#romanche

Though you couldn’t see his expression, you were sure George was ignoring your theatrics. At least he acknowledged your words. “What are you talking about?”

“Last night. I messed up to the point of no return—in a way that will haunt me and my bloodline for generations,” you said dramatically.

“A bit over-the-top, don’t you think?” George asked, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“Oh no, trust me. It’s the most horrific thing to ever happen on this planet. I can never show my face again,” you mumbled, still pressing your face against the counter—which, you now noticed, desperately needed cleaning.

You’d deal with it later. Or maybe not. Maybe the ground would open up and swallow you whole, straight into the fiery pits of Shameland.

That’s all you were hoping for.

“Would you calm down and tell me what awful thing happened last night?”

You mumbled an incoherent response against the counter, which George clearly didn’t find satisfactory. He grabbed your face, squishing your cheeks together. “What?”

Now forced to look him in the eyes, you felt like you were staring directly at your mistake. Maybe that’s why you blurted out, “Fred and I kissed.”

“So?” George laughed, releasing your face.

“So? What do you mean ‘so’?” you said, exasperated. You couldn’t believe his casualness regarding what was, objectively, the biggest moment of your life.

“I mean, isn’t that exactly what you wanted?” he said, grinning smugly.

You stared at him until your eyes started to ache.

“Stop looking at me like that. You’re the one who’s had a massive crush on him for ages,” George pointed out.

“I feel like you don’t understand the gravity of the situation. We were both drunk last night—you were too, if you care to remember—and then we kissed,” you explained, your arms flailing as though that would drive the point home.

George just stared at you, expression blank.

“What if he doesn’t remember? Or worse—what if he does? And he regrets it? Oh, he totally regrets it, because I’m just his friend, and kissing your friend is weird. He’s probably disgusted by me. He’ll fire me, and then I won’t be able to afford rent, and I’ll end up living on the street, and—”

“Okay, okay, breathe,” George interrupted, holding his hands up as though calming a feral creature.

You took a deep, shuddering breath, nodding at him to continue.

“First off, he’s not going to fire you. I wouldn’t let him, okay?” George reassured you.

You nodded again.

“Second, if he doesn’t remember, then you’ve got nothing to stress about. You can both go back to pretending everything’s normal. But,” he added, stepping closer, “I highly doubt he doesn’t remember. He didn’t drink as much as you did, from what I recall.”

Your stomach churned at the thought.

“Now, let’s say he does remember and he rejects you—hold on!” He grabbed your shoulders before you could bang your head on the counter again. “He’s not going to be a twit about it. You’ll survive. Just pretend like it doesn’t bother you, alright? But,” he said, pausing dramatically, “if he remembers and liked it, then congratulations. Your happily-ever-after might actually happen.”

His logic calmed you down—for the moment, at least. Maybe you were freaking out over nothing.

“Now stop scaring away our customers,” George said with a smirk. “If you keep this up, Fred will have legitimate reason to fire you, and there’ll be nothing I can do about it.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. But deep down, you still dreaded the moment Fred would walk through that door and meet your gaze. He’d be able to read your feelings as easily as ever.

Standing around waiting wouldn’t help with your sweaty palms or racing heart, so you forced yourself to focus, starting with cleaning the counter.

When you heard rumbling upstairs, your chest tightened. It wouldn’t be long now. You tried to spot a hiding place, somewhere you could spend the rest of your life. The shelf with stink bugs felt fitting.

As if George could read your mind, he slung an arm around your shoulders, keeping you in place.

Footsteps echoed closer, and you froze as the doorknob turned. The door swung open, and there he was.

Fred walked into the shop, his gaze landing on you and George immediately. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—something you couldn’t quite place—before it disappeared.

“What are you two up to now?”

“Nothing. Just a bit of friendly conversation,” George said, tightening his grip on you.

“Uh-huh. It looks more like your conversationalist is plotting an escape,” Fred teased, his eyes never leaving yours.

“That’s not true, right?” George nudged you. “Tell him that’s not true.”

“That’s not true,” you managed to croak, your throat dry.

Fred kept looking at you, but it seemed like he couldn’t find what he was searching for.

“Right,” he said with a laugh, finally breaking eye contact. He walked closer, and for a moment, you thought he might actually bring it up.

But he didn’t.

“I’m getting breakfast. You two want anything?”

Your stomach dropped. It was worse than him regretting it.

He didn’t even remember.

&

The last few days had been nothing short of torture for you.

On the surface, everything seemed the same, but there was an unspoken shift that made it all feel slightly off.

Fred acted like his usual self—playful, charismatic, and carefree—except for those fleeting moments when you caught him staring at you, his gaze lingering on your mouth a beat too long.

And every time you noticed, he’d look away, as though nothing had changed, as though your world hadn’t been turned upside down overnight.

George had been right: you’d had a crush on Fred for as long as you could remember. Maybe it had started the moment you began working here, or maybe it went back even further, all the way to your school days.

How could it not?

Even back at Hogwarts, Fred had this magnetic pull—an irresistible energy that drew people to him. He made everyone laugh, commanded every room he walked into, and left you hanging on his every word.

But things had changed.

Somewhere along the line, your silly little infatuation had grown into something deeper, something far more complicated.

Not that you’d ever acted on it. The thought of confessing your feelings—and facing the possibility of rejection—had always kept you silent. Instead, you’d buried your emotions and focused on building a genuine friendship with him, one you deeply valued.

But now, that careful balance was gone. You could feel it tipping every time you were near him.

And yet, you had no idea how to address it.

Fred hadn’t said a single word about the kiss—or even about the party where it happened. And that only made you more suspicious.

He loved to reminisce about a good time, especially if he’d been the one responsible for it. Fred called it “self-reflection.” George called it “gloating.”

But this time, there wasn’t so much as a passing comment. Not one word had slipped from his mouth about that night.

The first thing you noticed when you stepped into the apartment was the noise.

It was deafening—laughter, shouting, and music blaring loud enough to rattle the walls.

The air was thick with smoke and the sharp tang of spilled alcohol. Everywhere you looked, there were people—too many people—but not the one you were looking for.

Judging by the lively chaos, the party had been going strong for hours. The liquor you’d dropped off just yesterday had clearly done its job, and you could only hope there was still some left for you.

You weaved through the crowd, dodging swaying bodies and dodging elbows, your senses overwhelmed by the sights and sounds. Friends and old schoolmates pulled you into quick exchanges as you passed, each moment slowing your progress toward the kitchen.

A trip that should’ve taken a minute stretched into twenty.

When you finally made it, you were surprised to find Fred there, leaning casually against the counter, looking far more sober than expected.

Two drinks rested in his hands, but his focus was entirely on you. He greeted you with a familiar grin, the kind that made your heart skip.

“Kind of you to finally arrive,” he shouted over the music, handing you one of the drinks as you came closer.

“You know me—I wouldn’t miss a legendary Weasley party for the world,” you teased, winking as you raised the glass to your lips.

The drink burned as it hit your tongue, but the sweet aftertaste chased away the sting.

“Are you trying to get me drunk tonight, Weasley?” you asked, narrowing your eyes in mock suspicion.

Fred just grinned wider, raising his own cup before taking a slow sip.

Before you could press him further, George appeared out of nowhere, dragging Fred away with some urgent nonsense you couldn’t quite catch.

Left on your own, you got pulled into conversations with familiar faces, your attention shifting from one person to the next. Yet, no matter where you wandered or who you spoke to, you couldn’t stop your eyes from seeking him out.

And every time you found him, Fred seemed to sense it. Even if he was mid-conversation with some pretty girl, he’d glance up as though pulled by an invisible thread, meeting your gaze across the room.

The memory dissolved as Fred entered the small backroom where you were currently trying—and failing—to untangle the chaos of both the shelves and your thoughts.

He froze the moment he noticed you, his expression flickering with something unreadable before settling into what you could only describe as caught off guard.

Confused, you opened your mouth to ask him what was wrong, but before you could get a word out, he snatched a seemingly random box off a shelf. He gave you a fleeting smile—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes—before all but bolting from the room.

You stood there, staring after him, utterly baffled.

That had to be the most bizarre interaction you’d had with Fred in the last few days—and considering how strange he’d been acting, that was saying something.

Up until now, he’d been doing a remarkably good job pretending nothing had changed. He’d still joke with you and George like always, his laughter just as loud, his quips just as sharp. But you couldn’t ignore the subtle shifts, the cracks in the facade.

For one, he’d started avoiding you after hours. Before that night, Fred would usually hang back after closing, chatting about his latest prank ideas or the absurd customers of the day. Now, he was the first to leave—sometimes even before the shop was officially shut for the night.

And then there was the touch.

Fred had always been physically affectionate—a hand on your back, a teasing nudge, a quick hug that lingered just a second too long. But now? Nothing. No casual brushes, no reassuring pats, not even an accidental bump.

The absence was maddening.

Deep down, you knew the truth: Fred remembered. There was no other explanation for the way he acted now, as though he were tiptoeing around some invisible line.

Maybe George was right. Maybe you needed to be the one to address it.

The thought of confronting Fred filled you with dread, a sharp pang in your chest as you imagined how the conversation might go. He’d tell you the kiss was a mistake, something that should never have happened, something that would never happen again.

“We’re friends,” he’d say, his voice full of regret. “That’s all we’ve ever been.”

The idea alone was enough to break your heart, but a part of you suspected that you wouldn’t find peace until you heard the words from him directly.

Because at this point, the uncertainty was killing you.

“Having fun?” a familiar voice murmured in your ear, warm and low, sending a shiver down your spine.

You turned to see Fred standing next to you, leaning casually against the wall around the corner of the shop. The sight of him made you grin, wide and unrestrained, like he was the only person in the world.

You’d stepped outside to escape the overwhelming crush of bodies in the flat. The party, with its swirling heat and dizzying noise, had been too much, and the cool night air felt like a balm.

The drink in your hand had long been replaced with a small glass of water, though the slight haze in your mind reminded you that the alcohol wasn’t entirely out of your system.

The muffled thrum of a distant upbeat song floated through the quiet street, illuminated by soft moonlight. Above, the sky was a perfect canvas of stars, so bright and clear it made the world seem infinite.

“I can’t complain,” you said, tilting your head back to gaze at the constellations. In that moment, you felt utterly weightless, carefree. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was just Fred’s presence, but you realized everything you wanted in life was already within reach.

Well, almost everything.

“But you seem to be having an especially good night,” you teased, your voice betraying the faintest hint of strain. “You’ve been popular tonight, haven’t you?”

Fred didn’t seem to notice—or if he did, he didn’t care. “They don’t mean a thing to me,” he said easily. “All that matters is that you’re happy.”

His words sent a warmth through you, soft and all-encompassing.

“I am,” you murmured, and in that moment, you almost believed it.

“Then my job here is done,” he said, his grin widening, though his gaze remained fixed on you.

“Done? Already?” you quipped, finally meeting his eyes. That’s when you noticed just how close he was.

The air between you seemed to hum with energy, the space narrowing with every passing second.

“I mean, if there’s something else I can do to make you happy,” he whispered, his voice playful but tinged with something deeper, “just say the word.”

The proximity made your heart race, every nerve alive with anticipation. His breath ghosted against your skin, sending goosebumps rippling across your arms.

“Is that so?” you asked softly, your voice barely more than a breath.

“I’d do anything for you,” he said, and this time, his tone was serious, the lightness in his voice gone.

“Anything?”

Your gaze fell to his lips, and suddenly, there was no room for hesitation.

“Anything,” he murmured, leaning even closer. “Is there something specific you have in mind?”

You felt the answer burning on your tongue, but you didn’t need to say it. He could already see it in your eyes.

He closed the remaining distance, his lips brushing against yours in a tentative, searching kiss. When you didn’t pull away—when you kissed him back—his touch became more certain, more deliberate.

His hand found your waist, his fingers curling gently around you, pulling you closer. Your own hand slid into his hair, threading through the soft strands, and his sharp intake of breath sent a thrill through you.

His reaction was immediate: a soft bite to your bottom lip and a bold slide of his hand to cradle the back of your head, which made you—.

A sudden noise snapped you out of your spiraling thoughts.

The door banged against the wall as George stormed into the room, his frustration evident. “This has to stop!”

You frowned, scrunching up your face, and turned back to the parchment in front of you. The inventory—Fred’s job, not yours—was a mess of numbers that made no sense to you. But with Fred vanishing to Merlin-knows-where, someone had to do it.

Ignoring George, you pretended not to understand. Ignorance was bliss, right?

“Put the quill down,” he demanded, his voice sharper than you’d ever heard. “And listen to me. This whole situation is maddening! You’re both idiots. Just talk to each other, damn it!”

You flinched at his words because they hit too close to home.

Of course, George was right. He always was. But the thought of confronting Fred—of risking the fragile connection you still had—was unbearable. You couldn’t face the possibility of losing him entirely.

Still, you refused to respond, keeping your eyes fixed on the parchment in front of you. You couldn’t even decipher it anymore, the numbers blurring into incomprehensible shapes.

“Fine!” George barked. “But don’t come crying to me when this all falls apart.” His voice softened for a moment before he slammed the door behind him.

Alone again, you tried to refocus on your task, but his words lingered, gnawing at the edges of your resolve.

You didn’t have long to dwell, though. The next time you saw Fred, it was like George had predicted the future.

Fred stood near the counter, in what seemed like a deep conversation with someone. But as you moved closer, you realized she wasn’t a customer. The way she batted her lashes, leaning into his space, left no doubt she was flirting—and Fred? Fred was playing along.

Your stomach churned.

Her laugh, too loud and overdone, grated on your nerves. And Fred—charming, magnetic Fred—seemed to be reveling in it. It was too much.

You knew he would never hurt you intentionally, but watching this felt like a punch to the gut.

And the worst part? You had no right to be angry. Fred wasn’t yours.

But that didn’t mean you could stand there and watch.

Without a word, you stormed past them, your gaze catching Fred’s for just a split second. Whatever he saw in your expression made his own falter, and before you knew it, he was following you.

You didn’t stop until you reached the back office, desperate for the refuge of its familiar walls.

But Fred was right behind you.

You turned to face him, your arms crossed, waiting for him to speak. To explain. But he said nothing.

The silence between you stretched unbearably, pressing down until your chest ached.

“Say something,” you finally choked out, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions.

Fred’s lips parted, but no words came. He looked at you, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t name, and it made the tears well up in your own.

When he still didn’t speak, you turned away, hiding the tears that spilled over and ran hot down your cheeks.

And Fred? Fred said nothing. Not when you bit back a sob, not when you brushed past him, not even when you walked out the door.

The next week, you couldn’t bring yourself to face him.

You told George you were sick and stayed home, retreating to the sanctuary of your bed. But even there, Fred invaded your thoughts, your dreams.

It felt like grieving something you’d never truly had.

Eventually, though, you couldn’t hide forever. Forcing yourself out of bed, you returned to the shop.

George took one look at you and frowned. “You both look awful,” he muttered before pulling you into a warm hug.

His words confused you, but you didn’t ask. Instead, you threw yourself into pretending everything was fine.

Fred, however, was conspicuously absent.

By the time you locked up that night, you were convinced it was better this way—better to avoid him entirely. But fate had other plans.

As you turned the corner toward the back office, Fred appeared, coming down the stairs.

He looked as bad as you felt—his hair a disheveled mess, his clothes rumpled, his eyes hollow. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the shock in his gaze mirrored in your own.

“Where did you disappear to?” he asked, his voice rough, like he hadn’t used it in days.

“Oh, so you can talk to me,” you snapped, your anger bubbling to the surface.

Fred flinched, the pain on his face almost enough to extinguish your fury. Almost.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to the floor. “For everything.”

“Sorry for what, exactly?” you shot back, crossing your arms defensively. “For kissing me? For pretending it never happened?”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“What?” you interrupted, your voice trembling. “You didn’t mean to kiss me?”

“No! Not that,” he blurted, his head snapping up. “Never that. That’s the one thing I’d do over again, a thousand times if I could.”

Your breath caught. “So you remembered?”

Fred nodded, his eyes searching yours.

“Then why were you acting like you didn’t?”

He hesitated, then deflected. “You remembered too, didn’t you?”

Your heart stuttered. He was trying to shift the blame, but his question struck a nerve. You had remembered. And you’d stayed silent.

“Because I was scared,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Scared you’d tell me it was a mistake. That you regretted it.”

Fred took a step closer, his gaze softening. “I could never regret it,” he said, his voice barely audible.

Before you could respond, his hands cupped your face, his touch warm and grounding. Then his lips were on yours, urgent and unrelenting, stealing the air from your lungs.

And this time, there was no hesitation. No lingering fear clouding the moment, no doubt tethered to the excuse of alcohol in your veins.