#fredleenet

It’s not unusual for he or Fred or George to sneak into each other’s beds at night—they’ve planned their best pranks with the aid of a silencing charm and little to no sleep, they’ve crammed weeks of lessons into one night before exams and done fairly well—no, it’s unusual for it to go deeper than pranks and books and jokes in the middle of the night.

George had gone off to his own bed fifteen minutes ago, but Fred’s still sitting cross-legged at the end of Lee’s bed, twirling his wand in his fingers as he tries to practice his spell work.

It’s nearly two in the morning; Lee doesn’t remember if the match between them is supposed to turn into a pin or a needle or a piece of spaghetti, for god’s sake, but he knows he can do the spell faster than Fred.

“You’re too tired,” he says, motioning to Fred’s wand, “give it.”

“Get your own,” Fred yawns, and he flicks his wrist again. The match remains unchanged.

“Too far, lemme use yours.” Too far means it’s on the table next to the bed, just out of reach, and Lee is being lazy. Fred’s wand always works pretty well for him, anyway.

“Definitely not,” Fred says, “You’ll have to best me, and we both know who’s superior in these things. It’s the quidditch, makes me extra fit.”

Lee scoffs. “You sit on a broom and hit a ball with a bat. Not that much physical activity, really.”

“Ah,” Fred muses, “But it’s a rather heavy bat.” He’s about to flex his arm when Lee lunges forward, missing the wand by just a second when Fred holds it high above his head.

Lee has to push himself to his knees to reach Fred’s hand in the air, except somehow he’s gotten closer, and his other hand is resting on Fred’s shoulder, and their faces are mere inches apart, and then—

And then Fred’s kissing him.

It’s a shock, not an unpleasant one, because suddenly there are warm lips on his and a hand curling around his back, a small jab to his shoulder that has to be the wand they were fighting over and the soft sound of Fred breathing when they break apart.

“Oh,” Fred says quietly, a small, nervous smile playing on his lips—there’s always a smile, always— “I’ve fucked things up, haven’t I?“

“Oh,” Lee echoes back. His voice sounds odd in his own ears. “No, I don’t think so.”

The words are a surprise to both of them, Lee can tell, because he can feel his face grow warm and see Fred’s eyes widen slightly, and they’re still close enough that Lee can surprise them again and close the distance.

This time, in the second kiss, Fred’s other hand comes to rest on Lee’s waist, and Lee tentatively brushes Fred’s cheek, and it becomes slower, more deliberate than before.

Lee has to lean back when he feels Fred smiling against his lips, because he’s started to smile too.

“What?” Lee asks quietly.

“I’ve been half in love with you since fourth year, I think.” Fred starts to laugh a little.

“You've—but you’ve always been after Angelina—”

Fred shakes his head slightly. “No, not really. I think George’s crush on her has always been the more genuine one.” He brushes a stray lock of hair from Lee’s face. “Are you… You want this too?”

They stare at each other for a few seconds before Lee pulls him even closer in a crushing hug, one arm around Fred’s waist and the other draped over his shoulders.

This is the first kiss, and second, of many more, but it’s not enough for Lee. It’ll never be enough.

Now he sits alone on the floor of George’s flat above the joke shop, having pulled out boxes and books of photos. He’s looking for a funny one to stick in a birthday card for Molly. George had left when he saw what Lee was doing, his face paler than usual, waving off Lee’s invitation to help. He’s wearing a t-shirt Fred used to wear. Lee doesn’t mention it. He’s got a sweater or two buried in his dresser at home. 

“Look at your own risk,” George had said as he left the room, and Lee’s It’s alright, we can do it together, died on his lips. 

So now he’s alone.

Photographs are spread out on the floor, so many that some are still half under the bed. They blur together when Lee looks at them, each a different person and a different movement and a different smile. There’s a stack held by a rubber band that Lee doesn’t touch. 

Fleur sorted those out and put them aside, he remembers. None of the family wanted to. None were able to.

She’s missed two. One of Fred and George, wearing nice coats and holding expensive-looking leather bags, both trying to look intimidating and cracking up as the photo goes through its loop. Probably after the joke shop took off, Lee thinks.

It’s no wonder these are all shoved under the bed.

The other hurts to look at. Lee’s surprised his eyes haven’t filled with tears yet, like they did constantly the first few weeks after the battle. This is what getting stronger feels like, apparently. Or just forgetting.

Lee is determined not to forget.

Fred’s kissing his cheek in the photograph, holding Lee’s hand. Lee’s laughing, it’s easy to tell, and so is Fred. There’s no context, just the year written on the back. 1997.

There are more like this one, more kisses and laughter and smiles in the stack Lee hasn’t touched. He knows this, and his hands almost itch to pull the rubber band off and hold onto each photo for a minute, let himself get caught up in the light, but he doesn’t. The kisses are numbered now. He could count the stack right now, see how many he’s got left to remember, but he doesn’t. 

Instead he slides this photo, 1997, into the stack and picks it up, feeling it’s weight. It’s somewhat heavy for a stack of pictures. For Lee, it’ll never be enough. 

He puts the rest of the pictures back into their respective boxes and books and leaves the room, finding George downstairs behind the register. He looks up when Lee walks by.

“Could I take this?” Lee asks, voice softer than he expected it to be. 

George eyes the stack and then nods, saying “Of course,” just as softly as Lee.

“Thanks,” Lee says, opening the door to the shop. “I’ll be over tomorrow for Molly’s dinner, yeah?”

George nods again, and Lee walks out into the street.

The stack of photographs lives on the windowsill above his kitchen sink for three weeks before he looks at something other than 1997. It’s another three weeks before he moves the stack to his bedside table, another month before a few of the pictures are out of the rubber band and displayed on his dresser. Not all the pain has gone away, but now he feels a bit of joy when he sees them, too.

The stack gets smaller over the months; some photos are scattered around the house in frames and mirrors and in Lee’s wallet.