#mutual teasing

You walk over, slow and confident like you’ve got all the time in the world.

“You clean up real nice, Sergeant Barnes.”

He snorts, “Don’t start.”

“What? I can’t compliment my man when he looks like sin in a tux?”

Bucky lowers his voice, eyes narrowing just a little, “You’ve been staring at me all night.”

“Maybe I’ve got a reason.”

“And what would that be?”

You lean in, breath grazing the shell of his ear, voice silky and playful, “…I’m ovulating.”

Bucky nearly chokes on air.

You step back, all smug smile and an innocent sip of champagne, “Just figured you should know.”

And god, the way his jaw tightens — the way he runs a hand down his face like it’ll erase the images already flashing in his mind — it’s delicious.

“You keep talking like that,” he murmurs lowly, “and we’re not making it through the rest of this night.”

You smile sweetly, “Then let’s leave early.”

You take another slow sip of your champagne, eyeing him. Then, your fingers curl inward over your lips, hiding a smug little smirk like it’s something sacred. You chuckle softly, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

He’s already looking at you like a storm barely contained in a tux.

But before he can say something cocky, a congressman you vaguely recognize drifts over.

“Sergeant Barnes,” he says, extending a hand. “Didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”

Bucky gives the man a single nod, clears his throat, and without missing a beat, places a firm hand on your lower back, “Excuse me.”

And just like that, he’s steering you away from the crowd, down the carpeted steps of the gala hall, straight to the valet. You don’t say a word, you don’t need to, you can feel the tension simmering just beneath his skin.

The valet pulls up in sleek black, and Bucky catches the keys with one hand, nodding tightly. The other never leaves your back until you’re both inside the car.

He slides into the driver’s seat, starts the engine with a quiet growl, and his right hand settles onto your lap, fingers spreading wide, heavy and possessive.

“Did you have to say it like that?” he mutters, eyes fixed on the road, voice low and gravelly.

You hum innocently as you look at him with doe eyes, “Say what?”

He squeezes your thigh — tight. Not enough to hurt, but enough to warn. “You know exactly what.”

You look at his hand as you gasp softly, and then, you get an idea to rouse him further. Ever so slowly, you take his hand and guide it up your thigh... higher and closer. His knuckles brush the hem of your dress, and his breathing gets louder.

“Jesus...”

You glance over, voice light. “Something wrong?”

Bucky’s jaw clenches. “You’re lucky this isn’t the metal arm.”

You laugh, soft and wicked, and his hand twitches under your touch like it’s already fighting restraint.

He doesn’t say another word the entire drive. Just pulls up quietly to the curb outside your apartment building, throws the car into park, and kills the engine.

The street is hushed under amber city lights, a breeze tousling his hair as he steps out. You follow, heart racing, heels clicking softly on the pavement as his hand finds yours with firm urgency, fingers laced tight.

Not a word. Not until you’re inside.

The front door creaks open as the warm hum of the building swallows you both while you climb up the stairs. He’s two steps ahead, still holding your hand, as if he lets go now, he might lose control right there in the stairwell.

By the time you reach the apartment door, your back is already tingling with anticipation as you lean against the wall and look over at him. He fumbles with the key just a second too long like the heat in his chest is making him reckless.

But then the door swings open, and the second it clicks shut behind you, you’re backed against it.

His hands are on your waist, mouth hovering near your ear, “You drive me insane, you know that?”

You smile, smug and breathless, “Good.”

“Say it again,” he growls, lips ghosting along your jaw. “That thing you said at the gala.”

You blink up at him, feigning innocence, “What thing?”

“The one that made me want to throw you over my shoulder and skip the damn valet.”

You lean up on your toes, whisper hot and sweet against his ear, “I’m ovulating.”

His eyes flutter shut for a moment like he's trying to collect the last shred of his self-control.

But when they open, god, he looks hungry, “Bedroom. Now.”

“No.”

His brows lift, just barely, but the fire in his eyes flares, “No?”

Your smile is slow and dangerous, “Make me.”

You watch the tension ripple through his jaw, his nostrils flaring. He’s seconds from snapping but you want him to. You want him raw and undone; You want him to lose that precious control he holds like armour.

So you just stand there, smirking, and the air between you practically crackles.

Finally, he breaks.

His voice is a growl, guttural and ragged, barely human. “Did you want me to fuck you against the counter? Is that it? Hmm?” His hands are on your hips, guiding and commanding you backwards. “Or maybe you wanted me to take you right there at the gala? In front of everyone?” He leans in, nose brushing yours. “In front of that congressman who couldn’t stop staring at you?”

You gasp as the backs of your thighs bump the kitchen counter. He cages you in tighter, hands now gripping your waist like he needs to remind himself you're real.

“You wanted that, didn’t you? To be ruined where everyone could see?”

You don’t answer. You just lift yourself up onto the counter with practised ease, arms around his neck, legs around his waist, pulling him in, and then you flip the game.

Fingers sliding into his hair, voice sharp and dominant, “Bedroom. Now, Sergeant Barnes.”

That title hits him like a command straight from mission control. His lips part, breath shaky, pupils blown, “…Yes, ma’am.”

And then his hands are under your thighs, hoisting you up, carrying you through the apartment like you weigh nothing.

He kicks open the bedroom door, lays you out on the sheets like a damn offering, and the second you’re down, his mouth crashes onto yours—hungry and worshipful.

His mouth meets yours with heat and hunger, but there’s a tremble beneath it. A hesitation. Even as his body presses to yours, even as his hands explore your curves like he’s memorizing them again for the hundredth time—he’s still holding back.

You feel it.

His touch, while firm, never pushes. His kisses are deep, but short, like he’s catching himself just before he loses control. His hands slide under your dress but pause at your thighs. He’s yearning, but he’s afraid.

You break the kiss first, gently cupping his face, “Bucky.”

His breath hitches, “Yeah?”

Your voice is soft, like a thread between you, “You’re holding back.”

He’s hovering above you, one hand braced beside your head, the other caressing your waist like he’s grounding himself. His jaw is tight. His eyes are wild. But his touch is soft, too soft for what he’s feeling.

He swallows thickly, gaze dropping to where his metal fingers now rest on the bedspread, “I—I want you so bad, doll, but I… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You tilt your head, heart full, “You won’t.”

“I could. You don’t know how hard it is… holding back around you. You get me all wound up and then—" He stops, breath hitching, like even saying it is too much.

You cup his cheek, thumb brushing along his stubble. “Bucky.”

He closes his eyes and leans into your touch like he’s starved for it.

“You don’t need to hold back," he opens his eyes again, and you smile, soft and sure, “I trust you.”

His eyes flick up to yours and something breaks open in them. Like a dam that’s been straining for years. He doesn’t speak, just nods almost reverently.

Then his lips find yours again but this time, freely. There’s no leash now, no walls. Just Bucky. Warm, trembling and utterly devoted.

He kisses you like he’s been dying of thirst. His hands — flesh and metal — both run along your waist, your thighs, under your dress, feeling, learning and worshipping. His breath is hot against your neck as he presses kisses there, trailing down to your collarbone, murmuring things.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, forehead resting against yours as he undresses you like a prayer.

You reach for his tie, tugging it loose, then work open the buttons of his shirt as he helps you out of your dress slowly and reverently, like he’s unwrapping something fragile and precious.

Once you’re bare before him, he just looks at you. No jokes; no teasing. Just awe.

“God,” he whispers, voice shaking, “You’re… everything.”

You tug him down, pressing your forehead to his. “Hey...You're my everything too, okay?”

He grins wide and real and nods as he finally lets himself feel.

He kisses you again slower now, but deeper. His hands caress every inch of you like he’s making sure you’re still here, still real, and still his.

You guide him gently down with you until he’s hovering above, framed by moonlight through the window, shirt discarded somewhere on the floor. His dog tags glint against his chest, swinging slightly as he leans in.

You brush your fingers through his hair before stroking his cheek with your thumb. “You’re allowed to want, Bucky,” you whisper, “You’re allowed to have.”

That undoes him.

He breathes your name like a confession as he moves his face closer to your heat.

You spread your thighs for him, welcoming, no fear. His fingers slide between them, testing, teasing — and when he finds you already wet, already aching for him, his breath catches in his throat.

“You—” he exhales, jaw trembling. “You’re so ready for me…”

You nod, stroking his head and playing with his hair more as you look down at him, “Always am.”

He comes back up, licking his fingers as his dog tags swing close to your face. You wrap your arms around his neck to pull him closer as he grinds down slowly, letting you feel just how much he wants you, how long he’s needed this. The tension in his body is thick — years of guilt, control, and restraint all knotted in muscle and memory.

But under your hands, under your love, he softens.

He lines himself up, eyes locked on yours — checking, always checking as you nod again, gently stroking his cheek. “It’s okay.”

And when he pushes in slowly, carefully, and intimately, you both exhale in unison, like you’ve been waiting your whole lives to feel this.

Bucky groans, forehead pressed to yours, eyes fluttering shut, “You feel like heaven, doll…”

You hold him tighter, lips brushing his temple, “So do you.”

He moves in you with reverence. No roughness, just rhythm. Every thrust is a promise, every kiss a prayer. He doesn’t speak much now, just quiet gasps, low moans, and your name on repeat like it’s the only word he knows.

And when your hips rise to meet his, your breath catches and you whisper, “Bucky, I’m close.”

He wraps his arms around you tightly, grounding you to him.

“I’ve got you, Doll,” he whispers, voice hoarse and full of love, “Let go. I’m right here.”

And when you fall apart beneath him, trembling, he follows just after, burying his face in your neck as he breaks with a ragged cry, holding you like a lifeline.

.

.

.

After a while, the room is quiet now — Just the soft tick of the clock, the hush of city lights bleeding through the curtains, and the way your fingers gently stroke along Bucky’s cheek.

He leans into your touch without thinking.

“You’re not theirs anymore,” you murmur, thumb brushing just beneath his eye, “You’re not Hydra. You’re not anyone’s puppet. You’re you… and you’re mine, if you want to be.”

Bucky’s breath stutters as his eyes close. You feel him exhale like the weight of entire decades is slipping off his chest. When he opens his eyes again, they’re glassy, full of something deeper than just lust or even love. It’s peace.

He lifts your hands, one at a time, and kisses your palms with aching tenderness.

“I’m grateful,” he whispers against your skin, “that I got to long for these hands. That I get to feel safe in them.”

Your chest tightens, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. But you smile. Then, slowly and cautiously, he raises his metal arm to your face. His knuckles graze your jaw, cold but gentle, unsure.

You don’t flinch. You nod. A small, solid affirmation. You’re safe. He’s safe, and this is okay. He just breathes you in like he needs this moment tattooed into his soul.

But then, his face twists slightly, reality creeping back in, “Shit.”

You tilt your head slightly, “What?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“It's about Valentina. I—I gotta find the others. Something felt off earlier... Gotta make sure this wasn’t more than a PR stunt. ”

He presses a quick, apologetic kiss to your temple, already reaching for his pants.

“I’m sorry to cut this short, baby. I’ll make it up to you, okay? Call Sam, check if he’s okay staying close tonight. I’ll feel better knowing someone’s watching out for you.”

You sit up, blanket draped over your chest, giving him the look.

“Bucky. I can handle myself just fine. I don’t need Captain America to babysit me.”

He freezes mid-shirt-button, then laughs — that warm, rare laugh that curls your toes.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, stepping closer to brush a strand of hair from your face, “Yeah, you’re right. You’d probably babysit him.”

You both smile, and for a moment, he doesn’t move. He just watches you — the soft light across your skin, the way your lashes flutter as you look at him like he’s home. And his heart squeezes in his chest.

'I should go,' he thinks.

But he stays because 'you never know what might happen next'. He hesitates for just a second longer… then sighs softly and moves back into bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he slides under the sheets again.

You tilt your head, surprised, “I thought you were heading out.”

“I will,” he murmurs, voice low, already curling an arm around you, “In a minute. Just… not yet.”

He opens his arm, and you waste no time sliding into it, cheek resting over his chest, fingers lightly tracing along his ribs. He kisses the top of your head, slow and lingering, then lets his chin rest there.

The silence is warm. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear.

“You always do that,” you mumble sleepily.

“Do what?”

“Say you’re leaving… then stay longer.”

His fingers trail up and down your back, “Can’t help it. You make it hard to go.”

You hum in response, already sinking into that space between sleep and dreaming, his scent and warmth wrapped all around you. He waits until your breathing slows, until your hand goes still over his chest, and only then does he gently shift out from under you.

Careful not to wake you, he places a soft kiss on your temple, then gets up and pads around the room silently as he buttons his shirt fully.

He fills a glass of water in the kitchen, places a lid on top like you always prefer, and sets it on your bedside with a sticky note, written in his rough, neat handwriting.

Didn’t want to wake you. Text me when you get this. I love you.❤️ —B

He stands there for a moment, just watching you sleep as the feeling in his heart grows. Then, before he leaves, he pulls out his phone and types a message.

Hey, Doll. I’m probably out already when you see this, but I wanted you to know I’m okay. I’ll check in as soon as I can. Drink water, stay safe. I’ll be thinking about you nonstop. — Your Bucky ❤️

He schedules it to send a few hours later, just around the time he knows you’d start missing him.

And then he’s gone.

Charms had always possessed a unique danger. Not because of the magic or the coursework, not even because one incorrect wand movement occasionally resulted in someone's eyebrows catching fire.

No, the true danger of Charms lay entirely in Professor Flitwick's voice.

The tiny professor stood atop his usual pile of books at the front of the classroom, enthusiastically explaining the finer points of spell precision while enchanted diagrams floated lazily through the air beside him. You were trying to listen, truly you were. 

You had every intention of being an attentive student.

Unfortunately, Professor Flitwick's voice had somehow become the educational equivalent of a lullaby. The classroom was pleasantly warm, the winter chill trapped safely beyond the castle walls while pale sunlight streamed through the windows. Quills scratched steadily across parchment as students copied notes, and Flitwick's gentle voice drifted rhythmically through the room,"...and if one focuses properly upon the pronunciation..."

You blinked, then blinked again. This was getting dangerous, very dangerous.

Your attention drifted almost instinctively toward your satchel beside your desk, more specifically toward the book hidden safely inside it. The thought alone immediately sharpened your attention. While Charms taught you about wand precision, the Patronus guide supposedly held answers.

Or at least it was supposed to.

You glanced toward the front of the classroom, professor Flitwick remained completely absorbed in his lecture, most of your classmates equally occupied with their notes.

Carefully, you slipped one hand into your satchel and, a moment later, the Patronus guide emerged. You rested it atop your textbook, mostly concealed beneath the edge of your parchment.

Hopefully concealed.

The sight of the worn cover alone made your pulse quicken. After all the trouble, you'd gone through to get it, the searching, the failed attempts, the increasingly suspicious older students... and well, Fred you still hadn't actually had the chance to read it, today would finally change that.

You eased the cover open; immediately a directory greeted you, your eyes skimming rapidly down the contents page.

History of the Patronus, classification and Forms, interpretation of Manifestations. Blah Blah Blah

Then—there.

Page fifty-two, steps to Conjuring a Patronus.

Perfect.

You immediately flipped ahead, the pages slipping quickly beneath your fingertips before settling back in your chair, excitement bubbling quietly in your chest. Finally, someone was going to explain how this impossible spell actually worked.

The chapter began with several pages discussing the history of Patronuses—their creation, their purpose, famous casters throughout history, documented uses. You skimmed quickly, absorbing enough to know it was interesting, even helpful.

But it wasn't what you needed.

You turned another page, then another. Finally, you flipped to the section.

How to Produce a Patronus.

Your eyes raced eagerly across the parchment.

To successfully conjure a Patronus, a witch or wizard must focus entirely upon a quantifiable memory of happiness.

You nodded to yourself, continuing to read with a quickened haste, The next paragraph continued- The emotional strength of said memory acts as the foundation upon which the charm manifests.

Still reasonable.

Then, the paragraph ended. You paused, looked down, and read the page again. Brows scrunched in confusion you turned the page, and there laid nothing.

Your eyes slid to the next page, racing over the neatly written text.

Patronus Forms and Their Symbolic Meaning.

You frowned before immediately flipping back. Your confusion deepened with every turn of the page, that couldn't possibly be it. 

You read the paragraph again, then again, then a final fourth time. Each reread somehow made the problem worse, one page, one single page, an entire book dedicated to Patronuses, and only one page explained how to actually cast one.

That couldn't be right. Surely there was another section buried somewhere else, an appendix or a follow-up chapter, something.

Your fingers twitched impatiently against the parchment as an overwhelming urge to start flipping wildly through the book seized you. You wanted answers, explanations, anything that explained why every source insisted on repeating the exact same advice.

A happy memory.

As though that somehow explained everything, because if it were that simple you would've managed it already.

Your grip tightened against the edge of the page before you forced yourself to stop.

No, you couldn't, not here, not in the middle of Charms. The last thing you needed was Professor Flitwick discovering a restricted library book sitting openly on your desk. The image alone convinced you, however reluctantly, to close the book with painstaking care even though every instinct you possessed screamed at you to open it again immediately.

There had to be more, there simply had to. Perhaps you were missing something, perhaps the answer hid elsewhere within the text. Or perhaps more frustratingly the answer really was that simple. 

The possibility irritated you far more than you cared to admit.

Across the classroom, Professor Flitwick's lecture gradually drifted back into focus,"...and therefore wand control remains one of the most important foundations..."

You glanced toward the classroom clock, there were still twenty minutes left. Twenty entire minutes until the lesson ended, then lunch, then freedom. Then, finally, you could search through the book properly without worrying about professors, classmates, or accidentally revealing yourself as a complete lunatic.

The thought alone made waiting feel almost unbearable.

So instead, you remained exactly where you were, pretending to listen while your mind stayed entirely occupied by one thoroughly irritating paragraph.

A quantifiable memory of happiness.

That was it, that was all the instructions offered. And somehow, you'd finished the chapter with more questions than when you'd started.

***

The moment Charms ended, you were on your feet. Not running (that would be suspicious) but certainly walking with purpose.

The Patronus guide disappeared quickly back into your satchel while students around you packed away parchment and books. The classroom immediately filled with the familiar chaos that always accompanied the end of a lesson. Chairs scraped across stone, students exchanged complaints about homework, someone knocked over an ink bottle, and Professor Flitwick, still perched atop his stack of books, cheerfully reminded everyone about next week's assignment.

You heard approximately none of it. Your thoughts remained entirely occupied by one deeply irritating paragraph. A quantifiable memory of happiness.

That was it, an entire restricted book, an entire week of effort, and somehow the answer remained exactly the same.

The frustration followed you into the corridor, where students flooded around you in every direction. Third years hurried toward their next lesson, fourth years lingered in noisy groups, and somewhere nearby a pair of Hufflepuffs had become deeply invested in an argument about Quidditch. You barely noticed any of them, shoving your hands into your robe pockets as you continued toward the staircase.

You needed to find Ginny, preferably immediately. Maybe she'd spot something you'd missed, because surely there had to be more than a single cryptic sentence hidden inside an entire book.

You rounded the next corner and nearly walked straight into someone, "Careful" the voice called.

You stopped abruptly as a familiar laugh followed almost immediately afterward.

Of course.

Fred had the peculiar ability to appear at the most inconvenient moments, and lately you were beginning to suspect it wasn't entirely accidental.

The redhead stepped neatly aside before the collision could happen, one hand resting lazily against the stone wall behind him as though he'd been standing there for some time. You let out a slow breath once your heart settled, "You nearly gave me a heart attack," you countered, unable to keep the annoyance from your voice.

Fred looked entirely unrepentant, "I was standing still."

"You appeared suddenly."

"I've always considered that one of my talents."

You rolled your eyes, earning another grin in return as students continued weaving around the two of you. Portraits chatted idly overhead, someone hurried past with an armful of books, yet Fred seemed entirely unconcerned by the crowd pressing through the corridor.

Almost like he'd been waiting.

The thought surfaced unexpectedly, drawing your brows together before you could stop it.

Fred noticed the change immediately; he always seemed to notice. His grin softened into something more curious as he tilted his head, "And what's that look for?"

"What look?" you asked with a brisk frustration. 

"That one."

You narrowed your eyes, "Very descriptive, Fred."

Shaking your head, you stepped around him, fully intending to continue toward the staircase. There was no point lingering here, every moment spent entertaining Fred's teasing was another moment you weren't finding Ginny, and another moment you weren't making progress on the spell.

Naturally, Fred fell into step beside you as though he'd intended to all along.

You sighed, "Do you need something?" you asked.

"No."

"Then why are you following me?"

Fred looked almost offended by the accusation, "I'm walking," he replied matter-of-factly, his brows knitting together.

"You are walking suspiciously close to me."

"That's because you're walking in the same direction."

You casted an exaggerated glance down the enormous corridor surrounding you. There was more than enough room for the both of you, yet somehow Fred continued matching your pace almost shoulder to shoulder, seemingly oblivious to the point you were trying to make.

For a few moments neither of you spoke. Students drifted past in scattered groups while beyond the towering windows snow continued falling lazily over the grounds, coating the castle in another fresh layer of white.

Fred glanced sideways, "You look disappointed."

You paused for only a heartbeat, your eyes flicking toward his before quickly looking away again.

His grin widened immediately, "Oh, there it is."

"There what is?"

"The reason you're disappointed."

You sighed heavily, not offering another reply. 

Fred scoffed, the sound echoing lightly through the corridor, though this time some of the teasing gave way to genuine curiosity, "What happened?"

"Nothing happened."

"Something happened," He pointed toward you with complete confidence, "You have the face."

You stared, "What face?"

"The thinking face."

"I do not have a thinking face."

"You absolutely do," The certainty in his voice was deeply irritating, mostly because he sounded as though he'd noticed it before. You looked away first, an unfortunate habit whenever Fred seemed particularly pleased with himself.

"The mystery book isn't helping?" he asked in a very unserious tone.

Your steps faltered, not enough to stop but just enough.

Fred noticed, of course he noticed. You looked toward him to find exactly what you'd expected. He looked smug, a truly unfortunate expression.

"I knew it."

You sighed, "Must you always be this pleased with yourself?"

"Yes." The answer came instantly, without hesitation or the slightest hint of shame. You couldn't even argue, because it was true.

Fred shoved his hands into his pockets as he continued beside you, his expression relaxing into something more curious. "So..."

You groaned, "So?"

"What did the book say?"

You hesitated before releasing another slow breath, Fred waited patiently, entirely too patiently. Eventually, you relented, "Nothing."

"What?"

"It said nothing."

"A whole book?" Fred frowned, genuine confusion replacing the smugness on his face, which somehow made you feel marginally better.

"There was one page."

"One page?"

"One page."

He looked skeptical and you nodded, "See?" you asked rather defeated.

"Who writes an entire book and only includes one page of instructions?"

"That's exactly what I thought. "For the first time all day,  it felt like someone actually understood your frustration. 

Fred shook his head with exaggerated solemnity, "A tragedy."

"It is."

"A crime, even."

A huff of amusement escaped before you could stop it and your mouth ever subtly lifted to a smile. The motion wasn't much, just a quiet scoff of amusement.

Fred looked entirely too pleased with himself. The expression was becoming alarmingly common, "You laughed."

"Don't make it weird."

"I wasn't going to."

"You absolutely were."

Fred only grinned, offering no defense whatsoever, and despite yourself, some of the frustration you'd been carrying since Charms had already begun fading. Not disappearing, there was still a maddeningly vague book sitting inside your satchel.

Ahead, the corridor split in two. One passage led toward the Great hall, while the other curved toward the staircase where you'd promised to meet Ginny. Your pace slowed instinctively, and beside you Fred's did the same.

For a brief moment neither of you moved. Then he nodded toward your satchel, "The book will figure itself out eventually."

You raised a brow, "That's your advice?"

"It worked for me," he claimed.

 Your eyes narrowed suspiciously, "You've never learned a Patronus?"

"Those details aren't important"

You huffed another laugh, shaking your head as the corners of his mouth tugged upward in quiet satisfaction. Despite the book and despite the fact you still felt no closer to mastering the spell than you had yesterday, the conversation had somehow made the problem feel a little less impossible.

Fred took a step backward toward the opposite corridor.

"Good luck."

You watched as he lifted a hand in farewell before disappearing into the steady stream of students winding through the castle. For a moment you remained where you were, eyes lingering on the place he'd vanished, before shaking your head and adjusting your satchel once more.

***

You found Ginny exactly where you expected to. In the Great Hall, eating of course.

The lunch rush had only just begun, students filtering into the hall in clusters as morning classes exchanged and schedules shifted throughout the castle. The room hummed with its usual familiar chaos—conversation bouncing from table to table, bursts of laughter carrying overhead, the occasional complaint about homework already being assigned on the first day back. Platters continued appearing and disappearing down the long tables as house-elves kept pace with the growing crowd.

Ginny occupied her usual place at the Gryffindor table, a plate piled entirely too high sitting before her. She was halfway through buttering another slice of bread when you dropped into the seat beside her.

She looked up, took one look at your expression, and lowered the knife back onto her plate with the resignation of someone who had seen this particular mood before, "Oh no" she hummed at you expression.

You frowned at her reaction, "What?"

Ginny gestured vaguely toward your face with the piece of bread still in her hand, "You have the face."

You stared annoyed before eventually slouching with defeat, "Fred said that too."

A flicker of surprise crossed her features before it disappeared just as quickly. Instead, she looked deeply disappointed, "That's unfortunate."

You rolled your eyes, choosing not to ask whether she meant Fred noticing or the fact that apparently you did, in fact, have a face that announced your thoughts before you spoke. Instead, you reached beneath your robes, fingers wrapping around the worn spine of the Patronus guide.

Ginny straightened almost immediately, "Wait."

Without another word, you dropped the heavy book onto the table between you. The solid thump rattled the plates and nearly sent her goblet tipping onto its side, "I read it," you announced.

Ginny blinked once before looking from you to the book, "And?" she asked.

You pointed dramatically toward the open cover, "It's useless."

Her brows shot upward, "What do you mean, useless?"

"I mean exactly that," You folded your arms, "It's entirely useless."

"That's impossible." Her lunch was abandoned without another thought, curiosity quickly replacing hunger. Ginny pulled the book closer while you slid it across the table toward her. The chapter was already marked, the offending page already lying open beneath your finger.

She leaned over it, reading carefully. At first her expression remained thoughtful, then it shifted to confusion, then came the concern and then something bordering on disbelief. She turned the page, paused, then flipped back. She read the paragraph again, slower this time, before lifting her head to look at you with an expression that perfectly mirrored the one you'd worn after finishing it yourself,"...That's it?"

You pointed triumphantly," That's exactly what I said."

Still unconvinced, Ginny lowered her gaze again, rereading the page as though another paragraph might quietly materialize if she stared long enough. Unfortunately, it didn't.

The page remained exactly as frustratingly brief as before, "'A quantifiable memory of happiness,'" she read aloud under her breath, her eyes lingering on the sentence.

You nodded, "That's the entire section."

"The entire section?"

"The entire section," you repeated back.

Ginny leaned back in her seat looking personally offended, "That's ridiculous."

Shaking her head, Ginny looked back down at the pages. She flipped ahead, scanning the next section only to find descriptions of Patronus forms instead. She frowned and flipped backward then forward again. Then back once more, searching with increasing determination for the chapter you'd somehow overlooked.

When she finally closed the book, it was with considerably more force than necessary, "That's rubbish."

You pointed across the table almost immediately, "Exactly."

For a few moments the two of you simply sat there, united entirely by mutual frustration. Around you, the Great Hall continued exactly as it always did. Students shuffled onto benches with overloaded plates, conversations rose and fell in every direction, and somewhere farther down the Gryffindor table Ron burst into loud laughter at something Seamus had said, neither of you paid the slightest attention. Your focus remained fixed on the irritatingly ordinary-looking book resting between you.

Eventually Ginny released a long, theatrical sigh, drumming her fingers thoughtfully against the cover before looking back at you.

"What?"

She tapped the book once, "Keep reading."

You paused, a frown creeping itself to your features, "What?"

"The whole thing."

Your frown deepened into a full crease, "I already read the important part."

"No," Ginny shook her head patiently, "You read the part labelled important."

The distinction immediately annoyed you mostly because it sounded frustratingly reasonable. "You think there's more?" you asked hesitantly.

"There has to be," she rested her hand against the thick stack of pages, "Nobody writes an entire book and only includes one page worth reading."

You raised an eyebrow, "Have you met wizard authors?"

Ginny couldn't help laughing, "Fair point."

Despite yourself, you found your own certainty beginning to waver. The book was thick, extremely thick. Surely there had to be something hidden elsewhere inside it, an observation of sorts, a story of provoking interests, anything to make the book worthwhile to you. 

Because if the answer truly amounted to one vague paragraph, then the Restricted Section suddenly seemed wildly overprotective.

Ginny pushed the book gently back toward you, "Keep reading."

Your gaze settled on the worn leather cover before another sigh escaped you. You seemed to be doing that rather often lately, "Fine," you muttered begrudgingly. 

A small smile tugged at Ginny's mouth as she watched your silent tantrum. You rolled your eyes upon noticing her amusement, though the corners of your own mouth threatened to betray you.

***

By the time evening settled over Gryffindor Tower, the castle had grown quiet.

The occasional burst of laughter still drifted through the common room while a handful of students lingered around the fireplace discussing homework. Others occupied the corners of the room with quiet games of wizard's chess, their pieces muttering insults as they battled across worn boards. Compared to the bustle of the afternoon, however, the tower felt almost peaceful.

Curled into one of the armchairs nearest the fireplace, you had your father's spellbook resting beside you while the Patronus guide lay open across your lap. For the better part of an hour, you'd done little besides read.

Across from you, Ginny occupied a patch of carpet beside the fire, sitting cross-legged amongst a growing collection of parchment and textbooks. Every so often she muttered something under her breath about Professor Flitwick's Charms homework before scratching out another sentence with considerably more force than necessary.

You turned another page and then another. Another quiet sigh escaped before you could stop it.

The sound immediately drew Ginny's attention. She looked up from her parchment, watching you for a moment over the top of her textbook. Your brow remained furrowed, your eyes moving quickly across the page with the same determined expression you'd worn for most of the evening.

Focused but increasingly frustrated.

A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, "Find anything yet?" she asked with a smirk.

You continued reading for another heartbeat before finally closing the book. The cover shut with a quiet thump against your lap as you leaned back into the chair, "No."

Ginny winced sympathetically.

You rubbed lightly at your eyes before gesturing toward the book. "Plenty of mentions about the applications of a Patronus," you muttered, tapping the cover with one finger "Plenty of stories." Another tap followed, "Plenty of theories."

Your shoulders sagged as another sigh escaped, "But almost nothing about actually conjuring one."

Ginny groaned dramatically, letting her quill fall across her parchment, "Brilliant" she remarked.

You laughed softly, though there was very little amusement behind it.

The frustration had been building all day. Every chapter seemed determined to explain why Patronuses were useful, how powerful they were, what they could do, how remarkably rare they were, yet every time the text edged toward explaining how to actually cast one, the instructions dissolved into vague observations and philosophical nonsense.

It was as though every author assumed the difficult part was already understood.

Ginny finally abandoned her homework altogether, allowing the parchment to slide forgotten into her lap as she shifted to face you more fully, "I think you're killing your brain with all this reading."

You glanced toward her with a pointed stare. She pointed toward the book resting across your knees ignoring your glare, "You should give it a break."

You raised an eyebrow, "A break?"

"Yes." She nodded firmly, completely serious, "Sleep on it."

Ginny pressed on, "Maybe it'll come to you when you're not staring at the same page for three hours."

Your gaze drifted back toward the worn leather cover before returning to her, "Doubtful."

She only smiled, the small reassuring sort she reserved for moments when she genuinely believed what she was saying, "You'll get it."

A quiet huff escaped somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.

Around you, the common room continued settling into the evening. Several students rose from their chairs and disappeared toward the dormitories while conversations gradually dwindled into comfortable silence. Yet almost without thinking, your eyes found the Patronus guide again.

Frustration twisted somewhere beneath your ribs,"It's of no use to me if I don't learn it soon."

Ginny's smile faded while you lowered your gaze to your hands, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the book, "What if there's another intrusion?" you asked.

The words came quieter than you'd intended, immediately your thoughts returned to the train and the horrifying sensation of every happy memory being ripped from your chest until nothing remained but fear.

You swallowed, "Knowing a complete history of Patronuses isn't going to help me in a real situation."

The fire crackled softly between you, neither of you spoke for several long moments. Ginny understood, you knew she did. The previous year had given both of you more than enough reasons to worry. Eventually she nodded, her voice gentler than before, "I know."

Your gaze wandered toward the windows, watching snow drift across the darkened grounds beyond the glass. After another moment Ginny shifted on the carpet, sitting a little straighter before speaking again, "You're putting too much on yourself."

You looked back at her and she shrugged lightly, "You're a third year." she paused, her eyes staying locked on yours, "I'm not even sure seventh years learn Patronuses."

You opened your mouth to argue then closed it again. You weren't sure if they did either, the spell was advanced, every book you'd managed to find seemed to agree on that much.

Ginny smiled again, softer this time, "Genuinely," She nudged one of her textbooks aside before folding her hands in her lap, "Give yourself some grace."

The words settled quietly between you as the firelight danced across the walls.

You released another slow breath, a real sigh this time, "I know."

And you did know, logically at least you knew she was right. Logic simply wasn't the problem, fear was. Your gaze dropped once more to the Patronus guide resting across your lap, "But I'll sleep better at night knowing I can defend myself against those..." You hesitated, searching unsuccessfully for the right word.

Creatures didn't seem sufficient and monsters didn't either. Neither truly captured what a Dementor was, "...things."

Ginny nodded without hesitation, "I will too."

The admission caught you slightly off guard, yet it shouldn't have. She'd been on the train too and she'd felt the cold, the helplessness. Whatever comfort the Patronus promised you weren't the only one searching for it.

Ginny began gathering her books, stacking parchment into neat piles and closing textbooks with practiced efficiency before climbing to her feet. Once she reached your chair, she rested a hand lightly against your shoulder.

The simple gesture made you smile. For a moment neither of you spoke, then she tilted her head,"I'm going to bed."

You looked around the common room for the first time in what felt like hours. The fire had burned noticeably lower, and most of the students had already disappeared upstairs.

Ginny adjusted the books balanced against her hip, "Are you coming?"

Your eyes flickered toward the chapter still lying open across your lap before drifting to the staircase leading toward the dormitories. Then back to the book, "I'll be up soon."

She gave you a look, a very specific look, one you'd become intimately familiar with over the years. The I don't believe you for a second  look.

You offered your most innocent smile (it accomplished absolutely nothing). 

"Don't lose sleep over this." she demanded in a stern tone.

"I won't."

The answer came a little too quickly. Ginny narrowed her eyes and you laughed quietly. "I'm serious," she spoke. 

Holding up the book slightly, you smiled again, "I'm just going to finish this chapter."

Ginny released a long, dramatic sigh before finally nodding, "Okay."

You smiled, quietly victorious. Unfortunately, she immediately pointed a finger in your direction, "But seriously," there it was.

You bit back another grin as she pressed you further, "Come to bed soon."

You nodded obediently, "I'll be right up."

Ginny studied you for another moment, appearing to genuinely debate confiscating the book altogether. Eventually, much to your relief, she relented. 

With one final suspicious glance, she turned and disappeared up the girls' staircase.

You watched until she vanished from sight.

The common room settled into comfortable silence once more, the fire crackled softly. Snow drifted lazily beyond the windows and the moment you were finally alone your eyes found the open page again.

Just one more chapter.

***

At some point, the words had begun blurring together. The account of a wizard from the eighteenth century discussing Patronus messenger charms faded into another paragraph and then another.

 The common room continued growing quieter and quieter as students disappeared toward their dormitories. You told yourself you'd finish one more page, then one more chapter, then one more section. Eventually sleep won and the Patronus guide remained open across your lap.

Your head rested awkwardly against the arm of the couch, and your brows continued to stay drawn tightly even in sleep, as if even slumber couldn't offer you reprieve from your thoughts.

Much later, long after curfew the portrait hole swung open.

Fred climbed through first, George immediately behind him. 

The twins were covered in evidence of whatever poor decisions they'd spent the evening making. Snow dusted their robes and George was carrying what appeared to be three stolen Honeydukes pastries.

Fred wasn't entirely sure where the pastries had come from and he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know.

The common room was dark now, only the dying fire illuminated the room which was racing towards burning out.

George yawned, "I am never climbing through that window again."

"You said that last time," Fred joked, dusting particles of snow from his robes as they crossed the room.

"I mean it this time,"

Fred laughed but the sound was abruptly cut short when his attention caught on something near the fireplace. Something out of place, or rather, someone. He stopped walking, pausing halfway through his stride. George nearly walked into him, "What—"

Then George saw it too, following his twins gaze, "Oh."

Curled into one of the couches near the fire sat you, fast asleep in a position that didn't look at all comfortable. The Patronus guide remained open across your lap, open to a page with text so small it looked migraine inflicting.

Several loose sheets of parchment had fallen onto the floor, your father's spellbook sat beside you.

George immediately snorted at the sight, "The book must've been fascinating." he commented proudly. Fred rolled his eyes while George pointed, "Look at her," he insisted.

Fred did. You looked thoroughly exhausted like you'd spent hours reading, which, knowing you, was probably exactly what had happened.

George grinned, "Nothing says exciting literature quite like unconsciousness."

Fred shook his head, "Or she's been reading it all day."

"Same result."

George's grin softened slightly then he glanced toward the dark windows, toward the empty common room and toward the sleeping third year. His brow furrowed devilishly, "You know."

Fred nodded before George even spoke, "Yeah."

With Sirius Black still somewhere beyond the castle walls, nobody particularly liked students wandering around alone at night, or falling asleep in abandoned corners of the castle, especially not after everything that had happened that year.

George crossed his arms, "We should teach her a lesson."

Fred looked toward him, "What kind of lesson?"

George shrugged, "I don't know, a harmless one," his tone was unconvincing.

Fred immediately shook his head, "No."

George looked disappointed, "What?"

"No," Fred repeated firmly, giving his twin a sterner look.

"Why not? "George insisted.

Fred raised a brow, "Because I enjoy being alive."

George stared, then immediately understood, "Ginny." The redhead winced, fair. Messing with you was one thing, messing with you and then having Ginny discover it? That was a completely different matter.

George sighed dramatically, "You take all the fun out of things."

Fred gestured toward the boy's staircase, "Go to bed."

"What about you?"

"I'll be right up."

George glanced between Fred and the couch, then smirked, dangerously. Fred pointed immediately, "Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to," 

George grinned, then wisely retreated toward the dormitories leaving Fred alone. For a moment he just looked at you, the common room remained silent, the fire crackled softly, though the embers were near their deaths, the light murmuring in an out through the room.

Fred sighed, "You really should know better" he spoke to himself in a hushed tone. He stepped closer, reaching out to lightly shake your shoulder. The response was immediate and you startled awake, eyes blinking rapidly as confusion crossed your face.

For several moments you looked completely lost then your surroundings caught up and your eyes locked firmly on him. You rubbed at your eyes as you turned slightly, taking in the bare room, "What time is it?" you spoke barely above a whisper.

Fred laughed softly, "Far too late for you to be out of the dormitories."

You immediately glared despite clearly having just woken up, "Then why are you not in the dormitories?" you asked pointedly.

Fred shrugged, the smirk never quite leaving his features, "Duty called."

You stared "Duty?" you asked in an unconvinced tone, your tired eyes narrowing on him and the speckled frost on his robes.

"Duty," he affirmed.

The look you gave him suggested you didn't believe that for a second (a correctly made assumption).

Your gaze drifted toward the book still resting on your lap after a moment.

Fred followed it, "So?" he began. You groaned immediately; the reaction amusing him. "Is the book so informative that you've started falling asleep over it?"

You huffed, "The opposite."

"Oh?"

You sat up slightly pushing loose strands of hair from your face, "I've spent all day reading it."

"And?" Fred inquired.

"Still no decent information."

Fred looked skeptical, the sort of skeptical that immediately annoyed you, "You must not be reading it properly." He states 

You stared, then stared harder, "Yes," you spoke, your sarcasm practically dripping from the word, "Because you're the master of reading."

Fred smiled, "Obviously."

You rolled your eyes and turned your gaze from him. The movement earned another grin, then Fred held out his hand, "Let me see this useless section," he spoke, coming to your side on the couch.

You frowned as Fred crossed the common room toward your side of the couch, the movement making you instinctively shift your legs farther beneath you to give him room. The cushion dipped under his weight as he sat beside you, close enough that your knees nearly brushed, and he held out an expectant hand.

"Let me see this supposedly useless section."

You sighed through your nose before surrendering the book, "You'll regret asking."

"I've regretted plenty of things," Fred replied easily, taking the Patronus guide from your hands. "Usually because George was involved."

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitched upwards into a smirk.

He balanced the book across both your laps, smoothing the worn page flat with one hand while the dying fire cast an amber glow over the faded text. For several moments neither of you spoke, Fred's brow knit together as he read, his expression surprisingly thoughtful, while you found yourself rereading the same paragraph over his shoulder despite having practically memorized every word by now.

Finally, he tapped the page with one finger, "It tells you how to do it."

Your brows scrunched in confusion,"...What?" you demanded.

"Right here," he spoke, tapping the offending paragraph again.

Your eyes followed his finger to the same paragraph. The same singular, infuriating paragraph that had occupied your thoughts for the better part of the day. You looked back at him in disbelief and irritation, "You cannot honestly think that's enough detail."

Fred glanced between you and the page as though he couldn't quite understand the problem, "Why not?" he spoke flatly.

"Because it's vague," you insisted with vigor in your gestures.

"It seems straightforward."

You stared at him and he let at a shallow laugh, "What?" he inquired with disbelief.

"The fact you think this is straightforward is horrifying"

Fred looked almost offended, "It is."

You leaned forward, pointing emphatically at the page balanced between the two of you, "'A quantifiable memory of happiness and that's all?" you remarked almost amused.

"Yes."

"Yes?" You repeated incredulously, "Fred, that's hardly instruction."

"It tells you what you need."

"It tells me absolutely nothing."

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he shook his head disapprovingly, "I think you're overcomplicating it."

You let out a short huff, one born entirely of exasperation, "I've spent all day trying to work out which memory it's referring to."

"Well, that's your problem."

You frowned, "My problem?" you repeated.

"You keep saying which memory" He closed the book gently, resting it across the cushion between you rather than trapping the answer back inside its pages. Leaning farther into the sofa, he propped one arm along the backrest, turning slightly so he faced you instead of the fire. "You're treating it like there's a correct answer hidden somewhere."

Without really thinking about it, you mirrored the movement, drawing one leg onto the cushion beneath you so you could face him more comfortably. The forgotten Patronus guide remained between you while the fire crackled quietly at your side, leaving the two of you bathed in the last warm light spilling from the fireplace, "Isn't there?" you asked.

"I don't reckon."

You searched his face for answers he was uninterested in giving, "But I've thought of dozens." you spoke.

"I'd imagine you have."

"But none of them feel..." You hesitated, struggling to explain something you barely understood yourself, "...enough."

Fred considered your question for a moment, his fingers absently tracing the worn edge of the Patronus guide before his expression shifted ever so slightly, as though another thought had occurred to him"...Well," he murmured with a smirk.

You looked up, "What?"

"The ornament, "He spoke rather plainly. Your brow furrowed, an inquisitive expression etched into your features as if questioning what he was getting at, "The one you bought your mum in Hogsmeade."

You paused, "What about it?"

Fred shrugged lightly, as though the answer seemed perfectly obvious, "Didn't that thing already do the difficult part for you?"

You frowned as he continued, "It showed you your most cherished memories, didn't it?" He nudged the closed Patronus guide resting between the two of you. "Seems to me you've already got a shortlist."

Without meaning to, your mind drifted back to the ornament.

You could still remember the little Christmas shop in Hogsmeade, the delicate glass sphere turning slowly between your hands as silver wisps swirled beneath its surface. One by one memories had appeared within it—your mother laughing across the kitchen table, Ginny grinning triumphantly after beating Ron at chess, Christmas mornings at home...

Then the Burrow, rain striking the kitchen windows, Fred laughing across the table as thunder rattled the little house as wind pressed against the windows making a horrible shutter noise. It hadn't bothered you at the time, not when you were with Fred at least.

You remembered the panic that had followed when you saw that memory. The ornament had barely finished displaying the memory before you'd hurriedly tucked it back into its wrapping, hoping no one had noticed. Had he...?

Your gaze lifted slowly to meet his, Fred was already watching you. A faint smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, not smug exactly, but knowing enough to make your stomach tighten. "What?" you asked, a little more defensively than you'd intended.

His smile widened, "I'm just thinking..." His head tilted ever so slightly. "Surely at least one of those memories was provoking enough."

Your pulse stalled, so he had seen, at least that's what he was implying to you.

Heat crept up the back of your neck before you could stop it, and without thinking you looked away, pretending sudden interest in the dying fire. The flames had shrunk to little more than glowing embers now, each quiet crackle sending soft ribbons of orange light dancing across the common room. Shadows stretched long across the floorboards while snow continued drifting silently beyond the tall windows, leaving the castle wrapped in a hush that somehow made every heartbeat feel louder.

Fred didn't say anything immediately, but you could feel him watching you, waiting for a reaction or a response. "There wasn't," you said at last, the words coming quieter than you'd intended.

"Hm?"

"There wasn't." you insisted again, pointedly keeping your eyes on the fire.

Beside you, Fred gave a thoughtful hum,"Yeah?" his tone carried the unmistakable edge of amusement.

Slowly, you looked back at him.

His elbow had come to rest against the back of the sofa, his cheek propped comfortably in his palm as he faced you completely now. The dying fire painted warm amber across one side of his face while the other disappeared into soft shadow, and his eyes never left yours.

"There wasn't," you repeated, your brows knitting together as annoyance finally won out over embarrassment. "I don't know what you think you saw."

"I think," Fred replied, fighting a smile, "the ornament was fairly convincing."

"It wasn't."

"No? "His eyebrows lifted.

You folded your arms,"...There was absolutely nothing interesting in that ornament."

Fred studied you for another beat before letting out a quiet laugh, "We've already established you're a dreadful liar."

Your mouth fell open defensively, "I am not lying."

"No?"

He gave you another look. The sort that said he didn't believe a word you'd just spoken.

"I am not," you insisted again, hearing your own voice grow just a touch more indignant.

Fred's smile only deepened, "You always do that."

"What?"

"Repeat yourself when you're trying to convince somebody."

You huffed, somewhere between frustration and reluctant amusement.

By now the fire had burned almost completely away, leaving only a handful of glowing embers nestled beneath blackened logs. Their light flickered lazily across the space between you, just enough to catch the amusement lingering in Fred's expression and the warmth steadily rising in your own face.

The worst part wasn't that he'd seen the memory, it was that he seemed perfectly content to believe he understood it.

You tore your gaze away from the dying embers and looked back at him, the warmth lingering in your cheeks finally giving way to stubbornness, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Fred laughed quietly, the sound low enough not to disturb the sleeping castle, "I'm fairly certain I know something."

"Oh?"

You shifted on the couch until you were facing him properly, one knee drawn beneath you as you leaned your elbow against the back of the sofa. Somewhere during the conversation, the Patronus guide had become completely forgotten between you, and you found yourself meeting his gaze without the usual instinct to look away, "What exactly do you think you know?"

For the first time that evening, Fred hesitated. It was a brief hesitation, barely lasting a heartbeat but you caught it. His smile faltered just enough for you to notice before returning with practiced ease, "Well..." he began, scratching thoughtfully at the side of his jaw, "it rather takes the fun out of it when you decide to play dumb."

One of your brows lifted and a smile, slow and unmistakably pleased with itself, found your face, "Does it?"

"It does."

"That's unfortunate."

Fred narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, watching you with a keenness you'd come to recognize when it was just you and he. You tilted your head innocently, "I think I'm having rather a lot of fun."

The words settled between you with surprising confidence.  Fred looked at you for a long moment, whatever teasing remark had been waiting behind his grin never arrived.

The common room seemed to shrink around the two of you.

The fire had burned almost entirely away now, leaving only a handful of glowing embers that pulsed softly beneath blackened logs. 

Neither of you spoke, you weren't entirely certain who should.

Without his usual animated gestures or relentless joking, there was something unexpectedly calm about him. The corners of his mouth still hinted at amusement, but it no longer felt like he was trying to win the conversation.

He was looking at you in the manner you caught him doing occasionally. Your heartbeat picked up for reasons you couldn't quite explain.

The realization unsettled you enough that you glanced briefly toward the dying fire before looking back again, only to find his eyes hadn't left yours.

A quiet smile tugged at the corner of Fred's mouth, "There it is."

You frowned, "What?"

"That look," he stated

"What look?"

"The one you get when you're thinking too hard."

A reluctant laugh escaped before you could stop it, "You've imagined that" you claimed rather defensively.

"I haven't."

You shook your head, unable to suppress another smile, "You're insufferable."

"So I've been told."

"And yet," you replied, your voice carrying just enough amusement to betray you, "you never seem particularly interested in improving."

Fred's grin returned in full, "I've found people tend to lower their expectations eventually."

You laughed again, quieter this time, the sound lingering between you as the final ember shifted in the hearth with a soft crack.

Almost instinctively, both of your eyes drifted toward the fireplace, the last of the flames flickered once, twice, then disappeared altogether.

Darkness settled gently across the common room, leaving only the pale moonlight filtering through the tall windows to soften the outlines of the furniture. For a moment neither of you moved.

Even without the fire, you had the distinct feeling he was still looking at you.

You swallowed, "I..." Your voice came out softer than you'd intended. "I should probably go to bed."

After a moment, Fred nodded,"Yeah" his answer was just as quiet "You probably should."

You reached for the Patronus guide, tucking it beneath your arm before standing. The room suddenly felt much colder than it had a moment before, and you couldn't decide whether it was because the fire had gone out or because the conversation had.

At the foot of the girls' staircase, you glanced back over your shoulder, "I'll try your theory."

Fred folded his arms comfortably across his chest "When it works, I expect full credit."

A small huff of laughter escaped you, "Your theory is still painfully oversimplified."

"It usually works."

"We'll see."

Shaking your head, you turned toward the staircase once more, "Goodnight, Fred."

"Night."

***

The girls' dormitory had long since fallen asleep by the time you'd pushed aside your covers and crawled into bed with Ginny. Her brows were knight within her sleep, as though she was perpetually irritated you hadn't come to bed earlier.

Moonlight spilled through the frost-laced windows, washing the room in pale silver while snow drifted steadily beyond the glass. One of your dormmates murmured quietly before settling again, and beside you Ginny slept soundly, the blankets hopelessly tangled around her legs as they always seemed to be by morning.

Sleep should have come easily after everything you'd read. Instead, you found yourself staring at the canopy overhead, the heavy blankets tucked beneath your chin doing very little to quiet your thoughts.

The ornament.

The conversation replayed itself for what felt like the hundredth time that night, "Didn't that thing already do the difficult part for you?"

You frowned into the darkness; Fred had made it sound so obvious as though the answer had been sitting in front of you all along.

Slowly, you rolled onto your side, careful not to disturb Ginny, and closed your eyes. You didn't expect to sleep, but despite yourself and better judgement you wanted to see whether he'd been right.

You resisted the urge to search, that had been your mistake all day according to Fred.

Every time you'd gone looking for the perfect memory, you'd found yourself weighing one against another as though happiness could be measured. One memory would seem right until another appeared, then another after that, each one warm enough to make you smile but somehow never enough to satisfy the impossible standard you'd invented for yourself. Fred hadn't said to find the happiest memory, he'd simply told you to stop looking.

At first there was only darkness behind your eyelids.

Then, almost imperceptibly, memories began surfacing on their own.

Your mother stood in the tiny kitchen at home, laughing as flour dusted nearly every surface after the two of you had attempted to bake together. You could almost smell the fresh bread again, hear the warmth in her laughter as she reached across the table to brush flour from your nose.

The memory drifted quietly away as another followed.

Your first glimpse of Hogwarts across the Black Lake and the impossible feeling that magic was finally real. The moment you realized all the stories your father had muttered across the kitchen table under the watchful eye of your mother were real.

Then well of course, Ginny.

The two of you laughing until your sides hurt after one of Fred and George's elaborate pranks had backfired so spectacularly that Percy had somehow ended up covered in feathers instead.

Each memory filled you with the same quiet warmth but each one faded naturally. Not a single one of them lingered or impacted you.

Your brow furrowed, they were wonderful memories, some of the happiest you'd ever known and maybe ever would. So why weren't they enough? Why weren't any of them provoking or compelling or at the very least able to captivate your attention for more than a few measly moments.

Before the thought had fully formed, another memory emerged.

The Burrow. The crooked house leaning impossibly against itself and Mrs. Weasley's voice drifting through open windows. The sensation of a home, in a way that surprised you even now. Not a home like yours, where things go unsaid and danced around. Not a home that was silent and secretive. No, the Burrow was the type of home you imagined when the word 'family' was mentioned.

The memory settled gently around you, and you allowed yourself to find resolve in it.

Then the sky darkened and rain began striking the kitchen windows. Wind rattled the glass and claps of thunder rolled somewhere overhead shaking the wobblily house.

You frowned; displeasure etched on your face in the darkness. No, not this one.

Yet it continued anyway.

Fred stood opposite you, leaning comfortably against the counter as though the storm outside didn't concern him in the slightest. You remembered the warmth of his presence, the way laughter had seemed to come so easily that evening, the strange disappointment you'd felt when you forced yourself to return upstairs.

Your eyes opened and the dormitory ceiling greeted you once again. That wasn't right, it wasn't even close to the happiest day you'd ever lived. You'd had far better memories, memories with your mother and with Ginny.

You rolled onto your back again, frustration tightening in your chest.

Perhaps it was because you'd been thinking about the Burrow, that was all. One memory naturally led to another and there was nothing unusual about that.

The explanation almost satisfied you.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Your mind had chosen that memory twice. Once inside the ornament and once tonight. Neither time had you gone looking for it.

A knot settled uncomfortably in your stomach.

If Fred was right and the spell truly wanted the memory that came naturally then every Patronus you ever cast would begin there with the Burrow and with Fred, every time.

The thought felt wrong because of what choosing that memory seemed to imply.

Your promise to Ginny drifted quietly into your thoughts.

"Promise me you won't fall for one of my brothers."

"I promise."

You'd meant it, you still meant. It wasn't exactly like you were breaking that promise by using a memory with Fred in it, but it felt close enough to a line you weren't supposed to cross. Surely there was another memory.

You refused to believe one ordinary evening could outweigh years spent with your family, your mother, or your best friend.

Tomorrow you'd try again, another memory would come surely. One that made sense to you, one that didn't leave you lying awake questioning why your own mind seemed determined to disagree with you.

With that reassurance, thin though it was, you pulled the blankets a little higher around your shoulders and closed your eyes once more.

Sleep eventually came but certainty did not.