#fred

As the bubbliest student in the Castle, you’re well known among your fifth-year Gryffindor peers. You’re loud in the best way: quick laugh, quick wit, and always the first to congratulate someone on a good Quidditch catch or a well-answered question in class. You bounce from conversation to conversation like a Snitch on the field; cheering up post-detention first-years with terrible jokes in the common room; debating the finer points of potions with the Ravenclaws; helping Hufflepuffs rehearse for Charms in the corridors… people genuinely enjoy your company— your energy is contagious, your questions show you’re actually interested, and you remember tiny details about everyone. You have a way of making people feel special, and that makes them gravitate toward you.

“Oi, Davies, how’d your mum like the Chudley Cannons show?” You shout across the Great Hall one morning, and Roger Davies will grin and give you a thumbs-up because you listened when he mentioned it last week.

You’re the one who organises impromptu Exploding Snap tournaments in the common room on rainy evenings, who drags half the dormitory down to the kitchens at midnight because someone looked hungry, who starts a standing ovation when a nervous first-year finally manages a Levitation Charm. Professors actually like you (McGonagall was even heard muttering “competent and enthusiastic— a dangerous combination” with the faintest twitch of a smile). Even Filch grumbles less when you’re the one who runs into him.

Your extroversion has its disadvantages, though: you never seem to have made a fixed friendship group. You sit with different people every meal— one day you’re at the centre of the table holding court with Seamus and Dean, the next you’re squeezed between Lavender and Parvati gossiping about the Yule Ball, the day after that you perch at the Ravenclaw table, arguing with Luna about Thestral care. People love having you around, but no one seems capable of claiming you, like you’re out of their league, platonically. You’re everyone’s friend, but after a short while, you’re off noticing someone else who looks like they could use some company.

Fred Weasley starts paying attention to this… anomaly in fourth year. It begins with a prank: he and George charm the suits of armour to break into synchronised dance every time someone says the word “essay.” The whole corridor dissolves into chaos. Most people shriek, or laugh and run, but you stop dead and watch the armours moonwalk past you. You immediately stop to admire the work, elbowing Hermione on your left. “Holy shit! The one on the left has serious moves.”

Fred, watching from a balcony above, feels something in his chest do an odd little flip. George notices immediately and smirks, but Fred can’t look away as you try to drag Hermione in to your dancing with the suits.

After that, he starts tracking you without meaning to. He notices you’re always in the middle of whatever’s happening, but never anchored to it. You’re the one who knows everyone’s name, everyone’s favourite sweet, everyone’s current drama, but when the portrait hole swings shut at night, you’re usually heading up the stairs alone.

He tries to dig for information the subtle way, first. He describes you and asks Lee Jordan if he’s ever properly talked to you. “Sure, she’s class. Helped me rewrite my entire Divination essay in ten minutes, once. Then vanished before I could buy her a Butterbeer! I wanted to ask her out and all, but I never got her name…”

He even asks Angelina. “Oh, I know who you’re talking about! She’s really nice. Sat with me in the hospital for ages last year when I broke my ankle during Quidditch.”

“Did you get her name?” he asks hopefully.

“Nope. Sorry. I was out of it for most of the time. Madam Pomfrey gave me some serious painkillers.”

Another dead end. He resorts to asking random first-years about the “nice crazy lady” that comforted you in the hallway last week.” The answer is always some variation of “You mean Y/N? Everyone likes her. She’s dead fun.” At least this time he got your name.

Eventually, swallowing every ounce of pride, Fred asks Hermione, who seems to have some connection to you.

It’s a Sunday evening in the common room. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny are sprawled around the fire. Fred descends the stairs alone, hands in his pockets, trying to look like he’s just stretching his legs.

“Hermieeee,” he says casually, drawing out her name a little too long, “quick question. That girl in your year—Y/N, I think — what’s her… deal? Seems like she knows bloody everyone.” He flops down onto the armchair behind them both.

The reaction is, predictably, shock. Ron’s head snaps up so fast his neck cracks. Harry’s eyes go wide. Hermione lowers her book slowly, like she’s watching a slow-motion train wreck. Ginny actually cackles. Fred? Asking about a girl? Whatever for?

“Fred has a crush, Fred has a crush!” Ginny rhythmically chants. Fred throws a pillow at her head, making her laugh harder.

Ron recovers first. “Y/N? The one who can talk the hind legs off a hippogriff? What do you want to know?”

“And why?” Harry chimes in.

Fred shrugs with Oscar-worthy indifference. “Just… noticed she’s always around. Popular, yeah?”

Hermione’s voice is carefully neutral. “She is very friendly. People really like her. She just floats around.”

Ron leans forward, grinning madly at the joy of having the upper hand on his brother. “Got a little crush, have you?”

“I do not—” Fred starts, then realises protesting too much is worse. He settles for a scowl. “Forget I asked.”

But they don’t forget. For weeks the teasing is relentless. Ginny starts bowing dramatically whenever you walk past. George leaves fake fan letters in Fred’s trunk (“To the taller, slightly less handsome twin— love, Your Biggest Admirer”). Ron hums love songs when Fred’s within earshot. Even Harry mutters, “Wonder if you’re the only person ever she’s not talked to,” and has to duck a cushion.

Fred endures it with increasingly creative threats of revenge. All the while, you remain cheerfully oblivious— still flitting from table to table, still starting conversations with “Okay, random question—” and leaving people smiling in your wake, still heading up to bed alone with a wave and a “Night, all!”

But Fred watches more carefully now. He sees how you light up when someone remembers something you told them weeks ago. How you always notice when someone’s quiet and draw them out without making it obvious. How you deflect when anyone tries to pin you down to one table, one plan, one group— like you’re afraid of overstaying your welcome. He — much to his disappointment — crushes harder every time he watches you make someone else’s day brighter and then drift away before they can return the favour.

One evening, after a particularly vicious round of sibling mockery, Fred finally decides enough is enough. He finds you in the common room, perched on the arm of a sofa, mid-story with a group of fourth-years who are hanging on your every word. When you finish and they scatter, laughing, he slides into the empty space beside where you’re now sitting alone.

“Y/N, right?” he says, offering his best lopsided smile.

You turn, eyes bright with instant recognition. “Geo- no, Fred Weasley,” you narrow your eyes a little, studying his face, “yes, definitely Fred— your left eyebrow does something when you talk. Hi.”

He laughs, surprised and delighted. “Guilty as charged. Yeah, I’m Fred. Nice to put a face to a name. Look, I’ve got a question.” He tugs at his sleeves, uncharacteristically nervous.

Your eyebrows furrow as you tuck your legs under yourself and curl up on the sofa opposite him. “I’m listening…”

“I was wondering if you’d like to go to Hogsmeade with me next weekend. Just you and me. No exploding…things — well, maybe one if you ask nicely. Butterbeer, Zonko’s, maybe a walk by the lake? If you want?

The words hang between you for a beat. Your eyes go wide, surprised, but the smile that follows is slow and radiant.

“Like…a date, as in,” you ask, voice warm with delight.

He coughs, a little sheepish. “Yeah. If that’s…alright?” Jesus Christ, he thinks, where have all my words gone?

You don’t even hesitate. “I think I’d like to! I think I’d love to, actually.”

The relief on his face is instant— shoulders dropping, grin turning brilliant and boyish.

“Grawesome,” he says, quickly shaking his head, “I mean— I started to say great and then I said awesome.” He blushes furiously as he stands up, brows furrowed.

“No, I like it,” you laugh, craning your neck up at him. “It will be grawesome.”

He realises you’re sort of immune to embarrassment, so his blush lessens and he finds his verbal footing again. “Next Saturday, then. I’ll meet you by the portrait hole at ten,” he says, looking down at you on the couch.

You take his clammy hands, cradling one another nervously, and give it a quick squeeze before letting go. “It’s a date, Fred Weasley.

He walks away— backwards for the first few steps, still grinning at you like he’s just pulled off the best prank of his life. “Alrighty…” he shoots a finger-gun your way as he spins around then internally cringes. As soon as he’s out of eyesight he begins to bound up the boys’ staircase, instantly rugby tackling his twin brother, who was relaxing on his bed. “Get off me, you big melon,” George protests.