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[jamilelucato]

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Secrets We Keep Masterlist

Pairing: Fred Weasley x [Y/N] Malfoy

Welcome to the official masterlist for Secrets We Keep! Dive into the journey of [Y/N] Malfoy as she navigates the complexities of family, identity, and unexpected emotions with Fred Weasley.

Chapters

Part One: (setting the stage, family tension, and first encounters)

Part Two: (late-night encounters and a stolen kiss)

Part Three: (tension grows as the distance becomes harder)

Part Four: (nightmares, a siren, and a destiny to fulfil)

[jamilelucato]

Secrets We Keep - 4 [F. W.]

Pairing: Fred Weasley x [y/n] Malfoy

Secrets We Keep Masterlist

Summary: As [y/n] Malfoy prepares for her arranged marriage, she grapples with her disillusionment and longing for freedom. Fred Weasley haunts her thoughts, and she ultimately escapes the life set for her.

Warning: family drama, mild angst, cursing.

A/N: And here we are, the end of this story. It’s been a journey filled with both sadness and relief. Writing this was tough, especially with [y/n]’s bittersweet path. I hope some of you found something to connect with, even if it’s dark. Thank you for sticking with me!

PART FOUR

The beginning of planning her arranged marriage came the summer after her seventh year at Hogwarts. [y/n] Malfoy stood in the ornate study of Malfoy Manor, the air thick with the scent of polished wood and old parchment. She turned the first reply card over in her hands, its edges embossed with gold. Thanking them for the invitation, it read, with all the decorum expected from their circle. The white, gilt-edged invitations had already been sent—date, time, and place meticulously planned by Narcissa, who had a penchant for perfection.

“The Carrows are a respectable family,” [y/n] muttered under her breath, echoing the words her parents had so often said. Her voice was low, sardonic. “This union secures alliances and ensures my… comfortable life.”

Comfortable. The word tasted bitter, coated in disillusionment. It would undoubtedly be a life of luxury; she did not doubt the Carrows' wealth could rival her own family’s. But what did comfort mean in the world her parents envisioned? Gilded cages and polished chains.

Her eyes landed on a parchment resting atop the mahogany desk—a letter from Alecto Carrow’s eldest son, her husband-to-be. She had never met him. His handwriting was beautiful, each stroke elegant, the ink gliding across the page as though it carried importance. The words, however, felt hollow: “I am glad to unite our families through you. I have heard a great deal about your refinement and grace.”

She snorted softly. Refinement and grace? Was that all she amounted to in his eyes?

Well, not shockingly, she knew almost nothing of him—his name only barely etched in her memory. Aiden, or perhaps it was Alec? The family seemed fond of ‘A’ names, but for all she knew, she might as well have been marrying the patriarch, Alecto himself. The letter continued, a boastful recounting of his horses, estates, and their holdings in Scotland.

[y/n] skimmed the page, her interest waning. A man should write of himself if he hoped to court a woman properly. How tall was he? Athletic or slender? Did he carry himself with dignity or merely posture? Was he clever—prone to unconventional thoughts and daring solutions? Was he kind or fierce, perhaps fire-hearted enough to intrigue her? What she needed was not a list of properties, but a glimpse of the man behind the name.

But none of that mattered. Not really. Whether charming or dull, she would marry him. She had no choice in the matter. Yet, as she stared at the letter, she found herself scoffing not only at its lack of substance but at the bitter truth beneath her dissatisfaction: he wasn’t Fred Weasley. No description of his athleticism or cleverness, no fiery wit or daring spirit leapt from the page. Her fiancé’s words painted no picture of a man who could make her laugh, challenge her, or infuriate her with his reckless bravery. He wasn’t Fred, and that fact gnawed at her more than she cared to admit.

Fred Weasley—a reckless, foolish symbol of rebellion. And look what it had earned her: nothing but a hollow engagement and a life she could barely stomach. Nothing had changed.

“You are a Malfoy,” Lucius’s voice cut sharply through her thoughts, heavy with authority. “Act like it.”

And so she did. Or, at least, she performed.

The Death Eater meetings were a far cry from the glittering parties of her youth. Held in secret locations, they carried an oppressive air of dark rituals and whispered schemes. As the engagement solidified, [y/n] found herself attending more often. As a woman among men, she was dismissed as an accessory—a passive observer left to linger in shadowed corners or in the kitchens of the grand houses that hosted these gatherings.

She loathed every second. The words exchanged were laced with cruelty and bloodlust, ambition tainted by the iron tang of violence. In those moments, she felt like an intruder in a world where morality had been strangled. Yet, she could not leave. Not without consequence.

Her introduction to her betrothed came at one such meeting. The parlour was steeped in tradition, its atmosphere stifling with expectations. She wore her finest robes, their emerald sheen catching the dim light as she extended her hand. She almost faltered when introduced, realizing she had barely committed his first name to memory. Was it Aiden, Alec, or perhaps another forgettable 'A'? The realization brought a faint blush of irritation to her cheeks, but she masked it swiftly, her polished exterior remaining intact.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Mr. Aiden,” she said, her voice polished and detached.

“The pleasure is mine, Miss [y/n],” he replied, brushing a chaste kiss against her knuckles. His touch was impersonal, his gaze measured. A performance, like hers.

She held back a sigh. What was this, 1878? She half-expected him to recite poetry while fanning himself with a handkerchief. Every word exchanged felt rehearsed, devoid of any genuine curiosity or intent to connect. He seemed as uninterested in knowing her as she was in him, their interaction a hollow charade orchestrated by their parents. She still didn’t know the man before her, and he had done nothing to change that.

All of it felt like a relic of another age, a carefully choreographed performance where neither party could deviate from the script. The whole evening felt less like her life and more like a contract being signed on her behalf, one inked with duty and sealed with tradition. And yet, she entertained a sliver of hope. Perhaps their closeness in age—a mere four years—might bridge the gap. Perhaps he would turn out to be interesting, a distraction from the thoughts of another boy with fire in his heart.

Her mother’s subtle gestures through the evening—a gentle touch on her arm, a fleeting glance—were meant to reassure her. Instead, they felt like chains tightening with every breath.

The final straw came at the dress fitting. The shop was a cathedral of decadence, its silk-draped walls and crystal chandeliers casting a warm glow over racks of gowns. Madam Yvette, a master seamstress, fluttered around [y/n] like a diligent bird, pinning, measuring, adjusting.

When she finally stood before the mirror, she gasped. The dress was a marvel, its white silk threaded with silver and encrusted with tiny, sparkling gems. It clung to her frame like a dream, each movement casting ripples of light. It was everything a bride could desire.

She desired it.

She hated how much she loved it. The gown was a masterpiece, a testament to wealth and artistry. Yet, staring at her reflection, she felt like one of the porcelain dolls from her childhood—beautiful, fragile, and utterly lifeless.

There was a need to loathe it. To make the dress a symbol of her rebellion, a thing she could despise as easily as the life it represented. But it was perfect, and that perfection mocked her. This was no rebellion. It was surrender.

That night, beneath the pale light of an enchanted candle, [y/n] made her decision. It was not a sudden resolve, but one that had been growing, coiling tighter with every restrictive expectation placed upon her. She packed quietly, methodically, her movements almost reverent. Into the small trunk went a few priceless robes and pieces of jewellery—not as tokens of sentimentality, but as a means of survival, a safeguard for a life she had yet to imagine.

Her fingers brushed against the cool metal of a silver bracelet Narcissa had gifted her years ago. It was delicate, intricate, and entirely impractical. She hesitated, her hand hovering before snapping the trunk shut. Her mother’s face rose unbidden in her mind, not cruel, but weary, burdened by her own sacrifices. There was love there, but it was a conditional love—bound by family legacy, by bloodlines and obedience. Sentimentality was a luxury she could not afford, and so she left it behind.

Where could she go? The question loomed, heavy and unrelenting. Not to any wizarding family, not even to a distant cousin. Her parents’ reach would be too great, their eyes everywhere. She needed a place that would not just hide her but make her invisible, unworthy of pursuit. A world so mundane it bordered on offensive.

[y/n] could see it in her mind’s eye—everything her parents despised, everything they deemed beneath them. And that was precisely why they would never look for her there.

Her decision made, she approached the gates of Malfoy Manor. The iron bars, etched with serpents, seemed almost alive in the moonlight, their coiled bodies gleaming as though watching her, judging her. Her hand trembled as she gripped her wand, drawing in a steadying breath. The house loomed behind her, a fortress of memories both bitter and sweet. A place that had shaped her, bound her, and now sought to consume her.

With one last glance, she disappeared. The crack of magic echoed faintly in the still night, leaving the grounds of Malfoy Manor silent and emptier than ever.

FIVE YEARS LATER

Funny how time changed the meaning of a word. Comfort. It had been a foreign concept once—something she scoffed at, even feared—but now, it fit snugly around her life, like an old jumper. The Muggle world, of all places, had become her sanctuary. A strange thought, given its lack of magic, but perhaps that was why it worked.

[y/n] Malfoy—though she’d long since shed that infamous surname—had carved a niche for herself among the oblivious. She moved smartly and swiftly, carefully constructing a life that Muggles wouldn’t think to question. To them, she was just another ambitious young woman with a knack for getting things done. If they ever wondered why her productivity seemed superhuman, well, they didn’t wonder for long. Humans, she’d learned, preferred explanations that fit their neat, non-magical world.

Factories, offices, anywhere requiring efficiency—she conquered them all. While others struggled through tedious tasks, she worked quietly, subtly enhancing her efforts with spells too delicate for even a squib to detect. Within two years, she’d climbed to the top of her field, her desk now buried under contracts, cheques, and invitations from Muggle elites. The money poured in faster than she could spend it, not that she cared much for the luxuries it offered. A second flat in one of London’s poshest postcodes? Sure, why not.

Her heart, if she allowed herself to examine it, still belonged to the Wizarding World. But that life was closed to her now, and perhaps it was better that way. She’d caught whispers of how things had unfolded after the war. Malfoy—the name she’d once worn like armour—was now more curse than legacy. Her brother had slipped back into the family’s fading business; her father had disappeared entirely, becoming little more than a shadow haunting whispers in darkened rooms. The family had been shunned, tolerated at best. Good.

She thought of them rarely, their faces blurred by distance and time, but she liked knowing that the world had sided with the good and the brave. Harry Potter. Hermione Granger. The ones who stood up and stood firm. For once, she could admire them without bitterness.

Her own exile was self-imposed, but necessary. The Wizarding World had become too tangled with pain and shame. Better to focus on the Human World, with its predictable rules and simple ambitions. Her life here was steady and controlled, though sometimes, late at night in her quiet flat, she caught herself wondering.

Would they even recognize her now? The girl she had been, the choices she had made—they felt like they belonged to someone else. Here, she was no one special, and yet, that was freeing in a way she hadn’t expected. Still, no matter how far she moved from the magic, it always lingered, a soft hum in the back of her mind.

But life in the Muggle world wasn’t entirely solitary. Over time, [Y/N] had made a few friends at her office, a small but lively group of young women who had welcomed her into their fold. They were sharp, driven, and wonderfully uncomplicated. They cared about promotions, weekend plans, and the latest trends, but never about where she’d come from or why her accent carried the faint trace of an old-world upbringing.

To them, she was just [Y/N]—quirky, a little guarded, but always reliable in a crisis. They called her the “office wizard,” a nickname she laughed at far harder than she should have, and often dragged her to after-work drinks at pubs where the music was too loud and the lights too dim. She found herself appreciating their company more than she’d expected.

They didn’t ask questions she couldn’t answer, didn’t pry into a past she would rather not share. Sometimes, as they swapped stories over pints, she marvelled at their ease, at the way they seemed to carry their lives so lightly. When the inevitable topic of relationships came up, as it always did, she listened quietly, smiling in all the right places but contributing little.

It was inevitable, of course, that someone would notice.

“Alright, Miss Mysterious,” teased Clara, a vivacious blonde from accounting, one Friday evening as they sat crammed into a booth. “You’re always so quiet when we talk about boys. Come on, spill. How many guys have you dated?”

[Y/N] froze for a split second, her hand tightening around her glass. She should have seen this coming. She could lie, of course, craft some plausible story to satisfy their curiosity, but she hated lying to them. These were good people—Muggles, yes, but kind ones.

“Not many,” she admitted with a shrug, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’ve been… focused on work.”

Ah, the classic dodge. Clara raised an eyebrow, and the other women exchanged knowing glances, but mercifully, they let it drop. The conversation flowed back to safer territory—Clara’s latest Tinder misadventures and the office intern’s questionable taste in trousers.

[Y/N] sipped her drink, grateful for the reprieve, but her mind had already wandered, unbidden, to the one boy she couldn’t seem to forget.

Fred Weasley.

She could still see his cheeky grin, the way he made light of everything, even when the world had been crumbling around them. The memory of him had softened with time, but it hadn’t faded. And then there was the kiss.

She still remembered it; his hands cupping her face, his lips warm and insistent against hers. For that fleeting moment that she had let herself respond, her guard dropping entirely. And then, as if on instinct, she had ruined it. She’d pulled away, stammering something incoherent, her walls slamming back into place. Fred had looked at her then—surprised, confused, and just a little hurt.

The memory still haunted her, no matter how much she tried to bury it.

She knew very little about what had become of him after the war. He was alive—that much she knew, though for a while, even that had been uncertain. He worked with his brother in a shop she barely understood, something to do with jokes. That was all she allowed herself to gather, never daring to dig deeper.

And yet, the name Weasley—his name—remained stubbornly lodged in her thoughts.

It should have meant nothing to her by now. It should have been nothing more than a relic of a life she’d left behind.

So why wasn’t it?

TWO MONTHS LATER

Damn Clara and her Muggle curiosity.

It was eight a.m. [Y/N] should already be in her glass-walled office on the seventh floor of one of London’s most prestigious buildings. She should be there, sipping coffee and reviewing contracts. She wasn’t.

Instead, she stood in front of a shop whose garish facade practically shouted for attention. Vibrant reds and oranges painted its tall walls, while enchanted displays in the windows whirred, spun, and sparkled with an almost irritating glee. Occasionally, one of the joke items would roll or float to the glass as though inspecting her. Each time, her sharp, impatient glare seemed to say, Yes, I’m still here. Now open already.

Above it all, a bold, playful sign declared: Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

It was past eight a.m., and the shop showed no signs of opening anytime soon. That should have been her cue to leave. You do not belong in Diagon Alley any more, a small, sharp voice in her head reminded her.

Maybe it was right. She didn’t belong—not any more. Her dyed brownish hair might fool the casual observer, but the telltale silver-blond roots gave her away, a reminder of the family she had tried so hard to leave behind. No amount of Muggle integration could erase the threads of her Malfoy past; they clung to her like cobwebs, woven into her very identity.

Even her appearance gave her away. She had dressed with what she thought was a flair for eccentricity—a calculated blend of high fashion and Wizarding nostalgia. Her knee-high designer boots gleamed under her long, luxurious black fur-lined coat, both costly and ostentatious. She’d imagined herself blending in effortlessly, perhaps even standing out in a way that would make her look authentically at home. But no, she realized now, she’d got it wrong. The bustling streets of Diagon Alley, alive with the warmth of fresh-brewed coffee and the hum of early morning commerce, seemed to whisper to her as if the cobblestones themselves carried a message, “We see you, Little Malfoy.”

And she was certain they did. Witches and wizards passing by spared her sidelong glances, quick and furtive, as if confirming what they thought they recognized but dared not voice aloud. Perhaps a chatty house-elf had already darted off to Malfoy Manor to announce her return.

And yet, here she stood, waiting.

Waiting for what, exactly? A confrontation? An explanation? Or simply a distraction from the restless questions plaguing her mind ever since Clara had barged into her office yesterday, looking pale and uneasy.

“Are you alright, Clara?” [Y/N] had asked, raising an eyebrow at her normally unflappable friend.

Clara hesitated, biting her lip. “You told me about that boy from your… younger years, didn’t you? The red-haired one?”

[Y/N] stiffened but nodded cautiously. “Fred?”

“I think… I think I saw him in my dream last night,” Clara said, her tone unsure. “I’m not much of a dreamer, really, but this felt… strange.”

That had caught [Y/N]’s attention. “Go on.”

Clara fidgeted, her unease growing. “He asked about you. Called you a coward, if I remember right. It was—well, creepy, honestly. I’ve never met him. I don’t even know what he looks like. Not only that, but I only know one ginger person, my cousin Elena. This wasn’t her. He was tall with broad shoulders.”

The description hit [Y/N] like a Bludger to the chest. That was Fred. It couldn’t be anyone else.

For hours afterward, Clara’s words had replayed in her mind, feeding a gnawing unease. It was one thing for her dreams to be haunted by Fred Weasley—that she could accept. He was a ghost from her past, after all, a lingering shadow of what could never be. But Clara? A Muggle who had never set foot in the Wizarding World?

It wasn’t normal.

It had to be Fred’s doing. Or something tied to him. And so, despite every instinct telling her to turn back, [Y/N] had Apparated to Diagon Alley at dawn, standing in the shadow of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes as if the answers she sought might come tumbling out with the day’s first customers.

But the shop remained stubbornly closed.

“Typical,” she muttered under her breath, glowering at the enchanted shopfront. Her fingers curled into fists inside her coat pockets, knuckles pressing against her wand. She could almost imagine him inside, laughing at her expense.

After everything it had taken her to get here—alright, so Apparating wasn’t that hard, but the thought of doing it again after so long had been daunting—she wasn’t about to turn tail and leave. If Fred wanted to keep avoiding her, well then, fine. She’d be the one to show up in his dreams next time, calling him a coward. That thought was satisfying enough to momentarily soften her scowl.

Still, she couldn’t shake the frustration simmering under her skin. She glanced around Diagon Alley, careful to avoid meeting the curious gazes of passers-by. Every other business was already up and running, their doors open, their owners busy tending to customers. But Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes? Quiet as the grave.

Her eyes roamed the building’s vibrant facade, taking in the rotating joke items in the windows that almost seemed to mock her. Then her gaze snagged on something she’d nearly missed: a side entrance, discreet but not entirely hidden. It didn’t lead into the shop itself—that much was clear—but to a narrow staircase ascending to what had to be the flats above.

“Bingo,” she murmured to herself, the corners of her mouth twitching upward in satisfaction. Of course, Fred and George would live above their shop. That was obvious now. And why wouldn’t they? The arrangement was practical, convenient, and knowing them, probably a little chaotic. She herself might have done the same if her office building had been zoned for residential living.

Her eyes narrowed at the staircase. If Fred wouldn’t come to her, then maybe she’d just have to go to him.

The first door—the one leading to the staircase—was conveniently ajar. She hesitated for a moment, her mind wandering to wizarding security measures she might have forgotten. Surely, the Weasleys had something in place? But then again, in the Muggle world, all you needed were keys and staff. Simpler times, simpler problems.

The staircase ahead was steep, the narrow space cramped and dimly lit. She glanced at the steps as she ascended, her thoughts wandering idly. How did anyone carry furniture up here? She wondered, picturing Fred or George wrestling with a sofa on these stairs.

Oh, right. Magic.

The realization was immediate, and she caught herself smirking at her own forgetfulness. It was strange, almost comforting, how much her thinking had shifted to match the Muggle world. Keys instead of charms, staff instead of wards—it felt… simpler.

At the top of the stairs, the passage opened into a narrow corridor with four doors, two on each side. She paused, scanning them curiously. So the twins shared their building with three other flats. Interesting. Why she found this detail intriguing, she couldn’t say, but she filed it away in her mind nonetheless.

The real question, however, was which door led to Fred’s flat. She could knock, of course—work her way down the line, one by one—but the thought made her stomach twist with self-consciousness. What if she was mistaken? What if she interrupted someone she would rather not see?

Her gaze lingered on the nearest door, but her imagination had already run off. It wasn’t just strangers who might answer, but ghosts of her past, familiar faces she hadn’t seen in years. Fred wasn’t the only Gryffindor she remembered vividly. Could Angelina Johnson live here? Lee Jordan? Oliver Wood?

Her pulse quickened, and not in a good way. She had no idea where any of them were now, no sense of their lives post-war. Would they recognize her? Would they even want to? For all she knew, these doors could open to a past she wasn’t ready to face, filled with memories of Quidditch captains and old rivalries she had tried to leave behind.

And here she was, almost a CEO—practically guaranteed to inherit the title once her boss retired—and she was hesitating like a schoolgirl afraid to get caught out of bounds. How absurd.

Ultimately, she chose to embrace the absurdity. Letting out a frustrated sigh, she leaned against the wall closest to the stairs, her knees buckling as she slid down to sit. She drew her legs up close to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, and let her gaze wander down the hallway of doors. Eventually, Fred—or George—would have to leave the flat.

A question nagged at the back of her mind, one that she hadn’t thought about until now. Could she still tell Fred apart from George?

Shaking her head and trying to let that for later, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her wand, the one she hadn’t touched in years. The familiar wood felt cool beneath her fingers as she absent-mindedly ran her hand along its length. It had been so long since she’d used it, tucked away in the back of her wardrobe like some forgotten relic.

In the human world, she'd built a life from the ground up—money, prestige, luxuries she never wanted to give up on—and the wand now felt as useless to her as a pair of glasses without a prescription. It was a piece of her past, a reminder of the world she had left behind. And yet, here it was in her hands, as if to remind her that no matter how much she’d changed, some parts of her would always remain.

“Blimey! Is that [y/n] Malfoy?”

The voice came out strong, firm, with a hint of surprise—definitely not accusatory or worried, but it certainly had her attention. It wasn’t one she was expecting to hear.

She blinked and slowly looked up from her wand, her knees relaxing as she processed the words. Ron Weasley? Her heart gave a small, unexpected lurch. It was him.

She hadn’t seen Ron in years, but as her eyes took him in, it hit her: he was no longer the whiny, awkward redhead she’d remembered from their school days. He was taller now, solidly built, with the familiar red hair still untamed but now paired with a more confident air. He stood in front of her, his broad shoulders practically filling the doorway, casting a shadow that made her feel smaller than she already was.

Ron was leaving one of the flats—the second one on the right—and just behind him, another familiar ginger was emerging. As Ron stepped aside, making room to pass, [y/n] realized with a jolt that it could only be one of the twins. With a key in hand, Fred—[y/n] could feel the certainty in her gut that it was him, not George—peered over Ron’s broad shoulders, his gaze searching.

Fred glanced over Ron’s shoulder, and his expression shifted instantly. What had begun as mild confusion deepened into a quiet, almost disappointed suspicion when his eyes landed on her.

“Hello, Ronnie,” [y/n] ventured with a smile that felt a little too sweet, too forced, as if she were trying to hide the confusion swirling inside her. Why was she even here again?

From Ron’s reaction, she couldn’t help but think that he had probably greeted everyone with that same warm, almost automatic smile since the war. It seemed genuine enough, but [y/n] suspected it wasn’t really for her. It was that unspoken relief that everyone who’d survived shared—the one where you were thankful to be alive, even if some of you came from families with blood-stained histories.

Despite that, [y/n] returned his smile, this time with more sincerity. After spending so much time in the mundane, human world, genuine smiles had become easier—no longer the practised, photogenic grins she once wore for show.

As Ron stepped closer, Fred Weasley took his time, carefully locking the front door to his flat. He turned his back to both Ron and [y/n], choosing to focus on his simple task, seemingly unwilling to acknowledge the ghost of his past standing just a few feet away.

[y/n] straightened herself, trying to play it cool, and Ron kindly offered a hand to help her up.

“Thanks,” she smiled again, feeling a twinge of embarrassment as she brushed off some imaginary dust from her clothes, now that she was upright.

“It’s good to see you,” Ron said, his voice suddenly thick with emotion. “I don’t even remember the last time we saw each other. Was it at Hogwarts… in that damn battle?” he asked, uncertain, with a faint of hardship creeping into his words.

She could lie. She could say yes, tell him she’d been right there beside him in the thick of the fight, bravely standing her ground. But she didn’t.

“No, I think you saw me last at my graduation,” [y/n] answered honestly.

“Oh!” Ron’s face lit up. “The one Fred and George didn’t get.”

[y/n] couldn’t help but grin at the memory. In another life—one where she wasn’t standing here like an uninvited ghost—Fred would have laughed and given Ron a light thump on the back of the head. But not today. Not with her in the picture.

Instead, Fred stood there, silent, his gaze flicking between the two of them. His brow furrowed, and he arched an eyebrow. The expression wasn’t for Ron—it was for her. And it asked the unspoken question: “What on earth are you doing here?”

Or perhaps it was more like: “What the bloody hell do you want?”

[y/n] couldn’t decide. Either way, it didn’t seem good.

She quickly slipped her wand back into her coat pocket, where it seemed safer than being out in the open, and left her hand there, just in case it would prevent her from doing something foolish. She was already feeling the stirrings of anger, both Fred’s and hers, and it was only a matter of time before things escalated.

“So, what brings you here?” Ron asked, saving Fred the trouble. The younger brother suddenly realized that it made no sense to find the Malfoy girl (Malfoy woman now, let’s respect her age) on Fred’s doorstep.

Or did it make sense?

As [y/n] cleared her throat, Fred's gaze sharpened, narrowing into something that could only be described as curiously bitter. Meanwhile, Ron, bless him, took a step back, looking anywhere but at her, his lips twitching into a mischievous grin of his. Clearly, he’d misread the situation entirely. Ron had a knack for romance ever since Hermione presented him to the genre.

“I need to talk to your brother, Ron,” [y/n] explained, her voice firm as she addressed the younger Weasley, though her eyes remained firmly fixed on the older ginger. She couldn’t help but notice, with a faint feeling of surprise, that Ron was, in fact, taller than Fred.

That wasn’t to say Fred was ugly. Quite the opposite. Far from it. Time had only been kind to Fred Weasley. In fact, time had given him that rugged charm that many men only dreamt of—broad shoulders, a jawline that seemed sculpted by a particularly talented artist, and eyes that could make even the hardest of hearts pause.

And then there was the hair. Oh, the hair. At twenty-two—or was it twenty-three? [y/n] never bothered to ask his birthday, but it didn’t matter—Fred had something most men his age would envy. Hair. Proper hair. Thick, straight, and voluminous, with a sheen that made [y/n] momentarily question the state of her locks. It looked as if it had been kissed by a thousand golden suns, and God help her, she could still remember how it felt to run her fingers through it—soft as silk, far too soft for someone who was so damn irritating.

What had initially seemed like disinterest—no, scratch that, anger—suddenly morphed into a more subtle form of curiosity on Fred Weasley’s face.

Ron grinned awkwardly. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it. I think I’ll head over to the shop now, if that’s alright with you, Fred?”

Fred didn’t bother to respond verbally, merely offering a nod that lacked any real enthusiasm. He was still too busy trying to process why [y/n] was standing in his doorway with all the poise of a person who had every right to be there, when he had been certain he’d left her—and her family—far behind.

“Do you open at nine?” [y/n] asked suddenly, her voice light, the question easing the tension in her muscles. “Who opens at nine?” she almost laughed.

“It’s my shop,” Fred snapped back, his tone rougher than he’d intended. “I open whenever I want.”

[y/n] straightened her back, feeling her sharp words come back with more force than she'd anticipated. “Well, you're losing money, then,” she remarked, as naturally rude as any Malfoy could be. It was in the blood, really. Besides, the Muggle world had taught her a thing or two about business—and how to make a proper profit.

Fred blinked, momentarily stunned. “Do you want me to show you my income statement?” he retorted, genuinely flabbergasted by her cheek. And there it was—Fred was rolling in it now, with a business that could make even the tightest of Gringotts goblins envious.

“There’s no need,” she replied nonchalantly, eyes fixed on him as though they were discussing the weather.

At this point, Ron, who had been lingering, cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Invite her in,” he suggested helpfully. “Offer her the tea I just made. It should still be warm.”

Fred attempted to summon a comet to smite his brother’s head—unsuccessfully, given his wandless ineptitude. Ron left, down the stairs with easiness.

The ginger that stayed sighed, gestured at the door with all the staged grace, and rolled his eyes. “Fine, come on in, then. Can’t have you standing out here, with all the neighbours, one step from seeing you.”

Rude, she thought, but waited for the door to be open again and walked in.

The door swung shut behind her with a soft click, sealing her fate. It was, of course, quiet inside. Where was George? She wondered. The flat was a little too cosy, although it was as if two grown men had perfected the art of cramming chaos into every nook. It was classic Weasley: part 'creative charm,' part 'why bother?' with a smattering of 'it’ll do' thrown in for good measure. The space was cluttered with various items, mismatched furniture, and—strangely enough—several unclaimed joke products scattered about like forgotten experiments. A few odd contraptions blinked softly in the corners, their flashing lights flickering like distant stars.

There was also the smell that hung. The green tea was sharp and familiar, a good morning choice, but beneath it lingered something distinctly masculine—warm, like well-worn wood, a trace of shaving cream, and the faint, spicy note of what [y/n] supposed was Fred’s cologne, which seemed as roguish as its owner.

[y/n] turned to find Fred in the kitchen—a narrow, galley-style space that somehow managed to be both cramped and charming. The marble counter separating it from the living room was a surprising touch of elegance, though slightly marred by scorch marks and stray stains. Fred was heeding Ron’s advice, fussing with the tea kettle as though brewing it required profound wizarding expertise. Spotting two tall, battered stools nearby, she perched on one, the wood creaking in protest. Fred didn’t join her. Instead, he slid the cup across the counter with controlled ease, before leaning casually against the counter with the sink.

“To what do I owe the honour of hearing your voice again?” he asked, casually annoyed.

“To yourself, I suppose,” [Y/N] replied crisply, lifting her teacup with a deliberate air of disinterest. The cup's delicate edge pressed against her lips, muffling what she muttered next. “I wouldn’t have come if you hadn’t tormented me.”

Fred’s brows shot up, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I torment you?” he repeated, mock incredulity dripping from his words. “Blimey, I don’t see how, but somehow I’m proud of myself. Although…” He trailed off, adopting an exaggeratedly thoughtful pose. “I suspect, somehow, it’s all your fault.”

The look she shot him—arched eyebrow, narrowed eyes—spoke volumes. It was a “don’t-you-dare” glare so potent it could have stopped an army of garden gnomes mid-chaos. Fred held up his hands in mock surrender.

“Or,” he added quickly, a trace of nervousness slipping into his tone, “your unconscious’s fault, maybe?”

“I don’t see how,” she said evenly, her voice carrying the same clipped, deliberate cadence he’d just used.

His grin broadened.

“Now, Malfoy,” he teased, dragging her surname out as though it were the punchline to a private joke, “it’s not my fault you’re still losing sleep over a teenage fling. Over a little peck.”

Her teacup clinked loudly as she set it down, the sound slicing through the air. A little peck? Her fingers tightened slightly on the table’s edge, her posture straightening. He couldn’t still be a lunatic, could he? Surely, he’d grown up, matured, learned to let bygones be bygones. Apparently not.

Two paths stretched before her, like diverging trails in the Forbidden Forest: she could bite back, dragging him through the truth of their not-so-innocent history—a truth they both remembered all too well—or she could stay the course, pressing her accusation that he had been invading her dreams with magic.

The “what ifs” always stung sharper than the “so it was.”

“Fred,” she said at last, her voice measured, a sigh lacing her words, “I won’t get into this petty squabble with you.” She paused, collecting her thoughts, before fixing him with a steady look. “I only came here because you had the nerve to pick on a Muggle—an innocent person.”

Fred’s smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine confusion. “A Muggle?” he echoed, straightening slightly.

“Yes,” she pressed on, her tone sharp. “I wouldn’t be here if your little haunted nightmare game involved just me. But tormenting Clara? That’s low, even for you.”

The confusion on Fred’s face deepened. “Clara?” he repeated, as though the name was foreign to him.

[Y/N] crossed her arms, frustration bubbling just beneath her composed exterior. “She’s my friend,” she said pointedly, watching his reaction carefully.

Fred’s head tilted slightly, his expression now hovering somewhere between perplexed and intrigued. “And… she’s been having nightmares about me?” he asked slowly, the faintest hint of a grin tugging at his lips again.

[Y/N] didn’t answer immediately, her jaw tightening as she debated her next words. “She dreamt of you,” she admitted, her tone clipped. “But that’s not the point. The point is…” Her voice wavered for a fraction of a second, betraying the frustration she was trying to mask. “If this is your doing, you’ve crossed a line.”

For a moment, Fred simply stared at her, his usual swagger replaced with something closer to disbelief. And then, much to her irritation, he laughed—a low, warm sound that filled the space between them.

“Malfoy,” he said, shaking his head as his laughter subsided, “you think I’m invading people’s dreams now? What do you reckon I am—a rogue boggart with a wand?”

Her glare didn’t waver. “Don’t play dumb,” she snapped, though she wasn’t entirely sure he was playing. “You’re capable of far more than you let on.”

Fred’s grin returned in full force, his confidence clearly undented. “Well,” he said, pushing off the counter and leaning toward her slightly, “if I’m such a menace, then you’re just going to have to teach me a lesson, aren’t you?”

[Y/N] narrowed her eyes, biting back the retort that rose instinctively to her lips. Instead, she took another deliberate sip of her tea, the porcelain cool against her fingertips. If she wasn’t careful, this conversation would spiral completely out of her control. It was Fred, after all—and if there was one thing he excelled at, it was pulling strings until the entire tapestry unravelled.

“For God’s sake, you're still annoyingly incapable of seeing things, aren’t you?” [Y/N] exclaimed, frustration edging her voice. “I’m not going to curse you. I want my peace—and Clara’s—back. Just tell me you’ll fix this, and I’ll leave. Go back to my life.”

“‘For God’s sake’ and friends with a Muggle? What happened to you, Malfoy?” Fred mocked, a laugh bubbling up. “Turned into a squib?”

“I wish I was,” she muttered, no longer bothering to mask the exhaustion in her voice. “Then at least these nightmares would stop.” She glanced up at him, no longer caring about his ridicule. “You know magic, Fred. You know how it works. It’s more about emotion than the fancy incantations.”

“Yes,” Fred tilted his head slightly, “and so what?”

“So,” she pressed, “we need the goodbye we never got. I don’t want to be here, I don’t want your goodbye, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want mine, either. But a part of us does, and until we get that, these dreams… they won’t stop.”

For a moment, silence fell. [Y/N] felt her heart race. She wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take, but the truth was now hanging between them like an electric charge.

Her voice softened, the usual sharp edge gone. She looked at him, the boy who once held her while she cried in the dead of night in the hallway outside Dumbledore’s office. “Tell me you haven’t been dreaming too, and I’ll walk away. Tell me I didn’t show up in your dreams and turn them into nightmares, and I’ll go away. I’ll claim to the world that I’m the emotionally immature one, that I couldn’t get over you. Go ahead, tell me that.”

Fred opened his mouth as if to speak, but the words got stuck. For a split second, his ever-present smirk faltered. The silence stretched, and [Y/N] knew—knew—he wouldn’t be able to say it.

“I knew it!” [y/n] hissed triumphantly, pointing an accusatory finger at him as if she were a Ministry prosecutor about to win a case. “You have been dreaming about me.”

Fred let out a dry, hollow laugh and scrubbed a hand over his face, dragging his palm down to his chin as if physically bracing himself. “Bloody hell, Malfoy,” he muttered, a mix of disbelief and exasperation. “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

“No,” she snapped, her arms crossing defensively over her chest. “And don’t act like this is my fault. I didn’t invite myself into your dreams—you did. Or your subconscious did. Frankly, this emotional magic is a bloody difficult one to cast, since it even involved a Muggle.”

Fred tilted his head back against the counter, eyes briefly closing as if seeking divine patience. “It’s not like I can help what we dream about, can I? Merlin knows I wouldn’t choose you as my nightly torment.” He glanced at her then, a spark of familiar mischief lighting up his gaze despite his irritation. “Unless you’re saying I’m just that irresistible?”

She groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to haunt you—”

“Funny,” he interrupted, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re doing a smashing job of it in real life right now.”

“Fred,” she breathed, and this time, it wasn’t a sharp rebuke. Her voice held a weariness, like the weight of everything between them had finally caught up to her. Fred stilled, his usual bravado faltering. There was something unnervingly raw about her tone. Something unguarded.

The room felt smaller suddenly, and the world outside quieter.

She sighed deeply, almost to herself, her gaze flicking briefly to the cup of tea she still held. “They were right, you know,” she said softly, as though admitting a secret she’d kept hidden for years. “It’s all about the ‘what ifs.’”

Fred didn’t reply, his brows knitting in faint confusion as he watched her. She continued, her gaze flickering from him to the cup of tea she still held, as though she couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “I tried to forget everything after the Hogwarts. I left it all behind—my name, my family, and, eventually, the magic. I thought… if I acted like none of it happened, maybe it wouldn’t matter. Perhaps you wouldn’t matter.”

She paused and forced herself to look up, her eyes locking onto his. “But it didn’t work. You’re still there, Fred Weasley, haunting me like some poorly written Victorian ghost.”

Fred blinked, momentarily taken aback by the weight of her words. It wasn’t often someone accused him of being anything besides a pain in the arse, let alone something important. He recovered quickly, though, because Fred Weasley was nothing if not annoyingly quick on his feet.

“Poorly written ghost?” he echoed, leaning forward with a mock-offended expression. “I’ll have you know I’m the stuff of literary genius. Dickens himself would weep at the sheer brilliance of me.”

“Fred—” she started, but he didn’t let her finish.

“Or Shakespeare,” he added with a smug grin. “Can’t you see it? ‘O Fred, Fred! Wherefore art thou, Fred?’ It’s tragic, really. Doomed romance and all that.”

Her lips twitched, but she bit down hard to smother any sign of a smile. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he shot back cheekily, though something softened behind his jest. He held her gaze, and for once, there wasn’t a trace of mockery there. “It’s the ‘what if,’ isn’t it? Our ‘what if.’ What are we supposed to do with it? Because, damn it, Malfoy, it’s us—haunting and being haunted.”

SAME DAY, ONE MINUTE LATER

Oh, her silence spoke volumes.

That Thursday had shaped up to be a day of surprises—none of them pleasant. First, Ron had barged into the flat at seven in the morning, a time when Fred was still blissfully asleep, just to offer him company (completely unnecessary) and tea (completely uninteresting). George had been off gallivanting around the world for two years now, putting, for the first time in their lives, a real, tangible distance between the twins.

The war had changed everything. During the final battle against the Dark Lord, Fred had been badly injured when a wall collapsed on him. By some miracle, the healing magic of those around him had been enough to stabilize his life force, but the full recovery came slowly, over a week of unconsciousness in the hospital wing.

It was a hard blow for all the Weasleys, but George had taken it the hardest. Fred and George weren’t just twins; they were one soul divided in two, and when Fred was nearly lost, George had felt like he was adrift on a sea without a shore. For a week, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t focus. It was as if half of him had vanished. The months that followed were a blur of worry and exhaustion, as George poured all his energy into caring for Fred. But slowly, he realized something: his obsessive behaviour wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t just fear—it was a fear of losing the very thing that made him who he was. Without Fred, George didn’t know who he was any more. And that was terrifying.

When the dust settled and the shop was up and running again, George had asked Fred for some time alone—to figure out who he was without being defined by “Fred and George.” Fred, ever the understanding twin, had agreed. He knew that, in part, he felt the same. Sure, he had been unconscious and had no idea of the emotional chaos around him, but he also knew that just as George was lost, so was he. He had never known who he was beyond being the other half of a pair. Who was Fred without George? It was a question that gnawed at him.

In the first year of George’s travels, everything had felt relatively surreal. The letters, messages, and photos kept coming, keeping the illusion of his brother being close, even though he wasn’t. It was easy to forget that George wasn’t his neighbour next door.

But recently, that comfort had started to fade. The letters had become less frequent, and when they did arrive, they were filled with long paragraphs about George discovering a passion for painting and his ever-expanding collection of international relationships. Meanwhile, Fred was still stuck in the same place—discovering nothing beyond the shop and his role in it.

It hadn’t been a shock when the nightmares had started, three months ago. They were relentless. [Y/N]—his siren, his tormentor—appeared in his dreams, calling to him, luring him in with the promise of something more, and then pushing him away with anger and disgust. Her rejection, especially in his dreams, was always the worst.

Ron had noticed Fred’s downward spiral. The dark circles under his eyes were impossible to miss. For the first month, Fred had avoided sleep altogether, afraid to face his siren again. And so, Ron had taken it upon himself to help, thinking it was all due to George’s absence. After all, none of the Weasleys knew the truth about [Y/N] Malfoy. They knew her only as the troublemaker Malfoy—just like her brother Draco—and someone Fred always scoffed at whenever her name was mentioned. George had suspected there was more to the story; however, Fred had never mentioned the kiss to anyone. That was a secret he’d carry to his grave.

But now, here she was—his siren, standing before him as beautiful as a teenager. Her dyed hair did not completely hide her roots, which were also evident in her expensive clothes. The coat she still wore, even inside the flat, was made of fluffy fur, like her nightgown had once been.

Her eyes were still sweet, her jawline as defined as it had ever been. Though her body was hidden beneath her clothing, Fred knew well enough that it hadn’t changed much. Her hand, delicately holding the teacup, was perfectly manicured. But the pink nails were new. Not the familiar green or black that used to symbolize her defiance, her Malfoy heritage. She had changed, sure—but not in the ways she claimed.

She was still a Malfoy witch, whether she liked it or not. Fred couldn’t quite understand her insistence on claiming to be someone different now. Sure, she was lighter, a little less guarded. She’d smiled at Ron a moment ago. Her forehead was more relaxed. But her tone was the same. Yet, her voice? The tone was the same. He could still hear the sharpness, the bitterness underneath it all.

The scent of something faintly spiced lingered in the air—not cinnamon, but something warmer, deeper. It reminded her of everything Fred Weasley was: audacious and unruly, yet oddly comforting. She glanced around the room, taking in the cluttered worktops and the faint hum of the kettle.

It was almost… domestic. And that was the problem.

Fred leaned against the counter opposite her, arms braced casually on either side, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him. His eyes, sharp and searching, pinned her in place. “So,” he began, his voice low, measured. “Are we going to talk about it? Or are we just going to keep pretending we don’t have a difficulty with our what-if? You know where it starts. It’s your fault.”

[Y/N] let out a huff, turning slightly to avoid his gaze. “Not me, Weasley.”

“Right,” he drawled, the corner of his mouth curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Because running off after a kiss isn’t a concern at all. It’s perfectly normal behaviour, Malfoy.”

She shot him a glare, her silver eyes flashing. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Fred straightened, folding his arms across his chest. “Try me.”

The challenge in his voice was unmistakable, and for a moment, [Y/N] hesitated. But the weight of unspoken words pressed heavily on her chest, and the longer she stood there, the harder it became to ignore the gnawing ache inside her.

“Fine,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. “You want to know why I ran? Because I’ve spent my entire life believing that the only way to escape my family’s destiny was to find someone to save me from it. Someone who wasn’t like them. Someone who could… break the cycle.” She paused, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I thought kissing you would be the answer. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. I had to grow up and realize that no one—not even you—could be my saviour. I have to be my own.”

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, Fred said nothing. The tension between them crackled like static, filling the silence with unspoken truths.

“You think I don’t get it?” he said finally, his voice quieter now, edged with something raw. “Do you know what it’s like to hear people whisper about you? About your family? To have everyone think they know who you are because of where you come from? Malfoy, I grew up in a house that barely held together, with a family that everyone laughed at because we didn’t have two Sickles to rub together. You think I don’t know what it’s like to want to prove them all wrong?”

Her head snapped up, surprise flickering across her features. Fred stepped closer, his voice gaining strength.

“I heard about your engagement,” he said, his tone dipping. “The moment I found out, I thought it was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. Some pure-blood match, right? Another puppet for your father to string along? I wanted to… Merlin, I wanted to break every rule in the book, storm in and drag you away from it all. But then I realized…” His voice softened. “It wouldn’t have mattered. Because it had to be you, [Y/N]. It had to be your choice.”

Her breath hitched, the weight of his words settling over her like a heavy cloak. She wanted to respond, to tell him that she understood, but her throat felt tight, and the words wouldn’t come.

“When I heard that you ran off, disgracing your family’s name when we were on the brink of war, I just laughed so much, so loudly. I was somewhat proud. But I also hoped you would come to me. You never did. Were you alone all this time?” Fred dared ask and she nodded yes. His voice steady. “You don’t have to… any more.”

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them away, forcing herself to stay composed. “You make it sound so simple,” she whispered. “But it’s not.”

Fred’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though his eyes remained serious. “It never is. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

The space between them felt charged, like a taut string pulled to its breaking point. Fred took another step forward, his presence warm and grounding. They were close now, so close that [Y/N] could see the faint freckles dusting his nose, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.

“This is a bad idea,” she said aloud, her voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze dropped to his lips, betraying her resolve.

Fred’s breath hitched, and he leaned in, his voice low and teasing. “I like bad ideas. They’re the bestsellers at the shop.”

And then his lips were on hers, and the world seemed to still. The kiss was slow at first, hesitant, as though they were both testing the waters. But it quickly deepened, the air between them crackling with intensity. Fred’s hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and [Y/N] responded in kind, her fingers threading through his hair as she pressed against him.

It was as if the universe had aligned for this one perfect moment. Their worlds—so different, so at odds—collided in a way that felt both impossible and inevitable. And for the first time in what felt like forever, [Y/N] allowed herself to believe in something apart from destiny.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested against each other, their breaths mingling in the quiet of the kitchen. Fred’s eyes searched hers, a flicker of mischief returning to his gaze.

“See?” he said, his voice soft but filled with humour. “Bad ideas can be brilliant.”

[Y/N] couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and unburdened. “You’re insufferable, Weasley.”

“And yet, you like me like that, Malfoy,” he shot back, grinning.

At that moment, standing in Fred’s cluttered kitchen with her heart racing and her walls crumbling, [Y/N] allowed herself to hope. Perhaps bad ideas weren’t so bad after all.

Fred stepped back first, his hand lingering at her waist, as though reluctant to let her go completely. [Y/N] tilted her head, her gaze flickering between his eyes and the faint smile that still played at his lips. It felt surreal, this moment—something plucked out of the pages of a story she hadn’t dared to believe could ever be hers.

“So,” Fred said, breaking the silence with his characteristic cheek. “Does this mean we’re friends again? Or do I need to officially apply for the position? I heard you have some now, with Clara and what’s her name.”

[Y/N] snorted softly, a sound that felt strangely freeing. “Friends?” she echoed, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not sure if that’s what I’d call us.”

“Oh?” Fred’s grin widened. “And what would you call us, then?”

“Two idiots,” she replied, though there was no malice in her tone—only a lightness she hadn’t felt in years.

Fred let out a laugh, the sound warm and unguarded. “Well, if that’s the case,” he said, stepping closer again, “I say we’re bloody brilliant at it.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world outside that tiny kitchen ceased to exist. It was just them—two people who had spent years running from what-if’s, finally standing still long enough to see what might be.

TWO YEARS LATER (EPILOGUE)

The sun beamed down on the expansive garden of The Burrow, transformed for the day into something almost unrecognizable. Though it remained the cosy Weasley home at heart, today it sparkled with an air of opulence that could only come from [Y/N]'s insistence on keeping some of her luxurious customs intact. Every corner of the garden was adorned with charmed fairy lights and elaborate floral arrangements that shimmered faintly in the summer light, while silver table settings and flowing satin ribbons added an undeniable touch of grandeur. It was clear that with her fortune and Fred’s mischievous ingenuity, The Burrow had never looked so fancy.

[Y/N] adjusted her veil for the third time, glaring at Clara, her maid of honour, who was trying—and failing—to hide her grin.

“I don’t know how this house is still standing,” Clara said suddenly, gesturing toward The Burrow with a bewildered look. “I mean, look at it! The angles are all wrong, it’s leaning more than that tower in Italy, and I’m certain that top floor is breaking at least seven architectural laws.” She paused, then added, “Honestly, it’s like a miracle.”

“Structural spells,” [Y/N] replied smoothly, before quickly backtracking. “Er, I mean, I’m kidding! Fred’s dad’s very… handy. Built it himself. A bit of a genius with tools, really.”

Clara’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if she were on the cusp of figuring something out. But then she shook her head, letting out a laugh. “Well, whatever the reason, it’s… charming. Ridiculous, but charming.”

Then, as kind as always, she added, “It’s… unique. Just like you two. And stop fussing with your dress,” her Muggle practicality shining through. “You look perfect. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were nervous.”

“Nervous?” [Y/N] scoffed, though her hands betrayed her, fiddling with the intricate lace of her dress. “I’m a CEO. I don't get nervous.”

And it was true. After years trying to reach for the job, she finally got it. Just in another company this time. A shop, with a very funny name, that sold very funny products.

“Oh, is that right?” Fred’s voice cut through the air as he appeared around the corner, already in his dress robes but as insufferably casual as ever. He grinned at her, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Because from here, it looks like you’re about to bolt.”

“Fred,” Clara said with mock exasperation, “you’re not supposed to see her before the ceremony!”

“It’s bad luck,” [Y/N] added, her tone clipped but her lips twitching in amusement.

Fred waved a dismissive hand. “Bad luck, good luck… I think we’ve already broken enough rules to make our own luck.”

“You’re impossible,” she muttered, though her eyes softened as she looked at him.

Before Fred could retort, a commotion erupted from the far end of the garden. Heads turned as a figure emerged from the apparition point, his dishevelled red hair unmistakable even from a distance.

“George!” Fred exclaimed, his grin widening. He turned to [Y/N], his eyes alight with excitement. “Told you he’d make it.”

George Weasley strode toward them, his expression equal parts sheepish and triumphant. On his arm was a stunning woman with an air of effortless confidence, her sleek black dress a sharp contrast to the cheerful chaos around her.

“Sorry, I’m late,” George said as he approached, his voice carrying that familiar Weasley humour. “Had to pick up a plus-one.”

“Fashionably late as always,” Fred quipped, clapping his twin on the back. “I was starting to think you’d run off to Peru again.”

“Not this time,” George replied with a grin, before turning to [Y/N]. His gaze lingered, a flicker of recognition softening his expression. “Couldn’t miss this. Took you too long enough to make it official.”

[Y/N] tilted her head, raising an eyebrow. “I see you haven’t lost your charm, George.”

“Nor my memory,” he quipped. “Always knew I’d see you again, Malfoy.”

“Lovely to finally see you again, George. Now, if you don’t mind…” [y/n] gestured toward the arch, her impatience evident. “I’d like to get married sometime this century.”

George raised his hands in mock surrender. “Say no more.” He turned to Fred, giving him a sly wink. “Good luck, mate. You’re going to need it.”

Fred rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his grin. He turned back to [Y/N], his expression softening as he offered her his arm. “Shall we, Siren?” he teased, the nickname slipping out as naturally as ever.

“Let’s,” she said, her heart racing as she took his arm.

The ceremony was short but sweet, filled with laughter and a few tears. Clara sniffled loudly as she handed [Y/N] her bouquet, earning a teasing nudge from Fred. When the officiant finally asked if they took each other as husband and wife, their answers rang out in unison, clear and certain.

“I do.”

As the crowd erupted into cheers, Fred leaned in, his voice low enough for only [Y/N] to hear. “Told you bad ideas are brilliant.”

She laughed, her heart lighter than it had ever been. For the first time, she felt free—free of her past, her name, her burdens. As they walked back down the aisle together, hand in hand, she couldn’t help but smile.

After years of trying, she had finally let go of the Malfoy name for a new one.

Weasley.

[jamilelucato]

Secrets We Keep - 3 [F.W.]

Secrets We Keep Masterlist

Pairing: Fred Weasley x [y/n] Malfoy

Summary: Fred wrestles with his feelings for [y/n], torn between frustration and attraction, while she struggles with her family's expectations and her own desires.

Warning: family drama, mild angst, cursing.

A/N: I’ve been having a really hard time with writing romance lately. This chapter came out way more sad and heavy than I intended. It feels kind of “bleh” to me, and I just wanted to apologize if it doesn’t hit the mark for you. Honestly, I have a feeling people are only going to like Part Two anyway. I know this was meant to be a Bad Idea (the song) fic, and I really should’ve stopped at one chapter, but I just can’t resist pushing on! I’m a sucker for making things more complicated than they need to be, but I hope you still find some value in this chapter.

PART THREE

Fred Weasley sat on the edge of his four-poster bed, one hand gripping the crimson bedpost as if the solid wood could steady the storm inside him. His twin was off somewhere—likely gathering ingredients for another grand prank—leaving Fred alone in the quiet of the Gryffindor dormitory. It was a quiet he didn’t welcome, but one that had become all too familiar since that night on the Quidditch pitch.

He ran a hand through his fiery hair, frustration evident in every movement. He couldn’t get her out of his head. [y/n] Malfoy. The kiss, her tears, the way her voice had cracked when she said, “This was a bad idea.” It replayed over and over, an unrelenting loop that left him both aching and seething.

How someone so infuriating, so contrary to everything he stood for, could leave such a mark on him? She was a Malfoy, for Merlin’s sake! And yet, the memory of her sadness—the raw, vulnerable way she’d looked at him—cut deeper than he wanted to admit.

The days passed, however, and that was no longer the girl he saw now. Not the [y/n] who had avoided his gaze in the Great Hall for weeks, who laughed too loudly with her Slytherin friends, her silver-blond hair gleaming like a crown under the enchanted ceiling. The persona she wore now was cruel, dismissive, and every bit the Malfoy heiress she had been raised to be. She wasn’t just cold—she was biting. Cutting remarks, condescending smirks, and an air of superiority that made Fred’s blood boil.

He hated her.

Or at least, that was what he told himself.

“You’re stewing again,” George said, leaning against the bedpost opposite Fred. His twin had appeared in the doorway moments earlier, a bag of pranking supplies slung over one shoulder. “Let me guess. Malfoy?”

Fred shot him a glare but said nothing.

George sighed, dropping the bag on the floor with a thud. “You’re not exactly subtle, you know. Want to talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Fred muttered, his voice tight. “She’s precisely what we always thought she was. A spoiled, heartless Malfoy. Whatever I thought I saw before… I was wrong.”

George frowned, studying his twin. “You don’t sound convinced.”

Fred stood abruptly, pacing the small space. “I don’t care, alright? Whatever sadness I thought she had… it’s gone now. All I see is her true self. And I can’t stand her.”

George raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. Instead, he leaned down to rummage through the bag. “Fine. But you might want to find a better way to handle it than glaring daggers across the Great Hall.”

Fred didn’t reply, his mind too clouded with frustration to respond.

On the day next, [y/n] Malfoy stared into her reflection in the Slytherin girls’ dormitory. Her silver-blond hair fell perfectly into place, and her robes were impeccable—the very image of Malfoy perfection. Yet, the girl staring back at her felt like a stranger.

She had thrown herself into the role her parents expected of her. She answered every one of Narcissa’s letters with glowing reports of her achievements, she smiled at Draco when he gloated about their family’s prominence, and she even laughed at Pansy Parkinson’s insipid jokes. The [y/n] who had once dared to dream of running away with Fred Weasley was gone.

But those were nightmares now, and they didn’t stop. Night after night, she dreamed of the Burrow, of the warm chaos of the Weasley household. She dreamed of Molly’s stern but kind voice, the way Ginny’s laughter filled the room, and the infectious mischief that seemed to follow the twins wherever they went. In her dreams, she belonged there. She was happy there.

And every morning, she woke up with tears staining her pillow.

One evening, an owl arrived bearing a gift from her father. The package was wrapped in elegant green paper, tied with a silver ribbon. [y/n] hesitated before opening it, her hands trembling slightly. Inside was a stunning emerald necklace, the gemstones gleaming like liquid light. It was exquisite, a clear reward for her recent “improved behaviour.”

She lifted the necklace, the cool weight of it settling in her palm. It was beautiful—undeniably so. Her reflection in the mirror confirmed as much as she clasped it around her neck. The emeralds caught the light, casting a faint green glow against her skin.

And she hated herself for loving it.

Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision. She sank to the floor, clutching the necklace as sobs wracked her body. How could she despise everything her family stood for and still covet the life they’d built for her? How could she dream of simplicity and warmth while clinging to the luxury and grandeur she’d been raised in?

“You’re pathetic,” she whispered to herself, her voice choked with tears. “You don’t deserve anything else.”

ONE MONTH AFTER THE KISS

The tension between them came to a head one afternoon in the courtyard. Students gathered in clusters, chattering as they soaked in the rare burst of sunlight. Fred leaned against a low stone wall, George beside him, both watching the scene unfold with casual interest. That was when he saw her.

[y/n] walked with her usual Slytherin entourage, her head held high and a smirk playing on her lips as she exchanged remarks with Draco. Her voice carried over the courtyard, sharp and mocking, and Fred’s jaw clenched as he watched her.

“Looks like Malfoy’s on her high horse again,” George muttered, nudging Fred with his elbow.

As if sensing his gaze, [y/n] turned her head. Their eyes met across the courtyard, and for a moment, the surrounding noise seemed to fade. There was no warmth in her gaze—only a cool, detached amusement that made Fred’s blood boil.

“Weasley,” she called out, her voice carrying a hint of mockery. “Shouldn’t you be off planning your next grand failure of a prank?”

The Slytherins around her chuckled, and Fred pushed off the wall, crossing the courtyard in a few quick strides. The surrounding students turned to watch, sensing the brewing confrontation.

“Better a failed prank than a failed personality,” Fred shot back, his voice even but laced with venom.

A ripple of “oohs” spread through the crowd, but [y/n] didn’t flinch. If anything, her smirk deepened.

“Clever,” she said, tilting her head. “Did you come up with that on your own, or did you need George’s help?”

Fred stepped closer, his fists clenched at his sides. “What happened to you?” he demanded, his voice low but forceful.

Her expression faltered for a fraction of a second, but she quickly recovered, her smirk returning with renewed vigor. “I grew up, Weasley. Maybe you should try it sometime.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but the bell rang, signalling the end of the break. Students began to disperse, and [y/n] turned on her heel, walking away without another word. Fred watched her go, his chest tight with a mix of anger and something he refused to name.

TWO WEEKS LATER

Fred leaned against the stone railing of the Astronomy Tower, the chill of the night air biting at his skin. It had been months since the kiss, but it lingered in his memory like a ghost. He hated himself for it, for the way his mind kept wandering back to that moment—the feel of her lips, the vulnerability in her eyes.

Why had she kissed him? Fred’s mind circled the question like a persistent gnat. If she had wanted him, if she had truly meant that kiss, then there must have been a reason. What was it? She had to have seen something in him, something worth risking her perfect Malfoy’s image for. He clenched his jaw, his hands gripping the cold stone of the railing as his thoughts spiralled further.

That dawn, he would have done anything for her. If she had asked, he would have taken her away from all of it—the name, the expectations, the suffocating legacy. He would have brought her to the Burrow, wrapped her in the chaotic love of his family, and shielded her from the world. Fred knew Harry Potter himself would have stood beside him to face down Draco or even Lucius if it came to that. He could have given her a different life, one filled with simplicity and freedom. But none of it mattered because in the end, she didn’t choose him.

The realization stung more than he wanted to admit. She hadn’t just walked away; she had turned her back on the idea of them completely. And now, all he was left with was a memory of what could have been and the bitter taste of rejection.

“Idiot,” Fred muttered under his breath, anger flaring in his chest. He wasn’t just angry at her; he was furious with himself. He had let her get under his skin, let himself believe that there was something real between them. And for what? To be left stewing like some lovesick fool months later. He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to shake the thought.

“Never again,” he said firmly, the words more a promise to himself than anyone else. But even as he turned to leave, the ghost of her lingered in his mind, refusing to be banished entirely.

“Enough,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. He turned on his heel, determined to channel his frustration into something productive.

“George,” Fred said sharply as he entered their dormitory, his twin glancing up from a half-assembled prank device. “Get the paint bombs. We’re hitting the Slytherin common room tonight.”

George’s grin spread wide. “Now you’re talking.”

TWENTY MINUTES LATER

The Slytherin common room erupted in chaos as a series of paint bombs exploded, sending streams of bright, sticky colours across the stone walls and elegant furnishings. Students screamed, fleeing the room as the vibrant mess coated everything in sight.

[y/n] stormed out with the rest, her robes splattered with streaks of blue and red. Her fury was palpable, her silver-blond hair streaked with paint. Her eyes scanned the corridor, narrowing as she spotted a flash of red disappearing around a corner.

“Fred Weasley!” she shouted, her voice echoing through the stone halls. “You’re dead!”

Fred ducked behind a pillar, a grin tugging at his lips despite himself. He watched as [y/n] marched after him, her rage driving her steps. Draco appeared behind her, looking equally furious.

“Go get Umbridge!” [y/n] snapped at her brother. “They deserve proper punishment for this.”

Draco hesitated but ultimately obeyed, hurrying off toward the main staircase. The moment he was gone, [y/n] turned back to where Fred had been hiding, her voice still sharp.

“You think this is funny?” she spat, stepping closer.

Fred stepped out of his hiding spot, his arms crossed. “A little, yeah.”

[y/n] let out a sharp, disdainful laugh. “Typical Weasley. No wonder your family can’t afford proper manners. Or, for that matter, anything else.”

Fred’s grin didn’t waver. “And yet, here you are, covered in paint and shouting at me. Not very dignified for a Malfoy, is it?”

“Dignity?” [y/n] shot back, her voice rising. “Coming from the boy who just vandalized a common room because he’s too petty to grow up? That’s rich.”

Fred took a step closer, feigning thoughtfulness. “I’ll have you know, it wasn’t just pettiness. It was also a lot of fun.”

“Fun?” she snapped, incredulous. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re predictable,” Fred retorted. “Always so quick to pull out the superiority card. Must get exhausting.”

The Slytherins standing nearby exchanged exasperated glances. One of them yawned audibly.

“Are they seriously still at it?” muttered Pansy Parkinson, rolling her eyes. “It’s the same old words, on repeat. Come on, let’s go. This is boring.”

As the Slytherins began to filter away, their curiosity dulled by the repetitive argument, [y/n] didn’t budge. Her attention remained fixed on Fred, her anger unrelenting.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” she hissed, stepping closer. “Well, newsflash, Weasley: you’re not. You’re just a loud-mouthed, meddling brat who doesn’t know when to stop.”

Fred’s grin faltered for a split second before returning, sharper this time. “And you’re purely a stuck-up, pretentious Malfoy who doesn’t know how to have fun.”

Their voices echoed in the now-empty corridor, the intensity of their argument only growing as the space between them seemed to shrink. Their shouting continued, echoing through the corridor until the other students had cleared out, leaving them alone in the narrow space.

“What changed?” Fred demanded suddenly, his voice cutting through the argument like a blade. “What happened for you to become… this?”

[y/n] froze, her anger faltering.

“What changed?” he asked again, louder.

For a moment, she looked like she might deflect, but then her shoulders slumped.

“The worst part is…” she said quietly, her voice trembling, “nothing really did change.”

Fred took a step closer, his expression softening. But before he could say anything, [y/n] glanced down at herself, at the paint still dripping from her robes. Her face twisted in frustration, and she turned on her heel.

“I can’t do this,” she muttered, starting to walk away.

Fred reached out, his hand brushing her arm, but she pulled free. “Don’t run from me again,” he called after her, his voice breaking slightly.

She didn’t stop. Her pace quickened, and Fred’s frustration boiled over.

“Coward!” he shouted, his voice echoing down the empty corridor.

[y/n] hesitated for the briefest moment but didn’t look back. She disappeared around the corner, leaving Fred alone once more, feeling worse because he happened to be, for once, right.

MANY DAYS LATER

As the weeks passed, the distance between them grew insurmountable. Fred buried himself in preparations for the joke shop he and George were planning, channelling his frustration into their inventions. [y/n] threw herself into her studies, determined to graduate at the top of her class and make her parents proud. But it wasn’t just academic success driving her—she became a fixture of the new regime under Umbridge, following the rules and executing small tasks to keep herself in favour.

Just like Draco, she became one of the professor’s so-called “pets,” a symbol of compliance and ambition. Yet, unlike her younger brother, she never reported Fred. She left that sort of thing to Draco, whose obsessive focus on Harry Potter meant he rarely paid attention to Fred and George’s antics.

Still, the role stung. She hated herself for wearing Umbridge’s approval like a badge, for smiling through the nauseating pink decor and sickly sweet condescension. It was a survival tactic—or so she told herself. But deep down, she knew it was just another layer of the person she was expected to be, and another step further from the girl she used to dream of becoming.

When the day came for Fred and George to leave Hogwarts, it was chaos. The twins’ grand exit—complete with fireworks and a swamp in the middle of the school—was the talk of the castle. [y/n] watched from the sidelines, her heart aching as she saw him disappear into the distance. Fred hadn’t looked at her, not really, except for a glance that felt colder than the bitterest winter wind. It had been a fleeting moment, his eyes brushing past her as if she were just another face in the crowd, before his focus returned to the chaos he and George had unleashed.

Her posture had been proud, aloof, maintaining the Malfoy facade she’d perfected over the years. But as the twins vanished from view, the weight of her act crushed her. Her shoulders slumped, and the mask she wore cracked, leaving behind only the hollow ache of loss. She turned away from the lingering crowd, retreating to the solitude of the Slytherin common room before anyone could notice her faltering composure.

That night, alone in her dormitory, she allowed herself to cry. The tears came quietly, soaking her pillow as she pressed her face into it, muffling the sound. She had pretended to be cruel, to be the Malfoy everyone expected, just to keep Fred at a distance. But now he was gone, and the effort seemed meaningless. There was no one left to keep away, no reason to uphold the charade. The school days were ending anyway, and besides Draco, no one seemed to notice her shift back into the quiet, withdrawn girl she had once been. 

And when the school year finally ended, [y/n] packed her belongings and returned to Malfoy Manor. She graduated with honours, her family’s pride glowing in every congratulatory letter from their acquaintances. She was, at last, everything they wanted her to be.

Lucius was waiting for her at the train station, his posture rigid and immaculate as always, the faintest hint of a pleased smile curling at the corners of his mouth. As [y/n] descended from the train, he stepped forward, extending a gloved hand. “Well done,” he said, his tone carrying an air of measured approval. “You have made the family proud.”

She hadn’t expected those words from him. Lucius Malfoy, always measured and exacting, rarely offered praise. For a fleeting moment, they almost felt like an achievement, a validation of the lengths she’d gone to play the part they demanded of her. Her stomach twisted, but she managed a small, practised smile as she took his hand. “Thank you, Father.”

But whatever validation she felt quickly curdled into something darker. She had wanted to protect herself, to push Fred away, to shield her fragile hopes from the inevitable disappointment. Instead, she had cemented herself further into the life they had planned for her, a gilded cage of expectations and obligations.

The anger rose swiftly, directed as much at herself as it was at her father. Her act, her cruelty, her desperate efforts to be someone she wasn’t—it had all backfired. She was more trapped than ever, with the door to another path firmly closed behind her.

Narcissa was waiting for her inside the family car, that would take them back to the manor, and her face lighted up with uncharacteristic warmth when she saw her daughter. “My darling,” she exclaimed, pulling [y/n] into a rare, delicate embrace as soon as she entered. “You’ve done so well. And the engagement…” Narcissa’s voice softened, her eyes shimmering with excitement. “I have so many plans for your dress, the decorations—everything will be perfect.”

[y/n] nodded numbly, allowing her mother’s voice to wash over her. She could feel the weight of their expectations settling back onto her shoulders, heavier than ever. Narcissa continued to chatter about florists and fabrics, oblivious to the way her daughter’s gaze had drifted to the window, her reflection staring back at her with a hollowness she couldn’t ignore.

[jamilelucato]

Secrets We Keep Masterlist

Pairing: Fred Weasley x [Y/N] Malfoy

Welcome to the official masterlist for Secrets We Keep! Dive into the journey of [Y/N] Malfoy as she navigates the complexities of family, identity, and unexpected emotions with Fred Weasley.

Chapters

Part One: (setting the stage, family tension, and first encounters)

Part Two: (late-night encounters and a stolen kiss)

Part Three: (tension grows as the distance becomes harder)

Part Four: (nightmares, a siren, and a destiny to fulfil)

[jamilelucato]

Secrets We Keep - 2 [F.W.]

Secrets We Keep Masterlist

Pairing: Fred Weasley x [y/n] Malfoy

Summary: After a chance encounter late at night, the lines between enemy and ally blur, and the walls she's built to protect herself start to crack. With new alliances and unexpected emotions, [Y/N] must face the truth of who she is—while fighting to keep her family's secrets buried.

Warning: Mentions of dark magic, family drama, mild angst, cursing.

A/N: Inspired by the song Bad Idea from the musical Waitress, this part dives deeper into [y/n]'s inner turmoil and the evolving tension between her and Fred. It's the kiss chapter, if anyone's wondering. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy this next chapter. 😊

PART TWO

For Merlin’s sake, she was nearly eighteen—a woman on the verge of adulthood. Soon enough, she would be the unmarried Malfoy maiden paraded before society and married off to whatever young, noble man her parents deemed worthy. The thought of such a future—of tying herself to a stranger—was unbearable. Yet, in a twisted way, it symbolized her transition into the poised, proper woman her family expected. And women, real women, didn’t cry like this. Not with swollen eyes, blotchy cheeks, and sobs so intense that their throats ached.

This? This was pathetic.

She caught her reflection in the polished surface of a large silver candelabra positioned at her shoulder height in the anteroom between the staircase to Dumbledore’s office and the corridor leading to the other professors' offices. The distorted image of herself was unflattering, but she didn’t look away.

Her nightly walks had become routine, the castle, her endless labyrinth. It had to be her eighth or ninth night sneaking out of her dormitory to wander, using the chill of the stone corridors and the physical exhaustion of climbing staircases to numb her swirling emotions. She had started in the dungeons, but as usual, her legs had carried her upward, far away from her house and its suffocating sense of belonging she no longer felt.

She didn’t hate the girls she shared a room with. If anything, she admired how easy they made everything seem—laughing, gossiping, exchanging hair-care charms and giggling over their shared crushes. [Y/N] liked them, maybe even more than she was willing to admit. But lately, she’d been walking on eggshells, keeping her distance, terrified that the truth might slip out if she let her guard down.

The truth that her family’s pristine image hid a rotting core. The truth that her father—her family—served the Dark Lord.

That night, as every night, she yearned for someone to confide in. Not just anyone, though. Someone who could take her secret and shield her from the crushing weight of it. Someone who wouldn’t gasp in horror at the revelation or, worse, nod in understanding.

And if that was too much to hope for, she at least wanted someone who could distract her—a group of friends who wouldn’t talk about family heirlooms, pure-blood pride, or valuable objects passed down through generations. She wanted to forget.

But forgetting wasn’t so simple. And so she walked, and cried, and loathed herself for both.

With only the magic light cast by her wand as company, she decided to rest in the anteroom. Surely, Dumbledore wouldn’t be working hours in his office? It was almost three in the morning. Not a soul in the castle was awake. Well, perhaps the owls.

[Y/N] let out a shuddering breath. She brushed the tears from her cheeks with a shaky hand, trying to pull herself together.

At night, when no one was watching, the disgusted sneer she had perfected—the one she had stolen from her father’s own expression—faded away. What replaced it was someone softer. Someone vulnerable. Someone who wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep up the act.

But whether it was a laugh of fate or an unfortunate stroke of luck, she was not alone. She was not the only one awake.

There were few professors’ offices up there. Some kept the empty rooms near their classrooms as a personal choice. Professor Snape, for example, kept himself housed in the dungeons, like the natural-born Slytherin he was.

But there was one unfortunate pink one, who had little to none panther-like appearance, who chose one of the offices upstairs, and [y/n] suspected that the choice was made to stay close to Dumbledore.

Of course, Dolores Umbridge was not the topic. She was not the one who slipped out the front door of her office, at three in the morning.

No, the figure was not the notorious pink one. It was an equally famous red.

Fred Bloody Weasley. Of all the people to run into at three in the morning, it had to be him.

[Y/N] swallowed hard, her sobs lodging in her throat as her eyes darted around, frantically searching for a hiding place. The anteroom was painfully bare—no tapestries, no curtains, no alcoves to disappear into. Her wand was still clutched tightly in her hand, the faint light she had conjured snuffed out instantly. She sat there on the cold floor, heart pounding in her chest, hoping against hope that the darkness would be enough to conceal her.

But it wasn’t.

The soft glow of the candelabra she had forgotten about betrayed her position. Its flickering light wasn’t strong, but it was enough.

Fred didn’t call out, didn’t ask who was there—he wasn’t stupid. Instead, he leaned casually against the wall, squinting in the dim light. His steps were slow, deliberate, the faint creak of his trainers against the stone the only sound in the otherwise silent corridor.

As he approached, [Y/N] froze. She considered her options—she could lie, she could feign illness, or she could stay silent and pray he’d leave her be. But none of those seemed convincing, not when he was already this close.

The moment stretched unbearably, the soft flicker of the candelabra casting shifting shadows across Fred’s face. His expression wasn’t mocking or mischievous as it usually was; it was curious, maybe even cautious, as though he wasn’t sure if he should even be intruding.

Finally, he stopped just a few feet away, tilting his head to the side as he stared down at her. “Couldn’t sleep either, huh?” he asked quietly, his voice devoid of the usual playful lilt.

[Y/N] blinked, thrown by his tone. Of all the things she’d expected him to say, that wasn’t it.

Fred didn’t wait for an answer. He crouched down, careful to keep some distance between them, his movements deliberate and non-threatening. “You, uh… want me to leave?” he asked, his voice softer now, almost hesitant.

It wasn’t a demand or a joke. It was a question, simple and honest, and for a moment, [Y/N] didn’t know how to respond. She was used to taunts, pranks, and snide remarks from Fred and George—this wasn’t in the play book.

She shook her head, surprising even herself.

Fred’s lips twitched, not quite a smile but close enough. “Alright then,” he said, easing himself down to sit on the floor across from her, his back against the wall.

They sat there in silence, the candelabra’s flame dancing between them. It wasn’t comforting, exactly, but it wasn’t uncomfortable either. For once, neither of them had to say a word.

[Y/N] sat still for a moment, the silence between them pressing in. Her chest felt tight, and she knew she had to say something—anything—to break it. But the weight of everything she had just been feeling still lingered, her tears still fresh in her memory. She wasn’t sure what possessed her to ask, but it was the first thing that came to mind.

“Did you plant a bomb in the pink bitch's office?”

Fred’s lips twitched at the corners, a hint of a smile pulling at them, though his eyes remained thoughtful. “Something like that,” he replied, his tone just as dry and amused as ever.

For a fleeting moment, [Y/N] allowed a smile to tug at her own lips, though it was short-lived. The act of smiling hurt—her cheeks were still sore from the hours of crying, swollen and tender.

With a steely look, she fixed her gaze on him. “If you tell anyone you saw me here, I will unleash Cruciatus curses on you until you turn into a house elf,” she warned, her voice cold and resolute.

Fred raised an eyebrow, as if the threat didn’t quite have the desired effect. But there was a glimmer of recognition in his eyes, the tension in his posture betraying him. “I’d say the same, you know,” he replied, a wry smile spreading across his face. “I’m at risk here too.”

The grin he wore was playful, but there was something deeper now, a shared understanding that hadn’t been there before.

Her eyes narrowed as she glanced around, noticing the absence of his twin. “Where’s George?” she snapped.

Fred shrugged nonchalantly, his smile widening as he leaned back against the wall. “Snape’s,” he answered, his eyes twinkling mischievously. And then he flashed her a full, genuine grin—something so real that it was almost disarming.

[Y/N] wasn’t sure what to make of this—this strange, unspoken understanding, the rare glimpse into the Weasley twins' world, or the fact that, at that moment, they were both, in their own ways, in the same boat.

She took a long, careful moment to look at Fred, really look at him, taking in every detail. His arms, strong and defined; his broad shoulders, relaxed against the wall; the easy confidence in his posture, the way his hair, though tousled, seemed to fall just right. And his eyes—holding the weight of things he hadn’t yet spoken aloud.

But then her gaze lowered, to his lips. Slightly parted. Expectation? Or something else? Her mind swirled, as she felt a strange knot form in her stomach.

His cheeks were red—why were his cheeks red?

Her eyes flicked back to his, meeting the depth of his gaze again. Now, those eyes were darker, almost black—sombre. What did that mean? What was he thinking?

For a moment, she wrestled with the urge to speak—to break the tension. But the salty sting of the tears she hadn’t fully wiped away still lingered, and she knew, somehow, that he was still watching her with that quiet curiosity. Her secret—her family’s dark secret—loomed over her, suffocating in its weight. It was so improper here, in this quiet moment between them. She could feel it pressing against her chest, a constant reminder of the chasm between her and everyone else.

And then, before she could think better of it, she moved. A quick, impulsive gesture. Jump or be caught.

So jump it was. Her lips met his.

It was simply a fleeting touch, a soft peck. But in that brief moment, something sparked between them, an electric current that both startled and thrilled her. As soon as the kiss happened, she pulled back, her heart pounding in her chest. Fred’s eyes fluttered open, and it took a moment for him to register what had just happened.

[Y/N] let out a sound, half-frightened, half-embarrassed. What was she frightened of? The kiss? Of herself?

Before she could make sense of anything, her face burned with mortification. She jumped up from the spot, suddenly self-conscious of the awkwardness that now clung to her like a second skin. Her robes caught at her ankles as she moved, making her stumble, but she regained her footing quickly. Her mind was a whirlwind of confusion, but one thing was certain: she had kissed Fred Weasley!

And to make matters worse, she’d done it like a child—impulsive, messy, and utterly unprepared.

THAT SAME NIGHT, MINUTES LATER

The grand prank—meticulously crafted to ruin every single porcelain plate adorned with kitten designs in Dolores Umbridge's office—was perfectly in place. The setup was flawless, engineered so that when the door was opened, the catastrophe would appear to be the result of her own careless actions. Floors below, an equally devious scheme was undoubtedly in motion. George Weasley, with his skilled hands and sharp wit, would be putting the finishing touches on the trap in Severus Snape's office.

But Fred wasn’t moving.

He remained seated in the same spot where he had stumbled upon the tearful Slytherin minutes earlier. His usually restless energy seemed to have deserted him, leaving him uncharacteristically still. The echoes of what had just happened—her tears, her vulnerability, and then that—played over and over in his mind.

Fred Weasley had been on the receiving end of many things in his life—laughs, hexes, detentions—but a kiss like that? Never.

The kiss wasn’t grand or dramatic; it wasn’t even what one might call proper. It had been fleeting, a brush of lips, but it left behind a current of something he couldn’t quite name. Her lips had been soft, warm, and trembling, and the brief touch carried a weight that Fred hadn’t expected. A weight that didn’t feel like just a kiss—it felt like a moment she’d decided on, maybe even fought herself over, before finally letting go.

And then she’d run.

Fred leaned his head back against the wall, staring at the dim ceiling above him. His mind was spinning, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He hadn’t had time to react, hadn’t said a single word before she’d disappeared. And now he was sitting here, replaying it all like a scene in one of those overly dramatic wizarding plays his mum occasionally dragged them to during Christmas holidays.

He let out a long, frustrated breath and ran a hand through his messy hair. “Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to anyone else.

Fred Weasley didn’t do confusion. His life was simple. He didn’t dwell on things, and he certainly didn’t let people catch him off guard. Yet here he was, sitting in a dark hallway, absolutely baffled by a girl who, only hours ago, he would have described as Malfoy—the snooty one.

But now?

Now, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way her eyes had looked—red-rimmed and puffy, but with a defiance that reminded him of storm clouds. Or the way her voice had wavered when she spoke, like she was fighting a battle he couldn’t see. And then there was that kiss…

Fred groaned and pushed himself off the floor, finally forcing himself to move. George would be wondering what was taking so long, and the last thing Fred needed was his twin’s sharp tongue picking apart his distracted state.

As he made his way toward the stairwell, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. That fleeting kiss had opened a door he wasn’t sure he wanted to close. Or maybe, just perhaps, it wasn’t a door he could close even if he wanted to.

TWO DAYS LATER

She’d had enough. A Howler? A Howler, of all things?

Lucius Malfoy, with all his pomp and self-righteousness, had dared to send her a Howler. At least he hadn’t been cruel enough to have it delivered in the Great Hall, where every student would have had front-row seats to her humiliation. No, the family’s sleek black owl, as dark as the night itself, had waited for the moon’s ascent to deliver its cargo—a Howler bound with a green ribbon and sealed with silver wax.

[Y/N] untied the parcel with trembling fingers, her stomach sinking as the seal cracked open. Her father’s voice erupted in a cold, measured monotone that somehow managed to be worse than screams.

“Your brother has reported your carelessness, your lack of decorum,” Lucius began, each word razor-sharp. “Wandering the halls inappropriately dressed, conducting yourself without purpose. If this behaviour affects your grades, young lady, I will have no choice but to petition your professors for additional coursework. I understand that Miss Umbridge did not award you full marks on a recent essay—an embarrassing lapse. I had assumed it to be an anomaly. Let us ensure it remains so.

“The Carrow family,” he continued, his tone heavy with meaning, “has expressed interest in you. Do not disappoint us.”

And that was that. No shouting. No dramatic crescendos. Just cold, calculated disapproval, delivered through the most theatrical medium possible.

When the Howler finished, it hovered for a moment, as if daring her to respond, before folding in on itself and dropping neatly to the floor. She stared at the scraps for a long moment, her chest tight with suppressed fury.

The Carrow family!

She hadn’t even had her formal debut yet, and already she’d been practically auctioned off to the highest bidder. She didn’t need to dredge her memory for details. If Lucius Malfoy had deemed the Carrows suitable, it was because their son—no doubt a fledgling Death Eater—ticked all the right boxes. Bloodline. Wealth. Loyalty to the Dark Lord.

[Y/N] clenched her fists, the fragile parchment crumpling further in her hands. For the first time, she didn’t cry. She didn’t allow herself the luxury. Instead, she tore the Howler into pieces, her movements swift and brutal, and flung the scraps onto the grass.

She was outside, near the rear entrance to the castle that overlooked the path to the Quidditch pitch. The cool night air brushed against her face, doing little to calm the storm raging within her.

With an almost defiant tilt of her chin, she looked up at the moon, searching the vast expanse of stars for some semblance of guidance. But they offered none. The stars twinkled indifferently, as though mocking her plight.

She clenched her jaw, breathing heavily through her nose as her thoughts spiralled. She was to be married off, shackled to some boy her father had deemed suitable, and inevitably inducted into the ranks of the Death Eaters. It was a future she neither chose nor wanted.

How foolish she had been to ever think she had a choice. She never had. Not even as a child.

She’d been moulded from infancy—wrapped in long-sleeved dresses to exude the “Malfoy class,” her hair half-tied to frame the pale perfection of her lineage. A silent doll, a perfect reflection of her family’s ideals. While Draco’s fiery stubbornness earned him their father’s reprimands—or their mother’s smothering, silencing embraces—she had learned early to keep her mouth shut. To think before speaking. Or, more often, to simply not speak at all.

And for what?

The letter had shattered any lingering illusions of solidarity within her family. Draco, her own brother, had reported her. For wandering the halls aimlessly, for her clothing being “too casual”—petty, trivial things. She could have laughed at the absurdity of it all if it didn’t sting so much.

He was no naïve boy any more, she realised bitterly. At some point, he’d shifted from the irritating, idealistic little brother into a perfect disciple of their father’s will. The baby Malfoy had become something else entirely—someone she could no longer trust.

And yet, if he only knew what she had truly done.

The thought struck her with the force of a thunderclap. Two nights ago. The moonlight. The candlelit corridor. Fred Weasley.

She shivered, though not from the cool night air. If Draco—or worse, Lucius—had any inkling of what had transpired, she doubted even the long arm of her mother’s influence could shield her from the consequences.

But then, almost as suddenly as her panic had risen, it ebbed away, leaving something else in its place. Something sharp and hot and utterly wicked.

She let out a short, incredulous laugh, low and quiet, as if afraid the stars might overhear. How deliciously ironic that, in a world where every choice had been made for her, she had snatched a moment of her own. She had crossed every line her family had so carefully drawn.

She felt it again now—that reckless, impish surge, as though Peeves himself had passed straight through her, cackling as he went. It made her feel… alive. For once, she had done something utterly and completely her own. Something wrong. Something unforgivable.

It was a tiny spark of rebellion that flickered in her chest, and it dared grow.

The castle at night was a labyrinth of shadows and whispers, the ancient walls cool and unyielding under [Y/N]’s palms as she steadied herself against one of them. Her heart thundered in her chest, her breaths quick and shallow. She didn’t stop to think—thinking was dangerous, thinking would unravel her resolve. She needed to act before she lost the reckless courage surging through her veins.

Her footsteps echoed in the empty corridors as she broke into a run. The portraits she passed muttered in disapproval, their drowsy protests lost on her. She couldn’t stop now. Not when the fire in her chest begged for fuel. It was dangerous and foolish, and exactly what she needed.

Her mind raced alongside her feet. The memory of Fred Weasley, his smirk, his laugh, the way his lips had felt brushing against hers—it burned like a secret brand. The thought clawed at her now, relentless and consuming. She wanted more. She needed to find him. [y/n] needed to know if this feeling—this chaos, this rebellion—was real, and to confirm it was her choice, once. Her heartbeat thudded against her ribs, faster and louder, like a drum urging her forward. Let’s make mistakes, it seemed to whisper. 

Her breath hitched as she skidded to a halt, stooping to rest her hands on her knees. A judgmental portrait loomed nearby, its painted gaze following her with disdain.

“So what?” she snapped, her voice cutting through the silence. “It’ll be my mistake to make. Mine.”

The portrait shrugged indifferently, its expression unreadable, and she straightened, a renewed defiance lifting her chin.

Elsewhere in the castle, Fred wandered aimlessly, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. The corridors stretched endlessly, cold and quiet, as his thoughts circled like vultures. He was haunted by a memory. A devastating one.

Two nights ago, everything had changed. Her lips, soft and unexpected against his, had been like a spark in the dark. He’d told himself it was nothing—a mistake, a lapse in judgment. But the memory wouldn’t fade. It gnawed at him, twisting and reshaping itself until it was no longer something he could dismiss.

He groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re an idiot,” he muttered under his breath. A Malfoy. Of all people. His mind conjured images of her family—their sneers, their disdain, the way they would look at him like dirt under their boots. And yet, when he thought of her, all he could see was the defiance in her eyes, the vulnerability that lurked just beneath.

He leaned against the wall, his forehead pressing into the cool stone. He shouldn’t want this. Fred shouldn’t want her. And yet, the thought of kissing her again refused to leave him. Not a hesitant peck this time, but something real, something that would sweep them both away. The very idea made him wince with self-loathing. A good bad idea, his thoughts taunted him. Make worse what’s already pretty bad.

Back again on the grass ground, where she had begun, [y/n] found herself facing the entrance of the Quidditch pitch, the vast expanse of grass stretching out before her. The cold air bit at her skin, bringing a clarity she didn’t want. She doubled over, hands on her knees, gasping for breath. The fire inside her dimmed, replaced by the creeping chill of doubt.

She straightened slowly, the stars above fading as the first blush of dawn crept over the horizon. The soft light turned the castle into a silhouette, a towering reminder of everything she was running from. Her heart, which had been racing moments ago, began to sink. She shook her head, her lips pressing into a bitter line.

This was madness. Utter madness. She was a Malfoy. He was a Weasley. Their worlds didn’t just clash; they were built on opposing foundations, destined to crumble if they ever truly met. Her brother’s face flashed in her mind, followed by her father’s cold disapproval. She knew exactly what they would say if they found out.

“Poor idea,” she murmured to herself, the words soft and scathing. “Me and you.”

Her shoulders sagged as the weight of it all pressed down on her. She turned slowly, intending to head back to the castle, to bury herself in the lies and expectations that had shaped her life. It was safer that way. Smarter. It was the only way to survive. Time to let this thing go, she thought, her steps faltering. It was a pretty good bad idea, wasn’t it, though?

Elsewhere, Fred’s pace quickened suddenly, his body moving before his mind could catch up. He had no idea where he was going, but he knew he couldn’t stop. His feet pounded against the stone floors, his breath coming in short bursts. The castle seemed to pull him forward, its twisting corridors narrowing until he could feel the weight of dawn pressing against the walls.

He didn’t want to find her. That was what he told himself. But the truth gnawed at him, sharp and insistent. He needed to see her, needed to know if she felt it too—that spark, that chaos. He had to know if it had meant something, or if he was just a fool chasing shadows.

As he neared the Quidditch pitch, the cool air hit him like a wave, clearing his head just enough for him to curse his own stupidity. But then he saw her.

[y/n] Malfoy stood in the grass, the faint glow of dawn outlining her figure. Her hair was tousled by the breeze, her arms wrapped around herself as though to ward off the chill. She looked fragile against the vast sky, but there was a strength in her stance that made his breath catch.

He stopped, his chest heaving as their eyes met.

Neither spoke. Neither moved.

The sun lingered just below the horizon, as if hesitant to interrupt the stillness, granting them the fragile, fleeting privacy of the in-between hours.

Fred saw her first. And yet, the strike of it—the sheer improbability of her standing there—was just as breathtaking to her.

Had he been looking for her? Had he felt it too, the same turmoil of rebellion, of need, of something greater than them both? [y/n] didn’t know. She had no answers to her spiralling questions, and for once, she didn’t care. She would have to ask him herself.

Her breathing steadied as a newfound calm settled over her. Slowly, deliberately, she took her first steps toward him. Fred, who had been running so fast mere moments ago, now stood frozen in place, rooted to the spot as he watched her approach. His gaze dropped to her feet—delicate steps in dark blue slippers—carrying her closer, closer.

To him.

He could hardly believe it. Fred had been so certain she would avoid him forever after that stolen, fleeting kiss in the shadows. But the horizon was brightening, and so was she.

[y/n] Malfoy wasn’t hiding any more.

Fred let her close the gap between them on her own because part of him still doubted that whatever she was going to do next would be good for him.

“You kissed me,” he said, as if it was the only thing he could say to her.

“Yes,” she agreed—well, she really had.

“And then you avoided me,” he added, the words tinged with an unintended cruelty. He didn't mean to push her away, not when all he wanted was to bring her closer. But Fred Weasley was clumsy with feelings, and he hated how his tongue betrayed him.

[y/n] didn’t flinch. She doubted anything Fred said could push her away. “I did,” she admitted, her tone softer now, her head tipping slightly to one side, almost in resignation. “That part was intentional.”

Fred frowned, his chest tightening. “Let me guess. Because, bam—I'm a Weasley. That reality hit you, didn’t it?” He tried to sound casual, but the words escaped him too fast, and he felt ridiculous as soon as they hung in the air.

But [y/n] wasn’t offended. Her retort came swiftly: “And I'm a Malfoy, dear Weasley. What does that mean, really?”

His gaze faltered, his brows knitting together as her words settled in.

“It's too early for us to be defined by names like that,” she continued, a faint smile teasing her lips. She crossed her fingers and stretched her arms out in front of her, like a child trying to reach the sky. “I’m just [y/n]. For a few more days, I’m still seventeen. And you? Who are you?”

Fred blinked at her, unsure of what to say. The silence lingered, stretching just long enough for doubt to creep in. Was he really not going to get it? Her head tilted slightly in question, but her disappointment didn’t last long.

Fred closed the gap between them. His hands found her waist with a determination that surprised even him. Before either of them could think too much, her face tilted forward, meeting him halfway. The kiss was easy—natural.

And [y/n] didn’t pull back. Her breath caught against his lips for only a moment before she parted them, inviting him closer. When his tongue brushed hers, her hands rose to his shoulders, fingers tracing the curve of muscle, grounding herself in the sensation.

This was a kiss. Deep and unrelenting, it was more than skin meeting skin; it was a convergence of need and affection. She pressed herself against him, craving the connection, wanting to lose herself in the solidness of Fred Weasley.

Fred matched her intensity, his hands moving from her waist to her back, then higher, threading into her hair. He marvelled at the soft, silver strands as they slipped through his fingers, untangling the remnants of her earlier rush. At that moment, [y/n] let him have her—her posture, her defences, all of it.

For Fred, the sensation was everything.

But, like all good things in life, the moment had to end. Eventually, they pulled apart—but [y/n] remained in his arms, her warmth still pressed against him.

“I'm Fred,” he said, a little breathless but smiling anyway, the mischievous glint in his eyes softening. “George’s twin. It’s a pleasure to meet you, [y/n].”

It was beautiful. That was [y/n]’s first thought. The way he said her name, the way he looked at her—it was like she was the only person in the world. But then the second thought came. Slowly, her hands fell away from his face, where they had been cradling him just moments before.

It felt like a fantasy. Too good to be true. And even if it was true, it felt too good to be hers.

The moment passed. Fred noticed the change instantly. Her body tensed in his arms, her back straightened like a shield raising itself, and even the silver strands of her hair, which he had so joyfully tousled, seemed to settle back into a pristine, unyielding order.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice low with concern.

“Nothing’s changed,” she replied, her words carrying a quiet sadness. It seeped into her voice, her expression, even the hesitant way she pulled his hands away from her waist.

Fred’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean, [y/n]?”

She hesitated, the weight of her thoughts pressing down on her. “I thought it would change,” she admitted, guilt creeping into her tone. Her voice broke just slightly as she added, “I thought this would be enough to save…”

“Save what?” Fred pressed gently, his voice filled with care, though worry was starting to edge into it.

Save me, she finished in her mind, but the words never made it past her lips. She looked away, stepping out of his hold. Now, without his embrace to shelter her, the towering silhouette of the castle loomed around them. Hogwarts now felt more like a reminder of the person she was supposed to be.

And how she had failed everyone.

A tear slipped from her right eye before she could stop it. Damn it. She brushed at her face with a trembling hand, but Fred had already seen. Fred noticed everything about her, and this was no exception.

Something was very wrong.

Wasn’t she the one who had invited him to be someone new? To shed the weight of expectations? Then why did it feel like she was slipping back into the role of the Malfoy daughter—the person she so desperately wanted to leave behind?

“You’re not making sense,” Fred said, his voice tinged with both confusion and concern. The whiplash of her emotions was challenging to follow, and it worried him.

“I’m not,” she admitted bitterly, frustration bubbling over. She took a step back, then another, as if physical distance might make her words sting less. “I never am.” She paused, swallowing hard before adding, “I’m sorry, Fred. I thought... I thought this kiss would be enough.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and the weight of her thoughts dragged her down. What kind of fool am I?

A kiss wouldn’t save her. This wasn’t a fairytale. A true love’s kiss wouldn’t wake her from the life already spiralling out of control, unravelling like a story written by someone else’s hand. What power did Fred have against Lucius Malfoy? Against the man who, by now, had likely finalized her engagement to someone hand-picked for status and strategy?

What had she been imagining? That they’d run away together? Into the sunset? And go where? The Burrow? She snorted bitterly at the thought. [y/n] wouldn’t last a day there. She wouldn’t even know how to be in a world so unadorned, so painfully honest.

She wanted to escape her name, her lineage, the weight of expectations that pressed down on her every step. But could she? She couldn’t run from the habits ingrained in her, the luxuries she loved. Her hand unconsciously brushed the soft fur of her robe—an extravagance that cost more galleons than most people earned in a month.

And Merlin helped her, she loved the robe.

Her feet moved before her mind gave the order, pulling her away from him.

“No, not again,” Fred called after her, his voice carrying desperation. He reached out, his fingers just brushing the air near her hand. “Don’t run from me again.”

Her chest was tight, and she was still fighting back the sob that was already breaking free, her breath hitching painfully. “This was a bad idea, Weasley,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, though she knew he could hear her.

She slowed for just a moment, long enough to meet his gaze. His hand was still outstretched, a silent plea hanging between them. Her eyes softened, guilt flickering behind them. “But thank you.”

Then she turned and ran, the moment's weight trailing behind her.

[jamilelucato]

Secrets We Keep [F.W.]

Pairing: Fred Weasley x [y/n] Malfoy

Summary: [y/n] Malfoy struggles with her family's dark secrets while navigating her final year at Hogwarts. A bizarre Defence Against the Dark Arts class forces her into unexpected alliances.

Warning: Mentions of dark magic, family drama, mild angst

A/N: Hey everyone! This one was inspired by the song Bad Idea from the musical Waitress. It’s going to have plenty of forbidden feelings. And yes, [Y/N] Malfoy is supposed to have the silver hair and the family looks, so I hope that doesn't put anyone off. I plan this to be a 4 part ride, and I have the rest ready to post, I’ll just give it a gap between the posts. Hope you enjoy this ride!

Secrets We Keep Masterlist (check it out for the updates!)

PART ONE

Her straight blond locks fell over her shoulders as she meticulously brushed her hair, part by part. The Slytherin dormitory provided her with a sizeable mirror—not as grand or as ornate as the one in her room at Malfoy Manor, but an acceptable looking glass perched atop a small, dark wood dressing table.

[y/n] Malfoy, the firstborn of Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy, carried a weighty legacy. Despite being female and, by tradition, barely an heir to anything substantial, she had a status to uphold. She was expected to set an example for the youngest in the family, Draco, who was two years her junior. The Malfoy lineage was strikingly consistent: father and offspring alike shared the same silver hair and sharp facial features. But their similarities went beyond appearances—personality, too, seemed an inheritance in the Malfoy bloodline.

At least, that was the consensus. Fred Weasley, however, recalled [y/n] as being somewhat kinder during her first and second years at Hogwarts. It seemed her brother’s influence had a way of souring anyone’s demeanour with his mere presence.

Not that Fred was keen to defend her. He simply believed in keeping the facts straight.

But that was a thought for another time. For now, [y/n] Malfoy was simply brushing her hair before bed.

“Do you think this year will be different?” she asked, addressing the girls in her dormitory. Her question wasn’t directed at anyone in particular.

“Whatever do you mean?” replied the darkest-haired girl in the room, her tone slightly curious.

“Last year, a student was killed,” [y/n] said, her voice thoughtful. “The school must have been horrified. Perhaps they’ll change some rules this year.” She placed her comb on the dressing table and turned to face the others, casting a final glance at her reflection. “I’m sure the parents weren’t happy.”

“Some were,” came a soft whisper from the smallest girl in the room. Petite in stature but formidable in character, she was known for her strong opinions.

The group chose to ignore the comment. It was safer not to delve into why certain parents might have approved of the tragedy. Slytherins often shared common ground, but values varied greatly from one family to another. It was only natural.

“Do you suppose they’ll add a curfew or something?” asked the dark-haired girl.

“We already have a curfew,” pointed out a blond girl seated in the corner next to [y/n].

“Really?” The dark-haired girl sounded genuinely surprised. “I didn’t know that.”

“Either way,” the blond girl continued, “if anything were going to change, they would’ve announced it tonight at dinner.”

“Dumbledore kind of did,” [y/n] said, tilting her head thoughtfully as she recalled the new face at the professors’ table. “When he introduced Professor Umbridge.”

“She seemed… pinkly nice,” the dark-haired girl scoffed, her tone dripping with irony as she thought of the new professor’s saccharine wardrobe.

The room filled with quiet chuckles, though no one voiced what they were all thinking: it was bound to be an interesting year at Hogwarts.

[y/n] climbed into bed, wishing more than anything for this school year to be over. Her final year at Hogwarts loomed ahead, demanding more from her than ever. There were lessons to master, exams to ace, and expectations to exceed. Perfect scores were a non-negotiable; her parents expected nothing less, and she was determined to show Draco—smug and competitive as ever—that Malfoys always set the standard.

Yet, sleep didn’t come easily that night. Her mind was restless, racing with thoughts she couldn’t quite untangle. It was absurd—she always had too much on her mind, but it had never stopped her from falling asleep before. Restless and uneasy, she glanced around the room. The rhythmic breathing of her four roommates confirmed they were sound asleep. Slipping out of bed, [y/n] grabbed her dark green slippers and heavy fur-lined coat, moving silently to avoid disturbing anyone.

Once in the dimly lit corridors, she considered stopping by the underwater window in the Slytherin common room. Watching the occasional fish glide past the glass might calm her, might lull her into the drowsiness she craved—but she dismissed the idea almost immediately. She didn’t have the patience to wait for a stray creature to appear.

Instead, she wandered, her slippered feet padding softly against the cold floors of the castle. She didn’t have a destination in mind. Perhaps a long walk would tire her out, or at least give her restless thoughts somewhere else to go.

But no matter how far she walked, one thought remained rooted firmly in her mind. It was a revelation she had stumbled upon at the end of the last school year, one that haunted her more than she cared to admit. For so long, she’d managed to ignore the small signs, dismissing them with self-spun lies. “My parents are just meanies,” she would tell herself whenever their behaviour didn’t sit right. “They’re just... particular.”

The cracks in those lies began to show when she returned home last summer, the news of Cedric Diggory’s death casting a shadow over the wizarding world. Cedric’s murder, tied to whispers of the Dark Lord’s return, should have shaken her family. But their reactions were anything but expected. Narcissa had been anxious, drinking glass after glass of wine for two days straight, while Lucius, ever composed, placed a hand on [y/n]’s shoulder and said, with unnerving calm, “Don’t worry, dear. You will never be in danger.”

What followed was even more unsettling. Seven days after Cedric’s death, instead of mourning or showing respect for the boy’s memory, the Malfoys hosted a dinner party. Their carefully selected guests brought no laughter, no celebration—but neither was there grief. Instead, all [y/n] heard was frustrated murmuring: “Who failed to get the right boy?!”

That evening shattered any illusions she’d clung to. Her family—the noble, proud, and pure Malfoy line—was not simply complicit. They were part of it. Part of him. The Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, had returned, and the Malfoys were among those responsible.

Her steps slowed as she reached the edge of a stairwell, her hand gripping the cool stone railing. She hated herself for not knowing sooner, for not wanting to know. But now that she did, the weight of the truth was inescapable.

She sat down on the bottom step, letting her black furry robe cascade down to the floor below. She had wandered far, at least three floors above the Slytherin common room. Here, in the stillness of the upper castle, she knew she wouldn’t be disturbed. She took out a pocket watch, old and worn, but made of white gold, rare at the time and one of the few heirlooms that she could receive as a woman. She flicked it open and checked the time: late enough that no curious professor or wandering prefect would be about.

Satisfied, [y/n] tucked the watch away and drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She rested her head against her knees, and finally, the tears she’d held in for so long began to fall. She cried silently, just as she’d been taught at home. No sobs, no gasping breaths—only the silent tremble of her shoulders, a skill perfected under the unspoken rules of a family where weakness was not permitted.

Fred Weasley wouldn’t have noticed her if not for the cascade of black fabric pooling at the bottom of the stairs. The dim light caught the edge of the robe, and his sharp eyes picked it out against the stone. He froze, his arm shooting out to block his twin, who was hurrying behind him.

George stumbled to a halt, confused. “What’s wrong?” he mouthed, his voice no louder than a whisper.

Fred didn’t answer. Instead, he placed a finger to his lips, signalling for silence. His eyes flicked downward, toward the shadowy figure huddled on the step below. George followed his gaze and frowned, finally spotting her.

[y/n] Malfoy.

The two brothers had plenty of questions, but haste was their greatest ally at that moment. They needed to disappear before anyone caught them in the aftermath of their latest nocturnal mischief—a botched attempt to sneak into Ravenclaw Tower and plant a stink bomb.

George looked at Fred, his brow raised in silent inquiry. Fred mouthed, “Go ahead,” and lowered the arm that had stopped his twin in his tracks. With a quick nod, George turned on his heel and slipped away, his steps as silent as a whisper against the floor.

But Fred didn’t follow. Instead, he lingered, taking a quiet step closer to the spiral staircase where [y/n] Malfoy sat hidden. The curve of the wall shielded her from view; all he could see was the edge of her dark robe spilling across the step and a glimpse of her feet, clad in green slippers.

Why was he curious? He couldn’t quite answer that, but he knew he was. He and [y/n] were in the same year and shared a handful of classes, but their interactions had been sparse and superficial. Well, unless you counted the times he and George had tried—unsuccessfully—to jinx her. No matter how clever or mischievous their spells, they never seemed to land.

Still, there was one memory that stood out, buried in the back of his mind. It was from when they were fourteen, in a Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson. That year’s professor had introduced the class to a boggart, and chaos had predictably ensued. Gryffindors being Gryffindors, Fred, George, and Angelina had spent most of the lesson joking and disrupting, so much so that the exasperated professor had rearranged the students, placing a Slytherin between them to restore order. That Slytherin had been [y/n].

Fred remembered her stepping up to face the boggart. She’d handled it quickly, efficiently—so quickly, in fact, that most of the class probably missed what she saw. But Fred hadn’t.

For the briefest moment, the boggart had taken the form of a man with pale hair and sharp, disdainful features: Lucius Malfoy. He hadn’t been angry or menacing. He’d simply looked... disappointed. That was all.

Fred doubted even the professor had caught the detail, and no one had said a word. “Great job, Miss Malfoy,” the teacher had praised, moving on as if nothing had happened.

Fred had been next in line. The boggart shifted into his own worst fear: poverty. The image of himself in tattered robes and empty pockets had haunted him for weeks afterward, but it was [y/n]’s boggart that lingered in his memory.

Now, standing closer to the staircase, Fred’s curiosity only grew. Why was she out here alone? Why had she been crying? The Malfoys weren’t exactly known for public displays of emotion—or for anything remotely vulnerable. Yet there she was, a small figure tucked into the shadows, her robe sprawling across the cold stone like the weight of her world.

Fred knew better than to approach her directly. He leaned slightly closer, just enough to catch a better glimpse, his curiosity warring with the knowledge that he was dangerously close to being discovered.

And still, he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

Fred shifted his weight, leaning further toward the shadows. His breath caught for a moment, his instincts warning him to turn back. The faint scrape of his shoe against the stone echoed far louder than it should have in the silence. Fred froze, his heart leaping to his throat.

[y/n] stiffened, her head snapping up. She didn’t say anything at first, her tear-streaked face half-hidden by the folds of her robe. But then she whispered, her voice trembling and raw, “Who’s there?”

Fred didn’t answer. He held his breath, hoping against hope that she’d dismiss the sound as her imagination. Yet, the fragility in her voice made something twist in his chest—a flicker of guilt, maybe? Or pity? He didn’t know.

She turned slightly, peering into the shadows, her voice breaking as she repeated, “Who’s there?” This time, it was louder, edged with desperation, but still no answer came.

Fred should’ve left then. He should’ve melted into the darkness like George had, unseen and unnoticed. But his feet refused to move. Instead, his gaze lingered on her hunched form, her vulnerability cutting through the layers of family loyalty and Slytherin pride that normally defined her.

For a fleeting moment, he wavered. Maybe she deserved... something. A word, a gesture, anything to acknowledge that she was seen. However, the blood in her veins was steeped in a legacy of superiority and cruelty, and Fred couldn’t let himself forget that.

He clenched his jaw, his decision solidifying like ice around his chest. She didn’t deserve his sympathy. Whatever she was dealing with, it wasn’t his problem. He was Fred Weasley, a Gryffindor, a prankster, a fighter. Not a saviour for a Slytherin.

Finally, he took a step back, his movements careful and deliberate. The faintest creak of his shoe betrayed him, but he didn’t stop. 

[y/n] sat frozen, her breath hitching. She’d heard something, she was sure of it. But the silence stretched on, unbroken, save for the faint hum of the castle at night. She wiped her face hastily, her hands trembling, and forced herself to rise. Her legs felt weak beneath her, but she needed to move. To leave this place before whatever—or whoever—was lurking in the shadows revealed itself.

As she straightened, her gaze darted to the edge of the corridor. For the briefest second, she caught sight of a flicker of movement—a flash of red disappearing around the corner. Her breath caught, and her heart skipped a beat. She blinked, unsure if her tired, tear-filled eyes were playing tricks on her.

“A Weasley?” she whispered, the name barely audible. It lingered in the air for only a moment before she shook her head, dismissing the thought. Not every redhead is a Weasley, she reminded herself. Slytherin had a few, though none quite as conspicuous as that meddlesome family.

Still, her gut twisted. It felt like a Weasley. There was something about that fleeting glimpse that set her nerves on edge, a certainty she couldn’t explain. But it didn’t matter—or at least, it shouldn’t.

Her jaw tightened, and she pulled her robe closer, as if shielding herself from the thought. If it was a Weasley, she could only hope they hadn’t seen her like this. A Malfoy caught alone, out of bounds, and vulnerable? The scandal would ripple through the school faster than a firework spell gone wrong. And worse, it might reach Draco—or even her parents.

No, it was best not to dwell on it. She took a steadying breath, forcing the errant thought away. The Weasleys were nothing but trouble, always aligning themselves with chaos and rebellion. She couldn’t afford to let herself be dragged into their orbit, even accidentally.

Adjusting her posture, she turned back toward the stairwell. Whatever she had seen—or imagined—was no longer her concern.

TWO DAYS LATER

For reasons she could barely articulate, [y/n] Malfoy despised Defence Against the Dark Arts. It wasn’t just the subject itself—though she struggled with it more than she’d care to admit—but the entire ordeal of the class. Of course, no one knew this. She had ensured her parents never glimpsed so much as a hint of a subpar grade, and her classmates were none the wiser. She’d mastered the art of pretence, hiding her shortcomings behind charm and an uncanny knack for ingratiating herself with whichever professor was unlucky enough to take the position that year.

Her strategy was simple but effective: always smile, always volunteer. Clean the board, stay after hours, distribute handouts, or organize supplies—whatever needed doing, she was there to do it before the professor could even finish their request. Her fourth year, when Gilderoy Lockhart had been in charge, had been an exhausting marathon of fetching, flattering, and faking enthusiasm.

This year, however, presented an unexpected obstacle: Dolores Umbridge.

The new professor, swathed in an alarming amount of pink and armed with a sickly sweet smile, had proven frustratingly independent. [y/n] had tried to get ahead of the game, visiting the professor’s office the day before the first class.

“Thank you, dear, for the offer,” Umbridge had said, her saccharine voice dripping with false warmth as she sipped her tea. “But I shan’t need any assistance at the moment. You, children, are such a pleasure to care for, truly, and I prefer to manage things myself to ensure perfection. But rest assured, I’ll let you know if that changes.”

[y/n] had smiled politely, her stomach twisting in quiet fury as she left the office. She already hated the woman.

Umbridge’s pink walls and cat-covered plates were nauseating, but it was her demeanour that grated most. That high-pitched, syrupy tone and the way she wielded authority like a sugar-coated dagger—it was unbearable. [y/n] had spent years perfecting the art of blending in and appeasing authority figures, and now, for the first time, it felt like her carefully honed tactics had hit a wall.

With a resigned sigh, [y/n] accepted that her final year of Defence Against the Dark Arts would be a war waged on a battlefield of textbooks and long nights of study. No amount of flattery or feigned interest would get her through this class. She knew that as soon as she walked into her first lesson, hellish and eternal as it promised to be.

“Put away your wands,” Umbridge declared in her sickly sweet voice, the sound grating after mere seconds. “In this class, they won’t be necessary.”

[y/n] wasn’t the only one whose eyebrow arched confused. A quick glance around the room revealed identical expressions on almost every face. A class meant to teach defence magic that forbade the use of wands? How were students supposed to defend themselves, then?

Unintentionally, her gaze fell on the table behind hers—the one where the Weasley twins sat. Predictably, Fred and George looked less amused than bewildered. Their confusion was a rare sight; usually, they thrived on chaos. Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons, while designed to teach practical spells for protection, had often served them well as inspiration for their pranks and traps.

Now, even they seemed uncertain of how to proceed, and [y/n] couldn’t help but wonder if they, too, had realized how absurd this year’s lessons were about to become.

The atmosphere in the classroom was tense. Dolores Umbridge’s insistence had left the students more confused than enlightened. Seated at her usual place, [y/n] Malfoy folded her hands on the desk, her brow furrowed as she struggled to decipher the logic behind Umbridge’s declaration.

“You see, dears,” Umbridge began, her shrill voice cutting through the murmurs, “the Ministry’s position is that the Dark Arts are more of a historical concern than a present-day threat. Why, the idea that we must arm ourselves for combat is frightfully outdated! We shall focus on theory instead, for knowledge—not spells—is your true defence.”

Several students exchanged uneasy glances, but no one dared to speak. Umbridge continued, her smile growing wider, “After all, a true witch or wizard must rely on their intelligence and resourcefulness. Wands, my dear children, are not the only tools at your disposal. Often, they are unnecessary.”

That was when a Gryffindor boy, seated near the back, couldn’t contain himself any longer. “But what about when we’re attacked? Or if…” He trailed off, as if realizing he might have said too much. [y/n] glanced his way, trying to recall his name but coming up blank. All she could remember was that he was tall and had a persistent habit of speaking his mind.

Umbridge’s face remained fixed in its saccharine expression, but her eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. “Attacked? Oh, what a dramatic imagination you have. There is no evidence to suggest you are at risk. If, however, you’re so intent on preparing for scenarios that are unlikely to occur,”—her voice turned ever so slightly sharper—“I shall give you an assignment to expand your understanding.”

She clapped her hands, the sound unnaturally loud in the stifling silence. “You will work in groups of three to research the theme: Wands Are Not Always Useful for a Wizard. Consider historical examples, theoretical arguments, and practical alternatives. This will teach you to think critically about your overreliance on magic.”

The room broke into an uproar of whispers and grumbles as students began turning to one another, quickly forming groups. [y/n] hesitated, scanning the room. As a Slytherin, she usually gravitated toward her housemates, but today, no one seemed to be looking her way. She caught sight of the girls from her room (even the one that was sharing her table, seconds before) already pulling one another, engrossed in discussion, clearly not sparing her a thought.

She waited a moment longer, hoping someone might notice her. No one did.

Just as the weight of being left out began to sink in, a deliberate, exaggerated cough drew her attention. She turned sharply to see George Weasley, sitting behind her, his hand raised to his mouth as if to stifle another “cough.” Next to him, Fred gave her a mock-innocent smile, one eyebrow quirked in amusement.

“Looks like someone’s in need of a group,” Fred said, leaning forward slightly.

Pairing with the Weasley twins was the last thing she’d expected. They were loud, mischievous, and Gryffindors to the core—everything she was not. But with no other options presenting themselves… she gulped.

“Is that an offer to trio up?” she asked, unsure of their waters. They could be just pranking her, in bad taste.

Fred Weasley did not think the same thing as his twin. What was George thinking? Pairing up with a stuck-up Malfoy? It wasn’t the first time the twins had disagreed on something, but this felt monumental. Sure, she was one of the top students, but she was still a Mal-bloddy-foy!

But George had set the course, and now it was too late to turn back. The invitation was practically extended, even if begrudgingly. Fred sighed and nodded, though the words tasted odd coming out of his mouth.

“Welcome to the Weasley Wizz,” he said, trying to sound natural. “Should I let Mum know we’ve got a third twin now?”

[y/n] recoiled slightly, her face twisting in mock disgust. “No, please,” she replied, her tone genuinely alarmed.

George, watching the exchange, failed miserably at hiding his laughter. The attempt to stifle it only resulted in another exaggerated cough, and the twins exchanged a quick glance.

“So,” George said, recovering just enough to sound composed, though a smirk tugged at his lips. “Should we schedule a day at the library?”

[y/n] blinked at him, then raised a dramatic hand to her chest, pretending to be deeply moved. “Wow. Will I be responsible for getting you two to set foot in the library? I might faint.”

Fred leaned on the desk, deadpan. “Actually, you can thank Umbridge for that miracle.”

She brushed off his jab with a dry laugh. “Sure. As if you’d have bothered if it weren’t for my presence. Let’s be clear—you two are going to work, or I swear I’ll skin you alive if we don’t get a good mark.”

She was right, of course, but neither twin would admit it aloud.

“Sunday afternoon, library. Don’t be late, Malfoy,” George announced, grinning as he leaned back in his chair.

“See you there,” she replied, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

And just like that, [y/n] Malfoy found herself part of an unlikely trio—a collaboration destined to be anything but ordinary.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON

The worst part about being a twin, Fred Weasley thought, was that no matter how hard he tried to keep something from George, his twin always found out. It was like having his own personal Sneakoscope shadowing him at all times. However, the best part of being a twin was that, with one raised eyebrow or a subtle wave of his hand, George would let things go—no questions asked.

Usually.

“Why are you nervous?” George asked now, drawing out each syllable like a curious cat batting at a cornered mouse.

“Nervous? Me?” Fred scoffed, furrowing his brow and twisting his mouth into a picture of exaggerated denial.

The two of them were making their way down the corridor leading to the library—a momentous occasion, as this was not just any trip but their first ever purposeful visit. Fred was sure their arrival would send Madam Pince into cardiac arrest.

George, however, wasn’t about to let the odd energy in Fred’s demeanour slide. He threw out an arm to block his brother’s path, forcing him to halt abruptly.

“Come on, spill,” George pressed, turning to face him. His expression was full of mock seriousness, though curiosity twinkled in his eyes. “Are you scared of showing [y/n] Malfoy what an absolute dunce you are?”

Fred frowned, pushing his brother’s arm down and continuing forward. “No,” he said firmly, as if the suggestion itself were offensive.

George trailed after him, undeterred. “You’ve been weird about this all day,” he said lightly, but there was a genuine note of curiosity in his voice now.

Fred stopped, let out a heavy sigh, and turned to his twin. “Fine,” he muttered. “I saw her crying.”

George tilted his head, one brow raised. “Malfoy?”

Fred nodded. “Yeah. A few nights ago.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.” The word came out quickly, but there was a tinge of regret buried in Fred’s tone that George didn’t miss. “She didn’t see me.”

George hummed thoughtfully, his expression unreadable. “And you’ve been stewing about it since?”

“I wasn’t stewing—” Fred started, but George raised a hand to silence him, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a knowing smirk.

“Did you see what made her cry?”

“No,” Fred admitted, his tone a little quieter now. “I don’t know why. I just… it didn’t feel right to intrude.”

George studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Fair,” he said, surprising Fred by not pressing further. But before Fred could take a breath of relief, George added, “So now we’re making up for it by dragging ourselves to the library so we can study with her. It shall be a nice, friendly gesture. Very Gryffindor of us.”

Fred rolled his eyes, though the tips of his ears turned a little red. “Oh, stop it.”

“Sure,” George teased, giving Fred’s shoulder a playful shove as they reached the library doors. “Let’s hope she’s not armed with hexes if you mess this up.”

Fred muttered something unintelligible under his breath, and together, the twins stepped into the library, their usual mischief tempered—at least for now—by the weight of an unexpectedly complicated afternoon ahead.

The library was unusually busy for a Sunday afternoon, the soft hum of murmured conversations blending with the rustle of turning pages. [y/n] Malfoy moved purposefully between the towering shelves, her fingers skimming the spines of the books as she searched for something specific. The dim light filtering through the high windows cast a golden glow over the dust motes suspended in the air.

Despite the crowd, [y/n] wasn’t distracted. Her focus remained on the task at hand, though the slight crease in her brow betrayed her growing frustration. She muttered under her breath, stepping sideways to peer at the titles on a higher shelf.

“Fancy seeing you here, Malfoy,” came a familiar voice behind her, rich with amusement.

[y/n] didn’t even flinch. She reached up to adjust a book on the shelf before glancing over her shoulder. “How fast do you think word spread that the infamous Weasley twins, who never so much as glance at a book, were spotted heading for the library?”

Fred Weasley’s grin widened as he leaned casually against the end of the shelf. “Oh, undoubtedly fast. We’re a sensation, you know. Practically Hogwarts royalty.”

“And we’ve got a reputation to maintain,” George added, appearing beside his brother. “So if you’d be so kind as to free us from this dreary establishment swiftly, we’d be much obliged.”

[y/n] let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head as she turned back to her search. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

Fred placed a hand over his heart in mock offence. “Insufferable, maybe. Charming, definitely.”

After another moment of searching, [y/n] finally pulled a large, dusty book from the shelf with a satisfied nod. “Found it. Come on, let’s find a table.”

She led them toward a more secluded corner of the library, weaving through the crowd with practised ease. The twins followed, Fred’s footsteps slightly heavier than George’s as he muttered something about the endless maze of books. When they reached a quiet spot tucked behind a row of ancient tomes, [y/n] set the book down on the table with a decisive thud.

“Smart choice, hiding us away like this,” George remarked, sliding into a chair. “Wouldn’t want your Slytherin friends catching you with the likes of us.”

[y/n] smirked, taking a seat opposite him. “It’s not just my friends. If anyone saw me hanging out with you two, my reputation as a Slytherin would be ruined.”

Fred’s eyes sparkled mischievously as he leaned forward. “Not just your reputation as a Slytherin. Your reputation as a Malfoy would be completely shattered.”

The lightness in [y/n]’s expression flickered, and her smile faded. She looked down at the book, her fingers brushing over its worn cover. “Let’s focus on the assignment,” she said quietly, flipping the book open.

Fred’s grin faltered. He glanced at George, who subtly shook his head, signalling to let it go. Fred leaned back in his chair, the teasing edge gone from his demeanour.

George broke the silence, tilting his head to read the title of the book. “Not exactly the first thing I’d grab for this topic. Why this one?”

[y/n]’s voice steadied as she replied, “Most people wouldn’t think of it. It’s a collection of myths and fairytales, but two of the stories are about wizards who didn’t use wands. I’ve read it before, ‘Lights and Feathers: the heroes of Ancient Europe’.”

“Ancient Europe? Sounds like something Charlie would’ve loved growing up,” Fred’s interest piqued, as he grabbed the book from [y/n]’s hands and turned it around to look at the cover.

She glanced up, curious. Fred had a small smile playing on his lips. “Yeah. He used to be obsessed with stuff like this,” he continued, his eyes far away, glancing at a memory. “Myths, legends, stories about magical creatures, specially in Europe. He practically lived in them when we were kids.”

“Charlie was your favourite, wasn’t he?” George grinned.

Fred didn’t hesitate. “As a kid, yeah. He was the coolest. But now?” He smirked. “My favourite brother is the one who never got born.”

George burst out laughing, earning a sharp glare from Madam Pince across the room. He quickly covered his mouth, muffling his laughter as Fred grinned triumphantly.

“You’re awful,” George said, still chuckling.

“I try,” Fred replied, his tone light. He glanced at [y/n], who was now smiling faintly, the tension from earlier easing. “So, let’s hear about these wandless wizards of yours.”

[y/n] nodded, flipping to the first marked page. As she began to explain the stories, her voice grew more confident, and the three of them leaned in, ready to delve into the peculiar world of wizarding legends.

For the next three hours, the trio was immersed in the stories from Lights and Feathers: The Heroes of Ancient Europe. The myths were as enchanting as they were peculiar, detailing feats of magic performed without wands: a wizard who commanded storms with only his voice, a healer who mended broken bones with the touch of her hands, and a peculiar alchemist who brewed potions without any visible magical aid. The twins occasionally interrupted with humorous commentary, pointing out how such abilities could make for legendary pranks, while [y/n] meticulously jotted down notes. They combed through the text, debating which details might appeal to Umbridge’s overly critical eye and which were too fantastical to be believed. By the end, the table was cluttered with pages of her elegant handwriting, yet the twins hadn’t so much as picked up a quill.

Satisfied with her work, [y/n] leaned back, stretching her fingers as she smiled at her notes. “Thanks for your help,” she said, her tone warm despite the long hours. “Even if I can only use a fraction of what we went over, this will at least make for a decent start.”

Fred, who had been idly flipping through another section of the book, glanced up and smirked. “Glad we could lend our expertise. Not every day a Malfoy thanks us, though.”

“Or anyone,” George added with a wink.

[y/n] rolled her eyes but chuckled. “Well, I do appreciate it. The stories you remembered from your brothers really added depth, even if I couldn’t use half of it.”

Fred’s gaze lingered on her as she spoke. Without her Slytherin tie or the dramatic robe trimmed with satin and fur she wore that dreadful night, she looked almost… normal. The brownish dress she wore was simple, the short sleeves revealing arms that moved with a quiet grace as she gathered her notes. But Fred noticed more than her clothes; her eyes, usually guarded and sharp, were slightly sunken, and though she smiled while discussing her plans for the essay, there was a lingering shadow of sadness in her expression—a face that had cried far too much recently.

She caught his stare and tilted her head. “What?”

Fred quickly masked his thoughts with a grin. “Just thinking how you might make the front page of The Daily Prophet if anyone saw you laughing with us.” [y/n] laughed softly, though there was a slight edge to it. Fred leaned forward, “Can’t imagine what would happen if your dear brother found out.”

For a brief moment, her smile faltered, but she quickly recovered. “Draco wouldn’t care,” she said, brushing it off. “He’s too busy trying to outshine a certain Boy Who Lived.”

George, sensing the slight tension, leaned back in his chair and stretched. “Well, since we’ve gathered enough arguments for pinky-trouble, shall we call it a successful study session?”

[y/n] nodded, neatly stacking her notes. “I’d say so. I think we’ve done enough damage to Umbridge’s peace of mind for one day.”

“Music to our ears,” Fred quipped, standing and stretching as well. “Anything else, or are we officially free of scholarly obligations?”

“No, we’re done,” she said, getting up. They followed. “Thanks again. I’ll take it from here.”

As they left the library together, Fred couldn’t help but glance at her one more time. She walked with purpose, her stack of notes held firmly in her hands, and though she’d brushed off his earlier remark, he wondered how deep the cracks in her confidence ran—and if they were anything like the cracks in the pristine Malfoy facade she so carefully maintained.

[jamilelucato]

Hello! 😇 I loved Possibilities with Fred Weasley. It was so cute, so heart felt. I loved it. Thank you for wtiting something so beautiful. I was wondering if there will be more chapters? Because I would love to read them. 💜🪷

Hello! 😊 Thank you so much for your kind words about Possibilities—it truly means a lot to me! As for more chapters, I’m not sure if I’ll return to the story, as it’s been a while. But I won’t say never because I really love the story and might come back to it eventually. Please forgive me for the uncertainty, let's keep hoping I get back to it one day 🤞

[jamilelucato]

"July 31, 2024. Dear diary, I’m so tired of being alone. I have always been exhausted of this half existence, but lately, it has become more unbearable if possible. And it is possible, for I feel it. I feel lonely on a cellular level, more than only your average “I’m single”. I wish my only problem was being single. Not only that, but I feel left out, that’s it. Or even just too unique. In a bad way. I don’t know how to better put it. Of course, I want a boyfriend. Ain’t that what I have been saying for years now? But it’s more than that. I feel like I could find myself a boyfriend if I went outside and made myself ready for it. If only I wanted to not be single. It’s not that, see? I don’t want a boyfriend. I want a soulmate. I want a friend. I’m so tired of being lonely. That’s it for today, I’m afraid." - From my diary, litteraly. Wish I was joking, I'm not. But maybe someone feels like I (still) do

[jamilelucato]

I'm a uni student bored and tired

I know everyone can relate, but I wanted to use tumblr as my twitter X today

[jamilelucato]

[jamilelucato]

Hi! Remember this? Well, we're on AO3 now as well. Here's the link.

On Two Wheels (a maxley fic) by lucatojamile Chapters: 6/? Fandom: A Goofy Movie (Movies) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Max Goof/Bradley Uppercrust III

I have no idea if this will reach its target audience, but here it goes: I've been publishing on wattpad a fic of maxley (max x bradley uppercrust III)

there, I said it and I'm not embarrassed! here's the link.

[jamilelucato]

I have no idea if this will reach its target audience, but here it goes: I've been publishing on wattpad a fic of maxley (max x bradley uppercrust III)

there, I said it and I'm not embarrassed! here's the link.

[jamilelucato]

this tweet is too funny to not post here

[jamilelucato]

Jonathan is that friend!

"What's your favorite thing about working with Nicola?"

A penny for Luke's thoughts and a million for Jonathan's, that man knows things.

[jamilelucato]

polin week 2024 : day four 🪞 modern-ish

colin and penelope as text posts

[jamilelucato]

Bridgerton Masterlist

I made a list with links for you all to find all my Bridgerton-related fanfics in just one place. I'll be updating as I go.

+18!

Anthony Bridgerton

kiss me

Benedict Bridgerton

the writer and the illustrator: pt 1 - pt 2 - pt 3

[jamilelucato]

The Writer and The Illustrator (Part 03)

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Miss [y/n]

Summary: (Part 01 / Part 02) In the carriage en route to Lady Danbury's ball, tension crackles between Miss [y/n] [y/l/n] and Mr Benedict Bridgerton. Beneath their bickering lies an undeniable attraction that they both need to take care of before it's too late.

Age rating: 18+.

Author’s note: It's the end of age! No, I'm kidding, but it is the end of this story.

To read Anthony’s fic, click here! For other stories, click here.Enjoy

An air of tension hung heavy within the plush confines of the velvety blue carriage.

True to his word, Mr Benedict Bridgerton stood promptly outside the [y/l/n] residence at seven o'clock, resplendent in his finest attire, ready to escort Miss [y/n] [y/l/n] to Lady Danbury's ball. The initial exchange, with Mr [y/l/n]'s presence in the periphery, was pleasant enough—gentlemanly handshakes and cordial smiles exchanged between the men, with Benedict embodying the epitome of a refined gentleman, at least in the eyes of the [y/l/n] household.

But such commendation found little favour with Miss [y/n] [y/l/n].

Seated across from Benedict, [y/n] regarded him with a fiery intensity in her gaze. She couldn't shake the feeling of indignation at Benedict's earlier remarks, his unwitting perpetuation of the sexism she fought against. Who was he, she seethed inwardly, to lecture her on the perils of being a woman author in the 19th century?

[y/n] was well aware of the risks and well acquainted with the challenges she faced as a woman pursuing her literary aspirations. She wouldn't have embarked on this daunting journey if she weren't driven by an unwavering determination to realise her dreams. And yet, Benedict's condescension rankled her—his first foray into illustrating a book hardly qualified him to lecture her on the intricacies of the publishing world. He was a newcomer to her domain, ignorant of the trials she endured.

Still, despite her righteous anger, [y/n] begrudgingly acknowledged Benedict's artistic prowess. She may have bristled at his presumptions, but she couldn't deny his talent as a painter. His not-so-recent exhibition at the Bridgerton house, for the family's closest friends, had been a testament to his skill. Though she had been present under the [y/l/n]'s invitation, Benedict's work ultimately swayed her decision to enlist his talents for her project.

Benedict's voice, though barely above a whisper, resonated within the confines of the carriage, imbued with an unexpected intensity by the close quarters.

"You won't say anything?" he queried, his gaze fixed firmly on [y/n].

She unwaveringly met his gaze, her voice collected as she responded, "And what would you have me say, Mr. Bridgerton?"

A sharp exhale escaped Benedict, frustration seeping into his tone. "Am I now merely 'Mr Bridgerton'? No longer 'Ben'?"

[y/n]'s eyes rolled in exasperation. "Well, forgive me if the current circumstances don't exactly evoke the camaraderie of our long-time friendship," she retorted sharply. "Ben was the amiable fellow who praised my boldness in my talents as he delicately illustrated them. At present, however, it feels like he's nowhere to be found."

That woman threatened to drive him to madness.

Benedict's hand rose instinctively, gripping his own chin firmly as if to silence the words he yearned to express. The action seemed to quell the words on his tongue, preventing him from affirming that he remained the same Ben who marvelled at her talents and considered her utterly unique.

Somehow, Benedict couldn't bring himself to offer [y/n] the praise she might have expected at that moment.

"I have all the illustrations with me in the carriage," he declared, nodding towards the briefcase nestled beside him, unseen until now in the dim light of the carriage. "Before the ball concludes, we shall escape, and I shall escort us directly to your editor."

"Oh, why, Mr Bridgerton!" She exclaimed with exaggerated surprise, her eyes widening playfully. "It appears you've managed to summon your inner gentleman at last. Quite a departure from the sexist pig you were earlier in my library."

She was maddening. Utterly maddening.

For a myriad of reasons, unfortunately.

Benedict wanted to attribute his discomfort solely to her condescension, which tempted him to respond, assert his dominance and put her back in her place. A firm swat on her behind might remind her she must be a pleasant, nice girl.

Heavens! He nearly exclaimed aloud, reining in his thoughts just in time. Benedict found himself entertaining the notion of [y/n]'s posterior, a territory over which he had neither jurisdiction nor entitlement.

Clearing his throat, Benedict offered, "I apologise if that's how it came across. It was never my intention to diminish you because of your gender."

"It wasn't that," she responded, her gaze penetrating his. This time, he noticed, there was no anger in her eyes. [y/n] simply wanted to clarify her perspective. "You said I shouldn't go alone."

"Yes, and I stand by that," Benedict affirmed.

[y/n] paused, realising she needed to elaborate further for him to grasp her viewpoint.

"I understand your concern," she conceded. "But you didn't offer to accompany me. You only criticised me."

Benedict felt a chill run through him at [y/n]'s revelation. He had argued with her under the assumption that his willingness to accompany her was implicit. Not merely because she was a young, unmarried woman venturing into a dangerous part of London at an ungodly hour but because it was their joint endeavour she intended to pursue solo.

Now that he knew her secret identity and understood that this tenth book would not be her last, Benedict was determined to accompany her to the publisher's office on all future occasions. It would be against his principles as a gentleman—principles instilled in him by both his father and mother—to allow a lady to undertake such journeys alone, especially now that he was aware.

Suddenly, he realised, with a softening expression toward [y/n], that he'd be accompanying her to the ends of the earth from then on. He recognised the truth in his revelation. He couldn't envision himself being apart from her.

But the carriage stopped before Benedict could articulate his newfound determination to [y/n] or even offer an apology for any misunderstanding. They had arrived at Lady Danbury's residence.

As [y/n] began to prepare to disembark, ensuring her hairstyle was intact and smoothing her satin skirt, Benedict peered out the window, a heavy groan escaping him.

"No."

Startled, [y/n] looked up from her lap to find Benedict wearing a determined expression. He lightly tapped the carriage roof swiftly—a clear signal for the coachman to continue the journey. Almost instantly, [y/n] felt the carriage lurch forward as the horses resumed their pace.

"What are you doing?" she inquired, still adjusting her hair, the sudden movement causing her to worry about her appearance.

At that moment, she realised—quite abruptly—that lately, she had been increasingly concerned about her appearance. After her second failed season, during which she remained unmarried, Miss [y/n] had abandoned many of the formalities of fashion. She seldom wore corsets and paid little heed to the latest dress designs, opting instead for simplicity. Her hair, usually secured in a tight bun resembling that of a governess, was styled by her own hands, as her brother had also tasked her maid with attending to her sister-in-law.

But something had changed.

Benedict frequently selected her as his dance partner at parties where they unexpectedly crossed paths. They often rendezvoused in Hyde Park to discuss their book. Almost every afternoon, [y/n] found herself at the Bridgerton residence, although she couldn't quite fathom why she felt an unspoken obligation to maintain a polished appearance.

She wasn't oblivious to the rumours circulating about them. Many speculated that the two were courting, and why wouldn't they? What other reason could a single gentleman have for associating with an unmarried lady?

Still, [y/n] dismissed such notions as ludicrous. She felt like the most withered flower in the garden—what bee would alight on a flower with almost no pollen?

She consumed Benedict Bridgerton's thoughts. He couldn't help but gaze at her, taking in every detail. Only then did he realise he had instructed the carriage to continue, bypassing Lady Danbury's residence entirely.

Good Lord, he mused, in just fifteen minutes in her presence, [y/n] had managed to drive him insane, as he had assumed she would.

And, of course, he wanted to blame himself but blast it all; why did she have to wear the most exquisite dress in all of British fashion? Why did she have to wear a corset that not only accentuated her waist but also elevated her bosom?

Benedict, a gentleman with little interest in women's fashion, found himself fixated on it that particular evening.

"Mr. Bridgerton!" she exclaimed, breaking through his reverie.

Miss [y/n] [y/l/n] was, without a doubt, the most stunning woman he had ever seen. Suddenly, he regretted not having his drawing chalks with him so he could capture her likeness right then and there in the soft glow filtering through the carriage windows.

"[y/n]," he whispered her name like a plea as he wet his lips, "what's going on between us?"

She averted her gaze, feeling the weight of his intensity. "What do you mean, Ben? We're simply working partners."

He grinned like a mischievous imp. "No, we're not."

"Ben," she began, intending to distance herself. No, that would be a lie. His fervour drew her in like a moth to a flame, even as she knew she shouldn't respond. It didn't matter that she'd heard whispers about the longing looks he cast her way across the room; it didn't matter that her brother had overheard Benedict defending her at the men's club just two days prior. "We're just the writer and the illustrator. That's all."

"The writer and her illustrator," he echoed, but she barely noticed the subtle pronoun shift.

"Yes," she nodded, swallowing hard. "The writer and her illustrator."

A smile of pure delight graced his lips.

"I am yours, I'm afraid," he confessed, taking her aback. She, a writer, was powerless against his words. Involuntarily, she leaned in closer, drawn by the magnetic pull of his presence. "Could you say it again?" he pleaded, inching nearer, breaching the space between them.

They were mere inches apart.

"What? 'My illustrator'?" she repeated, her confusion mingling with the intoxicating atmosphere.

"My writer," he responded, mirroring her phrase. "Mine."

He was marking her with words. She liked it.

"I'm also afraid I have to kiss you," he said, leaving her confused. Benedict couldn't need permission, could he? She thought she was being very obvious when she prompted forward, her cleavage at his disposal.

She might have been a virgin, but she wasn't naive.

With a swift, decisive movement, [y/n] closed the gap between them, her lips capturing his in a searing kiss. Ben's initial surprise melted away as he responded eagerly, his body instinctively leaning to hold her in an embrace. The tension between them for so long ignited into a blaze of passion, consuming them both.

Their kisses grew more urgent, more desperate, as the carriage rocked gently beneath them. Benedict's hands roamed over [y/n]'s body, tracing the curves of her silhouette with a reverence that bordered on worship. [y/n]'s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as she surrendered to the heady rush of desire coursing through her veins.

At that moment, the confines of the carriage faded away, leaving only the two of them wrapped up in each other's arms. Time seemed to stand still as they lost themselves in the heat of their passion, their bodies moving together in a sensual dance that spoke volumes without the need for words.

Amidst their embrace's perfection and delectable allure, [y/n] sensed an unspoken yearning deep within her soul. Despite the exquisite intimacy they shared, she couldn't shake the conviction that there was something more she craved from Benedict—something she couldn't quite articulate or request. Each time she drew near to him, although he didn't push her away, she felt him place his own hips away from hers.

Yet, after countless attempts to bridge the distance between them, Benedict could no longer deny the fervour burning within him.

"[y/n]," he murmured her name with a weighty sigh, attempting to extricate himself gently with one final kiss, but the lady refused to relent, meeting his lips once more. "I must escort you home."

His words sent a tremor of apprehension through [y/n], causing her to withdraw instinctively. She had barely noticed that she wasn't even in her seat anymore: she was trying to jump into his lap, but as he kept moving away, she seemed to crouch in the carriage. Oh, the shame that flooded her being, her gaze lowered in embarrassment.

Her reaction tugged at Benedict's heartstrings, stirring a tumult of emotions within him as he swiftly reconsidered his course of action.

"Do not feel ashamed," he implored, his tone pleading. The thought of [y/n] bearing any semblance of shame was unbearable to him. "I must release you now, for I could easily succumb to temptation in this carriage, and such a fate is ill-suited for a lady of your stature. You deserve far better."

Though every fibre of her being yearned for more at that moment, [y/n] knew deep down that he spoke the truth. She deserved better. He hadn't said he liked her, for instance. He hadn't proposed. She supposed that, to be deflowered, she at least deserved that.

"You're right," she conceded, her gaze drifting to the window as she pondered their proximity to her home. "I've never done this before, you know?"

Benedict stifled a sudden urge to utter a remark that hovered at the tip of his tongue, granting her the space to share her thoughts freely. He trusted her to confide in him, as she always had.

"I've never been kissed," she admitted with such earnestness that Benedict was taken aback.

Never been kissed? The notion perplexed him. After all, hadn't she just demonstrated such fervour and skill with her lips in the confines of the carriage? How could someone as captivating as [y/n] [y/l/n] have never experienced the simple act of a kiss? Surely, no shortage of suitors had come calling at her door.

"No, you can't be serious," he interjected, his incredulity evident as he leaned closer, their proximity becoming increasingly intimate. It seemed he had lost all semblance of restraint in her presence.

"But I am," she insisted, a hint of defensiveness colouring her tone as she addressed her innocence. "I am a spinster, Ben. Gentlemen typically pursue the young and bright diamonds of the seasons."

"You are young, and you are bright," he countered, his brow furrowing in response to her apparent self-deprecation. "You may not have been dubbed the diamond of the season, but that designation would have hardly done you justice."

[y/n] found herself unable to muster the strength to protest. Further, a realization soon dawned on Benedict as he observed her resigned demeanour. Yet, despite her acquiescence, he sensed a lingering doubt in her eyes.

"[y/n]," he began, his voice softening with sincerity, "these debutantes are hailed as diamonds because they are transparent and colourless. You, my dear, are nothing like them. By God, you are the most brilliant writer I have ever met; your scenes are so well described that I had no difficulty drawing them. If only I had dedicated our time together to capturing your likeness, I would have employed every hue in my palette to convey the sheer beauty that I behold in you—the most exquisite woman I have ever beheld," he confessed, his heart swelling with emotion as he laid bare his sentiments. "And look, I'm older than you."

"Only by a few years," she countered, a flicker of warmth igniting within her, a profound longing to smile once more gracing her features.

"Wait," Benedict interjected; his movements stilled as realization dawned upon him, connecting the dots between her confession, observations, and the vivid scenes in W. Jabber's novels. "[y/n], if you've never experienced a kiss, how is it that you wrote such erotically charged passages?"

Her eyes widened in alarm, akin to a child caught red-handed in mischief.

"'The Flowers of Our Garden,' despite its intricate political narrative, contains some rather passionate scenes," he remarked astutely, drawing upon his recollection of the four novels by W. Jabber that he had perused.

"Nothing overly explicit, Ben," she countered defensively. "Nothing I couldn't have imagined."

"Did you imagine being kissed?" he pressed, his gaze piercing.

[y/n] swallowed hard, her mind racing. Of course, she had—what woman hadn't entertained such fantasies? In the past month alone, while toiling alongside Mr Bridgerton day in and day out, [y/n] had conjured more scenarios of tender embraces than she had penned words.

"And what of the intimate caresses described in 'Flowers'? Did you envision someone touching you in those places as the protagonist did with his wife?"

"Ben," she uttered his name with a cautionary tone. "Yes, I am no stranger to worldly matters, having witnessed much within the confines of party gardens. Do not judge me for it. After all, no one judges Mr. Jabber for his prose."

"[y/n]," he started again, rephrasing. "I didn't ask how you know those things in your novels. One doesn't need to have died to know death," he offered through analogy. "But I'm curious if you desired those experiences for yourself. The kisses, the touches...?"

She cast her gaze downward, contemplating her response. "Yes," she admitted quietly.

"Oh, dear," he murmured tenderly, his words a gentle caress. [y/n] lifted her eyes to meet his, finding herself lost in the depths of his caring gaze.

He wanted her as the protagonist of his stories.

Benedict realized that to fulfil her desires, he first needed to address their current situation. And that solution seemed clear: he longed to give a name to their connection.

"Will you marry me?" he implored, drawing closer in the soft glow of the carriage.

"What?" she exclaimed, taken aback. Surely, Benedict must be jesting, she thought.

"I desire your hand in marriage," he persisted. "Please, say you'll marry me. Say you'll be mine, [y/n], and I will support you. I want nothing more than to cherish you. To experience the passion depicted in your novels and beyond. To capture the moments in my paintings. To immortalize you, now and for all eternity, bathed in candlelight."

"Benedict Bridgerton!" she gasped, feeling a flutter in her chest akin to a young maiden's.

"Ben," he gently corrected her. "I'm your illustrator, remember? Your Ben."

He yearned for her affirmation, yet she remained silent, lost in her thoughts. Determined, he leaned in to kiss her, pulling her onto his lap, his desire for her no longer a concern.

"Say yes," he whispered against her skin, trailing kisses along her neck. "Say it, [y/n]."

"Yes," she breathed, succumbing to the intoxicating allure of his touch. "Yes, I am yours."

"You are mine," he declared, his lips trailing lower to the curve of her bosom. With a playful smile, he pressed a kiss before meeting her gaze again. "You are mine."

"I am yours," she affirmed, feeling a shiver of anticipation. And as he bit her there, tenderly, she surrendered to the promise of more—a promise that seemed boundless in the arms of Benedict Bridgerton.

Benedict left a trail of kisses all over her that night in the cramped carriage. He began with tender kisses upon the lady's bosom—no, upon his bride's bosom!—before trailing lower, his hands deftly undoing the fastenings of her dress until it lay in disarray. Though not entirely bared, she was more exposed to him than ever.

"I... I..." she attempted to speak, to offer some form of explanation or apology. Was it due to her appearance? But she felt anything but unattractive under his hungry gaze, beneath his fervent touch upon her curves. Perhaps that's why the words eluded her.

He scarcely afforded her a chance to articulate further.

Ben persisted in his passionate assault, his bites and caresses a testament to his desire to taste her, to consume her completely.

"I need you to sit back... no, that won't do," he pondered the spatial constraints of the carriage. "I want you to go back to your seat."

She arched an eyebrow, bemused.

"I will kneel before you."

A soft laugh escaped her lips. "No need to worship me."

He knew she teased him, relishing her playful spirit. "I shall indulge in that too. It's been my practice since our journey began."

A smile of pure delight graced her features.

"But for now, my dear, I simply long to savour you, and that I can only achieve if you recline in your seat."

[y/n]'s initial confusion morphed into a swirl of emotions as Benedict delicately guided her back into her seat within the carriage, positioned her to face him, and divested her of the remaining layers of her attire. Fully exposed now, she stood vulnerable before him, her naked form laid bare. Yet, as she observed Ben's reaction, his evident pleasure at the sight of her, she couldn't suppress the smile that graced her lips.

At that moment, her confusion ebbed away, replaced by a sensation akin to pleasure.

With his bride before him, Benedict ventured where none had dared. [y/n] had never fathomed such intimacy possible. Though she had witnessed many clandestine trysts in the moonlit gardens of ballrooms and countless exchanges of affection, she had not anticipated the sheer ecstasy of feeling his touch in places even she hesitated to explore. It was an exquisite revelation, one she wished to prolong indefinitely.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" he inquired, his gaze fixed upon his task. [y/n] responded with a breathy affirmation, amusing him, yet he longed to hear her voice her pleasure. "Speak to me."

"I want you, Ben," she said suddenly, surprising them both by her boldness. "I want… oh!" Her words trailed off as a surge of sensation overwhelmed her. The intensity mounted with each passing moment, threatening to consume her, but Benedict halted before she could reach the brink of release.

"I want you too, dear," he declared, rising from kneeling. "And now, I shall claim you as mine, forever marking you as mine."

She regarded him with eyes ablaze with passion.

"You're ready, more than that," he continued, his words trailing off as he became lost in the depths of his declaration.

A smile graced her lips. "I'm eager."

He grinned; a devilish twinkle in his eyes caused her cheeks to flush crimson.

"It might hurt, I must tell you," he cautioned as he began to undo his trousers. At that moment, as he moved, [y/n] realized she stood alone in her nakedness.

"You must remove your shirt," she insisted, emboldened by her desire. Knowing Ben's yearning for her, she felt empowered to act upon her longing.

"I suppose I must, mustn't I?" he teased.

"I shall assist," she declared, reaching forward to disrobe him, stripping away each garment until he stood as bare as she. With gentle strokes, she trailed her fingers over the expanse of his chest; her curiosity piqued until her touch encountered something far more masculine than the smooth contours of his torso.

"Oh," she gasped, biting her lip in surprise.

"You may explore at your leisure later, my dear," he murmured, covering her hand with his own. "For now, I fear I may lose control if you continue."

Enchanted by his words, she acquiesced, allowing him to guide her hand away from his sensitive skin.

It had felt soft to the touch, yet beneath her gaze, she found it firm, rigid, and elongated. It was not what she had envisioned, but somehow, it was better.

She liked his use of words, so she let him take her fingers away from the delicate skin. 

The air thickened with anticipation as their desire reached its crescendo. Benedict's gaze met [y/n]'s, a silent exchange of longing and need that spoke volumes without a single word.

With a shared understanding, they closed the distance between them. Benedict's hands roamed over [y/n]'s naked form, igniting sparks of pleasure that danced along her skin. She gasped as his lips found hers, their kiss a fiery union of passion and urgency.

As their embrace deepened, Benedict guided himself inside her, their bodies becoming one in a primal dance of ecstasy. [y/n] moaned in pleasure, her nails digging into Benedict's back as he moved with a steady rhythm, each thrust driving them closer to the edge of oblivion.

In the throes of passion, time seemed to stand still as they lost themselves in each other, their cries of ecstasy mingling with the rhythmic creaking of the carriage. 

It was only them, lost in the blissful oblivion of their shared desire.

And as they reached the peak of their pleasure, they clung to each other with a fierce intensity, their bodies trembling with the force of their release. 

As they lay entwined in each other's arms, their breath coming in ragged gasps, Benedict pressed a tender kiss to [y/n]'s forehead, his heart overflowing with love and adoration.

"You're mine, now," she said before he could say it first. For an unknown reason, she felt possessive over him. "I think I... I do love you, Benedict Bridgerton, you must know."

Before she could register the astonishment in his eyes, Benedict silenced his own smile with a fervent kiss, his lips claiming hers with a hunger that spoke volumes.

"I'm yours, without a doubt, and I love you more," he confessed with a smile, though his expression soon shifted to one of realization. "I'll have to procure a special license for our wedding. It will entail some effort... but it will be worth it."

"Can't endure being my fiancé any longer? They say being my husband will be even worse," she teased, her fingers trailing through the dark waves of his hair, tucking them back from his forehead.

"I would gladly remain your fiancé for a lifetime to become your husband for as many lifetimes as we have," he replied charmingly. "However, having a bride who is... with child might raise some eyebrows."

"Oh, Lord," she gasped, her eyes widening in alarm as she pulled back from him. "You don't think...?"

"It's a possibility," he confirmed, his tone laced with both excitement and apprehension.

He felt her tense, her body hardening over his. But he ran his hands over her curves and, smiling, said, "Don't worry about the child, my dear. I heard that a great writer is about to release a beautifully illustrated children's book..."

At his words, their laughter mingled with kisses, at their secret and the promise of a marriage that was not only passionate but also very, very artistic.