#ron weasley

You were like wind to his fire; you might amp it down or fuel it, but you were always there. Your snarky remarks and witty comebacks offered him the perfect challenge; he’d hit the jackpot. You two could joke and laugh without offence or insecurity, without late nights wondering if a joke had a hidden meaning behind it because you read each other effortlessly. He never thought he’d fall for a Slytherin, especially not one with a family like yours. 

You were part of the sacred twenty-eight and additionally were a very distant relative of Bellatrix Lestrange, Narcissa Malfoy, and Andromeda Tonks. They were your second or third aunts. Purebloods always married within their circle; people had complex relative histories. It even technically made you Draco’s distant cousin. The thought alone should’ve driven him away, but he wasn’t like that. Even if you were Bellatrix’s own daughter, he’d go up to you, because that’s how he is; what he does. He was fearless in a way that made one question whether it was rooted in stupidity, naivety, or maybe possible genius.

“Freddie,” you breathed, eyes soft with guilt. “I’m not sure I should, you know, your parents aren’t very fond of me,” you said softly.

It hurt you immensely that his parents had a distaste for you despite your best efforts. You saw it in the way Fred never showed you any letters his mother sent him unless he was sure you weren’t mentioned once in them. His mother wasn’t exactly subtle.

You couldn’t blame them for it, though a part of you was still bitter. Your family name was loud, your parents were sharp-tongued and prejudiced against anything that wasn’t a rich pureblood elitist. People heard your name and already drew conclusions that lingered; impressions of a cold-hearted, calculating, ruthless heir without empathy or tolerance. 

Because of these assumptions, no one bothered to disprove them, opting to avoid you instead. Everyone but Fred. People called it stupidity, a death wish. But all those whispers and anticipation of a hex hitting his chest were eliminated after you threw your head back in a cackle, not even ten minutes after he came up to you.

The image was broken as soon as your laughter was heard; saccharine and normal like any other girl in the castle. And just like that, people came up to you more, returned smiles in the hallways, and didn’t stiffen when you walked past. Hogwarts turned comforting, more like home than your own. Fred stuck to you through it all, and you slowly won over each and every one of his siblings over the past seven years. You won over Charlie before he graduated when you were in your third year, and Percy warmed up to you when he caught you tutoring the twins in your second year. Ron was the toughest to break, but you finally got him when he was in his second year and you in your fourth, right after you and Fred began to date. He had passed the courtyard on his way between classes and saw you and Fred sitting out there, together. You were going on a tangent, hands on your hips as you scolded him for something he didn’t hear, but what really did it was how Fred reacted.

Fred Weasley, his big brother, was affected by nothing, brushing off punishments and detentions like dust on a coat, was pouting, head hanging as he stared at the floor, hands behind his back in compliance as you chided him. Ron decided something that day; if Fred let someone do that to him, he was exactly where he wanted to be. Ginny was by far the easiest to connect with. The poor girl screamed and nearly cried when she saw you, yelping about finally having another sister. You didn’t dare correct her. You even charmed Bill when you met him at the 1994 Quidditch World Cup Finals between Bulgaria and Finland. 

You hadn’t realised Mr and Mrs Weasley themselves would be the toughest nuts to crack; they were stereotypical. It’s unsurprising given their age, but their persistence was staggering. Firmly written opinions sent to all their children about you, and long, long lectures Fred had to sit through about deceit and how people are images of their parents. It didn’t matter how much Fred defended you, how much his siblings vouched for your character; Molly was clear, and Arthur never opposed his wife.

“My love, light of my life, honeybear,” Fred continued, his hands travelling further up your arm as he pulled you closer to him. You let him with a lingering pout. “My parents can bugger off for all I care; they can’t do or say anything if I’m there. Trust me on that,” he continued, his eyes wide and pleading. He didn’t play with you; you were the most important thing in his life, and he made sure you were treated like such.

You went silent, thinking about it, but you were weak; you knew that. Fred Weasley, knowingly or not, was your weakness. You weren’t smiley, friendly, or easy; with him, you turned impossibly soft. It was almost a sickness; he calmed your rage within seconds, and you shut down his life-threatening pranks with a single look. “Okay,” you relented. He lit up completely with a gasp, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug, face in your hair.

“Ginny might cry when I tell her.” He said with a breathy laugh, making your heart swell. God, you loved that girl. “I’ll tell her myself.” You mumbled back, turning your head to kiss his neck before pulling back.

You were a bundle of nerves the entire train ride to the Burrow, everyone noticed. Ginny offered up her skincare, Ron passed you extra chicken from the lunch he packed from Hogwarts, even George didn’t try to slip you a nosebleed nougat; he had more sense than that.

Fred kept you close the entire time, tucked into his side. You saw the tension in the hard set of his jaw as he looked out the window. His hands flexed from where they were on your waist, squeezing the soft flesh every once in a while merely to assure himself of your presence.

When you reached, one thing became abundantly clear: Molly and Arthur had certainly not been told of your visit. You saw it in the way her beaming smile harshly fell from her face once she spotted you next to Fred. She grabbed him, pulling him away.

You felt nauseous, smiling politely at Arthur as he gave you a forced smile in turn, his hesitance to shake your hand only added to the twist in your stomach. Ron took your suitcase, and Ginny took your hand, squeezing it in support as she tugged you to the car.

You turned your head to see Fred now proper scowling at his mother before he simply turned and walked off in the middle of her rant, face changing when he saw you look over, giving you as soft a smile as he could manage.

It didn’t get better at the burrow. Molly never looked directly at you, spoke to you through her children. ‘Ginny, she’ll sleep in your room.’ ‘Is she going to eat, Fred?’ ‘Ron, will she need her very own sheets?’ You saw the way Arthur winced, but said nothing. He himself was incredibly awkward near you. 

You didn’t like it, Fred absolutely didn’t. Glaring and hissing a sharp “why don’t you ask her herself?” that Molly always promptly ignored. It went on for two weeks; Molly stopped laughing when you entered a room, and Arthur found excuses to leave. Whenever you were with their kids, something always came up. You and Ginny giggling and eating ice cream in bed? Molly needed her help sewing. You and Percy discussing the NEWTS? Arthur needed him to proofread something. 

Fred was the main victim. Suddenly, he was needed all around the house as soon as the two of you were able to be together. The dishes, setting the table, helping with lunch, and helping load the laundry. It was so targeted and so obvious.

It all shattered during dinner one night. Fred and George decided this was the perfect time to talk about the fact that they’d be dropping out to open their own joke shop. Everyone knew Molly wouldn’t support it; she’d faced poverty. The thought of her sons not completing their education to start a shop made her all kinds of angry.

So, on went the screaming. Arguing at the table as George and Fred quite literally fought for their business with their mother, while Molly kept screaming about homelessness and how they’d never succeed.

It reached a point where she looked at you for the first time since the railway station and growled a low “You.”

You stiffened; everyone did. “You did this, didn’t you? Think it’s amusing, girl, making these two believe they can make it? Without suppliers? Investors? Nothing? You’re ruining my son's life!” She hissed, screaming the last part. You flinched, eyes widening.

“M-Misses Weasley, I don’t– I just want him to be happy-” You choked, but she slammed her hand on the table with a scoff of outrage. 

“You don’t understand anything. People like you, sheltered, protected–you’ve never had to work for anything a day in your life, never struggled. ” She continued, the rage in her voice something no one at the table had ever heard before. “Rich, pompous, overconfident people like you are exactly the folk we don’t want to get mixed with—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, shut up!” 

Everyone whipped their heads around to Fred, the usually cheeky and unserious boy, now straight scowling. “George and I are doing this with or without your approval, Mum. I truly don’t care about what you say in accordance with the business, nor about your hopes for our success, but you will watch it when you talk to her.” He hissed, pushing back his chair with a harsh screech before throwing his napkin on the table, grabbing your hand to pull you up as well.

Molly was mortified, and Arthur looked like he’d been spat on. “Frederick Gideon Weasley, you will sit–”

“Mum, please!” Ginny huffed, making your heart clench. The poor girl looked close to tears. She sniffled, turning to hug George’s arm. Molly’s scowl broke at the sight of her only daughter in such peril.

Fred dragged you up the stairs to his room. He’d gotten his own ever since Charlie moved into his own cottage somewhere in Scotland, closer to the dragons had been his only justification before taking off.

Your eyes were wide, heart pounding horrifically loud in your chest. You looked at the back of his head the entire walk to his room until he finally slammed the door. “Fred!” You whisper-hissed, hands trembling with adrenaline. He dragged a hand down his face as he turned to you, the other wrapping around the small of your back. “This doesn’t help my whole image with your mother, she’s gonna think I’m manipulating you against her or something—”

“She’s not that manic.” He mumbled, ducking his head into your neck before taking a deep inhale. “Hopefully.” 

He hugged you around your waist, tugging you into him as he leaned into you. You could feel he was doing this more to calm himself than offer any comfort, but you didn’t mind much, dragging a hand through his hair. You felt the breath leaving him.

You could hear the thud of footsteps climbing up to his room, and feel the way his shoulders tightened. He nudged you behind him as he turned to the door, half expecting his mother to come bursting in, but all he heard was three soft knocks.

“Fred?” Came a soft, older tone. His father, Arthur.

He didn’t hesitate opening it, letting the lesser of two evils in. Arthur looks guilty, almost hesitant, when he steps in, mouth open, before he shuts it. “Fred, my boy, your mother— both of us, we want the best for you. The shop, I-I’m not saying you shouldn’t follow your dreams, but you can’t expect her to be okay with it.”

“That’s not why I stormed out of there, Dad.” Fred huffed in turn, narrowing his eyes as he grabbed your waist, pulling you to stand next to him. “You know that.”

His father clasped his hands together, glancing towards you for a moment. It was clear he was choosing his words as carefully as he could. “Freddie, she– she’s not what we had in mind for you.” He said delicately, you could see Fred’s shoulders tighten.

“Her family, people like her, haven’t been good to people like us.” He continued, you took Fred’s hand as a reminder to keep himself regulated. It was odd, having to regulate his anger instead of him regulating yours. “Do her parents even know about you?”

That made you stiffen, hanging your head. You hadn’t told your parents, certain they’d forbid you from seeing him. You’d talked to Fred. He understood. Still, admitting he was a secret boyfriend was degrading.

“It doesn’t matter whether she’s told her parents. I trust her, that’s my choice. She’s brilliant, dad, you and mum would know if you gave her a singular chance.” Fred muttered, venom dripping from each syllable. Arthur felt the bitter truth in his words, nodding solemnly.

“No, you’re.. You’re right. I know.” He relented, looking at you apologetically. “I’m sorry, dear.” He all but breathed. You just offered a soft smile, nodding. 

“It’s– We have lived through a lot, Fred.” Now it was Fred’s turn to stiffen. “Your mother lost Fabian and Gideon in the war. To people from families like.. Well, hers.”

Fred sighed, squeezing your hand. “I know about them. She’s told us. But, Dad, things are changing. Times are changing. She can’t be bitter forever. Your mother was Cedrella Black! Does that mean she hates that part of you?!”

Arthur stammered. That was enough. “Why is it different for y/n, huh? Haven’t you been cruel enough? I’d like you two grown adults to realise you’ve been bedevilling a girl who’s nearly three times younger than you!” Fred continued, finishing with a scoff. He knew he was loud—knew the whole damn house probably heard. He couldn’t find it in him to care; he almost hoped his mother heard.

Arthur just nodded, unable to gather the words to continue the conversation, exiting the room.

You shuddered, Fred pulled you in. 

Safe to say, no one minded if you spent the night in Fred’s room that night.

Morning rolled around, the tension still present like a living, breathing presence. Fred didn’t leave you for a single second, and no one tried. Neither Arthur nor Molly pretended he was needed anywhere; they knew Fred wouldn’t entertain it.

To his credit, Arthur really did seem like he was trying. Wished you good morning, offered you tea when he was making any, even went as far as to ask for your future job plans. Fred was already grateful, smiling whenever he heard it. He eased up on his father, let himself relax around you when his father was near.

But Molly was a woman on a mission. She made sure it was known that Arthur was alone in his acceptance. She let you serve yourself during meals, dramatically moved away from you like you had Spattergoit. You chose to ignore it, a smaller, pettier part of you made you extra nice to her in turn.

All of the Weaslings (apart from Bill and Charlie) were around the coffee table, playing exploding snap. The air was filled with hysterical giggles and pure orange-haired competitiveness. Arthur was off at work, and Molly was serving snacks, very pointedly placing the plates as far from you as she could. 

You shot her a smile dipped in honey. “Oh, thank you, Miss Weasley! You’re so good to me. I couldn’t be more grateful.” You cooed, making Fred stifle a snort. His mother looked appalled, muttering a quick ‘no matter’ before rushing back to the kitchen. 

You’d come to accept it, almost took it as a sad fact of life. Ready to fight Molly Weasley for the rest of your life.

Then came that fated night.

You couldn’t sleep. George thought it was genius to watch some low-budget horror movie. You crept down the stairs of the burrow to the kitchen to take a glass of water and, potentially, a cookie Molly made.

You filled the glass before the light flicked on from behind you, startling you. Damn you, George.

“Oh.” Molly mumbled when she saw it was you, hesitantly walking into her kitchen to grab something from the fridge. It was rather early, four am. You didn’t think she’d be up so early.

There was a horribly awkward moment where neither spoke; you simply drank your water at the counter. Then, the silence was shattered.

“I had brothers, you know.” She mumbled; you immediately knew where this was going. You looked over at her; her expression was something you couldn’t pick apart.

You nodded, she continued.

“They joined the order. First Wizarding War. I’m sure you’ve met Harry. They met his parents there. Young, stupid and ready to fight.”

Her voice thickened, your heart sank. 

“Twins. Like my Fred and George. Good people, amazing to me.” She kept going, unwrapping dough she got from the freezer. “Died when I was pregnant with Percy.” Her voice broke around the word died and you suddenly felt like a monster.

“Took five deatheaters to kill them. Antonin Volohov was the only one who was named in the report, the rest having taken their own lives once captured.” It was unsettling, the things this woman had gone through. It made your heart ache for her.

“Volohov worked closely with Bellatrix. I guess I just… can’t accept that a trace of what killed my brothers lives in you.”

You felt your throat tighten, tears stinging your eyes as the woman placed the small balls of frozen dough on a baking tray.

You cleared your throat, moving to wash your hands, drying them, then wordlessly assisting her. 

“My mum once killed my pet mouse because attachment was a weakness to her.” You mumbled, and she shifted to make room for you. Not to get away, but to make space. You noticed.

“I cried to my father, but he offered no solace. He said nothing should be important enough to bring me to tears.” You rolled the dough into a ball, passing it to her. “Met Bellatrix once. I was.. Maybe seven. She threw her shoes at me when I touched her wand, grabbed me by the hair and presented me to my parents like a fox she killed.”

Molly hummed in acknowledgement, but there was something softer. A sympathy.

“I may not hate her as much as you do, I may never will, but I truly despise and loathe her very being. She’s hurt you much more than she hurt me, but her cruelty to more and more people gives me more and more reason to be as different from her as I can.”

The room settled into comfortable silence after that. She put the cookies in the oven, and you washed your hands. 

As soon as you turned to leave, she took your hand. It was gentle, not like she was trying to restrain you. You turned, and she placed a kiss to your forehead before walking away. “Goodnight, dearie.”

You bit back the smile growing on your face, sheer joy filling your chest. 

“Goodnight, Miss Weasley.”

The Three Broomsticks is warm and loud, every table overflowing with Hogwarts students on a festive Hogsmeade weekend. You’re crammed into the biggest corner booth with basically everyone: Fred on your left, one long arm draped possessively across the back of the seat behind you; George on his left, stealing chips off Ron’s plate; Hermione opposite you rolling her eyes at the twins; Harry trying to keep Ginny from flinging peas at Ron.

You announce, “I’m going to get another Butterbeer. Anyone else?” Ginny nods her head yes, so you slide out of the booth, heading to the bar for another.

You’re enjoying the perfect chaos as the Landlady pours your drink and chats loudly to other patrons — until a cocky, Hufflepuff seventh-year that you recognise from Quidditch: he once played so dirty that he nearly broke George’s ankle. He shoulders his way through the crowd to the front of the bar, and stops right in front of you.

“You’re even prettier up close,” he smiles, eyes dragging over you like you’re a slab of meat. Then, he actually reaches across and brushes a strand of hair off your face.

You push the boy’s hand away, jolting backward and grimacing. “How kind.” He laughs, leans in closer, and opens his mouth to say something else. He never gets the chance, because you turn on your heel and head back to the table, two Butterbeers in hand.

That is until the boy tries to catch up with you, smirking like you’d just started a game with him. “Just hold on a minute, feisty, I wanted to ask you something—“ As he enthusiastically follows you from the bar, he grabs your elbow and causes you to drop both the Butterbeers.

You look down at the liquid spilled on the floor, the glasses thankfully still in tact. “Jesus Christ, take a hint, will you?” You scowl at him as he raises an eyebrow.

“Relax, I’ll buy you another. I just wanna talk.”

Before you can hit back at him, Fred is already standing up from the booth; at 6’3” he towers over everyone, and the low ceiling causes him to duck under the wooden beamed ceiling slightly. The movement is so smooth it’s terrifying. One second Fred’s beside you, large palm flat on the small of your back as he glances down at your irate expression, the next he’s shoving your pursuer gently by the shoulder. Fred effortlessly traps the boy’s wrist in his hand.

“I think you should just walk away, mate,” Fred says, voice perfectly pleasant. “Hmm?”

The Hufflepuff boy’s eyes flicker to you, then he scoffs and stares up at Fred, already a rival in Quidditch: now was a good excuse to hash it out. In a moment of rage and embarrassment, he swings at Fred’s face. His fist clips Fred’s chin, splitting the skin.

Fred’s expression falters as he registers the sting, stumbling back just slightly in surprise. “Christ, how stupid are you?”

You gasp as Fred slams the boy back against the nearest wooden pillar so hard the whole pub rattles.

“Fred!” You cry.

The boy curses Fred and charges; Fred doesn’t even move out the way, he just grabs the back of the much smaller boy’s neck, and drives a knee into his stomach. Air whooshes out of the guy in a pathetic wheeze. Before he can recover, Fred lands a clean, brutal right hook that turns the boy’s head sideways. Blood begins to flow from his nose.

George is on his feet now too, grinning like he’s enjoying the show. “Mind the furniture, Freddie!”

Ron’s halfway out of the booth ready to jump in, Harry holding him back with a hand on his shoulder and an expression that says this won’t last long anyway.

“Good thinking, George,” Fred mutters, picking the boy up off the floor and dragging him by his collar outside.

You glance back at the booth with an expression that says ‘somebody stop these madmen!’ The five of them spring to their feet as you follow the boys out of the swinging oak doors.

Now fighting on the snowy cobblestones, the boy lunges once more, tackling Fred around the waist, actually managing to drive him back a step; impressive, considering the height difference. They crash into an empty wheelbarrow, splintering wood. Fred grunts, wraps one arm around the guy’s neck from behind and hauls him upright like he weighs nothing.

“Enough, Fred! You’ll kill him!” You shout exasperated, storming toward the pair.

George catches your wrist. “Don’t spoil the fun yet, he’s about to win!”

You roll your eyes at George’s boyishness, then scowl back at Fred who has the boy in a headlock. “You got the message yet, mate?” Fred asks tightly, keeping his arm until the boy’s face. “She doesn’t fancy you, and you’re shit at Quidditch.”

The boy kicks Fred’s kneecap, then throws his head back to try and break his nose. Fred doesn’t dodge in time, cussing under his breath as he keels over and grips his nose with both hands, eyes streaming in pain. The boy, having escaped Fred’s grip, turns to your boyfriend again, eyes-wide and angry, ready to deal another blow to Fred’s usually smiling face.

“You tosser,” Fred snarls as he lunges to deliver a final punch to the boy’s jaw. Fred’s long arm sweeps across the boy’s face effortlessly, and he drops like a sack of bricks. Spire Street returns to its usual evening quiet, noise dampened by the snow.

Ginny’s voice rings out from the doorway: “Ten points to Gryffindor!”

Fred wipes blood from his split cheek and nose with the back of his hand, breathing hard. He turns back to you all. His eyes find yours immediately, softening.

“You all right, love?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod, heart hammering. “Are you? Christ, Fred, your nose could be broken!” You lean up to look at his nose, pushing his head side to side to see if the bone has been damaged. It looks mostly superficial, but you’re not happy, anyway.

George whistles. “Merlin, Freddie. Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

“Serves him right, the cheating bastard. He never plays fair in Quidditch,” Ron adds.

Fred smirks, presses a gentle kiss to your temple, and murmurs against your skin, “I’m a caveman at heart.”

As you all make your way back up the valley to Hogwarts, Hermione mutters something about “barbaric displays”, but even she’s hiding a tiny smile behind her scarf.

You’d gotten used to being at the Burrow.

It was chaos — noisy, warm, full of mismatched furniture and even more mismatched personalities — but somehow, it always felt like home. Being Ron Weasley’s best friend meant you spent half your free time there, especially during breaks. Mrs. Weasley insisted on it, and Ron never minded. The only problem?

Fred.

Fred Weasley, the embodiment of trouble, the human form of a smirk. He was everywhere — perched on countertops, sprawled across couches, always ready with a joke that left you groaning or blushing.

He teased you relentlessly. Constantly. You were convinced it was just his favorite pastime.

Like the first morning of the summer holidays.

You were sitting at the kitchen table, scribbling something in a notebook probably writing Ron‘s essay for him when Fred leaned over your shoulder, eyes scanning your writing.

“Blimey, Y/N,” he said, mock horror in his voice. “I can barely read that. Is this supposed to be English or a coded message for the Death Eaters?”

You turned sharply, nearly jabbing him with your quill. “It’s notes, Fred.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding solemnly. “From the looks of it, you’ll need a translation spell to read them later.”

“Go away.”

“But it’s fascinating!” He snatched the notebook from under your hand and held it up. “Look at this ‘g’ — looks like it’s running for its life.”

“Fred!”

He grinned, handing it back with an exaggerated bow. “Don’t worry, love. I still like you, even if your handwriting’s a war crime.”

You rolled your eyes. “You don’t like me.”

He smirked, and for a fleeting second — just a second — there was something softer in his eyes. “Don’t I?”

Before you could answer, George strolled in and smacked his twin on the shoulder. “Stop terrorizing Y/N, mate. She’s going to hex your eyebrows off again.”

You hid a smile behind your quill. Maybe you would. Or maybe this time you’d turn them pink.

It was the same kind of teasing at Hogwarts.

In the common room, Fred always managed to insert himself into your conversations with Ron. You’d be talking about Quidditch strategies or homework, and suddenly, a pair of long fingers would start combing through your hair.

“Fred,” you said one evening, trying to ignore the feeling of a braid forming behind your head. “What are you doing?”

“Helping,” he said innocently, still twisting strands between his fingers.

“Helping with what?”

“Your hair,” he said, his tone all too casual. “It was just sitting there, looking bored.”

Ron glanced up from his chessboard. “Mate, what are you doing to her hair?”

“Improving it,” Fred said.

“I swear, Fred,” you muttered, reaching back to swat his hand away.

He dodged it easily. “You’ll ruin my masterpiece, Y/N.”

“Fred,” you said again, warning in your voice.

He leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear. “Relax. I’m an artist.”

You turned around — which only resulted in his half-finished braid falling apart. He looked mildly offended.

“Unbelievable,” he said. “You’ve destroyed it.”

“I didn’t ask for it in the first place!”

“Tragic,” he said dramatically. “My best work, gone before its time.”

Ron groaned. “You two are worse than mum and dad sometimes.”

“Oi!” you both said at once — and Fred broke into a grin at your synchronized outrage.

The teasing continued through everything.

At breakfast, he’d steal food off your plate, just to annoy you.

“Fred!” you snapped one morning as he snagged your toast right before you bit into it.

He just grinned, chewing obnoxiously. “You weren’t eating it fast enough.”

“That’s because you took it.”

“I’m saving you from cold toast, love. A noble act, really.”

“Then maybe save someone else next time.”

“Can’t,” he said, reaching for your pumpkin juice. “You’re my favorite victim.”

You huffed, shoving his hand away. “You’re impossible.”

But later that same morning, when you’d barely touched your lunch because you were upset about a Transfiguration essay, he quietly slid his plate over to you without a word.

You blinked down at the food. “Fred, you—”

“Eat,” he said simply. “Before Ron eats it for you.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he gave you a look — still teasing, but a little softer. You gave in.

It took everyone else about two days to realize that Fred Weasley was completely, hopelessly, and ridiculously in love with you.

Everyone except you.

To you, he was just Fred — the annoying twin who teased you about everything from your handwriting to your posture, who laughed when you got flustered, who seemed to pop up everywhere you went.

When Hermione hinted at it once, you’d laughed. “Fred? No, he just likes irritating me.”

Hermione had given you a look that was far too knowing. “You really can’t tell?”

“Tell what?”

She sighed. “Never mind.”

One rainy afternoon at the Burrow, you found yourself alone in the sitting room. The others were upstairs — Ginny doing homework, Ron and Harry probably playing chess, and Fred and George, you assumed, were plotting new inventions in their room.

You were curled up on the couch with a book when Fred appeared, leaning against the doorway.

“You look cozy,” he said, eyes glinting.

“I was,” you said without looking up. “Until you got here.”

“Ouch,” he said, clutching his chest dramatically. “You wound me.”

“Good.”

He came over anyway, plopping down beside you, far too close. You scooted away instinctively, but he just smirked. “I don’t bite, you know.”

“I’d argue that.”

He ignored that. “Whatcha reading?”

“Hogwarts: A History.”

“Thrilling.”

You looked up, finally smiling. “I like it.”

“Of course you do,” he said fondly. “You’d probably read a book about goblin tax laws and enjoy it.”

“I would not.”

“You would,” he said, grinning. “And you’d correct me if I said goblins don’t pay taxes.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help laughing. “You’re impossible.”

He watched you laugh, the teasing fading into something else — something quieter.

You didn’t notice.

Fred tilted his head, studying you for a moment, like he wanted to memorize every piece of that smile. “You know,” he said softly, “you’re a lot cuter when you’re not scowling at me.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He grinned again before you could answer. “Nothing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re weird.”

“I prefer ‘mysterious.’”

“Sure you do.”

That evening, everyone gathered around the dinner table. Mrs. Weasley bustled about, Ron and Harry bickered over the last roll, and George was cracking jokes. You were sitting between Fred and Ginny when a sudden shout rang out from upstairs — followed by a loud bang.

“Fred! George! What have you done now?” Mrs. Weasley yelled from the kitchen.

George shot Fred a look. “You set it off too early!”

“I did not!” Fred said indignantly, jumping up from the table.

Mrs. Weasley pointed toward the stairs. “Upstairs! Both of you!”

Fred groaned, turning to you as he passed. “If I don’t survive this, remember me fondly.”

You smirked. “I’ll try not to.”

He winked. “That’s all I can ask.”

Later that night, when you were getting ready for bed in Ginny’s room, you heard a soft knock at the door. You opened it to find Fred standing there, hair tousled, still smelling faintly of gunpowder and soap.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry about dinner. Mum nearly hexed me into next week.”

You grinned. “You probably deserved it.”

“Probably,” he admitted. “But I did bring you something.”

He held up a small chocolate frog.

You blinked. “Is that supposed to be an apology?”

He grinned. “No. It’s a bribe.”

“For what?”

“ to get you to admit you like me”

You froze, the teasing tone in his voice only half masking something sincere underneath.

“I—”

He smiled wider, the charm flicking back into place before you could say anything. “Relax, Y/N. Just teasing.”

You rolled your eyes, heart pounding. “Of course you are.”

But when he handed you the frog, your fingers brushed — and for a second, neither of you moved.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he said softly.

“Goodnight, Fred.”

As he walked away, you caught yourself smiling — and for the first time, you weren’t sure why.