#delulu

synopsis: for a while now, weverse has allowed fans to ‘dm’ their favourite idols. it’s controlled, it’s monitored, it’s all very pc… until you come along one drunken night and break the rules. what is supposed to be a harmless act of communication quickly spirals into much, much more and begs the question, how far should communication between a fan and an idol really go?

genre: jjk x reader (fem), smau mini-series, fluff, smut, delulu, crack

rating: 18+ | minors, dni

a/n: hi! before we get started, a few quick things ♡

summary: You and Fred Weasley were like two sides of the same coin—constantly at each other's throats for as long as you could remember. It was a rare day when something didn't happen where you'd do something to spite one another, or an ill-timed comment didn't slip out of either of your mouths. Could feelings between two long-standing rivals really change? Get a grip. You hate each other.

c/w: enemies to lovers, aged up above twenty, hogwarts having a university, cursing, gets physical between you and him, forced proximity, fred accidentally injuring reader, emphasizing ENEMIES, so a lot of teasing, bullying, and harsh words, so please read at your own risk!, fluff ending, my sad attempt at slow burn

w/c: 12.4k

a/n: let's pretend that events from ootp and gof (book) happened in their later years in a university setting for the sake of the story :))

“History of Magic, Ancient Runes…Advanced Potions…” you mumbled to yourself, eyes glued to the parchment nestled firmly in between your fingers—eyebrows knitted together as you assessed your schedule for the rest of the week while you walked the bustling halls to your next class.

You were concentrated. In the zone. Just how you always liked it before your classes—until a sudden thwack sent your parchment flying.

It fluttered into chaos. Students jostling past, one foot nearly stomping it into a smear of pumpkin juice and shoe prints. 

You lunged for it,

Only to find Fred Weasley already there.

He stood over it like a roguish vulture, one polished dragonhide shoe planted right on the corner of your timetable. His twin was nowhere in sight. Just him, grinning down at you like he’d just won Galleons on a bet.

"Oi, what’s this? Y/n’s life in ink and panic?" He crouched low—too close—and plucked up another loose sheet before you could stop him. "Ooooh! Color-coded?! Merlin’s beard, someone’s sad."

You snapped upright and snatched back what he stole. "Got a stick up your arse again this morning, Fred?"

He lets out a mocking gasp, "And here I thought we were friends!" One hand pressed dramatically to his chest while the other still pinned down half your schedule. "Best frenemies since Slytherin betrayed everyone!"

You yanked hard on the parchment. It ripped clean through, but his presence didn’t seem to invoke much care for it in you at the moment.

Then,

He did it again.

One sharp shove against your shoulder sent you stumbling sideways into a suit of armor that clattered like thunder through the corridor.

Students glanced your way before wisely scattering. The usual warning signs flashing behind their eyes: "Weasley vs L/n: Round ??? – Duck & Cover." It was an endless facade. Hell, even cats and dogs got along better than you two.

Before you could retaliate, Fred leaned right in.

Close enough that his freckled nose nearly brushed yours, breath warm with mint gum he sneakily pocketed from breakfast in Hogsmeade last weekend—one you spent hexing each other's Butterbeers until they exploded like fizzy fireworks across Madam Puddifoot's china teacups.

Won’t be seeing that place until you were in her good graces again.

Fred in a soft voice spoke to you. “Runes exam tomorrow... Fancy helping me fail spectacularly?”

Your heart kicked once—in rage or something worse?

Probably poison from that cursed love potion incident last year when George swore he wasn’t testing ingredients on unsuspecting students…

This rivalry was starting to feel like foreplay made of sparks and sabotage, and you were just about to see it all unfold at a timing you so terribly dreaded.

Him being this close solidified the one thought that constantly swirled in your head: 

You hated Fred Weasley. And you sure got the message that he hated you too. Maybe even just as much.

You shoved him hard, sending him back a step with a scowl. 

"The only thing you'll be failing spectacularly is breathing if you don’t get away from me."

Fred just laughed—low and rough, like he enjoyed the threat. He shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking forward on his heels like he owned the entire corridor. 

"Tsk, tsk, such hostility before noon." His eyes sparkled, dangerous and bright. "I missed breakfast because I was too busy charming Professor Vector’s quills to write ‘Y/n’s crush list’ during class."

Your jaw dropped.

"You what?!"

He winked.

"Every single one started writing your name followed by… well, let’s just say they’re not so subtle about who you really want under the mistletoe."

“Mistletoe!? I don’t even like anyone, you halfwit!” You retaliated, not with your words—but swung your bag at his head.

He ducked fast as lightning—but not fast enough. The corner clipped him right in the ear.

"Hey!" Fred yelped, staggering sideways into a broom closet that burst open behind him from the impact.

Supplies rained down. Cauldron scrubbers smacking his shoulders, buckets toppling over like an angry orchestra of clatter—

And then George's voice rings from down the hall.

“Fred? You alive in there or did she finally snap?”

But Fred didn’t answer right away.

Because now you were chest to chest inside that cramped closet with half-lit dust swirling around—and you gripping a handful of his robes to keep from falling atop him after tripping over yourself mid-attack.

His breath caught once when you pressed closer by accident—or fate—or some cursed force determined you’d both suffer equally for seven years of mutual torture masked as banter.

“One day,” he murmured, voice suddenly raw beneath all that mischief, "you're gonna hex me so hard I turn into something unrecognizable…"

His hand slid up your wrist—slow—to peel off your ink-stained grip from his collar without breaking eye contact…

"And then maybe," he added, thumb brushing under your pulse point, "you’ll miss me when I’m gone."

Silence hummed between you—loud enough to drown out even Peeves cackling overhead minutes later as he chucked sponges at your heads and screamed.

“FRED’S IN LOVE! FRED’S IN LOVE WITH THE GIRL WHO HATES HIM!”

Both of you jumped apart—eyes darting to the mischievous ghost faster than Polyjuice had ever worn off wrong.

You clicked your tongue, hardening your gaze before returning it back to the Weasley in front of you. 

“I couldn’t care less, nor would I notice—let alone miss you even if you’d turned into a Freshwater Plimpy...” 

And that was the end of it. Neither of you said anything again until Potions, where somehow—he passed you back your ripped schedule with scribbles across it in fiery red ink of Professor Snape wearing a witch hat and had exploding cauldrons all around him that refused to wash off no matter how many spells you tried later.

The lecture had ended and your nerves were still at an all-time high. It had been for the last seven years with Fred around, and your vandalized, rumpled up schedule was your final tipping point for the week.

You stormed out of the classroom—bag clutched tightly in your hand. The leather squeaks, almost coming alive as if to tell you of its pain. Indents began forming in your palm from how tightly you were gripping the handle.

The irritation showing on your face was like a miserable trophy of that boy’s doing. Unintentionally flaunting it around for everyone to see just how deep he’d gotten under your skin for the day. And that made him proud.

The corridor blurred as you stormed down it—shoulders stiff, jaw clenched so tight your teeth threatened to crack. That smug, freckled nightmare had ruined another morning. Another schedule. Another piece of your sanity.

All you wanted was to get this day over with, have a nice bath, and throw darts at the Quidditch poster with his stupid picture in it.

You turned a sharp corner down the hallway—only for someone to dart out of a side passage and slam you square in the shoulder with their own.

This didn’t feel like an accident.

Never any accidents with him.

This one felt intentional.

"Whoa there, love! You’re walking like you’ve got a Bludger shoved where the sun doesn’t shine."

You whipped your head towards him—bag still screaming in protest—and found Fred leaning against the stone wall like he’d planned this ambush for days. 

Maybe he had. The git probably enjoyed watching you unravel.

"Move," you hissed.

He didn’t flinch. When did he ever? Just pushed off the wall with that infuriating nonchalance, hands casually slipping into his pockets. The picture of calm while you were three seconds away from setting his eyebrows on fire without magic.

“Temper, temper… Wouldn't want McGonagall docking house points again because someone finally cracked after seven years of perfection." His eyes flicked down to where your knuckles whitened around your bag handle, and back up with a smirk that was far too knowing. “Or are we finally admitting we care?”

That did it.

You stepped right into his space—placing your palm firmly against his chest and pushed him against the wall. One solid pace forward until only breath separated you two before jabbing your index finger hard against his chest.

"I don’t care about you, Weasley. I care about peace. About not having my notes rewritten as comedy handouts by you! About getting through one single day without some prank or smirk or—" you choked slightly on rage.

"That stupid way you look at me like I'm some kind of game!"

Fred blinked, not knowing whether to laugh or ridicule you for your sudden outburst. In his mind, he hadn’t done anything wrong. That what he did wasn’t anything to throw a fit over.

He thought the same way then when your rivalry first began, and still the same now in your last few years of university. It was all just banter to him. Painful, excruciating, patience-testing, banter.

Admittedly, his back did sting a considerable amount from the impact of him hitting the brick wall—but he would never say it aloud. Not to your face at least.

He managed to stifle out a chuckle. Sharp. Concise. “Don’t act like you’ve been betrayed by a close friend or something. You’re the one always having your knickers in a twist. Always so serious. But then again, can’t expect anything less from Miss Prim and Proper, can we?” 

You stayed silent, not straying your eyes from his as your heart pounded from anger…? Or was it adrenaline? You couldn’t tell the difference anymore. The line between which emotions were which when it came to him had been blurred long ago. His voice was like grating sandpaper against steel. Unpleasant in every way. 

His brows shot up in response to your elongated silence,  but took note of your deadly gaze. One he knew all too well, and one he basked in like a wolf during a full moon. 

“Good Godric,” he drawled, smirking, “what, have you suddenly discovered feelings other than being a killjoy? Shame it took so long.” 

“Killjoy? Really?” you mocked, keeping the pressure against his chest firm, "I expected something a bit moree… creative. I fear you’ve lost your touch, Freddie. A bit rusty I daresay.”

“Rusty?” he echoed, a small laugh bubbling from his chest—sending vibrations throughout your fingertips. “Funny, considering how I'm still getting under your skin.” 

“No, look—” You used your free hand to swipe away invisible tears. “Not a single shed today! Not that you’ve ever made me cry, though. But nice try.”

“Oh, please, I could’ve filled ten prefect’s baths with your tears when we first got acquainted.”

“Enjoyed it that much, you prick?”

“Pushing your buttons, yes. Becoming a hobby of mine now, really. Thought about leaving Quidditch to do it full-time.”

You sighed, lowering your arm from his torso and turning to leave. “You know what, whatever. There's better things to do with my time. Goodbye, Woser, hope to see you never.” 

Hearing that stupid nickname you gave him back in your third year (Weasley + loser), made something crack inside of him. 

And because he can’t help it, because chaos runs in his veins and your rage is his favorite melody,

He flicks your bag strap.

Hard.

The motion sends it swinging off your shoulder—and you turn back to look at him so fast he actually looked surprised (not that he'd ever admit that).

"Oops," he says with a grin that attempted to feign innocence.

“Say one more word," you replied, tone deadly calm.

His grin widens, so of course—he says two.

“Make me.”

Silence cracks like a spell about to backfire.

Then—

You pounced. Not for his face, not for his throat—but for the front of his robes, hauling him down so your noses nearly touch again, fury sparking in every inch of space you don’t dare fill.

And Fred?

He kept smiling. Almost amused. He was definitely having fun.

“Wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you," you threatened through a smile.

“Mm, I love when you talk to me like that. Turns me on.” His voice drops—low and teasing. “Nothing but pretty threats—which makes a bloke really wonder… do you actually wanna slap me, or kiss me?”

And then—without thinking— you didn’t stop at a glare.

Your foot jerks down—fast and sharp—and smacks right into his own with enough force to make him grunt.

"HOLY—" He stumbled back half a step, retreating the foot like he’d been cursed. "Merlin's saggy left—"

"Oops," you responded sweetly, imitating him from earlier.

He stares at you wide-eyed. Pained. And then—that damned grin creeps back bigger than before.

Because now there’s fire in your eyes and color in your cheeks and for the first time all week—he felt alive.

“Seven years… and not once have I seen you this unhinged.” He tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he can’t quite solve but is hell-bent on finishing. “I think I like it.”

“Should I have done the other foot too, then?” you inquired sarcastically, reeling your shoe upwards and ready to strike down his other unfortunate set of toes.

But nothing came.

You didn’t bring your foot back down with twice as much force as the first time like you were intending to. There was no action, no effect.

The hush that settled after was quicker than dust in an old room. Uncomfortable and stuffy. But it didn’t take long for that tense atmosphere to be cut off by Peeves, who was making his comeback and was shrieking overhead.

“KISS HER OR DUEL TO THE DEATH, WEASLEY—PICK ONE!”

You jumped apart—faces burning as Filch’s slimy footsteps followed, echoing down the hall like doom incarnate, and you definitely weren’t gonna hang around for his arrival. So you took your bag, and turned away from Fred to leave.

But as you stormed off with fire in your stride, you didn’t miss the way Fred watched you go, quiet for once, and how his hand still lingered over where your fingers had gripped him tight.

You didn’t step on him again just because you were exhausted… right? 

There’s no compromise for second thoughts when it comes to revenge on Fred Weasley!

Thinking about why you never followed through ultimately terrified you, so you brushed it off and carried on with the rest of your day like nothing happened—like the brawl you had earlier wasn’t fit enough to land the both of you in a boxing ring with crowds placing their bets on their fighter of choice.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It was finally the weekend, and a certainly crowded one at that.

Hogsmeade had always been the hotspot for students looking for a bit of fresh air, or simply wanting to run away from extra schoolwork to be done back at Hogwarts—so mischief was either lurking around the corners somewhere, or an area as painfully obvious as the fifth years chucking rock hard Fizzing Whizbees at each other outside some shops with fragile display windows.

This day was no different. Stores were overflowing with mostly the younger classes carrying barrages of sweets and knick knacks enough to last them until their next visit to the village which won’t be for a while, and the older students were usually seen around supply shops, Zonko’s, or in an alley somewhere...

The Three Broomsticks was your go-to. Always the best place to relax and get a bit of reading in. Also because you were craving a particularly delicious and deathly cold Butterbeer to cool off after a long week of work and, well…him.

It was a miracle you’d manage to make it this far without having done anything drastic to get yourself suspended, or for the lack of a better word—expelled.

That seemed to be the only plausible outcome other than sitting through hours of detention together like from that one time you nearly set the Divination Classroom on fire when you attempted to tamper with Fred’s crystal ball. Ended up casting the wrong spell and sent fire sprites taking laps all around the room. Professor Trelawney was not the least bit pleased—but she seemed intrigued nonetheless.

She said something along the lines of “Those flames foretold me something about you, child. Your future is going to be one of many trials!” And if Fred Weasley was the trial she was “foretelling” you about, you wouldn’t be so surprised.

And Merlin forbid you two get stuck together in detention again. There was just something about him discreetly trying to get on your nerves while a professor stood watch that was much more vexing than when he did it obnoxiously. 

Unfortunately for the both of you, the detention room had become your sleeping quarters for more nights than you’d care to admit.

Your fingers caressed the smooth paper of the page you had just finished reading before flitting it over to the next one—eyes immediately dancing on the rows of beautifully arranged letters of the new novel you had only picked up a week before.

An empty stein of Butterbeer sat to the left of your book with water pooling at its base from condensation while one half-full waited patiently with your fingers tangled lazily around its handle—occasionally twisting the heavy glass unconsciously as you read.

Since you were fully immersed in your book—you paid no mind to the hustle and bustle of the very crowded, very busy Three Broomsticks. You had your own booth right at the very back all to yourself with your personal supply of Butterbeer, and Fred Weasley was nowhere to be seen. You were as happy and relaxed as you had ever been in a long time.

For a while at least.

Just when the flow of the story you’d been reading was beginning to pick up, a sudden and abrupt force slides into the booth next to you—shoving your body sharply to the side, causing your book to close (without a bookmark in it, no less), and your precious, long awaited Butterbeer to spill from its glass.

You froze as you looked at the mess before you. Weekend Hogsmeade relaxation plans were officially ruined.

You scoffed, a snarl slowly painting your face. “Excuse me—”

But the face of evil incarnate met your line of sight the moment you turned your head to meet your perpetrator. 

With a stupid grin plastered on his troublesome mouth, partially sweaty complexion, hair that looked windswept as if he’d been running, and that damn jumper he liked to wear so much.

It eventually clicked in your mind that he probably was running away from something—or more appropriately, someone.

And you were right. He was running away from someone. Specifically, Graham Montague.

Just a few minutes before your unfortunate disruption of peace, it was supposed to be Fred’s usual visit to Hogsmeade too—with George and Lee Jordan tagging along as per their routine.

They were aiming for Spintwitches first to get a look at some new Quidditch gear, then Honeydukes for some sweets, Zonko’s to buy some supplies for a few pranks him and his brother were working on (and maybe some inspiration for their own joke shop), and then lastly, The Three Broomsticks as the cherry on top after a long day of exploring.

The schedule panned out smoothly. So smooth that the only thing on Fred’s mind was getting back to their common room, snack on some Honeyduke’s delicacies, and tinker with their newly bought thingamabobs. And maybe find ways to rile Filch up if he’s got extra time.

That was the plan until they were on their way to the last stop of their little visit: The Three Broomsticks.

The air around the trio was calm and energetically laid-back. Fred had his hands shoved into his pockets while he walked—laughing with the other two who were shoving each other as they debated on whether Zonko’s or Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes made the better Dungbomb.

And quite the heated debate it was. Lee still reckoned that Zonko’s original recipe stunk more authentically, while George begged to differ and replied with sass in his tone. 

“Please—as if anything beats our extra-sticky, triple-rotten-egg blend," he snorted. "You, Jordan, lost that argument the moment you tried to test it in McGonagall’s classroom."

Fred tipped his head back and roared in laughter. "We’re still banned from her office…was bloody brilliant, though!”

But all that carefree banter died down as soon as Lee motions to a familiar figure approaching them from down the street. 

“Hey, isn’t that Montague?”

George and Fred turned their heads to Lee and cocked up an eyebrow—seemingly confused as the name didn’t seem to ring any bells.

Lee scoffed and quickly rolled his eyes at their obliviousness. “You know, the bloke from the Inquisitorial Squad? The one you two pushed into the Vanishing Cabinet when he was about to nick points from Gryffindor?”

George’s eyes went wider than the cauldrons sold at Ceridwen’s, and Fred’s lips had compressed so tightly that he looked like an old wizard with no teeth.

Lee found it absolutely hilarious seeing the shift in the twins' expressions—and he got a front row seat to seeing it in its full glory. He even thought he could’ve become a millionaire should he decide to plaster their faces on some shirts and sell them.

The younger twin’s breath hitched as Lee’s words landed like a well-aimed Bat-Bogey Hex.

“Oh. That Montague,” George said with a hybrid of a smile and a frown.

The memory of that one fateful day on the first floor at Hogwarts came crashing back. The sly student who worked under Umbridge with the Inquisitorial Squad badge gleaming like a target, and the glorious shove into the Vanishing Cabinet. 

"Blimey," Fred whispered, "I thought he’d been splinched into next week." He paled slightly, eyes darting toward the approaching figure as if calculating escape routes—or backup prank plans.

"And here I thought we’d seen the last of him. Wonder if he still smells faintly of cabinet dust…"

Lee smirked, arms crossed like he wasn’t about to watch history repeat itself in real time.

“Well—!” Fred swung an arm around George, attempting to turn both their bodies away slowly before Montague notices them. “I think The Three Broomsticks can do without our Galleons for now, men.” 

“For once I actually agree with you, Freddie," answered George who attempted to hide his growing nervousness (which Lee thought to be quite unlike him) as his legs itched to skedaddle away so quickly his upper body wouldn’t be able to keep up.

Right as they were taking their first holy steps back to the motherland (which really is just the castle), a sharp, audibly fuming voice thundered from behind them—bouncing off the shops which caused students and merchants alike to stop and stare.

“WEASLEY!!!” 

And that was all it took for the two notoriously “brave” mischief makers to bolt—leaving Lee Jordan out on the battlefield. 

While coordination was the one thing Fred and George prided themselves on, the chaos of their impromptu getaway had managed to separate them, leaving each twin to fend for themselves.

Merlin knows where George had found himself in, and Fred—as you guessed—ended up in The Three Broomsticks.

With you.

The moment he rushed through those heavy wooden doors, his eyes immediately began looking around the crowded venue for a secluded area where he wouldn’t even be caught dead in. 

And then by some luck or misfortune… he found you.

After dealing the damage of recklessly slipping into your booth and messing up your things, he sneakily peeked over the seat—checking to see if Graham had followed him in. 

You observed the tall ginger in disbelief—annoyed at how he didn’t show an ounce of decency after causing the clutter you thought you didn’t have to worry about today.

“What in Godric’s name are you doing!? Get out, you look like an idiot!” You whispered harshly, not taking your eyes off of him as he continued to peek over the seat like a perverted schoolboy in a girl’s locker room. 

You attempted to push him out, but the man was as sturdy as Snape’s wrists.

Eventually after a hot minute, he finally slid back down beside you. 

“Well that’s not very nice, I thought to give you some company. Doesn’t it get boring being so lonely the way you are?” He asked, attempting to mask his exhaustion from all the running—clearly brushing away the real matter at hand. 

I mean, as if he’d ever want you to know. It would absolutely embarrass him if you’d found out that he was actually running from someone—let alone a person he and George had pranked.

“Don’t need to reflect your insecurities on me, Freddie,” you commented, plopping a bunch of napkins on the puddle of spilt Butterbeer. ”I’m perfectly content, thank you very much.” 

Fred’s eyes followed your hands as they cleaned up the mess he knew he had caused. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t wallop me with your book there," he says, changing the subject and inclined his head to motion to the closed book by the empty glass of Butterbeer.

I mean you would have, but not for no particular reason. You promised yourself no violence against Fred Weasley today.

You glanced at him annoyed and just about every bit as confused. “What are you talking about?”

“I caused it to close without that little blue bookmark thingy.” 

You froze for a moment. How’d he know about the blue bookmark only you were certain had known about? Not even your friends knew of its existence.

“How…” you trailed, mustering up the willpower to look into his eyes.

Still as sharp and as belittling on your being as usual.

“Okay, beer-brain, spit it out,” he leaned against the seat, crossing his arms and smirked at you. “Don’t expect me to sit here all day, though. Don’t ask me to help you relearn the alphabet either.” 

You glared at him before shaking your head. “Nevermind.” 

Now choosing to ignore the Weasley sat beside you, you took your unfinished book back in your hands and sifted through the pages to try and find where you’d stopped—but unfortunately to no avail.

"You always do that when you’re all pissy," he said suddenly, voice lower with undertones of mocking. "Flip too fast like the words’ll jump out and bite you. Never seen someone fight a book like it owes them Galleons."

He leaned in slightly, hovering over your space without touching you.

"And for the record, I’ve seen it. The blue bookmark. You left your Charms notes open during Study Hall last Tuesday. Page 37—Protego variants—and there it was. Little frayed at the edges. Blue as McGonagall’s tartan socks."

Your eyebrows knitted together at his oddly specific observation. 

“Didn’t know being a creep was also in your line of expertise," you said, taking out your wand and gave it a flick over your book.

The pages began to unfold and flutter before your eyes like a flurry before eventually settling down on one particular page. The page where you left off.

He scoffed, scooting back up his seat. “Show-off. Bet you practiced that little flourish in front of a mirror.” 

“But also,” Fred added, leaning his arms against the table then looking at you. “I much rather prefer the term ‘passively observant stud with excellent memory and zero impulse control.’ But sure, slap on ‘creepy’ if it makes you blush harder.”

“Eugh, in your dreams. As if someone like you could ever make me blush.” You rolled your eyes and reached out to grab your Butterbeer—giving it a small swirl before taking a sip. He wasn't being very discreet with the way his eyes bore holes into your neck as you drank.

You finished the remaining beverage in one go, exhaling a refreshed sigh before moving the empty ware with the other empty glass.

A beat of silence passed between you and Fred, both of you caught in the middle of an odd standoff. But despite the intensity of the moment, a flicker of humor glinted in his eyes as he smirked.

"You know," he drawled, "for someone who hates my guts, you don't seem all that eager for me to leave."

“Yeah?” You replied, going along with his quip, “I could say the same for you. You could’ve banished me from my own booth and taken it as yours like you always do.”

“You’re right, you’re right…” he nodded his head with an enlightened frown. “But where’s the fun in kicking you out when I could watch you pull those goppin faces at me instead.” 

You scoffed, failing to hide the slight twitch on the corners of your lips.

Fred noticed. 

Of course he did.

“But,” you shot back, “you’re still here. Breathing my air, stealing my legroom, and polluting my peace with your Weasley-level destruction.”

“Polluting?” He retorts in mock horror. “I practically improved the atmosphere! Without me, this booth would’ve been so clinically depressed Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t even know what to do with it.” 

“She aids injuries on living beings, not furniture with mental illnesses, you numpty.” A laugh slipped from your lips before you could stop it—small, sudden—and Fred froze like he’d caught something rare.

And for just a second…one terrifying second—both of you forgot to pretend.

The pub buzzed around you like static, and neither of you moved an inch towards leaving.

“You’re such a headache," you whispered with less venom than intended—your eyes glossing back to your book to try and brush off the earlier event.

“But you’re here talking to me."

You flipped a page slowly, pointedly ignoring him, though you could feel his gaze like a warmth against your skin.

Then—

A soft brush.

His knee bumped yours under the table.

Both of you froze.

"Oof," he murmured—low and lazy—but made no move to reposition. "Must be all the walking loosening my limbs."

"Right," you responded back, voice tight. "Because it couldn't possibly be your complete lack of spatial awareness."

He smirked—but not fully. 

Outside, thunder rumbled—distant at first—then closer as storm clouds rolled in overhead. The pub hushed slightly; people turned toward the windows as rain began to patter against the glass like drops of milk being strewn by a child.

“Looks like Hogsmeade’s throwing itself a proper tantrum," he said quietly. “Kinda like you.” 

You glanced at him then—really looked—and caught him watching you again. Not smirking this time. Just… looking.

Your breath caught slightly—as if by accident—and he saw it.

Of course he saw it.

"What?" You asked sharply—the word too fast to be casual.

“Nothing," he replied. "Just wondering if y/n has an umbrella-shaped book in her collection."

"Piss off."

“See?" He mused—but there was no aggressive bite behind it. "Always with the violence when someone tries to pull a gag.”

Your heart thudded once.

The space between your knees stayed close—the warmth where his leg pressed gently into yours now undeniable under the table and spilled Butterbeer droplets.

And then—

A loud crash from across the room—a dropped tray sent tankards skittering—and suddenly reality snapped back into place like an over-tightened shoelace.

Fred pulled his leg away with exaggerated speed—as if burned—and cleared his throat loudly.

“Blimey! That bloke's gonna need more than magic to clean that up!”

You aggressively flipped through two pages to try and play your embarrassment off. “I hate how much noise you make when you’re surprised. Too bloody loud.”

“And I hate how much ink smudges on me when someone's throwing a fit,” he shot back with half-hearted sharpness.

Time seemed to move incredibly quickly when Fred made it known that it was time for him to head back. The threat of Graham potentially catching him was now no more than a speck of dust in his mind.

And since he didn't necessarily bring much with him other than the small knick knacks he bought and shoved into his jumper and pant pockets, there wasn’t much for him to gather before leaving.

He stood up from the booth, your eyes unintentionally following. He doesn’t say anything—but rather looked back at you with pursed lips, almost as if hesitant to say something.

You raised an eyebrow at his hesitation. “Why’re you stalling like that? Thinking of something creative to say for once?”

He shifted slightly, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“I’m not stalling,” he replied. “Just thought I forgot something.” And without another word, he turned and walked away from the booth.

Before he could completely vanish from your sight, you sneakily took your wand in your hand and gave it a small wave towards him—and almost immediately, he tripped on his own two feet earning a few giggles from the girls sitting around that witnessed the whole “mishap”.

He turned back to look at you on instinct—like he knew you did it (and he knew he was right), and there you sat, already expecting his gaze to be cold. Annoyed. Condescending even—and it was, only…a little softer. Foreign. 

Your small observation made your throat feel tight, but you didn’t want to feed more into it so you just brushed it off again—twirling your wand in between your fingers as you shot him a half-assed smile.

Fred huffed, glaring at you before turning around for the final time and walked out the door.

And from within and beyond that pub window,

A certain girl “tried” to immerse herself back in her reading, while a certain twin ran through downpour stricken alleys—not realizing why going home suddenly felt like walking away from it instead.

Certain thoughts were creeping up and bubbling over in the depths of your mind, but no. You can’t. You hated him.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

December rolled in quicker than you downing a hefty sum of Treacle Tarts during lunchtime just a few hours ago.

How you wished you hadn’t eaten so much—because while everyone, including your friends, were having an absolute blast dancing with each other and their partners at the ball, there you were fighting arm and toe with your dress just trying to get a breath in.

“Damn those tarts for tasting so good—” you grumbled, voice straining a bit as you adjusted the waistband of your gown for the nth time tonight.

Despite your thinning patience from the conundrum you had gotten yourself into, you wouldn’t dare deny the lavish and elegant spectacle that engulfed The Great Hall with a view that never failed to take your breath away.

And that was the Yule Ball.

The preparations always filled Hogwarts with a flurry of activity. Students buzzed about in their finery—hair coiffed, robes and gowns pressed, and smiles eager.

In your humble opinion, winter, with the honorable mention of autumn, was the one season that Hogwarts seemed to always wear beautifully. The pure white snow painted the castle’s historic dark stones, piling up on balconies and rooftops like wool on a newborn lamb, creating a familiar and deeply comforting ambience you can’t seem to get enough of.

Everything just felt welcoming in the cold. Even the classrooms with lessons you absolutely dreaded taking.

You couldn’t say the same for some people, though.

Despite having pushed the events that happened between you and Fred back at The Three Broomsticks a few months ago to the very deepest pits of your mind, you’d be lying if you said it didn’t resurface from your thoughts every now and then—especially in moments where you weren’t supposed to be thinking about anything.

Like when you lay in the silence and solitude of your bedroom.

With every bite you took during breakfast.

And with every page you caressed in the books you read before flipping it over…

He was there. As sneaky and as big an eyesore as he could ever be, even in your thoughts.

But tonight was the night where you really set your sights on steering away from Fred Weasley. Not even so much as a peek of his nauseating ginger hair would get in your line of sight today.

And maybe, just maybe, you had wished for it hard enough that the wizard gods had granted your plea. Not once did you see him on the dance floor, the tables, or even the buffet area. Save for his brother George, who was, albeit sloppily, dancing with his date on the dance floor. 

You let out a frustrated sigh, giving up on the God-forsaken wraps of clothing you called a gown and dropped your hands back on your lap as you sat on one of the chairs by the tables. You didn’t have a date to the ball, and yes—it was completely of your own volition to not go with anybody. 

Despite receiving offers from a few lovely gentlemen (much to your surprise), you’ve decided to save yourself from the hassle and declined all their proposals. It didn’t really take away much of the fun from the festivity anyways.

Your eyes danced around the ensembles of sparkles, satin, and fur—taking in the last few hours of the ball before it ends. 

That was the least you could do now seeing as how tired you were after your friends insisted on dragging you onto the dancefloor for the extra four sets of The Weird Sisters' performance.

“Whew!” A shriek of enjoyment snapped you out of your thoughts. You looked up, seeing one of your friends approaching you from the dancefloor—face flushed and all sweaty.

“You look terrible!” You yelled at her through the music—a small smile painted on your lips.

“I wouldn’t be so surprised! A real dancer, that one!” 

“Who!”

“That Ivan from Durmstrang! I couldn’t keep up!” She roared in laughter.

Your friend looked radiant under the dimming lights. The sweat that painted her skin resembled crystals as they reflected the snow in the hall, and her wide smile that reached up to her eyes was her biggest accessory.

“You’re doing great!” You exclaimed as she reached behind you for her drink—taking a huge swig before turning back to you.

“I tried!” She looked behind her, causing your eyes to follow. There her date stood, waiting for her to come back before giving the flustered damsel a small wave. “Dance with us again, won’t you?!”

You shook your head, frowning teasingly. “Absolutely not! You’ve drained me for the night, you madman!”

“Come on, live a little! That Weasley’s not here souring your mood for once, so let me be greedy with you!”

Hearing your friend mention Fred made you cringe so hard mentally your face practically concaved back into your skull.

“Your date’s getting impatient!” Exclaimed yourself, trying to wriggle out of her insistent invite. ”You know how some Durmstrang men are! And besides, I need the loo!”

“Do you need me to come with?!”

“No!” You responded quickly. “No, I’ll be fine! You go have fun! I don’t want to hear a word of your whining later about your regrets on not dancing with Ivan enough tonight!”

Your friend’s eyebrows crinkled slightly before her face returned to its normal, carefree, expression. She gave you a nod before waving goodbye, disappearing into the dance floor and back into the arms of her partner. Best prepare yourself for the stories she’d be telling you until the early hours of the morning once you’re back in your dorms later.

You let out a sigh, smoothening out the silky fabric of your gown’s skirt before getting up to walk towards the hall’s exit. 

You thought about calling it a night a few times during the event, but a few extra hours past your bedtime to enjoy a once-in-a-year festivity didn’t seem to bother your psyche too much. But you really did need the loo, though. Your dress was practically killing your insides at this point.

The walk to your destination was calm. Almost eerily serene. The silence occasionally being cut through by the sounds of your heels clacking against the stone floors, and the muffled bangs and yells of the band’s music gradually fading as you walked further away from The Great Hall. 

But now wasn’t the time to be thinking about anything again. And in these moments, he always crept in. Like some hawk stalking its prey from above—circling overhead enough to drive the poor bastard below insane.

You were scared. Scared when you realized you caught yourself unconsciously seeking his presence the whole time during the ball.

As for your reasoning, it never came to. Confused and frustrated as you may have been, you yearned for just a glimpse of him. 

Denial was an understatement and one of your closest friends—and perhaps some justified reasoning would help ease the discomfort in your chest:

Maybe your body’s just naturally conditioned now to constantly be on the lookout for him so you know when to dodge his dull remarks, or steer yourself away from his pranks that were so lame they bored you more than it angered.

Shutting your eyes tight, a groan of exasperation rumbles from deep within your throat, echoing all throughout the empty, warmly lit corridor.

You forcibly shook your head to try and desperately rid of all those absurd ideas. The bracelet on your wrist now became the next victim of your unease.

As the entrance to the restroom neared, something began to smell. 

Distinctively, gunpowder. 

You paused just short of the restroom door, nostrils flaring as the scent hit you—sharp, electric, unmistakable.

Not perfume. Not candles.

Fireworks.

And not just any kind—this was Weasley fireworks. The sort that didn’t just explode…they performed. The sort that sang opera before setting fire in a perfectly choreographed act of chaos.

Your pulse jumped.

No. He wouldn’t.

But then—

A tiny pop, like a cork from a champagne bottle—soft, cheeky—and from the corner of your eye, you saw it: a single spark spiraling up from beneath the restroom door like a curious firefly made of gold.

Then another.

And another—forming letters in midair before fizzling out with a coy little puff.

“𐌔𐌕𐌉𐌋𐌋 𐌕𐋅𐌉𐌍𐌊 𐌉'𐌌 ɠO𐌍𐌄?”

And as quick as you could’ve said the words to a levitation spell, the sparks started hurling towards you—or more rather, your feet.

Whistles and bangs of red and orange danced around your stems, causing you to let out a shrill scream as you tried your best to dodge the searing flames of color.

“Shit!" You yelped, heart lodged somewhere between your throat and your stomach.

And then a laugh—rich, low, utterly unapologetic—echoed somewhere behind you.

You spun, wand raised and cheeks flushed with the embarrassment of being caught off-guard.

There, leaning casually against an adjacent pillar, was Fred.

His hands were in his pockets—and the corners of his mouth were twitching. As if he were fighting a smile.

“You…!” Disbelief slipped through your clenched jaws. 

"Having fun yet?" He asked in an exaggerated murmur, amusement threaded through every word. "Or need I send up a few more?"

“You’re dead to me, Fred Weasley—!” A sharp sting cuts through your words like a hot knife—silencing you with enough time to have your body run cold.

You looked down to the source of the pain and saw blood. A good amount of it, rolling down one of your ankles and right onto your heels.

With scared, wide eyes, you looked up—and for the first time in seven years, tears finally appeared before Fred Weasley.

His eyes locked onto the blood staining your skin, your shoes…his prank had gone sour in the worst way imaginable.

"No, no, no—" his voice cracked. "I didn’t—I didn't mean for this—those weren't supposed to—it’s just smoke and spark!"

But it wasn't.

Somewhere along the line—a stray shard of enchanted casing, a rogue charm misfired from one of George’s untested prototypes tucked in his pocket—had sliced through illusion and flesh alike.

And now you were bleeding.  

Crying.  

In front of him—for the first time since he’d known you—and it shattered something deep inside Fred that he didn’t even know could break.

"Merlin's beard,” he whispered, "I'm sorry—I'm so bloody sorry.” 

He looked up at your face like he was drowning and only you could throw him rope—but all he saw was pain and fear.

Not anger at first...not even blame...

Just hurt.

And it wrecked him more than any curse ever could.

"I’ll get Pomfrey," he started frantically, "no—I'll carry you myself—"  

But then—

You stepped back sharply—the movement small but final—and wiped your tears with gritted teeth like they were a betrayal too far.

And without saying anything more, you pushed him away from the door and bolted. Out of the restroom, and into the corridor. Anywhere, just not anywhere near him.

You knew some stupid feelings could never be trusted.

Why, of all people, did you think Fred Weasley would ever do something nice to you for a change?

Whatever happened in The Three Broomsticks was all just banter! Rubbish! It really was just nothing!

With one heel stained with blood and the other nearly charred to a crisp, you ran faster than you ever had before. The amount of pain you felt on your ankle couldn’t compare to the weight that was pressing on you emotionally.

He actually went too far this time, and the crimson that painted your skin was what solidified everything. 

You hated Fred Weasley.

You hated Fred Weasley!

Not even a minute into your getaway did you hear louder, more frantic footsteps slowly gaining speed from behind you. You didn’t need to look behind you to know who it was—all you knew was that you wanted him gone.

“Y/n! Please, can you slow down a minute?!” His voice thundered from behind you. The echo from the corridor had him sounding like a recurring nightmare.

But you didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Each step sent fire up your ankle, a sick rhythm syncing with the frantic pulse in your throat—but the pain was nothing new. You were good at carrying weight that wasn’t yours. Had been doing it for years.

But this was different.

This wasn't just another prank gone cheeky, another smirk and “I didn't mean it, love" like butter on toast. This was blood on stone. Real blood. Yours. And Fred had been the one holding the spark.

With one foot slick with smooth, red, liquid, it was no surprise when one of your heels decided to slip off, leaving you with no choice but to discard the remaining one and continue running.

The corridor twisted sharply ahead and you veered into it like a wounded animal fleeing its hunter—your breath jagged, tears smearing through soot and fury as they fell.

You took a sharp turn, eventually finding an empty staircase. Dark, partially lit by moonlight and the stray casts of firelight from the torch lamps just down the hallway. You were tired, and it was the perfect place to stop. You didn’t even hear Fred running after you anymore.

So thinking you’d finally lost him, you dragged your body that seemed to grow heavier with each limp you took towards the steps.

And with each step, came a new tear.

And another one,

And another one.

In the distance, the Yule Ball hummed with music and laughter, golden lights shimmering like trapped fireflies across The Great Hall. But outside the warmth of that glow—on the cold stone steps leading down from an unused corridor—there you sat.

Alone.

One heel somewhere in the castle, and the other lost between pride and pain.

Tears streaked your cheeks—not just from the sharp throb in your ankle where Fred’s prank had gone wrong, but from everything else that came after.

The look on his face when he realized what happened.  

The way you pulled away before he could even say your name.  

And worse—that flicker in his eyes as you ran, like he wasn’t sure whether you were running from him or finally past all the things neither of you dared say.

Then—

Soft footsteps echoed behind you.

Slow. Careful.

And there he appeared at the top of the stairs.

Breathless. Tie loose. Hair wilder than usual.

"Oi," he whispered, voice rough but gentle, "lost property found."

He stepped down slowly—and held out a single glittering heel.

Then paused, realizing there was only one.

"...wait." His brow furrowed. "There's not two?"

You hugged your arms tighter around yourself, trying not to cry harder.

“Get away from me…” your voice shook.

Fred sighed softly and sat beside you—not too close, but close enough so his warmth brushed yours in waves under winter air.

“Just let me help—”

“I said get away from me!” Your voice—as mighty as thunder yet as broken as the cracks in lightning filled his ears.

Fred blinked, slightly taken aback by the sudden volume in your tone. And he’d been yelled at many times in his life.

“You’re…” you hiccuped, your throat not showing you any mercy by how much it made your voice quiver. “You’re like an itch I can’t scratch…!”

“Y/n—"

“You’re insufferable, Frederick Weasley!”

He flinched.

It wasn't just the use of his full name—although that stung more than it should have.

It was the venom in your voice. The hatred in those words—as if the fire he'd always sought from you had suddenly been lit and aimed towards his head.

"Y/n," Fred started again, "I can fix this. There are spells to heal wounds this size—"

"Fix this?" Your laugh was like acid. "You’ve never fixed anything. Not this time either. You only waited long enough for me to forget what you’ve done before doing it all over again!"

"Oh, like you haven’t been doing the same thing! And that's not—"

"That's exactly right," you hissed. "I only did them because of you! You think if you’d left me alone all those years ago, we’d end up like this?! Every time, you say you're sorry, then turn around a day later and do something even worse. It's an endless cycle, Fred, when does it end?! Has my trust never crossed your mind?!"

"It has!" He yelled, guilt now clipping away at what was left of him. “It has…and I probably smashed it doing those daft stunts."

A beat passed—one heavy with silence.

"...but it was supposed to be funny."  

"It went sideways real quick—and I swear I didn’t mean—"  

"Fred," you cut in sharply, eyes red-rimmed, "It wasn't just the fireworks."

Then he froze—the weight of those words settling like snowfall after a blizzard.

"You ran," he said quietly. “Not screaming mad…not cursing me into next week…” he turned slightly toward you. ”You looked at me—and ran.”

"And?" You snapped through tears. "What did you expect?"

“Something!" He leaned forward—voice faltering slightly. ”A slap! A hex! Hell—even an eye-roll would’ve been better than watching you disappear like you couldn't stand being near me anymore!”

Silence fell again, but softer this time as rain began tapping faintly against high windows above you.

Finally, he reached out onto the step behind him and pulled out both heels—clutched carefully between two fingers.

"I charmed it back together," he mumbled sheepishly, "It'll last through midnight if we hurry back before Cinderella turns into Snape," he says, throwing in a reference from some Muggle fairytale he’d heard about from Ron.

You sat there quietly. Sniffling—almost in a daze as you gazed at the new pair of shoes like you envied it. There wasn’t any blood. No soot. No trauma. Brand new like you didn't just bleed in it earlier. It had the chance to experience everything anew again.

Fred noticed, so he took initiavive—extending his arm carefully and placed the newly conjured kicks by your bare feet. 

“Look, I don’t expect you to forgive me. Not right away, anyways.” He shrugged, looking slightly defeated.

“But let me help you at least. Make an exception just for tonight and I promise I won’t bother you anymore starting tomorrow—we can both forget this ever happened. But I can’t promise you won’t be seeing me around school, though. I’d like to graduate as well.”

And without warning, a clean napkin appeared in his hand with the flick of his wand.

“Because I caused it—” he nodded towards your foot, “I know damn well I can fix it.”

An expression of reluctance stills itself on your face as you looked at Fred. His gaze expectant as he holds the small (charmed with a cleaning and healing spell) towel open in his palm. His simple gesture showed you that your ankle was the perfect fit for such a place.

But the words were on the tip of your tongue.

Get lost.

All those years you spent weighing between fighting or fleeing from him was now embedded deep into your system despite feeling the complete opposite. It was a curse—and one you never for once, had been eager to learn in the first place.

However the look in his eyes made you falter. Like leaving without patching you up first would kill him.

For a split second, something in you wondered if that was true. 

So instead you sat there in silence—blindly feeling out the atmosphere before hesitantly extending out your injured leg, then watched him take your ankle and bring it onto his lap. 

Fred sucked in a breath as he gingerly pushed up the dirty, slightly burnt hem of your skirt, trying to keep his touch feather-light against your skin.

"It's...a pretty bad cut," he muttered softly—more to himself than anything. His fingers traced along the bloodied skin, eyes tight with quiet focus as he inspected it for pieces of those charmed casings. He was almost shaking. Call it guilt, shame, or fear, but he was all of those things right now. 

He paused, hands hovering over you—hesitantly, like he had finally realized that you were something fragile. Breakable.

“This might hurt. I need you to stay still.”

His touch was gentle as he began to wipe at the blood with the towel—cleaning up his mess with trembling hands.

It was in the silence of his concentration where you really got a good look at the man in front of you. Not fleeting like those moments where he’d run past you so quickly after charming your notes into a pile of complete gibberish—or those times when your vision would be so clouded with anger his face just completely blurred into a whirlwind of every single grievance you’ve held against him.

But a proper look this time.

Fred Weasley was sitting in front of you, dabbing your wound with the cloth he had conjured up, and was quiet for once. Concentrated. 

Gentle. 

A notion so new and completely incomprehensible to you up until this moment.

You noticed the delicate wrinkle in between his eyebrows as he fought to keep himself steady. To not press onto the cut too hard. And the way his lips parted ever so slightly as his eyes danced around your skin with a gaze that had every possible emotion known to man swirling beneath it.

With your observation, something in your chest felt off shortly after. Almost enough to pass off as a bunch of Cornish Pixies playing bouncy house inside your lungs.

It churned in the pits of your stomach and made your hands feel all tingly.

Every accidental brush of his fingers against your skin as he cleaned you off left a feeling similar to electricity in its wake. 

You felt your heart literally skip a beat. Palpitations, perhaps? Or the growing unease when you thought of the impossible actually happening? 

Your vulnerability was as new to Fred as the hairdo George opted for himself for the ball. It was your stillness as you simply sniffled away the stings of his undoing.

You didn’t nag at him.

Or yell.

Or hit him with some sort of retaliation that would have his skin burning red and painfully for days.

A shame it would be for his pride to say it aloud; but your tears had made you as beautiful as he’d ever seen you before. The natural flush on your cheeks made him wonder what you’d look like if someone were to actually make you blush, and the way your lips were painted with the most delicate shade of reddish pink—oh, he was done for. 

Fred felt himself stop breathing for the shortest second, letting out a small cough as it erupts from his torso to try and appear casual about all this. Like he wasn’t just battling his own fear and defensive rebuttal about you in his mind in real time—but there was no denying it now.

This was his repentance. The only punishment he’d ever welcome with open arms.

He finally saw now that—

He liked you. 

It was as simple as that.

Fred finished wrapping your foot with a quiet charm, his fingers lingering a second too long.

“There,” he said, voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “All patched up.”

But neither of you moved.

He stayed sat in front of you—hands hovering near your ankle like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to let go. Like letting go meant admitting this moment was over and whatever just happened between you would vanish into the same silence that had once held it together.

You swallowed hard.

Why isn’t he leaving?

Why do you not want him to?

His eyes flicked up—slowly—and caught yours. Not joking, and no pretenses. Just…looking at you like he’d only ever seen you now. Like the truth had been there all along, buried under pranks and insults and years of pretending not to care…

And now it was uncovered.

Real.

Raw.

"I shouldn't have run that joke," he whispered, thumb brushing ever so lightly over the edge of the bandage—a touch so soft it made your breath hitch— "but I’m glad I ran after you.”

A moment passed—one where time seemed to forget its job—then Fred stood abruptly—as if catching himself before saying something even more dangerous and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

"Anyway," he said quickly, voice regaining its usual pitch before cracking slightly, "don’t go making a habit outta getting hurt, ‘cause I’m not showing up.”

He tried for a smile—but failed halfway through.

"...Even though I probably will."

You didn’t answer right away—just watched him shift from foot to foot like standing still hurt more than running.

Outside, the storm began to fade to soft whispers against glass instead of fists pounding walls—as if even nature had held its breath waiting for this moment too.

Fred Weasley turned away with red ears and took one last look at your shoes.

Both clean now,

Both whole—

Maybe like tomorrow.

He took the first steps toward what could be your final moments together, and without thinking, your body moved on its own—arm shooting out, and fingers closed tightly around his wrist.  

The air stilled, and time seemed to pause. It wasn’t just contact—it was resistance, a silent plea wrapped in a single touch.

Don’t go.

He froze halfway through a step—his mind racing on whether you actually did just cling to him or was it some deluded illusion he wished so badly to happen his body acted on itself?

I mean—you? Willingly touch him so comfortably?  

Fred didn't look at you immediately. His eyes apparently finding his feet more interesting than the girl behind him whom he’d tormented and was indiscreetly telling him not to leave her.

Your lips parted, his name a breath away from slipping from your mouth. 

But nothing came out. 

You were afraid that if you so much as muttered something, the tone would give away everything that’s been left unsaid.

Your fingers tightened just slightly around his wrist. Not enough to pull, but enough to tell the man all he needed to know.

Fred didn’t move.

Didn't breathe.

The corridor stretched long and silent behind you both, the lamps flickering like hesitant stars watching a moment too fragile to survive daylight.

Slowly—so slowly it hurt—he turned his head just enough for one eye to catch yours over his shoulder. Just... waiting.

Like he was afraid that if he looked fully at you, you’d vanish—or worse, confirm what he'd already felt blooming in his chest since the Yule Ball.

You weren’t really okay with losing him.

And neither was he.

The air between you hummed—not with magic this time—but something quieter, deeper…older than pranks or potions or schoolyard dares.

Your lips parted again—

But instead of words?

A shaky breath slipped out. Quiet. Unraveled.

His name died on your tongue once more, but your hand didn't release him, and your eyes didn't look away.

And somewhere beneath all the wreckage of hate and fireworks and bleeding ankles, it all started to come together.

Fred Weasley closed his eyes—and leaned back into the truth without saying a word.

He wasn't walking away tonight. Not when you were holding on.

So instead of pulling free, he turned around fully. One slow revolution of regret and reckless hope.

He followed through with the natural pull of your arm, slowly walking back to the steps where you sat before taking a seat beside you.

And then it was quiet. Quieter than quiet had ever been the whole night.

Neither of you moved, and neither looked away. Both hearts seemingly competing on who’s to burst from who’s chest first.

After what felt like a millenia of intense eye contact, Fred finally made the first move and cupped your face with a cool, gentle hand. The action was so sudden you had allowed it to happen before you could flinch or fight or remember how much easier it was to lie than feel...

"...say it," he whispered, voice breaking at the edges. "Even if it's just once."  

“Let me hear it."

And there in the dim glow of Hogwarts’ last candlelight, you sat trembling…

Not from the pain anymore, but from how close love had gotten. From it being spoken aloud in a language built entirely on jokes and petty insults.

But love isn’t always spoken first in words anyway.

Sometimes, it starts as blood on stone.

A vandalized schedule.

Or a bag swung at your head with full force.

Two stubborn students learn that running stops being fun when someone mattered more than the escape.

“Fred…” you whispered, eyes searching his with a gaze completely different than the cold and sharp looks you’d send his way before.

And for a fleeting moment, you could’ve sworn you felt him tremble when he heard his own name slip past your lips so gently the way it did. It wasn’t said with the intention of slicing through him like you’d always intended it to.

And his eyes. Oh, his eyes, why have you never noticed how much depth they held? They weren’t shallow and filled with evil like you’d always thought. They were brown. Ah, brown! That was Fred's eye color.

He had you in a daze. One where you didn’t even realize you were in. So much so you didn’t notice him slowly beginning to lean in.

With his brows low and furrowed, jaw clenched, and hands colder than death itself, there was no denying how wrong your minds were making this feel despite the overwhelming magnetic pull between you.

Your breath catches in your throat as your eyes barely fluttered shut. Fred pressed your foreheads together and your lips brushed—just barely—until he pulled away with a shaky exhale and dropped his head onto your shoulder.

“What are we doing…” he muttered to himself. The weight of both his words and head were grounding in a way where it snapped you back to reality.

But nothing more was to be said on your part. You were done trying to explain or intervene with words. And Fred would be the first to know.

Your hand, despite trembling like it had a mind of its own, reached over to where Fred was resting his head on your shoulder and cupped his cheek right below his ear. And without resisting, he allowed you to bring his face back up into your view again.

The expression on his face was unreadable—yet too soft to call anger. It was pensive. On the brink of desperation. With eyebrows scrunched and slightly slanted with eyes that were rimmed with dew, it was painfully obvious he had held himself back from doing the unthinkable.

So now you took the lead. Leaning in, but not so boldly. It was every drop as hesitant and nervous as the first years entering Hogwarts for the first time.

Your lips hovered inches from each other for a just few seconds, before they barely brushed. Fred closed the distance with nothing more than a soft press, but it was enough to ignite your whole bodies.

The kiss wasn’t like fireworks or the stories you’d read as a child.

No bangs, no sparkles, and definitely no birdsong.

Just warmth—gentle, quiet—spreading from your lips down to your toes like sunlight peeking through lace curtains. A single breath shared between two people who’d spent years coming for each other’s throats.

Fred’s hands trembled against your face, calloused fingers catching the curve of your cheekbone as he deepened it just slightly, but barely there—as if afraid you’d vanish if he pressed too hard.

And maybe you would’ve if it hadn’t felt this right.

One heartbeat passed. Then another. 

Silence wrapped around you both—the kind only found after storms end and before birds returned to sing.

When he pulled back slowly, you didn't open your eyes right away—afraid movement would shatter it all into dust and denial again.  

His voice came low—rougher than before—and so close his next words brushed against your still-tingling lips.

"Still hate me?"

You finally opened your eyes and met his stare head-on. The usual mischief drowned in something deeper now. 

Softer…You.

And instead of answering?

You leaned forward and kissed him again.

No words needed.

None true enough anyway.

Because hate doesn't linger with trembling hands and shared breath in moonlit corridors...

Hate doesn't rewrite the past with one touch...

And most importantly?

Hate certainly doesn't start feeling suspiciously like coming home.

“You’re not half bad," you say, a small smile finally settling itself on your lips for the first time genuinely tonight.

“Oh, don't go soft on me now.”

“Fuck off...”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

≡;- ꒰ °bonus!!! ꒱

It started with tea.

Not flowers. Not jokes. Not enchanted love notes that sang horribly off-key to make you laugh.

Just tea.

A simple cup—steaming, carefully held in both hands—offered to you the next morning by a boy who looked like he hadn’t slept at all.

Fred.

He stood there in The Great Hall before your house table, early enough that only a few scattered students were about. His hair flat on one side from what looked like hours spent lying awake on a pillow too hard for comfort.

His robes were wrinkled, and his eyes—usually alight with mischief or laughter—were heavy and soft, searching yours like he was afraid something had changed despite all that happened the night before.

You slowly dropped your book and fork—both of which were simultaneously nestled in your hands after noting his presence, and looked up at him.

"You’re up early," you said quietly—words far from unkind.

"Couldn't sleep," he admitted, voice rough as if sandpaper lined his throat. "Too busy thinking about how much of an absolute tit I was until last night."

You didn't answer right away—just took the cup from him slowly—the warmth seeping into your fingers before it reached your heart. 

You gave him a small nod.

Not forgiveness yet…

But not dismissal either.

And Fred? He clung to it like oxygen after nearly drowning.

He didn’t follow you everywhere—not openly—but somehow always seemed to be nearby when needed.

The next day at lunch—you opened your bag and found a pair of soft wooly socks inside. Hand-knitted (terribly), in a burnt orange color with one toe suspiciously larger than the other. 

A note tucked inside it read:  

“SO YOᑌᖇ ᗩᑎKᒪE STᗩYS ᗯᗩᖇᗰ. GEOᖇGE ᕼEᒪᑭEᗪ (ᑕᑌᖇSEᗪ ᗰOᖇE TIᗰES Tᕼᗩᑎ I ᑕOᑌᒪᗪ ᑕOᑌᑎT). ᗯEᗩᖇ IT Oᖇ ᗷᑌᖇᑎ IT—I’ᒪᒪ STIᒪᒪ KᑎOᗯ."

You wore it under your shoes that afternoon when Madam Pomfrey cleared you for walking again—and Fred just “happened” to pass by outside the hospital wing carrying two butterbeers (in his words, “in case someone needed sugar,”) and fell into step right beside you without saying a word.

Until four minutes later when he mumbled,  

"Still hate me? Be honest."

A pause was all it took from you for the Weasley to weigh the odds of him biting all of his fingernails off, or just deciding to not exist altogether.

"...slightly less than yesterday," you responded, trying to pass it off as a joke.

It wasn’t much, but Fred grinned anyway—as if those words alone had healed more than any spell ever could have done.

And so continued days filled not with pranks, but quiet gestures.

A textbook levitating gently onto your lap during Charms because “Your arms looked tired.”  

Him silencing Lee mid-petty comeback towards another girl because “we don’t do that here anymore.”

Sitting across from each other every evening in the library or the Astronomy Tower—one badly reading poetry aloud while pretending not to care if she listened—and one pretending she didn't hang onto every awkward syllable anyway.

No grand speeches.

No dramatic declarations beneath starlit-stricken skies.

Just presence.

Consistency.

Gentleness and adjustment where only chaos and spells gone sideways used to be.

Then came Valentine’s Day—The Great Hall had become strangled by pink ribbons and lovesick owls dropping roses overhead—and nestled in front of you between servings of Cauldron Cakes sat a tiny velvet box tied shut with red string shaped strangely familiar.

Inside was no jewel,

No flashy trinket,

But something simple.

A small silver band with something engraved around its inside rim—with two barely visible words etched so finely they could only be read up close.

"𝑇𝑜 𝑦/𝑛."

When Fred finally approached later with cheeks pinker than Ginny’s rose-colored jumper—he didn’t say anything dramatic.

Just leaned down slightly near where you sat stunned, and whispered simply.

"I envied the bracelet you wore that night for being so close to you all the time—so I’d rather see something of mine on you instead… If y’want."

Silence stretched long again…

Long enough for him to begin fidgeting nervously after pulling away.

Long enough for him start wondering whether this time—he'd overreached too far again.

But then soft fingertips curled gently against his palm as your hand found his, squeezing just once before bringing him closer slowly… Deliberately…

As if testing each other’s trust inch by fragile inch before finally whispering back—

"I wouldn’t mind."

Fred exhaled shakily—a smile blooming slow but true across his face—one full of hope instead of doubt.

Your breaths lingered—until they didn’t. Meshing into one soft yet heady kiss that showed how much you both had craved for each other since that night.

Fred had deepened the kiss (much to your embarrassment), so all of The Great Hall could see—and believe me when I say what a spectacle and cause for discussion you two had become.

Stray remarks about how “the third Hogwarts war had finally ended!”—or how big of a 180 you two had taken from practically setting each other’s robes on fire on a random Wednesday, to a sickeningly sweet couple that practically leaked honey wherever they walked. 

However, it did take a lot of time before getting to where you were in terms of intimacy.

Sex was something you both discussed and decided to put off until the time was right—but other than that, it was still quite… chaotic.

Fred spent a good three months stressing about how he’d find the right time to tell you, but before he could worry any more, a small mishap—or perhaps miracle during Potions solved that problem for him.

He ended up sputtering out a “Merlin, you’re lucky I love you.” After you so foolishly spilled a hefty amount of a potion he knew you always perfected with ease on his uniform which shrunk them nearly three sizes down. 

It wasn’t your fault that he knew all the ways to fluster you. Especially during class and in front of Snape too, no less.

You, on the other hand, weren’t so fortunate when it came down to taking your time with your “I love you’s” to him. 

It took you twice as long, and Fred (though appearing nonchalant), was finally bursting at the seams just to hear you say it back—though he never pressured you into doing so.

Him now proudly bearing the status of being your boyfriend didn’t take away the tricks he always had up his sleeves for you. Only now it was more for your laughs rather than your angry yelling. 

One afternoon during your vacant period in between your classes, he asked you to meet him in the courtyard to “help” him with some lessons he couldn’t seem to get a grasp of—and with no objections, you did so willingly.

But only if you’d seen the way his eyes flashed with mischief while that devious smirk of his grew on his lips, you could’ve braced yourself better before Fred decided to push you down onto the warm grass, giving you an advanced apology kiss before he began tickling you in all the right places.

You squealed, legs frantically kicking as you attempted to pry his hands off by twisting your body away.

“Say it!” He exclaimed, his fingers magnetically drifting to where you were your weakest.

“Say what?! Fred, stop!” Your face flushed with pools of red from how hard you were laughing.

“Say that you love me!”

“What? Have you gone mad?!”

“Doesn't sound like an I love you!”

“Fred!!!”

“I know my own bloody name!!”

“OKAY, OKAY, I LOVE YOU FREDERICK WEASLEY, NOW LET ME GO!!!”

A wide, victorious grin took over his face as soon he finally got those three little words out of you.

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a quick, tender kiss before pulling back again, eyes still shining with triumph.

"Only took ya six months and a full-on tickle attack. Now was that so hard?" He teased, propping himself up on his elbows over you.

“You’re a madman.”

“Yeah, a madman that’s head over heels for you.”

Admittedly, his little stunt did put a chip in your mood the remainder of the day—sulking because your chest hurt from how much he’d made you laugh. 

But for once, your anger didn’t feel so heavy and deep-rooted anymore.

Because forgiveness might take time,

But love?

Love already knew your names.

And years later, when your grandchildren asked how Granddad Weasley won Grandma over, they’d always hear:

“Oh,” the old man would chuckle, squeezing your hand tightly even now, “she hated me fair well at first.”