ŕ¨ŕ§ love potions - fred weasley
contains - this is after the war, (fred is still alive, and didnt drop out, he is in the last year of school, as are you). voldemort killed your parents and you are experiencing great grief and slowly go into a depression spiral, you donât know what to do with your life, until mrs weasley offers a helping hand and offers for you to stay at the burrow. A few months go by, and hogwarts starts back up again, for your final year (at hogwarts or forever?..), in this time you become close with fred and you start showing signs of ur feelings for him through the love potion used in class. The rest is history.
warning - grief. SLOWWWW burn, fluff, there is no smutt in this (sorry), kissing, cuddling, teasing, death, this is a long fic, not too bad the chapters are quite short but just a warning, i want to captivate a slow burn.
this is a short- ish story, full of love, acceptance and dealing with loss, i hope you enjoy! i had fun writing this, it is completely finished now.
chapter one - whatâs left of me
- ⪠how to never stop being sad - dandelion hands
grief is cruel in the quiet.
not the loud kind of cruelty, the one that comes with screams or shattered glass or fists pounding against the wall. no. grief doesnât always arrive like a storm. sometimes it seeps in like fogâsoft, silent, and choking. it curls around your throat when you try to speak. it follows you into rooms where no one knows what to say. it waits for you in the spaces where love used to live.
and the worst part about grief?
it may lessen with time, yes. but it never really goes. it lingers, tucked into the folds of your clothes, caught in the scent of your motherâs favorite tea, clinging to the corners of your fatherâs handwriting. it waits for you on holidays and birthdays, on anniversaries you donât know how to celebrate anymore, and worst of allâon ordinary monday afternoons. it doesnât need a reason to hurt. it just does.
what nobody tells you about grief is that it permanently changes you. your life splits into two halves: before, when you didnât know you were holding something fragile, and after, when you realize itâs gone and thereâs nothing you can do to bring it back. before, you carried the weight of all the futures you imagined with them. after, youâre just left watching the world go on like nothingâs missing, while you cling to whatever scraps of memory are left.
but to know grief⌠is to know love.
and maybe thatâs the silver lining.
to feel this kind of loss means you had something worth losing. something beautiful. something whole. it doesnât make it easier. it doesnât make it fair. but it does mean you were lovedâand that you loved in return. and what a thing, to have known a love strong enough to leave an echo this loud.
you hadnât spoken these words aloud, but they lived in you now. scrawled like a letter across the inside of your chest. you imagined your mum wouldâve said something like this. something soft and impossibly brave, like she always had a way of making the unbearable feel almost survivable.
you hadnât survived it. not really. you were still breathing, yes. still moving through the halls of a half-repaired hogwarts. but inside⌠something had caved in. and no one else seemed to see it.
they said the war was over. that you had won.
but all you could feel was the cold.
you stood just outside the great hall, spine pressed against the familiar stone wall, as if maybe the castle itself could hold you up. your hands were trembling. they had been for days now.
students brushed past you, voices hushed. some were crying. some were laughing. some clutched each other like lifelines, desperate not to let go. there were so many reunionsâwarm embraces, tearful relief. and you⌠you were just standing still.
frozen in a moment no one else seemed to notice.
your parents hadnât been there when youâd returned home. you didnât even get to say goodbye. didnât get a funeral, or a final letter, or a memory to hold onto. you got a silence. you got a broken door. you got ashes on the carpet and someone elseâs voice telling you, âiâm so sorry.â
you remembered the battle, the chaos, the blood, the smoke. you remembered the way your chest had tightened, right in the middle of the final fight, like someone had reached inside and crushed your lungs. youâd fallen, hard, scraped your palms, and someone had pulled you back upâsomeone who didnât know that at that exact moment, your world had ended.
you didnât scream. you didnât cry.
you just sat down in the grass and watched the sky, waiting to feel something.
you hadnât gone back to the hufflepuff common room. not once. you couldnât. not when the walls still smelled of honey and warm tea. not when the pillows still held pieces of the person you used to be.
that girl felt like a ghost now.
before the war, youâd known yourself. youâd been soft, maybe, but steady. kind, and proud of it. a quiet strength. a warm laugh. someone who brought people tea when they were sad, who stayed up late listening to friends cry about stupid boys. you were known. you belonged somewhere.
now⌠now you didnât know who you were without them.
without your dadâs loud footsteps on sunday mornings. without your mumâs arms around you when your world fell apart.
a girl made of grief and nothing else?
you sat in the library most nights. it was the only place no one asked anything of you. you could disappear between stacks of books and pretend you were somewhere else. somewhere you were whole. you didnât read. you couldnât concentrate long enough. you just stared, eyes vacant, until they burned.
you didnât speak to many people. the words felt too heavy. your grief had made you quiet, unsure. people tiptoed around you like you might breakâand maybe you would.
you were in the library again, when you heard it.
not just any laugh. his laugh.
it cracked the air like a spell gone wrongâloud, rough, alive. it startled you. not because it was out of place, but because it wasnât. it sounded too real. too bright in a world that still felt grey.
you didnât look up. you didnât dare.
you and fred werenât friends. barely acquaintances. he was older, louder, fire-bright and golden, always pulling attention like the sun. and yet⌠there was something in that laugh. something that made you ache.
you hated him for it, a little.
hated that he could still laugh like that. that he could still find joy in a place where the walls were stained with the memories of war. hated that you wanted to feel it too. that you craved the way it had made something flutter low in your stomach for just one secondâone second of not feeling numb.
he didnât speak to you.
he walked past, out of sight, and left behind a strange warmth you didnât know what to do with.
you pressed your forehead to the table and breathed out slowly.
maybe when you were finally alone.
maybe when it didnât feel like the act of grieving would tear the last pieces of you apart, for now you just need to focus on when classes start.
chapter two - the first week
there was something unnatural about returning to a place where youâd once felt safe, only to find that safety had become a memory. it wasnât the castleâs fault, not really. hogwarts had done its best to remain standing, to offer shelter and structure, to act as something steady in the aftermath of the war. but the walls remembered. the air remembered. and you⌠you remembered most of all.
your first âday backâ felt like walking through a memory that no longer fit you. the halls had grown quieter. not silentâjust⌠tired. as if the building itself had exhaled and never quite managed to breathe in again. portraits still moved and whispered among themselves. the suits of armor still clanked. the ghosts still driftedâbut even they seemed deader than before. the usual mischief and chaos had been replaced with a strange kind of stillness. one that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
you hadnât unpacked your trunk.
youâd shoved it under your bed the night you arrived and hadnât opened it since. the thought of unwrapping your old lifeâbooks filled with your motherâs neat handwriting, jumpers your father had folded for you lastâwas too much. youâd kept the trunk closed like it might spill grief if you opened it.
you hadnât been sleeping either. not really. there were naps in stolen moments. fitful dreams tangled in sweaty sheets. but your nights mostly bled into your mornings, eyes wide open, breath shallow, body frozen in the dark. the beds in the hufflepuff dorms were as warm as you remembered, but no warmth reached you. not anymore.
by monday morning, you were already exhausted.
transfiguration was your first class back. a cruel choice, you thought, for the first time youâd be expected to act normal.
you sat in the back. you used to sit at the front, eager to learn, to ask questions, to feel the thrill of getting something right. now you barely lifted your gaze from the wood grain of your desk. professor mcgonagall had glanced your way once, just onceâand her eyes, usually so sharp and unwavering, had softened.
you tried to listen. truly, you did. but the words didnât land. something about simple conjuringârefreshers from fourth year. you could barely hold your wand without your fingers trembling. you kept it on the desk beside you like it might bite.
the girl beside you, she had auburn hair, and a soft voice had asked if youâd like to partner up. you stared at her for too long, unsure whether the question had even been for you.
âsorry,â you finally muttered. âiâm notâi donât think i canââ
âitâs alright,â she said quickly, her smile was, kind. âreally. i get it.â
you didnât want her to get it.
you didnât want to be the girl everyone tiptoed around, the one who looked like she might shatter. but that was who you were now, wasnât it? a walking wound. a hollow thing in human shape.
by wednesday, the weather had turned.
the grounds were damp with a lingering mist, and the sky hung low, heavy with unspoken things. the scent of wet earth clung to your robes as you wandered outside, your feet leading you without thought.
you ended up by the lake. there were no students there, not at this hour. it was too early for lunch, too late for another morning class. the world was suspended in an in-between moment, like it wasnât quite sure what it wanted to be.
you sat at the base of a wide tree, knees tucked to your chest, hands hidden beneath your sleeves. the oak was cool against your back. you leaned into it like you needed something to hold you up.
and then, without warningâyou remembered your mother.
the memory arrived uninvited, as they often did. it wasnât sharp, not at first. it came in sensations: the warmth of summer sun on your shoulders, the floral smell of her hair, the rhythm of her humming.
you were ten. sitting in the garden, barefoot and cross-legged, while she braided flowers into your hair. daisies, mostly. your father was inside, cooking something that smelled like cinnamon and burnt toast.
âyouâre going to grow into something brave,â she said, tucking a daisy behind your ear. âyouâll be the kind of girl who survives anything.â
you remembered laughing. the sound of your own voiceâuntroubled, young, alive.
you remembered thinking the world was simple. that good things lasted. that your motherâs arms were the safest place on earth.
you pressed your forehead to your knees and let the sob crawl its way up your throat. you didnât try to stop it this time. it came slow and aching, like your body had finally remembered how to cry. not in the dramatic, chest-heaving way. noâthis grief was quieter. salt on your lips, the sting in your eyes, the tightening in your ribcage that made it hard to breathe.
you stayed there a long time. long enough for the sun to drift behind a cloud. long enough for the damp to seep through your robes and cling to your skin. long enough to wonder if you would ever feel whole again.
friday came whether you wanted it to or not.
the great hall was too loud. too full. the sound of forks scraping plates, of laughter and conversation, pressed against your skull like a migraine. you slid into a seat at the very end of the hufflepuff table, away from the others, away from the light.
you didnât touch your food. your toast had gone cold.
your fingers picked at the edge of the table, your nails raw.
it wasnât the first time this week. but it still knocked the wind from you. fred weasleyâs laugh was the kind of sound that didnât belong in a place like this. it was too bright. too full of life. it cut through the heavy air like sunlight through fog.
you looked up before you could stop yourself.
he was sitting with the rest of the gryffindors, head tilted back, eyes crinkled, mouth wide in a grin that looked almost reckless in its joy. george was beside him. maybe lee too. it was hard to tell through the haze of your exhaustion.
and yet⌠you knew he wasnât.
the whole school knew what the weasleys had lost. the shop that had gone quiet. the ache in molly weasleyâs eyes. the way george never quite laughed the same anymore. and still, fred carried something golden. some light you didnât understand.
you hated how your chest twisted when he laughed. hated how your body reacted before your mind could catch up. hated how some small part of you wanted to feel it too. wanted to know what it was like to laugh without guilt. to smile without flinching.
and you were grateful for that.
because what would you have done if he had?
the first week blurred by in shades of grey. classes came and went. the castle breathed around you. people smiled with lips that didnât quite reach their eyes.
and every so often, when the world was quiet, and the grief had settled for just a moment, youâd hear it again.
a reminder that life still existed somewhere beyond your grief.
but maybe, if you were lucky, if you held on long enoughâit might again.
chapter three - the light
a month passed like melting waxâslow, thick, inevitable. the world didnât stop when they died.
youâd paused in place, frozen in the moment you heard the words. iâm sorry. they didnât make it. your parentsâyour whole worldâhad vanished in a flash of green light you hadnât even seen. and in the days that followed, you moved through the castle like a ghost. not the kind that moaned or floated or rattled chainsâbut the kind that blinked back tears at breakfast, who stopped talking unless spoken to, who forgot how to smile.
now, a month later, you still werenât whole.
some days were better than others. you could stomach full meals again, even if the taste still felt dulled. you could sit through lessons without biting the inside of your cheek until it bled. you even laughed once, just a littleâwhen a second-year fell into the black lake chasing a chocolate frog.
you were still grieving. just not drowning.
the tears came slower now. they didnât rip through you like claws. they came in waves, soft and stinging, sometimes at night when the stars looked too much like the ones your mum used to trace in the sky, or when you reached for parchment and remembered your dadâs hands guiding yours.
you told yourself theyâd grown wings.
you told yourself they were somewhere better.
you hadnât grown your wingsânot yet.
you were still here, heavy and earthbound. but you were beginning to feel something shift. you were beginning to realize, terrifyinglyâthat life kept going. and if it did⌠maybe you had to keep going, too. not for yourself, but for them. because if they couldnât live, you would live for them.
you didnât know what that meant yet. but it had to mean something.
charms was on thursdays, after lunch.
it used to be just hufflepuffs and ravenclaws, but the war had changed everythingâschedules, classrooms, even the seating charts. too many students lost. too many spaces that felt empty. so this year, they mixed houses more. maybe to unite. maybe to distract.
thatâs how fred weasley ended up in your class.
you hadnât seen much of him since the battle. you remembered the headlines, of courseâhow he and george had abandoned the joke shop. how theyâd come back to hogwarts when the dust settled. how fred had almost died.
and now he sat three rows back, a burst of noise in a room that otherwise hummed with quiet.
the first time he walked in, he didnât even look around. he just strolled through the door like he owned it, fire-red hair messy as ever, tie loose, wand already twirling in his hand. a half-grin tugged at his mouthâeffortless, crooked, careless. like the war hadnât touched him at all.
you didnât believe that.
you knew it had touched everyone.
but fred wore his pain differently. if yours had hollowed you out, his had lit a fire beneath him. you were quiet. he was chaos.
you sat by the window, your usual seatâsecond from the front, close enough to hear flitwickâs instructions without having to ask again. the sunlight there was always gentle, even in october, but you rarely noticed. youâd stopped paying attention to beauty. it felt distant. undeserved.
your parchment was neat. your quill in place. your wand parallel to your textbook. everything lined up. everything in order. it was the only thing you could control.
behind you, fred weasley dropped into his seat like gravity didnât apply to him.
his desk was a disaster. his parchment was crumpled, quill nowhere in sight. sometimes he didnât even bother bringing his textbook. heâd borrow someone elseâs with a grin and a charmingly ridiculous reasonâleft it in the owlery, or used it to prop up my broom, or thought iâd let the book miss me for a day.
he talked through every lesson.
not loudlyânever enough to get sent outâbut constantly. little side comments, ridiculous spell names, muttered observations that made half the room shake with laughter. once, he levitated his own quill midair just to let it spin in circles over someoneâs head. when professor flitwick scolded him, fred only winked and said, âthought the quill fancied a bit of exercise.â
they waited for him to speak. watched him for the next laugh. even flitwick, with his firm rules and tiny stature, had started to smile more when fred entered the room.
you were the opposite of everything fred weasley was.
where he brought color, you were grey.
where he radiated noise, you absorbed silence.
he was movement. you were stillness.
he was firelight. you were shadow.
and he didnât seem to notice you at all.
but sometimesâwhen the laughter dimmed or when you looked up too fastâyou thought you felt his eyes on you. just for a second. like he was trying to figure out who you were beneath the quiet. or maybe just trying to remember your name.
you didnât know what you wouldâve done if he said it.
you werenât ready for light.
you were still learning to exist in the dark.
because even now, a month later, the grief hadnât gone. it had only changed shape. no longer a knife, but a weight. not a scream, but a presence. like something sitting beside you always. a shadow stitched into your spine.
and you knewâdeep downâthat they werenât coming back.
you whispered it to yourself on the hard days, like a lullaby you didnât want to sing. theyâve grown wings, you would say. theyâve grown wings. theyâre not in pain anymore.
it helped, sometimes, to imagine them light enough to fly.
to believe they werenât held down like you were.
to picture them somewhere above youâwatching. waiting.
they had wings now, you didnât.
you were still earthbound. heavy. learning to stand. trying to walk when your legs still remembered what it felt like to collapse. you told yourself that someday, if you were strong enough, brave enoughâyou might earn wings of your own â not through death, but acceptance and freedom, freedom of your own mind and feelings.
for now, all you could do was keep going.
put one foot in front of the other.
sit in charms. take notes. not cry.
and maybe, just maybe, let yourself glance over your shoulder when fred weasley laughed.
because even shadows notice warmth, eventually.
chapter four - a name like yours
the castle had begun to shed its leaves.
windows fogged in the mornings now, breath misted in the corridors, and the air tasted like cinnamon and smoke. october always carried a kind of hush with itâsoft and thoughtful, like the world was slowing down to listen.
you had become something like that, too.
quiet. not hollow anymore, just⌠hushed. you still missed them. of course you did. your parents lingered in everythingâin your laugh when it escaped too suddenly, in the way you still reached for two mugs when you brewed tea in the common room. grief lived beneath your skin like marrow. not always visible. but always there.
still, you were surviving.
and yet, no one really spoke to you.
not in a way that mattered.
your friends, the ones from before the war, had grown distant. not out of cruelty, but out of fear. they didnât know what to say. they offered small smiles in the halls, awkward pats on the shoulder, and invitations you always turned down. you didnât blame them. you wouldnât have known what to say to you, either.
you had become the girl who lost her parents.
you hadnât noticed him looking at you that day.
the lesson had started like any otherâflitwick chirping about non-verbal spellwork, students flipping through dog-eared pages, the air buzzing with the low murmur of excitement and dread. you sat in your usual spot, neat as ever, posture slightly too stiff, hands folded too tightly in your lap.
and then, from the row across you, a voice:
âoiâsorry, whatâs your name?â
fred weasley was watching you.
it wasnât a stare. not invasive. not sharp. just⌠curious. casual, even, like heâd only just realized youâd been there all along and it bothered him that he didnât know who you were.
you opened your mouth, but the words caught in your throat.
no one had asked that in weeks. not like this. not with that kind of raw, unfiltered interest. most people spoke to you like they were walking on glass, careful, apologetic, unsure. fred didnât. he wasnât smiling, exactly, but his eyes were warm. and most of allâ
he didnât look at you like you were broken.
he didnât tilt his head with sympathy.
didnât soften his voice like he was afraid you might shatter.
he just asked. like your name was worth knowing.
ây/n,â you said quietly. âitâs y/n.â
he nodded once. âright. thought so.â and that was it.
he turned back to his desk, muttering something about having seen your handwriting on a shared assignment list. a moment later, he was asking someone else for a spare quill, and then attempting to enchant his ink bottle to refill itself (it exploded). laughter rippled through the room. flitwick sighed.
you sat there, pulse thudding gently in your ears.
because for the first time since the war ended, someone hadnât spoken to you out of pity. he hadnât mentioned your parents. hadnât looked at you with that familiar blend of fear and sorrow. heâd just seen you. curious. normal. alive.
and something small, tinyâshifted in your chest.
a flicker of warmth in a month of frost.
you didnât dare look back at him again.
but you could still feel it.
like a match lit in a dark room.
that night, you didnât cry.
you didnât sleep well, either. you just lay awake in the quiet of your dormitory, watching the shadows move across the ceiling, whispering your name to yourself like it was something precious. like it meant something again.
fred weasley knows my name.
he didnât look at me like i was a ghost, or act like i was broken.
he looked at me like i still had wings to grow, like he knew my story but didnât judge.
chapter five - the things that never leave
it didnât fade. it didnât loosen its grip just because time passed. it didnât disappear in the snow or drown in pumpkin juice or slip away with the leaves. you just grew around it, like ivy curling around the cracks in stone, you shaped yourself around the hurt. your grief was no longer a bleeding wound, but something quieter, deeper. a shadow stitched into the way you walked. a sigh in the way you smiled.
by christmas, things were⌠livable.
youâd learned how to survive the quiet again. how to sit in the common room without imagining your parentsâ laughter echoing down the hall. how to laugh softly when someone made a joke. how to answer questions in class without your throat going tight. sometimes you even forgot, just for a moment.
but then a scent, or a song, or the way snow drifted across the courtyard would remind you. and it would come backânot as sharp pain, but as longing. like missing a part of yourself that used to breathe beside you.
they were still gone.and you were still here.but youâd grown.
the castle shimmered in december. garlands of holly wound down the staircases, and fairy lights hovered above the great hall like stars caught in mid-air. everything felt softer around the edges. quieter.
charms class became something like routine. you didnât dread it anymore. not with fred in the room.
he never spoke directly to youânot often. but something had shifted. a glance here. a question there. he started asking you things in class. not important things, just casual, pointless little questions like:
âwhat page are we on again?â
âwhatâs the incantation for this one?â
âdid flitwick say clockwise or counter-clockwise wand movement?â
he always had three or four other people offering help. people who raised their hands for him, leaned toward him, wanted his attention. and still, he asked you. and each time, you answered quietly, each time, you wondered if he knew how much it meant.
it wasnât flirting. it wasnât even friendship. it was something smaller, quieter. like heâd chosen you, in some small way, to tie himself to the earth. and maybe, just maybeâyou were starting to do the same with him.
but nothing is that simple. not even kindness.
you werenât trying to overhear.
you were walking back from the library, tucked behind a tapestry shortcut near the charms corridor when you heard itâhis voice. unmistakably fred. loud, relaxed, joking like always.
âwaitâis she the one whose parents got killed? the orphan girl?â
he was talking about you.
your name wasnât even in the question.
your knees weakened before your heart had time to respond. the words curled in your stomach like poison. the orphan. the girl whose parents got killed.
youâd known people talked.
but hearing itâlike thatâso casually. so easily from his mouth. the same boy who smiled at you across tables, who asked you which wand movement to use, who looked at you like you werenât invisible.
you didnât wait to hear the response. you leftâfast and quiet and hollow again. everything good youâd felt over the past months cracked like thin ice under boots.
you skipped dinner that night.
you sat in the cold window nook in your dormitory, forehead pressed to the glass, hands in fists in your lap. it wasnât just the word. it was the reminder. the stripping down of everything youâd become in the last months. you were more than that.
because to everyone else, you were still the girl who lost everything.
and tonight, fred had proved it.
you werenât expecting the knock. not this late. not from him.
but there he was in the corridor outside the hufflepuff common roomâred hair tousled, jacket half-buttoned, and not smiling.
âcan iâŚ?â he gestured inside. âtalk to you?â
you werenât ready. your throat still felt raw from unshed tears. but he looked guilty. not embarrassed. not caught. guilty. and that, more than anything, made you nod.
he stepped in. didnât sit.
âi didnât mean it like that,â he said. quietly. voice not like the fred everyone else heard. this one was softer. uncertain.
he rubbed the back of his neck. âi just⌠i didnât know. i mean, i knew something happened, but i didnât know it was you until a few weeks ago. no one ever said anything. and then i noticed you werenât like, i donât knowâlike everyone else. and i wanted to know why.â
you looked at him. for the first time, really looked.
âso you called me an orphan.â
fred winced. âi know. i know how that sounds. i was asking someoneâbecause you never talk about it, and i didnât want to assume. it came out wrong. it was wrong.â
he paused. and then, gentlyâ
you stared down at your hands. they didnât shake anymore.
âitâs just⌠itâs hard,â you whispered. âhearing people say it. like that. like itâs all i am now.â
âitâs not,â he said. quickly. âi mean it. i donât think of you that way. not really. not anymore.â
you looked up at him again. the way he stoodâawkward, fidgeting, but honest.
and for the first time, you let yourself believe him.
âthank you,â you said.
he nodded. shifted from foot to foot.
and then, with a flicker of his usual grinâsmall, hesitant, but realâhe added, âyouâre kind of scary when youâre mad, yâknow?â
you huffed a quiet laugh. it surprised you.
and it surprised him too.
but neither of you said anything else.
he left with a small wave, and you stayed in the dark common room, a little less alone.
the word orphan still stung.
but it didnât define you.
you had names. memories. a heart still beating. a life still stretching ahead.
and maybe, just maybe, a boy whoâd made a mistakeâbut who saw you anyway.
chapter six - the soft silence
hogwarts didnât go quiet. not really.
even when the halls were emptied and the students had all scattered to their homes, something in the castle kept moving. portraits whispered to one another, the walls sighed in the cold, and the snow pressed against the windows in soft, breathless flows. the silence wasnât hollowâit was heavy. full. like the castle itself was holding space for those of us who stayed behind.
and there were only a few of us now. a handful of students, professors, ghosts. but mostly just shadows. i didnât leave. i didnât even consider it. where would i go? home didnât exist anymore. not the way it used to. not with the kitchen empty and the light in the hallway burned out and no one waiting by the front door to ask if iâd eaten, if iâd slept, if i was warm.
it was my first christmas without them. i tried not to think about it too much. but it was everywhere. in the wreaths on the doors. in the way the castle smelled faintly of pine and cinnamon. in the crackle of the fire that felt too loud in the quiet.
sometimes, the loneliness pressed in so thick, i felt like i was underwater, constantly drowning.
grief had changed shape. in those first weeks, it was sharp, jaggedâsuffocating. but now⌠now it was something quieter. something that hummed beneath everything else. it lived in my bones and behind my ribs. it wasnât always screaming, but it never left.
i cried less. not because it hurt any less, but because the tears started to feel like part of my routine. like brushing my teeth. like breathing.
iâd stopped expecting it to go away. they were gone. and they werenât coming back. i didnât want to accept that. but i had. because i had to.
maybe i could live a life bright enough for them to see. maybe i could carry them with meâlike sunlight stitched into my shadow.
i spent most of my days alone.
wandering corridors. sitting in the library with books i never opened. watching the snow gather outside the windows like dust on glass. time passed differently now. not slow, not fast. just⌠heavy. each hour felt like its own weight.
and then, there was charms class.
fred weasley had joined our termâs charms section after the warâsomething about filling in credits he missed. and suddenly, he was there. loud and laughing and alive in a way that made the air bend around him.
he was everything i wasnât.
he walked into the room and the walls woke up. he cracked jokes mid-lecture, leaned back in his chair like the rules didnât apply to him, and made people smile like it was nothing.
i sat near the back. silent. unmoving. i didnât laugh when he did. i didnât meet his eyes. i didnât speak.
and still, i caught him glancing at me more than once.
at first, i thought it was pity. it usually was. people looked at me like i might break if they spoke too loudly. like i was some ghost that hadnât figured out how to leave.
but fred didnât look at me that way.
he didnât flinch when our eyes met. he didnât lower his voice or offer some soft, pitiful kindness. he just looked. curious. thoughtful. like he was trying to place something he couldnât quite name.
on christmas eve, i sat alone on the stone bench outside the charms corridor. the castle was quietâsnow falling in thick, silent flakes, covering everything in softness. i liked the cold. it made me feel clean, clear.
i was staring at the frost on the windowsill when i heard footsteps.
âyou always sit alone?â
his voice was gentle. different from the usual sharp-edged wit he carried in class. i turned.
fred weasley stood a few steps away, hair tousled, hands in the pockets of his worn winter coat. his cheeks were flushed from the cold, but his eyes were steady.
i blinked. âsometimes.â
he nodded, walking slowly until he was leaning against the wall beside me. not too close. just enough to share the silence.
âthe bench is always yours?â he asked, voice light.
âno one else wants it,â i said. âtoo cold.â
he smiled faintly. âi like the cold.â
i looked at him then. really looked. the way the firelight from a nearby window softened his features. the faint freckles across his nose. the way his posture looked relaxed, but his eyes didnât. like something in him never quite settled anymore.
âyouâre not at the burrow,â i said, quietly.
he glanced sideways at me. âno.â
he shrugged. âfigured iâd try a quieter christmas this year.â
there was something behind his voice. not sadness, exactly. but memory. weight.
âyour family?â i asked, gently.
he exhaled, visible in the cold air. âtheyâre good. loud as ever. i just needed⌠space, i guess.â
i nodded. âi get that.â
and then, so softly i almost didnât hear itâhe said, âi noticed you werenât leaving, either.â
âwhy?â i asked, not to challenge him. just because i didnât understand.
âbecause youâre always here,â he said. âlike you belong to the castle now. not in a ghost way. just⌠you carry silence like itâs yours.â
i didnât know what to say to that. no one had ever described me like that. not in a way that felt like a compliment.
âlook,â he said, eyes back on the snow, âi donât know if this is weird, butâmy mum asked if anyone was staying over break. and i thought of you. sheâll feed you until you burst, and i promise youâll be too warm the whole time, and weâve got a tree that nearly tips over every year from the weight of the ornaments.â
âi thought maybe youâd want to come.â
âi know itâs not the same,â he added quickly. âi know it canât be. but if you wanted⌠just for the day. or a few. no pressure.â
i felt something shift in my chest. a tiny, invisible click. like a frozen part of me had cracked.
âyou donât even know me,â i whispered.
he looked at me then. properly.
âiâm trying to,â he said. âif youâll let me.â
i didnât answer. not out loud. not yet.
but when he said, âiâll be by the carriages at ten,â i nodded once.
and something about that smile felt like the softest kind of warmth. like the first morning you donât wake up crying. like the first deep breath that doesnât hurt.
chapter seven - the house with seven hearts
i thought iâd feel out of place the second i stepped into the burrow.
instead, it was like walking into something livingâsomething stitched together with warmth and music and dusted laughter. the air smelled like roasted potatoes and cinnamon, and the walls leaned with age, as though theyâd heard every story, every secret, and kept them tucked somewhere safe.
mrs weasley pulled me into a hug the second i stepped through the door.
âoh, sweetheart,â she said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. âyou must be freezing. come in, come in.â
she smelled like vanilla and peppermint and woodsmoke, and i didnât realize how much i missed that kind of embrace, motherly love, wordlessâuntil it was wrapped around me.
âweâve got a blanket with your name on it, and hot cocoa already going,â she added, steering me toward the kitchen. âdonât argue with me, iâve already decided.â
i nodded, silent, blinking too much.
the house felt like it was constantly in motionâfeet padding up stairs, laughter echoing from a distant room, someone shouting âwhere are my bloody socks!â from above. and yet, it didnât feel chaotic. it felt lived in. real.
every weasley greeted me with the kind of welcome that didnât require explanation. george offered me a crooked smile and a plate of gingerbread men. ginny pulled me into a side hug and asked if i liked exploding snap. arthur offered to show me how their toaster worked (which he stole from a muggle house), even ron, bleary-eyed and dragging his feet, gave me a tired little wave from the hallway with a muttered âmorninâ, hufflepuff.â
i hadnât been called anything other than âthe girl whose parents diedâ in months. being called hufflepuff, something so ordinary, made my chest twist unexpectedly.
not in a way that was obvious. not in a way that made me feel like he was watching. more like⌠he was there. always a few steps away. offering me a drink before i could ask. making space for me on the sofa. laughing loudly in the kitchen, then glancing over his shoulder to see if i was still listening.
at one point, he told a joke about percy and a mistletoe that sent the entire table into hysterics. i laughed, just once, not loud. but real. it slipped out before i could stop it.
his head turned so fast it startled me.
his eyes locked on mine, just for a beat. and then, he smiled.
it wasnât a smirk. not teasing. not cheeky. just warm. quiet. like heâd been waiting to hear that sound.
later, after the food and the fire and the small pile of presents, it seemed almost too small for their big family but it was enough. enough for them (mrs weasley insisted i take a scarf and a knitted jumper âjust in case you grow into it, dearâ), i sat by the window, curled beneath a thick tartan blanket. outside, the snow was falling gentlyâquiet and slow.
i should have felt the ache more sharply then. the absence of what iâd lost. but something about this house, about the way it wrapped itself around me without question, made the grief feel⌠bearable.
it didnât disappear. it never would.
but it wasnât all i was holding anymore.
fred sat down next to me after a while, offering me a slice of treacle tart.
âitâs not poisoned,â he said casually.
âi didnât think it was.â
âyou should have. george made it.â
i cracked the smallest smile. âbrave of you to eat it first, then.â
he glanced sideways at me, something thoughtful in his expression. âmaybe i wanted to test it before giving it to you.â
âbecause i like the sound of your laugh,â he said, quiet.
that kind of honesty shouldâve made me flinch. instead, it settled somewhere inside me like a hand resting gently over my heart.
fred found me in the kitchen early the next morning, cradling a mug between my hands. the rest of the house was still asleepâjust the soft creak of floorboards, the smell of leftover cinnamon and warm air.
âyou want the tour?â he asked, tousled and in his pajamas.
i blinked. âof what?â
âthe burrow. thought iâd show you the rooms. the places mum hides the good biscuits. the bathroom with the mirror that yells compliments. the usual.â
room by room, he showed me the house like it was a living museum of his childhood. the staircase with the fourth step that creaked like a banshee. the pantry that doubled as a secret hideout when he and george were kids. the garden door with a dent from where ginny once hexed a gnome into orbit.
and then, he paused outside a door with a hand-painted sign: fred & georgeâs lair â no other gingers allowed (ron optional)
âyou donât have toââ i started.
âno,â he said, quietly. âi want to.â
the room smelled faintly of parchment and something woodsy. half of the space was messy, scattered clothes, joke shop sketches, a pile of quills. the other half was untouched. georgeâs side. i didnât ask. i didnât have to.
he sat on the bed and motioned for me to look around.
âthose are mine,â he said, pointing to a stack of drawings pinned near his desk. âdonât laugh. or do. actually, if you do laugh, i might draw you next.â
i stepped closer. they were messy, yesâbut full of movement. dragons mid-flight. students casting spells. a sketch of the great hall ceiling in charcoal. there was a life in them. like each stroke had been pulled straight from his chest.
on the wall behind his bed, leaned gently against the headboard, was a guitar. old. worn. well-loved.
just a few chords. soft. slightly out of tune. but it filled the room in a way that made something ache deep in my throat.
when he finished, i sat beside him on the bed. not too close. but close enough that the warmth from his arm reached mine.
neither of us said anything for a long while.
and for the first time in months, silence didnât feel like loneliness. it felt like rest.
the days after christmas blurred in a soft, golden sort of way. time didnât feel heavy at the burrowâit was lighter here, like it floated just above your head instead of sitting on your chest.
mrs weasley insisted i have second helpings at every meal, and when i said i was full, she would put more into my bowl anyway. her kindness didnât feel performative. it was woven into her like breath.
ron and harry were in and out, flying in the orchard, sneaking sweets from the pantry, arguing over chess strategiesâbut ginny⌠ginny stayed.
she found me the day after boxing day, sitting by the window with a cup of tea that had long gone cold in my hands. she didnât say anything at first. just sat down beside me, legs pulled up to her chest, her head tilted toward the quiet frost dusting the outside glass.
âi used to hate the quiet,â she said after a while, almost like she was speaking to herself.
i glanced over, unsure if i was meant to answer.
âafter the war, i mean. it was too loud. the silence, i mean. like it echoed.â
it was all i could manage. but she smiled at thatâlike she understood, like she didnât need more. and from that moment on, she made sure to include me in everything without making it feel like charity.
when she curled her legs beneath her on the floor to paint her nails, she offered the bottle to me.
when she went outside to feed the chickens, she called out for me to come with.
it wasnât a grand friendship, not yet, but it was steady. gentle. something real in a world that still felt slippery under my feet.
he didnât speak to me much. he didnât sit beside me like ginny did.
but i caught him watching. not alwaysâjust enough for me to notice.
at dinner, when george made a loud joke and everyone laughed, my eyes flicked toward fred instinctively. he was already looking at me.
he just smiledâsmall, crooked, nothing loudâand then turned back to his food.
he was quieter than in hogwarts.
or maybe it was just that i was finally seeing the quieter parts, in places he felt comfortable enough to be silent.
once, when i passed the sitting room and found him sketching in an old notebook, he looked up and said nothing. but he pushed the book slightly toward my side of the table. not enough for me to see what he was drawing, but enough to say he wasnât hiding it.
he was letting me see him. slowly.
on one of the last nights before school started again, we ended up outside together. it wasnât planned. i had wandered out for air. he was already on the porch, fiddling with a broken snow globe.
âcanât sleep?â he asked.
he nodded like he understood. like he didnât sleep much either.
we didnât say anything after that.
but he sat there, and i sat beside him, and neither of us moved.
chapter eight - the night that didnt end
the final day of christmas break unfolded like a memory you already missed while it was happening.
the burrow buzzed gently that morning, not with excitement but with a kind of lingering hushâthe kind that wraps around you when something is about to end. suitcases reappeared by doors. books were gathered. robes hung neatly from hooks again. even the sky outside seemed to hold its breath, clouded over with that kind of grey that isnât quite rain, just waiting.
i didnât know how to say goodbye to a place that had started to feel like a quiet home. maybe not mine, not reallyâbut something close enough to make the ache of leaving settle deep in my chest. ginny hugged me tighter than expected before disappearing upstairs, her hair trailing like firelight behind her. mrs weasley packed me extra biscuits for the train, saying, âfor when itâs too quiet,â and she didnât have to explain what she meant.
but it was fred who made the day feel slower, like it didnât want to end.
he found me in the sitting room after lunch, legs crossed lazily on the couch, his wand floating an apple in lazy circles above his head. i was curled in the corner of an armchair, hugging my knees, pretending to read.
he glanced over. âyou planning to keep pretending to read that page forever, orâŚ?â
i blinked and looked down. same paragraph. again. heat rose to my cheeks.
âjust thinking,â i muttered.
âdangerous habit,â he said, but gently. not mocking.
i smiled, just a little. âfor you, maybe.â
he grinned like iâd surprised him. like heâd been waiting for me to say something real all week.
he tossed the apple in his hand, catching it without looking. âlisten⌠when weâre back at hogwarts, want to hang out during breaks? maybe come to hogsmeade with george and me sometime?â
i looked at him, eyebrows lifting slightly. âyou want me to third-wheel?â
âfourth, technically,â he shrugged. âgeorge and i count as two already.â
i snorted, unexpectedlyâand he looked a little too pleased with himself.
âseriously,â he added, and now his voice was quieter. âyou donât have to say yes. but if it gets too much, or too loud, or too⌠nothing, just find us.â
i didnât answer right away. i was still looking at him, trying to see past the grin and the bad jokes. to the way his eyes searched mine when he thought i wasnât looking.
âokay,â i said softly. âmaybe.â
he nodded. didnât push. just that crooked little smile again, the one that lingered longer than it should have.
the day passed with small moments. we played exploding snap at the kitchen table. he didnât let me win, but he didnât make me feel stupid for losing either. we watched the sky turn pale through the windows. the others drifted in and out, but somehow, i stayed close to him. and he didnât move away.
after everyone had gone to bed, i found myself standing in the hallway outside his room.
i donât know why i knocked.
i think it was the quiet. i think it was the thought of returning to a cold bed at hogwarts, to silence, to the empty place grief still curled inside me like smoke.
he opened the door with tousled hair and a half-surprised look, already in his pyjamas.
âcouldnât sleep?â he asked.
i hesitated. then nodded.
âcome on in,â he said, stepping aside.
his room was warm. scattered with sketches, books, a guitar leaning against the wall. georgeâs bed was already empty, heâd gone to angelinaâs cottage early. the space was dimly lit by a single flickering candle, and fred climbed onto his bed like this was the most normal thing in the world.
i sat on the edge. stared at my hands.
âdo you⌠ever think about it?â i asked. âthe war. what it did to us.â
he was quiet for a moment. i thought maybe iâd said too much. but then he nodded.
âevery day,â he said. âsometimes it feels like itâs still happening. like i left pieces of myself back there and forgot where.â
i swallowed. âi feel like they⌠like my parents grew wings. theyâre somewhere higher. lighter. and iâm still here. heavy. stuck.â
he looked at me thenâreally looked. no smile. just honesty.
âmaybe youâre still growing yours,â he said. âdoesnât mean youâre stuck. just means youâre still becoming.â
i felt my chest tighten. not with pain, but with the kind of relief that hurts anyway. because no one had said something like that to me before. not like that.
we talked for hours. about death. about life. about the stupid things that kept us awake at night. he told me about the joke shop they never opened. i told him about the smell of my motherâs hair when she hugged me. he told me how scared he was that people only saw the funny one. i told him how scared i was that people only saw the orphan.
i didnât mean to fall asleep. but sometime between a whispered thought and the creak of the wind outside, my head tilted against his shoulder. and i stayed there.
morning light crept through the curtains slowly. soft gold brushing against the edges of the room. i blinked awake to find his arm draped lightly around me, both of us still in our clothes, still on top of the blankets.
he was awake too. not looking at meâjust at the window, like heâd been watching the sunrise for a while.
âwe should get ready,â he said quietly.
i nodded, but didnât move. neither did he.
in that silence, i knew something had shifted. not loudly. not all at once. but it was there.
and it would follow us back to hogwarts.
returning to hogwarts felt quieter than iâd expected. maybe it was the snow. maybe it was the stillness that always seemed to settle over the castle after the holidays, like the walls were trying to remember what it meant to be full again.
the train ride back was hushed. students shuffled in with tired eyes and heavy bags, laughter returning in cautious parts. i sat alone by the window, knees curled to my chest, watching the frost blur past. the glass was cold against my cheek. but it didnât bother me. cold felt like something i could understand now. like something i deserved to carry.
it was january 6th. my birthday.
i hadnât told a soul. the thought of saying it out loudââtodayâs my birthdayââfelt ridiculous. childish. like i was trying to hold on to something already gone. birthdays were for the version of me that had parents. for the version of me that believed in cake and candles and late-night stories. not for now. not for this.
i didnât want anyone to know. but part of me, quiet and achingâi wished someone would notice.
hogwarts appeared like a memory just beyond reach. the turrets peeked through the snow-frosted trees, soft and familiar, like an old jumper that still smelled like someone you missed. and in that moment, it didnât feel like school. it felt like somewhere iâd once belonged.
i dragged my suitcase through the corridors, the wheels thudding loudly against the stone. everything looked the same. the portraits still whispered. the torches still flickered with that strange golden light. but something inside me had shifted. like the part of me that once called this place home had stepped slightly to the left. just enough to feel the distance.
when i reached the hufflepuff common room, it was warm and golden and full of chatter. i smiled politely, nodded, made my way to my room. i needed quiet. i needed air. i sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the wall. the sun filtered in weak, through the high windows. and i remembered.
my dad had glasses that always slid down his nose when he got excited. i used to sit on the floor and watch him pace in the kitchen, hands moving wildly as he spoke, his specs dancing with every step. i would laugh and point, and heâd say, âtheyâre alive, i swear it. always running away from my face.â
i used to count his freckles, too. especially the ones on his hands. i said they looked like stars. he said they were proof heâd been kissed by the sun.
and on my birthday, heâd say the same thing every year. âyouâve got more freckles, kiddo. the stars are jealous again.â
i blinked back the memory. it stung, sweet and sharp all at once.
outside, the sun was setting over the grounds, staining the snow with streaks of pink and orange. i wrapped myself in my blanket, the silence thick around me. and when i came back from dinnerâafter forcing down three bites of potatoes and one sip of pumpkin juiceâi found something waiting on my bed.
folded once, no name. but the handwriting was messy and unmistakable.
âi think wings grow slower for some of us. but they still grow. even if you donât feel them yetâi see them.â
i stared at it, chest tight.
underneath the note was a small bundle, carefully wrapped in parchment and rope. i unfolded it with trembling fingers.
it was me. sitting on the windowsill of the burrow, legs tucked under me, book in lap, eyes soft with thought. the shading was gentle, almost hesitant. like heâd taken his time. like he was afraid to get it wrong.
and next to it⌠a chocolate frog.
he hadnât asked. i never told him. but he mustâve noticedâat the burrow, after dinner, when i quietly unwrapped one after the other while the others talked and laughed. heâd been watching. not in a loud way. not in a way that made me feel like a project.
i pressed the frog gently between my palms, not opening it yet. not ready to let the moment go.
fred had asked someone. probably someone from my old friendgroup. heâd found out, not to make a scene, not to draw attention. but to make sure i wasnât forgotten.
he didnât say happy birthday.
he didnât knock on my door with balloons or jokes or some loud, well-meaning prank.
he just left a drawing. a note. a chocolate frog.
and somehow, that meant more.
there were so many voices in my head lately. grief had a way of being loud. but in that moment, his silence was louder. it filled the space in a different way. it didnât try to fix anything. it just sat beside me.
and maybe that was what healing looked like.
but being seen in the brokenness.
being lovedâquietly, slowlyâfor all the cracks.
chapter ten - after the note
i didnât sleep much that night.
the sketch sat on my desk, propped up against the windowsill. the frog, still wrapped, untouched. i couldnât bring myself to eat it. it didnât feel like a gift. it felt like a message. like something meant to last longer than the taste of chocolate ever could.
i kept rereading the note.
âi think wings grow slower for some of us. but they still grow. even if you donât feel them yetâi see them.â
it was stupid, really. how a few quiet words could soften everything inside me that had been so tightly wound for months. it wasnât a declaration. not even close. but it was something else. something steadier. like a hand reaching into the dark and not asking you to come outâjust letting you know it was there.
i didnât know how to thank him.
not without making it weird. not without ruining whatever this almost-thing was between us. whatever name it didnât have yet.
but he deserved more than silence.
when i saw him the next morning, he was leaning against the wall outside the charms classroom, arms crossed, head tilted up to the ceiling like he was watching something no one else could see.
he looked⌠lighter. but not in that loud, performative way iâd seen him play for others. this version of fredâthis quiet, observing fredâwas softer. gentler around the edges.
i hesitated before walking up. but he saw me.
his eyes flicked toward mine, and he smiled. small. crooked. like he was waiting for me to say something first.
âyouâve got good penmanship,â i murmured, stopping beside him.
he blinked, then grinned. âyou found the note, then.â
âyeah,â i said, brushing a bit of hair behind my ear. âyou didnât sign it. very mysterious of you.â
âadds to my charm,â he said with a shrug, glancing sideways. âyou liked the drawing?â
i nodded, more shy than i meant to be. âi thought you didnât draw ppl you know.â
âi donât. not really. just⌠you looked peaceful that night. thought it was worth remembering.â
âand the chocolate frog?â i asked, trying to deflect, to breathe.
he tilted his head. âbit of a gamble. figured you wouldnât hex me for it.â
âi mightâve, if it was anything but a frog.â
his eyes glinted. âso iâve been watching the right things, then.â
i looked at him, startled, but he didnât backpedal. didnât flinch. there was something bolder in the way he said it. not loud. not cocky. just honest. a quiet confession hidden behind a crooked smile.i leaned against the wall beside him, matching his posture. âyouâre observant for someone who pretends not to care.â
he gave a soft laugh, barely a sound. âand youâre braver than you let on.â
i blinked at him, unsure what to do with that.
âyou think iâm brave?â i asked, voice smaller now.
he looked over, properly this time. his gaze wasnât teasing. not even a little.
âyouâve been through hell,â he said simply. âand you still show up. still sit by the window with your book like youâre waiting for something beautiful. if thatâs not brave, i donât know what is.â
the corridor around us was buzzing nowâstudents arriving, voices bouncing off stoneâbut in that little stretch of wall between us, it felt quiet. still.
âthank you,â i said finally. âfor yesterday.â
he gave a soft nod. âdidnât want it to pass unnoticed. seemed wrong.â
âit was the first time i felt⌠seen,â i whispered, âwithout being pitied.â
his gaze dropped, and something shifted in his face. like he understood exactly what that meant.
âyouâre not a pity project,â he said. ânot to me.â
there was silence between us then. not heavy. just full. thenâbecause i didnât know what else to say, because i wanted to keep the thread between us warmâI added, âso⌠how long have you been spying on my chocolate frog addiction?â
he smirked. âlong enough to know you stole one of ronâs.â
I gasped, mockingly offended. âi would never.â
âyou were very sneaky about it,â he said, nudging my shoulder gently with his. âhonestly, i was impressed.â
i laughed. real and soft.
and this time, when our eyes met, something lingered. something unspoken, but steady.
not a confession. not yet.
but seeds grow. especially when someone believes in your wings.
chapter eleven - amortentia
i wasnât sure when walking to class with fred became a thing.
maybe it started when we both left breakfast at the same time a few mornings in a row. maybe it was after that day he gave me the note. or maybe heâd just decided, without saying anything, that it made sense nowâfor us to move beside each other, like two quiet moons orbiting something unspoken.
it was the morning light that gave him away most. golden rays catching in his hair, eyes soft with sleep, shoulders slouched in that easy way of his. like nothing in the world could ever be heavy for himâeven though i knew better now.
âyouâre quiet today,â he said softly as we walked down the stone corridor toward charms.
i shrugged. âjust tired.â
i didnât answer, but he didnât push.
instead, he nudged me lightly with his elbow, offering a crooked little smile.
âwell, good news is,â he added, âweâre making love potions today. nothing fixes sleep trauma like magical romantic delusion.â
i huffed a laugh despite myself.
âoh, fantastic,â i murmured. âmaybe iâll fall in love with neville.â
fred paused. âyou could do worse.â
i grinned, but my chest tightened with nerves. iâd never made amortentia before. iâd read about it, obviouslyâeveryone had. the most powerful love potion in existence. one that didnât create real love, just obsession. infatuation. and still⌠it was famous for something else. it smelled like the things you loved. the person you loved.
and i wasnât ready to know.
we stepped into the classroom just as professor flitwick waved his wand and partnered us up by table.
âpartnered pairs today,â he chirped, bouncing on his toes. âyouâll be brewing amortentia, so try not to pass out from longing.â
and just like that, i was paired with fred.
i glanced at him, unsure, but he was already pulling ingredients toward us with practiced ease.
âironic, huh?â he said under his breath. âme and you. love potion.â
i tried to smile. it felt like swallowing glass.
we worked in silence for a few minutes, crushed rose petals and peppermint oil misting into the bubbling cauldron. the air shimmered faintly with magicâsweet, thick, heady.
i wasnât expecting it. not so soon. not so sharp.
musky cologne. the faintest trace of woodsmoke. and, honey. not the syrupy kind. something warmer. something like the candles mrs weasley lit in the windowsill. something like home.
i blinked hard. swallowed. pushed it all down.
âwhat do you smell?â fred asked casually, not looking at me.
âuh⌠fresh parchment. and pine trees. maybe⌠cinnamon.â
he nodded slowly. âclassic.â
i turned the question back on him. âwhat about you?â
he sniffed the air again, thoughtful.
ârain on old stone,â he said. âbit of mint. and lemon tarts.â
i laughed lightly. âlemon tarts?â
âmy mum makes good ones.â
i nodded, pretending to believe him.
neither of us said the truth.
we finished the potion in silence, the mixture swirling in pearly, silvery curls. everyone around us was giggling, teasing, comparing scents. but i couldnât stop thinking about the lie. how easy it came. how necessary it felt.
i wasnât ready to admit that he was starting to smell like home to me. and he wasnât ready to admit that i was becoming something more than just the quiet girl with ghosts in her eyes. as class ended, i packed my things slowly, waiting for the room to thin out. fred lingered beside me, watching the last tendrils of smoke fade from the cauldron.
âi liked yours,â he said softly. âeven if it was a lie.â
i looked at him, mouth parting to answer, but he was already turning to go.
âsee you later,â he added, voice too light to be casual. âdonât fall in love with neville.â
leaving me with nothing but the ghost of his scent and the echo of something we were both too scared to say out loud.
the scent still clung to me in invisible tendrils, delicate and hauntingâhis cologne, the smoke of the burrowâs old fireplace, that whisper of honey. it clung to the inside of my chest more than anything else. i couldnât scrub it off. i wouldnât have wanted to, even if i could. outside the classroom, the corridor was bright with winter light, slanting through stained-glass windows in quiet, holy beams. i didnât mean to slow down, but my body moved gently, carefully, like my heart had swollen too large for my chest and i had to carry it differently now.
hermione was waiting by one of the windows, arms crossed, scarf looped twice around her neck. she looked up at me with something between knowing and kindness.
âhe walked you again,â she said simply.
i felt the blush rise, slow and warm. âitâs not a thing.â
she shrugged. âi didnât say it was a thing.â
we stood in silence for a moment. her gaze softened when she noticed the way i lookedâlike my soul had just walked through fog and hadnât come out whole.
âwhat did you smell?â she asked, voice quiet and honest.
i hesitated. then looked up.
âmusky cologne. firewood. and⌠honey.â
she smiled. not teasing. just gentle. âdid you tell him that?â
âno,â i said softly. âi told him it was pine trees and parchment.â
âdid he believe you?â
i shook my head, half-laughing. âno. and i didnât believe him either.â
hermione tilted her head. âthatâs the thing about amortentia. it doesnât lie.â
âno,â i whispered. âbut we do.â
she looked at me carefully then, like she could see through all the layersâgrief, fear, longing, whatever else lived in me like ghosts. and then she reached out, brushing her fingers gently across my wrist.
âyouâre allowed to feel this, you know. youâre allowed to start again.â
i didnât say anything. but her words echoed in me for the rest of the day.
when i returned to the hufflepuff common room later that night, there was something resting on the edge of my bed. i stopped in the doorway.
and beside it, a folded piece of parchment with my name written in messy, familiar ink. ink iâd started to memorize from every note, every scribble in the margins of shared textbooks.
i picked it up with trembling hands.
âi remembered the story you told meâabout the daisy tree and your mum, how you made crowns and watched the clouds. i donât know if you still do that. i hope you do. thought you might want to get some fresh airâmeet me in hogsmeade, at feb half term? just you, me, and a butterbeer or three. no george.(unless you want him, but iâm hoping you donât.)â
i stared at the daisy for a long time.
the story wasnât something i told easily. just a soft, half-whispered memory from christmas at the burrowâof how my mum once wove daisies into my hair beneath a crooked tree near our house, saying they were wings for a summer girl.
not as a trick. not to get close. but because heâd actually listened. quietly, completely. i pressed the daisy to my chest and closed my eyes.
and for the first time in a long time, i didnât feel like an orphan or a ghost or a girl walking through ruins. i just felt⌠held.
the air was cold but soft, the kind of cold that kissed your cheeks without biting them. hogsmeade looked almost dreamlike beneath the pale sun, cobblestones dusted in leftover frost, windows glittering with condensation and leftover garlands. it had been weeks since the love potion lesson, but the tension still lingered like perfumeâunspoken, sweet, almost unbearable.
it was the first time you were fully alone with fred outside of school. no crowded corridors or shared glances in the common rooms. just the two of you. you hadnât even noticed how tightly your scarf was wound around your neck until he gently tugged at one end with a smirk.
âyou trying to choke yourself before the butterbeer?â he said, lips curled in that familiar teasing grin.
you rolled your eyes, cheeks warming. âmaybe iâm just trying to feel something.â
âdark,â he replied, mock-offended. âi like it.â
your fingers brushed as he opened the door to zonkoâs for you, the tiny touch sending a spark straight through your bones. you tried not to react. you really did. but he noticed, of course he did. his hand lingered a little longer on the wooden door, his gaze catching yours before flickering away like nothing happened.
you wandered through shop after shop, your eyes trailing over shelves, but always flicking back to him. fred moved with ease, light in his step and jokes on his tongue. he bought a nose-biting teacup and pretended it bit him, making you laugh so hard it startled the woman behind the counter. the sound felt unfamiliar in your throatâforeign and precious.
outside the three broomsticks, the world seemed to settle. you sat at a small table near the edge of the pub, steam rising from your butterbeer in lazy spirals. fred sat opposite you, elbow on the table, chin resting in his palm as he watched you.
âyouâve got a bit ofâŚâ he motioned vaguely, eyes glinting.
âfroth. rightââ he reached across the table and brushed your chin gently with his thumb, the touch slow and deliberate, his fingers warm even in the cold. you stopped breathing. time paused.
âyouâre ridiculous,â you whispered, the words sticking in your throat.
âyou like that about me,â he said softly.
you didnât respond. not with words, anyway.
there was a silence after that. not awkwardâjust full. full of things unsaid and yet deeply understood. fred leaned back, breaking the quiet only to say, âso⌠what did you really smell? back in charms. the love potion.â
your heart dropped, stomach tightening. you looked down at your cup, hands suddenly unsure of where to rest.
âyou donât have to tell me,â he said quickly, voice more sincere now, quieter.
you looked up. âyes, i do.â
you stood, motioning for him to follow. you walked through the snow-dusted paths in silence, past honeydukes and madam puddifootâs, past memories you werenât ready to speak aloud. eventually, you reached the edge of the village, where the land dipped into a small knoll beneath the trees.
and there it wasâthe tree.
the one your mum used to bring you to whenever you visited hogsmeade. back when the world was whole and quiet and yours. you sat beneath it slowly, brushing snow off the roots, and he sat beside you, wordless but listening.
âshe used to sit right here,â you said, fingers curling in your lap. âweâd have lunch under this tree and sheâd braid my hair and tell me i had magic in my freckles. said they were constellations, you know? whole stories written in them. she used to say⌠that one day, iâd grow wings.â
fred was watching you, eyes softer than youâd ever seen them.
we stayed under the tree, our shadows long against the white-streaked grass. hogsmeadeâs quiet hum felt far away here, as if the tree had its own kind of hush to offer. fredâs thumb grazed the lip of his butterbeer mug. i could still feel the warmth of his hand from earlier, when he brushed the froth from my chin with such quiet, unspoken affection it lingered like a promise on my skin.
he tilted his head back against the bark, exhaling softly. âyou know,â he started, âi used to think i was invincible.â
i looked over, surprised. his tone had changedâlighter still, but with something else buried beneath it. maybe exhaustion. maybe truth.
âme and george, we always had this plan. open the shop, annoy mum, make people laugh. i didnât really think past that.â he gave a small, almost embarrassed laugh. âthen the war came. and suddenly, i was terrified of⌠stopping.â
i didnât say anything. not because i didnât have words, but because he deserved silence for onceâspace to speak without interruption.
âi never told anyone this, but during the battle, i kept thinking⌠what if that was it? not the joke, not the laugh, not even the last prank. just⌠gone. like a light put out.â he ran his hand through his hair, avoiding my eyes now. âand george, if he lost me⌠it wouldâve broken him.â
my breath hitched. the image of the twins, always side by side, separated by warâit made my chest ache.
âi think thatâs why i notice you,â he said quietly. âyou donât pretend. you donât plaster smiles over grief. you carry it. and somehow, youâre still here.â
âbarely,â i whispered, almost involuntarily.
fred turned to me, his gaze steady. âbut still.â
there was a stillness between us, like everything that had ever gone unsaid was gently settling around us, a snowfall of truths we hadnât dared speak aloud.
âmy dad,â i said, my voice trembling, âhe used to say that every freckle on my nose was a star. heâd count them when i cried, like they were constellations only he could see. said i had galaxies on my face.â i smiled softly, blinking back tears. âi hated my freckles when i was little. now i try not to wash them off.â
fred looked at me like i was made of something more than skin and bones. something he couldnât name.
âi think heâd be proud of you,â he said.â
i blinked, startled by the way he used my own words. i hadnât told him about that. he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the daisy i thought heâd forgotten. it was slightly crumpled from the day, but it still held the sun in its petals.
âyou said this tree felt like home because of your mum,â he murmured. âi wanted you to have a piece of that again, thatâs why i brought you to hogsmeade, i reckoned you would bring us to this tree.â
something in me cracked openânot painfully, but like thawing. like letting the warmth in after a very long winter.
âfred,â i breathed, and he looked at me like he already knew what i was going to say.
âwhat did you really smell?â he asked, eyes searching mine. âin the love potion?â
his breath caught, and for a moment, neither of us moved.
âyour cologneâmusky and warm. ink, like fire crackling from late nights in the common room. and chocolate frogs. but it was more than that⌠it was you. the way you make things feel less heavy.â
fred didnât say anything at first. he just set his butterbeer down and leaned in slowly, brushing a hand against my cheek.
âcome here,â he whispered.
I fell into him, not like something breaking, but like something finally falling into place.
his lips found mine, soft and certain, and the kiss was slowâlonging wrapped in warmth, like the first real sunrise after a year of clouds. it tasted like butterbeer and grief and something we were both still learning to name. he kissed me like he meant it, like heâd been waiting for this moment too, and maybe he had. when we finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against mine, breath mingling in the space between us.
âi think this is how you start again,â i whispered. ânot by forgetting. but by remembering⌠and choosing to keep going.â
âtogether?â he asked.
i nodded, smiling through tears.
years later, we still visited the tree.
our daughter liked to collect daisies and leave them stuck to the roots of her hair. she had my freckles and fredâs laugh. and sometimes, when the wind rustled the branches just right, i swear i could hear my mumâs voice in the leaves.
grief never left, not completely. but it no longer ruled me. it lived beside joy, beside love, beside fred.
and somehow, that was enough.
and we never stopped choosing each other.
