#weezywinnie

summary: You and Fred Weasley were like two sides of the same coin—constantly at each other's throats for as long as you could remember. It was a rare day when something didn't happen where you'd do something to spite one another, or an ill-timed comment didn't slip out of either of your mouths. Could feelings between two long-standing rivals really change? Get a grip. You hate each other.

c/w: enemies to lovers, aged up above twenty, hogwarts having a university, cursing, gets physical between you and him, forced proximity, fred accidentally injuring reader, emphasizing ENEMIES, so a lot of teasing, bullying, and harsh words, so please read at your own risk!, fluff ending, my sad attempt at slow burn

w/c: 12.4k

a/n: let's pretend that events from ootp and gof (book) happened in their later years in a university setting for the sake of the story :))

“History of Magic, Ancient Runes…Advanced Potions…” You mumbled to yourself, eyes glued to the parchment nestled firmly in between your fingers—eyebrows knitted together as you assessed your schedule for the rest of the week while you walked the bustling halls to your next class.

You were concentrated. In the zone. Just how you always liked it before your classes—until a sudden thwack sent your parchment flying.

It fluttered into chaos. Students jostling past, one foot nearly stomping it into a smear of pumpkin juice and shoe prints. 

You lunged for it,

Only to find Fred Weasley already there.

He stood over it like a roguish vulture, one polished dragonhide shoe planted right on the corner of your timetable. His twin was nowhere in sight. Just him, grinning down at you like he’d just won Galleons on a bet.

"Oi, what’s this? Y/n’s life in ink and panic?" He crouched low—too close—and plucked up another loose sheet before you could stop him. "Ooooh! Color-coded?! Merlin’s beard, someone’s sad."

You snapped upright and snatched back what he stole. "Got a stick up your ass again this morning, Fred?"

He lets out a mocking gasp, "And here I thought we were friends!" One hand pressed dramatically to his chest while the other still pinned down half your schedule. "Best frenemies since Slytherin betrayed everyone!"

You yanked hard on the parchment. It ripped clean through, but his presence didn’t seem to invoke much care for it in you at the moment.

Then,

He did it again.

One sharp shove against your shoulder sent you stumbling sideways into a suit of armor that clattered like thunder through the corridor.

Students glanced your way before wisely scattering. The usual warning signs flashing behind their eyes: "Weasley vs l/n: Round ??? – Duck & Cover." It was an endless facade. Hell, even cats and dogs got along better than you two.

Before you could retaliate, Fred leaned right in.

Close enough that his freckled nose nearly brushed yours, breath warm with mint gum he sneakily pocketed from breakfast in Hogsmeade last weekend—one you spent hexing each other's Butterbeers until they exploded like fizzy fireworks across Madam Puddifoot's china teacups.

Won’t be seeing that place until you were in her good graces again.

Fred in a soft voice spoke to you. “Runes exam tomorrow...fancy helping me fail spectacularly?”

Your heart kicked once—in rage or something worse?

Probably poison from that cursed love potion incident last year when George swore he wasn’t testing ingredients on unsuspecting students…

This rivalry was starting to feel like foreplay made of sparks and sabotage, and you were just about to see it all unfold at a timing you so terribly dreaded.

Him being this close solidified the one thought that constantly swirled in your head: 

You hated Fred Weasley, and you sure got the message that he hated you too. Maybe even just as much.

You shoved him hard, sending him back a step with a scowl. 

"The only thing you'll be failing spectacularly is breathing if you don’t get away from me."

Fred just laughed—low and rough, like he enjoyed the threat. He shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking forward on his heels like he owned the entire corridor. 

"Tsk, tsk, such hostility before noon." His eyes sparkled, dangerous and bright. "I missed breakfast because I was too busy charming Professor Vector’s quills to write ‘y/n’s crush list’ during class."

Your jaw dropped.

"You what?!"

He winked.

"Every single one started writing your name followed by…well, let’s just say they’re not so subtle about who you really want under the mistletoe."

“Mistletoe!? I don’t even like anyone, you halfwit!” You retaliated, not with your words—but swung your bag at his head.

He ducked fast as lightning—but not fast enough. The corner clipped him right in the ear.

"Hey!" Fred yelped, staggering sideways into a broom closet that burst open behind him from the impact.

Supplies rained down. Cauldron scrubbers smacking his shoulders, buckets toppling over like an angry orchestra of clatter—

And then George's voice rings from down the hall.

“Fred? You alive in there or did she finally snap?”

But Fred didn’t answer right away.

Because now you were chest to chest inside that cramped closet with half-lit dust swirling around—and you gripping a handful of his robes to keep from falling atop him after tripping over yourself mid-attack.

His breath caught once when you pressed closer by accident—or fate—or some cursed force determined you’d both suffer equally for seven years of mutual torture masked as banter.

“One day,” he murmured, voice suddenly raw beneath all that mischief, "you're gonna hex me so hard I turn into something unrecognizable…"

His hand slid up your wrist—slow—to peel off your ink-stained grip from his collar without breaking eye contact…

"And then maybe," he added, thumb brushing under your pulse point, "you’ll miss me when I’m gone."

Silence hummed between you—loud enough to drown out even Peeves cackling overhead minutes later as he chucked sponges at your heads and screamed.

“FRED’S IN LOVE! FRED’S IN LOVE WITH THE GIRL WHO HATES HIM!”

Both of you jumped apart—eyes darting to the mischievous ghost faster than Polyjuice had ever worn off wrong.

You clicked your tongue, hardening your gaze before returning it back to the Weasley in front of you. 

“I couldn’t care less, nor would I notice—let alone miss you even if you’d turned into a Freshwater Plimpy...” 

And that was the end of it and neither of you said anything again until Potions, where somehow—he passed you back your ripped schedule with scribbles across it in fiery red ink of Professor Snape wearing a witch hat and had exploding cauldrons all around him that refused to wash off no matter how many spells you tried later…

The lecture had ended and your nerves were still at an all-time high. It had been for the last seven years with Fred around, and your vandalized, rumpled up schedule was your final tipping point for this week.

You stormed out of the classroom—bag clutched tightly in your hand. The leather squeaks, almost as if coming alive to tell you of its pain as indents began to form in your palm from how tightly you were gripping onto its handle.

The irritation showing on your face was like a miserable trophy of that boy’s doing. Unintentionally flaunting it around for everyone to see just how deep he’s gotten under your skin for the day. And that made him proud.

The corridor blurred as you stormed down it—shoulders stiff, jaw clenched so tight your teeth threatened to crack. That smug, freckled nightmare had ruined another morning. Another schedule. Another piece of your sanity.

All you wanted was to get this day over with, have a nice bath, and throw darts at the Quidditch poster with his stupid picture in it.

You turned a sharp corner down the hallway—only for someone to dart out of a side passage and slam you square in the shoulder with their own.

This didn’t feel like an accident.

Never any accidents with him.

This one felt intentional.

"Whoa there, love! You’re walking like you’ve got a Bludger shoved where the sun doesn’t shine."

You whipped your head towards him—bag still screaming in protest—and found Fred leaning against the stone wall like he’d planned this ambush for days. 

Maybe he had. The git probably enjoyed watching you unravel.

"Move," you hissed.

He didn’t flinch. When did he ever? Just pushed off the wall with that infuriating nonchalance, hands casually slipping into his pockets. The picture of calm while you were three seconds away from setting his eyebrows on fire without magic.

“Temper, temper…wouldn't want McGonagall docking house points again because someone finally cracked after seven years of perfection." His eyes flicked down to where your knuckles whitened around your bag handle, and back up with a smirk that was far too knowing. “Or are we finally admitting we care?”

That did it.

You stepped right into his space—placing your palm firmly against his chest and pushed him against the wall. One solid pace forward until only breath separated you two before jabbing your index finger hard against his chest.

"I don’t care about you, Weasley. I care about peace. About not having my notes rewritten as comedy handouts by you! About getting through one single day without some prank or smirk or—" you choked slightly on rage.

"That stupid way you look at me like I'm some kind of game!"

Fred blinked, not knowing whether to laugh or ridicule you for your sudden outburst. In his mind, he hadn’t done anything wrong. That what he did wasn’t anything to throw a fit over.

He thought the same way then when your rivalry first began, and still thought the same way now in your last few years of university. It was all just banter to him. Painful, excruciating, patience-testing, banter.

Admittedly, his back did sting a considerable amount from the impact of him hitting the brick wall—but he would never say it aloud. Not to your face at least.

He managed to stifle out a chuckle. Sharp. Concise. “Don’t act like you’ve been betrayed by a close friend or something. You’re the one always having your knickers in a twist. Always so serious. But then again, can’t expect anything less from Miss Prim and Proper.” 

You stayed silent, not straying your eyes from his as your heart pounded from anger…? Or was it adrenaline? You couldn’t tell the difference anymore. The line between which emotions were which when it came to him had been blurred long ago. His voice was like grating sandpaper against steel. Unpleasant in every way. 

His brows shot up in response to your elongated silence,  but took note of your deadly gaze. One he knew all too well, and one he basked in like a wolf during a full moon. 

“Good Godric,” he drawled, smirking, “what, have you suddenly discovered feelings other than being a killjoy? Shame it took so long.” 

“Killjoy? Really…?” You mocked, keeping the pressure against his chest firm, "I expected something a bit moree… creative. I fear you’ve lost your touch, Freddie. A bit rusty I daresay.”

“Rusty?” He echoed, a small laugh bubbling from his chest—sending vibrations throughout your fingertips. “Funny, considering how I'm still getting under your skin.” 

“No, look—” you used your free hand to swipe away invisible tears. “Not a single shed today! Not that you’ve ever made me cry, though—but nice try.”

“Oh, please, I could’ve filled ten prefect’s baths with your tears when we first got acquainted.”

“Enjoyed it that much, huh?”

“Pushing your buttons, yes. It’s become a hobby of mine now, really. Even thought about giving up Quidditch to do it full-time.”

You sighed, lowering your arm from his torso and turning to leave. “You know what, whatever. There's better things to do with my time. Goodbye, Woser, hope to see you never.” 

Hearing that stupid nickname you gave him back in your third year (Weasley + loser), made something crack inside of him. 

And because he can’t help it, because chaos runs in his veins and your rage is his favorite melody,

He flicks your bag strap.

Hard.

The motion sends it swinging off your shoulder—and you turn back to look at him so fast he actually looked surprised (not that he'd ever admit that).

"Oops," he says with a grin that attempted to feign innocence.

“Say one more word," you replied, tone deadly calm.

His grin widens, so of course—he says two.

“Make me.”

Silence cracks like a spell about to backfire.

Then—

You pounced. Not for his face, not for his throat—but for the front of his robes, hauling him down so your noses nearly touch again, fury sparking in every inch of space you don’t dare fill.

And Fred?

He kept smiling. Almost amused. He was definitely having fun.

“Wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you," you threatened through a smile.

“Mm, I love when you talk to me like that. Turns me on.” His voice drops—low and teasing. “Nothing but pretty threats—which makes a bloke really wonder… do you actually wanna slap me, or kiss me?”

And then—without thinking— you didn’t stop at a glare.

Your foot jerks down—fast and sharp—and smacks right into his own with enough force to make him grunt.

"HOLY—" he stumbled back half a step, retreating the foot like he’s been cursed. "Merlin's saggy left—"

"Oops," you responded sweetly, imitating him from earlier.

He stares at you wide-eyed. Pained. And then—that damned grin creeps back bigger than before.

Because now there’s fire in your eyes and color in your cheeks and for the first time all week—he felt alive.

“Seven years… and not once have I seen you this unhinged.” He tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he can’t quite solve but is hell-bent on finishing. “I think I like it.”

“Should I have done the other foot too, then?” You inquired sarcastically, reeling your shoe upwards and ready to strike down his other unfortunate set of toes.

But nothing came.

You didn’t bring your foot back down with twice as much force as the first time like you were intending to. There was no action, no effect.

The hush that settled after was quicker than dust in an old room. Uncomfortable and stuffy. But it didn’t take long for that tense atmosphere to be cut off by Peeves, who was making his comeback and was shrieking overhead.

“KISS HER OR DUEL TO THE DEATH, WEASLEY—PICK ONE!”

You jumped apart—faces burning as Filch’s slimy footsteps followed, echoing down the hall like doom incarnate, and you definitely weren’t gonna hang around for his arrival. So you took your bag, and turned away from Fred to leave.

But as you stormed off with fire in your stride, you didn’t miss the way Fred watched you go, quiet for once, and how his hand still lingered over where your fingers had gripped him tight.

You didn’t step on him again just because you were exhausted… right? 

There’s no compromise for second thoughts when it comes to revenge on Fred Weasley!

Thinking about why you never followed through ultimately terrified you, so you brushed it off and carried on with the rest of your day like nothing happened—like the brawl you had earlier wasn’t fit enough to land the both of you in a boxing ring with crowds placing their bets on their fighter of choice.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It was finally the weekend, and a certainly crowded one at that.

Hogsmeade had always been the hotspot for students looking for a bit of fresh air, or simply wanting to run away from extra schoolwork to be done back at Hogwarts—so mischief was either lurking around the corners somewhere, or an area as painfully obvious as the fifth years chucking rock hard Fizzing Whizbees at each other outside some shops with fragile display windows.

This day was no different. Stores were overflowing with mostly the younger classes carrying barrages of sweets and knick knacks enough to last them until their next visit to the village which won’t be for a while, and the older students were usually seen around supply shops, Zonko’s, or in an alley somewhere...

The Three Broomsticks was your go-to. Always the best place to relax and get a bit of reading in. Also because you were craving a particularly delicious and deathly cold Butterbeer to cool off after a long week of work and, well…him.

It was a miracle you’d manage to make it this far without having done anything drastic to get yourself suspended, or for the lack of a better word—expelled.

That seemed to be the only plausible outcome other than sitting through hours of detention together like from that one time you nearly set the Divination Classroom on fire when you attempted to tamper with Fred’s crystal ball. Ended up casting the wrong spell and sent fire sprites taking laps all around the room. Professor Trelawney was not the least bit pleased—but she seemed intrigued nonetheless.

She said something along the lines of “Those flames foretold me something about you, child. Your future is going to be one of many trials!” And if Fred Weasley was the trial she was “foretelling” you about, you wouldn’t be so surprised.

And Merlin forbid you two get stuck together in detention again. There was just something about him discreetly trying to get on your nerves while a professor stood watch that was much more vexing than when he did it obnoxiously. 

Unfortunately for the both of you, the detention room had become your sleeping quarters for more nights than you’d care to admit.

Your fingers caressed the smooth paper of the page you had just finished reading before flitting it over to the next one—eyes immediately dancing on the rows of beautifully arranged letters of the new novel you had only picked up a week before.

An empty stein of Butterbeer sat to the left of your book with water pooling at its base from condensation while one half-full waited patiently with your fingers tangled lazily around its handle—occasionally twisting the heavy glass unconsciously as you read.

Since you were fully immersed in your book—you paid no mind to the hustle and bustle of the very crowded, very busy Three Broomsticks. You had your own booth right at the very back all to yourself with your personal supply of Butterbeer, and Fred Weasley was nowhere to be seen. You were as happy and relaxed as you had ever been in a long time.

For a while at least.

Just when the flow of the story you’d been reading was beginning to pick up, a sudden and abrupt force slides into the booth next to you—shoving your body sharply to the side, causing your book to close (without a bookmark in it, no less), and your precious, long awaited Butterbeer to spill from its glass.

You froze as you looked at the mess before you. Weekend Hogsmeade relaxation plans were officially ruined.

You scoffed, a snarl slowly painting your face. “Excuse me—”

But the face of evil incarnate met your line of sight the moment you turned your head to meet your perpetrator. 

With a stupid grin plastered on his troublesome mouth, partially sweaty complexion, hair that looked windswept as if he’d been running, and that damn jumper he liked to wear so much.

It eventually clicked in your mind that he probably was running away from something—or more appropriately, someone.

And you were right. He was running away from someone. Specifically, Graham Montague.

Just a few minutes before your unfortunate disruption of peace, it was supposed to be Fred’s usual visit to Hogsmeade too—with George and Lee Jordan tagging along as per their routine.

They were aiming for Spintwitches first to get a look at some new Quidditch gear, then Honeydukes for some sweets, Zonko’s to buy some supplies for a few pranks him and his brother were working on (and maybe some inspiration for their own joke shop), and then lastly, The Three Broomsticks as the cherry on top after a long day of exploring.

The schedule panned out smoothly. So smooth that the only thing on Fred’s mind was getting back to their common room, snack on some Honeyduke’s delicacies, and tinker with their newly bought thingamabobs. And maybe find ways to rile Filch up if he’s got extra time.

That was the plan until they were on their way to the last stop of their little visit: The Three Broomsticks.

The air around the trio was calm and energetically laid-back. Fred had his hands shoved into his pockets while he walked—laughing with the other two who were shoving each other as they debated on whether Zonko’s or Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes made the better Dungbomb.

And quite the heated debate it was. Lee still reckoned that Zonko’s original recipe stunk more authentically, while George begged to differ and replied with sass in his tone. 

“Please—as if anything beats our extra-sticky, triple-rotten-egg blend," he snorted. "You, Jordan, lost that argument the moment you tried to test it in McGonagall’s classroom."

Fred tipped his head back and roared in laughter. "We’re still banned from her office…was bloody brilliant, though!”

But all that carefree banter died down as soon as Lee motions to a familiar figure approaching them from down the street. 

“Hey, isn’t that Montague?”

George and Fred turned their heads to Lee and cocked up an eyebrow—seemingly confused as the name didn’t seem to ring any bells.

Lee scoffed and quickly rolled his eyes at their obliviousness. “You know, the bloke from the Inquisitorial Squad? The one you two pushed into the Vanishing Cabinet when he was about to nick points from Gryffindor?”

George’s eyes went wider than the cauldrons sold at Ceridwen’s, and Fred’s lips had compressed so tightly that he looked like an old wizard with no teeth.

Lee found it absolutely hilarious seeing the shift in the twins' expressions—and he got a front row seat to seeing it in its full glory. He even thought he could’ve become a millionaire should he decide to plaster their faces on some shirts and sell them.

The younger twin’s breath hitched as Lee’s words landed like a well-aimed Bat-Bogey Hex.

“Oh. That Montague,” George said with a hybrid of a smile and a frown.

The memory of that one fateful day on the first floor at Hogwarts came crashing back. The sly student who worked under Umbridge with the Inquisitorial Squad badge gleaming like a target, and the glorious shove into the Vanishing Cabinet. 

"Blimey," Fred whispered, "I thought he’d been splinched into next week." He paled slightly, eyes darting toward the approaching figure as if calculating escape routes—or backup prank plans.

"And here I thought we’d seen the last of him. Wonder if he still smells faintly of cabinet dust…"

Lee smirked, arms crossed like he wasn’t about to watch history repeat itself in real time.

“Well—!” Fred swung an arm around George, attempting to turn both their bodies away slowly before Montague notices them. “I think The Three Broomsticks can do without our Galleons for now, men.” 

“For once I actually agree with you, Freddie," answered George who attempted to hide his growing nervousness (which Lee thought to be quite unlike him) as his legs itched to skedaddle away so quickly his upper body wouldn’t be able to keep up.

Right as they were taking their first holy steps back to the motherland (which really is just the castle), a sharp, audibly fuming voice thundered from behind them—bouncing off the shops which caused students and merchants alike to stop and stare.

“WEASLEY!!!” 

And that was all it took for the two notoriously “brave” mischief makers to bolt—leaving Lee Jordan out on the battlefield. 

While coordination was the one thing Fred and George prided themselves on, the chaos of their impromptu getaway had managed to separate them, leaving each twin to fend for themselves.

Merlin knows where George had found himself in, and Fred—as you guessed—ended up in The Three Broomsticks.

With you.

The moment he rushed through those heavy wooden doors, his eyes immediately began looking around the crowded venue for a secluded area where he wouldn’t even be caught dead in. 

And then by some luck or misfortune… he found you.

After dealing the damage of recklessly slipping into your booth and messing up your things, he sneakily peeked over the seat—checking to see if Graham had followed him in. 

You observed the tall ginger in disbelief—annoyed at how he didn’t show an ounce of decency after causing the clutter you thought you didn’t have to worry about today.

“What in Godric’s name are you doing!? Get out, you look like an idiot!” You whispered harshly, not taking your eyes off of him as he continued to peek over the seat like a perverted schoolboy in a girl’s locker room. 

You attempted to push him out, but the man was as sturdy as Snape’s wrists.

Eventually after a hot minute, he finally slid back down beside you. 

“Well that’s not very nice, I thought to give you some company. Doesn’t it get boring being so lonely the way you are?” He asked, attempting to mask his exhaustion from all the running—clearly brushing away the real matter at hand. 

I mean, as if he’d ever want you to know. It would absolutely embarrass him if you’d found out that he was actually running from someone—let alone a person he and George had pranked.

“Don’t need to reflect your insecurities on me, Freddie,” you commented, plopping a bunch of napkins on the puddle of spilt Butterbeer. ”I’m perfectly content, thank you very much.” 

Fred’s eyes followed your hands as they cleaned up the mess he knew he had caused. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t wallop me with your book there," he says, changing the subject and inclined his head to motion to the closed book by the empty glass of Butterbeer.

I mean you would have, but not for no particular reason. You promised yourself no violence against Fred Weasley today.

You glanced at him annoyed and just about every bit as confused. “What are you talking about?”

“I caused it to close without that little blue bookmark thingy.” 

You froze for a moment. How’d he know about the blue bookmark only you were certain had known about? Not even your friends knew of its existence.

“How…” you trailed, mustering up the willpower to look into his eyes.

Still as sharp and as belittling on your being as usual.

“Okay, beer-brain, spit it out,” he leaned against the seat, crossing his arms and smirked at you. “Don’t expect me to sit here all day, though. Don’t ask me to help you relearn the alphabet either.” 

You glared at him before shaking your head. “Nevermind.” 

Now choosing to ignore the Weasley sat beside you, you took your unfinished book back in your hands and sifted through the pages to try and find where you’d stopped—but unfortunately to no avail.

"You always do that when you’re all pissy," he said suddenly, voice lower with undertones of mocking. "Flip too fast like the words’ll jump out and bite you. Never seen someone fight a book like it owes them Galleons."

He leaned in slightly, hovering over your space without touching you.

"And for the record, I’ve seen it. The blue bookmark. You left your Charms notes open during Study Hall last Tuesday. Page 37—Protego variants—and there it was. Little frayed at the edges. Blue as McGonagall’s tartan socks."

Your eyebrows knitted together at his oddly specific observation. 

“Didn’t know being a creep was also in your line of expertise," you said, taking out your wand and gave it a flick over your book.

The pages began to unfold and flutter before your eyes like a flurry before eventually settling down on one particular page. The page where you left off.

He scoffed, scooting back up his seat. “Show-off. Bet you practiced that little flourish in front of a mirror.” 

“But also,” Fred added, leaning his arms against the table then looking at you. “I much rather prefer the term ‘passively observant stud with excellent memory and zero impulse control.’ But sure, slap on ‘creepy’ if it makes you blush harder.”

“Eugh, in your dreams. As if someone like you could ever make me blush.” You rolled your eyes and reached out to grab your Butterbeer—giving it a small swirl before taking a sip. He wasn't being very discreet with the way his eyes bore holes into your neck as you drank.

You finished the remaining beverage in one go, exhaling a refreshed sigh before moving the empty ware with the other empty glass.

A beat of silence passed between you and Fred, both of you caught in the middle of an odd standoff. But despite the intensity of the moment, a flicker of humor glinted in his eyes as he smirked.

"You know," he drawled, "for someone who hates my guts, you don't seem all that eager for me to leave."

“Yeah?” You replied, going along with his quip, “I could say the same for you. You could’ve banished me from my own booth and taken it as yours like you always do.”

“You’re right, you’re right…” he nodded his head with an enlightened frown. “But where’s the fun in kicking you out when I could watch you pull those goppin faces at me instead.” 

You scoffed, failing to hide the slight twitch on the corners of your lips.

Fred noticed. 

Of course he did.

“But,” you shot back, “you’re still here. Breathing my air, stealing my legroom, and polluting my peace with your Weasley-level destruction.”

“Polluting?” He retorts in mock horror. “I practically improved the atmosphere! Without me, this booth would’ve been so clinically depressed Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t even know what to do with it.” 

“She aids injuries on living beings, not furniture with mental illnesses, you numpty.” A laugh slipped from your lips before you could stop it—small, sudden—and Fred froze like he’d caught something rare.

And for just a second…one terrifying second—both of you forgot to pretend.

The pub buzzed around you like static, and neither of you moved an inch towards leaving.

“You’re such a headache," you whispered with less venom than intended—your eyes glossing back to your book to try and brush off the earlier event.

“But you’re here talking to me."

You flipped a page slowly, pointedly ignoring him, though you could feel his gaze like a warmth against your skin.

Then—

A soft brush.

His knee bumped yours under the table.

Both of you froze.

"Oof," he murmured—low and lazy—but made no move to reposition. "Must be all the walking loosening my limbs."

"Right," you responded back, voice tight. "Because it couldn't possibly be your complete lack of spatial awareness."

He smirked—but not fully. 

Outside, thunder rumbled—distant at first—then closer as storm clouds rolled in overhead. The pub hushed slightly; people turned toward the windows as rain began to patter against the glass like drops of milk being strewn by a child.

“Looks like Hogsmeade’s throwing itself a proper tantrum," he said quietly. “Kinda like you.” 

You glanced at him then—really looked—and caught him watching you again. Not smirking this time. Just… looking.

Your breath caught slightly—as if by accident—and he saw it.

Of course he saw it.

"What?" You asked sharply—the word too fast to be casual.

“Nothing," he replied. "Just wondering if y/n has an umbrella-shaped book in her collection."

"Piss off."

“See?" He mused—but there was no aggressive bite behind it. "Always with the violence when someone tries to pull a gag.”

Your heart thudded once.

The space between your knees stayed close—the warmth where his leg pressed gently into yours now undeniable under the table and spilled Butterbeer droplets.

And then—

A loud crash from across the room—a dropped tray sent tankards skittering—and suddenly reality snapped back into place like an over-tightened shoelace.

Fred pulled his leg away with exaggerated speed—as if burned—and cleared his throat loudly.

“Blimey! That bloke's gonna need more than magic to clean that up!”

You aggressively flipped through two pages to try and play your embarrassment off. “I hate how much noise you make when you’re surprised. Too bloody loud.”

“And I hate how much ink smudges on me when someone's throwing a fit,” he shot back with half-hearted sharpness.

Time seemed to move incredibly quickly when Fred made it known that it was time for him to head back. The threat of Graham potentially catching him was now no more than a speck of dust in his mind.

And since he didn't necessarily bring much with him other than the small knick knacks he bought and shoved into his jumper and pant pockets, there wasn’t much for him to gather before leaving.

He stood up from the booth, your eyes unintentionally following. He doesn’t say anything—but rather looked back at you with pursed lips, almost as if hesitant to say something.

You raised an eyebrow at his hesitation. “Why’re you stalling like that? Thinking of something creative to say for once?”

He shifted slightly, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“I’m not stalling,” he replied. “Just thought I forgot something.” And without another word, he turned and walked away from the booth.

Before he could completely vanish from your sight, you sneakily took your wand in your hand and gave it a small wave towards him—and almost immediately, he tripped on his own two feet earning a few giggles from the girls sitting around that witnessed the whole “mishap”.

He turned back to look at you on instinct—like he knew you did it (and he knew he was right), and there you sat, already expecting his gaze to be cold. Annoyed. Condescending even—and it was, only…a little softer. Foreign. 

Your small observation made your throat feel tight, but you didn’t want to feed more into it so you just brushed it off again—twirling your wand in between your fingers as you shot him a half-assed smile.

Fred huffed, glaring at you before turning around for the final time and walked out the door.

And from within and beyond that pub window,

A certain girl “tried” to immerse herself back in her reading, while a certain twin ran through downpour stricken alleys—not realizing why going home suddenly felt like walking away from it instead.

Certain thoughts were creeping up and bubbling over in the depths of your mind, but no. You can’t. You hated him.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

December rolled in quicker than you downing a hefty sum of Treacle Tarts during lunchtime just a few hours ago.

How you wished you hadn’t eaten so much—because while everyone, including your friends, were having an absolute blast dancing with each other and their partners at the ball, there you were fighting arm and toe with your dress just trying to get a breath in.

“Damn those tarts for tasting so good—” you grumbled, voice straining a bit as you adjusted the waistband of your gown for the nth time tonight.

Despite your thinning patience from the conundrum you had gotten yourself into, you wouldn’t dare deny the lavish and elegant spectacle that engulfed The Great Hall with a view that never failed to take your breath away.

And that was the Yule Ball.

The preparations always filled Hogwarts with a flurry of activity. Students buzzed about in their finery—hair coiffed, robes and gowns pressed, and smiles eager.

In your humble opinion, winter, with the honorable mention of autumn, was the one season that Hogwarts seemed to always wear beautifully. The pure white snow painted the castle’s historic dark stones, piling up on balconies and rooftops like wool on a newborn lamb, creating a familiar and deeply comforting ambience you can’t seem to get enough of.

Everything just felt welcoming in the cold. Even the classrooms with lessons you absolutely dreaded taking.

You couldn’t say the same for some people, though.

Despite having pushed the events that happened between you and Fred back at The Three Broomsticks a few months ago to the very deepest pits of your mind, you’d be lying if you said it didn’t resurface from your thoughts every now and then—especially in moments where you weren’t supposed to be thinking about anything.

Like when you lay in the silence and solitude of your bedroom.

With every bite you took during breakfast.

And with every page you caressed in the books you read before flipping it over…

He was there. As sneaky and as big an eyesore as he could ever be, even in your thoughts.

But tonight was the night where you really set your sights on steering away from Fred Weasley. Not even so much as a peek of his nauseating ginger hair would get in your line of sight today.

And maybe, just maybe, you had wished for it hard enough that the wizard gods had granted your plea. Not once did you see him on the dance floor, the tables, or even the buffet area. Save for his brother George, who was, albeit sloppily, dancing with his date on the dance floor. 

You let out a frustrated sigh, giving up on the God-forsaken wraps of clothing you called a gown and dropped your hands back on your lap as you sat on one of the chairs by the tables. You didn’t have a date to the ball, and yes—it was completely of your own volition to not go with anybody. 

Despite receiving offers from a few lovely gentlemen (much to your surprise), you’ve decided to save yourself from the hassle and declined all their proposals. It didn’t really take away much of the fun from the festivity anyways.

Your eyes danced around the ensembles of sparkles, satin, and fur—taking in the last few hours of the ball before it ends. 

That was the least you could do now seeing as how tired you were after your friends insisted on dragging you onto the dancefloor for the extra four sets of The Weird Sisters' performance.

“Whew!” A shriek of enjoyment snapped you out of your thoughts. You looked up, seeing one of your friends approaching you from the dancefloor—face flushed and all sweaty.

“You look terrible!” You yelled at her through the music—a small smile painted on your lips.

“I wouldn’t be so surprised! A real dancer, that one!” 

“Who!”

“That Ivan from Durmstrang! I couldn’t keep up!” She roared in laughter.

Your friend looked radiant under the dimming lights. The sweat that painted her skin resembled crystals as they reflected the snow in the hall, and her wide smile that reached up to her eyes was her biggest accessory.

“You’re doing great!” You exclaimed as she reached behind you for her drink—taking a huge swig before turning back to you.

“I tried!” She looked behind her, causing your eyes to follow. There her date stood, waiting for her to come back before giving the flustered damsel a small wave. “Dance with us again, won’t you?!”

You shook your head, frowning teasingly. “Absolutely not! You’ve drained me for the night, you madman!”

“Come on, live a little! That Weasley’s not here souring your mood for once, so let me be greedy with you!”

Hearing your friend mention Fred made you cringe so hard mentally your face practically concaved back into your skull.

“Your date’s getting impatient!” Exclaimed yourself, trying to wriggle out of her insistent invite. ”You know how some Durmstrang men are! And besides, I need the loo!”

“Do you need me to come with?!”

“No!” You responded quickly. “No, I’ll be fine! You go have fun! I don’t want to hear a word of your whining later about your regrets on not dancing with Ivan enough tonight!”

Your friend’s eyebrows crinkled slightly before her face returned to its normal, carefree, expression. She gave you a nod before waving goodbye, disappearing into the dance floor and back into the arms of her partner. Best prepare yourself for the stories she’d be telling you until the early hours of the morning once you’re back in your dorms later.

You let out a sigh, smoothening out the silky fabric of your gown’s skirt before getting up to walk towards the hall’s exit. 

You thought about calling it a night a few times during the event, but a few extra hours past your bedtime to enjoy a once-in-a-year festivity didn’t seem to bother your psyche too much. But you really did need the loo, though. Your dress was practically killing your insides at this point.

The walk to your destination was calm. Almost eerily serene. The silence occasionally being cut through by the sounds of your heels clacking against the stone floors, and the muffled bangs and yells of the band’s music gradually fading as you walked further away from The Great Hall. 

But now wasn’t the time to be thinking about anything again. And in these moments, he always crept in. Like some hawk stalking its prey from above—circling overhead enough to drive the poor bastard below insane.

You were scared. Scared when you realized you caught yourself unconsciously seeking his presence the whole time during the ball.

As for your reasoning, it never came to. Confused and frustrated as you may have been, you yearned for just a glimpse of him. 

Denial was an understatement and one of your closest friends—and perhaps some justified reasoning would help ease the discomfort in your chest:

Maybe your body’s just naturally conditioned now to constantly be on the lookout for him so you know when to dodge his dull remarks, or steer yourself away from his pranks that were so lame they bored you more than it angered.

Shutting your eyes tight, a groan of exasperation rumbles from deep within your throat, echoing all throughout the empty, warmly lit corridor.

You forcibly shook your head to try and desperately rid of all those absurd ideas. The bracelet on your wrist now became the next victim of your unease.

As the entrance to the restroom neared, something began to smell. 

Distinctively, gunpowder. 

You paused just short of the restroom door, nostrils flaring as the scent hit you—sharp, electric, unmistakable.

Not perfume. Not candles.

Fireworks.

And not just any kind—this was Weasley fireworks. The sort that didn’t just explode…they performed. The sort that sang opera before setting fire in a perfectly choreographed act of chaos.

Your pulse jumped.

No. He wouldn’t.

But then—

A tiny pop, like a cork from a champagne bottle—soft, cheeky—and from the corner of your eye, you saw it: a single spark spiraling up from beneath the restroom door like a curious firefly made of gold.

Then another.

And another—forming letters in midair before fizzling out with a coy little puff.

“𐌔𐌕𐌉𐌋𐌋 𐌕𐋅𐌉𐌍𐌊 𐌉'𐌌 ɠO𐌍𐌄?”

And as quick as you could’ve said the words to a levitation spell, the sparks started hurling towards you—or more rather, your feet.

Whistles and bangs of red and orange danced around your stems, causing you to let out a shrill scream as you tried your best to dodge the searing flames of color.

“Shit!" You yelped, heart lodged somewhere between your throat and your stomach.

And then a laugh—rich, low, utterly unapologetic—echoed somewhere behind you.

You spun, wand raised and cheeks flushed with the embarrassment of being caught off-guard.

There, leaning casually against an adjacent pillar, was Fred.

His hands were in his pockets—and the corners of his mouth were twitching. As if he were fighting a smile.

“You…!” Disbelief slipped through your clenched jaws. 

"Having fun yet?" He asked in an exaggerated murmur, amusement threaded through every word. "Or need I send up a few more?"

“You’re dead to me, Fred Weasley—!” A sharp sting cuts through your words like a hot knife—silencing you with enough time to have your body run cold.

You looked down to the source of the pain and saw blood. A good amount of it, rolling down one of your ankles and right onto your heels.

With scared, wide eyes, you looked up—and for the first time in seven years, tears finally appeared before Fred Weasley.

His eyes locked onto the blood staining your skin, your shoes…his prank had gone sour in the worst way imaginable.

"No, no, no—" his voice cracked. "I didn’t—I didn't mean for this—those weren't supposed to—it’s just smoke and spark!"

But it wasn't.

Somewhere along the line—a stray shard of enchanted casing, a rogue charm misfired from one of George’s untested prototypes tucked in his pocket—had sliced through illusion and flesh alike.

And now you were bleeding.  

Crying.  

In front of him—for the first time since he’d known you—and it shattered something deep inside Fred that he didn’t even know could break.

"Merlin's beard,” he whispered, "I'm sorry—I'm so bloody sorry.” 

He looked up at your face like he was drowning and only you could throw him rope—but all he saw was pain and fear.

Not anger at first...not even blame...

Just hurt.

And it wrecked him more than any curse ever could.

"I’ll get Pomfrey," he started frantically, "no—I'll carry you myself—"  

But then—

You stepped back sharply—the movement small but final—and wiped your tears with gritted teeth like they were a betrayal too far.

And without saying anything more, you pushed him away from the door and bolted. Out of the restroom, and into the corridor. Anywhere, just not anywhere near him.

You knew some stupid feelings could never be trusted.

Why, of all people, did you think Fred Weasley would ever do something nice to you for a change?

Whatever happened in The Three Broomsticks was all just banter! Rubbish! It really was just nothing!

With one heel stained with blood and the other nearly charred to a crisp, you ran faster than you ever had before. The amount of pain you felt on your ankle couldn’t compare to the weight that was pressing on you emotionally.

He actually went too far this time, and the crimson that painted your skin was what solidified everything. 

You hated Fred Weasley.

You hated Fred Weasley!

Not even a minute into your getaway did you hear louder, more frantic footsteps slowly gaining speed from behind you. You didn’t need to look behind you to know who it was—all you knew was that you wanted him gone.

“Y/n! Please, can you slow down a minute?!” His voice thundered from behind you. The echo from the corridor had him sounding like a recurring nightmare.

But you didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Each step sent fire up your ankle, a sick rhythm syncing with the frantic pulse in your throat—but the pain was nothing new. You were good at carrying weight that wasn’t yours. Had been doing it for years.

But this was different.

This wasn't just another prank gone cheeky, another smirk and “I didn't mean it, love" like butter on toast. This was blood on stone. Real blood. Yours. And Fred had been the one holding the spark.

With one foot slick with smooth, red, liquid, it was no surprise when one of your heels decided to slip off, leaving you with no choice but to discard the remaining one and continue running.

The corridor twisted sharply ahead and you veered into it like a wounded animal fleeing its hunter—your breath jagged, tears smearing through soot and fury as they fell.

You took a sharp turn, eventually finding an empty staircase. Dark, partially lit by moonlight and the stray casts of firelight from the torch lamps just down the hallway. You were tired, and it was the perfect place to stop. You didn’t even hear Fred running after you anymore.

So thinking you’d finally lost him, you dragged your body that seemed to grow heavier with each limp you took towards the steps.

And with each step, came a new tear.

And another one,

And another one.

In the distance, the Yule Ball hummed with music and laughter, golden lights shimmering like trapped fireflies across The Great Hall. But outside the warmth of that glow—on the cold stone steps leading down from an unused corridor—there you sat.

Alone.

One heel somewhere in the castle, and the other lost between pride and pain.

Tears streaked your cheeks—not just from the sharp throb in your ankle where Fred’s prank had gone wrong, but from everything else that came after.

The look on his face when he realized what happened.  

The way you pulled away before he could even say your name.  

And worse—that flicker in his eyes as you ran, like he wasn’t sure whether you were running from him or finally past all the things neither of you dared say.

Then—

Soft footsteps echoed behind you.

Slow. Careful.

And there he appeared at the top of the stairs.

Breathless. Tie loose. Hair wilder than usual.

"Oi," he whispered, voice rough but gentle, "lost property found."

He stepped down slowly—and held out a single glittering heel.

Then paused, realizing there was only one.

"...wait." His brow furrowed. "There's not two?"

You hugged your arms tighter around yourself, trying not to cry harder.

“Get away from me…” your voice shook.

Fred sighed softly and sat beside you—not too close, but close enough so his warmth brushed yours in waves under winter air.

“Just let me help—”

“I said get away from me!” Your voice—as mighty as thunder yet as broken as the cracks in lightning filled his ears.

Fred blinked, slightly taken aback by the sudden volume in your tone. And he’d been yelled at many times in his life.

“You’re…” you hiccuped, your throat not showing you any mercy by how much it made your voice quiver. “You’re like an itch I can’t scratch…!”

“Y/n—"

“You’re insufferable, Frederick Weasley!”

He flinched.

It wasn't just the use of his full name—although that stung more than it should have.

It was the venom in your voice. The hatred in those words—as if the fire he'd always sought from you had suddenly been lit and aimed towards his head.

"Y/n," Fred started again, "I can fix this. There are spells to heal wounds this size—"

"Fix this?" Your laugh was like acid. "You’ve never fixed anything. Not this time either. You only waited long enough for me to forget what you’ve done before doing it all over again!"

"Oh, like you haven’t been doing the same thing! And that's not—"

"That's exactly right," you hissed. "I only did them because of you! You think if you’d left me alone all those years ago, we’d end up like this?! Every time, you say you're sorry, then turn around a day later and do something even worse. It's an endless cycle, Fred, when does it end?! Has my trust never crossed your mind?!"

"It has!" He yelled, guilt now clipping away at what was left of him. “It has…and I probably smashed it doing those daft stunts."

A beat passed—one heavy with silence.

"...but it was supposed to be funny."  

"It went sideways real quick—and I swear I didn’t mean—"  

"Fred," you cut in sharply, eyes red-rimmed, "It wasn't just the fireworks."

Then he froze—the weight of those words settling like snowfall after a blizzard.

"You ran," he said quietly. “Not screaming mad…not cursing me into next week…” he turned slightly toward you. ”You looked at me—and ran.”

"And?" You snapped through tears. "What did you expect?"

“Something!" He leaned forward—voice faltering slightly. ”A slap! A hex! Hell—even an eye-roll would’ve been better than watching you disappear like you couldn't stand being near me anymore!”

Silence fell again, but softer this time as rain began tapping faintly against high windows above you.

Finally, he reached out onto the step behind him and pulled out both heels—clutched carefully between two fingers.

"I charmed it back together," he mumbled sheepishly, "It'll last through midnight if we hurry back before Cinderella turns into Snape," he says, throwing in a reference from some Muggle fairytale he’d heard about from Ron.

You sat there quietly. Sniffling—almost in a daze as you gazed at the new pair of shoes like you envied it. There wasn’t any blood. No soot. No trauma. Brand new like you didn't just bleed in it earlier. It had the chance to experience everything anew again.

Fred noticed, so he took initiavive—extending his arm carefully and placed the newly conjured kicks by your bare feet. 

“Look, I don’t expect you to forgive me. Not right away, anyways.” He shrugged, looking slightly defeated.

“But let me help you at least. Make an exception just for tonight and I promise I won’t bother you anymore starting tomorrow—we can both forget this ever happened. But I can’t promise you won’t be seeing me around school, though. I’d like to graduate as well.”

And without warning, a clean napkin appeared in his hand with the flick of his wand.

“Because I caused it—” he nodded towards your foot, “I know damn well I can fix it.”

An expression of reluctance stills itself on your face as you looked at Fred. His gaze expectant as he holds the small (charmed with a cleaning and healing spell) towel open in his palm. His simple gesture showed you that your ankle was the perfect fit for such a place.

But the words were on the tip of your tongue.

Get lost.

All those years you spent weighing between fighting or fleeing from him was now embedded deep into your system despite feeling the complete opposite. It was a curse—and one you never for once, had been eager to learn in the first place.

However the look in his eyes made you falter. Like leaving without patching you up first would kill him.

For a split second, something in you wondered if that was true. 

So instead you sat there in silence—blindly feeling out the atmosphere before hesitantly extending out your injured leg, then watched him take your ankle and bring it onto his lap. 

Fred sucked in a breath as he gingerly pushed up the dirty, slightly burnt hem of your skirt, trying to keep his touch feather-light against your skin.

"It's...a pretty bad cut," he muttered softly—more to himself than anything. His fingers traced along the bloodied skin, eyes tight with quiet focus as he inspected it for pieces of those charmed casings. He was almost shaking. Call it guilt, shame, or fear, but he was all of those things right now. 

He paused, hands hovering over you—hesitantly, like he had finally realized that you were something fragile. Breakable.

“This might hurt. I need you to stay still.”

His touch was gentle as he began to wipe at the blood with the towel—cleaning up his mess with trembling hands.

It was in the silence of his concentration where you really got a good look at the man in front of you. Not fleeting like those moments where he’d run past you so quickly after charming your notes into a pile of complete gibberish—or those times when your vision would be so clouded with anger his face just completely blurred into a whirlwind of every single grievance you’ve held against him.

But a proper look this time.

Fred Weasley was sitting in front of you, dabbing your wound with the cloth he had conjured up, and was quiet for once. Concentrated. 

Gentle. 

A notion so new and completely incomprehensible to you up until this moment.

You noticed the delicate wrinkle in between his eyebrows as he fought to keep himself steady. To not press onto the cut too hard. And the way his lips parted ever so slightly as his eyes danced around your skin with a gaze that had every possible emotion known to man swirling beneath it.

With your observation, something in your chest felt off shortly after. Almost enough to pass off as a bunch of Cornish Pixies playing bouncy house inside your lungs.

It churned in the pits of your stomach and made your hands feel all tingly.

Every accidental brush of his fingers against your skin as he cleaned you off left a feeling similar to electricity in its wake. 

You felt your heart literally skip a beat. Palpitations, perhaps? Or the growing unease when you thought of the impossible actually happening? 

Your vulnerability was as new to Fred as the hairdo George opted for himself for the ball. It was your stillness as you simply sniffled away the stings of his undoing.

You didn’t nag at him.

Or yell.

Or hit him with some sort of retaliation that would have his skin burning red and painfully for days.

A shame it would be for his pride to say it aloud; but your tears had made you as beautiful as he’d ever seen you before. The natural flush on your cheeks made him wonder what you’d look like if someone were to actually make you blush, and the way your lips were painted with the most delicate shade of reddish pink—oh, he was done for. 

Fred felt himself stop breathing for the shortest second, letting out a small cough as it erupts from his torso to try and appear casual about all this. Like he wasn’t just battling his own fear and defensive rebuttal about you in his mind in real time—but there was no denying it now.

This was his repentance. The only punishment he’d ever welcome with open arms.

He finally saw now that—

He liked you. 

It was as simple as that.

Fred finished wrapping your foot with a quiet charm, his fingers lingering a second too long.

“There,” he said, voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “All patched up.”

But neither of you moved.

He stayed sat in front of you—hands hovering near your ankle like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to let go. Like letting go meant admitting this moment was over and whatever just happened between you would vanish into the same silence that had once held it together.

You swallowed hard.

Why isn’t he leaving?

Why do you not want him to?

His eyes flicked up—slowly—and caught yours. Not joking, and no pretenses. Just…looking at you like he’d only ever seen you now. Like the truth had been there all along, buried under pranks and insults and years of pretending not to care…

And now it was uncovered.

Real.

Raw.

"I shouldn't have run that joke," he whispered, thumb brushing ever so lightly over the edge of the bandage—a touch so soft it made your breath hitch— "but I’m glad I ran after you.”

A moment passed—one where time seemed to forget its job—then Fred stood abruptly—as if catching himself before saying something even more dangerous and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

"Anyway," he said quickly, voice regaining its usual pitch before cracking slightly, "don’t go making a habit outta getting hurt, ‘cause I’m not showing up.”

He tried for a smile—but failed halfway through.

"...Even though I probably will."

You didn’t answer right away—just watched him shift from foot to foot like standing still hurt more than running.

Outside, the storm began to fade to soft whispers against glass instead of fists pounding walls—as if even nature had held its breath waiting for this moment too.

Fred Weasley turned away with red ears and took one last look at your shoes.

Both clean now,

Both whole—

Maybe like tomorrow.

He took the first steps toward what could be your final moments together, and without thinking, your body moved on its own—arm shooting out, and fingers closed tightly around his wrist.  

The air stilled, and time seemed to pause. It wasn’t just contact—it was resistance, a silent plea wrapped in a single touch.

Don’t go.

He froze halfway through a step—his mind racing on whether you actually did just cling to him or was it some deluded illusion he wished so badly to happen his body acted on itself?

I mean—you? Willingly touch him so comfortably?  

Fred didn't look at you immediately. His eyes apparently finding his feet more interesting than the girl behind him whom he’d tormented and was indiscreetly telling him not to leave her.

Your lips parted, his name a breath away from slipping from your mouth. 

But nothing came out. 

You were afraid that if you so much as muttered something, the tone would give away everything that’s been left unsaid.

Your fingers tightened just slightly around his wrist. Not enough to pull, but enough to tell the man all he needed to know.

Fred didn’t move.

Didn't breathe.

The corridor stretched long and silent behind you both, the lamps flickering like hesitant stars watching a moment too fragile to survive daylight.

Slowly—so slowly it hurt—he turned his head just enough for one eye to catch yours over his shoulder. Just... waiting.

Like he was afraid that if he looked fully at you, you’d vanish—or worse, confirm what he'd already felt blooming in his chest since the Yule Ball.

You weren’t really okay with losing him.

And neither was he.

The air between you hummed—not with magic this time—but something quieter, deeper…older than pranks or potions or schoolyard dares.

Your lips parted again—

But instead of words?

A shaky breath slipped out. Quiet. Unraveled.

His name died on your tongue once more, but your hand didn't release him, and your eyes didn't look away.

And somewhere beneath all the wreckage of hate and fireworks and bleeding ankles, it all started to come together.

Fred Weasley closed his eyes—and leaned back into the truth without saying a word.

He wasn't walking away tonight. Not when you were holding on.

So instead of pulling free, he turned around fully. One slow revolution of regret and reckless hope.

He followed through with the natural pull of your arm, slowly walking back to the steps where you sat before taking a seat beside you.

And then it was quiet. Quieter than quiet had ever been the whole night.

Neither of you moved, and neither looked away. Both hearts seemingly competing on who’s to burst from who’s chest first.

After what felt like a millenia of intense eye contact, Fred finally made the first move and cupped your face with a cool, gentle hand. The action was so sudden you had allowed it to happen before you could flinch or fight or remember how much easier it was to lie than feel...

"...say it," he whispered, voice breaking at the edges. "Even if it's just once."  

“Let me hear it."

And there in the dim glow of Hogwarts’ last candlelight, you sat trembling…

Not from the pain anymore, but from how close love had gotten. From it being spoken aloud in a language built entirely on jokes and petty insults.

But love isn’t always spoken first in words anyway.

Sometimes, it starts as blood on stone.

A vandalized schedule.

Or a bag swung at your head with full force.

Two stubborn students learn that running stops being fun when someone mattered more than the escape.

“Fred…” you whispered, eyes searching his with a gaze completely different than the cold and sharp looks you’d send his way before.

And for a fleeting moment, you could’ve sworn you felt him tremble when he heard his own name slip past your lips so gently the way it did. It wasn’t said with the intention of slicing through him like you’d always intended it to.

And his eyes. Oh, his eyes, why have you never noticed how much depth they held? They weren’t shallow and filled with evil like you’d always thought. They were brown. Ah, brown! That was Fred's eye color.

He had you in a daze. One where you didn’t even realize you were in. So much so you didn’t notice him slowly beginning to lean in.

With his brows low and furrowed, jaw clenched, and hands colder than death itself, there was no denying how wrong your minds were making this feel despite the overwhelming magnetic pull between you.

Your breath catches in your throat as your eyes barely fluttered shut. Fred pressed your foreheads together and your lips brushed—just barely—until he pulled away with a shaky exhale and dropped his head onto your shoulder.

“What are we doing…” he muttered to himself. The weight of both his words and head were grounding in a way where it snapped you back to reality.

But nothing more was to be said on your part. You were done trying to explain or intervene with words. And Fred would be the first to know.

Your hand, despite trembling like it had a mind of its own, reached over to where Fred was resting his head on your shoulder and cupped his cheek right below his ear. And without resisting, he allowed you to bring his face back up into your view again.

The expression on his face was unreadable—yet too soft to call anger. It was pensive. On the brink of desperation. With eyebrows scrunched and slightly slanted with eyes that were rimmed with dew, it was painfully obvious he had held himself back from doing the unthinkable.

So now you took the lead. Leaning in, but not so boldly. It was every drop as hesitant and nervous as the first years entering Hogwarts for the first time.

Your lips hovered inches from each other for a just few seconds, before they barely brushed. Fred closed the distance with nothing more than a soft press, but it was enough to ignite your whole bodies.

The kiss wasn’t like fireworks or the stories you’d read as a child.

No bangs, no sparkles, and definitely no birdsong.

Just warmth—gentle, quiet—spreading from your lips down to your toes like sunlight peeking through lace curtains. A single breath shared between two people who’d spent years coming for each other’s throats.

Fred’s hands trembled against your face, calloused fingers catching the curve of your cheekbone as he deepened it just slightly, but barely there—as if afraid you’d vanish if he pressed too hard.

And maybe you would’ve if it hadn’t felt this right.

One heartbeat passed. Then another. 

Silence wrapped around you both—the kind only found after storms end and before birds returned to sing.

When he pulled back slowly, you didn't open your eyes right away—afraid movement would shatter it all into dust and denial again.  

His voice came low—rougher than before—and so close his next words brushed against your still-tingling lips.

"Still hate me?"

You finally opened your eyes and met his stare head-on. The usual mischief drowned in something deeper now. 

Softer…You.

And instead of answering?

You leaned forward and kissed him again.

No words needed.

None true enough anyway.

Because hate doesn't linger with trembling hands and shared breath in moonlit corridors...

Hate doesn't rewrite the past with one touch...

And most importantly?

Hate certainly doesn't start feeling suspiciously like coming home.

“You’re not half bad," you say, a small smile finally settling itself on your lips for the first time genuinely tonight.

“Oh, don't go soft on me now.”

“Fuck off...”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

≡;- ꒰ °bonus!!! ꒱

It started with tea.

Not flowers. Not jokes. Not enchanted love notes that sang horribly off-key to make you laugh.

Just tea.

A simple cup—steaming, carefully held in both hands—offered to you the next morning by a boy who looked like he hadn’t slept at all.

Fred.

He stood there in The Great Hall before your house table, early enough that only a few scattered students were about. His hair flat on one side from what looked like hours spent lying awake on a pillow too hard for comfort.

His robes were wrinkled, and his eyes—usually alight with mischief or laughter—were heavy and soft, searching yours like he was afraid something had changed despite all that happened the night before.

You slowly dropped your book and fork—both of which were simultaneously nestled in your hands after noting his presence, and looked up at him.

"You’re up early," you said quietly—words far from unkind.

"Couldn't sleep," he admitted, voice rough as if sandpaper lined his throat. "Too busy thinking about how much of an absolute tit I was until last night."

You didn't answer right away—just took the cup from him slowly—the warmth seeping into your fingers before it reached your heart. 

You gave him a small nod.

Not forgiveness yet…

But not dismissal either.

And Fred? He clung to it like oxygen after nearly drowning.

He didn’t follow you everywhere—not openly—but somehow always seemed to be nearby when needed.

The next day at lunch—you opened your bag and found a pair of soft wooly socks inside. Hand-knitted (terribly), in a burnt orange color with one toe suspiciously larger than the other. 

A note tucked inside it read:  

“SO YOᑌᖇ ᗩᑎKᒪE STᗩYS ᗯᗩᖇᗰ. GEOᖇGE ᕼEᒪᑭEᗪ (ᑕᑌᖇSEᗪ ᗰOᖇE TIᗰES Tᕼᗩᑎ I ᑕOᑌᒪᗪ ᑕOᑌᑎT). ᗯEᗩᖇ IT Oᖇ ᗷᑌᖇᑎ IT—I’ᒪᒪ STIᒪᒪ KᑎOᗯ."

You wore it under your shoes that afternoon when Madam Pomfrey cleared you for walking again—and Fred just “happened” to pass by outside the hospital wing carrying two butterbeers (in his words, “in case someone needed sugar,”) and fell into step right beside you without saying a word.

Until four minutes later when he mumbled,  

"Still hate me? Be honest."

A pause was all it took from you for the Weasley to weigh the odds of him biting all of his fingernails off, or just deciding to not exist altogether.

"...slightly less than yesterday," you responded, trying to pass it off as a joke.

It wasn’t much, but Fred grinned anyway—as if those words alone had healed more than any spell ever could have done.

And so continued days filled not with pranks, but quiet gestures.

A textbook levitating gently onto your lap during Charms because “Your arms looked tired.”  

Him silencing Lee mid-petty comeback towards another girl because “we don’t do that here anymore.”

Sitting across from each other every evening in the library or the Astronomy Tower—one badly reading poetry aloud while pretending not to care if she listened—and one pretending she didn't hang onto every awkward syllable anyway.

No grand speeches.

No dramatic declarations beneath starlit-stricken skies.

Just presence.

Consistency.

Gentleness and adjustment where only chaos and spells gone sideways used to be.

Then came Valentine’s Day—The Great Hall had become strangled by pink ribbons and lovesick owls dropping roses overhead—and nestled in front of you between servings of Cauldron Cakes sat a tiny velvet box tied shut with red string shaped strangely familiar.

Inside was no jewel,

No flashy trinket,

But something simple.

A small silver band with something engraved around its inside rim—with two barely visible words etched so finely they could only be read up close.

"𝑇𝑜 𝑦/𝑛."

When Fred finally approached later with cheeks pinker than Ginny’s rose-colored jumper—he didn’t say anything dramatic.

Just leaned down slightly near where you sat stunned, and whispered simply.

"I envied the bracelet you wore that night for being so close to you all the time—so I’d rather see something of mine on you instead… If y’want."

Silence stretched long again…

Long enough for him to begin fidgeting nervously after pulling away.

Long enough for him start wondering whether this time—he'd overreached too far again.

But then soft fingertips curled gently against his palm as your hand found his, squeezing just once before bringing him closer slowly… Deliberately…

As if testing each other’s trust inch by fragile inch before finally whispering back—

"I wouldn’t mind."

Fred exhaled shakily—a smile blooming slow but true across his face—one full of hope instead of doubt.

Your breaths lingered—until they didn’t. Meshing into one soft yet heady kiss that showed how much you both had craved for each other since that night.

Fred had deepened the kiss (much to your embarrassment), so all of The Great Hall could see—and believe me when I say what a spectacle and cause for discussion you two had become.

Stray remarks about how “the third Hogwarts war had finally ended!”—or how big of a 180 you two had taken from practically setting each other’s robes on fire on a random Wednesday, to a sickeningly sweet couple that practically leaked honey wherever they walked. 

However, it did take a lot of time before getting to where you were in terms of intimacy.

Sex was something you both discussed and decided to put off until the time was right—but other than that, it was still quite… chaotic.

Fred spent a good three months stressing about how he’d find the right time to tell you, but before he could worry any more, a small mishap—or perhaps miracle during Potions solved that problem for him.

He ended up abruptly sputtering out a “Merlin, you’re lucky I love you.” After you so foolishly spilled a hefty amount of a potion he knew you always perfected with ease on his uniform which shrunk them nearly three sizes down. 

It wasn’t your fault that he knew all the ways to fluster you. Especially during class and in front of Snape too, no less.

You, on the other hand, weren’t so fortunate when it came down to taking your time with your “I love you’s” to him. 

It took you twice as long, and Fred (though appearing nonchalant), was finally bursting at the seams just to hear you say it back—though he never pressured you into doing so.

Him now proudly bearing the status of being your boyfriend didn’t take away the tricks he always had up his sleeves for you. Only now it was more for your laughs rather than your angry yelling. 

One afternoon during your vacant period in between your classes, he asked you to meet him in the courtyard to “help” him with some lessons he couldn’t seem to get a grasp of—and with no objections, you did so willingly.

But only if you’d seen the way his eyes flashed with mischief while that devious smirk of his grew on his lips, you could’ve braced yourself better before Fred decided to push you down onto the warm grass, giving you an advanced apology kiss before he began tickling you in all the right places.

You squealed, legs frantically kicking as you attempted to pry his hands off by twisting your body away.

“Say it!” He exclaimed, his fingers magnetically drifting to where you were your weakest.

“Say what?! Fred, stop!” Your face flushed with pools of red from how hard you were laughing.

“Say that you love me!”

“What?! You’re crazy!”

“‘I love you’ doesn’t sound like that!”

“Fred!!!”

“I know my name!!”

“OKAY, OKAY, I LOVE YOU FREDERICK WEASLEY, NOW LET ME GO!!!”

A wide, victorious grin took over his face as soon he finally got those three little words out of you.

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a quick, tender kiss before pulling back again, eyes still shining with triumph.

"Only took ya six months and a full-on tickle attack. Now was that so hard?" He teased, propping himself up on his elbows over you.

“You’re a madman.”

“Yeah, a madman that’s head over heels for you.”

Admittedly, his little stunt did put a chip in your mood the remainder of the day—sulking because your chest was hurting from how much he’d made you laugh. 

But for once, your anger didn’t feel so heavy and deep-rooted anymore.

Because forgiveness might take time,

But love?

Love already knew your names.

And years later, when your grandchildren asked how Granddad Weasley won Grandma over, they’d always hear:

“Oh,” the old man would chuckle, squeezing your hand tightly even now, “she hated me fair well at first.”

summary: A young rivalry blooms between you and the supposedly "quieter" twin of the Weasley family's sons. Despite the teeth-grating relationship you two had grown to have being quite new, things got heated up pretty quickly. Now stuck because of each other in detention with no real way out but getting through with it—burning down the classroom felt better than being stuck in a room with George Weasley.

c.w: enemies to slightly less enemies, characters are aged up so no minors, hogwarts university au, forced proximity, george the og rage-baiter, contains "colorful" language and harsh words, teasing, gets physical, angry kissing, a bit of blood, shorter in length, cute ending (?)

w/c: 4.4k

Click,

Clack,

Click,

Clack…

The sound of your shoes echoed throughout the blue-hued, cold, and empty hall—begrudgingly bearing the role of a clock that ticked hauntingly to your inevitable demise. 

That demise being the hours you were about to spend in detention. One that wasn’t supposed to be yours, and one that was the fourth time this week.

Why you ask?

Simple.

You set fire to George Weasley’s robes. 

On purpose.

“He deserved it,” you mentally justified. 

The ginger prick knew better than to trick you into putting your hand in a Chinese Chomping Cabbage’s mouth earlier during Advanced Herbology, convincing you that you had missed a step during Professor Sprout’s briefing.

You may also be thinking: “Why the sudden hostility?” 

Only, it wasn’t exactly sudden… A few months now to be exact. And though your rivalry with George was still quite young, things picked up pretty quickly.

He was relentless, and quite frankly, so were you. 

You weren’t going down without a fight.

When you first took notice of the twins during your first year at Hogwarts, the person that stood out almost immediately to you was Fred Weasley. 

Like a sore thumb, he always did.

Loud, obnoxious, witty, and undoubtedly a class act prankster. Who wouldn’t take notice of him first?

And there constantly hovering over beside him like a stray balloon (or a ghost, rather) of his own carbon copy—though not as loud and sharp-tongued—was his younger brother George. 

You were well aware when people around the school say that mischief was embedded into the very core of the twins’ genetic make-up—but you observed George to be the quieter one of the two. Never really the type to make a grand entrance or finish things with a bang or snarky remark like his older twin, so you thought it safe to assume he’d stay out of your business despite the both of you being classmates, just because he felt a bit more reserved.

And boy how the stars proved you so wrong.

The consequences of your naive assumption now lay heavy on your shoulders as the large, dark, wooden door to The Dark Arts classroom loomed over your figure like death incarnate as you stood before it. 

You knew another lonesome and boring night was ahead of you—sitting alone in your cool-to-the-arse table, listlessly fiddling with whatever was in your view just to pass the time.

With fingers delicately curled and hovering over the dense surface preparing to knock… you hesitated.

Why would you need to knock if you'd be spending your time alone, anyway? Professor Snape did say he had some urgent matters to attend to. No use being formal now.

A small sigh left your lips before your palm flattened itself against the old and polished wood—giving it a firm push to open the door.

The acquired smell of The Dark Arts room immediately hit your face, sending you into a montage of whether to cringe or find comfort in its notes of ink, something medicinal smelling, and dust.

Assuming you really were alone, you walked into the room with no real care. Body slumped, and face contorted in an unlady-like frown. 

A slightly creepy, confusingly smelly classroom was the last thing your tired body needed for today.

But your internal conflict was unpleasantly cut short when a small—short, and grating voice from across the room caressed your ear.

“Great.”

You paused in your step, eyes widened just enough to stare back at the ones looking right through to your own.

He who was sitting at the farthest table, hunched over and looking back at you with an expression so utterly unreadable it was already infuriating.

George Weasley.

You guessed the bastard thought the same thing when he walked into detention. He thought he’d be alone too.

“Absolutely not,” you voiced your displeasure aloud, swiftly turning on your toes and pushed at the door again in your attempt to leave the room.

But only, the door wouldn’t budge. This had Snape’s doing written all over it. He knew one of you would try to leave before the allotted time eventually.

“Damn you, Snivellus!” You whispered sharply under your breath, sucking in a quick inhale before maneuvering your body back around to face the classroom.

“As if I weren’t claustrophobic enough already,” George professed as you pointedly decided to ignore his lame comment, stiffly walking over to your desired seat (the one farthest from him too, of course).

He let out a scoff, a smirk tugging on the corner of his lips as he watched you sit as far away from him as physically possible.

Which really was only two desks down from his seat on the first row.

"Glad to know I'm such a delight to be around," he murmured sarcastically, crossing his arms over his chest and regarded you with a condescending gaze. "What, afraid I might bite?"

You slammed your bag down with a little more force than necessary, the dull thud echoing through the quiet, chilled room. George didn’t flinch—just watched you from under his ginger fringe, one eyebrow arched like he was watching a particularly dramatic play.

“No, but you should be afraid of me putting a sock in it if you don’t shut your trap,” you responded lowly, keeping your gaze ahead of you.

George let out a low whistle.

“A little more pissy today than usual, eh? Aren’t you glad to be in here with your charmingly good ol’ matey, Georgie?”

Ugh, you could just feel him fluttering his eyelashes at you.

You didn’t look at him. Instead, you methodically pulled out a book and quill to finish up the last of your essay that was still due in two days—and Merlin’s beard, even your own handwriting looked angry.

“Please,” you snapped, “I’d rather serve detention with a Blast-Ended Skrewt than endure your brand of charm.”

George let out a mock gasp. “And here I thought we’d do a bit of bonding over our mutual hatred for Snape’s greasy hair.”

“Bonding?” You finally turned to give him a full glare. “The only thing we’re doing right now is being in the same space against our wills.”

He scoffed. “Oh believe me, princess, I don’t wanna be in here with you any more than you do me.”

“Don’t act so innocent now, you ignorant mutt” —you slammed your book shut— ”it’s almost as if you’re not the reason we’re in this bloody mess.”

A look of dumfoundedness crossed George’s face. With that, he straightened his posture and tilted his head mockingly at you.

“Alright, miss charming nicknames, you didn’t have to listen to me then though, did’ya?”

“You told me I missed a step Professor Sprout had instructed us to do…” you muttered through gritted teeth—the volume of your voice increasing with the growing irritation flaring up at his nonchalance.

“Your fault for being so gullible.”

That certainly tipped you over. You were already on edge the whole day. 

A frustrated groan erupted from deep within your chest. Your eyebrows furrowed so deeply that your forehead nearly retained the creases from doing so. The veins on your neck felt like they were about to pop like freshly opened Whizzbees.

And it was all. because. of him.

Some prick who’d only decided to enter your life a few months ago and decided to turn it miserable.

With a quick flick of your wand, the book you had barely written anything in before he decided to tick you off for the nth time today, went flying over at lightning speed to George.

Specifically, the one thing he and his brother took pride in the most. The source of their, and you quote, “devilishly good looks.”

His face.

“That’ll shut him up,” said yourself inside your head.

Now, no victory should be celebrated too early as some may say, because what you’d forgotten, was that the man was a star player on the Quidditch team. A Beater, no less.

Certainly didn’t chase around much faster dodges like the Golden Snitch, but Bludgers both rogue and calculated, seen and unseen were always on his radar. 

Sending them to and from players were his strong suit, so it would do you best not to doubt his skills at maneuvering himself away from a mere charmed book sent by some angry girl he seemed to get a knack out of by teasing.

“Woo! Temper, temper, darling!” He hooted, reeling his head upright after a close call with a potential concussion. “Wouldn’t want Snape docking more points from your house now, do you!”

“Go to hell, Weasley!” His name shot through your lips like an arrowhead laced with poison.

“You’re already in it though! With me!”

“Don’t be too kind to yourself now,” you sneered—twisting your body to face him. “Hell is much kinder than being stuck in a room with you in it!”

“Oh, ouch. Truly,” he flatly responded, batting his pretend-teary eyes at you. 

George twirled his wand in between his fingers—casual, and very much vexing—flicking it with practiced ease just enough to send the book you sent flying over to his head back at you. 

Not fast enough to actually cause harm, but more to catch you off guard.

And thankfully, you still had your wits about you. Dodging it just as quickly with one swift shift of your torso before shooting him another glare.

A glare he most definitely saw, and one he so adored egging out of you.

“Fucking arsewipe…” you cursed at the cocky bastard under your breath.

“Thought we were playing a bit of catch and throw,” says George, smirking at you from over his shoulder as he stared at you sideways. “Teamwork makes the dream work, love.” 

Your eye twitched.

You flicked your wand again, this time levitating the inkwell on Snape’s desk. It wobbled unsteadily above George’s head, dark liquid sloshing like a storm cloud over his ginger pride and joy.  

“Tell me, Weasley,” you purred, voice low and dangerous, “how do you feel about waterfalls? Specifically…one made of two-month-old frog bile ink?”  

His smirk didn’t falter—it grew, like a year-long planned prank gone right. He knew you didn’t have the balls to actually do it. 

“Ohhh, I’m shaking. Though I’ve got to say—you’re really selling the ‘feral’ aesthetic tonight.” He leaned back in his chair again, arms crossed over his stomach. “Adorable.”  

“Know what else is adorable?” You tilted your head sweetly, turning the small glass container side-to-side as if threatening to spill. “You with frog spit in your hair.”  

Realization hit George causing his grin to drop like a Bludger to the face. You might actually be serious.

“If you’ve got a brain in there somewhere, I suggest you use it,” he muttered. “Don’t.”

It wasn’t that you were actively seeking more trouble than you were already in—and being trapped in the same room as the man you weren’t exactly on good terms with hardly seemed ideal for pulling off something as risky as dyeing his infamous ginger hair black (and inevitably smelly).

But the way he looked while telling you not to was too tempting to pass up. It seemed like a good moment to royally piss him off this time around.

Let’s just call it…avenging your pride.

And with one gentle bend of your wrist, the inkwell tipped to the side fully—spilling its contents of dark, deathly smelly liquid onto George’s hair. The distinct ginger hue stood out in stark contrast to the gloominess of the writing ink, its vibrant color illuminating the otherwise dark fluid.

The thick liquid fell in slow streams over his head, running over the nape of his neck while a good chunk of it slid down his forehead and onto his face and uniform. Didn’t take long for the classroom to begin reeking of bile.

You stared triumphantly at him—but deep inside (though being too prideful to admit it), a smidgeon of fear settled within your gut at what you’d done.

That maybe—just maybe…you went a little too far…?

“Well, at least I'm not the one riddled with that God awful smell,” you mentally noted, seeing as you hated getting dirty.

Your eyes continued to observe him.

Head down. Unmoving. As if accepting his fate and allowing the ink to ruin what was left of his dignity.

After what felt like a bajillion hours (though really it was only a minute), George slowly reeled his head back up and immediately met his gaze with yours.

And as quickly as you’d hid your wand under your jumper’s sleeve to try and at least save that from his wrath, his eyes darkened just as fast.

“George—” 

“Accio!” His angered voice thundered off the classroom walls like two rogue Bludgers colliding against one another. 

Chairs and tables alike parted to make way for your own desk to clumsily be dragged right next to a fuming George Weasley.

The moment you found yourself suddenly so much closer to him, you had the fleeting notion that you really did make a grave mistake.

But you were stubborn. You were angry. You were pissed. It's why you'd hurled your book into the man's face and doused him in ink.

And it's why you found your chin raised defiantly and lips pressed into a firm line as you stared directly at his livid expression.

His nostrils flared with labored breaths through his nose as his dark, narrowed eyes pierced right back through yours—daring you to speak again.

“Didn’t know he was capable of expressing anything other than mockery,” you observed mentally.

The predicament scared you. Well—it should've scared you, but by some miracle or bravery given by Merlin or Godric Gryffindor himself, you felt unrepentant. The feeling of wanting to push George’s buttons more than he did yours was gnawing at your morals.

"Y’know," George drawled, leaning in so close you could count the flecks in his furious brown eyes. The ink was still dripping from his hair onto the desk with tiny plinks, but he didn’t seem to care. “You’re pushing your luck, you sodding brat.”

“Am I?” You countered, leaning back to slightly create some distance between you. “I’d say I’ve done you a bit of a service. You look good with smelly black hair. Takes the edge off of having to look at that blinding mess you called ginger.”

You didn’t fail to notice the slightest twitch in his eye.

“Yeah?” He asked—tone more threatening than inquisitive. “Best share my blessings then. After all, frog ink’s pretty valuable, and I’m always one for surprises.”

His voice dropped to a dangerous purr. "For example—did you know if you vanish someone’s eyebrows, they grow back green? Or that frog bile ink stains lips worse than hair?" He twirled his wand between his fingers again—slow, deliberate. "Care to test those theories, darling? Because I do."  

“I’d rather not,” you said, face contorting into a grimace at the pungent smell fuming off of George—pressing your index finger against his chest and pushed him away firmly. “Unlike you, I actually have a reputation to uphold. And I hate getting dirty, so.”

A wicked grin flashed on his lips as he leaned back and flicked a droplet of ink at your nose. "That count as dirty to you?"  

You recoiled with a hiss, scrubbing at your nose with your sleeve as George's grin widened into something downright predatory. 

"Absolutely filthy," you finally replied through gritted teeth, voice sharp. "In more ways than one."

"Oops," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Guess we’re both looking a little edgy now, aren’t we?" He flicked another droplet—this time aiming for your pristine robes.  

"You—!" You leaped for his hand, but he jerked back just in time, laughing that infuriatingly rich laugh of his. The kind that made people turn heads in the Great Hall (and made you want to wear ear plugs for the rest of the day. Or week. Or school year).  

"Oh c'mon," he teased, dodging another grab with the agility of a Seeker avoiding a Bludger. "Where’s that fire from earlier? Don't tell me you're scared of a little mess?" His eyes glittered as he paused just long enough to let you get dangerously close—before suddenly dipping two fingers into the ink puddle on his desk and swiping them down your cheek like war paint.  

"There." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper as you froze mid-reach, horrified. "Now we match."

You stayed frozen for another good five seconds before your eyes, wide with surprise at his audacity, slowly shifted to look at him. 

“You’ve really done it now, Weasley..." you muttered, voice low and shaky before finally lunging at him with your whole body—throwing yourself over your desk which caused your seat to topple over from how aggressive you reached for his robes.

George wasn’t really the type to start throwing punches with a girl. And while he was occasionally one for brawls, he wouldn’t stoop that low. He’d probably earn a smack behind the head from his mother before he could even lift a hand directed towards a lady’s face.

But this was different. He pushed back that hesitance and made way for his indifference towards you. 

He fought back.

Chaos erupted in the Dark Arts classroom as you both tumbled to the floor in a flurry of ink-stained robes and tangled limbs. George barely had time to yelp "Bloody hell—" before you were wrestling like a pair of feral kneazles, knocking over Snape's carefully organized potion cabinets with a spectacular crash.  

"Oi! That’s my ear, you banshee—!" George wheezed, half-laughing as he tried (and failed) to pry your hands off his shirt collar.  

"So now you’ve got manners!?" You snarled back, kneeing him squarely in the ribs—only for him to roll with it and flip you both over, pinning your wrists down with ink-smeared hands.  

For one breathless second, panting and glaring up at him through the black streaks on your face, something electric crackled between you two—something that made his smirk soften into an odd little smile.  

"...admit it," he murmured suddenly, thumbs tracing idle circles on your pulse points (to annoy or distract, who knows). "This is way more fun than homework."  

You headbutted him square in the nose.

THUD.

George reeled back instantly clutching at his now-bleeding nose before squinting down at you, half impressed—but mostly furious.

"Oh yeah? That's how we're playing?"

“Good. You finally caught up,” you chuckled, bracing yourself as another round of amateur wrestling ensued.

Past grievances and other things you hated about the ginger prat came spewing out of your mouth like Puking Pastilles consumed by somebody mistaking them for snacking sweets.

Strained your vocal chords, and most definitely made George’s ears ring.

“You really are a banshee!” George struggled to exclaim through your palm mushed flat against his cheek as you attempted to keep him away while he continued wrestling you onto the table.

“Seize the moment, am I right, George?! Like how you kept seizing every chance at showing me and the rest of the school just how shallow-minded you are with your dirty, childish, tricks!”

“Says the oh-so-smart lassie who decided it was a good idea to jinx my broomstick into jelly during my Quidditch match!”

“You know you deserved it for transfiguring my school shoes into toads earlier that morning!!!”

“Always with the excuses with you!”

“Admit it!” You leaned a bit closer to his face. “Admit that you’re nothing more than a manchild!”

“SHUT UP!!!”

“GEORGE WEASLEY IS NOTHING MORE THAN A SPINELESS, MAN—” 

But before any more profanities about what was left of George’s pride came rolling out your mouth, the most impossible scenario had managed to take place.

He kissed you.

You finally got on his last nerve.

It wasn't gentle. It was payback. And revenge was never sweet with George Weasley.

A punishing kiss. No desperation—all teeth.

His fingers knotted into your ink-slick strands, yanking just enough to tilt your head where he wanted it while yours clawed at his robes like you still couldn’t decide between shoving him off or hauling him closer.  

He managed to catch your bottom lip in-between his teeth with a sharp nip that made you gasp against him (the taste of iron bloomed on your tongue, but he didn’t pull back). 

The teacher's desk behind you took a good amount of you and the Weasley’s blows as George half-lifted, half-shoved you onto its surface without breaking contact. Test sheets scattered onto the floor and under messy palms, gripping waist—hips—thighs—any leverage really—all while Snape's rarest ingredients rattled ominously nearby… 

When he finally wrenched back and left your lungs burning, his smirk had regained its usual swagger despite ragged breaths.

"...told ya." A thumb swiped some blood off your split lip before offering it to you mockingly like some twisted trophy. "Way more fun than homework."

You didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe. 

I mean, how could you?

You just shared the most aggressive, most angriest kiss with the man you’d sworn to hate and keep any bodily contact from just a few seconds earlier.

Now your bottom lip’s bleeding from him practically gnawing on it too hard, and you reeked of frog fluids.

Stunned would be an understatement and putting a shame on whatever it was you were feeling at the moment.

Liking him wouldn’t be so simple as locking lips. You’d need at least a millenia to even form a good, coherent thought about George.

Remind yourself to keep a note to spend at least two hours in the bath, washing off and scrubbing all the remnants of tonight and any trace of him on your body—

“HEY!” 

George’s frantic yell cut through your array of conflicting thoughts. 

You flinched, blinking a few times before your gaze finally settled on his. Your mouth had been slightly ajar this whole time, so anyone would think something would come out sooner or later—which was what George had been anticipating after pulling away from the heated rendezvous you two had shared earlier.

An insult,

A snarky remark or comment telling him how much of a  dick he is…

Instead he was met with silence and a girl that looked like she’d been kissed by a Dementor instead.

“You’re scary when you’re like that, y’know…” George drawled about your trance-like state, balancing his weight on one foot after stepping back a bit to give you some room.

And after what felt like forever, breath abruptly filled your lungs, snapping you back into reality with a small gasp which meant…

Remembering the kiss again.

Your body acted accordingly—forcefully shoving George away before attempting to get down from the teacher’s table, only to end up stumbling on your ragged, shoe-print robes like a newborn deer headed straight for floortown.

The back of your head and arse hit the cold, hard surface with a great and muffled thud. And if that wasn’t painful enough, the upside-down image of George looking down at you was the first thing you were met with when you opened your eyes after the impact.

A less-than-subtle cringe was painted on his face when he opened his mouth to speak.

“Comfortable?” He asked, tone slightly mocking.

You didn’t respond. Just stared at him.

“Sooo, you’re just gonna stay there…?” He inquired again, but with less bite.

“Yes, and you're about to be much colder than this floor if you say one more word,” you finally responded. Flatly, which was fitting to the darkening void starting to take up your already still heart.

More so now that you realize how much trouble you’re about to be in when Snape comes back. Look at the mess you and George made!

Rita Skeeter ought to write a draft about the fascinating amount of pauses that happened thus far between the two of you.

A beat passed—and then another, and George moved. Not away from you, but not too close either. It was quite immature of him really, to get down and lay just the opposite side of you.

Not next to you, but rather had his body positioned in a way where your eyes would meet as soon as you both decided to turn your heads toward one another.

None of you said anything. Maybe too tired now that the tension has somewhat rallied down. 

Code-word: somewhat.

Your lips parted. 

“Tosser.”

“Git," he shot back.

“Weaslebee.”

“Tramp.”

“You make a damn good case for birth control, you know that? One look at you and girls go drier than that desert you and your family went to on vacation in Egypt.” 

He scoffed. "Aren't you one to bloody talk? Men's pricks shrivel up at the sight of you."

"Maybe that's a good thing," you retorted cockily. "Or are you trying to test whether your sad little thing would ever have a chance at shagging?"

George lurched his body upright—fully intent on tackling you again when—

BANG.

The classroom door slammed open revealing an absolutely livid Severus Snape standing rigidly by its entrance.

His dark eyes swept across your compromised positions, then the spilled potions ingredients that stained both the desks and wooden floors, and finally, your ink covered faces.

A muscle twitched violently beneath his eye.

"...get. out." The nearly middle-aged man managed to pull through gritted teeth, almost too angry to lash out the way he always did with unruly students.

George blinked once before promptly grabbing hold of your hand—pulling you up before hauling ass out of there faster than Firebolts could fly.

Both of you stumbled out into the deserted corridor, battered, dirty, and far from done.  

"You absolute toerag—" you seethed, shoving at his chest as soon as you were clear of Snape’s wrath. "You got me expelled!"  

George scoffed, wiping a smear of ink off his cheek with his thumb—only to smudge it further. "Expelled? Please. You’d have to murder someone in front of Dumbledore for that." His grip tightened on your wrist when you tried to pull away. "And stop screeching. Anyone would think I drowned your cat."  

"You ruined my robes!" You hissed loudly. "And my hair! And—!"  

George had exactly two functioning brain cells left after the brawl-and-escape ordeal. One was screaming about how annoying your voice was right now, and the other? Shut her up. So he did—by crashing his mouth onto yours with all the finesse of a Bludger to the face.

“If kissing you would be the only thing that'd shut you up, I'd be willing to put down my pride and silence you every chance I get,” he panted after pulling away. The lingering taste of dried blood from your bottom lip still dancing around his mouth. “So bloody loud.”

You kept eye contact with George as you swiped the back of your hand over your lips. Heart pounding with a little less hatred than before, and the corners of your mouth threatening to twitch into a smile. 

“I will murder you one day, I swear.”

“I’ll be waiting patiently until then.”

summary: After successfully convincing you, you finally agreed to take your boyfriends Fred and George Weasley for a little tour around your Muggle hometown. But with Christmas nearing and two undeniably curious men at your hands, it's the perfect recipe for chaos.

c/w: throuple, characters are aged up above twenty, muggle-born reader, chaotic, sex jokes, sex toys, fluff, suggestive ending, me trying to write something funny. yes, that's a warning.

wc: 5k

a/n: my advanced christmas present for all of you 🫶🏻

Christmas break. The long-awaited holiday every student at Hogwarts waited for with baited breath.

It’s the time to finally be able to breathe, unwind, hang out with friends, reunite with family, or…

Take your boyfriends with you to the Muggle world.

Can’t be too bad, right?

Yeah — if they weren’t Fred and George Weasley, maybe.

They’d been pestering you about it ever since you brought up visiting your folks back at your hometown for the holidays.

You lived in the countryside, so the closest thing to a shopping district would be at least a 20-minute drive, and with Christmas rolling around the corner, it’s bound to take longer and be a jam-packed mess.

Fred and George had visited the Muggle world before, but the longest they'd spent there was when they had to escort Harry safely from the Dursleys’ home to The Burrow. It was a short-lived experience. They never got to explore, and it was years ago. It was also where George became “holey,” as Fred described it.

So that trip didn’t count.

They insisted on a redo, but without anything out to kill them or… decapitate another one’s ear.

You had picked a rather odd day to set off. A random Wednesday, not too early in the morning, but not too dark to call it nighttime, either. Travelling with Floo Powder was never exactly a discreet kind of modus operandi.

Leaving in the morning meant risking potential witnesses to your magical entrance, and the nighttime meant an increase in the chances of misplacement. 

And Merlin knows how well-acquainted you and those dodgy alleyways had become after many unsuccessful attempts when you first started travelling by Floo Powder back in your younger years at Hogwarts.

Your house didn't have a proper fireplace — or any place, really, to make an appropriate arrival spot for you, so the nearby interior shops' fireplace, barely big enough to squeeze you in, had to suffice. It worked all these years up until now, and not one squabble from any of the customers or the boss. Not that they had any people visiting nowadays anyway. Too overpriced. 

And what's more convenient is that the shop was already in the midst of town. The shopping district. So you didn't have to worry about lugging your two mischievous hearts all the way there after arriving. Not that you minded the banter during your other previous travels.

"Alright, you both set?" You asked, zipping up your bag you had just finished finalizing before swinging it over your shoulder. "Hope you both don't forget anything like last time."

"Hey," said Fred, shoving something into his own rucksack. "As small as it was, my trusty beaded bag carried all my little tricks. Admit it, you would've died from boredom if I hadn't brought it with me."

"That's what you said the last time we went to visit Charlie in Romania, you slimy lump," George cut in, tying a firm knot into his bag. "Pulled us back an hour and a half, you did."

Fred, whose eyes and attention were still on his luggage, quickly retaliated by mindlessly hurling whatever object that was already in his hand square at George, causing it to hit his thigh with a small thud before tumbling onto the wooden floor.

The younger twin’s eyes followed the item of assault as it rolled away from him before quickly shooting his older brother a look. A look in which Fred simply replied with:

"That was meant for the wall behind you."

A small chuckle stifled from your mouth at their exchange, never finding it tiresome. Even if they'd be at each other's arses with the same antics every day, it never failed to make you nearly double over laughing. 

"You really didn't have to bring it with you, though, Fred." You flicked your hair away from your face, leaning your weight on one leg as you clutched onto the strap of your bag.

"Merlin forbid a bloke want to keep his woman entertained!" He cried, swinging his rucksack over his shoulder as well.

You held up your hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright, my boyfriend is ever so considerate." And with a playful pout, you clasped your hands over your chest. "And I love him so."

"Course you do. Hard not to, really." He grinned, puffing out his chest in pride, and sauntered over beside you in front of his family's fireplace in the living room.

Molly had been ever so generous to allow you to use it to go back home, but not after she nagged your poor lovers' ears to death about not causing mass destruction in your home place.

You laughed. "Oh, is that so?"

"Absolutely. I'm a delight, and you know it." Fred then tucked a stray strand behind your ear. “I know you are."

Soon after, George occupied the other empty spot beside you, looking very rustic with his hair slightly messy from the rush of preparing for travel — but this time, to a place familiar yet still so utterly foreign.

"Ready," said George, flashing you a cheeky smile. You felt your cheeks grow warm at the sight of it, so you returned one back. And boy, how that fired him up.

Your shoulders bounded up and down one time as you drew in a breath and exhaled, adjusting the strap of your shoulder bag as your eyes stared at the dark, dusty, and gaping space before you. In just a few seconds, you'd be home again. But what's more now is that you have the two people you loved most to make new memories with.

"Okay, so—" before you could squeeze another word in, George abruptly flinched as if something suddenly came to mind. His hands pat at the pockets of his trousers to find whatever it was he was looking for, not there.

"Oops, forgot something. It's your lucky day, Freddo. Looks like I'm the one taking the piss today," joked George before turning around to retrieve his nearly forgotten item, his shoulder lightly brushing against yours as he did so.

"Finally broke my forgetfulness streak!" the older twin cheered loudly, bumping shoulders with you to 'celebrate‘. “And all of you insisted I was irresponsible. You can tell that to Mum!" His hooting and hollering for such a small feat caused you to let out a laugh, swinging your hips to tap his own once in return for the little shoulder bump he did earlier. 

He took note of your little gesture and took advantage of George's absence by quickly wrapping an arm around your waist, hauling you close enough to plant a firm kiss on your lips.

You squeaked in surprise, swiftly hitting him gently in the chest after he plops you back beside him like nothing had happened.

"Cheeky bastard," you said, your smile betraying the bite you tried to spit in your tone.

"Sorry, lovey. Couldn't help myself."

You scoffed. “Yes, you can."

And the moment those words slipped past your lips, the look on Fred's eyes shifted to something painfully familiar. One where he knew he was being challenged, and he was never one to back down from a chance to prove something or himself.

"Yeah? Wanna test that claim of yours, then?"

But before he could lunge at you with all the speed of a Firebolt on two legs, George swiftly cut in with a clear of his throat — undertones of jealousy clearly evident.

“Alright, that's enough from you two," said George, squeezing in beside you like before. "And don’t even start with that, Freddie. Last time you ‘tested a claim,’ we ended up banned from the broom shed. I swear, if I have to go and face Filch one more time to ask for an entry pass, I'm gonna lose it."

Fred grinned, eyes glinting. "Worth it."  

"He practically lives behind my eyelids now!" George cried.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t hide your laugh — and George pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head like he was staking silent claim.

"Or... or, you're just a little green in the face there, Georgie?" Teased Fred. "Envy doesn't quite suit you."

"Fat chance," George replied quickly, crossing his arms as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other before glancing at you. "... Maybe a little."

Fred snorted. "Brilliant — so all it takes is dangling our girlfriend in front of you to get you to loosen up, eh?"

"Used by my own boyfriend." You feigned hurt, pressing a hand to your chest.

"Merlin, never!" Fred cried out dramatically, wrapping his arms around you and hugging you close — planting a kiss on your temple with an exaggerated "mwah!"

A fleeting laugh escaped your lips before the realization that you didn't have much time before it would be too risky to travel.

"Right," you cut in, your voice now slightly serious as you stepped in front of them both. After wrestling Fred's arms off of you, that is.

"I think you're both well aware that we aren't here to escort Harry or partake in anything that involves life or death anymore." Your eyes flickered from Fred to George, whose eyes were just as admiring as the lopsided grins they had on their faces. "So that, by any circumstances, means no magic, no Skiving Snackboxes, and no Weasleys' Wheezes products."

Your hand went up to grip the strap of your bag. "Got it?"

“Now, where's the fun in that—"

"Fred," you warned firmly, shooting your eyebrows up at him.

“Yes, miss!" They eventually replied in unison, saluting to you in their own unique ways.

Pleased, you nodded once before taking a small step back between them.

"All set?" You asked for the final time, glancing at Fred and George. 

"Yes, Mum," replied George with a teasing grin. You quickly snapped your head over to look at him, giving him a small glare.

He snorted before reaching out to fix your scarf. "Just messing with you, clever girl. We're ready."

So after all the bickering, forgotten items, and countless questions asking if any and all were finally ready to go, the three of you set off — stepping inside the fireplace with handfuls of Floo Powder, eager to take on this new adventure.

Shortly after arriving in the quaint interior shops' fireplace, it wasn't without incident. When was it ever without when you had Fred and George as partners?

Because what you'd forgotten, was to remind them of how small and lower the fireplace was compared to the one they had back at The Burrow. With their towering heights, the first thing you heard rather than the faint jingle of Christmas music playing from the speakers outside was the sound of two loud thuds followed by a chorus of groans and pained cursing.

Hit their heads harder than the Bludgers Slytherins' players caught with their faces.

"Christ," Fred hissed, clutching his head, being the last to walk — or stumble rather — from the fireplace. "Damn thing should be lucky I'm not allowed to use magic. Would've turned it back into what it used to be. A pile of bloody bricks."

George snorted, brushing soot from his jumper as he leaned casually against the display table behind him. 

"Come off it, Fred. You know you love the dramatic entrance. Besides, the fireplace looks better than you do right now. Bricks or not, at least it’s holding together."

He smirked, eyes twinkling with mischief. "If Mum sees you staggering about like that, she’ll think you’ve been sampling our latest product. And honestly, I might not even correct her."

"Fancy you saying that when you're barely keeping the tears from slipping out of your eyes. I know you hit your head harder than mine," Fred shot back, pointing a trembling finger at George, who was indeed attempting to ignore the throbbing pain on top of his ginger head.

But you? You were simply stood aside, biting back your laughter as you watched their bickering go down.

Fred's eyes then shifted towards your frame that trembled with suppressed laughter, his demeanor immediately changing.

"Oh!" He exclaimed, dragging himself over to you. "Hold me, dearest heart, for I've been harassed by that beastly thing," he said before putting on the ruse of a damsel feeling faint, gently taking your arms and wrapping them around him.

George shakes his head, walking over to the both of you before pulling Fred away by the hood of his coat. “Easy there, Casanova. Save some of her for me too. She's our girlfriend, not your personal life-raft."

Fred laughs, running a hand through his hair as George saunters towards you, plopping an arm around your shoulders. “From now on, hugs are on a strict schedule: you get Monday, Wednesday, and every other Friday, and I get the rest, including public holidays.”

Fred snorted, flicking George’s arm off your shoulders with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “Oi, you can’t just claim public holidays! Those are clearly premium hugging days. I demand a trial.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you looped your arm through Fred’s. “Boys, I don’t think I can keep track of your ridiculous schedule. Maybe I need a hug calendar.”

“Or a referee,” you teased with a grin. “I volunteer as tribute.”

Fred grinned wolfishly at you. “Excellent! As long as you're biased in my favour.”

George gave an exaggerated sigh, hands on his hips. “Unbelievable. Betrayed in my own family.”

With a playful shove to each other’s shoulders, the twins and you finally pushed open the door of the cosy interior shop. A wave of cold air and the faint scent of roasted chestnuts greeted you as you stepped onto the slightly bustling street. Fairy lights twinkled from lampposts, garlands wrapped every awning, and a giant Christmas tree shimmered in the middle of the little plaza. 

Fred stopped in his tracks, eyes wide. “Blimey… look at this! It’s like Diagon Alley got itself all dolled up for a snowball fight.”

George’s grin stretched ear to ear as he nudged his twin. “Muggles really know how to go all out. Fred, we need to nick some ideas for the shop windows next year.”

"Can't say no to that," Fred laughs before bumping his hips with yours. "You lot really do know how to pretty up your streets for Crimbo. Makes for good inspiration!"

You grin and bump him back. “Oh, so now you’re impressed by Muggle streets?”  

Fred smirks. “I didn’t say impressed. Just… mildly inspired.”  

“Mildly inspired?” You raise an eyebrow. “You’re practically gawking at the fairy lights like a kid in a sweet shop.”  

“Am not!” he protests, though he’s clearly mesmerised by the twinkling garlands.  

“Face it, Weasley,” you tease, “Muggles are winning at Christmas.”  

Fred bursts out laughing. “Alright, alright — I'll admit defeat this one time.”

Your eyes then found themselves on George, whose gaze had wandered toward the mouth of a narrow alleyway, his expression as serious as if he’d just spotted a dragon. 

"George! You alright, love?!" You called, half-expecting him to chase after some mysterious object.

He turns back to look at you, eyes gleaming with newfound curiosity. 

"Nothing! Just — admiring!" He said, jogging back to where you and Fred stood. He leaned closer, lowering his voice with dramatic flair. “Your town’s got a real knack for pretty sights.” His eyes lingered on you just long enough to earn a proud nod from Fred.

When you realized, a wave of heat surged up your cheeks, just as quickly as the twins being sent to detention on a normal Thursday.

Fred smirked from beside you, feeling proud of their Weasley charm.

Fred elbowed George. “Smooth. Very subtle. I’m sure the lamppost over there is flattered.”

You cleared your throat. "W—well, since we're already in town, we might as well do a bit of exploring before visiting my parents' place. My, erm... home." 

“Exploring?” George clapped his hands together. “Excellent. We’re highly trained professionals in that field.”

The three of you strutted through the festive streets, dodging shoppers and the twins pausing to make terrible puns about every sign you passed. Fred dramatically bowed to a friendly dog, and George tried on an oversized Father Christmas hat in a window reflection, insisting he looked “distinguished.”

You soon reached a charming little shop, twinkling lights and pine-scented candles beckoning from the windows. “I want to get my parents a Christmas homecoming gift,” you said brightly, pulling the twins inside.

Fred sniffed the air. “Hm. Smells like pine, pastries, and… capitalism.”

George picked up a snow globe and shook it violently. “Look, Fred, blizzard warning. Take cover!”

As you browsed, you finally found a pair of hand-painted mugs. Perfect. You reached into your pocket — and froze. “Crap, my wallet's gone! I must've dropped it back at the interior shop!"

Fred gasped theatrically. “Tragedy strikes our hero! Will she ever reclaim her lost treasure?”

“I’ll be quick!” You said, already halfway to the door. “You two, stay here!”

George saluted with exaggerated flair. “We solemnly swear to guard these mugs with our lives.”  

“Really?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.  

“Absolutely,” George said. “Unless someone scary shows up— then we heroically run.”  

“And leave the mugs?” You teased.  

“Of course not,” George replied. “We’ll throw the mugs at them on the way out. Very heroic.”

Fred cupped his hands around his mouth as you finally dashed into the street. “Run like the wind! May the festive spirit protect you, my love!”

The twins watched your boots clatter over the cobblestones until you disappeared into the holiday bustle. George leaned against the shelves with a grin. “Think she’ll make it back before we eat all the free samples?”

Fred smirked. “Doubtful. But if she doesn’t, dibs on the snowman cookies.”

Ten minutes, twenty sneakily nipped sample cookies, and two pairs of eager, jittery legs later, George, whose face was littered with the crumbs of the cookies he devoured, approached Fred silently. 

"Oi," he whispered, leaning into his brother almost as if to avoid suspicion.

"Bloody hell, George, these cookies are brilliant!" Fred interjected. "Second to Mum’s, of course."

"The little old lady did say they were home-baked — but that's not the point here." George placed a hand on Fred's shoulder and whispered. "I think y/n's been lying to us."

Fred furrowed his brows, turning his body to face his twin in confusion. "What are you on about, 'lying to us'?"

"She said magic didn't entirely exist in the Muggle world now, did she?" asked George.

"Yeah."

"Well, I reckon I’ve got just the thing to prove her spectacularly wrong — courtesy of our ever-resourceful mate, Lee, of course."

After the twins swiftly left the shop (with barely any dessert samples left), they had been wandering the dodgy alleyway George had spotted earlier on their arrival, on the hunt for a wand shop rumoured by Lee Jordan to be hidden amongst the Muggle storefronts. A flashing neon sign nudged in the very nook of the alley caught their eyes: “Magic Wands – Guaranteed to Please!”

“See?” Fred grinned, nudging George in the ribs. “Told you Muggles were catching on to the wand craze.”

They pushed open the door, a bell jingling merrily. The shop was dimly lit, with shelves lined with… peculiar wands. Some glowed. Some buzzed. One was shaped like a dragon but vibrated in a way that definitely wasn’t for spellcasting.

“Merlin’s beard,” George breathed, picking up a pink, glittering wand. “Why does this one have… three handles?”

“Maybe it’s for advanced charms,” Fred said with a straight face, before pressing a button. The wand buzzed violently in his hand, making him drop it. It skittered across the floor like a rogue pygmy puff.

A Muggle shop attendant hurried over, barely containing a smirk. “First time shopping?”

“Yes! We’re looking for wands,” George said earnestly. “You know, for… magic.”

“Oh… they’re magical all right,” the attendant said, biting back laughter.

Fred had wandered into an aisle labelled ‘Beginner’s Toys’, holding up a pair of enchanted-looking cuffs. “Oi, George! Do you think these are for advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts?”

Before the twins could test their theory, a Muggle couple entered and gave them a look that made their ears turn as red as their hair.

“I think,” George whispered, “we’ve made a bit of a… miscalculation.”

Fred nodded solemnly.

Just then, the door to the shop swung open, bells jingling violently before revealing a heaving and sweaty you. Already red in the face from the panic of the twins possibly getting lost in a world completely unbeknownst to them, and even more so now that you've found them in a shop that was... questionable, to say the least.

Fred and George whipped their heads around to the source of the sound before their eyes landed on you. Wide grins spread across their faces, completely oblivious to the hassle you'd been through looking for them.

"There you are!" Fred exclaimed, walking over to you. George followed suit behind him. "And you said magic didn’t exist in the Muggle world. Look at all the different wands they have!"

"What's wrong?" inquired George, confused by your less-than-pleased expression.

"Ten minutes," you said. "I leave you alone for ten minutes, and of all places, you end up here?!"

Fred blinked at you, then glanced around the shop again, the shelves of… decidedly un-magical and very adult items finally clicking in his mind.

"Ah," he said slowly, his grin faltering for a moment. "Well… in our defence, we were fairly certain these were experimental wands. Very experimental."

George, ever the quicker to recover, stepped forward with his most innocent smile. "Darling, you can’t honestly be upset. We were merely conducting… research!"

You raised an unimpressed brow.

Fred scratched the back of his neck, cheeks pinking. "Alright, alright — we might’ve been a bit curious. Muggle shops are full of surprises! But, uh… we didn’t buy anything! Yet."

George nudged him. "Which, judging by that look, we won’t be doing today. Come on, love, don’t be cross. We’ll stick to the sweet shops next time. Mostly."

George practically tiptoed over to you before wrapping an arm around your waist. You weren't going to lie when you said the feeling didn't make you all giddy inside despite the conundrum they'd caused you. Fred skidded by, planting a quick kiss to your cheek before all three of you fled the shop, bells jingling, leaving behind a trail of giggles from the staff.

Taking them to the local mall was even just as worse. A large building filled with endless shops and little corners with sweets? You were asking for hell. A good hell.

Nearly every second, Fred would stop, taking your hand to pull you somewhere he found fascinating, and George's eyes lit up like a child every time something new would come into view. 

"Oh, that's, uhm... a thing used to tell how well done an egg is when you boil it," you explained to George, who had called you over to ask about the ‘strange-looking' contraption.

"Now that's magic, even for Muggles." 

You chuckled, linking your arm with his before catching up to Fred, whose back was facing you and stood gazing at something you couldn't quite put your finger on. With his head tilted ever so slightly and eyebrows furrowed as if deciphering whatever it was that caught his attention, you too grew curious.

"What in the bloody hell is that?" Inquired Fred once you and George found your place beside him.

"What's what?" You asked back, then followed Fred's eyes to what was in front of you.

A load of metal stairs carrying mall-goers up and down from floor to floor. An escalator.

"That's an escalator, Fred," you answered, glancing over at him. His expression more confused than impressed, which was surprising. Hell, even George couldn't decide what to think of the man-made machine in front of him. "It's what we use to get from floor to floor without using the stairs."

"An escalator?" George echoed, studying it like some puzzle he was hell-bent on deciphering.

"Mhm." You nodded, a small smirk painting your lips at the amusement from your two endearingly clueless wizard boyfriends.

"A metal staircase contraption..." trailed George again.

"Honestly," Fred said, leaning his body a bit closer to you and enough for his brother to hear. "I'd prefer the Moving Staircase over that metal execution device. Muggles really are something!" 

"Hear, hear!" hollered George, raising up a pretend chalice.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, stifling a laugh as the twins regarded the escalator like it was a cursed artifact straight out of Borgin and Burkes.

“Metal execution device?” you repeated, your voice wobbling with amusement. “It’s literally just a moving staircase. Nobody’s dying on it, Freddie.”

George leaned closer to squint at the steps. “You say that now, but I can hear it plotting. Listen to that ominous hum.”

You raised a brow. “That’s just the motor. People ride these every day without being swallowed into the void, you know. Well, save for a few times somewhere in the world — but it rarely happens.”

Fred crossed his arms, unconvinced. “Bet that’s what they said about the Chamber of Secrets.”

You rolled your eyes and grabbed each twin by the wrist. “Alright, you two. Time for a crash course in Muggle technology. Feet on the step, hold the rail, and for Merlin’s sake, don’t scream.”

Fred hesitated, peering at the escalator like it might snap at him. “What if it eats my shoes?”

“Then we buy you new shoes,” you said dryly. “Now get on.”

George went first, wobbling dramatically as the step carried him upward. “Blimey! It is moving! Look at me, love! I’m flying without a broom!”

Fred followed, muttering under his breath, until he realized he was moving, too. He immediately threw his arms out like he was on a ride at the fair. “I take it back. This is brilliant! Muggles are mental, but brilliant!”

You just shook your head, stepping onto the escalator behind them. “I swear, if you two start racing up the down escalator, I’m leaving you here for mall security to deal with.”

George shot you a cheeky grin over his shoulder. “Noted. But if we survive this perilous journey, we deserve a reward. Like more of those snowman cookies.”

Fred nodded enthusiastically. “Agreed. We’ve faced the metal beast and lived to tell the tale. Heroic snacks are in order!”

You couldn’t help it — you laughed, loud and bright, as the three of you ascended together into the next floor of chaos.

The day concluded with the three of you walking back to your home. The muddy, puddle-ridden dirt road lined by cobblestone houses and brick fences was lit by nothing more than a couple of streetlamps that stretched the whole way home.

Tired, spent, with bellies full of decorative snowman cookies from the shop you three had visited before the... adult-rated fiasco, all was well.

"We should visit your place more often, love," George murmured, too tired to even raise his tone of voice. Hands in pockets like it was all casual.

"Can't promise we won't be stumbling into any more questionable shops, though," said Fred, his smile as boyish and as handsome as ever despite being tuckered out.

"We're lucky mall security didn't see us fit enough to chase all the way here," you chuckled. "But I definitely wouldn't mind taking both of you back to see the other seasons. It's quite charming here in the spring."

"Would the cows be happy to see us again, though?" George joked, motioning over to the small herd behind a white fence with his head.

"Not as happy as you make Santy Claus over there," Fred piped in, referring to the very obnoxious Father Christmas decoration that hung by the door on some random house's front porch.

George frowned, nodding his head. "I'll take it."

A small laugh slipped past your lips, burying your hands in the pockets of your coat to keep them warm. Everything was perfect, and everyone was happy. New memories were made, and the holidays were about to be just as special with George and Fred by your side. Let's just hope your house doesn't accidentally burn down overnight from one of their experiments you'd promised them they could test out.

"God, I'm knackered," you sighed, tilting your head up as your breath visualized in front of you in the form of ethereal smoke.

"I can imagine." George grinned, planting his warm palm over your head and ruffling your hair endearingly. "Our beloved tour guide girlfriend worked so hard today, showing her two daft guests around."

"Hey!" You protested, swatting his hand away and fixing your hair.

"Fancy doing a bit of Muggle magic with us tonight?" Fred walked up from behind you, warm breath tickling the shell of your ear.

Your eyebrows furrowed, tilting your head sideways to meet his gaze. "Muggle magic?" 

Before you could fully understand what he meant, seeing as there was no real wizardry in your world, Fred pressed something against your back — and it began to vibrate violently.

You yelped and spun around, nearly smacking into his chest. “Fred! What in Merlin’s—?!”

George blinked, eyes widening. “Blimey, Freddie… is that—?”

Fred grinned, holding up the small, sleek object with a triumphant flourish. It buzzed merrily in his hand. “Muggle magic!” he declared. “Behold — a wand that doesn’t need spells to make you jump!”

You snatched it from his hand, face burning as realization set in. “This is a—”

“—Vibrating wand!” Fred cut in, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I might’ve bought it in secret. Thought it would be… educational.”

George doubled over in laughter, clutching his stomach. “Oh, you absolute menace. Mum would hex you if she knew what you were smuggling in your bag!”

Fred only wiggled his brows, clearly proud of himself. “Told you Muggles have magic of their own. No spells, no incantations, just pure, buzzing brilliance.”

You shook your head, half-exasperated and half-laughing, as you tucked the toy back into his bag before anyone else could see. “You’re going to be the death of me, Fred Weasley. Both of you.”

Grinning from ear to ear, Fred and George wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “And yet you love us for it.”

(ps, I tried finding other fred fics, but none of them is like yours huhu.)

Baby Steps | F.W

summary: Dance lessons for the Yule Ball are as dreadful enough as it is, even more so when the devil himself—pardon, Fred Weasley is chosen to be your partner after his little ploy to try and embarrass you in front of the whole class.

c/w: enemies to lovers, aged up above twenty, hogwarts university au, harsh banter between you and freddie, a little softer than my other etl works, shorter in length, cute ending

Loud chatter from students in advanced years one to four filled the Practice Hall as Professor McGonagall finalized the preparations for the dance lessons on the far side of the room with the help of Filch.

While girls around you whispered to each other about their excitement about dancing with a boy at the ball, what dresses they’d be wearing, or the things they’d do after the whole event—there you sat next to Angelina Johnson, a good friend of yours from Gryffindor who didn’t look all too ecstatic either.

Her reason was yet to be discovered, but you? 

Oh, you just hoped you wouldn’t be paired up with Fred Weasley.

The very man on the opposite side of the hall chatting up a storm with his younger twin brother and Lee Jordan about God-knows-what.

Your eyes skimmed over to the men’s section—a small snarl threatening to peek through your face as you observed the way they sat. Like bums, manspreading wider than The Black Lake, snickering and tossing glances at female students who were sat across from them. Disgusting.

“What do you reckon they’re talking about?” You whispered, leaning your body closer to Angelina’s before beckoning to the other side with a cock of your head.

“Nothing pleasant I’m assuming,” she replied, face already beating you to a grimace.

“And there’s no way McGonagall would pair me with Fred, right? I mean—there’s tons of guys here,” apprehensively, you expressed your worry as your eyes occasionally flickered over to that cackling mess. Even your stomach twisted at the thought of touching so much as a thread on his uniform.

Angelina scoffed, shifting her body away to look at you. 

“Are you still on about what he did, y/n? It’s been weeks!”

“I know he did it purely to spite me,” grumbling, you crossed your arms—shooting him a glare from across the room.

But Fred’s eyes moved quicker than his mouth—catching your sharp gaze and holding it.

If there’s one thing about Molly’s older twin son, it’s that he holds eye contact like no other person in the whole school. Whether it be a professor or a student, on purpose or not, he’ll lock onto you until one of you breaks, and trust it won’t be him.

The scowl that painted your face just seconds before softened the slightest bit when you realized he saw the look you sent his way. And like always, you averted your gaze away first—feeling your face flush warm. From embarrassment or anger, who knows.

You cleared your throat, shifting in your seat awkwardly. “We—well, why don’t you try having pages from your diary plastered all over the school grounds, Lina.”

“That’s a pass. I’d be sent to Azkaban if anyone knew of what I wrote.”

Hearing her response, slowly, a small devious smirk twitched on your lips. “Thanks for reminding me to take a sneak peak later.”

The Gryffindor’s jaw dropped a little, side-eyeing you before flinging the back of her hand square on your forearm. “Don’t you dare—”

“Simmer down, simmer down!” McGonagall’s voice cut through the choirs of conversation, effectively silencing the excited (and inevitably grumbling and uninterested) students.

“As you all know, the Yule Ball is fast approaching in accordance with the Triwizard Tournament’s festivities.” She adjusts her glasses sternly, tugging on her long black robes whilst scanning the entire room.

"Now listen carefully, all of you. This is not the Quidditch pitch, nor is it a dueling arena. However..." a small smile crossed her lips. "The same principles apply. Proper posture, attention to your partner's movements, and for Merlin's sake—anticipate each other's next steps!"

Slowly, she took a turn around the room—her polished heel clicking against the stone floor like a ticking time-bomb.

"I expect you all to conduct yourselves with dignity befitting Hogwarts students. No longer are you in years one to seven, and being students in higher education, means no stepping on toes, and no inappropriate proximity charms..." McGonagall then proceeded to give a pointed look over her spectacles. "...and Mr. Weasley? Attempting the 'flying broomstick lift' again will cost your house fifty points."

Laughs from both boys and girls alike hummed throughout the space, making it all too easy to know which Weasley she was talking about exactly. Only one would ever dare pull something as daft as that during something serious.

"First and foremost, for those of you in year one who are attending the ball for the first time, we shall begin with the basics. Something simple, and something I believe the second years and beyond can manage to execute properly. The traditional waltz..."

Her disposition lightened from stern to a woman with a pep-in-her-step, extending her arms elegantly and flitting over to the girl’s corner of the hall. 

Your eyes widened the slightest bit, feeling your blood run cold at the possibility of her dragging you to be the first in line for the dance’s demonstration. Even more of a dread is knowing that Fred’ll be watching, acting like an arsewipe while he’s at it too. You remembered how the last time you flipped him off went. Ended up with Umbridge the whole night writing rubbish on a piece of parchment.

“Now, can any young lady come forth and offer me the assistance of showing everybody how the dance is performed?” McGonagall’s words felt more like a threat than an inquiry. You could just feel the other girls sinking into their seats or nearly merging themselves with the wall behind them.

And certainly you didn’t want to miss out on Hogwarts tradition. You ducked your head low, attempting to hide your face behind your hand as you sunk further into your seat to try and appear small. Or invisible.

But what made it all bad, was that you were literally in the front row. Fingers crossed professor doesn’t catch you.

“Please not me, please not me, there’s hundreds of other girls here, McGonagall, make the right choice, you’re a wise woman,” you chanted in your head, closing your eyes as if that would make you completely disappear from her line of sight.

But then all of a sudden, you felt the slightest tingle in your hand—not giving you any time to react before your arm jolted up abruptly, making you look like you volunteered. Willingly.

The wind felt caught in your chest as you stared up at your hand suspended in the air with wide eyes. Your gaze then moved over to Angelina, whose look was no more than that of petrified.

“What are you doing???” She said nothing, but her eyes said everything. You shrugged your shoulders in panic, shaking your head in defiance and undoubtedly, confusion.

“Ah, miss l/n, wonderful example of initiative," McGonagall praised with a voice no less than pleased as she finally thought a student had willingly wanted to demonstrate. “Now stand up, and walk to the center of the room.”

The center of the room. The center. of. the. room. Where everyone’s attention, including one of the man you particularly loathed, would be on you. How much better can this day get?

“Out of all the bloody students—” you cursed in your head.

The force that held your hand up suddenly went away, which caused your hand to plop back down onto your lap.

You stared at McGonagall with an expression nothing short of fear until your eyes shifted over her shoulder to look behind her.

And you should’ve known. There stood the quintet beside the pillar on the stone wall—George, Lee Jordan—hell even Ron were laughing at the little stunt Fred had pulled. And Fred was having the time of his life, mocking the way you looked when the professor approached you before sneakily tucking the wand he used back into his trouser’s pocket. 

That freckled git!

You didn’t care about the repercussions, all you thought about was that you needed to get back at him—now.

Just as you were about to whip out your own wand and cast something as humiliating as what Fred had, you found yourself being pulled up by your forearm and hauled to the center of the room by Professor McGonagall.

You couldn’t do much but stand there awkwardly and fiddle with your fingers to try and appear less stiff (although it was really doing the opposite). 

Heat rushed to your face, and you prayed with all your faith that nobody would see. 

Quickly, you glanced over to Angelina once again, mouthing a quick “help me.”, to which she responded with an apologetic look, making gestures with her hands to tell you to calm down and breathe. And seeing as you didn’t have much riding on your dignity at this point, you nodded and followed her advice.

But as you were desperately pleading s.o.s to your friend with your eyes, McGonagall had already made her way over to the men’s side, eyeing them sternly compared to the girls.

You followed the older woman with a turn of your head—gaze immediately settling onto Fred. Still laughing like the obnoxious nightmare that he is, not paying any mind to the Deputy Headmistress poised right in front of him. He really doesn’t know when to shut up, does he?

But George, who seemed to be the only one with a functioning brain of the two, became meek at the sight of Gryffindor’s Head staring them down for obvious reasons. But Fred? Still chuckling even with Lee Jordan’s hand clapped over his mouth.

“Quit laughing, you knob,” whispered Lee to his taller friend.

Fred took a hold of Lee’s wrist, pulling it down from his mouth to speak. “See the way she looked when her arm went up though, mate? Bloody brilliant, her face,” he snickered.

McGonagall raised a conspicuous brow before crossing her arms. “Mr. Weasley, since you appear to possess twice the enthusiasm—and unfortunately, twice the volume of your peers in this discussion—perhaps you'd care to demonstrate your...evident mastery of these dance steps by partnering with Miss l/n? I do hope your footwork proves to be as confident as your commentary."  

She paused meaningfully, straightening her robes. "Five points from Gryffindor if you step on her toes." 

Fred stood with his mouth partially agape, glancing at George whose lips were pursed to keep himself from laughing at his older brother’s predicament. Now everyone’s attention was on him, and it certainly wasn’t something he cowered away from.

“Go on then, disco-man,” chuckled George.

“Show them your moves,” Lee teased, giving Fred a shove by the shoulder.

Fred shot them both a glare, but there was no real heat behind it—just the usual banter that revolved between them all. He pushed himself off the wall from his slouched position—rolling his shoulders like he was preparing for battle rather than a dance lesson.

"Alright, Professor. I'll show you lot how it's done,” grinning, Fred boasted.

He sauntered forward with that insufferable confidence of his—hands in pockets until the last possible second before pulling them out with a flourish and gave an exaggerated bow in your direction, extending a hand with mock gallantry.

He stopped close enough that you caught the scent of broom polish and something distinctly him beneath it. His grin was all teeth, mischief burning in those damn brown eyes. 

You stiffened, hands clenched so tight your nails dug crescent moons into your palms. 

“M’lady,” he drawled mockingly.

Your jaw clamped together to the point where you could hear your own teeth grinding. The sheer audacity of this man to act like he was doing you a favor after he got you into this mess in the first place.

You wanted to stomp on his foot right then and there—maybe scream something vicious about how much of an arrogant prat he was—but McGonagall’s sharp eyes were watching, and losing your house more points because of him wasn't worth it.  

So instead, you forced yourself to step forward with all the grace of someone walking toward their own execution and held your hand out stiffly like touching him would give you some incurable disease. 

A sharp breath escaped through your nose as you weighed the options:  

1.) Slap him senseless and risk expulsion (tempting)  

2.) Fake a violent stomach curse (possible but cowardly) 

3.) Worst choice: Actually take his stupid hand (you’ve gone mental)

“Try not to embarrass yourself,” you muttered under your breath as Fred took hold of your hand like it belonged there—his grip warm despite how cold yours must have felt against him from sheer irritation alone.

And then—

His thumb brushed lightly over yours before intertwining your fingers together properly. 

McGonagall clapped her hands sharply together.

"Positions!"

Fred immediately tugged you closer by default entirely without thinking about personal boundaries.

The rest of the students who were sitting or had nearly become one with the wall, now sprung up on their feet—clumsily yet with great haste taking action and began pairing up with the person of their choosing.

Then Fred pulled you forward sharply into the first stance before his whisper grazed the shell of your ear.

“Try keeping up.”

And with a wave of Professor McGonagall’s wand towards the ceiling-high enchanted violins waiting expectantly above,

“Begin!” 

And music began to swell around the hall, heartbeats pounding, ears drowning, and threats unfinished.

And Fred meant every word about keeping up.

While the other men were gentlemanly enough, some albeit awkwardly, to lead their female partners across the dance floor, Fred had you slinging around to match his long strides and clumsy turns like some unsentient puppet.

You tripped over your own feet, face contorting into a mix of anger and embarrassment at his lack of morals. Your fingernails dug lightly into the back of his hand and shoulder where your other palm rested—causing Fred to take in a sharp hiss.

“Ouch… Maybe a little too touchy-feely there, bambi? Have mercy on a bloke’s complexion before the ball,” he teased, pointing out your stumbling legs and used that to reference the animated fawn character from a Muggle film he had heard about from one of his friends.

“I should be having mercy on you?” You scoffed, yanking his hand in the correct position after it had drooped down. “If you hadn’t been dragging me around like an old ragdoll—”

“Perhaps a ragdoll would’ve been a better partner.”

“I was forced to dance first against my own bloody will. Ring any bells, Fred?” You spat, voice low and dangerous—but he kept his gaze lighthearted—unserious.

“Don’t think so,” he replied cluelessly, giving a small shrug. He really was trying to get under your skin on purpose. 

You could’ve sworn a vein popped from your neck at the act he was currently playing at. You never liked his witty comebacks. Pissed you off more than entertained you.

“I saw what you did—!”

“Woah, there!” Fred suddenly exclaimed, swerving both your bodies away just in time before you nearly collided with another guy that also aimlessly tried surviving McGonagall’s lessons alongside his pair.

“Hey, I’m your partner aren’t I? Don’t go stumbling into another girl’s man in hopes he’d save you,” he chuckled and you shot him a glare.

“How was I supposed to know he was there if I’m too focused on not having my ankles dislocate from your abnormal leading skills,” annoyed, you shot back.

“I’m great at leading,” he reasoned, sliding his hand down from the level of your bra clasp to your waist, pulling you closer so your stomachs were now pressed firmly against each other.

“Oh, please don’t—I could just throw up right here.” You removed your hands from where they once (and correctly) rested to try and create some distance between you by attempting to push him away by his chest. Your proximity was dizzying at most, flustering the tiniest bit since this was probably the closest and most intimate you’d ever been with a man, and obviously, Fred didn’t let down.

He found that opportunity to hold you even tighter, which caused a struggle to begin between the two of you—and with that, caught McGonagall’s sharp eyes.

“Mr. Weasley, Miss l/n, I expect you both to compose yourselves and execute the dance as humans, not animals!” Her voice pierced through the music, sending hot flashes up your spine. “I will not hesitate to remove more points from your houses if both of you don’t straighten up like the rest—Mr. Jordan, her waist, not her elbow!”

After McGonagall had oh-so-graciously given you and Fred a piece of her mind (and partially embarrassed you in front of the class), your gaze returned to the twit in front of you. The frown on your face remained constant despite the inevitable charm of Fred’s looks.

“Happy now that you’ve humiliated me even more?” You pulled through gritted teeth.

“Very,” he responded, smiling.

The dance began to pick up pace a bit more—the formation now shifted into a circle in which you all danced a different routine, with many more spins and turns.

“You dance like a newborn giraffe, bambi,” Fred pointed out, using that God-awful nickname again.

"Well there's only your skills to thank for that," you grunted, looking him square in the eye as he hauled you into another direction with the class of a Bludger on two legs—his smirk widening at your comment as he holds eye contact. “And besides, you dance like you’ve got all your teammates’ brooms shoved up your arse, so what’s your point?" Reeling at his audacity, you snapped back.

George, having overheard the conversation and was conveniently positioned beside you with his partner, leaned in to whisper before the next spin.

“Don’t take it too hard, y/n,” he mumbled to you, glancing at Fred who was already eyeing him. “He’s only doing that to get into your knickers. Quite pathetic at flirting, isn’t he?” George managed to say before spinning both him and his partner, and Fred with you the same.

Your brows furrowed from his words, looking momentarily at Fred with your stomach churning.

“Reckon I’m still better than him with the ladies,”  George chaffed one last time before turning his attention back to his pair, and you, to Fred.

"Best hope you don't keep eating your own words, lad!" Yelled Fred after his brother. "Thinks I didn't see him get his confession absolutely mullered by Ange last month..."

You cocked an eyebrow, a slight snarl painting your lips as you remembered George's little get-in-your-knickers line. “Are you usually this appalling?”

Fred scoffed, taking your hand to twirl you around for the choreography before settling his palm firmly on your waist, pulling you closer to him than ever.

“You’re seriously gonna believe someone that looks like me?” He had a point. But who were you to also believe Fred himself wasn’t lying to you?

"Better someone else than you," you shot back, breathless from the spin and something else you refused to name. "This would’ve been easier if we were dancing at least ten miles apart. Being this close to you makes me reel."

Fred barked a laugh—loud enough that half the circle turned to look—and tightened his grip on your waist like he enjoyed seeing you miserable.

“Y’know,” he mused, dragging you into a sharp turn that left no space between you, “most girls who wanna get this close usually pretend to like me first.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “Most girls haven’t seen what’s under your cauldron during Potions.”

He snorted, flipping his bangs off of his face before leaning in again, voice dipping low beneath the swell of the music.

“But we both know you’re not most girls, aren’t you? You’re the one who remembers my middle name is Gideon.” A smirk curled at his lips. “And still haven’t told anyone.”

Your breath hitched.

Because he was right.

You had found it once in a library book—an old family tree George accidentally left open while researching for History of Magic. "Frederick Gideon Weasley."

They both never really used their middle names anywhere, and rumor said it was purely because it cushioned their first names too much, making it sound too…posh?

And instead of blackmailing him with it? You tucked it away…like some secret treasure wrapped in hate-silk and denial.

And Fred? He’d known all along that you knew.

The realization slammed into you mid-step—threw off your rhythm completely—and suddenly?

He wasn’t dragging you anymore.

You matched him move for move—not perfectly—but close enough that McGonagall gave a single approving nod before moving past another pair who were somehow dancing backwards up a wall (courtesy of Peeves' earlier sabotage).

Fred spoke in a quieter voice. "...you kept my secret."

His tone wasn't teasing anymore—it was stripped bare beneath violins and footfalls—a question hidden in simple words:  

“Why didn’t you use it against me?”

But before you could answer—or even process what kind of madness made silence feel heavier than words—

George cut between both of you during an overhead arm-cross formation—the brothers smacking hands briefly as they passed each other and Lee snickered from behind.

“Oi! Pass her back when she’s not broken!”

“You broke her?” George called over his shoulder towards Fred with mock concern. “Mum’ll send Howlers every day until Easter!”

“She broke herself!” Fred yelled after him indignantly—even though he looked suspiciously guilty about holding someone too tightly.

Then music slowed again—a new section beginning where partners stood still facing one another with arms still entangled in first stance for the ending segment aided by proper form and posture cues written midair by McGonagall’s spellwork.

“𝒫𝑜𝓈𝓉𝓊𝓇𝑒 𝑒𝓇𝑒𝒸𝓉! 𝐸𝓎𝑒𝓈 𝓁𝑜𝒸𝓀𝑒𝒹!"

So there you were,

Still touching.

Still breathing fast.

Still caught somewhere between war and something terrifyingly softer...

McGonagall’s enchanted script flickered above both your hands clasped together.

"𝒯𝓇𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓇𝑒𝒹."

You stared at those three bloody words hovering over Fred’s fingers gripping yours—and then up into those brown eyes reflecting both torchlight and you.

A challenge burned there—not mischievous or cruel—but raw and real.

“You’ve caught my attention,” said everything he wouldn’t say aloud.

Without breaking eye contact—you exhaled sharply through flared nostrils, tightening your grip on his hand ever so slightly and adjusted your stance under glowing letters floating above palm-held promises neither dared define yet couldn't stop making anyway.

Step by step...

Breath by breath...

Spell after cursed spell—

This war had become less about hatred

And more about learning how not to fall

Eyes on the Prize | G.W

summary: Love's all sweet with George Weasley until you put it on the line for a Quidditch game.

c/w: short fic, characters are aged up above twenty, taunting and teasing, romantic rivalry, mentions of sex and implied intercourse at the end

wc: 1.7k

It was deafening.

Was it the pounding of your heart? Your hard breathing?

Oh, it was all of those.

But we can't forget the cause of it all. The loud roars and charismatically patriotic cheers of both the witches and wizards that came to rally on their teams for the long-awaited, nail-biting, Quidditch World Cup.

The smell of smoke and the faint aroma of Butterbeer and Firewhiskey swirled in the air, confetti rained like the first snowfall, and millions of different colors and lights flashed and strobed as far as the eye could see. The energy was electrifying, fit to get anyone riled up for a good game.

It surely riled up your Quidditch fanatic of a boyfriend, George Weasley.

With the stuck-up bigwigs a bit farther down in a more privately occupied platform, their heads tilted up with "their noses nearly touching the heavens above," said George, the so-called 'normal' onlookers seemed to have twice as much fun at least. You know, the ones who actually came to watch the game and not just attend as a show of status.

"We're nearly there!" George exclaimed through the booming chaos, his grin so wide it nearly tore his cheeks in half, his hand tightly clasped around yours as you sifted and squeezed through the crowds of onlookers standing shoulder-to-shoulder and couldn't keep still from excitement.

"What about your family?!" You yelled back, glancing behind you to see Molly, Arthur, Fred, Ginny, and Ron with Hermione and Harry slowly begin to disappear.

"You're with me, aren't you?! They know it's a date!" Replied George, looking back at you, his hair brushing over his face from the wind that practically competed with the Seekers' speeds. "And besides, it's one less mouth! Less yelling, more for them to properly enjoy the game!"

"I think you forget that Fred's got twice the mouth on him than all your family combined!" You exclaimed, pulling on his hand to tug yourself closer until your body was nestled by George's side as you neared your spot for tonight's game.

"Well then, that's their trouble to deal with," he said, his tone a bit more shushed as you finally halted in your steps. "Because tonight, it’s gonna be you, me, and QUIDDITCH!" He opened his arms wide, the wind suspiciously on cue as it blew on his clothes. "Yeahhh!!!" He roared, shaking his fists enthusiastically in the air.

You snorted, gazing admiringly at your boyfriend before shifting your gaze for a proper look at the little date spot he had insisted both of you separate from the rest of his family and his own twin brother for. The view was no less than spectacular, with an even higher vantage point than the one you were in the first time you'd watched The Cup with his family.

"George… this is… Merlin, it’s beautiful! I thought the view with your family was good, but this — this is unreal."

Smug, he responded. "Told you I’d find the best seat in the house. Reserved just for us."

"You mean you dragged me halfway up the stadium so you could show off."

"Guilty. But admit it, the view’s worth every step." He smiled, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close enough so you were now hip-to-hip. "And I bet seeing the Bulgarians lose from up here would be just as entertaining as well."

"Humble yourself, Weasley." You grinned pridefully, tugging George closer by his green and white striped scarf. "Bet you'll be eating your own words today once Bulgaria takes home The Cup."

He cocked up an eyebrow, his eyes glinting as an amused smirk painted his lips. "Oh? You sure starting a bet with me's a good idea?"

"But I'm not. I’m just getting you ready for your defeat, mate!"

George wrapped his hands around your wrists, using the contact to pull you closer. "As if!" He shot back. "C’mon, love, with Ireland’s Seeker flying like lightning and form so sharp it could cut through a Bludger, we’ve got this in the bag! Those Bulgarians will be chasing shadows like a Chaser trying to score with no Quaffle!"

You mock gasped. "Please, have you seen Krum play? He's a maniac on the field!" 

"Maniac, Schmaniac!" George mocked your words in a way that was familiar, gently dropping your hands back down.

He smirked. "More like reckless. Ireland'll crush him."

"Fearless," you countered. "He dives for the Snitch like no one else."

"Into a broken neck, maybe."

"Face it — Bulgaria’s better. Krum will win."

You watched George’s grin widen as he laughed. “We’ll see,” he said, that mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

He leaned in with all the confidence in the world. “Let’s bet on it then!”

You crossed your arms, already wary of where this was heading. “Okay, we’re really going that route. Loser gets…?”

His answer was immediate, a wicked little smirk playing on his lips. “No sex for a week.”

You scoffed out loud before you could stop yourself. “Barbaric.” The word slipped out sharp and incredulous, and honestly, you meant it.

He gasped like you’d insulted his honour, but his eyes were still sparkling. George leaned closer, voice low and teasing. “Barbaric? Love, this is mercy compared to what Fred suggested.”

You heart flipped despite yourself. Merlin help you, you were already losing this bet in your head.

"... And what did he suggest?" You asked, genuinely curious. But knowing Fred, you'd already known it would've been something completely diabolical.

George, all casual with his eyes staring out into the vast arena, answered. "Streak across the pitch after the final match wearing nothing but a Bulgarian or Irish flag as a cape."

You blinked a few times, your prejudice proving you right once again. Shuddering, you shook your head. "Yeah, that's definitely a Fred thing to propose... And the winner?"

"A date with yours truly."

"We're already going out, George."

"Oh... right." He scratched the back of his neck, ears slowly going red. The overwhelming atmosphere had him forgetting something as simple as his own girlfriend. But you'll let it slide just for today.

You barked out a laugh, tossing your head back momentarily. At least George is thrilled to see you take it with a lightheartedness he loved about you. Just then, an idea came up. Simple, but not one everyone would like to lose a bet on.

Your hand quickly found George's forearm, catching his attention quickly when he snapped his head back to you. "Butterbeer."

The man furrowed his eyebrows at you, a confused smile on his lips. "Yeah...?" 

"Loser supplies Butterbeer for everyone during our entire stay here." 

"Now that's just mental!" He protested. “In case you've forgotten a thing or two about my brothers, they've got bottomless pits for stomachs! You're gonna run either of us out of money!"

You grinned, patting his cheek playfully. "Best get your Galleons on the ready, then, business boy."

"We're gonna be begging for Sickles outside the classrooms, hope you know," he grumbled.

And with square shoulders and an ecstatic smile, you were nothing short of confident with tonight's affairs. That endless supply of Butterbeer's already as good as yours.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

So, you lost. He won.

"Chin up, y/n." He beamed, wrapping the winning team's scarf around your neck as you continued to spew words of disbelief and disapproval. "It's a good time to join me on the obviously better team."

The stadium was still alive with electric cheers when you snapped.

You were sulking with a scarf of the wrong colour wrapped unwillingly around your neck, still smarting from both the loss and the embarrassing terms of your bet.

“I know damn well that McKenna cheated! Everyone saw that Wronski feint — there’s no way she made that catch fair!” You exclaimed, pointing at the field with your opened hand.

“Mhm, and here we have the rare y/n in her natural habitat,” he commentated, tugging at your sleeve to try and level your head. "Complaining and yelling like the players could hear a word she's saying because she can't admit her team is a load of bollocks."

“I demand a review, George! That was interference with the Bludger — did you see it?”  

George grinned. “No, but I saw you nearly leap out of your seat. Thought you were going to dive onto the pitch yourself.”  

“You’re not taking this seriously!”  

“Of course I am! I’m very concerned for the Ref’s safety. If looks could kill, you’d have him Petrified by now.”  

“George!”  

“Yes, love?” He leaned closer, smirking. “Are you auditioning to be the next Quidditch commentator? Because the angry shouting is spot on. You'd be putting Lee out of duty.”  

“This is an outrage!”  

“Mm, adorable outrage. I might have to start fouling Bludgers myself just to see this again.”

“I'm not losing this bet! I’ll prove it!”

"Oh no, you won't!" George finally caught up, grabbing you around the waist and spinning you back toward the stands. His face was red—half with effort, half with genuine amusement. “Merlin’s beard, woman! You’re going to get us banned from The Cup!”

“I don’t care!” you growled, though your bottom lip wobbled, equal parts indignation and embarrassment bubbling in your chest. “You tricked me into this ridiculous bet and now everyone thinks your team is flawless!”

He pressed his forehead to yours, laughing under his breath despite himself. “So your plan is to start an international Quidditch controversy… just to prove me wrong?”

“… Yes.”

“Brilliant,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm and affection all at once. “Bloody brilliant. Next time, I’m betting you a single Chocolate Frog. Much safer for world peace and keeping my head on my shoulders.”

Even as the crowd cheered and whistled, George swept you off before other spectators could scold you for your outburst, muttering about your dangerous mix of pride, stubbornness… and love of Butterbeer debts you’d rather not pay.

Now you're left with no sex for a week, and a wallet that's about to be inhabited by little white butterflies by the end of the tournament.

But who's George kidding? Merlin knows that man worships your intimacy more than some Quidditch event. He may have won (quite prideful about it too, running around when the Irish nailed the final score, and nearly blowing his voice out yelling to Fred in hopes he'd hear), but lost the bet he set all the same.

On the same night you both wagered it. Behind the stadium where no one crossed, in a little booth George had enchanted to be soundproof. 

summary: The war ended five years ago. Why do you stare at your son like you'd seen a ghost?

c/w: aged up, character death, single parent, just pure angst and depression i'm sorry

a/n: i know, not a very good thing to post after months of inactivity, but i'm not crying alone 😔 (inspired by tyler the creator's Like Him, and Sienna by the marias)

w/c: 4.6k-ish

"One... two... three... four..."

Nothing.

Again.

One.

Two..

Three...

Four.

It had been about twenty minutes since you started listening for something. Anything.

But denial was the damndest thing in the room.

You were met with silence. The hollow, empty shell of what used to be the man that showed you how good life could be had none left in him to give.

Just eerily hummed with the already fulfilled promise of nothingness.

The very chest that used to cradle your head like it belonged there and held the heart of the man you're certain you'd marry one day, was...quiet.

You tried counting the beats of his heart like you did when you and he used to tangle your limbs by the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room.

It was your favorite song.

Now a fading lullaby.

No rise and fall of his torso, and no warmth to be felt when he'd wrap his arms around you like before when days were hard.

With your ear pressed firmly against his chest, the coldness of his lifeless body seeped through his clothes.

You lay sprawled across his upper body weakly, hands clinging onto the fabric of his shirt with little to no strength. Eyes unfocused, nose running, and hot tears rushed down your cheeks, staining them as though grief had engraved itself into your skin.

"I should've stayed with you..." your voice trembled as you whispered. Your grip failing you when your fingers tried tightening around the fabric of his jacket.

"I should've...I should've followed you...Maybe...Maybe I could've done something."

The words scraped over your tongue like barbed wire when they left your mouth. The thought of how things could've turned out if you had done something differently now lodged in your throat like you'd attempted to swallow a whole Bludger at the news you never got to tell him.

— 30 minutes earlier —

You hated the cold. You hated the way it made everything look dull and depressing. The way it made your skin wrinkle and dry up, and how itchy it felt.

That was until he came along.

Second year, outside Potions classroom. Both were twelve and looking for a friend. That's how it started. With frogs in one's shoes and the other being the cause of it.

In the years that followed up until the twins left to start their joke shop, many winters came, but he never left. The summers were a bit more bearable, and the cold, weirdly warmer. He was the only constant in your life. The warmth throughout the seasons.

The only constant, until...he wasn't.

You raced through the torn-down hallways after receiving word from a very distraught Cho that something terrible had happened.

Looking around as you ran, you remembered that these were the very halls that once saw eager and busy students. Professors and nurses alike used to tread through like fire was hot on their tail to get where they needed to be.

Halls that used to echo with hope, laughter, arguments, plans, and confessions, now loomed dark, littered with debris, and smelled of death.

Sequences of no's and his name slipped past your lips like a mantra, as if saying them over and over again would somehow stop your worst fear from becoming a reality.

Were the halls always this long?

It felt like an eternity before you eventually reached the entrance of The Great Hall.

It was a dreadful sight. One that certainly wouldn't leave you for a lifetime.

The injured on stretchers, the disarranged and broken tables, and debris that made up for chairs or makeshift beds.

And the deceased. Lots of them.

While you made your way through the thick crowd of both students and teachers, even those who left a long time ago and thought it worthy enough to come back and fight, you couldn't help but hold your breath.

You recognized some of the bodies.

Amongst them were the girls and boys you used to pair up with in Advanced History of Magic, or shared a small laugh with in-between classes when the room felt a little still.

You wrapped an arm over your stomach in an attempt to compose yourself. If it hadn't been for your search for Fred, you'd be as good as a weeping mess right about now. But you kept on.

The very front of the hall neared, and on the stairs leading up to the main area where the school's staff would settle in during annual dinners and events, stood a group of people with ginger locks you recognized almost immediately huddled over something. Or someone.

None of them spoke at all. It was unnerving.

Your feet took you closer. The sounds of battle from the outside faded. The voices around you muffled. And your eyes couldn't seem to peel off their backs as they shook from crying. Your vision was tunnel-like.

Your gaze flickered over to George, who looked absolutely destroyed. Eyebrows scrunched so hard the creases dug deep wrinkles into his forehead, and his lips downturned in the most devastating frown.

An uneasy feeling began to twist in your chest.

Then you looked at Ginny, whose tears streamed down her cheeks quietly. Her shoulders slumped and shook gently with her fingers clasped over her mouth.

Your jaw trembled.

The closer you got, the more you got to see. Because now there was Molly, in front of whoever they were crying over, looking as if her own legs couldn't keep supporting her own weight anymore. She had Arthur beside her—an arm wrapped securely around her waist as she clung to his shoulder like it was the only thing anchoring her from collapsing to the ground.

And just like that, your entire body began to grow cold. Each step felt weighted, as though something was stopping you from going any further.

You were dangerously close when Ron had noticed you first.

He had been kneeling off to the side, wiping the tears from his eyes that didn't really do much of a job as more kept coming anyway. He was as red as a tomato from all the crying. He looked at you when he saw someone coming in from his peripheral.

“Y/n,” he whispered, stumbling to his feet before dragging himself over to you.

"Ron, what's—" Before you could ask any further, his hands were on your shoulders, steering you away.

He didn't say anything, just kept on trying to take you somewhere. Anywhere but there.

"What are you doing? Ron, please," you struggled, your hands wrapped firmly around his wrists and attempted to pry them off. But he kept on, using his build to his advantage and kept pushing you away, all while still weeping.

"You're scaring me," you squeaked, frowning. "What's going on? Why do you—why does everyone look like that?"

He then stopped. Hands still on your shoulders, breathing labored as his bloodshot eyes looked into yours. Eventually, he dropped his head, torso shaking from his sobs.

"Say something." You grabbed his arm almost pleadingly, craning your head down to try and meet his gaze.

"You can't," he choked.

"Why?"

"God," Ron mumbled. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

You clenched your jaw. "Where's Fred?" Ron's grip tightened on your shoulders.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. A sick feeling of dread curled in your stomach.

Deciding this wasn’t going anywhere and desperate to know who everyone was gathered around, you shoved Ron’s hands off you and hastily made your way toward the Weasleys.

That was until a strong grip wrapped around your wrist, holding you back.

You glanced behind you, unsurprised to see Ron trying to stop you. Again.

"Ron, let me go."

His grip only tightened. He could only shake his head.

You looked back over to the crowd on top of the stairs. Nobody looked at you. Not a single person.

Your eyes searched, and they landed on George once more. Still crying, and the sight made something inside you snap.

And then you saw it.

Blood on the floor, and a flash of familiar red hair peeking through the group.

Motionless.

And that was all it took.

You tore yourself from his grasp and stumbled toward the stairs, pushing past George and Molly who couldn't do more than look at you, knowing this would destroy you too.

At first, all you saw was red hair.

Then a familiar jacket.

A hand lying limp on the floor.

Still. Far too still.

Everything around you silenced. Like your ears had been hexed to stop hearing anything and everything.

"No," you breathed.

He was just unconscious. He had to be.

He always had a habit of sleeping through things he knew he shouldn't.

Any second now he'd sit up. Laugh. Say something stupid.

The room fell impossibly quiet.

But he was never quiet. Never just in one place.

And suddenly the silence you used to beg for whenever he got too loud became unbearable.

You dropped beside him, gaze fixed on his face, still waiting for him to crack a smile and yell out how brilliantly his prank worked out. How absolutely hilarious you looked over him.

He thinks it's funny, but you don't. Not one bit. It's a horrible, horrible joke.

"Very funny. Playing dead won't have you win our bet so easily," you chuckled nervously, observing his expression. He looked like he was asleep. The corners of his lips turned up ever so slightly.

"Stop playing around now, Fred, your whole family's here. Unless you dragged them in on this whole mess." With a weak smile, you turned behind you to look at the Weasley family. "Please tell him to stop joking."

Nobody answered.

Molly let out a broken sob, using her trembling hand to cover her mouth.

Arthur looked away.

George's face crumpled instantly. He shook his head, unable to even look at you or his twin brother.

Your smile slowly faltered when nobody laughed.

Snapping your head back to Fred, you reached your hand out, trembling like a leaf.

"Fred," you called, your hand trembling as your palm touched his cheek—only to recoil at the unnatural coldness of his skin.

Your heart pounded violently in your chest. You cradled your hand against yourself, still able to feel the lingering cold of his skin.

But then it all came together.

The blood dried at his temple.

The soot in his hair.

His freckles looking dull.

"Fred, stop," you muttered, reaching for his hand. Another wave of that same sickeningly cold feeling pressed against your skin.

But he didn't hold it back like he used to. Even while he slept. You don't know how he did it, but he did, and now it's driving you mad how he isn't. It stayed limp.

"No, no, no," your voice trembled as you let go of his hand and rocked yourself back—your body started to shiver uncontrollably.

"You—" All the air left your lungs. "You were supposed to come back."

Snot clogged your nose as your eyes welled with tears. Your face heated up too quickly. Another sudden sob escaped your lips.

"I didn't tell him."

And almost as if on cue, your upper body lost whatever strength it had left, causing you to collapse against his torso with your fingers tangled in his clothes.

"It's not fair," you mumbled into Fred's chest, bottom lip quivering as you gripped onto his jacket tighter. His flesh felt stiffer than when you last held him.

“Y/n, maybe you should—“ George began to intervene, but before he could finish, you quickly smacked his hand away.

He attempted to comfort you. Anything to possibly try and take you away from the sight of your dead lover. Anything to keep you from crumbling away further, even though you were already halfway there.

“IT’S NOT FAIR!” you screamed. Strands of hair clung to the tears and sweat coating your rubble-streaked skin.

But nobody said anything. What could they say?

The sight before them was enough to keep them silent.

Molly, Arthur, Ginny, Ron, Bill, Percy.

George…

They all knew what came after denial.

Your face shot up to the sky, tears falling quicker than Fred's blood had run cold.

"WHY HIM?" Your hands gripped Fred's jacket as you shook him desperately. "WHY?!"

He was supposed to be here.

"PLEASE, ANYTHING BUT HIM!" you continued to wail, your body physically unable to keep up with the overwhelming amount of sorrow coursing through you.

Lungs. Heart. Veins. Everything.

Everything Fred had touched was hurting. Burning.

"Come here, little bugger, up you go!" he beamed, lifting a little one with ginger hair just like his on his shoulders.

"I'VE LOST MY FAMILY AND MADE PEACE WITH IT. I'VE ASKED FOR PEACE AND NOW THAT I'VE FOUND IT, YOU TAKE HIM FROM ME TOO. WHY?!"

"Y/N!!!" Ginny exclaimed, running to you—tugging at your arms to try and snap you out of it. She was as scared as she was concerned.

Scared she was going to lose you too.

Another sudden image intruded into your mind. A tiny freckled hand curled around Fred's finger.

"They've got my charm, obviously," he laughed heartily.

"Y/n, please, listen to me," she pleaded, squeezing your arms to try and ground you. "It's hard for all of us...We've all lost something. Someone. But right now, you need to pull yourself together. Please."

But how could you when his voice echoed in your head? The rhythm of his laugh, the sound of it haunted you.

"I'm thinking Fred Junior the Third or Fabian II would be nice."

"Why Fabian II?"

"Because the first one worked so well."

You looked at Fred's cold, lifeless body, then back at Ginny again. All she saw was the empty shell of what used to be the woman who once radiated such warmth and light, enough to keep everyone afloat.

Now she barely had any of that left to keep herself from drowning.

Ginny was taken aback at how grief-stricken you looked. Everyone was, but yours was...unforgettable. The way dullness pooled in your eyes sent chills up her spine.

"I have...nothing, Ginny. Your brother—Fred—he—I..." You fell limp into her embrace, hanging onto her arms like a lifeline. If it weren't for her sleeves, you would've torn straight through her freckled skin.

Molly rushed to your side, gazing down at you like you were one of her own. She finished crying—didn't think she had any more tears left to give. And in all the ways, her heart crumbled for you too. Because she knew that could've been her Arthur as well. How she couldn't bear living if she'd lost him.

But Molly knew she had to be strong. She'd lost a son, yes, but her children lost their brother. George lost his twin. You'd lost a piece of your future.

"Oh, my poor girl..." Molly reached out. You didn't fail to notice the slight tremble in her tone. "It's alright...You're okay."

You hiccuped, looking up from Ginny's embrace as Molly had just begun caressing your head. Her eyes were never deceitful. They were as sad as you'd ever seen them.

"Mo—Moll—lly..." you called out, chest stuttering from your hiccups as you reached your hand out to which she immediately took.

"What is it, dear?" she asked, tone soft yet somehow struggled to keep steady.

"I loved your son," you started, and you saw the way Molly's eyes shifted at your sudden confession. "So much so that I don't know what to do with myself when I'm around him."

"Thank you..." you swallowed, "for bringing him up."

Molly smiled. One that hid her pain, but it was all too obvious.

She shook her head and took your cheek into the palm of her hand—using her thumb to swipe away a stray tear.

"Thank you for loving Fred for what he was. For what he could've been, and for what he was to you. I know he was very content with what he had. He couldn't have asked for anything more."

You nodded, before leaning yourself into Molly's chest. Her arms immediately wrapped around you like a blanket while you silently cried until you passed out from exhaustion.

After you'd gone still, both Ginny and Molly checked on you to see if you were alright. Breathing, so that was a good sign.

But what Molly had missed, and had Ginny's heart nearly drop out of her rear when it clocked in her mind, was the way you had one arm wrapped securely around your belly, almost as if protecting it.

Because internally, you did have something worth protecting. To look forward to.

A whole life.

Marriage probably.

Children.

Growing old.

And in your mind, all of it just got buried along with him.

"Come back to bed," Fred groaned, turning onto his back before sitting up on the bed. The dusty blue blanket covered no more than his waist.

"It's ten in the morning, you lazy bum. We've got a pretty big thing tomorrow, if you haven't forgotten," you responded, brushing your hair back behind your shoulders.

As you looked into your reflection in the mirror, you couldn't help but observe the way you looked. The way you changed after knowing.

The tips of your fingers delicately caressed the thin strap of the top you'd picked up from the floor before drifting them down your collarbones, and eventually settled on your stomach—absentmindedly caressing it.

And from behind you, Fred noticed.

He tilted his head to the side when he observed how unnaturally still you were being. He saw the way your eyes were unfocused, yet intently locked on to your belly's reflection.

"You alright?" his voice echoed from behind you.

How could you tell him? When can you tell him? How would he react?

You didn't even realize he had asked you something. You simply continued caressing your belly as though you'd somehow be able to feel the tiny life growing inside there already, even if it was no more than a cluster of cells at the moment.

"Y/n!" Fred poked at your waist, suddenly popping up from behind you.

"Jesus!" You jumped, quickly turning sideways to shoot him a glare.

He chuckled. "I'm Fred." Then turned you around by the waist to face him.

"Is that right? I thought you were George. Could've fooled me."

Fred gasped dramatically.

"You take that back."

You rolled your eyes, fighting back a smile before crossing your arms.

"That was awful."

"Awfully funny?"

"Fred—"

"You knew it was."

"You're insufferable."

"And yet you adore me."

Yeah. Maybe a little too much for your own good.

You knew he was trying to pull you out of your own head. To make you laugh. To ease whatever it was that plagued your mind.

But with the current circumstances, the thought of losing him felt unbearable.

Your laugh came out weaker than usual. The smile he so effortlessly put on your face faltered. And then you averted your gaze away from his.

Knowing Fred, he immediately noticed. Because at times like these, it's quite unfortunate how well he knew you.

His hands lifted instinctively and found your face with practiced ease like they belonged there. He brushed your hair away from your face, his eyes gazing at you tenderly.

"Hey." He tilted your face up, making you to look at him. "Where'd you disappear to just now?"

A beat of silence passed after his question, your eyes drifted somewhere across the room in contemplation.

Then you opened your mouth, your body tensed slightly as your gaze flicked back to his patient eyes.

A small smile tugged at your lips as a hesitant hand drifted toward your stomach.

"Fred..."

And for a split second, you really considered it.

Because what if tomorrow changes everything?

What if this is the wrong time?

What if—

"I promise I'll be careful tomorrow," Fred spoke, interrupting your thoughts.

"What?" you squeaked, blinking a few times.

"Gotcha," he laughed, flicking your nose. "You're distracted!"

“No, I’m not," you huffed.

"We're Weasleys," he said with a crooked grin. "Near-death experiences are basically family traditions."

He leaned down and pressed a kiss between your brows. "I'll be careful. And I’m coming back to you, obviously. I was thinking about expanding the shop after all this is done, and I need you to make sure we don't wreck the place before we even finish."

And in a sense, that gave you hope. Hope you couldn't afford to cling to so strongly, yet were terrified to lose all the same.

War was never a small feat. It was almost too dangerous to even feel things like that.

"So..." His thumbs traced your waist. "You gonna tell me what you were about to say earlier?"

"Oh...that." A sigh escaped your lips before you shook your head. "It's nothing. I just wanted to tell you I'll be careful tomorrow too. And I’ll say it to you once everything's over with."

You gulped, nervous he'd nudge you further for an answer, but he didn't.

"It's rigged if you of all people don't make it out." He dropped his hands, slowly pulling you back to bed before setting you beside him with your head rested on his shoulder. "Mouldy Voldy's minions should be the ones running off when they see someone with the likes of you coming."

That earned a smack on his chest from you. But Merlin, he loved it.

"What a thing to say to your own girlfriend," you scoffed, shifting to move your head over his chest. The sounds of his heartbeat banging pleasantly against your ear.

"I'll be waiting on that confession of yours after tomorrow. You better not leave me at a cliffhanger."

Your lips parted.

Tell him now.

But the words never came.

"Loser who gets to The Great Hall last would owe the winner a year's worth of treats from Honeyduke's."

"...You're on, Weasley."

"Mum?"

A small voice echoed down the dimly lit hallway causing your ears to perk up.

It was always such a familiar sound.

The way your son dragged out certain words exactly the way Fred used to when he was tired.

"Yeah?" you replied, but was only met with silence.

After wiping your hands with a rag you'd nicked from the oven, you made your way towards your son's bedroom.

And there he stood by the doorway, rubbing at one eye dramatically with his hair sticking out in every known direction imaginable. Wonder where you'd seen that before.

"Hi," you whispered, kneeling down to his level with a soft smile. "What's happened? Why're you out of bed?"

"I had a nightmare." And his pout looked awfully familiar. "There were monsters in it and it was loud and scary and I couldn't find you."

"Was it now?" You smiled again, rubbing his arms reassuringly. "You were very brave. Now come, let's get you back and tucked in."

Without fuss, he skipped off and climbed into bed with the same lack of personal space Fred once had. Noticing that pulled a chuckle out of you.

You sat at the empty space beside him, pulling the blanket over his body with one hand. "Ready for bedtime part two?"

"Yes, madam," he answered with a crooked smile. A sight that kept nearly knocking the breath out of your lungs.

A weak laugh escaped you as your eyes adjusted to the warm glow of the lamp light by his bed.

The same freckles dusted across his face, that slight copper red hair illuminated by the warm light, same eyes, same grin, even the same expression when concentrating.

For a moment, it felt cruel how much he resembled the man you loved and lost.

Sometimes loving your son felt dangerously close to missing Fred all over again.

There were nights where all the resemblances caught you off guard no matter how many years had passed, and you wondered if Fred would've noticed it too.

Their shared smile.

Their laugh.

The shared way he and his son would reach for you in their sleep.

The ache never left. At least not really. It only softened around the edges. Soft enough not to cut you as deep anymore.

It had been five years since then, and Fred still found ways to appear before you.

Just...differently this time. Smaller. Younger.

An extension of yours and his love.

"Goodnight, darling," you mumbled, leaning down and planted a kiss on his forehead.

But before you could fully turn away and leave your son to rest, his tiny hands had caught your sleeve.

You looked back to see him clutching it like letting go would make you really disappear.

Your eyebrows twitched up in surprise. "What's wrong?"

"...Can you stay until I fall asleep?"

Your expression softened. You turned your body to face him again, before leaning in real close to whisper.

"I'll do you one better. I'll be here even when you wake up tomorrow morning."

And there appeared that small, lopsided, yet shy smile once more. Your chest twisted unexplainably.

"Scoot over then," you chuckled lowly, and settled next to him under the covers that were far too small for your body.

He nestled himself snugly in your arms, his face half buried in your chest with his hands curled into his own. Your hands gently reached for his hair, combing through his locks the same way Molly had once soothed you.

"Ma?" his muffled voice sounded from your torso.

"Mm?"

"Are monsters real?"

You almost laughed at how small his fears still were.

"No." You shook your head, burying your nose in his hair. "Your daddy took care of them a long time ago."

"Is that why he hasn't come back yet?"

And that same ache surged through you again. Your breathing stuttered for a moment before you blinked back the surprise of your son's sudden question.

"Yeah. He's...still got quite a few to handle."

"We'll be here to welcome him back though, right? All that fighting must be really tiring."

"...Of course. We'll even have a cake ready for him, how's that sound?"

Silence. No answer ever came. You looked down and saw that he'd already drifted off to sleep. You felt his breathing had already evened out under your touch.

And in the silence, surrounded by warm lighting and magical toys lying about, your throat began to tighten. Your chest began to swell, and your eyes welled up with tears.

A sigh left your lips.

"God. I wish you could've seen him, Fred," a pained whisper escaped you, tilting your head back against the headboard. "He's exactly like you. You were right."

Your sniffles filled the room, mixing with the sound of the distant clock that ticked down the hall. You shifted your body down carefully so you were now lying next to your boy, head on his chest and ready for the steady rhythm of his breathing to lull you to sleep.

So there you were, head rested against his chest, listening carefully as his heartbeat drummed steadily beneath your ear.

The rhythm was different only in size. Smaller, lighter, but familiar enough to make your throat tighten again.

It sounded like home.

And for the first time in years, the sound didn't destroy you.

Somewhere between the steady beating beneath your ear and your son's sleepy breathing, grief loosened its grip.

Fred's heartbeat had once been your favorite song, and somehow, against all odds, you had found the melody again.

Fred hadn't left you empty-handed after all. He never did.

summary: his girlfriend's a snob and you want to make your presence known little by little...

c.w: aged up above twenty, hogwarts uni au, kissing, you're the other woman, third party, secret affair while fred's in a relationship (I DO NOT BY ANY MEANS CONDONE CHEATING AND JUST BC IM WRITING THIS DOESN'T MEAN I'M OKAY W IT IT'S JUST FOR THE STORY.), his girlfriend's only using him, mate

w.c: 1.3k-ish

a/n: inspired by sabrina carpenter's Taste.

“You’ll just have to taste me when he's kissin' you."

You had a reputation for many things.

A smarty-pants,

An ill-tempered woman,

A reliable hand when someone's in need,

And Fred Weasley's little fancy piece.

You know that the latter isn't really the best thing to be known for, but to you it was all for good reason. His girlfriend was a real work of... something.

Only ever wanted to be the center of attention when she had Fred by her waist. Never kissed him with any real care, and didn't hold his hand the way she should've been.

All his little jokes and pranks were either brushed off or resulted in a silent scolding telling him he's embarrassing her if he'd do it in front of other students. 

Everything that made Fred Weasley, Fred Weasley, was ultimately... snuffed out.

"Why don't you just end things with her already?" you breathed into his mouth, grabbing a bigger fistful of his hair as your lips melted against his like hot candle wax.

You were straddled comfortably on his lap. Legs on each side of his hips, while your hands explored and were never nearly as satisfied and moved as greedily as Ron's relationship with the dessert table.

He moaned, low and drawn out. "You know I can't do that." His fingers tightened around your jumper's fabric, fingertips digging into your waist as he did so, causing goosebumps to run beneath your flesh.

"She's ruining you." You bit his bottom lip.

"Someone's gotta keep me in check." He sneakily slipped his tongue into your mouth.

You dug your fingernails into the skin of his scalp lightly, slowly growing irritated. "Not in the way she's doing it."

Fred hissed, hips bucking up to push into yours — your building aggression turning him on. "She'll throw a fit if I break things off with her." 

"Doesn't matter," you spat, words piercing sharply into his mouth. More frustrated than aroused, if you'd ever felt it. "She doesn't deserve you, Fred."

He sighed defeatedly into the kiss, one hand sliding over the nape of your neck and swiftly pulling away. A string of saliva the only thing lingering between you two.

You looked at him as he did you. Eyes glossy. Hot. Sweaty. Lips glistening and red. His pants tight. The fireplace in Gryffindor's common room burned especially bright tonight. However, the couch that you and Fred used for many of your secret "get-togethers" seemed particularly stiffer than usual.

"I can't. Maybe not in a while at least. Things are too complicated," he explains before giving you one last lazy peck on the lips. A second longer than usual. You kept count. It was like he was memorizing the feeling before going back to acting like you'd never even breathed near each other before.

His thumb brushed over the apple of your cheek, eyes burning into yours. "I'll see you around, y/n."

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You sat at your house table pushing around a singular bean that had been lingering uneaten on your plate for Merlin knows how long with your fork. Your cheek had found refuge in your other hand as you rested against it. Eyes dazed and zero'd in at Fred who was chatting up a storm with the other Gryffindors he and George were dining with.

Breakfast in the Great Hall used to be enjoyable. Tolerable at best. Not anymore when you've got front-row seats to the joke you called Fred's relationship playing out right in front of you.

"Y/n, have you tried this?" Your friend piped in from beside you, motioning to a plate of Treacle Tarts with new flavors. You glanced over, but didn't feel in the mood for one. But before, you'd already have horked down at least three the moment you laid your eyes on them. "They're really good. Apparently, the elves have been given the freedom to experiment with the flavors. Poor Alice got a stomachache though. Think she ate the one they weren't supposed to send out."

"No. I'm fine." You smiled at them. "Thank you." Then went back to sighing like a lovesick fool, returning your hand to rest against your cheek and stared at the man just a table away like some longing maiden in a tower. But only you'd rather do the saving instead.

"Ah, there she is!" A male voice rang out, causing your ears to perk up.

"Freddie's girl making her grand entrance once again. Everyone give her a welcoming hand!" 

Your eyes followed the figure you'd grown to have a sour taste on your tongue for. Her movements were stiff. Calculated to try and get the most out of Fred's friends’ attention.

"Please, you're too kind." She laughed. It was bitter. But not one the people around her would hear.

She slid in beside Fred, whose face was already turned to greet her. But clearly, the rest of him found the crumbs from his Pumkin Pasty he'd also been pushing around to be far more interesting.

"Hey, you." Fred smiled, scooting a bit to make space for her.

She said nothing back. Not even something as simple as a "good morning", or a "hey, love, how'd you sleep?" 

Nothing.

Instead, you watched with narrowed eyes and a small snarl as she wrapped her arms loosely around his shoulders, pulling him close, before using her hand to tug his face closer towards her.

You didn't miss the way her eyes flickered around to see if anyone was watching. It made your stomach churn. Not the fact that she was kissing him. Anyone could do that. But kissing him without soul. Like she was simply putting her lips on her own living good luck charm for her own gain.

She closed the distance. Slow and steady. Kissing him with what looked like an actually decent girlfriend who'd been waiting all day to do so. But it sure as hell sold short to you.

A scoff shot past your lips. Quick and filled with disbelief. "Un-bloody-believable."

Whistles and hollers from his friends didn't go unnoticed. Not even the smacks they'd send over Fred's back and shoulders as an act of encouragement.

Clueless pricks.

You quickly rolled your eyes and went back to finishing what was left on your plate. 

It was hard to down the remaining bits of potatoes. Because all of a sudden, they felt like rocks clawing at your throat as you swallowed.

Just the thought of him — his potential — wasting away in the hands of that witch (literally) was beyond you. You wanted better for him. And that better was you.

You pushed your finished plate away, sighing as your belly pushed against the band of your uniform's skirt.

Food is fuel, so you didn't care, and you needed the energy to get through today's audacity. Yours included.

Reaching into the pocket of your skirt, you fished out your nearly empty burgundy gloss, preparing to reapply just as your gaze unknowingly shifted over to find her lips still glued onto his. Only then did you notice her eyebrows begin to furrow, and the slightest crinkle in her nose start to form before she pulled away. Her thumb swiped at her bottom lip before examining it.

"What the..." she trailed off, looking at the dark yet sheer red liquid on the tip of her thumb. A faint smell of cherry coming through. She wore vanilla.

Her gaze flickered from her finger to Fred's eyes.

"I know damn well I don't wear cheap cherry-scented gloss," she pointed out, her tone sharp. Already growing suspicious.

"Huh..?" Sounded Fred, confused. Right as his own fingers went to gently touch the product still on his lips, your eyes met from where you sat.

A small smirk slowly painted your lips, holding up the gloss you wore the early morning you both decided you had missed each other and expressed it in the empty common room, and waved at him.

And by then, he already knew what you were trying to do. What you were hoping he'd get the implication of. And maybe he wasn't so opposed to it. A little extra push to put an end to what he knew was weighing him down.

Careful? You should have been as you always were when you'd have your little meet-ups. But now, it was all about returning something — or someone, rather — to its rightful place.

summary: A year after having your youngest, a new challenge arose when the annual Christmas dinner with your husbands' family rolls in. Surely can't be too bad.

c/w: throuple (you are married and have kids with the twins), everyone except the children are well over their twenties, wholesome family chaos, this dynamic won't be for everyone and that's okay! please feel free to scroll past c:

a/n: this was requested by @roxasbelongswithsora-blog! apologies for the time it took to make, but i hope you like it hihi. i'll try to post more, but my schedule is lowkey f*cked right now 😭

The Burrow was warm. 

Warmer than it's ever been with the seasons that came and went within the year.

Warmer than the summer after you'd go kicking those pesky gnomes out of Molly's garden, laughing as you and the Weasley children stumbled back inside hungry and smelling like the sun — knees stricken with dirt and elbows painted with a few gashes,

And warmer than the springtime when you and Ginny would make flower crowns for each other on the floor by the dying firelight, eventually being disrupted and end up yelling at the top of your lungs while you and she chased Fred and George around the living room to get them back.

But that was years ago.

Now, it was Christmastime, and the Weasleys' residence had never been cozier, and has never been fuller.

With Harry and Ginny’s children assisting and playing around, Bill and Percy, along with their kids, were very kind to take time out of their schedules to visit Molly and Arthur. Ron, Hermione, and their children were off to another country to celebrate the festivities. Of course, we can’t forget the additional five pairs of little feet leaving marks on The Burrow’s old wooden floors. 

Fred and George's children. 

Your children.

Carbon copies of the two makers of mischief, making sure everyone knows that tricks and funny business aren't ever going to leave the house even when they've got lives and families of their own.

With your youngest and only boy having been born only last year, it was also your first Christmas with the twins' family with all your five children present.

You and the twins certainly had a lively mix of mini you's and mostly mini them's. One reliable helper, two mischievous whirlwinds, a clingy toddler, and one beloved baby. Perfect for a chaotic but heartwarming holiday.

The Burrow felt alive in a way that almost defied the chill outside. You stood leaning by the kitchen doorway with a mug of hot cocoa nestled firmly in between your hands, overlooking everything as it all went down.

Yours and Fred's eldest, now eight and your little aide, was eagerly perched on a stool beside Molly, carefully dusting icing sugar over some ginger biscuits. It was perfectly endearing how she would look back occasionally and proudly show you how grown up she was being.

A warm smile would cross your face before giving her an encouraging thumbs up, throwing in a "Careful not to get the sugar in your eyes now, darling!" Before she returned the gesture, her two little thumbs sticking up in the air, earning a warm chuckle from Grandma.

Now perhaps being twins in the Weasley family just automatically meant having a knack for troublemaking. Because somewhere in the sitting room, you and Fred's twin girls, both of whom are five, were squealing with laughter as they chased enchanted ornaments around the room. The bright, sparkling baubles bobbed and weaved over the worn rugs like mischievous pixies, courtesy of Grandad Arthur, of course.

The girls' tiny feet pattered against the old wooden floors that had seen decades of Weasley chaos, but somehow held steady under the assault of the next generation.

You let out a chuckle as you drank from your mug, peering over the rim keeping watch. Then, your eyes moved over to you and George's eldest. Your daughter, only three and determined to prove that she could keep up with her older sisters, toddled after them, hands stretched toward a floating bauble.

At least until it zipped up toward the ceiling and she squealed in indignation. Fred’s laughter roared from somewhere above her head.

"Whoa! You nearly had that one!"

And George swooped in to scoop her up before tears could start.

"Oh, come now, darling, don't frown," he comforted her, gently bouncing her in his arms. One of her small hands wiped away the tears that were about to fall, as the other held on to George's shirt tightly.

"Well, you can pout about it for a tiny bit but soon you'll be catching Snitches like your Uncle Harry! Maybe even better! Faster!"

"Not while she's three, George," you noted, cocking a brow at him with a coy smile and shot Ginny a look at which she laughed.

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Obviously. I knew that."

Though clearly his face showed otherwise. He was a teensy bit curious to see how Quidditch would play out with a bunch of toddlers flying about the field with their mini beaters and brooms.

And then lastly, your baby boy, only son, and the youngest of the five, was evidently content in Arthur's lap, cooing and letting out little babbles at the flicker of the firelight while Ginny’s and some of Bill's and Percy's children surrounded him, offering toys and making faces to earn those gurgling giggles.

"Has he got teeth?" Albus inquired, furrowing his brows as he craned his neck low enough to try and see inside your son's mouth. Your little boy gurgled and squealed at his cousin's curious gesture.

"Reckon the little fellas don't feel like coming out yet," joked Arthur. He himself had seven children. The growing of teeth was no foreign concept to him.

Albus turned to the rest of his cousins and siblings and frowned. 

"Cheer up, Bus," Dominique, Bill's second eldest, reassured.

"Yours grew in a bit later than (your son's name), mum said," added James Sirius.

"A single tooth right in front," popped in Harry from a corner.

A blush crept up on Albus' cheeks before he crossed his arms defensively. And embarrassingly so, should he be too meek to say it.

"Nuh — no?!" Albus then protested, causing the living room, already simmering with the comfort of family, to grow warmer with the sounds of chorused laughter. That of the children's and Arthur's alike.

Your shoulders shook with suppressed giggles while you used your mug and pressed it against your lips to hide.

As much as your heart swelled with a joy indescribable, so did Molly's biscuits. Only not from joy, but in the oven. Nearly burning to a crisp.

While the rest were in the living room going on about Albus' first front tooth, the events happening in the kitchen, well... It was a mess.

Your daughter, who'd been helping Molly with icing the cookies, had now run off elsewhere, and your husbands were being less-than-helpful in the kitchen with their mother — sneaking behind her back as she frosted the cooled cookies while the others baked, pocketing and shoving the sweet treats into their jumpers and mouths.

"Fred! George! If I find out you’ve nicked one more Christmas biscuit before supper, I swear on Merlin’s beard there’ll be no pudding for either of you!" Molly’s voice rang through The Burrow, sharp enough to make even the ornaments pause mid-bob. Nothing was getting past her keen senses. Caught them mid-crime like little mice.

You winced, removing yourself from the living room and rushed over to the kitchen.

Placing your mug down gently on the sink with a soft clink, it wasn't long before you found yourself by Mrs. Weasley's side.

“I’ll give you a hand with the frosting, Molly. Shame your star assistants are too busy stuffing their faces.”

You spun around to glare at Fred and George, who were lounging against the counter side by side, smirking with crumb-dusted fingers as they munched on the sweets they had swiped.

And just when you thought the chaos had somewhat died down, a small coquettish clang of glass erupted from the living room.

The ornaments had gotten a bit too wild, so with all your strength and patience, you wrangled the little ones into a game of ‘spot the elf’ to corral their energy. 

And when Fred and George began their annual competition to see who could produce the most ridiculous magical toy for the kids, you were the referee, the voice of reason, and occasionally, the one who confiscated anything that started to smoke suspiciously.

"And what exactly is that, George?" Bill inquired, his face battling against concern and wanting to join in.

"Glad you asked, brother," proudly said George as he moved aside to show Bill the strange-looking animal contraption on the table. The children began to crowd around it as well. 

"This is what I call 'The Gaggling Goose'. Added a new feature this year, and I'm quite excited to show the kids. And to prove to Fred that his sucks, mostly."

Fred smirked and crossed his arms, pretending to be unimpressed. 

"Right, mate," he said with mock seriousness. "Well, I hope your goose doesn't gurgle itself into a pile of feathers like last year. But go on then — show me what’s supposed to outshine my masterpiece. I could use a good laugh."

Arthur chuckled at his sons' exchange, and you could barely contain your own laughter from slipping. 

"Dad, hurry and show us!" cried your eldest girl.

"Yeah, quit being a slowpoke!" the twin girls then intercepted.

George clapped his hands together, rubbing them with boyish excitement as he crouched in front of the peculiar contraption. The so-called Gaggling Goose — an awkward collection of brass gears, flapping felt wings, and a beak that wobbled too loosely — sat proudly on the table in the centre of the living room.

“Right then,” George announced, eyes gleaming. “Gather round, my little audience! Prepare to witness the marvel of the century.”

The children scurried over first, practically vibrating with anticipation. Fred’s twins climbed onto the edge of the armchair, their older sister hovering behind them, while George’s three-year-old perched on Arthur’s knee to get the best view. Even your baby boy seemed transfixed in Arthur’s other arm, babbling softly as if he knew something exciting was about to happen.

Molly and Arthur exchanged a wary look but settled among the family anyway, Arthur’s lips twitching with amusement. Harry leaned against the wall, his arms folded but a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Ginny and Bill perched near the sofa, Percy standing stiffly with an eyebrow raised, clearly skeptical but unwilling to miss whatever chaos might unfold.

You, of course, stood closest to George with your arms also crossed, already envisioning potential smoke and sparks.

George flicked a switch on the back of the goose. Its head gave a jerky twitch. The wings flapped twice. The children gasped.

“Ooooh!” cried your eldest.

“Ha! It’s alive!” Fred declared with awe.

The goose honked — a long, low, almost mournful honk — before beginning to waddle across the table in a stuttering pattern, its wings flapping more vigorously. The children squealed with laughter as it bobbed and hopped like a drunken bird.

“See? She’s perfect!” George said proudly. “Now, watch this—”

He pressed a small gold button on the side. Instantly, a series of whistles and clanks filled the living room. The goose spun in a tight circle, honking madly while a puff of glitter shot from its tail.

The children shrieked with delight, clapping and cheering.

Then, a faint hiss escaped from somewhere under the bird’s brass belly.

“Er…” Harry straightened, frowning. “Is it supposed to sound like that?”

Ginny squinted. “Is that… smoke?”

Sure enough, a thin wisp of grey curled from the back of the goose. George froze mid-celebratory pose.

“Ah,” he said, tilting his head. “That’s… new.”

Molly shot up from the sofa, brandishing her wooden spoon like a weapon. “George Weasley! If that thing so much as scorches my rug—”

A louder hiss interrupted her, and the goose wobbled violently, its wings flapping so fast they blurred.

“Right, that’s enough fun!” you declared, swooping in to snatch the contraption off the table before it could sputter any further. "Children, move away."

The children groaned in disappointment as you flipped the switch off, smoke still curling lazily from its seams.

Fred laughed so hard he had to hold onto the counter, and Arthur wheezed into his hand, trying not to encourage them. George gave you a sheepish grin, hands raised in surrender.

“Well,” he said. “At least it didn’t explode this year.”

Molly closed her eyes and muttered something about boys never growing up.

The day was long, and everyone had their bellies stuffed to the brim with classic holiday home cookery.

And by the time the evening wound down, with five sleepy children nestled among blankets and family humming carols in the background, you found yourself sinking into the sofa between Fred and George. Exhausted, yes — but also warm in a way that had nothing to do with the crackling fire.

"Whew," you sighed, getting cozy in between them — linking your arms with theirs in the process. "I am... dead tired."

"Mm, you did very well on your mission today, Miss Responsible," Fred purred, lazily flicking your nose.

"Zero reported casualties," added George with a smile.

"Save for that Goose of yours," Fred retorted with a tone that gave away that smirk of his. 

"You're not any better, Fred," you laughed, nudging him. "We would've all starved if me and your mum hadn't stopped you from inhaling every dish she left out to cool."

Fred, very knowing of his own crimes, simply frowned and gave a shrug — his free hand raising in defeat.

"Guilty as charged."

The three of you erupted in laughter. Not loud.

Soft. Tired. Heavy and deep with sleep yet awake enough to remember the fact that you did share a moment like this with your husbands even with all the mayhem and children filing up your agenda. A moment of respite for the adults that also once laughed and played as children in that very house.