#personal space

And this is Jayce, he also loves Viktor's personal space

- Summary: Known as the untouchable Slytherin, you surprise yourself by letting Fred Weasley cross every boundary you usually guard, until he makes you admit he’s the only one who counts.

- Word Count: 612

- Pairing: Slytherin Reader x Fred Weasley

─ ✦ ─ ─ ✦ ─ ─ ✦ ─ ─ ✦ ─ ─ ✦ ─ ─ ✦ ─

You had a reputation at Hogwarts: the Slytherin who didn’t like to be touched. Everyone knew it. You weren’t cruel about it, if someone brushed past you in the corridor, you didn’t hex them (though you thought about it sometimes). But hugs, playful shoves, even a friendly pat on the shoulder it all made your skin crawl.

Everyone respected it. Everyone, that is, except Fred Weasley.

Fred was like a cat with a string, fascinated by how tightly wound you kept yourself. He’d never been able to resist pressing buttons, and you? Well, you were a button made flesh.

It started small, harmless. A shoulder bump when he passed you in the hallway. A tap of his quill against your arm in class when you were ignoring one of his jokes. The first time, you glared daggers at him, ready to snap. But Fred, annoyingly, just grinned at you like he’d discovered a secret.

By the third time, you realized the strangest thing: you weren’t pulling away. Not from him.

One evening in the library, you were curled in a chair by the fireplace, trying to drown in parchment and ink. Most students had gone back to their dorms, leaving the place blissfully quiet. You’d chosen it for exactly that reason.

So naturally, Fred found you.

“Figures,” he said, dropping into the seat opposite you without asking. “The serpent in the corner, plotting world domination.”

You didn’t look up from your book. “Better than plotting how to set off fireworks in the Prefects’ bathroom.”

“Not better,” Fred corrected, propping his boots on the edge of your table. “Just less fun.”

You shot him a sharp look, intending to cut him down, but your eyes betrayed you lingering a second too long on the curve of his smirk. Fred noticed, of course he did, because his smirk grew wider.

Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, closing the distance. You felt the warmth of him even across the table.

“You know,” he said lightly, “for someone who hates being touched, you let me get awfully close.”

That pulled you up short. You bristled on instinct, but the words caught in your throat. Because he wasn’t wrong. You should’ve recoiled the first time he nudged your shoulder, or when he’d leaned against you in Potions like you were his personal pillow. But you hadn’t.

You tilted your head, meeting his eyes with your best Slytherin cool. “That’s because you don’t count.”

His grin softened at the edges, turning into something more dangerous something almost tender. “I don’t count?”

The air between you seemed heavier now, charged with something you didn’t want to name. You should’ve looked away. Instead, you sat there, letting him search your face, letting his presence wrap around you like it belonged there.

Fred leaned closer, close enough that you caught the faint scent of peppermint and smoke clinging to his robes. He reached out slowly, carefully, like he was testing a boundary no one else had ever been allowed to cross. His fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from your cheek, pausing just long enough for you to shove him away if you wanted.

But you didn’t.

“Guess that makes me special, then,” he murmured.

Your heart kicked against your ribs, but your lips curved into the smallest, traitorous smile. “Don’t let it go to your head, Weasley.”

Fred chuckled low, leaning back in his chair, though his eyes never left you. “Too late.”