Romanczukowsky @romanczukowsky - Tumblr Blog

Missed Stops

Pairing: George Weasley x Fem!reader

Summary: The Hogwarts Express is packed beyond belief, and Y/N ends up squeezed into the last available compartment with Fred, Lee, and Kenneth and.... George Weasley.

Warnings: Friends to Lovers / Fluff / Slow Burn / Soft Romance / George Weasley Being Soft

The Hogwarts Express had never been this full before.

At least that was what everyone kept saying.

Apparently Hogwarts had accepted an absurd number of first-years this year, which now resulted in complete chaos on platform.

Students everywhere. Owls screeching. Trunks rolling over people’s feet. Someone crying near the sweet trolley already.

You had spent the last fifteen minutes trying to find literally anyone you knew.

Unsuccessfully.

Every compartment you checked was packed shoulder-to-shoulder already.

“Sorry!” “Full!” “Absolutely not.” “I’m saving this seat.” “One more person and I die.”

At this point, death honestly sounded peaceful.

You adjusted your grip on your trunk and squeezed farther down the corridor just as the train whistle blew loudly overhead.

Perfect.

You were going to spend the entire trip standing between someone’s cauldron and a terrified first-year.

Then through the compartment window you spotted familiar red hair.

Actually, two familiar red heads.

Fred and George Weasley sat sprawled across opposite seats alongside Lee Jordan and Kenneth Towler, all four somehow taking up enough space for at least twelve people.

Fred was mid-story, waving his hands dramatically while Lee nearly choked laughing.

George looked up first.

And immediately noticed you standing in the corridor looking one inconvenience away from losing your mind.

Without hesitation, he slid the compartment door open.

“You look murderous,” he observed calmly.

“There are no seats left on this train.”

Kenneth leaned sideways to glance past George into the corridor. “That sounds like a personal problem.”

You sighed heavily. “Helpful.”

George’s eyes flicked briefly toward your trunk, then back to you.

“You can sit with us.”

Kenneth looked horrified instantly. “Absolutely not. We’re already dying in here.”

“There’s literally no space,” Lee added, although he sounded far less committed to the argument.

Fred, meanwhile, had gone strangely quiet, because George was already standing to make room for you.

He ignored the complaints entirely and reached for your trunk like this decision had already been made.

“Move over,” he said simply.

Kenneth pointed accusingly. “This is favouritism.”

“Yes,” George agreed easily.

Fred’s mouth twitched violently like he was trying not to laugh.

“Oh, this is fascinating,” he murmured.

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “You really don’t mind?”

George looked at you like the question itself was stupid.

“You’ll survive the tragic hardship of sitting near us.”

Fred immediately leaned forward. “Near George specifically, apparently.”

You climbed awkwardly into the compartment while George shoved Kenneth farther across the seat using one foot.

Kenneth looked deeply betrayed.

“Comfortable?” George asked once you finally settled beside him.

You exhaled dramatically. “You may have just saved my life.”

Fred immediately pointed at George. “Look at him, the gentleman of the year.”

George kicked his shin without even looking.

The train finally lurched forward moments later. And somehow despite the cramped compartment, despite Fred loudly stealing sweets from first-years every twenty minutes, despite Lee and Kenneth arguing over Exploding Snap rules you relaxed.

Slowly and naturally. Like you always did around them.

Especially around George.

You’d known the twins for years now, obviously. But Fred filled rooms effortlessly and George was different. Quieter, somehow, but not shy. Just calmer beneath the chaos.

People noticed Fred first.

You had too at first.

But George… He stayed in your head longer, and that was arguably worse.

“You’re thinking very hard over there,” Fred informed you suddenly.

You blinked. “Hm?”

Fred narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Dangerous behavior.”

“She’s trying to calculate how to escape this compartment alive,” Kenneth said.

“She’ll survive,” George replied lazily beside you.

Your shoulder brushed his slightly when the train hit a turn. Neither of you moved away.

Fred noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

His grin became absolutely unbearable.

“Oh, wow,” he breathed softly. “This is already progressing beautifully.”

George didn’t even glance at him. “I’m going to throw you off the train.”

“Can I give a speech at the wedding first?”

Lee looked between both twins once before immediately lighting up with realization.

“Oh, hold on—”

“No,” George said instantly.

Lee pointed dramatically between you both anyway. “OH, THIS IS—”

George reached over and shoved chocolate directly into his mouth.

“Eat.”

Lee nearly inhaled the chocolate whole from excitement alone.

Kenneth looked between you and George slowly, and then “Oh, this explains so much.”

You frowned immediately. “Explains what?”

“Nothing,” George said flatly.

“Everything,” Fred corrected happily.

You looked even more suspicious now, which only encouraged Fred further.

Fred Weasley loved chaos, but more importantly Fred loved chaos that did not involve him personally for once. And watching George accidentally behave like a man in love was currently becoming his favourite hobby.

“You know,” Fred continued casually, stretching his arms behind his head, “George gets weirdly helpful around you.”

George looked exhausted already. “Fred.”

“It’s true,” Lee chimed in immediately after swallowing. “Remember third year when she said she liked sugar quills and suddenly George bought enough to bankrupt Honeydukes?”

Your eyes widened slightly.

George looked murderous. “That was not... for her.”

Fred gasped dramatically. “You bought romantic confectionery for another woman?”

“I bought them because they were discounted.”

Kenneth snorted. “You hate sugar quills.”

George opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

You bit down on a smile immediately.

Fred noticed that too.

“Oh, she likes this,” he announced delightedly.

“I hate all of you,” George informed the compartment calmly.

“You especially,” he added to Fred.

Fred looked emotional. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

The conversation dissolved into chaos after that. Lee started telling an obviously fake story involving a cursed owl. Kenneth argued every detail. Fred contributed increasingly dramatic lies just to worsen the situation.

And somewhere during all of it you stopped paying attention to everyone except George.

It happened gradually.

Easy enough that you barely noticed.

One second you were laughing with the group.

The next George was quietly pointing out which parts of Lee’s story were impossible while you tried not to laugh too loudly beside him.

Then somehow your knees brushed, George started leaning closer whenever he spoke, you started replying quieter too.

Until eventually the others became background noise entirely.

“You’re cold.”

You blinked and looked toward George. “What?”

Without another word, George reached down beside him, grabbed his jumper from his bag and held it out toward you.

Your brain stopped functioning briefly.

“Oh,” you managed intelligently. “You don’t have to—”

“You’re literally freezing.”

“I am not.”

“You’ve tucked your hands into your sleeves.”

You looked down and he was correct.

Fred looked up from his cards immediately and nearly burst into flames from excitement.

“You know,” Fred said conversationally to nobody, “when George starts giving girls his jumpers, it's usually serious.”

George threw a Chocolate Frog directly at his forehead. “Shut up.”

Fred cackled loudly while you pulled the jumper over your shoulders anyway.

It smelled faintly like smoke, parchment and something unmistakably George. Which honestly felt unfair.

“There,” George said quietly beside you.

Better?”

You looked up at him. And something about the way he was already watching you made your stomach flip stupidly. “…Yeah.”

Fred saw that look exchanged between you both and immediately sat up straighter like a man witnessing history.

Lee noticed too.

Kenneth remained tragically oblivious.

Hours passed like that.

The train grew quieter gradually as students disappeared compartment by compartment at different stations.

Sunlight faded gold. Then orange. Then softer still.

Lee eventually fell asleep upside down against the window. Kenneth vanished at some point in search of food.

Fred lasted the longest. Mostly because he refused to stop staring at George with the expression of someone watching an extremely slow-moving romantic disaster unfold in real time.

“You know,” Fred said eventually, breaking the quieter atmosphere, “this is painful to witness.”

George didn’t even look up from where he sat beside you. “Nobody’s forcing you to stay.”

“Oh no, I need to see how this ends.”

You laughed softly beside George, sleepier now than before.

Your head had started dipping occasionally during conversation.

George noticed every single time.

“You can sleep if you want,” he murmured quietly.

You blinked slowly. “M’not tired.”

Fred made a noise that sounded suspiciously like disbelief.

“I hate him,” George muttered.

“Impossible,” Fred replied. “You’re in love.”

You laughed quietly beside George, too tired now to properly hide it.

The compartment had gone soft around the edges.

Dark windows. Low voices. The rhythmic sound of the train against the tracks.

It felt strangely cozy now that most students had left.

George glanced sideways at you again just in time to see your eyes slipping closed for the fifth time in ten minutes.

“You’re exhausted.”

“I’m fine,” you mumbled.

Then immediately yawned.

Fred pointed dramatically. “Compelling argument.”

You rolled your eyes weakly before letting your head fall back against the seat.

George watched you for a second too long. Then quietly “You can lean here if you want.”

The entire compartment went silent.

Even Lee woke up slightly.

Fred slowly turned toward George with the expression of someone witnessing divine intervention.

George ignored all of them completely.

Your heart did something deeply embarrassing inside your chest.

“You sure?”

George shrugged one shoulder like this wasn’t affecting him whatsoever. “Better than sleeping against the window.”

Fred looked personally devastated by how smooth that sounded. “Oh, he’s good,” he whispered to himself.

George closed his eyes briefly. “I regret teaching you how to speak.”

But you were already moving slightly closer. Carefully, like you were trying not to make it obvious this affected you too.

Your shoulder brushed his first. Then your head rested lightly against him.

George went completely still. Fred’s eyes widened instantly. Lee looked like he might scream. Kenneth returned at the worst possible moment carrying crisps.

“…Why does George look like he’s been shot?”

“Nobody speak,” Fred whispered urgently. “You’ll scare him.”

George very calmly reached across the compartment and kicked Fred directly in the knee.

But he never moved away from you.

Not once.

And after a while... after the warmth of the compartment and the steady movement of the train and George beside you melted together into something soft and safe... you fell asleep.

George realized it when your breathing changed first. Then when your hand relaxed slightly against his arm. Something in his expression softened immediately.

Fred saw it and nearly lost consciousness from secondhand emotions. “Oh, he’s gone,” Fred mouthed dramatically toward Lee.

Lee nodded solemnly. “Tragic.”

George ignored both of them. Mostly because he couldn’t stop looking down at you.

You looked comfortable, warm and peaceful.

Trusting him enough to fall asleep on him this easily did something dangerous to his chest.

Fred watched his brother carefully for another minute before grinning slowly.

“Your arm’s dead already, isn’t it?”

George answered without looking away from you. “I can’t feel my spine.”

Lee snorted loudly.

Fred looked delighted. “And yet look at you. Still refusing to move.”

George finally glanced at him once. Very calm and very serious.

“She’s sleeping.”

And somehow that shut all of them up for a second.

Because there it was again. That thing George did.

No dramatics. No flirting. No showing off.

Just quiet care like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Fred leaned back against the seat afterward with the biggest smirk imaginable.

Because oh, this was bad.

George Weasley was finished.

By the time you woke up, the train was almost empty.

The compartment lights had dimmed softly overhead and outside the windows the world had dissolved into darkness broken only by the occasional flicker of passing station lamps.

For one confusing second, you had absolutely no idea where you were.

Then warmth beneath your cheek.

A steady heartbeat.

George.

Your eyes blinked open slowly. And you realized you were lying against George.

Your head tucked against his shoulder. One of his arms trapped awkwardly beneath yours. A jumper draped over you at some point during the night.

Your eyes blinked open lazily.

Outside the windows, darkness stretched endlessly across the countryside.

The train compartment was nearly empty now.

Only you. George. Fred.

Fred sat across from you looking deeply offended by life itself.

“Oh good,” he muttered the second he noticed you awake. “Sleeping Beauty returns.”

You straightened instantly. “Merlin's beard— I fell asleep.”

George’s voice came low beside you. “Bit, yeah.”

You rubbed at your eyes. “What station are we at?”

Silence.

Immediate. Suspicious. Terrible silence.

Slowly you looked up.

Fred pointed directly at George. “His fault.”

George looked unimpressed. “You were also there.”

“Yes, but I’m not the one who looked physically ready to fight me when I tried to wake her up.”

Your brain caught up several horrifying seconds later. “…Wait.”

Fred crossed both arms dramatically. “Congratulations. We are now approximately nowhere near where we were supposed to get off.”

You stared.

“You missed the station?!”

George had the audacity to shrug slightly. “You looked comfortable.”

Your heart did something catastrophically stupid at that answer.

Fred made a violent disgusted sound immediately.

“See? That! That exact tone! We could’ve been home an hour ago!”

“I said we should wake her eventually.”

“And then you said: ‘No, she’s tired.’”

George looked entirely unapologetic.

At some point after falling asleep against him, you’d curled closer unconsciously and George had known immediately he was doomed.

There was genuinely no recovering from a girl trusting you enough to sleep on your shoulder like that.

Especially not when she kept making tiny sleepy noises every time the train moved.

Fred threw his hands upward dramatically.

“I cannot believe I suffered through this for romance.” Now Fred looked between both of you again and narrowed his eyes. “You know what’s sick? Neither of you even look upset.”

“I am upset,” you argued weakly.

George glanced sideways at you.

You were still wearing his jumper. Still sleepy. Hair slightly messy from sleep.

You looked devastating, actually.

George smiled before he could stop himself.

And unfortunately—

Fred saw that too.

“Oh, he’s finished,” Fred announced immediately. “You missed your own stop for her!”

George looked thoughtful for a second. “…Worth it.”

Fred gagged loudly.

Your face burned instantly.

And George only looked more amused about it now.

Fred complained the entire walk across the empty platform.

Loudly.

Dramatically.

“With proper planning,” he informed the universe, dragging his trunk behind him, “I could currently be home eating my mother’s cooking instead of wandering the countryside with two emotionally compromised people.”

“You’ll survive,” George said calmly.

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re in love.”

You nearly tripped.

George shot Fred a warning look immediately.

Fred gasped. “Oh, so now we’re pretending that wasn’t obvious?”

“Fred.”

“No, because personally I think missing an entire station for a girl should qualify as a medical condition—”

George shoved him lightly toward the exit doors.

“Walk faster.”

Fred grinned victoriously anyway.

Outside, the night air felt cool against your skin. Quiet. Still.

The station was almost empty now, lit only by soft golden lamps overhead.

You adjusted the sleeves of George’s jumper around your hands unconsciously.

George noticed instantly.

“You can keep it,” he said before you could speak.

You looked up. “George—”

“I mean it.”

His voice softened slightly then, quieter beneath Fred’s continued complaining somewhere ahead of you.

“Looks better on you anyway.”

Your chest hurt a little at that.

Fred turned around abruptly while walking backwards.

“If the two of you start flirting again before we find transportation home, I’m leaving both of you here.”

George didn’t even look away from you.

“Wouldn’t blame you.”

Fred stared at him in horror.

“Oh, you’re gone gone.”

You laughed softly before you could stop yourself.

George looked at you immediately at the sound.

And just like that—

everything else disappeared again.

The station. The cold. Fred’s dramatics.

Just you smiling at him beneath dim station lights while wearing his jumper like you already belonged there.

George felt something settle quietly in his chest then. Like maybe this had been happening long before either of you finally noticed it.

And honestly?

Missing the train stop suddenly felt like a very small price to pay.

Temporary — (Part 3) The last one

Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: Breakups with Fred Weasley had always been temporary.

Fred Weasley always thought you’d come back.

Until one breakup finally lasts long enough for him to realize he’s been loving you carelessly — and that someone else might be willing to love you better.

Now, for the first time in his life, Fred isn’t trying to win.

He’s trying to deserve another chance.

Warnings: Romance / Emotional Slow Burn / Hurt/Comfort / Angst with Happy Ending

The strange thing about Fred Weasley trying to become a better boyfriend was that absolutely nobody trusted him.

Including himself.

“You bought her flowers?”

Fred looked personally offended by the accusation. “I’m capable of romance.”

George stared at the small bundle of lilies in Fred’s hands like it might explode.

Fred shoving the flowers deeper beneath his robes as students passed through the corridor.

Because technically they weren’t even from him.

That was the important part.

Fred had discovered very quickly that every grand gesture he imagined somehow sounded manipulative the second he actually thought about it.

Jewelry? Too much.

Huge apology speech? Absolutely horrific.

Public declaration of love? He’d rather die violently.

So instead he’d started paying attention. Which was honestly disturbing behavior for a Weasley twin. He noticed things now.

Like how you always forgot breakfast on Thursdays because Ancient Runes made you panic. How your fingers cramped after long essays. How you got cold constantly and pretended you weren’t.

Little things.

Things he should’ve noticed ages ago.

The realization made guilt sit unpleasantly beneath his ribs.

George watched him quietly for a second longer.

Then:

“You’re in love.”

Fred looked horrified. “Don’t say that like it’s terminal.”

“It is for you.”

Fred shoved him lightly into the wall as they walked, but the grin tugging briefly at the corner of his mouth gave him away instantly.

Because yeah.

Maybe he was.

Badly.

Hopelessly.

Catastrophically.

You found the flowers two hours later beside your books in the library.

No note.

Just lilies.

Your favorite.

You stared at them suspiciously for nearly thirty seconds. Then immediately looked around the library.

Empty.

Mostly.

Except for one very tall redhead pretending extremely hard to read upside down three shelves away.

Your eyes narrowed slightly.

Fred did not look up from the book. Which was impressive considering he was very obviously not reading it.

Slowly, carefully, you picked up the flowers.

Fred still didn’t move.

But you saw the exact moment his shoulders relaxed.

And somehow—

that affected you far more than if he’d flirted with you directly.

Because he hadn’t stayed for credit.

He’d stayed to see if you smiled.

Which was unfortunately worse.

By the end of the week, it kept happening. Your favorite sweets appearing beside your notes before difficult classes.

A scarf draped over your shoulders before Quidditch practice because Fred noticed the weather before you did.

Your broken quill mysteriously repaired.

And every single time Fred acted like none of it mattered.

No flirting. No smugness.

No: look how good I’m being now.

Which honestly began ruining your emotional stability.

“You’re staring at him now,” Angelina informed you casually.

You looked away from Fred immediately.

“I am not.”

“You literally look lovesick.”

“I literally hate you.”

Angelina snorted softly as both of you watched Fred across the common room helping a first year repair a shattered potion bottle.

You blinked once.

“…Since when does he help people with homework?”

Angelina looked delighted by your confusion. “Oh, it’s getting serious.”

You ignored her completely. Mostly because she was right.

But something had changed. Fred still laughed loudly, still caused chaos and still looked unbearably pleased with himself half the time.

But now there was restraint too, like he was thinking before he acted around you for the first time in his life.

And somehow that affected you more than all the flirting ever had. Which felt deeply unfair.

Fred Weasley became very difficult to stop loving once he started loving you properly.

And unfortunately for your sanity—

he was getting better at it every day.

Unfortunately, Fred improving as a person did not make him any less jealous.

That became obvious the next Hogsmeade weekend. Because apparently personal growth still had limits.

“You’re glaring again,” George informed him as they walked through the crowded street.

“I’m observing.”

“You’re observing Diggory like a man planning a homicide.”

Fred scoffed loudly, shoving his hands deeper into his coat pockets.

Across the street, Cedric held the café door open for you while you laughed at something he said.

Fred immediately hated whatever joke it had been.

“He’s not even funny,” Fred muttered, because watching you with Cedric still created a very specific kind of misery he hadn’t yet found a solution for.

Not because you looked romantic.

That was the horrible part.

You looked comfortable.

Relaxed.

Safe.

Fred hated how much he understood now why that mattered.

For a while he just stood there watching through the frosted café windows as Cedric spoke and you smiled softly into your tea.

Then quietly:

“I used to make her laugh like that.”

George glanced sideways at him.

“You still do.”

Fred didn’t answer immediately, because maybe that wasn’t enough anymore. And that thought genuinely terrified him.

Later that evening, Fred found you alone outside the Three Broomsticks while snow drifted lazily across the street.

You looked surprised to see him.

Fred tried not to look too relieved about finding you without Diggory attached to your side.

“Hello, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes automatically. “You still call me that.”

“You still answer to it.”

Your mouth twitched slightly.

Fred immediately brightened.

For a second neither of you spoke. Then Fred noticed you shiver slightly beneath your coat. Without thinking, he stepped forward and wrapped his scarf gently around your neck.

Your breath caught faintly.

Fred’s fingers brushed your jaw for half a second while fixing the fabric into place.

The touch lingered slightly longer than necessary.

Both of you noticed.

Fred stepped back first this time. Which was becoming dangerously attractive behavior.

“You’re cold,” he said simply.

You looked down at the scarf.

“…Thank you.”

Fred shrugged one shoulder casually like his pulse wasn’t going completely feral from hearing you say that softly.

Snow caught in your hair as silence settled again.

But this silence didn’t feel awkward anymore.

Just full.

And somehow that felt far more dangerous.

“You’ve been weird lately,” you admitted eventually.

Fred grinned faintly. “That’s incredibly vague.”

“You know what I mean.”

Fred looked down at the snowy street briefly before answering. “I’m trying.”

The honesty in his voice hit harder than expected. Because he wasn’t saying it for praise.

Fred looked genuinely frustrated with himself half the time now. Like he was actively fighting instincts that used to come naturally.

And somehow that meant more than effortless charm ever could.

You studied him quietly.

Fred shifted slightly beneath the attention. “What?”

“You really mean it this time.”

It wasn’t a question.

Fred’s expression softened immediately.

“Yeah,” he answered quietly. “I really do.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

Because this was dangerous now. This was dangerous because you could actually imagine trusting him again, and that terrified you.

Fred must’ve seen something change in your face because his own expression softened too.

“You don’t have to forgive me yet,” he said quietly. “I know that.”

You swallowed once.

“And if I never do?”

Fred smiled then.

Small. A little sad. But real.

“I’ll probably still carry your books around like an idiot.”

That startled a laugh out of you immediately. Fred’s entire face lit up at the sound. The thought hit him so hard he almost said it out loud. Instead he just looked at you for a second too long.

Snow drifting quietly between both of you. Your cheeks pink from cold. His scarf wrapped around your neck.

Merlin.

Fred was in so much trouble.

Then suddenly—

“Y/N?”

Both of you looked up as Cedric stepped out of the Three Broomsticks carrying two takeaway cups.

His eyes moved between you and Fred once.

And immediately understood something had shifted.

You felt it too.

That strange sudden tension.

Cedric walked closer calmly before holding one of the warm cups toward you.

“Thought you might be freezing.”

Your expression softened automatically. “Thanks.”

Fred looked away briefly.

Because there it was again.

Kindness.

Easy. Natural. Effortless kindness.

And for one horrible second, jealousy twisted sharply enough in his chest that old instincts came rushing back immediately.

Fred smiled.

Too sharply.

“Well,” he drawled lightly, “Diggory to the rescue again. Starting to think you follow her around professionally.”

The second the words left his mouth—

he knew.

Your expression changed instantly. Not angry. Just disappointed. And somehow that felt far worse.

Cedric went still beside you.

George, somewhere behind Fred, actually whispered “Oh no.”

Because they all heard it.

That old version of him.

Defensive. Mocking. Threatened.

Fred saw your shoulders pull back slightly. Saw the warmth disappear from your face. And the self-loathing hit immediately.

For one awful second nobody spoke.

Then Fred exhaled sharply through his nose and looked down at the snow-covered ground. When he spoke again, his voice sounded quieter.

“…That was unfair.”

You blinked once.

Fred rubbed a hand over the back of his neck roughly before forcing himself to continue.

“He was being nice.” A frustrated exhale. “And I turned it into something ugly because I got jealous.”

Silence.

Fred looked at Cedric briefly then back at you.

“I’m sorry.”

No joke after it. No excuse. No: you know how I am.

Just sorry.

You stared at him like you genuinely didn’t know what to do with this version of Fred Weasley.

Fred laughed once softly under his breath, shaking his head a little. “Merlin, this emotional growth thing is exhausting.”

That finally made you smile again and Fred looked so relieved by it that something in your chest hurt. Because this time he’d chosen fixing the damage over protecting his pride.

Fred spent the next three days aggressively pretending he was not waiting for you outside classes.

Which would’ve been far more convincing if he wasn’t always there.

Leaning against walls. Spinning his wand between his fingers. Looking unbearably pleased the second you appeared.

“You know stalking is illegal,” you informed him one afternoon.

Fred fell into step beside you immediately. “Good thing this is romantic devotion then.”

“You followed me from Charms.”

“I happened to also be leaving Charms.”

“You don’t take Charms with seventh years.”

Fred paused.

“…Details.”

You laughed despite yourself.

Fred looked ridiculously victorious about it. Honestly, he was becoming impossible.

As you walked through the corridor together, Fred glanced sideways at you.

“You laughed at three of my jokes today.”

“I pity you.”

“Interesting,” Fred nodded thoughtfully. “Personally I think we’re reconnecting spiritually.”

You rolled your eyes.

Fred beamed like he’d won something anyway.

God. You missed him.

The realization hit hard enough to make your chest ache.

Because this version of Fred the one trying, the one paying attention, the one learning was unfairly easy to fall for.

Again.

Maybe worse than before.

That evening the common room was unusually quiet. Rain tapped softly against the windows while most of Gryffindor worked on homework or pretended to.

You sat curled into the corner of the sofa with a book in your lap when Fred appeared beside you carrying two mugs.

“One of these is tea,” he informed you solemnly. “The other is a scientifically concerning amount of melted chocolate.”

You looked up slowly. “Which one is mine?”

Fred handed you the tea immediately.

“See?” he said proudly, dropping onto the sofa beside you. “Growth.”

Your mouth twitched.

Fred relaxed deeper into the cushions at the sight of it.

For a while neither of you spoke. You read. Fred pretended to read while actually watching you over the top of his book every thirty seconds.

“You keep staring.”

“You keep being pretty. We all have our burdens.”

You snorted softly into your tea.

Fred grinned immediately.

Rain thundered softly outside as silence settled between you again. Comfortable this time. Dangerously comfortable.

Then quietly you asked “Why now?” You kept your eyes on the mug in your hands as you continued softly “Why are you trying this hard now?”

The question hit him harder than expected.

Fred looked down at his hands for a second. When he spoke again, his voice sounded quieter than usual. Less performed.

“I think…” He exhaled softly. “I liked loving you when it was easy.”

Your chest tightened instantly.

Fred gave a small humorless laugh.

“You always forgave me. Always came back.” He glanced at you briefly. “So eventually I stopped realizing how much I was asking you to carry for us.”

Fred swallowed once before continuing.

“And losing you…” His jaw tightened faintly. “That finally scared me enough to notice.”

You stared at him silently. Because every single thing he was saying now, you had wanted him to understand for so long.

Fred looked at you carefully then. “I think,” he admitted softly, “I got too comfortable being loved by you.”

That one nearly shattered you.

Fred saw emotion flicker across your face and immediately softened.

“You spent so much time fighting for us,” he murmured. “And I think I just assumed you always would.”

Your eyes burned suddenly.

Fred noticed immediately and panicked on instinct.

“Oh no,” he muttered softly. “You’re doing the eye thing.”

You laughed weakly despite yourself, looking away quickly.

Fred’s expression melted with relief at the sound. Then gentler this time “Hey.”

You looked back at him.

Fred was already watching you with that unbearably soft expression that only ever existed when nobody else was paying attention.

“I’m gonna spend a very long time making that up to you.”

Your heartbeat stumbled badly.

Because the terrifying part?

You believed him.

For the next week, Hogwarts became painfully aware that something strange was happening between you and Fred Weasley again.

Except this time it wasn’t explosive.

No screaming matches. No dramatic makeups against corridor walls. No public flirting so aggressive it made first years uncomfortable.

Instead it was little things. The sort of things that somehow felt far more intimate.

Fred carrying your bag without mentioning it.

You absentmindedly fixing his crooked tie before class.

Fred saving you the last treacle tart at dinner because he remembered they were your favorite.

The way you both automatically looked for each other in crowded rooms again.

It was subtle enough that nobody could technically call it getting back together.

But also obvious enough that Angelina finally slammed her book shut dramatically in the common room one evening.

“Oh for God’s sake.”

You looked up from your homework. “What?”

“This,” she gestured violently between you and Fred, who sat beside you repairing one of your broken quills. “Whatever this terrifyingly soft thing is.”

Fred looked offended. “I’m always soft.”

Angelina ignored him completely.

“You two are literally one emotional conversation away from becoming unbearable again.”

Fred looked thoughtful. “That’s actually the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”

You laughed quietly into your sleeve.

Fred immediately looked over. Completely distracted. Like your laugh still had the ability to derail his entire nervous system.

Angelina saw it happen and physically gagged. “Oh, this is disgusting now.”

Later that night, you found Fred alone in the Astronomy Tower.

Wind pushed softly through the open arches while the castle slept beneath you in scattered golden lights.

Fred looked up when he heard footsteps.

The second he saw you, his entire expression changed automatically.

Warmer.

Softer.

Yours. Always yours.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” he murmured.

“So are you.”

Fred shrugged one shoulder lightly before looking back out over the grounds.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then quietly:

“George told me you come up here when you’re thinking too much.”

Fred snorted softly. “Traitor.”

You stepped beside him at the railing.

Cold night air brushed your face gently.

Fred immediately noticed and, without even thinking about it anymore, took off his jumper and handed it to you.

Your chest tightened stupidly at how natural that gesture had become for him now.

“You know,” you murmured while pulling it on, “you’re making this very difficult.”

Fred glanced sideways at you. “Good difficult or bad difficult?”

“…Both.”

That earned the smallest smile from him.

Silence settled again but it wasn’t heavy anymore. It felt like standing on the edge of something.

Then Fred spoke quietly. “I meant what I said before. About fixing things properly this time.”

Your heartbeat picked up immediately.

Fred looked strangely nervous now.

“I know I can’t just say sorry and expect everything to magically go back to normal.” He rubbed the back of his neck once. “And I know I probably don’t deserve another chance yet.”

The word yet did something dangerous to your chest again.

“But,” Fred continued softer now, “if you ever decide you want to try again…” His eyes found yours carefully. “I want to do it right this time.”

There it was again.

That awful, genuine honesty.

No performance. No charm. No manipulation.

Just him.

And somehow that version of Fred Weasley was the one capable of completely undoing you.

Your eyes dropped briefly to his mouth before you could stop yourself.

Fred noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

His breathing changed slightly.

The air between you shifted instantly.

You hated how easy this still was.

One step.

That was all it would take.

Fred’s gaze lowered to your lips too.

Then slowly lifted back to your eyes.

Waiting.

Always waiting lately.

Giving you room to choose.

And that more than anything was what finally broke your resolve.

You stepped closer first.

Fred actually stopped breathing.

Your hand slid softly against the side of his neck.

Warm skin. Messy hair. Familiar.

Fred looked completely wrecked already. Like this was taking every ounce of self-control he had.

“You’re staring again,” you whispered.

Fred’s laugh came out shaky.

“You’re very distracting.”

Your forehead brushed lightly against his.

Fred’s hand lifted slowly like he wanted to touch you but was still asking permission even now.

Your heart nearly gave out at that alone.

So quietly, very quietly you whispered “Kiss me, Fred.”

The sound he made was genuinely devastating.

Fred kissed you carefully at first. Like he was afraid too much force would ruin the moment. And somehow that nearly destroyed you more than his usual confidence ever had.

His hand slid gently against your waist. Your fingers tangled into his hair immediately. The cold night air disappeared completely.

Because kissing Fred Weasley still felt like fire.

But this time, for the first time it didn’t feel unstable.

It felt chosen.

When Fred pulled back slightly, his forehead stayed against yours while both of you tried remembering how breathing worked.

Then softly, almost helplessly “I missed you so much.”

Your chest ached instantly.

You smiled against his mouth slightly. “I know.”

Fred laughed quietly under his breath before kissing you again slower this time.

Warmer. Certain.

And somewhere far below the tower George Weasley looked up toward the Astronomy staircase, saw neither of you downstairs, and sighed deeply into his butterbeer.

“Oh thank God,” he muttered. “They finally figured it out.”

Temporary — (Part 2)

Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: Breakups with Fred Weasley had always been temporary.

Fred Weasley was completely certain you’d come back to him. Until you didn’t.

Now suddenly you’re spending your time with Cedric Diggory, avoiding Fred like he’s the problem for once — which, annoyingly enough, he might actually be. What starts as jealousy and wounded ego slowly turns into something much worse: realization.

And for the first time in his life, Fred stops trying to win you back with flirting, charm, and reckless kisses… and starts trying to deserve you instead.

Warnings: Romance / Emotional Angst / Jealousy / Emotional Slow Burn / Mild suggestiveness

The worst part was that you stopped reacting.

That was what truly started ruining Fred Weasley’s week.

Not Cedric Diggory. Not the breakup. Not even the fact half of Gryffindor Tower had apparently become emotionally invested in your new love life.

It was you.

Because usually when Fred provoked you, something happened.

You rolled your eyes. Snapped back. Started an argument. Kissed him to shut him up.

Something.

But now?

Nothing.

And it was beginning to drive him completely insane.

“You’re staring again,” George informed him lazily over breakfast.

Fred tore his eyes away from the Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff side of the Great Hall immediately.

“I’m not.”

“You look like you want Diggory dead.”

Fred took a sip of pumpkin juice calmly.

Across the Hall, Cedric leaned closer to say something to you.

You laughed softly.

Fred’s jaw tightened before he could stop it.

George noticed instantly.

“Oh, wow,” he breathed. “You’re down horrendous.”

Fred scoffed loudly. “Please.”

“You’re one rejected hug away from becoming a supervillain.”

Lee snorted violently into his drink.

Fred ignored both of them completely. Because honestly? This had stopped being funny days ago.

At first he’d thought you were trying to prove a point. Then he assumed you were dragging things out for dramatic effect.

Now Fred genuinely couldn’t tell what was happening anymore.

Which he hated.

Fred liked knowing things.

Especially when it came to you.

And the fact he suddenly couldn’t read you properly anymore made something ugly twist in his stomach.

Still—

he refused to panic.

That afternoon, Fred found you in the common room sitting beside Angelina with a parchment spread across your lap. Without hesitation, he dropped directly onto the sofa beside you despite the several completely empty chairs nearby.

His thigh pressed against yours immediately.

You didn’t move away.

Fred relaxed slightly.

“There you are,” he said casually.

You continued writing. “Hello, Fred.”

Too calm.

Fred hated that tone now.

Angelina looked between both of you once before immediately standing. “Nope,” she announced. “I’m leaving before this becomes emotionally embarrassing.”

Fred smirked faintly. “Smart girl.”

The second Angelina disappeared upstairs, Fred leaned sideways slightly, trying to peek at your parchment.

“What’re you writing?”

“Homework.”

“That looks disgusting.”

“It’s Ancient Runes.”

“Exactly.”

You almost smiled.

Fred caught it instantly and immediately grinned wider. He nudged your leg lightly with his own.

“You know,” he murmured, “you’re being very dramatic lately.”

You didn’t even look up. “You broke up with me.”

“Yes, but historically that’s never stopped you before.”

That finally made you glance at him.

Fred smiled immediately.

And Merlin, he missed your attention.

“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered.

“And yet deeply attractive.”

Your eyes rolled automatically.

Fred brightened slightly at that.

Finally. A reaction.

So naturally he pushed farther.

“You ignored me all morning,” he complained lightly. “Honestly, darling, it’s getting hurtful.”

“I was in class.”

“With Diggory.” Fred said his name like it physically offended him.

You calmly dipped your quill back into ink. “Yes.”

Fred watched you for a second too long.

Then casually—

far too casually—

he reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Your hand froze slightly against the parchment.

Fred noticed immediately.

His expression softened into something quieter. More dangerous.

“You know,” he murmured, leaning closer now, “I liked you better when you were obsessed with me.”

Your heartbeat betrayed you instantly.

Fred saw it. Of course he did.

And that stupid confident grin returned immediately.

But then, quietly, without looking at him you said “I think that’s the problem, Fred.”

And somehow that hit harder than yelling ever could.

Fred stared at you for a second longer than necessary.

Still smiling.

But weaker now.

Because he didn’t entirely understand why that sentence bothered him so much.

You dipped your quill back into ink again like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t just quietly dismantled something inside his chest.

“Oh, come on,” he scoffed lightly, leaning back against the sofa.

You continued writing.

Fred watched your face carefully now.

Waiting.

Normally by this point you’d be arguing with him. Or glaring. Or kissing him.

Anything.

Instead you just looked… tired. And he hated that expression on you.

He nudged your foot lightly beneath the table.

“No more silent treatment,” he decided casually. “I’m bored now.”

That finally earned you a small laugh.

Tiny. Brief.

But real.

Fred’s entire face brightened automatically.

“There she is,” he repeated immediately, grinning now.

You shook your head softly to yourself and stood before he could keep going.

Fred blinked once. “Where are you going?”

“Library.”

“With who?”

You looked at him flatly.

Fred paused.

“…Right. Stupid question.”

You slid your parchment against your chest before stepping around the sofa.

Fred’s hand caught your wrist gently before you could leave. Not enough to stop you. Just enough to keep you there for one extra second.

His thumb brushed once against your skin.

“You know he’s boring, right?” Fred asked lightly.

You looked down at his hand on your wrist.

Then back at him.

“He’s kind.”

The answer came so simply. So honestly. And for some reason that irritated Fred far more than it should have.

Because kindness was difficult to compete with when your entire personality was built around chaos.

Fred covered the feeling instantly with a crooked smile.

“I can be kind.”

You raised an eyebrow slowly.

Fred pointed vaguely. “Sometimes.”

That almost made you smile again.

Almost.

But then you gently pulled your wrist free from his hand and walked away.

Fred watched you disappear through the portrait hole before leaning back heavily into the sofa cushions.

George appeared beside him seconds later holding two butterbeers.

“You look ill.”

“I’m fine.”

Fred stared toward the portrait hole.

Still gone.

Still not coming back.

And somehow that tiny fact was beginning to feel worse every single day.

“She called him kind,” Fred muttered eventually.

George blinked once. “…That’s what upset you?”

Fred looked personally offended. “Yes.”

“Not the dating?”

“That’s obviously horrific,” Fred snapped. “But kind?” He frowned deeply now. “What am I supposed to do with kind?”

George looked at him for a long moment.

Then:

“Have you tried not emotionally exhausting her for five minutes?”

Fred stared at him.

“That felt targeted.”

“It was targeted.”

Fred groaned loudly and dropped his head backward against the sofa.

Because annoyingly enough—

George might actually have a point.

And that was beginning to become a very serious problem.

Fred found you again two days later. Not on purpose. At least that was what he told himself.

In reality, he’d started noticing where you sat now. What routes you took between classes. Which corners of the castle you liked when you wanted quiet.

Which was slightly concerning behavior, according to George.

Fred personally considered it romantic dedication.

“You’re staring again,” George muttered as they crossed the courtyard.

“I’m observing.”

“You look one inconvenience away from challenging Diggory to a duel.”

Fred scoffed. “I could take him.”

“That’s not the worrying part.”

Across the courtyard, you sat beneath one of the stone archways with a book open in your lap while Cedric leaned beside you talking quietly.

Nothing dramatic.

No flirting. No kissing.

And somehow that was worse because you looked comfortable.

Fred watched as Cedric adjusted the scarf around your shoulders after the wind picked up.

Small gesture. Easy. Natural.

And suddenly Fred remembered every time you’d stolen his jumpers because he never noticed when you were cold. The realization sat unpleasantly in his stomach.

Because he knew you better than anyone.

He knew how you looked half asleep, how you laughed when you truly forgot yourself, exactly where to kiss you to make you stop arguing.

But somewhere along the way— he’d started assuming that was enough.

Fred looked away abruptly.

“You alright?”

Fred was quiet for a second too long. Which alone was alarming.

Then eventually “…I think I made her tired.”

George blinked once.

Well. That was new.

Fred shoved both hands into his pockets now, jaw tightening faintly. “Every time we fought,” he muttered, “I just assumed we’d fix it eventually.”

“You always did.”

“Yeah.” Fred laughed once softly, humorless this time. “Think that might’ve been the problem.”

George stared at his twin carefully now.

Because this? This was different. Not jealous. Not cocky. Not Fred laughing off another breakup.

This sounded dangerously close to guilt. And Fred Weasley almost never let himself feel guilty.

“She looked happier this week,” Fred admitted quietly.

George stayed silent because he knew Fred well enough to understand what that confession actually meant.

Not, I miss her.

Worse.

Maybe she’s happier without me.

Fred exhaled sharply through his nose and dragged a hand through his hair.

Then immediately tried recovering with a grin. “Still hate Diggory though.”

George barked out a laugh.

Fred smirked faintly, but it didn’t fully reach his eyes this time.

Because unfortunately—

for the first time since this entire disaster started—

Fred wasn’t thinking about winning.

He was thinking about fixing it. So Fred Weasley decided three things immediately after that conversation:

One: he hated Cedric Diggory.

Two: George was becoming unbearably wise lately.

And three—

he was absolutely not losing you to a bloke whose greatest personality trait was emotional stability.

Which meant: new strategy.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, Fred’s version of emotional growth still looked slightly deranged.

“You’re plotting,” George said suspiciously the next morning.

Fred looked up from where he was aggressively scribbling something onto parchment.

“I’m apologizing.”

George blinked once. “…Why are you holding a dungbomb?”

Fred slowly lowered the dungbomb into his lap. “That’s unrelated.”

Lee leaned over the back of the sofa immediately. “No, no— let him continue. I want to hear this.”

Fred ignored both of them because he was too busy staring down at the parchment in front of him.

It had started as an apology letter.

Started.

Now it mostly looked like evidence from a psychological evaluation.

Lines crossed out violently. Ink blots everywhere. One accidental burn mark.

George picked it up carefully. “Oh, this is horrible.”

Fred snatched it back instantly. “I’m trying to be emotionally vulnerable.”

“You compared yourself to a kneazle in heat.”

“It made sense in context.”

“It absolutely did not.”

Fred groaned and dropped backward dramatically across the sofa cushions.

Because this was impossible.

Flirting with you? Easy.

Making you laugh? Easier.

Sneaking you into his bed at two in the morning? Practically a talent.

But apologizing properly?

No wonder people avoided emotional conversations.

Fred rubbed both hands down his face before sitting upright again.

“Okay,” he announced firmly. “New plan.”

George looked frightened already. “That sentence never ends well.”

“I’m going to prove I can be kind.”

Lee immediately burst out laughing.

Fred looked offended. “I can.”

“Name one time.”

Fred opened his mouth.

Paused.

“…irrelevant.”

George stared at him for a long moment before sighing.

“You know,” he said carefully, “if you actually want her back, maybe stop trying to win every conversation.”

Fred frowned. “I’m not trying to win.”

All three boys looked at him.

Fred frowned deeper. “…Am I?”

“Yes,” George, Lee and Kenneth answered simultaneously.

That shut him up for exactly three seconds.

“Well,” Fred muttered eventually, “that’s deeply upsetting information.”

George snorted softly.

Then his expression softened slightly.

“Fred.”

“What?”

“If you go near her again just to flirt and confuse her, I’m throwing you out a window.”

Fred looked personally attacked. “I’m capable of sincerity.”

“You wink during arguments.”

“That’s because I’m charming.”

“That’s because you’re emotionally damaged.”

Lee made a choking noise somewhere in the background.

Fred ignored him.

Mostly because George’s words had landed far more accurately than he wanted them to.

Because the horrible part was—

you hadn’t looked angry lately.

You’d looked done.

And suddenly Fred realized those were two very different things.

That thought followed him all day.

Through classes. Through lunch. Through Quidditch practice.

Until eventually that evening—

he found himself outside the library.

Again.

Not because he expected to see you.

Just because lately every thought in his brain somehow ended there anyway.

Fred shoved his hands into his pockets as he wandered down the corridor—

then stopped immediately.

Because there you were.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor between library shelves with books scattered around you while Cedric sat beside you saying something quietly enough that Fred couldn’t hear.

You laughed softly.

Cedric smiled at you like seeing you happy was enough.

And annoyingly—

really annoyingly—

Fred could suddenly understand why people liked him.

The realization was so unpleasant Fred almost left.

Almost.

Then you glanced up.

And spotted him standing there.

Your smile faded slightly.

Not cruelly. Not awkwardly.

Just carefully.

Like you didn’t know what version of Fred Weasley was about to walk toward you this time.

And for the first time in his life—

Fred hated being that predictable.

For a second, nobody moved.

Cedric noticed him first because apparently Cedric Diggory was observant now too, which felt deeply unnecessary.

He looked between you and Fred once before closing the book in his lap.

“I should probably return these before Madam Pince starts threatening students again,” he said lightly.

Fred waited for the usual possessive tension. The awkwardness. The challenge.

Instead Cedric simply stood, rested a hand briefly against the top of your head in the softest, most casual gesture imaginable and left.

Fred hated how much that bothered him.

Because it wasn’t showing off.

It wasn’t territorial.

It was comfortable.

Like Cedric didn’t feel threatened by him at all. That alone nearly caused Fred spiritual damage.

The silence stretched slightly after he disappeared around the shelf.

“You’re staring again,” you said quietly.

Fred blinked once before automatically replying, “You’re still pretty.”

The corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. That tiny almost-smile still felt like winning the lottery.

Fred relaxed a little at the sight of it, leaning one shoulder against the bookshelf beside you.

“Well,” he sighed dramatically, “this is already going better than our last conversation.”

You closed the book in your lap carefully. “What do you want, Fred?”

Normally he would’ve answered instantly.

Something flirtatious. Annoying. Easy.

Instead he surprised both of you by saying the truth.

“You.”

The word landed softly between you.

No grin. No joke after it.

Just honest.

Your expression shifted slightly at that.

Fred noticed immediately and continued before he lost the nerve.

“Okay, look,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck once, “George says I emotionally exhaust you.”

You stared at him.

“…George said that?”

“Word for word, actually. Very hurtful experience.”

A tiny laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Fred’s entire face brightened automatically.

“There she is.”

You shook your head softly. “You can’t flirt your way out of every serious conversation.”

“I know.”

That answer came too fast.

Too sincere.

And suddenly you looked at him properly for the first time in days.

Fred swallowed once.

“I know I’m annoying,” Fred admitted finally.

You raised an eyebrow slowly. “That’s a strong opening.”

Fred huffed a laugh.

“But I think…” He paused briefly, searching for words he clearly hated having to say out loud. “I think somewhere along the way I stopped noticing when things were actually hurting you.”

The silence after that felt enormous.

Fred kept going anyway.

Which honestly might’ve been the bravest thing he’d ever done.

“I kept thinking we were us, so everything would work itself out eventually.” He glanced down briefly before looking back at you again. “And maybe I got too comfortable with the idea that you’d always stay.”

Your chest tightened painfully at that.

Because finally— finally—

he understood.

Fred saw something shift in your expression and immediately stepped closer instinctively.

Not cocky this time. Not teasing.

Careful.

“I’m not good at this,” he admitted quietly. “At serious talks. At… whatever this is.” A weak grin flickered briefly. “Usually I just kiss you until you stop being angry.”

“That’s part of the problem.”

“I know.”

Again too quick. Too honest.

And somehow that affected you more than any flirting ever had.

Fred looked at you for another long second before speaking again, softer this time.

“I don’t want to keep hurting you.”

That one nearly broke you.

Because Fred never said things like that.

For a second neither of you moved.

The library suddenly felt far too quiet.

Fred stood in front of you looking strangely stripped down without all his usual dramatics protecting him.

And somehow that version of him felt far more dangerous.

Your chest tightened painfully.

Because this this was what you’d wanted.

Not the flirting. Not the games. Not the jealousy.

This.

Him finally understanding.

Fred watched something flicker across your face and immediately softened.

Like he knew.

Slowly, carefully he stepped closer.

You could hear your own heartbeat now.

Fred’s eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting again. And that look alone nearly ruined you. Because he wanted to kiss you.

You could see it all over him.

In the tension in his jaw. The way his fingers flexed at his sides. The way he leaned toward you instinctively before stopping himself.

But he stayed where he was.

And somehow that restraint affected you more than if he’d touched you at all.

“Fred…” you whispered.

His expression nearly broke at the sound of your voice like that.

“I know,” he murmured softly.

Another step closer.

Now barely inches separated you.

You hated how badly you still wanted him.

How easy it would’ve been to fall right back into him.

Fred saw it happening too.

Saw the exact second your resolve weakened.

And for once—

instead of taking advantage of it—

his face softened with something almost painful.

“I miss you too,” he admitted quietly.

That did it.

Before you could stop yourself, your hand lifted slowly toward his face.

Fred leaned into the touch automatically.

Eyes closing for half a second.

Like he’d missed this just as badly.

Your thumb brushed lightly against his cheek.

And suddenly the space between you felt unbearable.

Fred opened his eyes again.

Looked at your mouth.

Then back at you.

You moved first.

Barely.

Just enough for him to know.

And Fred—

Fred almost kissed you.

God, he almost did.

You actually saw the moment his self-control snapped.

His hand moved toward your waist automatically. His body leaned closer. His breathing caught.

Then suddenly—

he stopped himself.

Actually stopped.

Fred shut his eyes briefly like it physically hurt.

Then slowly stepped back.

You stared at him in shock.

Fred laughed once softly under his breath, but there was no humor in it.

“See?” he murmured. “That’s usually where I make everything worse.”

Your heart stumbled painfully.

“Fred…”

“No.” He shook his head gently, forcing himself another half step backward despite the fact his eyes still looked completely wrecked by you. “Not like this.”

You looked genuinely confused now.

And somehow that made him smile faintly.

Small. Crooked. Sad.

“I don’t want to kiss you just because I finally said the right thing.”

The words hit hard.

Fred shoved one hand through his hair roughly before continuing quieter now.

“I’ve done that before.” His eyes held yours steadily. “I say something charming, kiss you against a wall, make you forget why you were angry…” A weak exhale. “And then we end up right back here again.”

The honesty in his voice nearly shattered you completely.

Because Fred Weasley never admitted things like that.

Never.

But now he looked terrified of repeating the same mistake.

And somehow that hurt worse than any breakup ever had.

Fred’s gaze softened when he saw your expression.

“I want to do this properly this time.”

Your throat tightened painfully.

“Since when do you do anything properly?”

That finally made him grin a little. “There she is.”

You laughed softly through the emotion building in your chest.

Fred looked at you like hearing that sound again might actually save his life. Then quieter: “I know I don’t deserve another chance yet.”

The word yet nearly destroyed you.

Because he still wanted one.

Still wanted you.

“But if I get one,” Fred murmured carefully, “I want it because you trust me again.”

Your eyes burned suddenly.

And Fred noticed immediately.

Which meant naturally his expression shifted into panic.

“Oh no,” he muttered softly. “Please don’t cry. I’m emotionally unequipped for that.”

A laugh escaped you despite yourself.

Fred relaxed slightly at the sound.

Then—

footsteps.

Both of you looked up automatically as Cedric reappeared at the end of the aisle carrying two books beneath one arm.

His eyes moved between you and Fred once.

Cedric’s gaze lingered briefly on Fred. Then calmly: “Am I interrupting something?”

Fred looked at you first before answering.

And whatever Cedric saw on his face then made something shift quietly in his own expression too.

Because for the first time since this entire disaster started—

Fred Weasley didn’t look like someone trying to win.

He looked like someone genuinely trying to deserve you.

If you're ready for more… ✨ head to Part III:

💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · Temporary — (Part 3) The last one · Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader Summary: Breakups with Fred Weasley had always been

Temporary — (Part 1)

Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: Breakups with Fred Weasley had always been temporary.

A slammed door. A bruised ego. A few days of silence before one of you inevitably came back.

So when you tell Fred you’ve started seeing someone else, he laughs.

Right up until he realizes you’re serious.

Warnings: Romance / Angst with Humour / Jealousy / Emotional Slow Burn / Suggestive / Mild Smut

Breakups with Fred Weasley had become so common that by fifth year, most of Gryffindor treated them like weather conditions.

Loud. Temporary. And usually resolved within twenty-four hours.

At this point, people barely reacted anymore. Because somehow despite the jealousy, the arguments, the slammed doors, the absolutely catastrophic communication skills... you and Fred always found your way back to each other.

Usually through excessive flirting and poor decision making.

Which was why when the boys’ dormitory door slammed open with a bang loud enough to shake dust from the ceiling.

“Honestly?” Fred snapped, storming into the room. “I’m done. Finished. Dead. Romance has killed me.”

George didn’t look up from the Zonko’s catalogue in his lap.

“What’d you do?”

Fred looked scandalized. “Why is everyone immediately against me?”

Lee Jordan snorted from his bed. “Fred, come on.”

Fred ignored him completely, already pacing between the beds with sharp, annoyed energy.

“No, because tell me if this sounds fair to you lot,” he continued dramatically. “A girl asks me where the library is—”

George finally spoke without looking up. “First year?”

Fred frowned. “…No.”

“Second?”

“No, she was older.”

That made George pause for the first time. Slowly, he lowered the catalogue. “How old?”

Fred shrugged. “Fifth year maybe? Sixth? I don’t know.”

Silence.

“Fred,” Kenneth laughed from the corner of the room, “if she was sixth year, she’s been living here for nearly six years.”

Fred opened his mouth.

Paused.

Because annoyingly enough…

the girl had smiled quite a lot.

George saw the realization hit him and groaned softly into the catalogue.

“Oh, Y/N murdered you for this, didn’t she?”

“She overreacted,” Fred defended immediately.He dragged both hands through his hair now, properly irritated.

“I can’t do this anymore! Every conversation turns into ‘Why were you smiling like that?’, ‘Why’d you walk her there?’, ‘Why does every girl in this school look at you like that?’”

George raised an eyebrow. “To be fair, you do flirt with people accidentally.”

“I do NOT flirt with anyone.” Fred dropped dramatically onto his bed. “And THEN,” he continued loudly, “she starts going on about how I don’t take the relationship seriously—”

“You broke up with her, didn’t you?” George interrupted calmly.

Fred paused.

“…Maybe.”

Lee made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

“For God’s sake.”

Fred sat upright instantly. “No, because listen—what was I supposed to do? She keeps acting like I’m seconds away from running off with every girl who talks to me.”

George looked unimpressed.

“You did walk a random girl to the library.”

“She asked.”

“She was flirting.”

“I was being NICE.”

“You’re always being nice,” Lee informed him. “That’s the problem.”

Fred stared at all of them in disbelief.

“This room is unbelievable.”

George snorted quietly and picked the catalogue back up again.

“So,” he said casually, “how long before you go crawling back downstairs?”

Fred looked offended. “I do not crawl.”

“Right. You lean against walls and flirt until she forgives you.”

Fred considered this. “…That’s completely different.”

Lee laughed again.

Fred smirked faintly now, irritation already fading from his face.

Because honestly?

This was how things worked.

You fought. He said something dramatic. You ignored each other for a bit. Then eventually one of you cracked.

Usually him.

And judging by the way George was already turning another page like none of this mattered. Everyone else knew it too.

Fred grabbed the nearest pillow and shoved it behind his head comfortably.

“She’ll get over it by tomorrow.”

Across the castle, the girls’ dormitory door flew open with equal force.

“I hate him.”

Angelina didn’t even blink.

You stared at her in disbelief. “Did you hear me?”

“What did he do?” Angelina asked, not even looking up from her nails.

You threw your bag onto your mattress hard enough to make the curtains shake. “He thinks I’m overreacting.”

Angelina hummed. “Mhm.”

Your jaw dropped. “This is serious!”

“That’s what you said last time,” Alicia pointed out.

“And the time before that,” Katie added.

“That is NOT the point!” You groaned loudly and dropped onto your bed. “And then,” you muttered into your pillow, “he says maybe we should stop doing this altogether if I’m going to keep acting mental every time he talks to another girl.”

That finally got a reaction.

Mostly because all three girls exchanged the exact same look.

Not shocked.

Just Ah. Another breakup.

Angelina went back to painting her nails. “So,” she asked casually, “how long are we giving this one?”

Katie answered immediately. “Tomorrow.”

“Saturday at worst,” Alicia agreed.

The girls laughed softly.

Normally, you would’ve laughed too.

Because usually they were right.

Usually Fred would appear beside you with that stupid grin, flirt until you forgot why you were angry, kiss you against a wall somewhere and suddenly everything would be fine again.

Again.

But this time instead of comforting you the whole thing just made you tired.

You sat up slowly.

“No,” you said quietly.

You looked down at your hands for a second before continuing“No, because this isn’t normal anymore.”

The room went quiet.

You laughed once softly, but there wasn’t much humor in it.

“We break up every other week and everyone just…” You gestured vaguely around the room. “Waits for us to get back together again.”

And suddenly the words spilled out before you could stop them.

“He doesn’t even care when he says it anymore.”

Nobody interrupted you.

Because deep down they all knew exactly what you meant.

Fred always came back. Fred always flirted. Fred always kissed you like he couldn’t survive without you.

But somehow he’d also become completely certain you’d never really leave.

Like no matter what he said in the heat of an argument, you’d still be there afterward.

Still his.

Still waiting.

The thought made something twist painfully in your chest.

You swallowed hard before looking up again.

“Well,” you said finally, quieter this time, “this time he’s going to regret it.”

You grabbed your pajamas and stood.

“This time,” you repeated, “Fred Weasley’s actually going to understand what breaking up means.”

And for the first time all evening none of the girls laughed.

The next morning, you avoided Fred Weasley with military precision.

At first, Fred found it funny.

By Thursday, even George had stopped asking questions.

By Friday, Lee started a betting pool. “Ten sickles says they’re back together by Sunday.”

“Too optimistic,” Angelina muttered from nearby.

Fred smirked from the sofa. “She misses me already, I guarantee it.”

And maybe part of him even believed that.

Because despite everything you and Fred always came back to each other.

Always.

Which was why the second week felt…strange. Because now people had started noticing.

Noticing you never sat together anymore, Fred stopped automatically saving the seat beside him, you no longer looked at each other across the room.

Even the common room felt different somehow.

Quieter.

People started exchanging looks. Like maybe this breakup had lasted slightly too long to still be funny.

Fred noticed it too.

Of course he did.

But every time George asked if he was finally going to talk to you properly, Fred shrugged casually.

“She just needs time.”

Fred knew you.

So when he spotted you alone outside the library late that afternoon and immediately changed direction. You were sitting on the wide stone windowsill with a book in your lap, completely focused.

Fred grinned faintly to himself.

He missed you.

Which was exactly why he walked straight over and dropped beside you like he belonged there.

Because in his mind? He still did.

Fred leaned sideways slightly, trying to read the page.

“Merlin,” he groaned, “this looks painfully boring.”

A tiny smile flickered at the corner of your mouth before disappearing again.

Fred saw it instantly.

And relaxed.

He smiled faintly to himself and nudged your knee gently with his.

Now that you were finally sitting beside him again, everything felt stupidly fixable.

So naturally Fred leaned in to kiss you.

Only this time you pulled away before his lips could touch yours.

Fred froze for half a second. Then he laughed softly under his breath, recovering instantly.

“Alright,” he smirked faintly. “Still angry. Got it.”

“I’m not angry.”

“Terrifying, then.”

You closed your book slowly.

And something about that movement made Fred’s smile weaken just slightly.

Because you still looked calm.

No yelling. No jealousy. No dramatics.

That was new.

“Sweetheart,” Fred said lightly, “we’ve had worse fights than this.”

And quietly you answered. “That’s exactly the problem.”

Fred frowned faintly.

Before he could respond, you looked down at the book in your lap and shut it fully.

“I’m seeing someone.”

Fred blinked once, then laughed immediately.

Actually laughed.

“Oh, that’s brilliant.”

“I’m serious.”

Fred leaned back against the stone wall beside you with a crooked grin. “Love, if you wanted attention, you could’ve just said so.”

You just looked at him completely serious.

And Fred still relaxed, still certain, shook his head with quiet amusement. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I mean it, Fred.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

Fred snorted softly. “Come on Y/N. You’re telling me you suddenly found another boyfriend?”

“I didn’t say boyfriend.”

“Even worse,” Fred grinned. “Now I know you’re lying.”

You stood before he could say anything else, sliding your book against your chest.

Fred looked up at you, still completely unconcerned.

“You’ll talk to me eventually,” he informed you casually.

You held his gaze for a second.

Then:

“Maybe.”

And walked away.

Fred watched you disappear down the corridor before shaking his head softly to himself.

—

“She’s bluffing.”

“She sounded convincing?” Lee asked.

Fred sprawled further across the common room sofa, completely relaxed.

“She’s clearly trying to make me jealous,” he explained. “Which honestly? Fair enough.”

George hummed thoughtfully. “So how long until she forgives you?”

Fred shrugged lazily. “At this point? No idea. She’s dragging this out weirdly long.”

“Maybe she’s actually angry this time.”

“She’s always angry.”

Lee laughed into his drink.

Fred leaned back with a sigh. “And apparently now she’s invented some mystery bloke she’s seeing.”

Right then Angelina, walking past the sofa with Katie, stopped abruptly.

“You know,” she said casually, “it’s not invented.”

Fred barely looked up. “Mhm.”

Still relaxed.

Angelina folded her arms. “Y/N is actually seeing someone.”

Fred barked out a laugh. “Oh, please.”

“She is,” Katie added carefully.

Fred stared at both of them.

Then scoffed.

“No, she isn’t.”

“She spent all of yesterday in Hogsmeade with him,” Angelina replied.

Something flickered briefly across Fred’s face then.

Tiny.

Almost invisible.

“…Who?”

Katie and Angelina exchanged a quick glance.

Then Angelina answered:

“Cedric Diggory.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Fred snorted softly and leaned back into the sofa again, grin returning immediately.

“Oh, now I know she’s messing with me.”

“Fred—” George started.

“No, think about it,” Fred interrupted, laughing now. “Diggory? Really?”

“She’s serious,” Angelina informed him.

Fred waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

And the dangerous little smile that spread slowly across his face after that looked far too much like a challenge.

The next morning, Fred saw you before you saw him. And immediately wished he hadn’t.

You were crossing the courtyard beside Cedric Diggory, sunlight catching against your face while you laughed at something he’d said.

Cedric carried half your books under one arm effortlessly.

Fred slowed automatically.

The faint grin on his face twitched slightly, not disappearing completely, just… tightening.

George, walking beside him, noticed instantly.

Fred scoffed softly. “She’s dedicated, I’ll give her that.”

But his eyes stayed on you.

On the way you leaned closer to Cedric when he spoke.

On the way Cedric looked at you like he already knew things about you.

Fred hated that immediately.

Still he smiled lazily to himself. “Cute. Very cute.”

—

Later that evening, Fred finally found you alone.

About bloody time.

Because watching Cedric Diggory carry your books around all day like some tragic romantic hero was beginning to genuinely irritate him.

You had just turned the corner of an empty corridor when a familiar hand caught your waist from behind.

Warm. Certain.

“Found you,” he murmured against your ear.

Your breath caught instantly.

Fred smiled against your skin the second he felt it.

Before you could properly react, he gently pulled you backward against his chest, hands settling low on your hips like they belonged there.

“You shouldn’t do that anymore Fred.”

“Do what, love?”

“This.”

Fred’s fingers flexed lightly against your waist.

His voice turned teasing. “Touch my own girlfriend?”

“Ex-girlfriend.”

“Temporary title.”

You tried stepping away.

Fred only moved closer.

Not forcefully. Never forcefully.

Just naturally.

His chin brushed near your temple as he spoke again.

“You know,” he murmured thoughtfully, “Diggory carrying your books around all day was a bit much.”

You turned in his hold until you were facing him.

Fred still didn’t let go.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“No,” he corrected softly, eyes dragging slowly across your face, “I’m annoyed.”

You swallowed once.

Fred noticed immediately.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, leaning closer now, “can we stop this now?”

Your heartbeat was already betraying you. You hated that.

Hated how easy it still was for him.

Fred saw the hesitation flicker across your expression and stepped even closer.

Now there was barely space left between you.

“You know what I miss?” he asked quietly.

You should’ve walked away.

Instead “What?”

Fred’s eyes darkened slightly.

“This.”

One hand slid slowly higher along your waist before settling again.

“Having you this close.”

Your breath caught again.

Fred smiled faintly.

“And Merlin,” he whispered, “I miss your body.”

Heat rushed through you immediately.

Fred’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting again.

“Miss you sneaking into my room at stupid hours because apparently you ‘couldn’t sleep.’” His fingers traced lazily along your side. “Miss your legs tangled with mine at three in the morning.” Another inch closer. “Miss the way you look in my bed.”

“Fred—”

“No, come on,” he murmured softly. “You can’t honestly tell me you haven’t thought about it too.”

His mouth brushed near your ear again when he spoke next.

“Because I have.”

Your pulse stumbled badly now.

Fred noticed every second of it.

And grew more confident with each reaction.

“You know what I kept thinking all day?” he whispered.

You hated yourself for asking “What?”

Fred smiled slowly. “You,” he murmured, “me, my room…”

His fingers tightened slightly against your waist.

“…door locked.”

Fred leaned his forehead lightly against yours now, completely certain he was winning.

For one horrible second you almost broke, and Fred saw it. That familiar victorious look started creeping slowly across his face.

Until quietly you said: “I’m still seeing someone.”

Fred exhaled a soft laugh against your mouth. “Right. Diggory.”

“I mean it.”

“Sweetheart,” he murmured patiently, “you don’t have to keep doing this.”

You looked directly at him then.

Completely serious.

And slowly—

very slowly—

Fred’s smile weakened.

You stepped back this time.

And Fred let you.

“I’m not pretending, Fred.”

That landed somewhere far deeper than it should have.

But before he could answer—

you walked away again.

Leaving Fred standing alone in the corridor, staring after you for several long seconds.

And for the first time since this entire thing started—

Fred Weasley stopped looking certain.

If you're ready for more… ✨ head to Part II:

💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · Temporary — (Part 2) · Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader Summary: Breakups with Fred Weasley had always been temporary.

•18+ Adults Only

Watch Anya Live on Cam

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.

✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality

Anya is LIVE right now

FREE

Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming

Medically Necessary

Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: Fred and George Weasley need one final volunteer to help perfect their newest Skiving Snackbox invention.

Unfortunately for you, Fred takes his role as your “personal healer” far too seriously.

Especially when the antidote runs out.

Warnings: Slow burn / Soft smut / Suggestive themes / Suggestive scenes / Sensual kissing / Flirtatious teasing / Chaotic flirting / Poison candy experiments

The first sign that something was terribly wrong with Fred and George Weasley was the smell.

Not a dangerous smell, exactly.

Just… deeply concerning.

It drifted through the Gryffindor common room three days after everyone returned from summer holiday — thick curls of sugar and smoke and something strangely acidic, like burnt caramel mixed with potion fumes.

You looked up from your book just in time to see a first-year yelp as sparks exploded from his pocket.

The room erupted into laughter.

Fred Weasley leaned back against the sofa, entirely unapologetic. “Good news,” he announced. “Your trousers are now scientifically fireproof.”

“They’re smoking!”

“Temporary side effect.”

George, sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by parchment, scribbled something down. “Increase Flobberworm mucus stabilizer,” he muttered thoughtfully. “Noted.”

The common room had slowly transformed into the twins’ personal laboratory since returning to Hogwarts. Every available surface was covered: parchment sketches, ingredient jars, half-finished sweets, violently colored smoke bombs, tiny labelled vials and experimental candies that looked deeply illegal.

Even Lee Jordan had stopped accepting random samples after one particularly unfortunate incident involving temporary purple teeth and uncontrolled hiccups.

You stepped over a pile of parchment carefully. “You know normal people spend the first week back studying.”

Fred looked up immediately at the sound of your voice.

“Well, that sounds tragically boring,” he said, sprawled lazily across the sofa. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, ink smudged across one hand, hair messier than usual from repeatedly tugging at it. “We’re innovators, sweetheart.”

George snorted. “That’s one word for it.”

Fred ignored him completely, eyes already fixed on you instead.

It was honestly irritating — the way he looked at people. Like every conversation was secretly amusing him. Like he knew exactly how to make someone flustered and enjoyed watching it happen in real time.

Unfortunately for you, Fred seemed to enjoy doing it to you most.

You crouched near the coffee table, eyeing a tray of suspiciously bright chocolates. “What are these supposed to do?”

Fred sat up. “Our masterpiece.”

“You eat one half,” George explained, holding up a dark piece of chocolate, “and it makes you properly ill—”

“Fever,” Fred added.

“Nosebleeds.”

“Fainting, if the dosage is right.”

“And then—” George held up the second half triumphantly, “—you take the antidote and recover immediately. Perfect for escaping lessons.”

You stared at them.

“…You’re actually insane.”

“Visionaries,” Fred corrected smoothly.

Before you could respond, a loud bang cracked through the room.

Ron doubled over coughing violently near the fireplace while green smoke poured from his mouth.

George sighed. “Too much peppermint.”

Fred, meanwhile, looked delighted.

Then his gaze flicked back toward you.

Slowly, a grin spread across his face.

Not his usual loud, mischievous grin.

This one was sharper. More interested.

“Oh, this is perfect.”

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “No.”

“I haven’t even said anything yet.”

“That’s because I know that look.”

Fred stood, brushing past the sofa toward you with infuriating confidence. “Come on, love. One tiny test.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’d be helping science.”

“You nearly poisoned Neville yesterday.”

“He survived.”

“Barely.”

Fred stopped directly in front of you now, close enough that the sugary smoke clinging to his jumper wrapped around you too.

You hated how distracting that was.

His smile softened slightly, becoming coaxing instead of teasing.

“Please?”

That was unfair.

Fred Weasley saying please should’ve been illegal.

You folded your arms, trying very hard not to react when he leaned down slightly to catch your eyes properly.

“What exactly does this one do?” you asked cautiously.

George looked at the parchment in his lap. “Mild fever. Bit dizzy. Maybe temporary weakness in the knees.”

Fred’s mouth twitched.

“Interesting symptom, that last one.”

You ignored him. “And the antidote works?”

“Eventually,” George said honestly.

Fred elbowed him. “Wonderful wording, George.”

You laughed despite yourself.

And Fred noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

Something warm sparked behind his eyes at the sound, quick and pleased, like he’d won something.

“There she is,” he murmured.

Your stomach flipped annoyingly.

George reached for one of the chocolates. “We still need proper dosage testing before we finalize the doxy venom ratio.”

“Doxy venom?” you repeated sharply.

Fred waved a hand. “Tiny amount.”

“How tiny?”

He pinched his fingers together. “Scientifically tiny.”

“That means nothing.”

“It means,” Fred said patiently, stepping even closer now, “that we need someone clever enough to report symptoms properly…”

His eyes dropped briefly to your lips before lifting again.

“…and brave enough not to panic.”

Oh, he was flirting now. Blatantly.

You should’ve walked away.

Instead, you lifted your chin. “And you think that’s me?”

Fred grinned instantly.

Knew he had you.

“I think,” he said slowly, “you’re far more dangerous than you look.”

Heat rushed into your face.

George made a disgusted noise. “Can you two either kiss or start the experiment? Some of us are trying to build an empire.”

Fred didn’t even glance away from you.

“So?” he asked softly.

You looked between the suspicious chocolate in George’s hand and Fred’s expectant expression.

This was a horrible idea.

Truly terrible.

Which was probably why you heard yourself say:

“…Fine.”

George looked far too pleased with himself.

“Excellent,” he announced, already digging through the mess of parchment scattered across the table. “I’ll start a fresh observation sheet.”

Fred, meanwhile, looked at you like Christmas had arrived early.

You pointed a warning finger at him immediately. “If I grow extra limbs, I’m haunting both of you.”

“No promises,” Fred said lightly. “Could be profitable.”

George shoved a small notebook into Fred’s chest. “You monitor symptoms.”

Fred caught it one-handed without looking away from you once.

“Oh, I intend to.”

That should not have sounded the way it did.

You sat carefully on the sofa while George began arranging ingredients with alarming enthusiasm. Tiny glass bottles clinked together. A jar labelled DOXY VENOM rattled ominously near the edge of the table.

You eyed it. “That does not look safe.”

Fred dropped down beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed lightly against yours. “Relax, sweetheart. We tested this already.”

“On who?”

A beat of silence.

Fred grinned.

Merlin, he was unbearable up close.

Without the chaos of the common room distracting you, every little thing about him became impossible to ignore.

The freckles scattered across his nose... The sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms... The way his voice dipped lower when speaking directly to you... The constant restless movement of his hands.

He looked completely at ease.

You, meanwhile, felt strangely aware of your own breathing.

George finally handed Fred a small chocolate square dusted with sugar.

“Version seventeen,” he declared proudly.

Fred examined it critically. “Smells less murderous.”

“Thank you.”

You eyed the chocolate suspiciously. “Why is it fizzing?”

“Character.”

“It’s not supposed to fizz?” you asked immediately.

Fred laughed under his breath.

“See? This is why you’re our favorite tester already.”

Your heart did an annoying little jump at favorite.

Before you could overthink it, Fred held the chocolate out toward you between his fingers.

“Open up.”

You stared at him.

He raised an eyebrow innocently.

“Oh, don’t start blushing now, love. We haven’t even begun.”

“I am not blushing.”

“You absolutely are.”

George gagged loudly from the table. “I miss when we were professional.”

Fred broke off a piece of the chocolate and handed it to you properly this time, still smiling to himself.

“Ready?”

Probably not.

You took a breath and popped it into your mouth.

The taste was surprisingly good at first—sweet honey and caramel melting on your tongue.

Then came the burning.

“Oh, Merlin—” you coughed.

Fred immediately leaned forward. “What?”

“It’s spicy!”

“That’s not supposed to happen,” George said alarmedly, flipping through notes.

Fred looked delighted. “Write that down.”

You swallowed hard, pressing a hand dramatically to your chest. “I think my organs are dissolving.”

“Interesting,” Fred murmured, already opening the notebook. “Subject reports dramatics.”

You snatched for the notebook immediately. “Give me that!”

Fred leaned back easily, laughing as you tried to grab it from him.

“Careful,” he warned, one hand catching your wrist before you could fall sideways into him. “Scientific process.”

His fingers stayed wrapped around your wrist a second longer than necessary.

Warm. Firm.

Your pulse stumbled traitorously beneath his touch.

And Fred felt it.

You saw the exact moment he noticed.

His eyes flicked downward briefly, amusement sharpening into something quieter. More focused.

“Well,” he said softly, thumb brushing once against your skin, “heart rate’s certainly elevated.”

Heat rushed straight to your face.

George looked up from the table. “Any dizziness yet?”

“Yes,” you said immediately, still looking at Fred. “Severe.”

Fred’s grin turned wicked.

“Oh, this is going to be fun.”

Unfortunately for you, the effects started working properly a few minutes later.

It began with warmth creeping slowly through your body.

Then your head felt oddly light.

You shifted against the sofa cushions. “Okay, maybe this one’s actually doing something.”

Fred instantly straightened.

“What kind of something?”

You pressed fingers to your temple. “Warm. Little dizzy.”

George perked up. “Perfect.”

Fred shot him a look. “Don’t say perfect like that.”

George rolled his eyes. “You’re the one who wanted stronger symptoms.”

“Yes, but preferably not fatal ones.”

“That’s reassuring,” you muttered weakly.

Fred’s attention snapped back to you immediately.

“Hey.” His voice softened slightly. “Look at me.”

You did.

Big mistake.

He was sitting even closer now, knees angled toward yours, notebook forgotten beside him as he studied your face carefully.

Not teasing this time. Actually studying you.

“How dizzy?” he asked quietly.

“Room’s spinning a little.”

Fred placed a hand lightly against your forehead.

His palm was cool. Your entire body reacted embarrassingly fast.

“Definitely feverish,” he murmured.

George scribbled furiously. “Excellent.”

“You are deeply weird people,” you informed them.

Fred smiled faintly, though his eyes stayed on you.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Probably.”

By the end of the week, testing became routine.

Which was probably concerning.

Every evening after dinner, the three of you disappeared into whatever empty classroom Fred and George had temporarily claimed as a laboratory. The tables were crowded with ingredients and parchment, potion stains spreading across the wood in suspicious colors.

George handled measurements.

Fred handled you.

At least, that was how it slowly started to feel.

“Version twenty-three,” George announced one night, sliding another sugar-dusted sweet across the table. “Reduced doxy venom. Stronger fever response.”

Fred took it automatically before you could reach for it yourself.

“Any side effects from the last batch?” he asked, flipping open his notebook.

You leaned back in your chair. “Temporary blindness.”

George looked horrified.

Fred barely glanced up. “She’s joking.”

“…I hate that you knew that immediately.”

He smirked slightly. “You get this little look before you lie.”

Your stomach flipped.

That was another problem lately: Fred had started noticing things.

Small things. Dangerous things.

Like when you were cold, when you were tired, when you were pretending not to stare at him, when his hand brushed yours and your breathing changed.

And unfortunately, Fred Weasley seemed deeply entertained by all of it.

“Open,” he said casually, holding the candy toward your mouth.

You narrowed your eyes. “You know I can feed myself.”

“Mm.” Fred tilted his head thoughtfully. “But where’s the fun in that?”

George made another disgusted noise from across the room. “I’m begging you both to act normal for ten seconds.”

Neither of you listened.

You leaned forward reluctantly, letting Fred place the candy onto your tongue.

His fingers brushed your lower lip deliberately on the way back.

Your eyes snapped to his instantly.

Fred’s expression remained perfectly innocent.

Bastard.

The candy fizzed sharply against your tongue.

“Immediate reaction?” Fred asked.

You swallowed carefully. “Nothing yet.”

He scribbled something down.

You tried to peek at the notebook. “What are you even writing in there?”

“Scientific observations.”

“You’re absolutely not.”

Fred looked offended. “How dare you question my integrity.”

You lunged for the notebook anyway.

He caught your waist immediately before you could reach it.

The movement was quick, instinctive— his hand spreading warm against your side as he pulled you back into your chair with effortless ease.

For one stupid second, neither of you moved.

Fred’s fingers tightened slightly.

Your breath caught.

And Fred noticed that too.

Of course he did.

His eyes flicked down to your mouth briefly before he released you slowly, smirking when your face heated.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You’re getting distracted again.”

George looked up from his parchment. “Honestly, just date already. This is exhausting.”

You grabbed the nearest quill and threw it at him.

Unfortunately, about fifteen minutes later, the experiment stopped being funny.

You were sitting on one of the desks swinging your legs absentmindedly while Fred asked questions from his notebook.

“Any nausea?”

“Little bit.”

“Dizziness?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Blurred vision?”

You squinted at him dramatically. “You’ve become strangely attractive all of a sudden.”

Fred barked out a laugh.

George gagged again. “I’m leaving. I can’t do this anymore.”

“You live for this,” Fred called after him.

The classroom door shut behind George, leaving the two of you alone for the first time all evening.

The silence shifted instantly.

Not awkward.

Just… closer.

Fred looked back down at his notes, though the corner of his mouth still twitched from laughing.

“You know,” he said casually, “you’re surprisingly good at this.”

“At poisoning myself?”

“At trusting us.”

You snorted softly. “That part still feels questionable.”

Fred hummed in agreement, then glanced back up at you.

The expression on his face changed slightly when he noticed you swaying a little where you sat.

His teasing faded almost immediately.

“Hey.”

You blinked slowly. “Hm?”

Fred stood, crossing the small distance between you in seconds.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” you said automatically.

Then the room tilted violently.

Your hand slipped against the edge of the desk.

Fred caught you before you could fall.

One arm wrapped firmly around your waist while the other steadied your shoulder, pulling you against him so quickly it knocked the breath from your lungs.

“Easy,” he said sharply.

The dizziness hit harder this time—hot and heavy beneath your skin.

You pressed instinctively closer to him.

Fred went very still.

“…Okay,” he muttered quietly, more to himself than you. “That’s new.”

Your forehead dropped briefly against his shoulder while the room spun.

Fred’s hand slid up your back carefully.

“Hey,” he said again, softer now. “Talk to me.”

You laughed weakly. “Think your science is trying to kill me.”

“That’s usually George’s department.”

Despite the joke, you could hear it: the tension creeping into his voice.

Real tension.

Fred guided you carefully onto one of the desks, standing between your knees while he checked your temperature again with the back of his hand.

His brows pulled together immediately.

“You’re burning up.”

“Dramatic wording,” you mumbled.

“You’re shivering.”

You hadn’t even realized that until he said it.

Fred’s expression sharpened immediately.

Not playful. Not teasing.

Focused.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Tell me exactly what you’re feeling.”

You tried to answer normally, but your head swam the second you lifted it. “Warm. Dizzy. My legs feel weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Weird as in I don’t think they work properly anymore.”

Fred swore softly under his breath.

That got your attention more than anything else.

Fred almost never sounded nervous.

He turned quickly toward the cluttered table behind him, scanning bottles and notes with sudden intensity.

“George said version twenty-three reduced the venom concentration…” he muttered.

“Well,” you said weakly, “either George can’t count or I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying.”

The answer came too fast.

Too sharp.

Fred grabbed a vial from the table, frowned at it, then immediately shoved it aside again.

“No, not that one—”

You watched him move around the classroom faster than usual, sleeves shoved up higher now, hair already a mess from running his hands through it.

And suddenly the whole thing became strangely surreal.

Fred Weasley— cocky, impossible Fred Weasley— actually looked worried.

A little thrill curled low in your stomach despite the dizziness.

“Fred.”

He looked up instantly.

You smiled weakly. “You care.”

He froze for half a second.

Then narrowed his eyes at you. “This is hardly the moment to look smug about it.”

You laughed softly.

Bad decision.

The room lurched violently again.

Your breath caught as nausea twisted sharply through you this time, fingers gripping the edge of the desk.

Fred crossed the room immediately.

“Hey—hey.” His hands landed on your waist before you could slide off the desk completely. “Easy.”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re very obviously not okay.”

His voice dropped lower now. Closer.

You looked up at him through the haze in your head and suddenly became painfully aware of how near he was standing.

One hand still braced against your waist. The other resting against your knee.

Warm. Steady.

Fred’s eyes searched your face carefully.

“How much did you eat?”

You frowned. “One piece.”

“Are you sure?”

“…Maybe one and a half.”

Fred stared at you.

“You what?”

You winced slightly. “I got curious.”

“Sweetheart,” he said slowly, sounding genuinely offended, “that is deeply irresponsible behavior.”

“You literally created poison candy.”

“Yes, professionally.”

Despite yourself, you laughed again.

Fred exhaled sharply through his nose, somewhere between irritated and relieved that you were still joking.

Then his expression shifted the second your smile faltered.

The dizziness was getting worse.

You swayed forward slightly— and Fred reacted instantly.

His hand slid up your back while the other cupped your jaw gently, steadying your head before you could even realize you were falling toward him.

The touch made your stomach flip.

Even now. Especially now.

“You’re freezing,” he murmured.

“You said I was burning up two seconds ago.”

“You’re somehow doing both. Very talented.”

His thumb brushed lightly beneath your jaw while he studied your pupils with frustrating concentration.

You should not have noticed how pretty he looked while worried.

That felt deeply unfair.

“Fred,” you mumbled quietly.

“Hm?”

“You keep staring at my mouth.”

His eyes flicked up immediately.

For one dangerous second, neither of you moved.

Then Fred huffed a breathless little laugh.

“Venom-induced hallucinations,” he decided. “Tragic.”

“Liar.”

That crooked smile appeared briefly again.

There he was.

But it faded almost immediately when your hand slipped weakly against his chest.

Fred’s entire posture changed.

“Okay,” he said firmly. “No more testing tonight.”

You blinked slowly. “Aw. I was having fun.”

“You nearly passed out.”

“Tiny detail.”

“No,” Fred said quietly, “not tiny.”

Something in his voice made you still.

He looked… genuinely shaken now. Not dramatically. Not loudly.

Just too alert. Too careful.

Like the thought of something actually happening to you had suddenly become very real in his head.

The realization settled warm and strange beneath your ribs.

Fred swallowed once before speaking again.

“I need to get you the antidote.”

“Bossy.”

“You like it.”

Unfortunately, he sounded very pleased with himself for someone currently panicking internally.

You smiled faintly. “Maybe a little.”

Fred’s eyes darkened instantly at that.

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like: “Going to be the death of me.”

Then he stepped back reluctantly, moving toward the potion supplies again.

You watched him for a moment through blurry vision.

Fred rummaged through the cluttered table with growing irritation.

“Where’s the bloody antidote vial?”

Outside the windows, rain tapped softly against the glass, the castle nearly asleep around you. The only light came from a few flickering lamps near the desks, casting warm gold across Fred’s face as he searched through bottles and notes with increasing frustration.

Glass bottles clinked together loudly as he searched through the mess George had left behind.

“No, no, that’s the fever reducer— bloody hell, George—”

“You’re literally panicking.”

“I am not panicking.”

He absolutely was.

You could see it in the way he kept rereading labels twice now, jaw tense beneath the warm glow of the lamps.

Then suddenly—

Fred stopped moving.

His eyes dropped to a crumpled piece of parchment near the edge of the table.

Slowly, a grin spread across his face.

Not relieved.

Dangerous.

“Oh,” he murmured.

You narrowed your eyes weakly. “Why do you sound like that?”

Fred picked up the parchment quickly.

Too quickly.

“What’s that?”

He folded the parchment immediately before walking back toward you, looking far too pleased with himself for someone supposedly dealing with a medical emergency.

You stared at him. “Why are you smiling?”

“Well,” Fred said casually, stopping between your knees again, “good news.”

“Is there antidote left?”

“…Technically no.”

Your jaw dropped.

“Fred!”

“But,” he continued smoothly, one hand settling against your waist, “according to our notes, there is another method.”

Your eyes narrowed instantly.

“What method?”

Fred’s grin widened.

“Apparently,” he said, fighting obvious amusement now, “physical contact helps neutralize the dizziness.”

“That sounds fake.”

“Very scientific, actually.”

“You made that up.”

“I’m wounded you think so poorly of my integrity.”

You tried to glare at him properly, but another wave of dizziness hit instead, forcing your hand instinctively against his chest to steady yourself.

His hand slid more securely around your waist.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” you whispered.

“Oh, immensely.”

Your eyes dropped briefly to his mouth before you could stop yourself.

“I still think you’re lying.”

“That’s fair.”

And then he kissed you before you could argue more.

Slow at first.

Almost careful.

Like he was trying not to overwhelm you despite the fact that he was very obviously enjoying himself now.

His hand slipped from your waist to your jaw, thumb brushing lightly beneath your chin as he kissed you warm and deep and entirely too well.

You melted against him immediately.

Fred smiled faintly against your lips.

“Oh, definitely working,” he murmured.

You laughed breathlessly into the kiss. “Shut up.”

Your fingers curled into the front of his jumper automatically, pulling him a little closer without thinking.

Fred made a quiet sound low in his throat at that.

“Merlin,” he breathed softly against your mouth. “You’re trouble.”

“You poisoned me.”

“Minor detail.”

His forehead rested briefly against yours while both of you laughed quietly under your breath, the dizziness finally fading into something warm and hazy instead.

“You know we’re ridiculous, right?” you whispered.

Fred grinned lazily. “Completely.”

“And George is absolutely going to figure this out.”

“Mm.” Fred brushed another quick kiss against your lips. “Worth it.”

Then—

The classroom door burst open.

George walked in carrying three ingredient boxes before stopping dead in the doorway.

Silence.

His eyes moved slowly between your flushed face, Fred standing between your knees, your hands gripping his jumper, and Fred looking entirely too pleased with himself.

George blinked once.

“…Interesting.”

Fred didn’t even move away from you.

“In fairness,” he said calmly, “this was a medical emergency.”

George narrowed his eyes immediately. “You used the fake antidote excuse?”

You turned toward Fred so fast he physically laughed.

“FAKE?”

Fred looked delighted by your outrage. “I panicked creatively.”

“You liar!”

“You were very convincing as a dying person!”

George dropped the boxes dramatically onto the nearest desk. “Oh, this is unbelievable. I spend weeks perfecting venom ratios and Fred turns the experiment into foreplay.”

Fred finally stepped back just enough to shoot his brother an offended look.

“That is an outrageous accusation.”

“You’re literally still holding her waist.”

Fred glanced down.

Paused.

Then tightened his grip slightly out of spite.

“Scientific support.”

You buried your burning face into your hands while George gagged loudly.

“Right,” George announced. “New rule. No snogging the test subjects.”

Fred looked genuinely thoughtful. “That feels anti-innovation.”

A few days later, George officially banned Fred from being left alone with the test subjects.

Fred took this personally.

“Completely unfair,” he complained, leaning lazily against the table while you sorted through ingredient jars beside him. “I’m an excellent medical professional.”

“You told Angelina a nosebleed was ‘character building,’” George called from across the room.

“And I stand by that.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head.

The classroom smelled faintly of sugar and potion smoke again, warm evening light spilling through the windows while Fred pretended to help and mostly just hovered near you instead.

Actually, hovered was generous.

He’d become annoyingly attentive since the doxy incident.

You reached for one of the candy samples.

Fred immediately caught your wrist.

“Absolutely not.”

You blinked at him. “It’s a Fainting Fancy.”

“Exactly.”

“You invented it.”

“And now I’m having regrets.”

George made a choking sound somewhere behind you.

Fred ignored him completely, eyes still fixed on you.

“You nearly collapsed last time.”

“You also kissed me last time,” you pointed out innocently.

Fred froze.

George dropped an entire box of sugar quills.

The silence lasted exactly two seconds before Fred grinned slowly.

“Fair point.”

Your cheeks warmed instantly.

Fred looked unbearably pleased by that.

Then, casually—like it meant absolutely nothing—he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to your mouth.

Soft. Brief. Familiar.

Your breath caught anyway.

George gagged violently in the background.

“That’s it,” he announced. “I’m separating your workstations.”

Fred barely looked away from you.

“Jealous because nobody wants to kiss you?”

“YOU MADE THAT PART UP!”

You laughed so hard you nearly knocked over a jar of doxy venom.

Fred caught it immediately with one hand while the other steadied your waist on instinct.

For a second, all three of you paused.

Then George groaned loudly.

“Oh, brilliant. Now he’s got reflexes for her too.”

Fred only smirked, thumb brushing lightly against your side before letting go.

“Scientific instinct,” he said smoothly.

You rolled your eyes.

But Fred noticed the smile you tried to hide.

And later that night, when he thought you weren’t looking, he quietly added one final note to the corner of his observation sheet:

Subject responds extremely well to kissing. Research ongoing.

Some Things George Weasley Doesn’t Joke About

Pairing: George Weasley x Fem!reader

Summary: He was supposed to be just your friend. The funny one. The one who never took anything seriously.

Until you started sitting too close to Cedric Diggory.

Warnings: Slow Burn / Soft Jealousy Spiral / Friends to Lovers / Cedric Diggory as an Unintentional Rival / Sibling Chaos & Teasing

It started the way most bad decisions usually do.

With laughter.

With noise.

With Fred and George Weasley in the middle of it. And with you, right there beside them like you had always belonged there.

You weren’t the quiet type.

Never had been.

If anything, you were worse.

Loud when you shouldn’t be. Smiling when you were supposed to be serious. Saying things that made professors sigh and classmates laugh in the same breath.

Somehow, you had ended up orbiting the Weasley twins like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Fred liked to call it “a shared lack of survival instincts.”

George called it “friendship.”

And you just called it home.

You sat with them at meals when you could, snuck out with them when you shouldn’t, and got dragged into half of their ideas whether you agreed or not.

Which, most of the time, you did.

Right now, the three of you were sprawled somewhere just outside the corridor near the courtyard, half-hidden from professors and fully hidden from responsibility.

Fred was mid-story, hands moving as he spoke. George was laughing already, like he knew how it ended. And you were leaning back against the stone wall, trying not to choke on your own laughter.

“You did what to Ron’s wand?” you asked, breathless.

Fred looked far too pleased with himself. “I didn’t do anything,” he said innocently.

George snorted. “That’s the problem. He didn’t do anything. That’s when it’s worst.”

You shook your head, wiping your eyes. “You’re both going to be the reason Hogwarts burns down one day.”

Fred tilted his head at you. “And you’ll be right next to us cheering it on.”

You opened your mouth but didn’t get to answer, because footsteps cut through the moment.

Sharp.

Familiar enough to make all three of you pause at the same time.

You didn’t even have to turn around to know.

Professor McGonagall.

“Miss L/N,” McGonagall said crisply.

Not angry.

Worse.

Controlled.

You stood up slowly. “Professor.”

Her eyes moved between you and the twins. Then she spoke: “I’ve been informed that your academic performance this term is… concerning.”

Fred let out a quiet, almost invisible sound beside you—something between amusement and “oh this is going to be good.”

You shot him a warning look.

McGonagall continued. “If your grades do not improve, you will not pass this year.”

Silence.

Even Fred stopped smirking.

You swallowed.

“I’ll… fix it,” you said quickly.

“I hope so,” McGonagall replied. “Because repeating a year would be… embarrassing, for someone of your capability.”

That hit a little harder than you expected.

Then she added: “I will be arranging mandatory tutoring sessions for you. Mr Diggory has agreed to assist you.”

Fred blinked.

George’s eyebrows lifted.

You, on the other hand “…Cedric Diggory?” you repeated slowly.

“Yes.”

There was a pause where your brain tried to compute it.

Cedric Diggory.

Perfect grades.

Perfect posture.

Perfect smile.

Perfect everything you were not.

You exhaled.

“…Right.”

McGonagall gave you a look. “You will begin tomorrow.”

And just like that, she turned and walked away.

Leaving silence behind her.

Fred was the first to break it. “Well,” he said lightly, but his tone had shifted. “That’s your downfall sorted.”

“Shut up,” you groaned.

George didn’t laugh immediately, which was unusual. When you looked at him, he was watching you. Not teasing, not joking.

Just watching.

Then he smiled.

“Maybe he’s not that bad,” George said.

Fred looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

You blinked. “You’re joking.”

George shrugged. “Maybe you’ll learn something.”

Fred scoffed. “She won’t survive ten minutes of Diggory’s voice.”

You threw a pebble at him.

It missed.

Unfortunately.

Fred caught it anyway, grinning again like nothing had changed.

But something had.

Even if none of you said it out loud yet.

The first study session was a disaster. You were late on purpose. Not very late—just enough to make a point.

Cedric Diggory was already sitting at one of the long library tables when you arrived, books neatly stacked beside him, parchment organized in perfectly straight lines.

You stopped at the end of the table and stared.

“I just want it officially written down somewhere that McGonagall is ruining my life.” You dropped into the chair across from him dramatically.

Cedric slid a book toward you. “Open to page seventy-two.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “No greeting?”

“I said hello when you walked in.”

“That barely counted.”

Cedric leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you for a second. “You talk a lot when you don’t want to do something.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And you sound exactly like someone who color-codes his notes.”

“I do color-code my notes.”

“Of course you do.”

Somehow, impossibly, that made him laugh quietly and annoyingly it suited him.

You decided immediately that this was unacceptable.

The next hour was painful. Not because Cedric was mean.

That would’ve been easier.

No, Cedric was patient.

Calm.

Infuriatingly calm.

Every time you tried to derail the lesson, he just looked at you steadily until you eventually answered the question anyway.

By the time the session ended, your brain hurt.

“You survived,” Cedric observed as you packed your bag dramatically.

“Barely.”

“You answered everything correctly by the end.”

You froze slightly. “…I did?”

Cedric nodded once. “You’re not bad at this.”

The words hit strangely, because most professors sounded frustrated when they spoke to you.

Cedric just sounded certain like he hadn’t doubted it.

You looked away first. “That’s suspiciously encouraging.”

“I’m trying a new strategy.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Manipulation?”

A small smile appeared again. “Positive reinforcement.”

“Disgusting.”

Cedric laughed quietly under his breath as he stood.

And for some reason—

you smiled back.

The common room was loud when you returned later that evening.

Fred and George were exactly where you expected them to be: occupying far too much space on one sofa while Lee Jordan sat nearby looking like he was seconds away from regretting knowing either of them.

Fred noticed you first. “Well?” he asked immediately. “Did Diggory bore you to death?”

George looked up from where he’d been absentmindedly spinning a quill between his fingers.

You dropped onto the armchair across from them with a dramatic sigh.

“He organizes his notes by color.”

Fred made a horrified face.

George snorted softly.

“And he says things like ‘focus’ with a straight face.”

“That poor man,” Fred muttered. “He has no idea what he’s dealing with.”

You grinned slightly, but George noticed something before Fred did. The way your mouth twitched when you talked about Cedric.

The fact that you were still talking about him.

“You’re smiling,” George said suddenly.

You blinked. “No I’m not.”

“You are,” he replied calmly.

Fred pointed immediately. “Oh, she is.”

“I am not.”

“You fancy the prefect,” Fred gasped dramatically.

You threw a cushion at him.

He caught it easily.

“Shut up.”

George was still watching you though.

Quieter than Fred now.

More observant.

“What’s he actually like?” George asked.

You opened your mouth automatically with another insult ready but paused.

Cedric’s quiet laugh flashed unexpectedly through your head.

The way he’d looked at you across the table and said: You’re not bad at this.

Your stomach did something strange.

“…Annoying,” you answered finally.

Fred grinned. “There she is.”

But George noticed the hesitation.

And for the first time something small and unfamiliar twisted unpleasantly in his chest.

Over the next two weeks, something deeply irritating started happening. You stopped trying to skip the study sessions.

At first, Fred thought it was a joke. Then he thought maybe McGonagall had threatened you with public humiliation.

George just watched.

And noticed things.

Small things.

The way you fixed your hair before going to the library now. The fact that you actually brought the right books. The way you came back complaining about Cedric while smiling at absolutely nothing.

It was suspicious.

Very suspicious.

“You’re spending an unnatural amount of time with Diggory,” Fred announced one evening from upside down on the common room sofa.

You looked up from your parchment. “You spend an unnatural amount of time upside down.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s really not.”

George sat nearby pretending to read while listening to every word.

Fred pointed at you accusingly. “You laughed at something he said earlier.”

“It wasn’t that funny.”

“But you laughed.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “Merlin, are you jealous?”

Fred looked scandalized. “Of Cedric Diggory? Absolutely not. He irons his shirts.”

“He probably irons his socks too,” Lee added.

George stayed quiet.

Because unlike Fred, George wasn’t joking anymore, and that was becoming a problem.

The next study session was somehow worse.

“You’re distracted again,” Cedric said calmly from across the table.

“I’m literally reading.”

“You’ve been staring at the same sentence for three minutes.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds made up.”

Cedric leaned forward slightly, resting one arm on the table. “You know, you’re very different when your friends aren’t around.”

You blinked. “…Excuse me?”

“You act louder around the twins.”

“That’s because they’re loud.”

Cedric’s mouth twitched. His attention entirely on you in a way that made your stomach feel strange lately.

You looked down quickly.

“I still think you’re annoying.”

“I think,” Cedric said calmly, “you just like arguing with me.”

You opened your mouth immediately then stopped.

Cedric noticed the silence instantly.

And smiled.

George was already in the common room when you came in.

Alone.

That was the first thing that felt wrong.

Fred was usually there too. Half causing trouble, half laughing too loudly at something that wasn’t funny. But tonight it was just George, sitting on the sofa near the fire with a book open on his knee.

He looked up the moment you stepped in.

“You’re late,” he said.

It sounded like a joke.

It wasn’t.

“I had study sessions.”

“I noticed.”

That made you pause.

“Diggory again?” he said lightly, closing the book with one hand.

You sighed and dropped into the sofa across from him.

“I’ve got something for you.”

You squinted. “That sounds suspiciously like trouble.”

“It’s not. It’s Transfiguration.”

You stared at it.

“What is this?”

“Notes.”

That made you laugh once. “You don’t have notes.”

George raised an eyebrow. “I do now.”

You opened the first page and stopped laughing immediately, because it wasn’t just notes.

It was structured. Diagrams. Color-coded arrows. Tiny corrections in the margins. Underlined key spells. Even little sarcastic comments scribbled next to difficult sections like:

‘this part is evil, good luck’

and

‘McGonagall will absolutely ask this just to ruin your day’

You looked up slowly.

“…You did this?”

George shrugged. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

“This is—” You flipped another page. “This is actually good.”

“I know.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Since when are you secretly good at Transfiguration?”

“Since you started spending all your time in the library,” he said lightly.

The room shifted.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just… quieter.

You looked at him properly now.

“George…”

He cut you off immediately, too fast. “It’s nothing. Just figured you needed help if you’re trying to avoid repeating a year.”

You frowned. “That’s not why I’m—”

“You’re always with him lately.”

Cedric.

The name wasn’t said out loud, but it didn’t need to be.

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

George leaned slightly closer, tapping one of the pages. “I went through your syllabus. Twice. Some of this stuff is actually useful if you don’t want to die in McGonagall’s exam.”

“You read it twice?” you asked quietly.

He shrugged again, but this time it wasn’t convincing.

There were faint ink stains on his fingers.

Like he’d been writing for hours.

Like he’d actually sat there and worked.

For you.

Something in your chest tightened unexpectedly.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you said.

“I know.”

Silence.

Then softer, almost careless again:

“But I did it anyway.”

You looked down at the notes again.

Then at him.

Really looked.

The jokes were still there. The grin was still there. But underneath it—something quieter. Focused. Slightly tense, like he was waiting for your reaction more than he wanted to admit.

“You highlighted half of it,” you said.

“Yeah.”

“With different colours.”

“Helps with memory.”

“That is the most responsible thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

George snorted. “Don’t get used to it.”

You smiled.

And that was the problem.

Because George noticed that too.

His eyes softened just slightly.

“You know,” he said, voice lower now, “you’re actually listening to me for once.”

“I always listen to you.”

“No,” he said quietly. “Not like this.”

Something shifted again.

He reached out—slowly this time—and turned one of your pages so it faced you properly. His fingers brushed the edge of yours.

Didn’t move away.

Didn’t pretend it was accidental.

Just stayed there.

Close.

“Start here,” he said. “If you can master that section, McGonagall won’t have anything to complain about.”

You nodded faintly, but you weren’t reading anymore.

Not properly.

Because George was too close.

His shoulder leaned in slightly as he pointed something out.

“Here,” he added, tapping a line. “This is where everyone messes up.”

“I don’t think I mess up everything,” you muttered.

A small smile.

“You do when you panic.”

“I don’t panic.”

“You absolutely panic.”

You turned your head to argue—and found him already looking at you.

Not joking now.

Not teasing.

Just watching.

The air between you changed again.

Slower.

He stopped talking.

You stopped pretending you were reading.

“George…” you said, quieter this time.

He didn’t answer immediately.

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your mouth.

Then back up.

And something in his expression tightened like he’d made a decision he wasn’t fully ready for.

“You’ve been gone a lot lately,” he said.

“You know I’ve been studying.”

“With him.”

The words weren’t sharp.

But they landed like something heavier than anger.

You opened your mouth—

Nothing came out.

George exhaled slowly, like he was trying to keep himself steady.

Then he leaned back slightly, forcing space between you again, but not enough to erase what just happened.

“I don’t like it,” he admitted.

That made you freeze.

Because George didn’t say things like that.

Not seriously.

Not like this.

“…You don’t like Cedric or?” you asked carefully.

George huffed a short laugh. “No. I don’t like that you’ve started looking at everything like it’s somewhere else you need to be.”

Your throat went tight.

Then, almost like he regretted how honest that sounded, he reached for the notes again.

“Anyway,” he added quickly, “I could do this better than him.”

And this time there was no joke at all.

“For you.”

Your breath caught slightly.

That was the moment the distance between you stopped being safe.

He was close now.

Close enough that if you moved even slightly—

Your knees brushed his.

He leaned in just a fraction more.

His gaze flicked to your lips again—this time slower.

Intentional.

And for a second, it felt like everything had narrowed down to this one moment.

His hand slid to your cheek.

Warm.

Real.

And then he kissed you.

It was George in every possible way—soft at first, unsure for half a second like he still couldn’t believe you were there… and then something in him finally let go.

The kiss deepened.

Slow.

Careful.

Like he was afraid of ruining it if he moved too fast.

Your hand lifted without thinking, grabbing lightly at the front of his shirt, pulling him closer like you finally made a decision you’d been avoiding for too long.

George made a quiet sound against your mouth—something between relief and disbelief—and leaned in.

Like he’d been waiting for this without admitting it even to himself.

The world narrowed.

Fire crackling somewhere behind you.

Paper forgotten.

Everything else gone.

Just him.

Just warmth.

Just—

The door slammed open.

“—YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT LEE JUST—”

You both moved apart too fast.

Too obvious.

Fred froze in the doorway.

Looked at both of you.

Slow smile forming.

“…Oh,” he said.

Long pause.

Then brighter:

“Oh, this is bad.”

George leaned back in his chair immediately. “We were studying.”

Fred nodded slowly. “Sure.”

You grabbed the first random book on the table. “Transfiguration.”

Fred raised an eyebrow.

Then grinned wider.

“I leave you alone for ONE evening,” he said, delighted, “and you start… bonding academically.”

George sighed.

You stared at the ceiling.

Fred walked further in, shaking his head.

“This is going to be so entertaining.”

And George, under his breath, only for you to hear:

“…We’re dead.”

“I Have a Boyfriend”

Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: You have a boyfriend. He knows it.

Fred weasley knows it every time he looks at you across the room. Every time he sits too close. Every time his hand brushes yours like it means nothing — even though it means everything.

He should stop.

He doesn’t.

And the worst part?

You don’t make him.

Warnings: Slow Burn / Soft smut / Forbidden love / Love triange / Romance / Bad decisions

It started small.

Too small to call it anything.

Fred just… looked at you more.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

But enough that you did.

And once you noticed it you couldn’t unsee it.

That evening the common room was loud in that familiar way, voices overlapping, the low crackle of flames filling in the spaces between conversations.

Harry was talking.

You were trying to listen.

He was leaning slightly toward you, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, voice easy, familiar. Something about Quidditch.

You were nodding, sitting close enough that it should’ve felt grounding.

It didn’t.

Because across the room he laughed, and your attention snapped.

Your eyes went straight to him, and of course— he caught you.

Fred’s gaze lifted like he’d been waiting for it.

No hesitation.

No confusion.

Just that look.

Direct.

His mouth tilted slightly.

Your stomach tightened.

“—and then Angelina said—are you listening?” Harry nudged you lightly.

“I am,” you said quickly.

“Oi, Harry!” George’s voice cut through before Harry could react.

Fred followed right after him.

Harry straightened slightly, distracted immediately. “What now?”

George leaned forward, already talking. “Right—so you know how I said we were working on that new thing?” He gestured wildly with his hands as he spoke, clearly enjoying the sound of his own story. “It was a disaster at first. Honestly, I’m still not convinced the ceiling has forgiven us.”

Harry laughed despite himself. “What did you do?”

Fred dropped into the seat beside you.

Your breath caught slightly before you could stop it.

Not because he sat, but because of how close he sat.

Too close for no reason at all.

“Blame George,” Fred said casually, leaning back slightly. “He insisted it would ‘definitely not explode this time.’”

George pointed at him immediately. “It almost didn’t explode this time.”

Harry was laughing now, fully pulled into the conversation.

You weren’t.

Because Fred’s knee brushed yours.

Light.

Accidental if anyone was watching.

But he didn’t move away.

You shifted slightly without thinking.

Fred noticed.

His voice stayed calm as he spoke to George, but his leg moved again.

Just enough that it happened again.

The contact.

Longer this time.

Deliberate in a way only you could feel.

Your fingers tightened around your cup.

“Anyway,” George continued, “we finally figured out the timing—so now it only explodes after you’ve had time to appreciate the invention properly.”

Harry shook his head, laughing. “That sounds worse.”

“It’s progress,” Fred added lightly. He leaned forward slightly as he spoke and his shoulder brushed yours.

Just barely.

But it was enough that your body reacted before your thoughts could. Your breath broke slightly and you stood up too fast.

Harry blinked. “Are you alright?”

George paused mid-sentence.

Fred just turned his head slightly to look at you.

“I—” you started, then stopped.

Because you couldn’t say it. Not what you were feeling. Not what was happening. So you grabbed the first thing your mind could give you.

“My pumpkin juice,” you said quickly, too quickly again. “It’s finished. I’ll go to the kitchens.”

Harry frowned slightly. “Oh—okay?”

George leaned back. “That seems like a dramatic reaction to juice, but alright.”

Fred stood at the same time. Just instantly aligned with the moment you created.

“I’ll go with her,” he said casually. “I’ll grab biscuits for everyone.”

You shouldn’t have gone.

You knew that.

But you did.

Because Fred was already standing.

Already waiting.

And already walking beside you before you even fully decided.

The moment you stepped out of the common room, the noise behind you dulled almost instantly.

Fred walked beside you.

Close.

And then—

his hand brushed yours.

Fred’s hand brushed yours again.

Too slow to be accidental this time.

You swallowed hard and kept your eyes forward, trying to pretend your pulse wasn’t suddenly everywhere.

The corridor stretched quiet around you, dim torchlight flickering against the stone walls while Fred walked beside you like none of this meant anything at all.

But it did.

Merlin, it did.

Because every few steps he touched you again.

His fingers against yours.

His shoulder against yours.

Close enough that your body stayed aware of him constantly.

Like every nerve had tuned itself to Fred Weasley specifically.

You stopped abruptly.

Fred took another step before turning back toward you slowly.

“What?” he asked lightly.

You stared at him.

“Why are you doing this?”

His expression stayed perfectly calm. “Doing what?”

“That.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you, already flustered. “The touching. The staring. The—”

Fred’s mouth twitched slightly.

“The what?”

You hated him for making you say it.

“For Merlin’s sake, Fred,” you whispered, “I have a boyfriend.”

Something shifted in his expression then.

Not surprise.

Not guilt.

Something darker.

His eyes held yours for one long second before he stepped closer.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Your pulse started climbing immediately.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

The way he said it made heat curl low in your stomach.

Like he’d been thinking about that exact fact for a while now.

You swallowed hard. “Harry trusts you.”

Fred laughed softly at that.

Not amused.

More like frustrated.

His hand suddenly caught your wrist gently, pulling you with him as he turned down a darker side corridor.

“Fred—”

And then your back hit the stone wall.

A sharp breath left you instantly.

Fred stepped into your space immediately after, one hand braced beside your head while the other stayed wrapped loosely around your wrist.

Not trapping.

Just enough that you felt surrounded by him.

Warmth.

Height.

That smell of smoke and cedar and something entirely Fred.

Your heart was going insane now.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” he murmured.

Your throat felt tight. “Get what?”

His eyes dragged slowly over your face before settling on your mouth.

“The problem.”

The tension snapped tighter.

Fred leaned closer.

Close enough that his voice brushed against your skin now.

“Watching him touch you,” he said quietly, “is starting to become a problem for me.”

Your breath broke completely.

Because he meant it.

There was nothing teasing about him anymore.

Nothing playful.

Just restraint hanging by a thread.

“Fred…” you whispered weakly.

His jaw tightened at the sound of his name.

“Do you have any idea,” he murmured, “how hard it’s been not to do this?”

His thumb brushed lightly against the inside of your wrist.

Your pulse jumped violently beneath his touch.

Fred noticed.

Of course he did.

A dangerous sort of satisfaction flickered across his face.

“You look at me across rooms like you want me,” he said softly. “Then act surprised when I finally do something about it.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No?” His voice lowered further. “Then tell me I’m wrong.”

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

Fred stepped closer again until there was barely space left between you.

Your breathing had gone completely uneven now.

And Fred—

Fred looked seconds away from losing control entirely.

His eyes dropped to your lips slowly.

Stayed there.

Then, quietly—

almost painfully—

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

Your lips parted.

But no words came.

Fred watched the silence happen.

Watched the way you stayed exactly where you were.

And slowly, his mouth tilted into something dark and devastating.

“That’s what I thought.”

And then he kissed you. Like the second your silence gave him permission, every ounce of restraint he’d been holding onto finally snapped.

His hand slid from your wrist to your waist fast enough to pull a startled breath from you as his mouth crashed against yours.

Hot.

Possessive.

Desperate in a way that made your knees nearly give out immediately.

A low sound left him against your lips as he pressed closer, one hand flattening against the wall beside your head while the other tightened on your waist like he physically could not get you close enough.

You kissed him back before you could think better of it.

And Merlin—

that ruined him.

You felt the exact moment it happened.

The sharp inhale.

The way his entire body pressed harder against yours.

Like he’d expected resistance.

Not this.

“God,” he muttered softly against your mouth, almost frustrated. “You’re killing me.”

Heat rushed through you instantly.

You should stop.

You knew you should.

Harry.

The thought flashed weakly through your mind again, but then Fred’s mouth moved against yours slower this time, deeper, and your brain stopped working entirely.

Your fingers slid up into the front of his jumper instinctively, pulling him closer without even realizing it.

Fred made a low sound against your mouth immediately.

“Careful,” he murmured softly.

His forehead brushed yours again.

“Because I’m trying very hard,” he said quietly, “not to completely forget myself right now.”

The words barely left his mouth when you moved.

It wasn’t planned.

It wasn’t even fully conscious.

Just instinct.

Heat.

Need.

Your knee shifted against him—too close, too deliberate to be accidental.

Fred went completely still.

The air changed instantly.

Like everything inside him stopped at once.

His eyes dropped.

Then lifted back to yours.

Slowly.

“You didn’t just do that,” he murmured.

Your breath hitched. “I didn’t mean—”

But you both knew that was a lie.

Fred let out a sharp, quiet exhale through his nose.

Something dangerous flickered behind his eyes now.

Not teasing anymore.

Not restrained in the same way.

“Do that again,” he said quietly, voice suddenly lower, “and see what happens.”

There was no smile when he said it.

Just control.

Barely holding.

Your cheeks burned instantly.

And instead of backing away—

you didn’t think.

Your hand slid from his jumper down slowly, eyes locked on his.

Fred’s breathing changed immediately.

The moment your fingers reached his belt—

he caught your wrist.

Fast.

Not rough.

But final.

The kind of stop that says he’s right at the edge.

His jaw clenched.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Just breath.

Just heat.

Just the impossible awareness of how close everything had gotten.

“Look at me,” he said quietly.

You did.

And something in his expression broke slightly at the sight of you like that—flushed, shaking, still not pulling away.

Fred swore under his breath.

Soft.

Almost like he was losing the argument inside his own head.

Then, suddenly—

he moved.

Not away.

Upward.

He lifted you easily, like instinct had finally overridden thought, and your legs wrapped around him without resistance, your back meeting the cold stone wall again.

A sharp inhale left you at the sudden shift.

Fred didn’t speak.

Not anymore.

His mouth found yours again immediately—harder now, deeper, like the last thread of restraint had snapped clean.

Like he wasn’t trying to hold back anything at all anymore.

One of his hands held you firmly against him.

The other stayed braced against the wall beside your head, like he needed something solid to keep himself from falling apart completely.

Your fingers gripped him tighter without thinking.

Fred broke the kiss just long enough to breathe against your mouth.

“Merlin,” he whispered, like your name didn’t exist anymore in his vocabulary.

And then he kissed you again—

slower this time, but heavier.

Like he’d stopped fighting it.

Like he’d finally given in to something he’d been trying to outrun for too long.

The world outside the corridor didn’t exist anymore.

Not Harry.

Not consequences.

Not anything except the way Fred held you like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to ruin this moment—

or never let it end.

(And this time, neither of you cared what came after.)

#fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley smut #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x fem!reader #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley imagine #smutfic #soft smut #fanfiction #harry potter #smut fanfiction #smut #slow burn #friends to lovers #fred weasley x y/n #love triangle

Just to See If You Would

Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: It starts with a glance. Then another. Then a choice she knows she shouldn’t make.

She lets someone else get closer—just to test something she’s too afraid to ask.

Fred watches. Fred says nothing. Fred walks away.

Until one night— he doesn’t.

Warnings: Slow Burn / Mutual Pining / Jealousy / Emotional Tension / Friends to Lovers

The Gryffindor common room was warm that evening, the kind of warmth that made it difficult to focus on anything else.

The fire burned low but steady, casting soft, golden light across the room. Someone near the window was arguing over a game of Exploding Snap, laughter breaking out every few seconds, loud and careless. It all blended together into something familiar. Comfortable.

You sat curled into your usual armchair, a book open in your lap, your fingers resting lightly against the page.

You hadn’t turned it in a while.

Your eyes moved over the same lines again and again, but none of it stayed. None of it mattered enough to hold your attention.

Because—

You didn’t need to look to know where he was.

You felt it before you saw it.

Still, your gaze drifted, almost helplessly, across the room.

They were by the couch, of course.

Fred, George, and Lee — exactly where they always were, like the center of gravity in the room had decided long ago that it belonged to them.

Lee was in the middle of a story, animated as ever, his hands moving as fast as his voice. George leaned back beside him, relaxed, amused, throwing in the occasional comment.

And Fred—

Fred was half-turned toward them, but not entirely.

One leg stretched out in front of him, arm draped lazily along the back of the couch, like he had no care in the world. His smile came easy, quick and bright, slipping in and out of the conversation whenever it suited him.

Effortless.

That was the problem.

He made everything look effortless.

Even the way he noticed you.

Because he did.

You caught it again—just for a second.

His eyes flicked toward you mid-laugh, like a habit rather than a decision. Like checking if you were still there mattered in a way he didn’t need to think about.

It was quick.

Subtle.

Anyone else would have missed it.

You didn’t.

Your fingers tightened slightly against the edge of the page, your breath catching before you could stop it.

It was ridiculous.

It always was.

Because Fred had always been like this with you.

That was the thing you couldn’t quite escape.

He was easy with you. Open. Warm in a way that never felt forced, never felt calculated. He would sit too close without thinking, lean over your shoulder to see what you were reading, steal things from your hands just to watch you react.

He would smile at you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

Maybe that was all it was.

Because Fred smiled at everyone.

He talked to everyone.

He made people feel seen without even trying.

So what made you any different?

Nothing.

Probably nothing.

And yet—

There were moments.

Small ones. Stupid ones. The kind you tried not to think too much about and always ended up replaying anyway.

Like the way his voice dropped just slightly when he spoke directly to you. Or how his attention seemed to sharpen, just a little, like the rest of the room had gone quieter for him too.

Like right now.

“Oi.”

You blinked, startled, only realizing then that he was standing in front of you.

Fred tilted his head slightly, a crooked smile already pulling at his lips. “You planning on finishing that book tonight, or just staring at the same page until it gives you the answers to life?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks before you could stop it.

“I am reading,” you said, a little too quickly.

He hummed, unconvinced, and leaned down just enough to glance at the page. Too close. Close enough that you caught the faint scent of something warm and familiar—smoke, maybe, or whatever chaos he’d gotten into earlier.

“You’ve been on this chapter for ages,” he pointed out lightly.

You closed the book halfway, mostly so he’d stop looking at it—and so you had something to do with your hands. “Maybe it’s just a very detailed chapter.”

“Must be fascinating,” he said, though his tone suggested the exact opposite.

You huffed softly. “You wouldn’t know.”

He grinned at that, quick and bright, like he’d been waiting for you to say something back.

“Careful,” he murmured, lowering his voice just enough that it felt like the words were meant only for you. “Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you enjoy arguing with me.”

“I don’t,” you said, though there was no real bite in it.

“Shame,” he replied easily. “I do.”

For a second—just a second—it felt like the rest of the room had faded out.

Like it was just the two of you.

And that was dangerous.

Because this—this right here—was exactly the kind of moment that made everything worse.

The kind that made you think too much.

Made you wonder.

Made you imagine things that might not exist at all.

Fred straightened after a moment, like nothing had happened, like this was just another passing conversation. “Don’t stay up too late,” he added, almost casually. “Wouldn’t want you falling asleep mid-sentence tomorrow.”

You rolled your eyes lightly. “I’ll manage.”

“I’m sure you will.”

But his gaze lingered for just a fraction longer than necessary.

Then he turned, stepping back into the noise and laughter like he’d never left it.

And just like that—

You were alone with your thoughts again.

Your book still rested in your lap, forgotten.

The fire still crackled softly.

The room still buzzed with life.

But something had shifted.

Or maybe it always felt like this.

That quiet, frustrating pull in your chest.

That constant question you couldn’t quite shake.

Because Fred was still laughing across the room.

Still easy.

Still himself.

And you—

You were still sitting there, wondering if any of it meant more…

Or if you had simply started seeing something that had never really been there at all.

The next morning came too quickly.

You hadn’t slept much.

Not really.

Your mind had refused to settle, replaying small moments over and over again — the way Fred had leaned closer than necessary, the way his voice had softened just slightly when he spoke to you, the way his eyes had lingered before he walked away like it meant nothing at all.

It was exhausting.

And worse—

It was impossible to ignore.

The Great Hall was already buzzing by the time you got there, filled with the usual chaos of breakfast. Plates clinked, voices overlapped, someone further down the table was laughing far too loudly at something that couldn’t have been that funny.

Normal.

Everything was normal.

You slid onto the bench, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you reached for a cup of tea, more out of habit than anything else.

Fred was already there.

Not alone.

He was mid-conversation with Lee, leaning back in his seat with that same easy confidence he carried everywhere, one arm draped loosely over the back of the bench. George sat beside him, half-listening, half-focused on something else entirely.

Fred didn’t notice you right away.

Or maybe he did—

And chose not to show it.

You weren’t sure which one felt worse.

You wrapped your hands around the warm cup, letting the heat ground you as you tried very hard not to look at him.

Tried.

Failed.

Your gaze flicked up just as he laughed at something Lee said, head tipping back slightly, completely at ease.

Like last night hadn’t happened.

Like nothing had shifted.

Of course it hadn’t, you told yourself.

Why would it?

You exhaled quietly, looking back down at your tea—

And that was when it happened.

A light nudge against your arm.

Subtle.

Deliberate.

You turned, frowning slightly—

And met pale, familiar eyes.

Draco Malfoy.

He was seated across from you, one elbow resting lazily on the table, watching you with an expression that hovered somewhere between amused and interested.

“Well,” he said lightly, tilting his head just a fraction. “You look distracted.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Do I?”

“A bit,” he replied, like it was obvious. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten how to notice people.”

Your brows drew together slightly, more confused than anything else. “I don’t think that’s ever been a problem.”

A flicker of a smile touched his lips at that.

“Good,” he said. “Would’ve been disappointing.”

He held your gaze just a second longer than necessary—

Then gave a small, almost lazy wink.

It was quick.

Effortless.

And entirely unexpected.

You didn’t even have time to react properly—

Because across the table—

Fred stopped mid-sentence.

You felt it more than saw it.

That shift.

That subtle break in rhythm.

Lee was still talking, still laughing, but Fred’s attention had snapped elsewhere entirely.

Toward you.

Toward him.

“Malfoy,” Fred said suddenly, cutting into the conversation with a tone that was light—almost too light. “Didn’t realize you’d taken such an interest in Gryffindors this morning.”

Draco didn’t even look fazed.

“If I remember correctly,” he replied smoothly, “I’m allowed to speak to whoever I like.”

“Are you?” Fred leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table now, his grin easy, but his eyes sharper than before. “Funny. Must’ve missed that announcement.”

George let out a quiet huff beside him, somewhere between amusement and warning.

You sat very still.

Because this—

This was new.

Fred didn’t sound angry.

Not exactly.

But there was something there.

Something tighter. More focused.

Draco’s gaze flicked briefly toward him, then back to you, like he wasn’t particularly interested in the interruption.

“I was just saying hello,” he said, almost dismissively.

Fred’s eyes stayed on him for a moment longer than necessary.

Then—

Just like that—

He leaned back again.

Relaxed.

Like nothing had happened.

“Right,” he said lightly. “Well. Hello received, then.”

Lee chuckled, clearly entertained, already moving on.

The conversation picked back up.

The noise returned.

Everything slipped back into place.

Except—

It didn’t feel the same.

Not to you.

Because Fred didn’t look at you again.

Not directly.

But you could feel it.

Every now and then.

Quick glances.

Barely there.

Like he was checking—

Something.

Your grip tightened slightly around your cup.

Your heart beating just a little faster than it should have.

Because that moment—

That tiny, almost insignificant moment—

Shouldn’t have mattered.

But it did.

It mattered more than it should have.

And before you could stop yourself—

Before you could think it through—

A thought slipped in, quiet but persistent.

What if…

You hesitated.

Then—

Slowly—

You glanced back across the table.

Draco was already watching you again.

Waiting.

Your pulse shifted.

Just slightly.

And this time—

You didn’t look away.

—

You didn’t plan it.

Not at first.

That was the easiest thing to tell yourself.

It wasn’t some grand, calculated move — not yet. It was just… a moment stretched a second too long. A glance returned instead of avoided. A reaction that came before you had the chance to stop it.

But once you noticed—

Once you felt it—

You couldn’t unsee it.

That flicker in Fred’s expression.

That almost invisible tension when Draco spoke to you like that.

And suddenly, it didn’t feel accidental anymore.

It felt like something you could test.

—

Later that day, the corridors were quieter, most students already moving between classes or lingering outside in the courtyard where the sun had finally decided to show itself.

You spotted him before he saw you.

Draco leaned casually against the stone wall, exactly where people passed through, like he had nowhere better to be — or like he had chosen that spot for a reason.

You could have walked past.

You should have.

Instead—

You slowed.

Just enough.

His gaze lifted almost immediately, catching yours like he’d been expecting it.

“Well,” he said, straightening slightly, a hint of amusement in his voice. “You didn’t ignore me this time.”

You folded your arms loosely, leaning one shoulder against the opposite wall. “You seem very confident for someone who got interrupted at breakfast.”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Interrupted isn’t quite the word I’d use.”

“No?” you tilted your head. “What would you call it?”

“Curiosity,” he replied smoothly. “On his part.”

Your pulse skipped.

Just slightly.

You forced yourself not to react to that — not to turn it into something it wasn’t.

Or something you wanted it to be.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said instead, quieter now. “He’s like that with everyone.”

The words felt heavier than they should have.

Draco studied you for a moment, like he didn’t quite believe that.

“Is he?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

Because you didn’t actually know.

And that—

That was exactly the problem.

“So,” he went on, pushing himself off the wall, stepping just a little closer. Not enough to be uncomfortable. Just enough to shift the space between you. “Are you always this hard to read, or am I just getting lucky?”

You huffed softly. “You’re not getting anything.”

He smiled at that.

But he didn’t move away.

And for a moment—

You let it happen.

You stayed.

You didn’t cut the conversation short.

You didn’t step back.

You didn’t give him the sharp dismissal you probably should have.

Because somewhere in the back of your mind—

There was a question you hadn’t answered yet.

And you needed to know.

—

It didn’t take long.

Not really.

Fred noticed.

Of course he did.

He noticed everything.

The next time it happened, it was smaller.

Quicker.

Just a passing comment between you and Draco outside a classroom, barely a minute long.

But Fred was there.

Close enough.

And you saw it again.

That shift.

Subtle.

Controlled.

He didn’t interrupt this time.

Didn’t say a word.

But when you turned back toward him, something had changed.

His smile came a second too late.

His eyes didn’t quite match it.

“Malfoy’s getting friendly,” he said casually, like it was nothing.

Like it didn’t matter.

You shrugged, forcing yourself to keep your tone just as light. “Maybe he’s just bored.”

“Yeah,” Fred replied, his voice easy, but quieter than usual. “Must be that.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it.

And for some reason—

That felt worse.

—

Days passed.

And somehow—

It became a pattern.

Not constant.

Not obvious.

But enough.

Enough that you started choosing your moments.

If Fred was nearby—

You stayed.

You talked a little longer.

You let Draco’s comments land instead of brushing them off.

You smiled.

Just enough.

And every time—

Every single time—

You checked.

You watched Fred the way you used to watch him before, only now it wasn’t about his smile or the way he laughed.

It was about what changed.

At first—

He joked.

Of course he did.

“Careful,” he muttered once as he passed you, just loud enough for you to hear. “Spend too much time with him and people might start questioning your judgment.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart had already started racing.

Because there it was again.

That edge.

That something underneath.

But then—

It shifted.

Slowly.

Almost imperceptibly.

The jokes came less often.

The comments stopped altogether.

Fred didn’t interrupt anymore.

Didn’t react the same way.

Didn’t step in.

And somehow—

That was worse.

Because now—

He just watched.

From a distance.

Quieter.

Harder to read.

Like he had decided something—

And you hadn’t been part of that decision.

You noticed it in the small things.

The way he didn’t sit as close anymore.

The way conversations between you didn’t last as long.

The way his attention slipped away quicker than it used to.

Still kind.

Still Fred.

But… not the same.

Not with you.

—

One evening, as you laughed at something Draco had said — not even that funny, not really — you felt it again.

That pull.

That instinct.

You turned—

And found Fred already looking.

Not smiling.

Not amused.

Just—

Watching.

Something tight flickered across his face before he looked away.

Too fast.

Like he hadn’t meant for you to catch it.

Your laughter faded.

Just like that.

Because suddenly—

It didn’t feel like a game anymore.

And for the first time since this started—

A different thought crept in.

Quieter.

Heavier.

What if…

You swallowed.

Your fingers tightening slightly at your sides.

What if he wasn’t going to stop you?

What if he wasn’t going to say anything at all?

What if—

This didn’t mean what you thought it did?

—

And still—

The next time Draco spoke to you—

You didn’t walk away.

—

You weren’t sure why you decided to go to the common room that night. Maybe it was habit, maybe it was the lingering warmth of the fire that always seemed to pull you in. Either way, you found him.

Fred was there. Alone. Well, mostly alone—he had sprawled himself across the armchair like he owned the room, one leg tossed over the edge, a book half-forgotten in his lap. The firelight caught the golden highlights in his hair, made his grin softer, something about him entirely approachable, yet untouchable.

You hesitated, caught in that moment where your feet moved on their own. You slid onto the edge of the sofa opposite him, book in hand, pretending to read. Pretending. Because, of course, you weren’t.

“Not reading again?” he asked, without looking up, his voice low and teasing.

You tried to sound casual. “Just… checking some things.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, finally glancing at you, his brow raised. “Very convincing.”

You rolled your eyes, smirking. “You’re just jealous because I might actually understand this.”

Fred laughed softly, a sound that made your chest tighten without permission. He shifted slightly, leaning back in the chair, and for a second—just a flicker—you thought he was going to say something serious, something honest. But he didn’t. Instead, he threw a sideways grin at you.

“You always were too clever for your own good,” he said.

“You love it,” you shot back immediately, because yes, you did love it—this banter, this safe space where it was just the two of you, and no one else mattered.

He tilted his head, considering you, that easy charm in his eyes now edged with something else, something you couldn’t quite name. “Maybe I do,” he said slowly. “Maybe I just… like it when you’re clever.”

You felt your stomach flip. Just a little. You leaned closer, intentionally, just enough to notice him stiffen imperceptibly. “Glad to be of service,” you murmured.

The fire crackled. The room was quiet but for the soft pop of wood burning and the occasional shuffle of your movement. Fred’s gaze followed you, just a touch too long, lingering on the corner of your mouth as you smiled to yourself.

“Don’t do that,” he said suddenly, and your heart jumped.

“Do what?” you asked innocently.

“Smiling like you know something I don’t,” he replied, his voice soft but sharp. There was a weight to it, something heavy that made your pulse quicken.

You leaned a little closer again, daring. “Maybe I do,” you whispered, letting the words hang in the space between you.

Fred froze. Or at least, he looked frozen, though the slight flare of his nostrils betrayed him. He leaned back, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. “You’re testing me,” he said.

“Maybe I am,” you admitted lightly.

He gave a short, almost breathless laugh, like he wasn’t sure if he was amused or annoyed. “We should probably go,” he said suddenly, running a hand through his hair. “Dinner won’t wait forever.”

You frowned. “You’re leaving? Now?”

“Yes,” he said, voice clipped, a little guarded, like he didn’t want you to notice that your proximity had thrown him off. “Before I say something I’ll regret.”

You let him stand, brushing past him, feeling the heat of the tension linger longer than it should. He held the door open for you, but instead of looking at you, he stared ahead, jaw tight, hands in his pockets.

The whole walk to the Great Hall was quiet. You felt the weight of his gaze even when he wasn’t looking at you. By the time you reached the dining tables, you realized he hadn’t taken a seat near you at all.

And that stung.

Not because you wanted to be noticed, exactly, but because… he should have been. He would have, once.

Instead, you sat alone, picking at your breakfast, pretending the empty chair beside you didn’t matter. Pretending the little flare of jealousy, the little twinge of disappointment, wasn’t gnawing at your chest.

And deep down, you knew he was thinking the same thing.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a tiny, dangerous thought bloomed.

If he cares that much… maybe that’s the key.

—

The corridor was quieter than it should have been.

Too quiet.

You hadn’t meant to end up here.

That much was obvious now.

The familiar turns of the castle had blurred somewhere along the way, your thoughts too loud, too tangled to notice when you’d taken the wrong path.

Fred.

Draco.

That look on Fred’s face earlier—

You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down your arm as if it would ground you.

It didn’t.

“Lost?”

The voice cut cleanly through the silence.

You froze.

Slowly—too slowly—you turned.

Draco Malfoy leaned against the wall a few steps behind you, like he’d been there longer than you’d realized. Like he’d been watching.

Not alone.

Two Slytherins lingered further back, exchanging looks that made something cold settle in your stomach.

You straightened slightly. “No.”

He tilted his head, studying you.

“That’s funny,” he said, pushing himself off the wall. “Because you look like you are.”

You didn’t answer.

You just moved to walk past him.

That was your first mistake.

“Hey—”

His hand caught your wrist.

Not hard.

Not yet.

Just enough to stop you.

You stilled.

“I was talking to you.”

Your jaw tightened. “I heard you.”

“Then why are you walking away?”

You pulled your hand slightly. “Because I don’t feel like talking.”

There was a beat.

A shift.

Subtle—but there.

His grip tightened.

Not painfully.

But enough.

Enough to make it clear.

“That’s not how this works,” he said, quieter now.

Your eyes snapped back to his.

“What?”

“For the past few days,” he went on, stepping just a little closer, voice controlled but edged now, “you’ve been perfectly happy to talk.”

Behind him, one of the Slytherins snorted softly.

“Yeah,” the other added under his breath, “don’t let her play you like that.”

Draco didn’t look at them.

But you saw it.

The way his shoulders squared.

The way something sharpened in his expression.

Your pulse kicked.

“I changed my mind,” you said, forcing calm into your voice. “Let go.”

He didn’t.

“You don’t just get to—what, decide I’m worth your time one day and not the next?”

“That’s exactly how it works.”

You tried to pull your wrist free again—

This time, his grip held.

Firm.

Your breath hitched.

“Draco—”

“Don’t,” he cut in, something colder slipping into his tone now. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what you’ve been doing.”

“I haven’t been doing anything.”

Another quiet laugh from behind him.

“Right,” one of them muttered. “Keep telling yourself that.”

You felt it now.

That shift.

The moment things stopped being harmless.

Stopped being a game.

“Let go,” you said again, sharper.

He stepped closer.

Too close.

“You don’t ignore me,” he said, voice low—not loud, not out of control—but steady in a way that was worse. “Not after that.”

Your heart started to race.

Not the same way it had before.

This was different.

This was—

“Enough.”

The word didn’t come from you.

It cut through the corridor like it belonged there.

Like everything else didn’t.

All at once—

The air changed.

You didn’t even have to turn to know who it was.

Fred Weasley didn’t raise his voice.

Didn’t rush.

He just stepped into the space like he had every right to be there.

And suddenly—

Everything stilled.

Draco’s grip didn’t loosen immediately.

But his attention shifted.

Fred didn’t look at him first.

His eyes went to your wrist.

Then—slowly—back up.

“Let go,” he said.

Quiet.

Flat.

Not a suggestion.

A pause.

Then—

Draco released you.

Like it hadn’t been a choice.

Fred stepped forward without hesitation, placing himself between you without making it obvious—without making a show of it.

But you felt it.

That barrier.

That line.

“Didn’t realize corridors were getting so crowded,” Fred added lightly, though there was no humor in it.

Draco’s jaw tightened. “We were having a conversation.”

Fred’s gaze flicked to him, brief and unimpressed.

“Didn’t sound like one.”

Another beat.

Tension.

Then one of the Slytherins shifted, clearly less comfortable now.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Not worth it.”

Draco held Fred’s gaze a second longer—

Then stepped back.

“Careful, Weasley,” he said, smooth again—but thinner now. “Wouldn’t want you getting involved in things that don’t concern you.”

Fred smiled.

That easy, familiar smile.

Except it wasn’t.

“Funny,” he said quietly. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

Another second.

Then—

Draco turned.

And just like that—

They were gone.

The corridor fell silent again.

But it wasn’t the same silence.

Not anymore.

Fred didn’t move right away.

Neither did you.

Your wrist still tingled where Draco had held it.

Your heart hadn’t slowed.

And then—

Fred turned to you.

And everything hit at once.

“What were you thinking?”

His voice wasn’t raised.

But it landed harder than if it had been.

You blinked. “I—”

“Walking around alone?” he cut in, stepping closer now, eyes sharp—not at you, not cruel—but intense. “Here? At this hour?”

“I didn’t realize—”

“That’s the point.”

You flinched slightly.

And he saw it.

You knew he did.

Because something flickered.

Just for a second.

But he didn’t stop.

“You don’t get to just—” he exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “Merlin, do you have any idea—”

“What?” you snapped, the tension snapping right back. “What could’ve happened?”

“Yes.”

That one word—

Too immediate.

Too real.

You stared at him.

Because suddenly—

This wasn’t irritation.

This wasn’t just anger.

This was something else.

Something heavier.

“I can handle myself,” you said, quieter now—but defensive.

Fred laughed once.

Short.

Not amused.

“Right. That looked like you had it under control.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No?” he stepped closer again. “Then tell me what you were doing.”

You hesitated.

Just for a second.

And he caught it.

“Exactly,” he said, softer now—but tighter. “You weren’t thinking.”

“I was.”

“Then explain it to me.”

Silence stretched.

Your pulse hammered.

Because this—

This was it.

You could lie.

Brush it off.

Walk away.

Instead—

Your voice came out quieter than you expected.

“I wanted to see if you’d care.”

The words hung between you.

Fred didn’t react.

Not at first.

You swallowed.

“I thought—” you forced yourself to keep going, even as your chest tightened, “I thought if I pushed it far enough… if I made it obvious enough…”

Still nothing.

Just his eyes on you.

So you finished it.

“I needed to know if it meant anything to you.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

And then—

Something in his expression shifted.

Not gone.

Not soft.

But… different.

Less sharp.

More… real.

“You thought that was the way to do it?” he asked quietly.

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

Another pause.

Longer this time.

Fred looked away briefly, jaw tightening—

Then back at you.

And when he spoke again—

The anger was still there.

But it wasn’t the only thing anymore.

“It did,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“It mattered.”

Your breath caught.

“I just—” he exhaled, shaking his head slightly, like he was trying to find the words and hated that he had to. “Watching that… watching him talk to you like that, like he had any right—”

His voice cut off.

His jaw clenched.

“It was driving me insane.”

Your heart stuttered.

Fred let out a quiet, frustrated breath.

“I didn’t step in because I thought—” he huffed softly, almost bitter. “I thought maybe that’s what you wanted.”

“It wasn’t.”

“I know that now.”

His voice softened.

Not completely.

But enough.

And suddenly—

The space between you felt smaller.

Closer.

“Don’t do that again,” he said quietly.

“I won’t.”

A beat.

Then—

“Good.”

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you looked away.

And then—

Fred stepped closer.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Like he was giving you time to stop him.

You didn’t.

His hand came up—hesitant for the first time—and brushed lightly against your wrist, the same one Draco had held.

Gentle.

Completely different.

His eyes flicked to yours.

“Next time you want to test something,” he murmured, voice low, “just ask me.”

Your breath hitched.

“Okay.”

That was all it took.

He closed the distance.

The kiss wasn’t rushed.

Wasn’t uncertain.

It was steady.

Intentional.

Like everything that had been building finally had somewhere to go.

And when you kissed him back—

It deepened.

Just slightly.

Enough to make your chest tighten, your fingers curl into his sleeve without thinking.

Enough to make everything else disappear.

Until—

“Well.”

Percy Weasley stood a few steps away, arms crossed, expression somewhere between outrage and disbelief.

“What,” he said sharply, “is going on here?”

Fred didn’t even hesitate.

“Nothing,” he replied smoothly.

Percy’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Fred repeated, completely unfazed.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Fred glanced sideways at you—quick, amused—

Then back at Percy.

“If anyone’s in trouble,” he added casually, “it’s me.”

“Obviously,” Percy snapped.

Fred just grinned.

“Wouldn’t dream of dragging her into it.”

Percy huffed, muttering something about responsibility and patrol schedules—

But you barely heard it.

Because Fred leaned slightly closer, just enough that only you could hear—

“Go to bed,” he murmured.

Then, softer—

A quick, almost invisible wink.

And just like that—

The tension broke.

—

The next morning—

The Great Hall felt different.

You slid onto the bench—

And this time—

Fred was already shifting to make space for you.

Naturally.

Like it had always been that way.

“Morning,” he said, easy.

Then—

Pressed a quick kiss to your cheek.

Like it was nothing.

Like it was everything.

Across the table—

Ginny raised a brow.

Lee smirked.

George just looked entertained.

“Interesting development,” Lee muttered.

Fred didn’t even look at him. “Eat your breakfast.”

You tried not to smile.

Failed.

“And Malfoy?” someone further down the table asked. “Heard he ended up in the hospital wing.”

Fred shrugged, completely unbothered. “No idea.”

You glanced at him.

He didn’t look at you—

But the corner of his mouth twitched.

And somehow—

You knew exactly.

#fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley smut #fred weasley imagine #fred weasly x reader #fred weasely x y/n #fem reader #hogwarts fanfiction #romance #soft smut #fanfiction #one shot #jealousy #angsty tension #draco malfoy #slow burn to 🔥#slowburn #slow burn romance

Reflections of Desire

Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: A midnight escape turns into something far more dangerous when a forgotten room reveals a mirror that doesn’t show reality… but desire.

Warnings: Mature content / Soft Smut / One-shot

Castle corridors felt different at night.

Quieter. Darker. Full of secrets that only revealed themselves after curfew.

Your laughter echoed too loudly as you ran, breathless, heart pounding from more than just the sprint. Somewhere behind you, Filch’s furious voice bounced off the stone walls, growing closer, sharper.

“THIS WAY!” George hissed.

You split without thinking—George and Angelina disappearing left, while Fred caught your wrist and dragged you right, boots slipping on cold stone as you turned the corner at full speed.

You barely made it three steps before he pulled you through a half-open door and slammed it shut behind you.

Darkness swallowed you whole.

For a second, neither of you moved. Only your breathing filled the room—fast, uneven, tangled together.

Fred pressed a hand lightly over your mouth, the other braced against the door as he leaned in to listen. His chest rose and fell close to yours, warm even through layers of fabric.

Footsteps passed in the corridor.

Filch muttered something vicious.

Then silence again.

Fred slowly removed his hand. You both stayed frozen another heartbeat… two…

And then you burst into muffled laughter, shoulders shaking as you tried—failed—to stay quiet.

“Oh, we are so dead if he finds us,” you whispered.

“Worth it,” Fred breathed back instantly, grin audible in his voice. “Absolutely worth it.”

Your eyes adjusted slowly to the dark. The room looked abandoned—dusty shelves, covered furniture, the faint shimmer of old magic clinging to the air.

“Reckon George and Angelina made it?” you murmured.

Fred snorted softly. “Probably hiding in some tiny broom cupboard that smells like mold and regret.”

You stifled another laugh, biting your lip to keep quiet.

While Fred stayed by the door, still half-listening for danger, you stepped deeper into the room, curiosity tugging you forward.

That was when you saw it.

The mirror stood against the far wall—tall, ornate, silver curling around the frame like frozen smoke. It shouldn’t have been beautiful in a room like this.

But it was.

You moved closer without meaning to.

For a moment, it showed only you—flushed cheeks, messy hair, eyes still bright from running through forbidden corridors in the middle of the night.

You reached up automatically, smoothing your hair, straightening your clothes.

Then the reflection shifted.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

Just… enough.

Someone stood behind you in the glass.

Fred.

Closer than he really was. Head tilted slightly. That slow, dangerous smile playing on his lips—the one that always meant trouble.

Your breath caught.

You turned sharply.

Fred was still at the door, back to you, listening.

Empty space behind you.

A chill ran down your spine—half fear, half something else.

“Fred…” you whispered. “You need to see this.”

He crossed the room quietly, curiosity winning.

“What is it, love—”

He stopped.

You saw it in his face before he spoke—the way his teasing vanished, replaced by something deeper. Something unguarded.

“What do you see?” you whispered.

Fred didn’t answer at once.

He looked at the mirror. Then at you. Then back at the mirror again—like his brain was trying to decide which version of reality made less sense.

A slow, disbelieving breath left him.

“…You’re not going to like this,” he murmured, though the corner of his mouth twitched in that very Fred-like way that meant the opposite.

Your pulse jumped. “Tell me.”

His eyes flicked to yours, searching, almost checking if you were serious.

“You really want me to say it out loud?”

Your voice came softer now. A little unsteady. “Yes.”

For a heartbeat he just stared at the glass, jaw tight, like the words themselves were dangerous.

Then—

“You’re looking at me,” he said quietly. “Not like you usually do.”

A pause.

“Like you’re about to do something you definitely shouldn’t.”

Heat rushed straight to your cheeks.

“And?” you breathed.

Fred swallowed, gaze still locked on the reflection.

“And you’re… stepping closer.” His voice dropped, rougher around the edges. “Slow. Like you’re giving me time to stop you.”

You didn’t move in reality. But your chest rose faster.

“I’m not stopping you,” he added under his breath.

Silence tightened around you.

Your turn.

“What do you see?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

Your lips parted before you could think better of it.

“You’re behind me,” you said. “Closer than you really are.”

Fred’s shoulders went still.

“Your hand’s on my waist,” you continued, voice trembling now—not from fear. “Like you already know I won’t move away.”

A quiet, shaky exhale escaped him.

“Merlin…” he muttered, half breath, half laugh. “This mirror’s got a sick sense of humor.”

“Is it humor,” you whispered, “or… something else?”

He didn’t answer.

Because in the glass— you were closer still.

“And now?” he asked, voice lower than before.

Your fingers curled into your palm.

“You’re touching me like… you’ve wanted to for a while,” you said softly.

Fred let out a slow breath, eyes darkening in a way that had nothing to do with the room.

“That’s interesting,” he murmured. “Because what I’m seeing is you doing exactly the same thing.”

Your heart skipped.

“Yeah?” you whispered.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“You’re the one who starts it.”

The words hung between you—warm, dangerous.

For a second he huffed a quiet, disbelieving breath.

“Funny,” he said softly. “Spent years thinking of you as just my partner in crime…”

His gaze slid back to the mirror. “…and now this stupid thing shows me you touching me like that—”

He stopped.

Not because he wanted to. Because finishing the sentence felt too real.

“And?” you pressed, barely breathing.

His voice came out rough.

“And now I can’t really pretend I don’t want it.”

The room felt suddenly smaller.

Hotter.

“What if it’s showing the future?” you whispered.

Fred gave a quiet, crooked half-laugh. “Dangerous thought, love.”

“But what if,” you continued softly, “it’s just showing what we’d do… if we stopped pretending?”

That wiped the humor from his face completely.

Because without noticing— you had both moved closer.

Just an inch. Then another.

Until—

Your arms brushed.

The contact hit like lightning.

You both jerked back slightly, breath catching at the exact same time.

Reality crashed in.

Fred dragged a hand over his face, exhaling hard.

“Right,” he muttered. “Okay. Maybe we should… stop staring at the magical truth-telling torture device.”

You didn’t move.

Your eyes were still on the mirror. Still caught in the heat of it.

“Y/N,” he said more firmly.

Nothing.

So he reached out— closed his fingers gently around your wrist— and pulled you back a step.

The sudden closeness knocked the air from your lungs.

You were right in front of him now. No mirror between you. No distance left to hide in.

His voice dropped, quiet but steady.

“If this wasn’t a mirror,” he said, “would you actually want it to happen?”

Your answer came out breathless. Honest. Immediate.

“Yes.”

Something shifted in his expression— the last piece of hesitation burning away.

“…You know that changes everything,” he murmured.

“I know.”

One heartbeat of silence.

Two.

Then he kissed you—

sudden, warm, certain— like the decision had already been made somewhere deeper, long before tonight.

And the mirror behind you— full of almosts and maybes and dangerous possibilities—

didn’t matter anymore.

Because this—

the heat of his mouth, the way your hands found him without thinking, the sharp, breathless pull of something finally real—

was no longer a reflection.

#fanfiction #weasleyxreader #smutfic #fred weasley #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasly x reader #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley smut #fred weasely x y/n #fred weasley x reader #fred wealsey fic #soft smut

•18+ Adults Only

Watch Anya Live on Cam

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.

✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality

Anya is LIVE right now

FREE

Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming

Crashing Into You

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Hufflepuff!fem!reader

Summary: After a Quidditch crash leaves Cedric Diggory unconscious, Y/N finds herself spending more time in the hospital wing than she ever expected — not with him, but with Fred Weasley. Between stolen glances, quiet arguments, and unexpected moments of closeness, what starts as frustration slowly turns into something she never saw coming.

Warnings: Sluw burn / soft smut / fluff / humor / hospital wing setting

The roar of the crowd wrapped around the pitch like thunder.

Red and yellow blurred together in the stands as broomsticks sliced through the air, fast and sharp. I barely noticed the Gryffindor cheers. My eyes were locked on one figure alone.

Cedric Diggory.

He flew like he belonged in the sky — effortless, focused, every movement precise. His robes barely fluttered as he angled his broom, sunlight catching in his hair. Perfect posture, perfect timing. Every time he passed the Hufflepuff hoops, my breath caught just a little.

He was everything I admired. Calm. Talented. Unshakable.

The crowd erupted again, and I leaned forward on the bench, fingers curling around the edge. Somewhere below, a Bludger screamed through the air.

That was when I saw him.

Fred Weasley.

Red robes, reckless speed, a grin sharp enough to be dangerous even from a distance. He flew low and fast, bat raised, eyes scanning the field with predatory focus. I’d seen him play before — aggressive, fearless, always pushing just a little too far.

My gaze snapped back to Cedric just as he swerved, chasing the Snitch near the center of the pitch.

And then—

Everything happened at once.

A shout from the commentator. Gasps rippling through the stands. A Bludger spinning wildly off-course.

Fred shot upward.

Cedric turned.

They collided midair with a sickening crack.

The sound echoed across the stadium. Both brooms spun out of control as two bodies slammed together and tumbled downward.

“No—” I whispered

They hit the ground hard.

The stadium fell into a stunned, horrible silence before chaos broke loose.

The hospital wing smelled like potions and linen and something sharp I couldn’t name.

I stood just inside the doors, heart pounding, hands clenched so tightly my nails bit into my palms. Madam Pomfrey moved briskly between beds, spells murmured under her breath, curtains drawn and redrawn.

Cedric lay on the bed closest to the window.

His eyes were closed, dark lashes resting against his cheeks. A white bandage wrapped around his head. His chest rose and fell slowly, evenly — breathing, thank Merlin — but he didn’t stir.

I stepped closer, swallowing hard.

He looked fragile like this. Smaller somehow. Not the golden boy from the pitch — just a boy, hurt and still.

A sharp laugh cut through the quiet.

“Could’ve been worse. At least we’re still breathing.”

I stiffened.

The voice came from the bed beside Cedric’s.

Fred Weasley lay there far too comfortably for someone who’d nearly broken his neck. His arm was wrapped, a faint bruise blooming at his temple, but his eyes were bright — amused, alert. Watching me.

“Doesn’t look like either of us got off easy, though.” he added lightly.

My head snapped toward him.

Anger surged hot and immediate, cutting through the fear coiled in my chest.

“You think this is funny?” I snapped, stepping fully between the beds. “You could’ve killed him.”

Fred’s grin faltered — just slightly.

“Oi,” he said more quietly. “That’s not what I meant.”

I turned away before he could say anything else, dropping into the chair between the two beds, eyes fixed on Cedric again. My heart hammered painfully against my ribs.

Behind me, Fred shifted, the mattress creaking.

“Well,” he muttered after a moment, more to himself than to me, “this is going to be a long stay.”

I didn’t answer.

And I had no idea — none at all — just how right he was.

I stayed there for a long while, my hands folded tightly in my lap, eyes darting from Cedric’s still form to Fred’s restless movements. He didn’t look hurt enough to complain.

“You really know how to make an entrance,” he said after a pause, voice quieter this time, teasing but soft.

I didn’t answer. My fingers drummed lightly against the chair arm, and I forced my gaze back to Cedric. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t even twitched.

Fred sighed, and I could almost feel the weight of his patience thinning. “Fine,” he muttered, “ignore me if you want. But, you know… someone has to make sure you don’t start crying over there.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. My jaw clenched, but I couldn’t help the tiniest twitch of a smirk threatening the edge of my lips.

“You’re insufferable,” I said, voice low, almost a hiss.

“Charming,” he replied, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the obvious ache in his arm. “But here’s the thing: if you’re going to sit there staring at Cedric all day, at least do it with some company.”

I stared at him. He didn’t look arrogant, not really—just unbothered, somehow, like this was all minor inconvenience to him, and yet his eyes were watching me, waiting.

I huffed, trying to ignore the flutter in my chest.

Fred leaned back slightly, the mattress creaking under him. “Right... but, uh…” He trailed off, his grin softening, “if you get bored of staring at him, maybe, I don’t know… you could, uh, help me fix my pillow? Seems like it’s crooked.”

I froze.

The subtle invitation hung in the air, innocent enough to dismiss if I wanted—but impossible to ignore. Slowly, I stood and crossed to his bed, careful not to brush him too closely. My hands adjusted the pillow just enough to make it level, my fingers brushing the edge of his blankets.

Fred’s eyes followed every movement, and for a moment, his usual grin faltered—not gone, just… softened.

“There,” I said, stepping back. “Happy?”

“Thrilled,” he muttered, voice low, almost shy, though he tried to cover it with a smirk. “Really. You have no idea how much difference that makes.”

I returned to my seat between the beds, my heart thudding in a rhythm I could feel all the way down to my toes. Fred settled back, quiet for the first time since I’d arrived, but there was something in the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, that made it clear: he wasn’t going anywhere, and somehow, I didn’t want him to.

The next morning, I returned, the small bag of sweets clutched in my hands.

My eyes flicked toward Cedric. Still asleep. Still perfect. Still unreachable.

Fred’s head lifted from his pillow, one eyebrow quirked. “Fancy seeing you again,” he said, voice teasing, though the bruise on his temple gave him a slightly lopsided charm. “What have you got there? Something that smells suspiciously like sugar?”

“Sweets,” I said flatly, taking a careful step closer. “For Cedric.”

Fred’s grin widened immediately. “He still asleep... and still probably won’t be eating any of it, huh?”

I sighed, deliberately loud, letting the sound signal my irritation. “I suppose you’ll have to make do,” I muttered, reaching down and lifting the bag just enough to hand it toward him.

He caught it deftly, fingers brushing against mine for just a heartbeat. The touch lingered longer than it should have, warmth threading through me like an electric pulse. Fred’s grin softened, though only barely, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“Lucky me,” he said softly, a mock seriousness in his voice. “Seems like all this chocolate is mine for the taking.”

I rolled my eyes, shaking my head. “Don’t get used to it,” I muttered, though my hand lingered near his as I adjusted the bag so it rested comfortably on his lap. “Cedric might wake up eventually… and then you’ll be out of luck.”

Fred leaned back, feigning a dramatic sigh. “Tragic,” he said, voice low, playful. “I’ll have to endure these treats alone, all by myself. How cruel.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing my gaze back to Cedric, though my chest throbbed a little with the brief contact. “You really are a nuisance,” I murmured, almost to myself.

“Maybe,” Fred replied immediately, tone light, teasing, as if he’d read my thoughts. “But, y’know… it’s more fun this way. You and I…”

I exhaled softly, adjusting a candy in the bag. “Just… don’t get any ideas,” I said flatly, though a flicker of a smile betrayed me.

He chuckled quietly, the sound warm and low, filling the small space between the beds. “Ideas are overrated,” he said, eyes glinting, “but company… well, that’s something I can’t resist.”

I collected the rest of the sweets, carefully setting a few near Cedric’s pillow while Fred inspected his spoils like a child with a treasure. My fingers brushed his hand again, just for a moment, and he caught my eye, that small smirk tugging at his lips.

I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at mine in return.

When it was time to leave, I gave him a curt nod. “See you later,” I said, though my voice softened slightly, betraying a flutter I didn’t intend.

“Don’t take too long,” Fred called after me, voice low, teasing, but carrying a weight I felt in my chest long after I stepped through the door.

The next few days slipped by quietly.

What had started as a single bag for Cedric slowly turned into two. I told myself it was practical — Fred was awake, after all. Someone had to eat them. But the truth was harder to ignore when I caught myself picking out which ones he liked best.

Fred, of course, noticed immediately.

“Aw,” he said, holding up a Honeydukes chocolate. “You remembered.”

Over the next few days, our conversations slipped from teasing remarks to more personal chatter. We talked about Quidditch strategies, favorite sweets, little annoyances in class, even dreams for the future. Our arguments, brief and playful, would dissolve into laughter that echoed quietly through the infirmary.

Each day, I found myself moving the chair closer to Fred’s bed, lingering just a little longer than necessary. My hands would brush his when passing a candy or adjusting his blanket, each touch sending a faint warmth along my skin.

The flowers by Cedric’s bed were still there — still beautiful — but they didn’t last the way I’d hoped. Petals drooped. Colors dulled. I meant to replace them. Truly, I did.

But I kept forgetting.

Or maybe I just kept getting distracted.

“Those need water,” he said casually.

I glanced at the flowers, then away again. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

He looked at me for a moment longer than necessary, then nodded. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Tomorrow.”

By the end of the week, the ritual had settled into something comfortable: sweets for Cedric, shared glances and touches with Fred, quiet talks, laughter, and the subtle charge of something unspoken in the small space between us.

When I finally left in the evening, Fred called after me, soft and teasing, but there was an unmistakable warmth underneath: “Don’t be gone too long. I might get lonely.”

I paused in the doorway, heart skipping. “I’ll be back,” I said softly, my eyes meeting his.

And for the first time, I wasn’t just thinking of Cedric.

One evening, the infirmary was quiet, Cedric still slept, oblivious to the world, and the only sounds were the occasional clink of potion bottles and Fred’s faint breathing.

I lingered a little longer, adjusting the small water jug beside him. My fingers brushed against the edge of his blanket as I straightened it, and for a moment, I hesitated, noticing how close the chair felt to his bed now.

Fred shifted, eyes catching mine. “You know,” he said quietly, voice low and teasing, “it’s been a long week, and my shoulder isn’t going to heal itself. Might need some… magical kiss.”

I raised an eyebrow, trying to mask the flutter in my chest. “Magical kiss?” I echoed, keeping my tone steady, though my fingers twitched at the edge of the blanket.

“Yes,” he said, leaning slightly closer, eyes bright and earnest beneath the dim light. “The best remedy I’ve found… involves this.”

Before I could react, he leaned forward, just enough that our faces were close, and gently pressed his lips to mine. Soft, careful, testing, as if he was memorizing the moment.

My breath caught. I froze for a heartbeat, then closed the small gap, letting the kiss deepen slowly. His hands moved gently to my waist, grounding me, while mine brushed against his chest, feeling the warmth beneath the thin pajamas.

The room felt smaller somehow, the golden light wrapping around us, Cedric’s bed forgotten in the corner. Every brush of our hands, every subtle press of our bodies sent a warmth through me, the kind that made it impossible to think of anything else.

Fred’s lips parted briefly, just to murmur, “You… okay?”

I nodded against him, breath shaky, then kissed him again. This time, slower, more certain. His hands tangled in my hair, holding me close without rushing. Every movement was deliberate, every touch a quiet promise.

When we finally pulled back, our foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the warm air. A soft laugh escaped him. “Mm. Not bad, huh?”

I let out a shaky laugh of my own, fingers brushing along his shoulder. “You’re impossible,” I whispered, but the smile I couldn’t hide betrayed me.

Fred’s grin softened into something almost tender. “And yet, somehow… worth it.”

I stepped back reluctantly, still feeling the echo of our closeness. “I… I’ll be back tomorrow,” I said softly, heart still fluttering.

“Good,” he murmured, eyes lingering on mine. “I'll be here. Waiting. For you.”

As I left, the warmth of our touch lingered, a quiet thrill in the golden light of the infirmary, and for the first time since the collision, Cedric seemed a distant thought rather than the center of my world.

The morning sunlight spilled through the infirmary windows.

I came early. Earlier than usual, heart still fluttering from the night before, replaying the memory of that kiss. My steps slowed instinctively as I reached the familiar row of beds.

I pushed the door open and froze. Fred’s bed was empty.

“Oh,” I whispered, my pulse skipping.

Before I could think further, a pair of strong arms wrapped around me from behind.

“Morning, love,” came Fred’s teasing voice, low and close. A soft kiss pressed to the side of my neck.

I jumped slightly, then froze, heat rushing to my cheeks. He pulled back just enough to reveal a crooked grin and a small bouquet of wildly mismatched flowers like he’d raided three different greenhouses.

“These are… beautiful,”

“Picked them just for you,” he said proudly. “Thought you might need a little sunshine. And maybe… someone to remind you how lucky I am.”

His fingers brushing mine. That brief contact sent warmth spiraling through me. He leaned in again, pressing another soft, teasing kiss to my lips. “And yes, I’m stealing all your morning attention.”

I couldn’t stop the blush, couldn’t stop the flutter of excitement that made my chest ache in the best possible way. Fred’s grin was infectious, magnetic, and completely unapologetic.

A groan came from behind us.

“Ugh… what…?” he mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his head, bandages rustling. He squinted at the room, confused.

Fred, standing casually by my side, offered me a wink and a playful smirk. “Morning, Ced. You’re just in time.”

Cedric blinked, then looked at me.

“I… guess I’m missing out.” Cedric said, voice a little rough.

I stifled a laugh. Cedric’s expression flickered between confusion and mild jealousy, but there was no real malice—just the kind of playful acknowledgment that made the situation hilarious.

I exchanged a glance with Fred, who gave me that small, subtle smile that said more than words ever could. Our fingers brushed, and for a moment, everything else in the room faded away.

Cedric groaned, leaning back against his pillows. “Fine, fine. Go on… enjoy your… whatever this is.”

Fred leaned in slightly, resting his hand lightly over mine. “Oh, we will. Don’t worry. You’re still our favorite Hufflepuff—just not the only one getting attention today.”

I laughed softly, warmth spreading through me as Fred’s hand lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Cedric’s quiet, resigned chuckle filled the room, and somehow, it all felt perfectly, utterly right.

Caught in the Storm

Pairing: George Weasley x fem!reader

Characters: George Weasley, Oliver Wood

Summary: New to the school paper, assigned to Quidditch coverage, you didn’t expect the real game to be off the pitch. George Weasley flirts, teases, and pushes boundaries, while Oliver Wood stakes his claim with every serious, commanding word. You’re the prize, and the tension is almost too hot to handle.

Warnings: Slow Burn / Soft Smut / Soft Intimacy / Subtle love triangle tension / Soft Angst / Friendly rivalry

The weather had been warning you since the moment you left the castle.

Wind pulled at your coat, sharp and impatient, and the rain had only just begun—light, almost polite, the kind that promised it wouldn’t stay that way for long. You crossed the grounds anyway, boots sinking slightly into damp grass, heart beating faster with every step toward the Quidditch pitch.

You weren’t entirely sure what you were doing there.

You were new. Everyone knew that. New to the paper, new to the column—sports, of all things. You still weren’t sure how that had happened. You didn’t play. You didn’t fly. But someone had decided you had to start somewhere, and Gryffindor Quidditch seemed as good a place as any.

What if they don’t let me in? What if training sessions are off-limits? What if I walk all this way just to be told to leave?

You exhaled slowly, tightening your grip on your notebook.

Stop it, you told yourself. You won’t know unless you try.

You were so focused on rehearsing your introduction that you didn’t see him.

You walked straight into a body—solid, warm, unmovable—and would have lost your balance if hands hadn’t caught you instantly, firm at your arms, steadying you before you could even stumble.

“Easy,” a voice said, close.

You looked up.

His hair was a blaze of red even under the gray drizzle, rain darkening the collar of his jacket. His hands lingered on your arms, slow to release, as if letting go hadn’t even occurred to him yet.

“Are you alright?” His eyes searched your face, calm, insistent, like your answer actually mattered.

You nodded, suddenly aware of every fraction of a second, every inch between you. “Yes… yeah. I’m fine. Sorry—I wasn’t looking.”

Behind him, a lighter voice teased.

“Lost already?”

A second redhead appeared over his shoulder, identical grin, identical curiosity—but his gaze flicked between the two of you like he was watching something interesting unfold.

The wind, the rain, even the distant shouts from the pitch faded into a muted haze. For a moment, there was only this—standing here, in the open, the quiet electricity between you, hands still brushing yours as they loosened ever so slightly.

“I’m George,” he said, voice soft, offering his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “George Weasley.”

Your name came out almost on instinct as you introduced yourself, fumbling slightly over the details—new to the paper, sports section, first article, hoping watching the training wouldn’t be a problem.

George’s smile deepened, playful yet knowing, a flicker of something unspoken lighting his eyes.

A sharp crack of a broom landing split the moment.

Footsteps approached—fast, purposeful.

“Why aren’t you in the air?” a voice demanded. “How long am I supposed to wait?”

Oliver Wood appeared, rain dripping from his hair, half-irritation on his face… until his eyes found you.

For a heartbeat, he forgot the words he was about to say.

You stepped forward, just enough to break the silence.

“I’m sorry—I don’t mean to interrupt. I just started working for the school paper, sports section,” you said, voice steady, heart racing, “I was hoping to write about Gryffindor. About the team.”

Wood glanced up at the sky, then back at you. “You know it’s going to rain.”

You nodded. “Quidditch doesn’t stop for bad conditions, right?”

His gaze softened, approving, almost impressed.

“Alright,” he said. “You can stay. Just don’t get in the way.”

He turned, calling orders, sending players to their positions, but George lingered.

George finally moved toward his broom, he leaned close, voice low over the wind. “Try not to blink,” he said, almost a whisper, teasing, intimate, like a secret only you were allowed to hear. “You might miss something.”

Then he was gone, lifting off into the grey sky as the rain finally began to fall in earnest.

Training ended the way it had started—loud, sharp, and soaked through.

Rain clung to everything now. Robes, hair, brooms abandoned near the edge of the pitch. Players laughed, complained, shoved at one another as they landed, adrenaline still humming under their skin.

You stayed where you were, notebook pressed to your chest, watching them come down one by one.

You almost told yourself you’d leave it at that.

Almost.

“Hey,” you said, stepping forward before you could change your mind. “I still have a few questions. If anyone—”

“I’m free.”

George’s voice cut in first, immediate. His hands brushed the wet hair from his forehead, rain clinging to his lashes. He turned to you with a certainty that made your pulse jump. “Happy to answer all of them,” he added, as if there had never been a question.

Then Oliver’s voice reached you, smooth, firm, commanding without edge. “Actually,” he said, eyes meeting yours with a quiet weight, “I should probably be the one doing this.”

George’s gaze flicked toward him, still smiling, but there was a sharpened edge now—something deliberate, unspoken.

“Pretty sure you don’t speak for the entire team,” George said, eyes back on you, playful, defiant, yet teasing. “Not off the pitch.”

Wood stepped closer, a subtle heat radiating off him even through the rain, close enough that your notebook seemed to shrink between all of you.

“As captain,” he said, eyes locking on yours, steady and certain, “it makes sense that I handle interviews. Especially official ones.”

You opened your mouth to smooth it over.

Instead, you found yourself standing between them.

George raised an eyebrow, smirk teasing, unapologetic. “Unless you want to hear the same rehearsed answer three times.”

Wood didn’t break his gaze. “Unless you want the truth instead of a performance.”

You exhaled slowly, nodding once. “Then I suppose I’ll talk to both of you.”

Neither of them argued.

They just watched each other for a beat too long before turning back to you.

You flipped open your notebook.

“Alright,” you said. “First question.”

You asked about the season. About expectations. About pressure.

George answered first, casual—each word teasing and light, yet precise.

“With style,” he said. “With instinct.” “With the ability to adapt when things don’t go according to plan.”

Wood’s corrections came, calm, measured, the weight of responsibility in every word.

“With discipline.” “With preparation.” “With knowing your role and sticking to it.”

They disagreed politely. Constantly.

Every answer became two versions of the same truth—George’s loose, confident, edged with humor; Oliver’s precise, measured, rooted in responsibility. When one finished, the other filled the space immediately, as if silence meant losing ground.

You wrote quickly, barely able to keep up.

At one point, George leaned closer, brushing your notebook with a finger, a ghost of warmth, eyes glinting. “Make sure you write that part down,” he said, voice low.

Wood folded his arms. “Or you could write what actually wins matches.”

You looked up from the page.

They were both watching you now.

Not waiting for your next question—waiting for your reaction.

You didn’t give them one.

You just smiled faintly and kept writing.

By the time you closed your notebook, the rain had soaked through the last dry edge of the pitch, and something unspoken had settled between the three of you. Not hostile. Not friendly.

Charged.

“Well,” Wood said at last, straightening. “If you need anything clarified, let me know.”

George tilted his head, eyes still on you. “Same goes for me.”

Different words. Same meaning.

You thanked them, already aware that this wasn’t just an interview anymore—and that whatever you were writing, both of them intended to be part of it.

As you turned to leave the pitch, you felt it clearly for the first time.

You had stepped into something that wasn’t neutral.

“Hey—wait.”

Oliver’s voice reached you before you made it halfway to the path leading back to the castle.

You turned.

He was jogging toward you, rain still clinging to him, hair damp, expression more careful now than it had been during training.

“You said you’re writing this tonight,” he said. “After standing out here, you’re going to freeze.”

You shrugged lightly. “Occupational hazard.”

He shook his head once, decisive. “Come have some tea. Somewhere warm. We can go over the article—if you want to make sure it’s accurate.”

There it was.

The official reason.

You hesitated only a second before nodding. “Alright.”

The Gryffindor common room smelled like firewood and damp wool.

The rain outside beat steadily against the windows now, heavier than before, but inside it was warm—almost too warm—golden light flickering from the fireplace as students talked, laughed, drifted in and out.

You sat on one end of a sofa near the hearth, parchment spread across your knees, a steaming mug cradled between your hands.

Oliver sat close. Closer than necessary.

He leaned in as you reread a paragraph, shoulder brushing yours, attention fully on the text.

“This part,” he said, pointing. His finger grazed your hand as he did. “You might want to clarify what we changed tactically after mid-season.”

You nodded, scribbling a note.

A moment later, it happened again.

Another accidental touch. Brief. Deliberate enough to be noticed, subtle enough to be dismissed.

Oliver spoke quietly, his voice low in the space between you. “You write well,” he said. “You see things people usually miss.”

You looked up at him, surprised.

Before you could respond, the portrait hole burst open.

Noise flooded the room.

Laughter. Voices. Wet boots hitting stone.

George’s voice carried first—easy, unmistakable—followed by Fred’s commentary, Harry complaining about the rain, Angelina’s sharp laugh, Katie shaking water from her sleeves.

The team.

They filtered in together, energy still buzzing from training.

George saw you almost immediately.

Then he saw where you were sitting. Who you were sitting with.

The way his gaze lingered on Oliver’s arm resting along the back of the sofa behind you.

He approached slowly, hands in his pockets, rain still clinging to his hair.

“Well,” George said, stopping in front of the sofa, gaze flicking pointedly to Oliver. “Looks like you didn’t waste any time.”

Oliver glanced up, unfazed. “We’re going over the article.”

“Ah,” George drawled. “Of course you are.”

You felt the tension before either of them said anything else.

Without thinking too hard about it, you shifted slightly—just enough to make space beside you.

“Do you want to see?” you asked George, lifting the parchment. “You are part of it.”

That did it.

Oliver straightened, subtle but immediate.

George’s eyebrows lifted, amused. He dropped onto the sofa beside you without hesitation, close enough that your knees brushed.

“Careful,” he murmured, glancing at the text. “If I start editing too, he might think I’m stealing his job.”

Oliver scoffed. “You wouldn’t know where to begin.”

George smiled—slow, deliberate—and leaned in closer, his shoulder pressing lightly into yours.

“Funny,” he said, eyes on you now, not Oliver. “You seem to understand me just fine.”

Your pen paused mid-word.

You felt it then—how naturally your body angled toward George, how your attention followed him without effort. How Oliver, suddenly, felt like the third presence instead of the center.

George glanced back at the parchment, pretending to read.

“You should keep that line,” he added casually. “The one about instinct. It suits me.”

Oliver cleared his throat. “If you’re done—” he said, controlled.

“Relax, Captain,” he said lightly.

Then George leaned back, standing.

“I’ll let you finish,” he said, eyes lingering on you. “For now.”

As he walked away, you realized two things at once:

Oliver had lost his advantage.

And George knew it.

The days that followed slipped into a strange rhythm.

You kept writing. You kept observing.

And George Weasley kept finding you.

Not loudly. Not obviously.

Just… inevitably.

In corridors between classes, when you were juggling parchment and ink and suddenly there he was, walking backward in front of you, asking if you’d written something devastating about him yet.

On the stairs, where he’d slow his pace to match yours, leaning against the railing like he had nowhere else to be.

In the Great Hall, where you’d feel his eyes before you ever saw him—look up from your notes and find him already watching, mouth curved like he knew something you didn’t.

Sometimes he spoke. Sometimes he didn’t.

Sometimes it was just a glance held a second too long, a brush of fingers when he passed you your quill back, a murmured “Don’t work too hard” like it meant something else.

You noticed how easily you laughed with him. How you forgot to watch the time.

And you noticed something else, too.

Oliver Wood hadn’t stopped trying.

He checked in about the article. Asked how it was coming along. Offered tea again—always tea, always warm, always reasonable. His presence was steady, grounding, impossible to dismiss.

You told yourself it was harmless.

You didn’t tell yourself who you looked for first when you entered a room.

The next day wind was sharp again when you reached the pitch.

Too sharp.

Too quiet.

The stands were empty.

You stopped short, confusion settling in as you scanned the field. No players. No brooms. No shouting.

“Looking for someone?”

You turned.

George stood a few steps away, hands in his jacket pockets, expression unreadable—but softer than you expected.

“You’re late,” he said gently.

Your stomach dropped. “Late?”

“Snape moved Slytherin’s training up,” George explained. “Apparently ambition doesn’t like waiting.”

You let out a breath, frustration flashing across your face. “I didn’t know.”

“I figured,” he said. Then, after a pause: “You look… disappointed.”

“I needed the notes,” you admitted. “I didn’t want to miss it.”

He studied you a moment longer, then nodded toward the path away from the pitch.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere that isn’t freezing,” he said. “I’ll walk you.”

You didn’t argue.

You walked side by side, the grounds stretching quiet around you. Dusk bled into the sky, and the wind tugged at your hair—but with him there, it felt lighter somehow, as if the chill was just a brush against skin.

He fell into step beside you, shoulders almost touching yours. You didn’t move away.

“Careful,” he said suddenly, low, playful. “Don’t let the cold steal all your attention.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I… wasn’t thinking about the cold.”

He smirked, leaning just slightly closer, enough that you could smell rain and smoke lingering on him. “Good.”

Your arm brushed his as you adjusted your notebook. A spark ran through your chest, subtle, electric, but unmistakable.

He glanced at you, and in that glance, there was something unspoken—a promise, a challenge, a dare.

By the time you reached the castle, the corridors were quiet, torchlight flickering against the stone walls.

“Huh,” you murmured. “We missed dinner.”

He smiled softly, almost slyly. “Worth it.”

Inside the common room, the warmth hit you all at once. You dropped onto a sofa near the hearth, parchment on your knees, quill in hand.

George paused mid-step, watching you with a tilt of his head. “Not going to bed?”

You sighed, leaning your head against the back of the couch. “I should. But I I need to write something.””

“Well,” he said slowly, “I do happen to be an excellent source.”

You smiled. “Unbiased?”

“Never,” he replied. “But entertaining.”

He straightened suddenly, posture stiff, expression twisted into a bad imitation.

“As a Slytherin Beater,” he drawled, “I believe Gryffindor’s success is entirely accidental and deeply offensive—””

You snorted before you could stop yourself.

“That’s terrible.”

“Thank you,” he said proudly. “I worked very hard on it.”

You shook your head, smiling as you scribbled something out. “Alright. We’re not writing about them.”

“Good,” he said. “They don’t deserve the ink.”

The fire crackled softly. The room felt warmer. Smaller.

An idea settled in your chest.

“What if,” you said carefully, “I wrote a profile instead?”

George tilted his head. “Of who?”

You met his eyes. “You.”

He blinked. “Me?”

“The best Beater on the team,” you said, voice steady. “Personal angle. No tactics. Just… you.”

Something shifted in his expression.

“Only if the questions are fair,” he said.

You smiled. “No promises.”

You wrote his name at the top of the parchment.

“First question,” you said. “Do you actually enjoy it? The pressure?”

George shrugged. “Some days. Other days I pretend I do.”

Somewhere between jokes and notes, the space between you shrank.

Your knees touched fully. His arm brushed yours. A hand lingered near the edge of your parchment, close enough to distract you, close enough to thrill you.

“Do you have someone?” you asked, just barely above a whisper, as if testing.

George tilted his head. “Is that for the readers?”

You looked up, heart stuttering.

“Or for you?” he murmured, leaning slightly, letting the words hover just for you.

The warmth from him pressed against you, subtle, teasing, impossible to ignore.

He shifted, just a hair closer, close enough that the moment stretched, fragile and electric. Every inch closing, inch by inch, until it felt like there was nothing left between you.

You forgot the parchment. The firelight. The world outside the room.

You were so close.

Too close to stop now.

“Oi.”

Fred’s voice crashed into the room like a Bludger.

You jumped apart instantly.

George groaned softly, forehead dropping forward for a split second.

“Wood’s looking for you,” Fred added cheerfully. “He’s losing his mind about tomorrow.”

George stood, jaw tight. “Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”

He looked back at you.

His expression had changed—still heated, still charged—but softer now. Certain.

“This isn’t over,” he said quietly.

Then he turned and followed Fred out.

You stayed where you were.

Heart racing. Fingers still curled around the quill.

On the parchment, the title stared back at you.

George Weasley: More Than a Beater

You didn’t write another word.

Match day. The castle woke up louder than usual.

Doors slammed. Footsteps echoed. Someone was already shouting “Gryffindor!” down the corridor like it was a battle cry instead of a greeting.

You barely made it three steps out of your dorm before you felt it—the electricity in the air, the certainty everyone carried like armor.

They were going to win. Of course they were.

Scarlet and gold everywhere. Scarves thrown over shoulders, laughter spilling between groups of students as if the match was already over. You caught fragments of conversations as you moved through the hall.

“Hufflepuff doesn’t stand a chance.” “Wood’s been insufferable all week.” “We’re taking the Cup this year.”

You smiled despite yourself, fingers tightening around your notebook.

You scanned the crowd instinctively.

And found him.

George stood near the stairs, already half in his gear, sleeves rolled up, hair a little wild like he hadn’t bothered to tame it this morning. Fred was saying something animated beside him, but George wasn’t listening.

He was looking at you.

Your steps slowed without you realizing it.

You meant to go to him. Meant to wish him luck. Meant to say something—anything that wasn’t unsaid.

You took one step forward.

“Hey—”

“Can I steal you for a moment?”

Oliver’s voice came from your right.

You turned, startled.

He stood close, already dressed for the match, expression focused but softer when he looked at you. Intentional. Grounded. Like he’d planned this.

“It’ll only take a second,” he added.

You hesitated.

George was still watching.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just a word. Just timing.

“Okay,” you said.

Oliver guided you a few steps away, just far enough that the noise of the common room blurred into background sound. He stopped near the window, rain streaking the glass behind him.

“I won’t keep you long,” he said. “I just—” He exhaled. “This match matters.”

“I know,” you replied quietly.

He reached into his pocket, fingers closing around something small.

“When we lost the Snitch because of the dementors,” he said suddenly, eyes fixed on yours, “I promised myself I’d never leave anything to chance again.”

He opened his hand.

A thin leather bracelet rested in his palm, worn soft with age. The Gryffindor lion was stamped into the metal clasp, dulled from years of being touched, trusted.

“I’ve worn this every match since,” Oliver continued. “Call it superstition if you want. But it’s never failed me.”

Your breath slowed.

“I want you to have it,” he said.

You looked at the bracelet. Then back at him.

“Oliver—”

“Just for today,” he interrupted gently. “If you keep it on… it means something. To me.”

You swallowed.

You didn’t think about how it might look. You didn’t think about who might see.

You thought about belief. About pressure. About what it meant to carry someone’s hope.

You reached out.

“Alright,” you said. “I’ll hold onto it.”

Oliver smiled—relieved, sincere—and fastened it around your wrist himself, his fingers lingering just a second too long.

Behind you, the noise shifted.

You felt it before you turned.

George stood a few feet away now.

He wasn’t smiling.

His gaze was fixed on your wrist.

On Oliver’s hand.

On the space between you that suddenly felt very visible.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Fred clapped George on the shoulder, saying something about warm-ups, about not being late, about Wood losing his mind if they didn’t move.

George didn’t take his eyes off you.

Something in his expression closed.

He nodded once—to Oliver, not to you—and turned away without a word.

Your stomach twisted.

You looked down at the bracelet, suddenly heavier than it had been seconds ago.

The match hadn’t even started.

And already, something had shifted.

You found him near the locker rooms.

The noise of the castle faded there, replaced by the low hum of voices behind closed doors, the clatter of brooms being moved, boots hitting stone.

George stood with his back to the wall, arms crossed, staring at nothing.

You hesitated for half a second.

Then you stepped closer.

“George.”

He looked at you.

Really looked at you.

And for the first time since you’d met him, there was no warmth in his eyes.

“What,” he said. Not a question. A statement.

You swallowed. “I wanted to wish you luck.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Right.”

Silence stretched.

His gaze dropped—to your wrist.

The bracelet.

He laughed once, humorless. “Didn’t realize we were doing that now.”

“Doing what?”

“Collecting souvenirs,” he said coolly. “From captains.”

You frowned. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” He pushed off the wall, stepping closer. “Because it looks a lot like that.”

You lifted your chin. “He asked me to hold onto it. For the team.”

George’s jaw tightened.

“Funny,” he said. “You didn’t ask me.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” he agreed quietly. “It isn’t.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through his composure.

“I thought you were different,” he said. “I thought when you looked at me—when we talked—it meant something.”

“It does,” you said immediately.

“Then why does it feel like I’m watching you choose him?”

That hit.

You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “I didn’t choose anyone.”

George shook his head slowly. “You don’t get it. You don’t have to say it for it to happen.”

He glanced toward the door, where voices were rising—teammates calling his name.

“I don’t have time for this,” he said, already pulling away. “I’ve got a match to play.”

He paused.

“And for what it’s worth,” he added, not turning back, “I don’t give interviews today.”

Then he was gone.

The door shut behind him.

You stood there alone, the echo of his words settling heavy in your chest.

You looked down at your wrist.

The bracelet felt tighter now.

And suddenly, holding onto it didn’t feel like support.

It felt like a mistake.

The rain started before the first whistle.

You took your place in the stands, notebook forgotten in your lap.

The roar of Gryffindor thundered around you.

Scarlet and gold banners waved. Someone behind you was already shouting Wood’s name like a prayer.

Your eyes found the pitch.

George mounted his broom, jaw set, shoulders tense. He didn’t look at you.

Oliver barked orders, sharp and precise, voice cutting clean through the rain. He looked confident—focused in the way that made people trust him.

The whistle blew.

The match exploded into motion.

At first, it was chaos—blurs of colour, brooms slicing through wet air, the thud of Bludgers echoing across the pitch. Rain slicked everything, turning sharp maneuvers into risks.

George played hard.

Too hard.

You saw it immediately—the way he hit faster, more aggressively than usual, timing just a fraction off. One Bludger flew wide. Another clipped a Hufflepuff Chaser.

Oliver shouted corrections.

George didn’t answer.

They weren’t in sync.

A signal missed. A call ignored. A maneuver mistimed.

You gripped the edge of the bench as a Hufflepuff player slipped past their formation, scoring easily.

The crowd groaned.

Wood’s voice rose, sharp with frustration.

George’s broom jerked in response—too late.

Rain streamed down his face now, plastering hair to his forehead, jaw clenched so tight you could see it from the stands.

You looked down at your wrist.

The bracelet.

It felt wrong. Heavy. Like it didn’t belong there.

The match dragged on, tension winding tighter with every near-miss. Gryffindor clawed their way back, point by point, sheer determination keeping them afloat.

Then—

A Bludger rocketed toward Oliver’s blind side.

George saw it.

For half a second, everything slowed.

You stood without realizing it.

George swerved hard, slamming the Bludger away just in time. The impact jolted him sideways, rain-slick broom skidding dangerously before he recovered.

The crowd erupted.

Oliver glanced back—really looked at him this time.

Something shifted.

They moved better after that. Still tense. Still rough around the edges. But aligned.

As if the game forced them to remember why they trusted each other in the first place.

The Snitch appeared near the stands, gold flashing through the rain.

Harry dove.

Seconds stretched unbearably thin.

Then the whistle shrieked.

“GRYFFINDOR WINS!”

The stadium exploded.

Cheers tore through the rain, louder than thunder. You barely registered the noise as players landed hard on the pitch, mud splashing, arms thrown around shoulders, laughter breaking free.

You were already moving.

Down the steps. Onto the wet grass.

Your boots slipped slightly as you reached the edge of the pitch, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the score.

Oliver reached you first.

Water streamed down his face, eyes bright with relief and triumph.

“We did it,” he said, breathless. “We actually did it.”

He laughed, hands coming to your arms, grounding himself.

“I told you,” he added, glancing at your wrist. “It worked.”

You opened your mouth.

Didn’t get the chance to answer.

A shadow fell across the grass.

George landed a few feet away.

Rain-soaked. Breathing hard. Exhilaration and exhaustion etched into his face.

Fred clapped him on the back, Angelina shouting something about his save, but George barely heard them.

His eyes found you.

And on the bracelet.

The noise around you dulled.

You couldn’t hear what Oliver was saying anymore.

You stepped back gently, slipping your wrist from Oliver’s grasp.

Without looking at him, you reached up and unclasped the bracelet.

Rain slicked it as it dropped into your palm.

You crossed the space between you and Oliver and pressed it back into his hand.

“Thank you,” you said quietly. “For trusting me.”

Then you turned.

George was there.

Close. Too close.

Heat radiated from him through the wet fabric, through the rain.

His gaze swept to Oliver, then snapped back to you.

Something shifted in him—something raw, sudden, urgent.

“Fuck it,” he muttered.

And he closed the space.

He kiss you.

Not tentative. Not gentle.

The world narrowed to the two of you. Rain streaked over skin and fabric, dripping into hair, turning everything around into a blur of light and sound.

His hands found your waist, firm, claiming. Your fingers twined into the collar of his jacket, gripping, steadying, wanting.

Every glance, every hesitation, every unsaid thing between you collided in that instant.

Somewhere a cheer cut through the rain—but it was distant, irrelevant.

You didn’t hear it. You didn’t care.

There was just the press of him, the warmth, the spark of his lips against yours, the unspoken promise hanging in the storm.

A heartbeat stretched, stretched again, as if the rain itself waited with you.

Everything else—Oliver, Fred, Angelina, the pitch, the storm—slid to the edges of existence.

Whatever this had been, whatever lines you’d nearly crossed before, evaporated.

You had chosen.

And so had he.

The castle was quieter later.

Not silent—just softened. Like it was recovering from everything the day had thrown at it.

You sat at one of the tables in the common room, parchment spread before you, quill moving slower now, more deliberate. Ink stained your fingers. Your hair was still damp at the ends.

George sat close.

So close you could feel the warmth of him even when he wasn’t touching you—his knee brushing yours, his arm resting along the back of your chair like it had decided this was its place now.

You wrote about the match.

About rain and rhythm. About tension and trust. About a team that nearly fractured—and didn’t.

You were finishing the last paragraph when you felt him lean in.

Not to read.

To you.

His breath brushed your ear, warm and unhurried.

“You always do that,” he murmured.

“Do what?” you asked quietly, eyes still on the page.

“Get that look,” he said. “Like the rest of the world stops existing when you write.”

Your pen paused.

His lips brushed just below your ear—not a kiss, not quite. A promise of one.

“You’re good,” he added softly. “You know that, right?”

You swallowed, heart picking up pace. “I’m almost done.”

“Mmm,” he hummed, amusement threading through his voice. “Shame.”

Your fingers tightened around the quill. “Why?”

“Because,” he said, closer now, his mouth at your neck, his words a whisper against your skin, “once you’re finished… I was hoping you might pay attention to something else.”

You laughed under your breath, heat rushing to your face. “George.”

He smiled against you. You could feel it.

“Just saying,” he murmured. “The article can wait five more minutes.”

You leaned back—into him this time—letting your head rest briefly against his shoulder.

“Five,” you said. “That’s all you get.”

He grinned, unmistakably pleased.

You added the final line.

In the end, Gryffindor didn’t win because the rain stopped— they won because they trusted each other enough to keep flying through it.

You set the quill down.

George’s hand slid to your waist, firm and certain.

“Done?” he asked.

You turned your head toward him.

“Done.”

He kissed you then—slow, unhurried, like there was nowhere else he needed to be.

And for the first time since this had all begun, you knew with absolute certainty—

He wasn’t going anywhere.

And neither were you.

Claimed by Fire

Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: Fred won’t share you. A slip of the tongue, a name you didn’t mean, and suddenly everything explodes — jealousy, anger, desire. He claims you, and neither of you can resist. A heated argument becomes a wild, unrestrained night where boundaries vanish and passion takes over.

Warnings: Mature content / Smut / Strong language / Jealousy & possessive behavior / Emotional intensity

You were already close when it started.

Too close to think clearly.

Fred’s hands rested on your waist, thumbs tracing slow, absent-minded patterns as if he had nowhere else to be, as if this was the most natural place in the world. You leaned into him without thinking, drawn by the familiar warmth, the quiet crackle of tension that always sparked when he looked at you like that — amused, intent, entirely focused.

His lips brushed yours once, then again, deeper this time. Unhurried. Confident. Like he had all the time in the world.

You smiled into the kiss.

“Missed you,” he murmured against your mouth, voice low, roughened just enough to make your pulse jump.

“I’m right here,” you whispered back.

His hands slid higher, then lower again, teasing, grounding. He kissed along your jaw, your cheek, then down the side of your neck, slow and deliberate, like he was mapping familiar territory he never tired of exploring.

You sighed, head tipping back without thinking, giving him access.

“Fred…” you breathed.

He hummed softly, pleased, lips lingering at the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s it.”

The room felt smaller. Warmer. Like the rest of the castle had faded away.

His mouth moved lower, kisses unspooling down your neck, unhurried but purposeful. One of his hands slipped beneath the edge of your shirt, fingers warm against your skin, making you shiver despite yourself.

Your thoughts blurred.

Your body reacted faster than your brain could keep up.

And then—

“Ced—”

The sound left your mouth before you could stop it.

Before you could even realize what you’d said.

Everything stopped.

Fred froze.

His lips left your skin. His hand stilled. The warmth vanished so suddenly it felt like stepping into cold air after fire.

Silence filled the space between you — thick, heavy, unmistakable.

Slowly, Fred pulled back just enough to look at you.

“What did you just say?” he asked.

His voice was calm.

Too calm.

You blinked, still dazed, heat flushing your face. “What?” You frowned, confused. “I—what do you mean?”

His jaw tightened.

“What,” he repeated, slower now, sharper, “did you just say?”

Understanding hit you like ice water.

Your stomach dropped.

“I—” You swallowed hard. “Fred, I didn’t mean—”

“What. The fuck. Did you say?” His voice rose this time, disbelief cutting through it like a blade.

Your heart hammered painfully in your chest. “It was a mistake,” you rushed out. “I swear. I don’t even know why—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, pulling his hands away completely now, stepping back as if distance was the only thing keeping him from losing control. “Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

You sat up fully, panic creeping in. “It’s just—Cedric’s been helping me study lately, and he’s been around so much and my head’s been full and it didn’t mean anything, Fred. Nothing. Please.”

He stared at you like you’d struck him.

“So he’s in your head,” Fred said flatly.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

You shook your head quickly. “It was a name. A slip. That’s all. It doesn’t change anything.”

Fred let out a short, humorless laugh. “You don’t moan someone else’s name by accident.”

The words hit harder than you expected.

“I want you,” you said, voice shaking now. “I’m here with you.”

“And that’s the problem,” he snapped. “If I’m here with you, I don’t want anyone else anywhere near your thoughts.”

You stared at him, stunned. “So what, you’re just… stopping?”

“Yes,” he said immediately. “Absolutely.”

Your chest tightened. “Fred—”

“No,” he cut in, running a hand through his hair, agitation written all over him. “I’m not doing this. I’m not sleeping with you while you’ve got another bloke rattling around in your head.”

“That’s not fair.”

He looked at you sharply. “Neither is that.”

Silence fell again, heavier this time.

“If it passes,” he continued, voice lower, controlled with effort, “if you figure out whatever this is — then fine. Come find me.” His gaze met yours, wounded and stubborn all at once. “But I’m not sharing you. Not even like this.”

Then he stepped back, putting physical space where intimacy had been seconds before.

You sat there, stunned, heart pounding, anger flaring hot and fast beneath the shock.

“You’re overreacting,” you said, voice tight.

Fred’s mouth twisted. “Maybe. But at least I know whose name I’m saying.”

He turned away before you could answer.

And just like that, the warmth was gone — replaced with something sharp, unresolved, and aching.

You didn’t chase him.

And he didn’t look back.

The next day was worse.

Fred was still Fred — laughing too loudly at breakfast, leaning back in his chair like the world had never offended him once. He joked with Lee, stole someone’s toast, flashed that effortless grin that used to be yours.

Just not at you.

When his eyes met yours, something shut down. The smile vanished. His jaw tightened. He looked away.

You didn’t speak either.

You told yourself you were right. You hadn’t done anything wrong. A name wasn’t betrayal. Not really. Still, by the third day, the tension sat behind your eyes like a headache you couldn’t shake.

You noticed everything.

How he never sat near you. How he never reached for you. How, according to Lee, Fred had started sitting next to some girl in class — someone you didn’t even know.

The jealousy surprised you with its violence.

So when Cedric found you that afternoon, it felt like relief — unfair, unwanted, but real.

“Hey,” he said gently, holding up a stack of notes. “I thought you might want help with this part. I’ve got time.”

He smiled the way he always did — kind, steady, unthreatening.

You hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You sat together, talking, flipping pages. It was easy. Too easy. Like slipping into a familiar rhythm.

Then his hand brushed yours.

Once — accidental, you told yourself.

Again.

And again.

When you pulled your hands into your lap, his knee touched yours under the table, lingering just long enough to make your spine stiffen. His gaze held yours a second longer than friendly required.

Something was wrong.

You stood abruptly. “I—sorry. I just remembered I need to—something. I should go.”

Cedric blinked. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “I just—later, okay?”

You left before he could answer.

You were halfway down the corridor when someone shouted your name.

You turned.

Cedric jogged toward you, slightly out of breath, holding your notebook. “You forgot this.”

“Oh. Right.” You took it — and his fingers stayed wrapped around yours a moment too long.

You flushed.

He noticed.

His expression shifted — softened, sharpened, emboldened all at once.

“I heard some things,” he said carefully. “People saying you and Fred… aren’t together anymore.”

Your stomach dropped. “Who said that?”

He shrugged. “I just thought—since we’ve known each other so long… And I’d be lying if I said you haven’t been on my mind for a long time, Y/N. I really like you—”

He leaned in.

And before you could react—

“Oi! Diggory!”

Fred’s voice cracked through the corridor like a whip.

Cedric froze.

Fred stormed toward you, fury rolling off him in waves. “Have you lost your mind? Or do you always go after girls who aren’t yours?”

Cedric straightened. “I thought she was free.”

Fred laughed sharply. “Thought wrong.”

He stepped between you without hesitation. “Just because our dads get on doesn’t mean I’ll like you if you don’t learn one thing.” His eyes were ice-cold. “You don’t touch what’s mine.”

Cedric opened his mouth.

“Do it again,” Fred finished, voice low and dangerous, “and I’ll rearrange that pretty face.”

Fred grabbed your hand and pulled you away before Cedric could reply.

You didn’t resist.

Back in the common room, eyes followed you. Whispers sparked. Fred didn’t care.

He dragged you into his room, shut the door hard enough to rattle the frame.

Fred didn’t shout at first.

That was almost worse.

He paced once, then turned to you, hands planted on his hips like he was trying to physically hold himself together. His jaw clenched so tight you thought his teeth might crack.

“What the hell was that?” he snapped, “Do you have any idea,” he said slowly, “how that looked?”

You scoffed. “I didn’t do anything.”

His laugh was sharp, disbelieving. “You didn’t do anything,” he repeated. “You let him! Like I didn’t exist.”

“That’s not fair,” you shot back immediately. “You’re the one who acted like I didn’t exist for three days.”

Fred stopped pacing.

His eyes snapped to yours. “Because I was angry.”

“And I wasn’t?” Your voice cracked despite yourself. “You walked away from me. You didn’t even ask what it meant — you just decided I wasn’t worth staying for.”

“That’s bullshit,” he snapped. “I asked. You brushed it off.”

“Because I made a little mistake and you acted like it was a crime.” you fired back.

Fred dragged a hand through his hair, frustration written all over his face. “It wasn’t just a 'little' mistake. It was personal.”

You swallowed. “I said his name once.”

“Once was enough,” he said immediately. “You’re minimizing it because facing it would mean admitting you crossed a line.”

“Do you know how that felt?,” he said lowly. “To hear another man’s name when I was touching you? When I thought we were—” He stopped himself, jaw clenching. “When I thought I had all of you.”

You opened your mouth — then stopped.

“No,” he continued, voice lower now, more dangerous. “Don’t brush it off. Don’t pretend it’s nothing. Because it is something. It’s humiliating. It’s like being told I wasn’t really there with you at all.”

Your throat tightened. You looked away.

“I wasn’t thinking,” you said quietly.

“That’s the problem,” he snapped. “I was. Every second.”

The air felt too thick to breathe.

“I wanted you,” he continued, quieter now, rough with restraint. “I chose you. And in that moment, I realized I wasn’t the only one in your head.”

You stepped closer despite yourself. “You’re right,” you said, forcing the words out. “It was wrong. If the roles were reversed… I’d have lost my mind.”

Fred’s shoulders dropped just a fraction.

“I didn’t pull away to punish you,” he said roughly. “I pulled away because if I stayed, I would’ve said something I couldn’t take back.”

That broke something in you.

You stepped closer. “I never wanted anyone else. I was overwhelmed. He was around all the time. It didn’t mean—”

“It mattered,” Fred said, cutting in. “Because I love you.”

“You scared me,” you whispered.

He nodded once. “You scared me too.”

And for the first time in days, when Fred looked at you, he didn’t look away.

He held your gaze like he was daring you to flinch first — like he was staking a claim without saying a word. Then, slowly, deliberately, he stepped into your space until there was nowhere left to retreat.

His hand came up, firm at your jaw, tilting your face back to meet his eyes.

“Say it again,” he said quietly.

Your breath caught. “Say what?”

“That you’re here,” he replied. “With me.”

“I’m here,” you whispered. “With you.”

Something dark and relieved flickered across his face.

“Good,” he murmured — and then he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle this time.

It was hungry. Controlled. Like days of restraint snapping all at once.

His mouth claimed yours fully, unyielding, his hand still at your jaw, thumb pressing just enough to make your pulse jump. You melted into it, fingers clutching at his shirt like you needed the anchor.

He backed you up without breaking the kiss, step by step, until the edge of the bed hit the backs of your legs.

Fred broke away just long enough to say, low and certain, “You’re not going anywhere.”

Then he pushed you down.

Not roughly — decisively.

He followed you immediately, body crowding yours, solid and warm, the weight of him grounding and unmistakable. One knee pressed between yours, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. His hand slid to your waist, fingers digging in like he was reminding himself you were real.

You gasped when his mouth found your neck.

“This,” he murmured against your skin, voice rough, “is mine.”

Your hands slid up his back, nails grazing skin, and he groaned softly at the contact — a sound that sent heat straight through you.

He kissed you like he was reclaiming something he’d been afraid of losing. Slow, deep, relentless. Every touch deliberate. Every movement sure.

When his forehead rested against yours, his breath was uneven.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did.

His expression softened just a fraction — enough to make your chest ache.

“There you are,” he murmured. “That’s who I want. No one else.”

Your answer was lost when he kissed you again, deeper this time, hands roaming, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you at all.

The room seemed to fade — the world narrowing to heat and breath and the way his body fit against yours like it always had.

His mouth lingered at your ear.

“Stay,” he whispered.

You did.

And the door stayed closed long after the fire burned low.

Later the fire crackled softly as you sat curled on the sofa, knees tucked beneath you, staring into the flames more than actually reading the book in your hands. Your body was pleasantly tired, your thoughts finally calm.

“Y/N?”

Ginny’s voice was careful. Hesitant.

You looked up.

She stood a few steps away, arms folded loosely over her chest, her expression a mix of concern and uncertainty — not teasing, not playful. Worried.

“Hey,” you said softly. “What’s wrong?”

She exhaled, clearly relieved that you didn’t look upset — but still not convinced. She moved closer and sat on the arm of the sofa.

“I just wanted to check on you,” she said. “About you and Fred.”

Your stomach dipped. “Okay…”

“I was walking past his room earlier,” Ginny continued, lowering her voice, “and I heard you shout. Like—really shout.”

You stiffened.

“And,” she added quickly, “I’m not judging, I swear — I just… you sounded upset. And you used the F-word. Very loudly.”

Your face went warm instantly.

Ginny noticed — and frowned. “See? That’s exactly why I’m asking. Are you two okay? Because it didn’t sound like a normal argument.”

You hesitated for half a second — then let out a breathy laugh.

“Oh,” you said. “Ginny.”

Her eyes widened. “That wasn’t a fight?”

“No,” you said, mortified but smiling now. “It really, really wasn’t.”

She blinked. “So you weren’t yelling at him?”

“Nope.”

“…at all?”

You shook your head. “Different kind of situation.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Ginny’s lips parted slightly. “Oh.”

You nodded, burying your face in your book. “Yeah.”

Ginny stared at the fire for a second, processing — then groaned softly and covered her face with her hands.

“Oh my God,” she muttered. “I was worried sick.”

“I’m so sorry,” you said, laughing quietly. “I didn’t realize—”

“I thought he’d made you cry,” she went on. “Or that something awful happened. I was halfway through writing a letter to my mum..”

You peeked at her. “Please don’t.”

She dropped her hands and looked at you again — this time, finally smiling. “So… everything’s okay?”

You nodded, warmth settling comfortably in your chest. “Yeah. We’re okay.”

Ginny sighed in relief. “Good. Because for a second there, I was ready to hex my own brother.”

You snorted. “That’s fair.”

She stood, shaking her head. “Next time,” she said dryly, “maybe keep the language down a bit.”

You groaned. “Ginny!”

She grinned over her shoulder. “I’m just saying — ‘Oh my fucking—’ echoes more than you think.”

And as she walked away, still smiling to herself, you sank back into the sofa, cheeks warm, heart full — knowing that this time, everything really was fine.

#fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley smut #fred weasley imagine #fred weasly x reader #fred weasely x y/n #smutfic #smut #fem reader #hogwarts fanfiction #romance #soft smut #smut fic #cedric diggory #fanfiction #one shot #jealousy #angsty tension

No One Between Us

Pairing: George Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: Ron never cared much for studying — until he volunteered for the competition just to be closer to you. That little act of boldness, meant to impress or manipulate, ignites something sharp and dangerous in George. Possessive, unyielding, and unafraid to claim what’s his, George decides it’s time to show his brother one unbreakable truth: his girl isn’t up for sharing.

Warnings: Muture themes / Smut / Sexual tension / Dominance/ Public-ish setting (Library) / Count (approx): 4,000

The Gryffindor common room glowed softly in the late afternoon, the fire crackling and casting warm shadows across the walls. Most students had already gone up to their dormitories, leaving the Weasley twins sprawled near the hearth. George was tossing a small wooden chess piece between his hands, Fred grinning lazily beside him.

Ron, however, sat slightly apart, near the window, his knees drawn up and a book open but largely ignored. His eyes kept flicking toward the portrait hole, and every time someone passed, he seemed to start, then slump back down.

“Oi, Ron,” George said casually, catching his brother’s restless glances. “You’ve been staring out the window like a lovesick owl. What’s up?”

Ron muttered something under his breath. “Nothing,” he said, too quickly.

Fred leaned forward, grin widening. “Nothing, huh? You look like you’re hiding something. And it’s not just the homework, is it?”

Ron shook his head quickly, pretending to be absorbed in his book, but George noticed the faint flush creeping over his cheeks.

Before George could press further, Angelina Johnson appeared near the fireplace, holding a stack of parchment. Her eyes sparkled with mischief—or maybe amusement. “Fred, George,” she said, voice light, “did you hear about the Magical Knowledge Competition?”

Fred’s brow arched. “The contest?”

Angelina nodded, glancing briefly toward the window where Ron sat. “Yes. Y/N was chosen to compete. And… well, it seems someone volunteered to be her partner.”

George’s head snapped toward Ron, eyes narrowing. “Volunteered? Who?”

Angelina gave a faint shrug, a playful smirk tugging at her lips.

Fred leaned closer, intrigued. “Well?”

“Ron,” Angelina said, as if reading their minds. “He signed up to be Y/N’s partner.”

George felt a flicker of something sharp in his chest. “He—what? He didn’t tell us?”

“I don't know,” Angelina replied cheerfully. “I thought you boys would like to know.”

Fred whistled softly. “Well, that explains why he’s been acting… strange.”

George clenched his jaw, tossing the chess piece onto the table with a little more force than necessary. “That little sneak,” he muttered. “Thinking he can just… just swoop in while I—” He broke off, gaze fixed on the portrait hole where Y/N would soon appear.

Fred smirked, watching his twin’s face darken. “Careful, George. Looks like the game’s on.”

George’s hands tightened into fists. She’s mine, he thought, low and dangerous. And Ron’s going to regret trying to steal even a moment with her.

Meanwhile, Ron shifted nervously in his seat, pretending to focus on his book. He had no idea that the moment Angelina’s words hit, George’s mind had already started plotting—something subtle, something sharp, and very, very possessive.

The portrait hole creaked softly, and Y/N stepped into the common room, her arms full of books and parchment. Her eyes flicked over the familiar room, taking in the empty chairs, the dying fire, and finally—Ron.

The moment she appeared, Ron was on his feet, nearly tripping over the edge of his chair. His hands flew through the air, trying to make his gestures look confident, purposeful, as though he had been waiting for this moment all day.

“Y/N! Right, um—so, we will now work together , I thought we could—well, if you want, we could start—” His voice pitched high, breaking under the weight of his nerves, but he didn’t stop, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Y/N tilted her head, a small, tired smile playing on her lips. She listened patiently, her gaze soft and warm. When he paused to catch his breath, she gave a slight nod, patting his shoulder lightly. “I’m really tired today,” she said gently, her voice calm, measured. “I’ll go over this with you tomorrow morning, okay? First thing.”

Ron blinked, stunned. “Oh—yes! Right! Tomorrow, then. Bright and early!”

She gave him a small, amused smile before turning toward the stairs. Her eyes flicked toward the fire, where Fred and George lounged, and she hesitated, hesitating just long enough to wave—a shy, almost conspiratorial gesture. Hey, I see you. Goodnight.

George’s chest tightened at the sight. His lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile, the warmth in his gaze barely hiding a flicker of something sharp. He lifted a hand in return, subtle, controlled—but when his eyes fell to Ron, narrowed slightly, the smile shifted into something colder, more dangerous.

Fred, noticing the exchange, leaned back lazily but couldn’t hide the twitch of amusement in his eyes. “Oi,” he murmured, nudging George, “looks like someone just got firmly reminded whose girl she is.”

Ron, cheeks flaming, spun on his heel and bolted for the stairs, each hurried step punctuated by a soft clatter of boots on stone. He didn’t glance back, though his heart hammered in his chest.

Fred chuckled, tipping back his head. “Look at him run,” he whispered, voice low, teasing. “Poor bloke doesn’t stand a chance.”

George’s lips curved into a predatory smile. “Tomorrow, brother,” he murmured under his breath. “Tomorrow, you’ll see why I don’t share.”

Fred just shook his head, laughing softly. “Better make sure you don’t scare her off before then,” he teased, though his eyes sparkled with amusement.

George only smiled, his mind already scheming for the next step. Possession didn’t need words—it needed presence, timing, and the smallest hint that he was the only one who mattered. And he had all three, perfectly poised, waiting for tomorrow.

The next day, morning light spilled through the tall windows of Hogwarts, turning the stone corridors gold. The castle hummed softly with life — footsteps, laughter, the distant echo of voices drifting between classes.

George spotted you almost immediately.

You were standing near the staircase, talking to a group of girls, your hair catching the sunlight in a way that made his chest tighten. For a moment, the rest of the world blurred. He didn’t hesitate — he never did — and crossed the corridor in long, confident strides.

“Morning,” he said easily, leaning an elbow against the wall beside you. His grin was relaxed, warm. “You know, I was thinking… I might steal you later. Walk by the lake. Maybe invent an excuse to not do anything productive at all.”

Your lips curved into a smile before you could stop it. “That sounds suspiciously like something you’d do.”

George chuckled, stepping a little closer, lowering his voice. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” His gaze softened, openly appreciative. “You looked… incredible today. I mean, you always did, but today especially.”

He lifted a hand, gently brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear — casual, familiar, affectionate. The gesture lingered just a second longer than necessary.

And then—

“Y/N!”

Ron’s voice cut through the moment like a blunt knife.

George didn’t move, but his jaw tightened.

Ron hurried toward you, clutching a book to his chest. “I was just looking for you! About the competition—there’s this section on counter-charms and I don’t really get the third paragraph. Or the fourth. Or… most of it, actually.”

You blinked. “Ron, I—”

“It’ll only take a second!” he added quickly. “Now’s probably the best time.”

George straightened slowly.

“Well,” he said lightly, though there was an edge beneath the calm, “funny how now is always the best time.”

Ron shifted uncomfortably, pretending not to notice.

You glanced between them, apologetic. “George, I—”

“It's fine,” George said, flashing you a smile that was all reassurance. “Go on. I’ll catch you later.”

Ron nodded a little too eagerly and ushered you away, already launching into questions.

George watched you go, his expression unreadable.

Fred appeared at his side moments later, hands in his pockets, eyes bright with amusement. “Blimey. If I didn’t know better, I’d say little brother’s got a death wish.”

George exhaled slowly. “He was doing it on purpose.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Fred agreed cheerfully. “And I’ve got to say — bold strategy. Terrible odds.”

The rest of the day didn’t improve.

Every time George found you — in the courtyard, outside class, even during lunch — Ron appeared like clockwork. A question. A reminder. An urgent need for your attention.

Once, George managed to catch you by the arm for just a moment, leaning in to murmur, “Meet me later?” only for Ron to loudly clear his throat and ask if you remembered page twelve.

Fred watched it all unfold with growing interest… and then concern.

That evening, he clapped a hand on George’s shoulder. “Alright. This stops now.”

George’s eyes flicked toward where Ron sat nearby, deep in conversation with you, gesturing animatedly with his book.

“I know,” George said quietly.

Fred smirked. “Good. Because if I’m getting annoyed, you know it’s bad.”

George’s gaze hardened — not angry, not explosive, but focused. Certain.

Ron Weasley had crossed a line.

And very soon, he was going to learn exactly when to stop getting in George Weasley’s way.

The library was unusually quiet that evening, the kind of quiet that pressed gently against your temples. Tall shelves loomed around you, heavy with books that smelled of dust and ink, and the long wooden table you shared with Ron was buried beneath parchment, open tomes, and hastily scribbled notes.

You were tired. Exhausted, really.

Ron looked worse.

He sat slumped in his chair across from you, shoulders rounded, red hair falling into his eyes as he squinted at the page in front of him like it had personally wronged him. His quill hovered uselessly above the parchment, unmoving for far too long.

You exhaled softly and kept going anyway.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like him. Ron was a good friend — kind, earnest, a little clumsy in the way he cared too much. But today had been… a lot. Ever since morning, he’d followed you with questions, with requests, with that desperate need to understand everything immediately. And the thought of him doing the same thing for the next few weeks, right up until the competition, had filled you with quiet dread.

So you’d decided to do it all now.

One evening. One long stretch of explanations. Every question answered. Every concept broken down. Get it done, get it out of the way.

You leaned over the next book, tracing a paragraph with your finger as you explained it aloud, already writing notes as you spoke — neat, clear, structured. You figured if you were doing this, you might as well do it properly.

Ron tried to follow. Really, he did.

But his brain had very clearly stopped cooperating somewhere around an hour ago.

He shifted in his chair, stifled a yawn, then rubbed his face with both hands. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, blinking slowly. “I swear I was listening. I just—Merlin, my head feels like porridge.”

You glanced up at him, pen pausing mid-sentence.

“We can stop,” he added quickly, though his tone betrayed him. “I mean—maybe just for today?”

You tilted your head. “Ron, you’ve been asking to stop for the past twenty minutes.”

He grimaced. “Have I?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

You tried not to smile.

You leaned back slightly, studying him. His eyes were glassy with exhaustion, posture completely collapsed now, chin almost touching his chest. And despite your irritation from earlier, something about the sight softened you.

Maybe he really had wanted to learn. Maybe he really had tried. It was just… too much for one day.

You sighed gently. “Alright. That’s enough for tonight.”

Ron blinked. “It is?”

“Yes,” you said firmly. “You’re barely conscious. Go to bed.”

He frowned, immediately shaking his head. “No, I can stay. I don’t want to leave you here alone.”

“I’ll be fine,” you said. “I’ll finish these notes from this chapter, and I’ll give them to you tomorrow. You can read them when your brain actually works again.”

Ron hesitated, clearly torn. “But—”

“Ron,” you added, softer now, “really. Tomorrow will be easier if you’re rested.”

He slumped back with a groan. “I just… it’s so late. And I’m so tired. And this is—” He stopped himself, eyes widening. “I mean—this is really interesting. Very interesting. Fascinating, actually.”

You snorted quietly.

He scratched the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I could get us coffee?” he offered weakly. “That might help?”

“You don’t need to,” you said immediately. “Go sleep. There’s tomorrow. And if we don’t finish everything then… well.” You shrugged lightly. “I suppose I’ll just spend another day with you.”

He looked oddly pleased by that, despite himself.

Still, exhaustion won.

“Okay,” he said finally, pushing himself to his feet. “But don’t stay too long, alright?”

“I won’t.”

Ron lingered for a second longer, then gathered his things and wandered off between the shelves, footsteps fading into the quiet.

You waited until he was gone before exhaling properly.

Turning back to the book, you dipped your quill into the ink again, muttering softly to yourself as you rewrote a definition, determined to finish at least this section.

Time passed. You weren’t sure how much.

Then you felt it.

The unmistakable awareness of someone standing behind you.

Without looking up, you spoke, voice low and tired. “Seriously? Go to bed. I told you I’ve got this. You don’t need to babysit me, I’ll finish and go sleep too, alright? Shoo.”

There was a pause.

A beat too long.

Then a familiar, amused voice murmured close to your ear, warm and unmistakable.

“Wow. And here I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

Your pen froze mid-word.

George.

You straightened so quickly your chair scraped softly against the stone floor. “George?”

He was standing close behind you, hands braced lightly on the edge of the table, leaning in just enough that you could feel his warmth at your back. His grin was lazy, unmistakably his, eyes flicking briefly to the abandoned stack of books and then back to you.

“Miss me already?” he murmured.

Your heart kicked traitorously against your ribs. “I thought you were Ron,” you said, lowering your voice again. “I told him to go to bed.”

“I heard,” George replied, amused. “Very moving speech.”

You huffed quietly, rubbing your temple. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” he said softly.

That gentleness — the way he said it, certain and calm — made something in your chest loosen. You turned fully toward him now, resting your elbows on the table.

“You okay?” he asked, eyes searching your face. “You look exhausted.”

You nodded. “I am. I wanted to get everything done today so we wouldn’t have to… keep doing this for weeks.”

His mouth twitched. “Let me guess. Heroic sacrifice. One long evening. Knowledge absorbed by osmosis.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Something like that.”

George’s gaze drifted past you, toward the empty chair Ron had occupied. “He put you through hell today.”

You shrugged. “He didn’t mean to. He just… tried too hard.”

George hummed quietly, unconvinced.

He stepped closer, lowering himself into the chair beside you without asking, elbows resting on the table now. “Still,” he said, voice low, “doesn’t mean you have to run yourself into the ground for him.”

You hesitated, then admitted, “I just wanted to have some free time again.”

His eyes flicked back to you sharply. “Free time.”

You nodded, feeling heat creep into your cheeks. “You know. For… other things.”

“Other people?” he teased gently.

You met his gaze. “You.”

The word hung there between you, quiet and honest.

George’s expression shifted — softened — like you’d taken something heavy off his shoulders without even realizing it. He leaned in a little closer, forearm brushing yours.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I was starting to think I was imaginary.”

You laughed under your breath. “Hardly.”

His hand lifted slowly, fingers brushing your wrist where it rested on the parchment, thumb warm against your skin. “Come on,” he said. “You’ve done enough for one night.”

“I still have a few pages—”

“They’ll still be here tomorrow,” he interrupted gently. “You won’t.”

You studied his face — the seriousness beneath the teasing, the way his eyes never left yours when he said things like that.

“You’re very convincing,” you said quietly.

“I’ve been told.”

George’s gaze dropped to the stack of books in front of you.

“Come on,” he said quietly. “I’ll help you put these back.”

You rose, gathering the stack of books, and followed George as he moved between the shelves, placing each one carefully on its spot.

Every time your hands brushed — as you handed him a tome, or he reached for the same corner — the contact lingered just a moment too long, sending little shivers down your spine.

The library had emptied considerably, and the distant echoes of footsteps and soft murmurs made the shadows between the shelves feel intimate, like your own private world.

By the time you reached the farthest row, tucked away where the light barely touched the floor, you set the last book in its place.

A sudden warmth pressed against your back — George was too close, and his hands slid to your waist, fingers resting possessively. You felt the heat of him, the tension in his body, and the deliberate way he leaned in, his breath brushing your neck.

“Relax,” he murmured, low and teasing, “I know exactly how to make you feel better after today.”

His lips brushed the sensitive skin of your neck, slow, lingering, confident.

“It’s the libray…” you whispered, glancing around nervously.

He didn’t answer. Instead, his hands moved with intent, tracing your sides before sliding along your hips.

The sensation was electric, and you felt your body respond instinctively, leaning back just enough to press against him. His lips found yours, claiming them in a kiss that was both demanding and patient, tasting every hesitation, coaxing every breath.

He whispered against your mouth, words dark and suggestive, “You feel that? That’s exactly how I want you — wanting me, here, now.”

His hands roamed, sliding beneath your skirt, fingertips tracing the curve of your thighs, teasing, exploring, just barely restrained. Each gentle press and circular motion made your pulse thunder in your ears.

“You’ve been running yourself ragged today,” he murmured against your skin. “Let me take care of you. You deserve it.”

You gasped softly into his mouth, melting against him, responding to every deliberate motion, every teasing touch.

One hand remained at your waist, steadying you, while the other teased relentlessly, exploring, drawing small, intoxicating moans from your lips.

Every brush, every glide made the tension coil tighter, and you felt completely undone in his arms. He murmured, suggestive and low, reminding you, coaxing, guiding, leaving no doubt he knew exactly how to push you over the edge

Then — a faint noise. A shuffle in the distance. George’s head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing, and you felt his body tense, yet still unwavering. The possibility of someone walking in only made the air between you crackle, urgent, electric, daring. He whispered in your ear, husky and commanding, “Say my name again…”

“George…” you breathed, the sound trembling with heat, a mixture of hesitation and desire.

“That’s it,” he murmured, lips brushing again over your neck. “Louder.”

You obeyed, the sound of your voice carrying in the empty space between the shelves, thick with need. And just then, the faint creak of footsteps caught your attention.

Without breaking his rhythm, George whispered again, low and possessive. “Ignore it. Right now, it’s just us. You feel that?”

And you did. Every nerve, every pulse, every breath was focused entirely on him. The library, the shadows, the steps — none of it mattered anymore. Only the heat between you, the closeness, the fire that George was stoking with every puch, every whisper, every lingering kiss.

“Again,” he whispered. “Say. It.”

Your breath shuddered.

“George!”

Ron followed the sound.

Holding two mugs of coffee, looking around in confusion, oblivious to what he’d stumbled upon.

George’s eyes met yours, unwavering, fierce, protective. His hands didn’t stop — the intimacy, the closeness, the teasing, still there — but his gaze was clear. You were his, and anyone else’s presence only sharpened the intensity.

Ron froze. The moment he turned the corner and saw you —flushed, breathless, pinned gently but unmistakably between the shelves — time seemed to freeze.

The cups slipped from his hands.

Coffee spilled.

George leaned slightly, whispering near your ear, voice low, playful, and possessive: “Lesson learned. Watch, remember… this is mine.”

You were his.

Ron didn’t need anything explained.

He turned and fled, footsteps echoing down the aisle, humiliation trailing behind him like smoke.

George’s forehead rested against yours, his breathing steady, controlled — victorious.

You stood there for a moment, heart still racing, cheeks burning — not entirely sure whether to laugh or hide under the nearest table.

George, meanwhile, looked… perfectly pleased with himself.

“Well,” he said mildly, straightening his shirt like he hadn’t just caused lifelong emotional damage to his younger brother. “That could’ve gone worse.”

You stared at him. “George.”

“What?” He tilted his head, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “He brought coffee. Very thoughtful. Terrible timing.”

You pressed a hand to your face, groaning softly. “I’m never opening a book again.”

He laughed — actually laughed — low and warm, stepping closer to you again, this time gentle, reassuring. His thumb brushed your knuckles. “Hey. Look at me.”

You did.

“No regrets,” he said quietly, but firmly. “And definitely no explanations. That’s a lesson best learned visually.”

You snorted despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm,” he agreed. “But very effective.”

He leaned in, forehead resting against yours, voice dropping to something softer. “Come on. Let’s get you back to the common room before anyone else decides to study at midnight.”

You glanced once more toward the empty aisle where Ron had vanished.

“…Do you think he’ll ever look me in the eye again?”

George smiled, utterly unapologetic. “Give it a week.”

Then, after a beat, “Two, if he’s dramatic.”

You laughed, finally, the tension dissolving as he laced his fingers through yours and led you out between the shelves — leaving behind scattered parchment, spilled coffee… and one very clear message.

Some competitions were meant to be won.

#george weasly x reader #smutfic #george weasley x y/n #george weasley x fem #george weasley fanfiction #george weasley smut #george weasley x reader #george weasley x you #george weasley imagine #weasley smut #smut #fanfiction #weasleyxreader #george weasley fic #humor #romance

Almost Caught

Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: You’re a prefect, wand in hand, patrolling the silent corridors of Hogwarts. Order is your duty, vigilance your creed… until Fred shows up. Stolen touches, whispered teasing, and forbidden intimacy send your heart racing, your body trembling — and the danger of being caught only makes it more intoxicating.

Warnings: Explicit content / Smut / Public-ish setting / NSFW / One-shot

You were supposed to be patrolling the corridor near the main entrance, wand loose in your hand, eyes scanning the shadows where the moonlight cut across the stone floor. The castle was quiet — not silent, but holding its breath the way it always did at night.

But you weren’t alone.

A sudden warmth pressed against your back, familiar and dangerous. A breath tickled your ear, slow, teasing, and your pulse jumped.

“Miss me?”

Fred’s voice was low, amused, brushing your earlobe. His lips followed, grazing the curve of your neck. Your knees went weak before you could stop them.

“Fred!”

He chuckled, a deep, playful sound, pressing closer, hands gliding over your waist with impossible confidence. “I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he murmured. “Couldn’t resist.”

You tried to straighten, to reclaim some semblance of authority. “I’m on duty.”

“Duty,” he echoed, lips trailing along your jaw, teeth grazing gently. “Can wait. You’re here. I’m here. Perfect timing.”

And Merlin knew how rare that timing had become.

Since you’d earned your prefect badge — through late nights, relentless studying, and proving yourself over and over again — time had turned into a luxury you barely possessed. Responsibilities piled up, patrols stretched longer, and moments that used to belong to you were swallowed by duty.

And yet… somehow, Fred always found a way.

Sneaking out of the dormitory after curfew. Meeting you under the stars when the castle slept. Sitting shoulder to shoulder on cold stone floors, whispering until your voices went hoarse. At first, it had been innocent — just talking, laughing quietly, sharing secrets in the dark.

But nights have a way of changing things.

He pressed you gently back against the cold stone wall, hands sliding beneath your cloak, thumbs brushing along your hips, testing, teasing. Every inch of him pressed heat into you.

“Fred—someone could—”

He silenced you with a finger to your lips, eyes dark and smoldering. “Shh. Trust me. No one comes this way.”

Your breath hitched as his lips returned to your neck, teeth grazing softly, hands wandering lower, brushing the tops of your thighs. The heat pooling in your belly became unbearable.

“Y/N… you’re beautiful,” he whispered, voice husky, dragging your name like it was a secret he didn’t want to share. “I could watch you all night.”

You shivered, instinctively pressing your hands against him, feeling the solid, taut warmth of his body. Every brush of his fingers made your body tremble, every sigh from his lips setting fire along your skin.

“Don’t hold back,” he murmured against your ear, teeth grazing the sensitive curve. “I know exactly what you want… what you’d feel if I didn’t stop.”

Your hand moved on instinct, sliding down his chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his trousers. You felt him tense beneath your palm, a sharp inhale that sent shivers down your spine.

“Well—fuck,” he muttered, forehead pressing briefly to your shoulder. “That’s not fair.”

His hand didn’t stop.

Slowly. Deliberately. Sliding higher, tracing the curve of your thigh until it met the warm lace of your lingerie. You gasped, low and broken, and Fred laughed softly, dark and teasing.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You’re getting louder. Thought you wanted to be careful.”

His fingers pressed more firmly, moving with precision, deliberate teasing that made your knees threaten to give out. Your head tipped back, every nerve alive, every breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

“And you’re soaked,” he whispered, voice reverent, lips brushing along your shoulder. “Merlin… you feel incredible.”

You couldn’t help yourself — your hand found him again, stroking, massaging him through his trousers, feeling the heat and tension of him pressing against you. The quiet groan he let out made your pulse hammer faster.

“Bloody hell…” he groaned. “If you keep doing that—”

He rolled his hips forward, pressing insistently, just enough for you to feel how badly he wanted you. The corridor seemed impossibly tight, the air thick and hot.

“I’m not going to last much longer,” he muttered, voice rough and urgent.

He turned you swiftly, guiding you so your palms pressed against the stone wall. The sensation of cold against your skin, heat from his body behind you, was dizzying.

“Stay like that,” he whispered, low and commanding.

Then came the faint metallic click of a buckle, and your heart leapt violently.

Fred’s body pressed impossibly close behind you, warmth and weight grounding you to the stone. He pressed into you, deliberate, unrelenting, every movement precise and controlled despite the dangerous risk of anyone wandering down the corridor.

The cold stone against your palms only sharpened the contrast with his heat, the slick friction between you sending shivers straight through your core.

He pulsed inside you with slow, measured thrusts, each one igniting a storm in your belly, your thighs trembling. His body was large, solid, impossibly warm, pressing you against the wall so that every nerve screamed for more. You felt him everywhere — taut, insistent, perfectly attuned to every quiver of your body.

“Oh, Fred…” you gasped, voice trembling. “So… so good.”

He groaned low, dropping his forehead to your shoulder, breath ragged. “You’re incredible,” he muttered, pressing you closer. His lips found your neck again, brushing and biting gently, kissing your skin like he wanted to mark it as his.

The corridor seemed impossibly tight, the shadows twisting around you, but neither of you cared — the thrill of possibly being caught made everything sharper, hotter. A few more thrusts and you felt him shudder, moaning your name as he rode the edge with you, hearts hammering, breaths coming in jagged, needy gasps.

He collapsed against you, chest pressing to your back, warm and heavy, steadying your trembling form. His lips brushed your arm, your shoulder, your neck, soft kisses of satisfaction and heat. You could feel his heartbeat under your hand, matching your own frantic pulse.

You leaned back slightly, catching your breath, cheeks flushed, bodies sticky and still entwined. A quiet laugh escaped Fred. “Merlin, Y/N… you feel so good.”

“I… you too,” you whispered, brushing damp hair from your forehead, your body still tingling from every touch.

He chuckled, brushing his nose against your ear. “Do you feel it too? The… thrill? That little bit of danger? Knowing someone could catch us at any moment?”

Your lips curved, still catching your breath. “Yeah… it’s… exciting.”

Fred pulled back slowly, the last heat of him lingering as he pressed a final, soft kiss to your neck. You let out a shuddering breath, your knees still weak, and instinctively adjusted your cloak and skirt, smoothing the folds over your still-trembling legs.

He stepped slightly away, zipping up his trousers with a grin that made your stomach flutter. His hand brushed yours briefly, a lingering spark passing between you before he gave a teasing wink.

“See. I told you. There’s nothing like a little risk to make things… perfect.” he murmured, voice low, playful. You let out a shaky laugh, still caught in the aftershocks of his touch, heart hammering.

The corridor was silent for a moment — only your shared breaths echoing — before the unmistakable sound of footsteps approached. Both of you froze.

A tall, dark figure appeared at the end of the hall. Professor Snape. His black robes flowing, eyes narrowing dangerously. “What… exactly… are you two doing here?”

You straightened, trying to mask your flushed face with the authority of a prefect. “Professor, we—”

Fred interrupted with a wicked grin, voice casual. “Lunatic walking problem, sir. I’ve had it since I was a kid. Gets worse at Hogwarts. Can’t help it.”

Snape’s eyes went from you to Fred, unimpressed. “Prefect, I trust you are supervising? I will be reporting this—”

Fred leaned closer, whispering into your ear just loud enough to hear, “Ignore him. He’s all bark.”

Snape continued, tone sharp. “And you, Weasley, back to the dormitory. Immediately.”

Fred saluted mockingly, eyes twinkling, and you couldn’t help but giggle. “Right, sir,” he said, letting you feel his heat one last time as you both backed away from the hall.

Once Fred and Snape had finally disappeared around the corner, you let yourself slide down the wall, knees weak, breath still coming in soft gasps. A laugh — incredulous, slightly breathless — escaped you. You pressed your back against the cold stone, shaking your head and smiling to yourself, still feeling him everywhere: the press of his body, the warmth of his hands, the ghost of his lips along your neck.

The castle had fallen quiet again, the only sound your own heartbeat hammering in your ears. You pressed a hand to your chest, feeling the pulse still echoing with the memory of him.

“Fred…” you murmured, shaking your head, smiling like a fool. “You’re impossible.”

Your eyes wandered around the corridor, still catching the moonlight on the old stone walls, and then… something in the corner caught your attention. A painting, dark and dusty, with an expression that seemed almost too knowing, almost… judgmental.

You froze for a moment, tilting your head.

The wizard in the painting seemed to stare directly at you, brow arched, mouth twisted as if mocking.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, biting back another laugh. It’s like he’s watching everything…

“Well,” you whispered, still smiling, “Pretty spectacular, right?”

The corners of the painting seemed almost to grin. And for a fleeting, ridiculous moment, you imagined it speaking: “Really, you two… what a display. Truly… unforgettable.”

You leaned your head back against the wall, letting the shivers run down your spine again, shaking your head in disbelief. And somehow… it made you laugh again. Because Fred would have loved that.

•18+ Adults Only

Watch Anya Live on Cam

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.

✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality

Anya is LIVE right now

FREE

Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming

Never Just Friends

Pairing: George Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: It started as teasing touches in the corridor, casual study sessions, and stolen moments in hidden corners. But with George, nothing stays casual. From whispered words in the library to stolen, heated nights in the prefects’ bathroom, every glance, every touch, every gasp pulls them closer — until desire, tension, and confessions finally leave them no choice but to be together.

Content Warnings: Suggestive sexual content / soft smut / friends with benefits / fluff ending / one shot

You were halfway through explaining —Merlin help you— the concept when you realised no one was listening.

Fred was leaning against the wall, clearly elsewhere.

Lee had stopped pretending altogether, nodding absently like that would somehow count as participation.

“And if you reverse the sequence here,” you said, tapping the page with your finger, “the entire outcome changes. It’s actually—”

“Painfully boring,” Fred interrupted, yawning dramatically.

Your shoulders sagged just a little.

You closed the book.

Not loudly. Not to make a point. Just… quietly. Like you were done wasting your breath.

You gathered your things, already turning away, already preparing to leave — knowing they wouldn’t even notice.

Except one of them did.

“Wait.”

George’s voice cut through the corridor, calm but certain.

You froze and looked up.

He was watching you like you were the only thing in the corridor. Elbows resting casually, eyes warm, focused — listening. Really listening.

He tilted his head, lips curving in a soft, knowing smile. The kind that said:

Don’t look so surprised, love. I’ve been listening the whole time.

“Keep going,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I like listening to you when you explain things.”

Your heart stuttered.

Heat bloomed under your skin, creeping into your cheeks. You hated how easily he did that — how one sentence from him could make you forget why you’d wanted to leave.

Fred snorted. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” George said calmly, not even looking at him. “It’s interesting.”

Lee laughed. “Sure it is.”

George stepped closer. Not obvious. Just enough that you felt the warmth of him at your side. You were suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was — the way his shoulder almost brushed yours, the way his attention never wavered.

When you pointed to the page, his fingers brushed yours.

Not accidental.

Just the lightest touch — knuckles against skin — lingering half a second too long.

Your voice faltered.

He noticed.

Fred groaned loudly. “I can’t do this. Come on, Lee.”

“Finally,” Lee said, already walking away.

Their footsteps faded.

The corridor went quiet.

You closed the book again.

George turned fully toward you now.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said softly.

You shook your head. “I haven’t.”

“You have,” he replied, voice low. “Since the last time.”

His hand lifted, slow, giving you time to pull away.

You didn’t.

His fingers settled at your wrist, thumb resting there like it belonged. Warm. Familiar. Intimate in a way that made your knees soften.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked, voice lowered even more. “That night.”

Your chest tightened.

“No,” you said quickly. “Of course not.”

“Then why does it feel like you don’t want to be near me anymore?”He stepped closer.

Close enough that you could feel his breath against your cheek when he spoke. Close enough that the air between you felt heavy, charged.

“I’ve just been busy,” you said. “Studying. Work.”

He hummed softly, unconvinced.

His thumb traced a slow, absent line against your skin — barely moving, barely there — but it sent a shiver straight through you.

“Funny,” he murmured, leaning in so only you could hear, “because you never seem too busy when we’re alone.”

Your heart raced.

“We could meet tonight,” he whispered. “Same place. Just us. Like always.”

Your stomach flipped.

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

His mouth tilted closer to your ear.

“You always say that,” he breathed, voice warm and teasing. “but you never actually say no.”

Before you could answer—

“GEORGE! ARE YOU COMING OR WHAT?!”

Fred’s voice echoed down the corridor.

George pulled back slowly, eyes still on you.

“Later,” he said quietly, like a promise.

Then he turned and walked away.

You stood there alone, heart racing, knees soft, skin still warm where he’d touched you — wondering how something that wasn’t supposed to mean anything had come to mean everything.

You had gone to the library to study.

You’d told yourself you needed it — the silence, the order, the excuse. You sat at one of the long tables, books open in front of you, quill resting uselessly between your fingers.

None of it went in.

Your eyes traced the same line for the fifth time, but all you could feel was him.

The warmth of his body from earlier. The way his voice had dropped when he spoke only to you. The way his fingers had lingered at your wrist like they belonged there.

You closed your eyes for just a second.

And suddenly you weren’t in the library anymore.

You remembered him pressed close, skin warm and slightly damp, the faint smell of soap and sweat clinging to him. His hair had been messy. His breath had hitched when you’d whispered his name, the sound of it pulled from him low and helpless, right by your ear.

Your bodies had moved together like they’d done it a hundred times before — familiar, desperate, inevitable.

Your chest tightened.

“Mind if I sit?”

You opened your eyes quickly, heart pounding, as if someone might have seen straight through you.

George’s voice — real this time — pulled you out of it.

You looked up.

He was standing there, hands in his pockets, that same easy, testing smile on his face. Like he already knew exactly where your thoughts had been.

“Sure,” you said, a little too fast.

He slid into the seat beside you, close enough that his knee brushed yours under the table. Not enough to be obvious. Enough to be felt.

“So,” he murmured, glancing at the books spread in front of you. “You weren’t lying. You really are studying.”

His tone was light. His smile wasn’t.

You nodded. “Trying to.”

“What is it?” he asked. “Maybe I can help.”

He leaned in slightly, his arm resting along the back of your chair. His hand hovered near yours — not touching, not yet — like he was giving you the choice.

Your pulse raced.

You pointed at the page, aware of how close his leg was now, how it pressed just enough against yours to make it impossible to focus. His fingers brushed the edge of your hand, warm and slow.

Too much.

You pulled your hand back like you’d been burned.

George noticed.

His smile softened, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“You’ve been distant,” he said quietly. “We barely see each other anymore.”

You swallowed. “I told you. I’ve been busy.”

He hummed, unconvinced, his knee still touching yours.

“I miss you,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like it didn’t twist something deep in your chest.

Your breath caught.

“We’re meeting tonight,” he added softly. “You should come.”

You hesitated. “I don’t know if I can—”

He leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for you.

“They changed the password again,” he said, lips near your ear. “But don’t worry. I’ve got it.”

A pause.

“Honey delight,” he murmured, amused.

Heat flooded you.

“I’ll be waiting,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

Then he pulled back, standing slowly, like he knew exactly what he’d done.

“See you later,” he said lightly — and walked away.

You stayed where you were, thoughts tangled, the words on the page completely forgotten.

Studying was impossible now.

And evening felt far too close.

Later you sat on the edge of your bed for far too long.

Your room was quiet, dimly lit, the window cracked open just enough to let in the cool night air. You stared at your hands, fingers twisting together, heart beating too fast for someone who was supposed to be deciding something simple.

You could just… not go.

That was an option. Hide behind books. Behind tiredness. Behind excuses he would pretend to believe.

It hadn’t started like this.

It had been harmless at first — a laugh too close, a touch that lingered half a second longer than it should have. One night, a stolen moment, the prefects’ bathroom chosen simply because it was empty, warm, private.

You still didn’t know who had leaned in first.

After that, it just… kept happening.

Every few weeks. Sometimes more. Sometimes less. Always quiet, always hidden, always without labels. No promises. No conversations. Just heat, familiarity, and the way George always looked at you like you were something he couldn’t quite let go of.

And that was the problem.

Because it was never just sex with him.

He lingered afterward. Touched your cheek like it meant something. Kissed your temple. Murmured things that stayed with you long after you’d gone back to your room alone.

Enough to confuse you. Never enough to be certain.

You exhaled shakily.

Avoiding him hadn’t helped. If anything, it had made everything worse — the looks, the tension, the way his voice changed when he spoke to you.

Hiding wouldn’t undo what you felt.

And if nothing else… at least you would be close to him tonight.

That thought alone was enough.

You stood, pulling on a jumper, smoothing it down with nervous hands. Then you slipped out into the corridor, moving quietly, heart pounding louder with every step.

The prefects’ bathroom door stood at the end of the hall, just as it always had.

You leaned in and whispered the password.

The lock clicked softly.

The door opened.

George stood there.

Steam curled lazily behind him, warm light spilling out into the corridor. His shirt hung loose, buttons undone, skin flushed like he’d already been waiting too long. His hair was damp — not fully wet, like he’d run his hands through it one too many times, restless.

When he saw you, something in his face shifted.

Relief. Bare and unguarded.

“You came,” he said softly.

The door closed behind you with a quiet click.

He stepped closer, slow, unhurried, like he wanted you to feel every second of it. His fingers lifted, brushing your jaw, thumb tilting your face up just enough to meet his eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmured. “You’re going to undo me.”

His hand slid down to your shirt.

“Let me.”

Not a question. A need.

He undid the buttons one by one, knuckles grazing your skin deliberately, like he was memorising you. When the fabric parted, he leaned in, pressing his mouth to your shoulder.

Slow. Warm.

Then another kiss. Lower.

“I’ve missed this,” he whispered against your skin. “Missed you.”

His teeth grazed softly, teasing, before his lips returned — unhurried, worshipful. He pulled back only to look at you.

Really look.

Like he couldn’t believe you were there.

“You’re beautiful,” he said quietly. “Every time, it still hits me.”

Something in you gave way.

You reached for him — hands sliding into his hair, fingers curling, pulling him down — and kissed him first.

Harder. Needier.

He froze for half a heartbeat, surprised — then let out a low sound that went straight through you. His hands tightened at your waist, holding you like he didn’t want space between you to exist.

“Bloody hell,” he breathed against your mouth. “You do that again and I won’t be responsible for myself.”

You smiled faintly and kissed him again.

The bath was already full, steam rising gently. He stepped in first, water lapping at his skin, then held out his hand.

“Come here,” he said softly. “Sit with me.”

You straddled him, warmth everywhere — water, skin, breath. His hands settled on your hips, firm, grounding, thumbs pressing just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Just like that.”

His mouth found your neck, your ear, your temple — whispering your name like it was something precious.

“You know you’re mine,” he said quietly. “Right?”

The words sent a shiver through you.

“And I’m yours,” he added, softer. “I’ve been yours longer than I realised.”

You felt him shift beneath you, his hips brushing against yours with slow, deliberate pressure. Each subtle movement sent sparks through your body, thighs pressing against his, chest warm against his.

His hands roamed over your back, over your sides, holding you close but teasing just enough to make you shiver. The friction of his hips against yours was teasing, slow, and every tiny press of his body made your breath hitch.

“You feel… so good,” he murmured, voice low, rough, meant only for you. “Every time I touch you, I swear—”

He trailed off, lips brushing your ear, teeth grazing softly. “Do you know what you do to me?”

Your fingers tangled in his damp curls. “George,” you whispered, breathless.

Time blurred.

There was only him — his voice, his hands, the way he held you like you mattered.

When the water began to cool, neither of you moved.

You lay against his chest now, his arms wrapped around you, thumb tracing slow, absent circles against your skin. The bubbles thinned. The steam faded.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked quietly.

You nodded.

“I don’t want this to be something we hide anymore,” he said. “I don’t want you wondering if you mean something to me.”

You swallowed.

“You do,” he said, firm now. “You mean… everything.”

Silence settled — heavy, but not painful.

You turned your head slightly, meeting his eyes.

“I was scared,” you admitted. “I thought you were fine with it just being… this.”

He shook his head softly.

“I was scared too,” he said. “Didn’t want to ruin it. Didn’t want to lose you.”

His forehead rested against yours.

“So don’t,” you whispered.

A slow smile spread across his face — softer than any you’d seen from him before.

“I won’t,” he promised.

The water was cold now.

But his arms were warm.

And for the first time, so was the future.

The Echo of Fred, Part IV - Final

Pairing: George Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: After the shattering appearance of a new parcel in the dead of night, the fragile calm in the Weasley home collapses. Secrets surface. As the house grows colder and the magic around you stirs, you and George are pushed to face something far more powerful than fear: the moment where hope, grief, and love collide—one last time.

Warnings: Angst / Post-War AU / Domestic fluff / Mature themes / Mentions of death and grief (Fred Weasley)

The cold crawled deeper into your bones.

You stood there frozen, breath trembling, eyes locked on the parcel resting on the counter like something alive. George was still staring at it from the doorway, chest rising and falling too fast, hair tousled, face pale from the shock of your scream and the shattered glass on the floor.

“Y/N?” he whispered, softer this time.

But you couldn’t answer. The air felt thick, pulsing, humming faintly around the package as if whatever had left it there was still in the room—just out of sight.

George took one slow step toward you.

Another.

Then one more.

He didn’t look away from the parcel, not once. His hand reached out blindly for you, palm trembling, fingers curling as if to coax you toward him.

“Love… come here.”

You didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

Your head shook—once, twice—as if forcing words out of yourself would break something inside you.

“Okay,” George murmured, voice rough with fear he was trying hopelessly to contain. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll look.”

He drew a shaky breath and approached the counter. For a moment, he simply hovered there, staring down at the neat brown wrapping and the twine tied too carefully to be random.

His jaw clenched.

“When did it get here?” His voice was gentle but cracked at the edges. “Y/N… look at me. Who brought it? How long has it been sitting there?”

But your silence was an answer on its own.

George swallowed hard, reached down with both hands, and slipped one finger beneath the twine.

You held your breath.

He pulled.

The knot loosened with a soft snap.

The room felt suddenly too quiet—too expectant—as he opened the paper layer by layer, his fingers trembling more with every fold he peeled back.

Until finally…

George froze.

His breath hitched.

Then it stopped altogether.

You didn’t understand at first—didn’t see what he was seeing. Not until he stepped back, face drained of color, eyes wide with a kind of grief you had only seen once before in your life.

“It’s… it’s not possible,” he whispered.

Your heart lurched painfully.

“George?” your voice cracked.

He didn’t look at you.

He only stepped aside.

And then you saw it.

Nestled in the opened parcel— lying against the brown paper— was a wand.

Not just any wand.

A twin of your worst memories.

A twin of your deepest love.

George’s voice came out broken, barely a breath:

“Y/N… this—”

Your lungs tightened so hard they burned.

Fred’s wand.

Gone forever.

George pressed his palms to his hair, fingers tangling roughly as his breath quickened.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no — that’s impossible— we never found— it was lost— he was— he—”

You watched him unravel in real time. The shaking. The panic in his eyes. “Freddie…” he choked, tears rolling down his chin. The way he looked toward the front door like he might run outside and tear the world apart searching for Fred.

Your heart broke under the weight of it.

You couldn’t let him go through that again. Not that spiral. Not that grief. Not that hope.

Your hand moved before you realized it. Fingers closing around the wand — Fred’s wand. Lifting it. Pointing it.

At him.

Your whisper was barely a breath. “Oblivi—”

George turned slowly, confusion tugging at his brows.

“Y/N…?”

Your voice died in your throat.

Your hand was trembling violently now as the length of Fred Weasley’s wand leveled at George’s chest. The thought had come so fast, so sharp, it hurt: One Obliviate. One moment. He could sleep. He could smile again. He could forget this. He could forget all of it. I could protect him. I could fix it.

He took one step toward you. “Love… what are you doing?”

Your breath broke. Tears blurred everything. Your arm shook harder.

It would be so easy.

One word. One flash of light.

You could save him.

You could damn yourself.

George’s voice softened, cracked. “Look at me.”

You did.

His eyes met yours.

And the moment you met his eyes—those warm, exhausted, breaking eyes—your arm collapsed. The wand slipped in your grasp. Your knees almost buckled.

He closed the distance in two strides, cupping your face with hands that shook slightly, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks.

“Y/N,” he whispered, voice breaking, ragged and uneven, “whatever this is… whatever’s been happening… please… tell me.”

Your lips trembled.

“George…” you whispered.

“I’m listening.”

So you told him.

Not all at once — your voice shook too violently for that — but in fragments, in broken little pieces:

The notes. The packages. The handwriting. The whispers. The footsteps. The terror. The box hidden in the drawer. The sleepless nights. The way you watched him unravel every time a message appeared.

And then— the truth you feared most:

“I used Obliviate,” you whispered, tears burning your eyes. “More than once. I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want it to hurt you. I didn’t want you to chase him. I didn’t want you to hope.”

George didn’t move.

He didn’t interrupt.

He didn’t breathe.

He just stared — pale, stunned, trembling — as your confession dropped into the silence between you.

When you finished, there was a long, terrible stillness.

And then he spoke.

Quietly.

Brokenly.

“I should’ve protected you.” His voice cracked. “Not the other way around.”

You let out a sob you didn’t know you’d been holding.

He pulled you into him so hard you almost sobbed. His arms wrapped around you like he feared you might vanish too. You held him just as tightly. The kitchen was so, so quiet.

Until—

A low growl vibrated the air.

Both of you froze.

The dog stood in the doorway to the sitting room—hackles raised, teeth bared, eyes fixed on the far corner behind the curtain.

George stepped slightly in front of you instinctively, shielding you with his body.

The dog growled again, louder.

Then he began barking—frantic, sharp, warning.

“Something’s wrong,” you whispered.

George grabbed the nearest wand—Fred’s wand, trembling in his grip—and moved toward the living room.

The dog lunged at the curtains, claws scraping the floor.

George snapped the fabric aside—

And someone tumbled out behind them.

Filthy, gaunt and stinking of firewhisky and damp clothes. Mundungus Fletcher hit the rug with a grunt. “Easy, easy! Wait! WAIT! Please—don’t hex me—bloody hell—”

George seized him by the front of his coat, yanked him upright, and shoved him into the armchair hard enough to rattle it.

“MUNDUNGUS?!”

“I—I can explain—!”

“ARE YOU SURE?!”

“HE—HE SENT ME!” Mundungus squeaked. “The ginger one! He told me—told me to bring things—because the living twin needed to know!”

George’s grip tightened. “What did you just say?”

“I dunno! I dunno!” Mundungus babbled, terrified. “Something kept whispering to me—felt like magic—felt like a voice in my head—I never saw him, honest, I never saw him—but he kept telling me— leave this, send that, give the girl this, they need to understand! I swear it wasn’t me scarin’ you—somethin’ just—pushed me!”

George was shaking.

You grabbed the sack Mundungus held and ripped it open.

Inside: your earrings, small trinkets. Things that absolutely didn’t belong to Mundungus Fletcher.

Your breath stuttered.

George stared at the pile, then at the sack, then at Mundungus—jaw tight, eyes blazing.

Mundungus lifted his hands defensively, shaking so hard his rings jingled. “I—I didn’t nick those! Not— not properly! The— the voice said I could!” he squeaked. “Swore to me I could take a few shiny things as… as payment!”

George blinked, stunned. “As payment?!”

Mundungus nodded frantically, shoulders curling inward. “H-he said if I delivered what he wanted, I could keep a couple o’ gold trinkets for meself! Just a few! Just payment for services rendered, he said!”

You stared at him, heart pounding.

George’s voice dropped dangerously low. “And who,” he hissed, “exactly told you that?”

Mundungus swallowed. “The ginger one as I said,” he whispered. “The twin.” He pointed a shaking finger toward George without fully looking at him. “Y-your brother. Fred.”

George went still.

“Fred?” The word left him like a ghost.

Your hand closed over his instinctively.

“Y/N…” he whispered, voice cracking around the edges, “did he was trying to… talk to us?”

Before you could respond—

The dog whimpered.

Then barked at the mantelpiece.

The candle beside it blew out.

A picture frame slid off and shattered on the floor.

And the mirror above it… flickered.

Not with light. But with… presence.

The air warmed. Softened. Thickened.

You and George stepped forward.

And in the reflection—

Beside your own shapes—

A third figure appeared.

Smiling.

Red-haired.

Freckles lit like stars.

Fred.

Your breath broke.

George’s hand crushed yours.

Fred’s mouth didn’t move, but his expression did. Soft. Warm. Apologetic.

A shimmer of words that weren’t sound but feeling brushed the air:

I love you, little brother. Move forward. I never meant to hurt you. Thank you for remembering me.

George fell to his knees. Tears streamed freely — not of devastation, but of release. Of something long-held finally exhaled.

You knelt with him, holding him as the light slowly dimmed.

Fred’s shape faded.

His smile lingered.

Then—

nothing.

Warmth vanished from the room.

Only the dog remained, silent now, sitting beside George and resting his head against his leg.

George whispered:

“Goodbye, Freddie.”

Mundungus was thrown out so forcefully his hat nearly flew off. He scrambled down the path shouting apologies the entire way.

But he wasn’t malicious. He never knew what he was meddling with.

The door shut behind him.

Silence.

You and George sank onto the sitting-room floor, backs against the sofa, exhausted, trembling, and changed.

“No more secrets,” George murmured, voice raw.

You leaned your forehead to his.

“No more running.”

Fred’s wand lay on the mantle, finally at rest.

The dog curled at your feet, sighing — peaceful for the first time.

And the house… The house felt warm.

Real.

Safe.

Spring arrived slowly that year— soft light on the windowsills, warm dust motes drifting in the air, and the dog dozing in long patches of sun on the floorboards.

Three weeks had passed. Long enough for the house to feel lived-in again. Long enough for the shadows to soften.

George stood at the mantel that afternoon, straightening a framed photo of him and Fred—taken before the war.

The frame never stayed straight. He used to hate that.

Now… he let it be crooked for a moment before nudging it into place.

You stepped into the room with two mugs of tea, the dog trotting behind you with his tail wagging like it was greeting an old friend.

“You alright?” you asked quietly.

George’s thumb brushed the edge of the frame. He stared at the picture, eyes soft but steady.

For the first time in years, he smiled without flinching.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I think I am.”

The dog suddenly sat up, ears pricked. His gaze lifted to the photo.

And just as his head tilted—

—the frame gave a tiny, delicate twitch.

Barely a millimeter. Just enough for both of you to freeze. Then breathe out the same quiet, aching laugh.

A warmth passed through the room.

Not cold. Not frightening.

Just… familiar. Like someone brushing by on their way out the door.

George swallowed. Softly, almost like he didn’t want you to hear, he whispered toward the frame:

“Love you too, mate.”

You slipped your hand into his, and he squeezed back.

After a moment, George nodded toward the door. “Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get some air.”

The three of you stepped outside. The evening was turning gold, the kind of light that made the world look gentler than it really was. George sat on the back steps; you sat beside him. The dog flopped across both your feet with a heavy sigh.

For a long time, none of you spoke.

Then George leaned his shoulder into yours, just barely. “You know,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the sky, “I think he’s… alright. Wherever he is. I think he finally found somewhere warm.”

You rested your head against him. “He did.”

George inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly— not shaking, not breaking— but letting go.

“And we will be too,” he murmured.

You turned to him. He met your eyes.

Something eased between you. Not the sharp kind of relief— the soft kind. The kind that settles in the bones.

He cupped your cheek gently, almost hesitant, as if asking permission. You leaned in before he had to.

The kiss was warm. Quiet. Not desperate— just honest. Two people choosing to stay. Choosing to heal. Choosing each other.

The dog bumped his head against your knees, tail thumping like a heartbeat.

You and George laughed into the same breath.

And inside the house, on the mantel, Fred’s wand rested in a perfect line of afternoon sunlight— not a haunting, not a warning, but a keepsake.

A memory. A thank you. A goodbye that didn’t hurt anymore.

The beginning of something whole again.

#fanfiction #george weasley fic #george weasley fanfiction #george weasly x reader #george weasley #george weasley x fem #george weasley x y/n #george weasley x you #george weasley x reader #george weasley angst #angst #hurt/angst #hurt/comfort #harry potter au #adult george weasley #weasleyxreader #angst with a happy ending

Trending Blogs

Last Seen Blogs

Romanczukowsky