#ifiwasabird

Summary: After a frustrating day, a Slytherin student mutters, “If I was a bird, I know who I would shit on,” only to be overheard by Fred Weasley. Instead of teasing cruelly, he turns her anger into laughter, sparking an unexpected connection. Between sarcastic banter, paper cranes, and shared mischief, she realizes that Fred might just be the one person who sees her sharp edges and likes them exactly as they are.

You were not in the mood for idiocy.

It was a rain-slick afternoon and the corridors smelled of wet stone and lemony floor polish. You’d been trying to get through Arithmancy notes for hours when the one person you couldn’t stand the one who’d spent the better part of breakfast spreading rumors about your “Slytherin attitude” sailed past you with a self-satisfied smirk and a chorus of approving nods. He made your skin crawl in a way even the dungeons’ chill never could.

You watched him go, jaw tight. You’d always had a talent for turning bile into a single deadpan thought, and this time it shaped itself into words before you could stop it.

“If i was a bird i know who i would shit on,” you muttered under your breath, meaning it for no one in particular.

Of course you weren’t the only creature in the corridor. Fred Weasley was very nearly that creature hovering in the doorway like an over-curious moth at a feast. He froze mid-step, eyes bright, and then, without missing a beat, he cracked that lopsided grin that had been known to disarm entire rowdy classrooms.

“You have a very poetic way of proposing revenge,” he said, amusement dancing in his voice. “Is it the imagery or the economy of words you like best?”

You shoved your parchment into your satchel and stood up straighter, smoothing the front of your robes because posture mattered, and Slytherins were supposed to look unruffled even when sputtering at the tops of their lungs.

“It’s authentic,” you snapped. “Unlike some people I could name.”

He stepped closer like he had nowhere better to be which was probably true. “You know, you should say it again. Properly. With feeling. I’d like to hear the performance version.”

You blinked. “And why would I do that?”

“Because,” Fred said, conspiratorial, “I think it’s beautiful. And because if we’re being birds, I want to know which tree to avoid.” He inclined his head toward the great stairwell with exaggerated horror. “We could start a whole aviary blacklist.”

Something in the way he said it the sheer ridiculousness loosened the tight knot in your chest. You hadn’t meant for anyone to hear, let alone mock with company. But Fred’s amusement wasn’t cruel; it was the sort that wrapped around insult and made it easier to swallow.

“Fine,” you said, and raised your chin just enough to let him see you were still in control. “If I were a bird, I know exactly who would be on the receiving end.”

“Care to be specific?” He leaned in as if you were about to reveal a secret treasure map. “Or is this a riddle?”

You considered throwing a textbook at him. Instead you unclipped a small, flat object from your satchel a paper crane you’d been folding in moments of procrastination and handed it to him. “There,” you said. “Make of it what you will.”

Fred took the crane like it was a relic, turning it over in his hands. He folded his own smile into something softer. “That’s actually very good.” He tapped the bill of his nose, then looked up at you. “You’re not mean, you’re selective. That’s an art, that is.”

You opened your mouth to retort, then closed it. Compliments from Fred were always stuttering and sideways, and you’d learned long ago that straight answers weren’t his style.

He tucked the paper crane into his pocket, right over his heart where the fabric of his robe had been stitched thin by years of mischief. “Come on,” he said suddenly, already moving. “I’m off to invent an anti-scratching charm for idiot birds. Want to help?”

You almost said no. You almost walked away, indignant and perfectly Slytherin about it. Instead, you found your feet matching his stride.

“You’re incorrigible,” you said.

“You’re flattered,” he replied. “Either that or you’re plotting the perfect revenge. Both are acceptable.”

You let a small smile curl your lip. It annoyed you how much easier it was to breathe with Fred around. Perhaps it was his habit of treating the world like a joke that could be fixed with a better punchline, or the way his eyes made it clear he believed you didn’t need to change to belong. Whatever it was, it kept you on dangerous, warm footing.

You and Fred ducked into an alcove beneath a suit of armor and set to work with a conspiracy of whispers and scraps of parchment. You taught him the exact angle to fold a crane so it looked indignant; he taught you the subtleties of a farting feather-curse that would embarrass rather than harm. You both laughed at the world, at small cruelties, at the dance between offense and forgiveness and when the rain finally stopped, the corridor felt less like a trap and more like a place you could stand in without armor.

After a while, Fred’s hand found the paper crane again and he nudged it toward you. “Keep it,” he said. “For emergencies.”

You placed it back into your satchel, folding it carefully around your notes as if it were a talisman. “What would you do if someone actually deserved a…a bird explosion?” you asked, teasing.

He shrugged, but his voice went soft. “I’d probably make the mess, then help them clean it up later. Not because I was sorry for the mess just because I’m not the sort of person to leave you dealing with it on your own.”

You felt the words more than you heard them: not a promise, not a vow, just a quiet offer. And quietly, in that small exchange under the armor, you realized that choosing to stand with yourself to be as sharp and unapologetic as you were wasn’t just defensible. It was enough.

As you parted ways, he called over his shoulder, “Next time you want to express poetic bird-based vengeance, invite me. I make a mean crane.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you said, and meant it. You did not need to be anyone other than who you were cunning, precise, thorny when you had to be. Apparently, there were people who would fold themselves around that without trying to smooth you out.