next to you. 

“You don’t call her any nicknames?” Ginny asked. 

Your heart dropped. 

Oh god, please don’t, George, you thought, closing your eyes.

“Nicknames?” George inquired, fear lacing his voice. “Like…what?”

“‘Baby’, ‘love’, y’know, those cute lovey-dovey names,” Ginny informed.

“I do…call her those…sometimes.” George looked at you in panic. Help! he mouthed.

“Um- he does; he doesn’t do those names; he does an actual nickname.” You explained. Shoot! What am I getting at? What type of question is that anyway?

“Aw, like what?” Ginny prodded.

“Bunny.” George blurted.

“What?” Ron suppressed a laugh, looking at us from across the table. 

“Her patronus is a hare. And she's like a bunny. It makes sense, dimwit.” George scowled. 

“I think that’s adorable. George is like a carrot. You two were meant to be.” Ginny tilted her head to the side in admiration. “How cute.”

“Food’s ready!” Mrs. Weasley called out. The food came floating in by magic, then was placed in a sloppy line on the table.

“Gosh, my favorite,” You whispered to George. “Chicken noodle soup.”

“Ask her for the recipe.” 

“I’m too scared.”

“Mum!”

Mrs. Weasley looked at George. “Yes, dear?”

“Y/N’s asking for the recipe for your chicken soup."

Your face went red; you wanted to shrink yourself on the spot.  

“My recipe? Of course, sweetie! I’ll write it up before you leave,” Mrs. Weasley said sweetly.

“Thank you so much.” You said, still quite embarrassed. 

George nudged your arm. “Not that hard. She won’t bite your head off.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’ve seen her attempt that with you. I’m not taking any chances.”

“So, how did you two start dating?” Mr. Weasley asked.

You almost choked on a noodle. “How we…started-”

“Dating, yes! I’m curious.” 

You looked at George.

 Merlin.

“She hit me,” George started.

“What?” Your eyes widened.

“With a cookbook.”

“I did not!”

The table rose with chuckles. 

“She was teaching me her chicken recipe. Delicious, by the way.” George continued, ignoring your protests. “Fell in love with her after she cooked for me.”

“No way this is true.” Ginny giggled, intently listening.

“She’s just embarrassed.” George nudged your arm.

“You’re impossible.” You put your head in your hands. 

"Well, that's certainly more romantic than how Molly and I met." Mr. Weasley grunted.

“...Dad.” George rolled his eyes.

“What?” 

“How lovely!” Mrs. Weasley said cheekily, interrupting the conversation. “There is no better girl than Y/N, I can tell you that. You truly are one of a kind, missy.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley. I’m honestly glad you raised such a great young man.”

George looked over at you, then brushed his hand against yours from under the table.

You slid your hand into his, squeezing it gently.

—

After dinner, you needed to get home to prepare for work the next day. 

You said goodbye to everyone, then apparated back home with George at your side.

“Y/N…” George stopped you before you could enter your house. 

“Mhm?”

“I think I should tell Mum.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Tell her what?”

“About…us.”

“Oh. Right. Forgot about that.”

An awkward silence rose between you two. You looked at your shoes.

“Well, I’ll…I’ll owl you what happens, then.” George weakly smiled. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

As he turned to apparate, you grabbed his hand.

Startled, he looked at you with raised eyebrows.

“George…” You started, but you couldn’t find the words. “I…” 

The ginger boy stood there, patiently waiting, looking at you with caring eyes.

“I don’t want you to tell Molly,” you rushed to explain. “Not that I’m embarrassed…it’s just…” You shifted uncomfortably, racking your mind for something to say. “This didn’t feel fake. This felt so…real.”

George’s lips parted in shock as he stared at you. “It didn’t?”

“No, George, it felt so…genuine to me,” you breathed.

A small laugh escaped his lips—out of relief, you assumed. 

“Merlin," he grinned. "I've been trying to figure out how to tell you that all week."

You blinked at him. “What?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m just saying I was feeling something more than just…friendship.” Looking down, he mumbled, “I would’ve missed this…all of this—the family dinners and spending more time with you—” 

You stepped closer to him, closing in the small gap, and placed a gentle kiss on his lips.

George was frozen at first, but then melted into it; he wrapped his arms around your waist, bringing you closer into him, and deepened the kiss with a smile on his lips.

The years of friendship and silent admiration—and now, you’re against him, under the moonlight, kissing.

A sweet, loving kiss that spoke more about your feelings than words ever could.

After a few heavenly seconds, you let go of his soft lips and looked up at his wide, precious eyes. 

“Then you won’t have to miss it,” you grinned, slinging your arms around his neck. “I’ll still be right here.”

[worncreature]

aaagh guys a classic fake dating trope done with sincerity, in which two people who already love each other get the chance to love freely in a way they never considered but realized they should have.

i find @wwhiteferrett is so good at depicting love at its purest. the awkwardness, the nerves, the anticipation, the thrill of the unknown, the laughter… they write in a way that makes you understand why love feels so important to people.

this also made me want to solidify a headcanon that george weasley doesn’t have the gene in which cilantro tastes like soap, which means he can fully enjoy various cuisines with cilantro!

[elizabethhoneyyy]

Just a Few More Seconds

At the Burrow, winter magic fills the air but you and George face one rule: no sharing beds. Tucked in his arms for one last quiet moment, Molly’s gentle reminder turns your nightly goodbye into something tender and unforgettable. A sweet tale of stolen time, young love, and home.

The Burrow breathes with winter magic this evening. Outside, frost paints delicate lace patterns across the kitchen windows, and snow falls soft and silent over the rolling hills, while inside, every room glows with candlelight and the deep, golden warmth of the hearth. The air still smells thick with Mrs Weasley’s spiced hot cocoa, buttery mince pies, and the faint, comforting scent of pine from the Christmas tree strung with wonky, hand-me-down baubles and enchanted fairy lights that twinkle like captured stars.

Laughter has rippled through the house all day – Fred and George teasing Ron, Hermione debating house-elves with Ginny, Arthur chattering excitedly about Muggle gadgets – but now the house has settled into a quiet hush. Footsteps have faded, doors have clicked shut, and only the faint pop of burning logs and the distant hoot of an owl break the stillness.

From the moment you arrived at the Burrow for the holidays, you and George have been inseparable. Your hands find each other’s whenever you cross a room; you share secret grins across the dinner table; you lean into his shoulder during long evenings by the fire. But Molly had been gentle, firm, and utterly clear from day one, her hands on her hips and a fond but serious glint in her eye: “No sharing beds, you two. It’s an old family rule, and I won’t bend it – you’ll sleep up in the girls’ room with Ginny and Hermione, where you belong.”

Tonight, though, you couldn’t resist. You slipped away from the warmth of the sitting room ten minutes earlier, padding quietly up the creaking wooden stairs, your socks soft against the cold floorboards, until you reached George’s door. Now you’re curled together in his narrow bed, wrapped in his patchwork quilt that smells so perfectly like him – a mix of broom polish, cinnamon, and that faint, familiar scent of sun-warmed wool.

George’s arms are wound tight around you, holding you as close as he possibly can, one hand resting gently at your waist, the other brushing slow, lazy patterns up and down your arm. Your head rests light against his chest, and you can hear the steady, comforting thud of his heart beneath your ear, a rhythm that feels safer than any spell. The only light comes from a single beeswax candle on his bedside table, casting soft, dancing shadows over the walls plastered with Quidditch posters and scribbled invention sketches.

He presses a slow, lingering kiss to the very top of your head, his lips brushing against your hairline, and sighs softly into the quiet air.

“Feels wrong, y’know,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with warmth, vibrating right through you. “Having to send you away every single night. Just when I want you closest. I like having you right here – where I can reach out and touch you, where I know you’re safe.”

You lift your head from his chest to look at him properly. The candlelight gilds the edges of his red hair, softens the curve of his smile, and highlights the dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks – freckles you’ve spent hours tracing with your fingertips. His dark eyes are soft, earnest, glowing with nothing but affection for you.

“Me too,” you whisper, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead, your fingers lingering at his temple. “It’s such a silly, old rule… but it’s only a few weeks, isn’t it? And every stolen moment like this? It’s worth every second of having to say goodbye at the door.”

You lean in, and he meets you halfway, his lips finding yours in a kiss that’s slow, sweet, and deep – full of all the things you don’t need to say out loud: longing, comfort, and the quiet certainty that you belong together. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently over your skin, and for a moment, nothing else exists – not the house, not the rules, not the winter cold outside. Just him.

Then, a soft, familiar rap taps against the wood of the door.

It creaks open before either of you can pull apart, and Molly’s warm, gentle voice drifts into the room like a soft blanket: “Sorry to interrupt, dears – just came to remind you it’s getting terribly late, and you need to be heading up to the girls’ room, love.”

She pauses in the doorway, her eyes adjusting to the dim light, and when she sees you tangled together in the bed, she doesn’t frown, doesn’t scold. Her expression just melts into something tender and knowing. She notices how George doesn’t flinch, doesn’t scramble to pull away, how his arm stays firmly anchored around your waist, holding you steady, protective and proud. She sees the way you look at him, too – like he’s your whole world.

George offers his mother a sheepish, lopsided grin, his cheeks just a little pink in the candlelight, and he squeezes you even tighter for one long, perfect second.

“I know, Mum,” he says softly, his tone respectful but full of quiet feeling. “Just… savouring the minute, aren’t we? Don’t get many of these quiet ones.”

You nod against his shoulder, resting your cheek back into the crook of his neck, breathing him in for one last moment. “I’m going, Mrs Weasley,” you say gently, lifting your head to meet her gaze. “Just… give us a few more seconds. Please.”

Molly’s face lights up with a soft, fond smile. She nods warmly, stepping back into the hallway and pulling the door almost shut, leaving just a crack to give you complete privacy. “Take all the time you need, loves. I’ll leave the landing lamp lit for you – don’t want you tripping over the stairs in the dark.”

Her footsteps fade softly down the hallway, leaving you alone again.

George leans down then, slow and deliberate, pressing a trail of soft, lingering kisses across your face – one to your forehead, warm and protective; one to the tip of your nose, playful and sweet; and finally, one to your lips, deeper this time, filled with all the quiet longing of the night.

“I’ll be thinking of you every minute until morning,” he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper, his forehead resting gently against yours. “Dream of me, yeah? I know I’ll be dreaming of you – probably dreaming we’re in a house with no rules at all, where you never have to leave my side.”

You smile, your heart swelling so full it feels like it might burst, and you reach down to lace your fingers through his, squeezing tight. “Always. Every single dream. And I’ll stop at the top of the stairs before I go into our room – I’ll sneak you a wave, just for you.”

He helps you sit up, pulling the quilt around your shoulders to ward off the chill, then swings his legs out of bed to walk you to the door. He brushes down your jumper with gentle hands, tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and holds your gaze like he’s trying to memorise every detail of your face.

At the threshold, he pulls you in for one last, tight hug – burying his face in your neck for a heartbeat – before pressing one last quick, soft kiss to your cheek.

“Go on, then,” he whispers, grinning that bright, beautiful George grin that lights up the whole room. “Before Mum comes back with a broomstick.”

You step out into the cool hallway, but you turn back immediately. He’s standing right there in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching you go, his eyes glowing in the dim light, looking at you like you’re the best thing that ever walked into his life.

You blow him a soft kiss from your fingertips, and he catches it playfully, pressing it to his heart. Then you turn, stepping lightly down the landing, warm all over – because even though you have to sleep apart, you carry his warmth with you, and you know he’s right there, waiting for morning.

It’s been a while.. anyways what do you guys think

[worncreature]

reading this brought back so many memories for me. the small, quiet moments where the two of you want to hold onto each other for as long as possible. how exhilarating it feels to share a moment together, as if you’re stealing time from a cupboard and sneaking out the back. his warmth becomes yours in a bed that suddenly feels like your own corner of the universe. i love gentle and honest portrayals of young love. young love feels the most special when life feels utterly mundane.

[peterplanet]

he doesn't die in the end (there's the rest of a life to breathe in)—f.w

summary: you've always known how the story was going to end—with a crumbling wall and the ghost of a laugh on his lips. you'll do anything to keep it from happening, even if that pushes you right into his orbit. [slow burn, mutual pining, friends to idiots to lovers] [cw: mentions of death & canon-compliant violence]

wc: 14.1k [oh my god]

a/n: this fic got me through the worst of my job. it has seen me through so much and now it is urs if u want it !! and if u don't. ok. PLEASE tell me if u read it and PLEASE tell me ur every waking thought about it bc like...this is my magnum opus i fear.

masterlist | my requests are open!! | lmk what u thought !! PLEASE!!!

Despite his best efforts to achieve the contrary, Fred Weasley has found himself incapable of understanding you. You spend significant time with Professor Snape, despite the raven-haired man’s apparent distaste for everyone besides himself and a select few Slytherins, and you don’t seem to be standing in the grace of his godlight in any capacity.

When you’re not with Snape, you’re holed up in Professor Trelawney’s classroom discerning meaning from tea leaves or the wisps of smoke from sage that you’d burned. You rarely spoke more than a handful of words to anyone, but no one ever had a bad word to say about you. Even Draco Malfoy left you alone for the most part—you were odd, but not in a way that anyone seemed to dare to tease or prod with.

From the moment Fred saw you on the boats in first year, to the near five minutes that he’d watched the Sorting Hat attempt to place you, he’d known that you were odd. Everyone had. There was an air about you that seemed to match Luna Lovegood’s, but those who tried to torment you during first year had come back with whispered stories of how you’d cast a Bat Bogey Hex with only a murmur of the incantation and a subtle twist of your wand. You were odd, but you weren’t to be messed with.

Like he’s stressed—Fred Weasley didn’t understand you. But that didn’t mean he didn’t want to.

He’d tried to. He had. He’d sat next to you at breakfast and dinner, tried to show off various tricks and slights of hand he’d learned. You’d met every attempt at friendship with a kind smile and interested stare, but Fred had been hard pressed to get more than a few words out of you at a time.

George said that he was sweet on you. Ginny said it was endearing. Ron said he was barking up the wrong tree. Percy wanted Fred to get your advice on O.W.L. exams, as he was sure you were already light-years ahead on studying. And yet, Fred was single-mindedly focused on one thing only—getting you to consider yourself his friend.

His quest came to a head when Fred found himself failing Potions in fourth year. Fourteen and invincible, Fred hadn’t thought it worthwhile to pursue Potions seriously when he’d become so adept at them in his extracurriculars with George. Still, Professor Snape didn’t like that reasoning and found no basis in it. Extracurriculars don’t make up for any loss of the curricular, Mr. Weasley, he’d said.

And then he’d arranged for you to tutor Fred. It had been so sudden, so unexpected, that Fred had felt he nearly jumped out of his skin at the mention of your name. Snape must have taken it as an attempt to interject, to push back on the idea of you tutoring him, as he fixed Fred with a steely gaze that spoke volumes.

But Fred—quietly, to himself—realized that this may just be the way into your life that he’d been searching for so desperately these past three years.

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Your first study session saw Fred hearing your voice for the longest amount of time in one go.

“I was surprised when Professor Snape listed you on my study tables’ list,” you said into the silence of the Potions classroom as you flipped through a textbook. Your voice was a tender hush of a sound, but Fred reasoned that the warmth in it kept the cold of the dungeons of Hogwarts at bay.

Fred blinked at you a few times, unsure of what to say. He hadn’t known that you’d taken any stock of him as a person over the past years in school together.

“You’re good enough to make all of your Puking Pasties,” you supplied after a moment. “Do you just not like class? I imagine it’s a bit below what you’re managing on your own…probably a bit boring, then.”

You didn’t seem to be looking for a response, and Fred was too terrified to speak in the event that it stopped you from talking altogether. You continued flipping through the pages of the textbook. From what Fred could recall of Percy, Charlie, and Bill’s studies, he recognized it as the fifth-year textbook.

“Here it is,” you murmured in that same quietly warm cadence, pausing on a page. You turned the book to Fred before you started going around the classroom to collect ingredients. He tried not to think about the fact that you didn’t get everything together with a simple Accio, that you instead seemed to like the task of going from shelf to shelf collecting things by hand.

Fred couldn’t stop himself from reading the title of the page aloud, his brows furrowing. “... Babbling Beverage?” He called out to you, watching as you collected everything seemingly by memory.

You returned to the table with everything gathered in the front of your robes, having maneuvered it like a pouch to hold everything you’d needed. “Listen,” you began as you took everything out of your makeshift pouch. As if Fred would risk doing anything but exactly what you’d instructed him to. “I…may have gone out on a limb here with Professor Snape. I vouched for you. I told him about the Puking Pasties and the Pimple Vanisher. Because it’s all just Potions, and I told him that I think you’re bored. And honestly, that’s how I was, too. 

“But I was annoying about it. I wore him down until he let me have access to the upper-level textbooks that he’d kept, and even some of his own recipes, and he…well, he didn’t tutor me, really. He’s not much of a mentor. But he stopped expecting me to show my work in class and gave me different essays to write. I still don’t think he likes me, and I don’t think he really likes you, either, but he’s…we need to get him to see that you can do advanced Potions if you’re interested in them. Does that make sense?”

Fred was left in the aftermath of everything you’d just shared with him. The times he’d sat at your side in the Great Hall, where he’d thought that you weren’t listening, you had been. Every time he’d tried to show you something he and George had been working on, you’d remembered. But one thing was bothering him—

“Annoying?” He repeated, his brow still furrowed as he tried to work through everything you’d just shared. “How could you be annoying?”

Fred watched as a small smile blossomed over your face as you began cutting up a few ingredients to add to the cauldron later. “Exactly as I’m managing it right now.”

He took the knife from your hands when you offered it to start cutting up the last few ingredients. You kept a watchful eye on his work, but ultimately said nothing more.

Once everything was ready, Fred started following the methodical steps with an uncanny ease. While he’d pleaded his case to Snape in much of the same way that it seemed you had, Fred had never thought that he’d be able to come to a middle-ground with any professor. He was living under the assumption that school was a stepping stone, not a place to land for the time being, and that professors wouldn’t meet him where he was.

“...I thought you didn’t like me, you know,” Fred said as he wrote down the time on a corner of parchment to note the cooling time for the potion that was brewing in front of him.

You seemed to chew on that for a moment, tasting it for what the revelation’s flavor could give you. “I’m cautious,” you supplied after another beat of silence. “I…don’t have many friends. I spend too much time with Professor Trelawney and, uh, sucking up to Professor Snape, if you were to ask some people…and I get it. I’m into the weird and quiet subjects with professors who brood or claim to know the future.”

You went quiet again. When Fred turned to look at you, he caught you scratching your nail against the top of the table and biting your lip, seemingly lost in a moment of thought. “...You’ll have to forgive me if your reputation precedes you. I didn’t know if you liked me at first, or if you were…I don’t know.” You blow out a breath, seemingly frustrated at your own lack of explanation. “Even Hermione Granger makes fun of me sometimes, Fred, and she’s as ambitious as I am. I know the circle you run in, and I thought it…I thought you were setting up some grand joke to pull over Hogwarts resident teacher’s pet. I didn’t know to trust that you weren’t until you started talking to me about your jokes instead of playing them on me.

“I’m sorry for making an assumption about you. I was wrong.”

Your little speech has taken the time that the Potion needed to cool. You don’t give Fred a chance to respond, but instead go to grab a vial to put the Potion into. It’s shimmering in the light and the color of pink bubblegum. You’re grinning, beatific, and Fred can’t help but join you.

“We’ll make a Potions Master out of you yet.”

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Fred remains troubled about what you shared with him to the point that he writes to his mother about his tutoring. He tells her what you said about thinking that you were the subject of another one of his jokes and questions, for the first time, what the difference between pranking and bullying might be. Is it who’s in on the punchline? Or is it a question of where the joke is being made?

George tells him not to worry too much about it, but Fred can’t shake the fact that he might be painted in anything other than the light of his best intentions. His mum tells him to bring you around over the Christmas holiday, almost delighted at the fact (at least in her writings) that Fred has managed to make headway with you. He thinks she might just be delighted to know that he’s finally found a subject he isn’t totally terrible at.

By this point in your tutoring sessions, Fred’s been making his way up the ranks of convoluted potions. You’re trying to petition Snape to let you make Wolfsbane next—though Fred finds that you may just want to make it under the guise of getting Fred into the more advanced levels of Potion making. He doesn’t mind, not really, because it gives him a reason to meet with you every few weeks. 

You keep an eye on his homework and look it over. He asks about what Snape has set you out to research for your next assignment, since it’s different from his even though you’re in the same class. You still sit away from him in any shared classes, typically alone at a desk or at the end of a row of students who must have had no other choice than to let you join them. 

But, slowly, Fred works his way into your social life. He sits with you every few days at meals, asks you questions about Transfiguration or Charms. They’re not your favorite subjects, but you keep up with the material. And, as Fred’s learned, you’re a good tutor.

People pay attention. They notice how Fred lingers around the periphery of your social life—if they would even say that you have one—and rumors start flooding. He hears them through George first, but he hears them as a warning from Ginny.

“She’s nice, Fred,” Ginny supplies one day, somewhere in the liminal space of November that sees the end of the term coming faster than he used to be able to keep up with. He’s surprised to find that, now that you’re a fixture in his life, he’s not as worried about the upkeep of work that normally bogs him down by now. “She’s good. If you so much as think about hurting her, I—”

“—I’d never, Ginny,” he assured her at the time. He wanted to believe it, but he also knew the Hogwarts rumor mill was a dangerous place. 

While not as popular as Harry or well-known as those hanging in the inner circle of the Boy-Who-Lived, Fred supposes that his role as a prankster has made him more renowned than he’d have once thought possible.

He finds you uncharacteristically cornered by a group of Slytherins. Whatever they’re saying to you has left you quiet. The part that hurts Fred the most is that they’re not even casting curses or slinging hexes your way—it’s the weight of whatever they’re saying that’s been enough to stun you, some nerve exposed that you hadn’t known to deflect them off of before they’d smelled the spark of its live-wire ending.

“What seems to be the issue, lads?” Fred asks in a fake-cheery tone. The ring-leader of the group turns to expand the half-circle of students to include Fred. 

Whatever he was saying must have been proven by the fact that Fred materialized at just the right moment. Fred’s left on the edge of understanding the cruelty that’s unfolded without getting to bear witness to it.

“And here he is,” one of them says, sneering. “Tell us, Weasley, is she as good of a shag as you’ve made it seem? I don’t know why even the likes of you would waste your time with her. Unless she can tell you whether your family will ever strike the gold they’ve pretended is out there for blood-traitors like—”

Fred doesn’t even have time to think before his fist is connected with the boy’s cheek.

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You manage to get McGonagall off of his back long enough to get Fred to the Hospital Wing, promising that there will be another time to be angry at his moment of inopportune violence. You do a good job of dodging questioning stares and bulldozing past outright attempts to ask what had happened. The Hogwarts rumor mill will continue to churn, it seems, and Fred has done nothing of benefit in getting himself tangled into it any further than he already was.

Fred expects you to be angry. You sit him in a bed and alert Madam Pomfrey to your arrival before you join him in the room, sitting down on the bed across from him. Your quiet is disconcerting after he’s spent so long knowing just how talkative you can be, and he doesn’t know what to do. So, he talks.

“Has it been that bad before?” He asks as he stretches out his knuckles, feeling the scratch of bruised skin as it gives way above moaning bones that protest at the continued movement. The pain gives him something to focus on that isn’t his anger. “Why wouldn’t you get me if it was?”

You’re not looking at him, so he goes quiet. He knows you’ve heard him from how you’re biting your lip—it’s how you think through a question that you need to get the answer out to.

A few minutes pass in uneasy silence that Fred wants to break with more questions before you answer. “...it’s never been good,” you finally say. “Usually it’s just taunting about prophecies and crystal balls or sucking up to Snape.

“I usually have some way of getting out. I can raise my wand and see someone flinch, which gives me a few seconds to slip out. Or…I can scare someone with a fake prophecy. “But…they’ve never had any other material to go off of, I guess. I’m not used to someone making fun of…of my friends. I suppose they’ve never had anyone else to tie me to. I didn’t expect to get so angry that I wouldn’t do anything, though.”

Fred realizes now that your silence hasn’t been an angry one. It’s been full of guilt.

He calls your name softly as he realizes what this is—the self-deprecation because of the belief that you should have done something you’ve never been prepared to. The truth behind it makes Fred’s heart crack in his chest in a way that leads him to believe it might break right out from behind his ribcage—you’ve never had a friend that required defending. You didn’t know what to do because you’ve never had someone else to protect before.

“You’re my friend,” Fred reiterates, stern in how he speaks so that you catch his gaze again with the shock of it. He needs you to know that so badly that he aches with it. “And you don’t have to defend me. I’ve heard that before, okay? The Weasley name has been through worse. You…I mean, it’s your choice as to what you do next time. But I need you to know that I’m right behind you when they come back. And…and I know you’ve handled it alone, and I know that you can, but…tell me, okay? If it gets bad again. If they come after you just because you’re my friend.”

Fred’s startled to see the rush of tears that spring in your eyes, but he pretends not to see them. He mainly doesn’t know what to do with someone who’s upset, let alone a girl that isn’t Ginny. But he’s starting to figure it out, he realizes—the line between a jester and a bully is right here, in the hospital wing of Hogwarts. It’s the punchline coming after the first blow was already landed against someone he cares about.

He makes a promise to keep that idea tight to his chest. For you, if for no one else.

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You come to the Burrow for Christmas. Your parents, evidently delighted at the prospect of you having a friend to spend the holiday with, ship you off for the stretch between Christmas and the New Year to return to Hogwarts with the Weasleys. 

Fred meets your parents when he and his parents go to collect you. They’re quiet people, too. And, much to his father’s delight, they’re Muggles. Despite your preparation for your house’s short connection to the Floo Network, your mother still jumps at the sight of the three Weasleys stepping out of your fireplace in a plume of green smoke.

His father takes time poking and prodding at every electrical device in the house. Fred is mortified and trying desperately to get him away from the telly, to stop asking about the phone and how it works, but you silence him with a knowing smile. Your own father seems endeared by the process of explaining electricity to a Wizard.

“He never thought we’d have things that Wizards didn’t,” your mother supplies quietly to Mrs. Weasley. “Would anyone like tea? We’ve made biscuits as well, if you have a minute to stay.”

His mother, to her credit, is also delighted at the hospitality she’s being shown.

The half hour spent in your childhood home teaches Fred far more about you than he expected it to. He learns that your father works as an electrical engineer, that your mother teaches at a local primary school. He learns that you have a sister much older than you who has a family of her own, and that, while your family doesn’t wholly understand the world of Magic, they accept you nonetheless.

He learns that your mother is still wary of the owls that you sent at first, even despite your constant explanations, and that you go to send your post to your family from Hogsmeade every month and retrieve it from the Hogs Head Inn in kind. This arrangement was brought about by Dumbledore when you’d gone to him in your first year, terrified by the kindly man who, Fred reasons, likely had something to do with the way that you’re tutored in school. His mum demands to be shown how to send letters in this way, determined to stay up-to-date in a less-overwhelming way with your parents. You seem taken aback by this willingness to be included in such a miniscule way, but don’t comment.

When your fathers are done discussing the electrical paneling of your home, you’re shuffled out with a hug from both of your parents and a bag filled with gifts. It’s Fred’s turn to be taken aback by something—the notion that your parents, while kind, had thought to help you get gifts for his family. 

This gleaning into your life makes Fred worried about the chaos of his own life that you’re about to uncover, but he tries to stamp it down. No use in worrying about what hasn’t happened yet.

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Fred watches you absorb the Burrow for what it is with barely-contained fascination. He’s never seen someone take in the house, the everything that made him into the wizard that stepped into Hogwarts, and wanted them to like him so badly despite the revelations.

Your family is clean. The house was tidy, the dishes sorted by hand. His house is…loud. It’s chaos spilling between doorframes and into living spaces, screams of different names being chased into rooms when childish fights break out. Fred isn’t often embarrassed of where he came from, but for the first time in a very long time, he finds himself nervous about what you might think of the place and people that raised him.

You leave your trunk and bag of gifts in the living room to go outside and step back from the house. Fred catches his mother watching you from the kitchen window as she sets to tending to the morning’s dishes with a few orchestrated flicks of her wand. 

“This…” You trail off for a moment as you look up to the Burrow, eyes alight with a wonder that Fred’s never really seen directed towards anything his family has. “Your house is beautiful, Fred.”

If he didn’t know you at this point, he’d think you were making fun of him. But when your gaze catches his, he can feel the sincerity burning through it. He tries not to let the vision of it catch in his chest for too long, lest it require naming the feeling he had caught himself harboring for you. Something more than was called for by the label of friend. Something more than he thought you’d want of him.

“Will you show me around, please?” You’ve never been one for pleading, and Fred nearly startles at the realization that he’s willing to do just about anything you ask of him with a tone like that.

He takes you through his childhood home while trying not to focus on the reverence in your gaze. He starts from the top of the stairs outside of Ron’s room, not opening the door to invade the privacy he knows his brother needs. He tells you about the family ghoul who, at the mention of his existence, begins to rattle the ceiling in a way that startles delighted laughter out of you.

He leads you then past the room that Bill and Charlie used to share, past his parents’ bedroom. He takes you into his own room, cringing at the scent of gunpowder and wishing that he’d taken his mother’s offer of a candle since you’d be sharing a room with the twins during your stay. George greets you with a flourish into their humble abode and you promise to come help him with whatever he’s been working on in the afternoon that Fred had—in George’s words—abandoned him to collect you.

By the time you’re in the kitchen, his mum’s already setting up to prepare dinner. You startle at the sight of pots and pans cleaning themselves in the kitchen sink, and Fred watches as you take note that his mother is doing nonverbal magic to start preparing supper. He sees the questions you want to ask in the furrow of your brow, but takes notice as the quiet version of you comes out. You’re not used to being welcomed somewhere new. You don’t know the rules around asking questions that some professors might deem pestering.

Thankfully, Molly Weasley has dealt with her fair share of anxious teenagers. She brings Harry Potter back to full health every summer before he goes to school. When she catches your questioning stare, she’s interjecting before Fred can start to explain.

“Is there something I can get you, dearies? Fred, are your manners so lost that you wouldn’t offer her a bite to eat or a drink? Or tell her where to put her trunk?” The knowing stare she fixes Fred with seems to have thawed away at some of the hesitance you were feeling.

“Actually, Mrs. Weasley—”

“—it’s Molly, dear, no need for such formalities—”

“—right, uhm, Molly,” you go on, biting your lip as you take a moment to try not to lose your courage at being interrupted. If Fred could survive the aftermath of yelling at his mother, he’d reprimand her and remind her of your reticent nature that he’d tried to warn his entire family about. “I hope you’ll excuse me saying this, but you’re…to do all of these spells at once, you’re an incredible Witch. Talented, I mean. If that’s…okay to say?” 

It’s rare that Fred sees his mother stunned into silence, and rarer still that it’s not because of how angry he and George had made her. And while Fred’s never thought of his mother in such a light as you’re seeing her, he finds himself ashamed to admit that it’s true in a way he’s taken for granted. 

“Well…” Molly struggles for only a minute longer, and it seems an apology is about to tumble from your lips before she’s rounding out from behind the counter to pull you into one of her all-too-warm hugs. “What pleasure has Fred gotten hiding you all to himself these past few years? Thank you, dear, but it isn’t too much work when you’re used to it. In fact, there’s a few books I could lend you if you like about the common household spells. Did me wonders when I moved out on my own.”

You beam at her as she lets you out of the tight hug. She takes you from Fred then to show you what she’s doing. While you might not be able to do magic outside of school, you’re an apt study based on the way you mimic her wand movements under the counter as she exaggerates them for your benefit. 

In the meantime, Fred thinks of the question his mum had asked, about how much of a pleasure it has been to have you as a private piece of his—and to a lesser extent, George’s—life at Hogwarts. But, he reasons, he would give it all up for the way that you’re fitting in with his family.

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He isn’t brave enough that Christmas to broach asking you more than he already has about yourself. He keeps his questions in a vault in his head to the best of his ability for the rest of the year, except for the ones that slip through the cracks. He mainly asks about your Muggle parents, your sister and her family. He tries to keep the questions casual so that when a more serious one slips out, you won’t startle and go quiet.

He can’t help it, though, when you come to the Burrow for the summer between fifth and sixth year. You’re beatific in the sunlight of the Burrow’s lawn, having helped him and George pull up gnomes for the better part of the afternoon despite his mother’s insistence that you take the afternoon to relax. Your hair fans out around your head and catches sunlight in the strands in a way that Fred wishes he was able to properly wax poetic about. As it stands, though, he’s only sixteen. All he knows is that his breath stutters at the picture before him and he feels it catch behind his ribs.

To distract from the feeling, the question he’s always wondered slips out. “How have you always been able to tell George and I apart?”

Your eyes crack open to study him from your spot on the lawn, your teeth drawn over your lip as you take a moment to think. He almost apologizes for having made you sit up as you do it, leaning back on your hands as you appear to chew over his comment for a moment. 

“I don’t know how anyone who knows you two can’t,” you answer honestly after a moment. “It’s…you smile differently, did you know that? And…your laughs. They’re similar, yeah, but…yours stutters out of you. George’s doesn’t.”

You say this like it doesn’t fundamentally shift his sixteen-year-old-world on its side for a moment and leave him sprawling in the aftermath of such a casual confession.

Fred Weasley, who had struggled to catch your attention and hold it for the better part of four years, has been recognized as himself. He’s been seen as more than a package deal, and you’ve said it like it’s nothing. He doesn’t know where to go from here.

So, he does what he thinks he often does best—he attempts to deflect.

“You should really tell mum that, y’know. Maybe she’d have an easier time when she’s mad at telling us apart…”

His easy grin must suffice in showing you that he’s joking, because you let the conversation die as you lay back down in the grass and let the sunlight stream into your hair again. Beatific, he thinks, and resolves himself to find synonyms for the word by the end of the summer holiday.

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By his final year at Hogwarts, Fred’s started a mission. A quiet one as he and George prepare to leave Hogwarts during your shared seventh year. 

Amongst themselves, they call it Operation Be Okay. Because the truth is, despite how supportive you are of their need to leave Hogwarts, Fred is terrified that leaving will ruin everything that the two of you have built. And beyond that, he’s terrified that you’re going to feel the absence of himself and his brother in ways that you’re not allowing yourself to adequately prepare for.

Your first Christmas with the Weasleys started a tradition that saw you spilling into the fabric of the Burrow. His mum often jokes that you need your own spoon on the clock, as do Harry and Hermione. You come over in the summers for weekends and steal moments whenever you can. He spends time with your family, too, and George often tags along to make sure you leave room for Merlin. Of course George knows how he feels about you—they share a brain most days and have since they were born. To your credit, if you hear anything George says when it’s being not-so-quietly whispered, you keep your face neutral and never comment.

All of this is to say that Fred is worried that you’ll slip back into old, quiet habits when they leave. He tries to set you up with Luna Lovegood, but as lovely as she is and as well as the two of you get on, you’re both quiet creatures who rarely share thoughts until you feel comfortable. 

Hermione doesn’t know how to talk to you about anything else besides school. Ron is still at a point where he’s intimidated by you from a prophecy you claimed to see about spiders in his future, though Fred’s told him you haven’t ever had a prophecy come true because none of them were real.

When he’s about out of options that don’t involve him staying in school and sitting his N.E.W.T.s—a thought he never believed would ever cross his mind—he comes to breakfast to find you sitting next to Harry Potter. He’s almost worried for a moment that Harry has taken you on as a charity case, or someone he needs to be friends with on behalf of his best friend’s brother, but when he approaches the table and takes the seat next to you with Harry on your other, he hears you speaking in whispered tones and looking at something in his palm.

Fred does his best not to startle at the sight of a snake in Harry’s hand. He tries even harder to stifle the chill that runs up his spine without his permission at the sound of Harry speaking Parseltongue. Still, he can’t stop the whispered, “Blimey,” that leaves him at the picture painted before him. Harry instantly stops talking and looks hesitant to continue. You, however, reach out and stroke the snake’s nose in an attempt to soothe it. Its eyes catch Fred’s as if knowing that he was the reason Harry stopped speaking.

“Isn’t it so cool, Fred?” You ask in a tone that tells Fred you’re not joking at all—not that you ever would with the way your gaze catches the reproachful expression painted on Harry’s face. “Harry’s been helping me talk to her. I found some students destroying her little nest that she was trying to make to lay her eggs, Harry said, and they were just tormenting her…she was being flung around in the air, oh, it was awful…”

Fred doesn’t think the snake can understand you, but she must sense the jagged edge of your tone as she slides into your outstretched hand. She slides up your sleeve, evidently happy enough with you to be burrowing into your clothes. “Harry said she doesn’t think she needs any special attention or help, but she’s happy to be away from the torture. I was going to let her out by the Black Lake before Potions—apparently there’s lots of rotted logs there for her that she really likes, and sometimes the merpeople sing to her at night. I tried to give her some bacon, but she likes live food better…”

To Harry’s credit, he’s not outright appalled by your apparent care for the snake in your sleeve. In fact, he seems endeared by the way you’re talking to her. Fred supposes that he doesn’t often get people asking him to speak Parseltongue, nor does he often get such rave reviews about his ability to do so. And how so very like you, Fred thinks, to see how you can solve a problem and set out to do just that. 

“I should take her there now,” you decide after quickly finishing the last of your breakfast in a few succinct bites. “Harry, can you tell her that, please? That I’m taking her to the water with the rotted logs and warm sun?”

Harry leans down and whispers something in Parseltongue. Whatever the snake says has Harry grinning while you stand, clearly sensing that the brief exchange has ended. Fred wouldn’t put it past you to have learned a bit of Parseltongue in this small time, or at least the cadence of a conversation in it to know when an exchange is over.

“She says that she’d like to show you her babies when they hatch, if you’d like. Where you leave her is where they’ll be after three full moons—uh, three months—from now. She doesn’t…know what a month is, so I guess maybe go by her timeline.” Harry seems to sense that Fred has been listening to your exchange and sees the moment that he realizes that others have probably heard him speaking Parsletongue, people that would judge him for it. Fred knows well how easy it is to get wrapped up in the starlight that you seem to possess, the bubble that you carry that makes it feel like no one hears what shouldn’t be divulged. He also knows that you won’t let anyone give Harry a hard time for it.

You prove this when you catch Dean Thomas’s disgusted stare towards your sleeve and his incredulous look to Harry himself. Catching his gaze with your own, you tilt your head to the right ever-so-slightly and let your eyes glass over. “Mousetraps…how odd. And a bloody sketchbook. Though it doesn’t stop you for long…you have a beautiful sketchbook, don’t you?”

Shaking your head, you walk away without a further comment. Fred does his best to smother the grin that’s threatening to overtake his features at your fake prophecy. Word had gotten around about everyone’s boggarts, surely, and you’d still been kind enough to make it so Dean knew he wouldn’t, had this been a true moment of Sight, lose the function to draw forever.

When Fred catches Harry’s eye, he knows that he’s having a similar moment of self-control.

The moment passes when Dean gets up, looking markedly greener than he had before. Harry’s grin splits his face into something younger than he often seems, boyish in a way that Fred rarely sees him. With the weight of the world hanging on his shoulders, Fred reckons it’s hard to get to feel normal, to have a moment of reprieve.

“...She’s brilliant, isn’t she?” Harry says. “I mean, you do, but…no one…” Fred lets Harry trail off, knowing that this isn’t the time to give him words to let him choose from. “I just mean that it’s rare I get someone coming up with a snake and asking me to talk to it. I almost thought she was taking the piss at first, you know? I know she’s your friend and your mum says she isn’t like that, but, I dunno…”

“I get it,” Fred says when he senses that Harry needs him to supply something more than understanding glances and knowing silence. “She’s one of my best mates, Harry, but I know how intimidating she seems at first. She doesn’t like to be fucked around with, y’get it? And it isn’t anything personal. She just…takes some warming up to.”

Harry nods when he takes that in. “I knew she wasn’t taking the piss when I went to yell at her. She was almost crying, I think, and told me everything she told you—injured snake and students throwing it in the air. And when the snake started talking with me, she…she seemed to be really relieved.”

The boys go quiet for a few moments. There isn’t much Fred can say to that, he reasons, when it’s what he’s known about you all along. You’re a hard shell to crack, but you wouldn’t have gone to Harry if you didn’t know he wouldn’t give you a hard time. He thinks that, maybe, introducing you to Luna might have given you this perspective. He makes a mental note to thank her later.

“Say, mate, can I…” It’s Fred’s turn to trail off for a moment, hesitant to ask Harry to take on any more responsibility than the Wizarding World is giving him. “...can I ask a favor of you, actually? I know it’s more than I should ask with everything you’ve given me and George already, but…”

Harry nods, as if telling him to go on. Fred takes a breath before he does.

“George and I are going to start our own joke shop this year. We’re…with Umbridge, we’re planning not to sit N.E.W.T.s. And I…”

Fred didn’t think he’d get this far with anyone, really. He didn’t think about how to ask for this.

“What I’m getting at is that…I care about her more than I really have the words for. I know she’s capable of surviving half a year without me, but I also know she wouldn’t tell me if the rest of her year is shit because of our leaving. And, so…I was hoping, maybe, you’d keep an eye on her.” 

At the look Harry fixes him with—the are you sure she’d let me? look he knows so well—Fred presses on. “I’m not saying you have to suddenly be her best mate or anything. I just…ask her about the snake in three moons. Or the Potions she’s learning to brew. Merlin, whatever…I think you’d both have more to talk about than you think.”

Harry stews that over before he adds. “...you really love her, don’t you?”

Naming the feeling behind his ribs is a terrifying thing. It’s anxiety-inducing to give the force a name to go by in front of the Boy-Who-Lived. Fred has known what it is for a while, known what to call it and how to define it for longer than he’s really understood what it implied, but he finds that, despite the anxiety, it isn’t scary to realize.

“I do,” he admits, firmer in his tone than he’d expected. “And…again, I know I don’t have a lot of room here to ask you for anything. But what…I’d appreciate it, Harry. She’s not that bad when you get to know her.”

He does his best to ignore the smarmy look Harry Potter fixes him with, and instead takes it as a vow that he’ll keep you in sight for the better part of the next year. He also, maybe foolishly, trusts him not to tell anyone that he loves you. He thinks, as Harry looks at Ginny when he hears her laugh a few seats down, that Harry might know a thing or two about holding out hope for someone to return the feelings you have.

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

Harry writes to Fred and George every few weeks after they leave Hogwarts. He tells them that, shockingly, even Peeves has taken a liking to you now that the twins have left. You’re still quiet, but you don’t tell Harry to leave when he sits next to you every few meals. You don’t seek him out, though. Fred thinks you’re too scared to hope that someone might want to be friends with you of their own volition when there’s a common link between you.

Your letters tell Fred that you know he asked Harry to look after you. You don’t seem to mind, though. He’s teaching you about Quidditch, and you’re helping him with some of his coursework. Fred wonders if you’re one of a few people who can make Harry Potter feel like a normal teenager every now and then. 

Fred and George corner you every month at Hogsmeade. Harry joins sometimes, as do Luna and Hermione. Your circle has been expanding in a way that surprises Fred, in a way that makes him wish he would’ve known how willing you were to be introduced to others. He does, however, wonder if Harry has something to do with it.

Harry Potter has a way of pulling people together. Be it his reconciling with the fickle way that life seems to be or the world’s weight on his shoulders, he’s never been one to shy away from connecting his friends with one another.

It’s on a Hogsmeade outing that Fred is approached by Harry. You’re standing farther back with Luna, and the two of you are talking in hushed tones that he can’t decipher from a distance, but Fred can tell that something’s wrong.

Before he can go to you, Harry’s stopping him with a gentle hand to his arm. George lingers and tries and fails to look entirely uninterested with the conversations that are circling around him.

“She’s…” Harry trails off for a moment. “She’s seen something, I guess. She won’t talk to anyone about it but Luna, Trelawney, and Dumbledore, and you know what it’s like to get an answer out of Luna…”

Fred visibly starts at that. He’s shocked by the idea that your time with Trelawney has been for some reason other than mere interest—he’d never thought to ask if you had the gift of Sight. He’d always written it off as a hack branch of Magic, but he’s startled to realize that you might have it. 

“Anyways, mate, she’s feeling like she won’t be very good company today. She’s more…like she used to be, if that makes sense.” Harry seems reproachful at that, but Fred doesn’t blame him.

You’ve always had a tendency to slip back into your quiet ways and muted nature. Fred tries not to take it personally, but he does feel awful to think that these episodes have been a result of any visions.

Fred thanks him and moves on to go see you. Hack branch of Magic or not, he hates the idea of you upset. He expects you to go quiet when he approaches you, but he’s startled once again when the sight of him brings you to instant tears.

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

The truth won’t be brought out of you then. You tell Fred that there’s some things you can’t share, not really, and that he has to trust you enough to let it be for now. He tries to, at least.

He sits next to you in a clearing in Hogsmeade and remembers the day that you’d laid in the Burrow’s lawn. You always seem more at peace when the sun’s on you, shining and warm, casting a halo around your hair. You’re calmer now, though you seem exhausted.

“I have…dreams,” you admit. “I don’t like talking about them much. People don’t…I get how everyone sees Divination, and half the time I don’t know what I’m seeing until I live it later. I’ve had a few, uh, potent dreams, if you’d call them that, but…” You trail off, biting your lip, and Fred lets the silence hang. He knows you’re just struggling to find words for what you want to say.

You take a deep breath before you go on. “I had one of the potent ones last night. I talked to Dumbledore, but…I mean, Harry will tell you that he’s not always a great source of wisdom like people think. The good thing about the dreams, though, according to Trelawney, is that they’re not set in stone. I’ve done it before, y’know, little things—I once won my parents a lot of money on the Euromillions because we got so many numbers right, but I’d known all of the numbers. Nothing bad happened when I didn’t give all of the numbers.”

At the confused look Fred is fixing you with, you rush out, “Muggle thing, uh, like betting, almost? I’ll show you someday.” You take another breath before you add, “...I’ve been having more dreams about the War.”

“You’ve what?” Fred asks, incredulous. “Why didn’t you say anything? And—And more dreams? You’ve had enough of them before to have a baseline?”

The groan you let out is so unlike you that Fred nearly laughs. “And say what, Fred? That I probably have some version of the gift of Sight and sometimes I have dreams that come true? Or that I can tell a lot from tea leaves and sage signals?

“No one would take me seriously. And they already don’t. Shit, Dumbledore barely believed me until I knew the password to his office without being told. I don’t…I don’t get access to the information all the time. I’ve been working with Firenze, too, but…most wizards don’t get access to True Sight until after they’re of age. It’s hard to explain, and I sound fucking crazy, I know—”

Fred takes your hand in his at that, holding it tightly in his own to stop your rambling in its tracks. “I don’t think you sound crazy,” he tries to mollify you. “You’re one of the brightest witches I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. And you’ve spent way too much time with Trelawney to be doing it for the love of tea, right? I should’ve known.”

“You couldn’t have,” you say, your voice taking on a far-away quality that reminds Fred so much of the quiet fourteen-year-old who taught him Potions and took the time to make an effort. “You can’t know what you were never told, Fred. Don’t take it personal. I just…it’s hard. I see…”

Your voice catches as you seem to remember whatever it is that you’re holding close to your chest. “I see a lot of loss. And it’s shit to be the one to see it all. Harry…he knows what he can. I try not to tell people the dreams unless they’re not in them, but…Merlin, he already has so much on his plate, y’know? What good does it do to tell him about the loss that he knows is coming? Why hurt him by making it something tangible?”

You shake your head at that before going on, “Anyways, I’m not…I’ll be okay. It just rattled me, I guess. I haven’t had this dream in a while, and it’s been the longest one I’ve had. Like, I’ve been having it since before I knew I was a Witch. I dunno.”

“...Dumbledore’s going to let me in on more Order meetings, though,” you confess. “I need to talk to Shacklebolt about some stuff, and Lupin.” You heave a sigh and let your head fall to your knees, forehead kissing the skin your skirt is rucked up above. “I don’t know how Harry does it all, really. It’s just a fucking dream, y’know?”

Fred doesn’t comment on that, because he doesn’t know. His nightmares have seemed to take on a pale edge in comparison to the real-life preludes you get. He’s hardly been immune to the idea that you’d spend time with Harry and want to join the cause, but he’s surprised to know that your involvement is likely more of a result of something intrinsic to you. 

“Can I ask something?” Fred wagers after a few moments of silence.

You nod, turning your cheek so that you can peer at Fred without lifting your head. Your arms wrap around your legs to pull them a bit tighter to yourself, which makes Fred realize that he’s been holding your hand this entire time as you let go of his in the process. He tries not to dwell on it or be embarrassed.

“So, it makes sense why you’d be drawn to Divination, y’know, all things considered…but Potions?” He queries, feeling his brow furrow. “Spending time with Snape?”

You sit up fully as you think about what to say, teeth meeting your lip to worry it for a moment as you start to parse it out slowly. “I’ve known there’s going to be some form of a battle since I was a kid,” you supply. “But once I realized what I was seeing, or what I was, y’know, imagining it all to mean…I knew I needed to help make salves and medicines for whatever came. I knew I needed to be good at it, too. I dunno. It felt like something tangible I could do, even if I was having those dreams. It was something I could do in the moment to prepare.”

Fred feels hollow now that you’ve explained it. He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. He lets the moment play out around you and heaves a breath at the realization that you’ve always been preparing yourself for something that no one really knew was coming and how heavy that must be.

He wonders, then, why it had taken him so long to introduce you to Harry Potter.

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

Harry Potter keeps you safe that year. He sees you through the end of your Wizarding education, stands proud at your graduation with the rest of the school. In a lot of ways, Fred was right to involve you with him. He was right to bring you closer.

Your dreams only increase in frequency as the War draws to a head. Fred watches them yield real results—a warning to Fletcher and Moody to be safe, a carefully clipped edge to your tone when you tell them to stay together. Moody comes back from the Battle of the Seven Potters ashen. Fletcher didn’t Disapperate without grabbing hold of Moody, and they were able to escape together. 

Moody isn’t one for theatrics, nor is he one for grovelling. But the look he fixes you with—both eyes seeing you—and the way he grumbles out, “...I’m sorry for doubting you,” tells everyone more than any platitude would’ve.

You don’t, however, see George losing an ear or Bill’s attack from Greyback. You’re inconsolable as you sit by George’s bedside, and no one can move you from his side, but the worst part is that you aren’t crying. There’s just a general unease about you, some magic that feels like it’s vibrating as it surrounds you. It’s a raw energy that you don’t seem aware you’re harnessing into the Potions you’re brewing, and it’s not a wonder to him that they’ve all turned out better than even your best batches. Your grief of not knowing has channeled into something tangible.

Fred has to be the one to bring you food—you spend time changing George’s bandages and reapplying the salve you’ve made under Snape’s guidance and preparing Wolfsbane for Bill. At this rate, he’s going to have a lifetime supply of it.

Neither Weasley has blamed you. Bill had shaken you off of him with a knowing glance when you’d tried to tell him about the various salves and potions he could try. As a Curse Breaker, he reminded you, he was aware of what could be done, and your supply of what he needed was already so overfilled that to prepare more might be wasteful.

No one in the Order has blamed you, in fact. You’ve spent time with Snape trying to learn Occulumency with Harry, as it wouldn’t hurt to be able to talk to your Inner Eye. You seem to be terribly convinced that the casualties of War could be prevented if you just had a way to See.

Fred’s belief is more modest. He thinks, though he hasn’t told you, that you can only See when it’s a matter of life or death. George missing an ear is hardly a great loss. Nor is it a great pain for Bill to experience a fraction of what Remus experiences every month. Worse, Fred’s worried that the stress you’re putting yourself under could hurt more than it helps. 

George sends you away after a week of constant vigilance and more salve than he knows what to do with. “You’re hovering worse than mum,” he admonished, though there’s no heat behind his words. It’s the same exasperation that he shows towards Ron or Ginny when they linger for too long. “You need to go be something other than a Witch for fifteen minutes, seriously. Go…read a book, or pull gnomes, or something!”

Fred follows you out into the lawn of the Burrow. Early evening is casting golden light across the lawn as you plop down and draw your legs up to your chest. There’s chairs behind you, though Fred thinks better than to mention this.

He doesn’t know how to do this part. He’s reminded of the time in the Hospital Wing, where you’d been teary at the prospect of being friends, and then thinks of how much has changed since then. How much your relationship has changed, at least to him, or how much he wants it to.

There’s so much unsaid that Fred is nearly bursting with it. But he plops down next to you and chooses, for a time, to say nothing at all. Because there is no easy way to do this—it’s War, and it rarely feels like there’s time for selfish whims. There’s hardly time for him to breathe before there’s another Order mission, let alone confront the named feeling behind his ribs and give it space to breathe between the two of you.

Instead of saying anything to that effect, Fred looks over at you. Your head is pressed into your legs, and he takes a moment to realize how run-down you’ve become. It doesn’t look like you’ve taken much time for yourself in the past week, let alone made time for basic self-care.

“Can I do a hygiene spell?” He asks, taking the coward’s way out.

The question must be as unexpected in content as it is in its delivery, because a laugh tumbles out of you before you can tamp it down. “You really know how to charm a girl, Weasley,” you say, though you motion for him to do what he’d said. 

The relief it gives you seems immediate. “Jesus,” you cringe as you take a new whiff of yourself. “Have I been that bad that I didn’t even notice?”

You once tried to explain Jesus and Christianity to Fred, though all he really took away from it was that he knows that to invoke the name of the Son of God is equivalent—in some ways, you’d hedged—to invoking the name of Merlin. 

“...to be honest, I hadn’t noticed, either,” Fred admits. “I think we’re all a bit…run down.”

You nod at that, dragging out a breath until you appear empty, deflated against your own body and somehow smaller than you were before. When you don’t say anything, Fred goes on, “...you’re not responsible for everyone’s well-being, you know. You don’t have to know everything.”

That seems to set you off. It’s rare that Fred sees you so desperate to convey a message, let alone have the ire of a misunderstanding directed towards him. 

You sit up straight and turn to face Fred, sitting cross-legged on the lawn as the sunset paints your shadow red. “But who else will?” You press, desperation bleeding into your tone as you try to get him to understand. “Really, Fred, if it’s not me, who else? Trelawney? Firenze, when he’s not being hunted by his own kind in between episodes of being ostracized?” 

You scoff at that, shaking your head. “I know I don’t have to. But I didn’t get to choose this, Fred. I didn’t ask for it, and if I could turn it off I would!” You suck in a shaky breath at that, and Fred finds himself startled to realize you’re about to start crying. “But I can’t, so I have to do something. And it fucking sucks that it still isn’t enough—people are getting hurt, and I didn’t see it. And isn’t some pain worse than death? Isn’t some pain worth Seeing?”

Just as quickly as Fred’s realized that you’re going to start crying, you do. It’s not a heaving thing, nor is it a gasping shudder that he expected. It’s quiet, pressed into your hands as you try desperately to get it to stop.

He will later chastise himself for hesitating so long to hug you. He scrambles to do it once the thought crosses his mind, folding you into his grasp. And he doesn’t know what to say to that, not really, because there isn’t really anything to say. He’ll never know what it’s like to See with stunning clarity the pain that will come to the people you love and still not be able to See other pain that you would’ve done anything to prevent.

“I don’t know,” he admits, earnest as he presses a quick kiss to the side of your head. His hand rubs up and down your arm in a steady path. “But I know that you don’t have to hold all of this alone. I know you don’t like talking about what you’re dreaming, but…I’m good at sitting with you, I think. Even if we don’t talk about it—put me to work. Make me useful in making Potions, or even I can just remind you to shower. It’s a lot to hold, and I don’t want you to think that you have to hold it alone.”

He tries not to cringe at how you only seem to cry harder at that. Most of all, he tries to take the release of emotion as a compliment and not a criticism.

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

To your credit, you do try to take care of yourself better following your breakdown. It isn’t perfect, but Fred supposes he can’t blame you for that. With Harry, Ron, and Hermione on the run, it’s hard for anyone to feel totally at ease. It’s especially difficult following the disaster of a wedding party that Bill and Fleur had, and Fred imagines you shoulder some of the blame for that despite not needing to.

He catches you in his mum’s garden more often than not as the weather starts to turn to the simmering temperatures that August often brings. He finds you there tonight, weeding by hand despite knowing the spells to tend to the garden. He doesn’t point this out, but instead takes a place by your side and starts copying your movements in pulling out weeds.

“I don’t think I’ve ever done this by hand before,” he muses after a moment. “Mum never used it as a punishment, at least.”

You shake your head at that, though a small smile is working its way over your face. “...My dad has a garden at home,” you admit quietly. “One of the first incidents of accidental magic I did was when we were out weeding, actually. I wanted so badly to be done and to get to go in and watch a movie with my mum that I just…got rid of all the weeds.

“And he wasn’t even mad or scared. He just sat back and said, ‘Well, if you wanted to be done that badly, I would’ve let you go in a long time ago,’ and we went inside and watched telly.” A small laugh escapes you, and Fred can tell that you’re in the pleasant memory as much as you can be at a time like this. “Every summer after Hogwarts, I’d help him with the weeding, and he’d ask me if there was a spell for gardening that I could use again. But I liked the routine of it, to be honest, and the excuse it gave me to spend time with him.”

Fred can’t help the questions that he asks next. “Do…Do your parents know about the War? And your Sight?”

You draw in a sharp breath, evidently taken straight out of the pleasant memory. “...When I got my Hogwarts letter, Dumbledore delivered it so he could explain everything to my family. I asked him then if it explained my dreams, if every Witch and Wizard had them. And he’d been startled then, so I’d just kept going, and my parents looked too relieved by the idea that all of this could be normal in some parts of the world that they’d never known about…but he told us what we both know.

“So, my parents have always known. I’d won us some money a few times, like I told you before, but…I told them that I was having dreams about the War last summer, and that I needed to stay away from home for a while because…You-Know-Who wanted to kill people like me, and especially people like them. I haven’t written them—I can’t until this is all behind us.” You let out the sharp breath you’d taken only moments before.

Fred feels bad, then, for bringing it up. He hadn’t realized how much time you’d spent with members of the Order over the past year as things picked up—he hadn’t been keeping close tabs on you and had assumed you’d gone home for a meal every now and then. But you’d probably had your parents’ house disconnected from the Floo Network before the Minster for Magic had been killed. Likely, too, that you’d erased all trace of that ever existing somehow with the help of the Order.

Too unsure of what to say to break the moment, Fred keeps his steady pace of weeding alongside you. You, to your credit, seem to relax as the silence takes over what’s already been said.

“The routine is nice,” he says after a bit, because Fred Weasley has an impossible time staying quiet for too long. You nod in response, and he leaves it alone for a moment to see if you have anything else to say.

“Sorry to…unload like that,” you hedge after a moment. “I know you were just asking, and it’s a bummer to hear about, but I guess…I really miss my family, y’know? Not that the Burrow isn’t great, but I wish I could tell my parents about everything just so they’d tell me how crazy it all is. It feels so odd to think of all of this as normal.”

“You’ll see them again,” Fred reminds you. “This can’t go on for too much longer, can it?” 

Fred Weasley learned then not to make promises he couldn’t keep or see through.

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

The War does drag on. Far longer than anyone could’ve expected or wanted, even. But the oddest part is that, despite the War, Fred finds himself laughing with you over forced-to-be-stolen Firewhiskey on a late November night.

It’s been months of Order missions and battles and trying to figure out how to buy Harry more time while he’s on the run. It’s been months of planning and scheming and dreaming up ways to throw Death Eaters off the scent of the Golden Trio, months of rewiring neural pathways to say You-Know-Who instead of Voldemort so you’re not discovered at a safe house. And, as Molly Weasley lamented earlier, there hasn’t been much time for children to be children.

He’d jumped in to tell her that you’re not much of children anymore. He doesn’t say this, but the War has aged all of you—he supposes that this was her point, more or less.

George had snuck off with Angelina to the twins’ bedroom, though sneaking seemed to imply that Molly hadn’t all but demanded everyone have a night of normalcy. It also implies that the Firewhiskey the two of you are sharing is anything other than outright given by Molly herself. She’d indulged a bit before bed, but had lamented that she was more of a lightweight than she was at your age before she went to bed. Fred suspects that she’s intentionally giving the pair of you a night alone.

You’re sprawled out on the lawn in a sweater with your initial sewn on the front, made by Molly Weasley for the prior Christmas. You’d saved every variant of the same sweater that she’d knitted you as you’d grown, and this seemed to be the last one you’d need since you’d likely done all of your growing. The moon casts shallow light over the pair of you as you take turns sipping from the bottle, having foregone the pretense of a shot glass after the first few.

“You’re telling me that you’ve never snogged anyone?” Fred asks, incredulous as he tries to tamp down the slur to his speech. You’ve been taking the demand to act normal literally and have spent the evening gossiping like the teenagers you should’ve gotten to be. “Didn’t you date someone for a bit your last year? Harry…”

Fred stops himself a second too late. You sit up abruptly, resting on your knees as you fix Fred with a firm stare. “You’re joking!” You guffaw. “You had Harry reporting Hogwarts gossip to you that year? About me and McLaggen?”

“You went out with McLaggen?” Fred counters, incredulous.

You throw your hands up as laughter stumbles out of you in quick, delighted bursts. “This is why I never said anything!” You argue, though there’s no heat behind your words. You shake your head as a wry smile takes over your features, almost as if you’ve tasted something sour and want to spit it up. “Anyways, it doesn’t matter. He was only taking me out once to see if I’d tell him what his future held and if I was as weird as everyone made me sound.”

Fred starts at that. He can’t help the way that his mouth falls open in shock at this development. It hadn’t been crazy for him to imagine someone like McLaggen taking an interest in you, but it’s devastating for him to realize that you’d been used as nothing more than a crystal ball. He has half the mind to ask you if that had happened before, but he assumes he knows the cruelty that teenage boys are capable of.

“That’s awful,” he says. Then, before he can stop the question, asks, “...What did you tell him about his future?”

“That if he didn’t get the fuck out of my sight he’d be lucky to have one,” you state. “And that I’m not a fortune teller at a Muggle fair, but if I was I wouldn’t have told him anything anyways. His future would’ve been too underwhelming to report on.”

It strikes Fred then that he’s never heard you curse like that before. That’s enough to make him laugh, though it’s tinged with remorse. You’d been too blindsided to make up a prediction to tide McLaggen over, too blindsided to do anything besides curse at him.

“You know anyone would be lucky to have you, right?” Fred asks in a moment of rare earnest truth. He’s not deflecting, there’s no punchline that he’s gearing up towards. You seem a bit thrown off by this, blinking at the sudden serious turn the conversation has taken, looking a bit like a gnome caught in the garden.

You scoff when you get enough of your senses together. “Right,” your tone has soured a bit, and even if he wasn’t looking at you, Fred would know that your eyes are rolling. “Exactly, I know, just like my mum says.”

He sighs. “That’s not what I’m trying to get at here,” he amends. “Even Harry has said—”

“—Harry has his eyes on Ginny, if you haven’t realized?” You seem genuinely confused, and you’re blinking owlishly at him. Fred wants to groan at how difficult this is to say—wasn’t there something to be said for liquid courage?

He draws in a breath and lets it leave him slowly. He closes his eyes and tries to think beyond the haze that the Firewhiskey has muddled him with.

“I’d kiss you, if you wanted.” Fred knows it’s a lousy deflection and thinks that you’ll see straight through it. But when he opens his eyes, he finds hurt in your own.

“This isn’t a very nice joke, Fred,” you announce, moving to stand up as your voice takes on a tight quality that he knows means you’re on the verge of tears. “I’m not…you don’t have to pity me, alright? It’s not a good look on you.”

“I’m not joking!” He urges, his hands reaching for yours in an attempt to get you to sit down. “And I don’t pity you! But, listen, we can forget it, alright? I didn’t…I just meant you could get it over with, if you wanted, and it didn’t have to mean anything.” The words are bitter as he spits them out, a shadowed version of the truth that you deserve.

“Maybe I want it to mean something!” You exclaim, throwing your hands up. Fred’s heart stutters at the declaration, and you must sense it from the way that you rush to add, “My first kiss, I mean.” 

Now you’re the one selling a shadow of the truth, but Fred’s not about to call you out on it. What he wants to say is who says it won’t? because he knows that it’s going to change everything. There would be a before and after this moment, stark lines drawn in the sand from where your friendship was to where it will have to go and what it will run into on the way.

“Alright,” he hedges, allowing the topic to die instead of addressing the new elephant in the room. As with everything, he tells himself that there’s going to be another time for this conversation—some time where the War hasn’t consumed you and you’re not drinking Firewhiskey that you’re pretending was stolen.

The greatest lie in War is that there could be more than what you have right now—more moments, more youth, more time.

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

Time doesn’t come. After your confrontation in the garden, Fred notices that you start to pull away. It isn’t glaringly obvious unless he tries to think of the last time that he’d properly spoken to you, even though you’re living at the Burrow and sleeping in his room. This is the first tragedy.

There’s a gap between you, a divide that he doesn’t know how to cross and close. He wishes he’d never brought up kissing you. He wishes he’d let a sleeping dog lie and keep a good thing that was going for him. It’s better to have you as a friend than to have you as nothing at all.

You, however, see the second tragedy as clearly as you always have. It takes the form of a crumbling wall.

Your gift of Divination wasn’t self-started. You’d been having visions before you knew how to name them, stunning images of things that were yet to come. You dreamed them, more often than not.

Professor Trelawney said the thing about dreams were that they didn’t have to come true. You’d been resolved to keep yours from ever being realized.

Before you knew who he was, you saw flashes of what could be. A smile, a startled laugh, and the resolute stare of a boy who never quite got to taste manhood. Fred once asked you how you could tell him and George apart. You’d told him that it was easy—it was the tone of his voice and the cadence of  his words, the way he smiled quicker than George. It was all of those things, admittedly.

The truth, though, was that, had you been anyone else, you’d probably have needed time to tell them apart. You would’ve needed distinction. Instead, the first time you looked at Fred Weasley, the first time you heard his laugh, you knew that he was the person who had haunted your dreams.

You tried to avoid him. You did. You sold him a version of the truth years ago, that you had thought he was going to pull some prank on you, that you’d kept your distance as a protective measure. As it often is, the truth is a more convoluted enterprise. You hadn’t known what to do with the anticipation of grief, of the knowledge that he was here now and might not be at a date to come far sooner than anyone would like. If you’d known how badly he’d be torn up about it, you might have let him know the real reason—or some version of it—a long time ago.

The rearview mirror is always clearer than the windshield, you think, even with the added gift of Sight. It’s why you pulled away after the conversation in the garden—you didn’t want to know what you could lose. You didn’t think you’d survive it if you knew what it was like to be allowed to love him and still lose him, as selfish as that thought was.

After many discussions with Professor Trelawney in your youth, you’d been directed to Dumbledore. The visions, as she called them, that you were having were preventable. You’d done it before—you’d been at the right place at the right time to stop a broken glass, a cruel word, or an untimely hex. But those were inconsequential—moments that wouldn’t have destroyed the fabric of an entire family or dropped a spoon from a clock had they occurred. 

Dumbledore hadn’t denied that True Sight was rare. Rarer, still, was there so obvious an influence of change to be held. But, he hadn’t denied that what you were seeing wouldn’t occur. 

“It’s important that you allow whatever happens to take place if you wish to prevent it from happening,” he’d instructed. “Professor Trelawney isn’t wrong in saying that it seems as though forcing a connection would be to overstep the bounds of what’s to happen and where the choice occurs. I do think, however, it’s important to let it come as close to happening as possible. And I think it imperative that you not alert Mr. Weasley to what could happen.”

You’d hated it at the time. Really, you had. You’d pushed yourself as far away from Fred Weasley as you could. In fact, you made it your mission to stay away from him at all costs. But he hadn’t let that happen. Of course he hadn’t.

You wouldn’t trade the past seven years for anything. For all of the mischief and anguish you’d held at once, you’d never let it cloud what you felt in the moment.

You love Fred Weasley. You would not let him die.

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

It comes to a head as all things could—with some form of a Battle.

The Battle of Hogwarts is messy. It’s hard to stay close enough to Fred and George without having them ask you to leave, especially when your recent reticence to spend time with Fred is taken into consideration. If he’s surprised by your sudden change of heart, he doesn’t show it. There isn’t time to address it, either.

You find yourself wand-to-wand with more than a few Death Eaters of note. You’re not sure if they’ve heard about you, though you don’t allow yourself to believe that you’re so important as to be the topic of Death Eater meetings. For all of your success with Potions and Divination, you’re not as good with your fighting. This should’ve crossed your mind before today, before the end of a very long chapter, but it gives you an excuse to stay close to Fred and George.

“Really, you should go to the Great Hall,” Fred urges when there’s a moment of respite, leaning over the ledge of the perch you’ve all found. You’re shaking with the effort to stay standing in front of them, to maintain any sense of normalcy when you’re on edge for what you know is coming.

“Right!” George agrees. “You could help make Potions and treat the wounded, and we’d find you after.”

You shake your head at that. You’re wary of where you’re standing and the sense of deja vu that it gives you—you’ve dreamed this moment enough to know every nook and cranny of it. It feels like you’re standing outside of your body, but you force yourself to go along with it. “Madam Promfrey won’t make a Medi-Witch out of me no matter how hard she tries,” you lament, doing your best to keep your voice steady. “Besides, I think she has enough trouble without me annoying her by asking what she needs.”

When it happens, it’s so quick that you almost miss it. Fred’s smile quirks up at what you’ve said—though you’ll later reckon it wasn’t really funny enough to warrant any sort of reaction, that maybe he was throwing a bone for you to catch and hold onto in an attempt to close the distance between you—just as you feel the wall you’re leaning on begin to shake. 

You’re painfully aware of yourself as you watch his mouth move as if to say something else, painfully aware of the way that he’s yet to notice what you’ve spent a lifetime waiting for. You’ve prepared for this moment for the better part of your entire life, and still, you barely find yourself, on edge as you are, with the time to shout, “Reducto!” in a startled scream. 

The blocks that should have killed him are reduced to nothing more than ash. The force of your magic has knocked the wind out of you, and you crumple from the energy that it took out of you. You catch Fred’s startled glance, the fear etched into his face that morphs into understanding, before you collapse.

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

You wake up to the end of a war. The Great Hall is a medical refuge for the injured and you’re among them. You do not wake slowly, nor is it peaceful. You wake up frightened, bolting with a start to look around the Great Hall. You don’t look to your side, don’t see anything tangible as you gasp his name, “Fred? Fred, oh, Fred?”

It’s a gentle hand pressed to your cheek that reassures you. You grasp the hand with frightening force and look into eyes—alive, no startled laughter etched on the harrowed face of the boy before you—and a sob wretches out of you. “Oh, God, Fred,” you’re gasping for breath, panic ebbing into something tangible behind your ribs that occludes your ability to suck in a full breath. “Oh, Jesus, I…I’ve seen it. I saw it before…before I knew…before…”

You’re gasping the names of Muggle religious figures that he wishes he had taken better notes of when you’d first tried to acquaint him with them. He doesn’t know how to comfort you, it seems, as it all comes crashing down on him. You don’t care if he’s mad. You don’t care if he hates you for keeping this from him if it means that he’s alive to feel it. You’d take a lifetime of knowing who he was without having to hold a candle to the ghost of him—you’d take it all just for the relief of knowing he’s still with George in the store unpacking boxes.

“You knew,” he surmises, no surprise in his voice as his thumb traces a path along your cheekbone. “You’ve seen it—how it could’ve been.”

You’re nodding through your tears. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you,” your voice is trembling as you go to move away from his touch. Better to lose it on your own accord than feel it be retracted, you surmise. Better to have the last touch he ever gives you end because you moved rather than because he took it away. 

But he doesn’t let you. He squeezes your cheek to keep you where you are, eyes boring into yours. Oh, his eyes—they’re so alive. The eyes of a boy who gets to become a man. The eyes of a man who didn’t die with the ghost of his last laugh etched into his face. 

“...Dumbledore wouldn’t let me,” you go on. “I’m so sorry. I…I’ve been spending seven years trying to figure out how to change it. How to keep it from…how to stop it. I…I never wanted to know you. I didn’t…I didn’t know how to get close. I didn’t know how to stand to lose you.

“It’s why I couldn’t…in the garden. It’s…I knew what was coming and I was too selfish to try and let myself love you while I knew I could lose you.”

Fred’s own choked sob comes tumbling from behind his lips at that. He gets onto your cot with you and tugs you into his arms, and you sit like that for a while in a pile of clumsily assorted limbs. You’re both crying, you think. You, from the relief of saving him and getting to keep him. Him, from the realization of why you spent so long trying not to get close, from the understanding that it was always meant to happen this way. 

It’s an eternity later that he lets you go, but his hands don’t leave your cheeks. “I love you,” he says, resolute in his words. Sensing your imminent protest, he goes on before you can cut in. “I’m not saying it because you saved my life, or because you chose to be my friend in spite of this, or because you saw me die and still got close to me. I’ve loved you since we were fourteen. I’ve loved you since you tutored me in Potions and since you let Harry watch over you for my well-being. I don’t love you because you saved my life.

“I love you because you’re my best friend, and because I’ve been too chicken-shit to say it for lesser reasons than you might have had to let yourself feel it, too.”

Your sob is a gasping thing, a visceral reaction that Fred feels in the lurch of your jaw as you try to form a response.

“...This isn’t normally how you want the girl you’ve fancied since you were fourteen to react when you profess your love for her, you know…” He tries the joke on for size, startled by the way it rattles a laugh loose from behind your ribs and gets a smile to crack through the haggard expression you’ve been wearing since you realized he was alive to be angry with you for saving his life.

“Fuck, Fred,” you gasp, still struggling for breath. “I love you, too. How…how could I not?”

He thinks he’ll have to tease the truth of that sentence out someday. He has a life to live, after all. He intends to spend the better part of it figuring out the cosmic forces that drew you to him, but he doesn’t think either of you will make much headway on that front. If he can’t do that, he reasons, he’ll spend the rest of it loving you.

What a frightening concept the rest of a life almost cut short is. What a tender realization it is to know you have the rest of it to breathe in.

ᢉ𐭩ᢉ𐭩ᢉ𐭩

taglist (please lmk if u want removed/added!): @ellecdc @faefictions

[worncreature]

please read this novel. a quiet kind of love unfurls beneath the surface between two individuals, who you’d expect the stars to laugh at such a pairing.

but, the stars, the threads of fate, the invisible gods, or whatever you’d like to call them… the reader can decipher their enigmas.

one of them involving fred, in which forces beyond a witch’s capacity to understand, bestows the reader with true, undying companionship.

(i hope my skill to vaguely summarize shines here)

[waiflikehorror]

This video has done irreparable damage to me the way i need him is medical he’s so sweet

[worncreature]

warmed my cold los angeles heart to see oliver revel in the griffith at night but i did wonder where he parked tho

[worncreature]

as much as i really want to contribute to the great collection of “x reader” fics that i love, the way i like to write characters is difficult for me to fully portray through the “x reader” fic format.

i understand the hesitation with reading fics with ocs. there are a lot of reasons. there’s really nothing i can say to convince those who dislike reading fics with ocs, but i hope my upcoming fic can pleasantly surprise future readers who are neutral towards consuming such content…?

i do try my best to create ocs who feel human, like a new friend you hide with at a party full of strangers or an old friend you never had to say sorry to when sharing a part of yourself. the last thing i want to do is disrupt one’s reading experience.

i already wrote 5k words, and i had a moment where i thought i had to rewrite everything to fit into the “x reader” fic format and erase the character i dedicated so much thought to.

but… i had to recenter myself and remind myself that this is my fanfiction, not a numbers game. this is all to say… my wip is emotional suffering hell. if you like that and george weasley, GIVE ME A CHANCE!!! pretty please.

[worncreature]

hi, i'm charlie. i was a storyteller. now, i am just a woman, destined full-time employee, a twenty-something passerby in a big city.

there is a drawer i have kept shut for several years. a drawer everyone has of their own. the kind of drawer you open every now and then but told, as time passes, to leave closed longer than you leave open.

in this drawer, i kept my magic. the magic that kept my heart beating through my teenage years. but, i told myself when i entered university, i would forget about the ‘foolishness’ i crafted for myself and, instead, plunge into adulthood.

a few years later, graduated and floating through my twenties, i stand before you on the very corners of the internet my sixteen-year-old self found community and shelter. i want to embrace her once more!

i'd like to return to my past self who proudly self-proclaimed she was a storyteller. a title in which i find myself too shy to wear ... i am opening the drawer, blowing away the dust bunnies, and clawing through the cobwebs!

this is the first blog i've ever made and the first time i will publicly release my own writing, so your grace and patience is appreciated! <3