hexme!

Dear Diary,

Tuesday

Whatever, it’s fine. I’m sure my peers are competent to decipher that RUMOURS aren’t FACTS. But there’s always IDIOTS who believe ANYTHING.

I don’t even know if it’s worth clearing my name, but I asked Liam if he heard anything about it. He did… from his friends... I almost died, but I knew it was important to clarify some things. It wasn’t a big deal to him, but he promised to confront Nelina tomorrow. We’ll see. I don’t want to deal with her; she better stay out of my way.

Ginny suggested voting her out of the friend group. She’s always been problematic; I think we’ve just normalized her behavior. I highly doubt something will be done about Nelina. Ginny, Abby and I are going to Hogsmeade this weekend. Obviously, a certain somebody wasn’t invited— wasn’t even told— and we’d like to keep it that way. I am guiltless and ready to splurge. I need new stationary and some sweets.

Dear Diary,

Wednesday

SHE THINKS SHE’S COOL WITH HER STICK AND POKE TATTOOS. IT GOT INFECTED AFTER TWO DAYS, AND I WAS THE ONE THAT OFFERED OINTMENT FOR IT.

“Oh, your tattoos are so beautiful! What does it mean?”

“Wow, I can’t believe you didn’t get it professionally done; it looks mint!”

IT’S THREE TINY FUCKING DAISIES. THERE’S NO MEANING. IT’S JUST STUPID FUCKING FLOWERS. YOU CAN ABSOLUTELY TELL THEY WERE DONE IN THE SCHOOL LAVATORY. THEY ARE ALL BLOWING SMOKE UP HER ARSE. IF I HEAR SOMEONE COMMENT ON THOSE ABOMINATIONS ONE MORE TIME, I AM BLOWING UP HOGWARTS.

I’m so done with her; I don’t care, truly, I don’t. I’ve always helped her with Divination and Charms— she’s never said thank you or acknowledged my efforts, because students then ask her for assistance, and she tells them that it’s all in the book. Books she didn’t obviously read, because I’m the one doing the work. Never again; I’m never helping her. I’d rather have a Horntail burn off my skin and leave me alive than be in the same

“There you are,” a honeyed tenor voice mused. The words swam from soft lips to your ear so delicately that you almost tuned him out— Fred, endlessly freckled, with his arms crossed in lighthearted disbelief, was observing you. Shoulders tensely hunched, mad black scribbling, quill ready to snap beneath your fingers… you looked insane.

His presence had prickled your overly passionate rumination and burst whatever frothing train of thought you had. The emotions, however, still lingered strongly, or you assumed so, because Fred anxiously glanced down at your bouncing leg. Seeing him was peculiar, not because he was in a library, where’s he’s been notoriously blacklisted, but because none of Ginny’s siblings ever sought you out.

You relaxed your hand and dispatched the quivering quill. “You were looking for me?” You asked him. Your fingers began throbbing.

Fred casually shrugged. He enveloped his large pallid hands into his trouser pockets. “Ginny drafted George and I to help find you,” he answered. “You’ve missed dinner three times this week, mate. She was getting a little worried… something going on?”

“Huh?” You blinked away the automatic response. Your brain quickly processed his inquiries, and you suddenly felt a mild dowse of embarrassment. You nervously licked your lips. “No, sorry. I was just caught up with, uh, revising,” you sheepishly explained.

You weren’t lying. The first two hours spent in the library were dedicated to studying (reminder: arithmetic test tomorrow!). Coincidentally, the following break was the ever time consuming therapeutic journaling.

“You sure?” Fred pressured. He began to inch closer, and you swiftly pulled loose papers over your diary. His back leaned against the adjacent desk. It creaked beneath his shifty weight. “I won’t tell my sister if that’s what you’re worried about.” Fred added with a reassuring smile, “I have six siblings. Trust me, I know how to keep a secret.”

“I promise you: I’m fine,” you invariably said. “I simply lost track of time!”

He earnestly accepted your answer with a nod. “Well,” Fred began. “If you hurry, you might be able to catch a bite or two,” he finished with a humble, tight-lipped smile.

Your leather messenger bag was like the mouth of a tornado, fiendishly sucking in parchment. “Thanks, Fred,” you orated, as you mismatched papers to notebooks and hurriedly stashed writing equipment into a pouch.

The lanky ginger shrugged nonchalantly. “Don’t mention it. I’ll tell Ginny I found you in the library— just head down to the Great Hall, alright?”

“Thank you,” you repeated, swinging the swollen bag over your shoulder.

Dear Diary,

Friday

Nelina found out we’ve been hanging out without her; at first, she showed no sign of aggression. This was TERRIBLY wrong to assume. She reported Ginny and I for BULLYING, and McGonagall sat us down after lunch to discuss. It was embarrassing to explain that she was the one spreading rumors about ME. McGonagall didn’t realize the full extent and promised to further investigate before she takes any action.

Ginny must’ve told her brothers, because later that day, during Charms, Fred (I think…) came up to me. Said he felt bad, blah blah blah. I said it was fine, he made a dumb joke to lighten the mood, and offered me gum. I did NOT eat it for my safety.

Dear Diary,

Saturday

I just checked the past few entries, and Nelina The Devil truly has consumed my life. I’m gonna attempt to limit mentions of her (mostly petty inconveniences she causes), but I’ll record major updates.

I’m debating whether or not I should audition for the play. There’s not a lot of info, but I don’t really wanna approach any of the members… I wasn’t aware Hogwarts even had a funded Drama Club… how much does the Ministry of Magic give to us? Why do we only have one janitor? No offense but one janitor isn’t efficient enough to keep a CASTLE clean. I’m pretty sure he can’t even do magic. What is he paid to do??

Dear Diary,

Sunday

My parents sent me sweets!! (And a letter: very thoughtful.) I received a parcel full of fizzy dummies, foam strawberries and bonbons!!! I’m gonna have to ration these.

Wizard sweets are fun and all, but I don’t always want steam blowing out my nose or my skin turning green. Muggle candy may be “boring” (according to Fred and George, as they were there when I opened the package), but it’s straight to the point, sensible, and I don’t want too much happening in my mouth. Ginny got Elephant on a Bicycle candies from Ron for us to try. I am not too keen on the roaring or squealing. Did not enjoy.

Dear Notecard,

Monday

Nelina Satan hexed my shoes to self-walk into walls and people. I’ve collided into a window, Professor Trelawney, Luna Lovegood, and Cedric Diggory. Fred is loaning me his Quidditch sneakers. They absolutely do not fit, so I’m writing this as Fred is shoving extra socks into the insole.

“Here we go,” Fred mused tenderly. He stayed crouching but held up the brown waxy trainers for viewing. You were lucky the Boys’ Locker Room was on the way to Arithmancy, and you were lucky Fred was being so generous.

“You’re just like a cobbler,” you joked, sliding off the loggia railing. You accepted the sneakers graciously. “Thank you so much. You’re a life saver!” You gushed, pocketing the sticky note.

Inside the shoes were two pairs of bunched up socks, crammed against the toe with “padding” around the heel. It was a decrepit and juvenile attempt at tailoring but still much appreciated.

Fred nodded in agreement. “I am,” he restated happily. His arms naturally found themselves akimbo. “Go on, Cinderella, try them on!” He teasingly urged.

Carefully, you placed them down on the cracked stone tiles and cautiously slid your clothed foot inside. The weight was entirely foreign to your ankle; you gently rolled it side to side, testing the waters and finding the extra cushioning beneficial. In went the other foot, so you took baby steps and a small jump. The soles clapped against the hard floor like thunder.

Fred laughed and covered half his face with a large freckled hand. He sighed softly, “But I’ll need them back by the end of the day. I have practice after school.”

“Of course.” You fished out the sticky note and turned it onto the blank side. “I’ll meet you here?” You offered, extracting a pencil.

Fred’s gaze wistfully drifted into the courtyard. “Sure,” he shrugged. He cockily added, “You might as well stay and watch my athletic feats.”

You wanted to roll your eyes but settled for a judgmental side glance instead. “We’ll see,” you retorted before scribbling a footnote.

REMINDER: RETURN SHOES AND GLUE THIS INTO DIARY.

“But…” Fred leaned against a column and crossed his arms. You instinctively looked up at the sound of his voice with innocuous anticipation. “It’s the least you can do.” He added suggestively, “I did you a solid favor after all.”

Your attention rightfully returned to the flimsy sticky note, unknowingly pending on a verdict. You gave him no response, but you included in your To-Do list: QUIDDITCH PRACTICE.

Dear Diary,

Monday (officially documented)

They’re already halfway??? through (unashamedly forgot about my “promise” to Fred— I really needed to finish up that Potions essay), but it’s a lovely day out. Ginny gave me an old pair of trainers.

Is it better to arrive late rather than leave early? Doesn’t really matter, I guess, because I cleared out a lot of homework. I’ve brought foam strawberries to snack on.

They’re flying so fast and so far away— it’s hard to identify who’s who.

Fred MIGHT be #6. I don’t know…

I’ve attended one Quidditch game, the student turnout was very high, but I highly doubt it’s replicated every match.

EEEEEEEEP! was the shrill battlecry of the silver whistle. With great fervor, training officially concluded, and the whole Gryffindor team cheered for a job well done.

A small sprinkle of Slytherin Quidditch players had watched practice (solely to scope out the competition), but they immediately disbanded. Members of the Oliver Wood Fan Club were quickly dispersing from the stands into the arena, hopeful that they’d catch a closer look at the overworked captain.

Proper practice attendee etiquette was unclear. Were you to simply leave? Or should you meet up with a certain redhead to give compliments and inputs?

All the players swooped down to the ground and swiftly dismounted their flying brooms— all except one.

Fred Weasley flew up to the rickety bleachers with hair thoroughly tussled by wind. He had peeled the dark goggles off his brow til they hung loosely around his neck. “Didn’t think you’d actually show,” he grinned teasingly. Perspiration collected on his face, but his cheeks were red as if roses had kissed them.

“Didn’t know if I should,” you sallied, as you stood up.

“You think it was worth it?”

You shrugged and rested your arms atop the railings, “Sure.”

He furrowed his dark brows and cackled. “You don’t follow Quidditch, do you?” Fred asked.

“These are a lot of questions, Weasley. Where was this energy in class?”

“Never too worried about it,” Fred boasted. With the back of his hand, he swept away the accumulated sweat off his face. He earnestly added, “At least I got you out of that dingy old library.”

Dear Diary,

Tuesday

I can tell who is who when they’re separated (somehow, I don’t know, but I also don’t address them by name just in case), but they’re rarely ever alone, so I NEVER know who is who. I’m 95% sure that it’s Fred who’s been talking to me… We have some classes together without George, so I’m 1000% affirmative for those moments.

I overheard Ron saying someone requested the elves to make Italian tonight. We’ll see if that request was honoured. I need some cheesy lasagna.

Also, I fixed my shoes.

Dear Diary,

Wednesday

Fred stopped by yesterday to remind me about dinner again— I got there just before food was served! I squeezed in between Hermione and Angelina.

Tonight, I had some chickpea curry, roasted potatoes, and pork chops. It was heavenly. Ginny, Fred and George sat before me. One of them (I’m unsure who) flung a chickpea at me, which deflected OFF OF MY FOREHEAD and landed on Hermione’s plate. Surprised is an understatement; Hermione was BAFFLED.

Dear Sticky Note,

Thursday

NELINA “ACCIDENTALLY” POURED A MYSTERIOUS CONCOCTION ON ME. I DON’T FUCKING KNOW WHAT’S IN IT, BUT MY SKIN STARTED TO STING, SO I’M WRITING THIS IN THE BATHROOM. SNAPE SAID I SHOULD GO TO THE INFIRMARY, BUT I REFUSE TO SHOW WEAKNESS.

Dear Sticky Note #2,

Still Thursday

I got 2nd-3rd degree burns, and Nelina got detention. Her parents are being contacted according to Fred (who just came to visit me). He witnessed the whole incident and felt sorry for me. Nelina got 100 points deducted from Hufflepuff. Madame Pomfrey’s making an herbal ointment to apply to my stomach.

Dear Diary,

Friday

Ginny and Abby felt terrible and have officially excommunicated Nelina from the friendgroup. I wasn’t there for the break-up, because I had to tell Prof. Sprout my account of the “accident.” She’s getting suspended for 10 days. My parents heard about it and sent more sweets. Ginny gave me red velvet cookies (I don’t know where they were sourced, but it was delicious). Life is good.

Dear Diary,

Saturday

I think I know the physical difference between Fred and George. Fred’s nose is a little straighter, while George’s got a slight curve to it. It’s not very helpful, because it’s only visible in their side profiles. Ginny said George’s eyes are a little bit bigger, but I don’t see it.

Fred’s been coming to the library everyday. When he has Quidditch practice, he immediately showers after. He must be aggressively lathering himself up with soap, because I can smell him before he’s in view.

He always walks me down to the Great Hall, we’ve gotten pretty close. Who knew Fred Weasley was allergic to pistachios? I wonder what we’ll talk about today.

Knock knock.

“I’m comforted by the fact you’re a creature of habit, but disturbed by your lack of socialization,” Fred mused airily. He retracted his balled up fist from the wood desk and crossed his muscled arms. “Writing anything interesting, Shakespeare?”

You dramatically groaned, shut your journal, and leaned back into the chair. Your arms were stretched high above your head and you yawned obnoxiously. “Nothing you’d understand,” you said.

Fred sarcastically rolled his eyes and pulled out a seat. “Then it must be rubbish,” he accused. “You know I’m one to indulge in high literary merit.”

“Do I?” You rhetorically tested. You scooted your chair outward to face Fred properly. He mimicked you before crossing his legs. “Have you ever read Beowulf?”

He scoffed and pretended to wave the question off. “I know all there is about werewolves,” he said.

“Beowulf isn’t about werewolves,” you giggled.

He exaggeratedly frowned, but the small curves of his lips couldn’t resist smiling. “Is that one of your muggle books?”

“Yes,” you confirmed.

“Any good?”

You shook your head. “Absolutely not.”

Dear Diary,

Saturday night

“Fred, why’ve you been so hygienic recently?” Ron asks— his mouth is absolutely crammed with food. He’s like a chipmunk. We only understood this sentence, because Hermione made him repeat it properly after swallowing.

George gives Fred this weird look and then looks at me.

“You only think it’s ‘so’ because you barely maintain yourself, mate,” Fred quips.

We weren’t laughing AT Ron, but it was funny. Ron blushes, “Whatever.”

The previous and following conversations don’t really matter— it’s this specific moment that bothers me for some unknown reason. George’s glance at me feels unwarranted. He knows something that I don’t. It’s making me paranoid.

Does he think I smell? DO I SMELL?? I only shower at night, because I don’t want to go to class with wet hair. Should I be showering twice???

Dear Diary,

Sunday

I took a shower this morning AND THEN I RAN INTO FRED. I’ll give a very brief summary of our… interaction.

I exit the washrooms holding all my toiletries, dirty clothes and damp towel. I bump into Fred, who’s heading to the showers, also holding a bunch of things. We awkwardly apologize and then

Fred: are you doing anything later today?

Me: no, why?

Fred: do you want to go to Hogsmeade with me?

Me: just you?

I thought this was an appropriate question to ask, but Fred makes a weird face.

Fred: yeah…

I take a second too long to think and he makes another strange expression.

Me: sure

Fred: after lunch?

Me: yeah, sounds good

And then we part ways.

I’m gonna get changed. I’ll record how it went if anything notable happens.

Dear Diary,

Sunday night

I need time to ruminate in silence.

Dear Diary,

Tuesday

We went to Madame Puddifoot’s for coffee. It wasn’t a date, I know it wasn’t, but it just felt so… nice? I don’t know. Everything we did felt like something a couple would do. Maybe. I mean, Madame Puddifoot’s is THE hotspot for dates, but I don’t think Fred meant it like that.

I might just be tricking myself or overanalyzing things, but the concept of, I guess, dating Fred just kept haunting me the whole day.

I FEEL GROSS. THAT’S MY BEST FRIEND’S BROTHER. BUT I CAN’T HELP IT?? MAYBE?

Like… what if? You know? What if I just want him to smile at me? Or hold my hand? And take me on dates?

I think I’m just super lonely.

BUT HE’S CUTE? AND I MIGHT HAVE A CRUSH ON HIM?

He’s so tall and handsome; he’s athletic and charming and he’s so thoughtful and sweet. He doesn’t need to get me for dinner, but he does. Ginny doesn’t even do that, and we’re closer friends (this isn’t a diss, just I’m old enough to know better and to take care of myself but he’s just considerate enough to show up anyway?). He definitely didn’t need to give me his trainers nor did he need to help me un-jinx mine. BUT I DON’T KNOW? It feels wrong, but there’s logistically no reason for it to… right?

Dear Diary,

Wednesday

I don’t want to fancy him. I CANNOT LIKE HIM. He’s just not my vibe. I’m practical, and he’s very… flamboyant. Plus, it would make things between Ginny and I strange— especially if Fred and I broke up. I come over to The Burrow on holiday all the time, so things would get bloody awkward seeing an ex at a sleepover.

We probably wouldn’t get along romantically. Our sense of humour is a little different. I’m not too big on pranking people, and that’s the twins’ whole thing. Fred’s so creative, he and George invent, design, and create their own products for their future business. I don’t have the capacity to even begin a project like that. He’s too confrontational for me. He smells so sharp and of spice. Every inhale makes my eyes water and sting. I’d prefer someone more subtle and likeminded, maybe a little more introverted and organized.

Yesterday, during Transfiguration, he asked if he could share my ink cartridge. I can’t date someone who’s unprepared for school (I said yes but that was out of courtesy). AND THEN HE ASKED IF HE COULD BORROW MY NOTES. Not only is he inattentive in class, but he’s DOUBLE unprepared. I’d probably go insane if I had to deal with that… (I gave him the notes).

In hindsight, these things weren’t big deals. In the moment, I didn’t even care, so I have no clue why I’m so worked up about it after the fact. I don’t want to have a crush. Especially on Fred. I’m gonna try my best to act normal.

Since the weekend Hogsmeade trip, your mental and physical ecosystem had been thrown off its balance. Your thoughts moved laggardly, which unfortunately transferred to your work ethic, but History of Magic with dastardly ancient Professor Binns was always dreadfully languid and painstakingly dull.

The lined sheets of paper were starved of productive note-taking today. A few bullet points followed an unenthusiastic “Chapter 12” headline. The margins bore no outrageous doodles or caricatures of wizards past, and Professor Binns was prattling endlessly about the muggle-fought World Wars. Who knew the Great Depression also affected Wizarding Society? You didn’t, because you weren’t paying attention.

“We began observing the Soviet Union’s attempts to placate the steep decline in the economy…”

Blah blah blah blah. You might as well have been sleeping with your eyes wide open.

“… the democratic socialism had more regulations on businesses…”

The dilapidated grandfather clock in the corner was nowhere close to lunchtime. Its bony iron fingers trudged along the slim white face inconspicuously. Forty more minutes of this— absolutely awful!

“Why… you… all… ways…hat?”

“distribution of wealth… electoral politics…”

A warm pointed elbow nudged your slouching arm. You eyed the white scribbles on the blackboard, which was easy to decipher when your professor is see-through. “Huh?” You looked at your table mate, Fred, who had taken Nelina’s seat since her suspension.

He snickered at your cluelessness. “Why do you always do that?” Fred repeated in a whisper.

“What do you mean?” You retorted quietly. You instinctively picked up your pen and dipped it in the ink well.

“How do you just…” Fred wetted his lips, as words failed him momentarily. He chuckled to himself. “How do you disappear like that?”

You began scratching words onto the lackluster parchment. “There’s always something cooler to think about,” you mumbled lightheartedly. It was your turn to nudge his arm now. “Especially when you’re in this class, don’t you think?” You quipped.

The two of you shared a look at the ghostly apparition of a teacher. How Binns even picked up chalk pieces— you didn’t know. The translucent man was drawing a timeline, appropriately adding notches for years following the First World War.

Fred leaned his head backward, resting it on the straight ledge of the chair. “I might explode if we don’t move on from the Soviet Union,” Fred grumbled, as his hands dragged down his face.

You tried to copy down the timeline, but boredom possessed your hand, and you stashed your quill away. “Dreadful,” you agreed.

“You coming over for Easter holiday?” Fred whispered.

You perked up at the notion of vacation— but it was sooooooooo far away from today. Your spirits fell as quickly as they were raised. You answered solemnly, “I don’t think so. Why?”

Fred’s soft features were puzzled into confusion.“I thought Ginny would’ve invited you to The Burrow.”

“I mean, she suggested it, but she never actually asked your parents,” you explained. You hushed up, when Professor Binns turned to face the class, trying to provoke student participation.

“What was the Ministry’s affirmative action plan called? Anyone?” The old man wasn’t expecting much of a response (he usually never received one), but the deadly silence that followed was unnerving even to a ghost. A few awkward seconds passed, and Binns answered himself. “MAGES: Mitigation Aid and Gain Enhancing Support.”

Once he turned around, you pensively lowered your voice, wary about catching the professor’s attention. “I just don’t want to show up unannounced,” you murmured.

Fred hadn’t caught what you said and was inclined to lean in closer. He smelled like cinnamon and amber, and his body heat radiated off of him like sunlight. “Sorry?”

You scooted towards him, bringing your lips to his ear. “I don’t want to show up unannounced,” you clarified.

He looked at you dumbfounded and with red cheeks. “Harry and Hermione are over all the time. They never tell us they’re coming half the time,” Fred sputtered reassuringly. “My mum and dad would love to have you,” he added softly. “I mean, I certainly will.”

You couldn’t help but blush.

Dear Diary,

Friday morning

I GOT UP EARLY TO SHOWER AND YOU’RE NEVER GONNA BELIEVE THE CONVERSATION I EAVESDROPPED ON.

FRED WEASLEY HAS A CRUSH ON SOMEONE. I AM RELEASED FROM THIS PRISON. NO MORE SILLY CRUSHES.

I was trying to be quiet, careful not to disturb anyone, but in the corridor I hear these 2 girls whispering. Naturally, like the snoop I am, I stop short of entering their peripheral and stand there to listen. It’s really creepy, I know, but I’m so intrigued— BUT NOT ONCE DID THEY MENTION WHO IT WAS HE FANCIED.

The one CRUCIAL detail was left out (because they didn’t know BUT STILL).

It’s none of my business... but I just like knowing stuff and hoarding information. What’s the problem with that? Maybe I can play matchmaker.

Dear Sticky Note,

Friday

The thought of him with someone else is making me physically unwell. I almost threw up after lunch. Who could he possibly like? I am DYING to know.

Dear Diary,

Saturday

I like my best friend’s brother. I like Ginny’s BROTHER.

I like the color of his hair and the way he parts it. I like his little freckles and the shape of his lips. He’s got a scar above his eyebrow. I generally just enjoy looking at his face— he’s got a nice neck and pretty toned arms, though I rarely get to see them, but his hands are always available, and they’re so long and smooth.

This little crush has lingered in the doorways he held open for me. It’s made me hallucinate reciprocation in his smile and fidgeting hands. He talks so softly and is more gentle with me than anybody else.

I swear to Merlin that this is real; I just DON’T KNOW HOW TO PROVE IT. I’m not going mad! I’ve been going through all the stages of grief— denial, anger, depression, bartering, and now acceptance. SOMETHING IS HAPPENING. I KNOW IT IS. HE’S EITHER THE DEVIL INCARNATE AND THIS IS A FOUL PRANK, OR MY INTUITION IS UNLIKE ANY OTHER. All I know is that

I FANCY FRED WEASLEY.

FUCK.

Fred wasn’t nosy per se, but, at times, he found himself insatiably curious. George and he have spent dozens of hours dissecting the ingredients of Zonko’s candies (some masters are unwilling to take on apprentices; the Weasley Twins will make their own name…). And the greasy slime-ball that is Snape would never admit it, but Fred and George had the art of potions down to a tee. It was their reticent professor who inadvertently assisted the creation of their Ton-Tongue Toffee and Canary Creams.

But if there was one question he desired answered, it would be about you. What was going on in that little head of yours? Your very existence was a paradox— those scintillating eyes of yours were always askance, always drifting off to lala land, but watchful and keen enough to be overly critical. Your head may perpetually be in the clouds, but your ears persisted in their function; they picked up enough detail for you to seamlessly integrate yourself into conversation and activity, but you had a debilitating (yet charming) awkwardness that struck down nonchalance.

Regardless of where he was coming from, Fred could show up to your usual corner of the dusty library and find you writing in the same black leather journal. He knew you were a diligent note-taker (most days) and (evidently) a passionate academic, but this little book consumed all your attention. Judging by its lack of highlighting, doodles, graphs and timelines Fred presumed you were drafting a novel…?

He never asked.

On Monday, it was the same usual charade: he’ll emerge from the bookshelves, crack a witty remark, and patiently watch you scramble for your belongings. You’ll glide past him without sparing him a glance, because you knew he would always follow— but, today, he hesitated. Because when you first caught him in your peripheral, he noticed you had quickly stashed the black leather journal into a stack of withering library books. And when you had packed up all your things, you forgot to retrieve it…

So he took it.

Fred pulled it out from the pile, lodged it into his own bag, and caught up to you before you realized how far behind he was.

Did he know it was wrong? Potentially, but he highly doubted that it contained any sensitive information. Fred’s intentions were innocuous; was it a crime to want to know what caught your interests?

After dinner (which consisted of woeful discussion about the Transfiguration test results, spicy lamb stew and vegetable roasts), Fred retreated to the Boys’ Dorms for some… investigative journalism. As his roommates were heading off the showers, Fred landed on his bed, stomach first, and whipped out the waxy-covered tome.

Fred ran his thumb across the smooth paper edges; judging by the thickness of the written sections, you must’ve been knee-deep in your novel.

Should he start from the beginning? Nah, where’s the fun in that? Books rarely interested Fred; the flowery paragraphs spent on developing the setting and scenery were disgustingly boring— action sequences and brilliant battles were what he sought.

So he flipped to the latest entry—

I like my best friend’s brother.

Oh. This was gonna be one of those fluffy romance books.

Fred tried not to frown; romcoms weren’t really his thing, but it was hard to decipher what you did and didn’t like sometimes (girls had always been aloof enigmas; his specialty was pranks, not flirting). Reading your story could probably help him learn more about you.

I like Ginny’s BROTHER.

Wait a minute…

His eyes glanced at the top of the page.

Dear Diary,

Fred’s heart stopped.

HOW ON EARTH DID HE MISS THAT? THIS WASN’T A DRAFT— THIS WAS A BLOODY DIARY! HE WAS IN POSSESSION OF YOUR DIARY OF ALL THINGS!

“Oh fuck.”

He looked at the last few squiggly lines.

I FANCY FRED WEASLEY.

FUCK.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or sigh with relief, but ‘fuck’ was right— Fred Weasley was gonna be in huge fucking trouble for seeing this.

“What’re you reading?”

“BLOODY HELL!” Fred slammed the diary shut.

George initially winced at the shrill shriek, but then cackled at his twin’s plight. “Something dirty, I’m assuming?” George mused, “Your face has gone all red—!”

Fred leaped out of the bed and seized George’s shoulders.

George’s straight brows narrowed furiously. “What’s wrong with you?” He exclaimed. He grabbed Fred’s arms, trying to peel his grasp away.

“George, listen to me—,”

“I am!” He withered.

“SHHHHH!” Fred hushed, pressing a finger against his brother’s lips. “I wasn’t reading anything, okay? I don’t read. I don’t like books—,”

George looked down at the journal, sitting innocently on the bed, “So it is something dirty…?”

“NO! I WASN’T READING ANYTHING!”

“What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” George asked, as his twin pushed him away. The boy stumbled backward and tenderly massaged his bicep, where Fred had aggressively grabbed him.

Fred pointed an aggravated finger at George. “You didn’t see anything, alright?” He hissed.

George scoffed, “Merlin’s beard, fine! I didn’t see anything! God, what’s up your arse today?”

Your parents’ tree was always elegantly themed, silver and blue, with matching ribbon and ornaments that never dared to be crooked. The presents were wrapped with geometric precision. It was lovely, in its way, a serene portrait of the season. But ever since you befriended the Weasleys—a friendship that felt less like a choice and more like being swept up in a warm, irresistible tide—and then began dating Fred, every holiday break was spent with them at the Burrow.

The Burrow, where the tree groaned under the weight of homemade, brightly colored, and often moving ornaments, where tinsel hung in clumps like magical moss, and where the air itself tasted of cinnamon, pine, and joy.

Of course, that didn’t mean you forgot about your family. You were never that person. You still visited them at the beginning and end of break, a few cherished, quiet days nestled before and after the Weasley whirlwind. Those visits were a decompression chamber of sorts, a return to a familiar, quieter wavelength where you drank tea from delicate china and discussed books and news. They loved you, you loved them, and they understood, with a fond, slightly bewildered smile, that your heart had found a second home.

They’d ask after "that red-haired boy" and you’d smile, a genuine, full thing that started in your chest, and they’d know. Christmas and New Year’s, however, were always, unequivocally, with the Weasleys. It was an unspoken treaty, written in the language of shared laughter, flying gravy boats, and the profound sense of belonging that settled in your bones the moment you stepped over the crooked threshold.

Your family and the Weasleys didn’t mind at all. Your parents were pleased you were so happy and so loved; Molly Weasley had essentially adopted you on sight, fusing you into the family tapestry with the relentless, loving force of a maternal hurricane.

Well, most of the Weasleys didn’t mind. Arthur thought you were a splendid influence, or at least a calming one—a profoundly mistaken notion, but you loved him for it. Bill and Charlie, when they were home, treated you like another sister. Percy, in his pre-ministry-defection days, tolerated you with his usual pinched politeness.

But Ginny and Ron Weasley, the youngest of the brood and possessors of a stubbornness that could give a mountain goat a complex, were almost certain you and Fred weren’t truly a couple.

Their reasoning?

It was, to them, irrefutable. They had never, not once, seen the two of you be affectionate to one another like other couples at Hogwarts. No languid hand-holding in the corridors, no stolen kisses between classes, no gazing into each other’s eyes over the breakfast porridge.

At the Burrow, the evidence was even more damning. You didn’t sit curled into each other on the sofa. You didn’t feed each other mince pies. You didn’t even bicker in that particular, flirty way they associated with romance.

To Ginny and Ron, it was a colossal sham, a prank of epic proportions being perpetrated on the entire family, and they were the only detectives sharp enough to see it.

“It’s for attention,” Ron had theorized in a hushed whisper in the attic room he shared with Harry during the summer. “Fred loves being the center of everything. This is just his latest scheme.”

“Or,” Ginny had countered, eyes narrowed with conspiracy, “Mum’s been on at them about settling down. Maybe they’re pretending so she gets off their backs and stops hinting about grandchildren.”

“But George is single and Mum doesn’t bother him half as much!”

“George is different. Fred’s… Fred. It’s plausible.”

Despite Hermione’s constant, exasperated warnings about not meddling with their brother’s love life—delivered with increasing volume and a selection of impressive vocabulary—neither sibling listened. Hermione’s logic “Just because they’re not snogging in front of you doesn’t mean they’re not snogging, you ridiculous pair!” bounced off them like peas off a suit of armor. They were on a mission.

The scene that had cemented their suspicion was a classic, a perfect snapshot of your supposedly fabricated romance. It was Boxing Day afternoon. The living room was a landscape of discarded wrapping paper, new socks, and dozing uncles.

You were nestled in the one relatively intact armchair, a book open in your lap. Fred and George were sprawled on the rug by the fire, their heads close together, muttering over what looked like a prototype for a Wheeze that emitted a faint, purple smoke and smelled suspiciously of burnt marshmallows.

“Freddie, pass me my jumper, yeah?” You’d looked over at him, not moving from your comfortable nest, grinning when he, without even looking up from the tiny, whirring gadget in his hand, reached behind him, fumbled for the knitted emerald green sweater on the sofa, and tossed it accurately into your lap. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” Fred had smiled back, a quick, warm glance that lingered just a second longer than necessary, before turning back to George and the smouldering marshmallow device.

You’d pulled the jumper on, inhaling the familiar scent of gunpowder, Zonko’s joke-shop perfume, and Fred, and gone back to your book.

To anyone else, it was a moment of domestic, unthinking intimacy. The casual use of the nickname, the instinctual knowledge of where your clothing was, the effortless fulfillment of a small need.

To Ginny, watching from the doorway with the intensity of a hawk, it was proof of a cold-blooded pact. Her eye twitched ever so slightly.

“They can’t be serious!” she hissed to Ron, who had sidled up beside her. “Not even a small peck? A hug? He just threw it!”

“I think we should focus on how far apart they’re sitting from one another,” Ron muttered sagely, as if spatial analysis was the key to all mysteries.

He watched you stand up, stretch, and leave the room to fetch more tea. Fred didn’t bother to look up, absorbed in arguing with George about the correct ratio of billywig sting to powdered moonstone.

“Blimey, Ginny, you may be right about them faking it. That’s not how people in love act.”

“They’re not faking it, stop bothering them.” Hermione scoffed from the kitchen table, where she was attempting to organize a new set of enchanted knitting needles for Molly. She swatted them both upside their heads with a rolled-up copy of The Daily Prophet. “They’re clearly not going to show their interest for one another so openly in front of one’s family. It’s called propriety. Or, in Fred’s case, a deeply hidden vein of tact.”

“And when do you suppose they show interest toward one another when George is constantly hanging around Fred?” Ron raised a brow, crossing his arms. “They’re attached at the hip! If they were really together, George would’ve gotten the hint and cleared off by now.”

“Precisely!” Ginny nodded vigorously.

At that moment, Fred and George finished their conversation, the tiny device letting out a final pop and sprouting a small, fluffy purple feather. George stood, stretched, and ambled over to the small circle of conspirators huddling by the door.

“Now what are you lot talking about? Plotting the overthrow of the Ministry? Need some special supplies?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows.

Harry, who had been observing the whole debacle with a mixture of amusement and pity for you and Fred, finally piped up. “Ron and Ginny think Fred isn’t actually dating—”

George clicked his tongue, a sound of pure disappointment. “You two are still going on about that? Merlin’s pants, give it a rest. When are you gonna take the hint?”

Ginny and Ron looked at each other with identically furrowed brows, the Weasley family resemblance stark in their confusion, before meeting George’s amused, knowing face at the same time.

“What?” Ron demanded. “What hint?”

“Nevermind,” George chuckled, a rich, booming sound. He threw his arms around their shoulders, steering them firmly away from the living room and toward the kitchen. “Some things you’ve just got to see to believe. Or not see, as the case may be. Let’s see if we can take a peek at what Mum’s hiding for New Year’s pudding, shall we? Distract her with questions about gnome welfare.”

Later that evening, the house settled into a contented, post-feast hum. You slipped away to the bathroom, seeking a moment of quiet amidst the glorious chaos. You looked at yourself in the mirror, humming softly as you adjusted the delicate chain of the necklace Fred had given you for Christmas—a tiny, golden snitch that actually fluttered its wings when no one was looking but you.

You were fixing it on your collar when you noticed the shift in the air, a subtle change in pressure, a presence that tingled at the edge of your awareness. Your eyes darted to the corner of the mirror.

A small, knowing smile settled on your lips. You didn’t turn, head cocking slightly at the sound of a deliberately creaky floorboard just outside the door. “I know it’s you, Weasley.”

“Boo.” Fred’s voice was a warm, teasing whisper as he slipped inside, quickly closing the door and locking it with a soft click. In two steps he was behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you back against his solid chest. He rested his chin on top of your head, his reflection smiling at yours in the glass. “Aren’t you a sight to see. All alone in here.”

“Shut it,” you mumbled, the effect ruined by the blush spreading across your cheeks and the way you leaned into his embrace. You swatted at his arms half-heartedly. “You’re a no good flirt.”

He scoffed, his chest vibrating against your back. “Said no one ever. I’m a fantastic flirt. Award-winning. I have a certificate somewhere.”

“In your dreams, maybe.” You grinned and tilted your head back to look up at him.

His face was soft in the low light, his freckles like a dusting of cinnamon across his nose, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He took the invitation and bent down, placing a soft yet quick, lingering peck to your lips. You hummed when he pulled away, the simple touch sparking a familiar, warm contentment.

You turned in his arms, leaning back against the sink counter to face him properly. Your gaze drifted toward his right hand, which was loosely clenched around a folded piece of parchment.

“What have you got?” You nudged your chin in the direction of his fist, curiosity piqued. When he didn’t answer, his eyes still fixed on your face with a look of dazed fondness, you called out his name softly. “Fred. Earth to Fred.”

He blinked, snapping out of whatever lovesick trance he was in. “What?”

You laughed softly, the sound echoing in the small tiled room, and watched his freckled face tint to a light, adorable pink. “I asked what was in your hand, Weasley. You’re holding it like it’s a treasure map.”

Fred shook his head with a lopsided grin, the mischievous glint returning to his eyes. He opened his hand, letting you look at the parchment properly. It was a piece of ripped, yellowing school parchment, clearly pilfered from Ron’s stash. It was drawn over in two different scribbles: one in a messy, impulsive scrawl—which was clearly Ron’s handwriting—and the other in a neater, more determined cursive—Ginny’s.

It was a chart, of sorts. Columns were marked with days and times. Observations were jotted down. ‘10:32 AM – Sat at opposite ends of table. No conversation.’ ‘3:15 PM – F handed her a spoon. No eye contact.’ ‘8:00 PM – In living room. 6 feet apart minimum. Suspicious.’

You furrowed your brows for a second, deciphering the code, before the lightbulb went off in your head. Your eyes snapped up to meet Fred’s, which were gleaming with unholy amusement. “They’re spying on us. They made a log.”

“A surveillance log,” Fred corrected, his voice brimming with pride. “Quite thorough, really. Ron’s timestamps are appallingly inaccurate, but Ginny’s dedication is impressive. Look, she’s even got a column for ‘Potential Motive.’ She’s circled ‘To Trick Mum’ and ‘Bet with George.’”

“That’s mean,” you said, but there was no seriousness in your tone. A bubble of laughter was rising in your throat. “Taking their evidence. They’re gonna go crazy looking for it.”

“You think they just left too early for them to see us actually love each other?” Fred wondered out loud, the wicked smirk he was known for now very prominent on his lips. He traced a finger down the list of sad, non-events. “I mean, honestly. There’s no way I haven’t kissed you in the Gryffindor common room, or the Great Hall when Lee Jordan was telling that terrible joke about the hag and the hippogriff, or on the couch here at the Burrow, or in the broom cupboard near Potions, or against the statue of Gregory the Smarmy, or—”

“I got it, I got it!” you cut him off, covering his mouth with your hand as a deep blush rose to your cheeks. His lips curved into a smile against your palm. “You don’t have to keep a count of everywhere we’ve kissed, you incorrigible man. It’s a long list.”

He stayed silent for a hot second, his eyes dancing, before his voice came out muffled against your palm. “So… can we do it?”

You looked between his eyes, seeing the eager, boyish plea there. The logical, sensible part of your brain—the part that sounded suspiciously like Hermione—was screaming not to mess with the youngest Weasleys, that it would only escalate, that it was a recipe for disaster.

But a louder, more persuasive voice—also known as Fred, and the part of you that was utterly, hopelessly in love with him and his chaotic brilliance—was being way too persistent for logic to even be heard. The idea was deliciously tempting. To lean into their theory, to make them believe they were genius detectives, only to pull the rug out from under them…

“Fine,” you sighed, removing your hand. “But only until New Year’s. That’s the deadline. Midnight on New Year’s, the game is over. No extending it because they come up with a new theory.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Fred saluted you with a flourish, tucking the precious parchment into his pocket. “Operation Sibling Snafu is a go.”

“Now put it back before we hear them accusing each other of hiding it or, worse, Crookshanks eating it.” You gave him a gentle push toward the door.

He stole one more quick kiss, a promise of mischief and shared secrets. “Back in a flash. Don’t miss me too much.”

“Impossible,” you whispered to the closed door, turning back to the mirror to fix your appearance once more, your smile refusing to fade.

The next morning, over a hushed breakfast while Molly fussed over the bacon, Fred—and, by enthusiastic association, you—set the plan for the next few days in motion. He explained the entire process in extreme, unnecessary detail, complete with doodled diagrams on a napkin, ensuring that Ginny and Ron were sure to believe you and Fred were never really dating.

“The key is consistency,” Fred lectured, using a sausage as a pointer. “We maintain a polite distance. No casual touches. No using nicknames in their hearing. We interact like polite acquaintances who happen to share a mutual friend group. Vague acquaintances. The kind you wouldn’t recognize on the street.”

“And George?” you asked, stealing a piece of his toast.

“Ah, George is the linchpin!” Fred’s eyes sparkled. “He’s our blocker, our permanent, oblivious chaperone. He’s going to be strategically placed at all times to ensure our dear siblings’ sightlines are never clear. If I so much as look at you for too long, George will develop a sudden, urgent question about dungbombs or need help ‘fixing’ a window. He’s committed to the cause.”

Somehow, Fred had indeed roped George into the situation with terrifying ease. George, seeing the potential for ultimate payoff and sibling annoyance, had agreed with a solemn handshake that was undercut by his maniacal grin.

“Anything to watch those two gits tie themselves in knots,” he’d declared.

And so, the performance began. From the moment you woke up—sneaking out of Fred and George’s room at dawn, where you’d spent the night tangled together under his quilts, to creep back to the camp bed in Ginny’s room—to the moment you snuck back in long after everyone was asleep, it really did seem like the two of you weren’t dating.

You took care to sit apart at meals. Conversations were routed through others. “Fred, could you pass the butter to Hermione?” you’d ask, and Fred would pass it to Harry, who would pass it to Hermione, who would hand it to you with a deeply unamused look.

If you were both in the living room, George would invariably plant himself on the sofa between you, regaling you with loud, elaborate stories that required both of your attention.

Fred would help you with chores, but only if Ginny or Ron were present, and it was conducted with a formal, “After you,” and “No, please, I insist,” that made Molly raise an eyebrow but say nothing.

There were times the charade was almost comically difficult. Once, you almost got caught sneaking across the hall to Fred’s room late at night, freezing like a statue when a floorboard groaned, only to find Crookshanks staring at you with his squashed, disapproving face before stalking away. Another time, during a raucous game of Exploding Snap, Fred made you laugh so hard you snorted pumpkin juice, and your eyes met across the table.

The genuine, warm, intimate look that passed between you was so potent you both had to quickly glance away, Fred pretending to be fascinated by a knot in the wood of the table, you suddenly needing to examine your cards with immense concentration. From the corner of your eye, you saw Ginny nudge Ron and point subtly.

The plan turned out to work really well because Ron and Ginny, emboldened by the lack of counter-evidence and fueled by George’s well-placed, misleading comments “Honestly, I haven’t seen them so much as hold hands, it’s weird…”, were dead set on bringing up your “fake relationship” to light on New Year’s Eve.

They spent hours collating their “evidence,” which now included the mysteriously reappeared surveillance log—Fred had placed it under Ron’s pillow, ensuring a sibling civil war that lasted an hour. They whispered in corners, shooting you and Fred triumphant looks, convinced they were about to expose a massive fraud to the rest of their family, to finally have a victory over their notoriously tricky older brother.

Unluckily for them, you and Fred were ready to end the charade the moment the clock struck midnight. It was the final, perfect punchline.

New Year’s Eve dawned bright and cold. The Burrow was a hive of preparations, buzzing with a different energy than Christmas. It was about anticipation, about fresh starts, and about Molly Weasley’s determined mission to feed an army one more time.

“Good morning, Mrs. Weasley.” You beamed at the red-haired woman as you entered the kitchen, the heart of the home, chuckling when she swatted a dish towel at you playfully.

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Molly, dear?” She tutted, but her eyes were sparkling. She then pressed a swift, flour-dusted kiss to your cheek before her gaze wandered over to the thunderous sound of the twins barreling down the staircase, a sound akin to a herd of erumpents.

“Morning, Mum!” they said in unison, a well-practiced harmony of chaos.

George, following the plan, walked straight in front of Ron and Ginny, who were already seated at the table looking suspiciously alert, effectively creating a visual barrier. In that half-second of cover, Fred darted over, brushed a kiss to your temple, and slipped a perfectly prepared mug of tea—just the right amount of milk, no sugar—into your hands before seamlessly veering off to plop down next to George. He winked at his twin.

You grinned into your tea, the warmth spreading through your fingers and your chest. “Molly, do you need me to go out and buy some things? I don’t want you to go through all of this on your own.” You offered, sipping the tea. It was perfect.

Molly gave you a warm, tired but happy smile. “Don’t worry about me, dear. I can handle this. I’ve had decades of practice feeding this lot.”

“Please?” You pouted jokingly, putting on your most pleading expression.

You watched her resolve crumble within an instant, her stern-mother façade melting into affectionate softness. Now that you were thinking about it, Fred did take after his mother in that—the ability to be utterly disarmed by those they loved.

“You’ve already done so much for Christmas. Let me help. I will do anything—brave the crowds, haggle with the greengrocer, carry twelve bags of flour…”

She gave you one last look before sighing in mock exasperation. “Alright, fine, since you’re so stubborn.” She teased you as she tore a piece of parchment from her list and scribbled a shorter version. “You can pick up a few ingredients I’m missing for a couple of the desserts I’m making. The special sugar crystals from the apothecary for the sparkle-pops, and some of that vanilla from the exotic imports stall. And a fresh loaf from Puff and Pomona’s, you know the one.”

You read over the list, mentally mapping the stores in Diagon Alley you would have to visit before she added the final, crucial part of her instructions.

“Oh, and take Fred with you.” Molly bumped your hip with hers, making you turn away as your face flushed bright red—this time, a real, unrehearsed blush. “Have some time alone away from the rest of the lot. Heaven knows you two have been very… polite… this holiday.”

“Ron and I will come!” Ginny practically launched herself out of her seat, grabbing your arm with a grip that was just a little too tight to be purely friendly. She smiled prettily, innocently at her mother. “We want to spend time with them, don’t we, Ron? A sibling outing before the new year!”

“What? I don’t want to—” Ron began, still bleary-eyed and focused on his eggs.

“Don’t we, Ronald?” Ginny stared at him dead in the eyes, a look that promised swift and terrible retribution if he contradicted her.

Ron shrank under his younger sister’s gaze, a lifetime of Ginny’s hexes flashing before his eyes. “Yes. Of course. I would love to spend time with them,” he sighed, the very picture of reluctant martyrdom as he stood up.

Fred followed his brother, ruffling Ron’s already messy hair into a bird’s nest with a noogie. “Thrilled to have you along, little brother! We’ll make a day of it.”

George looked over in surprise at the sudden quest and also stood up from his spot. “Mum, can I—“

“The rest of you will stay and help me, that’s final.” Molly whipped her head over, pointing a flour-covered finger at him like a wand. “Three Weasley kids out of the house is plenty enough. You, Hermione, and Harry will stay and help me cook, peel, chop, and stir. No arguments.”

You looked over at Ginny, who was grinning brightly, triumphantly at you. You returned the smile easily, a genuine one. Even though you were technically lying to her and her underlying reason for joining your outing was pretty… terrible, you still loved her as your own sister and wouldn’t deny her for anything. You just hoped the eventual reveal wouldn’t land you in too much trouble.

“C’mon then, Gin,” you said, linking your arm with hers and pushing her gently toward the living room where the Floo powder was kept. “Let’s go see what Diagon Alley has to offer.”

The four of you emerged into a Diagon Alley sparkling under a thin blanket of fresh snow and thrumming with the electric excitement of the impending new year. The street was a tapestry of colorful winter robes, glittering shop windows boasting ‘New Year New You!’ promotions, and the happy, frantic energy of last-minute celebrations.

Children, bundled like rotund penguins, still screamed for Florean Fortescue’s ice cream, their breath making plumes in the cold air. Parents hustled with bags full of ingredients, much like your own group. Students on holiday, free from Hogwarts robes, darted in and out of shops, laughing and catching snowflakes on their tongues.

But Ginny and Ron were busy with their own task. They walked with the focused air of secret agents on a mission. They immediately noted, with significant glances to each other, that you and Fred had naturally fallen to opposite sides of their little formation, the two of them stuck in the middle like the jam and peanut butter of a sandwich.

They also took note, with growing satisfaction, that neither of you had spoken directly to each other since arriving, communicating only through them in stiff, polite phrases like, “Ron, could you ask Fred if he sees the apothecary?” and “Ginny, tell her it’s just down the next alley on the left.”

Their plan, hatched in whispers as you walked, was to create a diversion, to split the party and coax out any true evidence under isolated, pressurized conditions. Ron, taking charge with an uncharacteristic strategic air, declared the list should be split for efficiency.

“Right. Ginny, you go with her to get the bread and the vanilla. Fred, you’re with me for the sugar crystals and… er… whatever else Mum wrote here that’s blurry. We’ll meet back at Fortescue’s in an hour.” Ron announced, tearing the parchment with a flourish.

You and Fred exchanged a single, fleeting glance—a micro-expression of shared amusement and understanding—before nodding solemnly. “Sounds logical,” Fred said, his tone impressively neutral.

As you split up, you took Ginny’s arm and steered her towards Puff and Pomona’s Bakery, the legendary scent of baking bread and sugar acting as a homing beacon. The smell of flour, yeast, and warmth instantly hit your nose the second you pushed the door open, a comforting embrace against the winter chill.

“So…” Ginny began, her voice oddly tentative as you both approached the counter where loaves were stacked like golden bricks.

“So?” You glanced over at her briefly as you began inspecting the loaves, tracking down the specific, slightly rye-based loaf with sunflower seeds that Molly swore by.

She followed you, her eyes cast downward at the bread as well, scuffing her boots against the sawdust-covered stone floor to fill the awkward space. “You and Fred.”

“Fred and I,” you repeated after her, your focus apparently entirely on the bread. You called the flour-dusted baker over and pointed at the correct loaf. You paid the elderly man a few Galleons, took the warm, paper-wrapped bundle, and now faced Ginny properly with a politely curious gaze. “What about us?”

You tucked a stray, windswept piece of her vibrant red hair behind her ear, your fingers gentle. You then tugged her bright blue beanie down more securely over her ears when you saw the pink tips peeking out. “Your ears will freeze,” you chided softly, a genuine note of sisterly concern in your voice.

Ginny blinked, suddenly swamped with a wave of guilt. Here you were, being kind, being family, and she was scheming to expose you. She shook the feeling off, hardening her resolve.

This was for the truth. She fidgeted with her woolen gloves. “Er— I was just wondering—well, Ron and I, really—if you and Fred were actually… you know. Or if it was more of an… arrangement.”

You were about to answer, to weave some vague, innocent reply, when the shop bell jingled.

“Have you finished your list yet? Ronniekins and I are nearly done.” Fred’s voice interrupted, cheerful and loud. He suddenly appeared by your side, having entered the shop with such silent speed that Ginny jumped, stunning her for a few seconds. He was holding a small, shimmering bag of the apothecary sugar. “What? You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Gin. Just me.”

“Nothing,” Ginny muttered, her cheeks flushing with a mix of annoyance and surprise.

She grabbed Ron by the wrist as he lumbered in behind Fred, tugging him to walk out of the shop and back into the street, decisively in front of the two of you. She waited until they were a few paces ahead, out of immediate earshot, before leaning close to Ron, her voice low despite the crowd and the distance.

“Anything? Did he say anything about her?”

“Nothing,” Ron huffed, glancing back over his shoulder at you and Fred. He rolled his eyes when he saw the two of you walking beside one another, but with a careful, almost measured foot of space between you, not talking. “See? It’s like they’re strangers who happen to know the same people. I think they’re pulling a mean prank on Mum, really. It’s the sort of thing they’d find hilarious.”

You raised a brow at Ron when he whipped his head around to look at you again, biting the inside of your cheek to keep a straight face when Ginny hit his shoulder in frustration.

You were about to quicken your pace to catch up to them when you felt it—an oh-so familiar hand sneak around your waist, hidden from view by the drape of your winter cloak. His touch was warm, his fingers splaying possessively against your hip. The weight of his arm felt like home, an anchor in the silly charade. It took all your willpower not to lean into him.

Instead, you turned your head just slightly, meeting his gaze with a whisper. “Cheeky.”

“Smart,” he whispered back, his thumb rubbing a tiny, secret circle through the fabric of your robe.

You shook your head minutely, a smile tugging at your lips. “You just love messing with your siblings.”

“That,” he waggled the finger of his free hand in front of your face, the picture of faux-scholarly insight, causing you to smack it away in pretend annoyance, “is a profound and universal truth. One of the great joys of life.”

The final hours of the old year bled away in a crescendo of noise, laughter, and the overwhelming scent of Molly Weasley’s cooking. The entire clan—every Weasley who could be there, plus you, Harry, and Hermione—were packed into the magically expanded living room.

Fizzing drinks were passed around, enchanted streamers coiled lazily overhead, and a mountain of noisemakers and confetti waited for the moment. Outside, a fresh, silent coat of snow was coming down over the dark fields, painting the world anew. It was a perfect, messy, loud, loving picture, and it seemed like nothing could ever ruin it.

“You think they know yet?” You murmured the question over the rim of your glass, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen. You were sure one of the twins had spiked the ‘mocktails’ Molly made specifically for the underage children in the house; yours had a distinct, warming kick of firewhisky. “I mean, they can’t seriously be that blind. We’ve been ‘accidentally’ brushing hands all evening.”

Fred shrugged, leaning next to you, his shoulder just touching yours. A point of contact that could be seen as casual, but that sent a current straight through you. “You can’t blame them. Who would want to see their own brother constantly kissing the most beautiful woman on earth? It’s a natural mental block. A defense mechanism.”

“Fred,” you jabbed his stomach gently, shaking your head. You cleared your throat as Arthur passed by, carrying a tray of mince pies. The man looked at the two of you standing close, heard his son’s comment, and shook his head in fond exasperation.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear anything,” Arthur said, clapping a hand on Fred’s shoulder. “But for Merlin’s sake, son, try to behave. At least until midnight.”

You watched the patriarch walk away before turning back to Fred, a smirk decorating your lips. “Yeah, Weasley. Behave. Your father’s orders.”

“Oi,” he bumped his hip against yours, a solid, playful nudge. “See if I let you into my room later. I’m a man of principle. I follow orders.”

You scoffed and put a dramatic hand on your heart. “Wounded, truly. How will I ever live? I suppose I’ll just have to spend the night in my cold, lonely camp bed, pining away.”

Fred opened his mouth, no doubt ready with a retort that would make you blush in front of his entire family, but he was interrupted. The interruption came from the center of the room, where Ginny, fueled by Butterbeer and absolute conviction, had climbed onto the sturdy coffee table thirty seconds before midnight.

“Everyone! Everyone, quiet! We have an announcement!” Ginny’s voice cut through the merry din, high and clear. She stood in the middle of the living room like a general addressing troops, a weary but determined Ron at her side, looking like he’d rather be facing a nest of acromantulas.

You rolled your eyes in amusement and scrunched your nose when your name fell from her lips. “Showtime,” you whispered to Fred, who grinned wolfishly.

“—and Fred have been lying to you all!” Ginny proclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger between the two of you.

The room’s noise dipped into confused murmurs. Molly paused, a tray of cheese puffs in her hand. George buried his face in a cushion, his shoulders shaking.

Molly furrowed her brows, setting the tray down. “Ginny, dearie, what in heaven’s name are you saying? It’s almost midnight!”

“I’m saying that they’re not really together!” Ginny pressed on, undeterred. “It’s all a big joke! We’ve been watching them all holiday, and they never act like a couple! Never! It’s for… for attention, or a bet, or something! They’re faking it!”

“Ten!” George suddenly boomed, blowing on his party blower directly into Ron’s ear.

“Nine!” Bill and Charlie joined in, catching on and deciding to drown out the nonsense with tradition.

“Eight!” shouted Harry, surprisingly loud.

The countdown became a wave, sweeping the room. Ginny’s face fell, frustrated, as her big exposé was swallowed by the joyous, inevitable tide of the new year.

“Seven! Six!”

Fred’s hand found yours, his fingers lacing tightly through yours. He pulled you away from the doorway, into the center of the room, right into the heart of his family.

“Five! Four!”

He turned you to face him, his eyes no longer mischievous, but soft, sincere, and blazing with love. The pretence fell away like a discarded cloak.

“Three! Two!”

Ginny and Ron gaped, their triumphant scowls melting into open-mouthed shock.

“ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

The room exploded in sound: cheers, kisses, the bang and pop of wizarding crackers, the shrill of whistles. But Fred heard none of it. His world had narrowed to you.

He grabbed your face, his hands cradling your jaw, and pulled you in for a kiss that was anything but quick, anything but secret. It was deep, affirming, and full of a love that had been hiding in plain sight for two weeks. It was a declaration.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, one hand tangling in his soft red hair, pulling him closer. You kissed him back with all the pent-up affection of the charade, pouring every withheld touch, every suppressed smile into that moment.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, you rested your forehead against his, your noses touching, smiling like the idiots in love you both were. Because… well… you were idiots in love.

“Happy new year, Freddie,” you murmured, your voice thick with emotion. You tossed a glance over his shoulder at his siblings.

Ginny was staring, horrified and then utterly furious. Ron looked betrayed, as if the foundation of his world-view had just crumbled. Hermione was swatting both of them with a book while Harry laughed into his drink.

“We ruined their new year’s.”

“Who cares?” He grinned and kissed you again, slow and sweet amidst the falling confetti. “I love you.”

“Love you too, you oaf.”